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:

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("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.

ROASTER EVOLUTION

Footnote to Monday’s lament about cleaning Old Beige, our long-neglected garage refrigerator, from a reader who tells one on herself:

“It reminds me soooo much of the time I found in my basement's old refrigerator a whole turkey roaster full of mostly gravy. I TRULY think (her husband) must have taken it downstairs when I collapsed after a holiday -- I don't remember which one but probably Thanksgiving.

“I cannot honestly say how many months had passed but I DO know that I had started my own little world in that roaster. I was sure I saw life forming in the brown depths of the remains. Probably little amoebic things that were getting ready to become seas, mountains, rivers, and even some little Texans.

“I wish I had taken a picture of it but of course I couldn't do THAT! Lawzy me, I didn't want any of my friends or cousins (let alone my mother -- or sister-in-law) -- to know.”

OLD BEIGE

I’m starting an international contest for the most boring household cleaning task, and I think I have a winner. No, it’s not scouring the drip pans, or scooping out the fireplace ashes. It’s . . . drum roll, please . . . cleaning out the garage refrigerator!

Like a lot of Americans, we remodeled our kitchen several years ago. But we couldn’t part with Old Beige. It still works great, even if it looks embarrassingly “so, so ‘70s.” So we put it out in the garage as a party overflow fridge and extra meat freezer.

I don’t think it has been thoroughly cleaned out for six or seven years. So this weekend was D-Day: Defrost, De-Food, and Disinfect. Do you know how many removable parts there are in one simple little fridge? There were some foil-wrapped turkey legs, unidentifiable leftover casseroles in Cool Whip containers, and other artifacts of undiscernible origin.

Feels great to have it cheerfully empty and sparkling clean again. Now my exotic, thrill-a-minute life story can turn the page to the next exciting chapter . . . until seven years roll by again, and it’s time to revisit Old Beige.

WHY DO TREES WHISPER?

For he shall deliver the needy when he crieth;
the poor also, and him that hath no helper.
-- Psalm 72:12

There’s a hubbub in the Omaha area about whether there is “equity” in our public schools. The big center-city district, the Omaha Public Schools, wants to consume most of its three richer, whiter suburban neighboring districts. It has far more poverty, absenteeism and dropouts, and far worse test scores. And it’s screaming for help.

But the ‘burbs are screaming back. Soccer moms are putting up yard signs urging the urban oppressors to keep their greedy mitts off their schools. Bean counters are pointing out that OPS already spends far more on disadvantaged pupils than on other kids. Inner-city private schools do a better job with almost 100% minority and low-income populations, and spend less, too. More money’s not the answer, they contend.

It’s the Clash of the Titans, as the superintendents battle at public forums and in the paper. Then they return to their home turfs to rouse the footsoldiers in this big, ugly class war, with emotional rallies and stirring letters to their partisans. At night they must sock down the Maalox and count the days to their retirement on a full pension with annuities, all taxpayer-provided, of course.

Meanwhile, the politicians are busily throwing out proposed solutions, each one costlier, more chaotic and more micromanaging than the next.

But I can’t stop thinking about a boy I met years ago in a writing workshop for the Boys and Girls Club in inner-city Omaha. It’s for kids like him that I’m seeking a better way.

He taught me that poverty doesn’t define children, and shouldn’t keep them from their dreams, if we can help it.

And we can.

The kids in my workshop, most all minorities, were about 13. They were at risk for gangs and drugs, from some of the toughest home situations in the state. But they had academic potential. I had volunteered to help them with their writing.

First, I had them write about whatever they wanted. Their spelling, grammar and punctuation were horrible. I don’t think there was a single error-free sentence. All they wrote about was the NBA, NFL and “doent taek druggs.”

Sheesh. This was hopeless. I called them up individually, circled their misspellings, and pointed to the dictionary.

They gasped. Turns out their teachers in the Omaha Public Schools never pointed out their writing errors or made them fix them. No wonder they couldn’t write!

One by one, they brought their corrected papers back. I praised them. They beamed.

Hmm. Maybe they aren’t hopeless. Maybe they just haven’t been taught right.

Next, I asked the kids to pose any question they wanted, and answer it creatively.

We were sitting under some cottonwoods, grand, old trees that never grow in the matchy-poo suburbs. There’s wealth and beauty in the inner city, too . . . if you look.

That’s when this kid amazed me.

His question: “Why do trees whisper?”

His answer: there’s a tree named Bob, and he’s a terrible gossip, and the other trees don’t want him to know their business, so when you hear leaves rustling in the wind, it’s them whispering. . . .

Now I was the one gasping. It was creative. It was funny. It was wonderful. His writing conventions were a “D,” but his ideas were “A++.”

