All I really wanted for Mommy Day was a necklace made of plastic beads and macaroni, something I could wear with an evening gown to feel a little Overboard, a la Goldie Hawn. This want felt like it had grown up from Mother’s Days past, where all I really wanted was a gold charm bracelet, or bangles and baubles, or anything really from one of the many “Gifts to Celebrate Mom on Mother’s Day” magazine or web lists. Every year I feel disappointed that Phil didn’t write a card, didn’t have the kids make cards, did nothing more than make brunch reservations. I didn’t want to feel disappointment this year, so I told the kids that it was Mother’s Day Weekend, that they could cram in as much mom love as possible, in song and otherwise. Especially, I stressed, when said mom love could involve homemade waffles… with mini chocolate chips. Throwing in the detail of the chips makes them full-speed-ahead kids, ready with cheers and the insistence that they make me breakfast in bed, knowing that the chips will fall where they may (into their wee bellies). I printed out the recipe come Friday night. But when Phil and I returned from picking the kids up from gymnastics Friday night, he went into bed to rest, as I began to measure waffle ingredients. “I’ve made the batter,” I tell him, leaving the bowl on the counter with the remaining instructions and waffle iron. The batter sits on the counter overnight, with the yeast left to rise and double. Come morning, eggs and baking soda are added, then blueberries or chips.

Making batter for your own surprise breakfast in bed is like picking out the engagement ring before he proposes. It made me sad that I had to be involved to get what it was that I really wanted. If I really wanted the macaroni necklaces, it wasn’t enough to hint at it four times. No. I’d have to set the kids up at a table with string and beads and a box of noodles, otherwise, forget it. And that sucks. It sucks that I have expectations. It sucks that I want certain things and the only way to get them is to do it myself. Which is like buying your own jewelry. Even when you wear it, you always know you were the one who had a hand in it all, that on some level you forced it, stepped beyond hint into help. It’s just not the same.

I want to say that I appreciated everything just as it was, but I didn’t. There were no framed photos for a wall, no noodle necklaces or home projects with the help of dad. There was a bouquet of dyed flowers from the supermarket, bought not for me, but for the required “bring a flower to school for teacher appreciation week.” Maybe it’s just because of what I’m going through now with the latest health news–though I doubt it–but I felt undervalued. No gifts, no flowers, no cards, no photo or homemade gifts. Waffles of my own making.

If I have expectations that run too high, it’s because I grew up with this, with a father who always bought my mother flowers, special ones from a florist, bought cards and gave presents, engraved or otherwise. My grandfather, too, always celebrated my grandmother on holidays and ordinary days, with gift wrap and planning. They were spoiled. Or so it always seemed. Perhaps these women had to buy their own cards (the thought of this makes me cry), or perhaps they had to buy their own jewelry or put their children in a playroom, supervising sentiment. Maybe these things shouldn’t matter to me, but they do. Because I want to feel cherished by my husband, to know that he planned and schemed and made the effort at extra special that he knows matter most to me.

He made reservations and cooked my waffles. This isn’t the kind of disappointment I’d usually admit. But I’m feeling sorry for myself, despite all my blessings. I feel let down, as if I’m a spoiled brat who never sees the positive in things. Chooses not to focus on the fact that my husband took the time to research a restaurant I’d like for Mother’s day, that he made the reservations weeks in advance at a place with west coast oysters (my favorite) and lobster rolls and Blue Crab Eggs Benedict. I should focus on what I do have, that my family wanted more than anything to snuggle in bed with me. But instead I’ve chosen to feel sorry for myself and to blame and stew over what? In the grand scheme of things what does it even matter? Things don’t, but gestures do. But perhaps even with the gestures I’d then still want more, want things. And if there were things wrapped in gift paper, in velvet boxes, then perhaps I’d complain that there weren’t enough gestures. Maybe what I need to work most on is to be thankful for whatever it is I do have. Though while I try to do this, it’s very hard to look away from what I can’t see. That’ll take some work. I’m just not sure it’s the kind of thing one should be working toward, lowering her expectations. It’s just nothing I can imagine ever convincing my children to do for themselves. “Lower your expectations, so you won’t feel disappointment,” sounds like the shittiest advice ever. It’s advice I’ve heard from life gurus on tapes, but it’s advice I’ve never been able to stand behind… advice I seem to keep stepping in.

