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Things my husband says: new and improved edition

Cindy Hval

When my oldest brother David offers advice, I usually take it. He’s a pretty smart guy.

When my husband had hip replacement surgery a few weeks ago, however, David warned, “Just don’t write a column about what he says while coming out of the anesthesia.”

That’s like telling me not to drink coffee in the morning.

The surgery went well, and when they wheeled him into his post-op room, I met him there, notebook in hand.

Alas, he didn’t have general anesthesia, so no embarrassing quips to report. He also was a bust when he had his wisdom teeth removed. He did worry, though.

“I’m afraid I’ll say something inappropriate to you,” he said.

“You always say inappropriate things to me,” I replied.

“Yeah, but not in front of witnesses.”

Thankfully, Derek doesn’t need drugs to entertain me. Here’s the latest installment of #ThingsMyHusbandsays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• One night, as I drifted into sleep, Derek murmured, “Tootsie Rolls … a chest filled with Tootsie Rolls …”

I guess his sweet tooth even haunts his dreams.

• Early one morning, he rolled over and elbowed me.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry!” he said. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“I sleep here,” I said.

“I know, but you didn’t look like you were here.”

Derekisms

• Derek on why I should watch “Dune.” “It has that guy you like, Jason MIMOSA.”

He’s not wrong. I do like the actor Jason Momoa. I also enjoy mimosas.

• Him: “Listen, it’s not your fault if they want to be a hobbit.”

Me: “You mean hermit?”

Him: “Whatever.”

• “Get the little hookers!” he said, while decorating the Christmas tree.

We don’t have risqué ornaments. He needed ornament hooks.

• “Look! There’s a Dalai Lama guy! Oh, hey, there’s two!” Derek upon seeing two Buddhist monks at Manito Park.

• “I’m feeling a lot better. I haven’t taken Desitin in days.”

Let the record show he meant Mucinex, not diaper cream.

• Derek’s been watching a PBS series about World War II called “Nazi Mega Weapons.”

It doesn’t really interest me, but I cuddled with him while he watched it.

I was kind of dozing and heard an interesting quote.

“Who said that?” I asked.

“It’s their fornication expert,” he replied.

I sat straight up.

“I meant FORTIFICATION expert.”

I stayed awake for the rest of the show just to be sure.

Life according to Derek

  • WARNING! Spoiler Alert!

One year, after Easter dinner, talk turned to when we each discovered the Easter Bunny wasn’t real.

Ethan, our oldest, couldn’t remember.

“How about you, Dad?” he asked. “You’re firstborn, too. Do you remember?”

“I’ll never forget it,” Derek said. “You were a baby, and I caught your mom taking an Easter basket to your room. ‘What are you doing!?’ I said. ‘That’s the Easter Bunny’s job!’ Then she broke it to me. I still haven’t gotten over it.”

• Him: “Damn squirrels are in my garden again!”

Me: “How did you get rid of them last year?”

Him:” I shot ’em.”

Me: “You did not!”

Him: “Yep. I got out Zach’s BB gun and blasted them.”

Me: “No, you didn’t.”

Him: “OK, then this is the year.”

• “It’s like a bad movie. I’m gonna finish it, but I’m not gonna like it.” Derek on sugar-free ice cream.

• One of our sons grew frustrated with the dating scene. “I’m lowering my expectations,” he said. “That’s what your mom did, and she got me!” his dad replied.

Married life

• Derek flung open the bedroom door.

“What do Chris Pine and I have in common besides our incredibly sexy good looks?”

I felt like this may be a trick question, so I shrugged.

“Don’t know. Give me a hint?”

He grinned.

“Warren Buffett and I have this in common, too!”

Now, I’m truly stumped.

“OK. I give. What do you, Chris Pine and Warren Buffett have in common?”

“We all HATE SMARTPHONES!” Derek says and does a victory lap around the bed.

(He’s quite attached to his ancient, barely functioning phone with its slide-out keyboard.)

PS: I was for cash. Lots of cash.

• Me: “Something is really wrong here. I just spent more money at PetSmart than I did at Total Wine.”

Him: “That’s terrible! You need to go back to Total Wine!”

• “I contemplate lumber the way you contemplate purses or shoes,” my husband on why he’s taking so long at Home Depot.

• One winter evening I couldn’t find Derek anywhere. Finally, Sam looked out on the deck and discovered his dad smoking a cigar. “What are you doing? It’s freezing out here!” I said.

Turns out he’d read about the oldest living veteran, who at 107 drinks whiskey in his morning coffee and smokes up to 12 cigars a day.

“I’ve got 11 more to go!” Derek said.

“Yeah, but also he said the true secret to his longevity is staying out of trouble,” I replied.