Goosebumps! I went from pitying these kids . . . to believing in them.

I told him he had a God-given talent. I hope he can still feel my hug: “You’re going to be somebody someday.”

I made a promise that day to do everything I could to help disadvantaged kids get a better education. That’s why I’m always harping on it. They don’t need more money. They don’t need more integration. They need the old 3 R’s, and they need them now.

They already have everything else they need: imagination, people who believe in them, and God on their side.

Let’s be like those trees: quiet down and stand tall . . . put our heads together . . . ask God to whisper to our hearts . . . and together, dream up a better way.

WHAT YOU SEE IS WHAT YOU GET

A man was walking down the street when he was accosted by a particularly dirty and shabby-looking homeless man who asked him for a couple of dollars for dinner.

The man took out his wallet, extracted $10 and asked, "If I give you this money, will you buy some beer with it instead of dinner?"

"No, I had to stop drinking years ago," the homeless man replied.

"Will you use it to go fishing instead of buying food?" the man asked.

"No! I don't waste time fishing," the homeless man said. "I need to spend all my time trying to stay alive."

"Will you spend this on greens fees at a golf course instead of food?" the man asked.

"Are you NUTS?!?" replied the homeless man. "I haven't played golf in 20 years!"

"Will you spend the money on a woman in the red-light district instead of food?" the man asked.

"What disease would I get for ten lousy bucks?" exclaimed the homeless man.

"Well," said the man, "I'm not going to give you the money. Instead, I'm going to take you home for a terrific dinner cooked by my wife."

The homeless man was astounded. "Won't your wife be furious with you for doing that? I know I'm dirty, and I probably smell pretty disgusting."

The man replied, "That's okay. It's important for her to see what a man looks like after he has given up beer, fishing, golf, and sex."

QUIT CARPING, AND HAVE A HAPPY WEEKEND

Today's DailySusan depicts two big, strapping men grinning broadly and holding up (barely) and even bigger, strapping CARP. Or maybe it was a catfish. All I know is . . . it was bigger than a breadbox, and had much longer whiskers.

A BAD 'DO' IN CLONING

Today's DailySusan is a set of weird photos that depict hypothetical boo-boo's in cloning. A stately eagle head merges onto a wolf's body; a bat sports tiger's teeth. The graphic transformation is deft. Unfortunately, images can't be posted on this blog. It's just another reason why you should subscribe to the DailySusan email! See www.DailySusan.com for details.

HAVE A NICE . . . TRIP . . . TO THE GYM

We have joined the new fitness center in our small town, and it’s great. It also has a number of fun classes to divert young children while their parents attempt to reshape their maggot-like bodies. (Speak for yourself, eh? Well, “accuracy in media” is my middle name.)

Anyway, Maddy was excited about this new development in her otherwise routine house-bound winter schedule. She was getting a little bored with giving her Furbys rides on her skateboard on our wood floors, setting up a play school for her stuffed animals, and drawing endless pictures of flowers, hearts and teddy bears.

Hours before her first tumbling class, though, she was worried about all the food I had put on her plate for lunch:

“I can’t eat all this, because then I would be too pudgy, and I couldn’t go STUMBLING.”

AD INUNDATION

A friend clued me in to the number you have to call to get your cell phone number taken off the sucker lists of telemarketers. They soon will be able to make unwanted junk phone calls to your cell phone, eat up your free minutes, and eventually you’ll even have to PAY for these calls.

But if you call this number, you can opt out of that whole shebang. At least, I HOPE this is legit:

(888) 382-1222

Advertisers are already flooding our mailboxes, email inboxes, and regular telephones with annoying regularity, trying to sell us something or get our money somehow. Now cell phones. Then there’s all the ugly billboards and building signs, flyers, brochures, skywriting. . . .

What’s next? Little plastic-encapsulated ads that come through your WATER FAUCETS?

KITE CHOREOGRAPHY

This is the most amazing thing I’ve seen in a long time. Click on the attached. Your spirits will soar higher than a . . . well, you’ll see.

(The .wav file can't be attached to this blog; it showed 81 hang-gliders in formation like a gigantic human kite)

EXHUME THE POSITION

Remove not the ancient landmark,
which thy fathers have set.
-- Proverbs 22:28

They’re talking about making a great, big, honkin’ lake over my dad’s hometown, submerging the little house in “Mortgage Hollow” where Dad grew up, and the darling old Carnegie library, and the sunny little cemetery where our ancestors are buried.

It’d be a huge boost to economic development and recreation in southeastern Nebraska. They’d spend $2 billion to build a dam and an 80-square mile lake where now there are only quiet farms and fields, and the little town of Ashland.

