My Wife Kind of Panicked?

Jason Platt of Lehi, Utah went hiking last Thursday. When it was 10 PM and he was not home yet, his concerned wife called search and rescue. Despite helicopters flying overhead and searchers screaming his name, he was not found. Until he walked out of the canyon himself the next morning.

"I got caught in a storm and took a sleeping pill, spent the night up there and then came back this morning." Platt explained. The sleeping pill, he happened to have in his day pack, made the whole helicopter-overhead-and-screaming-his-name search an obviously fruitless activity.

"My wife kind of panicked," he added, "And called search and rescue."

It was 10 PM. Her husband was untold hours late from an afternoon hike. He was not answering his cell phone. It was pitch dark and had been very stormy. What sort of loving, caring wife calls search and rescue for that? She is clearly a real jump-the-gun kind of worry wart.

Like when a pipe in the basement bursts and the water is knee-high. I bet his wife kind of panics and calls a plumber.

Or when the dog is hit by a car and is limping and bleeding all over. Most certainly she kind of panics and calls the veterinarian.

When she has a searing tooth ache for a week, do you think she kind of panics and calls the dentist? I bet she does.

Of course, she could have presumed him face down and dead on some mountain side, planned his funeral, and went out and bought a new car with his life insurance pay out.

Slow to Spot Celebrity Sighting

Several years ago George, my father-in-law, who knows just enough about popular culture to get himself in trouble, was walking Main Street in downtown Park City, Utah. He saw this tall dark-haired young man with a curly blond male companion walk by. Immediately, he realized the brunet looked very familiar.

George turned around and shouted, "Hey! I know you!" Surprisingly, the two kept on walking without even flinching. George started after the young adults insisting, "Stop! You with the dark hair - I know you from somewhere." Not at all deterred by their refusal to slow down, let alone turn around, George continued now almost in a jog, chasing after the mysterious people. His rantings continued as well with, "I think I know your dad. What's your name? Hey! I'm talking to you! Who are you?"

Finally, Joey Slotnick turned around and revealed, "His name is David Schwimmer". George's eyes looked up and to the left as he scratched his chin, trying to recall any Schwimmers he might know. Joey, by now exasperated, added, "He's famous; he's on Friends." Shaking his head, the helpful friend turned around and ran to catch up with the Ross Geller look alike.

A few months after that David Schwimmer appeared on The Late Show with David Letterman. On late night television the Friends star complained about being harassed every where he went, including a trip to Utah for the Sundance Film Festival where this older guy would not stop insisting that he knew him somehow. Hmmmm....now who could that have been?

Sing, Sing a Song, Make it Simple To Last Your Whole Life Long Part One

Vacations provide families with fond memories, photo album pictures, and souvenirs. My friends' parents would take them skiing at resorts in Colorado, or swimming along the sandy beaches of Florida, or even sight seeing across Europe. Their vacations always involved powdery snow in the mountains, or palm trees and hammocks by the ocean, or world famous museums and landmarks. My vacations were just as thrilling since my parents took me to a relative's house where I didn't have to do gardening chores for an entire week.

My parents did not believe in hotels. Ever. Which is why our vacations always involved a close relative. Or a distant relative. Or close friend of the family. Or a not-so-close friend of the family. Or friend of a friend of the family.

Since hotels were out of the question, instead of stopping to rest along the way, my parents would drive 30 hours straight across the United States until they reached our destination. One parent slept while the other drove. Every four to six hours they would trade off. In this manner we left Iowa to drive across Nebraska, then Wyoming, then Utah, then Nevada...

In order to pass the monotonous stretch, my sisters and I sat in the back of the station wagon singing songs. After countless hours of singing every song we knew numerous times, we would eventually make up songs. One such original ditty went as follows (complete with actions):

Oh, I'm broken up to here, (put your hand on your forehead)

I fell apart last year, (droop your head and shoulders)

I'm so mad, (look angry)

The people are so glad, (smile broadly)

'cause I'm broken up to here, (put your hand on your forehead)

I fell apart last year, (droop your head and shoulders)

I'm so mad, (look angry)

The people are so glad, (smile broadly)

'cause I'm broken up to here... (put your hand on your forehead)

And so it continued. For eternity. Or at least until we reached Grandma and Grandpa's house in California.

Donny Osmond is My American Idol

My mom’s little neighbor saw DH at one of our restaurants the other day. She tugged at her mother’s arm and said, “I know that guy from somewhere.” While pointing to DH, the 5-year old brunette continued, “I think he’s on American Idol.”

Well, in case you did not already know, DH is not nor has he ever been on American Idol. In fact he is not famous at all. No one in our family is famous. Infamous? Yeah, there’s a couple, but not famous. And we live in Utah so we rarely get to see famous people. Oh, I know Robert Redford supposedly lives 8 miles down the road from me. And while I’ve been to his resort many, many times for dinners, concerts, and parties, I have disappointingly never even caught a glimpse of his shoelace.

So I was caught completely off guard the other day when D2’s neighbor friend was talking about her other friend with a famous uncle. I questioned the neighbor friend and asked, “What is he famous for?” “I guess he’s a really good singer. But I don’t know ‘cause I’ve never heard him sing,” she diplomatically replied. “Hmmm,” I prodded, “But you’re sure he’s famous?” “My friend says her uncle is very famous,” she assured me. “His name is Donny Osmond,” then with a shoulder shrug and with both palms facing up, she looks directly at my stunned face, “I know, I’ve never heard of him either.”

Da….Wh….Ah….OH MY HECK!!!! I had no idea that D2’s friend was hangin’ at Donny Osmond’s niece's house! He’s not just famous, he’s dreamy. "Paper Roses", oh how I love paper roses. I never missed a single episode of Donny and Marie growing up. Of course the ultimate was his performance in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, the DVD of which I own and watch in high definition on our 50” Sony purely for the astounding Biblical insight it provides.

It has been a couple days since D2’s friend broke me the news, but my stomach is still in knots. I’ve already decided I need to volunteer to be my neighbor girl’s full-time chauffeur for play dates and certainly all birthday parties. I’m thinking a birthday party at a famous person’s niece's house, would call for mandatory chaperoning, especially if the extended family is invited. And perhaps I could sneak off during Pin the Tail on the Donkey and see what old posters or purple socks are lurking in the basement. Oh, and my camera – I’ll definitely need that. Actually, maybe the Polaroid and a Sharpie, so Donny can autograph the birthday party photos. For D2’s friend, of course. Oooh, and I need some really good recording device so when he sings “Happy Birthday” I can capture the vocal and then I’ll sell it as an mp3 on iTunes. It is clear that I’ve got some planning to do.

You know, this is all really DH's fault. If only he had some kind of American Idol connection, I wouldn’t have to go to these great lengths just to stalk a celebrity.

Will the Real Dick Cheney Please Not? Come to BYU

John Spernak of Connecticut claimed to be Vice President Dick Cheney a few days ago after leading police on a high speed chase. Besides being just plain crazy, what reason would anyone have to make such a preposterous claim? Seriously, who would want to be Vice President Dick Cheney right now?

The poor man is being shunned in his own back yard. Wyoming native Cheney is scheduled to speak at Brigham Young University’s commencement exercises in April. My western state alma mater features a student body and staff that is largely Republican. This would lead one to think that hosting the Vice President as the keynote speaker would be considered an honor. Apparently, there are more than a few at BYU who are not feeling so warm and fuzzy about Vice President Cheney’s visit. And if anyone at BYU, (besides the school's spokeswoman Carri Jenkins) is happy about the choice, please speak up! All the noise from web sites advertising protests, online petitions opposing the speech and letters to the editor expressing displeasure is seemingly so loud, that if there is an alternate viewpoint, I can't hear it.

I am not exaggerating how bad it is. You know there have even been threats. That’s right. Just remember where you heard it first. I’m talking serious stuff too, like threatening to not attend even one more BYU football game in Lavell Edwards Stadium or to never purchase another BYU sweatshirt. Ever.

With a variety of scandals from torture, to Scooter Libby, to Halliburton lurking in Mr. Cheney’s shadows, perhaps he is too shady of a choice for BYU. It sounds like he could be more of a threat to the Cougars than the Utes at a homecoming game.

For some reason, I'm just not that worried. Perhaps I'll even attend Cheney's speech. If I go I'll need something to wear. Maybe DH can pick me up one of those cool navy hoodies with the white 'Y' at the bookstore. Size medium please.

Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark) Spelling Lesson

Perhaps you haven't heard about the latest technological innovation for the small Utah town of Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark). Their mayor has expanded his nifty little e-mail system for the residents of their tiny town in order for them to communicate with him better. It is amazingly simple. Got a swimmin' pool in yer basement 'cause the neighbor kids figgered out how to undo the fire hydrant? E-mail water@spanishfork.org. Did yer dog darn near fall out the back of yer pickup when ya hit a road pit on the west end of town? Send notice to pothole@spanishfork.org. Truly, I am not making this up. These are actual working e-mail addresses in place for the inhabitants of Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark). But be sure to spell it the way it should be spelled and not the way it sounds. I would suspect e-mails sent to pothole@spanishfark.org are not monitored.
I wonder if I could set up something similar for myself at home. Does S1 need a ride to the mall? He can e-mail carpool@momswaytoobusyaskdad.net. Did D2 run out of clean underwear? She can simply log-on and send a message to laundry@maybeitwillfitinthesecondloadofwhitesImdoingnextThursday-wewilljusthavetoruntoOldNavyinthemeantime.com. As I contemplate this, the potential benefits are endless.
Supposedly it's been quite beneficial for the people of Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark). They've had graffiti@spanishfork.org in place for some time now and as proudly proclaimed by Mayor Thomas, "This town is clean of graffiti."
You know, I find that absolutely amazing! Seriously. No graffiti in Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark) whatsoever. I'm mostly astonished because I don't know how the mayor was alerted to all the troublesome markings. How did all those Spanish Farkians spell graffiti correctly, that is with two 'f's and only one 't', in their e-mails to Mayor Thomas? This thinking is in no way intended to question the intelligence of the citizens of Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark). It's just a tricky word to spell.
In fact, to verify that graffiti is a commonly misspelled word, I did a little Internet research. Unfortunately, I got this not-so-helpful Google suggestion at the top of my search results: "Did you mean: commonly misspelled words". Yep, you guessed it. I misspelled the word misspelled.
Dang! It's never cool when you are dumber than the people you are attempting to ridicule.