The Estrogen Cafe

The Artist

2012-01-08T19:49:00.000-08:00

I just returned from seeing "The Artist", a beautiful film by French writer/director Michel Hazanavicius and starring French actors Jean Dujardin and Berenice Bejo. It is a silent film, shot in glorious black and white and is one of the most original, funny, tender and amazing films I have ever seen.

The story takes place in 1920's/1930's Hollywood at the crossroads where silent films and talkies collided. Careers were made and lost during this time and The Artist explores a falling star (Dujardin) and a rising one (Bejo). While paying tribute to great silent film stars of the past (Chaplin, Keaton, Valentino), The Artist is more than a homage to a fondly remembered era. It is imaginative, beautifully filmed with lush art direction and gorgeous costumes. It is touching without being sentimental, funny without being cliche with truly delightful performances.

I loved every minute of it and it is one of the few films that I think I might have to see again on the big screen.

Frame by frame it is a masterpiece. And as for the leading man (Hazanavicius) all I can say is ****he's dreamy*****sigh . . .

Shopping List

2012-01-03T16:12:00.001-08:00

Coffee
Tea
Hormone Replacement Therapy

Back In the Saddle Again

2011-11-14T06:23:00.001-08:00

Somehow when I wasn't looking, depression and anxiety crept in. In the weeds. Prayers and good thoughts appreciated.

Baby Girl

2011-09-23T09:09:00.000-07:00

On Monday my baby girl turns sweet 16. Where oh where has the time gone? It's such a mixed bag being a parent. On the one hand, you want them to grow up and become independent, thoughtful and productive citizens and on the other, you want to swaddle them in blankets and keep them close forever.

There are three and a half years between my girls. We couldn't quite decide if we wanted to have a second. Did we have enough resources: time, money, love? Then one day I watched the movie Philadelphia (with Tom Hanks) and there is a scene at the end of the film where the family is watching old home movies. Hanks' character, as a child, is sitting in the back seat of the car looking out the rear window, giggling. Next to him is his sister and they are both smiling with big toothless grins, giggling and waving at the camera. And I knew right then and there - we may not have enough time or money but we have enough love.

And that is how Pearl came to be. We were poor, but happy. I chose to stay home with the girls and Jerry supported us by working two jobs and keeping us afloat. The days were long and exhausting and went by in a whirl of diapers, picture books, 3 a.m. feedings, stomach flu, visits from the tooth fairy, birthday parties, Barbies, craft projects and ice cream cones. Countless playdates, sleepovers, trips to the zoo and the playground filled our days.

Pearl was as a cute as a button when she was born. Healthy, alert and as sweet as could be. She grew into a beautiful, intelligent and kind young woman. She is much loved. She is amazing.

Whatever else I may or may not have done with my life, I brought Pearl into the world and the world is a better place because she's in it.

Happy Birthday my dear, dear girl. I love you to the moon and back again.

Thrift Store Adventures

2011-09-10T10:57:00.000-07:00

Okay, so my favorite store in the whole wide world is Goodwill. There is nothing on this earth I would rather do than dig through piles of junk looking for a treasure from days gone by.

I'm after the good stuff. Vintage goodness. Items that somehow weathered time and, through some unknowable journey, found their way onto the shelves of the Shoreline Goodwill.

What I'm NOT looking for is stuff like this:

There are no words.

Seriously? What IS this? There has to be some significance to these babies nursing from a creature that appears to exist only in Greek mythology.

Let's take a closer look, shall we?

The creature appears to be canine in nature. A wolf perhaps?

Except it has a weirdly shaped snout and ears that are too small for it's head.

Perhaps what's most amazing is that someone created this piece, someone else put it on their store shelf and then another someone actually BOUGHT it. WHO would buy such a thing? And how did it wind up in MY Goodwill?

*shiver*

I'm almost afraid to go back. What if it's still there? Perhaps I should buy it and bury it in the back yard. Or smash it to bits with a hammer.

No. Better not do that. It might rise from the rubble and attack me.

Okay. I'm going to slowly back away from the beast. . . and then run like hell!

Update on My You-Know-What

2011-08-29T09:40:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I'm 12 days post surgery and I have to say, I really underestimated what recovery would be like.

I'm fairly comfortable, but have the stamina of a newborn baby. Last Saturday, on the verge of losing what's left of my mind, I asked Jerry to drive me to Rite Aid for an outing. Yes! These days a trip to the drugstore constitutes an outing! (If someone told my 20-something, disco dancing, not-even-leaving-the-house-until-11:00 p.m. self that future-me would be giddy with excitement over a trip to Rite Aid, I would have told them they were trippin'!)

Anyhoo, I grabbed a cart, not because I needed it to shop, but to hold me up. I was feeling cocky because I was wearing lipstick for the first time in over a week and off I went, lurching down the aisles, clutching my cart like grim death.

I think I lasted about five minutes before I knew I was done. I felt like I had just given birth and my tiny, scuttling baby steps made me look constipated (which I wasn't anymore thanks to - oops - forget I said that). Admitting defeat is not easy for me, but I hobbled over to the ice cream case, grabbed a nutty buddy and headed for the checkout.

Harumph.

