WiFi, Skipper!

I love books, and I love food.  It's a good day if I can get away from work for lunch and spend about an hour in a nearby restaurant eating and reading.  I used to choose my restaurants based on the quality of their fries and the soda selection, but a new trend with some restaurants has me changing my standards.  

It all started one day when I was at my favorite burger place and as usual had ordered the #5 combo (pastrami cheeseburger with fries and a soda).  I filled my cup with Cherry Coke and sat down at my favorite booth (the one next to the soda fountain).  I started reading an eBook on my tablet when I noticed the new signs indicating free WiFi.  "Hmmm," I thought.  "I wonder if anything interesting has happened on Facebook since I left the office 15 minutes ago."  After spending 10 minutes on Facebook making sure that nothing interesting was happening, I figured I might as well fire up Netflix and catch some Arrested Development.  That's when the frustration started.  Netflix would not work.  Grrr!  Okay, you stupid burger place, I guess I'll get back to reading stupid Treasure Island.  I bet stupid Jim Hawkins wishes he had WiFi.

After that I started going to Zupas more often.  They have an excellent WiFi connection and I could get Netflix without any trouble at all.  Until the day when I couldn't get Netflix.  Grrr again! I suspect Zupas blocked it on purpose to prevent guys like me from taking up table space for too long. But wait, Hulu still works!  Ha ha, Zupas, now I'm going to sit here for another - (looking to see how long this episode of Bones is) - 44 minutes and 26 seconds drinking creative soda concoctions and eating oyster crackers.

A few months ago when Subway put up a sign advertising free WiFi, I realized that I could really use more meatball subs in my life.  And there's nothing quite like that feeling when you've racked up 75 Subway points so you can go in for a free twelve-inch sub.  It is a little deflating when you realize that also means that you've already spent over $75.

Ever since I was a kid, there has been a Skippers restaurant in my hometown of Orem, Utah.  I think I went there once with my mom when I was about seven years old.  I don't remember exactly why I didn't like it, but I think it had something to do with the fact that I was expected to eat fried clams.  Over the years there has been some remodeling of the building, and half of it has been re-purposed as a Jamba Juice.  I assumed the Skippers half eventually went out of business because, who would eat there?  I must not have been the only one making this assumption.  I was genuinely surprised when they put up a sign to make sure passers-by knew that they were still making a go of it.  Not only that, but I also learned that they now have WiFi.

After doing a little reconnaissance, I chose a Tuesday to venture back to Skippers because that is the day you can get the all-you-can-eat fish n' chips and clam chowder special (which means it's something like a dollar less than usual).  The first thing I noticed was that the restaurant seemed cleaner than I remembered.  Even though I knew what I was going to order, I spent a little time looking at the menu.  It struck me that with very few exceptions, everything is deep fried.  They do have salads on the menu, and I wondered what kind of person would order a salad from Skippers when there's a Zupas just down the street.  I bet the kitchen staff freaks out every time someone does order a salad.  I imagine a heated argument in the back between the server and the cooks, ending with the server returning to the customer and saying, "I'm sorry, but we're all out of lettuce.  Would you like some popcorn shrimp instead?"

When they brought my food out, there was a little cup of coleslaw on the side.  I quickly checked to make sure none of the food had touched it and I immediately moved it to the far edge of my table where it couldn't cause any mischief.  The clam chowder was better than I expected, the fish was pretty good when the right ratio of tartar sauce was applied, and the fries - I mean "chips" - were about average.  But the WiFi connection was superb and since it was all-you-can eat, I always had food in front of me while I was watching what Agent Coulson was getting up to.  But that coleslaw cup kept staring at me, and I kept wondering if it had any purpose other than to unnerve me.  I did learn that all-I-*should*-eat was two small fish fillets, one serving of "chips," and one bowl of chowder.  All-I-*can*-eat is a little less than twice that much.

But why do they put the coleslaw on there?  Is it some sort of weird FDA requirement?  I've been back to Skippers several times, and yesterday I overheard the server at the next booth apologize for forgetting one of the coleslaw cups.  To my amazement, I heard one of the group say that he wanted it.  What?!  I couldn't ignore this.  I just had to know what he was going to do with it.  After an appropriate interval I got up with the pretense of refilling my soda, making sure to casually glance over to get a look at this strange person and see if I could discover his diabolical plan.  To my utter horror, he had a fork and was actually putting the stuff in his mouth!  Then, and I am not making this up, his mouth started making chewing motions and I swear I saw his Adam's apple move as if he had swallowed it. And he just sat there, cool as a cucumber, as if he were not doing something unimaginably repulsive.  I don't know how the rest of his group could sit in such close proximity to him.  They must be his minions.  This won't stop me from going back to Skippers because there are still limited restaurants that have good WiFi.  But I'm definitely keeping a wary eye out for that coleslaw guy.  Someone like that could be capable of just about anything.
 

