I’m usually up for a new adventures. Like say— Chickens.

As Mr. Big, Mr. Small and I enjoyed our morning walkies the other morning, I spied a particularly intriguing structure. As is my way. I asked my dogs about it.

“What do we have here Big?”

Of course Mr. Big can’t hear me because he is deaf, but he is always interested in sniffing new scents, while Mr. Small is solely interested in tugging on his leash in pursuit of a taunting squirrel or unwise cat.

Parallel parked along 172nd is a shabby chic shack. Possibly a miniature house for firewood storage or maybe an upscale dog pen. I just wasn’t sure, but I liked the look of it, and Big and Small most certainly liked the smell of it. I soon realized why my dogs yanked and tugged on their leashes.

At first I could only hear a low clucking but as we inched closer to the enclosure, the inhabitants perked up quite a bit. No firewood or divine doggy-digs, only— chickens. The tenants of the chicken roost placidly looked at us, not at all disturbed by our presence—it was almost as if they expected us.

Three or four hens precisely perched at their wire mesh window clucked and cocked their pretty heads at us.  A most happy-looking flock and indeed they have a good thing going. Not only is their coop festooned with Halloween decor, they have free room and board, a splendid view and no rooster in site. Not that I have anything against roosters but an early morning wake-up crow from ones spouse would get annoying. But back to the point of my story—new adventures.

Initially I hoped the hen house would be for sale or better yet FREE. I’m always seeing ’Free—you haul’ signs on the side of the road. Alas there’s no sign and the hens seem quite happy in their current location. Mr. Big and Mr. Small look at the hens and then back at me. It’s settled then, they need some new friends and I really want some chickens and better yet, fresh eggs everyday.  So I emailed my sister—a wanna-be farm girl.

“Get some chickens, it’s really fun to take care of them and they aren’t as stupid as everyone says.”

I’m nearly convinced and Tom is out of town. He’ll never even notice if I set up a sweet little coop in the side-yard—previously the puppies yard, but they wont’ mind. I hope they aren’t chicken killers like my sisters last dog. That wouldn’t be good. At the time my sister didn’t have chickens but her neighbor did and well, things didn’t go well from there.

Later that evening as Leslie and I gobbled down—dare I say it—chicken for dinner. I pondered the chicken idea. What would I do if my chickens didn’t like their home and worse yet, refused to lay eggs in protest? I would have to either give the chickens away and post my own sign;  ’free chickens’ or let them take their chances as raccoon bait I mean,  ’free range chickens.’

I’m still pondering, perhaps I’ll wait until chickens are in-season or at least until I can find a darling shack.

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Humorist Shawn Underwood much fodder for her writings.

All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.

Or something like that.

And have you bought her new book “Mommy Are We French Yet?” yet? Buy it here.

Read more of her humor at her website here.

Something strange has been happening in the hood. Tom and I were driving home from a friend’s home the other night when I noticed a raccoon crossing the road.

‘Watch out for that raccoon Tom.’

‘How many points will you give me if I hit him? Thump thump. Ha ha’

This is Tom’s idea of a joke, he simply changes the name of whatever, whoever is in the road. Old lady (2 points) squirrel (1 point) cat (5 points) you get the picture.

“What the heck? Why is that stupid raccoon just sitting in the road? Oh my Gawd, now look at him. He is standing on his hind legs with his paws outstretched!! Its like he’s begging for food. Don’t animals know their place on this planet? Raccoons are only one step up from rat on my vile creatures list.”

Of course, Tom also witnesses the begging raccoon, but I feel the need to narrate the scene—just like I do a movies. He hates that. (Two points for me.)

The wily creature gets no love from us and moves on to better site—perhaps someone’s back porch to scavenge some dog or cat food, which reminds me to close the garden gates because Mr. Big and Mr. Small’s pet door is a disaster waiting to happen. And for your information—a nice shot to the face with a garden hose is an excellent deterrent for raccoons. The following day we witnessed an even stranger sight.

