Since the 1980s, I've had friends, coworkers and employers who understood my value, my talents, education and expertise in many areas, from food service, janitorial and customer service to interior decorating, wardrobe styling, screenwriting and investigative journalism. I strive for perfection in everything I do and the pressure I've put on myself to succeed – at all costs  has, in fact, cost me my health, and my future, as I struggle with the painful, debilitating effects of an incurable disease that is slowly destroying me from the inside out (T2 diabetes).

I try not to say no to anything, any request, from a client:

⨳ You've just had a car accident and you need my help with the police, lawyers, the media, unexpected absence from work and personal issues like paying bills and hiring a physiotherapist to help you get back on your feet? Don't worry, I'll take care of it.

⨳ It's 3AM, you're in a taxi, headed to the airport, and you just remembered you left your laptop on the kitchen counter? No prob. I'll go fetch it and meet you at the departure gate.

⨳ You're throwing a little get-together and need a bartender/server to keep the food and drink flowing 'til 4AM. Yeah...I can do it – but I want the leftovers.

⨳ You need a compassionate, helping hand as you return home from an abortion clinic, plastic surgeon or weeklong jail sentence for DUI? Hey, I've got your back.

⨳ Dropped your wedding ring in a toilet full of puke? OK, ummm, just gimme a second to mentally prepare myself for the plunge.

⨳ Your maid quit? Sure, I can clean your 10,000 square foot home every fucking day until I can hire and train a new one.

⨳ Need help memorizing lines for the blockbuster movie you've just been cast in? Let's get together and act out every bloody fucking scene you're in, over and over and over again, until you know every word. Cuz, y'know, I have no life of my own.

I don't like to let people down, and I greatly value my professional reputation. But I'm sick, now. And what few clients I have left, as I slowly ease into retirement (on disability pension), still expect me to be their beck-and-call-girl. Their rock. Their problem-solver.

The latest example of me leaving -- and later returning to -- a client because they discovered, much to their dismay, that I am not a superworman who can do everything, solve every problem and ALWAYS be there, no matter what, is really starting to irritate me.

Cut me some slack, man...I'm dyin' over here!


Well, this pretty much sums up my year. I not only lost $1,000 a month from major cut-backs at the two restaurants where I work, but my very last chance to sell my TV series, The Black Tower, crashed and burned at Netflix. With my once extraordinarily successful show business career now truly dead, all I have to look forward to, in a life cut short by Type 2 diabetes, is low wage menial employment with no money to spare for fun little things, like shopping excursions in Vancouver, visits to galleries and museums, and day trips to explore the wilds of BC (believe it or not, I do enjoy hiking). I'm trying to be hopeful about the future but, with my physical and mental health plummeting with each passing day, it's all I've got in me, just to get out of bed in the morning and rake a brush through my hair.

Please, be good to me, 2021. 🙏


One year ago, today, my life changed for the better by the unexpected birth of five precious, little kittens. The road to domestic bliss was a little rocky at first (one kitten tragically died, another was diagnosed with cerebellar hypoplasia) but my love and devotion only grows with each passing day.


After work, I got home and parked my car, heading toward the front entrance of my apartment building with a bag of groceries, when I heard a sweet, young voice call out “Hello!” to me. I looked up into the face of an adolescent, blonde-haired boy, waving to me from a third floor balcony.

“Hi, there!” I cheerfully called back, thus launching a 3-minute chat about how he’s 11 years-old, from Arizona, visiting family in Nanaimo for a week, while movers transfer all of their belongings from one side of the hot and dusty state to the other. We talked about the weather, fun things he’s done over the past few days...But I’ve got meat and cheese in my grocery bag, so, I said “I have to go, now. Bye!”

Twenty minutes later, I was just sitting down to a charcuterie platter for lunch, when I heard that same familiar “Hello!” calling through my apartment window.

I got up and went out to my below-grade (basement) apartment patio, to find the boy waving at me, from above.

“Is that your cat?” he asked, gesturing to Maive, sunning herself on the warm cement.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Hey, I remember you,” he chuckled. “You’re that lady I talked to a few minutes ago. Can I come down and play with your cat?”

“Uhhhh...sure. Why not?” I mumbled, with a complete lack of enthusiasm.

So, he came down the stairs to my patio and we started chatting again, while he bent down to pet Maive. His name is Ian, he starts 6th grade in September and he likes snakes, scorpions and spiders – especially tarantulas. He also likes ghosts, and he believes in ghosts because he worships the Holy Ghost.

“Oh, so...you’re a Mormon, then?” I pressed him, recalling news stories and statistics about the big Mormon population in that area of the United States.

“Uh-huh,” he said, proudly.

Remembering that I had a plateful of food waiting for me, I told him I had to go eat lunch.

“Can I come with you?” he asked. “Maybe I can help you clean up your apartment?”

W T F?

“No, sorry,” I muttered, and headed for my patio door, only to find Ian hot on my heels as I stepped back into my living room (FYI, I put my bed in my living room and set up a home office in my bedroom). So, this kid from Arizona was now steps away from my unmade bed, with black sheets and various, uh...playtime accoutrements on it, which I quickly stashed away while he gazed with amazement around my really cool pad.

“I’m an interior decorator,” I informed him, as he scanned my collection of horse head statues, gargoyles, ceremonial daggers, human skull replicas, crystals, tarot cards, framed pictures of friends who’ve played vampires in movies etc...and then he spotted my huge tome on Demonology, Witchcraft and World Mythology on a shelf, just underneath my flat screen TV.

“You read books about demons and witches?” he asked, quite innocently.

Now, those of you who’ve known me for years are fully aware that I’m not a huge fan of kids. I’ve been a nanny to several children but I am under no illusion that I resemble Mary Poppins in any way, shape or form. I tolerate kids because I understand that they are people, too, and they are curious about the world, adventurous and thirsty for knowledge. So, if they ask me a question, I pretty much flat-out tell them the truth, regardless of what tight-assed, close-minded helicopter parents might think is “age appropriate.”

“Yes, I’m a witch,” I replied. “So, I have a lot of books about demons and witches and ghosts and monsters.”

He nodded, matter-of-factly, and urged me to elaborate. So, I opened the book in question and we started talking about Odin, Thor, Zeus, Osiris, Mars, Diana, Aphrodite, Robin Hood, King Arthur, Merlin, Satan, Mephistopheles...going over pictures and diagrams and occult symbols.

Now, thoroughly satisfied that I had tainted Ian’s sweet, innocent and impressionable young mind, I told him he had to go because my lunch was still waiting for me, on the dining table, a few feet away.

“Can’t I stay just a little while longer?” he begged, and stretched out across my bed.

“Oh, no-no-no-no. Sorry, Ian,” I chuckled, trying not to appear panicked, cuz everyone knows it is SO not cool to let some random underaged kid get all comfy on top of your bed.

So, he gave me a quick hug (awkward!) and off he went.

Freaks, man. They just gravitate right to me.