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See You In September (#1106)

We unpublished (or as some of us prefer to be called: prepublished) book authors have a lot of strikes against us.

We struggle stringing words together in obscurity, up in those blasted unairconditioned garrets of ours, for upwards of decades. We know enough to avoid the cliche of wallpapering said garret with rejection slips, but in the cold winter months we may need to burn the considerable stack of them to produce even a shred of affordable warmth.

In addition, our self-esteem suffers regular and difficult blows. Egos deflate as critiques bleed profusely on our makeshift desks. Contest entries return to us with numbers too low to final, and we imagine evil laughter as the accompanying soundtrack.

“Bwwwaaaaa-haaaa-haaaa-haaaaa, you’ll NEVER make it in this business! Why don’t you just bow out now, while you still have an ounce of dignity?”

More and more, we notice in the writer’s guidelines of the publishers we’d like to write for, unsolicited manuscripts are not accepted. In fact, these days, even unsolicited proposals (typically, a package describing your work in detail, plus the first three chapters) are summarily rejected.

Sure, they’ll consider taking a peek at your proposal if it’s submitted to them through your agent, but guess what? Many of them won’t look at your stuff, either, unless you’ve somehow managed to develop a connection with them.

So how the heck do you do that, you might ask? It’s like “We won’t hire you without experience, and yes, you are so right! You can’t get experience unless we hire you!”

There is an answer, and it’s a good one. Writers conferences.

I’d like to take this opportunity to plug the national writers group I’m a member of, the American Christian Fiction Writers. And for any of my readers who are also prospective authors—even if you’re only in the beginning stages of considering such an idea—I’d like to recommend the ACFW annual conference. This year it’s in Dallas, September 21-23. (When you go to the main page, click on conference in the column to the left.)

If you’ve ever wondered why writers conferences make a difference, I can sum it up in one word: relationships. At a conference, you’ll gain the opportunity to meet one-on-one and seven-on-one (at tables for eight over meals) with editors and agents. If you have an entire novel or just the beginnings of a story idea to talk to them about, they want to hear it! And often, they’ll invite you to submit your materials to them after the conference.

Besides this chance to gain access into the inboxes of editors and agents, you’ll meet some of the most fascinating people on the planet—writers. And I can practically guarantee you that you’ll become friends with many of them—that’s the kind of folks they are.

I am still a struggling wannabe, but it’s not for lack of fantastic encouragement and assistance from a number of wonderful writer friends I’ve made through ACFW. If you’d like to join us in September, check out the specs on the conference. Don’t be like me and wait till you’re…um…*not young* before going after your dream, if writing is something you plan to pursue.

There are so many fine people who stand ready to help you be the writer you’d love to be!

I know. Thanks to ACFW, a whole bunch of them are my friends.

Posted by Katy on 06/19/07
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Mary DeMuth Is A Desperate Housewife! (#1105)

My good buddy, author Mary DeMuth, is desperate.

Maybe not in a Teri Hatcher-I-need-a-sexy-plumber-or-at-least-Superman-to-save-me kind of way, but close. Actually, I guess she’d say she’s Ashley Juddy-desperate, the kind where the chick ends up doing a pretty good job of getting herself out of her own mess, thank you very much.

Anyway, her problem is your opportunity. Don’t you love how that works? She’s got these two great novels out there: “Watching the Tree Limbs” and “Wishing on Dandelions.” She even autographed a few of those puppies and sent them to various celebrities, a couple of whom (that would be where Teri and Ashley come in) have returned the books to her care.

But Mary DeMuth hadn’t just signed her name to the novels. No, she personalized these autographs to bona fide film stars! Would you like a chance to win an autographed set of Mary’s novels—autographed, that is, to Teri Hatcher and Ashley Judd? All you have to do is go to her site and tell her the five reasons why you come closest to resembling either Ashley or Teri.

This may be the only chance you ever have to own a piece of literary history—books touched by those who handle the outgoing mail of the stars!

May I just add that these stories are among the best on the market today? Because people, they are.

Ashley and Teri don’t know what they’ve missed.

Posted by Katy on 06/19/07
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Promised Pics (#1104)

Here are the promised pics of Switzerland and Kev’s graduation. (It was hard to get a photo of Kevin not surrounded by cute chicks.)

Posted by Katy on 06/18/07
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Toothpicks (#1103)

Anybody got a couple of toothpicks to spare?

Honestly, I need SOMETHING to prop my eyes open. We did SO great over in Switzerland, managing to bypass the worst of the jet lag while we were there. But back on this side? Whoa, baby! I just cannot wake up!

I am going to post some pics, though, as requested by my delightful friend Suzan. You deserve to see my grown-man-of-a-son, all graduated and accomplished and thrilled to be facing eviction from the old homestead in two months’ time. :)

But first, some serious splashes of cold water are in order. Or maybe a venti iced Americano. Yeah. That’s the ticket.

Of course, I tried that yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. And the…you get the idea.

“Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.” Hmmm…what’s that the definition of, again?

Oh, yeah. Insanity. So sue me.

But when you serve me the papers, would you mind delivering them with a couple toothpicks and an iced Americano?

Posted by Katy on 06/18/07
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Jet Nag (#1102)

We are home from Switzerland and have simultaneously exchanged one Revolving Door Kid with another.

I’m telling you what. This is a LOT of transition for an old chick, folks. I knew that Carrie and all her stuff would be departing in a U-Haul the same day we witnessed Kevin graduated in Montreux, but I did NOT anticipate how much I’d miss her welcome presence in our home.

Kevin and all his stuff has landed upstairs now, which is fantastic. Except that Carrie kept more “adult” hours than Kev does. And I tend to wait up, no matter how late the waiting takes.

And of course because of the jet lag coming back to the States, I tend to wake up by four a.m., no matter how late I stayed up the night before, which—just so you know—was one.

I’ll get it back together, and not a moment too soon, I’m thinking. Carrie and Marc get married two weeks from this Saturday! All night short (since there were only three hours involved), I obsessed in my sleep about flowers and tux fittings and sound system rentals and twinkle lights and slideshows and waterweight and actual weight.

OK, I admit it. Mostly I obsessed about actual weight. (Don’t ask.)

Today, running on no sleep whatsoever, I will tackle some of the remaining items on my list. Because that’s the kind of Mom I am!!! And because I hope to sleep a little better tonight.

Thanks for all your fun comments while we were away. It’s great to have Kevin back on this side of the pond, though that old song keeps running through my O/C brain like a mantra:

“How you gonna’ keep ‘em down on the farm, after they’ve seen Paree?”