He sighed. “I’ll be in after I finish my cigar.”

With that kind of wisdom and his spry new hip, Derek just may make 107, too.

Columns

A Member of the Wedding(s)

Cindy Hval

My column about my son’s wedding (Oct. 24) prompted a blast from the past.

Mary Gustafson wrote to remind me I was her flower girl at her January 1971 wedding. She even sent a photo of 6-year-old me rocking a bouffant hairdo!

Mom made my red satin dress with an empire waist and white ribbon sash. I wore short white gloves and carried a basket filled with rose petals.

Knowing her limitations, Mom took me to a beauty parlor for the bouffant, which she reinforced at home and at the church with copious amounts of White Rain hairspray. The scent gagged me, but it did its job, and my hairdo held.

1971 was a busy year for weddings for me. My brother, David, married his wife, Becky, in November.

It looks like Mom used the same pattern for my dress, but this time, I wore beige satin with short puffed sleeves and a brocade sash. Alas, no salon-induced bouffant. Instead, my short hair was softly curled, and I wore a headband matching the sash.

My basket brimmed with fall flowers, but the best part of the wedding for me was the handsome ring bearer, Becky’s youngest brother, Joe.

With huge chocolate-brown eyes and a killer smile, he was the cutest boy I’d ever seen! I felt lovely walking down the aisle with him.

After a brief hiatus, I resumed my duties at another winter wedding. In December 1973, my brother, Jon, wed his wife, Bonnie.

My dotted pink Swiss gown had an empire waist, but longer sleeves. I’m pretty sure Mom used the same pattern and just lengthened the sleeves.

By this time my mother had shorn my hair a la Florence Henderson in the Brady Bunch. In the photos, it looked like she trimmed my bangs herself. Mom was great at snipping fabric – hair not so much.

I had no flower-flinging duties because I’d been promoted to junior bridesmaid – which is just like a regular bridesmaid, but shorter.

My nuptial career hit a lull until my sister Shelley’s wedding in Leavenworth, in September 1984. This time I was the maid of honor.

Once again, Mom made my dress – a floor-length heather blue gown. Of course, it had an empire waist. I’m somewhat confident she didn’t use the same Butterick pattern she used for the previous three dresses. Then again, she’s pretty thrifty.

I didn’t let her touch my hair, but she brought an extra large can of pink-capped White Rain and sprayed it in my vicinity while we got ready for the wedding.

Two years later, I had a star turn as the bride, which was a lot more stressful than my previous appearances. Mom didn’t make my dress, but she did try to White Rain me.

The best part of this outing was all the presents. And the honeymoon. And Derek. Not necessarily in that order.

I did take one more trip down the aisle in 1987 when my friend Rhonda married her husband, Jay, in Moses Lake.

They had a June wedding and my Mom-made gown was a shimmering iridescent blue of some gauzy fabric that made her swear off sewing formal wear forever.

I’m proud to tell you that every one of these marriages endured. Not one divorce! My participation likely had nothing to do with it, but still, if you’re planning a wedding keep me in mind.

Flower girls are cute and all, but a flower woman could add an elegant touch. I’m not even opposed to bringing the bouffant back, but I won’t stock up on White Rain just yet.

Columns

Brown sugar cookies bring sweet memories

Cindy Hval

Chocolate chip cake bars, cowboy cookies, gingersnaps, snickerdoodles – on most Saturdays, Mom’s kitchen was filled with the fragrance of fresh-baked cookies.

When my youngest son started kindergarten and I returned to work, Mom assumed my children might never get a homemade cookie again. So she baked. Cookies were her love language.

Mom didn’t drive, so one of us would stop by her house to pick up the goodies. See what she did there? A Saturday visit from her daughter, son-in-law or a grandson was guaranteed.

Of all the treats Mom baked, brown sugar cookies were my favorite. Sweet and chewy with an added spark of cinnamon. It’s impossible to eat just one, so I often secreted a stash away from Derek and my boys.

In August, I came across her handwritten recipe.

My future daughter-in-law was coming to meet the wedding florist in my home to choose flowers for the bouquets and boutonnieres. I planned to serve them tea and cookies, and as I thumbed through my recipes, a flash of Mom’s tidy penmanship caught my eye.

Brown sugar cookies.

I hadn’t tasted them since she moved into an assisted living community seven years ago. I’ve baked a lot of cookies over those years, but I didn’t have the heart to make my favorites.

I wanted to remember how they tasted when she pulled them from the oven and placed a warm cookie in my hand.

I wanted to picture Mom in her element – stirring dough with a wooden spoon in the sunshine yellow mixing bowl and scooping dollops onto her battered and bent cookie sheets.

If I’d known that long ago batch would be the last one she’d be able to bake, I would have savored each bite, feeling her love in the sweetness of every mouthful.

