Look Straight Ahead

Captain Per Holmberg was making his way to work the morning of December 27, 1991. He was a passenger on Scandanavian Airways flight 751 from Stockholm to Copenhagen; in Copenhagen he was scheduled to be in command of an SAS flight to Madrid later that day. He read his newspaper in his second row seat while the ground crew deiced the wings as the plane had been sitting overnight in wintery weather. Captain Stefan Rassmussen and First Officer Ulf Cedermark opted to fly with the cockpit door open as they felt it offered the cabin a chance to connect with them, a remarkable display of trust and confidence.

The ground crew failed to identify and remove clear ice that had accumulated on the underside of the wings after being parked overnight. Twenty five seconds after take off, the airplane shook violently and loud banging similar to cannon fire was heard throughout both engines of the MD 81. The pilots immediately questioned whether they were dealing with structural damage or an act of terrorism. Both engines had sucked in ice upon take off, causing surging and severe malfunction. Within ninety seconds both engines failed, with the right engine catching fire. The cabin filled with smoke and began to fall at a rate of twenty feet per second. Most everyone onboard knew that the quiet of having no power combined with the rapid descent meant they were surely plummeting to their deaths.

I am currently living with the effects of structural damage. After years of suffering from pain in my hips and feet that have stopped me from running and sciatica that often brings my ability to get around to a screeching halt, I was diagnosed with rotator cuff tendonitis last year. First in my left shoulder, which I was able to treat with a few months of physical therapy, then my right shoulder, which thus far has been resistant to treatment. The right shoulder pain started much like the left shoulder; an aggravation that limited my ability to work as a flight attendant as there are constant physical demands, repetitive motions that are particularly destructive while bearing weight with my arms extended above my head. As of last week, I no longer have the range of motion in my shoulder required to do the job at all right now. I worked for four hours after an extended absence and intensive daily physical therapy and I was in such pain I had to admit that I am crashing, unclear about how to proceed, overwhelmed by exhaustion and denial, crushed that my wellness plan is circling the drain.

Captain Rasmussen told himself the worst wasn’t happening; that he was simply living a nightmare. Per Holmberg looked into the cockpit from his seat in the cabin and saw no action, no hands on throttles, no discussion of what measures should follow. He approached the open door to offer help just as the engine fire alarm sounded, prompting the first officer to break the silence with “Shall I pull it?” They all knew that once the fire extinguisher was activated, the engine could never be restarted. Cedarmark pulled the lever without getting an answer as Rassmussen was stunned and silent, consumed by a fog of helplessness.

Holberg asked if he could be of assistance. Rassmussen instructed him to attempt to start the auxilliary power unit as they had no radio contact with the ground. Rassmussen contemplated circling back to the airport, but Holmberg told him he must only focus on what was in front of him.  “LOOK STRAIGHT AHEAD”, he told them more than 20 times, emphasising that turning back would only squander precious energy.  Holmberg found an emergency checklist, but he quickly abandoned it as he determined the situation was beyond a series of rote instructions. “LOOK STRAIGHT AHEAD”, he repeated to them, as their only hope was to harness the remainder of their glide and not stall the aircraft. Captain Rassmussen determined he would land in a forested area in rural Gottrora, Sweden. He looked to the trees below to cushion the impact.

I am having difficulty looking straight ahead while living inside a body that seems to desperately want to divorce me. I am filled with dread as my job may continue to cause harm to me physically, regardless of whether any future treatments are effective or not.  I am paralyzed with fear at the notion of forging another road at almost 50 years old. I look at my retirement funds with the target date of 2035. That's 19 years from now, daunting as I currently cannot perform even 19 minutes of what’s required of me to keep my life revolving in the big picture. I am crashing; my muscles atrophying, my skin and flesh growing softer, providing no cushion for the fiery pain that comes from basic tasks; putting on a shirt, rolling over onto my right side in the night, shaking hands with many doctors. I often lose myself in thoughts of denial of what is happening as I do not want this to be my reality.

