DAILYSUSAN WILL RETURN ON MONDAY, JULY 17.

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POISON UH-OH

The way of a fool
is right in his own eyes:
but he that hearkeneth unto counsel is wise.
-- Proverbs 12:15

Didn’t I clamber all over hill and dale at kiddie camp, and never got poison ivy?

Didn’t I hike all over the back trails of northern Minnesota picking blueberries, and fishing along the creepiest, crawliest, back-woods shores?

Didn’t I cavort at “woodsies” out in the boondocks in college, and on camping trips, and while gardening? Haven’t I spent more than my share of time in the “cabbage” of the deep rough on golf courses near and far?

And in all that time, I never got poison ivy, or its evil twins, poison oak and poison sumac. Never! Others itched . . . but I remained Dermatologically Unprovoked.

Until last week, that is. Oooh! I got it . . . BAD!

The red-speckled undersides of my arms look like the Tattooed Lady! From ankle to knee, it looks like I got in a knifefight with a near-sighted midget. I even had it on the tips of my ears and down both sides of my neck, apparently from fussing with my hair.

It’s my own darn fault. I knew there was poison ivy among the weeds around those grand old cottonwoods ringing our neighborhood pond. A neighbor had to be hospitalized with an extreme allergic reaction after a workday down there; my beloved had gotten a touch of it, and it wasn’t fun.

But I was immune! I was SuperWeeder!

Hundreds of people were coming there for our neighborhood’s annual fireworks show. That’s why I wanted to weed under the trees, even though people wouldn’t even get there ‘til it was too dark to see.

But my perfectionistic streak forced me to ignore these warnings, and go down there and spruce things up.

Did I wear long sleeves and long pants? Nah. It was hot!

Did I let my rake and other garden tools make the contact? Nah. I got right in to the piles, scooped ‘em up and stuffed ‘em into bags. Hey! I HAD on GLOVES!

I threw my work clothes immediately into the washing machine, and took a sudsy shower. No spots! No itching!

Next day, I strutted around, the intrepid garden Goliath.

But at 3 a.m., I awakened with RAGING VOLCANOS ERUPTING FROM THE CROOKS OF MY ELBOWS DOWN TO MY WRISTS! Before my eyes, ominous pinnacles of pink skin peaked, then oozed, and transformed my bed into Camp Itchipoogottascratchit.

I made a beeline for the Caladryl lotion. Better! Kind of!

Two hours later, the volcanos were back, this time on my legs. I woke up like a contortionist, my body shaped into the letter “O,” my nails scratching my ankles into a bloody pulp. Then new volcanos erupted on my arms. Back and forth it went.

Call your doctor, friends advised. Nah. He’ll get really mad.

Instead, I got online and started reading the scariest and most confusing amateur medical advice imaginable. Rub 100% Clorox on it with a washcloth until it burns.

No, Clorox will scar – use brake cleaner!

No, that hurts too much. Apply a thick coat of white shoe polish!

No, just take a shower in the hottest water you can stand, to literally scald your skin so it can’t feel any more. Bite down on a rolled-up washcloth when you really “get cooking.”

No! Cold water! That’s the ticket! With Fels Naptha laundry soap.

No, no, no. You put 20 tea bags in a hot bath, soak for 20 minutes, pat yourself dry, and blow-dry yourself on the highest setting. Talk about hot air!

My favorite advice was to use alcohol. Not on your itchy, owie skin – but to drink yourself into blissful unconsciousness. If you’re conked out, you won’t scratch.

A week’s gone by, and the volcanos have finally calmed down. Now I just look scabby and icky.

It would have been sooooooo simple to heed the warnings, and not even go around known poison ivy in the first place.

Simple . . . smart . . . and so out of character. But if it’s the way to stay out of Camp Itchipoogottascratchit, maybe I’ll wise up at last. †

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Miles For Mali Update

Goal: Raise $5,600 and collect 5,600 miles of walking, running, biking and swimming in 56 days to help build a much-needed maternity hospital in Mali, Africa.

Second week’s report: 14 miles walked, $273 raised from people in Nebraska, Missouri and Pennsylvania. Still ‘way, ‘way behind schedule, dollar-wise. But still planning to meet it!

Renewing the challenge, far and wide: why not sponsor me for $1 a day, to help bring decent medical care to nearly-destitute women and children in West Africa? If you can’t sacrifice $56, I understand, and God bless you. But if you can . . . woo hoo! God will honor your commitment, and I’ll sing your praises to Him.

Please send checks made out to Christ Community Church to:
Susan Williams, P.O. Box 995, Elkhorn, NE 68022. Deadline: Aug. 20.
Donations tax-deductible; you will receive a letter for your files. THANK YOU!!!

Learn more at: www.themaliproject.org or www.christcommunityomaha.org

PONDERING PODS

My beloved and I are on a walking program. It’s a great time to reconnect while enjoying the great outdoors. Except that it can also reveal that one’s spouse is deranged, odd and totally whacked out.

Or at least, I THOUGHT he was, when he started exclaiming what a GREAT idea “pods” were, how well they worked for “storage,” and how he’d been noticing them around town.

Pods? There were seed pods hanging from a nearby tree as we walked by. I peered at them as I listened to him rave about them. “Storage”? Of seeds? Whaaaat? Was he losing his mind, going on and on about pods? I wish I had a picture of my face, screwed up in confusion, next to his, rapt with enthusiasm.

Was this his idea of some kind of a prayer, thanking God for one of His designs in nature? Was he mixed up and thinking of iPods? Or had he been SMOKING pods and losing brain cells rapidly? Had he suddenly become a . . . “pod head”?

Then I finally saw what he was talking about: two large storage boxes, labeled “PODS,” sat alongside a remodeling project going on, one house over from the tree with the seed pods.

The storage pods held the homeowner’s furniture and stuff while the remodeling was going on as an on-site solution. Ohhhh. THAT’S what he meant by pods being “a great idea for storage.”

You knew it was coming. I said, “Pod’n me.”

THE WINCH AND THE WENCH

Our driveway looked like a three-ring circus of machinery, as my husband had hooked 1) our broken-down lawn tractor onto 2) our ATV’s winch to pull it up the ramp onto 3) our trailer attached to 4) our pickup truck.

My job was to sit in the ATV and run the remote control for the winch, which was supposed to pull the tractor right up the ramp onto the trailer. All I had to do, literally, was lift a finger.

But twice in a row, mysteriously, when I operated the winch, it just pulled ME in the ATV toward the TRACTOR.

Actually, it was good for my self-esteem: maybe I’m not so heavy after all. . . .

My husband adjusted this, and tried that. Finally, he asked in afterthought, “You DO have your FOOT on the brake, DON’T you?!?!?!”

Oops. I acted nonchalant. But once I made that little change, the ATV stayed braced, and the winch pulled the tractor right up the ramp as fine as you please.

He knew . . . he just KNEW . . . that he’d better not say anything . . . be a mensch, not a grinch, and don’t make your wench flinch while running a winch. . . .

CHUTZPAH BY THE BOATLOAD

Heard about a middle-aged menace at a lakeside community near our town who was out boating while drunk. He reportedly ran his speedboat aground onto a beach at about 40 mph, horrifyingly near some kids and a dock.

The homeowner called police first, and the lake association president next. The drunken captain was ticketed for B.U.I. – Boating Under the Influence (of alcohol). He was banned from boating on that lake ever again.

Except . . . he was right back at it on the Fourth of July.

When homeowners confronted him, he had an amazing excuse. “Oh, that was another boat,” the culprit explained. “I’ve got a new boat now.”

If it’d been me, I’d have gotten . . . stern . . . and set sail to his . . . rudder.

WHERE THE (FAKE) DEER AND THE ANTELOPE PLAY

An avid hunter in our neighborhood is teaching a bow-hunting class. He went all out and got realistic, life-size targets of a deer, a bear, an antelope and a big-horn sheep. He set them up in the neighborhood park in a place that he thought was ‘way out of the way of everybody else.

There were about 20 men gathered around him, getting ready to try shooting at the targets, when all of a sudden, off in the distance, here came a woman. She was sneaking up on the deer target with a body language that signaled she was excited and delighted. Slowly, carefully, sneakily . . . she came closer and closer, and that deer stayed perfectly still!

Finally, the woman stood straight up and put her hands on hips. She had finally realized WHY the deer stayed so still.

It might not have been so bad, except that she finally saw the men and heard 20 outbursts of very loud, very hysterical laughter. Her expression could only be described as . . . a deer in the headlights.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, USA!

A thought-provoking multimedia presentation for Independence Day. Have a bang-up Fourth!

http://www.interviewwithgod.com/patriotic/highband.htm

CELEBRATE AMERICA'S BEAUTY

Here’s a lovely tribute to our country:

http://www.jacquielawson.com/viewcard.asp?code=QC44916185

FREEDOM IS YOUD

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord,
all the earth: make a loud noise,
and rejoice, and sing praise.
-- Psalm 98:4

We used to live close to a big park where there’s always a huge Fourth of July fireworks show. We loved strolling over there as dusk was falling, and getting back home before most others had even reached their cars.

‘Course, the fireworks were so close and so loud, we’d get home and find the dog cowering in the bathtub, ears pinned back, all shook up.

