Category: Uncategorized

I’m sure most everyone by now is familiar with the infamous iPhone Autocorrect Phenomenon. I’m relatively new to the iPhone, after waiting patiently for two years to escape Verizon Blackberry Storm2 Hell. I had disabled the spellcheck feature on my Blackberry because, as most people of my generation, I went to school before the digital age. So we were forced to learn proper grammar, punctuation and spelling.
Needless to say I found it frustrating that a small piece of metal and circuitry had the audacity to presume that it knew what I was going to say before I said it.
We considered couples counseling for a while.

However, when I finally acquired my iPhone, so fascinated was I by the autocorrect phenomenon I was determined to see what alternatives this sleek and sexy device came up with to words that fell victim to my fat and clumsy thumbs.

I must say, 60% of the time, it is more than mostly awesome.
I’ve included screenshots to better illustrate. I’ve been collecting them over time. (You can tell who I text the most). There are some particularly hilarious ones, but they tend to be somewhat racy, one even involving a gerbil, so alas they will have to remain in my photo album.

I have family that read this thing.

I have noticed the autocorrect feature does enjoy defaulting to “Hebrews” and “Jews” quite a bit. I’m not altogether certain what that’s all about. I’ve never once seen “Jesus” or “Allah” or “The Flying Spaghetti Monster” being offered as an alternative. I’m hoping I’m not an anti-Semite at heart, or something, since I’ve never deliberately meant to type about God’s chosen people.

And although profanity is not contained in it’s vast lexicon (“shit” becomes “shot”, “fuck” becomes “fick”, even “hell” becomes “he’ll”), I have noticed “Oobleck” and “Vulcan” pass it’s filters. Which is quite sexy-cool, albeit illogical.
(*snicker*)

I have noticed the damnyouautocorrect.com site, however funny, has become somewhat of a staged endeavor. When male and female body parts are used in excess as well as profanity, I wave the bullshit flag on that one. You see more dad’s bringing hookers home, moms and dildos, eating penises for lunch, grandmothers asking for condoms…I mean, honestly now. Don’t be so obvious and it might actually pass for funny. I mean, Hehee to Hebrew? That’s comedy, man! So yeah, maybe I’m biased, And yeah, maybe I *am* my own best form of entertainment. Which is why my blog has no subscribers. But I’ve been carrying on at this blog nonsense for six years, so I am obviously undaunted. But at least my texting flubs are authentic. I’m fucking hilarious, man.

I *have* been able to whip my phone into submission enough to where it no longer defaults to “Buff” instead of “Niff”. “Niff” is definitely not “Buff”. It’s a nice thought, though. There’s never been a problem with Doppler, for obvious reasons. Although it does like to convert pi to Pi, so perhaps I’ve been de-propering pi all this time and not giving it the mad pi-props it’s deserved. Don’t I just pi-suck.

The problem with all of this auto-correcting is, no one needs to spell anything anymore. Even the words that are intended, by the time I’m three or four letters in, iPhone says, “here, let me get that for you…”, as if I can’t be bothered with typing out the whole thing. We’re all becoming verbally handicapped. People honestly don’t see the issue with using “your” instead of “you’re”. They sound the same…why do we need to spell them differently? (PLEASE see The Oatmeal’s Retarded Emails for documented evidence of this phenomenon; it’s hilarious and worth the time.)

Most of my spelling errors are due to typos because I can’t type for shit. I never took an official typing class. I’ve developed an accelerated and masterful “hunt and peck” method over the years. I should patent it. However, this does mean I still have to look at the keyboard when I type. Once in a while I get spunky and try to type while looking at the screen. Then all goes to hell. Like rtight now. This is goirnf to be gantastic. whaddia think? I mean, it’s not roo bad. It;s vbetter than it used to be, bt I wouldn;t sent a peofessonal correspondenxw this way. I look like a reyarded fourth gheader. I look like a defectine autocorrect progra, hasd taken over my clog/ jow unfortunale for mu feet apparently.

Fuck that. I’ve got the best penmanship of anyone I know and do amazing calligraphy, and have perfect spelling when I write. So nyah.

Voulez-voulez-vous my gerbil gets in the wau.
(from one of the censored autocorrects.)

Having my blog so easily accessible is going to be potentially annoying. I can tell already.
I arrive at the bus stop at 6:45 am and my office 7:45 am, so as you can see I have some idle time. However, as my poor blog has suffered some neglect as of late (as evidenced by the numbers over there –> ) it could stand some rapid-fire attention.