Captain Rassmussen was consumed with fear as the trees began to rip the airplane’s fuselage apart. He knew he would most likely die, and he would be responsible for everyone else who died with him. The plane was torn into three segments. The passengers were able to walk out into the frozen forest through the gaping holes in the plane. They smelled fuel and knew that an explosion was possible. They knew they were at risk for hypothermia as they distanced themselves from the wreckage. They were aware they were still in danger. The flight attendants hugged the passengers who wandered the tundra in a daze. One reported she hugged them as she needed comfort for herself as well.

I take comfort in pain pills and steroids and binge watching Amazon Prime and hot baths with chamomile epsom salts and gin gimlets and eating pasta in bed out of a comically large bowl. I challenge myself to stay focused on what has yet to happen. I treasure hunt for joyful prizes hidden in seemingly awful scenarios. I am grateful for the x-ray technician who was gentle and kind as I stifled back sobs while she pulled my arm across the metal plate into a photographable position. I cannot remember another time that I cried in my adult life sheerly due to being in physical pain. I am blessed with friends who carry my groceries and call to check up on me; those who keep knocking even when my despair instinctively causes me to close the door. They put aside their own troubles and they listen patiently as I describe feeling helpless and overwhelmed and they talk to me with genuine care. I truly want to have nuanced opinions about the precarious state of world politics and gun control and everything else that ignites passionate discussion on social media, but I can’t even change my own sheets right now. I’m presently wandering in a daze when I do have the energy, and when I don’t, I am idling on the sidelines, watching my life trickle by. I try not to think back to times I could run 8 miles or work 8 hours a day or sleep 8 hours a night; looking back only squanders my precious energy. I see pieces of myself in a story of 25 year old airplane accident discussed at an annual training meeting. I write about what scares me in a defiant attempt to defuse its power. I celebrate days I manage to take a shower and shave one armpit and put on clothes that are acceptable for leaving the house. My 100% may be a sliver of what it once was, but I remind myself that I am doing all I am capable of for this moment and my 100% will change and eventually grow.

When the headcount was taken of all the souls onboard Scandanavian flight 751, all 123 passengers and 6 crew members were still alive. Called the “Miracle at Gottrora”, it was determined to be unthinkable that not a single person perished. In order to not feel defined by my circumstances, I must believe that every crash is survivable and help is there for me when I leave the door open.

Here's to looking straight ahead.

Viva Sankalpa!

HOLIDAY! CELEBRATE!

As 2015 lurches its way towards the finish line, I must say I’m relieved it’s almost over.

I haven’t written much here this year. I have kept myself busy with other writing projects, but I’ve had little to say in this forum because although 2015 was a year I was free of depression, a good part of it I would file under “Sandpaper To My Soul”.

2015 was filled with medical problems, nothing serious, thankfully, just chronic and annoying. Let’s just say Chicago’s physical therapy community and I have spent a seemingly endless amount of quality time together. Combined with friends also experiencing medical problems (#funtobeold), and friends who ceased to be friends, most of 2015 felt like an uphill trudge. I had some significant friendships come to an end this year; some were my decision, some were by mutual decision, some simply faded away without much comment. It all added up to an overwhelming feeling of loss, a theme of failure combined with a calendar full of doctors’ appointments really gave my freshly minted joie de vivre a swift kick in the ass.

Spoiler alert: It all turns out fine!

I’ve been thinking about when I first moved to Chicago in 2009 with zero plan except to “find myself”, whatever the fuck that means. I was lost, to be sure, but the cosmic Lost and Found can be a real bitch to navigate, particularly with faulty tools. I was filled with anxiety and sleeping poorly, so I turned to doing yoga nidra for awhile in an attempt to chill out. Yoga nidra, for those of you who don’t dabble in groovy crystal deodorant scented self improvement, is a state of consciousness where you are nestled between being awake and sleeping. Your focus is on being present and aware of the world inside you by following a set of audio instructions. Yoga nidra is translated as “yogic sleep”, the goal is to be deeply relaxed but still alert in a state of super alpha calm. In all honesty I would typically fall asleep halfway through the practice, which was perfectly fine with me as I needed sleep more than I needed to be a zen master of the universe.

