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The Evolution Of The Rejection Letter (#1194)

I admit it. I am one of those sorry schmucks who’s kept every single rejection letter I’ve ever received.

I’ve got some that date so far back, you might not have been technically born then. At first, when I’d write some humor essay extolling the advent of cordless can openers, I’d shoot for the moon as far as possible publishers went. I mean, if Good Housekeeping published columns by Erma Bombeck, they’d certainly want my piece, right?

For my chutzpah, I received a mimeographed form rejection on a 8"x2” slip of paper, which looked like it had been cut to size with a pair of crummy scissors. I believe it was signed by someone called “The Staff,” which made me fear the paper might be infected with some type of germ. But I filed it away just the same.

After a while, the rejections started coming on entire half-sheets of paper. I sensed I was making serious inroads into the world of publication. The purple ink of the mimeograph machine still ruled, but on occasion, the signature of an actual editorial assistant appeared at the bottom. Once, under one of these signatures, I made out the words, “Try us again with something else.”

In the universe of newspaper and magazine writing, it honestly didn’t take long before I figured out to start local and small. I started racking up some nice acceptances from first the Kansas City Star, then several other newspapers, and finally some regional and national magazines.

Then one day seven or eight years ago, I decided on a whim to take a novel writing class at a local college. My friend, author Nancy Moser, was teaching it, and I felt confident my article and essay writing skills would translate smoothly into novel writing finesse.

After two aborted attempts at stories I’ll never pull out of the cabinet again (one was a NaNoWriMo 50,000 word monstrosity), I started the book I’ve been working on for several years. Unless I’m mistaken, I’ve written 8-10 complete versions of this manuscript, but what I’ve learned about craft with each new version is staggering.

Some of you may remember that I entered it in a contest in early 2004, in which I finaled. I shudder to think about the manuscript I entered, since it was—I now realize—nothing more than a seriously flawed first draft.

Since then, I’ve gotten paid critiques at conferences, pitching sessions face-to-face with editors and agents, submitted a piece of it to a panel of editors who ripped it up in front of an audience, entered a few chapters at a time in several contests, and had input from trusted friends and fellow writers. I’ve also emailed my proposal and three chapters to several editors and agents, garnering ever more valuable rejection letters every step of the way.

If you think I’m kidding about the value of a rejection letter, you haven’t seen the comps. When you’ve got ones from the old purple-ink days signed by The Staff, believe me, you’re grateful for the professionals who offer a kind word of advice for improving your submission.

These days, I get the best rejections in the world. My idea of a great rejection is an email from the editor in which the word “However” does not appear until at least the beginning of the third sentence. That means the first two sentences will likely say something encouraging (or at least not depressing) about my submission, which is a very kind thing for the editor to do before she uses the H word.

I’ve grown used to scanning the first few lines until the H pops off the screen. I turn to Doug and say, “Well, phooey. I just got rejected by so-and-so.” And he’ll say, “Did you read the whole thing?” And I’ll say, “Not yet. But I saw the H.”

By the way, a perfectly acceptable alternative to the H is the U. Which stands, of course, for Unfortunately.

If you’re hoping to get published like I am, don’t despair. Even though mimeographed slips are a relic from days gone by, you, too, will likely find your rejection letters evolving from “No, thanks. Not for us,” to something downright positive, right up until you get to the H word.

I’m sure another type of letter is out there, people. One without the H word anywhere in it at all.

I hope to soon let you know how it feels to get a letter like that.

Posted by Katy on 02/04/08
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Quotes To Live By (#1193)

It’s February 1, and I’m still accumulating some inspirational quotes by which to live my year. I’ll share a few of my favorites here:

“Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but not their own facts.” Daniel Patrick Moynihan

“Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy which sustained him through brief periods of joy.” Yeats

“I don’t have much time left. Please don’t try to suck it out of me.” Anon

“Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.” Winston Churchill

“The chief cause of failure and unhappiness is trading what we want most for what we want at the moment.” Anon

“What you want is practice, practice, practice. It doesn’t matter what we write (at least this is my view) at our age, as long as we write continually as well as we can. I feel that every time I write a page either of prose or of verse, with real effort, even if it’s thrown into the fire the next minute, I am so much further on.” C.S. Lewis

“Fate finds persistence irresistable.” Unknown

“The best advice on writing I’ve ever received: Finish.” Peter Mayle

“A hunch is creativity trying to tell you something.” Frank Capra

“Everything comes to those who hustle while they wait.” Thomas Edison

“Few people do what they want to do in life. Be one of them.” Andy Broer

“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left and could say ‘I used everything You gave me.’” Erma Bombeck

“I spend half my time doing my stuff. I spend the other half of my time making sure I’m not doing your stuff.” Anon

“When you have got a thing where you want it, it is a good thing to leave it where it is.” Winston Churchill

And finally, just to see if you’re still tracking with me:

“You’ll never make up for with speed what you lack in direction.” Katy McKenna Raymond

And this:

“How about something from the cheese family?” Doug Raymond

Any great inspirational (or just funny) quotes you’d like to share? All contributions most welcome!!

Posted by Katy on 02/01/08
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Not Getting A Tax Rebate Check? Ask The Expert (#1192)

A number of fallible readers have submitted questions to me about the new tax rebate plan which, along with almost every political candidate in the universe, promises to put “money in your pocket.” It behooves me to respond in this space.

Alicia from Arkansas writes: “Dear Katy, My mom and dad would be divorced by now if they’d ever gotten married. If they were divorced, everything would be cool. Only one of them could claim me on their taxes and then I’d know for sure that I’d be getting my chunk of change. (I am 12 and have my eye on a wii.) As it is, I don’t know which one to play, Mom or Pop, since I have no idea who will end up getting my piece of the American pie. What do you think?”

Dear Alicia, As always, play both parents to the hilt. Now more than ever, in this precarious economic environment, you need to protect your own interests (read:wii) by pitting them against each other while making each of them think your loyalties are unwavering. I predict before summer you’ll have your wii. Congratulations! With strategic skills like yours, you obviously have a bright future ahead of you.

Sam from San Diego writes: “Katy. It’s like this. I make a lot of money, see? And I’m an American citizen, too. OK, so most of my income goes unreported, but I DO have a valid social security number. The thing is, I stopped believing in the constituionality of the income tax when I started making a lot of money. You might say I’m a conscientious objector. Yeah. That’s it. I sure would like to get my hands on one of those checks, though. What can be done for me?”

Dear Sam, It’s more a question of what can be done TO you, but all is not lost. If you can find it within your obviously well-honed conscience to claim a mere $3000 worth of your enormous income on your taxes, you will receive the highest possible rebate. It might not be enough to pay a lawyer when the IRS gets ahold of you, though. Weigh your options carefully. That’s what freedom is all about!

Betty from Buffalo writes: “Katy, I never thought I’d be writing to you. I have been a lurker until now, but I have to speak up. I am 77 years old, and my only income is Social Security, or as that cutie Al Gore calls it, ‘So-security.’ However, I have three of my low-life middle-aged sons sharing my efficiency apartment and they make money hand over fist. Can I claim them as dependents?”

Dear Betty, Isn’t motherhood the best? Under the current save-the-economy plan, stay-at-home moms are not penalized for having no income. God and Uncle Sam (not to be confused with the aforementioned Sam) gave you children for a reason! Claim those kids, Betty, and pocket a cool $900 for your trouble. Gotta love that revolving door, eh?

Jose from Houston writes: “Dear Katy, Just so you know, I would gladly be a legal immigrant if I weren’t already an illegal. I send all of my wages back to my wife in Mexico. Cash money, baby, sealed with a kiss. So far, this has worked fine, but now my “wife” in Houston is kicking up a stink. It’s just that in 2007, she earned no income due to a temporary disability. She’ll go back to work for us in 2008, no problem-o, but how is it fair that we won’t be getting a tax rebate?”

Dear Jose, It’s not fair. Unfortunately, there will be those solid, dependable wage-earners like yourself who still somehow manage to fall through the cracks of this patched-together stimulus program. If you’d had the foresight to obtain an invalid Social Security card and to be paid in a form other than “cash money, baby,” in an amount equalling at least $3000 for the year 2007, you still could have sent most of your dollars to Mexico. However, in that scenario you and your Houston “wife” would have had an additional $1200 to help speed her recovery with a nice vacation. Remember, Jose, planning is everything!

Candy in Kansas City writes: “Dear Katy, I am single (widowed, actually) filing jointly. You read that right. Gerard died 17 years ago, but somehow the corporation he worked for failed to get the message. Anyway, I’ve been depositing his pay-checks (complete with annual cost-of-living and merit raises) every two weeks since his untimely demise. Now I’ve got a real mess on my hands. Gerard’s pay has escalated WAY beyond the allowable amount for tax-rebate purposes. I have no earned income of my own, and there’s a Kate Spade purse out there with my name on it. What should I do?”

Dear Candy, You are in luck! See that box on your 1040 called “Married, Filing Separately”? Check that puppy. Now all you have to do is come up with a spare W2 form from McDonald’s or somewhere (surely you have a little friend who can assist with this project…), fill in your “income,” and you’re home free. Please do accept my belated condolences regarding your husband.

If you have a question about the chances of a rebate ending up in your mailbox, don’t hesitate to comment here. I especially enjoy helping those of you who, for whatever reason, feel that it’s JUST NOT FAIR. Any of it! I feel your pain.

Posted by Katy on 01/26/08
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Hello Mother, Hello Fodder (#1191)

Due to an online class I’ve been taking this month (“Defeating Your Self-Defeating Behaviors” by Margie Lawson, a practicing psychologist who works with a lot of writers), I’ve largely given up my chronic negativity.

What? You didn’t realize, after reading umpteen entries here at fallible, that I’m not exactly Pollyanna? Awww….that’s sweet. But I don’t believe you! Not for a minute! ;)

Anyway, in spite of all the brilliant techniques I’ve learned from Margie, and in spite of the many ways my life has changed for the better in the past three weeks, I gotta be honest with you. Some aspects of 2008 are turning out to be a piece of work.

So far during January, Doug and I have spent two entire nights in the ER with Mom. I’m the type of girl who—like Glen Campbell who kept his sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind her couch—always has a duffle packed. I’m sorry, but with mothers like ours, a chick would be nuts not to have an overnighter stuffed with reading material, a crochet project, spare change, phone numbers, the old gals’ insurance information, a list of current meds and conditions, and power-of-attorney papers.

And clean panties. Don’t forget those! Not to mention a toothbrush, deoderant, snacks, and room to pop the laptop in at the last minute. I may not travel light, but trust me, I travel often.

Besides the two ER soirees, Mom has managed to fall twice since Christmas. Amazingly, she did not hurt herself either time. But I’ve had to line up some PT visits for her, since she apparently has misplaced the skills required to either sit from a standing position or to stand from a sitting position. Maybe some brush-up lessons will help—we can only hope. (See? I’m a bloomin’ optimist—really!!)

In the meantime, she’s been having precipitous spikes in blood pressure. The last ER doc prescribed Clonidine for her facility to have on hand when it happens, which it did yesterday morning.

She called me a few minutes ago, quite frantic. “I need to telll you what’s going on here,” she said.

I just saw her Wednesday afternoon and nothing much seemed to be happening then. “OK,” I said.

Her voice shook and she spoke in something of a tremulous whisper, as if she imagined her room was bugged. “They took my blood pressure yesterday morning and it was so high, they told me to stay in bed for the rest of the day.”

“Hmmmm….” I said, thinking if it were THAT bad, they would have called me.

