Shawn's friend Michelle successfully deciphers Sundance signage and finds the restaurants. Or is it the screening rooms?

by Shawn Underwood

Every time I run into Scott (slave driver) Schaefer he inquires after a ‘bit’ for The B-Town Blog—like I have nothing else to do. Note to self—do not post fun excursions with stupid pictures on Facebook. Scott will come calling…

Last week I was in Utah at the Sundance Film Festival. By happenstance Sundance coincided with a therapy trip for me. Seriously. I have lymphedema in my left leg and well, it’s a long story but if you are interested in medical stuff, you can follow up on my lymphedema blog. My surgery and follow up treatment are documented. But I digress.

My friend’s husband scored several premiere tickets for us. The one and only Sundance Kid made an appearance before the movie and can I just say, HANDSOME, HOT AND SUPER HOT!!! You get the picture, and oh yeah, he said something too but I was distracted. Go figure.

The first movie we ‘premiered’ in Park City, was suitably named; ‘The Queen of Versailles’. It detailed the rise and subsequent fall of the King of Time-Shares, Mr. Segal and wife, Jackie, a former over-exposed, Mrs. America. The documentary/reality show is a testament to waste and bad taste, with the opening scene documenting the construction of the ‘biggest house in America.’ It ended as a riches to rags story. Mr. Time –Share’s final line, ‘are we done here?’ Very telling. Theater gossip says Mr. Time-Share is suing Sundance and the movie producer for defamation. Coincidentally, this was also one of the first movies sold at Sundance, where none of the movies (for the first time in Sundance history) had distribution before being premiered. Mrs. Segal sat near the front of the theater. Her husband, very noticeably absent.

Luckily, the second show we had tickets for took place at the Sundance resort. Let me just say—LOVE what Bob’s done with the resort. No messing with the masses in order to board a shuttle bound for a high school posing as a movie theater. Sundance Resort houses the original ‘screening room’. We lined up for Monsieur Lazhar, a Canadian film that appears on the recently announced Oscar shortlist for foreign language films. The film has also been nominated for a Genie award—the Canadian Oscar. Based on the play Evelyne de la Cheneliere, Monsieur Lazhar walks unannounced into the principal’s office to apply for a recently vacated teachers position. He is unaware the teacher has committed suicide. The principal—nearly undone by the act of the well-liked teacher, hires him. Eventually we discover the Algerian immigrant, Mr. Lazhar is battling his personal demons yet he is able to move past this and bond with his students. There are moments of lightness in the film—a relief in an otherwise very emotional story. Well worth seeing, however we didn’t SEE anyone famous—that happened later in the evening during dinner.

Mr. Chris Rock attended Sundance to preview his new film, “2 Days in New York.” Chris and I split a steak and Caesar salad at a great steak house in Park City. Well sort of – I split a steak with my friend and Chris sat across from us. It’s like we shared a dinner together. Really.

So as I was saying, later in the evening at the Canyon Resort VIP big deal party I ran into, oh you know…Jason Ritter, Jesse Eisenberg (the Facebook dork dude), Hercules aka: Kevin Sorbo, Entertainment Tonight guy and Bare Naked Ladies lead singer guy (close second to Bob in HOT category). For some reason, I had a sudden attack of shyness and talked to ummm, nobody. Nobody famous anyway, but I got my groove on and learned a few new dance moves from the mostly twenty-something guests.

And finally, Mr. B-Town Blog (super famous) wants to know how Sundance Resort and Park City compare to B-town. Well we have the Tin Theater in Tin-sel town also know as Burien, the Hi-Liners put on a fine show, AND I hear Mr. B-Town Blog is starting his own radio station…

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.

BTB Humor Columnist (and published Author) Shawn Underwood is continuing her new assignment for the blog – creating a regular animation she calls “Mr. Big and Mr. Small.”

The two main characters are based on her own two dogs with the same names.

Here’s Shawn’s intro for it:

Mr. Big and Mr. Small have some peculiar habits, which strangely enough mimic their human counterparts. At times, Mr. Small has anxiety attacks over such innocuous items as a scrap of paper, a balloon, hats on heads, facial hair, and even his own reflection. He barks furiously and surreptitiously backs away from the anxiety-producing balloon or mustache.