It was about the same with our small children. We tried to explain the connection between Independence Day, the Revolutionary War, the Star Spangled Banner, celebrating freedom, and fireworks. But the significance was . . . ahem . . . over their heads.

No wonder. What fireworks represent -- rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air -- isn’t exactly the stuff of Sesame Street. Fireworks aren’t really for kids, anyway: they’re for those old enough to take fierce pride in the passions of freedom and the struggles that have preserved this God-given land. Struggles that, yes, have been noisy.

But one year, it got so loud, we had to leave the fireworks show early. They had introduced those big, big ones. You know them: you see the white ball flash high in the sky, and one heartbeat later, the world goes

BOOM!

. . . and boy, it’s a thrill. Except for little kids.

Our NeeNee, about 2, maxed out at the first big one. She leapt into my arms, burying her little blonde bowl-cut in my chest, nearly strangling me with her frightened hug.

“Oh, Mommy, Mommy,” she moaned. “The firecracks! The youd ones make my ears cry!”

She started to wail. It spread to her sisters. We high-tailed it out there, watching the show over our shoulders as we carried the sobbing children home.

But, you know, freedom isn’t quiet. It’s anything but. From the wars fought to win it, to the babble of the marketplace of ideas in our free society, freedom is a cacophony. Obtaining it in the first place is hard. Preserving it for ourselves and others can be chaotic. It’s scary. People get hurt. People get killed.

That’s the price of it. That’s the reality.

But oh, the fruits of freedom: being able to say what you think . . . worship as you please . . . elect leaders whose decisions affect your life . . . to protest and dissent as well as cheer and applaud.

You can live a quiet life in a peaceful country, alert but unafraid, thanks to the sweat and sacrifice of the generations of brave folks who earned it for you, in the noise that gives birth to liberty.

That’s worth more than a sedate prayer, as at Thanksgiving, or a sweet song, like a birthday party. That’s worth a

BOOM!

. . . or maybe 76 of them, in a row.

I’m sure the muskets were “youd” at Concord and Lexington and Bunker Hill.

The naval cannonball fire must have been deafening over Lake Erie in the War of 1812.

Thundering cavalry at Bull Run and Gettysburg . . . the early machine guns in the Argonne Forest of World War I . . . the hellish assaults of D-Day and Iowa Jima, not to mention Hiroshima and Nagasaki . . . those were all “youd,” too.

And the bombs that won Inchon in Korea . . . the choppers and air raids over Vietnam . . . the thundering jets of Desert Storm . . . the enormous engines of the B-52’s and sizzling F-18’s over Afghanistan . . . the laser whoosh of the cruise missiles and explosions of the minefields of Iraq . . . all these were “youd,” indeed.

But thank God for the noise. Thank God for the joy we have in our blessings, represented by the loud and colorful fireworks going up all over our country right now.

Yes, fireworks make your ears cry.

And your heart sing.

God bless America . . . say it “youd.” †

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Miles For Mali Update

Goal: Raise $5,600 and collect 5,600 miles of walking, running, biking and swimming in 56 days to help build a much-needed maternity hospital in Mali, Africa.

First week’s report: seven miles walked, $156 raised from people in Nebraska, Missouri and Pennsylvania. Thanks, guys! Much appreciated, and I’ll be praying for you and yours as I walk.

Eek, though! We have a long way to go. But I’m excited, because I have some plans for multiplying the receipts that I think will work. And I know kind and giving hearts are out there and are going to come through for the women and children of Mali:

Though thy beginning was small, yet thy latter end should greatly increase. – Job 8:7

Won’t you sponsor me for a dollar a day? Give up a candy bar or a cup of coffee each day so that women in Mali won’t die in childbirth as often, and their kids will have a better chance to live past age 5? Since I’m walking 56 miles, a dollar a day comes to $56 over eight weeks. Think back on childbirth experiences you or a loved one had, and decide if you want to express your gratitude for the blessings of good medical care by helping to provide it for the poorest of the poor in West Africa.

Please send checks made out to Christ Community Church to:
Susan Williams, P.O. Box 995, Elkhorn, NE 68022. Deadline: Aug. 20.
Donations tax-deductible; you will receive a letter for your files. THANK YOU!!!

Learn more at: www.themaliproject.org or www.christcommunityomaha.org

HAVE A BANG-UP, FIZZY FOURTH

Click on this link, scroll down to the photo, and click to see and hear an amazing video that involves Diet Coke and Mentos. If you’re . . . bubbly about America, you’ll love this:

www.eepybird.com

LAWS OF THE UNIVERSE

Herein is truth. In recent days, I’ve especially been affected by the first two, only instead of grease, I’m plagued with poison ivy. Itchy poo all over, and not supposed to scratch. Oooooh!

I’m also suffering from the universal truth of the last law: my very favorite spray fragrance, from Aromafloria, ran out after three years of happy usage out of the same big bottle. Come to find out, they don’t make it any more. WAH! That stinks . . . and, without my daily spritz, I probably do, too.

Which of these “get” you?

Law of Mechanical Repair:
After your hands become coated with grease, your nose will begin to itch or you'll have to pee.

Law of Biomechanics:
The severity of the itch is inversely proportional to the reach.

Law of the Workshop:
Any tool, when dropped, will roll to the least accessible corner.

Law of Probability:
The probability of being watched is directly proportional to the stupidity of your act.

Law of the Telephone:
If you dial a wrong number, you never get a busy signal.

Law of the Alibi:
If you tell the boss you were late for work because you had a flat tire, the very next morning you will have a flat tire.

Variation Law:
If you change lines (or traffic lanes), the one you were in will start to move faster than the one you are in now (works every time).

Law of the Bath:
When the body is fully immersed in water, the telephone rings.

Law of Close Encounters:
The probability of meeting someone you know increases when you are with someone you don't want to be seen with.

Law of the Result:
When you try to prove to someone that a machine won't work, it will.

Law of the Theatre:
At any event, the people whose seats are furthest from the aisle arrive last.

Law of Coffee:
As soon as you sit down to a cup of hot coffee, your boss will ask you to do something which will last until the coffee is cold.

Murphy's Law of Lockers:
If there are only two people in a locker room, they will have adjacent lockers.

Law of Rugs/Carpets:
The chances of an open-faced jelly sandwich landing face down on a floor covering are directly correlated to the newness and cost of the carpet/rug.

Law of Location:
No matter where you go, there you are.

Law of Logical Argument:
Anything is possible if you don't know what you are talking about.

Brown's Law:
If the shoe fits, it's ugly.

Oliver's Law:
A closed mouth gathers no feet.

Wilson's Law:
As soon as you find a product that you really like, they will stop making it.

WATER MY PLANTS WHILE I'M GONE?

(Today's DailySusan, available only to email subscribers, shows a photo of a European-style home with an inner courtyard. All the way up the overly tall walls are hung dozens or even hundreds of potted flowers.)

THE ROCK PROFESSOR

A neighbor is making a dry stream bed to accommodate drainage. He said the project reminds him of the first landscaping project he ever attempted. He went to the lumber yard to buy rocks. Once he saw the wide variety of shapes and sizes to choose from, he realized he was in over his head. He stopped, looking to and fro in perplexity.

An old timer came by. He was unshaven. He wore overalls. He whistled his “s’s.”

“Hiya, Sssssonny,” he said in a friendly manner. “First time buyin’ rocksssss?”

“Well, yes,” the younger man said.

“Well, let me tell you sssssomethin’,” the old timer said. His pupil leaned forward, anticipating great wisdom and rock-buying lore passed down through the ages.

“You’ve got to buy rocksssssss that are too big to move,” the geezer said.

“Too big to move?” the younger man wondered.

“Yeah, ‘cause if you buy rockssssss any ssssssmaller than that, your wife will have you movin’ ‘em every year to sssssomewhere elsssssse,” he said. “If they’re too big to move, you put ‘em down one time, and you’re ssssssafe.”

They never teach you that in Husband School. Maybe they ssssshould.

NOW, THAT'S AN EARNED RUN AVERAGE

The hardest-working person at the College World Series in downtown Omaha this year, who did the most running, will not get her name in the paper or an interview on ESPN, although she handled more adversity than anything anybody was up against on the ball field.

A friend of our daughter’s, she got a job helping out with the press conferences after each game, a hectic and stressful hour. She didn’t have to be there ‘til late in each game, so finding a parking place anywhere near the stadium was a trick.

One day, there was a doubleheader. She drove all the way downtown to the stadium, parked miles away, worked the first press conference, raced back to her car, and drove all the way across the city fighting rush-hour traffic, arriving just in time for her other part-time job, teaching ice skating. Just as she pulled up to the rink, though, her cell phone rang: there was something wrong with the rink that day, and lessons were canceled. O . . . K.

She drove all the way back across the city, and once again arrived in mid-game, so lots were all full and she had to park several blocks away. She legged it back to the press conference room. There was a one-hour rain delay that evening, so post-game festivities went late, and she didn’t get done working until after 11 p.m.

Then she had to walk all by herself in the pitch black back to her car. Naturally, it wouldn’t start: dead battery. So she called for help, trying not to get mugged in the meantime, and by the time she got on the road to go home, it was after 1 a.m.

