more fallible attitude »

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

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

(No Title) (#637)

So. I've been to both the neurologist and the neuro-opthalmologist in the past week. They agree that I have swollen optic nerves, but both characterized the level as "subtle." At this level, my vision is not in danger, but my spine is feeling more threatened with every passing minute. I gave birth to three children (the girl among them a 10 lb. 5 oz. bundle) without benefit of an epidural, out of a belief that women were intended to endure pain in childbirth, and I wanted to experience the blessed events in full measure. Ha! I was scared to death of long, freaky needles being inserted into my spine as much then as I am now. A spinal tap has been nevertheless scheduled for next Monday, a necessary step in the diagnostic morass I now find myself in. The most likely possibility of the things they're looking for is a condition called "pseudotumor cerebri." It's like a brain tumor, symptom-wise, but you've got to admit it sounds fake. What kind of a sadistic namer of new diseases would use the term "pseudo" for something real? With pseudotumor cerebri, you get all of the pain, with none of the perks. All of the coping, none of the casseroles. You get my drift. It's typically a woman's disease, which explains a lot. If I ever get a crack at naming a man's disease, I think I'll call it "Impotent Neurosperm Dysfunction." It'll serve them right.

---

(No Title) (#638)

"I really like the way you wrote 'where the house joins the world,'" Doug says. "Yes, that's the phrase I like, too," I say. "Too bad I have to write 350 words to get one good phrase..." On second thought, it would be even worse to skip the trouble, the frustration, the humiliation of writing the 350 ho-hum words, and end up with no good phrases, ever. So, I keep on writing.

---

(No Title) (#639)

This wasn't a great summer for planting flowers. In fact, the only flowers on our property are perennials--rust and purple irises and an entire side-of-the-house profusion of an unnamed hot pink species. Our elderly neighbor, Maxine, gave us those bulbs eight years ago, straight from her garden, where they were overrunning everything. She blamed her dead mother for the abundance of the unstoppable bloom, since they'd been in her mother's garden first, and couldn't wait to share the old lady with us. At the rate the blossoms multiply, it's not likely the women's memory will ever die now, though they themselves are planted elsewhere. My flower pots from last year's annuals, though, contain cracked soil and little else, save for a few sorry, scraggly brown stems of who knows what? It's been a long time. The pots should have been hidden away, since I had neither the time nor inclination to beautify them this year, but they've sat out all season, one now weirdly wedged between two shrubs, another sitting barren on the lonely ledge of the porch, one in the middle of the patio table, a centerpiece that never was. One vessel, though, at the corner of the front steps, where the house joins the world, was blown over in some forgotten contest of wind and rain, and all its worthless contents spilled out in the dirt. The container lies on its side, abandoned, spent. Next to it, annuals bloom. Not this year's annuals, but last. Red, pink, purple, orange, crazy with life, unplanted, watered by accident, flowers that were completely dead a year ago, but in whose seed a spark remained. I look at them, and understand, and keep on writing.

---

(No Title) (#640)

"I haven't dreamed of your dad more than three times in the eighteen years since he died," my mother says. "And I never dream of my parents. I wish I could dream of all of them more often..." Wow, Mom. I dream of Dad at least once every two weeks, and of my grandparents (who died in the 1970s) once a month. And, for good measure, Mom herself has a feature role every week. No one can accuse me of not staying in touch.

---

(No Title) (#641)

All I did was innocently mention my dearly departed dad in this space at September's beginning, and I've dreamed of him every night since. Last night, he was giving me the royal silent treatment (as opposed to the regular silent treatment, because he's British). It seems he was a little peeved with me because he feels I've been neglecting him lately. I can't win.

---

(No Title) (#642)

Things I've Said That I Hope Other People Will Wish They'd Said: One of Several in a Series "You'll never make up for with speed what you lack in direction."

---

(No Title) (#643)

From the archives of September past: "I can assure you," says the wife of Tom Burnett, one of the passenger heroes on the hijacked plane that crashed in Pennsylvania, "that he was not calling me to whisper sweet nothings, or to reflect on his life..." What could be more extravagant than imagining that you, in the hour of your death, will be afforded the luxury of time standing still, so that you might have a few moments to reflect upon your life? Reflect today, tonight, this hour. Repent if God is calling you to repentance, and then rejoice when your heart is right with Him. But don't delay. Who knows what might be asked of you in that hour, the hour of your death? Who knows whether courage might override reason and whether you, instead of fleeing to save your own life, might rush headlong toward eternity to save another's? Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your heart. Because tomorrow, there may be no time left to reflect.

---

(No Title) (#644)

My sister Liz organized a surprise 50th birthday bash for Doug Saturday night. (Happy Birthday, babe!) My mom sat across and down the long table from me. I caught bits and pieces of the conversation. Apparently, Liz had mentioned Mom and Dad's happy marriage, which lasted 33 years, till death did they part. "We had some good years," Mom said. "How many?" Liz asked. "Oh, ten," Mom answered. "Which ones?" "Well," Mom said, exasperrated. "They were SCATTERED!" If you could buy that kind of honesty from Wall Street cheerleaders, we wouldn't be broke today.