Mr. Big on the other hand (or paw) is all about the food—in fact he only cares about his next meal. He also hovers over Mr. Small as he delicately picks puppy chow out of his dog bowl. Sometimes Mr. Small just stands over his bowl but doesn’t eat his food. This is torture for Mr. Big who is too much of a gentledog to eat his brothers food—at least while Mr. Small is watching.

And now, here’s episode #2 of ‘Mr. Big and Mr. Small,’ which focuses on Mr. Big’s new Rap Name:

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.

BTB Humor Columnist (and published Author) Shawn Underwood has been trying her hand at animation recently, and we’re proud to premiere her latest creation – a video she calls “Mr. Big and Mr. Small.”

The first video is of two talking dogs, discussing something they witnessed at a recent Burien Council meeting.

Yes, you read that last sentence correctly.

Here’s Shawn’s intro for it:

Introducing Mr. Big and Mr. Small

Kibble stand-off between Mr. Big and Mr. Small. There are about three kibbles left in the bowl.

Mr. Big and Mr. Small, also know as Gus and Jack, are two King Charles Cavalier Spaniels owned but not operated by Shawn Underwood, aka ‘Underwood-Undercover (a feature Columnist and sometimes Editor of The B-Town Blog) and not-famous-enough author of ‘Mommy are we French yet?’

Mr. Big and Mr. Small have some peculiar habits, which strangely enough mimic their human counterparts. At times, Mr. Small has anxiety attacks over such innocuous items as a scrap of paper, a balloon, hats on heads, facial hair, and even his own reflection. He barks furiously and surreptitiously backs away from the anxiety-producing balloon or mustache.

Mr. Big on the other hand (or paw) is all about the food—in fact he only cares about his next meal. He also hovers over Mr. Small as he delicately picks puppy chow out of his dog bowl. Sometimes Mr. Small just stands over his bowl but doesn’t eat his food. This is torture for Mr. Big who is too much of a gentledog to eat his brothers food—at least while Mr. Small is watching.

And now, heeeerreee’s the premiere episode of ‘Mr. Big and Mr. Small’::

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.

If ‘Snooki’ from the MTV show, Joizzzy Shore can write a book and ‘Da Situation’ can dance with the Stars, then we are in for a world of trouble. I mean I didn’t  mind looking at the ‘da sitch’ when he was doing his thang on the stars—provided he was flaunting the abs he’s so well know for. (Sadly my ab-fix is over because he was kicked off a few weeks ago.) But Snooki writing a book?

Snooki

Would you buy Snooki’s book?  I can’t imagine the Snookster as an author. But I’ll bet she could put together a fine kiddie-like picture-pop-up book—minus the prose. Of course it would have to be “R” rated but where to shelve such a book? Hmmmm . . . celebrities? No, that seems too classy, Biography? Princess Grace of Monaco would turn over in her grave.

Secretly, I really wanted an excuse to upload a Snooki photo. No one puts Snooki in a corner. And you can see why. That hair should have its own book. Girl, please. Back in the 60’s, I distinctly remember my mom sporting a ‘pouff’ as well as a menagerie of colored wigs. I liked her red hair best—curly, short and oh so sassy. My mom was one of those ‘cool moms’—sort of like me . . . but I digress. Back to all things Snooki.

I sure hope the Snookster is getting a cut of the multitude of Halloween costumes that are designed after her Guidettettness.

With a few simple props, you too can create your very own Guidette Snooki costume.

Things You’ll Need

• Long Black wig in a straight style
• pouff or black rolled up sock for poof-look
• Hair clips
• Teasing comb
• Spray-tan or self tanner
• Black eyeliner
• Black eyeshadow
• Nude lipstick (or any pale colored lipstick)
• Very short black dress
• Platform heels
• PEN  to autograph pop-up-picture book!!

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.

I don’t know about you, but when I have a day when pretty much everything goes wrong—I blame it on a ‘full moon’. And I’m not talking about ‘pants on the ground’ full moon.

On my way to Northgate today the roads were clear (rain free). I wasn’t texting or talking on my phone (and I didn’t even sign Oprah’s ‘no phone-zone’ contract). In fact I was performed my lane change in near flawless Drivers-Ed guide format. I’m talking about the instructor not the student. Blinker on—check, look in rear view mirror—check. Glance over left shoulder to assure zero cars are in my way—check.

