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Every Bit As Entertaining As American Idol (#125)

My recent gain of several pounds could probably be attributed to the ritual Doug and I have fallen into during this year's Idol season. You guessed it: Snacking In Front Of The TV. In bed. Yeah, it's a great life, isn't it?

Last night, though, we'd settled in for the results show and had neglected to gather our chosen morsels from the fridge and pantry. During the first break for ads, I hopped up and said, "What would you like from the kitchen?"

He hesitated, but only for a second. "How about something in the cheese family?"

I love this man.

Posted by Katy on 05/19/05
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Making A Case For Victoria’s Secret (#126)

If ever there was a time to upgrade your underwear--especially if you live in Kansas City--this is it.

A Capitol Federal bank in a nice area of Olathe, Kansas (a suburb of KC, where we used to live before moving back to the Missouri side of the state line) was held up this morning. The robber made the employees (and customers, too, if the news accounts prove accurate) strip down to their undies and then took one of the nearly naked employees hostage in his getaway van.

Shots were fired in the parking lot of the bank and again at the small airport a couple of miles away, where apparently the robber intended to hitch a ride to who-knows-where. The suspect was shot and critically wounded, but may recover from his injuries to face charges.

At least he didn't suffer the indignity of arriving at Overland Park Regional Hospital with his crummy underwear on display in front of God and everybody.

If I'd been an employee or customer of the bank, I might have volunteered to be taken hostage in exchange for being allowed to remain fully clothed.

But just so I'll never have to face a situation-ethics dilemma of that magnitude, I'm heading over to Victoria's Secret before it's too late.

Posted by Katy on 05/18/05
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I’d Darned Well Better Adjust, And Fast (#127)

Today Carrie leaves for two weeks in Haiti. She's been there once before, just sixteen months ago, and I haven't recovered yet. One of the boys on the trip nearly died of malaria upon their return home and, well, I'm a chicken about stuff like this.

She's had all her shots and pills, of course. It's not horrible diseases that freak me out as much as imminent danger. Their plane lands in Port-au-Prince (yikes!) and then they travel for a couple hours by road to get to the orphanage where they'll stay. Let's just say I don't love the mental picture of Carrie traveling those roads in the back of an open pick-up.

But Carrie is 23 years old. She's not a child anymore. I love it that she cares for orphans. It's just that I wish more orphans lived in nicer places.

I'd darned well better adjust.

Before Carrie gets back from Haiti, Kevin will leave on a ten-day road trip with three friends to New York. If you think I like this idea much better than the Haiti one, you're wrong. New York is almost a foreign country when you live in Kansas City, and getting there by car when the plan is to "drive straight through" is arduous at best.

But Kevin is 20 years old. He's not a teenager anymore. I love it that he's saved and researched hotel prices and rounded up some great kids to travel with. It's just that I wish they were going to Worlds of Fun here in town instead of across fully half the width of the United States and back.

I'd darned well better adjust.

The week Kevin gets back from New York, he's moving out. He's been talking about this for a year, scoping out possible roommates, but nothing solid had ever materialized, so I didn't have to face it head on--until now. I've done OK when Scott moved out at age 18, and then when Carrie followed. But part of the reason I did OK was because I still had my beautiful, blue-eyed Kevvie.

But Kevin is 20 years old. He's not a baby anymore, even if my eyes still sometimes deceive me. The very best thing for Kevin is that he strike out on his own, throw his lot in with three other guys, and find God's purposes for him out there in the real world.

I told my mother-in-law about my kids' plans the other day. She's 83-years-old. She's not a young mother anymore, or even a middle-aged one. Her nest emptied a very long time ago, but she still remembers what it's like.

"I can't stop them from going," I said. "They're grown-ups now. What can I do?"

"Nothing," she agreed, but then she corrected herself. "Except pray."

So I'm adjusting. On my knees. Sometimes, that's all a mother can do.

Posted by Katy on 05/17/05
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Bloggin Idiot and Bloggin Bridget… (#128)

The Bloggin' B's have led the way, folks! For some reason, my second post about Carrie's graduation stopped the comments at 40. There's no explaining this technology.

I'm going to go one more round, till the comments limit kicks in. Bloggin Idiot and Blogging Bridget, only one more comment from each of you will actually result in a dollar accrued to Carrie's account. But feel free to send your friends her way!

Thanks, Michael Take Care, for posting about this on your site! It's been a huge and fun success!

And now, kind readers, the mother of the graduate is heading off to beddy-bye-bye...

Posted by Katy on 05/14/05
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Cutting In On The Comment Dance (#129)

Don't despair! All is not lost! Who knew fallible has a comment limit of 50?

Okay, since you good people have responded so graciously to my daughter's need for cashola, here's one more chance to send her your well wishes on her graduation.

Also, all prayers for her trip to Haiti are very much appreciated! As you might imagine, this particular trip makes her mother a bit nervous.

Have fun commenting, everyone!!

Posted by Katy on 05/14/05
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Comment Dance (#130)

Our beautiful daughter Carrie graduates from college tomorrow, and then on Wednesday, she leaves on a two-week mission to work in an orphanage in Haiti.

Carrie is one of the most generous and kind people God ever made. She's got a heart of compassion second to none which--as you might imagine--makes us even prouder of her than the college degree does.

But here's the deal: the girl is broke. So far, she's had to use a couple cash gifts that have come in to pay for her shots for the Haiti trip. Don't kid yourself: Giving yourself to a good cause never comes cheap.