The truth? You ain’t. Scott turned 28 yesterday, and that—on top of milestones galore—really got me to thinking.

I don’t have any babies anymore, and that’s as it should be. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on Scott and felt the strange bittersweetness of his unique and separate identity.

These birdies were meant to fly.

Posted by Katy on 06/13/07
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Very Extremely Non-Instant Gratification, But Wow! (#1101)

Our youngest child, Kevin, graduated from college yesterday! In Switzerland! And we are here!

The thrill of seeing our third kid flip his tassel (OK, technically he lost his tassel before the ceremony started, but still) was just fantastic. By Monday night, we will be home from our whirlwind tour (which included a panoramic train ride from Zurich down to Montreux), kid in tow.

Amazing time. Wonderful son. Very proud parents.

And now, for your enjoyment, I will retype this as if it were an American keyboard, without looking at the keys.

The thrill of seeing our third kid flip his tassel <8

Amaying time. Wonderful son. Verz proud parents.

Posted by Katy on 06/10/07
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OK. Now She’s Scaring Me! (#1100)

I don’t do a lot of celebrity stuff here at fallible. Sure, I’ve dropped a few names in my day. I could probably find references to Mel Gibson, George Clooney, David McCallum, Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney, Denzel Washington, Russell Crowe, and George Clooney if I took a peek through the archives.

But Paris Hilton? Not even on my radar screen. Until today. I’m sorry, but this is the most philosophically moving quote I’ve read in a very long time, courtesy of brietbart.com.

“In a statement, Hilton said: ‘During the past few weeks, I have had a lot of time to think and have come to realize I made some mistakes. This is an important point in my life and I need to take responsibility for my actions. In the future, I plan on taking more of an active role in the decisions I make.’”

You know what disturbs me most about Paris planning to take a more active role in the decisions she makes?

I KNOW JUST WHAT SHE MEANS.

Posted by Katy on 06/04/07
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Hyperventilation (#1099)

Have you ever really, truly hyperventilated? I’m not talking about a mildly ragged-edged breathing, what I’d call merely a respiratory hiccup.

No, I’m talking about an “Is This A Heart Attack Or Is This Death?” episode of Dear-Lord-I-Must-Be-Blue-By-Now absence of life-giving air. The kind where you’re gasping and panting and sucking the energy out of the room, and then running to the next room where surely there’s some O2 left, but NO!! Nothing.

I’ve only hyperventilated that badly twice, the two episodes occurring a few years ago, within 24 hours of each other. The second time, the trend was not my friend. In fact, I freaked out and Doug had no choice but to take me to the ER!!!

They couldn’t find anything remarkably wrong with me, except that I, well…couldn’t breathe. Afterwards, during a routine non-patient/client chat with a shrink friend of mine, I learned that hyperventilation often accompanies panic attacks.

All I could say to that was, “It figures.”

So far, June has got me on the ragged edge. Breathing isn’t a fluid operation these days, but one which requires conscious thought. Even then, it arrives one tiny puff at a time, with what seems like an eternity between puffs. Makes a girl a little bit chicken to fall asleep, I’ll tell you!

One week from today, Kevin graduates in Switzerland!! He’ll have a dual bachelor’s degree in business administration and hotel management. We are SO proud of all he’s accomplished in a short time! And excited for him to be back in KC soon—just in time, in fact, to have his tuxedo fitted.

Four weeks from today, our darling Carrie gets married to Marc!! The wedding promises to be beautiful. It’s going to be held in the downtown library in Kansas City, in an historic building that was originally the First National Bank Building. My parents met there, circa 1946! The main lobby looks like an elegant church, with chandeliers and ornate pillars. It’s even called Kirk Hall.

The reception will be in an upper level event room, adjoining the rooftop, which we’ll use for dancing! Fun, huh?

Now, with “real life” thown in for good measure, two big events in a few weeks time would be more than enough to trigger a bit of a breathing/panic problem for me!! So, what the heck? Might as well throw ALL caution out the window and take a whirlwind trip to Switzerland, right?

Right! Doug and I decided to go on the cusp of the moment. We’ll only be gone a few days, but they will be full and exciting. And when we return home, we’ll be on the same flight with Kevin!

Sorry about all the exclamation points contained herein!!! Call me irrational, but I’ve acquired this bizarre hope that maybe each skinny point will somehow function as a mini breath substitute!!!

What do you think?!? Anyone else here ever really, truly hyperventilated?!?!!

Posted by Katy on 06/02/07
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Citizen Kate, Revisited (#1098)

As some of you will remember, I am in the middle (hopefully, moving toward the end!) of attempting to acquire my British passport.

Technically, I am what is known as a “British citizen by descent.” In other words, I have a British-born parent and therefore am automatically grafted in. (If I could insert the haunting melody called “Lament for the First Generation” by Celtic musician Liz Carroll here, I would. But I digress.)

Believe me, the British-born parent is no easy ticket to a passport to paradise. My application packet, which I considered complete to the most minute detail, has now been returned to me not once but twice.

The first time they needed my father’s American naturalization papers, which they did not request on the original application. He arrived in this country and began the arduous process of becoming a U.S. citizen during a time of the laws changing, so the British Embassy now requires that I prove my father did not renounce his British citizenship to become an American citizen.

Where my father’s citizenship papers have gone, I have no idea. My sister Bridget and I spent two entire months going through every jot and tittle of paperwork in my mother’s home when we moved her into assisted living five years ago. We’ve NEVER seen either his citizenship papers or his discharge papers from the British army. These are documents, I’ve been told by the highest authorities, no Brit would ever relinquish.

In fact, when I paid a visit to the National Archives here in KC to get a certified copy of Dad’s naturalization documents, the archivist said, “Your father would have framed this certificate and hung it on the wall for all to see.”

I said, “You mean next to the carton-sized plastic dispenser of Lucky Strike cigarettes?”

Anyway, they’ve returned my app again. This time, they say my birth certificate was not issued within three months of my birth. What I sent was a certified copy of my birth certificate, the original of which WAS issued within three months of my birth. Their note to me said, “The year 2006 is not within three months of your birth.”

Well, duh!

I don’t have a 53-year-old piece of paper, and neither does my mother. The Embassy says in lieu of this document, they may (they don’t commit) accept a baptismal certificate or hospital birth records. Before I knew that my mother actually did have a baptismal certificate that might fly (praise the Lord for infant baptism!), I called good old St. Joseph Hospital here in Kansas City.

“I was born there in December, 1953,” I said. “I need to obtain a copy of my birth record.”

“It’s been destroyed,” the medical records supervisor said.

“Destroyed? As in a fire, lightning strike, or tornado? An act of God, in other words?”