Dad Can Cook - You can really taste the scratch

Being a dad of young kids is a pretty sweet gig.  They are almost always delighted to see me when I get home, and all I have to do to be a hero is make pancakes.

I grew up in a home with eight kids.  Mom did most of the cooking, which couldn't have been easy with that many mouths, many of which belonged to boys who were always hungry.  She also worked full-time as a teacher starting when I was five and the oldest was seventeen.

Mom made the very best comfort foods, the most notable being fried chicken almost every Sunday.  Occasionally she would experiment with new things, like the time she made cow tongue.  We were all weirded out by it, but we knew better than to say anything other than "thank you" and "please pass the tongue."  The oldest sibling, Biff (names have been changed), missed dinner because he was at work, or had some school thing.  When he got home, a few of us watched to see what he would do about the tongue.  He started right away on making a sandwich, sliced a few generous pieces of tongue and fell to eating his tongue sandwich.  After a few bites Fritz said, "You know that's cow tongue, right?"  Biff said, "Huh, I thought it was ham." And then he just kept right on eating.

Dad would occasionally make breakfast where we could choose 1, 2, or 3 strips of bacon, a "Daddy's Best Egg" which was fried with either a "runny" or "broken" yolk, and toast or sometimes pancakes.  Dad was also always in charge of making breakfast on Mother's Day.  We kids were always in awe because this was the only time during the year that we could have his delicious apple pancakes.  Thinking back, I wonder if Mom ever felt slighted how we would rave about these pancakes, but rarely acknowledged her efforts every other day.  Sorry, Mom.

My kids love oatmeal, which is what they have for breakfast most mornings.  I like oatmeal as much as the next guy, but it's not particularly exciting.  So one Saturday morning about 4 or 5 years ago I made pancakes, sausage, and "Daddy's Best Eggs" for breakfast.  My kids thought I was the coolest dad ever.  The following Saturday they asked if I was going to make a "Big Daddy Breakfast" again.  I said, "No, if I make it every week then it won't be special." So we all had oatmeal, and I felt a little bit sad that I had disappointed them.  Soon it did become a weekly thing, and I'm okay with being in charge of breakfast on Saturdays.  Now that the boys are vegetarians I no longer make sausage for them, but sometimes I'll fry some up for myself and try to tempt them with it.  It never works.

I used to make pancakes with Krusteaz mix, which for a pancake mix is probably the best one.  But when I discovered how ridiculously easy it is to make pancakes from scratch with ingredients that are always in the house, I never bought a mix again.  And, I'm going to share with you the best recipe right here.

Daddy's Best Classic Fluffy Pancakes

Dry Ingredients:

2 cups flour
2 tablespoons sugar
4 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
3/8 cup powdered milk*
*If you don't have powdered milk, you can use milk instead of water in the wet ingredients. Almond or soy milk also works well.

Wet Ingredients:
2 cups water (use milk if you didn't add powdered milk to the dry ingredients)
2 eggs
2 tablespoons canola or vegetable oil*
*I haven't tested this with waffles, but I'd probably use 4 tablespoons oil if you do use it for waffles.

Directions: 
Heat a griddle or skillet to about 325 degrees.  Combine the dry ingredients in a bowl.  In a separate bowl, combine the wet ingredients, whisking the eggs to combine thoroughly.  Add the dry ingredients to the wet, mixing thoroughly, but don't overmix.  Pour the batter in 4-5 inch rounds (or funny shapes, or whatever size you want).  Flip the pancakes when bubbles start to form holes.  Let's face it, if you don't know when to flip your pancakes, there's little I can do to help you there.  Makes around 20-24 four-five inch pancakes.

The powdered milk is really the secret to this whole thing.  Sometimes I'll pre-make several bags of the dry ingredients to save time when I want to make pancakes.  I have also used powdered eggs, and it worked pretty well, but I don't like the flavor as much.  The kids didn't seem to notice, though.

Occasionally I'll make a "Big Daddy Omelette" or "Big Daddy Hash" which are always big hits too.  The secret is cheese.  Lots and lots of cheese.

