A Frozen Conspiracy

If you’re plugged in to any social media at all then you probably noticed when, last week, a seam split and the world became unglued over the “hidden agenda” of  Disney’s Frozen.

I’m not going to point you in the direction of the impetus to this ice storm (you see what I did there?) because I don’t see how anything good can come from that. (Sidebar: If you’re trying to build a brand, then giving your blog a title that doesn’t always reflect your appearance seems like a misstep. I mean, otherwise we here at Part Time Authors would have named our blog cleanshavenmormonmen.com. But we didn’t. Because we aren’t always that.)

Aaaaanywhistle, here’s the thing. Is Frozen really pushing an agenda? Is this little cartoon making sweeping social commentary? Are we being brainwashed by the Disney machine?

You bet your sweet bippy.

Look at these lyrics:
Let it go, let it go
Can’t hold it back anymore
Let it go, let it go
Turn away and slam the door

Youguys. Disney clearly has an Anti-Diet agenda. The message here is simple: When it comes to trying to eat healthy and maintain your weight - just forget it. Let it go! Let yourself go! Let that waistline grow!

This is clearly a cross-promotion for the turkey legs, churros, and monte cristos found inside the Disney parks. Shameless! And it’s like they aren’t even embarrassed or trying to hide it, you guys!

I don’t care
What they’re going to say
Let my stomach rage on,
Sweats never bothered me anyway

Disney is clearly a proponent of diabetes. I don’t have proof yet, but I’m pretty sure they are getting kickbacks from the FDA. The more people on insulin, the better - for Disney. Have they no shame? Have they NONE?!

Well, tune in to PTA this week and each day you will be privileged to find another Frozen conspiracy theory from another part time author, who has varying degrees of clean shaven-ness.

*Originally published on Part Time Authors. 

Coincidence? Maybe.

Do you believe in coincidences?  Or, more to the point, do you believe there are no coincidences? Do you feel that two experiences or events that are closely related by time or space or some other association … may have some purpose? And do you feel there’s a purpose … every time?  

It’s probably a hybrid of my faith as well as life experiences, but I fall in the No Coincidences camp. Although I will freely admit three things: First, it will not always be clear why a specific “coincidence” occurred and it may never be clear; not until the next life. Second, I believe our relationships in this life are purposeful and tied together. I don’t know that it is ever any type of “coincidence” to know the people we know. I would say, rather, it is Providence. And third, coincidences are rarely tied to birthdays. For example, consider the following conversation:

Friend #1: When is your birthday?

Friend #2: April.

Friend #1: MINE TOO! April WHAT?

Friend #2: April 13^th.

Friend #1: Mine is the 24^th! What are the odds??!

Uhm, the chances that two friends have a birthday in the same month? I’m no mathematician, but I believe the odds are…1 in 12? That’s not a coincidence, that’s algebra.

Anyway, I was recently listening to an NPR episode of This American Life, and they were re-telling stories that listeners had sent in regarding really incredible coincidences. I mean, some truly uncanny stuff.  Like a student who’s car broke down in rush hour traffic on a busy highway and the one person who happens to stop and come to her rescue – her dad; who lived four hours away. Or Steven and Helen, who get engaged and when their parents meet, they find out that Steven’s dad had dated Helen’s mom back in Korea in the 1960s. You can listen to the entire podcast here.

Of the many coincidences in my life – some profound and personal and some silly, here are two that jumped into my memory right away, for whatever reason.

Coincidence One: In January 2008 we were living in Las Vegas and our entire family took a vacation to Florida to visit some friends and go to Disney World. It was the end of the day at Magic Kingdom and my son decided he wanted a sword – a sword available only at the store just outside of Pirates of the Caribbean, on the other side of the park. Because I was campaigning for Dad of the Year, I didn't even complain, just grabbed his hand and bolted across the park. We’re buying the sword and the cashier looks at my credit card and license and says, “Hey, Las Vegas! Do you like living in Vegas?”

“Sure,” I answered.

“Oh, we live in Las Vegas!” said the couple directly behind us in line.

“Really?”

“Yes, what part do you live in?”

“Way up in the northwest,” I answered.

“So do we; we’re off the 95 and Durango.”

“So are we…we live off of Brent,” I raised my eyebrows.

