Lost in translation

Over the last couple of months my family and I have been cleaning out the years of savings and collections of my grandmother's house.  I cannot decide which is worse; the funeral itself or the time traveling I do each time I walk into her home. All the memories flood over me, the smells, the pictures, and her extensive jewelery collection still reside in the same place as if she were just out for awhile. I mean there are some entertaining pieces of my grandmother that we have discovered that we never knew. For instance my grandmother loved decorative paper towels. So in a file case, we found folders and folders of paper towel with Christmas ornamentation to jolly looking bears filed away.  However, one of my most treasured finds on these cleaning bonanzas was in an old Reebok box. This is very fitting because as long as I can remember my grandmother wore these white Reebok tennis shoes that were circa early 1980s.

Before I describe the contents of this box perhaps we should discuss the relevance to my life. I am for what my mom would describe as a very independent person. Yet, my mother feels that I would best be suited with a man firmly attached to my side. I mean  it has gotten so bad that the last time we went to a funeral my mother introduced me as " This is my daughter Jen, she likes boys."  My grandmother too was very consumed in my extracurriculars, Do you have a boyfriend? Have you met any lookers? And this pretty much sums up the interrogation I would receive as I came to visit my family for any holiday. While I am perfectly fine  and secure with my single status, I am aware of the angst it has caused my family. 

Yet as I opened the old Reebok box, I felt as if I understood the incessant interrogation and questioning for all those years. I have often prayed for just one more letter from my grandmother and what I received were hundreds. As I fingered through the old letters, I saw that they were dated 1945. As I peeled the antiquated stationary out of the envelope what I had found were love letters between my grandma and grandpa during WWII. Not only did my grandmother write my grandpa everyday, but the love that is shared on these pieces of paper is priceless. Perhaps it is the phenomenon of young love; the vibrancy, the infatuation, or maybe just the sheer fact that they were not sure if they would ever see each other again that gave each letter so much depth. I reflect back to my grandparents as I knew them, and it just makes me smile, because the love in the letters was portrayed so differently than the love I witnessed growing up as a child.

I often wonder if the love of today has somehow gotten lost in translation. I mean from random hook ups  to makeout friends has the love of old been replaced with the instant gratification of today. In one of the letters  from my grandfather, he writes "Melba I miss you just like the stars would miss the skies." While I am pretty sure I would laugh my head off if anyone ever said this to me, there is something so real and genuine in the letters my grandfather writes.  I supposed it is the sincerity of his love that I feel is so absent in today's world. I feel like the words "I love you" are flippantly thrown around and that a sense of security rests in the option of divorce and separation. 

I now realize that the questioning and concern that my grandmother had for me was only her hopes that I might experience the same kind of love that she did. The love that every woman deserves.  We all grow up learning of prince charming and how he sweeps the girl of his dreams off her feet, and  looking back now I can see in  my grandmother's eyes that she had known this kind of love. I think about their fifty some years of marriage and wonder am I capable of a love that lasts a lifetime. Better yet, would  I recognize it if it hit me in the face. 

An old friend and I were chatting about this very topic at brunch. We decided that love is so different than it used to be. Love was a matter of life or death during our grandparents era, and today it a concern of availability, your hotness factor, and what you are willing to put out. While I am far from a cynic, I  must ask the question is the love of old a dying art? I am not saying that we should all go out and demand red roses and love letters, what I do ask is that you be cognizant of your motives.  The optimist in me is forced to believe that genuine love, the kind my grandparents knew, still exists. The problem is like with any great art, it is shaded and contrasted in many lights and thus takes the right eye to fully appreciate it beauty and meaning.  Thus, Happy Hunting ....

I should have been a hippie.

It just so happens that I am on my Psych rotation right now at the Veteran's Hospital in Indy. In the last week I have become incredibly close with a man who for these purposes we will call "Duke."  He is a paranoid schizophrenic who for some reason I have bonded  with quite extensively. I am quite proud of the fact that I have been able to provoke this stone cold perpetually sleepy schizophrenic to stop dead in his tracks and just bust out laughing at some of the ridiculous things that come out of my mouth. Yet, today during our session, I was asking him about where he grew up and if he lived here in town. He replied he lived here in Indy, and he then proceeded to ask me where I was from. For reasons beyond me, I just blurted out Bloomington since it was the last place I had been living. The man brought his downcast eyes from the floor and looked me straight in the eye and said, "yeah, you look like you have that hippie vibe from Bloomington."