“Then today it was high again, so I’ve been in bed for two whole days….they called my doctor at 6 yesterday morning, and he still hasn’t returned their call. I am so nervous, I won’t get out of bed until he calls…..”

“I hate to point this out, Mom, but you don’t get out of bed anyway.”

She sounded insulted. “Well, that’s another story.”

I told her I would call the nurse’s station and try to get to the bottom of things. I did and then called her back.

“The nurse says that Liz is on her way there to take you out to dinner.”

“Yes. Even if I don’t eat, I’m going to go out.”

“Mom, why wouldn’t you eat, if she’s taking you out to eat?”

“It has to be the right time.”

“But it is the right time.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, the nurse is here to take my blood pressure again.”

“Do you need to get off the phone?”

Because Mom has a permanently broken humerus, they can only take her BP on her good arm, which is also the only side she can use to talk on the phone.

“The nurse says I can switch the phone to the other side.”

Dear Lord, are the staff members even AWAKE at this joint? Her arm has been broken for 2.5 years and counting.

“Mom, I don’t think that will work with your broken arm…”

And then this, spoken with utter incredulity: “I don’t have a broken arm.”

Who says I’m not a positive person? I’m positive she’s driving me bonkers.

Posted by Katy on 01/25/08
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You Asked For It, You Got It (#1190)

Quite a while back, several of you agreed that you’d like to read the story of Katy’s Most Embarrassing Moment. One reader, Mary Anne (whom I’ve known since earliest childhood…), felt certain that the moment involved St. Joseph’s Hospital, circa a really long time ago.

Bingo! We have a winner! I’m not sure Mary Anne was specific enough in her guess, however, as I have actually endured COUNTLESS embarassing moments at or approaching the premises of St. Joseph’s Hospital, including but not limited to the time my doctor asked if he could invite a roomful of medical students to observe while he examined me.

Not being completely in my right mind (like THAT surprises you!), I said yes, amiable sort that I am. Back in the day, medical students were almost exclusively men. In this case, they were all men. About 17 of them, if I remember right. Why I imagined Dr. Barnett was just going to demonstrate to the fellows how to use a blood pressure cuff, I have no idea.

Before they finally exited my room, I knew the full meaning of “semi-private.” Those guys had seen things my husband had only imagined. But I digress.

My very most embarrassing moment occurred when I was, as Billy Crystal would say, only mostly dead.

During my twenties, I had…episodes. Honestly, a diagnosis of my condition was never arrived at, and remains a mystery to this day. I would, for no apparent reason, have a sudden onset of terrible diarrhea and throwing up. A red rash covered my body, my lips turned white, and my extremities turned blue, making quite a fashion statement as they matched my eyes. Then my eyes rolled back in my head and closed as I fainted dead away, making the stunning color coordination much less impressive.

I guess I had a seizure disorder of some kind, I don’t know. Doug witnessed me having these attacks, and they involved foaming at the mouth, rigidity, and sometimes an apparent absence of breathing, which freaked him out a little.

Anyway, this one night it all came down while I was checking groceries at Thriftway. I’d left two crying babies at home, which had me a bit stressed out, and then I’d gotten chewed out by the manager for taking a customer’s bad check. I started feeling iffy and asked the girl at the next counter if the lights were dimming.

“Um…no,” she said.

“I’ve got to run to the back,” I said, leaving a line of customers behind. I recognized the numbness in my hands and feet as the definitive sign that, for me, something good was NOT about to happen.

I hung out in the bathroom for a while, but then came to my senses enough to realize I had to call Doug to come get me. After I used the pay phone to call home, things got dicey fast. He packed up the children and brought them to the grocery store (they’d already been put to bed), where (fortunately) he saw a friend of ours and handed the kids over.

By the time he found me in the bathroom, I had probably passed out and come to several times. I would regain consciousness just long enough to…um…use the facilites and then lose it again.

He tried to get me up and walking, thinking maybe he could get me home, but even at 117 pounds, my dead weight was too much for him. So he used that pay phone to call an ambulance.

I had one, and I mean ONLY ONE, lucid moment before the ambulance arrived. During that moment, I realized that while I’d been passed out, I had made a terrible mess of my underwear.

“Doug,” I said, with the last ounce of decorum I possessed, “you’ve got to help me. Get these jeans off of me, throw away my underwear, and get the jeans back on me.”

No sooner did the words leave my mouth, than I passed out again. My dear husband, though, did my bidding. Of course, I had no memory of it the next time I rallied for thirty seconds. The paramedics arrived and laid me out like a corpse on the cold concrete floor of the back room. They cut through my (cute) shirt, which had perfectly operable buttons, and my (new) bra, the likes of which I wouldn’t be able to afford for another year. I mean, how often does a broke chick come by ninety-eight cents?

One of them attached electrodes to my chest while the others kept taking turns trying to get a blood pressure reading. They decided their equipment must be faulty, since I had no discernable blood pressure, and how could THAT be?? Just in case it was me and not the equipment, though, they kept exchanging dire looks like they were worried they had a catastrophe on their hands.

Did you know a chick can talk with no blood pressure? No discernable blood pressure for THREE HOURS?

As a dreadful case of hypothermia (whether from the concrete floor or my own near-death condition, I don’t know. Only God knows…) set in, the paramedics continued to hack away at my remaining clothing. The one called Fiona (yes, I remember her name…) unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans so they could do…whatever.

And that’s when Chatty Katy kicked back in with the line that will haunt my floozy self for the rest of my days.

“Good thing I remembered to wear clean underwear.”

People!! I had totally forgotten that Doug had removed my ruined underwear! And I’m pretty sure, when I made the classic underwear crack that EVERYONE makes when they end up in an ambulance, I WINKED at a couple paramedics!!! (And I ain’t talkin’ Fiona.)

It wasn’t until several days into my two-week hospital stay, when my sisters brought me a gift of a new bra and matching panties, that I regained any cognizance of these events.

“I remember they cut off my bra,” I said, “but why are you bringing me panties?”

“Don’t you remember telling the paramedics that it was a good thing you wore clean panties?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, you told us Doug had taken them off…”

The moral of this story, dear readers, is to NOT DO THE STUFF I’VE DONE! And when in any doubt about the location and condition of your panties, just play dead.

Posted by Katy on 01/24/08
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Out Of The Mouths Of Wives (#1189)

We recently moved our retirement account from an online brokerage firm to a company with local advisors. I guess we figured we needed a bit more guidance than, well…none.

Since hooking up with this new company, though—and through no fault of our advisor’s, by the way—the market has taken a precipitous drop. Our balances have done likewise.

So today, we ran in to our investment advisor and his wife at the post office.

“Hey, it’s you,” I said, in as light a tone as I could manage. Even If I am somewhat disenchanted with our fledgling relationship, I wouldn’t want him to think I was about to go postal on him. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about our money…”

I thought maybe he’d spout a bit of timeworn advice like “This looks like a great buying opportunity…” or maybe “We’re going to need to keep a long-term perspective.”

But no, his lips were sealed. Instead his wife spoke up with the most funny money line I’ve heard in a long time.

“Hope you’ve got a lot of it!”

Posted by Katy on 01/16/08
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Books, Glorious Books! (#1188)

The delightful Mary DeMuth, herself the author of both fiction and non-fiction of the life-changing variety, has tagged me to play along with a book meme, and I cannot resist.

1. One book that changed your life.

“Dr. Atkins’ Diet Revolution.” (Hey, the meme didn’t specifiy we had to choose fiction titles!) It’s been eight years since I ate any sugar, and my life has changed completely. For the better. And the skinnier, too!

2. One book that you have read more than once.

“Trinity” by Leon Uris. An epic about the Irish struggles over many years, heavily based in fact. Fantastic storyteller, Uris. I remember my father reading this in the ‘70s, and now I own two copies of it. Who knows but what I might wear one out and need another? :)

3. One book you would want on a desert island.

My French Bible. It’s perfect for wiling the hours away, languishing over a solitary phrase and mining it for meaning, or even an approximation of an accurate translation! Also, “My Utmost for His Highest,” by Oswald Chambers, or any excellent daily reading/devotional. While I’m not a fan of devotionals per se, if they are theologically sound and spiritually challenging, I love them. Plus, on that desert island, they sure would help me keep track of how many days had passed since I’d gotten stuck with only Wilson to talk to.

4. Two books that made you laugh.

I am a lifelong fan of anything by Erma Bombeck. And Dave Barry. As some of you will remember, I met Dave and had our affectionate encounter photographed. It was truly a highlight of my life. Maybe that doesn’t say too much for my life, but after that, I could honestly die happy.

5. One book that made you cry.

“My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult. A story replete with complicated and fascinating family dynamics and an ending to die for. Literally.

6. One book you wish you’d written.

“What To Expect When You’re Expecting” or any of its subsequent incarnations. Can you say Cash Cow? If anyone has any fantastic ideas I could develop that would set me up for life, let me know!

7. One book you wish had never been written.

I remember starting Jonathan Franzen’s “The Corrections” and just having an eeeeky feeling while reading it. I thrive on dysfunction as much as the next chick, but enough is enough. Could not get that novel out of my life fast enough.

8. Two books you are currently reading.

“For Better Or For Worse” by my good friend Diann Hunt, and “The Year of Living Biblically” by A.J. Jacobs.

9. One book you’ve been meaning to read.

“A Steadfast Surrender” by my darling buddy Nancy Moser. I have an entire shelf dedicated to her books, all of which she’s signed for me. HOW, I ask you, have I neglected to read this one? Ah, well. These things happen.

How about you? If you post on your own blog, leave a comment here with a link. It’ll be fun to see your answers!!

Posted by Katy on 01/13/08
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An Open Letter To All The Remaining Literary Agents I’ve Not Yet Contacted (#1187)

Dear Literary Agent,

If you think I haven’t read your blog, you’re wrong. I thought I’d clear that up right away. I am so diligent, I’ve even delved into the archives, perusing entries from as long ago as two weeks. I know what you’re looking for in a client even better than you do. In fact, because I am such a devoted student of your career, writings, and personal life, I feel I can say without a doubt that I am your next dream author.

How am I so sure? I am glad you asked!

For one thing, you’ve very clearly expressed your preference for having “good writing” sent your way. I’m betting your definition of good writing is the same as my mom’s, which means I’m in luck. Attached is the only scene I’ve slapped together so far. After you read it (get a move on!) and I’ve agreed to be represented by you, I will gladly crank out the rest of the novel. It could take a while, though. I am currently in communication with many notable agents, and I feel certain you’ll realize that these relationships represent a considerable time commitment on my part.

In addition, submitting a proposal for a book I haven’t gotten around to writing would be a giant waste of my time, as I am sure you will agree.

Second, you have indicated you don’t want to sign any high-maintenance, best-seller wannabes. I can assure you that I’ve never personally obtained a pedicure (photos availble upon request). Also, I can produce yellowed postcards from both my dentist and OB/GYN verifying that I am nine years behind in my supposedly annual (ha!) check-ups. NO WAY am I high-maintenance! If you’ll either call me on my cell or email me within fourteen minutes of receiving this—as you should if you are truly the professional you profess yourself to be—we can discuss this point until I’m satisfied that you understand.

Third, you state that any client you take on must have a platform already in place. Bingo! We have a winner! I have been an active blogger for seven plus years, during which time I have chronicled with sterling clarity my aging mother’s propensity for swearing like a drunken Marine (no worn-out cliches here, baby!) as well as her advancing incontinence. Google my stats and you’ll see I now have six regular readers, half of whom have agreed to be sent free copies of my first book.

