Your Career Is Better Than Mine...How Can That Be?

Careers. The most personal and individualistic journey. No two career paths are the same. So each should be extraordinary, right? Then why don’t we perceive our own this way.

My career has been...crazy. I’ve always seemed to let some bizarre life event get in the way of a successful career in radio. I either got pregnant, hit, bored or followed some boy. I’ve never really worried about “what’s next” for me in radio, because I love it and in time, became confident enough to believe that I am talented enough to find “the next gig.”

But I always seem to look up to others in the industry. I never thought MY career was anything to brag about. I just show up and have a lot of fun. I am myself and never take things too seriously. Professional, sure. Marketable, hell yes. I get the biz and the biz just loves me. (I’m not bragging, it just does.) Plus, I obsess over it and refuse to listen to anything but terrestrial radio in the car.

The places I’ve gone because of my career choice have been amazing when I really think about it. New York City, Green Bay, Champaign-Urbana, IL, Seattle, Southern California, backstage at concerts, inside a limo with Kool and The Gang, Playboy Mansion parties, hosting concert festivals, or even working on a farm. These things have always seemed like minor perks. The ride has been great, but I always seem to feel like it is never enough. “I can be better,” or “I can do more,” I tell myself. There are people like Fitz in the Morning in Seattle, or The Woody Show here in LA that are doing...exactly what I thought I wanted to be doing.

My focus has shifted quite a bit in the last year and a half and I am excited about all of the things I want to create. I am meeting people who work harder than me, are smarter and more talented than me, and yet they are the ones saying things like “Wow! I always wanted to do what you do,” or “How do you manage to get it all done?”   Record Scratch. What? Seriously? You are the one that wrote a damn musical! You are the one that is on a comedy tour. You are the one that has a television contract. And so on and so forth.

Is this a common feature of creative people, or most people,I wonder? Are we all afraid that we aren’t doing enough? Creating more? Thinking faster? Or, should I be better about talking about my insane life choices? New York was great! Interviewing Kool and the Gang was a blast! Drinking with country stars Trick Pony was unforgettable.

Perhaps, for me, it is not the fame or prestige that is so noteworthy (although that is all I seem to be bragging about in this post). It’s the listeners and the clients that I have had a small part in helping. My talents in talking to people and connecting on some level that is so very real, has helped clients do better business. This interpersonal skill has helped listeners get through shitty shit in their life because I told a joke or shared a story just like their own to make them feel a little less...alone.

We all need to be better advocates for ourselves. Writing a musical is AMAZING! I’m so impressed. TV credits? You are da’ bomb! (Also I’m envious, but I’ll get there.) But would I trade that for an entire listening area falling in love with plain, simple old me because I got in the trenches and worked on a farm with them. (Seriously, I had to castrate a bull...and it was gross and hilarious).  Could I say that is better than all the money for charities like Special Olympics and March of Dimes that I helped raise over the years? Hell no

It’s time that we all start being impressed with ourselves. It’s time we are as intrigued, inspired and proud of our career/life paths as we are with one anothers'. We each bring something pretty damn cool to the table. Put that shit on a plate and share already!

This song is all about being brave enough to stand up for yourself. Hope you are feeling inspired already. "Brave" by Sara Bareilles

Being Different for Different's Sake: Am I annoying or just really being myself?

When I was a younger person in college, I found a pattern in my sociology studies: people don't really want to stand out. We all just want to fit it. People want to be accepted at work and liked by their peers. Our fear is, however, that if we are radically different from our friends then they won't like us anymore. Take my personal story for example.

Right out of high school, I got a job at a local restaraunt diner, Ruby's, to supplement my life while I went to community college. It's what everybody did. We were just trying to figure out...oh, ya know, LIFE. A new girl got hired at the Ruby's location I worked at, but she was a hostess and I didn't see her very much. Many of my coworkers kept coming up to me, "Maggi, there is this new girl, Sabrina, you two are like the same person." What??? Not uh! I mean, I didn't have a grasp on anything at the ripe old age of 18, but I did know that I was a happy kid and I liked adventures. When I finally met Sabrina, I didn't really see what everyone was talking about. I mean, she had a great laugh, but, we didn't look alike. We certainly didn't think the same. She had so much more experience with people than I did. (She was popular in high school, and I was...so uncool that people knew me because I was a dork). She could do her hair, she got pedicures on the reg, and this girl went out dancing. Dancing!