Now, Mom’s memories are jumbled and fragmented. The details of hundreds of meals and thousands of cakes and cookies she churned out are lost somewhere in the depths of dementia.

It felt like it was time to fold new memories into the richness of the old. So, I affixed the recipe to the range hood and assembled the ingredients.

While they baked, I spread one of Mom’s lace cloths on the table and warmed a teapot for my guests, just like she showed me.

The timer rang, and I pulled a pan of cookies from the oven. As usual, I couldn’t wait for them to cool. I juggled one from hand to hand and finally sank my teeth into the deliciousness of brown sugar and cinnamon. They were every bit as wonderful as those that came from Mom’s kitchen.

I shouldn’t have waited so long to make them.

When Naselle arrived, I served the cookies on the glass dessert plates we used at my wedding 38 years ago.

Of course, she loved the cookies.

For her bridal shower, I created a cookbook filled with favorite family recipes. I included Mom’s piecrust and a copy of her handwritten brown sugar cookie recipe.

I hope the memory of the day I finally made Mom’s cookies will be as sweet as the ones I have of her baking for my boys.

But if that moment fades or is lost to me in the haze of age or illness, perhaps my daughter-in-law will bake a batch and remember for me.

Brown Sugar Cookies

1 cup shortening

2 cups brown sugar

2 eggs

2 tablespoons water

2 teaspoons vanilla

3 ½ cups flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon cinnamon

Cream shortening and sugar. Add eggs, water and vanilla. Sift dry ingredients and mix well. Take small balls of dough and mash down with a glass dipped in sugar and cinnamon.

Bake at 350 degrees for 8-10 minutes on a greased cookie sheet.

All Write

Purple Heart Pin-Up

Cindy Hval

During World War II, pinup girls with porcelain skin, scarlet lips and daintily arched brows offered troops reminders of the girls back home.

Gina Elise loved that glamorous look and decided to use the nostalgia to support contemporary troops. In 2006, she launched Pin-Ups for Vets, a nonprofit with a mission to raise funds for hospitalized veterans and to boost the morale of deployed servicemen.

“Each year, we create a calendar featuring female veterans from across the country,” she said. “The calendar fundraises for everything we do, from donating rehab equipment to VA Hospitals to shipping care packages to troops to our 50-state Veterans Hospital Tour.”

Pin-Up Vets have visited 20,000 veterans in 49 states, delivering gifts of appreciation.

This year, the organization released its 19th calendar, and Miss January hails from Spokane. Kodie Misiura served four years in the Marines and deployed twice to Iraq.

Misiura said she opted to enlist partly out of orneriness because her dad didn’t want his daughter in the military.

“My dad said, ‘Kodie, some guys can’t make it through Marine Corps boot camp. How are you going to?’ ” she recalled. “That’s all it took.”

Today marks the 249th birthday of the U.S. Marine Corps. Women make up less than 6% of the Corps.

She’s proud to be one of them.

“Being a Marine is special – being a woman Marine is even more special. The fewer. The prouder,” she said, riffing on the classic Marine slogan: The Few. The Proud. The Marines.

Misiura is also in rare company as one of approximately 500 women in the U.S. military to receive a Purple Heart.

On June 23, 2005, she survived one of the worst days for women in the history of the military when a suicide bomber attacked her convoy. Three of her fellow female Marines died, and 11 more were injured in the blast.

It’s a day she prefers not to discuss. Instead, she focuses on the friendships she formed and the experience she gained.

“The military afforded me every opportunity,” she said.

She currently works in veterans’ services for the state of Washington.

When a fellow Marine sent her the calendar casting call, Misiura was intrigued.

“I’m not a girly girl by any means,” she said. “But I love pinups and that vintage look.”

After reading how the nonprofit supports veterans and active-duty personnel, she decided to go for it.

Pin-Ups for Vets founder Elise said they receive hundreds of submissions from veterans across the country.

“This year’s calendar features 13 female vets with a combined 117 years of service,” she said. “Kodie is one of two Purple Heart recipients in the calendar.”

Misiura said the experience was a whirlwind.

“I flew down to California, and they did my hair, makeup and costume all in one day!”

Elise said the women revel in the process.

“They have a blast,” she said. “We turn them into 1940s bombshells.”

Misiura enjoyed every minute.

“It was cool, because I got to meet some of the other women veterans,” she said.

When the calendars are printed, the Pin-Up vets visit VA hospitals and veteran’s homes to deliver and sign them.

“They have an instant vet-to-vet connection,” Elise said.

But that connection isn’t always so instantaneous. Usually, the veterans don’t know the calendar girls are fellow vets.