“So do we, we live on Wind Warrior.”

“So do we,” I said.

Here I am, literally on the opposite end of this big country of ours, on a random night, in a random line, in a spot that I ran across the park to get to in a last-minute effort … to find myself standing next to a couple who lived precisely six houses up from me back in Las Vegas. We had never run into each other on the street or at neighborhood activities. We had to go to Disney World to bump into each other. Coincidence?

Coincidence Two: When I returned home from my LDS mission in the summer of 1992, my friend, Melissa, called me the next day and asked if she could visit. We had been good friends before I left on my mission, and I was excited to see her. We talked about life before my mission, I told her some of my mission experiences (as RMs are want to do) and she told me she was excited about her mission call to Iowa – where she would be heading in about two months. Outside of my family, Melissa was the first person I saw after my mission.

In the spring of 1994 I took a trip with some friends to St. Louis, Missouri. As part of our trip, we took a couple of days to drive up to Nauvoo and visit a few Church History sites. It was while we were on a tour of the site where the Prophet was martyred that one of my friends leaned over and whispered, “Somebody is staring at you.” I looked where my friend motioned and standing there, in the middle of Carthage Jail, mouth wide open, completely gob-smacked, was my friend, Melissa. You could have knocked me over with an issue of Times & Seasons. She was there with her parents, who had just picked her up at the end of her mission and decided to see some Church History sites before heading home to California. Outside of her family, I was the first person Melissa saw after her mission. Coincidence?

For the life of me, I cannot pin down any specific and life-altering reasons for these “coincidences.” I have a couple of theories and impressions…but I can’t point at a direct cause or effect. I don’t know the purpose. Yet.

Do you believe…in coincidences…?

Florida Dreamin'

If you are looking for a frugal way to make it through life, having a large family is not found high on the Parsimonious List. But I have to tip my hat to my parents. Though they had seven children, they were generous with us. If we were on a road trip, and Dad was suddenly overcome with a hankering for a chocolate shake, he knew he was not going to get away with buying him a chocolate shake and eating it in front of us, alone. Nay, I cannot think of a quicker way to start a mutiny. So he had to consider if he was really in the mood for a $30 shake. But you know what, sometimes he was. And I adore him for it.

My point, and I may have one somewhere here, is that despite the costs of being a large family, we were not deprived of adventure or excitement. Stylish clothing, yes, but not adventure or excitement. We were all encouraged to play sports and develop hobbies; and when we traveled, we traveled as a family and took actual, real, non-tent-in-the-back-yard vacations or trips to lakes, beaches, amusement parks, etc.

That trait is dominant in me, and I have recently felt a burning desire to take my family on a fun-filled vacation to somewhere out of our element. I know what you’re thinking, and sure, Iraq is nice this time of year. But with all the bombings and insurgents, there really aren’t the roller coaster rides that there used to be. Plus we don’t have any friends or relatives we could stay with. So we decided on Orlando, Florida.

If you don’t mind the mess, and if you want to see your kids so excited that their heads physically pop off, may I suggest Disney World? May I also suggest you have kind, loving, giving, generous friends from whom you are shamelessly comfortable in accepting their charitable contributions and unparalleled openhandedness, and without whom a trip of this caliber would be inherently impossible? Because you’ll need both elements to make it work.

With a big “a-thank you” to the Dowdys and Becky, we just returned from what the brochures would call A Fabulous Florida Vacation! The trip was effortless and we felt extraordinarily pampered.

It all began with the plane ride from Las Vegas. I don’t know if you saw the Fear Factor episode (that I just made up) where the unsuspecting couple had to take an airplane all the way across the continental United States with 5.5 children in tow (the food challenge was simply eating the in-flight meal – HA!), but needless to say, that couple threw themselves from the plane at 12,500 feet and didn’t win. But we did! We traveled with 5.5 of the most saintly children who read, chatted, snacked and slept their way across the country. They even laughed and whistled their way through the demeaning airport security checks. (Truth be known, some of my children don’t have a problem undressing in public. In fact, I really didn’t need federal encouragement to validate the exact behavior I have been trying to curb, lo these many months.)