Part of the practice is to focus on your “sankalpa”, which is a singular goal, an intention, a resolution that you repeat three times. When initially deciding on a sankalpa, I went back and forth on whether to focus on finding another romantic relationship or pushing myself as a writer. Both seemed imperative to my happiness, but I chose to concentrate on the writing as it seemed like an area I had more control over. My sankalpa was to put my energy towards being the best writer that I could be, not to be rich or famous or published or anything quantitative, but to be committed to always be striving to improve.

Even as a majority of 2015 proved itself to be a big helping of THE STRUGGLE IS REAL AND BOY DOES IT SUCK, I did make earnest efforts to fulfill that intention to the best of my ability. I feel content that I wrote and performed some of my most challenging material this year and that in turn brought me unprecedented connection with the rest of the world. I am forever in awe that I am surrounded and supported by people who believe I can do anything. I still marvel at what was seemingly impossible to hope for a few years ago is now happening. I did a TEDx talk in November which will be available to be viewed soon, and it was some bucket list business. (eternal snaps for Jill Howe for including me)  I had to admit in the last few months that even in the face of crushing loss and medical drudgery and a general haze as far as feeling emotionally healthy just to have life continue to kick sand in my face on the regular that I made my sankalpa a reality and THAT IS SOME GLORIOUS SHIT, Y’ALL. I can honestly say that I am truly happy in a highly sustainable way for the first time ever. EVER.

Thanks to all who have loved and supported me thus far. Without you, I’d be nowhere. I am eagerly awaiting 2016; I already have 3 shows booked and it will be the year that I get to pursue my other sankalpa, because I don’t have to choose between romantic love and creative success as a singular focus anymore.

I CAN HAVE IT ALL, I TELL YOU. JUST WATCH ME.

My other promise for 2016 is to minimize my time with technology and just use my eyes and my brain to capture experiences.

Enjoy your holidays. Let us go forth and make 2016 our best year ever. I'm in such good spirits these days, I'm almost excited to turn FIFTY in August. 

Let the record reflect I said almost.

Peace out until our paths collide.

Something Better

The following is a brief excerpt from a story I wrote a few years ago about making peace with my father's memory while dating a guy who was not involved in his son's life at the time. I experienced through his lens, and through his heartache, that it is possible for a parent to truly care about a child even if they are incapable of showing it. Relationships are complicated and forgiveness can be a powerful act of kindness not only for the other person, but for yourself.

I'm opting to publish this snippet for Father's Day as it is the emotional center of the story, a tribute to those who show up to do the work. It's also a gift for Joanna, who recently gave birth to her fourth baby, Charlotte.

I decided I needed a break from my regularly scheduled life, so I headed to suburbia. I always love to drop in on Joanna’s family parties as they are exuberant celebrations full of perogies and sausage and pastries, free-flowing vodka, and oldies blasting from the stereo.

Joanna is a Polish immigrant; she came to Chicago as a teenager in the early 90’s. My worries faded as I stepped into Joanna’s world, her house full of children’s toys, the starchy smells of comfort food, and people talking enthusiastically with their hands. 

Joanna’s father, Grzegorz, had been in and out of the hospital struggling with liver cancer for a good part of the year, and I was pleased to see him well enough to attend the party. Grzegorz’ arms bore scars from all of his recent medical procedures and he looked pale and tired, but his face beamed with contentment. He gestured for me to bring my wine glass and come sit with him, and I was pleased to oblige.  

He asked, “How is your work?”

I told him airline life was treating me well.  

He pointed to Alex, his grandson, and said, “I like to take Alex to O’Hare. We watch planes take off. Sometimes we do only that for the whole day.”   

“That sounds like a wonderful adventure,” I replied.  

His smile took a more serious turn when he faced me, gesturing out into the lawn at his blond grandchildren running in circles. To the living room, to his sons and their wives, and to Joanna, who he calls by her Polish name, Asia. 

He said, “Here is what I know. When I grew up, when I was bad, I was beaten. When I was good, I got nothing. To see my children treating their children with such love and kindness, this is my joy. This means that they are made of something better.”

I smiled. “Yes,” I said, “something better.”   

