supa.dupa.fresh

The mucus plug, that bloody knob of indeterminate viscosity but certain significance, stared up at me from the toilet bowl. It’s been almost exactly six years and I still wish I’d made a movie of me bending down to take a closer look, straightening up with 10 months’ worth of stiffness, hands on my hard-to-see knees, and muttering, Holy shit. It seemed like a cinematic moment at the time.  Read more >

Hollywood loves the widower as romantic lead. Clive Owen’s character in the Boys are Back promises a trifecta cliché: he cared for his wife when she had cancer, he parents their small child, and he has no idea how to do laundry.I can see the screenwriters salivating: enter the beautiful divorcee with a kid the same age, cue music, and as the sun sets we know closure’s been reached. And no one really expects a movie to hit it on the head when discussing an issue like losing a partner and raising a child amid the stress and numbness of grief.  Read more >

We went around the circle in grieving group. What happened in your life this week? I was all a-giggle. “I BOUGHT PERFUME! Here smell this!” I oozed manically, extending my cleavage to Viv. I’d never bought a perfume before. Sure, I used to wear sandalwood or musk oil, smearing it through my hair before martial arts class. But I’d always been skeptical that the marketplace could come up with a fragrance that really suited me, me, me, and it seemed that every perfume I tried smelled like my Grandma, mostly half-rotten lilies, at least on me.  Read more >