Finally, you say you are seeking authors who seem unlikely to end up one-hit wonders. While I’d prefer NOT to promise you the moon until my staggering work of heartbreaking genius reaches the top of the NYT list, I think it’s pretty safe to say there’s PLENTY more wherever that first scene came from.

In conclusion, I am absolutely brimming with potential, just the way you like ‘em.

I look forward to hearing from you soon. Very soon.

Best regards,
Katy McKenna
http://www.fallible.com

Posted by Katy on 01/09/08
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How To Know For Sure That You’re Old (#1186)

All my life I’ve heard people say that you’re only as old as you feel, and honestly, I just don’t get that.

I mean, I hear ancient women proclaiming that hey, they may be 99, but they FEEL 29. I personally didn’t think 29 was anything to brag about. I’ve felt better at many subsequent ages than I did during my twenties, and what’s the big deal about freezing age at 29, anyway? It’s overrated.

My mother-in-law (who, along with my mother, forms the pair affectionately known as The Moms) is about to turn, I think, 87. It doesn’t matter anymore whether I know how old the gal is. SHE believes, and advertises, that she is 63. Why should I think otherwise?

My own mother, a youngster at nearly 78, is quite accurate when asked by the paramedics (which just happened during our last ER run on Thursday night) how old she is. I don’t know, though, whether how old she FEELS might be affected by what year she imagines it to be. What asked THAT question, she came up with an unequivacable “1908.”

(By the way, if I just spelled unequivacable wrong, bear with me. I ain’t getting any younger here.)

I understand the 1908 answer. Really, I do. When you’re born in 1930 and everyone in your family tends to die rather young, I suppose you don’t think you’ll ever be asked a question that requires an answer in the next millenium. Besides, by the time we got to the hospital and the doctor asked her the same question, she succinctly spat out, “2-0-0-8.” So there.

The Moms are aging, that’s for sure. And none too gracefully, if you ask me. But what do I know? I’m just a young whippersnapper, right? You do know that 54 is the new 37, don’t you?

Monday was Doctor Day for Mom. I managed to get her back and forth by myself, but it wasn’t easy. It involves transferring her from a wheelchair to my car (she’s 6” taller and weighs 80 pounds more than I do), hoisting the chair into the back, pushing the chair up steep ramps, leaving her tapping her foot while I run back out to park the car, and then…well, lather, rinse, repeat.

I worked up a bad enough sweat that by the time I got home, I needed another shower. But that’s not the worst part. The worst is that Mom noticed and couldn’t stop mentioning that I talk to myself. A lot.

I don’t do it all the time, but when I’m juggling the Mama, filling out a million forms, praying a kind stranger will appear out of no where and open the door for us, and trying to answer the doctor’s questions about the history of Mom’s urinary tract infections while getting her urinary tract completely confused with my mother-in-law’s, yeah. I talk to myself.

When she heard me say, “Grab Mom’s purse from the back seat,” she brought it up. Later, when I muttered, “OK, Katy, you put her name as the party responible for payment, not yours...” she gave me one of those looks and said, “You’re doing it again.”

On the way home, remembering previous doctor runs, I guess I must have said out loud, “She probably wants a chili cheese dog with extra onions from Sonic…” because Mom blurted out, “You’re getting old!”

Like boomers everywhere, I can congratulate myself on my perennial youth all I want. Apparently, I’m still with-it enough to know when I’m busted.

Posted by Katy on 01/09/08
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Following In His Path (#1185)

So yesterday I didn’t exactly ask the Lord for a word for the year 2008. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not overly brave and I am subject to both flights of fancy and great leaps of misinterpretation.

But I did go ahead and choose a word that I thought might help me focus on the little (and big) ways God is involved in my life on a daily basis. I mean, I don’t want to miss Him in action, when I’m certain that He’s here with me every day, directing my paths according to His purposes for me.

The word I’ve chosen is Serendipity. I prayed and told the Lord that I wanted to see every event, every chance meeting with another person, and even every difficult circumstance as if He were right there with me in the middle of it—because, of course, He is. All I need to do is keep my eyes open and pay attention.

Right before Christmas, I did something awfully impulsive. I signed up for a full-time semester at a local university, as a psych major. Classes were scheduled to start tonight, and would have been intensive and compressed into 8-week sessions, rather than the typical 16-weeks. In fact, before the first session, I would have needed to read a couple hundred pages of text and to have written four 1000-word essays.

I realized I’d bitten off more than I could chew, and that I’d probably done it in reaction to my current frustration trying to break into publishing fiction. By Christmas I’d decided to drop the classes, but the business office wasn’t open until today.

Doug went with me because, man, those books were heavy! Plus, to drop classes and return my books I had to visit three different far-flung buildings, walking in the freakish cold on icy sidewalks.

Some people don’t look down when they walk, and they say to develop optimum balance it’s better to look straight ahead. But that’s the thing: My balance was negatively affected when I had brain surgery eight years ago and has never been the same since. Yeah, yeah. I know the balance nerve on one side of your head will theoretically compensate for the severed nerve on the other side, but I’m just sayin’, theories don’t always pan out.

So we’re walking along, our collective teeth chattering in time to our shoes crunching the ice, when I—the one who’s looking down—say, “What IS all this?”

Doug peers at the sidewalk, small stretches of which are cleared, and says, “It looks like…”

“But it CAN’T be,” I say. “There so MUCH of it. How many animals would it take to produce that volume of—”

“Sh….eesh,” he says.

“Um…ya think?” I say. “Why can’t they REMOVE it? It would be bad enough to slip on the ice, but I’d hate to have to sue for slipping on ice-encrusted, um…you know.”

That’s right. Thousands of the…items…were enshrouded in transparent ice, like caterpillars unfortunately never destined to become butterflies.

Doug danced something of an Irish jig in a nearly futile attempt to avoid…stuff. I—who had managed to leave the house in shoes with lots of openings and NO SOCKS—begged God that a combination of my iffy eyesight and my challenged balance would somehow see me through.

That’s when the truth hit me, with as strong a sense of serendipity as I’ve ever known. Going to school full-time right now would be a s——y path for my future. Literally.

Balance is overrated. Looking down while I’m strolling along the path of life? It works for me.

Posted by Katy on 01/02/08
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Some Words I’d Rather Not Hear From The Lord (#1184)

I know quite a number of folks who annually ask the Lord to give them a word (or words) that might act as a point of spiritual focus for them during the New Year.

Maybe I’m just a chicken, but I hesitate to wonder too much what the coming year might hold. And with my generalized anxiety disorder never more than marginally managed, I gotta tell you that some of the words God might possibly utter—should I ever become brave enough to ask—scare the Xanax out of me.

I mean, is the expectation that God is always going to give the recipient a simple and easily understood word? LIke Joy? I don’t think there’s much quibbling to be done on the meaning of Joy, is there? Apart from it being the name of a popular dishwashing liquid, of course, which could ostensibly mean that God wants me to improve my domestic habits starting today. Otherwise, if I got the word Joy from the Lord for 2008, I’d be thrilled.

But what if, instead, He switched it up a bit? What if I asked and received the word Serenity? At first blush, Serenity has some components of Joy, with a generous portion of Peace and Acceptance thrown in. I think I could embrace a word like Serenity, except…oh-oh. If you frequent the same Wal-Mart aisles I do, you’ll recall that Serenity is shelved hip-to-hip with Depends.

What if the Lord gave me the word Serenity and it ended up meaning that my New Year of Dependence had just begun? Doesn’t that qualify as too much information? Honestly, I’d just as soon He surprise me.

I’m not sure if, after the request for a word of direction or theme is made, the answer always comes in the form of a Biblical word or not. But before considering asking for a word myself, I decided to survey the Good Book to see what some of the possible outcomes might be.

I easily encountered dozens of words I hope never to receive as my word of the year, including but not limited to Famine, Peril, Wasting Disease, Drought, Deceit, Desolation and Vermin. And, while this is merely my personal preference, I could also live contentedly for the rest of my natural life without God blessing me with the word Abishag.

It occurs to me that I’m not very good at discerning the exact spelling God may have in mind if He brings a word to the forefront of my consciousness. What if I think I’ve heard the word Sow—as in “Whatever a man sows, this he shall also reap”—and I automatically believe this means I’m to plant a garden even though my thumbs are both obviously purple? I could be starving this time next year when I finally come to the conclusion He might have been saying Sew.

Or perhaps, if He were in an even more ominous mood, Soooo….

I could go on and on with the “o” sounds here, but I’ll spare you most of them. You know the alphabet as well as I do, after all. I will warn you about a couple, just because I feel I owe you as much since you’ve read this far.

The word Dough, when taken as a theme for the year 2008, is particularly problematic. I could take it to mean we’d be making oodles of money, or that I should concentrate on my bread-baking skills. On the other hand, what if it meant we’d go broke and I’d become gluten-intolerant? And then there’s that pesky alternate spelling problem again: Doh!

I wouldn’t be too concerned to adopt the word Whoa!—especially if it meant “Whoa! Slow down and enjoy life…” or, even better, “Whoa, BABY!”

But, trust me, I’d take all the Serenity in the world if only I didn’t end up with Woe.

Posted by Katy on 01/01/08
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The Troubles (#1183)

Last night, Doug and I viewed the longest movie in all of creation.

I love staying home to watch movies. Going to the theater occasionally to see one we just can’t wait to partake of on DVD is fun, but usuallly, we can wait. And so, for the joy set before us—in this case, being propped up in our queen-sized bed in our jammies—we choose home.

The main draw is that we can stop the flick a couple of times for bathroom breaks and to refill the cheese and cracker plate without missing any of the show. Yesterday was my birthday, and there’s nothing better to celebrate an increasingly ominous occasion than snuggle time with a good flick.

So we put in Michael Collins, because for me an ever-refreshed memory regarding the events of the creation of the Free Irish Republic, which began in earnest in 1916, is always a good thing. And then there’s Liam Neeson, whose accent I could listen to from now until kingdom come. And Aidan Quinn’s blue eyes. Need I say more?

I didn’t say more until we’d been watching the film for upwards of 4.73 hours with no end in sight. Then I turned to Doug and said, “How long is this movie? Why can’t the bloody Irish just take down the British flag, raise the Republican flag, and call it a night?”

He picked up the DVD case and said, “It’s two hours, fifteen minutes long. Haven’t we been sitting here for half of what remained of our natural lives?”

So we did the math. One potty break, one beverage break, plus one additional bathroom and cashew break. All told, fifteen minutes worth of time with the remote on hold. What on eath was happening to us? The Irish Republic took less time to be formed, even if you counted the months the instigating rebels like Michael Collins spent behind bars.

And then it hit us. The phone calls. When we’re watching a movie, we tend to let calls go to voicemail, but we listen to our messages almost immediately as they come it, because of The Moms.

If you don’t know what it’s like having Moms Like Ours, well. In one way, I hope you are spared, but in another, I’d be happy to share the wealth. That’s how much I love you people!

My mother-in-law has taken up singing. Into the phone. She’s begun singing the name “Dooougg—-lasssssss,” like a mom calling her grimy kid in at dusk. I can picture her ensconced in her recliner at the facility where she lives, industriously busying herself with her new hobby. If she could sing into her phone without it ending up as a message on our phone, I’d be cool with that. But…no.

Hearing her sing her only son’s name over and over defined the joy we experienced with Call Number Three. Another thing: She said, “It’s Mama….” as if she were identifying herself to a small child who’d forgotten his own mother’s voice. I have known her for 32 years or so, and I’ve never heard anyone call her Mama. Nor has she EVER called herself Mama. Usually she calls herself “Mother.”