Instead, especially in light of my latest health news, I should be thankful that I’m even able to celebrate Mother’s Day, that I am in fact a mother with healthy children. I should be thankful that we can afford such a holiday brunch, that we were all together, safe, able to make toasts and laugh and love on each other. I need to be thankful of these gifts instead of wanting others, wanting things that in the end mean nothing. And that’s something to remember.

I’ve been talking to the universe (again). Alone in my car I’ll say, “So, universe, listen up.” Then I’ll continue, aloud, for a decent stretch, the way one would shoot the shit with a sister. Though I try to get to the damn point already, in case the universe has ADD.

Since I share this freely, I might as well disclose that I also make a point of visualizing things each morning and last thing I do before sleep. I don’t actually see anything, but I try to imagine myself in the life setting I want. Then—wait for it—I speak in present tense, as if I’m already living the life I desire.

With whatever it is I want, I speak as if I already have it. I don’t just speak it, I visualize it and imagine myself in it, hoping to feel at least a little of the “giddy.” For me, giddy is the feeling I most want to experience. Monetary freedom, for example, isn’t a feeling. Carefree and breezy, feelings (and a creative weather forecast).

“Amazing,” I say from my current kitchen, “I could choose to read this cookbook in my white library room, the sun soaked one that still manages to keep reliably cool and glare free, the one with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a rolling ladder, right there down the hall. Choice is up to me.” Imagining that I actually have this option stirs something up in me. Kick in the step, swagger in the walk, ass in the shake (ass comes first when we’re talking this much ass).

I imagine and speak in specific details, for example, of my kitchen, the one with the surround sound and flat-paneled TV that pulls out from the ceiling into which it’s built. The very one near my espresso bar station.

Lately our little talks have been about health. Not my health, actually, but of those very close to me who’ve been struggling. People I love dearly, people who show up in my dreams. They’ve been going through some tough things. I speak as if they’re already well, then visualize them surrounded by healing golden light, in a bubble of it, radiating nourishment and healing… just to keep them so healthy, see?

Today, after meeting with a reproductive endocrinologist and being handed the news that yes, I am, in premature menopause, and yes the bone density tests reveal that I have mild hip osteopenia (T score of -1.54) and a normal to low spinal T score of (-1.26), I got into my car and summoned the universe to listen up but good. Then, I said, “Thank you.” Seriously.

“No, it’s not the greatest news here, but it truly could be so much worse. Thank you for guiding me into that doctor’s office when you did, so they were able to discover this now, not ten years from now. I’m already healthy and strong, and this really will only make me stronger. Do I love the idea of “bioidentical hormone replacement therapy?” Of course not. I am terrified of this option and don’t know what my other options are. Have there even been any studies of women in their 30s and HRT? Not that I’ve found. “Pig,” I’ve heard before. But “Guinea Pig” is in a whole other league.

All this in combination with anti-osteoporosis drugs like Atelvia or Actonel for my bones, which I believe with long term use creates micro-fractures. This is scary and it sucks, but. But it could be life-threatening news, and I’m deeply thankful that it’s not.

Maybe this happened to me so I could write about it and reach someone who might otherwise have taken longer to drag her vag into the gyn. “She’ll then thank you universe, for having me go through this (even though it sounds kind of evil, I know it’s not). That’s what we’re here for right? To serve, to give of ourselves, to share for a greater good; we’re all connected, parts of the same thing, a part of you universe, or God, or whatever created our existence. So, thank you. Now you can make a note that I’ve received the message and there’s no reason to give me any more shit to write about.”

AMH blood testing will confirm the premature menopause one way or another, but based on the magic wand up the crotch maneuver, today’s ultrasound, where my girly gadgets were measured, gave the reproductive endocrinologist a better picture of what’s going on. And what’s going on is NOT poly-cystic ovaries. “What I’m seeing here looks consistent with menopause. There are no cysts. Nothing.”

“So, I should just assume I’m in premature menopause, without needing the AMH test results?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Then we talked cause to this unusual effect. What could have caused this, for me to be 1 in 250 women to go into premature menopause? Genetic and thyroid and attacking ovarian antibody tests have been ordered, more blood drawn, results to follow… IN TWO FCUKING WEEKS.

“You do realize I have to live with this woman,” Phil said to the doctor.

“I will drive him crazy, it’s true,” I said. Though, he will get off easy, being in New York for another two weeks beginning on the night of Mother’s Day. Still, I can be very “present” over the phone.

“Okay, how about this? If anything comes across my desk before then, anything major, I will call you before our May 25th appointment?”

