hakuna matata.

All there is to do on a ParTy Bus that's broken down with a bad alternator is drink the free beer. Sorry Annie.

The bus battery light came on in front of the Taco Time in Nephi, or at least that's what we were told. We were headed down to see Greg Caldwell's art show at the Central Utah Art Center Friday night and never made it. Thank goodness for that Taco Time.

"We were the only ones tacky enough to actually run across the street and get it! ...I feel bad about smelling up the bus."

"Don't worry Annie, we're fine. I have no regrets anyway."

While we shared a veggie burrito and empanada, the bus driver decided to continue on and try for Ephraim anyway. Our ascent up Nephi Canyon lasted about 15 minutes and ended in a lurch that left us on side of the snowy highway. We stopped right in front of a large stone and mortar memorial honoring two men and a married couple who were murdered by native americans as they attempted to settle Sanpete County in the 1800's. Far worse luck was sitting directly behind Stacey.

The minute the bus came to a complete hault she broke out the show tunes. And somehow the gay guy sitting across the aisle from her knew all the words to every song she chose. They started out with "OOOOOOOOOOOk-la-homa!" At first, it seemed fun. Me and Annie even joined it. We sang along with "Doe, a deer, a female deer", "Don't cry for me Argentina", and "Eidelweiss". There were some 80's pop and country songs in between that we weren't as familiar with; but by the time they got to "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" it was a bellowing drunken mess.

"Ok Stacey! That's enough! I think that's all we can take!", shouted some people at the back of the bus. And they were 20 rows away.

As the general state of these fellow passengers graduated from tipsy to inebriated, I couldn't help but think of my mom once when we were stranded on the side of the road. We were headed to Disneyland: a real family vacation long before any of us were married or divorced or disenfranchised. We held enthusiasm, anticipation; surety that the long drive would prove well worth it. But the white hippie van with floral olive green and teal print curtains, (that smelled like a combination of cat hair and febreeze) died just as we passed Beaver. Devastation. It was really dead. The engine had blown. We didn't own another car.

While dad got a ride into Beaver and the rest of us stayed stranded, my mom pulled a lemon & lime shasta out of the cooler. I think it started out with all of us making fun of the hippie van.
"How did we think this thing could ever get us to California? Check out the plaid upholstery on these seats!"
"Hahahaha!"
"Of course it couldn't make it past the black hole of I-15! I know at least five different people who've been stranded or pulled over here."
"Really?! Hahahaha!"

Universally, i guess the best thing to do on the sides of roads is get ridiculously happy with what you've got. As my mom laughed, she crushed her now empty pop can in her hands and gave it a final smash against the top of her head. She then starts passing out cans of pop to each of us and repeating the phrase, "HAKUNA MATATA! Drink a can of POP and SMASH it on your head!" As her children, we were mystified. A seemingly coordinated pause preceded our individual fits of laughter that erupted into crying spells of joy.

waiting for hell to freeze over.

All my mom wanted to do for her birthday was walk.
"You know...like we did in Brooklyn just getting around."

Within the first few days of landing on Utah soil, my allergies flared up. Not only was I congested, but little spots on my hands and face and feet broke into hives. I couldn't sleep all of the way through the night because my glands were swollen and breathing was only possible sitting up. I felt in part that my body was rejecting an abrupt transition to this arid desert climate and the types of vegetation that thrive in it. I doubled up on my routine dose of antihistamine and I couldn't tell the difference.

My mom requested that we drive somewhere, away from the fields surrounding the house so I wouldn't have to breathe the pollen in. She pointed at the parking lot of American Fork High School as we approached.
"Let's just park here."
We started walking north; then uphill to the east; toward the temple. We took a steady, relaxed pace and walked side by side in silence unless my mom saw a flower or shrub notable enough to draw my attention in. We circled around outside the gate and then entered the grounds and circled again. We saw a hummingbird and admired more flowers.
"Look; Snap Dragons..."

I saw a doctor at the student clinic. He prescribed a nose spray.
"Isn't this a temporary solution?", I asked.
"Of course. Anything I can prescribe now will be temporary. You just need to make it until the first heavy frost."