Misiura recently visited a veteran’s home in Columbia Falls, Montana. She went from room to room chatting with the vets and offering to sign a calendar for them.

One vet wasn’t inclined to talk. She noticed his display of medals.

“I see you have a Purple Heart,” Misiura said. “Thank you for your service – I have one, too.”

He was shocked, and when she showed him her pinup photo in the calendar, he opened up and began to chat.

“It was a nice way to connect,” she said.

But those without an array of medals to show for their service also command her respect.

“A lot of veterans think if they didn’t deploy, they’re not a vet,” Misiura said. “I tell them signing up shows your courage. A veteran is a veteran is a veteran. It’s a humbling experience to visit them and share our stories.”

For more information or to purchase a calendar visit pinupsforvets.com.

All Write, Columns

Mother of the Groom

Cindy Hval

When pregnant with my first child, I envisioned a beautiful baby girl. I dreamed of the dolls we’d play with and the tea parties we’d share.

“We’ll wear floppy straw hats and floral print dresses and drink tea from china cups,” I told my husband, setting my latest porcelain cup and saucer on a shelf.

If you’ve been reading this column for a while, you already know how that turned out. That first baby was a boy. So was the second. And the third. And the fourth.

Our home was a testosterone tsunami. Until August, when Freya joined our family, even our cats were all boys.

And then, one evening several months ago, our son Zachary brought a beautiful woman with long dark hair and coffee-colored eyes to a family dinner.

She held her own amid Hval volume, and when we played Uno, she didn’t balk at playing several Draw Four cards on me.

I forgave her even before she agreed to marry our thirdborn son.

When Zach showed me the engagement ring he’d chosen, I was on pins and needles until he finally popped the question. He proposed at the neighborhood park where he and his brothers spent many hours as kids.

Wedding preparations began in earnest. Naselle’s mom died several years ago, and when she asked if I’d like to go with her to look at wedding gowns, I cried. It was such an honor to be present when she found the dress of her dreams.

Then, I had the delight of introducing her to a florist friend. I served tea and cookies while we discussed Naselle’s wedding colors and ideas. Her mother’s favorite flower was yellow roses, so they became the focal point of the boutonnières and bouquets.

Speaking of tea, my daughter-in-law loves it. In fact, she and Zach’s first date was at Revival Tea Co. downtown.

Naselle’s bridal shower was a garden tea party at the home of one of her sweet friends. The invitation asked attendees to wear their favorite hats and party dresses.

You can read the tea leaves on this, can’t you?

Yes, I finally had a reason to buy a floppy straw hat and a new floral print dress.

As I sat at a table, with the bride’s two adorable flower girls, I asked the littlest one if she’d been a flower girl before.

She shook her head, taking a dainty sip of tea.

“No, have you?” she asked.

I laughed.

“Yes, but it was a long, long time ago.”

In the harried and hectic weeks leading up to the wedding, I wondered why there weren’t any “Mother of the Groom” movies. After all, there are plenty of “Father of the Bride” films.

On Oct. 5, as I watched my son become a husband, I think I discovered the reason.

There seems to be less worry for the mother of the groom. No drama about losing a son, angst over letting him go, or stress that she’ll be able to provide. Just delight in his happiness.

Zachary has found someone who holds his heart and his dreams in capable and loving hands, and I gained a daughter.

She is the answer to both of our prayers.

Columns

Which is scarier: A zombie or a newspaper columnist?

Cindy Hval

This post from eight years ago showed up recently in my Facebook feed.

“I’m rethinking our maiden Scarywood visit. Derek’s reading the attraction descriptions aloud, and pauses and says, ‘Oh, he’s getting punched.’ He reads some more. ‘Oh. Clowns. Yeah, they’re getting punched.’ ”

Each autumn for the past 15 years, Silverwood Theme Park visits the dark side and transforms into Scarywood Haunted Nights.

After listening to Derek’s violent reaction to the haunt descriptions, I nixed that visit. Bailing my husband out of an Idaho jail might terrify, but not in a fun way.

Years passed. My husband mellowed (I hoped), and the day that memory popped up in my newsfeed happened to be the day I’d agreed to take him to media night at the theme park.

I thought I might need some backup in case he went rogue, so his sister, Camille, and her husband, Kjell, agreed to chaperone.

Our first stop was Lindy’s Restaurant – not for the scares, for the blood. While the park provided complimentary admission, parking, food and drink were on us.

Lindy’s offered fortification in the form of a new Blood Bag cocktail. The recipe includes fruit punch, tequila, Captain Morgan’s rum, triple sec and edible glitter. It’s served in a plastic bag like the kind you see hanging from IV poles in hospitals.

Not wanting to be too “fortified,” we decided one bag per couple was plenty.