Hoooonk. A driver performs a stealth maneuver scaring the crappola out of me.  With my cat-quick reflexes I move over 10 feet or so back into my original lane. Whew—narrow miss.

As I drove onward with a palpating heart I quickly panned my rearview mirror again—two cars are pulled over to the side of the road.  This could only mean one thing and I was afraid that I was the cause of that thing. So I did as any good concerned citizen would do. I put the petal to the medal. I pulled over.

A lean tall fellow in basketball shape inspected his car while the other fellow; Mr. AARP with graying hair stared intently at the side of his own car.

‘Didn’t you see me?’ said AARP.

‘No, I’m sorry, I really didn’t see you.’ I said in what I hoped was a sincere manner.

‘Well I had to swerve out of the lane when you started to move over and I clipped basketballs’ car.’

‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.’

I don’t know, I think when one goes into a dicey situation with an honest approach, it just seems to work out better. I mean what are they going to say when I simply admit the truth. And I knew that since I didn’t actually hit AARP’s car that I was most likely in the clear. Basketball, AARP and I exchanged information in a very, I must say friendly fashion. This after we discovered the common bond of ‘first time accident ever’ for any of us. Though I escaped without scrapes on my car, I still considered it an accident.

Happier times in my car.

As we parted ways, basketball said he was on his way to school but gave me his card. Turns out he’s a DJ, I hope I find a need for a DJ soon it seems like the least I can do for his scraped up car.

After the incident, I realized I better pay more attention to the road. I was so hyper vigilant that I soon realized something was amiss with the Hondy. What was that revving sound coming from the engine each time I stopped at a stoplight? With my luck, the car would break down on the viaduct. Sweat started to accumulate on the end of my nose (a strange phenomenon I have).  I rolled down the window thinking perhaps someone else’s car was making the annoying yet disturbing sound. No, it’s my car. At the stop light (and not while driving) I text my friend Sally about my **^%$ car. I’m supposed to meet her in 30 minutes and who knows if Hondy will make it? She agrees to meet me at the Honda repair shop.

After dropping off the cube with the report of ‘a bad noise that sounds like a jet- engine.’  Sal and I make it in time for Robert Dugoni’s book signing where we speak with the esteemed author who has made Three Tree Point famous. He generously signed our books while Dan the owner of the Tin Room gripes about being described in Dugoni’s book as a ‘grey-haired gentleman.’ “Couldn’t you have written something a bit more complimentary, such as Dan the gracious silver-haired-handsome-charming and dynamic owner of the Tin Room?”

Sally taxi’s me to my home where I retrieve a message from Tom who is in Chelan. “I just picked up the mail and you have one of those ‘camera’ tickets from Tacoma, you must have run a light.

OMG—a driving three-peat in one day. And like I said, it was a full moon.

1. I’m the cause of an accident.
2. My Hondy breaks down.
3. A ticket from one of those annoying stoplight ‘photo-enforced’ cameras.

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.

I was more excited than nervous when I got the call about my first television gig. I personify calmness, almost zen-like. After all, it’s my book (Mommy Are We French Yet?). I mean if I can’t answer questions about a book I worked on for two freaking years then I may as well retire as an author diva (Tom’s name for me.)

Before my actual taping I received this email:

WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW BEFORE YOUR SEGMENT:

–Arrive camera-ready. We do not have hair or makeup personnel on-staff. Ladies, please wear blush and lipstick because our lights will wash you out.
Ok, so this wasn’t a problem except for the hair. I can’t fix my hair like Vicki from Salon VCM. She twists a flat iron like no other to produce the natural wave I’m lacking. Thank God, Vicki acquiesced to coming in to the salon at 7:00 a.m.!

–Please wear bright, solid colors. Do not wear white, stripes or busy prints.
BIG PROBLEM. I’ve chosen my outfit and while it may be true I resemble a prison inmate, it’s not right for New Day. RATS.  Fortunately, my friend Nicki remembers my closet better than I do. “Oh just wear that outfit you wore at the Tin Room, it’s perfect, and don’t forget the HD makeup.” Have no idea what HD makeup is and really don’t want to buy any, so I ignore that little piece of advice.