Of course, “Mortgage Hollow” is no longer there. The Wiggenhorn mansion is gone. The curious little shack where “the king of the hobos” lived on the edge of town has disappeared.

Linoma Beach, the riverside waterpark with the kitschy white lighthouse where Dad was a lifeguard eons ago, was almost deserted last time we went. I think the bank where Grandpa worked is a coffee shop now, and the car-repair shop is a little gas station.

The high school’s consolidated; gone is the classroom of the beloved teacher, Miss Duty Vaughn. The meat market’s defunct. Most of the places where Dad hung out, and most of the people he hung out with, are no more.

So I shouldn’t be sad and worried about this lake. But I am. Because . . .

. . . PEOPLE are going to be BOATING AND WATER-SKIING right over Grandma and Grandpa’s GRAVES!!!!

AAAIIIEEE!!!

We can’t have that! How disrespectful! They’ll be doing human pyramids, and mooning, and drinking beer in the boat, and dropping trash over the sides. I can see it now: an old boot, some Bud cans and a Cheetos sack obscuring the “DARST” on our beautiful granite headstone, 30 feet under!

AAAIIIEEE!!!

It reminds me of that scary dream from “Deliverance,” where the dead hand pops up out of the lake!

AAAIIIEEE!!!

We can’t HAVE that!

So . . . if this goes through . . . our family will have to go through the gruesome process of exhuming the bodies, and moving them to higher ground.

We may have a couple of decades to get it done, though. This thing would be more complicated than all the storylines of all the dysfunctional families of all the soap operas ever made.

The plan is to dam the Platte River along Interstate 80 between Omaha and Lincoln, and make a lake bigger than anything from Lake Michigan to the Great Salt Lake. There’d be 145 miles of shoreline for homes and businesses, public marinas, space for resorts, a private airstrip and all kinds of upscale development.

All that makes the old alley where Dad used to work on cars, the little grocery store his friend’s dad ran, and the somber funeral home where we said goodbye to Gram, seem kind of irrelevant and inconsequential.

But are they?

Of course not.

And they’re not really going to be “lost” if this happens, anyway. Any place that’s ever been a part of your life transforms into spiritual capital, stashed away in your heart. No one can ever take it away. Or flood it.

Now, my heart already grieves for all the Ashland residents who would be forced out of homes, farms and businesses that have been in their families for generations. Eminent domain hurts, and hurts bad.

But you’ve got to look at the big picture. Progress happens. And I’ll be for it, if this project survives all the arm-twisting of federal regulators, and legislative wrangling, and financing headaches.

It would be wonderful! It would be worth it.

The Bible says not to remove the ancient landmarks – but that doesn’t mean houses and towns. They can go.

They aren’t the real landmarks. It’s justice and respect, family and friendship, mercy and love that we’re supposed to hang onto, no matter what. All the good things about “Ashcan,” as Dad affectionately called it, are never-ending and eternal.

Dam it!

Or not!

I say, “water” we waiting for? Exhumation won’t be that bad: I can . . . dig it.

As long as Grandma and Grandpa are buried where they can rest in peace, I’m not going to rock the boat.

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Here’s a neat history of Ashland with colorful content about “bull whackers” and other pioneers. It lists my grandfather, G.R. Darst, as a charter member of the Ashland Rotary Club in 1935:
http://www.rootsweb.com/~nesaunde/1983hist/saco83-p44.html

SNOWING CREAM

What do we have in our freezer this morning? A great, big container of frozen shaving cream.

Why do we have a great, big container of frozen shaving cream in our freezer? Because we haven’t had any decent snow since ‘way before Christmas.

What does that have to do with shaving cream? Well, I was buying toiletries for a neighborhood Eagle Scout’s project to help the homeless, and I saw a can of shaving cream on sale for a dollar. I got it for Maddy to play with on our kitchen island, which is granite. You know: snow on rocks. Lots and lots of “snow,” actually. Her favorite part was noisily spraying it out into big clumps.

She had a whee, playing with all kinds of kitchen utensils in the gooey pseudo-snow. The potato ricer was her favorite. She buried her little rubber turtle in a mini-mountain, and galloped her little plastic zebra through the snowy “tundra.”

That’s why we have a great, big container of frozen shaving cream in our freezer. I think it’s going to snow again today . . . in our kitchen

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Did you see the upside-down piano player on the Jay Leno Show last night? Laura Dooling was radiantly beautiful, funny and talented, representing Omaha and Marian High School with aplomb. Turns out she and our daughter Eden used to play the piano like that all the time when they were little. Next time, maybe they can play an upside-down duet. Heck, they should have their own show!