Oh, joy. I’m turning off my phone now. Er, I mean, “I am already well.” They will find nothing in these blood tests. No underlying autoimmune or genetic disorders. Right people? Go on, please say it aloud for me, okay?

“She’s totally normal, ______ (Universe, G-d, Great Creator. Insert your favorite flavor)… for a woman who talks to herself as much as she does.”

May 25. You’ve got to hang in there with my crazy until then. After I shut off my phone, I’m going back to my dream kitchen to make foods, which according to my Five-Elements Acupuncturist sister, “draw out the damp.” A wing and a prayer, people.

Also, something near my heart or my actual heart has been feeling funky. Maybe it’s a pulled muscle or something on the surface, from where my laptop pokes into me when it slides up as I type with the laptop on my stomach. So tomorrow I have an appointment scheduled with Phil’s cardiologist. Let the good times roll. Next week I’ll schedule a mammogram, just to get it all over with at once. Then I’ll go shopping for jeans and bathing suits.

Like I said, if you’re reading this, it could be because you’re supposed to. So get yourself current with your doctors and blood tests, just for piece of mind. And send this on to your own loved ones because this universe might want to get in touch with someone through the shit it’s making me go through. So let this body of mine do another body good.

I was in a parking lot this morning, head between my legs. I don’t actually think this is supposed to help with fainting, but I think I saw it on the Brady Bunch, or watched my mother do it at some point. I had to pull the car over. I was on the phone with my doctor; blood results were in and I felt the prickling sweat, my stomach rising, head light.

“Well the good news is that your cholesterol is excellent. 186. But.” Here it is. “But your FSH levels are still in the menopausal range. With polycystic ovaries, which is what we thought you had, the FSH levels usually return to normal when treated with birth control. But you’ve been on birth control for the past three months, and your FSH is still in the menopausal range, which isn’t good. Because once menopause happens your bone density goes down hill from there. So, I’m suggesting that you come in for a bone density test, which we normally don’t give until 45 or 50. You’re 36, and we need to see if you’re already…” Then he mentioned something related to osteoporosis. “You told me you’re not trying to have more kids, which is good. Because if you wanted to, you’d probably have to use a donor egg.” What is happening? Why is my body breaking down while I’m so young? My mother didn’t go into menopause until she was 52. “So, we’ll do a bone density test and then likely do hormone replacement therapy, because you really don’t want things going down hill at 36.” No?

May 15, bone density test scheduled followed by a consult, where he’ll likely talk to me about hormone replacement therapy. I am beyond. I don’t even know how to go from there. I am beyond. I’m just trying to breathe, to not faint, to remind myself that it can always be worse. But what I really want to know is what’s causing this? I didn’t realize quite how blessed I was to have these precious children, from my own eggs. I mean, I did, but not in this context.

I call my mother, head still between my knees. The kids in the back seat carrying on, harping out tunes, pushing, hitting, laughing. I tell her. She tells me she wouldn’t do hormone replacement therapy. “I hear it can cause cancer, and you’d be taking it for YEARS. Your grandmother had breast cancer, it’s in your family history; you can’t discount that. I would get a second opinion.”

A second opinion won’t change my FSH levels. “No, but a different doctor might have other suggestions, maybe a change in diet or exercise. I don’t know. Look, people get estimates on their houses, second and third opinions. You should at least do that with your own body.” I hate this.

To top it all off, Lucas is sick with a cough that hacks away until he vomits on the table (just happened again this morning). He can’t go to school like that, even though he has all the energy and wants desperately to play. Worse still, I’ve caught his cold and feel sick and irritable, short tempered, and want to get the fuck away from everyone. But I can’t. Phil is in New York. I have no relief. I want to hide under my covers and pretend this away. Instead, I’ll take Lucas back to the doctor because I can’t take this, hearing him suffer and cough all day. But I know this, at least, is temporary. Menopause at 36 isn’t. How is this happening?

I will also add this. Why, for the love of gravy, do they have to call it ovary FAILURE? I mean how totally negative. No one wants the word FAILURE attached to their identity. Why isn’t it called ovary GRADUATION? And I will try an endocrinologist. As I just said to Dulce over the phone, “I doubt they’re going to tell me anything worse than what I’m now being told, so really, what do I have to lose? It’s like taking the SAT twice. Where only your best score is revealed to schools. So here’s hoping to a better score. I never thought I’d say this, but here’s hoping I become “completely dense” from here on out.