I believe that despite advanced theories and technologies, the most valuable and penetrating solutions are acts of God. In the meantime, all we can do is cope the best we know how.

elvis.

Between me and Elvis, I've always had the upper hand. The legendary being who pop culture itself was invented for and around could always be diminished with two great family legends. I used them to introduce myself on the first day of class in Jr. High a few times:

"My name is Laura Barlow and my biggest claim to fame is that Elvis taught my uncle how to ride a bike," or
"I am Laura Barlow. Elvis asked my aunt out on a date. But she rejected him."

Most of the time the teachers would exaggerate an gaped-mouth response; maybe they thought I was lying; but both accounts are, in fact, true.

My mother was born in Memphis and lived in the same trailer park that he moved to when he was thirteen.

The only qualifier I ever heard was that my aunt, Patsy, had actually been friends with Elvis's sister and that he only flirted with Pat when she was sleeping over at his house as a guest of his sister's. But even in the wake of the exaggerated truth of that story still stood the factor that won me the upper hand:
"But Pat never liked him. . . said he seemed slimy." My mom lapses into the southern accent of her youth as she says it.

In part, it was easy to minimize the real Elvis all of these years because I didn't know who he was. Yes, I'd heard a few songs here or there on Back to the Future and from the toy speakers of the red, velvet, Valentine's Day chocolate box my Dad bought for my mother one year; but beyond that; I never even thought to care.

My oldest brother, Tom, once caught a lizard in the desert that he named Elvis. Even as I type the name now, it reminds me more of a brown lizard who lived in a glass tank with sand and rocks; who died when my little brother, James, tried too hard to catch him when he once got out.

A friend put the song "Blue Moon" on a mix for me and I listened to it for the first time at two o'clock in the morning on a 2 train headed to Flatbush from 96th Street through my yellow, skull-candy headphones last night. My entire countenance awoke and hung on every note. I was dazzled, starstruck, and pinched both of my arms to check if I really was the living niece of these living people who'd interacted with living man who produced these living sounds. I put the song on repeat until I got home.

I wish I'd asked Uncle Ted what it was like to to ride bikes with Elvis before either of them died.

best!

I often hear my mother's voice. I hear her when I've been too loud at parties, if I treated someone with a lack of consideration, or when I notice that the toilet needs a scrubbing. She is my voice of good will and I often hear her imagined encouragement to do the right thing. I like it most of the time.

My mother is also my greatest earthly constant. She has treated me with more encouragement, forgiveness, and patience than anyone in the face of my simultaneous lack of kindness toward her. In the absence of friends, boys to date, money, and success, she always available for meaningful conversation and a meaningless movie.

I hope to understand this kind of love someday.

I need to marry someone who takes care of me only half as well as she does.

Thanks mom.

shout outs.

Maybe there's something I've forgotten to clarify in my 1.5 years of regular blogging:

I became very isolated and lonely when I was married. As much as I naturally love to talk, most of my thoughts never reached my lips because my life had become something I had to hide from everyone.

The happiest and most glorious moment of my life was when I was driving away from my marriage. I humored so many thoughts of reconnecting with others. I imagined myself being Whitney's roommate. I imagined sitting for hours speaking with my mother. It felt like I was flying.

I called this blog socialexplosion because I'd been pent up and held back for so long that the inertia of my desire to socialize felt like a breaking dam or a bomb.

There are a few people in particular who withstood the power of my social force with love, patience, and strength:

The first is my mother. She received me with open arms and fulfilled all of the dreams I carried of reconnecting with her. I am late to school most mornings but it is not because I am dawdling. I am talking with her. It's a routine I just can't give up. I tell her all about my life as she's preparing my lunch and we always get a bit carried away. There's a lot of love in the mornings at our house.

The second is Whitney. Whitney guided me back into the world of singles with grace and confidence. I needed her and she knew it. I've never had a happier summer than the one I spent with Whitney.

The third is Mike Alger. I met Mike at midnight at an ihop for a Kohler's co-worker gathering that Whitney took me to. He said he was interested in film so I whipped out my foreign film knowledge. Mike doesn't even watch foreign films. But he listened and listened and somehow we exchanged numbers. He's been listening graciously ever since.