Is it really that obvious that a psychiatric patient can recognize my undying affection for hippies? Perhaps its my unruly curly hair or better yet my love for bold and loud clothing that tipped him off, but one things for sure is he is dead right.  After living in the hippie haven, Bloomington, for two years I was able to experience them in all of their liberal glory. Perhaps it is the ease in which they can put on those long flowing skirts in the scorching heat of summer or maybe it is the freedom of not caring what others think, but I just can't help but be enamored by them.  They are creative geniuses in their own right.  While I am stressing over creating the perfect SOAP note, my hippie cohorts will let nothing get them in a bind. They rule their own schedules and they make up the right brain of our population.  These fine people are the writers, photographers, and artists of our time.  

While they might be partaking in recreational drugs, they have no fear of repercussions. They toke it up, smoke it up, all in plain sight. While drugs are not my style, I think that I could greatly benefit in a world where the stress of living up to social norms is obliterated.  A place where you can dance around wearing the loudest of loud outfits or to truly appreciate the meaning of the words "free love."

Don't even get me started on how they are the kings and queens of decreasing the carbon footprint. They are your organic junkies, bicycle loving, hummus eating, earth saving friends. They took those 4th grade seminars  we use to have on reduce, reuse, recycle to heart. They stage protests and hunger strikes to make a point. They need no violence or corruption to let their point be known.  They are the Mary Mary quite contraries who can make any garden grow. They are fruitful and resourceful. 

They are some of the friendliest and kindest people I have ever met.  They see the beauty in the world around them, and the people that populate it. They see the richness of color and diversity.  They live by no rules and celebrate a life  full of stress free events. They inspire me to embrace the moment and to live a life full of love and happiness.

If you have ever met me, you would know that I am far far from the point of refusing to shave my legs or armpits, I don't participate in recreational drugs, nor do I have the greenest of carbon footprints, but what I do have is an open mind and a yearning for a moment of clarity. In this moment I would breathe in all of the beauty of this world, live a life that is free of stress, and recognize that we all have something unique and different to contribute to this world. So maybe Duke is right in one way, I might give off a hippie vibe, but in reality I am just a wanna be in a short white coat.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

My Vegetarian Vacation

I have been a self-proclaimed vegetarian for about 5 years. I haven't always been a herbivore though. I feel that it was prompted upon my studies abroad to Spain. I remember how my Senora would sing a little spanish melody as she hacked into the huge hunk of ham leg that hung from a peg in the kitchen. Everyday she would shave some off and put it on my plate. I would just stare at this glistening piece of little piglet as my Senor devoured his serving in one swift fork full. After ingesting this Spanish delicacy he would lick every single finger with loud smacking noises. I never liked meat all that much before the trip and as they say this was the spark that started the fire of my so-called vegetarian lifestyle.

Today I was curious to the proper terminology of my eating habitues. I have laughed over and over about the fact that while I am not a vegan or a pescatarian I do qualify as an ovo-lacto-tarian. This simply implies I partake in milk, eggs, and of course cheese. Yet, some unruly things have been happening to me of late. I have had these urges and cravings for meat. Now don't get me wrong, I don't dream of double thick burgers and fries, I mean I might truly be ill if this was the case. Yet, I feel like my body is crying out for some protein that my favorite protein-packed yogurt Fage cannot provide.

Thus for the last week I have been on what I would like to deem "my vegetarian vacation." Quite honestly it has been nothing less than delightful. I have fancied myself on chicken tenders and tilapia thus far, but perhaps my most exciting and exhilarating discover has been the world of sushi. I honestly just don't know where to start, it is stinkin' fabulous. While wining and dining with an old friend at a place called Naked Chopstix in Broadripple, my palate was pleasantly surprised by the little roll of goodness that was presented in such an aesthetically pleasing way.

Thus I am left in a predicament, while I know I cannot eat meat every night or perhaps every week, should their be a sushi exception? I sometimes wonder if all my calorie-counting ways and restrictions have left me blinded from the goodness of things like sushi. Where do we draw the fine line between disciplined and restricted? While I lack the capability to even attempt to be a vegan (I mean cheese without wine is almost a sin), I sometimes wonder if it is really about the animal product at all, or is it more about the control that one has over what enters their body.