So I thought we could have some fun here for the next couple days--until I call off the whole deal when Doug and I become officially broke, too.

For every comment generated by well-wishers on this post, we'll give Carrie a dollar in your names. She would get a tremendous kick out of your participation, and when she gets back from Haiti will be able to pay her bills. What do you say?

I'll even give her a card with every commenter's name on it. A true blogospheric keepsake!

Okay, then. The comments section is open!

Posted by Katy on 05/14/05
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A Higher Class Of Clutter, But Still… (#131)

Many of you will remember that last fall I impulsively purchased a book just for its title: "How To Lose 200 Lbs. This Weekend!" by Don Aslett.

I already own too many diet books to list here, one of which I will forever kiss with joy every time I pick it up, because it changed my life. (Thank you, Dr. Atkins.)

But "How To Lose 200 Lbs. This Weekend" isn't THAT kind of diet book. It's the other kind, the one where you put yourself on a reduced-clutter diet.

I actually WEIGHED bags of stuff as I hauled them to the car, just so I could make sure I really dropped a minimum of 200 that first weekend of decluttering. If I remember correctly, I lost more like 1500 pounds! And that was just the first weekend!

But now, you see, garage sale season is upon us. And as exemplary as I'm being in not even LOOKING at other people's knick-knacks and paddy-whacks, I do have a problem. I might as well admit it here.

Hello. My name is Katy, and I'm a compulsive couch collector. That's right, I wouldn't even dream of bringing home something I could lift, or even something that would fit in our Saturn wagon. Where's the challenge in that? Unless its bulk and heft requires two men and a truck to move it, it's not for me.

Kev is taking two, maybe three couches with him when he moves out, including the couch that got me started on this grand obsession when I was just nineteen. Hopefully, he'll take his leave before garage sale season ends, because, well...this place ain't gettin' any bigger.

Just so you know, when he hauls couch in a couple months, I'll still have five couches, counting the darling cottage-floral love seat I picked up for $75 on Saturday.

Of course, I meant to say I picked it out, not up. That took two men and a truck.

Anything you just can't pass up? Like a stray puppy or an unloved kitty or a scraggly Christmas tree? Something that tugs at your heartstrings, making you believe that no one in the world could treat it as good as you will, and so you must save it from a fate worse than purchase?

Please share! Missouri loves company.

Posted by Katy on 05/10/05
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Lost In Lee’s Summit (#132)

I know, I know. Mother's Day is all about the folks. It's all about staying in bed too long even though you've got a terrible crick in your back, because you know they really believe that you want nothing more in the world than to be served breakfast there.

It's about being surrounded by kids in said bed, each of whom lays claim to just one bite of your French toast with powdered sugar on top or your chocolate-chip bagel or your waffle with blueberry syrup. It's about--after all their claims have been appropriated--changing your sheets.

I've always tended toward funk on Mother's Day, which is why on Friday I felt so lost.

It's not what you're thinking. I didn't call into question the entire history of my mothering career. I didn't imagine myself the worst mother in the universe and wallow in post-menopausal angst.

Instead, I got lost on purpose in Lee's Summit, Missouri, and had the time of my life.

Mothers, you see, if they're good at all at what they've signed on for, try desperately not to get lost. They find and keep their bearings early in life because, well, it's their job. Children depend upon us to carry maps in our minds, to know directions by heart, not because they want to follow our examples as much as they want to believe we are examples.

Friday, I threw caution to the wind. I drove over to a neighboring town, a town about which I know nothing except how to get to my brother's house, the Hobby Lobby, and the Starbuck's. A girl can be happy for a very long time with just that little bit of knowledge, but something told me I needed more--that I desperately needed to get lost.

I started with a huge neighborhood garage sale, a neighborhood in which I got so turned around that I'm still spinning in circles. I forced myself NOT to think, "OK, when I turn right, I'll be going west, which means I need to turn left to get back to the main road..." I forced myself not to think ANYTHING, but just to drive, shop, and enjoy the day.

When I'd finally located the way out of the neighborhood, I decided to try to find a bead shop my sister-in-law told me about. Imagine my shock when I drove straight to it! After that, I deliberately turned the wrong way out of the parking lot, just to see what would happen.

Amazingly, I didn't die. I looked in the rear view mirror occasionally to see if anyone followed me too closely, and felt shocked a couple of times to see no one following me at all. You mean I could get lost and not even have to worry about setting a bad example for all those who came behind? For once, getting crazily lost seemed worth the risk.

I don't turn the wrong way often, people. In fact, I'd rather not turn at all than accidentally turn the wrong way. There are little people looking up to me, after all, clinging to my skirt, trusting me to lead them where no one else can.

What? They've all grown and gone, you say? I'll tell you what: To recover from a lifetime of conscientious mothering is going to take some serious getting lost.

If getting lost is right on the way to being found, I may start leaving my map at home more often.

Posted by Katy on 05/09/05
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Gleam (#133)

Monday morning is Kevin's early day at school. He can barely stand leaving the house at 7:15, especially when he had people over till 1:30 in the night. Such are the self-inflicted trials of youth.

Doug and I are hardly awake ourselves, having survived an onslaught of lovely Mother's Day observances, but we're just alert enough to hear him banging around in the kitchen before he goes. Usually, he says hi when he first wakes up, before banging, but today he's not himself.