Once upon a time, I used to blog daily, or near it. Granted I was married and living in Snoqualmie, so I didn’t exactly have what you’d call a raging social life, but needless to say I had quite a bit more time for such things. The subject matter wasn’t altogether as fascinating as it is now, where I have downtown Seattle and Cap Hill as fodder. Snoqualmie + married life + no friends to speak of = the following topics:

– I really hate leaf blowers
– it’s really busy at work on thanksgiving
– I painted the livingroom walls
– my dogs and my husband are all sleeping at 3 in the afternoon
– hey! It’s raining…

Now I get to write about Peep massacres and stalking panhandlers, so it all worked out.

This was also before the advent of Facebook.

Where once I would notice something quirky, noteworthy, amusing, or what I considered to be a blog-qualifier, became pathetically truncated into a “status update”. What’s worse, is once this nugget of (what I consider to be) cleverness is dumped into facebook’s massive database of grammatically incorrect banality (yes, I am an elitist like that), it’s pretty much lost, unless you have an hour or so to search back through all of your old posts.
I did once. I found that even though I opened my account in 2007, it only goes back to 2008. Thieving bastards, they are.
That’ll teach me to take the easy way out, I suppose.

Perhaps now that I have more opportunity to write I should go back and use some of those updates as potential blog topics. Although I may find it disturbing how often I’ve quoted “Monty Python and The Holy Grail” and “The Big Lebowski”.

Voulez-voulez-vous “Help! Help! I’m being repressed-”
– “Shutup, Donnie.”

Location:Cherry St,Seattle,United States

Well…finally found a decent blogging app for my pi-phone. Let’s see how badly autocorrect can manage to fuck it up. Actually, I think I’m going to institute a new policy that for any blogs written via mobile, if mis-autocorrected, must remain in their horribly altered state. Reader beware.
On my way back from the drugstore during lunch today, while strolling jovially through the rare Seattle sunshine, it struck me that I shouldn’t be required to work in such brilliant weather. Days such as today are so few and far between that we (can I just interject that I have an unusually *hot* bus driver? It’s weird…) should be permitted the fair-weather equivalent of a Snow Day. Just sayin’.
I may even bring you a shrubbery on a day such as today if you ask nicely.
Made a painful discovery today, which I’m not going to whine about on my blog because, well, it’s not Livejournal, but let’s just say I had a mini-epiphany as a result where I realized that changing who I am to make others more comfortable not only gives them control over me, but causes irreparable damage. And no human being, *no one*, is worth that. Which is really challenging when you spend most of your life trying to live up to other people’s expectations.
Why do people hang out in the shade when it’s sunny? Odd.
Ah, there’s another Mariner’s game today. They (fans, not baseball players) like to crowd the bus to Seattle on game day. Better a lot of people on one bus than a lot of people in a lot of cars, I say.
Ooh…awesome. Man in a top hat. At the transit station. I gotta say, men look mighty fine in top hats. And those news boy hats too. Hats are highly underrated. I’d wear hats more often but I have a fat head. Most women’s hats are too small for my huge noggin. And my Dumbo ears. I’m-a gonna go cry myself to sleep on my huge pillah.

Boulez-Boulez-voussoirs phone blogging…jury’s out on that one.

(I was looking forward to seeing how autocorrect butchered “voulez-voulez-vous”. Win.)

The following irritated the service industry employees I polled before writing this. It surprised me, actually.

Here goes.

I have a cynical view of tipping.
But before I launch into this full-force, you should know that I worked in the food service industry for quite some time. I worked my ass off. Sacrificing weekends, holidays, a social life (ok, maybe the now nonexistent marriage killed the social life, but I digress…), but before I launch into my diatribe here, you needed to know…I paid my dues.

Jump to present day…the catalyst for this whole affair.

A friend of mine and I had decided to stagger into Cupcake Royale after many rounds at the nearby dive bar. For some reason pastel-colored overly-decorated delicacies sounded like a fine idea. So, we went.

We made our selections (after a brief cringe at the “Bacon whiskey something-or-other” cupcake – I kid you not), the clerk places them gingerly in the box, then hands them to the girl at the register. To whom I hand my debit card, at which point I notice a tip jar. A tip jar. Curious. Now…just what was gratuity-worthy? Following me home and asking me how everything was?
She hands me the receipt to sign, and as I do, I notice the presumptuous little “Tip line” below the total.