Still Crazy After All These Years

I’m really glad we have dentists.  The fact that we all hate going to the dentist brings us onto common ground.  When we want to express exactly how much we despise the idea of doing something, all we have to do is say, “I’d rather go to the dentist,” and then everyone knows to stop trying to get me to go play basketball. 

This is essentially what I said when I was asked about attending my 20-year high school reunion (although I may have added something about certain places freezing over, and how many horses it would take to drag me).  High school was a time of awkwardness, low self-esteem, and Arsenio Hall.  I’m not seeing a lot of incentive to go down that particular lane of memories.

Then I found the Facebook page that the student council (or whoever it is that arranges such things) had created for the 1994 graduates.  It was actually fun to see some of the old dance photos and read about what people are up to now.  Even though it almost made the need for an actual in-person reunion completely unnecessary, this sparked in me a small interest in attending.    

The next thing I know, Lois and I are at the reunion making conversation with my fellow 1994 Bruins and their spouses.  There were quite a few graduates I was unacquainted with, which is not completely surprising considering that my graduating class was upwards of 700 people.  Then there were also a good number who I had known since elementary school.  Luckily for me, I didn't date much in high school and the girls I did date were either a year younger or older, or they went to a different high school altogether.  So there was no awkwardness of having to run into any old flames.  But I like to think that if there had been, they'd notice how hot my wife is and be adequately jealous.  

Even though this was a Utah County reunion, arrangements had been made to work through some complicated Utah red tape so that those who wanted something a little stronger than Dr. Pepper could bring in their own booze.  I took advantage of the available sodas, juice, and flavor syrups and sated my addiction with Dirty Dr. Peppers and Mango Mountain Dews.

If Lois was bored, she didn't show it and seemed to have a good time.  But she did make it quite clear that this really didn't count as a date.  I was glad to have her there with me, and since she is a vegan I felt justified in taking an extra portion of meat and dessert.  Having a vegan wife does have a few advantages.  

The program was simple and consisted mainly of mingling which was kind of the whole point, after all.  We did have the obligatory slide show with era appropriate music in the background, and the former a capella choir sang.  No one asked the band geeks to play anything, which was probably a good call, even though I wouldn't have minded an excuse to dust off my old saxophone.  Oh well, maybe at the 30.  

The old stereotypes had pretty well dissolved.  Instead of cheerleaders, jocks, nerds and stoners, we just had one big group of happy Bruins.  And nerds.  It was pretty easy to talk to anyone there, whether we had known each other or not.  And my Facebook friend count went from like 84 to 100, so that's pretty awesome too.   

I asked Lois if she was going to want to attend her 20-year reunion.  She didn't even have to think about it before saying no.  But she did say that she hoped there would be a Facebook page so that she could find out what everyone is up to without having to actually interact with them.  She still has a few years to change her mind, so we'll see.  If nothing else, at least she'd be able to post pictures of the two of us together so that her old boyfriends can see what a hot husband she ended up with.  

Getting Tipsy

I have opinions about a lot of things.  Some of them are popular, like how I believe everyone should be able to have a good job if they want to and earn a lot of money.  Some of my opinions are unpopular, like how I believe in order to keep that job, people should actually come to work on time and perform the tasks they were hired to do.  I usually will only share my unpopular opinions if I feel like I have good solid facts to back them up.  So I don't often admit that I believe zucchini made a deal with Satan.  How else do you explain why people eat it despite its terrible taste and why there is always so much of it?  I can't prove it, but it's totally true.

This brings us to the popular practice of tipping, and why it is stupid.  There's a pretty good chance that you worked in the food service industry at some point in your life, which explains the tremor I felt just now as you attempted to reach through your computer to strangle me.  That would be consistent with the reactions I get from others when I start to explain my enlightened views on tipping.  Almost everyone I know worked for tips at some point, and they don't want to hear me suggest that the one thing they liked about the suckiest job they ever had was undeserved.  Of course I never actually suggest any such thing, but once I approach the subject, all they can hear from me is, "Blah blah, derp de derp, tipping is stupid and so is my face." 

So if you're still reading, here is what I really believe.  Employers should pay their workers a fair wage, should provide incentives for doing good work and additional rewards for going above and beyond.  Workers should not have to rely so much on customers, who only glimpse the tip (so to speak) of the iceberg.  Workers also should generally not receive a huge reward simply because their customer can't calculate percentages in their head.