“I’m sorry. The state does not require us to keep medical records longer than ten years. We still have a few that are older than that, but NONE as old as—”

“You’re kidding, right? Why on earth would a hospital destroy its patients’ records? EVER?”

“Ma’am…where would we keep all of them?”

“Um…I don’t know. In a computer? On microfiche?”

So, here’s my suggestion du jour. If you have ANYTHING in your medical records that you know you’ll need in the future—such as the chronicling of diseases, disorders, surgeries, etc.—keep your own copies! In fact, every few years, pay the price to have your doctors and hospitals copy your latest history and send it to you.

I had to do this recently to purchase some life insurance. In addition, when we switched primary doctors, rather than having one doctor transfer the records to the next without me seeing them, I paid to get copies for us, and then made cheap copies as a back-up for the new doctor’s files.

I am still outraged every time I think about this. All told, I have spent WEEKS of my life mostly dead at St. Joseph Hospital, and they can’t even dignify my personal medical drama with a bit of hard drive space?

Who needs HIPPA to protect our medical privacy when all the records are going to end up shredded anyway?

Anyone else experienced this, or is it just me?

Posted by Katy on 05/30/07
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Typical (#1097)

“Are you OK?”

I thought so until Mom called, but it’s amazing how quickly I started second-guessing myself.

“Sure, I’m OK. Why do you ask?”

“Your voice is too low. You don’t sound right.”

I didn’t mention it, but she didn’t sound so hot herself.

“I’m fine, Mom. How are you?”

“Well…what are you doing right now?”

“Just looking over my list of a thousand details related to Carrie’s wedding. No biggie. Are you OK?”

“I’m wondering if you can buy something for me and bring it over here…”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“I mean, I need you to come right now. Can you do that?”

“Yes. What am I buying on my way?”

Silence, and then: “I can’t remember. The words won’t come.”

“Take your time, Mom. It’ll come back to you. If we talk about something else, you’ll remember—”

“But I need it immediately. Are you able to come right now?”

“I can come any time. Right now works for me. Name the item, and I’ll get it for you.”

“I don’t know what it is, but I need it NOW.”

For five minutes, we volleyed this pitiful ball back and forth. It thudded first on one side of the net and then the other. Needless to say, neither of us scored any points. There are no winners in this game. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more.

“Call me back in a little while, after you remember what you need. OK?”

Mom never called back, but I talked to my sister Mary hours later. She’d been to see Mom after Mom’s call. She assured me Mom did not mention needing anything. She’d moved on to more fascinating obsessions.

“Last week Mom told me that the best years of my life are behind me,” Mary said.

Poor Mary, not even fifty, and it’s all over for her.

“Yeah.” I answered. “Sorry to hear that, sis.”

“Oh, don’t worry, she cut you in today.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely naive woman that I am.

“Today she announced at her lunch table—with me sitting right there—that she expects all her children to die young.”

As long as she doesn’t expect it RIGHT NOW, I’m good.

Posted by Katy on 05/28/07
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Perspective (#1096)

I sat in the four-chair waiting area three days ago, my back to the optical showroom. Several customers milled around behind me, I knew.

One man talked to the overweight female clerk flirtatiously, in the way some men do when they’re hoping for nothing more from a relationship than prompt service.

“I purchased them here,” he said. “Not long ago, either. But recently, I just haven’t been seeing well at all. I mean, I know I’m old, but I’m not that old, am I?”

For some reason, I pictured him reaching out and touching her hand with the “old” line. It could have been my imagination, but I don’t think so. She giggled like a schoolgirl.

“Oh, no. You’re just a young thing still,” she said.

I wondered if he’d removed his hand yet.

I hadn’t gotten a look at him, but the tone of his voice—including its teasing quality—touched strings of childhood memory, pressing the minor chord lightly until faint recognition registered in my mind.

“A haze is clouding my sight,” he said. “I’m hoping the doctor can see me.”

“Maybe she can work you in,” she said. “I’ll pull your chart. What’s your name?”

And then he said his name out loud, in front of God and everybody. I froze in place. If lightning struck, I wouldn’t want to be any closer. But nothing happened. No one reacted to the proclamation of his name at all, as if none of them read the newspapers, as if they didn’t remember—like I did—when this man was a Catholic priest.

Not just any former priest. One I’d idolized in my girlhood, even had a crush on. One who’d spent years, unbeknownst to us foolish girls, abusing young boys—a close relative of mine among them.

One who’s somehow managed to evade punishment, although the families of forty boys have come forward.

One who’s lost his vision.

Another clerk approached me then, carrying the new glasses I’d ordered. She opened them and handed them to me. I replaced my old ones with the new. I thought of the boy-turned-man in my famlly, who’s dead now along with so many of the abused. Men lost to cancer, and HIV, and fiery car crashes, and suicide—so many dead at such young ages.

I turned around then, just for a second, to be certain about the man’s identity.

Maybe it was the lenses or perhaps I struggled momentarily to focus through tears, but his eyes—icy blue, like I remembered—appeared to be coated with a long winter night’s frost.

My perspective had been altered, too. At a distance of several feet, he seemed so much smaller than he should have, a miniature version of the man I’d revered. I stood and took several steps his direction toward the exit. As I closed the gap between us, his stature filled my field of vision. But when I passed him, crossed the threshold, and looked once more over my shoulder, he’d shrunk again.

I wore my new glasses home, but they’re going to take some getting used to, I’m afraid.

I think I’ll hold on to my old ones a while longer.

Posted by Katy on 05/26/07
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Ginormous Fallible Milestone! (#1095)

Guess what? That last blog entry of mine was officially Number 1000!

Gee, if I was the 1000th person to walk through the doors of a store at their Grand Opening, I’d win a prize or something, wouldn’t I? I mean, doesn’t someone pass out free hotdogs for fallible milestones like this???

Oh, wait. I’ve already covered hotdogs. Or, I should say, hotdogs have already covered me. Maybe a free latte, or better yet, an iced Americano? Yeah, that’s the ticket.

1000 posts is fun, but here’s the best part for me: You people have left more than 5630 fallible comments!

Leave me another one today, if you’re in the mood. And here’s what I’d like to know: What keeps you coming back here anyway? And if you’ve never introduced yourself, please do!

I appreciate you all more than 1000 measly posts could ever say.

Posted by Katy on 05/23/07
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It’s Gonna Be Worth It (#1094)

We purchased a Dodge Caravan in 1988. Dang, I loved that thing.

The kids were little then, and we practically lived in the car. In fact, we hadn’t owned it a week before we took a bloomin’ road trip to Williamsburg, Virginia. Twenty-six hours each way. What were we thinking?

Doug and I made up a little poem to inspire the children to take good care of the car when it was new. “If your feet are on the seat, your buns will feel the heat.”

You can probably guess that if we didn’t allow feet on the upholstery, neither did we allow food or drink in the van. You’re right. Years passed before as much as a bottle of water found its way into that vehicle.

These days, I haul Mom around in my four-year-old Saturn wagon. All our cars are paid for and highly valued because of it. None will be replaced anytime soon, as our dollars have been otherwise allocated. :)

So WHY do I allow my mother to eat extra-long Coney hotdogs with mustard, onions, mustard, pickles, mustard, cheese, chili and mustard in my CAR?

I wish I knew.

I took her to the doctor today, who said he’d sure seen her look worse. He even said she could wait six whole months before returning for the next routine visit. That must me some kind of a Mama Record.

Before Nurse Mary could pop the tourniquet off her arm, Mom said, “Where are we going for lunch?”

“Mom, it’s 10:30. You just ate breakfast…”

“Are you kidding me? That was two hours ago! I want Sonic!”

I knew what was coming, believe me. It’s just that I hoped she’d keep the whole mess bagged up until I got her back to her apartment, safely ensconced on her couch with it all laid out on the coffee table before her. But NO!

Before I could fork over the carhop’s tip, Mom had ripped into the bag and exposed the flimsy pasteboard cradle containing the object of her desire. Honestly, I couldn’t even tell if a hotdog lay buried beneath all those accoutrements or not.

Mom assured me one did.

“This is fantastic,” she said, before she’d snarfed down the first bite.

“But there’s no fork, and you can’t possibly pick it up,” I whined. “And I’ve never seen so much mustard in my LIFE.”

“I know,” she purred. “It’s luscious.”

Now, watching Mom eat is a study in itself, even if the item being consumed is relatively neat. Because of her permanently broken humerus, she really only has the reliable use of her right hand, so the left serves no purpose beyond the voracious ripping of wrappings.

My hope that Mom could wait until I got her out of my car? A vain hope, indeed. My lifelong dream of driving a mustard-colored Saturn has come true, though.

If you could have witnessed what occurred over the next ten minutes as she inhaled her Coney, you would have died laughing. I could barely restrain her from diving in before I got a glove compartment-load of napkins spread out over her ample frontside, from neck to knees. But did it matter?

Not one whit.

She exclaimed in ecstasy while I removed clumps of relish from her pink and blue flowered t-shirt. Great globs of mustard found their way into the tiny crevices on her belly’s napkin overlay and spread like a growing jaundice on her pants. Chili dripped through her fingers, encrusting her silver claddagh ring like rust.

The impotent napkins quickly lost their meaning, and I found myself using my bare hand to catch the droppings as she raised the behemoth again and again to her mouth. At one point, I cautioned her that she was ingesting grease-soaked, stuck-on pieces of napkin, but she insisted they tasted like onion to her.

“I love this place. That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“Mom, I’ve raised three kids to adulthood, and I’ve never had to clean up a bigger mess than you just made.”

“It was worth it, though, wasn’t it?”

Maybe not quite yet. I mean, gee Mom, the mustard hasn’t even dried.

But I know this with my whole heart: Someday, it’s gonna be worth it all.

Posted by Katy on 05/21/07
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Nothing But Time (#1093)

Because Mom’s been in the ER twice in the past three weeks, her primary doc’s nurse gave me a little call. His office got the reports from the hospital, and she realized it had been a while since Mom had been in for a check-up.

You know how it is: Everybody wants a piece of the action. I told Nurse Mary that I’d have to call Mom to see when she was available.

“She got furious with me once when I made an appointment on her behalf and then let her know afterwards. She says she has to check her calendar. I’ll call you back after I talk to her.”

The ensuing conversation with my mother took thirty full minutes. I could have driven to her place, checked out her calendar, and driven back home in that length of time.

“Doctor wants to see you this next week,” I said.

“Why?”

“Just a follow-up to the ER visits. And it’s been quite a while since you were there.”

“I’ll have to look at my calendar.”

{Insert ten minutes worth of creaking bed noises, dropping of phone noises, groans, stumbling on carpet noises, more groans, turning of pages noises.}

“You know, I have four calendars on my coffee table.”

“Yeah, I know. That could be a problem.”

“The Savings and Loan sent me one. Then your sister gave me one from her bank. The Channel 41 weatherman passed them out at the Price Chopper. And one of the grandkids gave me one for Christmas.”

“Do you write in all of them?”

“Pretty much. Now that I’ve stopped giving birthday presents to everyone in the family, though, my calendars aren’t quite as full.”

I’ll say. As the matriarch of a family of nearly forty people, she averaged three birthdays per month. Plus anniversaries, graduations, weddings, and the WAY too complicated month-long project called Christmas. It was too much for her to keep up with.

Still, if I tell her I’m picking her up on a certain day at a certain time, she doesn’t write it down. And even if she did write it down, she wouldn’t think to look at it.

“Next week will work, then? Just name the time and I’ll pick you up.”

“OK, I see here that I’m free in July.”

“Well…that’s nice. Turn the calendar back two pages to May.”

“Why? What date is this?”

“This is May 18.”

“OK, I’m on May 8. There’s nothing going on. I can go today.”

“This is Friday, May 18. And it’s 3 in the afternoon. Too late to go today. Let’s look at the week of May 21, next week.”

“I’m not free again until July.”

“What are you doing until then?”

“Isn’t Carrie’s wedding at the end of June?”

She had this on her mind, as she would have just received her invitation in the mail.

“Yes. June 30.”

“After that, I’m available. Anytime in July.”

All I can say is, thank God it’s not an emergency.

Posted by Katy on 05/20/07
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Catering Costs Plummet? (#1092)

Besides the stuff going on with The Moms, we’ve got some really fun stuff happening, too.

Namely, Kevin graduating from college in June, and moving home the same weekend that Carrie moves into her newlywed apartment. And then, of course, Carrie and Marc’s wedding on June 30!

We got the bulk of the invitations sent out before our self-imposed deadline of May 14, the day of the postal rate hike. Not that we saved more than $4 by pushing it, but it DID make a handy little deadline.

Since then, Carrie has gotten no less than three phone calls to let her know the invitation contains a TYPO.

“I about died until I could get home and check the invitation,” she said. “People are telling me June 13 doesn’t fall on a Saturday…”

“June 13? I don’t get it. What happened to good old June 30?”

On formal invitations, you write out the words. In letters, rather than numerals. In this case, the words are “Saturday, the thirtieth of June.”