One of Sabrina's favorite stories to tell is of how we became more than just coworkers. Here's the short version: She invited me and my friend, Melissa, to go to a gay club with her and her friends. Melissa bailed and I showed up. Apparently that was really friggin cool and we were pretty much inseparable ever since. Turns out, we WERE almost like the same person.

Life then happened, ya know, I got career serious and moved to follow that dream around the country; she got family serious and found a rad husband and made some pretty cool kids. We just celebrated her birthday and had probably one of the best conversations we've ever had. I told her how cool I thought she was and she laughed in my face. "I've had someone else's puke in my mouth and you think I'm cool!???"

This was not the reaction I was expecting. I mean, she is like super mom. Always put together, she is the most patient person with her kids. She is doing really well at work, has great fashion sense, and managed to surround herself with some great women. I, on the other hand, left everything I had going for me: an awesome job, a few rungs up on the comedy ladder, so many friends, bills paid on time without help. And then I moved. Away from it all to try out a new dream. And I've been feeling foolish. Here I was watching this person that I thought I was JUST LIKE, and she seems to have it all. When all along, she was experiencing the same exact feelings as me. (She though I was cool...the first and last person over the age of 15 ever).

We are so not the same anymore. I've never had puke in my mouth, and she hates being on stage. But that doesn't mean I don't love and cherish all the things about her that are different from me! She is still my most special friend. Peas and Carrots as Forrest Gump would say. And I know she doesn't hate me, yet, because I'm not the same kid that wanted to drive up and down Pacific Coast Highway with her. (She can't hate me, she's letting me live with her and her family until I can get on my feet again).

Still not convinced it is totally ok to be different than other people? Last week, I was invited to participate in an improv practice with a fairly new team. Now, there are different styles of improv but they are all generally the same idea. You listen, agree with your partner that what you are doing on stage is real, and then you reply to them with hopefully something witty, or at least really interesting. (In the biz, they call that raising the stakes or heightening the scene.) The team I had been with on and off for several years liked to edit scenes with a big "Ssswwiishhhh." So if the people on stage had been stalling, or nothing funny or interesting was happening, then someone would walk in front of them and "swish" the scene to cut to the next thing. Apparently, that was the weirdest damn thing the team had ever heard of because their version of "swish" was just a jog in front of the people on stage.

The "swish" was at first really embarrassing. But, how was I supposed to know they did the same activity differently? They all thought this was the funniest damn thing. I felt really badly at first, because I wanted these improvisors to like me and let me play on their team. I had just done something so terribly awkward and different, how was I to ever come back from that? Turns out, I didn't need to. The team is sweet and talented and seemed really excited to have me come back. Did you read that correctly, they WANTED me to come back. Weird Swishes and all.

I think that it was my different way of thinking that got these guys excited. They are all just people, and probably really relieved that they weren't the ones this week to look ridiculous.

So I won't be afraid of being different. Difference isn't bad and I promise that the world isn't full of a bunch of dickheads walking around going "Ewwww, gross, that girl is different." Well, unless you are in high school. Then I'd say, hang in there. The world does become kinder. Instead of "ewww, gross" it evolves into "whoa, that's different. How did you do that?" Bonus life tip: Those curious folks are the ones you want to keep around you.

I'll keep rocking on with my bad ass self because a) I've never had puke in my mouth and b) swish is the cool sound a basketball makes when you get points. Isn't the planet full of enough people that think and act the same?Share your story of how you stood out from the rest of the crowd and how it positively impacted your life. maggimayfield@gmail.com

This song is a no brainer choice....be uniquely you, and I love you just the way you are. Rock on!

But Mom, you said boys that hit me in school, like me: A Tragically Funny Story About Domestic Violence.

Stories about domestic violence generally aren't funny. The women brave enough to come out and talk about them honestly and openly are going through a very messed up reflection of who they were before, during and after their scary relationship. (This is a TED talk that started my research into what happened to me)My story, however, is so ridiculous, even mere days after the event, that I didn't want to wait to share. Deep breath. Here goes.

Once upon a time, okay, last year in March, I went to a friend's wedding. My best guy friend's wedding. He met the girl of his dreams and I loved her instantly. She helped me swipe on Tinder for the sake of my new found comedy hobby. I needed new material and the engaged couple needed to be reminded why you don't want to be dating in your thirties. Well, late one night while the gang was performing some terrible karaoke, we came across a very handsome man whose profile picture was of him base jumping off a cliff, naked. So very naked. Swipe Right. Yes puh-lease. It's a match! Hopefully a fun first date in my future or at the very least, some potentially good comedy fodder.

Unfortunately, Mr. Naked Cliff Jumper and I never met up. Wedding festivities had me pretty busy and I honestly was only looking for new comedy material. I get back to Chicago, and we wind up talking on the phone for almost 3 hours the first night. I couldn't even tell you what about. It was amazing. It was like I met my best friend on the phone for the first time. Two weeks later I jumped back on a plane to go meet him. I was terrified. We had spent every night on the phone since our initial chat. I was already enamoured before I got on the plane and I think I just wanted to know if the actual intimate sex was going to be as good as the mind sex. Oh, let me tell you, it was!

Not long after that amazing weekend, he left all of his clients behind to move in with me for the summer in Chicago land. My lease was ending in August and I had fallen so head over heels for this comedy thing, I thought I would leave Illinois and head back to California, where my family is, and pursue my dreams. He was so along for the ride. Charming, fun to be around, and seemingly supportive at first, my friends, at least in the comedy world, really liked him. He had a mohawk and talked to my friends. A huge and positive improvement over my ex. What's not to like? He was fun and I was happy.

But then something started happening. He started telling me that I shouldn't be staring at other guys all night at the clubs. "But I wasn't." I'd retort, and he'd just pout and yell until I understood that my eyes were for him only. I started becoming afraid to talk to people, to meet people. He'd tell me that I'm too much of a control freak and that I'd need to go with the flow. He started spending my money on things that didn't make sense. He convinced me to steal. He never tried to get a job or some part time work while he lived with me. I was exhausted by the fights over how insecure he was with the amount of gentleman friends I have. I hang out with other comedians. A lot of whom are men. Dopey, funny, men.

I was under a spell. I was slowly being brain washed and I had no idea. (You know, because that's what happens when you are brainwashed.) I could tell I was being muted. My enthusiasm for life was disappearing. I was exhausted. I just wanted to keep the peace. When we'd fight, he'd ignore me for days at a time and the only way to regain his attention was to perform sexual acts. He degraded me. He despised my independent spirit. He controlled me.

We went on a road trip from Chicago to LA. The idea was to kayak and perform comedy all the way across the country. What I wanted out of the trip quickly became a non-priority, as long as we were fishing and kayaking and drinking beer everyday. I wanted his attention so badly, that it didn't matter what was happening I just wanted to keep the peace and keep his attention.

Fast forward through the 7 week road trip where we wound up very broke. A friend of his called and said he needed help getting back into his home after a natural disaster. Mr. Naked Cliff Jumper was ready to go chase that dolla dolla bill ya'll. I was finally home and didn't want to leave. But I didn't want to let him off the hook for spending all of my money either. So, off to the natural disaster area we went. Typical domestic violence case. Mind control...then isolate. I knew no one. I was just not the same girl that left Illinois. I hadn't performed comedy in so long. I couldn't do anything right to please him. I didn't know who I was and I didn't know how to get out.

Finally, after having been ignored for so long and then yelled at for trying to use my brain, I snapped. I said that I had had enough. I was out. Leaving. Mr. Naked Cliff Jumper didn't like that at all; he went from being Mr. Suave to Mr. Manchild. Pouting, yelling and then throwing my computer. Changing the password to the only computer that made me money a la voice acting. (He changed it to "lyingcunt," for the record. My mother was actually impressed he could spell it correctly). Then he tried to be nice to me to get money from me to move back to LA, where we had a storage unit together. He stomped his feet and yelled at me. Called me every version of the 'c' word he could come up with. Tried regaining any shred of control by taking his time packing his things into the UHaul I rented to gtfo of smallest town, USA. Seriously, no taxis, no buses, no trains, planes or rental cars. There were no limos, Lyfts or Ubers. My only choice was a damn UHaul.