Out of pure fascination, I replayed this message ad infinitum while gazing upon Liam’s stilled image on the screen across the room. I feared for the future of an Ireland which, it seemed, may be frozen forever under the icy thumb of the British Empire.

Calls Number One and Two, by the way, were hang-ups, occurring within 30 seconds of each other. That’s how we know that Doug’s mom is beginning a new calling rampage. Doug really hesitates to answer the phone, because of his mother’s hearing problems. Her hearing aids lose battery power at approximately the same rate she loses brain power, only she never recognizes the symptoms. Which leads us to Call Number Four.

“Hello!” Doug shouted into the phone. “HELLO! CAN YOU HEAR ME?? IT’S ME, DOUGLAS, YOUR SON!”

In the background, I said, “Hang up, Doug. She can’t hear you….” He hung up, and five seconds later? Call Number Five.

“Hello!” Doug shouted into the phone. “HELLO! CAN YOU HEAR ME?? IT’S ME, DOUGLAS, YOUR SON!”

“Hang up and call the nurse,” I said in the background. “Tell the nurse to go check your mother’s hearing aid and take care of whatever your mother needs.”

I know she needs something, because she always needs something. Something like her lost TV Guide or a fresh Depends. She doesn’t like to bother the nurses, though. She likes to call us.

Doug hung up and called the nurse, which technically counted as Call Number Six. Several minutes of movie viewing happened next, during which some feisty Irishmen were offed and the cause of independence was only marginally advanced, if that. I started sweating, worried that Liam didn’t have enough good years left to get the job done.

Call Number Seven came in, from the nurse in my mother-in-law’s room. “Everything’s fine now,” she said. “Adele is cold, so I turned up the furnace. That’s all she needed.” Then Doug heard the nurse say to Adele, “Why don’t you hold the phone up to your other ear and see if you can hear your son?”

Adele must have held the phone up to her better side, because she heard Doug reasonably well. She had nothing much to say. Just checking in on a Saturday night.

“This is Douglas, your son,” Doug said. “Can you hear me now?”

“I hear you fine,” she said, sounding awfully satisfied. “Now that I know how this thing works, I’m going to hang up and call you back…”

Poor, poor Ireland.

Posted by Katy on 12/30/07
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Some Stuff I’ll Never Want For Christmas (#1182)

My idea of a truly lousy Christmas present is an item that is only advertised during the holiday season, and completely falls off the consumer radar screen for the remainder of the year.

Then, the next year, dang if it doesn’t make a comeback as clockworked as the McRib at McDonalds. (My father, dead lo these 24 years, loved the McRib. Even then, he’d get so mad when McDonalds pulled them off the market, only to bring them back a year or so later. But has McDonalds stopped jerking around their faithful McRib lovers? No, they have not…But I digress.)

Here’s an old Christmas chesnut I hope to never crack again. One year, when my dear mother obviously had run out of fresh ideas like bathroom scales (hint, hint…) for each of us newlywed couples, she gave us Chia Pets. This year, the company heavily promoted its Chia Herb Garden, which really really reminds me of a Chia Pet so much that I’m tempted to give up herbs altogether. And maybe vitamins and minerals, too, just for spite.

If I manage to escape receiving a Chia Herb Garden for my remaining Christmases, I still have to be alarmed about the possibility that this pesky item might be sprouting under some unsuspecting tree. Where on earth is a typical homeowner supposed to set up a contraption like this anyway? I’m pretty sure you have to buy kits from the AeroGarden company to fuel this high-dollar dirtless indoor salad grower, which makes the bags of pre-cut lettuce at Sam’s look awfully cheap. And space-saving, too.

I’m grateful not to have received either of these items this year, because if I had, I might have thought it a good thing to also be opening one of these puppies. You know, so that I could practice all the choreographed moves I’ve learned from a month’s worth of TV ads in which all the guys and gals at a holiday party grab their Dirt Devil Broom Vacs to clean up a Christmas mess. Did I mention my mother gave me one of these some years back? People! I have never owned a more worthless tool, and believe me, I’ve owned a few.

Vacuums suck and brooms sweep. The broom vac does neither. However, this year it comes in twelve designer colors, one sure to match the outfit of everyone at your party. So that’s something, eh?

Any Christmas gifts you are absolutely thrilled not to have received?

Posted by Katy on 12/27/07
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My First-Ever Christmas Letter! (#1181)

To friends, family, and fallible readers,

“So you’re having second thoughts already?”

Our darling daughter Carrie, now age 25, couldn’t resist poking fun at me.

“Carrie, I have second thoughts about getting out of bed in the morning.”

“We all do that, Mom. But you made it seem to us kids like skipping college wasn’t an option. And now you’ve signed up, and you’re considering dropping?”

Darned if these adult kids of ours don’t have a lot of good points these days. This year has proven that in spades.

In January, our youngest son, Kevin, soon to be 23, came home from Switzerland for a ten-day visit. If you remember, he studied Hospitality Management and Business Administration in Montreux for ten months, finishing a Bachelor’s degree he started here in Kansas City.

It was almost great having him home. Would have been wonderful, really, if not for the whole jail thing. And then having to hire the high-dollar lawyer to push the case through the court system so that Kevin would be free to leave not only the state, but the country. If I remember right, he got picked up for expired plates the second night he was in town. (The stickers for the plates were in his glove box, where I’d placed them when I renewed the plates, but I’d forgotten to tell him that little detail. He also did not know that I had put his current proof of insurance in the same convenient spot.) But when the cops checked his ID, they saw there was a warrant out for his arrest, one that had just been issued the day before. Before he went to Switzerland, while working at a local hotel, he’d accidentally sold ciggies to a minor. I wonder how much minors get paid these days to be a part of a federal sting operation?

So they towed his car, I guess. It’s hard to recall things that happened nearly a year ago, especially when you try to put the grisly details out of your mind. They hauled him first to a local podunk jail, from which he used his one phone call to contact his dad, and then extradited him to the county prison.
The highlight of the evening was when Doug and Kevin held their hands up on opposite sides of the grimy glass, palm-to-palm. The low point was when Doug wrote the big, fat check.

The year improved dramatically after that. Our 28-year-old son, Scott, had his first book published. The title, Ajax On Rails, has nothing to do with fastidious cleaning junkies using abrasive powders to scrub railroad tracks. I’ve tried to read it, but—perhaps because of my propensity for postponing my college education—I don’t seem to have sufficient numbers of firing neurons to grasp the gist of it. It’s absolutely brilliant and I believe it rose to Number One on Amazon for a period lasting several seconds. (Someone correct me if I’m wrong…)

We hosted a book-signing party for Scott after Kevin’s unfortunate incarceration. Sometime during the evening, a guest pointed out the book’s lovely dedication, in which Scott had the wisdom and foresight to mention not only his beautiful wife, Brooke, but also both his parents by name. Even if that’s the only part of Ajax On Rails I ever understand, it worked for me.

A bunch of other stuff happened after that. A lot of it had to do with Carrie’s upcoming wedding, which occurred in June. Maybe a bunch of stuff didn’t happen, I don’t know. It could be that I had long, laborious lists of stuff that should be happening—if the bride and her family were doing things according to the schedule presented in Bride’s magazine—but which didn’t actually happen until approximately three hours before the guests showed up.

OK, that’s not fair. Carrie, who lived with us for nearly a year before her wedding, created the most darling of wall charts on a huge piece of poster board, which she attached to the back of her bedroom door with the kind of Scotch tape that doesn’t ever come off. I used to go up there and use the treadmill and obsess over that chart with its thousands of little squares meant to hold thousands of little check-marks of accomplishment, but were there any check-marks?

Carrie is now into her second year teaching special ed kids in the inner city. But at the time the wall-chart was drawn, she was furiously busy with her challenging career, her new Master’s degree program, her long-distance engagement to Marc, attempting to live with her parents after many years on her own, and planning a wedding. I was only busy worried about the missing check marks.

Kevin’s graduation in Switzerland was to occur two weeks before Carrie and Marc’s wedding, and honestly, we couldn’t afford to go. Besides, I’d be too nervous leaving the country with all those squares unchecked, you know what I mean? So we went. Made the decision almost at the very last minute, and I’m so glad we did. It was a whirlwind six-day trip, during which Doug and I took a panoramic train from Luzern all the way down to Montreux.

There’s nothing better for an evil case of jet lag than a nice train ride. We even drank coffee in the diner car! By the time we reached Kevin, we were coffeed up and ready to roll.

By the time the three of us got home again to Kansas City, Carrie had moved out and into her honeymoon apartment. She’d left the upstairs clean, so that Kevin could move directly in. We gave him two months to find some roommates and a job. He took an extra two weeks, which ain’t bad, huh?

We scrambled to finish all the wedding stuff, including plans to use both an inside room and the rooftop of the downtown Kansas City Library (formerly the historic First National Bank Building) for Carrie and Marc’s reception. At the eleventh hour, our new meteorologist son-in-law (everyone should have one!) agreed with us that we needed to move the whole affair indoors. The forecast was too iffy to take a chance on dancing on the roof, unless we wanted to spring for some of those attendants who hold umbrellas over individual couples.

You may be wondering about The Moms. They are both hanging on. Writing about them in a Christmas letter, though, would necessarily involve descriptions of falls and cognitive lapses and hazardous waste materials that would engage more of your senses than you probably want to devote at this time. Trust me on this.

Doug has begun recording some of the fantastic music he’s written over the years (some tunes his own children have never heard!), using ProTools software on the Mac. I’m so excited for him to work on this project in earnest. Maybe someday soon, fallible readers will have a chance to win a copy of Doug’s CD!

Doug and I are settling into the Empty Nesting thing for what seems like the last time. The doors have stopped spinning for the first season in many years. It’s a sad and happy feeling, the very essence of bittersweet. It’s a good thing we’re not only crazy, but crazy about each other.

And I am second guessing my life. But, for me, that’s what Advent is all about. It’s like a month-long mircrocosm of an entire lifetime of searching, seeking, questioning, and yearning.

This has been a tremendously busy and fulfilling year for the Raymond family. I could tell you some true tall tales you wouldn’t believe, but in the days leading up to Christmas, all the fairy tales and fish stories in the world can’t hold a candle to the Truth lying in a manger.

May the most wonderful true tall tale ever told still your hearts like snow falling in an open field. And may you never second guess His amazing love.

Posted by Katy on 12/22/07
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Christmas Cop-Outs (#1180)

So yesterday I went to see Mom and noticed that someone had given her a small poinsettia. She refuses all Christmas decorations except the two Scottish Santas, which she displays year round, but I thought maybe she’d like the idea of a plant.

“Who gave you the poinsettia?” I asked.

“The banker that keeps a few hours in here on Tuesdays, where I have my little savings account.”

“Well, that was nice of her. I’ll just take the cellophane off so you can see it…”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t want to see it.”

Okay, then.

Today, as if he inherited my mother’s genes but with a more pleasant attitude, Doug’s Christmas cop-out tendencies kicked in. I was eager to decorate, so he dragged the fake tree up from the basement and set it in the corner of the living room, plugging it in as if THAT would solve the problem of the ages.

“Doug,” I called in to his office a few minutes later, “what exactly is meant by the term ‘pre-lit?’ All I know is there’s a clump of lights working on the top left, and another clump on the lower right. What are you planning to do about that?”

“Nothing.” Boy, did he remind me of my mother. Even though a thick wall separated us, I could see him barracading his chest with his arms. “I thought maybe we’d call it ‘artistic’ and just go with it.”

