Each summer, I endure parental purgatory and attend my children’s swim meets at the Gregory Seahurst swim pool in Burien. Swim meets tend to be long (3-4 hours) and SLOW. Let me just say they are on par with, “watching paint dry.

While conducting “research” in B-Town, I discovered a brand new boutique: “Howard and Marge,” owned by Robin Dunkle and named after her much-loved grandparents.

“Underwood Undercover” here, entering the information superhighway via my coffee hole on ramp. I look around to see what usual suspects are in attendance today . . . at Starbucks in Normandy Park.

You might remember me talking about idiot gym attendees who “lose” their lockers. Unfortunately, this happened to me, even now as I write about this, I am amazed about the loss of my belongings as my mind has been razor sharp as of late. When I discovered that my locker lost itself, I entered my secret code into most of the lockers with the desperate hope that one of the lockers would open. I realized later that I likely messed up everyone else’s secret code as I vainly tried punching my number into each locker. I skipped the lockers with obvious markers such as, a bra strap or candy wrapper showing from the top of the locker. I recall thinking at the time that this was a clever solution for locating your locker. Had I not relied on my “razor sharp” memory to locate my locker, things might have gone differently.

Don’t get me wrong, I like volunteering at my children’s various schools, but there comes a time when even I begin to question this use of time.

The noise level in the bus meant for children and not normal size adults was simply deafening. There were many heated conversations going on, not one of which I could understand. I would have liked to hear what the teacher said about our destination but it was impossible. A sandwich piece sailed by my head. We were in for a very long ride………..

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.

My friend, Daisy and I have taken the plunge and purchased an inflatable boat. This was not just any craft, but a “gently used” 8 foot rubberized vessel. Our beachside neighbor, the crab catcher, inspired us to become crabbers when she brought her bounty of crab to the neighborhood potluck. Daisy and I were green with envy and immediately began planning our boat purchase when our husbands were out of earshot.

The boys get out of school approximately twenty minutes before Lexi is dismissed from her school. If all things fall in to place, meaning the boys have no detention for saggy and bagging pants, they then drive by Lexi’s school when the kids are just leaving class. Conner drove by at the speed limit…. his old teachers were on cross walk duty. His friend Joe also drove by in a fairly cautious matter. Joe stops at the cross walk and madly waves to his old friend Spencer while attempting to look cool (elbow resting casually on window sill while flashing his “grill”). The “grill” is your smile in teen speak. Spencer returns Joe’s wave and they proceed to entertain each other while Joe revs his engine and pops his clutch in and out. Let it be noted that Joe has a new muffler which makes a very loud noise. I am sure many people are impressed with his non-moving vehicle skill feat. In his attempt at the all important cool factor, Joe inadvertently pops his clutch and runs right into the rear end of Conner’s car. Not cool, cool factor is now zero. Crosswalk guards guffaw and people point. Joe calmly pulls over to the side of the road to inspect the damage. Conner’s little cousin witnesses the entire event and is the first one on the scene. The boys are not pleased to see her with her gleeful smile, they know this means trouble.

We don’t have an overabundance of sunny days in Seattle, so when the sun does appear, I begin to think of my sun-deprived garden. I live in a small town with several large “we have everything” stores. I have to decide whether I am going to resume my nursing duties and buy wilted plants from the large “we have everything” store, or go to the plant boutique where the plants are well-nourished but more expensive. My plant nursing duties date back to my days as “Nurse Ratchitt”: if I can nurse a recuperating patient, then I can certainly nurse a few plants, so I decide on the cheaper option.