Now, before you jump to conclusions, I do tip when tipping is expected.  I do it grudgingly because I believe the system is broken, but I'm not going to punish my server simply because their employer chooses to use this inefficient method of compensating them.  This is also the only way I know how to spend the Canadian coins that I sometimes end up with. 

When I go to a restaurant, I expect two things: 1) Bring me what I ordered, and 2) my Dr. Pepper should never be empty.  If I ask for no capers and my pasta has capers, is that the waitress's fault?  Maybe, if she neglected to tell the cooking staff, but I have no way of knowing.  Also, capers are delicious, so I was foolish to ask to have them left off in the first place.  When I suck down my first Dr. Pepper in 30 seconds and have to wait twice that long for a refill, is that the waitress's fault?  Yes, probably, but maybe her shortsighted employer has her working too many tables and she can't reasonably keep all the drinks filled.  Plus she's trying to get the guy at table 6 drunk so that he'll start to think she's hot and leave her a 2,300% tip.  She didn't invent the system.  My waitress doesn't know this, but I'm going to tip her the same amount no matter what she does because it's not my job to motivate her.  That's her boss's job and he's doing it stupidly.  I wish he worked for tips so I could snub him. 

There's a restaurant in Utah called Blue Lemon, and they have the right idea.  You order your meal at the register and pay for it right then.  You seat yourself, get your own food when it's ready, and you fill your own drinks.  It's impossible to be more than about 50 feet away from the soda fountain, and if you don't want to walk that far to get a drink, then you should just take the plunge and get a rascal scooter already.  Blue Lemon regularly hires students who are going to culinary school.  They pay them what I assume is a reasonable hourly wage.  If my clam chowder comes without any clams, I can tell someone and get it fixed and no one has to lose their rent money over it. 

Then you have buffet style restaurants like Chuck-A-Rama.  Lois, incidentally, used to hate it when I would drag her to Chuck-A-Rama with the boys.  She'd get embarrassed when we'd run into people we knew.  I'd have to remind her, "They're eating here too, it's no big deal.  Hey, watch me put this whole scone in my mouth."  Oh... I think I just understood something.  Anyway, that's beside the point.  My point was, you have this place where you get your own food, get your own drinks (unless your "server" happens to be going that direction anyway), and they still expect to be tipped.  Why should I tip you for pointing out where I can get my own plates and food?  Yes, I can see the pile of fried chicken from here, thanks.  But once again, I know that their employer is only paying them $2.13 per hour, so I will do my part to make up the difference.  But I'm totally sneaking out with my pockets full of rice crispy squares, just so you know. 

In New Zealand, no one tips at restaurants.  Maybe I should move there, or at least go on vacation there and eat a lot.  They also let you bring your own food into the movie theaters, which is another thing I have an opinion about.  I'm not going to tell you what my opinion is about that right now, but trust me, it's the one and only true opinion.

When you get a haircut, tipping your stylist is so awkward because you can't just secretly leave the tip in the pile of hair (they don't like that).  You have to look that Fantastic Sam's employee right in the eye when you hand it over.  "That's right, I like you in the amount of exactly three dollars.  I hope you didn't think you were better than three dollars, because all I have is three dollars. And this Canadian nickel."  What if you get a bad haircut?  Withholding the tip is not going to fix it.  What does it do?  Teach the stylist a valuable lesson?  That might help the next guy, but meanwhile your three dollars is not going to make you stop looking like you cut your own hair.

So, tipping is stupid and now you can blah de derp derp blah blah I have a stupid head.  

You've been a great crowd, I'm here all week.  Don't forget to...um...don't forget to tell your waitress that she's hot.

Lunar

4:43 AM

Something wakes me and my eyes fly open.  The house is completely still, but there's something ominous in the silence.  I lay quietly for a few moments, listening to Lois's even breathing.  An early robin calls out, warning of something known only to itself.  It should be another hour or so before he starts his birdsong in earnest, waking Lois.  I decide to get up, trying to fool myself into believing that an early start means I'll get to come home on time.  But I know full well that there's always something that will keep me late. 

As I step into the bathroom, the west-facing window gives me a clear view of the full moon shining through some wispy clouds, bringing back a recollection of one of the worst days possible in my line of work.  It has been years since The Incident, but when did I stop tracking the lunar cycles?  I wonder whether I have been foolish to let my guard down.  It's surely not an omen, but I decide to hurry anyway. 