Can Christmas cop-out tendencies cross bloodlines? If so, I have reason to be afraid—very afraid.

Posted by Katy on 12/14/07
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		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 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	The Evolution Of The Rejection Letter (#1194) I admit it. I am one of those sorry schmucks who’s kept every single rejection letter I’ve ever received. I’ve got some that date so far back, you might not have been technically born then. At first, when I’d write some humor essay extolling the advent of cordless can openers, I’d shoot for the moon as far as possible publishers went. I mean, if Good Housekeeping published columns by Erma Bombeck, they’d certainly want my piece, right? For my chutzpah, I received a mimeographed form rejection on a 8"x2” slip of paper, which looked like it had been cut to size with a pair of crummy scissors. I believe it was signed by someone called “The Staff,” which made me fear the paper might be infected with some type of germ. But I filed it away just the same. After a while, the rejections started coming on entire half-sheets of paper. I sensed I was making serious inroads into the world of publication. The purple ink of the mimeograph machine still ruled, but on occasion, the signature of an actual editorial assistant appeared at the bottom. Once, under one of these signatures, I made out the words, “Try us again with something else.” In the universe of newspaper and magazine writing, it honestly didn’t take long before I figured out to start local and small. I started racking up some nice acceptances from first the Kansas City Star, then several other newspapers, and finally some regional and national magazines. Then one day seven or eight years ago, I decided on a whim to take a novel writing class at a local college. My friend, author Nancy Moser, was teaching it, and I felt confident my article and essay writing skills would translate smoothly into novel writing finesse. After two aborted attempts at stories I’ll never pull out of the cabinet again (one was a NaNoWriMo 50,000 word monstrosity), I started the book I’ve been working on for several years. Unless I’m mistaken, I’ve written 8-10 complete versions of this manuscript, but what I’ve learned about craft with each new version is staggering. Some of you may remember that I entered it in a contest in early 2004, in which I finaled. I shudder to think about the manuscript I entered, since it was—I now realize—nothing more than a seriously flawed first draft. Since then, I’ve gotten paid critiques at conferences, pitching sessions face-to-face with editors and agents, submitted a piece of it to a panel of editors who ripped it up in front of an audience, entered a few chapters at a time in several contests, and had input from trusted friends and fellow writers. I’ve also emailed my proposal and three chapters to several editors and agents, garnering ever more valuable rejection letters every step of the way. If you think I’m kidding about the value of a rejection letter, you haven’t seen the comps. When you’ve got ones from the old purple-ink days signed by The Staff, believe me, you’re grateful for the professionals who offer a kind word of advice for improving your submission. These days, I get the best rejections in the world. My idea of a great rejection is an email from the editor in which the word “However” does not appear until at least the beginning of the third sentence. That means the first two sentences will likely say something encouraging (or at least not depressing) about my submission, which is a very kind thing for the editor to do before she uses the H word. I’ve grown used to scanning the first few lines until the H pops off the screen. I turn to Doug and say, “Well, phooey. I just got rejected by so-and-so.” And he’ll say, “Did you read the whole thing?” And I’ll say, “Not yet. But I saw the H.” By the way, a perfectly acceptable alternative to the H is the U. Which stands, of course, for Unfortunately. If you’re hoping to get published like I am, don’t despair. Even though mimeographed slips are a relic from days gone by, you, too, will likely find your rejection letters evolving from “No, thanks. Not for us,” to something downright positive, right up until you get to the H word. I’m sure another type of letter is out there, people. One without the H word anywhere in it at all. I hope to soon let you know how it feels to get a letter like that. Posted by Katy on 02/04/08 Permalink Quotes To Live By (#1193) It’s February 1, and I’m still accumulating some inspirational quotes by which to live my year. I’ll share a few of my favorites here: “Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but not their own facts.” Daniel Patrick Moynihan “Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy which sustained him through brief periods of joy.” Yeats “I don’t have much time left. Please don’t try to suck it out of me.” Anon “Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.” Winston Churchill “The chief cause of failure and unhappiness is trading what we want most for what we want at the moment.” Anon “What you want is practice, practice, practice. It doesn’t matter what we write (at least this is my view) at our age, as long as we write continually as well as we can. I feel that every time I write a page either of prose or of verse, with real effort, even if it’s thrown into the fire the next minute, I am so much further on.” C.S. Lewis “Fate finds persistence irresistable.” Unknown “The best advice on writing I’ve ever received: Finish.” Peter Mayle “A hunch is creativity trying to tell you something.” Frank Capra “Everything comes to those who hustle while they wait.” Thomas Edison “Few people do what they want to do in life. Be one of them.” Andy Broer “When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left and could say ‘I used everything You gave me.’” Erma Bombeck “I spend half my time doing my stuff. I spend the other half of my time making sure I’m not doing your stuff.” Anon “When you have got a thing where you want it, it is a good thing to leave it where it is.” Winston Churchill And finally, just to see if you’re still tracking with me: “You’ll never make up for with speed what you lack in direction.” Katy McKenna Raymond And this: “How about something from the cheese family?” Doug Raymond Any great inspirational (or just funny) quotes you’d like to share? All contributions most welcome!! Posted by Katy on 02/01/08 Permalink Not Getting A Tax Rebate Check? Ask The Expert (#1192) A number of fallible readers have submitted questions to me about the new tax rebate plan which, along with almost every political candidate in the universe, promises to put “money in your pocket.” It behooves me to respond in this space. Alicia from Arkansas writes: “Dear Katy, My mom and dad would be divorced by now if they’d ever gotten married. If they were divorced, everything would be cool. Only one of them could claim me on their taxes and then I’d know for sure that I’d be getting my chunk of change. (I am 12 and have my eye on a wii.) As it is, I don’t know which one to play, Mom or Pop, since I have no idea who will end up getting my piece of the American pie. What do you think?” Dear Alicia, As always, play both parents to the hilt. Now more than ever, in this precarious economic environment, you need to protect your own interests (read:wii) by pitting them against each other while making each of them think your loyalties are unwavering. I predict before summer you’ll have your wii. Congratulations! With strategic skills like yours, you obviously have a bright future ahead of you. Sam from San Diego writes: “Katy. It’s like this. I make a lot of money, see? And I’m an American citizen, too. OK, so most of my income goes unreported, but I DO have a valid social security number. The thing is, I stopped believing in the constituionality of the income tax when I started making a lot of money. You might say I’m a conscientious objector. Yeah. That’s it. I sure would like to get my hands on one of those checks, though. What can be done for me?” Dear Sam, It’s more a question of what can be done TO you, but all is not lost. If you can find it within your obviously well-honed conscience to claim a mere $3000 worth of your enormous income on your taxes, you will receive the highest possible rebate. It might not be enough to pay a lawyer when the IRS gets ahold of you, though. Weigh your options carefully. That’s what freedom is all about! Betty from Buffalo writes: “Katy, I never thought I’d be writing to you. I have been a lurker until now, but I have to speak up. I am 77 years old, and my only income is Social Security, or as that cutie Al Gore calls it, ‘So-security.’ However, I have three of my low-life middle-aged sons sharing my efficiency apartment and they make money hand over fist. Can I claim them as dependents?” Dear Betty, Isn’t motherhood the best? Under the current save-the-economy plan, stay-at-home moms are not penalized for having no income. God and Uncle Sam (not to be confused with the aforementioned Sam) gave you children for a reason! Claim those kids, Betty, and pocket a cool $900 for your trouble. Gotta love that revolving door, eh? Jose from Houston writes: “Dear Katy, Just so you know, I would gladly be a legal immigrant if I weren’t already an illegal. I send all of my wages back to my wife in Mexico. Cash money, baby, sealed with a kiss. So far, this has worked fine, but now my “wife” in Houston is kicking up a stink. It’s just that in 2007, she earned no income due to a temporary disability. She’ll go back to work for us in 2008, no problem-o, but how is it fair that we won’t be getting a tax rebate?” Dear Jose, It’s not fair. Unfortunately, there will be those solid, dependable wage-earners like yourself who still somehow manage to fall through the cracks of this patched-together stimulus program. If you’d had the foresight to obtain an invalid Social Security card and to be paid in a form other than “cash money, baby,” in an amount equalling at least $3000 for the year 2007, you still could have sent most of your dollars to Mexico. However, in that scenario you and your Houston “wife” would have had an additional $1200 to help speed her recovery with a nice vacation. Remember, Jose, planning is everything! Candy in Kansas City writes: “Dear Katy, I am single (widowed, actually) filing jointly. You read that right. Gerard died 17 years ago, but somehow the corporation he worked for failed to get the message. Anyway, I’ve been depositing his pay-checks (complete with annual cost-of-living and merit raises) every two weeks since his untimely demise. Now I’ve got a real mess on my hands. Gerard’s pay has escalated WAY beyond the allowable amount for tax-rebate purposes. I have no earned income of my own, and there’s a Kate Spade purse out there with my name on it. What should I do?” Dear Candy, You are in luck! See that box on your 1040 called “Married, Filing Separately”? Check that puppy. Now all you have to do is come up with a spare W2 form from McDonald’s or somewhere (surely you have a little friend who can assist with this project…), fill in your “income,” and you’re home free. Please do accept my belated condolences regarding your husband. If you have a question about the chances of a rebate ending up in your mailbox, don’t hesitate to comment here. I especially enjoy helping those of you who, for whatever reason, feel that it’s JUST NOT FAIR. Any of it! I feel your pain. Posted by Katy on 01/26/08 Permalink Hello Mother, Hello Fodder (#1191) Due to an online class I’ve been taking this month (“Defeating Your Self-Defeating Behaviors” by Margie Lawson, a practicing psychologist who works with a lot of writers), I’ve largely given up my chronic negativity. What? You didn’t realize, after reading umpteen entries here at fallible, that I’m not exactly Pollyanna? Awww….that’s sweet. But I don’t believe you! Not for a minute! ;) Anyway, in spite of all the brilliant techniques I’ve learned from Margie, and in spite of the many ways my life has changed for the better in the past three weeks, I gotta be honest with you. Some aspects of 2008 are turning out to be a piece of work. So far during January, Doug and I have spent two entire nights in the ER with Mom. I’m the type of girl who—like Glen Campbell who kept his sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind her couch—always has a duffle packed. I’m sorry, but with mothers like ours, a chick would be nuts not to have an overnighter stuffed with reading material, a crochet project, spare change, phone numbers, the old gals’ insurance information, a list of current meds and conditions, and power-of-attorney papers. And clean panties. Don’t forget those! Not to mention a toothbrush, deoderant, snacks, and room to pop the laptop in at the last minute. I may not travel light, but trust me, I travel often. Besides the two ER soirees, Mom has managed to fall twice since Christmas. Amazingly, she did not hurt herself either time. But I’ve had to line up some PT visits for her, since she apparently has misplaced the skills required to either sit from a standing position or to stand from a sitting position. Maybe some brush-up lessons will help—we can only hope. (See? I’m a bloomin’ optimist—really!!) In the meantime, she’s been having precipitous spikes in blood pressure. The last ER doc prescribed Clonidine for her facility to have on hand when it happens, which it did yesterday morning. She called me a few minutes ago, quite frantic. “I need to telll you what’s going on here,” she said. I just saw her Wednesday afternoon and nothing much seemed to be happening then. “OK,” I