We basked quietly in the moment. Smokey Robinson’s falsetto playing in the background, everyone swaying to the music, talking, laughing, the screams of the children without a care on a warm summer night.

His family was his proof that even though he had come from darkness, he had made his own light. It was the last gathering Grzegorz was well enough to take part in before he passed away.



Fond wishes to all my friends who are wonderful fathers. Enjoy your day.

Five Weeks of Funny Business

I recently completed Feminine Comique, an all female five week course in stand up comedy. The course was created by Cameron Esposito, and she turned it over to local comedic super heroine Kelsie Huff when she moved to LA to go all big time. Kelsie also hosts an all lady comedy show called the Kates, which is more fun than should be allowed by law. (check it! www.thekates.org)

I’ve been a lover of stand up since I was old enough to watch television. I grew up watching Joan Rivers guest host the Tonight Show, loving Steve Martin on Saturday Night Live, crushing on Freddie Prinze (not the junior version, people. THE ORIGINAL). I spent my allowance on Robin Williams and George Carlin records, listening to them over and over until I could repeat all the jokes by heart. I'm currently consuming a steady diet of Tig Notaro, Amy Schumer, and Aziz Ansari. I’ve always felt a connection with those who used their comedic abilities to get people to listen more closely, to discuss life’s absurdities, to express their concerns and often, divulge their pain.

But I recognize there is a huge difference between appreciating something and actually doing it. It never occurred to me to try stand up until I was looking for a writing challenge recently and I saw Kelsie post a link to her Feminine Comique classes. I know Kelsie from the storytelling scene around town. Not only is she always fucking hilarious, she’s also a damn nice person and I had big faith she would run a great class. Plus it struck me as a completely terrifying idea, and I was in the market to be scared shitless.

Kelsie Huff, comedic shero.

Yeah, sure, I tell stories to sizeable groups of people on a fairly regular basis, so what’s the big deal? The big deal is that I always tell stories that I read off paper. I spend bazillions of hours laboring over every word choice, choosing every spot to pause, crafting the experience. I AM IN NO WAY EXTEMPORANEOUS. The only time I told a story without paper I froze in the middle as I blanked out on my careful memorization. I recovered and kept going after an awkward pause, but in my mind I felt like I was falling down twenty flights of stairs.  So stand up seemed like a pretty big step outside my comfort zone.

Every Tuesday night from 7 pm to 9 pm, we met at Sheil Park, a local community center to learn about the art of joke making. A joke, as defined by Cameron Esposito, is “a shared cultural reference, backed by opinion and comparison.” Kelsie laid down a few rules for us from the get go: that we would go super crazy applauding and cheering each other on during class, even though the real world would not guarantee us that, and that we would not apologize at any time for any reason. Women are conditioned to be apologetic in so many arenas; asking for other people’s time, taking up physical space, daring to find themselves worthy of time and space. So there would be no starting with “I’m sorry if this isn’t funny…” nope. Just do your thing and own that shit.

She also told us at the first class that being successful at stand up involves “failing miserably, in public, without apology, until it’s not a big deal.” Failing miserably? In public? I mean, it makes total sense, you can’t test jokes out on yourself, you need an audience. But this philosophy was a pretty hard right turn from the soft and fluffy storytelling world of “Every one has a story, and they’re all important and valuable!”  Okay, now officially terrified.

The cheering and support part came naturally as all the ladies in the class were really funny. Each of us brought a different energy, different eccentricities, different styles, which made the class continually surprising and fresh and endlessly amusing. Kelsie told us she couldn’t teach us to be funny, as no one can really teach that, but she could teach us joke structure and how to SELL THE SHIT out of our material, which is a major component of stand up success. We learned about rants, and “punching up”, the idea that you should aim your punch lines at perpetrators instead of victims, particularly with edgier material. That kicking someone when they’re down is a cheap shot, and therefore not really funny. We watched a lot of stand up between classes, we talked about jokes that stood out for us and why. We discussed different comedians' body language, also part of making the package work. We learned that making jokes work involves cutting out unnecessary info, which can be a challenge when you’re speaking on the fly. The editing part was a real eye opener for me, stripping down the material to the bare minimum helps the jokes retain more punch. I tend to gravitate towards MORE examples, expanding things in hopes of gaining more understanding with the audience, but more is not more in comedy. It’s reminiscent of Elmore Leonard’s advice to “try to leave out the parts that readers tend to skip.” If it’s not necessary, CUT THAT SHIT.

