Make your beds and riff my bits

Check on your friends who use football players as an excuse to enable their next hyper-fixation.

Not me though. I’m just your regular, old bread lady!

But let’s not waste any more time waiting for our dough to rise! (Sorry, that’s a little bread humor. Only bread ladies would get it.)

Let’s get into it:

[linen]

As a child, I watched my mom make her bed. Make my bed. Make my sister’s. We were too small to help back then. Our hands only meant for squishing playdough, new to brushing teeth. Not the kind of hands fit for fitted sheets.

On weekends, when no obligations forced us to be anywhere for anything, my sister and I would spend hours running across the top of our parents’ king sized playground. Stomping on their comforter, stretching legs over pillows. With steps that felt very much like walking on the moon.

To this day, if my friends make mention of their own king beds, I find myself slightly in disbelief. Because only adults have those. And I’ve never felt grown up enough to feel as though I deserved a moon mattress of my own.

But come to think of it, in all those years, I never did see my dad help my mom with those fitted sheets… I wonder if that’s why they couldn’t make things work.

Or maybe she never asked for his hands to help with the weight of it all. With the weight of anything, really. Maybe she didn’t want to be defined as a woman that couldn’t. A woman in need.

I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

And he had his reasons, too. His hands were so tired. So worn down. Some days, I forget the sound of his voice. But never a wrinkle or a scar. Or the way years of working with metal and machines stained his skin. The way his hands told stories of a man who never rested. Hands that needed holding, if he had only just admitted it.

For all the times I’ve wrestled linen alone while a man stood around and watched; I forgive him.

Maybe he was just too stubborn to admit that he couldn’t do everything. That he was human. That he was vulnerable.

I am my father’s daughter, after all.

Things That I Would Share With You If We Were In A Group Chat

• This is my favorite read since the last time that I’ve read. The Cassette-Tape Revolution.

• Always Sunny meets The Last of Us. Niche?

• Identify potatoes accurately using this one simple trick.

• The duality of man. Kind of.

• One of the best signs in NYC. But what does it mean?

• Are deep fakes problematic? Or do they reveal our biases?

• Death, taxes, and cooter sharing another Taylor Swift tiktok. But this one’s different, I swear.

Riff My Bit

Over the last few years, it’s become almost colloquial to defend one’s own foolishness as simply “doing it for the bit”. And if I’m being honest^[1] , I’ve come to respect anyone who commits to one, regardless of the premise.

But the communal aspect of comedy extends beyond one singular individual.

The true beauty and benefit of humor is born in plurality. When shared between individuals. You see, when others take our bit and riff right along with us, they’re taking up our bids for connection^[2] .

@fiajames_

Dating 101 #fyp #newyorkcity

Several years ago in downtown Houston, a group of my friends and I waited for an Uber to pick us up after a very late dinner. We were sleepy, full, and comfortable admitting that we were ready for bed.

There was minimal small talk as we stood on the curb. The night was winding down and you could hear it in the silence.

But as we all crammed into the silver minivan, my friend Rob closed the sliding door and jolted back to life. He stared us all down with a huge smile and said quite unexpectedly: “Welcome to Cash Cab!"

We were lethargic and lazy. We could’ve scoffed and continued scrolling on our phones. But instead, we let the bit riff.

We feigned excitement. After all, we’d never been on a trivia show before!

So Rob began asking questions of increasing intensity (some rather inappropriate for ears not in on the bit^[3] ). And we answered. We were puzzled. We stressed over the large amounts of imaginary money on the line.

In that moment, I felt so fucking fuzzy inside. Because it’s little moments like that where I’m completely overwhelmed with gratitude for the people in my life who take the initiative to open silly little bids for connection. And one thing about me is, I’ll always riff your bit.

Sure, I can’t tell you where we ate dinner that evening, if it was good or expensive, or what we talked about over appetizers. But I’ll never forget the night we played Cash Cab and I won several thousand non-existent dollars after phoning in a friend (that was sitting right next to me in that dark van).

So if you riff my bits, I fucking love you^[4] .

Now for $2,500, what is the “street name” for the species of Atlantic fish scientifically referred to as Halichoeres Bivittatus?

^{[1] I always am <3.
[2] What I’m trying to say is, riffing bits is my love language.
[3] Sorry to our driver. He did not riff the bit. His loss.
[4] And because turkey is in the oven, I’ll even go as far as to say I’m thankful for you, too.}

help someone you love with their fitted sheets.
until next time. - cd