Tag: #femalecomic

Please, Make Yourself at Home

Music has been playing nonstop in my apartment for the past year or so. It’s on twenty-four hours a day whether I’m home or not. Perhaps this doesn’t seem odd to some folks, but I was raised during the waste not, want not era. When you left a room, you turned off the lights even if you were coming right back. If it was cold, you didn’t turn up the heater; instead, you wore a sweater or put on an extra pair of socks and wrapped up in a blanket. Since there were starving children in other countries (this was during the 1970s and 80s before we had them in our own country), you had to pretend to eat everything on your plate and then go spit it out in the toilet so you could have dessert. And, so the thought of just leaving your house with anything left on, like the television so your dog can watch his stories or with music playing, was simply unheard of.

However, some time ago, I began noticing that whenever I was writing or just puttering around my place with music streaming online, a voice would constantly interrupt and say that someone else was listening to my account (which they are not ok with). Did I want to keep listening? At first, I didn’t care much because I’m lazy and would rather not deal with stuff until there’s no other option, so I’d keep listening, knowing that whoever “they” were couldn’t if I was and that was good enough for me. But the more it kept happening, the more annoyed I became, and I began to pay attention and snoop around a bit. I discovered that not only had a stranger who was too cheap to fork out $4.99 a month for Pandora, which no one listens to anymore and is almost as embarrassing as having a Yahoo account, (almost) hacked mine and was more than occasionally listening to it. They also had their own atrocious and quite extensive playlist intertwined with mine.

“Well, please make yourself at home, jackass.”

I realized I had two options- the first was to change my password. This was not happening because I’d made a pact with myself that I would never change another password unless it had to do with credit cards or bank accounts. I won’t do it. I’m done. And to be honest, I’m not sure I can come up with another one because I can’t even remember any of the ones I’ve come up with in the past and then have had to change. So unless it is something significant, “Have at it, hackers.” Recently, someone hacked one of my social media accounts and started trying to sell sweatshirts with my name on them. My only course of action was to post, “I hope you have better luck with my career than I did.”

Instead, I chose the second option- never turning off the music. It was easy and funny. Okay, maybe it wasn’t funny initially, but it’s funny after a year. It proves that if you’re going to do the joke, you’ve got to be willing to commit. It’s comedy 101, people.

It makes me smile and happy thinking about this person sitting down after another long day of successfully avoiding doing anything meaningful or worthwhile with their life and are ready to enjoy a relaxing night of gas station wine and a plate of freshly microwaved Totino’s Pizza Rolls as their crappy playlist sets the mood for mediocrity in the background. But they can’t because I’m already listening.

I picture how frustrated they are, how greedy and wasteful they must think I am, and how they rue the day they ever wasted their precious time hacking someone like me. And with a fist raised to the heavens, they rant about how “they’ll show me!” and get a job and pay for their own streaming service and be done with my selfish ass. But then, as the booze and carcinogens from the processed meat begin to dull their ambition and life span, they decide to give me one last chance and try again tomorrow because I can’t possibly listen twenty-four hours a day.

But alas…

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So I was thinking…

I sometimes enjoy a cup of hot tea and have been known to order it when I’m out having a meal. The caveat is never at dinner or at a busy restaurant where the establishment sells alcohol, and, for some reason, hot tea is just randomly on the menu because someone initially thought it would be a good idea. So basically, the rule is never when the place is packed, and the server is swamped because it’s a pain in the ass.

I can tell you from experience that when you order hot tea during any of the above examples, “lovely” or “sophisticated” are not words used to describe you behind the scenes. And if you want to add to your douchebaggery image, smugly order it with a side of honey so that everyone within earshot will know how health conscious you are.

If you still feel that your sexy Friday night out on the town won’t be complete without a steaming cup of Chamomile with honey, then just be aware that your server will be out of commission for the next 15-20 minutes as they wait for the crystalized goo at the bottom of the sticky bottle that never gets used or cleaned to glob out onto the counter, their hands and hopefully, some will even make it into a ramekin. Then, as the server spends the rest of their evening trying to peel cocktail napkins, guest checks, and stray hair from their gummy fingertips, you will get the pleasure of leaving an indignant one-star review on Yelp because it took forever to get your drink and all you ordered was a cup of hot tea.

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See Ya

Today is the last day of 2023, and as I sit here trying to think of something profound and witty to say about the past 364, I cannot. Not because it was a terrible year but because I can’t think of anything clever to say. It was a year filled with trials, tribulations, and lessons to be learned, but that’s every year and just called life. So, so what?

While I like the idea that a new year brings a chance for a fresh start, I also know that so does every day, every hour, every minute. I can start fresh and change in an instant if I so choose. That’s the superpower we all have- decision. We aren’t victims. If we want to change, we can decide and change. Start, try, do. No need to wait until January 1st. Unfortunately, that’s often the case with me.

I realize it’s easier said than done, but most things are except not trying. Trust me, that one is super easy.

My plan is to get out there and punch 2024 in the face. That’s the plan. I’ll let you know what happens.

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Fluff and Fold

An unspoken code of conduct is crucial when living in an apartment complex. Most folks abide by it, but a few seem entirely unaware of its existence or that they’re living in a shared space, which tends to throw off the rhythm of life for all others. For example, the washer and dryer in the laundry room of the building are for everyone’s use. Sadly, you don’t own those appliances. They weren’t a housewarming gift from the landlord and will need to be shared with the rest of the payers of rent.

To be fair, this can be confusing and perhaps should be clarified in the lease so that everyone understands it upfront, and then, no one is tempted to pour a bottle of bleach into your load of colors or drop a red sock in with your whites. That said, putting clothes in either one of these machines and then leaving the property for an extended period isn’t part of the code.

