gasp.

Last week a man who was late bringing sacrament bread to church hit my car head-on. I didn't even watch him cross over into my lane, he was already driving in it. Fortunately we were both moving slowly because the roads were thick with snow, but it's still likely that my car was totaled.
I was upset that it happened right before finals week.

The previous Friday I experienced my semester-end review where you meet with all of the graphic design faculty in one room. I slapped my dog-eared stack of process work down on the table. One professor grabbed it and shuffled through it a bit as another stood over his shoulder.
"Laura, have you had a lot of personal stuff going on this semester?"
I lied without thought. "No, not really."
"Where is all your work? Is this it?"
My stomach tightens like it's just been punched.
"Yeah. This is it. But I feel like I've been working really hard."
"She's here all the time," another professor pipes in.
"Maybe you just have a hard time making decisions."
"Yes, that could be the case," says another.

I stayed at school that night scanning new images and checking type options until a custodian kicked me out of the building. "I will prove them wrong, I will prove them wrong," was the song I kept singing in my head over and over again.

The wreck struck me immediately as more of an inconvenience than a near-death experience or the loss of a possession. But I was instantly grateful to be alive once I stepped outside in the snow and surveyed the damage. It was bad. I couldn't believe it was actually my car once it was hoisted on the back of the tow truck.

I spent half of the following morning negotiating with the insurance company and making arrangements for a rental car.

After that, I remember only the dizzying vortex of finals week. I spent days in front of my laptop screen until Thursday afternoon when I had a therapy appointment on campus. We got on to the topic of why I am choosing to work so hard at school and where my real motivation lies. Is it really to support my future children if my husband dies? No. Is it really because I want to have a steady career upon graduation? No.

In considering my real motivation I have made some valuable conclusions:

1. I have a tendency to get caught up in things. I love to lose myself in new experiences and possess the capacity to appreciate almost anything if I only lend myself to it. I like to give my full effort to whatever I'm presently engaged in.

I think this is the real reason I married Adam in the first place. I allowed myself to get caught up in his world and he liked it and then trapped me there.
I think this is the reason it's important for me to try to stay well-rounded and pursue any new opportunities that present themselves. It insures that I won't allow myself to get trapped. It also tells me that I must marry someone who lacks any capacity to be controlling.

2. I don't think this is necessarily a bad characteristic (which is good, because it feels like an integral part of my personality.) In considering my tendency to get caught up with things, my mind crossed over the work ethic of my brother, Tom. Tom is someone who's pursued many interests and hobbies with great effort and stamina. He is not a dabbler. Tom is an expert lock picker, car mechanic, scrabble master, father, husband, medical doctor, doctor of public health, outdoorsmen, priesthood holder, clock-maker/repairman, real-estate investor, and a host of other titles in varying categories.

He certainly gets caught up in things, but the trick of the matter is that he typically gets caught up with the right things. When he was young, he fell in love with the same passion that I did, but he married wisely; to someone smart and sweet and responsible. (You're great, Keriann.)

Whenever I go for days without sleep because I'm working on a project, I think of Tom. It's always likely that he's maintaining a similar schedule.

Conclusion: I am grateful to presently pursue graphic design with a great deal of passion and freedom and will continue to do so. I am also excited for the other things I will so zealously pursue in the future.

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.

Reflections at the start of the rainy season.

More from my dear brother deployed in the Middle East:Yesterday the rainy season here started. When I woke up, the sky was overcast. It is always a little overcast, with a layer of fine dust suspended in the air. This time, however, I knew the cover was made of real clouds because it wasn’t so bright out. It didn’t even hurt my eyes when I walked outside without sunglasses.

The groud, which is usually a single shade of pale tan, was mottled all over with areas of deep brown. It was as if the clouds above, even before rain, were drawing up water from the earth that I didn’t even know was there. Water that has survived for months beneath the surface, somehow escaping evaporation in spite of the most compelling sunlight thinkable. And, also, there was a breeze. It was a real breeze too. Almost cool. It was a stark change from the hot wind that I have felt, for months, like a hairdryer in my face. All of these changes combined on the world overnight, so I knew when I woke up that the rainy season had arrived.

I was very busy with patients all day. There was also a change in them. I didn’t see any heat exhaustion or athlete’s foot or rolled ankles like I am used to. Some kind of change had started to draw hidden things out of people too. I spent two hours with a sailor I thought I knew. For two hours she told me the details of a worse childhood than I could have imagined. Memories that she had willfully suppressed for years, that would not be kept down any longer. It was the first time she had spoken some of it, and it was difficult for her to say through the tears and choking sobs. I heard about abuse, rejection, loss, and emptiness that repeated themselves for decades. In spite of the pain, I could sense that purging this filth brought a little relief to the emotional nausea she has suffered for years. I hadn’t known if I could help. I don’t think I am trained to help with these things. But she would not be sent to a chaplain or a psychologist, only me. So I was glad when I sensed in her a little relief.

Soon after she left another sailor came. He, too, was haunted by the past. His memories were especially stinging because the missteps were his own. He has been gone for five months now, and his wife has learned that she really can do it without him, and she intends to. He cried for his loss, he cried for his sense of worthlessness. But mostly, he cried for the agonizing regret. He wishes now that he had cooked dinner for her at least once, or watched the kids for her once while she did her homework, or spoken with her once in the past two years like she was his friend instead of just a wife.

I don’t know if I helped him at all. I hope he helped me know how to avoid such profound regret.

As the sky dimmed a little with evening, an orange light flashed far off in the distance. No more than a flickering glow at first. For an hour, the flicker grew nearer until I could see forks of lightning striking the earth wherever they chose. By the time it was dark, the forks were blue, nearby, and left following thunder. As I fell asleep, I could hear huge drops falling outside, cleaning the sky after months of hard use by the sun and hot wind.

late fourth of july post.

More from Tom deployed overseas as a Navy doc:

Family,

I hope you all had a very enjoyable 4th of July. I read the papers back home and saw that many events paid tribute to deployed troops. It is nice to think of all that thought and good will directed our way.

Besides the thought and good will, however, it was pretty much just another day here. Why should there be a celebration? In our world without weekends, why have holidays? I did notice that the Air Force put up a slip ‘n slide for their people… we weren’t invited.

I guess there was the “extravaganza.” I am not sure if it was planned to be an activity for the fourth of July, but that is the day it fell on.

There is a small market just outside our area where you can go buy hookahs and really bad ripped off DVDs – the kind with heads from the theater bobbing around at the bottom of the screen. Anyway, they announced that there would be an “extravaganza.” The plan was to augment the normal market with several vendor stands selling local antiques, baked goods, real silk carpets, and artisanal crafts. There was also going to be a camel to ride.

Honestly, we were pretty excited about it – something different, and potentially fun. I was hoping to find something cool that was actually from the local area that I could send home to my kids. I even went to the finance office and got a bunch of American cash and a bunch of local currency – just in case I saw something I couldn’t pass up. I read online all about how to tell real silk carpets form fake ones… I was not going to be ripped off.

On the Fourth of July, we drove out there with money burning holes in our pockets. When we arrived, we saw about four tents more than there normally are – with real local merchants, as promised. It was good to see some people that at least looked like they were born in this quadrant of the world.

I first approached the antique stand. Immediately, as you might expect, a young man with surprisingly old-looking teeth behind his smile arose. “Bery old,” he said through an accent, and held up a copper plate. “Bery, bery, bery old. Tirty dollar.” I took the plate in my hand and saw that it was a machine made copper plate, tarnished enough to give it an antique look. There was a nice brass design attached, but the attachment was poorly done with aluminum pop rivets that were certainly not bery old. I set it down on the table. The man’s smile dropped, hiding his teeth. He continued nonetheless to show me the fine craftsmanship in each little carved stone elephant and dog down to the end of his table.

I wished him a good day, and went over to the baker’s table. This certainly did look genuine, because nothing looked similar to anything I am used to eating, and because the gentleman there spoke no English at all. I found someone who spoke his language well enough to ask if the various baked balls were sweet or savory. I picked a tray of handsome looking sweet balls, resembling white powdered donut holes with tiny brown caramelized specks. The gentleman pretended to not be able to make change in local currency, apparently preferring dollars, so I paid him three dollars and took the goods. My first bite revealed that they were simply finely shaved coconut baked with a little sugar. Not too exotic, but not bad. And my lack of illness since then suggests that they weren’t poisoned as part of a terrorist plot – another bonus.

The carpet vendor was under the largest tent. I guess my advanced study paid off, because I could see from 15 feet that the carpets were cheap imitations, definitely not real silk. OK, the give away was that some were pink, featuring Disney Princesses.

At this moment I was struck with déjà vu. I considered it for a moment, knowing that I had certainly never been here before. Then I placed my finger on it – Tijuana. It made me feel a little closer to home.

The last tent was the artwork tent. Inside, the walls were covered with paintings, and local artists stood by to sell and even paint portraits if we desired. There were a few decent oil-on-canvas still life studies of fruit. Everything else was a depiction of lounging local ladies in shiny, fringed clothing, painted on black velvet.

We had, by this point, noticed that the money was no longer burning holes in our pockets, and we began to regret our exchange for what was clearly way too much local currency. Well, at least we would get a camel ride.

As we approached the tent with the camels, we saw that there were two, but one was resting. The ride was to consist of hopping on the camel and having the camel stand up. There would be enough time for a picture, then the camel would sit back down to let us off. I think this was the first time I had seen someone ‘riding’ a camel.

I soon saw that camels are great creatures, much more cantankerous than any American donkey. With each person who would sit on its back, the camel bellowed, neighed, and huffed. It spat through its huge teeth that were even a few shades darker than its owner’s. After thirty seconds of throwing a fit, it would stand up reluctantly and await the command to sit again.

As we approached the front of the line, it was determined that this camel, like its friend, was too tired to continue. They would still let us sit on its back, but would not have it go up and down.

By the time it was my turn, I was quite entertained. I felt like I should feel sorry for the animal. It probably was really tired. But it was throwing such a huge fit as each of us sat down that it lost all credibility. Pure camel drama for sure. As I sat down, it let out an ugly snort and shimmied its hump to show discontent. I had no trouble grinning for the picture, but did find it hard to make it look genuine.

So, we drove back, pockets still full of money. To top off our celebration, there was a large flag sheet cake in the DFAC, but a placard below it declared it for display only. The real high point of my day was a package from my mom with the best socks I have ever worn. No, not even the mail here stops for holidays. To our delight, there were no fireworks that evening…

Next year, at home, I will certainly be busier with festivities. I will be sure to take a moment, though, to think of the Independence Day camel and laugh.

Love, Tom

dust.

More from my brother who is deployed overseas as a navy doctor:

Hello,

This morning we woke up to dust. It kind of reminded us of being home because it looked like fog. Nope. Dust. It wasn't the first dust storm we have had, but the others have been gusty. This one was still. The dust hung in the air as if suspended by some magnetic force, and very slowly showered down.

It covers everything. It even covers me. I went to the gym this morning and when I first wiped the sweat from my head, it was muddy. People who have hair had had it frosted by fine dust.

The sun coming through the dust provided a reddish glow. We decided we were on Mars. Hot. Red. No plants. Must be Mars.

There were not very many people in sick call today. Medical is kind of a far walk from everything else. I think they didn't want to walk through the dust. They had breathed too much dust already without hiking out here. I had better have a lot of sinus medications ready for tomorrow.

Love,

Tom

my brother is deployed.

I can't tell you when or where, but my brother, Tom, who's been serving as a doctor in the navy for 7 years has finally been deployed.

My family shares the love of words. It's easy to forget because our interests and occupations are radically diverse, but all of my siblings are fantastic at writing. There's not one I'd exclude.

Tom typically has no time to write, but since he's been deployed I wish that he'd start his own blog. Here's the letter he sent to the fam this week:

Hello Family,

Life out here is still good. I get to chat with Keriann almost every day on Gmail chat, which enhances my quality of life greatly. It’s not a bad age to deploy, when you get to talk to your spouse every day.

Yesterday I ate ice cream. It was good. Most days I’ve been able to resist the temptation. I think that was only my 3rd helping since I arrived – OK, maybe 4th. The DFAC is what we call the Dining FACility. If this was a Navy installation, it would be the galley or chow hall. But in this not so nautical world, it’s the DFAC. When I got here, I quickly realized that the DFAC was going to be my biggest enemy.

The DFAC is a modular structure – like a bunch of trailers all hooked together. It is surrounded by a tall grey concrete wall that makes it hard to really size down. As I approached it, I was expecting it to be kind of a small joint. I entered for the first time into a smallish room without windows, and with the walls completely covered by stainless steel sinks. Papers taped to the wall above the backsplash caulking declared “HANDWASHING IS MANDATORY.” One of these papers was even in a frame, which, out here, lets you know the contents are important. There were also graphics posted to visually instruct us in proper hand washing technique. As I advanced past the garbage can full of paper towels, another set of taped papers caught my eye. These used scare tactics, just in case we had gotten this far without washing our hands. They threatened diarrhea unless we complied with the prescribed course of cleansing.

Having been properly sanitized, I merged again with the flow of people headed deeper into the DFAC. We shuffled through another small room, where we each, in turn, scanned our ID cards and grabbed a tray. I followed the faint boot prints on the white tile floor a few more steps, then looked up.

Instantly overwhelming. All the food you can imagine. An enormous quantity of food. I turned my head to the right and saw a wings bar with buffalo wings, barbecue wings, and fried wings. Next to that was the Mexican bar with all manner of tortilla and bean choices. An aroma of cilantro led my eyes to the vegetarian bar with some great smelling eggplant parmesan. Turning my head straight again I saw the main line with potatoes, barbeque ribs, corn on the cob, baked trout, fried trout, and baked potatoes. A glance to the left found a fast food line with onion rings, burgers, fries, and other deep fried goodness. In the middle of the room I ran my bulging eyes down a huge salad bar. Across the aisle was a hot sandwich line, a cold sandwich line, a fruit bar, and a soup serving area. In the center of the room was a huge wire basket full of single serving cups of every cereal ever invented, as if it were a monument to General Mills himself. And all around the room, I saw hundreds of tables with thousands of sweaty, uniformed bodies in a whir of conversation and mouth stuffing, with ketchup and hot sauce being dripped liberally to their trays.

Finally, next to the 17 coolers filled with soda, juice, and Gatorade, I eyed the desert display. Cheesecake, chocolate cake, every kind of cookie (big ones), smoothies, baked cobblers, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and all the ice cream you can eat. Cookies and Cream, Chocolate, Vanilla, Pralines… Baskin Robbins. Except here, the whipped cream, hot fudge, and nuts are self-serve.

As I stood there for the first time, I was totally lost. Questions in my head overcame my hunger, and prolonged inaction. How do they get all of this out here? Is this why the Higginson kid came back from the Marines so fat? How much (taxpayer) money does it cost to feed each of us each day? Is this a terrorist plot to fatten and decondition the entire U.S. military? My initial excitement died down a little when I reasoned that the food must be terrible. After shipping it halfway around the world and preparing it in the biggest school cafeteria you can imagine, it was going to be bad.

I finally noticed that my standing in awe was holding up the line behind me. Re-engaging my military bearing, I followed the flow to the main line and filled my plate. I wanted to try at least a few of the tempting dishes, but didn’t have room on the tray for a fraction of the offerings. I sat down, still expecting some taste disappointment. Then I realized I had been totally wrong. Cafeteria food can be good. The ribs were tender and tasted like they had been rubbed, marinated, and sauced before they came off the grill in the back yard. The lettuce was green, cool, and crisp. Even the steamed carrots were crisp, not soggy, and were topped with a little butter and just a dash of pepper. And the Baskin Robbins was the real stuff.

The DFAC is definitely the enemy. Three times each day, I fight another battle with it, trying to strengthen the self control of my jaw with each surrendered bite.



Love,

Tom

bad day.

My brother, Tom, fell in love with this small, striped, jacket when he was in high school. He found it at the D.I. and bought it with hopes that a future son would wear it. Only one out of his 4 children is male, and the moment the picture above was shot is the longest Tom ever got him to wear it.
For some reason, I love this story. I love that Tom was the kind of person who bought an item of childrens' clothing while he was still in high school and that Sam (his son) doesn't get how great that is (yet.)

And, on a smaller, and somewhat cheesier level, it also demonstrates how life never goes as planned.

Yes, I'm admitting that today was a bad one. I never admit this. I announced to the kid that I gave a ride to tonight at 8:57 pm that "this is as grumpy as I get."

I have a whole list of reasons to be grumpy: They're all tangled in one mess of having offish hormones, being in the same building staring at a computer screen for 14 hours, having developed a new rash around my eyes, money, deadlines, being a Spanish moron, relationship issues, strange advice...

But in all honesty, this is the first bad day I've had since one other bad day I can remember from the summertime. That's still pretty lucky.

I'm also headed to California tomorrow for another vacation where I'll be until Monday. That's pretty lucky too.

true story.

Last week I was feeling really stressed about finances as I was driving back to work from BYU. I found a ziploc bag of carrots that my mom had packed for me and tore into them.


I ate them angrily and vigorously, one after the other. I wasn't even thinking about the carrots. I just devoured them in one solid streak of chewing until they were gone.

An hour later my jaw started to hurt. Really hurt. It wouldn't go away. Then I notcied that my regular bite was off; I couldn't close my mouth normally because my teeth wouldn't line up properly.

I described the symptoms to my brother Tom (a doctor) and he told me that I'd damaged my temporomandibular joint. He prescribed eating only foods that were easy to chew, and taking 800 milligrams of ibuprofen 3 times a day for 5 days. Then he laughed at the cause of injury.

So of course I didn't take his advice. I hate popping pills and I thought that my jaw would mend itself for sure.

Fast forward a week and it's worse. Much worse. I started taking the ibuprofen last night and I don't even have the option eating foods that aren't easy to chew.

Moral of the story:
1. Listen to doctor Tom
2. It's hard to believe that I did this with carrots.

shadrach.

As I listened to a conference talk that used the biblical account of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego as model examples of what it truly means to have faith, I thought of my brother, Tom.

I remembered that he would use the word "hot" interchangeably with the word "shadrach." Like, "Oh man, I think it's pretty shadrach in here," and then he'd open the car window or something. I thought it was really dumb at the time, but I realized that that it is totally funny, and I kept smiling to myself about it at work.

On another note, I put my zune on "shuffle" today, (which I never do) and Simon & Garfunkels' "The Boxer" started playing. I'd forgotten how much I loved this song and I sang along and completely enjoyed it. Then I realized I couldn't remember a time when I didn't know this song. Kind of like how I can't remember not being able to read. And it's still so good:
lie-la-lie. la-la-la-la-lie-la-lie. lie-la-lie. la-la-la-la-lie-la-lie-la-la-la-la-lie.