Also counterintuitive to my usual writing process, I found out quickly that the more I worked on the jokes, THE LESS THEY WORKED. The jokes where I tried really hard to be clever fell flat, the stuff I wrote at the last minute and didn’t overthink landed bigger laughs more often than not. So much for my routine of laboring over my wordplay, this was an exercise in making peace with winging it.

Every week when I did the homework I heard the same voice in my head.

Why are you doing this it will never work you can’t work without your carefully chosen words and your paper crutch you are not fucking funny you will suck you are too old to have this much homework holy shit why are you wasting your time why did you think you could pull this off it’s official, you have totally lost your fucking mind. AGAIN.

Ladies and gentlemen, the voice of the saboteur! It had been awhile, probably since I first started to tell stories. Welcome back, uninvited visitor.

I listened to it and believed it to some degree, but I figured giving that voice too much time or mental real estate was not going to help me to actually get the homework done. FUCK OFF SABOTEUR, I have eight more jokes to write before I can pass out watching House of Cards with a bowl of pasta. And I trusted that the saboteur only shows up when there’s actually something at stake. I’ve lived long enough to know that all of my experiences that involved real growth made me feel less like the star of a motivational poster and more like I was drowning in a fetid sea of WTF HAVE YOU GOTTEN YOURSELF INTO NOW, IDIOT.

But going to class was such a blast, I didn’t worry so much about the graduation show, even though I was unsure how all these random notebook scribbles were going to equate to five minutes worth of jokes that were performance worthy. Kelsie was always immensely supportive, telling us that the grad show always went well, that everyone was able to pull it off and that our objective was to HAVE FUN above all else. I was skeptical, but figured I could always hide under my bed and tell everyone I was exposed to monkeypox at work or something. For sure I was not inviting people. Failing in public would be fine, as long as I didn’t know anyone.

When I went to put together my set for the last class, I only had about two minutes worth of material. TWO MINUTES? When I write stories, I have trouble keeping them to ten minutes or so. But I didn’t panic, I just kept throwing stuff together until I had three minutes, then a little over four minutes.

I took it to class and although I hammered through it in a little over three minutes, it went better than I expected. I worked on it before the show until I didn’t need to look at my notes at all. I invited a handful of close friends, figuring that I should have some people there after all. HOLY SHIT, what if the saboteur was totally WRONG? Let's do this thing.

The night of the show I was scheduled to go first. I felt relatively confident until the house lights went down and then I was struck with a wave of panic. I turned to Kelsie, who was still passing out programs at the front of the house. I said, “Kelsie! I’m really nervous now!” She gestured to the crowd and said, “Who gives a shit what these assholes think about anything?”

Indeed. Instantly I was fine. Genius advice that I will keep in my pocket and use again.

My set went well. I got tongue tied a few times and I had to consult my notes, but none of that stopped me from the main objective, I HAD FUN. Equally satisfying was standing in the back of the theater after, sipping a bourbon rocks out of a jelly jar, watching all of my classmates take the stage and CRUSH IT. They were all SO good, and I was thrilled to hear them get loads of well deserved laughs and cheers.

I have to say that I don’t think I have the drive or the discipline to be constantly crafting jokes and taking them to open mics. That would seriously cut into my pajama jams. I’ll stick to my introverted process of writing my weird stories, sharing them with close friends after laboring over the wordplay. But I am so glad I took the stand up class as I learned so much in five weeks and I was so proud to be involved in the final product and most importantly, I HAD SO MUCH FUN. 

If you’re a lady interested in stand up in Chicago, I highly recommend you check out http://femininecomique.com.  If you’re not a lady or would prefer a co-ed stand up experience, check out www.standupseminary.com. Or do whatever sounds super scary for you, maybe it’s tango dancing or zip lining or singing acapella or staying up past 11. Any time you can drown out the voice of the saboteur with a loud chorus of I GOT THIS SHIT, I say go for it.