MAD MEN
Obviously, I’m back on board with Mad Men, though this week’s past episode was smoking crack—or at least was tripping on Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Between Peggy giving a HJ to a stranger in a theater, to Roger’s “trip” with Jane, to Don and his dearest’s fight, chase, and crash, I didn’t know where to look. I’m still trying to process it all. And, I miss Betty.

GIRLS
Lena Dunham (Tiny Furniture) is the creator of HBO’s Girls, “which is co-produced by Judd Apatow.” I hate that—that every article I’ve seen on the show includes the Apatow footnote way up in the opening paragraph, as if to legitimize the series, like giving accreditation to a three-week summer program. The girl can slouch just fine on her own.

I was in their Long Island City offices one afternoon while Lena polished the pilot script, and I was cheering (albeit silently) for her, thrilled truly that such a young woman had a tribe of people buzzing around, creating an entire series based on her vision and talent. Good for her. Not just because she’s young (25 yrs. old), not just because she’s a woman, but because even in Hollywood, where everyone wants to stir your pot, she was able to keep the authenticity and quirk of her voice and characters, the ones that sparkled dimly (in that desired understated way) in her independent feature film Tiny Furniture (winner at Austin’s SXSW—TX shout out).

The show purposefully shines an unflattering fluorescent light on Dunham’s generation of privileged twenty-something’s, specifically, a circle jerk of all-white New Yorkers. Write what you know. I don’t believe Dunham is suggesting that the girls in the cast (herself included as the main character, Hannah) are a microcosm of her generation, but rather, she’s writing about the world she knows, just as Neil Simon wrote about his own particular life.There’s been a lot of backlash, particularly criticism on the narrow and spoiled view of it’s characters, but I believe Dunham knows exactly what she’s doing: she’s being self-deprecating.

While I was in their offices, a friend mentioned to me that the lines written to be funny, where Dunham pokes fun at her own character’s weight, weren’t funny because Lena looked too good. She wasn’t fat enough to make fun of her weight. She’s trying though. She’s putting the absurdity of privilege coupled with aimlessness and a sense of entitlement on display.

The only bit that didn’t “read” true to me was the scene where Hannah is taking a bath with her friend, leaning over the tub, EATING A CUPCAKE. Why, oh why, did she have to go there? Might as well have been a carton of ice cream. It’s cliché, so perhaps that bit was forced upon her in editing to make an executive happy. The bath, I don’t get, but it’s probably something she has experienced, plus it demonstrates that Hannah is at ease with her body, storybook tattoos and all. Overall, I love the unapologetic self-centered view, the frizz and the unflattering. It feels as if you’re looking in the mirror without makeup, “rough” after spending days of unshowered sloth in the same pajamas, eating cereal from a Pyrex measuring cup because it’s the only clean bowl you have left. That’s how Girls feels. And ironically, it’s refreshing.

I saw the film Hysteria with Maggie Gyllenhaal, Hugh Dancy, and a minor role for our adored Rupert Everett. It’s billed as “A romantic comedy based on the truth of how Mortimer Granville devised the invention of the first vibrator in the name of medical science.” And I can see the blurb now: “Vibrating!” But, it’s really not a romantic comedy, nor is it vibrating. There’s an absence of tension. Not once do we wonder (or even root), “Now how will the lovers, who are so clearly meant to be, ever get together?” It really doesn’t feel anything like a romantic comedy, so don’t see it hoping for a satisfying chick by way of flick. Doesn’t happen. Overall, I would not recommend this film until it hits homes in DVD fashion. This trailer pretty much sums up the entirety of the film:

I just ate breakfast soup, after eating breakfast. Today’s breakfast was pecked in serving order—between feeding the beans, I dug into small bites of Challah French toast Pudding, just a lick of syrup, packed lunches, just a handful of Pirate Booty, three rings of pineapple. Then I returned home to devour the best soup I’ve ever made. Breakfast soup is not a milky porridge with bits of crumbled bacon and a swirl of maple spiced egg custard (though that does sound heavenly). No. It is phenomenal soup of the savory variety from which you won’t be able to keep yourself come breakfast. You’ll eat it cold, standing up, straight out of the fridge. I am crazy in love with this soup. I will share the recipe because it’s my own, and you won’t find one for it anywhere else (believe me, I tried to find it).  But first, a random of the past few days:

LUCAS LOST TWO TEETH
They go out in the same order they came in, people say of teeth. We noticed a gap in Lucas’s lower rack, only to discover that a tooth had run away. Lost, didn’t even realize it was gone. Then, another loose tooth, one he was ready to tuck under his pillow as soon as it came loose. Though yesterday, when I picked him up from school, the gap had widened. “Where’s your loose tooth, buddy?”
“Drats,” he said. “Foiled again.”