So I call in to him from where I sit in the bedroom.

"Kev?"

"Hmmph?"

"What are you doing?"

"Sumpin-sumpin-sumpin--pee..."

I turn to Doug, which I do often, partly because I'm totally deaf in one ear, and partly because I really, really like turning to Doug.

"What did he say?" I ask.

"Something about pee," Doug says.

A couple minutes later, Kev appears before us. I look up at his Monday morning scowl and he smiles with effort.

"Something-something-something--pee?" I ask.

He huffs. "I'm brushing my teeth."

Yeah. His first year of college is winding down fast.

Posted by Katy on 05/09/05
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Desperate Housewife (#134)

I'm not the kind of woman who puts on make-up to make a run to the grocery store, even if I'm crossing the state line into Kansas, into one of the most prosperous counties in the nation.

The car I'm driving looks like it's been around the block a few times. Technically, of course, it has, but the blocks end way before you get to our house, which sits at the end of a long gravel driveway. Gravel is mighty hard on cars.

I guess I don't fit the visual profile of a woman who might have a few bucks tucked away, I don't know.

All I know is that yesterday was payday for our company, (n)genuis media, inc. So I had a good-sized check from a client to deposit to our business account, and then paychecks drawn on our business to deposit to our personal account. I also had a large check deposit "pending," which I needed to ask about. If the funds were available, I would be able to pay some additional bills.

So I asked the teller to check my balance. She did, scribbled down an amount on a piece of paper, announced OUT LOUD AND LOUDLY the amount of money available in my account, and then looked me up and down a couple of times.

I must have looked like I was about to hit every WalMart in the metro and snarf up all their Sudafed so I could start a crack lab in my basement or something. After all, this is Missouri, and I believe that most years, we're voted Crack Lab Capital of the Universe.

When the teller could restrain herself no longer, she finally asked, "Do you have plans for this money?"

Downright intrusive, don't you think? It's not like I was making a huge withdrawal, after all--it was a deposit!

I packed up my purse and hightailed it out of there pretty fast, but not before I thought I saw her foot reach for the panic button on the floor.

Posted by Katy on 05/03/05
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Tag, You’re It! (#135)

Robin Lee Hatcher (a fabulous author whose books and blogs you should be reading!) at I Was Just Thinking tagged me this afternoon to complete five of the following sentences, then pass them on to three more people.

"It's part of a new meme that is travelling through the blogosphere. The idea is if you're tagged, you need to choose 5 (or more if you like) occupations from the list below and then finish the sentence for each that you've chosen.

"You then tag three more people who must do the same. You can add more occupations to the list when you pass it on but you must choose your 5 from the list provided by the person who tagged you. You're also asked to trackback to the blogger who tagged you if you know how."

Here's the list:

If I could be a scientist�
If I could be a farmer�
If I could be a musician�
If I could be a doctor�
If I could be a painter�
If I could be a gardener�
If I could be a missionary�
If I could be a chef�
If I could be an architect�
If I could be a linguist�
If I could be a psychologist�
If I could be a librarian�
If I could be an athlete�
If I could be a lawyer�
If I could be an innkeeper�
If I could be a professor�
If I could be a writer�
If I could be a llama-rider�
If I could be a bonnie pirate�
If I could be a service member�
If I could be a photographer�
If I could be a philanthropist�
If I could be a rap artist�
If I could be a child actor�
If I could be a secret agent�
If I could be a comedian/comedienne�
If I could be a priest...
If I could be a radio announcer...
If I could be a phlebotomist...
If I could be Paris Hilton's stylist...
If I could be a movie producer...
If I could be the CEO of Microsoft...

Here goes:

If I could be an artist, I'd hope to create a picture worth a thousand words--after a thorough editing, of course.

If I could be a psychologist, I'd want to be able to offer prospective clients (after hearing the gist of their problem) an accurate estimate on how many visits it would take to fix everything--along with a money-back guarantee.

If I could be a philanthropist, I'd spend most of my time praying that God would reveal to me the most kingdom-advancing use of His generous resources.

If I could be a doctor, I'd specialize in prevention, and I'd have a signed agreement with my patients that if they didn't follow my advice, they'd have to find a new doctor.

If I could be a comedienne, my life would be complete.

I'm tagging Doug, Michael Main, and Irene. Have fun, you guys!

Posted by Katy on 05/02/05
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The American Scream (#136)

I'd never purchased a piece of real estate by myself before--with no one there to temper my enthusiasm by bringing up the cracks in the foundation or the leaky roof--but now I have.

The house belonged to the elderly parents of a lifelong friend of mine. They decided they don't want to live in the urban core anymore, that they can't handle such a large house with no bedrooms on the main level, that they need to pare down their possessions--an accumulation of more than sixty years.

So I took the leap. To my way of looking at it, the house was occupant-ready, except for needing a once-through with a good paintbrush. By the time my friend showed me the house, all the furnishings had been removed, except the refrigerator which was so sturdy that I was happy to purchase it along with the old place.

What is it about viewing a house in the presence of the owners that makes a buyer not want to open the closets? Or the door to the walk-in attic? I've looked at houses where I brushed off the suggestion that I might want to take a peek at the basement, if it was an old house and I knew the basement would be scary. Garages: Ditto.