But hey! She loved the job. She got to meet a lot of baseball players – and they were cute!

Truly Is the College WORLD Series

We’ve attended two thrilling games in the final series of this year’s College World Series at Omaha’s Rosenblatt Stadium. Tonight’s game will determine the champion. But last night’s game revealed just how much of a “world” event this really has become.

All I did was say “hi” to the lady next to me, and found out the following:

She’s from San Diego, but flies to Omaha once a year to attend the entire Series as her annual vacation. She used to be in the Navy and has been all over the world, but was born and raised in upstate New York. Most of the jobs in the signature industry in her hometown – apples – have now been taken over by migrant workers flown in from Jamaica. They are put up in barracks with free room and board until the apples are picked, send every dime they make back home to Jamaica each week, and are flown back home when the harvest is over. It makes her very mad to see American jobs lost and the revenue leaving her old hometown . . . but that’s why the best college baseball in the world is such a great diversion.

Can’t wait to talk to her again next year. Mom might have told you not to speak to strangers . . . but you’re pretty safe at an all-American baseball game, and you just never know what in the world you might learn if you do.

MILES FOR MALI

But if we walk in the light,
as he is in the light,
we have fellowship one with another,
and the blood of Jesus Christ his Son
cleanseth us from all sin.
-- 1 John 1:7

Our church is raising $1 million for a maternity hospital in one of the poorest countries in the world. Mali is ‘way over on the other side of the planet, on the edge of the Sahara Desert in northwest Africa. We always think of Timbuktu as being the absolute end of the earth; it’s just up the road from where this hospital is going to be.

Church leaders challenged each of us to help. They showed pictures of a dusty, desolate terrain, with gray soils, few trees and shacks that passed as homes. There’s never enough to eat. AIDS is rampant, malaria is out of control, and per-capita income is just $250 a year. Most everyone is Muslim; Jesus Christ is mostly unknown.

As a mother with four stripes on my maternity letter jacket, I was particularly grieved to learn that as many as 10% of mothers die in childbirth there, and one out of every four children dies before reaching age 5, largely because of malnutrition and lack of medical care. There are hardly any obstetricians, gynecologists and pediatricians in the whole country.

(Photo from www.themaliproject.org)

The problems are enormous. What could WE do to help?

We drove home in our air-conditioned car on Omaha’s wide streets, past spacious homes, lush gardens and tall shade trees. My tummy bulged over my belt, compliments of the abundant good food available around here. No one in my family is sick in any way right now, and while we’re not exactly sitting on a mountain of money, we’re in the foothills.

Our way of life is probably as different as could be from the lifestyle of a family in Mali.

Most of all, I thought back over the great prenatal care I received for each of my four pregnancies: the many tests, the ultrasounds, the nutritional advice, the high-tech delivery rooms, the neonatal intensive care.

It never even crossed my mind that I or any of my babies might die. Yet that’s a constant concern over in Mali. If things go wrong, they bleed to death or their uterus ruptures. The nearest full-service clinic is hundreds of miles away . . . but we could have gotten to three in the time it took to drive home from church.

Timbuktu was no longer out of sight, out of mind. It was in my heart. We had to help. But how?

Our daughter Neely piped up.

“You and Dad are always complaining about how out of shape you are and how you never get any exercise,” she said. “Why don’t you go on a walking program, and get other people to walk with you? Get sponsors, and raise money that way?”

Perfect! We loved it! And that’s what we’re going to do . . . starting today.

It’s 5,600 miles to the town in Mali where the hospital is going to be built, Koutiala. We have 56 days until the fund-raising deadline, Aug. 20. We have set an impossibly high goal, $5,600.

And we’re getting the ball rolling by committing to walk one mile a day. That’s 56 miles. Now we’re seeking sponsors who’ll walk alongside us by donating money toward our goal.

Won’t you sponsor us for a quarter or a dollar a day? Or more?

Better yet, won’t you get your own sponsors and walk, run, bicycle or swim as many miles as you can by Aug. 20, and contribute your proceeds to this cause? You can use the chart, attached.

Won’t you tell your co-workers and neighbors about Mali, and enlist their help and donations?

Donations are tax-deductibile. Checks should be made out to Christ Community Church and sent to:

Susan Williams
P.O. Box 995
Elkhorn, NE 68022

Thank you! We’ll pray for everybody who helps as we go along, and keep you posted with our progress. Let’s walk 5,600 miles together this summer . . . and may our feet help bring a miracle to Mali. †
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Miles For Mali

Goal: Raise $5,600 and collect 5,600 miles of walking, running, biking and swimming in 56 days to help build a much-needed maternity hospital in Mali, Africa.

Please print out, fill in, and send with your check made out to Christ Community Church to:
Susan Williams, P.O. Box 995, Elkhorn, NE 68022. Deadline: Aug. 20. Donations tax-deductible; you will receive a letter for your files.

Pledge for the Williams Family’s 56 miles: $_____ per mile

How can we pray for you as we walk? ___________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________

RAISE EVEN MORE BY GETTING YOUR OWN SPONSORS.
Multiply the fitness and the fund-raising!

Please let us know as soon as possible what your mileage goal is, and how much money you hope to bring in, by emailing swilliams1@cox.net Print out and post this chart to keep records of miles you’ve logged and sponsors who are helping, and you’re on your way! Send checks to the post office box so that they are received by Aug. 20. Thanks! You are Mali-velous!!!

Week of . . . # of Mile $ per mile, all sponsors Weekly Total

June 25 $ $

July 2 $ $

July 9 $ $

July 16 $ $

July 23 $ $

July 30 $ $

Aug. 6 $ $

Aug. 13 $ $
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
TOTAL: _____ miles $______________ $___________

Learn more at: www.themaliproject.org or www.christcommunityomaha.org

COLLEGE WORLD SERIES HIJINKS

We’re going to the finals of the College World Series tonight, North Carolina vs. Oregon State. We’re wearing Carolina blue: big fans. It’s the first time our eldest, Jordan, a University of North Carolina graduate, has missed the Omaha-based national baseball championship in her entire life. Where is she? In her new home – North Carolina. She’s beside herself to be missing this year of all years, with her team in the finals.

She wasn’t even 1 her first CWS game. I remember it distinctly, because a very nice, very dark-skinned African-American gentleman sat right behind us. Jordy spent the entire game over my shoulder, GAPING at the poor guy’s skin with surprise and delight. It was a blast of diversity for the playpen set. What a great sport he was, laughing over her funny expressions.

I was just as good a sport during last year’s series, although I was not in control of my behavior, so can’t really take credit. I was on MORPHINE LA-LA LAND, big-time, in a suburban Minneapolis hospital. We were visiting friends up there, and missing Nebraska’s CWS game. I was watching it on TV downstairs in their home, but went upstairs for some water. I heard a big roar from the crowd – did we score? -- so I rushed down the stairs in my slick sandals to see what happened. Key word: “rushed.” I made like a trick skier in the Olympics . . . triple gainer, double pike . . . and landed with a WHOMP! on my side. Punctured a lung, cracked a rib . . . but ohhhhhh, was that morphine delightful.

So far, this year’s series has been peaceful, pleasant and quiet. But with baseball, as with life, anything can happen.

ANDREW'S BIG PLANS

We’re on a “home and away” play date schedule for Maddy and her friend Andrew, both 6. Yesterday, we got the “Cars” cars at McDonald’s, did the monkey bars, went to the read-a-story-to-a-dog activity at the library (and fell in love with a “retired” greyhound and a fuzzy white Labradoodle), and then motored down to the Children’s Museum for a full, fun-filled afternoon.

In the car, Andrew regaled us with his big plans to become a football star. “You know Coach Callahan?” Yes, I knew of the University of Nebraska football coach. Andrew continued, “He’s going to be MY coach some day. I hope my team wins!!!”

I asked, “What position would you like to play?”

Details, details. “I just like to spike the ball!”

YEAH, WHAT A BUNCH OF STIFFS

Our daughter Eden is going to be a symphony debutante this coming Christmas season. It’s a dress-up affair, a bit out of character for our family. But oh, well. It’s for a good cause.

Everything has to be done months in advance, which is also unusual for us spontaneoids. She has already chosen her long, white gown, but the intricately beaded hem needed to be shortened. We made an appointment with a seamstress. We were running late.

But Maddy was lollygagging. “Hurry up and get in the car!” I urged her. “Beamer has an appointment for the Deb Ball!”

Maddy looked at me, perplexed. “THE DEAD BALL?!?!?”

SHOCK THE POOL

Our neighbors have a swimming pool, and they are worried about a shortage of a certain kind of pool chemical right now in our area. You can’t find a bag of it anywhere in town, they said.

I guess when you put in this product, you “shock the pool.”

My neighbor was really concerned that she won’t be able to have her pool open over the Fourth of July if some of this chemical doesn’t materialize on the market.

I tried to cheer her up, pretending to lift up my shirt and expose my pudgy nakedness. “Here!” I offered helpfully. “Maybe THIS will shock the pool!”

Maybe she should flash it her property-tax bill. Now, THAT’S shocking.

I'LL SHOW YOU MINE . . .

