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 Never Brought to Mind?

Heading into the new year, I’ve decided to focus on two things: drinking more water and eating real food. Since I already know how to eat and drink and am pretty efficient at both, it feels like cheating choosing those as my resolutions. But since those were the first things that popped into my head, I figured I should go with it so that I don’t jinx myself or have regrets later. Because in the past, whenever I’ve had to make a choice, say, for example, a question on a driver’s test or an entrée on a menu and I don’t go with the first thing that comes to mind and switch it up at the last minute, it never ends well.

Besides, being hydrated and not eating processed junk can only help me feel better and achieve the other goals I may have thought about after drinking more water and eating real food.

And, you know what? I genuinely believe that most of life’s problems could be solved if everyone would just eat real food instead of the sad American diet, even though once or twice a year, I sneak through a Taco Bell drive thru and order three crunchy tacos with extra cheese and sour cream and then hide in my car and try to eat them before the shame kicks in.

Okay, after considering it, I’d like to add “always go with my first choice” to drinking more water and eating real food.

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Head in the Clouds. Nose in a Book

Whenever I hear anyone say that they were poor as a child but didn’t realize it because they were always surrounded by so much love, I don’t believe it. It’s a beautiful sentiment, but how could you not know? I was also raised in a poor but loving household and was well aware of it every day. And, on the off chance I might happen to forget for a moment, there was always a rich kid, usually a cheerleader with a cute button nose and the bosom of a 20-year-old Playboy bunny, who was more than happy to jog my memory.

Love is a beautiful thing, but it doesn’t make you not hungry or forget that you’re wearing hand-me-downs and that your mom, who isn’t a beauty operator, cuts your hair. I’m not saying I wasn’t happy; I’m just saying that I knew. But perhaps it isn’t fair to judge since, unlike myself, not everyone has been fifty years old since they were seven.

As a single parent and sole provider, my mother made sure her children never went without basic necessities, but there wasn’t much “extra” anything at our house. I suppose I could say there was “extra love,” but that would sound just as ridiculous as someone saying they didn’t realize they were poor despite having worn milk cartons as snowshoes.

The one thing that my mom rarely said no to when it came to spending money was books. She’s an avid reader, and it is from her that I inherited my passion for reading. I adore books: the way they look and feel and especially how old ones smell when you fan their yellowing pages under your nose.

When I get a new book, my ritual is the same today as when I was a little girl. First, it’s gets set somewhere in plain sight, usually on the coffee table. I want to be able to see it but won’t read it right away. It’s fun knowing that it’s there, waiting.

When the anticipation becomes too much, the front and the back cover get read. Then, if there’s a dust cover, I read the inside flaps with the information about the author. Most times, it’s boring stuff like how they reside in West Virginia with their spouse and a parrot, both of which are named Hank. But sometimes it’s about their work process and cool facts like how they hated crying babies and mainly survived on hamburger meat, green peas, and coffee – that was Will Cuppy. He wrote a weekly column for the New York Herald in the 1930s and one of my all-time favorite books, The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody. A hilariously wry book of stories where he humbles historical figures like William The Conqueror and Lucrezia Borgia. Who doesn’t enjoy a funny Lucrezia Borgia story, for crying out loud?

I then read the page that lists any other books the author has written and think, “If I like this one, maybe I’ll read one of those. But what if I do and it’s not as good? That would be sad. So, maybe I won’t. Relax, Pedigo, you don’t have to decide right now.”

Then next is the one with all of the publishing information on it. Not sure why I read that page. Maybe it’s because sometimes I get to say, “Hmm, I wasn’t even born when this was copywritten. Interesting.”

Even though it isn’t at all interesting.

Then onward to the dedication page, where I’ll ponder if these people truly appreciated the gesture and what they did to deserve it, other than having to live with a moody writer who ate a shitload of green peas.

Then I read the forward unless, of course, it gives too much away, and then I’ll stop and go back and read that after I’m finished to see if I agree with the pompous opinion of the writer of the forward. I usually do.

And, finally, when there has been enough word foreplay and my brain is sufficiently aroused, I will begin chapter one.

Yes, that seems like a lot, I know. But it’s not if you’re a reader because readers are hardcore. We like to read. In the 90s, I continued to work for a comedy club that wouldn’t move me up as a performer or pay me more money, and I did it simply because in the condo, where the comics stayed, there was, for some reason, a collection of The Alphabet Murders by Sue Grafton and I wanted to read them all. Which I eventually did, and then told the club booker that “F is for fuck off.”

It’s hard for me to comprehend when a person says they aren’t a reader. A man once told me that while we were at dinner. He used those exact words, “I am not a reader.” I, was suddenly tired and remembered that I needed to get up early the next morning. Because that’s a deal-breaker for me, I could be attracted to someone who can’t read but not to someone who chooses not to.

Books and being able to escape into their stories are how I survived adolescence. They let me know there was a big colorful world out there, not just the grey one where this misfit kid hung her second-hand hat. It’s why I became a storyteller. I enjoy the thought that maybe one of mine might make someone as happy as the ones I like have made me.

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No Cream No Sugar

There’s a quality that certain people possess to which I find myself inevitably drawn. A mysterious “something” that’s hard to define, and so I call it the “I’m going to grab a coffee. Can I get you something?” mystique.

It encompasses many things and doesn’t necessarily have anything at all to do with coffee. However, if you’re courting me, showing up with a cup so strong that my eyes water works just as well as flowers for no reason.

My theory is that a person who thinks, “Since I’m getting coffee, I should see if anyone else would like some.” is also a person who asks about your day because they’re genuinely interested. These folks hold the door at the bank, so it doesn’t slam in your face when you try to enter behind them. They make sure you get to your car safely, notice your haircut, ask specifics, and let it be about you sometimes. They’re the people who make eye contact when having a conversation instead of looking around to see if anyone more important is in the room because they think you’re the most important person in the room.

These are the people I want to be like and around more often.

“Narcissist” is a word that I try not to use because of its overuse. But since it is a word and does apply here, I feel justified in using it now, and so I will. I once worked with a narcissist. After 30 years in show business, there’s actually been tons of them, but one stands head and shoulders above the rest in my mind. The Big Bad John of the self-obsessed, if you will. So bewitched was this man, by the sound of his own voice that while droning on about his wonderfulness, he would gaze longingly at his reflection in the mirror with a flirtatious smile. As if thinking, “Who is this dreamboat?” So, I would say, “Would you two care to be alone?”

This man never tired of talking but had no interest in listening to anyone else do so. He turned and walked away in the middle of something I was saying on more than one occasion. When called on his rudeness, the unconcerned response would be, “I thought you were finished.”

Here’s an excellent way to tell when someone has finished speaking – they will no longer be talking.

With age comes wisdom and less tolerance for nonsense; therefore, the behavior I’m willing to accept and to whom I give my time has changed greatly. My tribe is smaller these days but filled with souls who “talk to and not at,” show an interest in what’s going on in a world other than their own, and of course, always think about me before making a coffee run.

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