While I don't plan on being a glutton for meat nor do I plan on being a pig advocate, what I do know is that I have truly enjoyed stepping out of my comfort zone this past week. I often times find that some of my most memorable adventures and experiences are the moments when we allow ourselves to take risks and place ourselves in vulnerable places. Thus for now, I am probably going to head back to my ovo-lacto-tarian ways, but will try to allow myself to delight in the delicacies of life, and I think you should do the same.

Grapeling with Grief

It has been so long since my last entry and yet so much has occurred in two months. I have finished my second year of medical school, moved to the thriving metropolis, and in between the two lost my grandma unexpectedly. I am not one who likes to be surprised, I am what some would call a perpetual planner. You know I take an umbrella everywhere I go, a sweater in case I get cold, and a cold beverage to quench my thirst. Yet, regardless of how prepared for life one might be I don't think anyone is ever truly prepared to experience or witness death.

Grief is one of those emotions that is paralyzing the kind that leaves you emotionless incapable of movement or understanding. When I was a little girl I remember how I would lay in my bed motionless, paralyzed by fear after hearing a mysterious noise in the house. This is the same kind of feeling I had after learning my grandmother had passed away. My grandmother and I were very close. Living only 10 mins down the road I was blessed with the luxury of visiting her and seeing her often. Yet, through this entire ordeal I have only felt this horrific feeling of loss and I have realized that pain is the only price we pay for loving someone so deeply.

As the memories of my grandmother flood over me, I can only help but smile. A friend and confidant, for twenty-five years we bonded in a way that was much deeper and richer than granddaughter and grandma. My grandma was a cavalier, and a leading lady of her own story. My grandma grew up during the great depression, she knew how to skimp and save like the best of them. Despite this my grandmother had one of the most giving hearts one could imagine. Yet, perhaps the things that I cherish most about my grandma is the way she would bound through our back door always with a smile on her face. My grandmother was always a gorgeous woman, whether she recognized it or not; she was timeless. In all honesty, my grandma had a better social and love life than I do. She had a magnetic personality and had a vivaciousness and love for life that I could only hope to have. Stylish and classy my grandma prided herself on looking fabulous at any age.

Yet, one of the things I will miss most about my grandmother are her letters. She grew up in a time without email or this crazy thing we call twitter. She was old school in the sense that she appreciated and loved to write letters. I tend to be one of those people who keeps everything, thus, these letters from my grandmother that I have I treasure. The last letter she wrote me I will save and cherish forever, It shows the depth of her love and the goodness of heart. She writes,

"I am so excited to see your dreams come true."

Grammy Mel XOXO

While she will not be here to see this, I only hope that I can fulfill her requests and all of the hope that she instilled in me. I often times fall asleep hoping that my grammy will grace me with her presence. I hope she will ask me how my day was, tell me about the weather, or where her and her boyfriend went to lunch. Yet, as much as I hope and pray there are no more chats, no more shopping trips, and no more cooking lessons, but what I have been left with are the memories of a woman I loved so dearly.

I haven't decided yet whether my tender heart is a gift or a vice, but all I know is that my eyes have wept so much that my tears have run dry. I guess of all the things I wish I would have the chance to tell my grandmother the depth of my love for her, and how blessed I have been to have her. She was a peach, my "Melba" peach.

Thus this week don't be afraid to tell someone you love them. Call them. Write them. Heck go visit them. Time is precious and fleeting. Take time to appreciate one another and the beauty and depth to life we each have to give to this world.

Sinfully Satisfying

I have had one of those crazy weeks. The kind where you feel like nothing can go your way and all you can do is just laugh between the uncontrollable sobbing. My life in the last month has been stripped of most of the things that I love and enjoy. With a gimp leg, the large rain cloud of the boards ominously following me, and the fact I might be homeless in a month has caused me to experience large amounts of anxiety. My mother and best friend would rather blame it on the "plate to full syndrome." Which in some way they both are probably correct, yet this tends to be the way I roll. So amidst my minor breakdown, I discovered that I really needed a sweet treat. My 35 calorie chocolate fudge-sicle wonder was not going to cut it. Thus I headed to my Hippie Haven, where granola and nut butters flow'eth over, Bloomingfoods. But, on my way there in convo with my friend I had enough time to "accidentally" turn left on a red light with a police officer right behind me. Seriously, this could only happen to me. This promptly resulted in red an blue swirling lights in my rear view mirror. The sweet young man who approached my car kindly told me of my misdemeanor felony.  I batted my eyes, smiled coyly all in hopes of avoiding a ticket. Lucky me, he was feeling mighty generous as he sent me on my way  with only a warning reminding me to be careful of course.