. . . or, actually, his. By popular demand, here’s how our girls’ offbeat Father’s Day present for their dad turned out. Also by popular demand, we are not making him model these for the picture. No, I just folded them and scanned them. It is the first time I have ever scanned or photocopied a pair of underwear, regardless of what past bosses might have put in my evaluations in terms of my on-the-job time management.

All we did was buy a pair of white boxer shorts -- WalMart cheapies -- and have them embroidered at a monogram shop that’s inside our local WalMart. We used our family’s sentimental nickname for the unmentionables of choice of the man of the house. You can do something like this: oh, the possibilities! And oh, to be a little bird in the locker room when they’ve all got their novelty box panties on. . . .

(Scanned photo of "Daddy's Box Panties" available to email subscribers only)

BOX PANTIES

I suppose you thought of something wonderful and macho for your dad for Father’s Day: a camouflage hunting jacket . . . tickets to the Stanley Cup . . . a little red sports car. . . .

Well, the dad in OUR house got three new pairs of box panties.

See, many years ago, he was standing in line with our two oldest daughters, then probably 3 and 4, at the busiest McDonald’s in the middle of the city, at rush hour. There were five lines across, five people deep. You know how sometimes, in situations like that, everybody suddenly goes silent?

That’s right when one of the girls whirled around and asked, at the top of her voice:

“DADDY! DO YOU HAVE YOUR BOX PANTIES ON, DAD?!?”

He had tried to answer their question about why his unmentionables looked so different from theirs . . . and that’s what he got.

But it’s one of those beloved stories of family lore. And now he has three new pairs, all white: one has a monkey embroidered on it, one has “HUSKERS” . . . and one has “Daddy’s Box Panties” in pink writing, with a red heart.

So next time you see him, be sure to ask.

OUR FATHER'S SIGNATURE

And I looked, and, lo,
a Lamb stood on the mount Sion,
and with him an hundred forty and four thousand,
having his Father’s name written in their foreheads.
-- Revelation 14:1

Two years ago, there was a wedding down at our neighborhood pond, uniting the daughter of some dear friends and her sweetheart, a strong, tall football player. His dad, equally tall and athletic, sets a wonderful Christian example of soft-spoken kindness.

For the wedding, the bridegroom and his dad built a big, beautiful cross out of sturdy wood. The ceremony wasn’t going to be in a church, but these families wanted to make it clear what the marriage was going to be based on.

A few days before, several guys erected the cross, making sure it was level. The father of the bride, the father of the groom, my husband and another neighbor held it aloft with the utmost care, like the statue of Iwo Jima, setting it in concrete.

Some ladies added a long white strip of sheer fabric that gracefully waved in the breeze. The effect was breathtaking.

It was the prettiest wedding ever. They left the cross up for weeks afterward, for another wedding was coming up. The land belonged to our neighborhood association, and they had permission. Whenever I passed by, I gazed at it. The cross made me feel good.

Then one terrible day, it was gone.

Someone had come in the night, and chain-sawed it down.

Reportedly, an angry person had called the local police three times to complain about the cross, and were told it was on private property, out of police jurisdiction.

So the person had just gone in there and cut it down, a couple of feet above the concrete base, leaving an ugly stump. The cross lay on the ground.

The father of the bride and the father of the groom were shocked. How could anybody feel that way about a cross? How could anybody mutilate such a positive, uplifting statement?

I wanted to organize a mob, like in the movie Frankenstein, march on whoever did it with torches and pitchforks, and make them glue it back together and apologize.

God! How could you let Your Son’s Cross be humiliated like this?

But the two fathers decided not to make a stink. They picked up the cross, took it to the bride’s parents’ nearby home, and erected it in their back yard.

A darling granddaughter has been born of that beautiful wedding, and she had her first Easter egg hunt around that cross this past spring.

The two dads and everybody else felt sad that somebody could harbor so much hate over something that was all about love. I was still mad that the vandal didn’t get punished or made to pay restitution for the property damage. But oh, well.

All of us had looked at the stump of the cross down at the pond 100 times . . . maybe 1,000.

But recently, the mother of the bride looked a little closer, and saw something:

There’s a heart in the wood!

It’s a natural knot on the corner of the stump. A heart! Plain as day!

It must have been there all along. But nobody saw it, ‘til now.

When I saw it, a thrill ran through me. I recognized our Father’s signature. All my anger at the vandal was wiped away. Here’s why:

You can criticize the cross. You can file a lawsuit against it. You can complain to the cops. You can cut it down. You can burn it, mutilate it, stomp on it, break it into a million pieces.

But you can never wipe away its true meaning. It’s the Father’s heart – the Father’s love.

On this Father’s Day, I hope all dads remember that. Nothing can ever stop your love for your children. Not trouble, not pain, not even death. It’s permanent. It’s forever. That love is a part of you, and a part of them. Nobody can ever take it away.

The same thing goes for our heavenly Father and His Son, despite the Cross, and because of it.

It was there all along . . . and it’s there to stay. †

GOD'S PERFECT TIMING IN COLORADO

This isn’t really fit for a “humor” blog. But humor is supposed to lift your spirits. And that’s what happens when I hear about incidents like this. I smile when opponents of God are put in their place, able to do nothing but get huffy when their wickedness is exposed. Attaboy, Adonai. Nice one, Holy One!

www.family.org/cforum/commentary/a0040927.cfm

DON'T MAKE YOUR NEIGHBOR MAD . . .

(Today's DailySusan, available only to email subscribers, shows a bonsai bush in someone's back yard depicting a person mooning toward the neighbor's yard, while a grumpy old neighbor man with hands on hips looks on)

EQUINE WHINE

We were taking Maddy somewhere in the car and got just a couple of houses down our street when we encountered two people riding horses. This is an equestrian neighborhood, so it’s not all that unusual. But Maddy gaped as we slowly pulled past them.

Then she inquired, with a bit of pique in her voice: “Did that horse just poop?”

Yes, we noticed that, too.

“Well!” she huffed. “THAT’S pleasant!!!”

A WHIFFLE BAT BEATING BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

My neighbor is an animal lover, so when she saw a large bird thrashing around by the side of the busy road not far from home one day during rush hour, she pulled over to see if she could help.

A big snake was wrapped around a red-tailed hawk! It was trying to choke it!

Shaken, she called her husband. “YOU’VE GOT TO RUSH OVER HERE AND GET THIS SNAKE OFF THIS POOR HAWK!!! AAAIIIEEE!!!”

Equally shaken, he ran around the house looking for a suitable weapon or implement. All he could find was a yellow whiffle ball bat.

He pulled up behind her on the shoulder of the busy road, and set to work BEATING on the snake that was on the hawk that was thrashing around. It was a sight. And it wasn’t doing a bit of good; the snake just wrapped on tighter, and the hawk thrashed around even more wildly, thinking that now it was under attack from another villain on top of the snake.

Lo and behold, a huge truck pulled up – SCREEEECH! – and out popped a heavily-muscled Wonder Woman from the Raptor Recovery team. My friend had called them, too, you see. She gave my neighbor man a withering look, decrying the pointlessness of his whiffle bat pounding strategy, and strapped on enormous leather gloves. She marched right up, entangled the two animals with her biceps rippling, threw the snake in the brush, and took the hawk to the big bird animal emergency center.

My neighbors were planning to visit it, but after five days, it died. But hey – at least they tried, and I can’t stop smiling over what the hundreds of people who drove by on that busy road must have thought was going on.

CIRCUS GIRL

You know how you always guess what your kids are going to do when they grow up, based on their childhood play choices? You know, the future doctor puts a splint on G.I. Joe, and the future architect creates cities in the sandbox.

Well, we took Maddy to the circus last weekend. Now, oh, brother.

At swimming lessons, she pushed off backwards from the wall as if in an Olympic backstroke race and flipped over under water, like a mermaid acrobat.

At home, she lined up all her mini Build-a-Bears from McDonald’s and had them doing tricks with a plastic bucket and a toy bicycle.

But for the grand finale, at the grocery store, we had one of those heavier carts with the toddler “cab.” She grabbed the handrail with one hand, bent over backwards toward the pavement, and arched her other hand skyward, gracefully . . . just like the spectacular bow by circus star Madame Shavatsky, or whatever her name was, who trained the white doves, dogs and cats.

The only difference was, Madame Shavatsky (or thereabouts) had deep, deep cleavage, and stiletto boots. But I suppose those’ll be next. Wonder how they’ll go with a freckle-nose?

HUMDINGER FOR A WORD NERD

On my education website, www.GoBigEd.com, my “Grammar Granny” writing feature last week was on big, long words, and how important it is to have phonics skills so that you can pronounce them and get a head start on understanding what they mean.

Then I received this doozy on my daily vocabulary word email. It’s supposedly the longest word in the English language, a 45-letter word for black lung disease. Take a deep breath and try to pronounce it:

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis

OK, here’s the cheat sheet:

NOO-muh-noh-UL-truh-MY-kruh-SKOP-ik-SIL-i-koh-VOL-kay-no-koh-NEE-o-sis

Actually, it makes sense: these syllables are from the Greek pneumono- (lung) + Latin ultra- (beyond, extremely) + Greek micro- (small) + -scopic (looking) + Latin silico (like sand) + volcano + Greek konis (dust) + -osis (condition).