The Dowdys, beloved friends from college, were there to greet us at the airport and help make the trek to their home. Their home, P.S., is on 14 acres of green, tree-populated, Florida landscape. I knew Katie loved me, but it wasn’t until we were on the plane ride back to Vegas that I was completely confident she was really coming home with me. She spent every moment outside, come rain, come shine, come undomesticated alligator.

Once we reached the gates to Disney World, I heard a collective scream from all children that made my soul smile and my ears bleed. Propelled by adrenaline and a determination to squeeze every moment of joy out of our trip, we ran these kids ragged, covering three parks in three days: Magic Kingdom, Disney Hollywood Studios, and Animal Kingdom.

My Favorite Moments at Disney World:
• Our friend Becky is a voice character for the new Monsters, Inc. "Laugh Floor," an interactive animation show at Magic Kingdom. (That’s all I’m allowed to say about it, unless I want people in black suites with Mickey ears to show up at my door and make me dead. That, and I’m also nervous Becky would lose her job.) And when it comes to the part in the show when her character interacts with the audience, she interviewed Abbie (age 10) and Garren (age 8), forever solidifying in their minds the magic that is Disney, and creating a memory that I wager they will be sharing with their own children one day.

• When the older kids went on a roller coaster and I took Roxanna (age 4) and Tanner (age 2) on the Winnie the Pooh ride. I have always wondered how our society, and the world at large, has widely accepted this bear’s name. But snicker if you will, riding with my two youngest on this ride was magically poohlicious.
• Watching Abbie being trained to be a Jedi, and then fighting Darth Vader. I’m not going to lie to you, she kicked his trash.

• Riding Star Tours with Garren and Connor, riding Tower of Terror with Abbie, riding Expedition Everest with a five-month pregnant Katie, and watching three kids pile into the Dumbo ride with Katie.
• Being mistaken by a Disney employee as a TV celebrity.
• That feeling you get when you first walk into the park, and you’re standing on Main Street, and there’s music and characters and food and Disney paraphernalia and you just try to breathe it all in and decide if you should run for a ride or immediately buy a caramel covered apple.

My Top Weird Moments at Disney World:
• Walking into a bathroom to find a dad who’s five year old had clearly wet his pants. The dad had just finished scrubbing the pants out in the sink, and was putting the soaking wet pants back on his freezing, apprehensive, uncomfortable son.
• Standing at the counter in the gift shop outside of Pirates of the Caribbean when the couple behind me heard the clerk ask if I liked living in Las Vegas. “We’re from Vegas too!” they said. And three sentences later, we discovered we live in the same area. In fact, on the same street. In fact, about six houses apart. It really is a Small World after all.

We leisurely toured a few of Orlando’s other sites as well, including a wildlife preserve, the coast, and Cape Canaveral. My main reservation about living in Florida is, you guessed it, the shark attacks. (You can find my feelings about sharks in this blog.) But only secondary is my feelings about alligators.

The Florida warning is that as a safety measure, you should expect to find an alligator in any body of water. That’s a little disconcerting to me. “Dad, can we go play in the pool?” “Of course, but don’t forget our family rule: check for alligators first.” Or what if an alligator gets lost? And you’re sitting in your hammock in your backyard…minding your own business, listening to Air Supply on your iPod, and you’re lost in love, and your arm is casually hanging off the side of the hammock…and then suddenly, your nickname is “Lefty.” How does Florida, as a state, allow these merciless predators to run free? Did you know these reptiles can run up to 35 mph? Thirty-five! That’s faster than most of those retired folks who so heavily populate the state even drive! Think of it – not being able to outpace an alligator in your car! Call me old fashioned, but that’s just dangerous. Of course once you’ve flown across the country – twice! – with 5.5 children, you aren’t that easily flustered.

Summer Fever

Every year, around the end of May or beginning of June, I start showing signs of what has become self-diagnosed and labeled as Summer Fever. To suppress the symptoms, my doctor has suggested wearing flip-flops and using my dad’s Chevron card to put gas in my car. But when I brought it up, Dad just gave me a dirty look. It’s like he doesn’t even care about my health.