So was it a sign? Still a little jostled from the prior encounter, I decided to continue on my quest for a sweet treat. I think none of you will be surprised by the fact that I am an avid calorie-counter. I even have a Mac widget devoted to calorie counting. Thus as I scoured the aisles looking for the most satisfying lo-cal sweet treat, I stumbled upon the most beautiful site my eyes had seen. It is called the Flourless Chocolate Walnut Cookie. Homebaked by the geniuses of Bloomingfoods, its only ingredients were egg whites, vanilla, salt, cocoa, powdered sugar, and walnuts. I decided this was just the fix I needed. I would just like to inform you this is the most decadent thing I have eaten in years. So after devouring the entire cookie, I realized this was genius and had to share it with you all. To my suprise it only has 55 calories per cookie!  So delight in this sinfully satisfying cookie without guilt.

Flourless Chocolate Walnut Cookies

Ingredients

2 1/2 cups walnut haves

3 cups powdered sugar

1/2 cup plus 3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

4 egg whites

1 tbsp vanilla extract

Preparation

Line 2 baking sheets parchment paper

Pre Heat oven 350

Chop walnuts toast until fragrant (9mins)

Mix sugar, cocoa, and salt

Stir in walnuts

Add egg whites and vanilla

Beat with fork or electric mixer on medium until batter is just moistened

Drop batter by the teaspoon onto baking sheets

Bake 15 mins or until tops lightly cracked and glossy

Refrigerator Fiasco

Over the past month I have been in a heated dispute with my landlords, honestly I don't know how they sleep at night, because if they treated everyone like they treated me they would have superfluous amounts of unhappy tenants. This entire debacle began in March when after a long mind altering run I came home to grab my favorite icing device, a bag of frozen peas, to soothe my aching muscles. Much to my surprise all I found was the squishy water-logged contents of the bag. This was a Friday night so I called the tenant hot line for emergencies. I kindly described to the people that my refrigerator was having some issues and the lady assured me this would be addressed. 

So five days later, 6 phone calls, one from Daddy Rex, and still no cooling in my refrigerator. Now let's review the situation. I was kindly informed on Sunday that refrigerator melt-downs did not classify as an emergency. Ok, so my water pipes have to be exploding or I must be breathing in carbon monoxide to get any assistance? Fine I thought for sure they would take care of it on Monday.  As I waited for the queen of landlords to respond to my phone calls I just became bitter. You see I am one of those health food nuts, the kind that buys organic flax-seed stuffed pitas, Fage yogurt, and other random organic foods so you can imagine my dismay as I began tossing my malodorous rotting food from my inferno of an ice box. This is where I would like you to imagine sweet Jen, the girl who can't pick a fight, transitioning into MAD DOG PASKO. 

Tuesday morning I had had enough. Dragging my two garbage bags of rotting food into their office I was there on a mission. I told them I wanted to speak to Brenda, the owner. I would like to take this opportunity to create a picture of Brenda. A 50 something year-old woman, hirsute, with little white hairs coming out of her chin, approaching morbid obesity, with salt and pepper hair, and a rather large mouth. It is a wonder I didn't run away when she stepped out of her office to greet me. Yet, I wasn't there to be friends. I just remember I was hot-to-trot. "At one point I asked her what she wanted me to do with all my rotting food?"  She replied,  "Well, its cold enough you could have put your milk  outside."  Oh hey Brenda-baby, maybe if I was Laura Ingalls Wilder that thought might have crossed my mind. I was infuriated. So then I began to raise my voice, and so did Brenda. It continued to progress like this until we were both screaming at each other. Then I just got tonked off, because for the first time in my life I felt a kind of discrimination I had never felt before.