Are you fucking kidding me?

What the hell am I supposed to be tipping them for? Putting them in the box? Ringing up my order? And it’s not even like there was one person handling this laborious task, there were two of them. It was a bloody cupcake-packing assembly line.

I ignored the arrogance of the tip line and left, clutching my box (which I’m I’m assuming they printed by hand until their fingers bled, hence the tip jar…) and walked to the car in the rain. Maybe if they’d escorted me with an umbrella, I’d have slipped them a twenty.

This incident got me thinking. How many places now have these annoying little vessels of “alms” at the register? Aside from cafes, we have them at the deli, pizza shops, Dunkin Donuts, Ice Cream parlors. Now, these employees get an hourly wage. Usually higher than the national average. Which is another reason why this “tip jar” phenomenon confuses me. I remember a time when servers in restaurants made below minimum wage so the rest of their income was could be supplemented by the gratuities they received from their tables.

When I was a server, the sum of the tips I accrued at the end of the day I did not get to keep. I was required to tip out the bartender, my server assistant, the busboy, the hostess ($0.50 per person she sat; I’m still bitter about that; if she sat 300 people, I had to give her $150 of my tips.) I was left with about 40%. I did not completely resent this, they were providing continued service to guests in our restaurant and helped me make money. That’s the magic word. Continued service. We just didn’t drop food off and leave. We checked on the quality of the meal, refilled beverages, replaced napkins, cleared plates.

When you order a chicken sandwich at McDonald’s, you don’t tip the people who make them. You don’t tip the people at the drive-thru. What puzzles me is, what makes baristas so entitled? And now we have cupcakes and ice cream and Subway sandwiches? It’s getting out of hand. Are we going to be tipping bus drivers and teachers and the receptionist at the doctor’s office?

It could be entirely possible that it’s not tipping per se that I have issue with; maybe I just don’t appreciate how I am personally regarded when I don’t tip. People think that I’m cheap, an asshole, insensitive, from France. I’m not cheap, nor an asshole. Maybe I could pull off being French. I tip, and I tip well. I just tip appropriately. I don’t tip people who put cupcakes in a box so that I have the cash to tip the server at 13 Coins 40%. And why? Because she went the extra mile, brought extra lemons when I didn’t even ask because she remembered me from the last time, and has a genuine smile, a great laugh and loves showing pictures of her family.

There’s also Duncan, at my favorite bar who usually gets 50%, but he gets his own blog entry. After I ask his permission first. =)

Voulez-voulez-vous

Editor’s Note: This was actually written some time ago. Forgot to hit the “Publish Post” button.

Eh, details.

Enjoy.

Oddity for the day:

Walking toward Broadway. Hear the unmistakable sounds of seagulls. Many seagulls.

I look up.

Many, many seagulls.

Um…this was downtown, not Elliott Bay.

Maybe one or two errant birds, okay. But these things had lined themselves up like a chorus line on the rooftops of several buildings for over a block.

Ever see that scene in “The Day After Tomorrow” where the birds, knowing what’s up, flee en masse from the seas inland in order to avoid impending meteorological disaster? I did.

I wondered if the plague of locusts was far behind.

Pedestrians and bus stop denizens were just as rapt and puzzled as I. As we observed they would rapidly perch then flee in perfect sync. When nature behaves in such a bizarre way it tends to make me edgy.

Then I saw the massive horde congealing as a single avian unit in one very specific place.

Dick’s Drive-In burger joint.

Venture to say tomorrow morning there is a 42-foot radius of seagull excrement icing the structures and pavement around and including the illustrious Dick’s Drive-In. Hope that panhandling artist guy brought a sturdy umbrella.

Barman: Did you say the end of the world is coming? Shouldn’t we all lay down on the floor or put paper bags over our heads?

Ford Prefect: If you wish.

Barman: Will it help?

Ford Prefect: Not at all.

Voulez-voulez-vous mieux vaut tard que jamais.

I’m furrowing my brows at passers-by. Grrrrr.
I’m still at work so I know I won’t be provoking a knife-fight or anything.
My desk is in a main thoroughfare so I’m getting in a lot of good brow-furrowing traffic.

Grrrrr.

“Is your email working?”

I don’t get email often. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t notice.

“I dunno, let me check.” I have to pick someone to bother.