A little “word nerd” humor came with the email: in attempting pronunciation of this word, they advised caution “lest you may have to avail the services of an otorhinolaryngologist (an ear, nose and throat specialist).”

BIG, BAD JAN

The rod and reproof give wisdom:
but a child left to himself
bringeth his mother to shame.
-- Proverbs 29:15

We just got back from a few days out of town. We were thrilled to find Maddy, 6, even happier and perkier than before we left. Bed made, teeth brushed, toys picked up, library books read. Woo hoo!

We knew things would go well, because we found strict babysitters who don’t let her get away with half the stuff WE let her get away with. Who were they? Two of her older sisters, tag-teaming. They were Homeland Security before Homeland Security was cool.

We rejoiced. One of the most important tasks of parenting is to find tough-talking but tenderhearted babysitters, who can ride herd on the wildhairs while you’re away, enforce your rules, keep the kids out of the Emergency Room and the neighbors from calling the police.

When I was a kid, I had a whole string of them:

Great-Great Aunt Nell kept us busy with endless games of Yahtzee and her parakeet, Dickie Bird. She never shaved her legs, and she drove a really racy Dodge Dart.

Mrs. Peetz was strict and made us do lots of chores but always brought a make-your-own pizza kit, which was exotic and multicultural in those days.

But the best was Jeannie Fink, a teenager with a gift for marketing and promotion. She worked in a candy store. So she would bring a sack of candy that served as a fabulous bribery stash to induce good behavior. Her motto: speak softly, and carry a peppermint stick.

Now that I’m a mom, I’ve been blessed with great babysitters. They’ve been tough, but not unkind . . . tender, but not wimps . . . and delightful, memorable and distinctive, each in her own way. The most memorable one was . . .

. . . Big, Bad Jan*.

She came highly recommended: reliable, experienced, no-nonsense. She cut an imposing figure – Mary Poppins on steroids. The week before she came, I sang this song about her for the kids, just to set them up. It was a parody of that country-western rap ballad, “Big, Bad John”:

When your parents are leavin’

You’ll see her arrive.

She stands 5-foot-10

And weighs 185.

Kinda broad at the shoulders,

Narrow at the hips.

And everybody knows

You don’t give no lip

To Big Jan.

(Refrain) Big Jan! Big Jan! Big Jaaaa-aaaan! Big, bad Jan!!!!

Jan arrived, and the kids gaped at her as she towered over them. I went over the Do’s and Don’ts, as well as a list of fun places she could take the kids to, if they were good.

She urged us out the door. “Don’t worry!” she reassured us. “Just go have fun.” We left with a song in our hearts, thankful for such a great stand-in.

As we drove off, though, I felt a little tug of doubt about the crazy way she’d parked her great, big car in our driveway. It was kind of cattywampus. But oh, well: the kids would be plenty safe in that great, big car.

The week went by quickly. When we got back, the kids had tears of joy in their eyes. We felt great about how much they had missed us, and what excellent parents we were for providing such a solid parental replacement . . . until Big, Bad Jan drove off, a little cattywampus.

Then it all came spilling out:

She had “vampire teeth.”

She hummed.

Her car was stinky.

And she was a terrible driver. They had stomachaches from going around corners too fast. But because I’d given her the idea that I wanted them to go on a lot of outings, she’d taken them all over kingdom come, humming incessantly between her vampire teeth, scaring them with her iffy driving and her stinky, stinky car.

Yeah, but the house was clean, the beds were made, 911 had never been called, the roof was intact . . . and best of all, after a week with HER, they appreciated US.

Overall, Big, Bad Jan did a rootin’, tootin’ good job. And even if she didn’t, I would never give her no lip. †

* not her real name.

A SMELLY THANK-YOU GIFT

I’ve been wracking my brain for a good thank-you gift to send to our vacation hosts. One candidate was a set of special soaps and lotions from a Nebraska entrepreneur ‘way out in the Sandhills of our state, near where the husband had been raised. A friend had sent me some a while ago and it really made my skin soft. It had an unusual ingredient: goats’ milk.

I had a small bottle of it in the car, and took it out to try it on, to refresh my memory. Was this worthy?

But from the back seat came this loud protest:

“What’s that smell?”

It was Maddy. “Just my hand lotion,” I replied.

“Well, it smells like Play-Dough!” she retorted. “Now my cheese stick doesn’t taste very good any more.”

Next idea. . . .

GROWN-UP FUN WITH THE CANNIBAL KING

I was telling Eden, our new high-school graduate, about our adults-only vacation at a lake house in Missouri. Our last evening was so different than our everyday lives. We actually had a full hour to get ready to go out instead of a three-ring circle of babysitter pick-ups, ringing phones, small fires to put out in the living room, and so forth.

I had time to touch up my toenail polish, and even took the luxury of using the medium speed on the blow-dryer instead of my usual hurry-up thermonuclear blast. It was wonderful.

We enjoyed an elegant stand-up cocktail party with old and new friends in the gorgeous home of some empty-nesters. There was nary a toy in sight, nor an isolated Lego underfoot.

We took a wine-and-cheese sunset cruise to our dinner destination. The waiter was really sharp, and memorized all 14 dinner orders without writing a thing down. To tease him, we all switched seats. But it didn’t phase him a bit. He placed all 14 dinners in front of the right people. We were amazed.

We cruised home under the stars, and went in for a nightcap. Miraculously, the hostess had a crystal cocktail shaker and martini glasses. So we made an assembly line, and fixed something extraordinary: chocolate martinis.

Eden’s face was rapt as she listened to the details.

Then I told how the evening ended. “And THEN we sang our favorite camp songs. You know: “The cannibal king / with the big nose ring / fell in love with the dusky mai – AI -- aid / and every night / by the pale moonlight / sounded like this to me – EE – ee: / Barroomp! Barroomp! Barroomp bah dee ahh dee ai – AI – ai!! . . . .”

Eden made a funny face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Well, I was just sitting here so happy that you got to experience such a sophisticated, cultured evening,” she said. “I was kind of looking forward to my own adult social life. But somehow, the ‘cannibal king’ song. . . .”

Just because our generation knows how to relax with style! I’ll have to show her the section on cannibal lifestyles in Town and Country magazine.

YOU DID WHAT WHILE WE WERE GONE?

El Magnifico and I enjoyed a three-day hiatus out of town with friends. Meanwhile, our young-adult daughters took turns babysitting their 6-year-old sister. Everything went great on both ends.

But I was having my doubts when Maddy started describing the visits by our neighbor’s adorable grandson, Hunter. He also is 6, and might be a future suitor for Maddy. He does, after all, have a tremendous collection of Matchbox cars, and he offers her a chance to be a little mermaid in his grandma’s backyard swimming pool. So we have an over-the-fence play-date series going.

Well, Maddy said that while we were gone, she and Hunter hung out a lot by our pickup truck, parked out back.

“By the pickup?” I asked. “What were you doing?”

She shrugged. “Oh . . . drinking.”

“DRINKING?!?!?!?”

Turns out it was Juicy Juice, punch flavor. Let’s just hope it wasn’t a glimpse of our future as elderly parents of an active teenager.

HE IS HERE

(Note: DailySusan will return on Thursday, June 8)

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

Thou art near, O Lord;
and all thy commandments are truth.
-- Psalm 119:151

Good friends invited us to their cabin on a lake. There would be boating, swimming and fun in the sun. I planned to wear my long winter coat or maybe a choir robe. But with an hour to go before the stores closed, and on my birthday to boot, I knew I could procrastinate no longer. I HAD to go buy a new swimsuit.

The one I have is so old that the hot new song when I bought it was “Do the Hustle.”

That’s what I had to do in the fitting room, attempting to funnel my aging East German border guard bod into the four square inches of fabric for which they want to charge you $90. I did some funky disco steps, trying to wriggle in to a modest two-piece jobby with the little swim-skirt down below, and the little swim-shirt up top.

Do you know how powerfully stretchy these swimsuit fabrics are? The real cause of global warming! They’re clearing whole rainforests for the rubber and spandex for these things. We need a renewable resource alternative. You know, like ETHANOL swimsuits. Yeah: cornhusks for the supportive bustline, cornsilk for a little padding. . . .

But I digress. Somehow I tugged on the little swim-skirt, trying not to notice in the mirror that I looked like a ballerina hippo in a bad dream in a Disney cartoon.

I pulled the top down over my head. Floopety floop! A tight roll of swimsuit fabric formed under my armpits.

There was no way it would roll back up. There was no way it would roll down. It had undergone dressing-room fusion.

I looked like a topless, pink Pillsbury Dough Girl with a thick rubber band under my arms, just above two strangely contorted and displaced . . . you know. . . .

Predictably, at that moment, the fitting-room door slammed open.

A lady gawked.

“Oh,” she said. “There’s someone in here.”

With a look combining horror, amusement and pity, she backed out and slammed the door . . .

. . . leaving me a topless, pink Pillsbury Dough Girl with shattered self-esteem.

I already struggled ENOUGH with how I looked in a swimming suit that was fully ON.

“Attention, shoppers,” a cheery voice interrupted. “The store will close in 10 minutes. Please take your purchases to the cashier.”

Somehow, I wriggled out of that boa constrictor of a top, and tried on the remaining candidates. A one-piece looked the least bad. I hurried out with it.

Did the cashier know what happened? I felt very embarrassed, very fat, and very old.

Much to my surprise, she smiled, and said, “This is so cute. This will look good on you.”

Now I felt guilty, too, for having a pity party. I beat a hasty retreat.

I started up the car and sat there in the darkness. Emotion swept over me. I’m fat! I’m old! What a bad birthday! I’m going to look horrible on this trip. I’d better bring a lot of towels, and wrap one around my own face.

Tears welled up. My throat got very tight.

As I backed up, I saw that the license plate on the car parked behind me said:

I AM HERE

The song playing on Christian radio at that moment was “Be Near” by Shane Barnard:

Be near, oh God / Be near, oh God / Your nearness is to us our good. . . .

Didn’t He promise to always be with me? Why hadn’t I taken my feelings to Jesus, first?

I rasped tearfully, “I don’t look very good, Lord. . .”

. . . and as soon as I’d said it, I knew everything would be OK. He saw. He knew. He would make me feel better. He always did. See? I was chuckling about it already.

I may be fat. I may be old. I may look like a cartoon character in a swimming suit.

But I have an all-powerful, ever-present, perfectly loving God with me always. He is here. Always. He knows I’m a Pillsbury Dough Girl. He loves me, anyway. †

LOONY CARTOONIES

(Today's DailySusan featured a series of humorous cartoons, visible only to email subscribers)

DID YOU KNOW JESUS PLAYS GOLF?

Maddy, 6, was waxing philosophical.

“Someday, I’m going to go . . . YOU know. . .” and she stuck out her tongue sideways, and crossed her eyes looking up.

It was comical, but I tried not to laugh. “Oh, you mean you’ll be dead?” I asked gently.

“Yeah. And they’ll put me in a box and throw dirt on me,” she informed me, matter-of-factly.

I guess my face must have registered something negative, because she quickly added, “Oh, there’ll be lots of flowers and they’ll say words.”

“Words? And then what will happen?”

She stuck her arms out. “Then I’ll rise.”

“You’ll rise?”

“Yes. I’ll go to heaven. It’ll look like an enormous, bo-bormous castle. And there’ll be Jesus, on a throne so wide you can’t see either end of it.”

“Will He see you?”

“Oh, yes. He’ll say, ‘Hi, Maddy!’”

“And what will you say?”

“I’ll say, ‘Hi, Jesus! Want to play me in some GOLF?!?!”

IMMIGRATION SPEECH

There’s not much about the nation’s illegal immigration problem that makes you smile. But click on this attachment, muchachos. Ay, carumba!

(Attachment, available only to email subscribers, depicted the President giving an immigration speech from the Oval Office, only there are windows behind him. Just as he says, "Our nation is not in control of our borders," several guys in straw hats and ponchos peer into the windows, then run away)

THE PRODIGAL HAMSTER

The family of four was minding its own business, watching a game on TV . . . when suddenly, a powdered-sugar doughnut ran across the room right in front of the set!!!

AAAIIIEEE!!! But don’t worry, it wasn’t The Case of the Mysterious Levitating Pastry From the Twilight Zone. Underneath that doughnut was their long-lost hamster!

He had escaped a full month before. They had looked high and low, and finally held funeral services in absentia.

Apparently, the gray and white little rodent had lived on food crumbs left by the two boys all over the house, which became the subject of stern parental lectures about . . . leaving food crumbs all over the house. Although in this case, it was a good thing.

The prodigal hamster downed a whole bottle of water, and then slept for days, a wayward vagabond who, like Dorothy, could say gratefully, “There’s no place like home.”

RETIREMENTAL CASE

Here’s one of those email jokes that’s so true to life, you think you know this guy:


Dear Mrs. Fenton,

Over the past six months, your husband, Mr. Bill Fenton, has been causing quite a commotion in our store. We cannot tolerate this type of behavior and have considered banning the entire family from shopping in any of our stores. We have documented all incidents on our video surveillance equipment. Three of our clerks are attending counseling from the trouble your husband has caused. All complaints against Mr. Fenton have been compiled and are listed below.

Mr. Wally Zimbrowski
Wal-Mart Complaint Department
MEMO
Re: Mr. Bill Fenton - Complaints - 15 Things Mr. Fenton has done while his spouse is shopping:

1. June 15: Took 24 boxes of condoms and randomly put them in people's cart when they weren't looking.

2. July 2: Set all the alarm clocks in Housewares to go off at 5-minute intervals.

3. July 7: Made a trail of pineapple juice on the floor leading to the restrooms.

4. July 19: Walked up to an employee and told her in an official tone, “Code 3 in Housewares” . . . and watched what happened.

5. August 4: Went to the Service Desk and asked to put a bag of M&M's on layaway.

6. September 14: Moved a “CAUTION - WET FLOOR” sign to a carpeted area.

7. September 15: Set up a tent in the camping department and told other shoppers he'd invite them in if they'll bring pillows from the bedding department.

8. September 23: When a clerk asked if she could help him, began to cry and asked, “Why can't you people just leave me alone?”

9. October 4: Looked right into the security camera; used it as a mirror, and picked his nose.

10. November 10: While handling guns in the hunting department, asked the clerk if he knows where the antidepressants are.

11. December 3: Darted around the store suspiciously, loudly humming the "Mission Impossible" theme.

12. December 6: In the auto department, practiced his "Madonna look" using different size funnels.

13. December 18: Hid in a clothing rack and when people browsed through, yelled, "PICK ME!" "PICK ME!"

14. December 21: When an announcement came over the loudspeaker, assumed the fetal position and screams "NO! NO! It's those voices again!!!!"(And last, but not least!)

15. December 23: Went into a fitting room, shut the door and waited a while; then, yelled, very loudly, "There is no toilet paper in here!"

Happy Decoration Day!
May we never forget, and may we always be grateful!
God Bless America!

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

WHERE THE CORN COMES FROM

This is Nebraska. We have corn. Ergo, these jokes about family:

I just got back from a pleasure trip. I took my mother-in-law to the airport.

My son is 21. He'll be 22 if I let him.

My son complains about headaches. I tell him all the time, when you get out of bed, it's feet first!

I wish my brother would learn a trade, so I would know what kind of work he's out of.

My brother was a lifeguard in a car wash.

My brother then opened a tall man's shop in Tokyo.

My brother then bought 1,000 Japanese cameras. They all go "Crick.”

My other brother-in-law died. He was a karate expert, then joined the Army. The first time he saluted, he killed himself.

GRADUATION: BEAMER GROWS UP

(F)or the joy of the Lord is your strength.
-- Nehemiah 8:10c

Our new little bundle of joy was nestled in my arms, just weeks old, with her two older sisters looking on, when she broke into the biggest, cutest, most radiant baby smile in the universe.

“Look at the beamer!” I exclaimed. I was thinking of the rays of sunshine that we see sometimes, beaming down from between high clouds. This was either the happiest little person you ever saw . . . or she had a little gas.

“Beamer” it was, though. And even though the nickname was occasionally mistaken for crass materialism (no, it has NOTHING to do with a BMW) or the semi-famous Beemer Standpipe in fabulous Beemer, Neb., which, ironically, was fabricated by my husband’s steel company many years ago, the nickname has grown up along with Eden Elizabeth.

In fact, the senior class recently voted her as having the “best nickname.” They see what we see. There’s a light that comes out of this young woman, and that light is joy.

She graduated from high school last week. During the whirl of festivities, I watched her interacting with others. What do you know: she got through chem, calc and Advanced Placement classes, and is STILL a beamer!

It’s striking how much of a sunbeam she really is: bright, light-hearted, and warm. She exudes personality. She just makes people smile. Always has.

Beamer has a special calling, a form of leadership you don’t see every day. She showed it in school, and on the elite softball teams on which she’s played. She’s one of those people who just knows how to be happy. She chooses to be. Happiness is a fading art. But hers is an example we all should embrace.

Her secret: she has never been afraid to be herself.

As a first-grader, she did a stand-up comedy routine for the school talent show. She wrote her own jokes, and came up with a zany costume. It was also a ventriloquist act, and involved a finale with her jumping down into the audience from the stage with a barrage of water-gun squirts. This would never pass in the post-911 world; back then, it was high humor.

She told her first joke, looking tiny on the stage. It had to do with a pregnant butterfly with stomach flutters. Nobody “got” it. They murmured, but nobody laughed. There was an awkward silence.

All of a sudden, the wackiest, most delightful laughter you ever heard came roaring out of a little boy who was mentally handicapped -- beloved at that school because he was good and kind and sweet.

He “got” the joke! His laughter was so infectious, pretty soon the whole gym was laughing with him.

Beamer was on a roll. Her act was a rousing success. Saved by another little beamer – another person who knew enough to choose joy.

Now Beamer is all grown up, and setting out for college in Minnesota, where she is going to play softball and pursue her dream career in communications. It’s an adventure, and a challenge. But we’re not scared for her one bit. She’s ready.

One recent Saturday night, her dad was out of town, and Beamer and her friends were grouped around our kitchen island having a snack.