WHEN THE WHALE WENT FREE

This is reportedly from Page One of the San Francisco Chronicle this past Dec. 15:

A female humpback whale had become entangled in a spider web of heavy crab traps and lines. She was weighed down by hundreds of pounds of traps that caused her to struggle to stay afloat. She also had hundreds of yards of line (rope) wrapped around her body -- her tail, her torso, even a line tugging in her mouth.

A fisherman spotted her just east of the Farralone Islands (outside the Golden Gate) and radio’ed an environmental group for help. Within a few hours, the rescue team arrived and determined that she was so bad off, the only way to save her was to dive in and untangle her. That was a very dangerous proposition. One slap of the tail could kill a rescuer. They worked for hours with curved knives, cutting rope by rope, and eventually freed her.

When she was free, the divers say she swam in what seemed like joyous circles. She then came back to each and every diver, one at a time, and nudged them, pushing them gently around – thanking them. Some said it was the most incredibly beautiful experience of their lives. The guy who cut the rope out of her mouth says her eye was following him the whole time, and he will never be the same.

The story comes with a wish: “May you, and all those you love, be so blessed as to be untangled from the things that you might think are binding you.”

What a whale of a nice tale. Happy weekending!

THE UPSIDE-DOWN PIANO PLAYER

I’m excited: a girl who’s been a friend of our family since kindergarten is going to be on the Jay Leno Show Friday night with her special teenage talent that you won’t want to miss:

Laura Dooling plays the piano upside down!

Not the piano, that is. She lays backwards across the piano bench so that she’s face up under the piano, and then she brings her hands onto the keys and flawlessly plays a silly song!

Yes, I tried it, when I was sure nobody would be home to witness my humiliation. I could barely wedge my middle-aged form between the bench and the piano. It was difficult to mentally reverse the thumbs and pinkies in chords. Finally, I almost had a tune going, except my back was giving out, I looked totally ridiculous, and the dog thought I had gone insane and was licking my face. So I gave up, yielding to youthful talent and superior muscle tone.

Maybe I’ll try again after I watch her do it on national TV Friday night. I guess there will be a couple of other terrific teens doing “stupid teen tricks” on the same show, which will be fun.

Laura went to kindergarten with our Eden. They’re now seniors, and have gone to separate schools since fifth grade, but have remained friends. Laura’s mom and I shared many laughs in a yearlong “Hags On Nags” horseback riding club, with many stolen long lunches since then spent in paroxysms of laughter and friendship.

They’re just wonderful people. I hope you make a note to watch the show Friday night. No, you don’t have to sit upside down while you watch it; but it might help Laura if you hummed along.

DON'T KNOCK-KNOCK WINTER

To liven up the carpool, we’ve been telling winter knock-knock jokes:

Knock-knock!
Who’s there?
Snow.
Snow who?
‘Snobody special.

Knock-knock!
Who’s there?
Ach!
Ach who?
Did you sneeze? Need a Kleenex?

Knock-knock!
Who’s there?
Freeze!
Freeze who?
Freeze a jolly good fellow. . . .

Knock-knock!
Who’s there?
Icy.
Icy who?
Icy a big polar bear! Run!

Knock-knock!
Who’s there?
Grrrrrr!
Grrrrrr who?
What are you, a polar bear or an owl?

Knock-knock!
Who’s there?
Ice cream.
Ice cream who?
Ice cream if you throw me into the ice cold water.

MEDS ON THE MARCH*

You can tell on the sill
We’re not feeling very well
As the cold season marches along.

From Kleenex to eyedrops
Which cost 60 bucks a pop
We would like to give sickness the gong.

So it’s Kaopectate!
An inhaler that works great.
Advil! Sore throat drops! Sinus pills!

Only one thing’s worse
Than a cold, and that’s a purse
That’s been emptied by fever and chills!!!

(* to the tune of Caissons Go Rolling)

BUMPER SNICKERS

Today's DailySusan delivered by email was a collection of silly bumper stickers. Graphics unavailable on the blog.

SON OF LIGHT

Ye are all the children of light,
and the children of the day:
we are not of the night, nor of darkness.
-- 1 Thessalonians 5:5

She had three children with another on the way when her husband’s job moved them to an Upper Midwestern college town. She didn’t know a soul. But as her pregnancy advanced, she managed the move. Ten days into their new house, she gave birth.

He had white hair. She didn’t know enough to use the term “person with albinism” instead of the offensive horror-flick epithet. But she “knew.”

“I really was a wreck and it got progressively worse,” she recalled. “I didn’t want this, wasn’t up to it at all.”

The next day, the doctor told them albinism is simple genetics: two recessive genes match up. It affects one in 17,000 people.