Most of Silverwood’s signature rides are open at Scarywood, including the Timber Terror with a twist – the roller coaster runs backward!

Derek, Camille and Kjell were eager to ride, but I’ve been through enough jolts recently. I was left holding the Blood Bags. You’d think my position was enviable, but I couldn’t figure out how to unlock my IV to get the liquid flowing.

In exasperation, I gave it a good squeeze which was why I was wearing most of our blood bag when my husband exited the Timber Terror.

With gruesome red spatters on my white jacket, I fit right in with the cast at the park.

From there, we decided to explore a few of the five haunts.

First up: Chuckle’s 3D Sideshow.

Donning our 3D glasses, we entered the haunted funhouse. Gingerly, we crossed a bridge through a tunnel of spinning lights. Bloody clowns jumped at us, grabbed at us, popped out of boxes and loomed around corners, gleefully terrorizing us.

Fun times!

Then we visited Scarywood’s newest attraction – The Swine.

Billed as “the dark, forgotten chapter of the story you thought you knew,” The Swine is a corn maze populated by killer pigs and an angry Pig Mama.

These piggies aren’t afraid of any wolf’s huffing and puffing. They’re armed with chainsaws and have a thirst for blood.

The sound of pigs squealing accompanied each twist and turn of the maze. Lots of laughing and shrieking ensued, some of it from the pigs, most of it from us.

The following morning, I gleefully enjoyed the bacon Derek cooked for breakfast.

Whose squealing now, little piggy?

Our favorite haunt was Blood Bayou, where cannibals lurk behind every corner and sometimes beneath the stairs. If bloody gore isn’t your thing, you might want to skip this one, but for us it offered the most jump scares (and screams) of the night.

Scarywood also features themed scare zones, including Clown Town (think Pennywise, not Ronald McDonald) and Quarantine Zone (no COVID, but lots of bitey zombies).

Haunted by a roving cast of costumed characters, these areas offer lots of up-close and personal encounters with creatures from every nightmare you’ve had.

The Toybox scare zone proved my undoing. Derek didn’t clock a clown or poke a pig – instead, I was the one who got in trouble.

While we waited to see if Camille and Kjell would survive the Panic Plunge in the dark, blank-eyed broken dolls sidled up to us and otherwise stalked us.

I’ve seen “Toy Story” too many times to be scared by creepy dolls, so when a ghoulish gal approached me, I casually, said, “Boo!”

Mutely, she slowly shook her head and wagged a finger at me.

Seconds later a security guard approached and said, “You’re not allowed to scare the actors.”

I gulped and nodded.

While Derek gleefully chortled at my mortification, I mumbled, “She started it.”

Sure, there were crazed clowns, killer pigs and cranky cannibals, but apparently, one of the scariest things at Scarywood on opening night was a newspaper columnist saying, “Boo!”

Scarywood tickets are only available online. For dates, times and ticket information visit scarywoodhaunt.com.

Columns

From the courtroom to the emergency room

Cindy Hval

Recently, I had a week that began with jury duty and ended in a catastrophic car crash. I swear, my headlines write themselves.

Let’s start with the courtroom.

Unlike some, I’ve always been eager to serve on a jury. I own a copy of “Twelve Angry Men,” I ask questions for a living, and my note-taking is level expert. Yet, I’ve never been picked.

Honestly, I wondered if the court system has some kind of media bias.

That changed on Sept. 3. I reported to Spokane County Superior Court with 40-plus fellow residents as required. After watching a couple of videos and listening to information about how to get my whopping $10 per day, I was issued a badge.

Farewell, Cindy Hval – hello Juror No. 6.

After a lunch break long enough for me to rush home and snuggle my new kitten, I returned to the courthouse for voir dire. That’s a fancy term meaning attorneys on both sides of a case question prospective jurors to determine if they can be fair and impartial.

We were given the bare bones of the case and told that a jury trial in a civil case is extremely rare in Washington.

Fascinated, I listened as attorneys from both sides asked pointed questions of prospective jurors.

Then the defendant’s attorney called on me and asked what publications I wrote for and what topics I covered.

When I described this column, the attorney asked, “So, once this case is concluded, should we expect a column about your experience?”

I looked at him and at the judge and shrugged.

“Well, I’m here. This is my life.”

Despite that, I was included in the jury.

When I sat down, the woman seated in front of me, asked, “Did you review my husband’s book?”

Indeed I had.

The trial commenced. It was a big business versus a very big business and the jury’s task involved assessing damages (if any).

As a courtroom drama fan, a few things stood out – mainly the lack of drama. The objection process seemed subdued. No one stood up and yelled “OBJECTION!” No gavels were pounded, and the judge never once called for “order in the court.”

Every time things got tense between the opposing sides, the jury got ushered out. I felt like a kid being sent to her room so the grown-ups could chat.

The jury room was nice and we had private bathrooms to prevent us from accidentally encountering any parties in the lawsuit. We also had snacks that were a bit better than airline snacks.

But there was sitting. A lot of sitting. We were relieved to learn our presence wouldn’t be required in court on Friday.

So that day, I drove to an interview in Otis Orchards. I almost made it.

As I neared my destination, I slowed and switched on my turn indicator. The next thing I knew, there was a terrific smashing sound – dust, gravel and glass flew.

I’d been rear-ended by a semi.

Shakily, I exited Ruby Sue (my Ford Escape) and surveyed the damage. My car was obviously totaled.

A witness saw the accident and pulled over to call 911.

In the adrenalin rush that followed I called my husband, called the couple I was supposed to interview, and answered the state trooper’s questions. I didn’t care to watch him cite the driver.

At the urging of responding firefighters, I let Derek take me to the emergency room. I was bruised and shaken but cleared to go home. It could have been so much worse.

If I’d been at a complete stop.

If I’d been making my left turn.

If the semi had been hauling a load.

It’s been a little over two weeks since the accident. My bruises have faded. The insurance companies are doing what they’re supposed to do. I’m following up with my physician as advised.

But gosh, I miss Ruby Sue. She was the first car that I got just for me. The only one I didn’t have to use to haul kids to school and sporting events.

“We’ll get you a newer and better Ruby Sue,” Derek said. “Cars are replaceable, you aren’t.”

So, I’m choosing gratitude. I’m thankful I’m here for our son’s wedding next week. I’m thankful that soon I’ll be in Ohio visiting our grandkids, and I’m grateful for seven years and lots of miles with my sparkly Ruby Sue.

It turns out she lived up to her model name – Escape.

As the witness stood with me at the accident scene, looking at the wreckage, he said, “I saw how hard he hit you. That little car saved your life.”

On the way to the hospital, I called the courthouse.

Being rear-ended by a semi is one way to get out of jury duty, but I sure don’t recommend it.

Columns

The new girl

Cindy Hval

She sashays through our house like she owns the joint, the bell on her pink collar jingling.

A month ago, Freya Charlotte joined our clan. Derek and I were immediately smitten with the kitten, but it took our resident tabby a tad longer to warm up.

Though Sir Walter Scott keenly missed his buddy Thor, we hadn’t anticipated adding a kitten to our family quite so soon.

Like cat foster mom Gina said, “The Cat Distribution System struck again!”

She’s referring to the concept that cats or kittens just randomly appear in your life. The idea is that sometimes you don’t adopt a cat; rather, a cat adopts you.

All I know is from the moment we saw the tiny tuxedo’s photo on Gina’s Facebook, we knew she was ours.

The orphan kitten found alone near Progress Road in Spokane Valley got the best of care at Gina’s house. After she gained some weight and was spayed, chipped and had her first round of shots, we went to SCRAPS and officially adopted her.

We gave considerable thought to her name. A friend asked if we were naming our cats after South Hill streets, but Thor and Freya are prominent in Norse mythology.

Thor, the hammer-wielding god of thunder, is better known thanks to the Marvel comics and movies. But Freya is legendary in her own right. The fierce Norse goddess drove a chariot pulled by cats.

After some research, I found a middle name meant to curry favor with Walter. His namesake, Scottish author, historian and poet Sir Walter Scott, had four children. Charlotte Sophia was the eldest and his favorite.

Freya Charlotte Sophia is a bit of a mouthful, but it does get her off the top of the refrigerator in a hurry.

When we brought her home, Sir Walter sauntered up to peer into the carrier. Freya poked her nose out, and a horrified Walter bolted to our bedroom to hide under our bed.

He didn’t stay there long because Freya found him and assumed that he adored her like everyone else she’d met.

After a bit of hissing on both their parts, they moved on to chasing, pouncing and snuggling.

It’s been heartwarming to see their relationship blossom. Walter is a cuddly cat who longed to cozy up to Thor, but our senior tabby wouldn’t allow it.

Thankfully, Freya loves to snuggle next to him for a catnap. She submits to his grooming attention until she’s had enough and then gives a surprisingly deep, throaty growl. That’s enough for Walter to lay off the licking.

Another wonderful surprise is how much she likes people. Most cats are standoffish with strangers – not Freya.

On her third day in our home, Naselle, my soon-to-be daughter-in-law, came over to meet with the wedding florist. Freya let both ladies hold her, then promptly curled up on Naselle’s lap and fell asleep.

The kitten is equally friendly with our sons, but her reaction to a contractor who came to work on our home shocked me. The contractor is a big guy, and Freya marched up to him and let him pick her up.

Sadly, Walter is not so brave. Every day the contractor was here, Walter hid under our bed and refused to come out. Not so his baby sister. She’d check on the progress of the room remodeling and then join Walter under the bed, curling up with him in solidarity.

She likes Walter, but she’s an absolute mama’s girl. Wherever I am is where she wants to be. I put a soft blanket on the chair near my desk. As I type this, she’s dozed off, but she much prefers to bury her nose in my neck when she’s sleepy. Her purrs sound more lionish than kittenish.

The one similarity she has with the late Thor is her food obsession. She’s slowly learning that she’s not allowed on the dining room table and that our plates are off-limits. So are the refrigerator, stove and sink.

Recently, Derek found her licking an omelet pan he’d left on the stove. Thankfully, the pan and the stove had cooled, but that behavior is not cool.

He sternly scolded Freya Charlotte Sophia. A few minutes later, he returned to the kitchen to load the dishwasher and found her in the sink, dabbing her paws into the pan he’d filled with water.

“Freya!” he hollered.

She looked him in the eye and slowly licked her dainty paw.

I think the new girl will keep all of us, including Walter, on our toes.

Columns

Amusing me for 38 years

Cindy Hval

Feedback from my column about the amusing things my husband says was unanimous with readers asking for another installment.

After reading it, our pastor said that he felt a sermon title coming on “God. Does. Not. Rapture. Zucchini.”

I’m eagerly waiting for that one!

I’ve been collecting Derek’s sometimes purposely but usually unintentionally funny sayings for years and saving them under the hashtag #thingsmyhusbandsays.

Here’s your second helping.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• One night I got in bed after Derek had turned in early.

“Did you see that?” he asked, as I slipped between the sheets.

“What?”

“The screen just jumped!”

“What screen?”

“The TV screen.”

“You’re not watching TV. You’re sleeping,” I said.

“Whatever,” he mumbled. “But the screen just jumped.”

• At 5:30 one morning, Derek woke me up saying, “Hi! How are ya doing?”

And even though I knew he was talking in his sleep I answered, “I’m fine, how are you?”

“Wha? Huh?” he replied.

“You asked me how I was, so I said I was fine.”

“But I was talking to you on the phone in my dream. You were having car trouble. Now I won’t know which car it is, and I won’t be able to help you!”

“Go back to sleep and I’ll call you again,” I said.

Derekisms

• “Well, that’s going to throw a wrench into his monkey.”

• “Did you see that? The guys on that porch are playing guitars and Mandalorians!” (Pretty sure he meant mandolins.)

• “I tend toward goodism.”

• After a week of vacation, I wasn’t sure I remembered how to do my job. “Don’t worry, it’s just like falling off a bicycle,” Derek said.

• On my way to the grocery store, I called to ask if there was anything he wanted me to pick up.

“Yeah, get a buttermilk squash.

“You mean Butternut?

“Whatever,” he said. “Buttermilk is probably easier to cook.”

• When venting about a business contact who’s difficult to communicate with Derek said, “It’s like my texts go in one eye and out the other!”

The world according to Derek

• In the Costco parking lot on a wintery evening, he fumbled through his vest and pants pockets getting more frustrated by the second.

“I can’t find my car keys! Where are my keys!?”

I slid my hand into his sweatshirt pocket and pulled out the keys.

“CLOTHES HAVE TOO MANY DAMN POCKETS,” he bellowed. “TOO MANY POCKETS!”

• A woman brought two dogs into the movie theater in a baby stroller adorned with pink ruffles. “And that there is why she’s single,” Derek said.

• “I may be over 50, but I’m just saying when the zombie apocalypse comes, I’m totally going to outlast the man-bun, high-water pants dudes.”

• Hval family dinner conversation:

Sam: I’ve got chest hair now and I don’t like it.

Derek: You’ve got Chet’s hair?

Sam: CHEST hair. I’ve got CHEST hair!

Derek: Big deal. I’ve had chest hair since I was 5. Heck, Thor’s (our cat) had chest hair since birth.

Married life

• I was in the kitchen baking while Derek searched Netflix. He settled on a foreign language film.

Me: I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.

Him: I don’t. It’s Japanese. (He doesn’t speak Japanese, either.)

• When my husband hurt his back, I offered to tie his shoes.

Dismayed, he looked down at my handiwork.

“You tied double knots? What do you think I am, a little kid?”

“I always tie my tennis shoes with double knots,” I explained.

He shook his head.

“Great. Now, everyone’s gonna know my wife tied my shoes.”

• I bemoaned the lack of time to get my eyebrows waxed.

“I’ll do them for you,” Derek offered.

I raised my bushy brows.

“I don’t know if I trust you with hot wax.”

“Wax?” he said. “I was going to use duct tape.”