I was up in bed. As I lay there, I could hear the sound of Beamer’s musical voice, saying something funny, and then the other kids would roar with laughter. Rapidly, she would say something else, and they would respond again, in hysterics. This went on and on.

It was like she was the choir director of joy.

I got a little teary-eyed at how little she’d changed and how much I loved her. I went to sleep with a smile, too.

How we need the Beamers of this world. How desperately important they are.

My prayer and my hope is that she can stay true to herself, and yet grow. May she find her place in the world, and continue to make it a little brighter, a little happier.

May she always be our Beamer, a joyous heart that reflects God’s love from above – and beams it back again. †

PEACHY PARTIES

I’m not the only nitwit who gets stressed out putting on a decent party. Last night at yet another graduation festivity, our hosts spent most of the evening peering suspiciously at the Sterno cans under the two buffet servers they had rented for their sumptuous Mexican buffet. They jabbed sharp things at the lids to knock them off the cans like shuffleboards, and lifted off various layers of pans and warmers, trying to adjust the heat.

What heat, though? Those Sternos were cold as ice. So was my enchilada. But yum! It was good, anyway.

Reminds me of one of my Great Moments in Dignity: for a past party, I rented a buffet server a lot like theirs, only the Sterno worked just fine. TOO fine, in fact. The problem was, there were about eight different pans and lids and servers and things. I’m remedial on how things go together, but I did the best I could. Little did I know that I’d put the lid with the black plastic handle upside down, under the food pan but over the base pan, but close enough to the heat source so that the flaming Sterno MELTED THE BLACK PLASTIC HANDLE. It stunk up the place for a while. Everybody thought we’d burned the barbecue, and avoided that pan. Ah, me. At least the rental place took pity and didn’t assess a Stupidity Charge.

Then another friend made me feel better about running out of most of the party foods at our daughter’s recent graduation party, and stopping myself just before serving age-old FISH STICKS out of the freezer.

She, you see, had a similar experience with hordes of graduation party guests. They wiped out her generous buffet in minutes and threatened to cut up her kitchen counter and eat that, too. She found herself in her pantry opening a gallon can of PEACHES. Now, what she was DOING with a gallon can of peaches in her pantry is another story. And yes, I’m sure they went fast, to her great relief.

Just shows to go you: the real entertainment when it comes to home entertaining is what’s going on inside the hostess’ head!

MOAT-Y FINE PROBLEM-SOLVING

So we have the problem of the illegal alien invasion across the border with Mexico . . . plus the enormous problem of trying to raise the levees in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina . . . and the frightening wave of man-eating alligators in Florida.

Here’s a triple solution:

1. DIG A MOAT ALONG THE MEXICAN BORDER.
2. REPOSITION ALL THE DISPLACED DIRT TO NEW ORLEANS.
3. PUT THE ALLIGATORS IN THE MOAT.

Voila!

THE LOCUSTS CAME THROUGH

Far be it from me to refer to our friends, relatives and neighbors as “locusts.” But they swarmed to Eden’s graduation party the other night and ate us out of house and home.

They stripped the 100-piece shrimp plate clean in minutes. They devoured the festive skewers of chicken satay, and the 50 pungent barbecued riblets. They ate two huge pans of chicken flautas and a vat of specialty salsa. They even ate the jalapeno garnishes.

Furthermore, the freezer had been bursting with 80 individual raspberry-chocolate desserts, made by me at about 2 a.m. the night before, but about halfway through the party, they had vanished, too. I think I saw someone picking up the empty plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries and licking it.

Now, we had filler foods, like salad and veggie dip. But with an hour to go in the party, the formerly-groaning buffet table was now looking a little like the last day of school at 3:35 p.m.

Panicking, I opened the fridge to see if we had any everyday foods that were suitable for putting out. I had just picked up an age-old box of fish sticks when my friend caught my eye, winked, and tipped back her head to laugh.

Thanks a lot! No, not for ridiculing me for considering serving fish sticks. I saw the last of the jalapeno garnishes between her teeth!

(DailySusan returns today from an unexpected “vacation” kayaking in graduation whitewater. It was great, but it’s also nice to come out in one piece on the other side in relatively still waters!)

AS SEEN ON TV?

(Today's DailySusan, available only to subscribers, depicts a green "chia pet" style hairdo and beard coming out of a Middle Eastern guy's head, with the phony brand name, "Shiite Pet.")

STAND-UP SCHTICK

These funnies are from comedian Steven Wright (www.stevenwright.com):

There's a pizza place near where I live that sells only slices. In the back you can see a guy tossing a triangle in the air.

I had to stop driving my car for a while. The tires got dizzy.

Do you think that when they asked George Washington for ID that he just whipped out a quarter?

The other day, I was walking my dog around my building -- on the ledge.

Some people are afraid of heights. Not me. I'm afraid of widths.

My friend Winnie is a procrastinator. He didn't get his birthmark ‘til he was 8 years old.

I don't have to walk my dog anymore. I walked him all at once. He was fun when he was a puppy. I named him Stay. When I'd call him I'd say, “C'mere, Stay! C'mere, Stay!” and he'd go like this . . . (FILL IN THE MOVEMENT YOURSELF). He's a lot smarter than that now. Now when I call him, he just ignores me and keeps on typing.

TONGUE TWISTERS

Try these out. Three times in a row. Aloud. Fast. Can you do it? I’m 0-for-3.

Peggy Babcock

Soldiers’ shoulders

Lemon liniment

Send in your favorites . . . if you’re not too tongue-tied.

A SCIENTIST?

Maddy, 6, was holding court about important things such as the incontrovertible fact that you cannot sneeze without closing your eyes. If you do, she solemnly declared, your eyeballs will come squirting out.

“Oooh,” I replied, duly impressed. “Why IS that? Why CAN’T you sneeze without closing your eyes?”

Maddy was perturbed. “WHAT DO I LOOK LIKE, A SCIENTIST?!?”

BUNNY WARS: MARIGOLD MUNITIONS

If you’re too wimpy to shoot ‘em and you don’t want to organize a male protein spill to ward them off, and you need your Irish Spring to ward off your own B.O. in the shower, note that you can also prevent bunny rabbit holocausts of your tender garden plants with . . . tender garden plants.

Another stalwart bunny war correspondent, broadcasting live from the trenches in mid-town Omaha, reports that for years, she has planted a border of marigolds around her vegetable garden and she hasn’t had a bit of bunny problems.

She reports that marigolds are a two-fer for the frugal gardener: you can also boil a tea from the flowers and put it in a sprayer to make a natural pesticide. Hmm! Maybe you won’t NEED that Irish Spring in the shower any more!

OR . . . you can give the whole garden thing up, and just rock your whole yard like they do in Arizona.

OR . . . you can petition the governor to get industrial development bonds to build a Bunny Casino a few miles away from your place, so they’ll all hop there and stay there. Anyone for a little Rabbit Roulette?

BUNNY WARS: THE IRISH SPRING COUNTERATTACK

The neighbors already think you’re nuts. So there’s nothing stopping you from this method of protecting your garden from the ravages of the bunny rabbits:

Reportedly, shavings of Irish Spring bar soap work as a wabbit wepewwant.

So get out there with a paring knife and couple of green-striped bars, and start sprinkling the shavings around. Both the neighbors and the bunnies will think you’ve “gone leprechaun” and will put you on their loony bin watch list.

BUNNY WARS: DESPERATE MEASURES

Aha! I’m not the only one who does battle with the bunnies, trying to protect expensive landscaping plants and flowers from their ravages. But up to now, I’ve lost most of the skirmishes.

I’ve tried scattering dog hair around. Lame; scent disappears after the first rain.

I’ve tried cayenne pepper on the leaves. Double lame; they relish it!

Yes, I even purchased a pellet gun. But I was too much of a wimp to use it.

I’ve been resigned to letting them literally eat me out of house and home. But yesterday, the FINAL SOLUTION came forward from a practical garden guru who’s not afraid to take extreme measures in besting the rodent bulimics. Nonviolently, too!

In broad daylight, she escorts the men in her family out to where the plants she wants to protect are. They see their mission. Then, in the evening, she has those same males drink a lot, lot, lot of water ‘round about bedtime. Then they take the dog outside in the pitch dark for a last run . . . and then . . . well, YOU know . . . boys will be boys. . . .

Apparently, the Alpha Male scent is a great deterrent. Better living through chemistry! Take THAT, you cwazy wabbits.

If your alpha, or even zeta males, won’t cooperate in person out of some sense of propriety, then you can always keep an empty mayonnaise jar in the W.C. and tell ‘em it’s “for the cause.”

PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF MOTHERS

A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast;
but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.
-- Proverbs 12:10

One Mother’s Day, I got myself a GUN. Motherly, huh? Well . . . I just wanted to BLOW AWAY all those pesky WABBITS that kept destroying my precious, expensive, hybrid hosta plants.

I took target practice on an orange juice can, and lay in wait.

Aha! Here came a fat, furry rodent, munching with guiltless gusto on a (sob!) specially variegated hosta. Frowning face set like flint, I took aim.

But I couldn’t shoot.

Had my maternal instincts come to the fore?

Was it because my husband had helpfully commented, “You’ll probably just wound him. You’ll have to take a hold of him by the ears, and . . . YOU know . . . (demonstrates ultra-grotesque neck-wringing action). . . .”