Everything looked wonderful the night I first saw the old house, even if closed doors did remain shut. The original crystal chandeliers, hardwood floors, built-in bookcases, and faceted glass doorknobs more than made up for the fact that I'd probably have to sweep up dead bugs in the basement and swim through cobwebs in the attic.

My plan for this place was to paint it and flip it, hopefully pocketing $20,000 bucks in the process. Kind of like the chick in Proverbs 31, who "considers a field and buys it." You know the lady: She gets up early to make her family a hot breakfast, stays up late knitting stylish scarves to sell at an artsy boutique, and gives her hubby plenty to brag about when he's hanging with his buds at Starbucks.

The day they handed me the keys, I happened to be babysitting three children of a young acquaintance of mine. I fastened all of them into carseats and seatbelts and we headed into town. I figured they could hang around the big empty house with me for a couple of hours--even a little longer if I got carried away with the excitement--while I made my plans and dreamed my dreams.

We used the key on the front door and let ourselves in. I'd brought a bag of stuff for their lunches, which needed to go in the refrigerator. Or so I thought. I opened the fridge and jumped back at the stench. On the top shelf sat a plastic coated raw turkey, weighing in at what would have been a cool 21 pounds if the electricity hadn't been shut off. Turkey blood filled the pan in which the bird languished. Every shelf overflowed with rotting excess. The vegetable bins held flaccid broccoli and limp carrots, spotted green lunch meat, and furry mushrooms.

The expiration date on the cardboard carton of milk, which reeked to high heaven, read January 6. Hmmm...on the church calendar, January 6 is "The Epiphany," the day the Wise Men finally saw the Light. I winced. I really wasn't ready for an epiphany of this magnitude. I slammed the door in disgust.

On a hunch, I opened the oven. Two enormous roaster pans held on like misers to the charred remains of encrusted lasagne. The greasy residue of a mozarella-cheese fire mixed with the pale grey ashes of another burnt offering in the bottom of the stove. The dishwasher encapsulated the china from the Italian feast, along with the spilled dishwashing powder which had never met its match--hot water.

The basement door leered at me from across the kitchen. Please, dear God, I prayed, let there be spiders down there--and only spiders. I opened the door with a blend of caution and dread. The walls on both sides of the stairs were lined with shelves bearing eons-old varnish, shellac, turpentine, and pesticides. Spiky nails crucified a stiffened BBQ brush onto a horizontal two-by-four, alongside similarly executed green-tinged hedge clippers and a rusted garden hoe.

I would have gone downstairs (as well as to the attic and garage) to face the rest of the freaky music, but I already knew how it would end. I would find someone else's lifetime collection of worthless stuff--stuff I'd now paid dearly to own and which would take me the rest of my natural life to dispose of.

The alarm clock jangled then, jolting me back to reality and another vigorous day of spring cleaning.

Posted by Katy on 05/02/05
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Threshold (#137)

We kids are always trying to get my mom to try new things, especially activities and get-togethers sponsored by the retirement community where she lives. We figure socializing with the other residents is one of the pluses of living in close proximity to others.

The other day, I followed a group of ladies down the hall toward Mom's apartment, and listened as they talked about being on their way to Rosary.

"Did you know that on Thursdays a group gets together to pray the Rosary?" I asked Mom.

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Eleven o'clock. I don't care anything about that. And I don't go to church, either. I'm not interested."

There's really not much I can say in response to this, of course, so I refrain. "Well, then..." is all I offer.

"BUT," she said, saying that single word with such conviction that I truly thought she was about to admit that she'd begun reading "The Purpose Driven Life," which my brother gave her last Mother's Day. Or maybe that her friend Wayne, who's quite the evanglist, had convinced her to read her Bible.

"But what, Mom?"

"But I have started going to bingo."

Church, the Bible, bingo--the way I see it, the principle's pretty much the same: You must enter to win.

Posted by Katy on 04/30/05
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Read Any Good Books About American Idol Lately? (#138)

Contrary to what you may imagine if you base your appraisal of what I do with my free time on my last post, my reading/watching TV ratio is at least 10/1. Reading is one of the supreme joys of my life.

If you're like me, you probably have quite a number of books in your TBR (to be read) pile right now. If you didn't feel guilty or have any qualms whatsoever about acquiring yet one more, what would be the one book you'd get?

I keep hearing great things about the novel Gilead, so that's my pick for today. However, I do feel guilty about my unread backlog, so I'm going to hold off for now. Unfortunately, a number of my backlog books are ones I've started, but they didn't capture my imagination sufficiently to keep reading.

Here's another booky question: How many of those TBRs have you started, but for one reason or another have cast aside? Once you've lost interest, do you ever regain it?

Is there any one reason that typically makes you throw a book against the wall and give up on it?

Posted by Katy on 04/30/05
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Somehow, We’ll Get Through This Together… (#139)

In five or six more weeks, we'll finally put this long season of our discontent behind us, and be able to get on with our lives.

Until then, how will we bear up under the mounting losses we face Wednesday after Wednesday, as we give up first Nadia, then Anwar, and now Constantine?

How will we live without the Greek's beautiful hair, dreamy eyes, clefted chin and--oh, yeah--voice?

We've got to stick together, that's all I know. Be strong, dear friends...

