Sunday, February 28, 2016

People In Your Neighborhood

Lola, Ever and I thrifted this Saturday. This is my $5 haul.

1. I related to this, as someone who has found tremendous physical, emotional and mental relief from changing my food choices: Stop Asking Me To Justify My Food Choices by Katie MacBride

2. We have a wonderful children's book for Ever on Einstein's life (thanks mom). A truly amazing person.

3. Ignore the fact that is on goop. It's interesting: on chronic fatigue and pain and Epstein-Barr.

4. In a recent blog post I talked about Cooper Nemeth, the Canadian boy who went missing after his hockey game, and was found brutally murdered. This is what happened to him. He was selling and using drugs. Drug addiction is so huge in our youth, (in adults too, but the boom in our youth is terrifying, and that's not too big a word) we have to speak out, ask questions, find answers, keep pushing for change, help, and reform.

5. On the same subject: When A Loved One Dies Of An Overdose, What Happens To The Family?

6. Susan Brind Morrow's biography sounds incredibly romantic and powerful. What an interesting, intelligent, independent woman.

7. I've been reading more on raw vs cooked, juiced vs. blended lately. This is an informative piece on the truth about raw vs. cooked.

8. A necessary new website on coming through suffering and coming alive

9. My new article in She Knows, on Ever's bout with RSV as an infant.

10.  The wonderful Queen Constance on the bitch of anxiety.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

You Magnificent Bastards

Words are so powerful. If I say 'you magnificent bastard' to my husband, that feels very different than 'you're awesome'. 

Here's me, feelin myself. I love my tattoo. I love my husband. I love all three of our cats, even though they can be giant pains in the asses. They like to sit on my keyboard when I have an assignment due and write &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
and return to do this many times despite my firm removal of said cats, Maybelle, Robert B Porker (his name is actually Robert B. Parker after Ed's favorite author but he's so huge...) and Sir Lemon, they come back and continue to sit on the keyboard and put their paws on my face and run around my desk like crazy beings and claw me in their ferocious pursuit of fun until I get really mad and yell and put them out of the room and shut the door. Lola cried because Sir Lemon cut her foot and made it bleed the other day. NOBODY MAKES ME BLEED MY OWN BLOOD

Right now as I type this, Maybelle is in my lap. I have my legs drawn up, knees up, and she's wedged in between with her paws around my legs and her head in my vision. Since we had Maybelle fixed, she's grown fat as a seal. Her head is tiny and her belly is huge and round. She's also kind of bitchy now. Menopaws. 

In other animal news, we are babysitting Dakota's puppy, Kaytee, while he visits his friend who just had a baby. His first friend to have a baby. Ah.

Monday, February 22, 2016


Three out of my four children- the three that when I started this blog were all still children- are so much older now that they no longer want me to say much about them. Lola is the most open, she doesn't care too much what I write, although like with the boys, I still ask her if I write much about her at all: Is this OK? She almost always says yes, because I almost always know what would get turned down. She's lying on the couch, coughing now, my sick girl. She turned the corner, is getting better, after endless hours of Mr. Curry and I thumping her back to break up mucus, making her tea, fixing essential oils for the diffuser, adjusting the heating pad, stuffing her with vitamins. 

I miss the days when I could write about the burdens of my mother's heart. There are some so great that often I have trouble sleeping, and lay awake. I vaccinate between trying to distract myself (there's no point in obsessing, I chide myself, focus on something else) with a book, a harmless tv show, and accepting that the most important things in my entire life, those things that could uproot my soul from my body in one gasp, one hard tug, are out of my control. Sometimes the yearning for the days when I could put them all in our bed and hold them is so intense it makes my stomach hurt. Keep them safe, keep them safe. Keep them safe. 

Tonight is one of those nights. I just couldn't sleep, so here I am. Mr. Curry sleeps upstairs, soon to be awake at an ungodly hour for work, Lola on the couch, Ever in bed asleep, her five year old self still completely allows me to fix every ailment and soothe every sadness. 