Photo credits - show photos: Chuck Sudo
Kelsie Huff photo: www.comedyofchicago.com

Let A Smile Be Your Umbrella (To Be Used In A Britney Inspired Beat Down)

I’m almost done reading Amy Poehler’s “YES PLEASE” and it’s a fantastic read. She’s honest and hilarious and inspiring and wonderful. And it tickles me to no end that both she and Tina Fey use the same expression when recounting situations where they were powerless to do or say anything in the face of life’s assholery. They both said all they could do was “smile like a flight attendant.”

THEY GET IT.

Which leads me to this blog.

I’ve mentioned in this space before that when I was really in depression’s death grip that I was told to “SMILE!” at work on a fairly regular basis. And although the passengers I see are all shapes and sizes, genders and ethnicities, a true cross section of what America is comprised of, the demographic of the person instructing me to fix my face was always the same: the middle aged or older white dude, usually dressed in Dockers and a casual Friday polo shirt, often sporting a smug look of their own.

Really, I get it. We all want our customer service professional to be warm and receptive and greet us with an expression that indicates that they have nothing on their minds besides fulfilling our every want and desire. I also take notice when my cashier at the Trader Joe’s seems a bit surly. But I also recognize that perhaps my cashier may have just broken up with her boyfriend or girlfriend, she may have had to report to work after holding her mom’s hand while she went through chemo, or she may just be concentrating REALLY HARD on ringing up my dark chocolate peanut butter cups correctly and THAT IS HER AUTHENTIC FUCKING FACE for that moment in time. She doesn’t need to put on a show for me, as long as she is doing her job. I often want to say to the dudes who have all the face advice that they shouldn’t worry, that my bitchy resting face does not mean that I will not be quick like a bunny to get them that Dewar’s and water and some more nuts. But I don’t say it, of course. I’m too busy pouring the Dewar’s and water, aka DOING MY JOB.

Why do I think it’s only this select group of dudes that always have to share their two cents worth in regards to turning my frown upside down? Not totally sure, but it appears that the rest of the population, aka everyone who is not a middle class middle aged white dude, are busy leading their own lives, lives where they understand what it feels like to be marginalized to some degree. Perhaps everyone else just inherently understands that although the airplane certainly leans towards being pink collar, it’s not a geisha house and that telling someone else what to do with their face is some privilege flavored fuckery.

My intent is not to use this space to go all man hater on you. I recognize that most dudes I come in contact with are perfectly pleasant to be around. Perhaps you’re thinking I should lighten up. Perhaps I should and perhaps I will. I mean, these folks don’t mean any harm, right? Agreed. But might I suggest that the next time you encounter someone and feel the urge to tell them to SMILE, that you instead offer them something to SMILE about. Tell them they have a great haircut or whatever seems like a genuine and positive observation to make. Say “thank you” like you mean it, and take your peanut butter cups and be on your merry way. BE PART OF THE SMILE SOLUTION, NOT PART OF THE SMILE PROBLEM.

Just a thought. Enjoy your weekend by sporting whatever kind of face suits you.

Let Us Give Praise (WITH THE CAPS LOCK ON)

Happy Pilgrim Invasion/Let Us Herd Like Sheeple To Get A Cheap TV We Don't Need weekend. So much of social media this week has caused me to feel sad and powerless (Quick! Where's the HIDE button?), but I do enjoy the part where we give thanks, so here goes.


I'm thankful for the usual things: my health, my work, my friends. But what's helped me be more grateful than ever is that I'm no longer oh so depressed.

OH MY GOD WHAT IF I COULD WRITE A BLOG ABOUT SOMETHING BESIDES BEING DEPRESSED THAT WOULD BE INCREDIBLE OH MY GOD WHAT ON EARTH WOULD THAT EVEN LOOK LIKE?

It would look a little something like this.

As far as my health, I am going into the holiday season and another Chicago winter at my highest weight ever, but I'm otherwise I'm pretty together. I have a weight loss wager in place that involves me riding a bike for 20 miles if I don't reach my goal. I don’t like to lose and I don't particularly want to ride a bike (although I will do so cheerfully if I must), so expect a slimmer me soon.  And if I slip on a patch of ice in the meantime, my bootie will provide a soft place to land. ASSTASTIC BRIGHT SIDE.

As far as my sky hostess work, it's greatly improved. I seem to have perfected a half smile that lets the general public know that I am finally with the goddamn program. So no more "Smile!" or "You look tired." I've been working better trips, in fact earlier this week I had a day where I slept late, wrote up a storm, walked five miles, ate a chicken burrito naked on my hotel balcony and took a nap before reporting for work at 8 pm to end up in Vegas, where I proceeded to get a margarita served to me by a guy in his underwear. That kind of adventure makes up for all the days that I've spent cleaning up barf or stuff like this. 



I also go to work with a keen ear. I listen and observe what goes on around me and if it’s of interest, I scribble down what it evokes for me as a listener. Observations about different cities, about interactions between people on the airplane, specifically when cultures clash. I am no longer a mere flight attendant, I am a reporter. No, better than that, I am a SPY. SPY WORK IS COOL.

As far as my writing work,  I’ve been rejected by quite a few online publications recently. Any writer that submits anything knows that’s the price of putting yourself out there. I WILL NOT GO AWAY QUIETLY. (Behold my SHOUTY CAPS!) Due to my residency in Bummertown, I wrote sporadically for my monthly writing class and only performed in a handful of shows last year.  I recently agreed to do more shows in the next few months than I did in all of 2014, and the writing has subsequently picked up some speed. I now write quite a bit on my computer when I’m at home, I have Google docs on my phone so I can edit projects on when I’m on the train or at work, I write on drink order pads at work if my phone isn’t handy. Last week I found myself writing something I didn’t want to forget on my hand.  Sometimes I get discouraged that my words are more in line with More magazine than punk rock, but I'm hoping my true voice is a quirky swirl of both. Patti Smith is 67, after all, and she still rocks.

I still don’t know what I’m going to be when and if I decide to grow up. But I’m in good company on that score. I know very few people who have anything figured out right now. I don’t believe that’s an accident; I think I’m intentionally surrounding myself with people who are always striving and struggling to make their lives better. IT IS THE GRIT THAT MAKES THE PEARLS AND OTHER WEIRD OYSTER METAPHORS.

I strongly believe that to continue to grow as a writer, I must strive to lead the most interesting life that I can, and write from that knowledge. Because getting published and being in shows is wonderful, but always trying to be better at this is the most important thing to me.

Best wishes to you on this holiday. I'll end with something I didn't want to forget to tell you.

Waving, Not Drowning

A little over five years ago I moved to Chicago all full of notions about finally exploring the great unchartered territory that was “being myself”.  I had no real plan except to do anything and everything that struck my fancy, emboldened by a favorite quote from Andre Gide, “One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight, for a very long time, of the shore.”

Since I set sail to figure out what floats my boat upon moving to Chicago in 2009, I've had three different residences, I’ve taken any number of writing and storytelling classes, I’ve written some pretty good stuff, I’ve written some complete shit. I volunteered at a bookstore and hated it, I was a lackluster camp counselor for a bunch of teenage girls, I was a flustered and ill prepared presenter the next year for a different bunch of teenage girls, I ran three half marathons, I dated some people, I hooked up with some other people, I fell apart at the seams emotionally on about 96 separate occasions, documenting some of that in this space.

After five plus years of floating towards my future so called life, I have to admit, I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing. The trial and error of it all is some exhausting shit. I keep thinking, “I know I consented to lose sight of the shore for a very long time, but some days I AM DROWNING OUT HERE.”

Mid July marked the tail end of a depressive period that seemed to last an eternity and made every day feel like an endless procession of thankless drudgery uphill in cement boots. I recognized that I was in bad shape; physically, emotionally, all around. After months of saying I could turn it around, but not doing much about it, I continued to limp along doing the mandatory minimum to keep the boat afloat, all the while applying copious amounts of booze on it all to quiet the constant screaming inside of my head. I stopped talking. I stopped listening. I was at my all time most irritable, culminating in a passenger at work attacking me personally after I barked him that it wasn’t safe for him to use the bathroom. I offered him a stone faced apology as he told me repeatedly what a despicable person I was. It was an unprecedented and excruciating encounter for me, professionally and personally. I took some time off, only to return to a hostile co-worker, a 2 am wake up call, and the news that Robin Williams had taken his own life.