But, even after everything we had been through, I didn't want to be a jerk and not help him get all of his belongings in one place. With no legal license or credit card, I thought I could help him move one last time. Biggest. Mistake. He was so scary that day. There was no reasoning. I wasn't strong enough to just help myself, but I wasn't going to just take his b.s. lying down, either. His body language was mean. He wanted to play keep away with the keys. I wasn't going to get a key to our storage unit AND he was going to lock up the uHaul which had both of our belongings in the back. I wanted a key to one of those things. I was furious and I wasn't going to take his b.s. lying down. So I took his helmet and riding jacket and locked them in the cab until I could get a key. Either one.

Mr. Manchild didn't trust me with either and I just wanted to get this show on the road. So I opened the cab on the passenger side. His helmet was sitting on top of my big bag of bathroom essentials. He came in so close to me that I was scared he was going to hit me then. He didn't. But that's because I threw his helmet across the driveway just to get him to step away from me. Apparently, I broke the dang thing. Mr. Manchild didn't like that one bit. So, to retaliate, he took my bathroom bag and chucked it across the driveway and across the yard. I went to collect my belongings as I quietly and (eerily) ever so calmly told our hosts not to worry because it "was just stuff, after all."

The dispersing of my belongings wasn't quite enough because he did manage to find my birth control pills and bury all of those in the mud. Like a dog. After stomping on those he then went back into the cab for more. He found my sunglasses and stomped on those. Tore up my snacks. Don't mess with my snacks! He even left my prescription glasses on the ground ready for a good romping. He noticed I was collected my birth control and came over to grab those out of my hand. He grabbed my hand and wrist to get me to let go yelling in my face "WHY DO YOU NEED YOUR WHORE PILLS?" My hands were covered in mud from trying to unearth his temper tantrum. I open handed slapped him across the face and walked away. Eerily calm. And then it hit me. His closed fist on the back of my head. I don't remember it, but our lovely hosts said I screamed. All I remember is feeling like "here it comes...the beating of my lifetime."

Our host came to stop him from going any further. I was walking away, much faster now. In between the sobs and pounding adrenaline in my head I heard him yell "If she can hit like a man she can take one like a man." I must have one gnarly open handed slap. Makes me wish he felt my right cross thanks to all the Jillian Michaels videos I have been doing!

I rushed inside and called the police that I had on speed dial. The entire day I had made sure I wasn't alone with him. Everything had happened so fast. Even though the cops were on the phone, I suddenly felt so isolated and alone. He saw me on the phone crying and knew I had called the cops. I looked around and no one was in the house any more. He chased me outside and on to the porch where there were many others and I felt surrounded and empowered by numbers. To me, these people were strangers, but somehow, they made me feel less crazy. I didn't know it then, but I am not the psycho he made me out to be.

You know how if you hit your sister just a little too hard, she'd start crying. Immediately you think "Shit...you're OK. You're fine. Shhh....Don't tell mom." I think I half expected him to react that way. But while I stood protected by the numbers of people on the porch that afternoon, he continued to yell at me. "GET IN THE CAR, MAGGI. GET IN THE CAR AND LETS DRIVE." I was going no where.

Was anyone laughing at this scene? I wish I wasn't IN the scene because watching a grown man bury a woman's birth control and then stomp on it would have been hilarious to watch. Partly because a dog would have buried it better AND peed on it to declare his ownership. All I got was a punch in the head. From behind. Coward.

I should be glad though. No one has ever hit me before! Never. Not once. In my whole life. I did want the boys to like me so much in school. I wanted to be pinched and hit on the arm. I should be so glad, that finally, someone loves me so much that he can punch me in the back of my head. I should feel the warm, fuzzy glow that comes along with a crush...a love like that.

But instead, Mr. ManChild, I am left with fear. My heart skips a beat whenever I hear a motorcycle come up from behind me because I'm worried that you know where I live and have followed me. I cannot seem to leave my room to go meet new people for fear that I don't know how to talk to someone new. I don't even want to make love to myself because you left such a nasty taste in my mouth. Okay, I won't stop making love to myself, but the scar is there.

My story of domestic violence is no where near as violent, or scary, or deadly as some I have heard. This, however, is not a competition. I was vulnerable, I got hurt and the signs and pattern of abuse is the same. Perhaps the story is, indeed, just as scary as some, but I am stronger than most. I can laugh with my mother about the horrible names he called me. I can get onstage and talk about this. I will heal. I will love myself again. I will get back to normal. Because to me, you are now but a mere tragically funny memory.


I'm not the only one that can find the humor in domestic violence. Instead of a music video, here is comedian Bill Burr's take on the subject.