ABIGAIL LAST NIGHT
After a dinner of New York strip and my Sweet Potato Mojo Fries (Sweet potatoes cut into fries, shoved into a plastic baggie with egg whites, then spread upon a parchment-lined baking sheet, cooked at 450 degrees for 15 minutes, flip fries over, cook another 7 minutes or so, then quickly shower the hot “fries” with: salt, 1 clove minced garlic, chopped cilantro, chopped mint, zest of 1 lime, and a pinch of red pepper flakes—the egg whites act like a browned crackling coating), Abigail turned to me and without stopping for a beat said, “Mama, now we need to eat our ice cream for dessert because we have to get all these sweets out of the house!”

WHAT ARE YOU—NOOOO!
Perhaps I’ll spare you the story of Kind Sir’s transition into a Waterfowl the other day. Nervous stomach, meet the ool—notice there’s no “P” in it? Supposed to keep it that way. Oops. Poor Abigail, too, dragged out, soaking, forced to race with us into an air conditioned bathroom, with Lucas truly waddling, appropriately enough, like a Waterfowl, which is exactly the noun I’d turn into a verb to discuss the situation. It was a water-foul. Nightmare on my street. I will also spare you the scene once we entered the bathroom. There will be no discussion of the sink. Truly tasteless, I will also add, after all this poop business, my mind keeps circling corn kernels. I am so sorry.

MICHAEL’S GENUINE FOOD & WINE
Last Wednesday, Phil and I stole away to Miami for the afternoon. Phil was there for work, and I’d come along to eat. We dined at Michael’s Genuine Food & Wine (They have a cookbook, too). It’s the kind of place where I imagine patrons asking the waitstaff, “Yes, the chicken is organic, but what was it fed, where did it sleep, and what was his name?” My sustainable food associations with zealots aside, Michael’s offered us fresh, bright, inventive food—surprising. I ordered the soup, which, yes, served as inspiration for the breakfast soup I just devoured. Since I was unable to find the recipe anywhere, including a cursory search in their cookbook via Amazon, I recreated my own version at home. In love, despite the free-association.

- ∞ -

THIN COCONUT CORN SOUP (WITH OR WITHOUT COCONUT)
4 cups College Inn Chicken Broth (not stock)
4 ears of shucked fresh corn (Not sure you’ll get the same crunch and perkiness from frozen, but perhaps. Grab a bag, use ¾ of it)
1 baking potato, peeled and cut into ½-inch cubes
13.5 oz can of can of good quality coconut milk (my fav: Chaokok brand for its high coconut cream content)
½ red onion
Pinch or two of red pepper flakes (your call on how much heat)
1/3 cup fresh minced mint
1/3 cup fresh minced cilantro (unless you’re one of those people who HATES it)
2 pats of butter to swirl in at the very end
2 tablespoons of olive oil (again, optional. I added at the end, then whisked because I love to see those teeny tiny dots of flavor in my broths)
Totally optional if you like it creamier: ¼ cup Heavy Whipping Cream (or to use if you’re stuck with a crap brand of coconut milk)
1 Avocado, cubed
Zest of 1 lime (optional – I did not do this)
Salt and (white) pepper to taste

I say thin because this isn’t some chunky glue chowder. The broth is thin. Also, you can modify the recipe using low-fat or fat-free alternatives like fat-free half-and-half. I go for the fat kind of thin, personally.

1. Holding them upright in a bowl so kernels don’t fly everywhere, strip the cobs of their kernels as close as possible to the cobs. Place cubed potato and the kernels and their cobs in a large, heavy pot with the broth, making sure the broth covers all. If not, add more broth or water. Season with ½ teaspoon of salt. Bring to a boil, then cover, stirring occasionally, until the corn and potatoes are tender and the broth is flavored, about 17 minutes. Remove and discard the cobs.

2. Whisk in coconut milk (and cream). Add red onion, ½ of chopped herbs, red pepper flakes Reduce heat to moderately low and simmer, uncovered, until the flavors have a chance to meld, about 5 minutes. Add the remaining herbs, season with kosher salt and white pepper to taste. Optionally whisk in butter and/or oil. If you want more brightening power than the mint, add zest of 1 lime.

3. Add avocado cubes to the bottom of each serving bowl, and more red onion if desired, add the soup, and serve immediately, or eat for breakfast reheated in the microwave.