I stayed up most of that night, distraught, in shock. I bought “Reality...What A Concept” on vinyl as a 13 year old and played it until I memorized every word. It was one of my first tutorials on how to be funny. I was floored, like so many of us, that someone so talented and beloved could feel so desperately alone. It was also a reminder that depression is a disease that can also be a death sentence.

I didn’t wake up in a pool of my own vomit, but it was rock bottom enough for me.

I knew things had to change. Immediately.

I started running again as much as my feet would allow. When I couldn’t run, I walked. I started waking up in the morning and immediately GETTING OUT OF BED AND DOING THINGS. I made sincere apologies. I forgave people. I changed my work schedule so it was more conducive to having a better attitude. I began writing about things that were difficult. I went to story shows with kind hearted friends. I started taking Uber cars instead of the El train to make getting around less of a drain on my precious time and energy.  I stopped drinking entirely for awhile. I now am far more mindful about it, recognizing that using it as a crutch is all too often a hobbling act of self sabotage.

I’m pleased to report that things began to sail right along once again. But still, no sign of land. And even with things being more positive, I still get overwhelmed and exhausted by the feeling that I'm endlessly adrift.

But there have been some signs of progress. After a few weeks of running, I was able to run five kilometers without a walk break. As my Nike Plus app cheerfully reported that I did it averaging a twelve and a half minute mile, I immediately thought, “Ugh. You used to be able to run four times that far at a ten minute mile pace.” But then I told that voice to Shut. The. Fuck. Up. I had just run further than I had in a long time, after only a few weeks. That was worth a few snaps.

And with my newfound clarity, I had to admit that the last five years I’ve spent at sea not knowing what the hell I’m doing have been infinitely more satisfying than the 43 years that came before them, where I just stood on the land thinking I had it all figured out, smugly judging everyone else’s efforts with my arms crossed. That deserved some thunderous applause.

These were realizations that provided much needed relief.

But I also needed a sign. Everyone could use a sign now and then, right? Just a little sign?

It came, unexpectedly, at work. I went up front to the cockpit as one of the pilots had to use the bathroom and it’s our procedure that a flight attendant needs to be in the cockpit with the pilot who is left flying the plane, assumedly so if the shit hits the fan, I can help land the plane like Halle Berry in Executive Decision.

(If that ever happens I promise to recount it here in the BEST BLOG POST EVER)

It was late, we were tired and oh so ready to be in Same Old City With A Different Name already.  The first officer and I stared out into the vast abyss that is the night sky at 40,000 feet in awkward silence until a blue flash came across the windshield. Then another. The pilot turned to me and asked, “Have you ever seen St. Elmo’s Fire before?”

“No.”  

“It’s plasma formed by electricity,” he told me.

“It looks cool,” I said. He nodded.

We enjoyed a few more minutes of the light show, then I went back to work.

As I am a supreme dork with a mind that refuses to stop processing useless information, I had to research St. Elmo’s Fire after seeing it. I knew it was more than a bad Brat Pack movie with a terrible theme song, I knew it was a weather phenomenon, but I didn’t know much else.  I learned that St. Elmo’s Fire was named for Saint Erasmus, the patron of saint of Mediterranean sailors. Although some sailors thought the colorful balls of fire were a bad omen, many thought it was a sign of salvation from their saint, particularly since St. Elmo’s Fire occurs most likely when the storm is nearing its end.  

I took it as a sign that I have weathered the worst of the storm and perhaps I should begin concentrating on the joy of sailing. That I should embrace being in transition, and all the wondrous opportunities that still await me. That I should steal from Anais Nin's vision of being a mermaid, having no fear of depths, just a great fear of shallow living.

I'll let you go before I break into the chorus of "Come Sail Away" by Styx. Because that would be fucked up.

Enjoy your autumn, all. Hope to see you somewhere soon.