Three people SO FAR have looked at the word “thirtieth” and seen “thirteenth.”

We may have a much smaller crowd than we planned for!

Posted by Katy on 05/16/07
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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	See You In September (#1106) We unpublished (or as some of us prefer to be called: prepublished) book authors have a lot of strikes against us. We struggle stringing words together in obscurity, up in those blasted unairconditioned garrets of ours, for upwards of decades. We know enough to avoid the cliche of wallpapering said garret with rejection slips, but in the cold winter months we may need to burn the considerable stack of them to produce even a shred of affordable warmth. In addition, our self-esteem suffers regular and difficult blows. Egos deflate as critiques bleed profusely on our makeshift desks. Contest entries return to us with numbers too low to final, and we imagine evil laughter as the accompanying soundtrack. “Bwwwaaaaa-haaaa-haaaa-haaaaa, you’ll NEVER make it in this business! Why don’t you just bow out now, while you still have an ounce of dignity?” More and more, we notice in the writer’s guidelines of the publishers we’d like to write for, unsolicited manuscripts are not accepted. In fact, these days, even unsolicited proposals (typically, a package describing your work in detail, plus the first three chapters) are summarily rejected. Sure, they’ll consider taking a peek at your proposal if it’s submitted to them through your agent, but guess what? Many of them won’t look at your stuff, either, unless you’ve somehow managed to develop a connection with them. So how the heck do you do that, you might ask? It’s like “We won’t hire you without experience, and yes, you are so right! You can’t get experience unless we hire you!” There is an answer, and it’s a good one. Writers conferences. I’d like to take this opportunity to plug the national writers group I’m a member of, the American Christian Fiction Writers. And for any of my readers who are also prospective authors—even if you’re only in the beginning stages of considering such an idea—I’d like to recommend the ACFW annual conference. This year it’s in Dallas, September 21-23. (When you go to the main page, click on conference in the column to the left.) If you’ve ever wondered why writers conferences make a difference, I can sum it up in one word: relationships. At a conference, you’ll gain the opportunity to meet one-on-one and seven-on-one (at tables for eight over meals) with editors and agents. If you have an entire novel or just the beginnings of a story idea to talk to them about, they want to hear it! And often, they’ll invite you to submit your materials to them after the conference. Besides this chance to gain access into the inboxes of editors and agents, you’ll meet some of the most fascinating people on the planet—writers. And I can practically guarantee you that you’ll become friends with many of them—that’s the kind of folks they are. I am still a struggling wannabe, but it’s not for lack of fantastic encouragement and assistance from a number of wonderful writer friends I’ve made through ACFW. If you’d like to join us in September, check out the specs on the conference. Don’t be like me and wait till you’re…um…not young before going after your dream, if writing is something you plan to pursue. There are so many fine people who stand ready to help you be the writer you’d love to be! I know. Thanks to ACFW, a whole bunch of them are my friends. Posted by Katy on 06/19/07 Permalink Mary DeMuth Is A Desperate Housewife! (#1105) My good buddy, author Mary DeMuth, is desperate. Maybe not in a Teri Hatcher-I-need-a-sexy-plumber-or-at-least-Superman-to-save-me kind of way, but close. Actually, I guess she’d say she’s Ashley Juddy-desperate, the kind where the chick ends up doing a pretty good job of getting herself out of her own mess, thank you very much. Anyway, her problem is your opportunity. Don’t you love how that works? She’s got these two great novels out there: “Watching the Tree Limbs” and “Wishing on Dandelions.” She even autographed a few of those puppies and sent them to various celebrities, a couple of whom (that would be where Teri and Ashley come in) have returned the books to her care. But Mary DeMuth hadn’t just signed her name to the novels. No, she personalized these autographs to bona fide film stars! Would you like a chance to win an autographed set of Mary’s novels—autographed, that is, to Teri Hatcher and Ashley Judd? All you have to do is go to her site and tell her the five reasons why you come closest to resembling either Ashley or Teri. This may be the only chance you ever have to own a piece of literary history—books touched by those who handle the outgoing mail of the stars! May I just add that these stories are among the best on the market today? Because people, they are. Ashley and Teri don’t know what they’ve missed. Posted by Katy on 06/19/07 Permalink Promised Pics (#1104) Here are the promised pics of Switzerland and Kev’s graduation. (It was hard to get a photo of Kevin not surrounded by cute chicks.) Posted by Katy on 06/18/07 Permalink Toothpicks (#1103) Anybody got a couple of toothpicks to spare? Honestly, I need SOMETHING to prop my eyes open. We did SO great over in Switzerland, managing to bypass the worst of the jet lag while we were there. But back on this side? Whoa, baby! I just cannot wake up! I am going to post some pics, though, as requested by my delightful friend Suzan. You deserve to see my grown-man-of-a-son, all graduated and accomplished and thrilled to be facing eviction from the old homestead in two months’ time. :) But first, some serious splashes of cold water are in order. Or maybe a venti iced Americano. Yeah. That’s the ticket. Of course, I tried that yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. And the…you get the idea. “Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.” Hmmm…what’s that the definition of, again? Oh, yeah. Insanity. So sue me. But when you serve me the papers, would you mind delivering them with a couple toothpicks and an iced Americano? Posted by Katy on 06/18/07 Permalink Jet Nag (#1102) We are home from Switzerland and have simultaneously exchanged one Revolving Door Kid with another. I’m telling you what. This is a LOT of transition for an old chick, folks. I knew that Carrie and all her stuff would be departing in a U-Haul the same day we witnessed Kevin graduated in Montreux, but I did NOT anticipate how much I’d miss her welcome presence in our home. Kevin and all his stuff has landed upstairs now, which is fantastic. Except that Carrie kept more “adult” hours than Kev does. And I tend to wait up, no matter how late the waiting takes. And of course because of the jet lag coming back to the States, I tend to wake up by four a.m., no matter how late I stayed up the night before, which—just so you know—was one. I’ll get it back together, and not a moment too soon, I’m thinking. Carrie and Marc get married two weeks from this Saturday! All night short (since there were only three hours involved), I obsessed in my sleep about flowers and tux fittings and sound system rentals and twinkle lights and slideshows and waterweight and actual weight. OK, I admit it. Mostly I obsessed about actual weight. (Don’t ask.) Today, running on no sleep whatsoever, I will tackle some of the remaining items on my list. Because that’s the kind of Mom I am!!! And because I hope to sleep a little better tonight. Thanks for all your fun comments while we were away. It’s great to have Kevin back on this side of the pond, though that old song keeps running through my O/C brain like a mantra: “How you gonna’ keep ‘em down on the farm, after they’ve seen Paree?” The truth? You ain’t. Scott turned 28 yesterday, and that—on top of milestones galore—really got me to thinking. I don’t have any babies anymore, and that’s as it should be. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on Scott and felt the strange bittersweetness of his unique and separate identity. These birdies were meant to fly. Posted by Katy on 06/13/07 Permalink Very Extremely Non-Instant Gratification, But Wow! (#1101) Our youngest child, Kevin, graduated from college yesterday! In Switzerland! And we are here! The thrill of seeing our third kid flip his tassel (OK, technically he lost his tassel before the ceremony started, but still) was just fantastic. By Monday night, we will be home from our whirlwind tour (which included a panoramic train ride from Zurich down to Montreux), kid in tow. Amazing time. Wonderful son. Very proud parents. And now, for your enjoyment, I will retype this as if it were an American keyboard, without looking at the keys. The thrill of seeing our third kid flip his tassel <8 Amaying time. Wonderful son. Verz proud parents. Posted by Katy on 06/10/07 Permalink OK. Now She’s Scaring Me! (#1100) I don’t do a lot of celebrity stuff here at fallible. Sure, I’ve dropped a few names in my day. I could probably find references to Mel Gibson, George Clooney, David McCallum, Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney, Denzel Washington, Russell Crowe, and George Clooney if I took a peek through the archives. But Paris Hilton? Not even on my radar screen. Until today. I’m sorry, but this is the most philosophically moving quote I’ve read in a very long time, courtesy of brietbart.com. “In a statement, Hilton said: ‘During the past few weeks, I have had a lot of time to think and have come to realize I made some mistakes. This is an important point in my life and I need to take responsibility for my actions. In the future, I plan on taking more of an active role in the decisions I make.’” You know what disturbs me most about Paris planning to take a more active role in the decisions she makes? I KNOW JUST WHAT SHE MEANS. Posted by Katy on 06/04/07 Permalink Hyperventilation (#1099) Have you ever really, truly hyperventilated? I’m not talking about a mildly ragged-edged breathing, what I’d call merely a respiratory hiccup. No, I’m talking about an “Is This A Heart Attack Or Is This Death?” episode of Dear-Lord-I-Must-Be-Blue-By-Now absence of life-giving air. The kind where you’re gasping and panting and sucking the energy out of the room, and then running to the next room where surely there’s some O2 left, but NO!! Nothing. I’ve only hyperventilated that badly twice, the two episodes occurring a few years ago, within 24 hours of each other. The second time, the trend was not my friend. In fact, I freaked out and Doug had no choice but to take me to the ER!!! They couldn’t find anything remarkably wrong with me, except that I, well…couldn’t breathe. Afterwards, during a routine non-patient/client chat with a shrink friend of mine, I learned that hyperventilation often accompanies panic attacks. All I could say to that was, “It figures.” So far, June has got me on the ragged edge. Breathing isn’t a fluid operation these days, but one which requires conscious thought. Even then, it arrives one tiny puff at a time, with what seems like an eternity between puffs. Makes a girl a little bit chicken to fall asleep, I’ll tell you! One week from today, Kevin graduates in Switzerland!! He’ll have a dual bachelor’s degree in business administration and hotel management. We are SO proud of all he’s accomplished in a short time! And excited for him to be back in KC soon—just in time, in fact, to have his tuxedo fitted. Four weeks from today, our darling Carrie gets married to Marc!! The wedding promises to be beautiful. It’s going to be held in the downtown library in Kansas City, in an historic building that was originally the First National Bank Building. My parents met there, circa 1946! The main lobby looks like an elegant church, with chandeliers and ornate pillars. It’s even called Kirk Hall. The reception will be in an upper level event room, adjoining the rooftop, which we’ll use for dancing! Fun, huh? Now, with “real life” thown in for good measure, two big events in a few weeks time would be more than enough to trigger a bit of a breathing/panic problem for me!! So, what the heck? Might as well throw ALL caution out the window and take a whirlwind trip to Switzerland, right? Right! Doug and I decided to go on the cusp of the moment. We’ll only be gone a few days, but they will be full and exciting. And when we return home, we’ll be on the same flight with Kevin! Sorry about all the exclamation points contained herein!!! Call me irrational, but I’ve acquired this bizarre hope that maybe each skinny point will somehow function as a mini breath substitute!!! What do you think?!? Anyone else here ever really, truly hyperventilated?!?!! Posted by Katy on 06/02/07 Permalink Citizen Kate, Revisited (#1098) As some of you will remember, I am in the middle (hopefully, moving toward the end!) of attempting to acquire my British passport. Technically, I am what is known as a “British citizen by descent.” In other words, I have a British-born parent and therefore am automatically grafted in. (If I could insert the haunting melody called “Lament for the First Generation” by Celtic musician Liz Carroll here, I would. But I digress.) Believe me, the British-born parent is no easy ticket to a passport to paradise. My application packet, which I considered complete to the most minute detail, has now been returned to me not once but twice. The first time they needed my father’s American naturalization papers, which they did not request on the original application. He arrived in this country and began the arduous process of becoming a U.S. citizen during a time of the laws changing, so the British Embassy now requires that I prove my father did not renounce his British citizenship to become an American citizen. Where my father’s citizenship papers have gone, I have no idea. My sister Bridget and I spent two entire months going through every jot and tittle of paperwork in my mother’s home when we moved her into assisted living five years ago. We’ve NEVER seen either his citizenship papers or his discharge papers from the British army. These are documents, I’ve been told by the highest authorities, no Brit would ever relinquish. In fact, when I paid a visit to the National Archives here in KC to get a certified copy of Dad’s naturalization documents, the archivist said, “Your father would have framed this certificate and hung it on the wall for all to see.” I said, “You mean next to the carton-sized plastic dispenser of Lucky Strike cigarettes?” Anyway, they’ve returned my app again. This time, they say my birth certificate was not issued within three months of my birth. What I sent was a certified copy of my birth certificate, the original of which WAS issued within three months of my birth. Their note to me said, “The year 2006 is not within three months of your birth.” Well, duh! I don’t have a 53-year-old piece of paper, and neither does my mother. The Embassy says in lieu of this document, they may (they don’t commit) accept a baptismal certificate or hospital birth records. Before I knew that my mother actually did have a baptismal certificate that might fly (praise the Lord for infant baptism!), I called good old St. Joseph Hospital here in Kansas City. “I was born there in December, 1953,” I said. “I need to obtain a copy of my birth record.” “It’s been destroyed,” the medical records supervisor said. “Destroyed? As in a fire, lightning strike, or tornado? An act of God, in other words?” “I’m sorry. The state does not require us to keep medical records longer than ten years. We still have a few that are older than that, but NONE as old as—” “You’re kidding, right? Why on earth would a hospital destroy its patients’ records? EVER?” “Ma’am…where would we keep all of them?” “Um…I don’t know. In a computer? On microfiche?” So, here’s my suggestion du jour. If you have ANYTHING in your medical records that you know you’ll need in the future—such as the chronicling of diseases, disorders, surgeries, etc.