The absolute hardest part of parenting for me has been the letting go. 

Recently a mother was half-heartedly bemoaning that she still let her anxious 8 year old son sleep with her. She didn't really think she shouldn't, you could tell, but she was kind of asking for reassurance. I replied that she would never, ever, ever regret one single moment of love and comfort she provided her child, and that in fact in the years to come when there were many moments she could not protect nor help her child from pain, from suffering even, that those years of loving acts in his childhood might be the only thing that kept her sane.

Recently a young man in Canada went missing for five days. I kept seeing his handsome, 17 year old face in Facebook posts. He played hockey, so they kept showing images of him holding a hockey stick, bright eyed. Today he was found dead, in a trash can. I allowed myself to go through the internet rabbit hole- something I usually resist, for obvious reasons- and read about it, and. And. I bring this up because his parents mentioned that he was on medication for anxiety and depression, ADHD. Because looking through his Twitter feed, there are constant references to drug use. And one completely unbearable tweet, posted recently, said that he found death unbearable, the 'nothingness forever and ever after you die, and that's it.' Oh my God. Cooper. His name. Cooper was 17, and sad, and anxious, and his parents were trying like hell to help him, his parents who could barely stand for trembling at a recent press conference begging for help to find him, and Cooper used drugs and went to a party, and there was some kind of alteration over drug use, and he was murdered in a brutal and horrifying way. FUCK DRUGS FUCK DRUGS FUCK DRUGS FUCK DRUGS


I bring this up because I recently interviewed a man whose beautiful boy overdosed at 20 years old. I bring this up because every day I keep seeing obituaries of young people who have overdosed. I bring this up because an acquaintance just left her husband after another failed attempt at sobriety. I bring this up because my friend's son died of a drug overdose. I bring this up because drug addiction has ruined many lives of people I love. I bring this up because I FUCKING HATE DRUGS.

Drug addiction is one of the most powerful and insidious ills in our modern lives. It's a disease that  changes the entire way your brain functions, so that normal things your brain would care about, like say, LIVING, stops mattering as much as taking drugs. When you are addicted, nothing matters as much as drugs, because your brain is ill, and that's what it is commanding you. Not sleeping, not love, not sex, not even the all powerful money. A drug addict, similar to someone mentally ill, is trapped inside their brain. Until they get help, and even then, that help has to be comprehensive. We've got to change our insurance policies. We have to. People are dying. 30 damn days in rehab and then dropped on your ass doesn't work. Something like 80% doesn't work. We have to do better.


Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Internet Dump Zone, Move On People, Nothing To See Here

Things I am currently, specifically worried about:

The decline of my cognitive abilities, more specifically is the decline related to my depression/autoimmune issues or perimenopause, more specifically when will I have my old brain back? I get glimpses: a day last week when my brain felt razor sharp and alert, and I wrote out three wonderful article ideas, worked on my novel and an essay and came up with what I think of as a creative cluster. That was one day amongst many when my brain feels like pudding, slow and stubbornly fixated on the endlessly boring (ME) and not on the endlessly interesting (LIFE). It makes me feel sick with fear at times. 

The decline of my overall health in the last year. Despite everything I'm doing– targeted supplements, exercise, yoga, cut sugar almost out, mostly gluten-free, lots of healthy fats, proteins and veggies, sunshine, testing that says cheerful things like ' yay you! you're C-Reactive Protein is SUPER LOW! ' (my interpretation of bloodwork) an awesome sex life, supportive as hell husband, and a healthy dose of Zoloft and thyroid, I'm just not OK. Yet. Perimenopause, again. I don't mind the constant fatigue, pain and swellings that come and go as much as I do the dullness of mind. I have been very positive the last year that I could change this, but I'm starting to feel a slump coming on. I'm not sure what I'm missing that my body needs. I've started biodentical progesterone. Hail Mary.

