Last April, a friend of mine gave me a “booby cactus” to commemorate my first year being cancer-free. This April, it’s officially the longest I’ve ever kept a plant alive, which serves as a great tribute to my second year.

For my 40th birthday in 2018, we had a BBQ at the house with tons of food and dozens of friends and family in attendance. My 41st birthday was at a karaoke bar, complete with private room, apps, drinks, and a large group of friends.

Ages 42-44, however? Those have been a different story.

Bonus content. Who doesn’t love bonus content? I mean, it’s a bonus, right?

I’m going to find out the answer to that shortly.

The first week my boyfriend, Cai, and I moved to SoCal from Massachusetts, we were shopping at Ralph’s and checking out when the cashier asked how we were doing. We gave the polite, “Fine, how are you” response, expecting her to reply “fine” back.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate the confidence I’ve gained. I don’t care as much about what others think, I know my limits and have set healthy boundaries so others know them, too. I attribute this to the wisdom we gain, which is usually a good thing. But every once in a while, something comes up that makes me shake my head and say, “Oh yeah. I’m old.”

In six weeks, my book launch for Running with Hounds…and an English Degree will be happening at Book Carnival in Orange. The hybrid event takes place Sunday, April 24 at 2 p.m. PT.

It took 6 years, but it’s finally here. My new novel, Running with Hounds…and an English Degree, is ready to meet the world.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to distinguish between when I should speak up and when to just “go with it.” And then there are times I’ve had to do a little of both.

I dealt with this very lesson during the photoshoot I did for my new author headshot. It was time for an update, as my former pic from my last self-published book 11 years ago was a selfie angled down to hide my double chin. It was clear I was leaning over, and the expression on my face couldn’t hide my amusement at said position.

Looking at the various genres on my bookshelves, you’d think they belonged to different people.

There’s an urban fantasy series by Chuck Wendig sandwiched between Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones Mad About the Boy and Stephen King’s Four Past Midnight. On the shelf below sits the coming-of-age story The Second Home by Christina Clancy hobnobbing it with Michelle Obama’s Becoming and the cartoon series Strange Planet from Nathan Pyle. I could go on, but you get the gist.