—keep your own copies! In fact, every few years, pay the price to have your doctors and hospitals copy your latest history and send it to you. I had to do this recently to purchase some life insurance. In addition, when we switched primary doctors, rather than having one doctor transfer the records to the next without me seeing them, I paid to get copies for us, and then made cheap copies as a back-up for the new doctor’s files. I am still outraged every time I think about this. All told, I have spent WEEKS of my life mostly dead at St. Joseph Hospital, and they can’t even dignify my personal medical drama with a bit of hard drive space? Who needs HIPPA to protect our medical privacy when all the records are going to end up shredded anyway? Anyone else experienced this, or is it just me? Posted by Katy on 05/30/07 Permalink Typical (#1097) “Are you OK?” I thought so until Mom called, but it’s amazing how quickly I started second-guessing myself. “Sure, I’m OK. Why do you ask?” “Your voice is too low. You don’t sound right.” I didn’t mention it, but she didn’t sound so hot herself. “I’m fine, Mom. How are you?” “Well…what are you doing right now?” “Just looking over my list of a thousand details related to Carrie’s wedding. No biggie. Are you OK?” “I’m wondering if you can buy something for me and bring it over here…” “Sure. What do you need?” “I mean, I need you to come right now. Can you do that?” “Yes. What am I buying on my way?” Silence, and then: “I can’t remember. The words won’t come.” “Take your time, Mom. It’ll come back to you. If we talk about something else, you’ll remember—” “But I need it immediately. Are you able to come right now?” “I can come any time. Right now works for me. Name the item, and I’ll get it for you.” “I don’t know what it is, but I need it NOW.” For five minutes, we volleyed this pitiful ball back and forth. It thudded first on one side of the net and then the other. Needless to say, neither of us scored any points. There are no winners in this game. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. “Call me back in a little while, after you remember what you need. OK?” Mom never called back, but I talked to my sister Mary hours later. She’d been to see Mom after Mom’s call. She assured me Mom did not mention needing anything. She’d moved on to more fascinating obsessions. “Last week Mom told me that the best years of my life are behind me,” Mary said. Poor Mary, not even fifty, and it’s all over for her. “Yeah.” I answered. “Sorry to hear that, sis.” “Oh, don’t worry, she cut you in today.” “What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely naive woman that I am. “Today she announced at her lunch table—with me sitting right there—that she expects all her children to die young.” As long as she doesn’t expect it RIGHT NOW, I’m good. Posted by Katy on 05/28/07 Permalink Perspective (#1096) I sat in the four-chair waiting area three days ago, my back to the optical showroom. Several customers milled around behind me, I knew. One man talked to the overweight female clerk flirtatiously, in the way some men do when they’re hoping for nothing more from a relationship than prompt service. “I purchased them here,” he said. “Not long ago, either. But recently, I just haven’t been seeing well at all. I mean, I know I’m old, but I’m not that old, am I?” For some reason, I pictured him reaching out and touching her hand with the “old” line. It could have been my imagination, but I don’t think so. She giggled like a schoolgirl. “Oh, no. You’re just a young thing still,” she said. I wondered if he’d removed his hand yet. I hadn’t gotten a look at him, but the tone of his voice—including its teasing quality—touched strings of childhood memory, pressing the minor chord lightly until faint recognition registered in my mind. “A haze is clouding my sight,” he said. “I’m hoping the doctor can see me.” “Maybe she can work you in,” she said. “I’ll pull your chart. What’s your name?” And then he said his name out loud, in front of God and everybody. I froze in place. If lightning struck, I wouldn’t want to be any closer. But nothing happened. No one reacted to the proclamation of his name at all, as if none of them read the newspapers, as if they didn’t remember—like I did—when this man was a Catholic priest. Not just any former priest. One I’d idolized in my girlhood, even had a crush on. One who’d spent years, unbeknownst to us foolish girls, abusing young boys—a close relative of mine among them. One who’s somehow managed to evade punishment, although the families of forty boys have come forward. One who’s lost his vision. Another clerk approached me then, carrying the new glasses I’d ordered. She opened them and handed them to me. I replaced my old ones with the new. I thought of the boy-turned-man in my famlly, who’s dead now along with so many of the abused. Men lost to cancer, and HIV, and fiery car crashes, and suicide—so many dead at such young ages. I turned around then, just for a second, to be certain about the man’s identity. Maybe it was the lenses or perhaps I struggled momentarily to focus through tears, but his eyes—icy blue, like I remembered—appeared to be coated with a long winter night’s frost. My perspective had been altered, too. At a distance of several feet, he seemed so much smaller than he should have, a miniature version of the man I’d revered. I stood and took several steps his direction toward the exit. As I closed the gap between us, his stature filled my field of vision. But when I passed him, crossed the threshold, and looked once more over my shoulder, he’d shrunk again. I wore my new glasses home, but they’re going to take some getting used to, I’m afraid. I think I’ll hold on to my old ones a while longer. Posted by Katy on 05/26/07 Permalink Ginormous Fallible Milestone! (#1095) Guess what? That last blog entry of mine was officially Number 1000! Gee, if I was the 1000th person to walk through the doors of a store at their Grand Opening, I’d win a prize or something, wouldn’t I? I mean, doesn’t someone pass out free hotdogs for fallible milestones like this??? Oh, wait. I’ve already covered hotdogs. Or, I should say, hotdogs have already covered me. Maybe a free latte, or better yet, an iced Americano? Yeah, that’s the ticket. 1000 posts is fun, but here’s the best part for me: You people have left more than 5630 fallible comments! Leave me another one today, if you’re in the mood. And here’s what I’d like to know: What keeps you coming back here anyway? And if you’ve never introduced yourself, please do! I appreciate you all more than 1000 measly posts could ever say. Posted by Katy on 05/23/07 Permalink It’s Gonna Be Worth It (#1094) We purchased a Dodge Caravan in 1988. Dang, I loved that thing. The kids were little then, and we practically lived in the car. In fact, we hadn’t owned it a week before we took a bloomin’ road trip to Williamsburg, Virginia. Twenty-six hours each way. What were we thinking? Doug and I made up a little poem to inspire the children to take good care of the car when it was new. “If your feet are on the seat, your buns will feel the heat.” You can probably guess that if we didn’t allow feet on the upholstery, neither did we allow food or drink in the van. You’re right. Years passed before as much as a bottle of water found its way into that vehicle. These days, I haul Mom around in my four-year-old Saturn wagon. All our cars are paid for and highly valued because of it. None will be replaced anytime soon, as our dollars have been otherwise allocated. :) So WHY do I allow my mother to eat extra-long Coney hotdogs with mustard, onions, mustard, pickles, mustard, cheese, chili and mustard in my CAR? I wish I knew. I took her to the doctor today, who said he’d sure seen her look worse. He even said she could wait six whole months before returning for the next routine visit. That must me some kind of a Mama Record. Before Nurse Mary could pop the tourniquet off her arm, Mom said, “Where are we going for lunch?” “Mom, it’s 10:30. You just ate breakfast…” “Are you kidding me? That was two hours ago! I want Sonic!” I knew what was coming, believe me. It’s just that I hoped she’d keep the whole mess bagged up until I got her back to her apartment, safely ensconced on her couch with it all laid out on the coffee table before her. But NO! Before I could fork over the carhop’s tip, Mom had ripped into the bag and exposed the flimsy pasteboard cradle containing the object of her desire. Honestly, I couldn’t even tell if a hotdog lay buried beneath all those accoutrements or not. Mom assured me one did. “This is fantastic,” she said, before she’d snarfed down the first bite. “But there’s no fork, and you can’t possibly pick it up,” I whined. “And I’ve never seen so much mustard in my LIFE.” “I know,” she purred. “It’s luscious.” Now, watching Mom eat is a study in itself, even if the item being consumed is relatively neat. Because of her permanently broken humerus, she really only has the reliable use of her right hand, so the left serves no purpose beyond the voracious ripping of wrappings. My hope that Mom could wait until I got her out of my car? A vain hope, indeed. My lifelong dream of driving a mustard-colored Saturn has come true, though. If you could have witnessed what occurred over the next ten minutes as she inhaled her Coney, you would have died laughing. I could barely restrain her from diving in before I got a glove compartment-load of napkins spread out over her ample frontside, from neck to knees. But did it matter? Not one whit. She exclaimed in ecstasy while I removed clumps of relish from her pink and blue flowered t-shirt. Great globs of mustard found their way into the tiny crevices on her belly’s napkin overlay and spread like a growing jaundice on her pants. Chili dripped through her fingers, encrusting her silver claddagh ring like rust. The impotent napkins quickly lost their meaning, and I found myself using my bare hand to catch the droppings as she raised the behemoth again and again to her mouth. At one point, I cautioned her that she was ingesting grease-soaked, stuck-on pieces of napkin, but she insisted they tasted like onion to her. “I love this place. That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” “Mom, I’ve raised three kids to adulthood, and I’ve never had to clean up a bigger mess than you just made.” “It was worth it, though, wasn’t it?” Maybe not quite yet. I mean, gee Mom, the mustard hasn’t even dried. But I know this with my whole heart: Someday, it’s gonna be worth it all. Posted by Katy on 05/21/07 Permalink Nothing But Time (#1093) Because Mom’s been in the ER twice in the past three weeks, her primary doc’s nurse gave me a little call. His office got the reports from the hospital, and she realized it had been a while since Mom had been in for a check-up. You know how it is: Everybody wants a piece of the action. I told Nurse Mary that I’d have to call Mom to see when she was available. “She got furious with me once when I made an appointment on her behalf and then let her know afterwards. She says she has to check her calendar. I’ll call you back after I talk to her.” The ensuing conversation with my mother took thirty full minutes. I could have driven to her place, checked out her calendar, and driven back home in that length of time. “Doctor wants to see you this next week,” I said. “Why?” “Just a follow-up to the ER visits. And it’s been quite a while since you were there.” “I’ll have to look at my calendar.” {Insert ten minutes worth of creaking bed noises, dropping of phone noises, groans, stumbling on carpet noises, more groans, turning of pages noises.} “You know, I have four calendars on my coffee table.” “Yeah, I know. That could be a problem.” “The Savings and Loan sent me one. Then your sister gave me one from her bank. The Channel 41 weatherman passed them out at the Price Chopper. And one of the grandkids gave me one for Christmas.” “Do you write in all of them?” “Pretty much. Now that I’ve stopped giving birthday presents to everyone in the family, though, my calendars aren’t quite as full.” I’ll say. As the matriarch of a family of nearly forty people, she averaged three birthdays per month. Plus anniversaries, graduations, weddings, and the WAY too complicated month-long project called Christmas. It was too much for her to keep up with. Still, if I tell her I’m picking her up on a certain day at a certain time, she doesn’t write it down. And even if she did write it down, she wouldn’t think to look at it. “Next week will work, then? Just name the time and I’ll pick you up.” “OK, I see here that I’m free in July.” “Well…that’s nice. Turn the calendar back two pages to May.” “Why? What date is this?” “This is May 18.” “OK, I’m on May 8. There’s nothing going on. I can go today.” “This is Friday, May 18. And it’s 3 in the afternoon. Too late to go today. Let’s look at the week of May 21, next week.” “I’m not free again until July.” “What are you doing until then?” “Isn’t Carrie’s wedding at the end of June?” She had this on her mind, as she would have just received her invitation in the mail. “Yes. June 30.” “After that, I’m available. Anytime in July.” All I can say is, thank God it’s not an emergency. Posted by Katy on 05/20/07 Permalink Catering Costs Plummet? (#1092) Besides the stuff going on with The Moms, we’ve got some really fun stuff happening, too. Namely, Kevin graduating from college in June, and moving home the same weekend that Carrie moves into her newlywed apartment. And then, of course, Carrie and Marc’s wedding on June 30! We got the bulk of the invitations sent out before our self-imposed deadline of May 14, the day of the postal rate hike. Not that we saved more than $4 by pushing it, but it DID make a handy little deadline. Since then, Carrie has gotten no less than three phone calls to let her know the invitation contains a TYPO. “I about died until I could get home and check the invitation,” she said. “People are telling me June 13 doesn’t fall on a Saturday…” “June 13? I don’t get it. What happened to good old June 30?” On formal invitations, you write out the words. In letters, rather than numerals. In this case, the words are “Saturday, the thirtieth of June.” Three people SO FAR have looked at the word “thirtieth” and seen “thirteenth.” We may have a much smaller crowd than we planned for! Posted by Katy on 05/16/07 Permalink Page 19 of 84 pages « First < 17 18 19 20 21 > Last »


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

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