Hoof prints on the beach of Three Tree Point. Clever observational skills (and a horse trailer parked by the beach access) allow me to deduce that the prints were indeed made by horses, though the number of horses galloping along the beach left me flummoxed. A barny-horsey smell wafted through the air and Mr. Small let out a series of annoying chimp-like yaps as he tugged madly on his leash. As we rounded the corner, we came upon three horses—large, medium and very small in correspondence with the riders. We caught up with them and of course, I had to ask.

“Nice day for a walk on the beach.” (Good opening line I thought, not too intrusive, but definitely begging for an answer.)

“We have the last farm in Seattle, these are our horses.” Said the rider on the smallest horse.

“You don’t say.”

Break in conversation as middle horse gets a bee in his bonnet and bucks his surprised rider into the drink.

“We were just written up in the paper, our taxes rose 830% on our farm.”

Astonished tones and commiserating grumbles on my part about ‘the man’ and ‘stick it to the man’. A useful phrase when talking about taxes, cable guys and the telephone company.

The trio moves on as Mr. Small continues to yip and tug on his leash.

And finally, a few months back, several more hoofed friends made an appearance. Did you know there is such a business as ‘goat trimmers’? For a fee, you can hire a goat or several goats to eat any overgrown patch you’ve avoided mowing.

That’s it from Old McDonalds Farm, I mean Three Tree Point.

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Humorist Shawn Underwood much fodder for her writings.

All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.

Or something like that.

And have you bought her new book “Mommy Are We French Yet?” yet? Buy it here.

Read more of her humor at her website here.

While working on a humorous story the other night I received a text:

Lori: “ru walking the c2c tomorrow” (In text speak=”Are you walking the Cove to Clover race tomorrow?”)

Me: “Forgot all about it. What time?” (Notice my perfect punctuation, unlike my friend’s…)

I won’t bore you with the details of the 22 text messages discussing the C2C race. Why we didn’t just call each other is beyond me, because I’m really super slow at texting. I can just imagine Lori looking at her cell phone impatiently and wondering about the ten minutes between each text.

Here I am getting "treated" by Mr. Handsome EMT.

Next order of business—my Cove to Clover race day attire. Something green, comfortable, and zany, because since I certainly won’t be fast, I may as well be fun.

Tom, my husband and our chauffeur dropped us off near the top of Snake Hill. Mr. Big and Mr. Small (sporting their green scarves) yapped and marked everything in sight and checked several ‘pee-mails’ for good measure. Neither of us wanted to fight the crowds (or walk down, then up Snake Hill) so we started walking and talking. Less than 50 feet into our walk (we’re in the enviable position of first place because the race hasn’t actually started), and I notice my hand is bleeding. I’m not kidding. Fortunately the medic truck is right in front of us. Lori watches as Mr. Big and Mr. Small take advantage of the situation and tangle their leashes. Perhaps Lori will fall over the tangled leashes and scrape her knee. She is looking rather envious of all the attention I am receiving from Mr. Handsome—the medic.

Another 50 feet puts us in front of the first drink stop. Naturally, we’re their first customers because the real runners have yet to make it up Snake Hill. At this point my dear friend is becoming rather exasperated with my slow pace, although I assure her I’m just getting into my rhythm. We’ve just reached a perfect walking synchronicity when shouts alert us to the first runner.

And then he’s gone. We barely had time to dash to the side of the road before he breezed past us. I must say his outfit was rather brief but then maybe real runners actually need to dress light in order to run faster. I wouldn’t know but I’m pretty sure my yellow and green lady bug top would hamper my running ability. And need I say—it was so hard to focus on the task at hand—walking, when there were distractions everywhere.

Young folk, old folk, stroller baby folk, big dogs, small dogs, costumed dogs, you name it, they were all there. All 950 of them, running for a charitable cause. Last year it rained costumed cats and dogs and the run was still a huge success.