And guess what? The world’s leading expert on albinism genetics happened to be with the local university. He dropped by.

“Hi! I’m Dr. So-and-So . . . and this is going to be OK.”

Those were words she needed to hear, but didn’t yet believe. He said people with albinism lead good lives. In fact, the dean of the local law school had it, too. The biggest challenge: low vision because of a lack of pigment in the eye. But ophthalmology had answers.

Her pediatrician asked if a resident at the local medical school, also with albinism, could come over. His first name: John, the same as their son’s. He was 28, and delightful.

His visit “really brought a sense of normalcy,” she said. He urged her to call his mother.

They bonded. She sent her a beautiful letter with pictures of her John growing up, driving a boat, being active. “She wanted me to know all the things he could do.”

Others counseled her. Would everybody stare? Maybe. But hey: they were in a college town among Scandinavians galore. EVERYBODY’s light-haired and light-skinned, or had body piercings and mohawks. He’d blend right in.

Would kids tease him? Well . . . who DOESN’T get teased?

Would he see well enough to drive? It turns out a local ophthalmologist was an expert on albinism. And John sees better than expected; he very well could drive. The doctor couldn’t get over it. “Well, there’re a lot of people praying for him,” the mother said. “That explains it,” he replied.

Still, she went through a desert time, depressed or raging against God. “Things like this didn’t happen to people like me. I was in shock. I realized I never really had control over my life before. That was a huge lesson I had to learn.”

Her mom, sisters and other friends called her often. “You can do this,” they’d say. “Things have a way of working out.” A local priest helped, too.

Then one day when John was about 2, she was in the pits. “Just give me a sign, God, and it’d better be clear,” she pleaded. A while later, she went into John’s room. He looked up. “It’s going to be OK, Mom,” he said.

A few years later, she got a call from the mother of a newborn with albinism in a nearby city, desperately upset. “I really think you ought to come and meet John,” she said. So they did. They spent the day. They went to his soccer game. They saw how smart he is, and how much fun.

As they were leaving, the other mom said, “You don’t know what this meant to me.”

She replied, “I think I do.”

She’s grown so much, through it all. Her relationship with God has deepened and sweetened, like a longtime marriage when you’ve been through the mill together.

She sees the light.

And that’s what you think, when you see John. His hair, his skin . . . they’re light, that’s all. He’s 11 now, and quite the scholar, artist, musician and comedian. He’s writing a book, a real swashbuckler. What’s he going to do next?

“Write the sequel, of course,” he says.

He likes himself. He’s light-hearted. Everybody was right: this is going to be OK. More than OK.

And there’s a Light above Who knew it all along.

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

For more about this condition, see www.albinism.org

THE KISS RULE: KEEP IT SIMPLE, SCIENTISTS

When NASA first started sending up astronauts, they quickly discovered that ball-point pens would not work in zero gravity.

To combat this problem, NASA scientists spent a decade and $12 billion developing a pen that writes in zero gravity, upside-down, on almost any surface including glass and at temperatures ranging from below freezing to over 300 C.

The Russians used a pencil.

Your taxes are due again. Enjoy paying them.

OH, PUN SEASON

A GOOD PUN IS ITS OWN RE-WORD
Energizer Bunny arrested - charged with battery.
A pessimist's blood type is always b-negative.
Practice safe eating - always use condiments.
A Freudian slip is when you say one thing but mean your mother.
Shotgun wedding: A case of wife or death.
I used to work in a blanket factory, but it folded.
Marriage is the mourning after the knot before.
A hangover is the wrath of grapes.
Corduroy pillows are making headlines.
Is a book on voyeurism a peeping tome?
Sea captains don't like crew cuts.
Does the name Pavlov ring a bell?
A successful diet is the triumph of mind over platter.
Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.
A gossip is someone with a great sense of rumor.
Without geometry, life is pointless.
When you dream in color, it's a pigment of your imagination.
Reading while sunbathing makes you well-red.
A man's home is his castle, in a manor of speaking.
Dijon vu - the same mustard as before
When two egotists meet, it's an I for an I.
A bicycle can't stand on its own because it is two-tired.
What's the definition of a will? (Come on, it's a dead giveaway!)
In democracy your vote counts. In feudalism, your count votes.
A chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion.
If you don't pay your exorcist, you get repossessed.
With her marriage, she got a new name and a dress.
Show me a piano falling down a mine shaft, and I'll show you a flat minor.
When a clock is hungry, it goes back four seconds.
The man who fell into an upholstery machine is fully recovered.
A grenade thrown into a kitchen in France would result in Linoleum Blownapart.
You feel stuck with your debt if you can't budge it.
Local Area Network in Australia: The LAN down under.
He often broke into song because he couldn't find the key.
Every calendar's days are numbered.
A lot of money is tainted. It t'aint yours and it t'aint mine.
A boiled egg in the morning is hard to beat.
He had a photographic memory that was never developed.
The short fortuneteller who escaped from prison was a small medium at large.
Once you've seen one shopping center, you've seen a mall.
Those who jump off a Paris bridge are in Seine.
When an actress saw her first strands of gray hair, she thought she'd dye.
Bakers trade bread recipes on a knead-to-know basis.
Santa's helpers are subordinate clauses.
Acupuncture is a jab well done.