My next-door neighbor, Jane, does this weekly. We share the same day off, and I have learned to get up as early as a night owl writer possibly can so that I can do my two loads before she can take her twenty- four loads down and then leave on vacation for the day. But, sometimes, I’m not fast enough and then have to spend my afternoon watching and waiting for her to come home, like I’m a woman from the 18th century on a widow’s walk, wringing my hands while anxiously awaiting my husband’s return from the sea.

She always says the same thing when she finally gets back and sees me, “Oh, sorry. I ran to the store and thought it would only take 40 minutes.” We live in Los Angeles, California, where nothing takes only 40 minutes. Ever. Even when carrying the trash out to the dumpster, you need to plan for delays in case of traffic on the 405. If you haven’t figured this out by now, perhaps consider moving to a town with one blinking stoplight so that the rest of us can get our underpants laundered in a timely manner.

Jane is a lovely person and a good mother. She once bought her six-year-old daughter, whose bedroom is next to mine, a karaoke machine for Christmas. Her daughter loves to scream, and screaming into a microphone amplifying screaming fills her heart with joy. Jane may have also gotten her 4-year-old son a drum set that year, or maybe he was kicking the wall to keep the beat with his sisters screaming. I’m not sure, but he, too, seemed quite joyful. And a happy holiday was had by almost everyone.

On the other hand, my neighbor Cathy absolutely understands how apartment life works. She’s lived here for 35 years, which I know because she leads with that every time we speak. She’s clean and quiet, has a lovely garden, and has the ability to know everything that goes on in the building while appearing to mind her own business.

I once watched the LA county coroner remove an elderly neighbor from his apartment in a body bag. They rolled him all the way around the top level and then carried him down the stairs next to where Cathy just happened to be sitting on her stoop, repotting daisies, and she never looked up. Not even a side-eye. And I watched her the entire time. I don’t know how long it took, but I guarantee it wasn’t only 40 minutes.

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Yes, I’m sure

The other night a guy I used to work with called. When I saw his name on my phone, I let it go to voicemail. He’s a friendly kid, maybe 30, and a massive fan of comedy. We worked together at a bar and restaurant a few years back, and he’d always tell me jokes and bits that he’d heard on a comedy channel radio station that they played non-stop in the kitchen.

Professional comedians hate that, but I’d give the fake “that’s funny” response and walk away. Once, he started repeating a famous comic’s joke, and when he was done, I named the comic and said, “We made out in a van in Austin.” From that point on, I was this kid’s hero.

I stopped doing stand-up seriously years ago, so people telling me jokes and trying to talk comedy these days is like telling me about seeing my old boyfriend with some hot young chick. Good for him, but I don’t care anymore. Let him break her heart now.

When I listened to his message, he sounded down and said he just wanted to talk and could use a good laugh right now. Fuck. It was late, and I was tired and didn’t feel like talking, but I also didn’t want to be responsible if he did something to hurt himself and I could’ve helped but was too lazy to call back, so I did. He was fine. He was binge-watching comedy specials on Netflix. After telling me a few of his favorite jokes, he said he was feeling depressed because he wanted to do stand-up.

Well, being depressed is a good first step.

He lamented for a few minutes, so I said, “Then write five minutes and find an open mic.”

More lamenting. “Five minutes seems like a lot. I don’t know how. Blah, blah.”

I said, “Five minutes is a lot, and nobody knows how to do it at first. Write down some ideas that you think are funny. Then figure out how you want to say them. It’s like telling someone a story.”

“That’s it?” He asked

“That’s it.” I said

“Any writing advice?”

“Yes. Ass in a chair.”

Sit down and write badly. Keep writing badly until you don’t anymore. And then repeat.

That’s the secret of writing and comedy- keep doing it until you don’t suck at it as much.

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And The Livin is Easy

Remember when we were kids and thought that pistachio nuts were red? Then we found out it was because they were being doused in the cancerously delicious dye Red 40.

That was sure fun.

On lazy summer evenings, during that magical time when moon and sun simultaneously rise and set and your soul whispers that anything is possible, we’d hop on our bikes, with little red-stained fingers, and happily cruise along in the mist coming from the truck spraying for mosquitos.

So many fond memories and upper respiratory infections.

Twas a simpler time when it was safe to be outside from dawn to dusk. Just hanging out on the curb, waiting for your dad because he promised you could spend the weekend with him. And you could just wait and wait and wait until the night was as black as pitch and your mom would finally make you come inside because he didn’t show.

Ah, the carefree days of childhood.

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The People in Your Neighborhood

I’m terribly fond of our mailman. He always has a smile, asks about your day, and addresses everyone in the complex by their given name. It feels very small town and comfortable in this sometimes-lonely big city.

We all adore Jamie.

Occasionally, on my afternoon walk, I’ll see him on a different block in the neighborhood. He’ll give a wave and yell, “Hello, Miss Rebecca!” or if a parcel gets delivered while I’m out, “I left you a present.”

If three days pass and Jamies not around, it does not go unnoticed. A low-grade panic sets in and my 70-year old neighbor, Jackie, and I will start trading texts and worrying that he may have gotten a new route and what if the little dude with the enormous straw lifeguard hat takes his place. The one who never makes eye contact and just carelessly lobs packages at your door without thought or backward glance.

Then the next day, like magic, he’ll reappear. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.” I’ll say casually like we barely even noticed he was gone.

That’ll teach him.

Recently one of my neighbors started giving him a bottle of Gatorade a few times a week. So yesterday I gave him a banana.

“I’ll see your high fructose corn syrup, Nancy, and raise you potassium.”

I’m not romantically interested or jealous, I just don’t want him to like her better than me.

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