I don’t know how I’ve never outgrown the phenomenon that is The Beginning of Summer, but it’s just instinctive. It’s like I forget I’m a grown up, with a job, a mortgage, and a vocabulary that should not include words like “dude” or “freakin’.” I suddenly have the urge to get up around 10:00 a.m., catch up on some music videos, go to a friend’s house to swim, order pizza that my friend’s mom pays for, then head off to a dark, air conditioned movie theater to watch the most recently released summer blockbuster. Then my friend and I call a couple of girls to accompany us to In-N-Out Burger, and then go to another movie. But now, when I call Katie to go, she just says stuff like, “ Where are you? I have dinner on the table…We’re sitting here waiting for you. I’d love to go to the movies, but we have five kids and no babysitter.” Apparently Katie isn’t really concerned about my health either.


I have wonderfully fond memories of summers growing up in California. And I think one of the reasons that they are so wonderful and fond, is that I am fondly remembering specific days, and then wonderfully imagining that every day was like that. (This is one of the warning signs of Summer Fever.)

Still, I believe that in my youth I approached summers in the same manner I approach a watermelon. I make very calculated, preparatory plans on how to get the most out of it, and then I take my shirt off and rub it all over my body. And then I spit seeds at small children. Ah, summer.



The mood of summer, for me personally, is capriciousness or frivolity. Whimsicality. This was especially the case when you had Disneyland, Six Flags Magic Mountain, Knott’s Berry Farm, Sea World, Universal Studios, and Raging Waters at your doorstep. These were tiny, magnificent worlds, 90 minutes from my home. A complete escape to another fantastic existence. A world where all the characters and employees there make you feel like the gates were opened today because we knew you were coming.

I remember as a child I wished I could live in an amusement park. I had picked out an apartment overlooking Main Street in Disneyland. (Yes, I know they’re not real. I found out during an embarrassing conversation with Disneyland management, when I tried to put some money down on a place last year. I don’t want to talk about it.) When I would need to get away from it all, I would leave Main Street and spend a weekend at my place in the Swiss Family Robinson Tree House (which is now Tarzan’s tree house. What’s up with that?) I would commute to work by taking the Storybook ride. (Because I believe a slow commute should take up a portion of your day, no matter where you live.) And I would enjoy a churro on my way home from work everyday.

It wasn’t only the amusement parks, though. The summer was just packed. We would make weekly jaunts to Zuma Beach, where a single day felt like an entire summer itself. We’d arrive at the beach, lay out the beach blankets and towels, and then get out the food as if we were going to have lunch first; only to be overcome by the exhilaration of that huge ocean, and go running headfirst into a wave. Then, an hour later, waterlogged and with clear sinuses from the salt water, we’d drag ourselves onto the sand and eat like it was the first meal we’d been given since floating to shore from a deserted island. We’d bury ourselves in the sand, throw a Frisbee around, dig for sand crabs, build sandcastles, and wish we never had to go home. Eventually we’d all climb into the van and promptly fall asleep on the drive home. Then, groggy and salty, I would climb out of the van, find my way to the shower, and wonder to myself how that much sand could still possibly be falling off of me – and from unspeakable places! Ah, summer.



We additionally made monthly waterskiing trips to Lake San Antonio, around the central coast area of California. We’d throw out sleeping bags on the shore and literally sleep a few feet from the water. And sleeping would generally be the only time we weren’t in the water. It was no strange thing to go on a skiing trip and never have your swimsuit completely dry. These trips were commonly three- or four-day trips. By day four we were three shades darker (either red or brown), our lips were so chapped it was like somebody took a blowtorch to them…and then a cheese grater, we’d consumed 438 ounces of soda and never left the lake once to use a bathroom, and our feet were so calloused, we could play hopscotch on hot coals. The drive home at the end of each trip carried the tradition of all of us telling ghost stories for hours on end. Some spooky (The Hillside Strangler, The Hook, etc.) and some with funny punch lines (“Bloody Bones & Dirty Diapers” and “I Got Ya Where I Want Ya, Now I’m Gonna Eat Ya.”)

There was also camping in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, pool parties, barbecues, staying up late, getting up late, the smell of sunscreen, the smell of popcorn at the movie theater, breaking curfew, playing hide-and-go-seek in cars. The list goes on. Summer just always seemed like the season for very little real responsibility. And around this time of year, I miss that.

And if my boss can’t understand my illness, and he continues to insist that I not take off my shirt to eat watermelon at my desk, I may just call in sick one day, take two matinees and call my doctor in the morning. Seriously, is there nobody that cares about my health?