THERE'S THERAPY FOR THIS

I’ve got news for all you who think the “hunter-gatherer” community of cave-man days is long gone. Around here, the Mr. has become “CAMO MAN,” and everything he does revolves around his new hobby of hunting. He got our daughter – our precious 5-year-old daughter in pigtails and pink fingernail polish – a camouflage jacket for Christmas. Why? So she can sit next to him in his matching one, driving his camouflage ATV around the neighborhood, pretending to be on a father-daughter hunt, I guess.

As if that isn’t bad enough for our reputation, now I’ve been caught as the Ultimate Pack Rat. A neighbor is doing that excellent kiddie creativity activity, Destination Imagination. I worked a lot with our three older kids in its predecessor, Odyssey of the Mind. Teams I helped coach twice made it into the top five at Worlds. Woo hoo! You only have $100 to spend over the six months or so of the competition. So the coaches and kids got good at scrounging all kinds of odd freebies to make their sets, costumes, props and such.

Well, I got into the habit of saving my dryer lint. That’s right: I scoop a gross little gray handful up after every dryer load and put it into a plastic sack. The kids used it as no-cost stuffing for their various plays. But it’s been at least five years since they were involved, and yet I’m still saving my dryer lint. Doctor, doctor! I can’t stop!

This caused my neighbor to hoot – although, as a current creativity coach, the reason she was calling was that she was scrounging around among her neighbors and friends for SHREDDED PAPER. “May I come over and borrow a cup of shredded paper?” That’s just as anal as dryer lint.

She made me feel better, though. She knows the owner of an embroidery shop who’s addicted to saving scraps of thread. You know, little three- and four-inch lengths of unused thread. She’s got an enormous supply.

Soul sister!

TRUE SENTIMENTS

This letter was sent to the principal's office of a middle school after the school had sponsored a luncheon for the elderly.

An old lady received a new radio at the luncheon as a door prize, and wrote this thank-you note:

Dear Safety Harbor Middle School,

God bless you for the beautiful radio I won at your recent senior citizens luncheon. I am 84 years old and live at the Safety Harbor Assisted Home for the Aged. All of my family has passed away. I am all alone now and it's nice to know that someone is thinking of me. God bless you for your kindness to an old, forgotten lady.

My roommate is 95 and always had her own radio, but before I received one, she would never let me listen to hers, even when she was napping. The other day her radio fell off the night stand and broke into a lot of pieces. It was awful and she was in tears. She asked if she could listen to mine. . .

. . . and I said, “Kiss my ___.”

Thank you for that opportunity.

Sincerely, Edna Walters

. . .

(And you thought this was going to be another one of those heartwarming stories. . . .)

PINT-SIZED CYNIC

It was our 28th wedding anniversary the other day. Maddy, 5, still hung over from an exciting, colorful Christmas with all kinds of celebrating, gift-giving and travel, wasn’t quite up to speed on what was going on.

She noticed the cards on the kitchen table and saw that the grandparents had sent a gift and some flowers. Both parents were scurrying around making preparations because we were having people over for a dinner party to help celebrate. In this day and age, long-time marriage is something you SHOULD celebrate, we believe. It’s kind of like watching Halley’s Comet.

“It’s Mom and Dad’s anniversary,” one of her older sisters told Maddy.

“What’s the big deal?” she replied.

Well, think about it. There were no presents in it for HER. . . .

UNSUSPECTING HAMS

Yes, my favorite TV show has always been “Candid Camera” and yes, I love this clip and am just thankful it wasn’t me:

http://www.youtube.com/player.swf?video_id=vEWLwz6JRNE&l=357&s=B4BC767

ALAMOJO

For this cause I bow my knees unto the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
of whom the whole family in heaven and earth is named. . . .
-- Ephesians 3:14,15

There was a Darst at the Alamo. One of the heroes who gave his life to win freedom for Texas was my great-great-great-grand-whatever.

We’ve always known it. But it wasn’t until a relative stopped in at the old mission in San Antonio a while back that we realized how big a deal it really was.

She mentioned the connection to Jacob Darst.

Their eyes lit up. Bells rang. Sirens sounded. Staff members poured in.