---

(No Title) (#645)

The girl who just checked me out at Barnes and Noble could have been my twin. Same dark hair with an auburn tint, same sprinkling of freckles, same intense blue eyes. OK, she was thirty years younger and six inches taller. Oh, yeah, and a couple of sizes skinnier. But still. I glanced at her nametag so I could thank her by name, already suspecting what I would find there. "Your first name is McKenna?" I asked. She nodded, eyes twinkling. "That's my maiden name," I said. She nodded, as if she'd known before I said anything. "I hope you've enjoyed the name as much as I have," I said. "I love it," she answered. I couldn't stop myself. I was on a roll, and we both knew it wasn't over yet. "What's your middle name?" By now, my voice was doing a little jig. "Rose." "Mine, too," I said. "And I knew just by looking at you, yours was the same." So I signed my credit slip "Kathleen Rose McKenna Raymond," picked up my new copy of "How the Irish Saved Civilization," and went on my merry way. I love it when that happens.

---

(No Title) (#646)

80% of Kindergartners knew the answer to this riddle. Only 17% of Stanford University seniors guessed correctly. Out of the mouths of babes... "What is greater than God, more evil than the devil, poor people have it, rich people need it, and if you eat it, you'll die?"

---

(No Title) (#647)

I am on a kick of collecting neurologists, and I always hesitate to consult with a new one, and always for the same reason. I'm afraid if they examine my head, they'll know what I'm thinking, kind of like a psychiatrist who also tests your reflexes. Next week I'll visit my umpteenth neurologist on Friday, and a neuro-opthamologist on Wednesday, just for good measure. Should be like killing one bird with two stones. If I'm lucky. Soon, I'll get it through my thick skull that the only way they'll know my feelings and fears and foibles is if I tell them. And the only way that's gonna' happen is if one of them manages to put me under some kind of anesthesia where I blab everything... Oh, phooey. I'll let you know what they find out.

---

(No Title) (#648)

Of all the months, September--in my family--is the one with the most birthdays. I think we're up to eight now, double the runner-up month's tally. Is this just my family, or does it hold true for Kansas City in general? The dead of winter is terribly cold here. It never fails that on September 1, when most people are doing the Labor Day weekend thing, or buying backpacks and shoes for the beginning of school, or examining the neighborhood maple trees for the first tinge of change, I am thinking of my father. He was my very first September birthday, followed by a brother and husband and sister-in-law and many nieces and nephews. He was my first September birthday to die, too. Every day on the calendar surrounding his day is now filled with other celebrations, as if they were all born in September to give him one huge family hug. I thought of him this morning when a mood came upon me to tease my lovely daughter with a few of his words. She'd never heard these words before, and I don't think I've heard his voice parroting them in my head for over fifteen years. "Cheer up!" I said, in my imitation of my father's most fake cheerful voice. "Things could be worse." She looked at me, doubtful. Then, the voice changes into a morose, monotone one for the punchline. I delivered it as I remember it. "So I cheered up, and sure enough, things got worse." First she smiled, then we laughed. And I thought, So this is September.

---

(No Title) (#649)

OK, this is, like, the third day in a row that I've been free to write. And that I've actually written. And to that end, I've made distinguishable (if not distinguished) progress on my novel. This can't be happening. When you structure your life in such a way that you're the number one call when old folks push their "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!" buttons, you stop expecting to get much else done. And when all your buddies know that you "work at home," they soon forget about the "work" part--and so do you. So, sure, I work at home, but I do lunch at the Cheesecake Factory, if there's any way in heaven I can. A girl's got to eat. But now I'm getting frantic. Three days running--what could it mean? Something's definitely not right. Any hour now, any second, horrible symptoms will set in, because that's what they do. I depend on vague but absolutely life-threatening illnesses to distract (if not outright kill) me on a daily basis. Otherwise, I will have to sit here and admit, against all logic, sound judgment, and previous experience, that my book might be coming together, after all. The prospect frightens me so much I pick up the phone to avoid it. There's a spinal tap I've been meaning to schedule.

---

(No Title) (#650)

The fear of the unknown is a terrible thing. It often drives me to commit to some ridiculous course of action, such as accepting a real job, which guarantees my future unhappiness even as it provides some modicum of "security." When I'm fearing the unknown, I tend to equate "security" with "purpose." It always proves to be a dreadful mistake, and I feel myself edging closer to committing it again by the minute. Invariably, when I'm on the vocational brink of finally doing that which I am made to do, my husband and I enter into a financial quagmire, the depths of which are likely to be plumbed in full measure unless I go land a depressing job with extraordinary benefits. The temptation to "go therefore and do likewise" is upon me again, more convincingly this time than it has been at any time in the past twenty years. I am helpless to resist. But, wait. I am a better woman than I was the last time I gave in to this deception. I am stronger, more resolute and (dare I say it?) more sanctified. I understand now that there is no temptation so great that God will not also, with it, provide the way of escape. And so I will endure, steadfast, until the way of escape is made known. Suddenly, filling out an app at the new Walmart down the road just lost its luster.

---

(No Title) (#651)

Saturday, a couple of sibs and I met Scott and his cousin Josie at my mom's house, to make one last sweep through her belongings. A couple of truckloads ended up going to Goodwill, but even at this late stage of the game, we still unearthed some treasures. I found a music box I'd never seen before, wound it and held it up to my ear as the others watched. "It's beautiful," I proclaimed, "but it's broken." One of them snatched it out of my hand and they all burst out laughing. Being stone deaf in one ear has its drawbacks.

---

copyright 2011, ngenius media inc.