by Shawn Underwood

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.

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.

by Shawn Underwood

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.

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.

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.

by Shawn Underwood

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.

by Shawn Underwood

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.

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.

by Shawn Underwood

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.”

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.

by Shawn Underwood

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.”

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:

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.

by Shawn Underwood

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.

by Shawn Underwood

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.

by Shawn Underwood

As my readers can see from the headline above—PUMPKIN HEAD, also known as Jack, was indeed rescued from a nearby ravine. As I’m sure you all recall, Jack mysteriously disappeared in early April.

All For Free, my trusty assistant and my keen-eyed daughter, Lexi made up the search party. Our first clue to P.H.’s whereabouts came from All For Free.

I overlooked the fact that she was wearing her red and white snowflake pajama bottoms as she prepared to join the search party. She reported that earlier in the year, some prankster had stolen a neighbors park bench and thrown it into the hungry ravine.

Underwood-Undercover was not aware of the previous malicious incident and thanked her snowflake-bottomed friend profusely.

We had an offer of help from another Jack, who is PUMPKIN-HEAD’S neighbor, but we managed to scale the ravine on our own. Yours truly suffered multiple scratches from the biting bushes but it was worth the effort.

Rescue team of All For Free, Underwood-Undercover and an injured P.H., who is now resting comfortably on his old bench.

His landlord, Ian performed the surgeries necessary to repair Jack, who now sits where he belongs:

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.

by Shawn Underwood

While perusing the shops of B-Town the other day, I stumbled across a light-post lying across the sidewalk.

Hold on, what’s this and why isn’t it standing up like the other light posts?

I looked around for crushed and damaged cars, or heaven forbid, people, anything that the heavy light post could have destroyed when it fell down. I see nothing that gives me an indication of what happened, and I wasn’t able to offer my assistance in first aid or use the “Kiss of Life”. I guess I was too late.

DEAD LIGHTPOLE MYSTERY SOLVED
What kind of kamakazi driver would mow the light post down? Hmmm. I wondered about this when I entered, Cucina, the local kitchen store. Perhaps they will be able to shed some light on the downed post. They know me well and inquire after my dogs, Mr. Big and Mr. Small. After a rousing doggy discussion we move on the important topic at hand. What do I want to buy? Now completely distracted, I spy a garlic press. Pleased with my purchase and nearly ready to leave the store, I suddenly remember the purpose of my visit.

“What happened to the dead light-post taking up most of the sidewalk?”

Ever the diplomat, the store employee says, “I don’t think I was here that day.”

“Well, what day did it happen?” I said.

“I don’t recall.” Further questioning turns up no solid leads.

“No worries, I’ll see you later.”

Underwood/Undercover always gets her story. I have a snitch that I rely on when my interviewing skills defeat me. I’m not sure he’ll be around; it’s a bit late for him, but I decide to drive by anyway.

Sure enough “PUMPKIN-HEAD” is sitting in his old hangout, a well weathered bench with a view of passing traffic.

“Hey PUMPKIN-HEAD, how are you doing? Did you enjoy the festivities on the 31st?”

“You feel neglected and are tired of wearing the same old thing?”

AN UNLIKELY SNITCH
“Well, why don’t you ask the guy with the long ears for a change of clothes? I think he visits around Easter.”

“He may even give you some candy egss, but I wanted to talk to you about a serious subject.”

“There’s been a “hit” on one of your friends in B-Town.” The new light-post has been taken out. Do you know anything about this? I mean who would do such a thing? Leaving a brand new post laying dead in the road like that, it’s not right.”

“Ask Jack?”

“Jack who?”

“Jack in the Box.” Says PUMPKIN-HEAD.

“Do you think Jack is responsible for the light-post fatality?”

PUMPKIN-HEAD shows me the article he retrieved from the internet, which reads as follows:

After languishing for weeks in a hospital bed following a nearly fatal run-in with a bus, Jack, the iconic founder and namesake of Jack in the Box(r) restaurants, emerged from his coma earlier this week and made his first public appearance today. http://www.chainleader.com/article/CA6641782.html?industryid=47553

“Thanks, PUMPKIN-HEAD, my readers will be relieved, we just can’t have this type of destruction in B-Town, and Jack is suffering the consequences of leaving his free standing restaurant.”

If you ask me, he is a bit uppity ever since he acquired a new log.

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.

by Shawn Underwood

Joe, my undercover Money Manager advises:

“The number one non-necessity item that people are cutting back on in these economic hard times is vacations.”

Sigh.

