Aging doesn’t suck.

It’s the crappy attitude that is the problem.

I’ve never been one to stress about birthdays. There are only a handful of age-related milestones that mattered to me:

When I turned 18 and could vote drink in public.

When I turned 21 and could drink in the US.

And the funny thing is, I’m not even a big drinker. Cruise lines make their money back on me, the woman who has a latte at breakfast, a mojito at lunch, and maybe two drinks at dinner. It’s not that I can’t handle my liquor, it’s that there are other ways I’d rather ingest my calories.

30 was marked with a big surprise party my then-boyfriend arranged for me. The most memorable moment for me was how upset I was that I starved myself all day for the promised steak dinner that wasn’t going to happen.

But once I hit 40, something changed. I was no longer apologetic for the shit that fell out of my mouth. I stopped caring about being a people pleaser. I was in the middle of my best years of career growth, but I had left the workforce in 2004 when we moved from Toronto to Calgary and my employer—a national retail chain—told me I’d have to quit and re-apply. Ok. Fuck you, bye. Next.

When 50 rolled around, I was in a whole different mental place. You might have heard some famous people say 50 was when they really began to thrive (Hi, Oprah), but I was mostly pissed off.

Menopause did that to me. Acknowledging that my mother was abusive did that to me. Losing the constant battle to lose weight also did that to me.

As the fog of meno-brain lifted, I became hyper aware of who I turned out to be. I’ve published three memoirs. I have two middle grade books that will be published in 2023 and 2024. I’ve got a young adult novel in the works. And I’m working on a screenplay with a colleague and friend from journalism school.

I am a writer. I have cred as a story teller. My second season had begun and I am on fire (could be the menopause, but let’s believe otherwise).

So why this newsletter?

I needed a place to park the writing that I am too chicken-shit to put in a book. Some of it’s inflammatory, some of it is scraps left on the cutting editing room floor. I wanted to be able to share those stories and give you entertaining content that might also guide you to think differently about some things in life.

Lightbulb moment: this is the newspaper column I always wanted. Like Dear Abby, but more sardonic and sarcastic.

Why substack?

This platform allows me to dish out a steady flow of fresh content and I promise the bulk of it will be free.

But I’ve also got bits of writing spread out across two computers and I am ready to share it all. Yes, even the garbage. But that stuff, my friend, will be behind a paywall. I am done feeling bad about asking people to pay me for my words. So I say please and thank you for supporting me, even if that is just sharing the free stuff with your people.

Behind the subscription curtain, you’ll get the things I won’t post publicly. There will be some videos and behind the scenes stuff that I hope you’ll find interesting. I’ll share the writing from my earliest days as a reporter covering every beat there was (except sports, because all the sports reporters I knew were douches). Who wouldn’t want to read my first ever multi-page feature story about the world of tattoos?

I’ve had so many name changes (maiden, the short-lived sassy reporter nom-de-plume I created, marriage #1, and marriage #2) that a Google search for name yields almost nothing. Furthermore, I started my journalism career in 1995, long before everything was on the internet.

This is me (a photo essay)

I have some nutty energy.

My biggest supporter and cheerleader.

My kids.

The fur baby who tolerates me.

The rare family photo.