To: (Insert hapless victim here)
Subject: Test
Body: My email is not working. You didn’t get this. You were never here.
DON’T LOOK AT ME!
GAH!
(Insert read receipt in the event they’re too perplexed/annoyed to reply)

Jennifer Lankenau
Generic Office Title
Generic Office Phone Number
Generic Office Email Address

*click* Ctrl+enter

No response.
The recipient appears at my desk. Laffy Taffy in hand. Bewildered expression complete with contrapposto stance.

“????”

“hmmm?” Furrowed brow.

“I am not bringing you any candy!”

“Fine then! I am not ordering any more!”
(I am responsible for the sugar/fat/caffeine supply in the office).

This was considered heavily for a moment.

“Banana, strawberry, cherry or apple?”

“String cheese.”

Sigh. Shifts weight to the other foot. Still looking puzzled.

“Um, was I supposed to reply to the email?”

“I think you did.”

Satisfied, they trudge off to their desk with their Laffy Taffy in hand, safe in the knowledge that all is well in the world.

Type type type (coffee) *click* *click* type…

“Hey, do you have the label maker?”

Ok, here’s the thing: we have, in our office, a section entirely devoted to the containment and storage of office supplies. This includes paper, pens, staples, scissors, ibuprofen, bubble wrap, even Velcro. The only problem is, it’s completely inaccessible. Not via armed forces, or sentries, or even a curmudgeonly chihuahua…no. The reason people can’t acquire the tools they need is because they can’t find it. It’s an epidemic. They open a cupboard, stare into it blankly, and then give up all hope. There’s just no use. Reinforcements needed.

“Hey, Jennifer…do we have any thumbtacks?”

“Did you look for them?”

“Yeah, I don’t think we have any…”

Gah.

“Far right, second drawer down.”

“Oh.”

Anyway, label maker.

“Yes, it’s in the top middle drawer.”

“Ok, thanks.”

15 minutes later, he brings it to me. “Here you go.”

“I don’t want it, put it back in the drawer.”

Confused look.

“Uh, ok…”
I hear several drawers being opened and closed.
Sigh.

Walk into the kitchen. Immediately understand the reason for the labeler request.

Refrigerator: “COLDNESS”
Freezer: “REALLY COLD”
Water faucet: “WATER”
Microwave: “HEAT”
Apple: “APPLE”
Coffee machine: “COFFEE”

Everybody’s a comedian.

Voulez-voulez-vous “BLOG”

1/11/11 has been seriously trying to steal my 11/11/11 thunder. People have been rather excited about this whole thing. I’ve been biting my tongue as I do not wish to squelch their enthusiasm.

I was shot several disapproving looks this morning when I relocated myself on the bus upon discovering the woman sitting behind me was on the verge of hacking up several layers of lung tissue. Apparently sparing her feelings was more important than preserving my health. I shot them a raised eyebrow sneer and went back to my Scrabble game on my phone. Triple word score. I will conquer this passive-aggressive Seattle bullshit if I have to start kicking them in the shins as they disembark from their morning commute one.by.one.

I noticed none of them volunteered to sit next to Typhoid Mary.

I recently signed up for Foursquare with the specific purpose of being able to appoint myself the Mayor of my favorite local hangout which, apparently, would only take me three visits to do so. At any rate, with the iPhone app, this basically allows you to stalk your friends (with their permission) so when they check into any given location it sends you an alert on your phone with the name and address of said establishment, in the event you wish to join them in their revelry or crash their get-together. The trend I have noticed is that my friends seem to have a copious amount of free time on their hands, checking into cafes, restaurants and bars at all hours, some at 11 am, 3 pm, 3 am…

You can learn a lot about a person by being privy to the establishments they frequent. You can even learn who they spend their free time with. For instance, two of my friends just checked into the same nail salon, concurrently. One could possibly assume they are getting manicures together. I don’t think people keep this in mind as often as they should…

I really don’t have much else to write about at the moment. Which is just fine, since my lunch break is wrapping up. I just noticed a time lapse between blogs that I felt I needed to remedy. I figured the interesting photo would compensate for the sub-par material.

Voulez-voulez-vous content fail.

I’m treating insomnia with iPhone fed Wikipedia Loops. I only have a desktop computer so I’m forced to use my cellular device as a means of amassing ridiculous amounts of trivia. For instance, on this day in history, in 1808, “Ludwig van Beethoven premiered his Fifth Symphony, currently one of the most popular and well-known compositions in all of European classical music, at the Theater an der Wien in Vienna.” and that “Aquila bullockensis, an extinct species of bird, is the oldest known true eagle from Australia.”