I dress as silently as I can, but Lois is already awake, the robin having decided to belt out his dawn song before the dawn.  "That bird!" she calls out sleepily.  Her cry startles me away from thoughts of the ill-boding moon.  I fix a smile on my face as I grab my jacket and gear from the bedside and lean down to kiss her goodbye. "Good luck at work," she mutters and smiles back.   An odd turn of phrase.  Lois knows what my job is, but she doesn't really know what I do.  As I leave the room, I arm myself mentally for the day's work ahead. 

I pass the boys' room and turn back upon a sudden impulse.  I nudge the door open and tiptoe in.  I peer through the dark into the top bunk.  Empty.  My heart lurches and starts pounding.  A scream roils in the pit of my stomach and stops short, lodging in my throat.  Years of training did not prepare me for this.  But then I notice blankets draped down, covering the openings of the lower bunk.  I part the blankets to find Buzz sleeping soundly at one end of the bed, and Rocky curled up on the other.  I reach for the bedpost to steady myself and take a few deep breaths. They're okay. 

I drive to work on mental autopilot, my mind racing, strategizing, preparing for any eventuality I might face today.  I barely notice the traffic around me.  As I pull into headquarters, I see the usual few cars parked in the lot.  It will be hours before most of the staff arrive.  I scan my badge at the side door and take the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The motion sensors light the corridor ahead of me as I make my way to my cubicle. 

All is still.  For now.  Whatever comes, whatever happens, I will be ready.  If I'm home later than I'd like, I'll be home in time for Lois's vegan lasagna.  I am...the Human Resources Manager. 

Thou Shalt Not Dew It To It

So there was a big hoopla recently about BYU students petitioning for caffeinated sodas on campus.  You can't buy a caffeinated beverage anywhere on campus currently, much to the dismay of many students, faculty and visitors.  When you go to a basketball game and the announcer reads off the sponsors, he won't say Coke, he'll say Caffeine Free Coca-Cola, lest anyone believe that BYU took money from the caffeinated kind of Coke.  That would be scandalous. 

It's not against the rules for students to drink caffeinated sodas, or even bring them on campus.  They just won't sell the drinks to you, which is perfectly within their rights, shortsighted as it may be.  But when BYU spokeswoman Carri Jenkins stated that the school does not sell caffeinated drinks because there has not "been a demand for it," well, that was simply laughable. 

BYU student Skyler Thiot created a Facebook page "BYU for Caffeine" which had over 1700 likes before he removed the page stating that the issue was becoming "too contentious."  In a recent radio interview, DJ's suggested to Skyler that BYU officials must have told him to remove the page.  He wouldn't confirm that, but he wouldn't deny it either, which leads me to believe that "The Heavy" did put some pressure on him to remove it. 

So what's the big deal exactly?  If BYU doesn't want to sell caffeinated drinks, then fine.  Students don't have to attend school there if they don't want to, or they can just drive down to the nearest gas station or grocery store to get their caffeine fix.  But it's silly for a spokesperson to claim that there hasn't been a demand for caffeinated drinks, which just can't be the real reason.  What is the real reason then?  Is it because caffeine drinks are bad for you?  Well, they can't very well say that or else they'd have to stop selling chocolate covered cinnamon bears and their famous mint brownies.  Besides, I'd be willing to bet that the sugar in sodas is way worse for you than the caffeine.  The church doesn't prohibit the consumption of caffeinated sodas, so they can't say that either.  They don't have to give a reason if they don't want to, but don't go making up silly excuses that no one will believe.

The Missionary Training Center in Provo has the same dining services as at BYU, which means that missionaries in training can't buy caffeinated sodas.  While I was there, one missionary received a package containing a 24 pack of real, fully-loaded Coke.  It was amazing how quickly these Cokes became currency, like cigarettes in prison.  Suddenly there were missionaries scrambling to buy Coke from him for $1.00 per can, then $2.00 per can.  One missionary who was short on cash offered to trade his Afterglow cassettes.   

So while we're taking digs at BYU, let's talk about their policy on socks.  They don't have one now, but when I was 11 or 12 years old, my friend and I were kicked out of the Games Center because I was wearing flip flops (with no socks).  Some worker came up to us while we were playing video games and made us leave stating that I was not wearing appropriate footwear.  Perhaps he was afraid that the brazen way in which I was showing off the skin of my feet would cause some BYU co-eds to have evil thoughts.  We'll ignore the fact that there was nary a female to be found playing Spy Hunter or Dig-Dug.  Today the policy is simply that shoes should be worn in all public campus areas.  How progressive of them. 