Burien has come a long way in the 20 years that I’ve lived here. You can call it Beercan or B-Town. I call it home.

EDITOR’S NOTE: We’d like to extend a hearty “cngrts” (Text Speak for “Congratulations”) to Shawn, who will be releasing her first book this spring, called “Mommy Are we French Yet?“

We’ll be posting more on this exciting news, but for now here’s a blurb on it:

If you have ever wondered what it would be like to live in another country for a year with your children, in Mommy, Are We French Yet? you will discover that it is not an insurmountable task.  But it’s made doubly rewarding when the day-to-day chores and challenges are approached with humor. Shawn Underwood moved her family, her husband and three kids along with her sister’s family, to the south of France to experience the joys and frustrations of living abroad first hand.

Whether running headlong into the language barrier, where faux pas are a given and the best way to communicate is with a smile or just trying to shop at the local market, keeping a sense of humor is the key to overseas success!  As she and her extended family travel in France and throughout Europe and Egypt among other countries, they learned that being a good ambassador for your country is worth its weight in gold.  Don’t ever be afraid to ask questions!

Come along with Shawn and her family as they learn to embrace the local culture, even if it means eating pig intestines or trying to cook turkey American style.  Whatever happens, the chocolate is sublime in any language!

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Humorist Shawn Underwood much fodder for her writings.

All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.

Or something like that.

Read more of her humor at her website here.

Yes, it’s rainy.

Yes, the wind is howling and the 2010 Olympic flame is blowing sideways, leaving my umbrella to resemble a closed tulip, but the enthusiasm for the Olympic games is infectious.

The minute we stepped off the Skytrain we are greeted with a chorus of  welcomes.

“Good morning!” said one Mapleleaf-clad young woman.

“Good morning!!” said another.

“Good morning!!!” said a third.

Oh my gosh, I’ve got to move to this friendly city – I’ve already got three friends in less than one minute. Just think, by the time I get to my hotel, let’s say ten minutes or so – I’ll have 30 new friends. I did notice a lot of my new ‘friends’ were wearing bright green coats and badges.

Hmmm…

At our centrally-located hotel, Rosedale on Robson in Vancouver BC, the staff personnel practically fall over each other with their welcomes. I love this place. I can’t wait to tell my old college friend, Deb, how much I love her country. Deb moved here 20+ years ago and never left. She probably has loads of friends.

Translated, this First Peoples symbol means "Good Morning!"

The phone rings five minutes after we settle into our room.

“I’m downstairs,” said my old friend (what, no “Good morning!”? So much for a friendly country…).

I quickly put on some lipstick and run downstairs.

“Damn girl, you look the same as you did in college!” I said.

Waiting, waiting, waiting for similar reply. Guess I’m not looking as fresh as I thought. Oh well, things could be worse.

“Deb, everyone here is soooo dang friendly.”

“Oh yeah, we’ve been barraged with public announcements before the Olympics – stuff like, ‘remember you are a representative of Canada, go out of your way to be friendly.’”

I’m rather deflated by this statement. Maybe I don’t have quite so many friends as I imagined. Maybe they are paid to be nice!

“What about all the people in green jackets?” I ask.

“Oh, those are volunteers, they don’t get paid unless their empolyers pay for their time off to help with the Olympics,” she said as we walked towards the waterfront to see our first ever ‘live in person’ Olympic flame.

Nate Holland

Sunday–we hope to be first in line at The Bay department store–the only place in Vancouver which sells Olympic souvenirs. The line was three blocks long today. I don’t want the popular mapleleaf mittens that bad.

Monday–Off to Cypress to watch Tom’s relative, Nate Holland, a “five-pete” X Games champion.

Hopefully I’ll be wearing my new souvenir mapleleaf mittens – you know, the kind that make you smile and say “GOOD MORNING!!!!”?

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Humorist Shawn Underwood much fodder for her writings.

All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.

Or something like that.

Read more of her humor at her website here.

Word travels fast here in B-Town.

I was just gathering my courage to call my dentist to make an appointment for a tooth scrubbing when Margi, the receptionist at Dr. Abolofia’s office phoned me—for the third time.

“Shawn, so glad I finally caught you at home, how are you? Have you heard of ‘Eat Local’? I bought the Chicken Pot Pie, and it was to die for! By the way, you are way overdue for your six-month check up!” She said all of this in pretty much one breath.

“Yeah, I have been meaning to go there, isn’t it right next to the bike shop?” I said.

Maybe if I kept the conversation away from overdue appointments she would forget why she called . .  . It could happen. But it didn’t. However, I did visit ‘Eat Local.’

The first thing I noticed when I walked in the door was the Thundering Hooves sign on the wall. That sign alone gave me the feeling that a cow could be grazing out back. The store feels homey and it should because everything is prepared right on site. There are a wide variety of choices from, appetizers, entrees, sides, desserts and wine. A fair amount of the hand-made entrees were packaged in reusable glass containers, which can be bought and returned through deposit as you would a milk bottle.

Greg Conner, Eat Local owner and extremely affable fellow took me on a tour of the store. All of the ready-to-serve items are produced from ingredients procured locally from nearby farms that specialize in organic produce. I was amazed to find such specialties as Pork Cassoulet, made with pork, beans and sausage and then slow cooked in a wine sauce. I haven’t eaten cassoulet since I lived in France seven years ago. Thundering Hooves beef and poultry is pasture raised and hormone-free. I wonder if the cows and chickens are having menopausal issues—being hormone-free and all.

Speaking of local—Greg’s a homeboy. He grew up in B-Town and attended Kennedy High School. He opened his first Eat Local store in Queen Anne and is excited to be back in his hometown, and frankly I for one am very glad to have a place to pick up a quick ‘made from scratch’ meal for my peeps. I was just contemplating another cooking strike—just for the heck of it.

So, give yourself a break and visit the friendly folk at ‘Eat Local.’ It’s not to be missed.

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Humorist Shawn Underwood much fodder for her writings.

All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.

Or something like that.

Read more of her humor at her website here.

I’m a procrastinator.

I won’t ask for a show of hands from people who have the same problem because, well first of all I can’t see your hands because I’m here in my son’s room—recently converted to an office until said son returns from college and all Hell breaks loose, because I’m using his room.

As I was saying before I started going off track with the converted office bit—I have no doubt there would be a sea of procrastinating hands, too numerous to count.

For instance, who has yet to take down their Halloween decorations?

Today as I drove around the neighborhood (putting off writing yet another revision for my editor of a ‘grabber’ beginning for my book), I noticed numerous pumpkins with barely recognizable faces, long overdue for the yard recycle or where ever dead pumpkins go after the holidays. Strings of orange Halloween twinkle lights festooned some trees and even some Jack o’ Lantern pumpkin lights still dangled on a charming white fence.

Some people still have Halloween decorations up, including these jack-o-lantern lights spotted on a Burien picket fence. You know who you are!

You know who you are!

A picture says a thousand words but my daughter, Leslie said. “Mom, I don’t think everyone else thinks leftover Halloween displays are as funny as you do. I don’t think you should take a picture. What if something happened in the family and they haven’t had time to take down the displays or what if they are on vacation?” Her list went on and on until even I felt guilty for my paparazzi-like behavior. So no pics but like I said—you know who you are!

It’s possible orange twinkly lights can linger through Thanksgiving but the pumpkin lights have got to go—pronto. Now I’ve got to go trash my own pumpkins which still sit on my porch, and then of course there’s the scarecrows . . .

On a final note. I can’t resist a cupcake. Have a look:

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Humorist Shawn Underwood much fodder for her writings.

All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.

Or something like that.

Read more of her humor at her website here.

I know I have written about swim meets previously, but the swim meet parents provide such incredible fodder that I simply cannot pass up this opportunity.

After my friends and I suffered through a very loooong swim meet at Normandy Park, our friendly announcer said we were in for a treat. What? It’s almost 10pm, and I’m about to turn into a frosty pumpkin. Swim meets really take it out of me.

The parents from Gregory Seahurst pool and the parents from the Normandy Park pool actually want to have their own college-daze swim relay. I simply can’t believe that any grownup with a lick of common sense would want to squeeze into a skin-tight Speedo, and jump into a barely-tepid pool. A humiliating event to be sure. Well, for me it would be mortifying, maybe not for these studly parents.

Men and women dashed about looking for swimsuits and goggles from the older kids. Believe it or not, a total of six relay teams quickly assembled. Twenty-four adults dawned tight-fitting swimsuits and just as quickly wrapped towels about themselves. As I watched a few floundering adults, I mentally prepared myself for a possible water rescue. The stroke and turn judge from Gregory Seahurst and his wife said they were actually looking forward to the race. So much so that, “the judge” squeezed into my sons size 28 speed suit. I am not kidding. The judge is a fit man, but my son’s suit is stinkin’ small!

As the teams begin to line up, the announcer from the other pool blusters through the microphone. “Wait, hold on, we have a ringer in lane three.” I guess he doesn’t abide by the rule we always tell our young children. “No one’s keeping score Kipper, the race is just for fun.”

While this is not a photo from the impromptu "swim meet," it is not dissimilar to what may have happened.

BANG— the starter gun begins the race. The belly flops commenced, along with some expert dives. The sides of the pool can’t hold the immense overflow created from the tidal wave of dives. We are witness to a water-follies of sorts, and by far the best physical humor ever. I’m just glad it wasn’t me in the pool.

Tonight there are some story-worthy swimmers. One fellow in particular appears to be in need of rescue. He has that peculiar style I’ve observed with beginner swimmers. Stroke, glub, stroke, cough, stroke. He holds his head above the water as he makes a valiant effort at the freestyle stroke — and then he tried to do a flip turn. In my opinion, flip turns require acrobat-like skill. Claps for him. His flip turn looks very similar to mine — the body in a crooked position with legs kicking water all over the place. Sort of like an upside down fountain. My friend Susie, can’t contain her laughter, I myself am simply speechless. This swim-challenged participant is remarkable, and such a good sport. He was the “anchor” for his team — in hindsight, perhaps not a suitable position for his abilitites. I really feel for him, that could be me, if I were brave enough to participate and if the side-stroke was an option.

What ever happened to the old swim style of the “side-stroke?” Now that was a winner stroke. Effortless, you could keep your face out of the water as your legs preformed the scissor kick practically on their own.

Ahhhh, the good old days.

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Humorist Shawn Underwood much fodder for her writings.

All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.

Or something like that.

Read more of her humor at her website here.

So, Leslie and I were walking on the beach in front of our house yesterday and a little black and white Jack Russell Terrier playfully ran between Mr. Big and Mr. Small.

“Look at that dog Leslie, isn’t he cute?”

“Mom, that reminds me, my birthday is coming up and wellll—I really want another dog,” she spat out in rapid teenager fashion. I studiously ignored my youngest child as I watched the Terrier.

The walk posed the usual trials—Mr. Big ran into the neighbors yard as he investigated whatever it is that dogs dig for, while Mr. Small hunted for rats in the bulkhead. The usual fare.

After we corralled our ill-mannered pups, we hiked back up the hill escorted by the Terrier. He was still cute.

Once our little family was inside, the determined little fellow scratched and scratched and scratched at the front door.

“Oh God, Leslie, look at him, we have to do something.” “Mom, let him in, he’s a nice doggy.”

This is Zorro, who apparently has been in Teatro Zinzanni.

No one in the neighborhood recognized him, however all the neighbors doted on him and called him “Good dog.” He wagged his tail and looked very pleased with himself. What dog wouldn’t?

So, we drove to Five Corner Veterinary Clinic to have him checked for a chip. He had one. Thank goodness – someone loved him and was obviously missing him. The chip was registered at a hospital and the hospital was closed. Of course.

Five Corner Veterinary convinced me that the small Terrier would be well taken care of at the Animal Shelter.

“He won’t go to the big fire-hydrant in the sky will he?” I asked in a nervous tone. “No, no, we will call you as soon as he’s comfortably settled,” said Steve, the South King County Shelter guy who happened to be at the clinic. So we assured the little Terrier that we would check on him tomorrow and if no one claimed him, well he could come live with Mr. Big and Mr. Small. He was certainly much better mannered than Mr. Big or Mr. Small. He wagged his tail happily from the front seat of Steve’s patrol car and licked the window.

At home, Leslie posted a note on the Threetreepoint Yahoo Group website with a fetching picture of Zorro. The phone rang less than 30 minutes later.

“So, I think you have my dog Zorro,” said a very friendly voice, although it was rather difficult to hear him because of the child chatter in the background.

“Well, yes I did, but don’t worry, he’s ok,” I stammered. I told him where Zorro was and assured him of Zorro’s safety.

“Oh, not to worry, he escapes all the time.” “I’ll phone them right now.”

Ten minutes go by and my new friend calls again:

“I messed up the numbers, can you give them to me again.”

“How many kids do you have?” I said, assuming he couldn’t hear me the first time I gave him the numbers.

“Just two, ages one and three.”

“Do you need a babysitter?”

“What are you kidding me? This is simply fortuitous, yes I need a babysitter. Do you watch ‘America’s Got Talent’?” he said.

Huh, where was the segue?

“Uh, sometimes.”

“Well, my wife is on Tuesday night, 9pm, she is a 6’2” singer, you can’t miss her…be sure to watch!”

“Well ok, I will.”

After my new friend and Leslie worked out the babysitting days, Leslie and rehashed the tale of Zorro.

1. Find friendly dog.
2. Post finding on Threetreepoint yahoo site.
3. Receive phone call immediately.
4. Leslie gets babysitting job.
5. Find we have a local celebrity.

In conclusion—watch “America’s Got Talent” on Tuesday night Aug. 4th and see our 6’2” singing neighbor, and the next time anyone finds Zorro, just say “Go home Zorro.”

Even when he’s scratching on the door.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Despite being unable to confirm this 6'2" tall local singer's identity, we're 99% certain her name is Manuela Horn, an accomplished singer, model, actress and spokesperson (she's been in Teatro Zinzanni) who may now be residing in Burien (actually she may be sequestered in a hotel room in LA right now).

We did some digging, and found this video which showcases her talents in a rather unusual way:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Humorist Shawn Underwood much fodder for her writings.

All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.

Or something like that.

Read more of her humor at her website here.

I recently returned from The National Society of Newspaper Columnists Conference, which was held in Ventura, California.

My new writing group BFF, Karen Rinehart, award-winning humorist and author, cajoled me into attending and I have to say I enjoyed every minute—except for that one time I waited in a long line for a drink, ordered a delicious beverage only to find I had no money, but I digress.

I’d like to say that I hung with all of my contemporaries at the Crown Plaza Hotel, but reality bit when I met Jeff Zaslow from The Wall Street Journal and co-author of “The Last Lecture.” I mean really, I write the humor column for The B-Town Blog (not that there’s anything wrong with that) and I don’t recall winning any awards recently or for that matter have any other credentials that allowed me entrance to such an esteemed society. But times are hard and Karen said:

“It doesn’t matter, they need people to fill the conference room, all the newspapers are shutting down or going Chapter 11, you could be a graffiti tagger and they’d let you in.”

So I went.

What a treat, let me tell you about it.

I loved Bruce Cameron who created “8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter.” He’s a hoot and so generous with his vast knowledge. He wants me to write a screenplay about Mr. Big and Mr. Small (my two dogs.) He said so—honest.

“Anyone can write a screenplay, it’s easier than writing a book, you just have to have an interesting premise and a dynamite protagonist,” he said.

Heck, how easy would that be? Mr. Big and Mr. Small, also known as Gus and Jack, don’t even talk—unless you count the fabricated storylines that my husband Tom comes up with.

Jeff Zaslow, the Wall Street Columnist that I mentioned earlier is my other new BFF. He doesn’t know it yet but we are gonna be tight. I could tell he liked me after I questioned him about his writing methods. I’m not sure why he walked away so quickly after I gave him my pitch—he’s very important and most likely had another appointment.

Steve Lopez, one of the keynote speakers brought tears to my eyes when he discussed the plight of the homeless. His columns featuring the homeless violinist, Nathaniel Ayers morphed into a book, and then the movie, “The Soloist.” I could go on about my “contemporaries” and such, however I don’t want any of my readers to get the idea that I’m bragging—as if!

Maybe some of the creative magic will rub off on me—I don’t know. I’m seriously contemplating the “Mr. Big and Mr. Small” screenplay. I just can’t decide who should play the lead. Mr. Big does a mean imitation of beggar-dog at least I think he’s playing a part when he sits at my feet each night as I wolf down dinner. And Mr. Small—well he’s just so stinkin’ cute and smart. For years, I’ve blamed Mr. Big for the pee stains on the family room carpet. Last week I caught Mr. Small doing the deed with a guilty look on his face. Smart—like a fox, he could certainly memorize a few different dialogue barks. Lassie has nothing on him. Heck, he should have attended the conference (Mr. Small that is, not Lassie.)

That’s all for now from your humble roving humor reporter for The B-Town Blog.

I’ve got to get to my screenplay.

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Humorist Shawn Underwood much fodder for her writings.

All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.

Or something like that.

Read more of her humor at her website here.

Last Thursday I was perusing the Burien Farmers Market (open from 11am to 6pm) when I ran into my favorite flower vendor. They happily met me with kind smiles and inquired, “What you like today?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know, I like all flowers. Can you make me a bouquet of the yellow Lupine and the white daisies?”

“You don’t like these already made up?”

“Yes, but I like those in the back better.”

“Ok, no problem, she make you a big bouquet,” said the smiling fellow.”

I certainly hoped they remembered me, or they would just think I was a persnickety customer—you know the type—the sort of person who carries floss in their pocket. Tooth floss that is.

“Can I take your picture for the B-Town Blog?” I asked with what I thought was a winning smile. Hopefully that spinach quiche I had at 909 Coffee and Wine wasn’t residing between my two front teeth. Not a good look.

“Oh no, we too old and shy,” said the smiling apple-faced woman. Her partner readily agreed with her as I took a people-less picture of flowers. As I walked away, my friend Trixie greeted me.

“What are you up to now?” she said with a knowing look.

“I wanted to take a picture of my favorite vendors and they declined because they are old and shy.”

“And dirty!” shouted the old, shy women. “You come back next time and I have on clean apron, then I ready for picture.” I swear she started preening as she barked her remark across the aisle.

“It’s a deal, see you next Thursday,” I bellowed back at her.

As I wandered from the market up the street, I ran into two city workers. Finally, the dead light pole was being restored.

“Hey guys, you two look pretty busy, is this an all-day job or what?” I jokingly said to them.

They both paused in their labors and took a much-needed break while I told them about a story I wrote about the dead light post.

“Really?” says the overly eager repairman. “Do you want to take my picture? Do you think I should have my tool belt off or on? Can you get a shot of my face from that angle? It should probably be an action shot, don’t you think? Maybe I’ll be famous.”

He jokes; at least I hope it was a joke.

After his “candid action shot” I asked him why there were always four or five workers standing around a man hole and shooting the breeze as one guy threw dirt out the hole.

“Well, one of the guys was probably holding an extra shovel,” he said with a hint of a grin.

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Humorist Shawn Underwood much fodder for her writings.

All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.

Or something like that.

Read more of her humor at her website here.