But hey, let’s look on the bright side…who needs a respite from the stress of the current gloom and doom financial forecast when real relief is right here in our own backyard?

At least once a week, I travel to France. Yes, you read that right – once a week, I go to the land of “mais, oui monsieur” right here in B-Town central. Nirvana waits at my local Key Bank Automated Teller Machine. And, no, I am not desperate enough for some vacation monies to rob the bank.

As I slip my well-used magnetically encoded bankcard into the “insta-poor” machine, the money dispenser reads: “What language do you speak?” Feeling somewhat daring and oh-so-continental I opt for French – not too much of a stretch since I have the cash machine buttons memorized.

A brief adrenaline rush jolts through my body as I read (more like look for familiar pictures or symbols) the Francoise language that appears on the screen. Confidence, self-esteem, and a jaunty aire suddenly posses me. I stand a bit taller and wish I were wearing something other than sweats – the Europeans don’t wander around in their son’s tattered cast-offs. I then wonder if Yummy Tummy malks berets that make your head seem slimmer…

Memories of fresh tantalizing mouth-watering baguettes taunt my senses. An impatient “ahem” escapes from the harried fellow behind me.

After my two-second day dream, I realize the machine is beeping at me, and the crisply dressed dromedary-shaped fellow glares at me. Taking my time to review my receipt from the kiosk computer with the touch pad screen (fancy foreign word for ATM), I saunter over to my cube on wheels. Camel guy is incensed with my dawdling; l’idiot obviously has no imagination!

Feeling confident from my imaginary trip to Nice, France, on the Cote D’Azur, I programmed the destination on my Blackbird navigation system in Francois: destination–ma maison naturellement.

“Tournez a`gauche dans un mille” emanates from the speaker of my Honda Element. Gauche? What a strange word for left, as I try to assimilate this into my singular language thinking, the uppity French lady (she sounds uppity, honest!) instructs me to turn around.

“Tournez autour.”

No please or thank you as I follow her directions. Just “Tournez autour.”

I turn off the navigation system and switch to the radio, hoping she will find another satellite to haunt.  After all, I do know my way home and she is just plain rude. Dory Monson on 710 AM is rudely interrupted after just a few minutes by “Madam Destination Explanation”:  “Tournez autour.”

In a few short minutes my magical French mystery tour turns into sour French milk, the hard crust of the baguette now just a stale memory. Mademoiselle Navigation will not be ignored until I arrive at my destination her way.

De chien!

I may as well have the direction-Nazi (spousal unit of course) as my co-pilot, because at least I can shout back at him, c’ept not in Deutsch.

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.

by Shawn Underwood

If I do say so myself…ahem, I am an unusually calm and cool driver.

Even in the calm and cool snowstorm we just survived.

Unforeseen curbs, sidewalks and even an errant jaywalker rarely cause me any distress.

However, this last week, I cannot contain myself any longer – Burien drivers (and you know who you are!) are summarily grounded when the snow falls!

RANT: DO NOT drive in the snow unless you know what the ‘H-E-Double-Toothpick’ you are doing!

Snow accumulation of one-inch or more constitutes a universal ”inept snow driver stay at home” grounding. This rule must be enforced by all police officers on patrol. I don’t care if you are having a much-needed coffee break in U.U. office at Starbucks, get out there and control the mayhem! Underwood-Undercover is willing to make a Citizen’s Arrest whenever her services are needed. No need for the errant driver to know that she officially deputized herself, like some arrogant female Barney Fife (a great role model if ever there was one).

RANT: A slick tire is a type of tire that has no tread pattern; these tires are used on RACECARS, not your Volvo! DO NOT attempt to drive in the sleet and slush with worthless wheels on your ancient Volvo, dude.

RANT: Under no circumstances can a weak driver with the dribbles back down (more like slide sideways) a giant hill to try again and “get a run at it.” Other competent, strong forces are trying to get up the hill.

RANT: Plan ahead you boofus, especially if Grandpa Joe is driving in geezer gear ahead of you. Use the horn man, and slip-slide your way around him. Oncoming traffic can be flashed off with multiple blinks of headlights. Again – it’s every (snow)man for himself.

RANT: Pedestrians – get the ‘H-E-Double-Toothpicks’ off the main road. Put on your freakin’ snow boots and walk (trudge) on the non-existent sidewalk. I know it’s hard going but it’s better than being run over by “Mr. Volvo Slick Tire.”

RANT: Do not stop in the middle of the already very narrow plowed main road to “help” a motorist stuck in the snow bank in the center of the road. For Gawd’s sake man, how are the other drivers supposed to: first of all stop, and second of all, get around you? Being an upstanding citizen does not negate using common sense!

