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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper

The Spokesman-Review Newspaper The Spokesman-Review

Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883
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Front Porch: Roadwork leaves time for meditation

I’ve been seeing red a lot, lately. No, I haven’t been angry. I’m talking about traffic lights. There are 252 traffic lights in the city, and I believe I’ve been stuck at red lights at half of them. This has seriously aggravated my LBTS (Low Boredom Threshold Syndrome). I tried timing how many minutes I spend each day waiting for lights to change, but I also suffer from MDD (Math Deficiency Disorder).

Front Porch: Wait till it’s empty nest improvement

Our house is in a constant state of home improvement. It’s a veritable ode to unfinished projects. I marvel when friends say they painted their living rooms or stained their decks over the weekend. “You mean it’s done? Finished? Completed?” I ask. I painted my dining room last fall, but ran out of time, energy and impetus by the time I reached the kitchen. So half of the large room is Desert Sand and the other half is Aging Apricot.

Front Porch: Next time the mascara’s running alone

A strange affliction seems to have overcome many of my 40-ish friends. It began with vague murmurs about cholesterol and too-snug jeans. Soon, discussion became peppered with talk of morning walks and gym memberships. And suddenly, marathons were being mentioned as casually as lunch plans. Seemingly overnight, these folks took to wearing expensive Saucony or Asics running shoes and talking about doing the “Peak Performance in Portland” or the “Bellingham Bay.” When they talk about “Leavenworth Oktoberfest,” they aren’t talking about beer-drinking.

Front Porch: Mom, guitar gently weep as teens LOL

More than 20 years ago, for reasons now unclear, I decided to have a baby. Derek and I had been married three years, and I guess it seemed natural to want to expand our family. Of course, we could have bought a dog, but we didn’t. Truthfully, I’ve always wanted to be a mom. As a child, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up my standard answer was, “Flight attendant, actress, librarian and mother.”

Front Porch: Mother of four, heel thyself!

They called to me. They twinkled at me from among sensible square-toed pumps and frivolous flip-flops trimmed with plastic daisies. They glittered. They sparkled. They shone. I didn’t even intend to look at shoes as I scanned the racks at my favorite thrift store, but a shaft of sunlight lit up the golden shoes. If angel choirs approve of 4-inch stiletto heels made by Fredrick’s of Hollywood, than those angels were singing hallelujah, as I reached for the shoes.