The last and certainly not least are my siblings. Although most of them don't live around here, their gestures of forgiveness and love have been some of the most tender. There's been Spanish help at midnight, long letters illustrated with cartoons, nail-painting, long phone calls, and g-chatting from the middle-east in a war zone about my latest dating news. My siblings fortify and lift me.

thought of something good to blog.

A lot of people have asked me (in real life) why I've pursued a hiatus. I think if I'm as unreserved now as I tend to regularly be, I'll leave a bunch of negativity out there in cyberspace that should be kept in more private records. That said, I thought of something today that I felt excited to share (taken from a page in my sketchbook):

The signal that marked my "growing up" was a shift indoors. From the time I could run I became a dirty ragamuffin. I ate milkweed and clover, hopped ditches, tore my pants on fences, chased cows, stroked horses' noses, formed mud pies, removed leeches from my ankles, climbed trees, created mazes from stacks of hay bails, tromped through corn fields, caught snakes, and ran so hard during games of hide & seek that I could taste the burn of adrenaline in my throat. It was the discovery of talking; connecting with people indoors that sucked me away from that seemingly surrealistic world.

I've felt guilty for years. When I walk through that setting of so many childhood games and experiences; in the place that really reared me, it feels like visiting a neglected family member. Visiting with those who are strangers to it feels like an introduction more than a stroll; like I'm bearing something personal. I judge those strangers by how they react to it; similar to the way I would upon introducing someone to my mother.

so, this is love.

I told my mom in passing a few days ago that I'd run out of deodorant. I told her because I'd been using hers. When I came home last night after a long day, guess what was on my desk:This is really all I need in life. Thanks, mom.

tom sellecks.

This is for Jared (and my mom...her celebrity crush has always been Tom Selleck.)

looking up.

I have said lately that the weekend of general conference feels more important than Christmas when it comes to being with my family. It's a time to reflect on what I consider to be my greatest blessing: sharing in the joy of the gospel with my family.
(I'm being serious even though this picture is hilarious.) And what's more? Jared is finally here!
I've been breaking into a lot of stress-related rashes lately, but I think things are definitely looking up. I don't know what more I could really ask for.

24.

I have never seen even one episode of "24", but the rest of my family loves it.
I don't intentionally resist it; there's just always a pattern of watching "24" that naturally discludes me.
My dad is the greatest enthusiast. It's like clockwork. The tv lights up at 7:55p or 7:58p and always blasting (because my dad is a little hard of hearing.) I arrive home around this time and start talking with my mom, who is also sitting on the couch, ready for the next action-packed installment.
We start speaking loudly over the tv volume and it's okay until the opening credits are through. At this point, my mom and I are pretty engaged in whatever we're speaking about as my dad is on the edge of his seat about the promising interest of the unfolding episode.

He turns and shouts, "If you guys are gonna talk, you could go into the other room!"

This is the only time I ever hear my father raise his voice these days.

I leave my mom and dad to watch in peace because I know I can't actually keep quiet after being quiet at school all day.

Miriam added a beautiful element this week by dispelling the phony tv science. During the precluding "what happened last week" segment she exclaims, "but prions aren't virulent!" When I ask her what that means, she enthusiastically starts explaining. Then Mom pipes in. "Shhh. Dad will get mad. He'll ask to move to a different room if you want to talk."

thirft.

My mother is absolutely straight-faced convinced that thrift store shopping runs in our genes. My great aunts, Tommie and Golden were thrift shoppers before her, and she's done her best to pass the tradition down.
Of course, as a kid, I hated it. Kindergarten was brutal enough with the portable IV and uncontrollable bladder, let alone the second-hand clothes.

But growing up in a home where the established mindset was to appreciate the design, quality, color, or texture of something that was discarded by others may have made all the difference in my life.

When I wanted to paint at 8, my mother found me a painting set at the DI with a well used wooden easel and lots of brushes (I still have this.) When I wanted to play the flute at 11, she bought me a $70 one from a pawn shop (I still have this too.) When I wanted to sew, she bought me a$15 Bernina sewing machine (the one I still use.) To this day, my mom still finds and buys second-hand items I might find useful. (The latest purchase was a pack of two paintbrushes for $.50 waiting for me in my bedroom when I returned from school.)

Jr High was embarrassing because there's no time in life when name brand products feel so important; but by the time I became a junior in high school, I had it down. My favorite shirt was a lovely, swamp green 100% cotton weave shirt with yellow beading around the neckline
(as pictured above.)
With thrift shopping as my only real clothing resource, I taught myself about innovation and style. I learned to evaluate "good" design outside the realms of cultural popularity.

I'm not sure I would've learned this any other way.

My friend Jared's art, composed of second-hand objects:

valentine's day.

My mom, of course, has tons of old weird/cool stuff. I love it. I credit the junk around our house as the main source of inspiration for all my creativity.

I was sending out some Valentine's Day packages and my mom brought out her collection of those old, corny valentines that you give/receive in elementary school. I had way more fun than I'd anticipated as I experienced some pretty pleasant nostalgia.

And the winners are. . .

Cutest. I seriously love this one.
Funniest/ most confusing.
All time ugliest. I dare someone to top this. I think the green blob (of watercolor?) to the right adds the perfect touch.
Also, I can't get enough of this song. It brings back some of the most pleasant nostalgic feelings I'm capable of experiencing. I remember listening to this with my mom when I was really little and thinking that Sam Cooke had the most beautiful voice imaginable. I still do.

the virtue of heels.

So, like I was saying in an earlier entry, I recently bought my first pair of high heels. I first tried them on at DSW, mostly out of curiosity, in front of my sisters and my mom. I wanted to see if I could really walk in them. I was feeling a little self-conscious about the overt sexiness of what was on my feet, but everyone seemed to think they were great.

"You totally pull them off," said Marie.

"They look so feminine," said Miriam.

"I think that guys are gonna like those," said my mom.

"Thanks... I love how streamlined the shape is," I replied.

The first guy I showed them to was Mike Alger. I just opened the box and shoved the tissue paper aside.

"Yeah, so it's like my first pair of heels." I thought he might laugh.

"I've gotta say, for a pair of heels, those are pretty awesome."

I wore them a lot at first, for practice walking.
Even my brother complimented the way my legs looked. At church, a guy asked me what leg exercises I did do get my calves to look like that.

"None; it's just the heels. I'm not really used to wearing them."

From a design perspective, heels elongate your legs and make them looked toned. This is, in its own way, really practical. People have known this forever. I feel a little silly that it took me so long to get it.

King Louis XIV had it figured out. Check out this guy's legs... it's certainly more than I'm willing to show.

freddy=love.

I was telling my mom just a few days ago that I think every good mother is loaded with hobbies. The theory behind it is that if they're not actively pursuing their own interests, that they are likely to be a little overbearing of their children and self-righteous from sacrificing too much.
"Do you think that I've been good in that way?", she asked.

"Yeah, of course mom, you've always been interested in tons of stuff."

"Like what?"

"C'mon, are you joking? I could start with how into history you are (she reads history books non-stop). . .yeah, I mean, remember the Freddy Krueger costume? Now there's pursuing an interest on a whim. . ."

"Yeah, but that's not really a cutesy mom thing to do, it's certainly not like scrapbooking."

"But that's what we love about you."

So here's the story: My mom dropped all of us kids off at elementary school on Halloween. We went to a private school where we weren't even allowed to dress up. I was in the 3rd grade.

When she returned home, she saw instructions on some morning talk show about how to make a really cool Freddy Krueger mask. She saw how easy it was to make one so authentic looking and felt inspired.

When she came to pick us up in the afternoon, she was decked out in a full costume, wearing the mask. It looked good. Maybe too good. She says she remembers scaring the kids and creeping out the teachers.

Of course I hadn't seen "Nightmare on Elm Street" and thought it was really fun that my mom had decided to dress up.

I hope I can be a good mom like my mom someday.

I pulled the beautiful watercolor of Freddy here.

winter shooting.

After church, I was driving down the road to my house and really wanted to take some winter photographs. When I told my mom, she said that she'd had the same idea for days.

$10 hotel room & viva las vegas.

When I told people that I was staying in a $10 hotel room in Las Vegas, everyone wanted to know what it was like:




When the rest of the gals arrived, the extravagance began:





3 generations.
Truth be told, I do not love Las Vegas. But I would go almost anywhere to have the opportunity to spend time with my female relatives.

My ability to appreciate female relationships has added a depth and meaningfulness to my life that I never anticipated or even hoped to find.

I used to always need a boy present in social situations to make them seem worth it. Somehow I felt unfulfilled without that possibility for romance, excitement, or a boost to my ego. I viewed other females as competitors and compared myself relentlessly. I am eternally grateful to have grown out of such immaturity and selfishness.

If I never get married again, I know that my female relationships will be enough for me to be happy.

prodigal daughter.

(I drew Whitney in church today.)

Alone time is overrated.

When I cut my mullet off this morning, Miriam was there to straighten the hairline on the back of my neck with scissors and Mom was there to vacuum off my shoulders.
Right now I need someone to stand on my ruler so that I can tear my over-sized piece of drawing paper in a straight line (but everyone is at church.)

I cannot describe how much I've enjoyed the company of my family while they've been visiting for Thanksgiving.

We had a lesson on the parable of The Prodigal Son in church today and I couldn't help but think of my own prodigal-ness. Not one of my siblings has been jealous or resentful or angry about my parents' figurative killing of the fatted calf upon my return.

Every moment spent in the company of my family feels absolutely joyful as being in their collective presence reminds of that fact.

I cannot wait for the time when we will all be happily gathered in the same room.

wigged out.

My mom recently made some kind of statement that expressed fondness for my wig-wearing of the past.

"When did you stop wearing them, anyway?"

I was surprised. I think at the time she probably offered a few prayers that I would stop.
Her remark got me thinking about those days and I went in search of photographs.

Dressing people up and having photo shoots was my favorite activity in high school. It was partially a joke, but really I'm not sure there's anything I would've preferred to do with the time I spent with my friends.


By the time my hair grew long I didn't even realize it because I wore wigs so frequently.

food.

Last night I followed Mark into his garden with bare feet. We picked enormous tomatoes and handfuls of fresh basil and he used them for dinner. It seemed divine. I ate to absolute capacity.

I don't like to cook, in and of itself, but I love feeding other people.

Preparing food for yourself simply doesn't seem worth it to me. I lost 7 lbs. during the 2 weeks that my parents were gone on vacation. It didn't even occur to me that I should eat.

Conversely, I have been in close relationships with people who intrinsically love food, and have gained as much as 20 lbs. over time. (Maybe it's due to the better judgment of my sub-conscious that I've typically crushed on fairly skinny guys.)

Cooking a meal for someone you care about demonstrates profound love with exquisite simplicity. Especially if it's on a regular basis. My mom has 2 meals for me packed and ready to go by 5:50 every morning. When I arrive back at home by 9 or 10 p.m. there is almost always something simmering on the stove top. I cannot conceive of a way that she could better demonstrate her love. To prepare a meal for someone means that you've thoughtfully considered them. You've expressed concern that they may be hungry and you've taken their preferences into account. Then you spend time, effort, and creativity in order to serve their needs. And you make yourself vulnerable. All of your work could be rejected at first bite.

I could never be a vegetarian, vegan, or even a picky eater, because it would mean turning away someone's else's effort and generosity.

When I was in charge of cooking, I became a health food freak. I eliminated all food items containing corn syrup and started buying organic. Sugar was substituted with agave nectar and I gladly paid $6 for raw milk. It made so much sense to me because it seemed in the best interest of those I was feeding.

Thanks mom, lunch was good today.
Thanks for feeding me in Rochester, Miriam.
Thanks for the amazing meal last night, Mark.
Thanks to everyone else who has ever bothered to feed me.

genetics.

My mom used to camp all of the time when she was young. It's what she did for fun on the weekends as a teenager growing up in Washington.
I came home from camping this morning and started saying something to her about how I probably needed to wash my jacket.

"...but I don't really want to because I love the smell of campfire smoke."

"Laura, I used to come home from camping and just smell my clothes afterward. I've always loved it."

About an hour later we were looking through a quilting book. We both agreed on liking this one:

My mom said she liked it because it looked Gaelic.
I said I liked it because it looked like a pixelated atari game from the 80's.

The world may never know.