Posted by Katy on 04/27/05
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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	Every Bit As Entertaining As American Idol (#125) My recent gain of several pounds could probably be attributed to the ritual Doug and I have fallen into during this year's Idol season. You guessed it: Snacking In Front Of The TV. In bed. Yeah, it's a great life, isn't it? Last night, though, we'd settled in for the results show and had neglected to gather our chosen morsels from the fridge and pantry. During the first break for ads, I hopped up and said, "What would you like from the kitchen?" He hesitated, but only for a second. "How about something in the cheese family?" I love this man. Posted by Katy on 05/19/05 Permalink Making A Case For Victoria’s Secret (#126) If ever there was a time to upgrade your underwear--especially if you live in Kansas City--this is it. A Capitol Federal bank in a nice area of Olathe, Kansas (a suburb of KC, where we used to live before moving back to the Missouri side of the state line) was held up this morning. The robber made the employees (and customers, too, if the news accounts prove accurate) strip down to their undies and then took one of the nearly naked employees hostage in his getaway van. Shots were fired in the parking lot of the bank and again at the small airport a couple of miles away, where apparently the robber intended to hitch a ride to who-knows-where. The suspect was shot and critically wounded, but may recover from his injuries to face charges. At least he didn't suffer the indignity of arriving at Overland Park Regional Hospital with his crummy underwear on display in front of God and everybody. If I'd been an employee or customer of the bank, I might have volunteered to be taken hostage in exchange for being allowed to remain fully clothed. But just so I'll never have to face a situation-ethics dilemma of that magnitude, I'm heading over to Victoria's Secret before it's too late. Posted by Katy on 05/18/05 Permalink I’d Darned Well Better Adjust, And Fast (#127) Today Carrie leaves for two weeks in Haiti. She's been there once before, just sixteen months ago, and I haven't recovered yet. One of the boys on the trip nearly died of malaria upon their return home and, well, I'm a chicken about stuff like this. She's had all her shots and pills, of course. It's not horrible diseases that freak me out as much as imminent danger. Their plane lands in Port-au-Prince (yikes!) and then they travel for a couple hours by road to get to the orphanage where they'll stay. Let's just say I don't love the mental picture of Carrie traveling those roads in the back of an open pick-up. But Carrie is 23 years old. She's not a child anymore. I love it that she cares for orphans. It's just that I wish more orphans lived in nicer places. I'd darned well better adjust. Before Carrie gets back from Haiti, Kevin will leave on a ten-day road trip with three friends to New York. If you think I like this idea much better than the Haiti one, you're wrong. New York is almost a foreign country when you live in Kansas City, and getting there by car when the plan is to "drive straight through" is arduous at best. But Kevin is 20 years old. He's not a teenager anymore. I love it that he's saved and researched hotel prices and rounded up some great kids to travel with. It's just that I wish they were going to Worlds of Fun here in town instead of across fully half the width of the United States and back. I'd darned well better adjust. The week Kevin gets back from New York, he's moving out. He's been talking about this for a year, scoping out possible roommates, but nothing solid had ever materialized, so I didn't have to face it head on--until now. I've done OK when Scott moved out at age 18, and then when Carrie followed. But part of the reason I did OK was because I still had my beautiful, blue-eyed Kevvie. But Kevin is 20 years old. He's not a baby anymore, even if my eyes still sometimes deceive me. The very best thing for Kevin is that he strike out on his own, throw his lot in with three other guys, and find God's purposes for him out there in the real world. I told my mother-in-law about my kids' plans the other day. She's 83-years-old. She's not a young mother anymore, or even a middle-aged one. Her nest emptied a very long time ago, but she still remembers what it's like. "I can't stop them from going," I said. "They're grown-ups now. What can I do?" "Nothing," she agreed, but then she corrected herself. "Except pray." So I'm adjusting. On my knees. Sometimes, that's all a mother can do. Posted by Katy on 05/17/05 Permalink Bloggin Idiot and Bloggin Bridget… (#128) The Bloggin' B's have led the way, folks! For some reason, my second post about Carrie's graduation stopped the comments at 40. There's no explaining this technology. I'm going to go one more round, till the comments limit kicks in. Bloggin Idiot and Blogging Bridget, only one more comment from each of you will actually result in a dollar accrued to Carrie's account. But feel free to send your friends her way! Thanks, Michael Take Care, for posting about this on your site! It's been a huge and fun success! And now, kind readers, the mother of the graduate is heading off to beddy-bye-bye... Posted by Katy on 05/14/05 Permalink Cutting In On The Comment Dance (#129) Don't despair! All is not lost! Who knew fallible has a comment limit of 50? Okay, since you good people have responded so graciously to my daughter's need for cashola, here's one more chance to send her your well wishes on her graduation. Also, all prayers for her trip to Haiti are very much appreciated! As you might imagine, this particular trip makes her mother a bit nervous. Have fun commenting, everyone!! Posted by Katy on 05/14/05 Permalink Comment Dance (#130) Our beautiful daughter Carrie graduates from college tomorrow, and then on Wednesday, she leaves on a two-week mission to work in an orphanage in Haiti. Carrie is one of the most generous and kind people God ever made. She's got a heart of compassion second to none which--as you might imagine--makes us even prouder of her than the college degree does. But here's the deal: the girl is broke. So far, she's had to use a couple cash gifts that have come in to pay for her shots for the Haiti trip. Don't kid yourself: Giving yourself to a good cause never comes cheap. So I thought we could have