Naw. What stopped my murderous rampage was the worry: what would my CHILDREN think?

Be kind to animals. Model tenderness for all God’s creatures. It’s one of the mandates of motherhood. It gets tricky, though, when you’re up against four-legged terrorists. But oh! do kids love animals. And that’s good. Challenging, but good.

The other day, Maddy, 6, found a baby bunny in our back yard. My trigger finger itched as she loved him, cuddled him, and begged to keep him. She named him “Jack Bunny.”


We eventually convinced her to put him back, behind the iris, and kept our dog Sunny away. Next morning, Jack Bunny was gone! Hooray!

Minutes later, I was on the phone on an important call, and saw Sunny cavorting in the back yard . . . WITH A LIMP AND LIFELESS JACK BUNNY IN HER MOUTH!!!! She shook him violently, back and forth! She tossed him into the air and caught him! She rolled over on her back, lazily munching on his mangled corpse!

On one hand: PAYBACK! YESSSSS!

But on the other hand: AAAIIIEEE!!! If Maddy saw this. . . .

I zoomed outside . . . and whew! It was only a fake squirrel, a dog toy. My plants may die, but Jack Bunny Lives!

Darn it.

But my trials and tribulations are nothing compared to my dear neighbor Sharon. New to the acreage lifestyle, and wanting to add an animal to her daughters’ life experiences, she drove to a whole ‘nother town to pick up a free calico cat. The farm lady declared that she was lucky, since they’d rescued her as an abandoned kitten. So they named her “Lucky Karma.”

Yeah, well, she wasn’t the ONLY one who’d gotten lucky. She was P.G.!

Undaunted, Sharon called the vet and got the prenatal lowdown, all the signs of cat labor and so forth. Midwifing kittens? He laughed: “There’s nothing to it. Just let Mother Nature take over.”

So Mother Nature’s Helper set up a box in the storage room with some ratty towels. When the great moment arrived, her kids called every friend, neighbor and soccer pal available to come over and witness the wonder of birth.

Before long, the first tiny, rat-like kitten arrived. Sharon waited to see the kitty mom spring into action, cleaning and chewing off the cord, just as the vet had promised. Nothing.

The children, clueless, were still rapt with excitement. Soon enough, another popped out. Same thing: no cord severing, minimal licking.

The rat kitties were squirming around all over, and as they were joined by litter mates, it became apparent that the still-intact cords were getting all entangled.

With visions of her daughters’ new friends going CAT-atonic over dead kitties, Sharon frantically called the vet. He told her to tie off the cords with some dental floss.

DENTAL FLOSS?

With the formerly beaming young faces looking on, she sprang into motherly mode and became SUPER VET, tying, talking, cutting, and cleansing five tiny, incredibly squirmy, entangled newborn kittens.

In the end, the young and dazed mother cat took over her natural duties, sparing Sharon from nursing and licking fur as well, much to her relief.

And they all lived happily, and squirmily, ever after.

That’s motherhood for you. We moms are “MEOW-velous.” Look how “FUR” we go for our kids! †

GRADUATION PARTY ESCALATION IS DUMB

We’ve started the rounds of the graduation parties again, and boy, they are better than ever. People are so creative and generous with the food and festivities they share with their child’s friends and teachers. The way families seek to honor their graduates is so heartwarming.

That’s the good news. The BAD news is, OURS is still coming up. Nine days, and counting. It’s GOT to be good.

So I was “encouraging” my husband to set up the hammock, replace the basketball hoop and put some air in the ball, place the softball bases in the pasture, park Maudie the tractor in the driveway to offer kiddie rides, and fire up the batting cage. . .

. . . and he said, good-naturedly, “What do you think this is, FUN-PLEX?” (that’s the local amusement park / arcade / go-cart joint)

Oh, out of the mouths of babes: Maddy added, “Or maybe DUMB-PLEX!!!!”

BROTHERS AND MOTHERS

This video reminds me of the process of taking our annual Christmas card photo. Maybe next year, we should send out a video with the “out-takes.” Happy Mother’s Day, everybody!

(Today's DailySusan was a funny video of two brothers arguing over taking a Mother's Day picture of themselves.)

IN THE YEAR 2031

According to a prophetic and highly silly email, in 25 years these will be the headlines:

Ozone created by electric cars now killing millions in the seventh largest country in the world, Mexifornia, formerly known as California.

White minorities still trying to have English recognized as Mexifornia's third language.

Spotted Owl plague threatens northwestern United States crops and livestock.

Baby conceived naturally. Scientists stumped.

Couple petitions court to reinstate heterosexual marriage.

Last remaining Fundamentalist Muslim dies in the American Territory of the Middle East (formerly known as Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria and Lebanon).

Iran still closed off; physicists estimate it will take at least 10 more years before radioactivity decreases to safe levels.

France pleads for global help after being taken over by Jamaica.

Castro finally dies at age 112; Cuban cigars can now be imported legally, but President Chelsea Clinton has banned all smoking.

George Z. Bush says he will run for President in 2036.

Postal Service raises price of first class stamp to $17.89 and reduces mail delivery to Wednesdays only.

Results announced from 85-year, $75.8 billion study: diet and exercise are the keys to weight
loss. Average weight of Americans drops to 250 lbs.

Japanese scientists have created a camera with such a fast shutter speed, they now can photograph a woman with her mouth shut. (Hmmmmmmmmm)

Massachusetts executes last remaining conservative. Supreme Court rules punishment of criminals violates their civil rights.

Average height of NBA players now nine feet, seven inches.

New federal law requires that all nail clippers, screwdrivers, fly swatters and rolled-up newspapers must be registered by January 2036.

Congress authorizes direct deposit of formerly illegal political contributions to campaign accounts.

IRS sets lowest tax rate at 75 percent.

Florida voters still having trouble with voting machines.

CLOSE, AND NO CIGAR

When you’re a workman entering the home of a family that owns a Labrador retriever, you’re taking an awful risk. Not that your hind end will get bitten, or that you’ll catch rabies. Noooo. THAT EVERY ITEM YOU OWN WILL BE SNATCHED AWAY AND CARRIED OFF!!!

The latest go-round for us was the fate of the poor carpenter who fixed our stairway. He set up his table saw on the driveway outside the front door, and carried cut sections of wood into the house from there. Naturally, he placed his supplies and everything he would need for the job around that saw.

I kept apologizing as I would come upon Sunny in the front yard with one of his workgloves, or a fragment of wood. She never chewed up and ruined anything; she just liked to retrieve things and hang on to them, in play.

But one day, she went too far: the carpenter smoked cigars after lunch. To be courteous, he only smoked them outside. While he was working at the table saw, he would hold a cigar in his mouth. But if he had to come inside for a moment, he would lay it down on the pavement so that smoke wouldn’t get in the house.

Well, the lure was too powerful for Sunny. One time, the carpenter came back outside, and she was cavorting around in the front yard . . . WITH THE LIGHTED CIGAR BETWEEN HER TEETH!

She romped. She frolicked. She even placed the cigar on the grass just a few feet away from the carpenter, tail wagging like mad, and dared him to try to pick it up. When he went for it, she snatched it away again and galloped through the yard, taunting him with it.

No, she didn’t take a puff. But my ears were smoking over her disobedience. The carpenter, though, thought it was a howl. And since it wasn’t one of his costly Cubans, he didn’t care.

SOMEBODY'S THINKIN'

(Today's DailySusan was a cartoon showing the rebuilding of New Orleans -- only this time, everybody was building an ARK instead of a house.)

SLACKER MOM AT GRADUATION TIME

GULP! Over the weekend, I saw what some other parents were doing to set up a “shrine” of memorabilia for their son’s graduation party. You know those giant photo collages and keepsake displays that organized parents make. Sheesh! They’re making me look bad.

On these people’s kitchen table, spilling over into their family room, were stacks of photos and papers in neat categories. It looked like the Underground Command Center of the Strategic Air Command.

They had pictures of him from the delivery room, preschool, and individual and group pictures from each grade, K-12. They had personal letters written by his favorite teachers and coaches. They had some of his best school assignments from over the years. They had an entire computer disk filled with sports actions shots. They had a rosette made of all his swimming ribbons.

HOLY SCHMOLY! So far, I was making Beamer create her own scrapbook and her own graduation DVD, because she’s a lot better at those tasks than I am. Otherwise, I’ve been gardening so the place will look presentable, and I know what we’re going to have to eat at the party: what else, but my world-famous . . . OK, Class of ’06 famous . . . chocolate raspberry dessert.

But these shrines . . . how does a “slacker” mom compete? I know! I’ll display:

-- Her dad’s wallet with flies coming out of it, it’ll be so empty next year with three – count ‘em – three children in college or post-grad school.

-- A little piece of dented fender from the two – count ‘em – two times her precious car has been hit by other hormone-crazed teenagers this school year alone.

-- Her crutches from the time in third grade when she sprained her ankle on a trampoline minutes before our long-awaited trip to Cancun.

-- Her passport picture from that same trip. She was laughing when they took it. She looks like a deranged squirrel that someone just tickled.

Her “shrine” might not be dignified . . . but dang! It’ll be different!