My children, each coming with their own individual worries that keep me awake at night, that settle into my stomach and bones and the constant, endless evaluation of my parenting skills. Am I doing enough? The right thing? Too much of the right thing? What could I be doing that is hurting them? What do they need that I'm not seeing?

The fact that I was in an accident that is going to cost money.

My lack of steady income. Freelancing keeps brimming with possibilities, but in the last few months I've been completely unable physically and mentally to keep up with the pitching I could be doing, (although I've been fine once actually assigned a piece, it's just the fishing that requires a different type of thought and planning) therefore not only am I not making enough money, I feel like shit about it. If I had an out of the home job, I honestly don't know if I'd still HAVE it at this point, with how the last six months have been.


Writing at Romper gave me an unhealthy desire to use GIF's on my blog. I am so sorry.


My ass's refusal to get to Beyonce level heights, and the fact that I am 41 and think about such things. I am vain. I am a vain white woman with a pretty hot ass, but will my brain be happy with that? We know the answer. How can one person think about both her ass shape in comparison to some cultural demigod in the same day she worries about the psychological effects of solitary confinement on the brains of human beings and spends an hour reading through a study of ancient Egyptian burial techniques?

My husband's stress levels. Too high. Hot damn. Police and the fireman. He's been working 60 hour weeks, too.

My upcoming MRI or colonoscopy to see what this thing is that is probably/hopefully/maybe endometriosis related. Fear.


If you are still reading, I am sorry. Not TOO sorry, because you know, free will, man, free will.*

* (bonus points if you name the movie that quote comes from)

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Beautiful Ugly People

Mr. Curry and I had such a ribald night last weekend. We got smashed on Jack Daniels, rolled around on a sheepskin rug naked in front of the fireplace, watched a bad movie, fell into one of those trance-like states of lust/love that is still possible, when the dead leaves and frost cover fall away from the days,when Grandma takes the kids, when we are alone for long enough to be still and silent together. It's not politically correct to say that when I'm with Mr. Curry is the only time I feel completely, totally at ease, but it's true. He's it for me. We have a shared experience, or a shared consciousness of the world, that I've never known with any other person. It's incredible. It's also made balance more difficult, but now rounding the bend of our 13th year of marriage, we are getting better at it. We see things coming down the road, we don't have to wait for the headlights to blind us before we're hit. There is acceptance, there is resilience, there is a maturity that allows for emotional discipline, part of which has been fashioned under the gaze of four sets of eyes, our children. The man has seen my intestines, piled glisteningly on my abdomen, when the doctor signaled for him to look too soon during my C-Section. He's wiped my ass, after my last two surgeries. He's cradled me as I bled our 13 week baby out. While I try to maintain some mystery, for fun, at the heart and soul of our relationship there are two aging bodies and souls that completely accept each other's failures, sags and moans, while celebrating all the beautiful. I was so smart to marry my best friend, and so lucky that passion came with it, that romantic love was a seed that grew into this. Our lives together have been hard. Financially, mentally, physically, hard. We've had incredible breaks, and some great luck, but by and large it's been he and I, waking each morning and deciding 'Today, here I am, and here I'll stay', working and working and working to be better than we were the day before, more true to ourselves and our values, more generous, forgiving, hopeful and tender. Out of that shared devotion to our family life has come a tremendous mutual respect that continues to grow. It is one of the best gifts of my marriage. Along with amazing, mind-blowing sex. That, too. Oh, and our kids. Those guys.

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Writer Path Retreat

Martha Alderson and Jordan Rosenfeld, co-founders of WriterPath Retreats and co-authors of Writing Deep Scenes: Plotting Your Story through Action, Emotion and Theme, are thrilled to invite you to their bi-annual retreats. 

Spring writing and yoga retreats allow you to deepen the plot and scene writing of your stories in 3 days. Every Fall, renew and transform your relationship with your writing and yourself in our stunning settings on the central coast of California.

or their Facebook page 

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