–Please remain in the green room or prep kitchen while getting ready for your segment.
I’m very excited to see ‘The Green Room.’ Everyone knows going to ‘The Green Room’ means well….I don’t know what it means, but it didn’t stop me from phoning and texting everyone I knew while I waited in the ‘The Green Room.’ However, I must say that while it’s fun to say ‘The Green Room’, the room isn’t actually green. I think the color palette is more ‘tense taupe’, which aptly describes my mood after sitting in the room for over an hour—by myself!

Thank you for being a part of “New Day Northwest”!

Here’s the interview:

Buy Shawn’s book online here.

Local author Shawn Underwood, known for her humor columns on The B-Town Blog, and also known as “Burien’s Erma Bombeck,” will be holding a book signing party for her first book, “Mommy, Are We French Yet?” at the Tin Room Bar on Thursday, June 24th, from 4pm – 5:30pm.

The book, available for purchase for just $14.95 (if you can’t wait, you can buy one online right now here), is a humorous and oftentimes touching fish-out-of-water story of “an American family who decide to spend a year in the south of France.” Based on her own experiences spending a year in the south of France, Shawn tells true stories of language barriers, haircuts, buying food, children, and all sorts of other hilarious-but-true stories that only a wacky Burienite trying to live in France could pull off.

She also claims that this book signing will be “fabulous,” as well as “better than Dugoni’s (ha ha).”

Shawn will sign books, tell you all about her misadventures, as well as show off her public speaking skills to all who attend this free event, where you’ll also be able to purchase books and support this local Writer.

Here are the details:

WHAT: Shawn Underwood’s “Mommy Are We French Yet?” Book Signing Party.

WHEN: Thursday, June 24th from 4pm – 5:30pm.

WHERE: Tin Room Bar, located at 923 SW 152nd in Olde Burien.

INFO: Shawn will be signing books, which will also be available for sale at the Tin Room as well as Poggi Bonsi.

If you haven’t bought Shawn’s book yet, here’s an excerpt:

The French Ride Bikes—Don’t they?

The bike ride didn’t go according to plan.

Today, we toured the nearby French hospital in Grasse, and I tried to speak at length to some very nice French doctors and six gendarmes (policemen.) Actually, I garbled my caveman French with the doctors, and in my distress waved my hands about with the policeman.  It all started innocently enough.

Enthusiastic to ride our new bikes, Craig planned our ride on the back roads; naturally we wanted to avoid traffic on our first bike ride. At first, we cycle by scenic pastures and old men smoking cigarillos as they stroll along the country roads. The passing cars give us plenty of room, the bikers have complete right of way here. No one honks at bikers; they’re treated with respect in this country. This is the home of the Tour du France.

We approached a roundabout, the very sensible French equivalent of an American stoplight. It takes a bit of nerve to sprint into the roundabout circle as the cars literally race around the loop like some miniature version of the Grand Prix. I feel a bit vulnerable merging with the cars but there are no bike paths, and bikes follow the same rules as the cars. Naturally, I insist that Craig dart out into the traffic circle first.

The next thing I see is Craig’s body flying through the air, arms and legs akimbo. An elderly French driver crossed lanes right in front of him, because she wanted to exit from the roundabout. Craig lands on his butt, his back, and then his head. I scream, “Il est ~moi, il est moi,” which means, “It is me, It is me,” I meant to yell “Aidez- moi, aidez- moi.” The latter translates to “Help me! Help me!”  Under duress, my French comes out completely muddled and none of the good French Samaritans who have stopped to help understand a word I’m saying. A British ex-pat stops to help me; she translates for the police officers and the ambulance personnel who arrive rapidly to the scene of the accident.

For some reason, the police officer draws a chalk mark around my prostrate husband before putting him in the ambulance. I silently wonder (Would they think I’m a raving lunatic if I asked in my one- syllable language?) if they plan to use the scene of the accident for some type of reality show. Either way, the finality of the chalk mark isn’t good for me. Why don’t they pick my poor spouse up and carry him to the ambulance? Determined to help my husband (who of course says he is fine), I firmly speak my caveman lingo and throw in a few hand signals for good effect, but the officers just shake their heads sadly.

The woman who hit my husband is visibly distraught. As Craig slowly rises from his chalk marked position, the first thing he does is comfort the old gal. My still-reeling spouse gently puts an arm around the shaking women, trying to show her that he isn’t seriously injured. She draws away with no eye contact. According to French custom, it’s a national disgrace to run over a bicyclist. She walks with her head down toward the beckoning gendarme.

As the policeman valiantly tries to explain to me (in English) what needs to be done before leaving the scene, Craig is climbing into the ambulance. “Shawn, you stay here and find someplace safe to store the bikes.” So, not only do I have to find a safe place for the bikes, but then I must find my way to the hospital instead of riding in the ambulance as any good spouse would do.

Since I see that Craig doesn’t seem to be seriously injured, I get mad at the whole situation. What am I supposed to do with the bikes? How am I supposed to dictate a police report when I can barely speak the language? How do I get to the hospital? The policemen take pity on me and hand me a business card. We’re supposed to report to the police station tomorrow or as soon as possible, to complete the police report. I heave a sigh of relief and then contemplate where I’m going to store the bikes. As the policemen wait, I run across the street to the poulet roti (roasted chicken) shack. The owner witnessed the accident and thoughtfully agrees to take care of the bikes.

The mostly silent ride to the hospital only takes about 10 minutes; I carefully noted the location of the hospital in case of further disasters. Luckily, the woman at the front desk says “can I help you?” in English and we quickly locate Craig holding court in a private room. Craig immediately asks; “Did you find a place for the bikes?” Men . . . I would have liked to talk about my obvious distress at watching him ride away in the ambulance or ME dealing with the policemen.

The French have National Health Care regardless of citizenship status. Craig received a thorough exam, his cracked helmet being enough proof of a possible head injury. After a clear MRI, the doctor thoughtfully, yet sternly, explained to Craig that he must learn the French language while living here in France. For some reason, this makes me absurdly happy, as he had dismissed my ideas of studying the language before we arrived in France, not that my previous studying helped me this morning in my efforts to communicate my distress.

The hospital receptionist called a cab for us, a huge relief because I had no idea how to use the phone booth and we didn’t have a cell phone. The phone booth needed some sort of card to operate it and I didn’t know where to get a card. Mundane tasks that require no thought in the United States take on immense proportions overseas. On the way home I showed Craig the location of the bikes at poulet roti, relief is evident on his face. The darn bikes are worth a fortune. Luckily, Craig’s bike received only a few dings, proof of his manly escape from the speeding car.

For more information on Shawn and her writing, check out her website here.

Click below to buy her book online:

by Scott Schaefer

You may know her as a friend, acquaintance, or perhaps as that wacky lady at the Normandy Park Starbucks who’s always smiling or laughing while working on her laptop.

You may also know her as a featured Humor Columnist for “B-Town Undercover” right here on The B-Town Blog.

But did you know that Burien’s own Shawn Underwood is now a published AUTHOR ?

That’s right, her first book, called “Mommy, Are We French Yet?” has been released, and is available for purchase as of today for just $14.95 (if you can’t wait you can buy one online right now here). The book is a humorous and oftentimes touching fish-out-of-water story of “an American family who decide to spend a year in the south of France.” Based on her own experiences spending a year in the south of France, Shawn tells true stories of language barriers, haircuts, buying food, children, and all sorts of other hilarious-but-true stories that only a wacky Burienite trying to live in France could pull off.

Shawn will be holding a book launch party on Saturday, June 5th from 4 – 7pm at Poggi Bonsi’s at The Landing in Renton (info here), so mark your calendars now:

I had a chance to sit down with Shawn recently at The Tin Room. Perhaps for her own safety, she brought along Lexi, her 16-year old daughter, who lived the events in this book in real life. I asked Lexi what was it like to have her Mom write a book.

“Mommy got taken away,” Lexi laughed. “Actually, toward the end when she was writing really hard she realized that it’d probably be best to have her own office, so she’d leave home and go to Starbucks.”

“I changed my office!” Shawn interrupted. “Now I go to Burien Press. And the library.”

The banter between Mother-Daughter was lively and humorous. It’s obvious that, despite Shawn’s focus and drive to become a published Author – she created her own Publishing Company to print this book (“5-Star Misadventures”) – she and her kids have a light, humorous chemistry.

Here’s my Q & A with her, with me as BTB and her as SU:

BTB: So, are you going to write a sequel?

SU: Well, I suppose if I move somewhere else I can certainly write a sequel.

BTB: Are you interested in selling this as a screenplay?

SU: Oh yes! (“Really?” interrupted Lexi).

BTB: Are you pursuing selling it as a screenplay?

SU: No, um…

BTB: Are you going to?

SU: I’m waiting…but don’t you think it’d be funny?

BTB: Yes!

SU: But you haven’t even read it yet!

BTB: But it feels, and smells funny (flipping pages and smelling the book)!

SU: Oh God!

BTB: Okay then, in the movie version – who would you see as playing you?

SU: I’ve already got it figured out…

BTB: Meg Ryan?

SU: Exactly!

BTB: I knew it! Okay, so who else would you cast? How about as Craig, your husband?

SU: I’ve only figured out myself really, since it’s all about me you know…

BTB: Of course. So Shawn, is this book the beginning of your career as an Author? Or was this just a whim, and now that you’ve got it our of your system…

SU: Well I suppose what I’m setting myself up is to become a travel writer.

BTB: How did you manage to get this book published?

SU: Well, what I did was call Bob Dugoni (read our coverage of Bob here)…my attorney happened to know his wife…so I called Bob, told him I had all this material that I didn’t know what to do…this was about a year-and-a-half ago…so he said to call Jennifer McCord, who’s a Publishing Consultant. And so I called her and she said ‘Send me the first 100 pages,’ and I did. She said ‘of course I think it needs work but I think it’s funny, so let’s meet.’ So then she said ‘here’s exactly what I can do for you’ (and this is what she did for Bob): ‘I can get you an agent, and the agent will help you find a Publisher…you can do Lulu (an online self-publishing service), or you can create your own publishing company. It took me about one second to decide – I didn’t want to wait for an agent, and I also did not want a boss. So I created my own company. And everything you see in the book, aside from the writing, is part of that – there’s an Interior Design person, there’s a Formatting person, there’s Layout, there’s an Illustrator – there were lots of things involved in doing it that I had no idea. And then of course there are contracts with all these people…

BTB: So it was a big project. Did it cost you a lot of money?

SU: Absolutely!

BTB: Are you going to tell us how much?

SU: No. But I have to sell 2,000 books to break even.

At this point, Lexi (LU) had to leave. I asked her:

BTB: What do you think of your Mom’s writing?

LU: Um…I haven’t read it yet.

BTB: You haven’t read it yet??? You’re in the book! You’re her daughter! Is she a funny Writer?

LU: I don’t know. The book isn’t out yet. Plus, she sent you something and you didn’t read it.

SU: Yeah Lexi!

BTB: But I’ve been busy…

At this point, Lexi and Mom fist-bump each other.

BTB: So did anyone else in your family read it? Did Craig?

SU: Not until it was all done and edited. And even then, he found a typo! And it was already being printed! I couldn’t believe it!

BTB: So there’s a hidden typo somewhere, huh? Has anyone else in your family ever published a book?

SU: No. But they could all do it.

BTB: Are you planning on publishing any other books through your new company?

SU: I don’t know. I’ll publish my sister’s – I’m making her do one, because she’s moving to Italy next year.

BTB: She’s doing a similar book? Is her’s going to be called “Mommy, Are We Italian Yet”?

SU: Probably!

BTB: You should do a whole series, for different countries, sort of like those “For Dummies” books.

SU: I should! I was really trying to convince Craig that we could move there next year, but, he said ‘Shawn, this is her junior year, this isn’t all about you!’ ‘But it’s perfect timing for me!’

BTB: So what’s your marketing plan?

SU: That’s up to my Publicist.

BTB: Are you going to do a book tour?

SU: I don’t know. He’s after print, radio, television (which I think is ridiculous).

BTB: Any other talent in your immediate family?

SU: Actually, my son Conner, who’s really funny. He’s going to Gonzaga, and he says that this book is going to launch his career. He doesn’t know how or what…

BTB: HIS career?

SU: Yes! HIS career!

BTB: Mom’s book is going to launch his career?

SU: Yeah!