Underwood-Undercover cannot think of any actual Raves with regards to driving in the snow; but sledding in the snow = plenty of raves.

RAVE: To U.U.’s daughter, who found an awesome steep driveway with plenty of trees to dodge (more exciting) and zero sledders competing for the steepest path. Way to go!

RANT: The very steep hill of Tuffie’s 1 and 2 (an aforementioned columnist’s favorite neighborhood dogs) is awesome for sledding, but dude! Where is the lookout on the bottom of the hill? U.U. has twice narrowly missed snow-blind boarders sliding right onto Maplewild.

As I look at my column now, I see that I have only one Rave.

Sad but true, but remember a Driver (especially a lame-o snow driver) is a “club with a wooden head.”

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.

by Shawn Underwood

The roads and lane dividers in the Burien intersections cannot get much worse.

Seriously, with all of the weaving required due to hastily applied road lines and dashes, we may as well be living in the Wild West, and revert to riding horses. Hayes Feed and Country Store, (formerly Kirk’s Feed Store) on SW 152nd, has enough hay to feed 100 starving mustangs – now all they need are hitchin’ posts in place of the parking stalls in the front.

The kindergarten chalk marks (lane lines) on SW 148th, and on the cross streets of First Ave. South and SW 160th require Mario Andretti-like driving skills.

More than once I have witnessed zombie-like drivers attempting to drive through an intersection, and then stop in the middle of it.

“Where in tarnation is my lane?” they say to themselves.

Once through the collision course intersection, take care not to run over the new constructed curb. The protrusion juts into the intersection, leaving the now thoroughly annoyed driver to either drive over the curb, or simply veer into the adjacent lane. This leads to “near misses” and most certainly to angry fists waving out the window, sometimes accompanied by foul language not printable in Underwood/Undercover’s column.

I wonder if the operator of city “lane-painting” machine is an artist. I imagine the dreadlocked artist thinking to himself, “Hmmm, these straight lines are so boring, a curvy line is really much more pleasant to look at.”

I personally take a deep breath when I motor behind people who get confused by the bumper car lanes. Maybe they are not “locals,” and are unaware of the haphazard lanes in the intersections, or perhaps a “Burienite” is late to work and looking for the toothpaste/toothbrush stashed in their deli-wagon.

Maybe it’s a test by the powers-that-be in the city of Burien. If we can navigate crooked laned intersections without causing mayhem and destruction, then possibly they will budget more money for planting REAL flowers in the center partition of 148th Avenue.

At one time cherry-colored pansies adorned the long median of SW 148th. Then the flowers were gone, not wilted, just dug up in the middle of the night. Some joker put a fake palm tree or some such thing in the median to replace the rainbow colored flowers. Possibly a hint to the city to plant REAL flowers, giving the taxpayers something to look at as we wait for the police to clear the inevitable fender bender in the poorly-painted intersection of death.

So, I am all about improving our little known oasis fondly known as “ B-Town,” but let’s get our priorities (or at least the lanes) in the intersections straight.

Otherwise, I guess I should be looking for a good “used” horse that can walk a straight line!

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.

by Shawn Underwood

The other morning I awoke to the sounds of shouting and loud engines. Looking out the window, I noticed a plethora of boats in front of the house.

Hmmm, I guess the salmon are running, says I (which is weird, ‘cuz everyone knows salmon can’t run).

Later in the morning, as we walked the dogs along the beach (and yes, we were packing plenty of plastic poop bags thankyouverymuch), fisherman of all sizes and shapes were wading into the water with those rubber, thigh-high topper boots. They looked pretty serious (or at the very least wealthy) with their giant waders, pocketed vests full of fishing paraphernalia, and brightly colored sharp hook thingies hanging from their hats.

And of course, those $500 fishing rods.

Always looking for a story, I realized this was prime fodder for “Underwood/Undercover’s” column; action in the Three Tree Point neighborhood is usually newsworthy (and easy to cover since I can just walk to it).

After in-depth questioning from U.U., the wading fisherman told me that the annual Three Tree Point fishing derby was today. In fact, it was…right now! The fish “weigh in” was at high Noon on the corner of Three Tree Point. This really piqued my interest because I have not fished in some time and was itching to get out the old pole (rod in fish lingo) again.

