I moved to Chicago at 21 — flat broke and full of dreams.

I was living my improv fantasies at Second City; creative, resourceful, and, let’s be honest, adorable. I had bartending skills honed at a Wisconsin Applebee's — I could clearly handle anything, including slinging jumbo margs and making bar pets for patrons out of potatoes from the kitchen.

It was that kind of blissful ignorance that I actually kind of miss now, though it’s evolved as an adult. It’s more refined, but still there: that “I don’t know how this is going to work, but I’ll make it happen” mindset. Back then? It was more stupidity mixed with a healthy dose of “I don’t give a fuck.”

That version of me was ruggedly classy... minus the class, plus a pitcher of Miller Lite.

Summer of 2007, I moved into a tiny studio apartment off Clark & Diversey.

Le Fountain Blu — still there on Cambridge Avenue — a beat-up, three-story apartment building with a broken fountain in front, painted blue on the inside. Fooling no one but a few angry birds.

I was steps from a few key bars — Duffy’s, Yahkzees, Galway Bay (which, funnily enough, became a comedian hangout years later).

Yahkzees was a 4am spot, and I’d gotten to know the staff pretty well just from hanging out. One night, with maybe twelve bucks to my name, I wanted to go out, but I was gonna need a plan.

I went to my apartment, threw on some tiny workout shorts and a tube top, grabbed one of those dorm towels with the velcro strap that your mom buys you — you know, the ones that are way too small and look like a shitty terry cloth club dress — and slipped it on over my outfit. I wet my hair, grabbed my smokes (I dabbled in P-funks back in the day), tossed my keys and Motorola flip phone into my car (which had a keyless entry code pad), and raced over to Yahkzees with nothin’ but my cigs.

“I got locked out of my apartment smoking,” I told the door staff. “I don’t have my phone, purse — nothing! The super’s gone. Can I just hang out until I figure this out?”

There I was, wet, in a towel, flip-flops, inhaling the last drag of a Parliament Light with a level of anxiety that felt real because it was, for a different reason — would they buy it?

Of course, they bought it. My genius plan had succeeded.

Not only did they let me in, they handed me a free bucket of chicken wings and endless pitchers of beer, telling me to stay as long as I needed.

And stay I did. Til 4am. I became the talk of the bar — the wet girl locked out with a wild story. I got a free night out, and they got a great story to tell. Win-win…

The Hustle

You know, life has a way of slapping you in the face with karma.

It was 2010 when I got the call to perform with a group of comedian friends, a solid 45-minute drive from downtown Chicago. We piled into the car, and as we neared the venue, I realized with a sinking feeling: we were performing comedy at a strip club.

Naturally, I was the only woman on the lineup.

Imagine this: I’m dressed like sk8er-girl Avril Lavigne — loose low-rise jeans, white tee, leather wrist cuff, necklace down to my belly button, a belt with more visible holes than the strip club itself — about to do stand-up while a crowd of horny dudes just waited for naked women to strut across the stage.

The vibe? Let’s just say, it wasn’t exactly the comedy crowd of my dreams. It smelled like a sex shop if it were placed in my late Grandma's farmhouse basement. (The one I avoided while living in the camper by the cow pen, in case you missed last week.)

But this? This was the hustle. I was figuring it out in real-time, learning to make my way through the weirdest gigs, and doing whatever I had to do to get closer to my dream. I didn’t care how bizarre the situation was. I was just happy to be getting on stage at all.

Back then, stage time was THE only currency. We were all running on fumes and shots of Jamison, which are actually the same thing.

After the show, us comedians gathered around a VIP booth (the men were probably having a very different kind of experience), and we were presented with our payment. It wasn’t money, it wasn’t a check. No, no, no. It was much more fitting.

We were handed… a bucket of chicken.

I had to laugh to myself. That bucket of chicken wasn’t just a form of payment; it was a callback. A comedian’s badge of honor. A symbol of all the weird, wild gigs you take in the beginning and the schemes you come up with to survive. I didn’t care about fancy shit — it literally didn’t exist and there weren’t even optics back then other than Facebook — I cared about the work, about showing up, about turning those scraps into something edible.

And maybe that’s what the hustle is all about. You take the chicken, you take the work, and you keep pushing forward. The goal isn’t always clear — but you do what you’ve gotta do to keep the dream alive. With your clothes on, hopefully.

The Chill

So, here's the thing.

The hustle is still there, but it’s different now. It’s not a grind anymore. It’s not something I need to harp on constantly because honestly, it’s just second nature at this point.

The effort is still there — but it feels smoother, upgraded. Like I’m coasting, but not in a lazy way. Like why I love grilling: slap the chicken on, close the lid, and let the heat work its magic. No need to fuss. I trust it’s gonna turn out just by being in the right place.

I’m also getting paid in real, actual money now. Which helps. A lot.

I’ve spent the last fifteen-plus years building the life I used to dream about, and hell yeah, it’s still a work in progress. But what’s different now is I get it. I understand how I’m doing it and why. I’ve figured out how to use the same tools I had back when I had nothing but blind trust, creativity, and maybe a little bit of delusion.

It’s less haphazard, more strategic, and there’s a lot more appreciation for what I went through to get here.

When I look back, I realize that this is the dream life I used to fantasize about. Every little step, every dumbass gig, every moment of struggle for sheer survival — it’s all led me to a life I once wish I had that I’m living right now.

And that’s dope. Giving your past self some serious cred.

We also make it hard on ourselves, because the further along we come, new dreams pop up, goals get loftier and further away, and it seems like you’re always on a mission to get somewhere else.

But, like, isn’t that exactly how it’s supposed to be?

Always appreciative, never satisfied — just knowing that you’re capable of a lot cooler shit if you could manage to get this far with nothing.

Maybe I’m not at the finish line, but damn, I’ve lapped myself more times than I can count.

And 21-year-old me? She’d lose it — probably laugh, say 'I called it,' and ask for a bucket of chicken to celebrate."

Upcoming Shows

Kansas City Funny Bone July 31st

Columbus OH Funny Bone August 17th

I would love some help selling these babies out! Spread the word!

Stay on the hook for tour dates coming up late 2025/early 2026:

Buffalo, Portland, Austin, New York, San Diego, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, Charleston, Detroit, Boston, DC, San Francisco, Raleigh, Albuquerque, Nashville, Dallas, Arlington, Tampa, Vegas, Denver, Richmond, Minneapolis, Orlando, ATL, Seattle, Vancouver, Jacksonville, Savannah, Miami and now Alaska are in the works.

If there’s anywhere you’d like me to come, even if it’s a local venue in your hometown, I’m open and willing to try and make it work — just reply and let me know. I love me an adventure, as you well know…

Love you all and cheers to the hustle + chill. We still enjoy a little chicken, it just hits different.

xx NPH