At this point I forced Shawn to get her picture taken on the Tin Room’s back deck; despite much protest, she relented:

Shawn was gracious enough to let us post the following excerpt from her book, which will give you a taste of what to expect from Burien’s own Erma Bombeck:

Le Coupe de Cheveaux—The Haircut

I do admit the language barrier is becoming an increasing problem . . . for Craig. I, on the other hand, am getting along famously, when the French speaker talks SLOWLY. Today, for instance, and after much debate, the kids and I all agreed to brave the hair salon. Unfortunately, the head beautician in the male/female salon is a “fast talker,” my pleas of “lentemont s’il vous plait,” (slowly please) falls on deaf ears and disaster looms on the horizon.

Before driving to the hairdresser for the kid’s haircuts, I make a quick phone call to my sister, Shannon, who professes to have mastered the French language. I asked her for the appropriate phrases to use with the hairdresser. “I don’t know the word for hedgehog in French,” says Shannon. Too bad, the word, hedgehog is a perfect description of Conner’s spiky current haircut.

The kids fight on the way to the haircutter about who gets their hair cut first. They’re all nervous, I’m not sure if this is about the upcoming trimmings or their lack of faith in my language skills.

We mutually decided that Leslie is first, because her hair is difficult to destroy. I manage to convey my ideas to the beautician, and things go smoothly with Leslie. In the men’s section of the salon next door, Austin is about to get his new cut. I’m terribly worried about Austin’s hair because he attends his first “teen” party tonight and must look as cool as he believes he is. I greet the barber with a friendly “bonjour,” and attempt to give him ideas about Austin’s hair. With a combination of pantomime and cobbled together French/English language, I conveyed Austin’s hair must be “bref” (short or brief) with points on top. When I yanked and pulled on Austin’s hair so  it stood straight up, the barber nodded that he understood. Of course, Austin is nearly uprooted from his chair, but no matter, I apparently get my point across because Austin’s hair looked “tres bon” (very good) when the barber finished. Conner doesn’t have any problems with his hair either. Amazingly, all of the kids are pleased with their haircuts.

I breathe a sigh of relief and attempted to explain to my cranberry-haired beautician my preferred hairstyle. Thinking myself extremely clever, I showed her some likely pictures in a magazine. She ripped the magazine out of my hand and shouted at me in a near hysterical screech; “Je suis artiste,” (I’m an artist,) and things go from bad to worse. She’s an “artiste” all right, but not with the scissors!  She takes a large hunk of my hair (I have a lot of hair) and pulls it towards her, and opens the scissors in the manner as if she is curling a ribbon. She drags the scissors along my hair while pulling my hair straight out from my head. Yank, pull, drag, chop, it seems to go on forever.

I emerged from the salon looking like a Beatle from the sixty’s. I bear a striking resemblance to Paul on the cover of the Meet the Beatles record album. The haircut looks good on Paul, me—not so much. The boys exclaim at my ugliness when we leave the hair salon, I kindly let them know that mommy isn’t worried because her hair grows very quickly. Secretly, I regret my impulsive decision to go ahead with the “artiste/chopper” because my parents arrive tomorrow from the United States. I’m sure they’ll be so glad to see us, that my shearing will escape their notice. In hindsight, I should have overruled the hair butcher and her blathering about her prowess as an “artiste,” thusly avoiding the porcupine look-alike contest.

After the shearing, we arrive home in the usual haphazard manner, the kids are thrown hither and yon in the backseat as I dodge various potholes and chickens in the road. When we arrive home unscathed, (my children screaming with fear in the backseat), my supportive spouse greets me with hysterical laughter. He says he will “capture the moment for future reference.” I can only imagine what he’s up to; I put my foot down, (one picture only) thanking my lucky stars that my impulsive behavior doesn’t include, cranberry hair -color also.

Shawn grew up in Bellevue, and she holds a B.A. in Speech and a Graduate Degree in Audiology from Washington State University.  As our Readers know, Shawn is also a humor columnist for The B-Town Blog where she poses as “Underwood: Undercover.” She also contributes to www.nightsandweekends.com, a website that reviews films, books and music. Her short stories are featured in the “Instant Gratification” humor column. Shawn also writes for the travel website, www.intheknowtravel.com.

For more information on Shawn and her writing, check out her website here.

Click below to buy her book online: