IS THERE SURGERY TO FIX NERDINESS?

I was afraid that I was a certified nerd because of the thick glasses I’ve worn since age 7. Now that I’ve had LASIK and can see 20/20, the physical sign of my nerdiness is no more. Could I be? Should I be? Can I now be . . . no longer a nerd, but a BABE?!?! If it’s true that boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses, what about girls who don’t wear glasses but are long past the age at which they are “girls”?

I swear, I went to the grocery store the day after surgery, and saw two or three men giving me appreciative looks. ME!!! Of course, I instantly saw why: they were wearing Coke bottle bottom glasses, and I was now a cool babe, without ‘em. All these years, I’ve gone without wolf whistles because of my specs, eh? That . . . or they were REALLY ogling the steaks that I was standing right in front of. You think?

Well, the nerdiness doesn’t go too far underground. I think it’s ingrained. I have so far: (1) Poked myself right between the eyes thinking that I had to push my glasses up, although of course there aren’t any glasses any more (2) Put my right hand up to my face and scraped it with my fingers when getting ready to take my glasses off – the glasses that aren’t there, and (3) Looked at myself in the mirror and for an instant didn’t realize that it was me – I was startled to be able to see my own naked eyes with my own naked eyes.

Now, THAT’S a nerd.

DailySusan returns with joyous news:
the LASIK surgery was a success!
I’m so thankful for your prayers and encouragement.
To my fellow Coke-bottle-bottom glasses wearers: it’s great! Go for it!

----------------------

WAS BLIND, BUT NOW I SEE

(O)ne thing I know, that,
whereas I was blind, now I see.
-- John 9:25b

At my first eye exam, I couldn’t even see “The Big E,” much less which way it pointed. I had to get out of the chair and grope toward it.

Rx: powder blue fairy wing eyeglasses. Next came pink ones. Later, black, navy, brown and tortoiseshell.

Within a few years, they were Coke bottle bottoms. My fate as a nerd was sealed. I even sported tape on my glasses quite often, because I broke them frequently: smashed them on a trampoline . . . stepped on them at the swimming pool . . . left them on the roof of our car to sail in highway breezes. . . .

Home movies of me waterskiing show me squinting desperately like Mr. Magoo in a bikini, trying to see where the water was and the shore wasn’t. Shaving my legs required contortionism to get my eyeballs close enough to avoid bloodshed. I was always afraid they’d go flying off while playing sports and riding roller coasters.

Though I wore contacts through my teens and 20s, dry eyes and astigmatism forced me back into glasses some time ago.

So you could say eyeglasses . . . framed my life.

Not any more.

I’m FREE! Halle-LOOOO-jah! AY-men! Can I get a WITNESS?!?



A good-luck note left on the kitchen counter the morning of surgery.


LASIK eye surgery brought me from the brink of legal blindness to 20/20 vision, at least for distance. Close-up sight in the right eye is still fuzzy, and I may need to go back for a tune-up. But man! I can see!

For years, I was afraid of LASIK. I once got all the way to the eve of surgery, but had to cancel when I developed a sty and discovered I was pregnant. That was quite a day! A friend solemnly decreed that the Lord was protecting my eyesight with those two interventions. Whoa! Well, I’ve never had a sty since, the other “intervention” is now 6, and many people were encouraging me to try again. So I did.

There was an omen the night before, though. We went out to eat, and the lights suddenly dimmed. AAAIIIEEE! Things are going black!

Then there was a tornado warning, minutes before my surgery.What if the building were sucked upward into a tornado’s spiral right when the surgeon was in mid-slice on my eyeballs?

But the staff put me at ease. They promised not to say “oops” or “uh oh” during the procedure. And no chain-saw sound effects, guaranteed.

The Valium was good. Very good. In fact, I may need to go back several times for fine tuning and have it again. SEVERAL times. I literally kissed my glasses goodbye and kept giggling on the table instead of holding still.

All I remember for sure was that the actual surgery only took a minute, giggle-free. And when the surgeon was replacing the flaps of my eyes, he said it was like squeegeeing a windshield at a car wash. I giggled again, for joy . . . because I could see!

I could see Maddy’s freckles! I could walk in the rain without speckles! I could read speed-limit signs! (Darn!)

I could read the newspaper; before, it was like a ball of fuzz without my glasses. I could see my face in the mirror without craning my neck one inch away.

The BAD news is, I also could see cobwebs, dust bunnies and window smears. Hmm. Previous decades of nearsightedness weren’t all bad.

Just kidding. From all the angles, this is a modern medical marvel. People in ancient times would no doubt call it a miracle.

You know those people in the Bible whose sight Jesus healed? I think I know now how they felt. Incomparable joy, awe and gratitude.

My prayer is that I’ll see everything more clearly now, including spiritual things. And when I see Jesus in heaven someday, I’m going to thank him for sending a high-tech miracle . . . for a nearsighted wretch like me. †

DailySusan is scheduled to resume on Sunday, April 2,
after a refreshing spring break and Lasik surgery on March 30!
Your prayers are sought, and would be much appreciated!
------------------------------

A MAN'S HAND

I have set the Lord always before me:
because He is at my right hand, I shall not be moved. . . .
Thou wilt shew me the path of life:
in thy presence is fullness of joy;
at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.
-- Psalm 16:8, 11

She’s a beautiful woman in her mid-20s. Her two little girls are miniatures, with big, brown eyes and raven hair.

At first, I thought she was their babysitter. Now that I’m getting to know her, though, I can see the stress lines already forming on her face.

She was with a man for seven years. He fathered the two girls. But he won’t marry her and doesn’t want them.

Never should have gotten herself in this predicament? She knows. How well she knows! She loved him sooooo much. She thought he would take responsibility, become her husband, accept his family.

But he won’t. He is, in the words of the ancient scholars, a poop.

After a recent birthday party, in all innocence, a dad offered a silly party hat to one of the girls. “Take this home. I bet your daddy would put it on for you!”

She looked up at him solemnly: “I haven’t got a daddy.”

It was heart-wrenching. But it’s reality.

So now this single mother has full-time school and a part-time job, trying to make ends meet, with the girls in school and day care. If it weren’t for her mother and several faithful friends, she could never pull it off.

Her mother, her friends . . . and Jesus. She’s confused and afraid sometimes . . . but she has faith.

Every night, they have a quiet time, just Mommy and the two girls. They light a candle to make it special. They read a couple of Bible verses. They pray.

Privately, she is prayed out. Is He the one You have for me, Lord? Then why won’t he marry me? If He’s not the one, then why did You let me fall in love with him and have children with him? And if He’s not the one, where IS the one? I need him. We need him!

So far, no answer. It’s not time yet.

One night not long ago, during the family devotional, the older daughter asked, “Mommy? How do I know Jesus will always be with me?”

“Well, Honey,” she remembers saying, “I guess He’ll show you.”

They went to bed.

Long about dawn, the young mother was dreaming. She dreamt that she was walking down a sidewalk, and then started up some stairs. At the top of the stairs was a house. Inside the front door was the father of her two children.

She mounted the steps, but all of a sudden became aware that there was another man next to her, holding her hand. Her future husband? They stopped. She became aware that this was no mere man. This was Jesus Christ. She could feel His hand gently but firmly guiding her. With her hand in His, they turned and walked back down the stairs.

Poof! That was the end of the dream. She awoke, knowing that it was His way of showing her that He was with her. He would show her what to do. The father of her daughters was not going to be her husband. She should stop trying to make him something he was not.

She was free! Free to find her true love -- someone else.

It was 5:30 a.m., but she wasn’t a bit tired. Suddenly, she heard an immense amount of singing. Angels? A heavenly chorus celebrating her revelation?

No. It was just birds – lots and lots of birds in the ravine behind her apartment.

She smiled. Angels, nonetheless. They were singing, along with her heart.

Just then, her older daughter rushed in.

“Mommy! Mommy! I dreamed that Jesus was holding me! He showed me He was real! Just like you said!”

They hugged. Tears flowed.

He had made a promise, and He had kept it. And He always would. They needed to know that, so badly.

Hand in hand, feeling loved, honored and cherished, they faced the new day. †

THIS HOUSEHOLD'S HOPPIN'

Maddy can’t wait for her big sister to come home for Easter and meet her new guinea pig, Fluffy. She was chattering away about how big our family has gotten. I was wondering if she was including boyfriends and extended family.

But noooooo. People are slowly becoming the minority around here. We are now a family of 10: six humans; one yellow Lab on perpetual happy pills; two fat and lazy barn cats, TiGrr and Louie, and now a pudgy, cuddly rodent not likely to do any tricks, but at least she stays put.

One of Maddy’s favorite birthday gifts was a frog habitat from one of her homies, Hunter. She is to send in a card to order a tadpole for it when warmer temperatures are reliable. That’s so that we don’t have a “frogberg” DOA in the mail. So we will have a pet frog soon, too.

Maddy wasn’t satisfied. “We need one more ‘aminal,’” she said. “How about a GRASSHOPPER?”

Yumpin’ Yiminy! No wonder it seems like a three-ring circus around here. . . .

ARE YOU HAPPY WITH YOUR SALARY?

Today's DailySusan was a Power Point presentation available only to email subscribers.

WOULD YOU HAVE INVESTED MONEY WITH THIS GROUP?

(Today's DailySusan is a photo of a bunch of hairy, bearded geeks in early 1970s clothes; the photo is available only to DailySusan email subscribers)

Caption: MICROSOFT CORPORATION, 1978

Check the guy in the lower left . . . that's Bill Gates.

Paul Allen, the owner of the Seattle Seahawks with a net worth around $20 billion,
is on the far right, lower corner.

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT YOU HAD EVERYTHING

(Today's DailySusan is a series of new-product pictures from Japan, including a baby outfit for crawling-age babies that doubles as a mop, and tiny twin umbrellas for your shoes. The photos are available only to DailySusan blog subscribers.)

YOUNG MEN IN TUXES

Our daughter was a backup dancer in a talent segment of a beauty contest the other night, and her candidate won “Mr. Congeniality.”

That’s right: eight senior guys were vying for the title of “Mr. EHS” at Elkhorn High School. They were being judged for swimwear, talent, formalwear and interview. It was a fund-raiser for scholarships, and the winners got cash prizes and NEW CARS!!! Well, they were Matchbox cars – but they were new.

In the talent section, we saw everything from a ukulele player, to a nightclub-style singer, to a Star Wars-style laser gunfight, to a “Lord of the Dance” presentation that was really good. Our daughter’s friend dressed up like Richard Simmons, complete with outrageous wig and fake chest hair, and he and four pretty girls did an aerobics workout with amazing energy.

During the interviews, the boys all looked so smashing in their tuxedoes. They all answered different questions. Here was my favorite answer:

Q. What was your favorite childhood memory?

A. Is this still my childhood?

SHRIEKS STILL REVERBERATING

The highlight of Maddy’s Sponge Bob Square Pants extravaganza birthday party on Saturday had nothing to do with Sponge Bob. It was the sight of her encircled by her little friends on the floor of her room, passing around her new guinea pig, Fluffington Van Chocstraw. They were so careful and so gentle with the little thing. It was sweet.

But then, CHAOS ERUPTED AND EAR-PIERCING SHRIEKS BLASTED DOWN THE MISSOURI RIVER VALLEY!

Older daughter Neely and her friend raced to the scene, expecting to see an ax murderer or at least some blood and gore, based on the volume of those shrieks.

But nooooo. It was just that Fluffington Van Chocstraw had done her thing, twice, there on the carpet . . . and the little girls had instantly shrunk away like the Red Sea of kindergartners parting in shock and awe.

And I stood there and contemplated the irony of it all: they won’t remember the cake, they won’t remember the games, they won’t remember the goodie bags or elaborate decorations or any of the gifts.

It’s tough to be upstaged by a little rat in a wig . . . but I have to say, it WAS funny.

OUT OF THE ASHES

To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion,
to give unto them beauty for ashes,
the oil of joy for mourning,
the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
that they might be called trees of righteousness,
the planting of the Lord,
that He might be glorified.
-- Isaiah 61:3

A teenager we know was relaxing at one of those picturesque summer bonfires. It was at a rural firepit with a couple of families and lots of other teens.

All of a sudden, a swirling wind whipped up a cascade of sparks and flames. She was the closest. Her pants legs caught fire.

Two big boys raced to her rescue. They rolled her and put out the fire. But her legs were badly burned.

They rushed her to the hospital, where she was stabilized. And then the burn unit people described the long road back: skin grafts, a lot of pain, and a long, boring summer flat on her back.

Poof! Her dreams of summer fun were literally up in smoke.

It wasn’t fair! To be cut out of life, out of the action! What bad timing, too: she was sad and depressed about her parents’ recent divorce, and struggling to deal emotionally with the aftermath. Now this! Her situation was as black, dry and ugly as burned-out logs.

But you know what? God has a way of kindling sparks of life from dead ashes.

She realized how lucky she was to be alive. She now knew that, in an instant, you can die. She realized how very special everything is, especially family.

Her relationship with her mother improved drastically. Post-burn care is very hands-on. There was no mistaking the love and concern in every gentle touch – every bandage applied -- every meal tray carried in – every joke and conversational tidbit offered to pass the dreary days.

Mother and daughter fell back in love at a stage when many teens are running away and not looking back. It was as if the mother had a chance to heal the daughter from the burns left by divorce. It was nice.

During her recovery, she had time to think about how it felt to grow up in an unhappy home, even though she loved both her parents very much. She thought about the things she overheard them say to each other. She thought about the anger and sadness that now pervaded their lives like smoke.

That’s not how things are supposed to be!

But then she realized: her life was in ashes . . .

. . . but she didn’t have to stay there.

So she made some resolutions. She still believed in love. She wanted to get married. She determined to do everything she could to make her marriage a joy and a success.

She also decided that her life’s work would be to help other people make their marriages come alive and stay alive. How? By becoming a psychologist or a marriage counselor, helping prevent divorce whenever possible, and protect kids from being singed and scarred by it.

By the time she could walk again and go out, the idea was firmly in place. There’ve been bumps in her road. But every time she sees her scars, she remembers that God saved her life for a reason, and assigned her to a special calling. She sees that, in an unexpected way, God was at work in that fire. And now she’s on her way.

That’s the thing about fire. Although it’s dangerous and can harm and destroy, fire also does good. It can reveal things, and clean away what’s blocking the air and the light.

I’m sorry that our young friend got burned. But I marvel how the experience turned out so productively for her. She’s going to help a lot of people in her life. I sense God’s holy timing and purpose in this. Her future is bright.

Beauty for ashes: that’s what He offers. That’s what He gives.

You can get knocked flat by the fires of life that unexpectedly swirl up and burn you. But hold on to hope. You can come up out of the ashes . . . and know where you stand. †

THOUGHTFUL BIRTHDAY GIRL

Maddy got a “Grammy” award! That is, a birthday gift from her grandmother, which are the best kind. One of the grammies got Maddy a cute little shirt for her birthday. It’s hot pink. In sparkly rhinestones, it spells out:

GIRLS ROCK

When her father drove into the driveway the first day she wore it, though, she raced down to her bedroom. “I’ve got to change!” she announced.

“Whatever for?” I asked, mystified.

The suddenly sensitive clothes horse neighed, “My shirt would make Daddy feel sad.”

A LIMERICK FOR ST. PADDY'S DAY

There once was a miser named Clarence
Who simonized* both of his parents;
"The initial expense,"
he remarked, "is immense,
But it saves on the wearance and tearance."

-- By Ogden Nash

(*to “simonize” is to polish, as with wax)

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, to all my fellow Blarney Stone-kissers,
and may the coming year put minimal wearance and tearance
on your wee bod!

A DESERT WOLF CHILLS OUT

A writer friend of mine just spent several nights camped out in the desert of southern Israel with a group of about 15 strangers from all over the world. The experience thoroughly beats our typical family vacations for multiculturalism and unconventional adventure.

She wrote about eating Shayah, a Bedouin bread mentioned in the Bible as a “cake baked on ashes,” and it was – dough thrown right on the campfire ashes with two handfuls of desert dust tossed on top, then embedded in sticks and brush. I’ve had days like that, when I was pretty . . . burned out . . . on cooking. But, she said, it was amazingly delicious.

A sandstorm forced them to camp in a remote wadi basin deep inside a canyon by a dry riverbed. Let Cindy tell the rest:

A lunch table was spread in the wilderness under an acacia tree.

“After-dinner campfire stories had the effect of weaving our group together in the flicker and flare of lanterns. Amid the jumble of sleeping bags, windbreakers, and layers of clothing . . . we were building new layers of community which would last in our memories years after this blustery beginning. We slept completely enclosed in our downy burrows to fend off the winds whipping around us. The haze cleared to reveal a stellar expanse punctuated by a nearly full moon that danced off the desert terrain. This was the ‘Million Stars Hotel.’

“Stealthy furry raiders pillaged the camp that night and made off with a small backpack containing a jar of peanut butter, honey, M&M’s, and a pair of expensive Maui sunglasses. Gary awoke to a clanging clatter of cookware at 3:30 in the morning and sat bolt upright. Before he could aim a flashlight at the source of the racket, a shadowy blur the size of a German shepherd rocketed over the end of our sleeping bag into the darkness of a nearby ravine. . . .

“Some foxy wolf must be sporting the backpack and the Maui sunglasses among his desert canine crowd.”

Now, that’s a picture, isn’t it? They say the desert attracts real characters. . . .

WHEN THE WAITER IS BRUTALLY HONEST

The little old lady was on a three-day cross-country car trip, all by herself. After a full day on the road, she was bone weary. She pulled over at a nice-looking motel somewhere in Arizona that was attached to a restaurant.

The dinner menu looked OK. The waiter arrived, a teen with tousled hair.

“What’s the soup today?”

“Bean soup.”

“Is it any good?”

“I don’t know what happened . . . but today, it is.”

No, she didn’t order the soup, and she kept all 10 fingers and all 10 toes crossed when her entrée arrived. She doesn’t know what happened . . . but it was good.

SPRING BREAK AWAKENING

The college daughter is home on spring break. She takes a lot of very tough courses and is very involved on campus, so surely she was looking forward to a week’s rest and relaxation at home. Best of all: sleeping in.

Not so fast. There’s a young’un in the household, an afternoon kindergartner who’s usually bored stiff every morning, with nobody to play with. At an hour most spring-breakers would consider “the crack of dawn,” the little one opened the big one’s creaky door and walked right up to her bed.

The big sister heard the munchkin footsteps and knew who had come into her room without knocking. She opened her eyes.

AND THERE WAS A GIGANTIC GUINEA PIG, STARING HER IN THE FACE!!!

Now, I’m sure there are college students on spring break at Daytona, Padre Island and Palm Springs who have awakened to weirder sights. But at least this one’s legal, and doesn’t involve wet T-shirts.

A CAR HORN ON HAPPY PILLS

Now that everything’s digitized, why can’t we have some variety and diversity in our car horns? Everybody should have about 10 different sounds to use in various situations instead of plain old honks. It would make motoring so much more creative and fun.

A daughter and I thought of this as we listened, transfixed, to Maddy running across the yard looking for Sunny, our dog, and loudly singing this cheerful little song. In her high-pitched voice, she sounded just like a car horn on happy pills:

SUN-BUN!
HUN-TON!
SWEETKIN DING DONG
DIDDLY DAY!!!

When somebody cuts in front of you in traffic or fails to use a turn signal, you can give them a hostile one-fingered salute, yell “YEW MORON!!!” out the window, or the more sophisticated, 21st Century approach would be to play them THAT song . . . which would certainly cause them to grip the wheel with both hands and keep their eyes on the road, fearing, as they might, an alien invasion.

To deny access to this important new technology by those who might ruin it with expletives or nastiness, I will patent my new invention, even before I make up a prototype. It may be the first time in history anybody has ever gotten a patent who doesn’t know a screwdriver from pliers. But it’s early . . . Sweetkin.

REBA AND ME

(A)nd as many as He touched were made perfectly whole.
-- Matthew 14:36b

My friend Jeannie and I were on our cell phones. She was off to a grocery store miles away to get her granddaughter’s favorite premade hamburger patties. I was going to the post office.

It’s a movie star lifestyle around here.

I whined about my dry eyes. Every morning, they hurt a lot. I stagger out of bed and grope stiff-legged to the bathroom like Frankenstein. I feel for the eyedrops, which I leave on the counter in the exact same place every day, like a blind person, so I can find them immediately.

I do a desperate backbend, eyes wide open, mouth gaping like a dead fish. I squeeze a few soothing, life-saving drops in, blinking and grunting in relief.

TOLD you it’s a movie star lifestyle.

Well, Jeannie had just gotten back from an eye appointment. She was all excited about the new eye massage techniques the doctor had taught her.

“You get in the shower and hold a nice, warm washcloth over them, and hold it there for a while and just let the warm water wash over them. It feels awesome! Then, slowly, with gentle pressure, rub from the inside out, a gentle caress. . . .”

“SHHHH!” I interrupted. “What if Homeland Security or somebody is listening in?!? They might not have heard you say this is about our EYES! They’ll think we’re in some kind of a SEX RING!!!”

But next morning, I tried it. And she was right. It felt great.

Ah, massage. There’s just something about touch that beats everything else. It’s always been that way. In fact, one of the greatest signs of Jesus’ divinity and yet humanity is how He healed people with just a touch. His disciples could do it, too. Today, we hug and pat and high-five, and those actions have healing power, too.

But when we get really serious, we go have a massage.

It’s nice to be kneaded!

However . . . for stressed-out stiffs like me, it can be highly embarrassing.

My first one was during a trip to Scottsdale, Ariz., that I took with another harried mother of young children. We left our husbands in charge of the thundering herds for some desperately-needed girls-only R&R.

We called it our “Take This Job and Shove It Victory Tour.”

For the first two nights, we stayed in a cheapo hotel.

But for the grand finale, we checked in to a really ritzy resort. We made the most of it, swimming in its series of fabulous pools, walking its manicured grounds, dining alfresco . . . and capping it off with massages.

I didn’t want to go. She made me. She said I would feel like a “noodle,” the perfect ending for a relaxing, refreshing trip.

They said to disrobe to the point where I felt comfortable. “OK, then, I’m ready,” I said instantly.

(They call customers like me “noncompliant.”)

They told me to put my face in this padded toilet seat. It was to relieve pressure on my neck as I lay on my tummy. But it’s hard to keep your face straight when it’s surrounded by a toilet seat.

The masseuse must’ve thought my shoulders were shaking because I was nervous. She asked if I wanted a massage that was “gentle” or “intense.” INTENSE? My eyes darted to check if she had leather boots, fishnets and a whip. But the toilet seat blocked my view. Cringing, I said “something kind of in the middle.”

As she started bending, folding, spindling and mutilating, she tried to put me at ease with cheerful chitchat:

“I just did (strrrrrrrrrrretch) Reba McEntire!”

You know, the country and western singing star.

My shoulders started shaking again:

“Are you going to brag to the NEXT customer that you just did aging matron Susan Williams of Omaha?”

She laughed politely, and completed the massage in silence. I can imagine what she was thinking.

But what a massage! It was great. I emerged, just as promised, a complete “noodle,” with my hair in a towel, and toilet ring around my face.

It is, as they say, a movie star lifestyle. †

Der-Tuh-Derrrrr

Cheerleaders have cheers. Advertisers have slogans. But I have little sayings that I like to use whenever I’ve done something dumb.

I get a lot of practice.

For a while, it has been the “dumdum” song from the Cingular ads. You know: “Doot dooooo! Doot doot dooooo!”

But now my teenage daughter has taught me a new one. It reminds me of a happy, clueless little song a Southern animal character in a Disney cartoon movie would sing as he walks down the road, probably with a bucket stuck on one foot and his shirt buttoned up wrong:

DER – TUH – DERRRR!!!!

It’s so, so “me.”

TOLERATING INTERIOR DESIGN DIVERSITY

For our mega-lived-in living room, we are getting new carpet, a new couch, a new Daddy chair and ottoman, and best of all, an elegant new chaise. In Victorian days, the one-armed lounger used to be called a “fainting couch.”

Yes, you guess right what it’s being called instead, by persons unnamed in our cornpone household. But we’re having none of that in my new living room. It will be a place so uncharacteristic of me: it will be clean, it will be sophisticated, and it will have TASTE. Nobody’ll believe I live here.

I’m afraid I’ve passed my undiscerning eye for fashion on to my poor little daughter, though. As I was musing over the fun of having remodeled every room in this rambling house in the last six years, except her 1980s-looking bathroom, it suddenly hit me: now that everything ELSE looked so nice, the NEXT project would have to be Maddy’s bathroom. New paint, new fixtures, new tile: the works!

I told her so. She leaped in the air, arms forming a cheerleader’s “V” for “Victory.”

“AND IT CAN BE PINK AND PURPLE!” she exulted. “WITH HAPPY FACES! AND STARS AND HEARTS!!!”

I think I’m in trouble. Oh, well: decorated in Early Hideous, we’ll all feel right at home.

AMAZING JUGGLER

Take a break when you can, and have your sound on if possible, to watch this amazing juggler. It takes a few minutes, but it’s worth it. If you have dial-up service, you probably won’t be able to see this. Yes, he’s that fast!

http://www.sonnyradio.com/chrisbliss.htm

USING HER AS A . . . WELL, GUINEA PIG

We have had our new guinea pig Fluffy for three days. She is the new best friend of our youngest, Maddy, who is turning 6 in a few days. She got Fluffy as an early birthday present, and has really been giving her a workout. Fluffy has already:

-- surfed our maple floors on a skateboard;
-- been pushed around in a grocery cart nestled in an old tea towel;
-- driven (!!! well. . . she WAS in FRONT) a blue plastic Volkswagen bug;
-- faced off with a tiger – thanks goodness it was only a Beanie baby;
-- ridden around inside Maddy’s shirt, perched on the counter and on the couch, and been carried around in a basket. The only activity I’ve firmly put my foot down about was the wished-for ride on a plastic boat in the whirlpool. I just don’t believe whitewater is appropriate for a junior rodent. Not to mention what such a sight would do to my nerves.

That poor thing has been hauled out of her aquarium home and the sanctity of her purple plastic igloo so many times, I think she’s getting pretty stressed out. We’ve had to insist that Maddy put her in her home for an hour at a time just so that Fluffy can have a chance at some food, water and rest after all that excitement. We’ve had visions of her anorexic, dehydrated body on some TV tell-all show put on by People For the Ethical Treatment of Cute But Basically Pointless Pet Rodents.

Last night, Maddy was cuddling Fluffy while watching TV. It was Maddy’s bedtime, but she was wide awake, energetic, giggling and playful. The guinea pig in her hands, however, was literally nodding off. Her eyelids drooped, half-shut. We could tell she was yearning for the privacy of her purple igloo boudoir. Just like Maddy’s parents!

Maddy’s having a ball. But Fluffy must think she’s on some kind of “Rodent Survivor” show. Let’s just hope she doesn’t vote herself off the island, and wander our home’s ventilation system in search of peace and quiet.

EDWINA WAS A GNAW-TY GIRL

Why is it that no one ever tells you these horror stories about certain types of pets until after you’ve bought one? By then, getting rid of your new pet before these things can happen to you would cause lifelong emotional scars in your child. Now that we have a new guinea pig, Fluffy, the horror stories are coming out of the woodwork . . . literally.

Take the saga of Edwina, the hamster. A friend’s daughter was rushing off to a weekend away, and got Edwina all ready to “batch” it in her cage except for one minor detail: she forgot to put the lid on. She slammed the door to her room and left.

The mother only had to do one thing all weekend: go in on Sunday morning, add a little food, and check on Edwina. Naturally, this adult woman was terrified of rodents. But anything for the cause, and it would be over in two minutes.

EXCEPT . . . the cage was empty! AAIIEE!!!

That awful little rodent could jump out at any moment and give this poor woman a heart attack! Did it escape through the vent and was it going to plop down on the woman’s FACE that night as she SLEPT? You know that skin on the back of your neck? Well, it was CRAWLING with imaginary Edwinas!!!

Worst of all, that busy little Edwina had gnawed all across the bottoms of two solid-oak closet doors, in just that little bit of time that she was free. They were going to have to be taken off, sanded, restained and refinished. It was going to be expensive.

But if the mother did what she was thinking of doing – putting on her 1970s waffle stompers and making a FLAT Edwina – her little girl would be permanently scarred. That would happen, too, if the little girl came home and Edwina was MIA.

So the mother did the best she could: she got the big sack of hamster food, and tossed little handfuls along the perimeter of the room: “Here, Edwina! Come here, Girl! Nice hamster! Where are you, Edwina?”

Fearing the onset of a nervous breakdown, she finally set the container of hamster food in the center of the room, ran out, slammed the door, and went somewhere to cry.

When she came back in, she still didn’t see Edwina. So she went to pick up the container of food . . . AND WAS STARTLED TO SEE THAT INSIDE WAS EDWINA, UP TO HER SNOOT IN SEEDS AND NUTS!!!

The mother screamed and screamed, but got Edwina back in her habitat and got the lid on securely. Like, with 17 big rocks on top.

Her face still twitches as she retells the tale. I just hope Fluffy doesn’t get any big ideas.

I’m surprised and honored. A friend involved in politics in Lincoln encouraged me to write an op-ed opposing the spread of all-day kindergarten across the state and send it to the Lincoln Journal. They ran it today! It’s a hot potato, because a lot of parents like the “free day care,” and many people think it’s academically better for today’s kids. But the evidence shows that it’s not. And it costs a ton. Come see what you think:

www.journalstar.com/articles/2006/03/06/letters/doc440b7077c1357325964818.txt

---------------

FLUFFINGTON VAN CHOCSTRAW

The older three girls criticize us as being ‘way, ‘way, ‘way too permissive with Maddy. They say the thought of a new toy or possession no sooner pops into her little pea brain and out her cupid’s bow little lips, than we run out and buy it for her.

It must come with senility, now that we’re raising a tail-ender in our old age. We were physically strong, mentally awake and morally straight enough with the first round of children to have disciplined them moderately well. At least, THEY remember us saying “no” a lot. They say we’ve forgotten how.

Well, now we’ve done it again. Meet “Fluffy,” our new guinea pig, an early birthday present for Maddy. She is little, cuddly and quiet, at least so far. It was love at first sight; Maddy was jumping up and down as rapidly as a pneumatic drill when she first cast eyes on her in the pet store.

Fluffy is a calico: white head and shoulders with a dark patch over one eye, very movie-star like, and then a dark brown section and a tan section, and then some more white. She reminds me a lot of Neapolitan ice cream. That’s why her formal name is “Fluffington Van Chocstraw.”

At least we recycled an old 30-gallon aquarium for her home, and didn’t have to buy a lot of accessories for this new pet. But, as the older three would say, it’s early, and we’re wussies.

THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER

Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler. . . .
-- Psalm 91:3a

Our friend Bob has an unusual hobby: he’s a falconer. He knows how to go out and trap a prairie falcon, and then practically shack up with it for a few months to get it to trust him so that it’ll fly for him.

It’s a timeless, fascinating skill. He uses a jess (leg strap), gloves, hoods and leather pouch lures with meat inside. He gives the bird lots of attention, grooming and of course, great food.

He has built a cage that’s more of a luxury habitat. And yes, after the training and togetherness and fulfillment and fun, he eventually retrains the bird NOT to trust him so much, and releases it back to the wild.

It never ceases to amaze me, though, how a bird of prey can get tricked into falling for his initial trap. I mean, aren’t they supposed to have eyesight that’s lots better than ours? Don’t they see what they’re getting in to? Aren’t they smarter than that?

But then, look at our own lives. Don’t we fall for traps ourselves, all the time?

I think it’s because there’s a Fowler – the Enemy of our souls – who likes to “fowl” things up for us and keep us from God’s best.

He knows us very well. He knows our weaknesses and what’ll grab us. He’s got his obvious traps, of alcoholism and drug addiction, murder and sexual immorality.

But for those of us who can resist the National Enquirer type sins, he’s got more subtle kinds of traps. Not as flashy, but they get us into bondage nonetheless.

For me, the temptation has always been to take on too much. I would get exhausted and cranky, and my family would go without sweetness and light. What kind of a Christian example is that?

Turns out a friend of mine battles workaholism, too. Last weekend, she spilled her guts about it. She works full-time, has a husband and two kids, keeps a spotless house, is good about visiting her older relatives, and does all kinds of volunteer work besides.

Her weekends have gradually gotten completely eaten up by obligations. She shared that she was about to go “TILT!”

So I was glad to be able to tell her this story:

Years ago, a wise friend suggested that I make a list of all the things that were stressing me, and get rid of the things that weren’t absolute “musts.” It came to almost 90 items. I pared it down to 30. I made call after call to cancel various promises and projects, and not a single person squawked. They all understood. It happens. I resolved to never let myself get so tied down again.

Years later, someone I hadn’t heard from in years called to ask me to ghost-write a book for a corporate leader. The project would be time-consuming, but it would pay off very well.

The only problem was, the subject was not all that interesting to me. OK, it was a SNORE! And I had committed myself to writing only to glorify Jesus and His principles. This would be a puff piece. It would divert me from my main Christian calling.

But the guy who asked me was sooooo persuasive and made it sound sooooo enticing, flattering me that it would get reviewed in the Wall Street Journal and stuff. Whoa!

I told him I’d have to think about it.

You knew this was coming: I picked up my Bible that night. It flipped open to Psalm 91:3, which I didn’t remember reading before.

A slow smile spread across my face. The name of the guy who had asked me to do the book? Fowler.

Next morning, I called him: thanks, but no thanks.

I escaped the trap of busy work! I was free to write what I wanted! I felt so light, I could fly.

Yeah, well, until the next trap is laid for me. You know, Satan is an odd bird, strangely persistent. You’ve got to watch him like a hawk. †

NO. 33; WHAT'S YOURS?

1. Money isn't made out of paper, it's made out of cotton.

2. The Declaration of Independence was written on hemp paper.

3. The dot over the letter “i” is called a “tittle.”

4. A raisin dropped in a glass of fresh champagne will bounce up and down continuously from the bottom of the glass to the top.

5. Susan Lucci is the daughter of Phyllis Diller.

6. 40% of McDonald's profits come from the sales of Happy Meals.

7. 315 entries in Webster's 1996 Dictionary were misspelled.

8. The “spot” on 7-UP comes from its inventor, who had red eyes; he had albinism.

9. On average, 12 newborns will be given to the wrong parents, daily.

10. Warren Beatty and Shirley MacLaine are brother and sister.

11. Chocolate affects a dog's heart and nervous system; a few ounces will kill a small sized dog.

12. Orcas (killer whales) kill sharks by torpedoing up into the shark's stomach from underneath, causing the shark to explode.

13. Most lipstick contains fish scales.

14. Donald Duck comics were banned from Finland because he doesn't wear pants.

15. Ketchup was sold in the 1830's as medicine.

16. Upper and lower case letters are named “upper” and “lower” because in the time when all original print had to be set in individual letters, the upper case letters were stored in the case on top of the case that stored the smaller, “lower case” letters.

17. Leonardo Da Vinci could write with one hand and draw with the other at the same time.

18. Because metal was scarce, the Oscars given out during World War II were made of wood.

19. There are no clocks in Las Vegas gambling casinos.20. The name Wendy was made up for the book Peter Pan; there was never a recorded Wendy before! The History of Wendy

21. There are no words in the dictionary that rhyme with: orange, purple, and silver.

22. Leonardo Da Vinci invented scissors. Also, it took him 10 years to paint Mona Lisa's lips.

23. A tiny amount of liquor on a scorpion will make it instantly go mad and sting itself to death.

24. The mask used by Michael Myers in the original "Halloween" was a Captain Kirk's mask painted white. 25. If you have three quarters, four dimes, and four pennies, you have $1.19. You also have the largest amount of money in coins without being able to make change for a dollar (good to know.)

26. By raising your legs slowly and lying on your back, you can't sink in quicksand (and you thought this list was completely useless).

27. The phrase "rule of thumb" is derived from an old English law, which stated that you couldn't beat your wife with anything wider than your thumb.

28. The first product Motorola started to develop was a record player for automobiles. At that time, the most known player on the market was the Victrola, so they called themselves Motorola.

29. Celery has negative calories! It takes more calories to eat a piece of celery than the celery has in it to begin with. It's the same with apples!

30. Chewing gum while peeling onions will keep you from crying!

31 The glue on Israeli postage stamps is certified kosher.

32. Guinness Book of Records holds the record for being the book most often stolen from Public Libraries.

33. Astronauts are not allowed to eat beans before they go into space because passing wind in a space suit damages it.

34. George Carlin said it best about Martha Stewart "Boy, I feel a lot safer now that she's behind bars. O. J. Simpson and Kobe Bryant are still walking around; Osama Bin Laden too, but they take the ONE woman in America willing to cook, clean, and work in the yard, and they haul her fanny off to jail."

MAN, OH MAN

OK, after yesterday, now I’ll shoot myself in the OTHER foot. Then I’ll have a matched set. Hi, Honey! Hope you like this one, too. Remember . . . parody and exaggeration are FUNNY! Right?!?!? What’s that you’re getting out? What do you need duct tape for. . . .

http://www.pwwhite.com/mansong.swf

INTERNATIONAL SYMBOL OF MARRIAGE

Now that they’re pushing all over the world to let you marry someone of the same sex, or maybe your dachshund, or your bowling team, or a chair leg, or all of the above, it’s time to take a stand for traditional marriage. We need to celebrate the timeless, unique, and perfectly-balanced relationship between one man and one woman that forms the core of traditional marriage.

So it is about time someone came up with a simple, recognizable symbol for traditional marriage that we can all relate to. And here it is:

(graphic of a man on his knees, handing a credit card up to a woman with her hands on her hips)

FOILED AGAIN

I was asked to work with a group of fifth-graders who are involved in the Destination Imagination creativity competition. They wanted me to help them with teamwork and short-term problem solving activities.

I gave each youngster a piece of aluminum foil, told them it was a two-part problem, and then told them that in the first part, they were to make something out of their foil.

Their solutions were creative:

A wig

A two-headed baseball bat

An airplane

A hot-dog wrapper

Mount Everest and two sets of “finger skis”

A swimming pool

A “shrink ray gun”

Those were about as random as you can get! I was worried about how they would respond to Part II: now they had to take those seven objects, and in two minutes, work them into a skit that they would act out.

They were ready in about 20 seconds. They said it so fast, I’m not sure this is exactly right, but it was something like this: a hot-dog vendor at a ball game got hit with a two-headed baseball bat and developed a huge bald spot, so he required a wig, which he took off when he went swimming at the foot of Mount Everest, which made front page news when a space alien’s shrink ray gun minimized it down to the size of a mouse.

It makes you wonder just what they’re putting in kids’ Cheerios these days. . . .

-------------------

DEAR DAILYSUSAN READERS:
URGENT PRAYER REQUEST FOR MY DEAR FRIEND CINDY, WHO HAS CHRONIC LYMPHOCYTIC LEUKEMIA AND HODGKIN’S DISEASE. SHE IS HOSPITALIZED WITH DANGEROUS PNEUMONIA. PLEASE PRAY FOR HER SWIFT AND FULL RECOVERY SO THAT SHE CAN RESUME CHEMOTHERAPY. THANK YOU SO MUCH!

THE MINI-DOCTOR IS IN

Grownup doctors should go on grand rounds with a 5-year-old some time. They might learn something about bedside manner, or in this case, couchside manner.

Maddy’s toy doctor’s kit has been getting a workout lately. Yesterday, she laid out all her instruments with the precision of a brain surgeon, while inviting me to have a seat in the waiting room, which was the bench in our entryway.

It was realistic because there was a stack of really old magazines there from my recent round of basement clean-up.

Then she ushered me in to the examination room, which was the couch. With a warm but professional air, she informed me, “I’m Dr. Maddy. Do you feel sick, kind of sick, or really, really sick?”

I wasn’t sure what her Health Maintenance Organization would think of that intake assessment, but I chose “kind of sick.”

She launched into a virtual ballet of medical procedures, and they were realistic, too, because their purpose was known only to her. I got a plastic “shot,” and she winced in vicarious pain. I had my knees tapped; her forensic medicine antennae went up when she tapped my left knee but my right leg flopped, and vice versa.

I had my heart listened to via a toy stethoscope positioned at about my collarbone. Finally, I was invited to make an invisible, pretend protein spill into the tiny toy bedpan, which Dr. Maddy ceremoniously carried across the room and dumped out in the sink of her toy kitchen.

“How do you feel now?” she asked, her eyebrows knit together in concern.

“Oh, much, much better. I’m all cured!”

She was elated. “OK! Thanks for coming!”

There wasn’t even any co-pay. Now, that’s what I call a satisfactory encounter with the health-care system.

A VERY SPECIAL BASKETBALL PLAYER

www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBYPaNc57Ik&search=autistic%20basketball%20pl

ON THIN ICE

Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth
take heed lest he fall.
-- 1 Corinthians 10:12

A man fell through the ice and died last week near our town. An avid and experienced outdoorsman, he and two buddies had been ice fishing for three hours that afternoon. Just as they were getting ready to leave, he plunged through.

People ran to help. They threw out a 75-foot line; they made a human chain with their bodies; one laid on an eight-foot stepladder to try to get closer, but then crashed through, too. One of those trying to save the fellow’s life was 94 years old.

I know, I know. It was a freak accident. Ice fishermen know exactly what they’re doing and how to stay safe.

Even so, I’d say walking on water, frozen or not, should be reserved only for the Fisherman above.

But what do I know? I’m still living down The Dipsy Doodle Crying Wolf False Alarm incident of a few years ago.

See, my friend Cindy and I were enjoying some late-winter sunshine on a walk around Lake Zorinsky in west Omaha. It was really warm out. We came around a bend, and there, ‘way off on the ice in the center of the lake, we could see three people ice-fishing.

Daredevils! Idiots! On such a warm day!

We tsk-tsked as we walked, squinting across the frozen lake to their little encampment.

Then, for a few minutes, our view was obscured by a wooded area. When the open lake came back into sight, we looked out again . . .

. . . AND I SWEAR, ONE HEAD WAS STICKING UP OUT OF THE WATER, AND THERE WERE TWO EMPTY CHAIRS!!!

TWO FISHERMEN MUST HAVE PLUNGED THROUGH THE ICE, AND THE THIRD ONE WAS BARELY CLINGING TO LIFE! NO DOUBT HE WAS WEAKLY CROAKING, “HELP! HELP ME!!! I MEAN YOU, CINDY AND SUSAN!!!”

We had nothing to throw out to them, and were terrified to go out there. We were too far away, anyway. Cindy couldn’t see quite as well as I could, and wasn’t as sure as I was. But I made her get out her cell phone and call 911.

The guy wasn’t moving. Why doesn’t he save himself? What’s taking so long?!? Two people drowned! And this guy losing hope . . . despondent . . . and man, his toes had to be cold by now.

Just then, here came a screaming fire engine, responding to our emergency call. A guy dashed to the water’s edge, making frantic hand signals out to the person whose head was sticking up out of the water. . .

. . . but at that moment, we finally saw that he wasn’t, indeed, clinging desperately to life in the icy water. He wasn’t in the water at all. He was just hunched down low on his seat with his fishing pole in front of him. He stood up and waved back to the would-be rescuer, giving a thumb’s up signal and the A-OK sign.

Meanwhile, the two other fishermen, who we thought had sunk down to Davey Jones’ locker, came running out of the restroom to join the would-be rescuer. They had an animated conversation complete with gestures in our general direction, which Cindy and I could “read” to mean that they were exasperated with those two hysterical broads across the way who had called in a false alarm.

They shook hands. The fire engine left. The two marched back across the ice to join their perfectly warm and dry friend and resume fishing. We could see no evidence of any cracks or disturbance in the ice whatsoever.

You know that Cingular ad? Doot doooooo doot doot dooooo!!!

But I was sooooo sure I saw those guys drowning!

Me, a trained observer, a veteran reporter, schooled in getting the facts!

Whoopsie daisy: getting the facts RIGHT, that’s supposed to be.

Boy, was my face red. And it wasn’t the wind.

Yeah, well, it was a reminder that you can be on thin ice in more ways than one. And sometimes, when you’re so sure you’re standing on solid ground . . . actually, you’re all wet. †

HIS OLYMPIC FORM

(Today's email showed a cartoon with a lazy guy in a recliner scooting down a mountainside as if in a bobsled or luge)

OLYMPIC FORM

Did you notice how the Olympic ice skaters can all grab a hold of one skate and stretch their leg up straight, ‘way up over their head? It’s like doing the splits standing up. You stare at them hanging on to their foot high overhead while they’re twirling around like mad, and muscles and tendons all over your body snap, crackle and pop.

‘Course, I can grab a hold of MY skate and stretch it ‘way up over MY head, too. I can even twirl around at the same time.

What’s my secret? Well . . . I don’t actually have my foot in my skate at the time. It shouldn’t matter. Should it?

THE BOG OF ETERNAL STENCH

Our teenager watched a 1980s video in the home of a friend. She could barely get the words out telling me about it, she was laughing so hard because it was sooooo bad. The movie was Labyrinth starring David Bowie as the singing Goblin King.

At some point, the good guys fell off a cliff and came to a big, oozy swamp. They had to cross it, but if you touched the water, you would smell forever.

The name of this place: “The Bog of Eternal Stench.”

Luckily, one of the good guys could “call up” rocks from out of the stinky bog as a makeshift bridge. He sounded like Chewbacca on steroids as he vocalized his extremely weird “call” -- “Mmmmmmhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!”

Every time someone’s foot touched a rock, it made a rude noise. You know – the noise that tends to accompany a bad smell. When a dog ran across, there were lots of these rude noises.

Yes, they watched that part six times, laughing hysterically.

I asked her: exactly what does “The Bog of Eternal Stench” remind her of?

She smiled. “My bathroom?”

Mmmmmmhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

LET'S SEE, NOW, THAT WAS TWO THUMBS UP. . .

Our 18-year-old is now working retail in an upscale store that sells mostly shoes. It’s her first retail job and so far, she really likes it. While she is a smiling, pleasant young woman most of the time, she is just not the happy, peppy, positive, bouncy, overmedicated type. She can’t fake enthusiasm and cheerfulness; it’s just not her style.

Well, she and her new manager have been having some pretty good laughs over the training manual’s exhortations to sales clerks to give what Eden calls “cheesy” greetings to the customer. The customer’s always right – but you don’t have to be an obsequious Stepford Clerk to get every sale, do you? The manager says she doesn’t have to act like that if she doesn’t feel like it.

Eden has come up with a happy medium. It’s a nonverbal routine she may use when a customer has finally expressed satisfaction with one of the 14,000 pairs she has slogged out to their stinky feet for them to try on. It goes something like this, all at the same time:

Two thumbs up

Head tilted

Happy smile

Li’l wink

You can’t even tell she’s being a bit sarcastic. Oh, well, as they say: if the shoe fits. . . .

TEEN SAFETY TACTICS

We’re friends with the west Omaha family whose 14-year-old daughter was home alone when two men broke into their house to burglarize it. She cowered in a closet for several minutes with 911 on a cell phone, waiting for the police to arrive, while they were rifling through the house just a few feet away. Whew! The authorities arrived, arrested the two, and she was safe.

Most people I know spent most of their teen years imagining stuff like that happening to them, but it never did.

I can remember being pretty spooked, late at night, babysitting. I must have been watching some sci-fi, because I was sure there were alien fingernails scratching at the window right behind my head. Turned out to be tree branches in the wind.

Then there was the time a new babysitting client introduced me to their doggie, “Julie,” and handed me a club. Gulp! “Julie” was an excitable young Doberman pinscher, and once in a while they had to use it on her. I think I spent that whole night in muscle gridlock, gripping that club, with one eye on the clock and the other on the dog, who turned out to be as docile as a lamb.

A friend remembers her imagination getting away with her, too, at about age 14. She was babysitting, late at night, and started obsessing about what she would do if some bad guys suddenly kicked in the door, brandishing knives or whatever it is that bad guys do. She hated the thought of being taken by surprise and trapped with no place to run or hide. How could she give herself some lead time?

Well, this was in the days when everybody kept their glass pop bottles to bring back in for recycling. She decided to line up a bunch of empties on the floor next to the door. If the bad guys bashed it open, the clanging and clinking of the bottles would be her early warning signal.

It was a good idea. But one minor detail made it go sour: she forgot to put the bottles away before the husband and wife came home. They got the scare of their lives. Next time, they probably just gave her a club. It’s a lot quieter.

HEADLINE NEWS

This just in, from another one of those “so close to true, it’s funny” emails:

BUSH FAILS TO PREVENT EAST COAST BLIZZARD

As President Bush and his staff cowered in the White House, the snow continued to pile up on the many poor and African-American victims who could not afford to get out of town or to safety in Florida. Crucial supplies of blankets, hot cocoa, popcorn and dark rum -- so essential to surviving the stress of any major snowstorm -- lay in stores undelivered.

"Where is the government? I need my sidewalk shoveled so I can get out to buy my lottery tickets!" said one D.C. resident from his living room. "Why are we wasting money in Iraq when we could be spending it here on me?"

Progressive blogs blasted the President for his inaction. "We find the timing terribly suspicious -- just as the domestic spying hearings kick into high gear, what happens? A major northeast blizzard. Why now?" wrote one.

Hearings into the blizzards' effect on hearings are almost a certainty. Howard Dean has suggested he will call for an investigation once his new medications kick in, and John Kerry took a break from ice sailing in Finland to call for new legislation outlawing snowstorms. "The Republican Congress has dropped the ball once again. I have always been a staunch supporter of anti-snow legislation, except for certain locations where I ski. Snow has no business on our roads and the President and Congress knows that."

Calls for impeachment over "SnowGate" already are mounting as deeply as the snow itself, and what will be discovered underneath will prove to have a truly chilling effect on the Republicans, as the inevitable thaw proceeds.

More breaking news . . . Al Sharpton wants an investigation as to why snow is ALWAYS white.

Vice President Dick "Shooter" Cheney has stock in Tru-Value Hardware. Do you have any idea how many SNOW SHOVELS they sold today to the unsuspecting consumer?

And why was FEMA so late in reacting to this storm? THEY KNEW IT WAS COMING! And yet they failed to have crews in place to fix the electricity as soon as it went off. It just shows that Bush and the Republicans don't care about the people in the Northeast. The Senate needs to investigate this with administration people under oath.

The only hopeful note is that, no doubt, the great junior senator from New York has opened the doors of her home to all of the heatless poor of her neighborhood, and is busy baking cookies for them while her husband applies body heat to the nearly frozen teen-aged girls.

IN A HOCKEY DAD'S POCKET

Only take heed to thyself, and keep thy soul diligently,
lest thou forget the things which thine eyes have seen,
and lest they depart from thy heart all the days of thy life:
but teach them thy sons, and thy sons’ sons.
-- Deuteronomy 4:9

It figures that our daughter would have a friend she loves like a brother, and he plays hockey. If she’d had a brother, he would doubtlessly have been a hockey jock. Eden’s dad played hockey. We follow the local college and semipro teams. One nephew is so hockey-crazy, he has collected enough broken hockey sticks to make a chair.

Eden’s friend Chris attended all of her big softball games and was her No. 1 fan. Naturally, she has tried to go to his big hockey matches in return. They’re both seniors, winding down their high-school careers.

Well, last week was the last regular-season game of his elite traveling team. Eden couldn’t go, so I represented her, joining the sizeable cheering section for Chris’ last game.

When Chris skates, he’s smooth and fluid and oh! so fast. His eyes scan the ice constantly. He knows where that puck is every instant.

He’s in such good control that he never gets in fights, rarely has penalties called on him, and rarely has to check anyone or make physical contact. His movements are surgically precise and analytical.

The team was playing their rivals from a nearby city, ahead 3-1 late in the game.

They were going to win. But Chris hadn’t scored. He’d had a long series of “almosts.” Meanwhile, his mother’s hilarious commentary was “almost” making my sides split:

“Oh, nutsola!”

“Get out of the way, you big boob!”

“Cheese and rice! Cheese . . . and . . . rice!” (That, she explained, was how her father cussed when he didn’t want to take the Lord’s name in vain.)

We did the wave, we stomped our feet, we took group pictures. But time was running out.

Suddenly, players bunched up around the front of the goal. Here came Chris, rocketing by with the puck. He seemed to be levitating horizontally.

He was patiently seeking a way to the net in between all those legs, skates and sticks. He juked a couple of times, faking the goalie out of position.

Then as he rocketed by the net’s far corner, he artfully popped it in . . . like a sugar cube into His Lordship’s cup of tea.

GOAL!!!!!!!!

Everybody went crazy. It was unassisted, and they were playing short-handed, which made it all the sweeter.

The game ended soon thereafter. We fans in Chris’ entourage greeted his dad, who spends every game across the ice, helping the team with stats and so forth.

Gentle and sweet just like his son, he was beaming as he walked up to us with his hand in his pocket.

“You know,” he said, “I got the puck that Chris shot as his first goal as a PeeWee, many years ago. I got the winning shot Chris made, a rocket from the blue line, against a real hotshot goalie in a big tournament in Minnesota.”

He took his hand out of his pocket. “And now, I’ve got a third puck: his last goal from his last game.”

He showed us. We squealed “Ahhhh!” and got tingles.

His eyes glittered. Tears? Or just the reflection from the ice that had framed so much of his life for all these years of youth hockey?

For all the hours you gave . . . for all the money you paid . . . for all the miles you drove . . . for all the slumps you helped him through . . . for all the moves you taught him . . . for all the joy you shared in teaching this great sport to your son, and in the process teaching both of you so much more. . .

. . . this puck’s for you, Dad.

But he knew that. He and Chris’ mom exchanged a quick glance that said it all.

He slipped the puck back in his pocket, gave his pocket a pat, and turned to go find his son. †

MINI-OLYMPICS

Have you been watching the Olympics? Pretty exciting stuff. Maddy, 5, has been all eyes.

Yesterday, she put her Build-a-Bear friend Spotty into a red plastic laundry basket, and plunged it down the stairs. The luge! Even though Spotty fell out every time, she did it over and over again. Kid has the makings of a sadistic personal trainer.

I’m afraid we have seven – count ‘em – colorful plastic Furbys from Burger King riding from one end of the main floor to the other on a skateboard. The floors are maple, not snow. But to Maddy, it’s team snowboarding.

These dreary winter days have weakened my resolve to keep all toys out of the family room. So there’s currently a four-foot plastic building framework complete with arched ceiling, a play kitchen, a mini-dinosaur land, all kinds of toy horses and bobble heads, and a zillion other toys in there, mostly scattered on the floor and tough on bare feet.

I was pretty depressed about the mess, ‘til I realized that it is JUST like the Olympics! Step on an upside-down Duplo block with sharp edges – and do a triple lutz with an inward pike and a 2½ twist! Tossing little dinosaurs into the ice-cream bucket from across the room – do hockey players have better aim? Moving across the room dodging toys on the floor is just like the Giant Slalom: zoom, whip, zoom!

Motherhood: you’ve got to have the moves, man.

NO, LINCOLN HAD A BUSH ON HIS CHIN. . . .

My mother chose her own nickname for the grandchildren to call her – “Fave G,” short for “Favorite Grandmother.” She’s friends with the other grandma and loves to pretend that they’re competing for the children’s hearts. Fave G scored again on Valentine’s Day by slipping a crisp $5 bill into Maddy’s Valentine envelope.

Maddy was so excited to get her very own cash, you’d have thought WWII just ended. “WHOOP!!! WOO HOO!!! YE HAW!!!”

We made a beeline to the Build-a-Bear store in the mall. She got a soccer outfit for “Spotty,” a long-awaited accessory.

Filled with gratitude, Maddy dictated a chatty thank-you note to Fave G, drawing a rather funky-looking $5 bill in green marker.

She enthused, “I was so excited to get the money in the mail! I got President Bush on the front and the White House on the back!”

Yeah, well, she’s remedial for Presidents’ Day, but it’s the thought that counts.

A PUP-WIPE

Maddy, 5, had Valentine’s chocolate happily smeared all around her mouth. “Go wash your face!” I commanded.

Next thing I knew, she was standing there gleefully while our 1-year-old yellow Lab, Sunny, was enthusiastically licking her face, to my consternation and their mutual delight.

“She makes a great napkin!” Maddy exclaimed as her head snapped back with every happy Lab lick.

TENDERNESS, ROMANCE AND A NEW SUMP PUMP

Some women get diamonds. Some women get pearls. Some get dark chocolate, roses or a frisky negligee.

But I? I get a new SUMP PUMP for Valentine’s Day!

Workers are expected to be here all day, putting in a powerful unit that probably could have saved New Orleans from the deluge, and certainly will protect my 49,000 boxes of pointless junk and old papers in the basement storage room.

I was whining to a friend about the utter lack of romance in this year’s Valentine’s Day developments. She begged to differ:

“There's nothing as beautiful as the sound of a new sump pump after a five-inch spring downpour.”

Is there no hope, Cupid? Cupid? Oh, no! He’s got his nose buried in the latest issue of Popular Mechanics. I can just imagine what I’ll get NEXT year.

A WALKING SNOWFLAKE FOR VALENTINE'S DAY

Or maybe it’s a live doily. Or maybe she overdid the bleach job. Whatever! Happy St. Valentine’s Day!

(photo of a pure white peacock)

KISS ME, YOU FOOL

Pucker up with some of these romantic “studs,” and you may get . . . excuse the expression . . . stuck on them. Just in time for Valentine’s Day. . . .

(photos of men with extreme piercings)

HOG WILD

And to make all men see what is the fellowship of the mystery,
which from the beginning of the world hath been hid in God,
who created all things by Jesus Christ.
-- Ephesians 3:9

We have these friends who seemed totally conventional. And then we heard about their first date.

It's a Valentine’s Day reminder that love really does triumph and God works in mysterious ways, though sometimes He uses mighty unusual kindling to fan the flames of romance.

Mighty unusual.

See, our friend used to be an agricultural entrepreneur. OK, he had a cow / calf operation and raised 150 Yorkshire brood sows with some champion boars on 800 rolling acres in Iowa.

OK, OK. He was a pig farmer.

But he's a hunk. He cleans up nice. He got introduced to a cute new gal. They made a date.

Now, she was a city girl, the type who ''gets nails” and is beautifully dressed, petite and feminine all the way.

He told her he was busy ''farrowing'' and asked her to come over to his place first. They could go out on their date from there.

She had no idea what “farrowing” was. She thought it sounded manly and hands-on. She arrived in her flirty little tube top and white shorts with brand-spankin' new white clogs.

''Miss Prissy,'' he describes her now.

Well, he wasn't at the house. But the door to an outbuilding, which she later learned was the “farrowing house,” was wide open. So she went in.

It's not clear exactly why she shut her eyes. It might have been the blast of methane gas that erupted onto her hair, her clothes and her skin like a tidal wave of stinky.

Or it might have been the sight of her newfound flame . . . down on one knee with his arm all the way up a mama pig's behind.

Whatever made her close her eyes, they snapped back open when he asked her to come over and stick HER arm all the way up the mama pig's behind.

''She’s already had eight, but this one's breech! It has to be turned!” he shouted. “My arm's too big. Will you come over here and do it?”

Standing there in her flirty little tube top and white shorts, she just stared at her date. He was filthy, kneeling near the manure pit up to his armpit in 500 pounds of moanin', squealin' mama pig.

He saw that she was hesitating. So he smiled his manliest, most entrancing, most persuasive smile. “I’ve got a glove you can wear!”

He’s got a GLOVE?!?!?

A moment passed. Then her genteel reply:

“IN A PIG’S EYE, BUSTER!!!”

But she DIDN'T run out of there squealing like . . . well . . . a stuck pig. She stayed. She watched.

He tried one more time to fix the breech. It worked. He finished farrowing, winding up with 14 nice piglets. Then he dashed inside and washed up. They left on their date.

They had a wonderful time. I mean, who needs a conversational ice-breaker after that? Who knew farrowing was so harrowing?

But he didn't need to entertain her or impress her, anyway. She had already fallen head over heels in love with him. The pig stink and ridiculous position she'd seen him in didn't matter.

It was that smile.

That's all it took. That heartwarming smile of his. It made her forget all about where his arm had been, how loud the sow was squealing, and how bad it smelled in there.

That smile: it was all she saw.

They were married shortly thereafter.

OK, you men: forget the red sports car. Forget the diamond bracelet. Forget the hours in the weight room and the tooth-whitening regimen. Forget all the things you think are your best shots at wooing the woman of your dreams.

I’m not saying you should get up to your armpits in pig dip to get her attention. I am saying the Lord works in mysterious ways.

And brother, when it comes to winning the one who's meant for you, relax. He's on your side . . . and He's got moves you’ve never dreamed of. †

TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT ALLLL OFF!

Here’s a rather scandalous movie short, just in time for Valentine’s Day. I don’t know about you, but I’m making my beauty shop appointment immediately! (video available to email list readers only)

Today’s Menu:

www.DailySusan.com: FUNdamentals, “’How We Met’ Charades”
www.DailySusan.blogspot.com: “Take It Off! Take It Allllll Off!”
www.LookingUpPrayerLine.blogspot.com: “Thankful for Dale and Other Wise Counselors”
www.GoBigEd.com: “News Briefs: Class I Barristers, Bonds, Booze and ‘Black Flight’”

FROM THE 'IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME' FILE

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Gentle Readers: By popular demand, DailySusan is going back to a separate email
for this humor blog. It won’t require you to click onto the main website
to read the other features unless you really want to. See the daily menu, below.
Hope you like the change, and hope you’ll tell your friends to visit these sites and join the fun!
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This is what a friend and colleague of mine, one of my favorite Nebraska writers, put in the Lincoln Journal-Star to surprise his lovely wife on the occasion of their wedding anniversary:

------------

("Then" picture with 1970s hairdos, and "now" picture in Groucho Marx masks)

25 years! Love never fails!

It’s true, the longer we’re married, the more we look alike. Denise, you are a gem. As Proverbs says, “an excellent wife, her worth is far above jewels.”

Love eternally, Rolly, Erick, Rosa, Lee, Natalie, Ellen, Alice

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Give the guy a break. It was memorable. Dangerous, but memorable!

FOR THE LOVE OF THE IRISH

Thanks to the Irish Heritage Newsletter and Pat Connors, here’s what you can say to your love in Irish on Valentine’s Day. You might want to avoid the milk cow one, though; it might get lost in translation:

Grá (graw) - Love

A ghrá (Ah hraw) - My love/My dear

A stóirín (Ah store-reen) - Darling!

Mo mhuirnín (Muh whurneen/vurneen) - My sweetheart

Póg mé! (Pogue may) - Kiss me!

Tóg mé, tá mé leatsa (Toag may, taw may latsah) - Take me, I'm yours!

Mo chupcáca (Muh hup-caw-cah) - My cupcake

Is é cinniúint é! (Shay kinn-noo-int ay) - It's kismet!

Mo ghrá thú (Muh hraw hoo) - I love you.

Thitim mé i ngrá leat (Hittim may ih nraw lat) - I fell in love with you.

Is tusa an grá mo chroí (Iss tussah ahn graw muh hree) - You are the love of my heart!

Táim i ngrá leatsa (Tah-im ih nraw latsah) - I'm in love with you.

Táim i bpian an ghrá (Tah-im ih beh-in ahn raw) - I'm lovesick

Barróga agus póga (Bahrogue-ah ahguss pogue-ah) - Hugs and kisses!

Tá siad ag seinm ár n-amhráin grá (taw shee-ad a shen-um awhr nahrawngraw) - They're playing our song.

(Connemara: pickup line) B'fhearr liom thú nó céad bó bhainne!
(Barr lum hoo no cayd bow wahn-nyah) - I prefer you to a hundred milk cows!

Lá Naomh Vailintín Shona Dhuit (Law neev val-in-teen hunna gwitch) - Happy Valentine's Day!

BEWARE THE POP-COLLARS

Our daughter has decided to attend an excellent university in a city about six hours away. Her “hometown honey” is a little worried about what the separation – and increased competition – will do to their romance.

It’s a private school, and although it distributes an enormous amount of financial aid, the student population is kind of preppy. There’s sort of a Midwestern Ivy League feel to the campus.

The hometown honey says he’s worried about the “pop-collars.”

What on earth does that mean? “Pop” as in soda pop? So instead of lipstick on their collars, they have pop spills? Or as opposed to “mom-collars”? Or . . . pop-collars are guys who keep drugs buttoned inside their collars, and pop them out when they wanted to seduce an unsuspecting young coed from Nebraska, so far from home?!?!

Nooooo. He just means guys who go around with the collars of their preppy polo shirts popped up instead of folded down.

Ohhhhh. I always thought those guys just woke up, got dressed out of the dirty laundry basket, and didn’t bother to look in the mirror. But we’ll see if they have any charm for our freshman-to-be.

A CHEAPSKATE PROPOSAL

They were studying the letter “D” in kindergarten, and I was making them guess words that start with “D” with a simple little game of Charades.

I bent over backwards and opened my mouth wide, pretended that something was boring into my mouth with loud sound effects, and then paused to pretend-spit over to the side. That tipped them off. “Dentist!” they shouted.

I said I was going into Krispy Kreme and then play-acted that I was eating something circular with a hole inside that was really sweet and delicious. “Doughnut!”

The next one, they couldn’t get. I said, “This is what Mr. Williams gave me when he asked me to marry him.” They were silent. “It’s something I have with me every day of my life.” Still slack-jawed, frowning and mute. “It’s really special, shiny and sparkly, and it starts with a ‘D.’”

“I know! I know!” a little boy shouted. “A DIME!!!”

HE & SHE VALENTINE CARTOONS

This series of humorous cartoons on husband-wife communication included my favorite:

WHAT HE HEARD:

"Honey, why don't you put your head in a vise and I'll turn the handle until your skull explodes?"

WHAT SHE SAID:

"Honey, why don't we turn off the TV and just talk?"

OLD BOYFRIEND PANIC

Better is the sight of the eyes than the wandering of the desire:
this is also vanity and vexation of spirit.
-- Ecclesiastes 6:9

I was invited to a town a few hours away last week to give a speech. A long-lost boyfriend of mine was probably going to be there.

ALERT!

AA-OO-GAH!

EMERGENCY!

I admit it. I had fantasized about him over the years. We would meet again, and he would slap his forehead and wail, “How did I EVER let you get away?”

Listen: I am very happy in my longtime marriage. It’s just that . . . when the stewpot boils over and the toddler bites your ankles and the hubby gives you a socket set for Valentine’s Day . . . you sometimes play that “what if?” game in your head. You know?

But now I had a big problem: reality.

Back then, I at least had some semblance of babe-osity. Now, I kind of look like Boris Yeltsin in a dress. How could I re-hottify myself practically overnight?

That hair! Frump City! With a snazzy cut and some “cheat juice,” I looked maybe a half-hour younger.

That middle-age pudge! For days, I did the stressed-out gerbil thing on the elliptical machine, and fervent underwater gyrations in the workout pool. Lost one pound. Big whoop.

That eyebrow! It has “gone Andy Rooney.” My right eyebrow lays flat and sleek, like elegant sealskin. But my left eyebrow has gone SPRRRRRONG!!! It’s as unruly as a class of third-graders on the last day of school. I’ve tried everything: Vaseline, hair gel, even udder balm. For this high-stress reunion, I might have to call NASA for some special sealant used in outer space.

That facial hair! My upper lip is starting to “go Gene Shalit.” I’m pretty sure the old boyfriend didn’t have a moustache, either, the last time he saw me. It’s hard on middle-aged men to see others with more hair than they have, anywhere. Waxing? Youch! Laser hair removal was said to take weeks; if I tipped them well, could they zap me a quickie?

Eww, my stubby nails! The East German scrubwoman look! I was letting my nailbeds rest after years of having luxurious fake nails mortared on. I’d just have to keep my hands in my pockets, even if he wanted to shake hands.

Enough! The big day arrived. I picked out a doable outfit, maximized the makeup arsenal, and surveyed the ravages. Oh, well. Maybe he’s nearsighted now.

The two-hour drive zoomed by. One mile to go.

Hmm. What if I’d married him, instead, and was living here in a darling farmhouse? With big, beautiful sunrises and sunsets? In glorious peace, with the silence broken only by the trill of a meadowlark? Would we picnic down by the old mill stream, toasting each other with wine from our own vineyard, munching on cheese from our own 4-H champion goats?

Poof! My daydream vanished as I rolled into the very small town.

It was like something out of a 1950s horror movie right before the aliens arrived, when everybody was hiding.

Where was the Panera?

Where was the library?

Museum? Stadium? Stores? Theaters?

For that matter, where was the traffic light?

What did they do for fun around here? Tour the SOD FARM?!?

Now, don’t get mad. Rural living is fabulous for those who choose it.

But my spoiled, city-girl eyes were opened. I realized that I loved my life, and certainly my husband. I didn’t need to daydream; my real life was a dream come true. I was one lucky little wacky-eyebrowed East German scrubwoman.

Of course I still sucked in my gut bigtime when I walked in.

But guess what? He never showed up. The chicken!

So now, in my fantasy scenario, my handsome, beloved husband and I are frolicking through Borsheim’s, the world’s best jewelry store right here in Omaha, while up in Podunk the old boyfriend has an extreme combover, a ‘70s bowling shirt and outrageously prominent nosehair that makes my eyebrow look sleek and sophisticated.

That’s the price you pay for chickening out . . . on the gorgeous babe who got away.

DON'T LET IT SNOW, DON'T LET IT SNOW. . . .

Oh, the weather outside is not so frightful. I think we had a snow-free January around here. It was odd! Every time I worry that it’s proof of global warming, they reveal that it’s the coldest and snowiest January on record somewhere else, like the former Soviet Union. Since we’re all on the same globe, I figure it can’t be global warming. Just global hotspots; Mother Nature must be going through menopause. Anyway, we’ve been lucky this year!

But one young mother I know has a special reason to hope that it doesn’t snow. The very sight of a fresh, new snowfall – a thing of beauty and peace to most of us – threatens to put her into Post-Traumatic Mess Syndrome.

See, one day, her two little girls closed the door to their room and had a whee! with a big container of baby powder. They emptied out the whole darn thing, everywhere. They made it snow indoors, and it WASN’T very pretty.

That poor mom vacuumed for three months, and never did feel as though she got it all up. In fact, she had to get a new vacuum cleaner!

So now, when she sees snow, her nostrils flare and she smells baby powder . . . and her palms start to sweat and her eyes cross . . . because a clean-up like that “snow” fun.

PB & J(ARRED NERVES)

We’re not the only parents whose children make big messes and then are so cute when confronted, it’s hard to keep a straight, stern face.

My friend’s son, at age 2, made steps out of the kitchen drawers and climbed up to the upper cabinets, fetching a huge jar of crunchy peanut butter.

Then he spread it all over the newly-painted upstairs hallway wall – an elaborate finger-painting job. It must have been an absolute mess.

Now that he is a junior grownup, he swears that is just a fable. However, she found the snapshots that prove it.

Then he said they didn't prove HE was the one who did the finger painting, just that he was on the scene. He was just standing in the picture, looking not the least bit remorseful.

Maybe this is why we have to pay our judges and prosecutors so much. Somebody has to stop antisocial behavior and foster personal responsibility by getting to the truth. It’s just so hard, and my nerves couldn’t take it.

SOME MEN SHALL BE KINGS, SOME WARRIORS, AND SOME. . . .

We are appalled at our daughter Maddy’s rebellion and disrespect. She has decorated the entire corner of her bedroom wall around her bed with crayon drawings and her first scribbled words and phrases. We have scolded her and plan to make her scrub it clean one of these days.

When she is in the room, we do our best, Oscar-winning, “I’m disappointed in you!” acting job, which parents learn to do in order to teach the hard lessons of life.

But . . . it’s awfully cute, too. The walls are plain white and we’ve been meaning to paint them a pretty color or wallpaper the room for more than six years, anyway. So it’s not that great of a loss. Besides, there are some things on there that are odd and deranged. It’ll make great blackmail material when she’s a teenager.

For example, in two places, she wrote:

A FROG
POOPT
ON DAD

I yelled at her, bigtime, when I saw that vulgar phrase. “Maddy! How could you write that about your father?”

She looked at me with a twinkling smile. “It’s his DESTINY!”

LOOFAH DOOFUS

Seems as though everyone has a story about incredibly bad housekeeping practices they have known – their own, or those of loved ones and co-workers. Here’s one for the oddball file:

The young co-worker was a delight -- spacey at times, but they had a blast together.

Then one day, she said, with eyes wide open, "My roommate and I cleaned the kitchen yesterday, and when we got to the top of the refrigerator, near the back was a huge loofah sponge. . . ."

Her co-worker interrupted her. "Jenny, why would you guys put a loofah on the top of your fridge?"

"We wondered the same thing. It was WAAAAY behind some cereal boxes. Turns out, it was a cantaloupe that had rotted. It was freaky. All that was left was the lacey shell. . . ."

A lacey . . . loofah!?!

Can’t run, can’t hide, can’t elope, can’t get around it – you’ve GOT to keep up with your housekeeping, or join those goofs in the Slob Hall of Fame.