And how about BYU's facial hair policy?  I've been a goatee wearer for the last 15 years or so.  One time I went to a comedy show on BYU campus and the nice girl who sold us the tickets asked me if I was a student.  When I said no, she said, "Oh, good thing, or you'd have to go shave."  So, that's fine.  My main problem with BYU's facial hair policy is not that they don't allow beards.  My problem is that they do allow mustaches.  I'm sorry, but plain mustaches are just ghastly.  They should have changed that policy when they stopped requiring socks.  We'll also ignore the fact that Brigham Young himself had a nice bushy beard in his day. 

I don't think we'll see BYU lifting their ban on caffeinated sodas anytime in the near future, nor do I think they should be compelled to.  But if you are outraged like I am about how immodest the statue of Chief Massasoit is on BYU campus, then sign the petition by posting a comment here. 

Goodbye Tumbleweeds, Hello Cave Nation

So, Lois and I have lived at my parents' house in Eagle Mountain for over 5 years now.   Mom and Dad have been great to live with.   I think I could count the number of times I've mowed the lawn with my shoes on.   Well, I always mow the lawn with my shoes on.   I just mean that I could count the times on my fingers and wouldn't need my toes.   No, I don't really need my toes to count that high, it's just a silly saying!   Okay, forget it.   I'm saying that Dad almost always mows the lawn.   I guess he figured he can't give me chores to do since I work for Lois now.   We've also had the benefit of Mom and Dad volunteering to tend the boys (for free!) so that we can go out on dates.   It's nice when we can just put the boys to bed and go for a drive, and since Mom and Dad are in the house, we have no qualms about leaving the kids.   And sometimes you're just in the mood for nachos and Mountain Dew, right?

The city of Eagle Mountain is not without its charms.   You know in the old Peanuts cartoons where Snoopy's cousin Spike makes "snowmen" and "Christmas trees" out of tumbleweeds in the desert?   It's kind of like that.   Who wouldn't want to live in a place like that?  

But, the time has come at last for us to bid a fond adieu to the tumbleweed capital of Utah County.   We're moving to American Fork, which my sister Carmela very helpfully pointed out is called "Cave Nation."   I learned this mere hours after closing the deal on the house, so there's no turning back.   Now, I admit that most school mascots are kind of stupid.   I grew up in Orem, home of the Mountain View Bruins.   I was always under the impression that a bruin was a certain type of bear.   But it's not.   It's simply another word for bear.   But it's really not even that.   It came from an old Dutch fable, where the bear was named "Bruin," which is the Dutch word for "brown."   That's just silly.  

But come on, the Cavemen?   How does anyone even pretend that cavemen represent anything that a person would want to emulate?   Cavemen lived in caves because they were too stupid to build their own houses.   Their marriage ceremony involved conking a cavewoman on the head with a club and then dragging her by the hair back to the cave.   Expressions such as "living in a cave" have become cultural metaphors for a modern human who displays traits of extreme ignorance or uncivilized behavior.

Here's one of my favorite Jack Handy Deep Thoughts: I bet when the Neanderthal kids made a snowman, someone would always end up saying, "Don't forget the thick, heavy brows." Then they would all get embarrassed because they remembered they had the big hunky brows too, and they'd get mad and eat the snowman.

So anyway, we're going to live in American Fork, aka "Cave Nation."   When it comes to it, "American Fork" is kind of a silly name for a city too.   It used to be called Lake City, but settlers renamed it in 1860 after the American Fork River that runs through it to avoid confusion with Salt Lake City.   I can see how a caveman might confuse the two.  

We are pretty excited about the new house.   It is a rambler built in 2001 with a fully finished basement and a 3 car garage.   It has 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms upstairs, and 2 bedrooms and 1 bathroom downstairs.   There's also a little kitchenette downstairs with a fridge, sink and dining area.  So, I guess if we wanted to, you know, have dinner in the basement or something, it would be that much easier to do it.

Before we knew we would be closing on the house, I booked a trip to DC for work, which is where I am currently.   We didn't want to delay the closing, which was scheduled for the 12th, so I notarized a Power of Attorney document which allowed Lois to sign all of the closing documents.   So while I was eating fish & chips at McGinty's, Lois was buying our house.  

It's all taken care of now, and we're going to move this Saturday.   If you know me and are looking for something to do, feel free to stop by the house to move a few boxes, or maybe a refrigerator or dresser.   We'll get started around 9am.  Also, this Saturday is my Mom's birthday, so there's that too.