• Him: How come you’re doing laundry on a Wednesday?

Me: I dunno, but for some reason I was running out of underwear.

Him: Me too! That’s why I’ve been wearing yours.

• Derek had a headache the other day, so I told him to look in the cupboard for the migraine relief pills. Later, I asked him how he was feeling.

“Great!” he said. “That Midol works wonders!”

“What?” I replied. “I said take migraine tablets.”

“You said, ‘Look for the bottle with a ‘M’ on it,’ and I did!”

Bottom line? He felt better and was a lot less moody!

How could I not be crazy about Derek? He’s not only a wonderful husband and a great provider for our household, he’s also an endless source of column fodder.

As my friends say, “He’s a keeper.”

Cindy Hval can be reached at dchval@juno.com. Hval is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation” (Casemate Publishers, 2015) available at Auntie’s Bookstore and bookstores nationwide.

Columns

Fostering for furever homes

Cindy Hval

Their tiny faces peered at me from the pages of the newspaper.

Tabbies, gingers, fluffy mixed breeds and sleek black kittens, all in need of a home. It’s kitten season, and area shelters are bursting at the seams with adoptable bundles of love.

Then my friend Gina Campbell posted a picture of her newest foster – a tuxedo kitten with a Harry Potter-like mark on her forehead. The feline’s wild whiskers and goofy expression made me smile.

I showed the photo to Derek.

“Oh! A tuxedo like our first cat, Milo!” he said. “You’ve always wanted a girl. Maybe we should meet her.”

I had already planned to write about the Spokane County Regional Animal Protective Service foster program. If research called for meeting a foster kitten, so be it.

I called Gina.

“I fell into fostering five years ago,” she said. “My tuxedo cat Mercy died, and when he passed away, I grieved terribly.”

Like many who have lost a beloved pet, Gina said never again – the loss just hurts too much, but two weeks later, a friend called. A feral cat had kittens in a bush beneath his mailbox, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

Gina knew the four kittens needed to stay with their mom, so she called SCRAPS. They found a foster home for the mom and her litter.

“That’s how I found out about fostering,” Gina said. “I stayed in touch with their foster mom, and she sent me pictures of the kittens.”

By the time the kittens were spayed, she’d fallen in love with two of them, and Licorice and Luna joined the Campbell clan.

Gina’s involvement led to her attending an orientation for foster families at SCRAPS. In addition to fostering cats, she now teaches some of those orientations.

“I’m a kitten coach,” she said.

Daniella Martin, SCRAPS foster coordinator, said the shelter relies on faithful foster families.

“Fostering is for animals that would do better with one-on-one attention or who need a break from the shelter,” Martin said. “Generally, that’s puppies and kittens under two months.”

In 2023, 2,191 kittens and 255 puppies were impounded at SCRAPS.

The shelter is overwhelmed by an influx of animals – especially kittens. On a recent weekend, they even waived adoption fees for all animals in hopes of easing its maxed-out shelter capacity.

Martin said they’re thankful for their roster of foster families and are always looking for more.

“We provide supplies, training and ongoing support,” she said. “Fostering gives the animals less exposure to sickness and offers less stress on our system.”

Foster families check out a Facebook page that Martin updates with photos and information about animals needing care. They respond as they have time and space.

Recently, Gina brought home her 55th foster kitten. She cares for them until they’re big enough to be spayed and are ready for adoption through SCRAPS.

“I’ve learned a lot and cared for lots of sick kittens,” she said.

The feisty tuxedo that caught our attention is a tiny but healthy orphan.

“She was found in Spokane Valley, near Progress and Best,” Gina said. “Sometimes people ‘rescue’ them too soon. It’s best to wait and watch and see if the mama cat is nearby.”

For research purposes, I had to meet this baby. Derek and our son Sam went with me, and Sam predicted the outcome.

“When in the history of ‘going to see a cat’ have you not come home with a cat?” he asked.

He has a point. But we all fell in love with the bundle of black-and-white kitten energy.

Our 5-year-old cat Walter still has plenty of zip, but he seems lost without Thor to chase through the house. A baby sister might add some spice to his days.

We’ll find out soon because, in early August, we’ll be adopting that tiny tuxedo. Finally, I won’t be the only girl in the house!

For Gina, knowing that the cats she cares for are going to loving homes is all the reward she needs.

“Fostering is the best medicine for anxiety or depression,” she said. “I feel like I’m making a difference in an animal’s life, and I’m making a difference in the life of a family. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

To learn more about fostering go to spokanecounty.org/4228/Foster or visit during shelter hours. Find hours and information at spokanecounty.org/5519/SCRAPS.

SCRAPS is located at 6815 E. Trent Ave. in Spokane Valley.