“WE HAVE A DESCENDANT! WE HAVE A DESCENDANT!”

They shook her hand. They gave her a stack of specially-stamped brochures.

They wanted to give her a private tour of the 1836 massacre, and how it happened. They showed her the bronze plaque with his name on it, and the enormous oil portrait of Jacob hung in the gift shop, one of only six commemorative paintings. They said the Kentucky native was married to Davy Crockett’s niece; that’s how he wound up at the Alamo. They told her she could never get a job working there; that would be sacrilegious.

What a hero! That’s the good news.

The BAD news is, Jacob was found shot in the back. That meant . . . gulp . . . HE WAS TRYING TO GET AWAY.

“Yeah, and he was probably in women’s clothes,” my husband added sarcastically. You know, trying to “pass.”

Aw, he was just jealous. HIS family is related to U.S. Supreme Court Justice John Marshall. At his funeral, the Liberty Bell cracked. That’s a biggie to see in Philadelphia. My beloved had strutted around, bigtime, about that. But I had just pointed out that our San Antonio Riverwalk hotel had given us a takeout menu in the room with this item: “Tijuana Phillysteak.”

He got mad. Is nothing sacred?

Anyway, when we went to San Antonio after Christmas to see the Huskers play in the Alamo Bowl, I was excited to visit the Alamo and get the ego-boosting red-carpet treatment, too.

Our relative had been there on a weekday, at closing time, the only visitor at the time. But our Christmas Week crowd was enormous; the line to the Alamo sprawled around the block.

Maddy gaped up at the mission façade and asked, “Is this the White House?”

We should have known it was not going to go well. There was a big hold-up in the line. My beloved spotted a tall guard facing the other way, with long hair cascading over an 1830s uniform’s epaulets. “Maybe we should tell HER who you are!” he whispered, loudly.

Just then, the guard turned around. “’. . . Tell HIM!’” he corrected. I saw a shadow pass over the guard’s face. He put his back to us again.

So much for the red-carpet treatment from HIM. But that was OK: the reception desk was coming up, and that’s where our relative had received her idol worship.

Bursting with prideful anticipation, chest sticking out, I told the guy, “I’m descended from Jacob Darst!”

He studied me briefly.

“That’s nice,” he said, stamping my brochure.

THAT’S “NICE”?

THAT’S IT?

He saw me sag, and said with pity, “You can take cuts in line if you want.”

Take CUTS?

Stomp on the rights of others?

After Great-Great-Great-Grand-Whatever Jacob had given the last full measure of devotion, whether or not in ladies’ clothing?

I declined.

It was embarrassing. Oh, my foolish pride. People get puffed up over connections to celebrities, sports teams, colleges, hometowns . . . but there’s only one family name that really counts, and that’s God’s.

Thus chastened, I took the tour. It was all very interesting, anyway.

I finally stood before the big portrait of Jacob. Heyyy! My dad’s wide-set eyes! That flowing, blond, Germanic hair! That dashing, jaunty, Darst-like pose!

He looked so good, so brave, so larger-than-life, that I got my mojo back. Yeah! I’m mainly related to God . . . but also to HIM!

And then I swear he winked, and said, “Remember the Alamo . . . and Go Big Red!”

VODKA: HINTS FROM (HIC!) HELOISE

And they say being a housewife is boring. Consider what you can do with vodka:

-- Dissolve adhesives stuck to glass.
-- Remove a bandage painlessly.
-- Spray-clean bathroom caulking and kill mold and mildew.
-- Clean and disinfect eyeglasses.
-- Keep your razor in a cup of vodka between shavings to disinfect the blade and prevent rusting.
-- Spray-clean vomit stains.
-- Dab a little on a cotton ball to clean your face and tighten pores.
-- Add a jigger to a 12-ounce bottle of shampoo; the alcohol cleans your scalp, detoxifies your hair, and stimulates growth.
-- Spray-kill bees and wasps.
-- Make an ice pack in a zippered plastic bag with ½ cup vodka and ½ cup water for aches, pains and black eyes.
-- Have a fever? Put vodka on a washcloth and rub it on your chest and back as a liniment.
-- Foot odor? Wash with vodka.
-- Jellyfish sting? Vodka will alleviate the pain.
-- Poison ivy? Vodka removes the oil from your skin.
-- Toothache? Allow your gums to absorb some of the alcohol to numb the pain.

Speaking of numbing . . . ‘salso a perf’ excuuuuusss f’not gettin’ m’housssssework done. . . .

JELLY BELLY DANCING

One of my friends has taken up belly-dancing classes with her grown daughter, according to her Christmas card letter. There wasn’t a picture with it, unfortunately. I’d like to see her in one of those “I Dream of Jeannie” outfits, whirling dust rags around in the air like beautiful scarves, and clicking together her maxed-out credit cards instead of those metal castanets. Instead of a huge jewel in her navel, she would have her car keys, which she’s always losing, anyway. Hey! They’d be great! They’d jingle, jangle, jingle and add to the mystique!

If it were me in that belly-dancing class, they’d have to make sure all the other students were blind; anyone else would collapse laughing if they saw me trying to shake my voluminous tummy left to right while everything else was jiggling up and down. For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. I’d build up so much leverage, I might just launch myself up through the roof.

Or maybe they’d need to put me in a remedial section – the bunny lane. I never could do the hula hoop or any kind of ballroom dancing; what makes me think I could get the rhythm down? Just having the hot blood of embarrassment course through my veins from being there would be exercise enough for my heart and lungs.

CHRONICLES OF MADDY-A

Classic literature is coming alive on the silver screen and blowing out the violent, oversexed, R-rated trash flicks in the box office. “Pride and Prejudice” has been a huge hit recently, and “The Chronicles of Narnia” is No. 1 right now.

Woo hoo! It makes me do my “I told you so” strut. A few years ago, I butted heads with a left-wing English teacher in a local middle school over the crummy books the school was assigning to the kids instead of classic books like these.

She said today’s audiences don’t find the classics interesting or relevant. Riiiiiiiight. How many kajillions have movies like “Narnia” made in recent years?

Our heated discussion took place after I had quietly opted my daughter out of the rotten, R-rated contemporary novel she had assigned in seventh grade English class, and substituted the famous C.S. Lewis “Narnia” book that now is thrilling audiences worldwide. She thought I was hopelessly out of step with what kids need to be reading.

So there! I hope she gets it by now.

But maybe the “Narnia” magic, fantasy and excitement has gone a bit too far. Maddy, 5, received not one but two age-appropriate “Narnia” books at Christmastime and has loved them. Yesterday, she was busy at her little table on a worksheet sent home from kindergarten. She was writing a row of “8’s” for practice. She showed them to me. One had a tiny upstroke on the top.

“This one’s a unicorn 8,” she informed me.

Now, that’s a character not even C.S. Lewis thought up.

BACK FROM VACATION?

We missed you, but we've been busy . . . today's DailySusan is a series of practical jokes on office cubicles, including a blizzard of sticky notes, a foil wrap on every inch, and a complete fill job with pink packing noodles.

A DIFFERENT KIND OF BOWL RECORD

There’s all kinds of talk about various records being set in the football bowl games. Some of them are pretty commonplace – yards gained, fumbles lost – and some are stats that only total football nerds could ever care about.

You know, “The East Dakotalinafornia Bohunks have just set a Salad Bowl record for the Number of Quarterback Pump-Fakes in an Unsuccessful Third-Down Conversion Attempt Before a Field Goal of Over 40 Yards!!!”

But I witnessed a bona fide, incredible Alamo Bowl record that may never be broken:

“Biggest Smile That Ever Transformed Into the Biggest Frown In the Shortest Amount of Time”

This is because, for various reasons, I accompanied my extremely gorgeous college-age daughter to a rowdy piano bar, “Howl at the Moon,” on the San Antonio Riverwalk on the eve of the bowl game. It was full of revelers getting fired up.

She took three steps into the place and was hit on by a beery, salivating and not-half-bad-looking fellow, obviously there to scope out the hot college babes. He gazed down at her with a radiant, delighted, beaming smile as he delivered what he thought was a suave opening line.

She pointed back at me and said, “I’m here with my MOM!!!” . . .

. . . and as his eyes darted toward my prison-matronly presence and then back to her, that delirious upward curve of a smile melted into the most disappointed downward curve of a frown you’ve ever seen in your life, breaking all speed records.

Too bad he didn’t get her number after all. We need to know where to mail his trophy!

A NEW YEAR'S GOTCHA BY GOD

A story goes that a man prays to God at the start of a new year.

God appears and the man says, "Lord! Our billions of years are Your one second. Our billions of dollars are merely a penny for You. Could You grant me a penny?"

God smiles and says, "Certainly! Back in a second" . . . and disappears.

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

CHRISTMAS KINDNESS: Thanks a million to all those who opened their hearts and their wallets to all kinds of good causes and needy people last year. It is so heartening to hear about donors, especially anonymous ones, who just want to help people for the joy of it. My favorite offshoot of DailySusan charity suggestions was a generous reader in California who shot over a check for $500 to the domestic violence project of a group of Omaha nuns. I don’t know who the reader is . . . but bless yo’ heart, bigtime.