said. Her voice shook and she spoke in something of a tremulous whisper, as if she imagined her room was bugged. “They took my blood pressure yesterday morning and it was so high, they told me to stay in bed for the rest of the day.” “Hmmmm….” I said, thinking if it were THAT bad, they would have called me. “Then today it was high again, so I’ve been in bed for two whole days….they called my doctor at 6 yesterday morning, and he still hasn’t returned their call. I am so nervous, I won’t get out of bed until he calls…..” “I hate to point this out, Mom, but you don’t get out of bed anyway.” She sounded insulted. “Well, that’s another story.” I told her I would call the nurse’s station and try to get to the bottom of things. I did and then called her back. “The nurse says that Liz is on her way there to take you out to dinner.” “Yes. Even if I don’t eat, I’m going to go out.” “Mom, why wouldn’t you eat, if she’s taking you out to eat?” “It has to be the right time.” “But it is the right time.” “Oh. Yeah. Well, the nurse is here to take my blood pressure again.” “Do you need to get off the phone?” Because Mom has a permanently broken humerus, they can only take her BP on her good arm, which is also the only side she can use to talk on the phone. “The nurse says I can switch the phone to the other side.” Dear Lord, are the staff members even AWAKE at this joint? Her arm has been broken for 2.5 years and counting. “Mom, I don’t think that will work with your broken arm…” And then this, spoken with utter incredulity: “I don’t have a broken arm.” Who says I’m not a positive person? I’m positive she’s driving me bonkers. Posted by Katy on 01/25/08 Permalink You Asked For It, You Got It (#1190) Quite a while back, several of you agreed that you’d like to read the story of Katy’s Most Embarrassing Moment. One reader, Mary Anne (whom I’ve known since earliest childhood…), felt certain that the moment involved St. Joseph’s Hospital, circa a really long time ago. Bingo! We have a winner! I’m not sure Mary Anne was specific enough in her guess, however, as I have actually endured COUNTLESS embarassing moments at or approaching the premises of St. Joseph’s Hospital, including but not limited to the time my doctor asked if he could invite a roomful of medical students to observe while he examined me. Not being completely in my right mind (like THAT surprises you!), I said yes, amiable sort that I am. Back in the day, medical students were almost exclusively men. In this case, they were all men. About 17 of them, if I remember right. Why I imagined Dr. Barnett was just going to demonstrate to the fellows how to use a blood pressure cuff, I have no idea. Before they finally exited my room, I knew the full meaning of “semi-private.” Those guys had seen things my husband had only imagined. But I digress. My very most embarrassing moment occurred when I was, as Billy Crystal would say, only mostly dead. During my twenties, I had…episodes. Honestly, a diagnosis of my condition was never arrived at, and remains a mystery to this day. I would, for no apparent reason, have a sudden onset of terrible diarrhea and throwing up. A red rash covered my body, my lips turned white, and my extremities turned blue, making quite a fashion statement as they matched my eyes. Then my eyes rolled back in my head and closed as I fainted dead away, making the stunning color coordination much less impressive. I guess I had a seizure disorder of some kind, I don’t know. Doug witnessed me having these attacks, and they involved foaming at the mouth, rigidity, and sometimes an apparent absence of breathing, which freaked him out a little. Anyway, this one night it all came down while I was checking groceries at Thriftway. I’d left two crying babies at home, which had me a bit stressed out, and then I’d gotten chewed out by the manager for taking a customer’s bad check. I started feeling iffy and asked the girl at the next counter if the lights were dimming. “Um…no,” she said. “I’ve got to run to the back,” I said, leaving a line of customers behind. I recognized the numbness in my hands and feet as the definitive sign that, for me, something good was NOT about to happen. I hung out in the bathroom for a while, but then came to my senses enough to realize I had to call Doug to come get me. After I used the pay phone to call home, things got dicey fast. He packed up the children and brought them to the grocery store (they’d already been put to bed), where (fortunately) he saw a friend of ours and handed the kids over. By the time he found me in the bathroom, I had probably passed out and come to several times. I would regain consciousness just long enough to…um…use the facilites and then lose it again. He tried to get me up and walking, thinking maybe he could get me home, but even at 117 pounds, my dead weight was too much for him. So he used that pay phone to call an ambulance. I had one, and I mean ONLY ONE, lucid moment before the ambulance arrived. During that moment, I realized that while I’d been passed out, I had made a terrible mess of my underwear. “Doug,” I said, with the last ounce of decorum I possessed, “you’ve got to help me. Get these jeans off of me, throw away my underwear, and get the jeans back on me.” No sooner did the words leave my mouth, than I passed out again. My dear husband, though, did my bidding. Of course, I had no memory of it the next time I rallied for thirty seconds. The paramedics arrived and laid me out like a corpse on the cold concrete floor of the back room. They cut through my (cute) shirt, which had perfectly operable buttons, and my (new) bra, the likes of which I wouldn’t be able to afford for another year. I mean, how often does a broke chick come by ninety-eight cents? One of them attached electrodes to my chest while the others kept taking turns trying to get a blood pressure reading. They decided their equipment must be faulty, since I had no discernable blood pressure, and how could THAT be?? Just in case it was me and not the equipment, though, they kept exchanging dire looks like they were worried they had a catastrophe on their hands. Did you know a chick can talk with no blood pressure? No discernable blood pressure for THREE HOURS? As a dreadful case of hypothermia (whether from the concrete floor or my own near-death condition, I don’t know. Only God knows…) set in, the paramedics continued to hack away at my remaining clothing. The one called Fiona (yes, I remember her name…) unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans so they could do…whatever. And that’s when Chatty Katy kicked back in with the line that will haunt my floozy self for the rest of my days. “Good thing I remembered to wear clean underwear.” People!! I had totally forgotten that Doug had removed my ruined underwear! And I’m pretty sure, when I made the classic underwear crack that EVERYONE makes when they end up in an ambulance, I WINKED at a couple paramedics!!! (And I ain’t talkin’ Fiona.) It wasn’t until several days into my two-week hospital stay, when my sisters brought me a gift of a new bra and matching panties, that I regained any cognizance of these events. “I remember they cut off my bra,” I said, “but why are you bringing me panties?” “Don’t you remember telling the paramedics that it was a good thing you wore clean panties?” “Yeah…” “Well, you told us Doug had taken them off…” The moral of this story, dear readers, is to NOT DO THE STUFF I’VE DONE! And when in any doubt about the location and condition of your panties, just play dead. Posted by Katy on 01/24/08 Permalink Out Of The Mouths Of Wives (#1189) We recently moved our retirement account from an online brokerage firm to a company with local advisors. I guess we figured we needed a bit more guidance than, well…none. Since hooking up with this new company, though—and through no fault of our advisor’s, by the way—the market has taken a precipitous drop. Our balances have done likewise. So today, we ran in to our investment advisor and his wife at the post office. “Hey, it’s you,” I said, in as light a tone as I could manage. Even If I am somewhat disenchanted with our fledgling relationship, I wouldn’t want him to think I was about to go postal on him. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about our money…” I thought maybe he’d spout a bit of timeworn advice like “This looks like a great buying opportunity…” or maybe “We’re going to need to keep a long-term perspective.” But no, his lips were sealed. Instead his wife spoke up with the most funny money line I’ve heard in a long time. “Hope you’ve got a lot of it!” Posted by Katy on 01/16/08 Permalink Books, Glorious Books! (#1188) The delightful Mary DeMuth, herself the author of both fiction and non-fiction of the life-changing variety, has tagged me to play along with a book meme, and I cannot resist. 1. One book that changed your life. “Dr. Atkins’ Diet Revolution.” (Hey, the meme didn’t specifiy we had to choose fiction titles!) It’s been eight years since I ate any sugar, and my life has changed completely. For the better. And the skinnier, too! 2. One book that you have read more than once. “Trinity” by Leon Uris. An epic about the Irish struggles over many years, heavily based in fact. Fantastic storyteller, Uris. I remember my father reading this in the ‘70s, and now I own two copies of it. Who knows but what I might wear one out and need another? :) 3. One book you would want on a desert island. My French Bible. It’s perfect for wiling the hours away, languishing over a solitary phrase and mining it for meaning, or even an approximation of an accurate translation! Also, “My Utmost for His Highest,” by Oswald Chambers, or any excellent daily reading/devotional. While I’m not a fan of devotionals per se, if they are theologically sound and spiritually challenging, I love them. Plus, on that desert island, they sure would help me keep track of how many days had passed since I’d gotten stuck with only Wilson to talk to. 4. Two books that made you laugh. I am a lifelong fan of anything by Erma Bombeck. And Dave Barry. As some of you will remember, I met Dave and had our affectionate encounter photographed. It was truly a highlight of my life. Maybe that doesn’t say too much for my life, but after that, I could honestly die happy. 5. One book that made you cry. “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult. A story replete with complicated and fascinating family dynamics and an ending to die for. Literally. 6. One book you wish you’d written. “What To Expect When You’re Expecting” or any of its subsequent incarnations. Can you say Cash Cow? If anyone has any fantastic ideas I could develop that would set me up for life, let me know! 7. One book you wish had never been written. I remember starting Jonathan Franzen’s “The Corrections” and just having an eeeeky feeling while reading it. I thrive on dysfunction as much as the next chick, but enough is enough. Could not get that novel out of my life fast enough. 8. Two books you are currently reading. “For Better Or For Worse” by my good friend Diann Hunt, and “The Year of Living Biblically” by A.J. Jacobs. 9. One book you’ve been meaning to read. “A Steadfast Surrender” by my darling buddy Nancy Moser. I have an entire shelf dedicated to her books, all of which she’s signed for me. HOW, I ask you, have I neglected to read this one? Ah, well. These things happen. How about you? If you post on your own blog, leave a comment here with a link. It’ll be fun to see your answers!! Posted by Katy on 01/13/08 Permalink An Open Letter To All The Remaining Literary Agents I’ve Not Yet Contacted (#1187) Dear Literary Agent, If you think I haven’t read your blog, you’re wrong. I thought I’d clear that up right away. I am so diligent, I’ve even delved into the archives, perusing entries from as long ago as two weeks. I know what you’re looking for in a client even better than you do. In fact, because I am such a devoted student of your career, writings, and personal life, I feel I can say without a doubt that I am your next dream author. How am I so sure? I am glad you asked! For one thing, you’ve very clearly expressed your preference for having “good writing” sent your way. I’m betting your definition of good writing is the same as my mom’s, which means I’m in luck. Attached is the only scene I’ve slapped together so far. After you read it (get a move on!) and I’ve agreed to be represented by you, I will gladly crank out the rest of the novel. It could take a while, though. I am currently in communication with many notable agents, and I feel certain you’ll realize that these relationships represent a considerable time commitment on my part. In addition, submitting a proposal for a book I haven’t gotten around to writing would be a giant waste of my time, as I am sure you will agree. Second, you have indicated you don’t want to sign any high-maintenance, best-seller wannabes. I can assure you that I’ve never personally obtained a pedicure (photos availble upon request). Also, I can produce yellowed postcards from both my dentist and OB/GYN verifying that I am nine years behind in my supposedly annual (ha!) check-ups. NO WAY am I high-maintenance! If you’ll either call me on my cell or email me within fourteen minutes of receiving this—as you should if you are truly the professional you profess yourself to be—we can discuss this point until I’m satisfied that you understand. Third, you state that any client you take on must have a platform already in place. Bingo! We have a winner! I have been an active blogger for seven plus years, during which time I have chronicled with sterling clarity my aging mother’s propensity for swearing like a drunken Marine (no worn-out cliches here, baby!) as well as her advancing incontinence. Google my stats and you’ll see I now have six regular readers, half of whom have agreed to be sent free copies of my first book. Finally, you say you are seeking authors who seem unlikely to end up one-hit wonders. While I’d prefer NOT to promise you the moon until my staggering work of heartbreaking genius reaches the top of the NYT list, I think it’s pretty safe to say there’s PLENTY more wherever that first scene came from. In conclusion, I am absolutely brimming with potential, just the way you like ‘em. I look forward to hearing from you soon. Very soon. Best regards, Katy McKenna http://www.fallible.com Posted by Katy on 01/09/08 Permalink How To Know For Sure That You’re Old (#1186) All my life I’ve heard people say that you’re only as old as you feel, and honestly, I just don’t get that. I mean, I hear ancient women proclaiming that hey, they may be 99, but they FEEL 29. I personally didn’t think 29 was anything to brag about. I’ve felt better at many subsequent ages than I did during my twenties, and what’s the big deal about freezing age at 29, anyway? It’s overrated. My mother-in-law (who, along with my mother, forms the pair affectionately known as The Moms) is about to turn, I think, 87. It doesn’t matter anymore whether I know how old the gal is. SHE believes, and advertises, that she is 63. Why should I think otherwise? My own mother, a youngster at nearly 78, is quite accurate when asked by the paramedics (which just happened during our last ER run on Thursday night) how old she is. I don’t know, though, whether how old she FEELS might be affected by what year she imagines it to be. What asked THAT question, she came up with an unequivacable “1908.” (By the way, if I just spelled unequivacable wrong, bear with me. I ain’t getting any younger here.) I understand the 1908 answer. Really, I do. When you’re born in 1930 and everyone in your family tends to die rather young, I suppose you don’t think you’ll ever be asked a question that requires an answer in the next millenium. Besides, by the time we got to the hospital and the doctor asked her the same question, she succinctly spat out, “2-0-0-8.” So there. The Moms are aging, that’s for sure. And none too gracefully, if you ask me. But what do I know? I’m just a young whippersnapper, right? You do know that 54 is the new 37, don’t you? Monday was Doctor Day for Mom. I managed to get her back and forth by myself, but it wasn’t easy. It involves transferring her from a wheelchair to my car (she’s 6” taller and weighs 80 pounds more than I do), hoisting the chair into the back, pushing the chair up steep ramps, leaving her tapping her foot while I run back out to park the car, and then…well, lather, rinse, repeat. I worked up a bad enough sweat that by the time I got home, I needed another shower. But that’s not the worst part. The worst is that Mom noticed and couldn’t stop mentioning that I talk to myself. A lot. I don’t do it all the time, but when I’m juggling the Mama, filling out a million forms, praying a kind stranger will appear out of no where and open the door for us, and trying to answer the doctor’s questions about the history of Mom’s urinary tract infections while getting her urinary tract completely confused with my mother-in-law’s, yeah. I talk to myself. When she heard me say, “Grab Mom’s purse from the back seat,” she brought it up. Later, when I muttered, “OK, Katy, you put her name as the party responible for payment, not yours...” she gave me one of those looks and said, “You’re doing it again.” On the way home, remembering previous doctor runs, I guess I must have said out loud, “She probably wants a chili cheese dog with extra onions from Sonic…” because Mom blurted out, “You’re getting old!” Like boomers everywhere, I can congratulate myself on my perennial youth all I want. Apparently, I’m still with-it enough to know when I’m busted. Posted by Katy on 01/09/08 Permalink Following In His Path (#1185) So yesterday I didn’t exactly ask the Lord for a word for the year 2008. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not overly brave and I am subject to both flights of fancy and great leaps of misinterpretation. But I did go ahead and choose a word that I thought might help me focus on the little (and big) ways God is involved in my life on a daily basis. I mean, I don’t want to miss Him in action, when I’m certain that He’s here with me every day, directing my paths according to His purposes for me. The word I’ve chosen is Serendipity. I prayed and told the Lord that I wanted to see every event, every chance meeting with another person, and even every difficult circumstance as if He were right there with me in the middle of it—because, of course, He is. All I need to do is keep my eyes open and pay attention. Right before Christmas, I did something awfully impulsive. I signed up for a full-time semester at a local university, as a psych major. Classes were scheduled to start tonight, and would have been intensive and compressed into 8-week sessions, rather than the typical 16-weeks. In fact, before the first session, I would have needed to read a couple hundred pages of text and to have written four 1000-word essays. I realized I’d bitten off more than I could chew, and that I’d probably done it in reaction to my current frustration trying to break into publishing fiction. By Christmas I’d decided to drop the classes, but the business office wasn’t open until today. Doug went with me because, man, those books were heavy! Plus, to drop classes and return my books I had to visit three different far-flung buildings, walking in the freakish cold on icy sidewalks. Some people don’t look down when they walk, and they say to develop optimum balance it’s better to look straight ahead. But that’s the thing: My balance was negatively affected when I had brain surgery eight years ago and has never been the same since. Yeah, yeah. I know the balance nerve on one side of your head will theoretically compensate for the severed nerve on the other side, but I’m just sayin’, theories don’t always pan out. So we’re walking along, our collective teeth chattering in time to our shoes crunching the ice, when I—the one who’s looking down—say, “What IS all this?” Doug peers at the sidewalk, small stretches of which are cleared, and says, “It looks like…” “But it CAN’T be,” I say. “There so MUCH of it. How many animals would it take to produce that volume of—” “Sh….eesh,” he says. “Um…ya think?” I say. “Why can’t they REMOVE it? It would be bad enough to slip on the ice, but I’d hate to have to sue for slipping on ice-encrusted, um…you know.” That’s right. Thousands of the…items…were enshrouded in transparent ice, like caterpillars unfortunately never destined to become butterflies. Doug danced something of an Irish jig in a nearly futile attempt to avoid…stuff. I—who had managed to leave the house in shoes with lots of openings and NO SOCKS—begged God that a combination of my iffy eyesight and my challenged balance would somehow see me through. That’s when the truth hit me, with as strong a sense of serendipity as I’ve ever known. Going to school full-time right now would be a s——y path for my future. Literally. Balance is overrated. Looking down while I’m strolling along the path of life? It works for me. Posted by Katy on 01/02/08 Permalink Some Words I’d Rather Not Hear From The Lord (#1184) I know quite a number of folks who annually ask the Lord to give them a word (or words) that might act as a point of spiritual focus for them during the New Year. Maybe I’m just a chicken, but I hesitate to wonder too much what the coming year might hold. And with my generalized anxiety disorder never more than marginally managed, I gotta tell you that some of the words God might possibly utter—should I ever become brave enough to ask—scare the Xanax out of me. I mean, is the expectation that God is always going to give the recipient a simple and easily understood word? LIke Joy? I don’t think there’s much quibbling to be done on the meaning of Joy, is there? Apart from it being the name of a popular dishwashing liquid, of course, which could ostensibly mean that God wants me to improve my domestic habits starting today. Otherwise, if I got the word Joy from the Lord for 2008, I’d be thrilled. But what if, instead, He switched it up a bit? What if I asked and received the word Serenity? At first blush, Serenity has some components of Joy, with a generous portion of Peace and Acceptance thrown in. I think I could embrace a word like Serenity, except…oh-oh. If you frequent the same Wal-Mart aisles I do, you’ll recall that Serenity is shelved hip-to-hip with Depends. What if the Lord gave me the word Serenity and it ended up meaning that my New Year of Dependence had just begun? Doesn’t that qualify as too much information? Honestly, I’d just as soon He surprise me. I’m not sure if, after the request for a word of direction or theme is made, the answer always comes in the form of a Biblical word or not. But before considering asking for a word myself, I decided to survey the Good Book to see what some of the possible outcomes might be. I easily encountered dozens of words I hope never to receive as my word of the year, including but not limited to Famine, Peril, Wasting Disease, Drought, Deceit, Desolation and Vermin. And, while this is merely my personal preference, I could also live contentedly for the rest of my natural life without God blessing me with the word Abishag. It occurs to me that I’m not very good at discerning the exact spelling God may have in mind if He brings a word to the forefront of my consciousness. What if I think I’ve heard the word Sow—as in “Whatever a man sows, this he shall also reap”—and I automatically believe this means I’m to plant a garden even though my thumbs are both obviously purple? I could be starving this time next year when I finally come to the conclusion He might have been saying Sew. Or perhaps, if He were in an even more ominous mood, Soooo…. I could go on and on with the “o” sounds here, but I’ll spare you most of them. You know the alphabet as well as I do, after all. I will warn you about a couple, just because I feel I owe you as much since you’ve read this far. The word Dough, when taken as a theme for the year 2008, is particularly problematic. I could take it to mean we’d be making oodles of money, or that I should concentrate on my bread-baking skills. On the other hand, what if it meant we’d go broke and I’d become gluten-intolerant? And then there’s that pesky alternate spelling problem again: Doh! I wouldn’t be too concerned to adopt the word Whoa!—especially if it meant “Whoa! Slow down and enjoy life…” or, even better, “Whoa, BABY!” But, trust me, I’d take all the Serenity in the world if only I didn’t end up with Woe. Posted by Katy on 01/01/08 Permalink The Troubles (#1183) Last night, Doug and I viewed the longest movie in all of creation. I love staying home to watch movies. Going to the theater occasionally to see one we just can’t wait to partake of on DVD is fun, but usuallly, we can wait. And so, for the joy set before us—in this case, being propped up in our queen-sized bed in our jammies—we choose home. The main draw is that we can stop the flick a couple of times for bathroom breaks and to refill the cheese and cracker plate without missing any of the show. Yesterday was my birthday, and there’s nothing better to celebrate an increasingly ominous occasion than snuggle time with a good flick. So we put in Michael Collins, because for me an ever-refreshed memory regarding the events of the creation of the Free Irish Republic, which began in earnest in 1916, is always a good thing. And then there’s Liam Neeson, whose accent I could listen to from now until kingdom come. And Aidan Quinn’s blue eyes. Need I say more? I didn’t say more until we’d been watching the film for upwards of 4.73 hours with no end in sight. Then I turned to Doug and said, “How long is this movie? Why can’t the bloody Irish just take down the British flag, raise the Republican flag, and call it a night?” He picked up the DVD case and said, “It’s two hours, fifteen minutes long. Haven’t we been sitting here for half of what remained of our natural lives?” So we did the math. One potty break, one beverage break, plus one additional bathroom and cashew break. All told, fifteen minutes worth of time with the remote on hold. What on eath was happening to us? The Irish Republic took less time to be formed, even if you counted the months the instigating rebels like Michael Collins spent behind bars. And then it hit us. The phone calls. When we’re watching a movie, we tend to let calls go to voicemail, but we listen to our messages almost immediately as they come it, because of The Moms. If you don’t know what it’s like having Moms Like Ours, well. In one way, I hope you are spared, but in another, I’d be happy to share the wealth. That’s how much I love you people! My mother-in-law has taken up singing. Into the phone. She’s begun singing the name “Dooougg—-lasssssss,” like a mom calling her grimy kid in at dusk. I can picture her ensconced in her recliner at the facility where she lives, industriously busying herself with her new hobby. If she could sing into her phone without it ending up as a message on our phone, I’d be cool with that. But…no. Hearing her sing her only son’s name over and over defined the joy we experienced with Call Number Three. Another thing: She said, “It’s Mama….” as if she were identifying herself to a small child who’d forgotten his own mother’s voice. I have known her for 32 years or so, and I’ve never heard anyone call her Mama. Nor has she EVER called herself Mama. Usually she calls herself “Mother.” Out of pure fascination, I replayed this message ad infinitum while gazing upon Liam’s stilled image on the screen across the room. I feared for the future of an Ireland which, it seemed, may be frozen forever under the icy thumb of the British Empire. Calls Number One and Two, by the way, were hang-ups, occurring within 30 seconds of each other. That’s how we know that Doug’s mom is beginning a new calling rampage. Doug really hesitates to answer the phone, because of his mother’s hearing problems. Her hearing aids lose battery power at approximately the same rate she loses brain power, only she never recognizes the symptoms. Which leads us to Call Number Four. “Hello!” Doug shouted into the phone. “HELLO! CAN YOU HEAR ME?? IT’S ME, DOUGLAS, YOUR SON!” In the background, I said, “Hang up, Doug. She can’t hear you….” He hung up, and five seconds later? Call Number Five. “Hello!” Doug shouted into the phone. “HELLO! CAN YOU HEAR ME?? IT’S ME, DOUGLAS, YOUR SON!” “Hang up and call the nurse,” I said in the background. “Tell the nurse to go check your mother’s hearing aid and take care of whatever your mother needs.” I know she needs something, because she always needs something. Something like her lost TV Guide or a fresh Depends. She doesn’t like to bother the nurses, though. She likes to call us. Doug hung up and called the nurse, which technically counted as Call Number Six. Several minutes of movie viewing happened next, during which some feisty Irishmen were offed and the cause of independence was only marginally advanced, if that. I started sweating, worried that Liam didn’t have enough good years left to get the job done. Call Number Seven came in, from the nurse in my mother-in-law’s room. “Everything’s fine now,” she said. “Adele is cold, so I turned up the furnace. That’s all she needed.” Then Doug heard the nurse say to Adele, “Why don’t you hold the phone up to your other ear and see if you can hear your son?” Adele must have held the phone up to her better side, because she heard Doug reasonably well. She had nothing much to say. Just checking in on a Saturday night. “This is Douglas, your son,” Doug said. “Can you hear me now?” “I hear you fine,” she said, sounding awfully satisfied. “Now that I know how this thing works, I’m going to hang up and call you back…” Poor, poor Ireland. Posted by Katy on 12/30/07 Permalink Some Stuff I’ll Never Want For Christmas (#1182) My idea of a truly lousy Christmas present is an item that is only advertised during the holiday season, and completely falls off the consumer radar screen for the remainder of the year. Then, the next year, dang if it doesn’t make a comeback as clockworked as the McRib at McDonalds. (My father, dead lo these 24 years, loved the McRib. Even then, he’d get so mad when McDonalds pulled them off the market, only to bring them back a year or so later. But has McDonalds stopped jerking around their faithful McRib lovers? No, they have not…But I digress.) Here’s an old Christmas chesnut I hope to never crack again. One year, when my dear mother obviously had run out of fresh ideas like bathroom scales (hint, hint…) for each of us newlywed couples, she gave us Chia Pets. This year, the company heavily promoted its Chia Herb Garden, which really really reminds me of a Chia Pet so much that I’m tempted to give up herbs altogether. And maybe vitamins and minerals, too, just for spite. If I manage to escape receiving a Chia Herb Garden for my remaining Christmases, I still have to be alarmed about the possibility that this pesky item might be sprouting under some unsuspecting tree. Where on earth is a typical homeowner supposed to set up a contraption like this anyway? I’m pretty sure you have to buy kits from the AeroGarden company to fuel this high-dollar dirtless indoor salad grower, which makes the bags of pre-cut lettuce at Sam’s look awfully cheap. And space-saving, too. I’m grateful not to have received either of these items this year, because if I had, I might have thought it a good thing to also be opening one of these puppies. You know, so that I could practice all the choreographed moves I’ve learned from a month’s worth of TV ads in which all the guys and gals at a holiday party grab their Dirt Devil Broom Vacs to clean up a Christmas mess. Did I mention my mother gave me one of these some years back? People! I have never owned a more worthless tool, and believe me, I’ve owned a few. Vacuums suck and brooms sweep. The broom vac does neither. However, this year it comes in twelve designer colors, one sure to match the outfit of everyone at your party. So that’s something, eh? Any Christmas gifts you are absolutely thrilled not to have received? Posted by Katy on 12/27/07 Permalink My First-Ever Christmas Letter! (#1181) To friends, family, and fallible readers, “So you’re having second thoughts already?” Our darling daughter Carrie, now age 25, couldn’t resist poking fun at me. “Carrie, I have second thoughts about getting out of bed in the morning.” “We all do that, Mom. But you made it seem to us kids like skipping college wasn’t an option. And now you’ve signed up, and you’re considering dropping?” Darned if these adult kids of ours don’t have a lot of good points these days. This year has proven that in spades. In January, our youngest son, Kevin, soon to be 23, came home from Switzerland for a ten-day visit. If you remember, he studied Hospitality Management and Business Administration in Montreux for ten months, finishing a Bachelor’s degree he started here in Kansas City. It was almost great having him home. Would have been wonderful, really, if not for the whole jail thing. And then having to hire the high-dollar lawyer to push the case through the court system so that Kevin would be free to leave not only the state, but the country. If I remember right, he got picked up for expired plates the second night he was in town. (The stickers for the plates were in his glove box, where I’d placed them when I renewed the plates, but I’d forgotten to tell him that little detail. He also did not know that I had put his current proof of insurance in the same convenient spot.) But when the cops checked his ID, they saw there was a warrant out for his arrest, one that had just been issued the day before. Before he went to Switzerland, while working at a local hotel, he’d accidentally sold ciggies to a minor. I wonder how much minors get paid these days to be a part of a federal sting operation? So they towed his car, I guess. It’s hard to recall things that happened nearly a year ago, especially when you try to put the grisly details out of your mind. They hauled him first to a local podunk jail, from which he used his one phone call to contact his dad, and then extradited him to the county prison. The highlight of the evening was when Doug and Kevin held their hands up on opposite sides of the grimy glass, palm-to-palm. The low point was when Doug wrote the big, fat check. The year improved dramatically after that. Our 28-year-old son, Scott, had his first book published. The title, Ajax On Rails, has nothing to do with fastidious cleaning junkies using abrasive powders to scrub railroad tracks. I’ve tried to read it, but—perhaps because of my propensity for postponing my college education—I don’t seem to have sufficient numbers of firing neurons to grasp the gist of it. It’s absolutely brilliant and I believe it rose to Number One on Amazon for a period lasting several seconds. (Someone correct me if I’m wrong…) We hosted a book-signing party for Scott after Kevin’s unfortunate incarceration. Sometime during the evening, a guest pointed out the book’s lovely dedication, in which Scott had the wisdom and foresight to mention not only his beautiful wife, Brooke, but also both his parents by name. Even if that’s the only part of Ajax On Rails I ever understand, it worked for me. A bunch of other stuff happened after that. A lot of it had to do with Carrie’s upcoming wedding, which occurred in June. Maybe a bunch of stuff didn’t happen, I don’t know. It could be that I had long, laborious lists of stuff that should be happening—if the bride and her family were doing things according to the schedule presented in Bride’s magazine—but which didn’t actually happen until approximately three hours before the guests showed up. OK, that’s not fair. Carrie, who lived with us for nearly a year before her wedding, created the most darling of wall charts on a huge piece of poster board, which she attached to the back of her bedroom door with the kind of Scotch tape that doesn’t ever come off. I used to go up there and use the treadmill and obsess over that chart with its thousands of little squares meant to hold thousands of little check-marks of accomplishment, but were there any check-marks? Carrie is now into her second year teaching special ed kids in the inner city. But at the time the wall-chart was drawn, she was furiously busy with her challenging career, her new Master’s degree program, her long-distance engagement to Marc, attempting to live with her parents after many years on her own, and planning a wedding. I was only busy worried about the missing check marks. Kevin’s graduation in Switzerland was to occur two weeks before Carrie and Marc’s wedding, and honestly, we couldn’t afford to go. Besides, I’d be too nervous leaving the country with all those squares unchecked, you know what I mean? So we went. Made the decision almost at the very last minute, and I’m so glad we did. It was a whirlwind six-day trip, during which Doug and I took a panoramic train from Luzern all the way down to Montreux. There’s nothing better for an evil case of jet lag than a nice train ride. We even drank coffee in the diner car! By the time we reached Kevin, we were coffeed up and ready to roll. By the time the three of us got home again to Kansas City, Carrie had moved out and into her honeymoon apartment. She’d left the upstairs clean, so that Kevin could move directly in. We gave him two months to find some roommates and a job. He took an extra two weeks, which ain’t bad, huh? We scrambled to finish all the wedding stuff, including plans to use both an inside room and the rooftop of the downtown Kansas City Library (formerly the historic First National Bank Building) for Carrie and Marc’s reception. At the eleventh hour, our new meteorologist son-in-law (everyone should have one!) agreed with us that we needed to move the whole affair indoors. The forecast was too iffy to take a chance on dancing on the roof, unless we wanted to spring for some of those attendants who hold umbrellas over individual couples. You may be wondering about The Moms. They are both hanging on. Writing about them in a Christmas letter, though, would necessarily involve descriptions of falls and cognitive lapses and hazardous waste materials that would engage more of your senses than you probably want to devote at this time. Trust me on this. Doug has begun recording some of the fantastic music he’s written over the years (some tunes his own children have never heard!), using ProTools software on the Mac. I’m so excited for him to work on this project in earnest. Maybe someday soon, fallible readers will have a chance to win a copy of Doug’s CD! Doug and I are settling into the Empty Nesting thing for what seems like the last time. The doors have stopped spinning for the first season in many years. It’s a sad and happy feeling, the very essence of bittersweet. It’s a good thing we’re not only crazy, but crazy about each other. And I am second guessing my life. But, for me, that’s what Advent is all about. It’s like a month-long mircrocosm of an entire lifetime of searching, seeking, questioning, and yearning. This has been a tremendously busy and fulfilling year for the Raymond family. I could tell you some true tall tales you wouldn’t believe, but in the days leading up to Christmas, all the fairy tales and fish stories in the world can’t hold a candle to the Truth lying in a manger. May the most wonderful true tall tale ever told still your hearts like snow falling in an open field. And may you never second guess His amazing love. Posted by Katy on 12/22/07 Permalink Christmas Cop-Outs (#1180) So yesterday I went to see Mom and noticed that someone had given her a small poinsettia. She refuses all Christmas decorations except the two Scottish Santas, which she displays year round, but I thought maybe she’d like the idea of a plant. “Who gave you the poinsettia?” I asked. “The banker that keeps a few hours in here on Tuesdays, where I have my little savings account.” “Well, that was nice of her. I’ll just take the cellophane off so you can see it…” “No.” “No?” “I don’t want to see it.” Okay, then. Today, as if he inherited my mother’s genes but with a more pleasant attitude, Doug’s Christmas cop-out tendencies kicked in. I was eager to decorate, so he dragged the fake tree up from the basement and set it in the corner of the living room, plugging it in as if THAT would solve the problem of the ages. “Doug,” I called in to his office a few minutes later, “what exactly is meant by the term ‘pre-lit?’ All I know is there’s a clump of lights working on the top left, and another clump on the lower right. What are you planning to do about that?” “Nothing.” Boy, did he remind me of my mother. Even though a thick wall separated us, I could see him barracading his chest with his arms. “I thought maybe we’d call it ‘artistic’ and just go with it.” Can Christmas cop-out tendencies cross bloodlines? If so, I have reason to be afraid—very afraid. Posted by Katy on 12/14/07 Permalink Page 14 of 84 pages « First < 12 13 14 15 16 > Last »


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

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