You see Brenda talked to me like I was her 13 year-old child, or an imbecile.  Although I am a well-educated reasonalble woman, If I would have been a man with the exact same problem I would have never been treated that way that I was.  The reverse discrimination I received from the woman was so alarmingly shocking I left the rental place trembling. When I reached the safety of my own car I began to cry. I am one of those women in life who believe they  can do it all. I can use a hammer and nail, mow a lawn, and have no reason to be dependent on a male for any reason. However, leaving Hallmark Rentals that day I realized I had so much to learn about how the world operates.

Which brings us to today. You see they fixed my refrigerator(supposedly). Yet, three weeks later, yesterday to be exact, I wake up and of course my new bag of peas are small squishy balls in the bag and my milk smells like rank socks. Oh yes, so I call and just say my name and the woman on the other end of the phone asks me, "Are you the woman who brought her rotting food in?" So perhaps I am sort of a legend at Hallmark Rental, almost like a David versus Goliath sort of story, but all I know is that in the end I have won.  I am over joyed to announce that today I will be receiving my new refrigerator; and nothing will make my day more than to tell them to send the bill to Brenda, the big bad landlord.

Because Love Matters

I tend to have a weekend rituals of studying while brunching. It is one my treats to myself while at the same time an attempt to make progress and get some work done. I have a favorite spot in town where I go, the Bakehouse. In all honesty I go here because they have free wireless and bottomless cups of coffee, but the staff also knows me by name, which is an added perk.  Yet, this weekend my studious sanctuary turned into more than I could have ever bargained.

In life I am one of those people who always sees the glass half full, but this weekend I started to doubt this belief and wondered if I had become cold and frosty. As I was infiltrating my brain full of  knowledge about leukemias and lymphomas, I couldn't help but notice the world around me. To my right was a young couple sitting across from each other ka-noodling over eggs and hash browns. I couldn't help but watch as the man with his elbow on the table held his palm in the air and instantly his girlfriend placed her hand in his. They just sat and looked at each other hands intertwined as if they were talking through their eyes in complete silence. Quiet honestly, I was looking around the restaurant to see if anyone else was witnessing this scene. I don't know why it struck me so, but what I do know is that I felt something very real and it was love.

Now don't get me wrong I might be one of the last supporters of the old romance; the kind that sweeps you off your feet and intoxicates you until you are so inebriated that you can't tell which way is up or down. Yet, sometimes I wonder if this kind of love exists, and if it will ever find me. Still perplexed by my right-sided visual, I glanced over to my left for a breath of fresh air to see a handsome blond headed man. He had these gorgeous eyes, the color of sky blue.  I kept looking over between my multiplying white cells and cancer markers, to observe this most debonair man.  To my surprise he started a conversation with me. His voice is deep with the rich accent of European descent. It was then that he explained to me that he was from Germany working for two months in Bloomington while living with his girlfriend.  He then told me that he met his girlfriend while she was studying abroad in Germany. The two met and he said they instantly fell in love. Normally, I would have rolled my eyes or maybe even laughed at how sappy and icky romantic this was. Perhaps it was the accent or maybe it was the tone in his voice, but his story just made my heart melt. It wasn't until his girlfriend arrived that I realized that love truly exists. If two people half-way across the world can find love..... anything is possible. 

As I got up to leave, I left asking myself "Is this for real?" It was at that point I realized how the powers of love and  a little oxytocin can cause people to do things they could have never imagined. Love forces us to mature, to think of others more than ourselves, and places us in a place  of vulnerability. My best example of this was a conversation I had this weekend with a guy in my class. He is pretty much the closest thing to innocent and harmless as you can get. Yet he has one love, his forest -green Camaro. He talks about cars like I talk about shoes, thus you can understand the extent of his love. Yet, what he began to tell me about knocked me off my chair. With his big grin he announced to me, "Jen, I am selling my Camaro for a Subaru." It was at that moment I realized that my newly engaged friend was trading his bachelor car for his baby-go-getter. I literally had a moment.  Is love really so powerful that it can change the things we once coveted so dearly?

If anything this past week I learned that love matters. I feel that when times are hard and the world looks dismal love can often color it with a bright new palette. While at times I have seen love as suffocating and binding, I do believe that love holds the possibility of taming the wildest of hearts. Thus my hope for you this week is to give love a chance, in your work, your home, on the streets, and in your cars. Because love is not just an emotion displayed between two people but is also evident in the things we do. And trust me .....because love matters.