By nature I'm not really a very active person. I like to take walks when the temperature is perfect and I ride my stationary bike for 30 minutes five times a week (yes, I really do!) and occasionally I'll break out and bust a move while I'm doing housework and listening to the oldies station, but that's about it. So it's not like I'm sitting here dejected because I can't participate in that triathlon I've been training for all year.

I'm really bummed because I can't putter. Can't sit at my craft table, can't do the up and down a bajillion times to fetch things from my craft supply stash. Can't go to Goodwill and rummage, which is my fav thing to do in the whole wide world and a passion I share with my daughter, Ruby. Can't go to Starbucks.

Yes, these are the things that make up my world. Exciting, isn't it? It's the little slice of heaven that I've carved for myself and it works for me.

Okay, so I'm not complaining, just to set things straight. This was an elective surgery that will, ultimately, vastly improve my quality of life.

But I deserve to be able to pout a little bit, don't I? I mean, it was MAJOR surgery after all.

Ow!

2011-08-21T10:05:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I had my surgery on Wednesday, came home on Thursday and I'll tell you what - OW! Thank God for pharmaceuticals, that's all I can say.

Things went well, no surprises, my uterus has gone on to it's final, well-earned resting place, everything else has been put back in place and I'm stitched up. Now begins the recuperating. I'm still pretty sore, the pain comes and goes, I've been sleeping and eating okay, walking hurts but I have to keep moving. The nurses were great, VM is a fabulous hospital that has - really it does - room service - and I was lucky to get a private room.

So far my family has stepped up and the house is in order and they've been very nice to me. Ruby has been keeping things clean and orderly, Jerry is keeping me fed and Pearl is very sweet and fetches things when I ask her to.

I have great health insurance and a very supportive employer. Flowers, cards, friends and family.

I feel very blessed.

xo

How Do You Spell Relief?

2011-08-14T12:24:00.000-07:00

I spell it H-y-s-t-e-r-e-c-t-o-m-y!

Now this may be TMI for some people and if it is, then you should leave NOW because it's only gonna get worse from here.

Okay, so I've been having all kinds of issues as I journey through the jungle of menopause. (For a brief history of my hormonal adventures click here.) Finally my doctor decided it was time to take aggressive action and, after the appropriate pre-appointments, I'm scheduled for surgery on Wednesday and I'll be coming home on Thursday.

Of course I'm nervous as there is always risks for any surgery, and I'm even a little sad to say goodbye to my hard working uterus as, without it, I wouldn't have the two amazing daughters that were nourished and nurtured there for 9 months. But mostly I just want it all to be over. It is, after all, a big deal to have surgery and an even bigger deal to lose a body part.

And of course, there is the risk that my (suspiciously dormant) anxiety will rear its ugly head and lay me out before I have the chance to actually get to the hospital and have access to some world class, kick ass anti-anxiety meds.

And I'm hoping my family will man up and not let the house fall down around our heads. I hope they load and unload the dishwasher, clean the toilets and run the vacuum around the house once or twice.

And I'm hoping my recovery goes well. I'm hoping I get to go back to work as planned.

I'm hoping this whole event doesn't set off another depression/anxiety marathon and that I can relax and heal without the added bonus of anxiety attacks.

So, stay tuned to this blog for an update on how my surgery goes and for any calls of "Help!"

Until then ~

xoxo

My Wicked Habit

2011-08-01T16:56:00.000-07:00

I grew up in south eastern Massachusetts in a small city called Fall River. Or, as we pronounced it - Fall Riva. See, we dropped our "r"s like hot potatoes. Or, as we pronounced it, hot patatas. So car becomes "cah". Yard becomes "yahd" and park becomes "pahk". (When we put them all together we get "I pahked the cah in Havad Yahd".)

But I digress. What I really want to tell you about is my "wicked" habit. No, not drug use or alcoholism or kinky sex or any other habit that the word wicked brings to mind. My wicked habit was that I used the word wicked alot.

I will translate for you.

Wicked = very, many, alot

As in: I saw a wicked hot guy at the bah (bar).

Or: I saw some wicked cute jeans at the mawl (mall).

And of course: I was wicked mad at Bahbra (Barbara) for telling Cahl (Carl) that I was making out in the cah (car) with Chahlie (Charlie).

Now using the word wicked in moderation is acceptable. But I used the word wicked like kids today use the word like: like too much. Every other word was wicked.

"I have a wicked lot of homework and I'm wicked tired."

"I had a wicked bad dream that I was being chased by a wicked creepy guy in this wicked scary forest."

And the all time classic:

"I say wicked a wicked lot."

I don't know when I stopped saying wicked all the time, but I think it may have been around the time I started college, and, not wanting to sound like an uneducated dufus, I dropped wicked from my vocabulary.

But it wasn't like I was the only one. Everyone said wicked. Or - a wicked lot of people said wicked. It was just the way we spoke.

Wicked cool. Wicked nice. Wicked tuff (a misspelling of the word "tough" which in this instance meant cute).

Wicked pissed. Wicked drunk. Wicked stupid. Wicked sad. Wicked funny. Wicked hard. Wicked easy. Wicked cold. Wicked hot.

I could go on but really - why botha? (bother) You get the idear. (Idea) We don't like to pronounce "r"s in words that have them, but we love to put "r"s in words that don't.

Remind me sometime to tell you what it was like going to a catholic school with no "r"s.

"Fuhgive me Fatha for I have sinned. . ."