some fun here for the next couple days--until I call off the whole deal when Doug and I become officially broke, too. For every comment generated by well-wishers on this post, we'll give Carrie a dollar in your names. She would get a tremendous kick out of your participation, and when she gets back from Haiti will be able to pay her bills. What do you say? I'll even give her a card with every commenter's name on it. A true blogospheric keepsake! Okay, then. The comments section is open! Posted by Katy on 05/14/05 Permalink A Higher Class Of Clutter, But Still… (#131) Many of you will remember that last fall I impulsively purchased a book just for its title: "How To Lose 200 Lbs. This Weekend!" by Don Aslett. I already own too many diet books to list here, one of which I will forever kiss with joy every time I pick it up, because it changed my life. (Thank you, Dr. Atkins.) But "How To Lose 200 Lbs. This Weekend" isn't THAT kind of diet book. It's the other kind, the one where you put yourself on a reduced-clutter diet. I actually WEIGHED bags of stuff as I hauled them to the car, just so I could make sure I really dropped a minimum of 200 that first weekend of decluttering. If I remember correctly, I lost more like 1500 pounds! And that was just the first weekend! But now, you see, garage sale season is upon us. And as exemplary as I'm being in not even LOOKING at other people's knick-knacks and paddy-whacks, I do have a problem. I might as well admit it here. Hello. My name is Katy, and I'm a compulsive couch collector. That's right, I wouldn't even dream of bringing home something I could lift, or even something that would fit in our Saturn wagon. Where's the challenge in that? Unless its bulk and heft requires two men and a truck to move it, it's not for me. Kev is taking two, maybe three couches with him when he moves out, including the couch that got me started on this grand obsession when I was just nineteen. Hopefully, he'll take his leave before garage sale season ends, because, well...this place ain't gettin' any bigger. Just so you know, when he hauls couch in a couple months, I'll still have five couches, counting the darling cottage-floral love seat I picked up for $75 on Saturday. Of course, I meant to say I picked it out, not up. That took two men and a truck. Anything you just can't pass up? Like a stray puppy or an unloved kitty or a scraggly Christmas tree? Something that tugs at your heartstrings, making you believe that no one in the world could treat it as good as you will, and so you must save it from a fate worse than purchase? Please share! Missouri loves company. Posted by Katy on 05/10/05 Permalink Lost In Lee’s Summit (#132) I know, I know. Mother's Day is all about the folks. It's all about staying in bed too long even though you've got a terrible crick in your back, because you know they really believe that you want nothing more in the world than to be served breakfast there. It's about being surrounded by kids in said bed, each of whom lays claim to just one bite of your French toast with powdered sugar on top or your chocolate-chip bagel or your waffle with blueberry syrup. It's about--after all their claims have been appropriated--changing your sheets. I've always tended toward funk on Mother's Day, which is why on Friday I felt so lost. It's not what you're thinking. I didn't call into question the entire history of my mothering career. I didn't imagine myself the worst mother in the universe and wallow in post-menopausal angst. Instead, I got lost on purpose in Lee's Summit, Missouri, and had the time of my life. Mothers, you see, if they're good at all at what they've signed on for, try desperately not to get lost. They find and keep their bearings early in life because, well, it's their job. Children depend upon us to carry maps in our minds, to know directions by heart, not because they want to follow our examples as much as they want to believe we are examples. Friday, I threw caution to the wind. I drove over to a neighboring town, a town about which I know nothing except how to get to my brother's house, the Hobby Lobby, and the Starbuck's. A girl can be happy for a very long time with just that little bit of knowledge, but something told me I needed more--that I desperately needed to get lost. I started with a huge neighborhood garage sale, a neighborhood in which I got so turned around that I'm still spinning in circles. I forced myself NOT to think, "OK, when I turn right, I'll be going west, which means I need to turn left to get back to the main road..." I forced myself not to think ANYTHING, but just to drive, shop, and enjoy the day. When I'd finally located the way out of the neighborhood, I decided to try to find a bead shop my sister-in-law told me about. Imagine my shock when I drove straight to it! After that, I deliberately turned the wrong way out of the parking lot, just to see what would happen. Amazingly, I didn't die. I looked in the rear view mirror occasionally to see if anyone followed me too closely, and felt shocked a couple of times to see no one following me at all. You mean I could get lost and not even have to worry about setting a bad example for all those who came behind? For once, getting crazily lost seemed worth the risk. I don't turn the wrong way often, people. In fact, I'd rather not turn at all than accidentally turn the wrong way. There are little people looking up to me, after all, clinging to my skirt, trusting me to lead them where no one else can. What? They've all grown and gone, you say? I'll tell you what: To recover from a lifetime of conscientious mothering is going to take some serious getting lost. If getting lost is right on the way to being found, I may start leaving my map at home more often. Posted by Katy on 05/09/05 Permalink Gleam (#133) Monday morning is Kevin's early day at school. He can barely stand leaving the house at 7:15, especially when he had people over till 1:30 in the night. Such are the self-inflicted trials of youth. Doug and I are hardly awake ourselves, having survived an onslaught of lovely Mother's Day observances, but we're just alert enough to hear him banging around in the kitchen before he goes. Usually, he says hi when he first wakes up, before banging, but today he's not himself. So I call in to him from where I sit in the bedroom. "Kev?" "Hmmph?" "What are you doing?" "Sumpin-sumpin-sumpin--pee..." I turn to