I figure if nothing else, I could absorb random pieces of information completely inapplicable to my career path and general daily life. I theorize this will improve my “Jeopardy” skills, though I don’t have television so I may have some difficulty testing this. I’m also filling up pages in my sketchbook with more (wait for it…) rose windows which, again, isn’t altogether useful, since I have two commissions leaning against my apartment walls. But in my defense, they won’t fit in my bed and there’s no way I could handle a paintbrush with Doppler’s opinion that both the bed and my torso make a suitable trampoline.

There are a combination of factors that have been contributing to my sleeplessness as of late:

1. I have annoyingly loud, boisterous, hyperactive neighbors above me that seem to enjoy engaging in Sumo-wrestling like activities beginning at 10:00pm and carrying on well past midnight. I have no evidence that they are engaging in Japanese full-contact sports in their living room, I’m just deducing by the amount of noise and thumping from overhead, though in their version there is much more laughter and shouting. There are often intermittent jogging noises up and down the hallway. (Pardon the pun, but it’s similar to the Doppler effect of “thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka…”) Very “Poltergeist”. I’d actually feel better if it were a result of paranormal activity. The dead have a hard time controlling themselves. See zombies. Due to my growing irritation and distaste for these nameless, faceless entities above me, I have assigned the blame for the “Free Project” in my hallway to them solely, whether they be the responsible parties or not.

That’ll learn ’em.

2. I am convinced I have some sort of naturally-occurring chemical in my body that causes my energy levels to spike beginning at 7:00 pm. This would be ideal were I a bartender. However, my waking hours range anywhere from 5:30 – 6:15 am, depending on how little sleep I’ve gotten. I also suspect nanotechnology, or genetic markers.

3. My intensely uncomfortable Winter Dry Skin Syndrome coupled with the inability of my feet to stop wiggling when I am attempting rest.

4. My dog, too, has become nocturnal. Which involves the following:

1. Jump on the bed
2. Jump off the bed
3. Pace the kitchen floor (clickety-click, clickety-click.)
4. Crawl under the bed, making sure to thump around a bit so I’m surrounded by “ka-thunks” on all sides.
5. Bring me toys
6. Bring me his empty food/water bowl.

I fear in my sleep-deprived madness I will end up duct-taping him to the wall.

So I end up saying “fuck it” and instead engage in mindless albeit restful activities. Watching The Big Lebowski has become a fast favorite. Coupling. X-Files episodes. Playing Scrabble on my phone. Debating whether or not Frosted Flakes really are “Grrrreat”. Staring at the ceiling wondering if my glare and obvious rage is penetrating my ceiling and thus their floor manifesting in a swarm of bees or a case of leprosy in their apartment. Then I realize, no wonder I can’t sleep. I’m a goddamn anger-ball.

Voulez-voulez-vous “Sleep is like the unicorn – it is rumored to exist, but I doubt I will see any” -Unknown

So, yeah. I completely zonked and missed the lunar eclipse last night. Although, I’m not too broken up about it. I caught one in 2007 at Burning Man which, in all actuality, is much more impressive than watching one from the intersection of 8th and I-5 in downtown Seattle. Concurrently, it happened to be the same time the nutjob decided to set fire to the Man early causing all kinds of ruckus (at Burning Man, not last night). I suppose we were all distracted by the stellar event.

I’m having a battle with unknown persons in my apartment building. I’m getting to the point where I’m considering writing my memoirs of all the goings-on in my building. Aside from the cracked-out chick and the infamous bloody-doorknob break-in, and the vagrants that populate my front porch on food bank days, I feel as if I should get a hazard discount on my rent. As a bonus, there is a halfway house next door, whose residents somehow have a telepathic connection to my mini blinds, know when I’ve dared to open them, thus opening their own and blatantly staring in my windows. I’ve designed a pleasantly written sign that reads “piss off” which I adhere to the windows in such circumstances.

The most recent series of events involves a John Denver’s Greatest Hits album, a Neti pot, several pieces of clothing, dishes, “Class of 1993” champagne glasses, and a bright green file cabinet. Somehow, the mailboxes (which happen to occupy the wall just outside my door) have become the urban residential version of the “free” section of Craigslist. Granted, I *did* place a basket of unwanted DVD’s which disappeared within 30 minutes, but there seem to be new residents who, instead of depositing items at Goodwill or in some circumstances, the dumpster outside, have taken to disposing of unwanted items not only atop aforementioned mailboxes, but also on the floor surrounding them, sometimes even blocking my door. In a fit of frustration, I placed a sign on the corkboard above reading, “Two words for you, people: Good Will. Really.” (Yes, I know Goodwill is one word…it’s been segmented for emphasis.) The sign had disappeared by the following morning and as if in a fit of vengeance, the number of rejected items increased twofold. The toddler in me got good and pissed.

In my own act of juvenile vengeance, I decided that since my apartment hallway had become a prime location for people’s unwanted shit, I was going to take it all the way. No foolin’ around man.

I took one of Doppler’s dog shit bags, which, luckily, happen to be labeled as such, complete with a cute cartoonish pooch on the front. As I lived in the vicinity I wasn’t going to permeate the locale with the scent of canine feces, but I still wanted a bit of realism. I had some pathetic–looking figs in the refrigerator, daintily plopped them in the bag, and proceeded to stealthily add them to the pile, specifically upon the bright green, two-drawer file cabinet.
Some hours later, when I took Doppler out so he could generate the real deal, the file cabinet had been claimed, the small green doggie bag lying on the floor. It had been removed by the next morning.

Then things got really irksome.

Suddenly there appeared a large kitchen bag full of trash and a paper bag full of PBR beer cans.

I’m SO moving when my lease is up.

I’m convinced the awesome maintenance man who helped me with my bathroom flooding debacle has been disposing of all the nonsense. I do hope he is informing management so they can distribute ineffective notices on everyone’s door.

In the meantime, the hallway is clear save for a ceramic pair of cowboy boots, with a large piece broken from them. The piece is included.

Voulez-voulez-vous adventures in urban living.

When I was editing obituary photos at the Seattle Times, the words written by families that came across my desk would always strike me – some sad, some touching, but out of the thousands I processed during my tenure there was one that I found incredibly inspiring, not just personally but also historically….so much so, in fact, that when it went to print I clipped it and kept it pinned in my cube up until I was laid off over a year later. I memorized her life’s motto and still pass on to this day. Actually, noticing her quote on the FB page of a certain bartender friend of mine is what made me think to search for her obituary…I had a very surreal moment of, “I know that quote…I use that all the time-HEY!!”

So, thanks to The Ballard News Tribune from 2008 (she died only weeks before her 100th birthday) I can share her with all of you.

Mildred Rhind

Mildred Ahrenius Rhind

1909 – 2008

Mildred Ahrenius Rhind passed away peacefully at Vashon Community Care Center on June 25, 2008 after a very long, full life and a short final illness. Mildred was born in 1909 and lived most of her life in West Seattle. Her life reflects the changing role of women in the 20th century. In the 1920s she was a flapper; she danced the Charleston on roller skates for a Pathe newsreel and drank bathtub gin. Mildred attended West Seattle High School (Class of 1927) and shortly thereafter started her long career with the Union Pacific Railroad. She began as a switchboard operator and ended as a ticket agent at the downtown Seattle office when she retired in 1969. Following her retirement from the Union Pacific, Mildred had a second career working part-time for Washington Mutual Savings Bank in the school savings department. Throughout the Great Depression, she hid her first marriage to avoid a railroad policy of not hiring married women. After WWII, she refused to give up her job to accommodate veterans returning to the workforce.

In 1950 Mildred married the great love of her life, Orville Horace (Bill) Rhind. In the 1950s, she had her first and only child and continued her career so she and husband and son could have a duel income and enjoy boating. Mildred and Bill’s marriage lasted until his death in 1970. Over the years she was a member of Eastern Star, Peace Lutheran Church, Tyee Yacht Club, the Ladies Auxiliary of the Swedish Club and the West Seattle Garden Club. Mildred is survived by her son, William Rhind (partner, John Coleman) her brothers Oliver Ahrenius (Evelyn), Chuck Ahrenius (Joan) and many nieces and nephews. Her motto in life “Smile, say yes and do what you damn well please” served her well up until the very end. Mildred will be greatly missed. A private family memorial service will be held at a later date. Remembrances may be made to your favorite charity. Please sign the online guestbook at http://www.islandfuneral.com

Published July 2, 2008 in the West Seattle Herald.

Voulez-voulez-vous share and enjoy.