Only a few things needed to be done to accomplish my goal:

1. A Fishing license needed to be procured post haste, as we just saw the Coast Guard speeding by. The fish cops were everywhere (I quickly checked my creel for a half-drunk can of Schmidt sport beer. Nope, all clear).
2. Find someone to row my boat – er, I mean fish with me and take notes.
3. Buy tackle at Big 5 Sporting Goods Store, however I had left the remainder of my cash on the table at 909 Coffee and Wine just this morning, so a trip to the cash machine was in order.
   
4. Wash “Ol’ Rusty” the trusty (but rusty) ol’ rowboat and drag it out of the weeds now growing over and into the boat.
5. Launch the boat (in other words, drag it down the hill and throw it over the bank.)

After I procured “the goods” from Big 5, I still needed to find someone to row the boat while I fished for “Walter” (code word for world’s biggest fish).

I found my lazy 18 year-old son in his usual spot – half asleep in front of the television. After much pleading on my part, he grunts something that sounded like: “maybe later.” But then again, I seem to have misplaced by Grunt-to-English Dictionary so I’m not really sure what the heck he said.

“Time is of the essence son, lets go, it will be a wonderful bonding experience!”

These words of encouragement fell on deaf ears. I think it was the utterance of the word “bonding” that sealed my doom.

Or the fact that I failed to translate my English to Grunt.

Seeing my curt dismissal from my son, my long-suffering husband then piped up and said he would be the “horse power” and row our 15-foot sturdy metal skiff (aka “Ol’ Rusty” which, come to think of it, isn’t so sturdy, and not so metallic anymore, and has probably rusted away some of its 15-foot length) while I fished.

After the usual bickering we launched the boat…well, sort of. Spouse rolled the rear-wheeled boat most of the way down the hill, and then pushed it over the bank. The loud crashing noise caused a nearby fisherman to look up, as if to say, “Not sporting old chap!” I noticed that his pipe fell out of his clenched teeth as he stared at us, mouth agape.

We caught a fish immediately with my pink florescent squid that I procured at Big 5. This marvelous little rubber-hooked-bouncer had always brought me good luck on my rare previous fishing forays. Our silver salmon was a good foot-and-a-half and put up quite a fight. We took a picture of the little fellow and let him go. Somehow I didn’t think my brave little fish would suffice for a “weigh in.” I couldn’t bear to keep him, and with my sketchy de-boning skills he would have been sushi by the time I finished with him.

My man-made horsepower rowed us around the point just in time for the weigh-in party. Little did we know that we were in for a treat. The great magician “Castro” (Who? Just in from Cuba perhaps??) performed a host of magic tricks, none of which involved rowing a rusty skiff or de-hooking an angry dogfish. However, the main event was the fish “weigh in,” and the prize awarded the biggest fish tale, I mean fish. The largest salmon weighed in at 17 pounds and had teeth to match. I spotted the usual assortment of dogfish and flounders but the salmon winner was a thing to behold.

And lo and behold – cna you guess which local neighborhood humor columnist won a prize?

Underwood/Undercover may have to take up a new hobby other than reporting the neighborhood happenings. I humbly accepted the “Best Sportsmanship” award, crediting my “man-made-horse-power” engine. Horsepower missed the award ceremonies, since he was just starting his long row back home in Ol’ Rusty, against the current (ha!).

As I walked home after the event, Horsepower loped up behind me. I proudly showed him our award and he held up his broken oar.

“I tied Ol’ Rusty up to a log on the beach,” he said.

The Three Tree Point Fishing Derby is held every year right before Labor Day, so come check it out. Wear your boots, and fish off the shore or procure a boat, hopefully with an engine.

It is my turn to row Ol’ Rusty next year, so I think we better start a few hours earlier.

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.

by Shawn Underwood

Underwood Undercover here, entering the information superhighway via my coffee hole on-ramp office.

I look around to see what usual suspects are at the office today…er, um…I mean the Starbucks in Normandy Park.

Not only can I get a fresh brewed cup to my liking, I can observe the daily dramas that unfold. Not that I am eavesdropping. It’s not considered eavesdropping when it’s “research material” for my “column.” At times, customers breaking obvious coffee etiquette distract me, and that’s when I pull out my secret weapon: “air quotes.” Only these are used “in print” so “look out”!

Is it okay to talk loudly into your cell phone head set while in Starbucks?

NO, not okay.

One nearby yet unaware individual engages in a conversation over a phone that needs no phone if his intended recipient were within a mile of the booming voice. The only redeeming value in this obnoxious neighbor is the contest to insert made up replies to fill in the “blanks.” A casual observer might think this “Dress For Success” (unsuccessfully) person’s cheese has slipped off her cracker.  And who or what does the blabber look at when they impart their vital news? It is a bit bizarre, talking on one’s phone while others stand by and listen to your conversation. No, this is a definite Starbucks foul. I don’t mind cell phones, as long as they don’t ring; buzzing is okay, and then take your business outside so other busy people such as myself are not privy to your conversation, unless it is good for my “column.”

Underwood Undercover has also observed a certain “Man Ministry” of sorts that takes place at least once a week at her coffee hole. Freshly-scrubbed men of varying ages hold hands, with heads bowed (although I did spot one bowing dude checking out a lycra-clad gym attendee once but perhaps that was a form of “prayer”). Quiet talking ensues (sometimes I think they’re really whispering about me, which they obviously are), and of course tons of coffee is consumed like it’s some sort of holy water. As far as I’m concerned they can have their meeting but I don’t see how they can concentrate on their prayers with all that caffeine coursing through their veins.

Of course who am I to talk – I’m supposed to be writing about happenings in town and here I am watching everyone in my “office.” Whoops, my phone just rang. Forgot the buzzer feature, and just broke my own cardinal rule.

Not only do the “Man Ministry,” and ringing cell phones distract me, but also something else diverts my attention outside today: there are no less than six policemen and three civilians standing outside my headquarters. I check them out closely. Are they about to join hands and pray to the coffee gods? Hmmm…perhaps this will be a good tidbit for my column. I recognize a few of the policeman as “regulars,” so now I can claim that I have my own private protection right here at my place of work, sort of like my own “Secret Service.”

After all, I am Underwood Undercover.

On Sunday, the dynamics change at Starbucks. People flock in for coffee after church. Rummy-eyed parents with soccer/baseball kids in tow rush in for a caffeine pick-me-way-the-heck-up, and large groups congregate (hey, it’s Sunday, congregations are expected!). Empty seats are difficult to find. One family in particular are big offenders of a very obvious rule: “No Squatters Allowed.” They gather most of the chairs around a few tables, thus leaving chair-less tables for the rest of us. This rude family has twenty people in it, and not only are they LOUD, but one of them breaks my DRESS CODE and wears pajama bottoms, posing as pants to my office.

GEEZ!

Then there is the Single Dad and his darling-though-rambunctious child. Said child is about three. Her Dad talks to someone he knows while the small savage runs up, down, and around the displays. I suppose her Dad might finally notice something’s amiss if one of the mugs on the display case crashed to the floor. Rather lazy parenting if you ask me. He has not asked me yet but if he does…Underwood Undercover has her doggy leash in the car, and she’s not afraid to use it.

On someone else’s brat.

So feel free to stop off at Underwood Undercover’s office anytime, especially if you have “newsworthy” information for my “column.”

However, you must follow these rules, or be prepared to suffer the wrath of a totally hyped up and wickedly wired Underwood Undercover:

1. Turn your cell phone to “buzz only.”
2. Wear appropriate attire, no pajamas please.
3. Leash your lively children.
4. Leave at least two chairs to a table.
5. Stop checking out the lycra-clad chicks whilst “praying.”
   

Have a nice day!

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.

by Shawn Underwood

I like dogs.

All kinds of dogs.

Except “biters” and those with foaming saliva on their molars.

The “biter” phenomenon is very evident in small yappers, the kind that yip and yap then bite and bite until the victim (usually me and my ankles) yaps, thus negating the “yapper phenomenon” via a double negative.

We have several “latchkey” dogs in our neighborhood as well. When I say “latchkey,” what I mean is that they don’t wear keys around their necks, then miraculously open the door to their home. No, when I say “latchkey” dog I mean the kind that just wanders around, latching onto anyone they deem latchable.

Two of my favorite latchkey dogs are called “Tuffy 1″ and “Tuffy 2.”

These two Westies are the spirited neighborhood mascots. They go everywhere together, paw in paw. I have spotted them chasing their Suburban-driving owner in a frantic attempt for a car ride. Of course, most dogs love car rides – who wouldn’t want to hang their head out the window with the wind blowing your ears back?

Tuffies 1 and 2 have been know to frequent “The Bean”, our local coffee shop, perhaps partaking in a “bow wow” so to speak with the other customers.

Another four-legged visitor to The Bean is a yellow lab. He trots about a mile up Maplewild hill for his biscuit and water. He is often seen with his boyfriend (not that there’s anything wrong with that…), who he picks up on his way to the coffee stand. His boyfriend is a friendly, fetching Irish setter.

Jason, the owner of The Bean, always stocks a good supply of doggy biscuits, so perhaps this is part of the doggy allure. Either that or maybe there’s a new frequent biscuit punch card thing going on.

I have not seen any cats in the coffee area but then this story is not about the neighborhood cats is it? So why do you ask?

The wandering latchkey canines also have latchkey human company at The Bean. A group of men from Maplewild meet there everyday, exactly at 9:15am and 3:15pm on the dot.

While the gentlemen yap, yap, yap, the dogs nap, nap, nap.

Sometimes it’s vice-versa, and other times it’s hard to tell whose who, or what’s what.

The two-legged species at The Bean are of an indeterminate age, meaning they are mostly retired but still full of beans, and I am not talking about coffee beans. I am not sure what they talk about twice a day. I wonder if the same subject comes up in the afternoon as was discussed in the morning.

“Hey Elmer, did I tell you about the thirty pound fish I caught in Alaska?”

“Yes, Rufus you did, but this morning at 9:15 the fish was 40 pounds, so which is it?”

They are a cantankerous and exclusive group; several times I have tried to horn in on the conversation, to no avail. This club is obviously exclusive to men and dogs, and I’m seriously considering filing a discrimination lawsuit (although I’ve been called the word used to describe a female dog before, I still feel excluded).

The dogs are also male; there may be something to this.

Maybe if I bring my male dogs, “Mr. Big” and “Mr. Small” to The Bean, the men will let me join in the fish tales.

I am sure they could use a fresh voice in their crowd.

Or not.

Yap.

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.

by Shawn Underwood

Each summer, I endure parental purgatory and attend my children’s Swim Meets at the Gregory Seahurst Swimming Pool right here in Burien.

Swim Meets tend to be long (3-4 hours) and SLOW.

Let me just say they are on par with another sport everyone loves to watch, called “Watching Paint Dry” (which is far superior to that other huge summer shit “Watching Grass Grow“).

This is Joseph’s final year of swimming, and I am a Timer at his Swim Meets – a proud part of the “old guard,” or parents with older children who usually end up with this envious task. The younger set of parents are willing to Time but cannot Time, as they have no Time to spare ‘cuz their small children are too busy sucking Time up by running from tent to tent, squealing and stealing candy and falling into the pool. Time and Time again (ba-dum-bum).

I know this as fact, as I used to find my youngest hiding out in someone else’s tent with wet diapers and a sticky face, surrounded by candy wrappers.

During the most recent Swim Meet, as I chatted with my fellow Slaves of the Stopwatch, the “Heli-Parents” were hard to miss. You know who I’m talking about – the Dad who runs along the soccer line, shouting instructions at his kid, or the Little League baseball parent who argues with the referee about a “bad” call.

Naturally, these competitive parents have all been put on restriction in their cars during upcoming games. With windows up.

At the Swim Meet tonight, several parents are unbelievably ill-behaved, worse in fact than their Time-sucking chitlins hiding in other people’s tents with wet diapers and sticky faces. One parent in particular comes to mind – she looks like your average Mom, and is sporting the uniform that all swim team Moms wear: baggy, wrinkled shorts, pizza-stained top, and sandals or thongs (these thongs are for her feet; perhaps the younger set wear the other type of thong – I don’t know). A swim team Mom or Dad is almost-always armed with a towel and camera around her/his neck.

I noticed this particular Mom because she has an unusually furrowed brow. I observe her just as her child’s race starts.  I nearly miss setting my own Stopwatch for our lane, but luckily my ever-watchful husband shouted at me “to get in the game.”  The Heli-Parent from Hell runs alongside the pool, knocking all in her path out of the way; thank God she didn’t knock anyone into the pool.  She has a very strident voice and hollers in a “Tarzan-like” call during her sprint along the length of the pool.  Just as quickly, as she runs back down to the other side of the pool where the race ends, she nearly knocks me down with her sweat-drenched body. I give her a very bad look, after all I am an official Timer, I’ve got a Stopwatch and I’m not afraid to use it, thus I am allowed to do such things. I secretly think about adding a few seconds to her kid’s freestyle Time but that would be unkind.

But at least now I know why her brow seems so dang furrowed.

Mrs. Heli from Hell anxiously waits at the finish line for her child to touch the wall, and  erupts with screams of anguish when her child comes in second. Apparently, second place is not acceptable. My ears hurt and her camera is slapping me on the back. Her nostrils flair and she unconsciously jogs in place while flailing her arms about her head. At some point during her hectic display, she throws her little boy his towel. It is a very disturbing sight to say the least.

The next event begins but old flared-nostrils furrowed-brow Heli Mom from Hell is still lamenting about her son’s second place finish from the last event. Fortunately, the little fellow is happily standing in line at the candy shack. Nostril Heli Mom from Hell makes exaggerated swimming motions with her arms as if to say “This is the correct method for the freestyle you sugar addict!”

It is not a good look for her.

Her audience starts to discreetly back away, and of course she doesn’t notice, ‘cuz she’s now too busy demonstrating the breaststroke. During this exhibition, she nearly knocks her own teeth out with her camera, which is still around her neck. Her nostrils flare even more (if that is possible) and spittle is spewing from her mouth. It’s now hard to discern whether the moisture on the floor is from the swimming pool or from her frothing mouth. She now has no adult audience, but small children find her a fascinating sideshow, which should give the unfortunate woman some sort of clue.

Meanwhile back at the blocks, Mr. Hubby and I still Time, although I am still very distracted by Flared Nostril Heli Mom from Hell. A rather dorky child, who insists on standing directly in front of Mr. Hubby, is pestering us. We cannot see the current swimmer and communicate this to the boy dork. The Dork Boy responds; “do you know that I can fix anything?” He remains blocking our view. Mr. Hubby replies that he will “fix” Dork Boys race time if he will just move away from the blocks so that we can see. Fortunately, for Mr. Hubby, he has one deaf ear, so he cannot quite hear all of Dork Boy’s inane comments.

In addition to Dork Boy, there is a cluster of small swimmers (speedy sixers) who jump in circles and hold themselves; we expect an “accident” at any moment.

Then there is the “stroke and turn” official.

He/she is in charge of watching for mistakes in a child’s swim stroke, generally, the official swoops down like a vulture on some poor unwary child. The small swimmer sports a big grin after finishing second to last. The vulture kindly grips the unsuspecting kid and demonstrates the correct stroke for the child’s benefit. The judge does not disqualify the swimmer, but the little swimmer is definitely terrified – you see, this is just a friendly reminder.

I really do not think it is necessary to speak to the sixers about their strokes, as they simply want to get out the pool and pee.

Perhaps just a small trickle on the shoe of the swim meet official, who might think:

“Hey, is that water from the pool, sweat from the Heli Mom from Hell, or…???”

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.

by Shawn Underwood

The month of May is over and as usual, we remain sunless in Seattle. We had one sunny day on the third Saturday in May but I was out of town. Of course, no place on earth equals a sunny warm day in Seattle…well, at least not a location that I have been to.

And last weekend – it snowed.  Yes – SNOWED!

On Sunday, my husband and I awoke just in time to attend our church of choice – Saint Starbucks Of Normandy Park.

A long time ago my daughter tried to convert us to her church, one of those strange ones with one of those weird pointy thingys on top (she once told me that it’s called a “steeple” but that word just doesn’t sound right), but the coffee at the church with the “steeple” (what a weird word…try saying it over and over and over again and you’ll get it) was…well frankly, it was bad.

So we continued to pray over the New York Times Sunday edition at St. Starbucks while she prayed at the church with the “steeple” (see what I mean?!) concurrently.

After we entered the St. Starbuck’s parking lot, a sinking feeling permeated my gut like a cup of stale Folger’s from 1964. Cars were parked on the sidewalk; there were lines out the door, and our favorite chairs were occupied. I realized that even the tried-and-true technique of the “hover and look pathetic” (which I had long-since perfected) was not going to work.

Disappointed but resilient, we drove to the second St. Starbucks; this was better anyway, as there was a fireplace and it was freakin’ snowing outside. After parking the car far away and running through the blizzard, frustration reigned supreme – this place of caffeine worship was bursting at the seams, there was “no room at the inn” or something like that that they sometimes say in those places with the “steeples” (now it’s starting to look weird as well as sound weird!).  I saw that my husband was ready to give up the ghost. However, I was made of made of sterner stuff and of course it didn’t hurt that I also was beginning to acquire the dreaded caffeine headache.

Putting on our chains (not really, but it was freakin’ snowing in mid May for God’s sake!) we slid our way to the third and final St. Starbucks in the Burien area. You guessed it, all seats occupied – no coffee for you, go home and make your own coffee for cryin’ out loud and quit with the hovering technique.

The double tall foam with extra saliva slather dripping from my mouth was not helping either.

On the way home we came up with a novel idea: let’s go to the locally-owned coffee shop 909 Coffee and Wine. We should have gone there in the first place – the coffee was a thousand times better and the waiters actually “serve you.”

However, I was there for breakfast the day before and I didn’t want them to think that I had nothing to do but drink coffee. As if…

We sat by the window and enjoyed the bad weather from a view seat while being served our coffee and hot pastry.

So when you encounter a blizzard in May, or some other weather anomaly, make a beeline for Coffee and Wine at the 909.  Trish, Natalie or Corey await with smiles and steaming coffee, complete with lovely artistic foam designs, none of which resemble a “steeple.”

Save the “hover and look pathetic” technique for St. Starbucks.

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.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Welcome our newest Columnist, local Burienite humorist Shawn Underwood! Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives Shawn much fodder for her writings. All of her stories are true, or at least have a grain of truth with no added embellishments.]

by Shawn Underwood

There is a neighborhood handy mart at the top of the hill, known to me as, “Fresh Ice”. When the new owners bought the store, they papered the windows with handmade signs, one of which read: “We have fresh ice”. What the heck! Fresh ice as opposed to stale ice? This was an ongoing argument between me and my husband. He said that of course ice can be old, I said, “Who cares? Ice is ice”.

My daughter, asked me to return a “broken” DVD. The children and their hordes of friends were all demanding dinner. Although the roads were treacherous and despite the ongoing snowstorm, I happily escaped the mad chaos at home and slipped and slid my way uphill to Fresh Ice. Let dinner burn…it usually did anyway, according to my spouse.

Han, the current owner of the store, manned the counter at “Fresh Ice”. Han and I “being old friends”, exchanged pleasantries. I said that his ice was always the freshest in town. He beamed and said something in response. I mentioned our problems with the DVD. Han did not reply as he was busy with other customers.  I noticed he was no longer in good spirits; maybe he had a cramp or something.  I found another movie and returned to the counter. Heavens, for the first time I could remember, Han was not smiling at me! I looked behind me; maybe someone else had committed an offense. Three people were behind me; no one looked happy as I was now holding up the line. Han said to me in a very crabby voice: “No movies for you”, or something to that effect. He also said that I needed to get a new DVD player before I could rent another DVD from him. This seemed rather extreme. I scrolled through my hazy memory banks; I tried to remember what possible previous offenses I could have committed. Perhaps one of my children stole some candy or was sassy to his wife. I was completely flummoxed. I sidled out of line and hoped he would forget about me.

As I left the line in shame, I warily moved back over to the DVD section and picked out a popular “used” as opposed to “new” DVD.  I caught Han’s steely eye again and asked if I could rent the long outdated DVD. The people in line looked at me with pity. Han grudgingly shouted at me that it was an old DVD and therefore suitable for me, the assumed wrecker of new movies. He added that the DVD was not really worth viewing. I hastily took my DVD to the counter where Han examined it, relented, and said that he would not charge me for the rental of this DVD.  Maybe he felt bad when he barked at me earlier. However, he requested that I not rent any further “new” DVD’s. I was a demolisher of DVD’s and did not value his property. The man behind me then attempted to tell Han that he had not examined the DVD properly for scratches. Apparently it was Han’s custom to examine all DVD’s before renting them in case he ran into people like me who made a habit of scratching things. The nice man showed Han how to look for scratches accurately. I felt relieved that the focus was off me and sprinted out the door.  I hastily shouted a farewell to my new friend, (nice man) and Han.

Back home, smoke was coming out of the oven. I recounted my misfortunes with formerly nice, “Fresh Ice” store proprietor, but my ungrateful family ignored me and asked why the dinner was taking so long to prepare. My wretched family felt that Han was justified in his curt dismissal of me, a loyal customer.  I called my friend Dorkus who listened patiently. She was not surprised that I received the boot from Han. She said she had been meaning to tell me that his actual name was KAN. Dorkus and I then argued about the store owner’s name for quite a while as the dinner continued to steam and smolder from the oven.  Good grief, my hearing seemed to be as bad as my husband’s!  I should shop elsewhere as I honestly don’t think I could face Kan after I called him Han for years. Why in world had he not told me his actual name?

One month later, we needed some milk for dinner. I told my son to run to “Fresh Ice” and pick up a gallon of milk. He smugly reminded me that he was “restricted”, and could not use the car. Darn! I had forgotten the punishment that I meted out when one of my offspring and his posse had a party at our house!  In a fit of fury, I drove up to “Fresh Ice” for the cursed milk. As I walked into the store, Kan happily greeted me; “Hello Dawn”. Apparently, we were friends again; I didn’t remind him that my name is; Shawn.

Twenty-five years of living in Burien gives 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.

Read more of her humor at her website here.