Doug, which I do often, partly because I'm totally deaf in one ear, and partly because I really, really like turning to Doug. "What did he say?" I ask. "Something about pee," Doug says. A couple minutes later, Kev appears before us. I look up at his Monday morning scowl and he smiles with effort. "Something-something-something--pee?" I ask. He huffs. "I'm brushing my teeth." Yeah. His first year of college is winding down fast. Posted by Katy on 05/09/05 Permalink Desperate Housewife (#134) I'm not the kind of woman who puts on make-up to make a run to the grocery store, even if I'm crossing the state line into Kansas, into one of the most prosperous counties in the nation. The car I'm driving looks like it's been around the block a few times. Technically, of course, it has, but the blocks end way before you get to our house, which sits at the end of a long gravel driveway. Gravel is mighty hard on cars. I guess I don't fit the visual profile of a woman who might have a few bucks tucked away, I don't know. All I know is that yesterday was payday for our company, (n)genuis media, inc. So I had a good-sized check from a client to deposit to our business account, and then paychecks drawn on our business to deposit to our personal account. I also had a large check deposit "pending," which I needed to ask about. If the funds were available, I would be able to pay some additional bills. So I asked the teller to check my balance. She did, scribbled down an amount on a piece of paper, announced OUT LOUD AND LOUDLY the amount of money available in my account, and then looked me up and down a couple of times. I must have looked like I was about to hit every WalMart in the metro and snarf up all their Sudafed so I could start a crack lab in my basement or something. After all, this is Missouri, and I believe that most years, we're voted Crack Lab Capital of the Universe. When the teller could restrain herself no longer, she finally asked, "Do you have plans for this money?" Downright intrusive, don't you think? It's not like I was making a huge withdrawal, after all--it was a deposit! I packed up my purse and hightailed it out of there pretty fast, but not before I thought I saw her foot reach for the panic button on the floor. Posted by Katy on 05/03/05 Permalink Tag, You’re It! (#135) Robin Lee Hatcher (a fabulous author whose books and blogs you should be reading!) at I Was Just Thinking tagged me this afternoon to complete five of the following sentences, then pass them on to three more people. "It's part of a new meme that is travelling through the blogosphere. The idea is if you're tagged, you need to choose 5 (or more if you like) occupations from the list below and then finish the sentence for each that you've chosen. "You then tag three more people who must do the same. You can add more occupations to the list when you pass it on but you must choose your 5 from the list provided by the person who tagged you. You're also asked to trackback to the blogger who tagged you if you know how." Here's the list: If I could be a scientist� If I could be a farmer� If I could be a musician� If I could be a doctor� If I could be a painter� If I could be a gardener� If I could be a missionary� If I could be a chef� If I could be an architect� If I could be a linguist� If I could be a psychologist� If I could be a librarian� If I could be an athlete� If I could be a lawyer� If I could be an innkeeper� If I could be a professor� If I could be a writer� If I could be a llama-rider� If I could be a bonnie pirate� If I could be a service member� If I could be a photographer� If I could be a philanthropist� If I could be a rap artist� If I could be a child actor� If I could be a secret agent� If I could be a comedian/comedienne� If I could be a priest... If I could be a radio announcer... If I could be a phlebotomist... If I could be Paris Hilton's stylist... If I could be a movie producer... If I could be the CEO of Microsoft... Here goes: If I could be an artist, I'd hope to create a picture worth a thousand words--after a thorough editing, of course. If I could be a psychologist, I'd want to be able to offer prospective clients (after hearing the gist of their problem) an accurate estimate on how many visits it would take to fix everything--along with a money-back guarantee. If I could be a philanthropist, I'd spend most of my time praying that God would reveal to me the most kingdom-advancing use of His generous resources. If I could be a doctor, I'd specialize in prevention, and I'd have a signed agreement with my patients that if they didn't follow my advice, they'd have to find a new doctor. If I could be a comedienne, my life would be complete. I'm tagging Doug, Michael Main, and Irene. Have fun, you guys! Posted by Katy on 05/02/05 Permalink The American Scream (#136) I'd never purchased a piece of real estate by myself before--with no one there to temper my enthusiasm by bringing up the cracks in the foundation or the leaky roof--but now I have. The house belonged to the elderly parents of a lifelong friend of mine. They decided they don't want to live in the urban core anymore, that they can't handle such a large house with no bedrooms on the main level, that they need to pare down their possessions--an accumulation of more than sixty years. So I took the leap. To my way of looking at it, the house was occupant-ready, except for needing a once-through with a good paintbrush. By the time my friend showed me the house, all the furnishings had been removed, except the refrigerator which was so sturdy that I was happy to purchase it along with the old place. What is it about viewing a house in the presence of the owners that makes a buyer not want to open the closets? Or the door to the walk-in attic? I've looked at houses where I brushed off the suggestion that I might want to take a peek at the basement, if it was an old house and I knew the basement would be scary. Garages: Ditto. Everything looked wonderful the night I first saw the old house, even if closed doors did remain shut. The original crystal chandeliers, hardwood floors, built-in bookcases, and faceted glass doorknobs more than made up for the fact that I'd probably have to sweep up dead bugs in the basement and swim through cobwebs in the attic. My plan for this place was to paint it and flip it, hopefully pocketing $20,000 bucks in the process. Kind of like the chick in Proverbs 31, who "considers a field and buys it." You know the lady: She gets up early to make her family a hot breakfast, stays up late knitting stylish scarves to sell at an artsy boutique, and gives her hubby plenty to brag about when he's hanging with his buds at Starbucks. The day they handed me the keys, I happened to be babysitting three children of a young acquaintance of mine. I fastened all of them into carseats and seatbelts and we headed into town. I figured they could hang around the big empty house with me for a couple of hours--even a little longer if I got carried away with the excitement--while I made my plans and dreamed my dreams. We used the key on the front door and let ourselves in. I'd brought a bag of stuff for their lunches, which needed to go in the refrigerator. Or so I thought. I opened the fridge and jumped back at the stench. On the top shelf sat a plastic coated raw turkey, weighing in at what would have been a cool 21 pounds if the electricity hadn't been shut off. Turkey blood filled the pan in which the bird languished. Every shelf overflowed with rotting excess. The vegetable bins held flaccid broccoli and limp carrots, spotted green lunch meat, and furry mushrooms. The expiration date on the cardboard carton of milk, which reeked to high heaven, read January 6. Hmmm...on the church calendar, January 6 is "The Epiphany," the day the Wise Men finally saw the Light. I winced. I really wasn't ready for an epiphany of this magnitude. I slammed the door in disgust. On a hunch, I opened the oven. Two enormous roaster pans held on like misers to the charred remains of encrusted lasagne. The greasy residue of a mozarella-cheese fire mixed with the pale grey ashes of another burnt offering in the bottom of the stove. The dishwasher encapsulated the china from the Italian feast, along with the spilled dishwashing powder which had never met its match--hot water. The basement door leered at me from across the kitchen. Please, dear God, I prayed, let there be spiders down there--and only spiders. I opened the door with a blend of caution and dread. The walls on both sides of the stairs were lined with shelves bearing eons-old varnish, shellac, turpentine, and pesticides. Spiky nails crucified a stiffened BBQ brush onto a horizontal two-by-four, alongside similarly executed green-tinged hedge clippers and a rusted garden hoe. I would have gone downstairs (as well as to the attic and garage) to face the rest of the freaky music, but I already knew how it would end. I would find someone else's lifetime collection of worthless stuff--stuff I'd now paid dearly to own and which would take me the rest of my natural life to dispose of. The alarm clock jangled then, jolting me back to reality and another vigorous day of spring cleaning. Posted by Katy on 05/02/05 Permalink Threshold (#137) We kids are always trying to get my mom to try new things, especially activities and get-togethers sponsored by the retirement community where she lives. We figure socializing with the other residents is one of the pluses of living in close proximity to others. The other day, I followed a group of ladies down the hall toward Mom's apartment, and listened as they talked about being on their way to Rosary. "Did you know that on Thursdays a group gets together to pray the Rosary?" I asked Mom. "Oh, yeah," she said. "Eleven o'clock. I don't care anything about that. And I don't go to church, either. I'm not interested." There's really not much I can say in response to this, of course, so I refrain. "Well, then..." is all I offer. "BUT," she said, saying that single word with such conviction that I truly thought she was about to admit that she'd begun reading "The Purpose Driven Life," which my brother gave her last Mother's Day. Or maybe that her friend Wayne, who's quite the evanglist, had convinced her to read her Bible. "But what, Mom?" "But I have started going to bingo." Church, the Bible, bingo--the way I see it, the principle's pretty much the same: You must enter to win. Posted by Katy on 04/30/05 Permalink Read Any Good Books About American Idol Lately? (#138) Contrary to what you may imagine if you base your appraisal of what I do with my free time on my last post, my reading/watching TV ratio is at least 10/1. Reading is one of the supreme joys of my life. If you're like me, you probably have quite a number of books in your TBR (to be read) pile right now. If you didn't feel guilty or have any qualms whatsoever about acquiring yet one more, what would be the one book you'd get? I keep hearing great things about the novel Gilead, so that's my pick for today. However, I do feel guilty about my unread backlog, so I'm going to hold off for now. Unfortunately, a number of my backlog books are ones I've started, but they didn't capture my imagination sufficiently to keep reading. Here's another booky question: How many of those TBRs have you started, but for one reason or another have cast aside? Once you've lost interest, do you ever regain it? Is there any one reason that typically makes you throw a book against the wall and give up on it? Posted by Katy on 04/30/05 Permalink Somehow, We’ll Get Through This Together… (#139) In five or six more weeks, we'll finally put this long season of our discontent behind us, and be able to get on with our lives. Until then, how will we bear up under the mounting losses we face Wednesday after Wednesday, as we give up first Nadia, then Anwar, and now Constantine? How will we live without the Greek's beautiful hair, dreamy eyes, clefted chin and--oh, yeah--voice? We've got to stick together, that's all I know. Be strong, dear friends... Posted by Katy on 04/27/05 Permalink Page 43 of 84 pages « First < 41 42 43 44 45 > Last »


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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Every Bit As Entertaining As American Idol (#125)

Making A Case For Victoria’s Secret (#126)

I’d Darned Well Better Adjust, And Fast (#127)

Bloggin Idiot and Bloggin Bridget… (#128)

Cutting In On The Comment Dance (#129)

Comment Dance (#130)

A Higher Class Of Clutter, But Still… (#131)

Lost In Lee’s Summit (#132)

Gleam (#133)

Desperate Housewife (#134)

Tag, You’re It! (#135)

The American Scream (#136)

Threshold (#137)

Read Any Good Books About American Idol Lately? (#138)

Somehow, We’ll Get Through This Together… (#139)

Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri