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Shredded (#1091)

Sometimes I write about off-brand Triscuits because it’s the only thing I can think of at the moment that isn’t stressful. And it’s better to write about crackers than to eat them, especially if it takes eating a whole bunch of them to relieve the stress.

I know about the Triscuit Stress Relief Diet first hand, believe me. Five years ago, I landed in the hospital for what the doctor thought was a nasty bout of ischemic colitis, a fancy way to say “a stroke of the colon.” This five day episode involved more bags of IV fluid, pain, and blood than you want to know about, or than I want to remember. I couldn’t keep one bite of food down, I do recall that.

And the fact that in five days on nothing but IVs, I gained seven pounds!!! (Sorry, but that fact is dreadful enough to warrant a boatload of exclamation points.) When I got home from the hospital, I was to be extremely careful with what I ingested, lest the um…problem…recur. So I ate the only thing that tasted good: Triscuits. Lots and lots of Triscuits.

I gained another five pounds, but who was counting?

Four days after getting released from the hospital, I had an appointment with my gastroenterologist. That’s a REALLY fun word to type, which I did not know until just this second, but which I can now wholeheartedly recommend to you! Gastroenterologist. Oh, yeah. Just as much fun the second time!

While I was in the exam room, waiting for the good Dr. Gastroenterologist (wow!!) to come in, my cell phone rang. It was one of my siblings, saying I needed to go to my mother’s house right then, as she was having one of her meltdowns. (A horrible panic attack during which she believed she was dying right that second. She’d sweat and shake and yell and carry on for several hours, and then finally decide to die another day.) I held on to see the doc, but just barely.

A week later, I had a scheduled appointment with my opthalmologist, a follow-up to some eye problems that began when I had brain surgery the previous year. She became very alarmed that day when she detected swollen optic nerves, especially since those could indicate another brain tumor had sprouted. While she was writing an order for me to go “immediately” for an MRI of my head, my cell phone rang.

I needed to go to my mother’s house right then, as she was having one of her meltdowns. I held on at the eye doc’s office long enough to gather the paperwork and then ran out. When I got to Mom’s, I remember whispering to my sibs, “I may have another brain tumor. Just so you know…”

Things have gone down hill since then. Somehow, on this blog, the term “The Moms” came into existence. We moved my mother into assisted living first, five years ago, and then Doug’s mother, three years ago. We’ve cleared out and shut down two large houses with between thirty and forty-five years accumulation of stuff each.

We’ve been doing The Mama Shuffle ever since. I’ve eaten Triscuits. Lots of Triscuits. I’ve tried to be of good cheer, but it gets exhausting. You might as well know the truth. When I write about Triscuits, it’s actually code for “Help Me!”

Friday, we moved Doug’s mother into a new facility, one where she can get a higher level of care. It’s half as much space as she used to have, so we divided (if not conquered) her remaining possessions once again.

She’s having a difficult time adjusting. Today I’ll go over and sit with her through a meal, try to help her get to know some new people. Unfortunately, these facilities can be like high school. If you don’t make a stellar first impression, the other residents will write you off FAST. Adele is confused, can’t hear well even with the best of hearing aids, and sometimes blurts out her wishes in a socially inappropriate manner. We’re hoping she can find a friend or two to relate to, but time is of the essence.

My mother, though, wants her fair share. Yesterday, she had horribly high blood pressure and very high blood sugar and felt generally weird, so the nurse decided she needed to “take a little ambulance ride.” She even TOLD me that Adele had gotten attention three out of the last three days, so.

We spent the afternoon in the ER, where she introduced me to each new nurse and technician as her “know-it-all daughter.” In case you’ve got even a shredded Triscuit’s bit of doubt, she didn’t say this in a complimentary way. I decided to let her describe her own symptoms to the attendants, since she obviously did not want my involvement. When she told the nurse she felt “funny,” the nurse looked at me for elaboration.

I said, “Hey, she doesn’t want me speaking on her behalf. Good luck to you.”

The nurse said to my mother, “I can’t write down ‘funny.’ If I do, the doctor will be angry with me. You’ll have to use different words to describe your symptoms. Are you dizzy? Weak? Faint?”

Sorry. Funny was all the old gal had. Which of course wasn’t funny at all. I kept my mouth shut, though. I know when I’m beat.

Even though I had the exam room TV tuned to one of her afternoon favorites, Roseann, she became increasingly irate as the hours wore on that it was taking so long. She demanded I march myself out to that nurse’s station and tell them she was getting OFF that gurney that VERY instant and going home.

“No, Mom. You pulled that crap two weeks ago when we were here. If you go AMA on St. Joseph’s too often, they’re going to think you’re unhappy.”

“What’s AMA?”

“Against medical advice. You made Doug wheel you out of here the last time before the doc even wrote out his dismissal orders. The next time, they may point the ambulance on down the road, and then where would you be?”

“I don’t know. Baptist? Research? St. Mary’s?”

“Play nice, Mom. I’ll tell you this: if your EKG was too bad, they’d be in here working you over. I’ll bet there are people here worse off than you.”

“They’re making me wait too long! My back hurts! I’m hungry! I want to go home! And if someone doesn’t come to take me to pee, I’m going to EXPLODE!”

“OK, Mom. I’m pretty sure I can get someone to come if I say the word explode.”

“Good. And while you’re out there, see if you can find me some Triscuits.”

That makes two of us.

Posted by Katy on 05/15/07
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Irregulars (#1090)

It used to be the low, low price that attracted me.

Yeah, we were broke. Poor but proud, I suppose. Back when my kids were little, I’d say, “Go get the Toasted O’s and pour three bowlsful.” And the smart-aleck-du-jour, still too little to read, always answered, “How can we tell which box? Everything in the cupboards is yellow…”

He was right, of course. Good old Always Save brand. Yellow packages with black type. Understated graphics. Sleek, cool, urban chic. Nineteen cents per box for mac and cheese, baby. And believe me, my babies ate a LOT of mac and cheese.

I still buy the store brands. I’m spoiled that way, I guess. My very favorite is the Substitute Triscuits. A box of genuine Triscuits will cost you a pretty three hundred pennies, and I just can’t see it. I’m still out for a bargain, but now I buy the off brands for other reasons.

I went through a period of pitying the poor dears. Clearly, they’re rejects, unacceptable in genuine Triscuit circles—deformed, plus-sized or anorexic, some with unsightly fibrous tumors. It’s hard not to be on the side of the undercracker, and even though I can afford “better,” I choose the castoffs.

Once you get to know them and appreciate their unique personalities, you realize they’re way more fun than their lock-step counterpart crackers. Sometimes, I purchase my Wal-mart brand of Triscuits (called DoubleCross) for $1.33 and cannot wait to open up the box and see what I’ve got.

Who needs Cracker Jack when every box of off-brand crackers is its own surprise?

Always, the sizes, shapes, texture, and puffiness of the crackers is highly variable, unlike the perfection you’ll find with a box of “regular” Triscuits. If I needed Triscuits to make hors d’oeuvres for a party, I would buy the name brand, but for my personal edification? No way!

What could be better than reaching in and pulling out a cracker that’s fully twice the size of a regular Triscuit? I also thoroughly enjoy siphoning off all the splintery slivers. I can eat a lot of those slivers and have them barely add up to one whole Triscuit. Something about that gives me a thrill.

Sometimes, there’s not a drop of salt on a single cracker in the box. Now, that’s disturbing and if it happens to me, it’s grounds for returning the crackers. The only grounds I’ve found so far, but I have had to call them on it a couple times. More often, though, I get a fantastic box of extra-salty irregulars that I savor more than I ever could a regular old perfect Triscuit.

My favorite irregular of all? The cracker that got so full of hot air in the baking process that it’s convex. These luscious puppies easily split in two, doubling the enjoyment.

There’s NOTHING better than licking all the extra salt off a wafer-thin puffy split fake one-third-price store-brand Triscuit and then letting the delectible morsel melt in your mouth.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this. But since I have, I might as well add that my very favorite people are highly irregular, too.

Posted by Katy on 05/13/07
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That’s What I’ll Tell About Me! (#1089)

My lovely writing buddy Cynthia Ruchti has tagged me to reveal eight juicy tidbits about myself, for your edification of course.

So here’s the deal: I’ve been in self-revelatory mode here at fallible for 6.5 years! Is there really anything about me you still don’t know? Just in case, here goes.

1. I fell in love with my husband at first speak. That’s right. He had me at hello, and I’m not kidding. My beautiful friend Dorothy introduced us, and when I heard his rich bass voice, I KNEW. The fact that it took 2.5 years for him to know I lived does NOT matter. Especially not considering that it only took one actual date to convince him to propose. Don’t let your impressionable children read this story, unless you are willing to risk them being happily married for thirty years!

2. I once won $810.00 by penning a poem for a writing contest sponsored by KCMO radio here in Kansas City. The entrants were to write about why the Republican and/or Democratic National Conventions should be held that year in our town. I composed an eight stanza poem in a few hours, the most $$ I’ve ever made per hour. Plus, they called me in to the station to be interviewed on the air, which was a lot of fun.

3. I want to be an actress in my dotterage, if not sooner. I love old lady actresses, whether on commercials, the stage, or in the movies. I’m talented that way, and quite underutilized at the present time. I should add, though, that I recently had a feature role in a music video, produced by a friend of ours. Someday soon, it will be up on youtube. I’ll let you know when, but until then, I’ll leave you with this: I played a floozy.

4. I once interviewed Barry McGuire (with my two friends, who were the actual journalism students writing an article for the college newspaper), who sang the revolutionary song “Eve of Destruction” back in the sixties before becoming a Jesus Freak and performing with Second Chapter of Acts.

5. I am cousins with David McCallum, the Man from U.N.C.L.E. star who was born and raised in the same town (Kilsyth, Scotland) as my father. I have this information on good authority (my dead father’s) but unfortunately he neglected while he was alive to tell me exactly what the connection is. I’m certain it’s through my grandmother, whose maiden name was Mary Baillie. David, if you’re reading this, please email me! :)

6. I can carry a tune in a bucket, but with the herniated disks in my neck, the bucket must be very lightweight. Doug and I have sung duets at several weddings, and recently my daughter Carrie and I sang together (with Doug playing Irish whistles) in two of my nieces’ weddings. Also, Doug and I have written many worship songs together, some of which were sung by congregations as far and wide as the metro area.

7. I am living proof that a low-carb, higher protein, adequate fat diet is satisfying for the long term (more than seven years now!) and that managing one’s insulin response is absolutely key in losing and KEEPING OFF unwanted pounds. And, I’ll just add, in avoiding diabetes and heart disease, among other deadly illnesses.

8. For the life of me, I do not recall how I first decided to attempt to write a novel. I do know that my friend, author Nancy Moser, taught a fiction writing class at a junior college here, and invited me to sign up. I also know that she critiqued a chapter for each class member, and gave mine back to me with great recommendations for making another stab at it and resubmitting it to her for a second critique. In other words, my first attempt was actually an essay, the only form of writing I had experience in. Nancy was SO KIND to give me another crack at it. When I submitted my next attempt to her, she said, “Yes! You’re getting the idea.” I abandoned that story years ago, and have worked on learning the craft ever since.

That’s it for me, gentle readers! I’m not tagging anyone, but if you’d like to play on your own blog, let me know when you post by leaving me a comment!

Posted by Katy on 05/09/07
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Bare Naked Faces (#1088)

My good buddy Lisa Samson posted a compelling challenge on her blog today. She mentioned my name in her post, so how can I now fail to take the challenge?

I read her post too late this morning to have my picture taken sans make-up. And since we were fixin’ to get ready to see Dave Ramsey downtown, I had put on the works. I’m talking foundation, mascara, and lipstick, baby!

Now we’re home, and I’ve taken my face down to pure skin. This is the real, honest-to-goodness, 53.5 year old fallible Katy. As I am NOT a woman who’s afraid to be seen in public without make-up, I figured the Internet could handle the truth, too.

Anyone else want to do the same on your blog? Leave a comment and a link, and we’ll commiserate together. Um, I mean, celebrate our natural beauty.

Yeah. That’s what I meant! :)

Posted by Katy on 05/06/07
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When I Run, I Feel God’s Pleasure (#1087)

Have you ever participated in or watched others run in a marathon?

Until last Saturday, at the Country Music Marathon in Nashville, I sure hadn’t. And if it weren’t for our daughter Carrie deciding to train with her two cousins, Josie and Megan, I would have likely gone the rest of my life without experiencing it.

These three beautiful young women started running together months ago. They ran in snow, sometimes ice, sleet, drizzle, sub-zero temperatures, rain, tornadoes, and—when the weather got worse than that—indoors. Ha.

Josie and Megan have run in several marathons before. They are faster than Carrie, but she would not be deterred. She set her face like flint that she would go to Nashville and run with all her heart.

She finished! Twenty-six miles!! Doug and I flew down to watch and it was one of the most inspiring things I’ve ever seen.

One of the highlights: Along the route, bands were set up at regular points and played for hours at a time. One of the places where we predetermined we’d be waiting to cheer the girls on as they came by was directly in front of a large church. The worship band from the church was the designated music for that area, and they were fantastic.

Of the 30,000 runners that jogged past that church, at least one fourth of them raised their hands as they passed by, or pointed an index finger to the sky. They were at the nine-mile mark by then, and many were weary. But they acknowledged the Lord as the source of their strength. It was glorious!

My little girl made one of her personal dreams come true. We are so proud of her!

Posted by Katy on 05/04/07
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Getting To Know You, Getting To Know All About You (#1086)

Live long enough, and you’ll hear people identify themselves by just about every criteria imaginable.

“What sign are you?”

“I’m Capricorn. You?”

“I’m Aquarious.”

As much as I refuse to pigeon hole myself into a sign, I detest calling myself by the name of a medical condition even more.

“Are you Hyperinsulinemia?”

“Yeah. I’m Anacephalic Shock, too.”

“Oooh…bummer.”

I miss the old days, when people identified themselves as doctors or teachers or plumbers or housewives. Or by their level of education. Or how about by their ethnicity or their religion?

Give me a good old-fashioned Irish Catholic bartender any day, people. Those are the kind of salt-of-the-earth folks who don’t need to be defined by a disease process.

Today took the cake. Doug and I decided to peruse a couple houses on the bi-annual new homes tour here in KC. We only look at high-end houses, purely for the fun of it, not because we are in the market. We always go home thoroughly satisfied with what we’ve got.

Here in Kansas City, $1.5 million will still buy quite a lot of house, and that’s the price of the one we were in when I overheard two touring homeowners of the opposite sex introducing themselves to each other. (By the time we left, I think they’d gotten engaged.)

“Are you Tile?” one asked.

“I’m Slate,” the other said.

The man moved a little closer. “Ah, interesting. Are you, by any chance, Corian?”

“No. I’m Granite.” She reached out and touched his arm. “But I really love Corian…”

He smiled, his perfect teeth like drywall. Or plaster. Or porcelain. Whatever. “I just have to know: Are you Cherry?”

“Almost,” she whispered, her lips very near his. “I’m Red Oak.”

Identifying ourselves by construction materials? Slotting ourselves into individual value zones based on the substances with which we’re able to finish (God bless interest-only sub-prime loans) our McMansions? If things can get worse than this, I’d like to know how.

Maybe I’m just jealous. I, after all, am Painted Pine, Asphalt Shingle, and Linoleum.

How about you?

Posted by Katy on 04/29/07
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Unentitlement Mentality (#1085)

If you think this is going to be one of those right-wing Republican diatribes in which I go off on how my tax dollars support no end of entitlement programs and how it JUST ISN’T RIGHT, well. You’re wrong. Ha! I don’t often start a blog post by telling you you’re wrong, do I?

Hey, it’s Friday, and I’m feeling like kicking up my heels. :)

No, I’m not going to point fingers here, except at myself. And, technically, Doug’s self, too. And maybe my own kids, but not yours, so don’t worry! You are safe, but of course free to apply anything I might say here to your own situation. I’m generous that way.

There’s a great article over at MSN Money by an personal finance writer I admire, Liz Pulliam Weston. I haven’t read the whole thing, because I didn’t want it to influence what I write here too much. But the gist of it is this: She suggests if we want to create a fantastically workable budget for ourselves, we might consider basing it on how our parents lived back in the day.

In other words, which things do we now consider ourselves entitled to (we call them necessities, by the way) that either didn’t exist at all back then, or were considered luxuries only the wealthy could afford?

I won’t lie. My family always had a honkin’ console TV, in a nice walnut cabinet which blended attractively with the used furniture Mom and Dad purchased when they got married in 1950. That’s right—used. They got a green couch, matching club chair, coffee table, dining room table, chairs, china cabinet, double bed and dresser for $500, and they were set.

And I mean set for life. When my mother moved out of her last house five years ago, I inherited the green chair. Of course, it had been reupholstered many times over the years, but you did not get rid of a chair with good bones for want of new fabric. My daughter uses the dresser that was my father’s (made in the depression era) and several others of their “original” used pieces survive, as well.

A TV, though, was a new purchase. And we didn’t have just one, either. We had a tiny black and white portable in the breakfast room, where we ate all our meals. Once a week, it got turned on during dinner and we watched Let’s Make A Deal together over fish sticks or spaghetti. (I always rooted for Door Number Three, don’t ask me why.)

So there you have it. A television was our only non-necessity. Unless you count a washing machine. We had no dryer the entire time I lived at home. I’ve hung more diapers on the line outside than I can count—and that was before I had my own kids (who also largely wore cloth diapers…)

Until I was ten, we had no car. NO CAR, people! We lived on the bus line so my father (who never learned to drive) could get to work, and near church, school, and the grocery store so we could walk there every day. And yes, we walked to the grocery store EVERY DAY. Mom always had a pram with a new baby to push. The back of the pram had a metal basket retrofitted to hold one paper grocery sack. The heaviest bag went into it.

One bag of groceries per day might have cut it, even for a large family, but we also often had to carry Dad’s dry-cleaned suits home from the cleaners! So it took the whole pack of us, every day. On pay day, we celebrated. Mom pushed the pram containing the carton of 16-oz glass Coke bottles, our big treat for the month. Then Liz, Mary, and I each hefted a small bag of food.

Twice a year, when Easter or School Picture Day beckoned, we’d go into the Jay Kay Shop. Mrs. Jay Kay helped Mom choose one new outfit for each of us to add to our sketchy wardrobes. My mother would not purchase cheap clothing or shoes for us, period. Quality all the way! So we had VERY few clothes.

Of course, we wore uniforms to school. Navy blue jumpers with white blouses and saddle oxfords. The jumpers could go awhile without being laundered, but those white blouses got put through their paces, let me tell you. Iron City, every day of their poor overworn lives. And the saddles? Polished EVERY night, and not only that. The shoe laces were removed and SCRUBBED BY HAND on a bar of soap at least twice per week. Dirty shoelaces were a mark of particularly poor breeding, and while I suppose we were lower middle-class, we had instilled into us the Pride of Shoelace Ownership.

Houses were small and crowded. Three kids per bedroom? Normal. No such thing as privacy, unless you count a single dresser drawer as “having your own space.” Closets were unbelivably minuscule in those days. If we’d had more than two outfits per season and more than three pairs of shoes (school shoes, play shoes, and church shoes), times three kids to a room, those puppies would have overflowed!

It goes without saying that Mom washed her own dishes, peeled potatoes every night with a sharp knife, and made everything from scratch. I was married before I even knew there was such a thing as “instant mashed potatoes” or “instant pudding.” I can literally count on ONE HAND the number of times my parents took us out to eat when I was growing up. (Now, my grandparents, that was different. They were rich, and did give us some of the things my parents couldn’t.)

Vacations? Not so much. OK, once, to the Ozarks. I was in the fourth grade. It was a blast. I had a two piece (not bikini, but still) pink swimsuit and I thought I was something. Got a horrible sunburn because I didn’t know any better than to “lay out” for most of an afternoon. My parents didn’t know any better, either! Heck, they’d never been on a vacation!

One telephone, pink princess, in the breakfast room. My father believed that phones were created for “emergencies only.” He was shocked when his daughters wanted to talk to their friends on the phone at night after being with them all day. I can’t tell you how many times he’d walk through the kitchen in disgust and say, “What’s that pink thing growing out of your ear? Get off the phone! There might be an emergency!”

Books were a luxury we could not afford except for special occasions, but reading was a necessity for all of us. The public library was my favorite place in the universe. I could not fathom my good fortune when the librarian informed me I’d be able to check out eight books at a time! Why, that number would last me for…eight days! My poor mother had to walk me there (before car) to get my stack of books, a mile each way, pushing the pram and with the non-reading tots in tow, OFTEN. If I could canonize her Saint Mom, I would.

There are a million and one other things my parents managed without. A gym membership would have been laughable (they got all the exercise they needed, thanks…), and a power mower too much to maintain (Dad pushed a rotary mower and never complained…). Until I was thirteen, the house had a single room air conditioner in the 8x10 family room. On very hot nights in those upstairs bedrooms (maybe 40 nights per year), my sisters and I, whose beds were against the three windowed walls, slept with our heads in the sills, the attic fan pulling in refreshing roasted air.

My parents did not think they were poor, and in fact, they weren’t. They chose to spend their money on Catholic schools, an excellent value for their dollar, by the way. They paid off a twenty-year mortgage in eleven years. The house only cost $17,000, but doubling up on payments still represented a considerable accomplishment.

I don’t want to ditch my car or my microwave or my DVD player. What I do want, though, is to be more honest about what’s really necessary in this life. What’s truly valuable. What I do want is to spend less time and money gathering stuff unto myself, cleaning it, displaying it, sorting it, storing it, cateloguing it, filing it, wasting it, and then throwing it away.

What I do want is to have more time and money (and strength!) available to help those with less.

Jesus had those two female friends named Mary and Martha, remember? Sisters. One of them liked to throw lavish parties but she got worn out easily trying to keep up with it all, especially when Mary sat down for a spell to visit with Jesus.

The Lord had to let Martha know that while all her frenzied party preparations were OK, her sister Mary had chosen the “better part.” And then He said, “and it won’t be taken from her.”

I’ve still got so much to learn. In thinking back to the sacrificial way my parents were content to live, I’ve got to ask myself: In my own quest to acquire that to which I’m obviously “entitled,” have I missed out on the Better Part?

Because He’s the last thing in the world I’d want taken from me.

Posted by Katy on 04/27/07
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Toe Gross-Out! (#1084)

I can handle a lot, people. Bodily functions, as I’m sure you’ve realized by now, do not upset me. Blood, sweat, tears, and assorted other excretions and secretions are par for my children-and-mother-intense existence.

OK, there a few things I’m not overly comfortable with. I adore the TV show “House,” but when they show a patient’s skull being screwed into a frame and bolted to the gurney, well. I once faced the possibility of that very prospect, and believe me, I had to have a prescription of Xanax on hand just to imagine it.

That’s right. If my brain tumor had continued to grow, I would have been a perfect candidate for the “gamma knife,” a sharp beam of targeted radioactive material which can easily miss its mark and fry one’s intellect unless the head is screwed down.

Thank God the tumor remained too small, and traditional open brain surgery was required! Give me a good-old fashioned incision any day! Holes, and stitches, and drains, oh my! But please, no screws.

Apart from that, the only major problem I have related to the body and the care thereof is this: I hate toes. And not just any toes. Old people toes. Toes deformed by bunions, corns, callouses, and ingrown nails are repulsive, but the WORST THING EVER is fungus! And bizarrely thick toe nails that appear to be contructed out of material more substantive than the siding on my house.

My mother is obsessed with her Doctor of Podiatry, the guy who makes rounds at the Funny Farm and clips the old folks’ toe nails.

“I can’t wait for his visits,” she reports. “Dr. Cho always asks about my broken arm. He’s just the nicest man.”

“But, your arm? I thought he did your toenails…” I say. (Even typing “did your toenails” makes me gag a little.)

“Katy, a good toenail man will be interested in the whole body.”

Oh, dear Lord.

“And besides, on the day he comes—make sure I wrote it on my calendar, will you?—it’s a social occasion. We all gather in the activity room and—”

“Please don’t tell me you circle up and watch each other having your toenails chiseled? PLEASE…”

“What’s wrong with that? About eight of us at a time are called down to the room. The chairs are in a circle near the fireplace…”

Dear, dear Lord.

Doug’s mother is equally toe-nail-minded. We’re moving her to a new facility in the next couple weeks, where she can get a higher level of care. One of the concerns with this type of move is that she find some new friends, people who share her interests and abilities.

So Doug and his sisters took her to visit a couple of places that had come recommended. The director purposely sent some of the “with-it” residents over to speak with Adele during lunch, to introduce themselves and make her feel comfortable.

“I’ve been living here nearly two years,” one nice lady said. “I really like it. One of my hobbies is to study the lives of the First Ladies. I even get to make presentations about them to the other residents—”

“Yes, but what day does the toenail doctor come?” Adele blurted out. “Because mine are really getting out of hand.”

I gotta go. The gagging has gotten the best of me.

(Hat tip to Girls Write Out for introducing this disgusting subject.)

Posted by Katy on 04/25/07
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Date Night (#1083)

(Warning! Warning! Several bodily functions disgustingly discussed herein! Read on at your own risk! But don’t say you weren’t warned!)

Last night was date night.

I know. We’re really romantic for a couple with thirty years of marriage behind us, aren’t we? So in tune with each other’s needs, so aware when the other craves a little break from the routine, a bit of time in which to do nothing more—or less—than be refreshed and renewed in the essence of each other’s company.

We spent ours in the ER with my mother, who—you might as well know—went Commando.

That’s right. It should be enough that for the past 18 years, since the dreadful fall up an icy curb in which Mom shattered both her elbows, she hasn’t worn a bra. No protests or burn piles were involved in Mom banishing the bra. She’s never been liberated, then or now. She just threw the darned thing in the trash and said good riddance.

So we deal. A braless mother is not the end of the world, people. We have learned to purchase blouses for her that help to prevent her bralessness from becoming common knowledge when she’s out and about, but is she concerned with such conventional niceties? No, she is not.

I have always remained hopeful, though, that no matter how long she lived, she’d wear panties.

In August, it will be two years since the horrible fall which caused Mom’s permanently broken humerus. When the occupational therapist got down to teaching Mom how to pull up her panties with one arm, I feared that the old gal would throw in the panty towel forever. But she persevered and all this time has managed quite well to continue to be underweared.

Last night the fire department called to say they’d gotten her into a chair after a nasty fall in which she managed to crash herself, her walker, and a tall fan on a stand onto the floor. To the ER nurse she said, “We were all tangled up together, the three of us. I guess you could say it was a…” And then I think she meant to say, because of her fabulous sense of humor, “menage-a-trois” (place accents correctly in your minds, please). But instead she glanced up at a sign on the wall and said, “I guess you could say it was a…triage.”

I knew what she meant. I always know what she means. The nurse did look at her a little funny, though.

It became clear during the course of the exam that she’s abandoned panties for the duration. I’d suspected as much in recent weeks, but the clincher comes when the pantyless person no longer expresses remorse or regret for their condition, when it becomes matter-of-fact and as ho-hum as yesterday’s coffee.

They took her for x-rays of her left hand, her right foot, and her right pelvic area. Nothing broken, thank God, just a badly bruised Mama chick. While waiting for the results of the tests (and I’ll just throw in here that between Doug’s mom and mine, we’ve tallied four falls in the past week alone), I came down with a violently painful gas attack.

Gas is a subject of endless fascination with my mother, whereas if I even said the word “gas” to Doug’s mom, she would croak of embarassment. Saying the word gas to my mother makes her feel included, like you really, really love and accept her for who she is. And like you trust her with your shortcomings, your weaknesses, and your hopes and dreams for a prosperous future.

But in describing my situation to her, I went too far.

“Oh, my gosh! I am in excruciating pain here!”

“Katy, what is it?” she asked, genuinely concerned, which is good for her because it helps minimize her own complaints. I was only thinking of her, after all. (That’s what date nights are for…)

“Mom! It’s horrible! Doug, it’s that thing that happens, you know? When a bunch of gas gets trapped and accumulates around an ovary….”

“An OVARY!” Mom exclaimed. “If I had EVER said the word OVARY to my husband, why! He would have dropped dead on the SPOT!”

“But, Mom,” I said, trying to calm her agitation, “he did drop dead on the spot. Twenty-three years ago today, in fact.”

“Oh…I hadn’t thought of that. I do think of it several times throughout the year, but I hadn’t actually thought of it today. But I’ll tell you one thing I’ve thought of. No husband wants to hear the word ovary, EVER.”

“What am I supposed to say, then? I don’t have a uterus…”

“UTERUS!!! If I had EVER said the word UTERUS to my husband…”

“I know, Mom. He would have dropped dead on the spot.”

“That’s right. Why, I didn’t even know what those things WERE, and I still don’t, actually. We didn’t need to know those words, and we sure didn’t need to say them.”

“OK, Mom. I’ve got a word for you. How about PANTIES? Do you know what THOSE are?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Will you PLEASE start wearing them so we don’t have to have this conversation EVER, EVER again?”

She hesitated for a moment. “I’ll think about it. But I’m not going to lie to you. It’s probably not going to happen.”

That, my friends, is what date night’s really all about. Closeness, shared feelings, intimacy.

And even, for some folks, an unapologetic absence of panties.

Posted by Katy on 04/20/07
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DNR (#1082)

In the end, the decision fell to me.

Twenty-three years ago today, before anyone could imagine that both the Oklahoma City bombings and the Waco tragedy would eventually mar this date, my father died.

There were no stand-offs. No gunfire. No terrorists. Just an early morning visit by my father’s doctor, who had operated on him in a last ditch effort in the middle of the previous night, to no avail.

The good doctor caught me in the hall as I arrived that morning, the first in my family to greet the grim reality.

“He will not live the day,” he said. “You have a decision to make, and I need to know now. Do you want us to call a Code Blue and attempt to revive him when his heart stops beating, or not?”

In the end, the decision fell to me.

Back in the day, we didn’t have advanced directives. The relationships among the patient, the doctor, and the family members were such that we could have these conversations, brutal though they were. We took each other at our word, respected each other, trusted that we had the best interest of the patient at heart.

If you could have seen my father, well. He had a six inch wide bruise across the front of his neck, apparently a bleed from a spontaneously dissected carotid artery. He’d complained of a terrible sore throat for weeks, and was finally hospitalized two days before his death because he could no longer swallow his medications, necessary to manage his heart disease, high blood pressure, and diabetes.

Once safely within shouting distance of the cardiac ICU, he suffered a massive heart attack, followed by cardiogenic shock.

“I need to put your wishes in the chart,” the doctor said. “Unless you make him a do-not-rescusitate, we’ll have to call a code. What do you want me to do?”

In the end, the decision fell to me.

In the wee hours, we’d each spoken to Dad one-by-one before they took him into surgery. I spent my sixty seconds telling Dad that the chances of him recovering were next to none. I told him his time had run out, his gambling days were over, the game had turned against him, and that he needed to make a choice.

“Give your heart to Jesus, Dad. There’s still time for this one thing. Let me pray with you.”

He could not speak, but nodded. I prayed aloud and he squeezed my hand. I left his bedside knowing he wouldn’t be with us long, but that he’d be with the Savior forever.

The next morning after talking to the doc, I went into my father’s room.

“Do you remember your prayer last night, Dad?” I asked. “Squeeze my hand if you remember.”

He remembered.

In the end, you see, the most important decision of all still fell to him.

Posted by Katy on 04/19/07
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Taking It Personally (#1081)

In light of yesterday’s carnage on the campus of Virginia Tech, I keep coming back to a recurring theme not only in my own heart, but in my writing, as well.

It was driven home to me again this morning as I heard interviewed a young student named Derek, whose German professor and more than half his classmates were gunned down before his eyes, and who—even though he himself had been shot in the shoulder—helped to barricade the room once the killer made an exit.

Derek said more than once during his comments that he wanted to “go forward with his life.”

I understand the concept of “going on with life,” which to me could mean something as elementary as putting one foot in front of the other. Something as ambitious as, let’s say, getting out of bed in the morning.

But how does a human being who has witnessed such horrors “go forward”? How do they fully embrace the goals and dreams and loves that formerly meant the world to them? Are there things from which the heart cannot recover?

I know that, in Christ, there is healing and redemption and forgiveness and grace. Without these benefits of His salvation, I could not have endured the few truly horrible events that have happened in my own lifetime.

Still, Derek expressed a hope to actually forget that yesterday ever happened. I don’t think that’s possible, but I will pray for him and all the others, that they are someday, somehow able to move forward.

It won’t be anytime soon. It can’t be. It shouldn’t be. But someday, somehow, by the mercies of God.

Posted by Katy on 04/17/07
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I’m Dreaming Of A White April 14 (#1080)

Last night, the most ENORMOUS snowflakes we’ve ever seen (and I’ve lived here my whole life) fell in our own backyard.

It’s so crazy here in Kansas City, weather-wise, that a group of environmentalists who’d scheduled their symposium on global warming to meet at a park today had to move the festivities inside because of, well…global freezing.

Both Doug and Carrie awakened today, took a look outside at the snow-laden fir trees, and actually expected PRESENTS. Pathetically Pavlovian, don’t you think? I may have to make a run to Target just to get them over the psychological hurdle!

By tomorrow, the weather people say, it will be in the 60s. Mind you, they’ve been saying that for weeks. I might have the tiniest shred of trust left in them, if not for this comment offered on the local forecast last night.

“If it keeps snowing heavily, you’ll see some accumulation. If it lets up, you probably won’t.” Ya think?

By the way, have I mentioned that our darling daughter is marrying a meteorologist? Should one family be allowed to have this much fun?

Posted by Katy on 04/14/07
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Party Down, Dudes (#1079)

Doug and I enjoy throwing a good blow-out party every now and again. In fact, at least 3 times per year we host a doozy. And I’m not talking regular holidays here, folks. Those go without mentioning.

Since August, we’ve had three huge events here on Rolling Hills Road. We had a big going-away party for our youngest son, Kevin, before he left for Switzerland. Then we threw a book-launching party for our oldest son, Scott, when his first book hit the shelves. (“Ajax on Rails.” If you want to know what that means, look it up on Amazon!)

A mere week after that party, we welcomed fifty or so people to a surprise 50th birthday for one of our dearest friends, Steve. He thought he was coming to Scott’s book-launching and was TOTALLY surprised, to the point that he didn’t show up for church the next day because he couldn’t go to sleep after all the excitement.

You know what all these parties have in common? To prepare, I dust. And when I dust, I move stuff. And when I move stuff, I forget I ever had it and some of that stuff I forget I ever had is GOOD STUFF.

The most worrisome casualties of my propensity to move stuff are the books in my TBR pile. If you have a to-be-read pile of your own, you know what I mean. It’s sacrosanct, isn’t it? It’s in an order. Books move to the top of it, or are added to the bottom. I’ve promised author friends of mine that their newest release has finally “made it into the TBR pile,” and then—months later!—it comes to my attention that somewhere along the way, I had a party.

I’ve tried, when prepping for a party, to move the excessive pile of books onto the bookshelf in the corner of the bedroom, in some kind of systematic way which would trigger my memory to return those selfsame books to the bedside table at shindig’s end. But, no.

Today I read on another blog (Lisa Samson’s) that a fallible reader (hat tip to Carrie K!) received a copy of Francine Prose’s “Reading Like A Writer” for Christmas, and how excellent a book it is.

“Wait a minute!” I said, to no one there. (And no one heard at all, not even the chair.) “I have that book! I got it for Christmas, too, and it was nearly to the top of my TBR pile when….I threw a blasted party!”

Now I’ve retrieved Reading Like A Writer from the deep, dark recesses of my bookshelf, where it might have languished nigh unto forever, and it’s resting comfortably on my pillow.

Honestly, that’s the safest place for a wannabe-read-book in the whole wide world.

Any TBR books you’ve misplaced recently? How do you keep tabs on those puppies?

Posted by Katy on 04/13/07
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And She’ll Be In Scotland Before Ye (#1078)

I am happy to announce that long-time fallible reader Chris(tine), she of the maiden name “Duncan,” has been randomly chosen by my sleeping husband (whom I instructed to point to one of my fingers, each of which had been assigned a commenter’s name) to receive a free copy of Liz Curtis Higg’s book, My Heart’s In The Lowlands.

I predict, Chris(tine), that before you’re many pages in, you’ll be more in love with the land of your ancestry than you could have ever imagined. Enjoy!

And again, Liz, thanks so much for being here with us!

Posted by Katy on 04/13/07
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You Take The High Road, And I’ll Take The Low Road… (#1077)

Whose Celtic heart doesn’t thrill at the very thought of the mystical, misty highlands of Scotland? I know mine does. But when Liz Curtis Higgs, the premiere author of Scottish historical novels, published a non-fiction book called “My Heart’s In The Lowlands,” I had to know more.

This book is an armchair travel guide, but after reading it, I’m taking it one step further. I’m calling it A Travelogue With A Passenger’s Side. Liz designed the book with you in mind, and I do mean YOU. The two of you, sitting side-by-side, in a tiny hired (rental) car, galavanting in the most fantastic country on the planet.

“Lowlands” reads like a ten-day-long road trip in which you’re soaking up atmosphere with the friendliest author ever. She’s chatting you up, pointing out the landmarks she’s seen before, and exclaiming over new ones. You’re begging for a wee little bathroom break, and she’s saying, “Can you wait, dearie, till I check out the six-hundred-year-old headstones in this cemetery over here?” You agree to hold on, and are richly rewarded with scones and tea at the next stop.

By the end of your bookish travels, you realize what wonderful meandering chums you and Liz make. If you can’t hop on a real plane bound for Scotland right then (which I highly recommend), you can always turn back to Page One and imagine your sublime journey with Liz all over again.

I recently visited with Liz about her Scottish novels, her trips to Caledonia, and “My Heart’s In The Lowlands.”

Katy: Which came first, the novels or the trips?

Liz: In 1996, my husband and I celebrated our 10th anniversary by doing a 10-day tour covering much of Scotland—not hard to do in a country roughly the size of Indiana! I had a vague idea of the story I wanted to tell, but intentionally didn’t do much research in advance of that first trip.

Katy: Were you looking for a precise village in which to set your stories? Did you have that “I’ll know it when I see it” approach?

Liz: I wanted to feel my way around the country and discover the area that felt most like “home,” listening only to my heart and to the Lord. The guidebooks suggested that most tourists skip the lowlands area known as Dumfries and Galloway in their mad dash to the highlands. So, of course, THAT was the part I wanted to see first!

Katy: I have to say, in my three trips to Scotland, I’ve not been farther south than Edinburgh and Glasgow, but like many tourists, I’ve seen much of the highlands.

Liz: The lowlands do not disappoint! Galloway has an unspoilt, non-touristy quality about it…

Katy: Oooh, that’s what I love best.

Liz: Green, rolling farmland dotted with sheep, and charming villages full of real people, going about their daily tasks. On the weekends, you’ll find tourists, of course, but on a Wednesday in Galloway, you just might have the place to yourself!

Katy: It’s awfully barren and bleak in dear old Scotland, don’t you think? Doesn’t muted and misty take you down a few notches?

Liz: Believe it or not, I love grey skies and rain clouds on the horizon…

Katy: That reminds me of my favorite Scottish joke. The tourist is asking the tour guide to forecast the weather. The guide says, “If you can see that mountain over there, it’s about to rain. If you can’t see it, it IS raining.”

Liz: Exactly! Anyway, bright sunny days have little appeal for me—on either side of the pond. On a dreich (bleak, dismal) day, I’m much more productive.

Katy: Obviously, it’s working for you! You found the perfect setting for your historical novels, did tons of research, and the first in your Scottish novel series came out in 2003. Tell us a bit about the “Heart for Scotland” book tour you took that year.

Liz: I put together that solo tour of Christian bookstores a mere six months after the first novel came out. At that point, the people I met were more curious readers than eager fans! Now, after four historical novels and my travel guide, I’m developing a small but loyal following among Scottish readers. They seem rather amazed—and very touched—that an American would care so much about their country. Besides introducing them to the story of Leana, Jamie, and Rose, sharing my faith was a big part of the “Heart for Scotland” tour, and a big part of why I keep going back. I’ve had the joy of speaking in community centers and store fronts, tea rooms and movie theatres, living rooms and church basements. Organized religion is struggling, but those who know and love Jesus can be found everywhere.

Katy: It’s one thing to speak in all those places. After all, I once heard you say in a radio interview that you can “speak two hours without a subject”...

Liz: That sounds like me!

Katy: But can you really drive on those crazy roads?

Liz: The roads in Dumfries and Galloway are not nearly so treacherous as some of the highland single-track roads that cling to the side of mountains—

Katy: Pass me the paper bag. I’m hyperventilating.

Liz: But it WAS daunting my first time behind the wheel. Now, after nine driving trips in Scotland, I feel right at home, though for the first few minutes I say aloud, “Left, left, left…” One thing that helps is everyone ELSE is driving on the left side, too! From my perspective, you haven’t really seen Scotland if you’ve seen it through the window of a tour bus.

Katy: Well, when I read “My Heart’s In The Lowlands,” I sure didn’t feel like I was on a bus! It was just you and me, dearie, white-knuckling it to the next castle and praying we wouldn’t encounter any 18-wheel lorries on the narrow path!

Liz: I’m glad you felt like you were taking the trip with me. I’ve read other travel guides and wanted to make mine more personal, more friendly, and more FUN…

Katy: Oh, it was fun, all right! I can’t count how many times you had me crying and laughing, all on the same page.

Liz: I’m tickled you felt that way as we traveled over the hills and down the glens together. In virtually every reader letter I’ve received, they talk about enjoying when “we” went here and “we” went there—just exactly the reaction I hoped and prayed for when I wrote it!

Katy: Thank you, dear Liz, for joining us here at fallible today! And you readers, here’s your chance to win a free copy of “My Heart’s In The Lowlands” by leaving a comment on this post. Whatever you do, read this book. I promise you’ll be hooked on Scotland Forever, and trust me, that’s a very good thing.

Posted by Katy on 04/10/07
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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	Shredded (#1091) Sometimes I write about off-brand Triscuits because it’s the only thing I can think of at the moment that isn’t stressful. And it’s better to write about crackers than to eat them, especially if it takes eating a whole bunch of them to relieve the stress. I know about the Triscuit Stress Relief Diet first hand, believe me. Five years ago, I landed in the hospital for what the doctor thought was a nasty bout of ischemic colitis, a fancy way to say “a stroke of the colon.” This five day episode involved more bags of IV fluid, pain, and blood than you want to know about, or than I want to remember. I couldn’t keep one bite of food down, I do recall that. And the fact that in five days on nothing but IVs, I gained seven pounds!!! (Sorry, but that fact is dreadful enough to warrant a boatload of exclamation points.) When I got home from the hospital, I was to be extremely careful with what I ingested, lest the um…problem…recur. So I ate the only thing that tasted good: Triscuits. Lots and lots of Triscuits. I gained another five pounds, but who was counting? Four days after getting released from the hospital, I had an appointment with my gastroenterologist. That’s a REALLY fun word to type, which I did not know until just this second, but which I can now wholeheartedly recommend to you! Gastroenterologist. Oh, yeah. Just as much fun the second time! While I was in the exam room, waiting for the good Dr. Gastroenterologist (wow!!) to come in, my cell phone rang. It was one of my siblings, saying I needed to go to my mother’s house right then, as she was having one of her meltdowns. (A horrible panic attack during which she believed she was dying right that second. She’d sweat and shake and yell and carry on for several hours, and then finally decide to die another day.) I held on to see the doc, but just barely. A week later, I had a scheduled appointment with my opthalmologist, a follow-up to some eye problems that began when I had brain surgery the previous year. She became very alarmed that day when she detected swollen optic nerves, especially since those could indicate another brain tumor had sprouted. While she was writing an order for me to go “immediately” for an MRI of my head, my cell phone rang. I needed to go to my mother’s house right then, as she was having one of her meltdowns. I held on at the eye doc’s office long enough to gather the paperwork and then ran out. When I got to Mom’s, I remember whispering to my sibs, “I may have another brain tumor. Just so you know…” Things have gone down hill since then. Somehow, on this blog, the term “The Moms” came into existence. We moved my mother into assisted living first, five years ago, and then Doug’s mother, three years ago. We’ve cleared out and shut down two large houses with between thirty and forty-five years accumulation of stuff each. We’ve been doing The Mama Shuffle ever since. I’ve eaten Triscuits. Lots of Triscuits. I’ve tried to be of good cheer, but it gets exhausting. You might as well know the truth. When I write about Triscuits, it’s actually code for “Help Me!” Friday, we moved Doug’s mother into a new facility, one where she can get a higher level of care. It’s half as much space as she used to have, so we divided (if not conquered) her remaining possessions once again. She’s having a difficult time adjusting. Today I’ll go over and sit with her through a meal, try to help her get to know some new people. Unfortunately, these facilities can be like high school. If you don’t make a stellar first impression, the other residents will write you off FAST. Adele is confused, can’t hear well even with the best of hearing aids, and sometimes blurts out her wishes in a socially inappropriate manner. We’re hoping she can find a friend or two to relate to, but time is of the essence. My mother, though, wants her fair share. Yesterday, she had horribly high blood pressure and very high blood sugar and felt generally weird, so the nurse decided she needed to “take a little ambulance ride.” She even TOLD me that Adele had gotten attention three out of the last three days, so. We spent the afternoon in the ER, where she introduced me to each new nurse and technician as her “know-it-all daughter.” In case you’ve got even a shredded Triscuit’s bit of doubt, she didn’t say this in a complimentary way. I decided to let her describe her own symptoms to the attendants, since she obviously did not want my involvement. When she told the nurse she felt “funny,” the nurse looked at me for elaboration. I said, “Hey, she doesn’t want me speaking on her behalf. Good luck to you.” The nurse said to my mother, “I can’t write down ‘funny.’ If I do, the doctor will be angry with me. You’ll have to use different words to describe your symptoms. Are you dizzy? Weak? Faint?” Sorry. Funny was all the old gal had. Which of course wasn’t funny at all. I kept my mouth shut, though. I know when I’m beat. Even though I had the exam room TV tuned to one of her afternoon favorites, Roseann, she became increasingly irate as the hours wore on that it was taking so long. She demanded I march myself out to that nurse’s station and tell them she was getting OFF that gurney that VERY instant and going home. “No, Mom. You pulled that crap two weeks ago when we were here. If you go AMA on St. Joseph’s too often, they’re going to think you’re unhappy.” “What’s AMA?” “Against medical advice. You made Doug wheel you out of here the last time before the doc even wrote out his dismissal orders. The next time, they may point the ambulance on down the road, and then where would you be?” “I don’t know. Baptist? Research? St. Mary’s?” “Play nice, Mom. I’ll tell you this: if your EKG was too bad, they’d be in here working you over. I’ll bet there are people here worse off than you.” “They’re making me wait too long! My back hurts! I’m hungry! I want to go home! And if someone doesn’t come to take me to pee, I’m going to EXPLODE!” “OK, Mom. I’m pretty sure I can get someone to come if I say the word explode.” “Good. And while you’re out there, see if you can find me some Triscuits.” That makes two of us. Posted by Katy on 05/15/07 Permalink Irregulars (#1090) It used to be the low, low price that attracted me. Yeah, we were broke. Poor but proud, I suppose. Back when my kids were little, I’d say, “Go get the Toasted O’s and pour three bowlsful.” And the smart-aleck-du-jour, still too little to read, always answered, “How can we tell which box? Everything in the cupboards is yellow…” He was right, of course. Good old Always Save brand. Yellow packages with black type. Understated graphics. Sleek, cool, urban chic. Nineteen cents per box for mac and cheese, baby. And believe me, my babies ate a LOT of mac and cheese. I still buy the store brands. I’m spoiled that way, I guess. My very favorite is the Substitute Triscuits. A box of genuine Triscuits will cost you a pretty three hundred pennies, and I just can’t see it. I’m still out for a bargain, but now I buy the off brands for other reasons. I went through a period of pitying the poor dears. Clearly, they’re rejects, unacceptable in genuine Triscuit circles—deformed, plus-sized or anorexic, some with unsightly fibrous tumors. It’s hard not to be on the side of the undercracker, and even though I can afford “better,” I choose the castoffs. Once you get to know them and appreciate their unique personalities, you realize they’re way more fun than their lock-step counterpart crackers. Sometimes, I purchase my Wal-mart brand of Triscuits (called DoubleCross) for $1.33 and cannot wait to open up the box and see what I’ve got. Who needs Cracker Jack when every box of off-brand crackers is its own surprise? Always, the sizes, shapes, texture, and puffiness of the crackers is highly variable, unlike the perfection you’ll find with a box of “regular” Triscuits. If I needed Triscuits to make hors d’oeuvres for a party, I would buy the name brand, but for my personal edification? No way! What could be better than reaching in and pulling out a cracker that’s fully twice the size of a regular Triscuit? I also thoroughly enjoy siphoning off all the splintery slivers. I can eat a lot of those slivers and have them barely add up to one whole Triscuit. Something about that gives me a thrill. Sometimes, there’s not a drop of salt on a single cracker in the box. Now, that’s disturbing and if it happens to me, it’s grounds for returning the crackers. The only grounds I’ve found so far, but I have had to call them on it a couple times. More often, though, I get a fantastic box of extra-salty irregulars that I savor more than I ever could a regular old perfect Triscuit. My favorite irregular of all? The cracker that got so full of hot air in the baking process that it’s convex. These luscious puppies easily split in two, doubling the enjoyment. There’s NOTHING better than licking all the extra salt off a wafer-thin puffy split fake one-third-price store-brand Triscuit and then letting the delectible morsel melt in your mouth. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. But since I have, I might as well add that my very favorite people are highly irregular, too. Posted by Katy on 05/13/07 Permalink That’s What I’ll Tell About Me! (#1089) My lovely writing buddy Cynthia Ruchti has tagged me to reveal eight juicy tidbits about myself, for your edification of course. So here’s the deal: I’ve been in self-revelatory mode here at fallible for 6.5 years! Is there really anything about me you still don’t know? Just in case, here goes. 1. I fell in love with my husband at first speak. That’s right. He had me at hello, and I’m not kidding. My beautiful friend Dorothy introduced us, and when I heard his rich bass voice, I KNEW. The fact that it took 2.5 years for him to know I lived does NOT matter. Especially not considering that it only took one actual date to convince him to propose. Don’t let your impressionable children read this story, unless you are willing to risk them being happily married for thirty years! 2. I once won $810.00 by penning a poem for a writing contest sponsored by KCMO radio here in Kansas City. The entrants were to write about why the Republican and/or Democratic National Conventions should be held that year in our town. I composed an eight stanza poem in a few hours, the most $$ I’ve ever made per hour. Plus, they called me in to the station to be interviewed on the air, which was a lot of fun. 3. I want to be an actress in my dotterage, if not sooner. I love old lady actresses, whether on commercials, the stage, or in the movies. I’m talented that way, and quite underutilized at the present time. I should add, though, that I recently had a feature role in a music video, produced by a friend of ours. Someday soon, it will be up on youtube. I’ll let you know when, but until then, I’ll leave you with this: I played a floozy. 4. I once interviewed Barry McGuire (with my two friends, who were the actual journalism students writing an article for the college newspaper), who sang the revolutionary song “Eve of Destruction” back in the sixties before becoming a Jesus Freak and performing with Second Chapter of Acts. 5. I am cousins with David McCallum, the Man from U.N.C.L.E. star who was born and raised in the same town (Kilsyth, Scotland) as my father. I have this information on good authority (my dead father’s) but unfortunately he neglected while he was alive to tell me exactly what the connection is. I’m certain it’s through my grandmother, whose maiden name was Mary Baillie. David, if you’re reading this, please email me! :) 6. I can carry a tune in a bucket, but with the herniated disks in my neck, the bucket must be very lightweight. Doug and I have sung duets at several weddings, and recently my daughter Carrie and I sang together (with Doug playing Irish whistles) in two of my nieces’ weddings. Also, Doug and I have written many worship songs together, some of which were sung by congregations as far and wide as the metro area. 7. I am living proof that a low-carb, higher protein, adequate fat diet is satisfying for the long term (more than seven years now!) and that managing one’s insulin response is absolutely key in losing and KEEPING OFF unwanted pounds. And, I’ll just add, in avoiding diabetes and heart disease, among other deadly illnesses. 8. For the life of me, I do not recall how I first decided to attempt to write a novel. I do know that my friend, author Nancy Moser, taught a fiction writing class at a junior college here, and invited me to sign up. I also know that she critiqued a chapter for each class member, and gave mine back to me with great recommendations for making another stab at it and resubmitting it to her for a second critique. In other words, my first attempt was actually an essay, the only form of writing I had experience in. Nancy was SO KIND to give me another crack at it. When I submitted my next attempt to her, she said, “Yes! You’re getting the idea.” I abandoned that story years ago, and have worked on learning the craft ever since. That’s it for me, gentle readers! I’m not tagging anyone, but if you’d like to play on your own blog, let me know when you post by leaving me a comment! Posted by Katy on 05/09/07 Permalink Bare Naked Faces (#1088) My good buddy Lisa Samson posted a compelling challenge on her blog today. She mentioned my name in her post, so how can I now fail to take the challenge? I read her post too late this morning to have my picture taken sans make-up. And since we were fixin’ to get ready to see Dave Ramsey downtown, I had put on the works. I’m talking foundation, mascara, and lipstick, baby! Now we’re home, and I’ve taken my face down to pure skin. This is the real, honest-to-goodness, 53.5 year old fallible Katy. As I am NOT a woman who’s afraid to be seen in public without make-up, I figured the Internet could handle the truth, too. Anyone else want to do the same on your blog? Leave a comment and a link, and we’ll commiserate together. Um, I mean, celebrate our natural beauty. Yeah. That’s what I meant! :) Posted by Katy on 05/06/07 Permalink When I Run, I Feel God’s Pleasure (#1087) Have you ever participated in or watched others run in a marathon? Until last Saturday, at the Country Music Marathon in Nashville, I sure hadn’t. And if it weren’t for our daughter Carrie deciding to train with her two cousins, Josie and Megan, I would have likely gone the rest of my life without experiencing it. These three beautiful young women started running together months ago. They ran in snow, sometimes ice, sleet, drizzle, sub-zero temperatures, rain, tornadoes, and—when the weather got worse than that—indoors. Ha. Josie and Megan have run in several marathons before. They are faster than Carrie, but she would not be deterred. She set her face like flint that she would go to Nashville and run with all her heart. She finished! Twenty-six miles!! Doug and I flew down to watch and it was one of the most inspiring things I’ve ever seen. One of the highlights: Along the route, bands were set up at regular points and played for hours at a time. One of the places where we predetermined we’d be waiting to cheer the girls on as they came by was directly in front of a large church. The worship band from the church was the designated music for that area, and they were fantastic. Of the 30,000 runners that jogged past that church, at least one fourth of them raised their hands as they passed by, or pointed an index finger to the sky. They were at the nine-mile mark by then, and many were weary. But they acknowledged the Lord as the source of their strength. It was glorious! My little girl made one of her personal dreams come true. We are so proud of her! Posted by Katy on 05/04/07 Permalink Getting To Know You, Getting To Know All About You (#1086) Live long enough, and you’ll hear people identify themselves by just about every criteria imaginable. “What sign are you?” “I’m Capricorn. You?” “I’m Aquarious.” As much as I refuse to pigeon hole myself into a sign, I detest calling myself by the name of a medical condition even more. “Are you Hyperinsulinemia?” “Yeah. I’m Anacephalic Shock, too.” “Oooh…bummer.” I miss the old days, when people identified themselves as doctors or teachers or plumbers or housewives. Or by their level of education. Or how about by their ethnicity or their religion? Give me a good old-fashioned Irish Catholic bartender any day, people. Those are the kind of salt-of-the-earth folks who don’t need to be defined by a disease process. Today took the cake. Doug and I decided to peruse a couple houses on the bi-annual new homes tour here in KC. We only look at high-end houses, purely for the fun of it, not because we are in the market. We always go home thoroughly satisfied with what we’ve got. Here in Kansas City, $1.5 million will still buy quite a lot of house, and that’s the price of the one we were in when I overheard two touring homeowners of the opposite sex introducing themselves to each other. (By the time we left, I think they’d gotten engaged.) “Are you Tile?” one asked. “I’m Slate,” the other said. The man moved a little closer. “Ah, interesting. Are you, by any chance, Corian?” “No. I’m Granite.” She reached out and touched his arm. “But I really love Corian…” He smiled, his perfect teeth like drywall. Or plaster. Or porcelain. Whatever. “I just have to know: Are you Cherry?” “Almost,” she whispered, her lips very near his. “I’m Red Oak.” Identifying ourselves by construction materials? Slotting ourselves into individual value zones based on the substances with which we’re able to finish (God bless interest-only sub-prime loans) our McMansions? If things can get worse than this, I’d like to know how. Maybe I’m just jealous. I, after all, am Painted Pine, Asphalt Shingle, and Linoleum. How about you? Posted by Katy on 04/29/07 Permalink Unentitlement Mentality (#1085) If you think this is going to be one of those right-wing Republican diatribes in which I go off on how my tax dollars support no end of entitlement programs and how it JUST ISN’T RIGHT, well. You’re wrong. Ha! I don’t often start a blog post by telling you you’re wrong, do I? Hey, it’s Friday, and I’m feeling like kicking up my heels. :) No, I’m not going to point fingers here, except at myself. And, technically, Doug’s self, too. And maybe my own kids, but not yours, so don’t worry! You are safe, but of course free to apply anything I might say here to your own situation. I’m generous that way. There’s a great article over at MSN Money by an personal finance writer I admire, Liz Pulliam Weston. I haven’t read the whole thing, because I didn’t want it to influence what I write here too much. But the gist of it is this: She suggests if we want to create a fantastically workable budget for ourselves, we might consider basing it on how our parents lived back in the day. In other words, which things do we now consider ourselves entitled to (we call them necessities, by the way) that either didn’t exist at all back then, or were considered luxuries only the wealthy could afford? I won’t lie. My family always had a honkin’ console TV, in a nice walnut cabinet which blended attractively with the used furniture Mom and Dad purchased when they got married in 1950. That’s right—used. They got a green couch, matching club chair, coffee table, dining room table, chairs, china cabinet, double bed and dresser for $500, and they were set. And I mean set for life. When my mother moved out of her last house five years ago, I inherited the green chair. Of course, it had been reupholstered many times over the years, but you did not get rid of a chair with good bones for want of new fabric. My daughter uses the dresser that was my father’s (made in the depression era) and several others of their “original” used pieces survive, as well. A TV, though, was a new purchase. And we didn’t have just one, either. We had a tiny black and white portable in the breakfast room, where we ate all our meals. Once a week, it got turned on during dinner and we watched Let’s Make A Deal together over fish sticks or spaghetti. (I always rooted for Door Number Three, don’t ask me why.) So there you have it. A television was our only non-necessity. Unless you count a washing machine. We had no dryer the entire time I lived at home. I’ve hung more diapers on the line outside than I can count—and that was before I had my own kids (who also largely wore cloth diapers…) Until I was ten, we had no car. NO CAR, people! We lived on the bus line so my father (who never learned to drive) could get to work, and near church, school, and the grocery store so we could walk there every day. And yes, we walked to the grocery store EVERY DAY. Mom always had a pram with a new baby to push. The back of the pram had a metal basket retrofitted to hold one paper grocery sack. The heaviest bag went into it. One bag of groceries per day might have cut it, even for a large family, but we also often had to carry Dad’s dry-cleaned suits home from the cleaners! So it took the whole pack of us, every day. On pay day, we celebrated. Mom pushed the pram containing the carton of 16-oz glass Coke bottles, our big treat for the month. Then Liz, Mary, and I each hefted a small bag of food. Twice a year, when Easter or School Picture Day beckoned, we’d go into the Jay Kay Shop. Mrs. Jay Kay helped Mom choose one new outfit for each of us to add to our sketchy wardrobes. My mother would not purchase cheap clothing or shoes for us, period. Quality all the way! So we had VERY few clothes. Of course, we wore uniforms to school. Navy blue jumpers with white blouses and saddle oxfords. The jumpers could go awhile without being laundered, but those white blouses got put through their paces, let me tell you. Iron City, every day of their poor overworn lives. And the saddles? Polished EVERY night, and not only that. The shoe laces were removed and SCRUBBED BY HAND on a bar of soap at least twice per week. Dirty shoelaces were a mark of particularly poor breeding, and while I suppose we were lower middle-class, we had instilled into us the Pride of Shoelace Ownership. Houses were small and crowded. Three kids per bedroom? Normal. No such thing as privacy, unless you count a single dresser drawer as “having your own space.” Closets were unbelivably minuscule in those days. If we’d had more than two outfits per season and more than three pairs of shoes (school shoes, play shoes, and church shoes), times three kids to a room, those puppies would have overflowed! It goes without saying that Mom washed her own dishes, peeled potatoes every night with a sharp knife, and made everything from scratch. I was married before I even knew there was such a thing as “instant mashed potatoes” or “instant pudding.” I can literally count on ONE HAND the number of times my parents took us out to eat when I was growing up. (Now, my grandparents, that was different. They were rich, and did give us some of the things my parents couldn’t.) Vacations? Not so much. OK, once, to the Ozarks. I was in the fourth grade. It was a blast. I had a two piece (not bikini, but still) pink swimsuit and I thought I was something. Got a horrible sunburn because I didn’t know any better than to “lay out” for most of an afternoon. My parents didn’t know any better, either! Heck, they’d never been on a vacation! One telephone, pink princess, in the breakfast room. My father believed that phones were created for “emergencies only.” He was shocked when his daughters wanted to talk to their friends on the phone at night after being with them all day. I can’t tell you how many times he’d walk through the kitchen in disgust and say, “What’s that pink thing growing out of your ear? Get off the phone! There might be an emergency!” Books were a luxury we could not afford except for special occasions, but reading was a necessity for all of us. The public library was my favorite place in the universe. I could not fathom my good fortune when the librarian informed me I’d be able to check out eight books at a time! Why, that number would last me for…eight days! My poor mother had to walk me there (before car) to get my stack of books, a mile each way, pushing the pram and with the non-reading tots in tow, OFTEN. If I could canonize her Saint Mom, I would. There are a million and one other things my parents managed without. A gym membership would have been laughable (they got all the exercise they needed, thanks…), and a power mower too much to maintain (Dad pushed a rotary mower and never complained…). Until I was thirteen, the house had a single room air conditioner in the 8x10 family room. On very hot nights in those upstairs bedrooms (maybe 40 nights per year), my sisters and I, whose beds were against the three windowed walls, slept with our heads in the sills, the attic fan pulling in refreshing roasted air. My parents did not think they were poor, and in fact, they weren’t. They chose to spend their money on Catholic schools, an excellent value for their dollar, by the way. They paid off a twenty-year mortgage in eleven years. The house only cost $17,000, but doubling up on payments still represented a considerable accomplishment. I don’t want to ditch my car or my microwave or my DVD player. What I do want, though, is to be more honest about what’s really necessary in this life. What’s truly valuable. What I do want is to spend less time and money gathering stuff unto myself, cleaning it, displaying it, sorting it, storing it, cateloguing it, filing it, wasting it, and then throwing it away. What I do want is to have more time and money (and strength!) available to help those with less. Jesus had those two female friends named Mary and Martha, remember? Sisters. One of them liked to throw lavish parties but she got worn out easily trying to keep up with it all, especially when Mary sat down for a spell to visit with Jesus. The Lord had to let Martha know that while all her frenzied party preparations were OK, her sister Mary had chosen the “better part.” And then He said, “and it won’t be taken from her.” I’ve still got so much to learn. In thinking back to the sacrificial way my parents were content to live, I’ve got to ask myself: In my own quest to acquire that to which I’m obviously “entitled,” have I missed out on the Better Part? Because He’s the last thing in the world I’d want taken from me. Posted by Katy on 04/27/07 Permalink Toe Gross-Out! (#1084) I can handle a lot, people. Bodily functions, as I’m sure you’ve realized by now, do not upset me. Blood, sweat, tears, and assorted other excretions and secretions are par for my children-and-mother-intense existence. OK, there a few things I’m not overly comfortable with. I adore the TV show “House,” but when they show a patient’s skull being screwed into a frame and bolted to the gurney, well. I once faced the possibility of that very prospect, and believe me, I had to have a prescription of Xanax on hand just to imagine it. That’s right. If my brain tumor had continued to grow, I would have been a perfect candidate for the “gamma knife,” a sharp beam of targeted radioactive material which can easily miss its mark and fry one’s intellect unless the head is screwed down. Thank God the tumor remained too small, and traditional open brain surgery was required! Give me a good-old fashioned incision any day! Holes, and stitches, and drains, oh my! But please, no screws. Apart from that, the only major problem I have related to the body and the care thereof is this: I hate toes. And not just any toes. Old people toes. Toes deformed by bunions, corns, callouses, and ingrown nails are repulsive, but the WORST THING EVER is fungus! And bizarrely thick toe nails that appear to be contructed out of material more substantive than the siding on my house. My mother is obsessed with her Doctor of Podiatry, the guy who makes rounds at the Funny Farm and clips the old folks’ toe nails. “I can’t wait for his visits,” she reports. “Dr. Cho always asks about my broken arm. He’s just the nicest man.” “But, your arm? I thought he did your toenails…” I say. (Even typing “did your toenails” makes me gag a little.) “Katy, a good toenail man will be interested in the whole body.” Oh, dear Lord. “And besides, on the day he comes—make sure I wrote it on my calendar, will you?—it’s a social occasion. We all gather in the activity room and—” “Please don’t tell me you circle up and watch each other having your toenails chiseled? PLEASE…” “What’s wrong with that? About eight of us at a time are called down to the room. The chairs are in a circle near the fireplace…” Dear, dear Lord. Doug’s mother is equally toe-nail-minded. We’re moving her to a new facility in the next couple weeks, where she can get a higher level of care. One of the concerns with this type of move is that she find some new friends, people who share her interests and abilities. So Doug and his sisters took her to visit a couple of places that had come recommended. The director purposely sent some of the “with-it” residents over to speak with Adele during lunch, to introduce themselves and make her feel comfortable. “I’ve been living here nearly two years,” one nice lady said. “I really like it. One of my hobbies is to study the lives of the First Ladies. I even get to make presentations about them to the other residents—” “Yes, but what day does the toenail doctor come?” Adele blurted out. “Because mine are really getting out of hand.” I gotta go. The gagging has gotten the best of me. (Hat tip to Girls Write Out for introducing this disgusting subject.) Posted by Katy on 04/25/07 Permalink Date Night (#1083) (Warning! Warning! Several bodily functions disgustingly discussed herein! Read on at your own risk! But don’t say you weren’t warned!) Last night was date night. I know. We’re really romantic for a couple with thirty years of marriage behind us, aren’t we? So in tune with each other’s needs, so aware when the other craves a little break from the routine, a bit of time in which to do nothing more—or less—than be refreshed and renewed in the essence of each other’s company. We spent ours in the ER with my mother, who—you might as well know—went Commando. That’s right. It should be enough that for the past 18 years, since the dreadful fall up an icy curb in which Mom shattered both her elbows, she hasn’t worn a bra. No protests or burn piles were involved in Mom banishing the bra. She’s never been liberated, then or now. She just threw the darned thing in the trash and said good riddance. So we deal. A braless mother is not the end of the world, people. We have learned to purchase blouses for her that help to prevent her bralessness from becoming common knowledge when she’s out and about, but is she concerned with such conventional niceties? No, she is not. I have always remained hopeful, though, that no matter how long she lived, she’d wear panties. In August, it will be two years since the horrible fall which caused Mom’s permanently broken humerus. When the occupational therapist got down to teaching Mom how to pull up her panties with one arm, I feared that the old gal would throw in the panty towel forever. But she persevered and all this time has managed quite well to continue to be underweared. Last night the fire department called to say they’d gotten her into a chair after a nasty fall in which she managed to crash herself, her walker, and a tall fan on a stand onto the floor. To the ER nurse she said, “We were all tangled up together, the three of us. I guess you could say it was a…” And then I think she meant to say, because of her fabulous sense of humor, “menage-a-trois” (place accents correctly in your minds, please). But instead she glanced up at a sign on the wall and said, “I guess you could say it was a…triage.” I knew what she meant. I always know what she means. The nurse did look at her a little funny, though. It became clear during the course of the exam that she’s abandoned panties for the duration. I’d suspected as much in recent weeks, but the clincher comes when the pantyless person no longer expresses remorse or regret for their condition, when it becomes matter-of-fact and as ho-hum as yesterday’s coffee. They took her for x-rays of her left hand, her right foot, and her right pelvic area. Nothing broken, thank God, just a badly bruised Mama chick. While waiting for the results of the tests (and I’ll just throw in here that between Doug’s mom and mine, we’ve tallied four falls in the past week alone), I came down with a violently painful gas attack. Gas is a subject of endless fascination with my mother, whereas if I even said the word “gas” to Doug’s mom, she would croak of embarassment. Saying the word gas to my mother makes her feel included, like you really, really love and accept her for who she is. And like you trust her with your shortcomings, your weaknesses, and your hopes and dreams for a prosperous future. But in describing my situation to her, I went too far. “Oh, my gosh! I am in excruciating pain here!” “Katy, what is it?” she asked, genuinely concerned, which is good for her because it helps minimize her own complaints. I was only thinking of her, after all. (That’s what date nights are for…) “Mom! It’s horrible! Doug, it’s that thing that happens, you know? When a bunch of gas gets trapped and accumulates around an ovary….” “An OVARY!” Mom exclaimed. “If I had EVER said the word OVARY to my husband, why! He would have dropped dead on the SPOT!” “But, Mom,” I said, trying to calm her agitation, “he did drop dead on the spot. Twenty-three years ago today, in fact.” “Oh…I hadn’t thought of that. I do think of it several times throughout the year, but I hadn’t actually thought of it today. But I’ll tell you one thing I’ve thought of. No husband wants to hear the word ovary, EVER.” “What am I supposed to say, then? I don’t have a uterus…” “UTERUS!!! If I had EVER said the word UTERUS to my husband…” “I know, Mom. He would have dropped dead on the spot.” “That’s right. Why, I didn’t even know what those things WERE, and I still don’t, actually. We didn’t need to know those words, and we sure didn’t need to say them.” “OK, Mom. I’ve got a word for you. How about PANTIES? Do you know what THOSE are?” “Yes, I do.” “Will you PLEASE start wearing them so we don’t have to have this conversation EVER, EVER again?” She hesitated for a moment. “I’ll think about it. But I’m not going to lie to you. It’s probably not going to happen.” That, my friends, is what date night’s really all about. Closeness, shared feelings, intimacy. And even, for some folks, an unapologetic absence of panties. Posted by Katy on 04/20/07 Permalink DNR (#1082) In the end, the decision fell to me. Twenty-three years ago today, before anyone could imagine that both the Oklahoma City bombings and the Waco tragedy would eventually mar this date, my father died. There were no stand-offs. No gunfire. No terrorists. Just an early morning visit by my father’s doctor, who had operated on him in a last ditch effort in the middle of the previous night, to no avail. The good doctor caught me in the hall as I arrived that morning, the first in my family to greet the grim reality. “He will not live the day,” he said. “You have a decision to make, and I need to know now. Do you want us to call a Code Blue and attempt to revive him when his heart stops beating, or not?” In the end, the decision fell to me. Back in the day, we didn’t have advanced directives. The relationships among the patient, the doctor, and the family members were such that we could have these conversations, brutal though they were. We took each other at our word, respected each other, trusted that we had the best interest of the patient at heart. If you could have seen my father, well. He had a six inch wide bruise across the front of his neck, apparently a bleed from a spontaneously dissected carotid artery. He’d complained of a terrible sore throat for weeks, and was finally hospitalized two days before his death because he could no longer swallow his medications, necessary to manage his heart disease, high blood pressure, and diabetes. Once safely within shouting distance of the cardiac ICU, he suffered a massive heart attack, followed by cardiogenic shock. “I need to put your wishes in the chart,” the doctor said. “Unless you make him a do-not-rescusitate, we’ll have to call a code. What do you want me to do?” In the end, the decision fell to me. In the wee hours, we’d each spoken to Dad one-by-one before they took him into surgery. I spent my sixty seconds telling Dad that the chances of him recovering were next to none. I told him his time had run out, his gambling days were over, the game had turned against him, and that he needed to make a choice. “Give your heart to Jesus, Dad. There’s still time for this one thing. Let me pray with you.” He could not speak, but nodded. I prayed aloud and he squeezed my hand. I left his bedside knowing he wouldn’t be with us long, but that he’d be with the Savior forever. The next morning after talking to the doc, I went into my father’s room. “Do you remember your prayer last night, Dad?” I asked. “Squeeze my hand if you remember.” He remembered. In the end, you see, the most important decision of all still fell to him. Posted by Katy on 04/19/07 Permalink Taking It Personally (#1081) In light of yesterday’s carnage on the campus of Virginia Tech, I keep coming back to a recurring theme not only in my own heart, but in my writing, as well. It was driven home to me again this morning as I heard interviewed a young student named Derek, whose German professor and more than half his classmates were gunned down before his eyes, and who—even though he himself had been shot in the shoulder—helped to barricade the room once the killer made an exit. Derek said more than once during his comments that he wanted to “go forward with his life.” I understand the concept of “going on with life,” which to me could mean something as elementary as putting one foot in front of the other. Something as ambitious as, let’s say, getting out of bed in the morning. But how does a human being who has witnessed such horrors “go forward”? How do they fully embrace the goals and dreams and loves that formerly meant the world to them? Are there things from which the heart cannot recover? I know that, in Christ, there is healing and redemption and forgiveness and grace. Without these benefits of His salvation, I could not have endured the few truly horrible events that have happened in my own lifetime. Still, Derek expressed a hope to actually forget that yesterday ever happened. I don’t think that’s possible, but I will pray for him and all the others, that they are someday, somehow able to move forward. It won’t be anytime soon. It can’t be. It shouldn’t be. But someday, somehow, by the mercies of God. Posted by Katy on 04/17/07 Permalink I’m Dreaming Of A White April 14 (#1080) Last night, the most ENORMOUS snowflakes we’ve ever seen (and I’ve lived here my whole life) fell in our own backyard. It’s so crazy here in Kansas City, weather-wise, that a group of environmentalists who’d scheduled their symposium on global warming to meet at a park today had to move the festivities inside because of, well…global freezing. Both Doug and Carrie awakened today, took a look outside at the snow-laden fir trees, and actually expected PRESENTS. Pathetically Pavlovian, don’t you think? I may have to make a run to Target just to get them over the psychological hurdle! By tomorrow, the weather people say, it will be in the 60s. Mind you, they’ve been saying that for weeks. I might have the tiniest shred of trust left in them, if not for this comment offered on the local forecast last night. “If it keeps snowing heavily, you’ll see some accumulation. If it lets up, you probably won’t.” Ya think? By the way, have I mentioned that our darling daughter is marrying a meteorologist? Should one family be allowed to have this much fun? Posted by Katy on 04/14/07 Permalink Party Down, Dudes (#1079) Doug and I enjoy throwing a good blow-out party every now and again. In fact, at least 3 times per year we host a doozy. And I’m not talking regular holidays here, folks. Those go without mentioning. Since August, we’ve had three huge events here on Rolling Hills Road. We had a big going-away party for our youngest son, Kevin, before he left for Switzerland. Then we threw a book-launching party for our oldest son, Scott, when his first book hit the shelves. (“Ajax on Rails.” If you want to know what that means, look it up on Amazon!) A mere week after that party, we welcomed fifty or so people to a surprise 50th birthday for one of our dearest friends, Steve. He thought he was coming to Scott’s book-launching and was TOTALLY surprised, to the point that he didn’t show up for church the next day because he couldn’t go to sleep after all the excitement. You know what all these parties have in common? To prepare, I dust. And when I dust, I move stuff. And when I move stuff, I forget I ever had it and some of that stuff I forget I ever had is GOOD STUFF. The most worrisome casualties of my propensity to move stuff are the books in my TBR pile. If you have a to-be-read pile of your own, you know what I mean. It’s sacrosanct, isn’t it? It’s in an order. Books move to the top of it, or are added to the bottom. I’ve promised author friends of mine that their newest release has finally “made it into the TBR pile,” and then—months later!—it comes to my attention that somewhere along the way, I had a party. I’ve tried, when prepping for a party, to move the excessive pile of books onto the bookshelf in the corner of the bedroom, in some kind of systematic way which would trigger my memory to return those selfsame books to the bedside table at shindig’s end. But, no. Today I read on another blog (Lisa Samson’s) that a fallible reader (hat tip to Carrie K!) received a copy of Francine Prose’s “Reading Like A Writer” for Christmas, and how excellent a book it is. “Wait a minute!” I said, to no one there. (And no one heard at all, not even the chair.) “I have that book! I got it for Christmas, too, and it was nearly to the top of my TBR pile when….I threw a blasted party!” Now I’ve retrieved Reading Like A Writer from the deep, dark recesses of my bookshelf, where it might have languished nigh unto forever, and it’s resting comfortably on my pillow. Honestly, that’s the safest place for a wannabe-read-book in the whole wide world. Any TBR books you’ve misplaced recently? How do you keep tabs on those puppies? Posted by Katy on 04/13/07 Permalink And She’ll Be In Scotland Before Ye (#1078) I am happy to announce that long-time fallible reader Chris(tine), she of the maiden name “Duncan,” has been randomly chosen by my sleeping husband (whom I instructed to point to one of my fingers, each of which had been assigned a commenter’s name) to receive a free copy of Liz Curtis Higg’s book, My Heart’s In The Lowlands. I predict, Chris(tine), that before you’re many pages in, you’ll be more in love with the land of your ancestry than you could have ever imagined. Enjoy! And again, Liz, thanks so much for being here with us! Posted by Katy on 04/13/07 Permalink You Take The High Road, And I’ll Take The Low Road… (#1077) Whose Celtic heart doesn’t thrill at the very thought of the mystical, misty highlands of Scotland? I know mine does. But when Liz Curtis Higgs, the premiere author of Scottish historical novels, published a non-fiction book called “My Heart’s In The Lowlands,” I had to know more. This book is an armchair travel guide, but after reading it, I’m taking it one step further. I’m calling it A Travelogue With A Passenger’s Side. Liz designed the book with you in mind, and I do mean YOU. The two of you, sitting side-by-side, in a tiny hired (rental) car, galavanting in the most fantastic country on the planet. “Lowlands” reads like a ten-day-long road trip in which you’re soaking up atmosphere with the friendliest author ever. She’s chatting you up, pointing out the landmarks she’s seen before, and exclaiming over new ones. You’re begging for a wee little bathroom break, and she’s saying, “Can you wait, dearie, till I check out the six-hundred-year-old headstones in this cemetery over here?” You agree to hold on, and are richly rewarded with scones and tea at the next stop. By the end of your bookish travels, you realize what wonderful meandering chums you and Liz make. If you can’t hop on a real plane bound for Scotland right then (which I highly recommend), you can always turn back to Page One and imagine your sublime journey with Liz all over again. I recently visited with Liz about her Scottish novels, her trips to Caledonia, and “My Heart’s In The Lowlands.” Katy: Which came first, the novels or the trips? Liz: In 1996, my husband and I celebrated our 10th anniversary by doing a 10-day tour covering much of Scotland—not hard to do in a country roughly the size of Indiana! I had a vague idea of the story I wanted to tell, but intentionally didn’t do much research in advance of that first trip. Katy: Were you looking for a precise village in which to set your stories? Did you have that “I’ll know it when I see it” approach? Liz: I wanted to feel my way around the country and discover the area that felt most like “home,” listening only to my heart and to the Lord. The guidebooks suggested that most tourists skip the lowlands area known as Dumfries and Galloway in their mad dash to the highlands. So, of course, THAT was the part I wanted to see first! Katy: I have to say, in my three trips to Scotland, I’ve not been farther south than Edinburgh and Glasgow, but like many tourists, I’ve seen much of the highlands. Liz: The lowlands do not disappoint! Galloway has an unspoilt, non-touristy quality about it… Katy: Oooh, that’s what I love best. Liz: Green, rolling farmland dotted with sheep, and charming villages full of real people, going about their daily tasks. On the weekends, you’ll find tourists, of course, but on a Wednesday in Galloway, you just might have the place to yourself! Katy: It’s awfully barren and bleak in dear old Scotland, don’t you think? Doesn’t muted and misty take you down a few notches? Liz: Believe it or not, I love grey skies and rain clouds on the horizon… Katy: That reminds me of my favorite Scottish joke. The tourist is asking the tour guide to forecast the weather. The guide says, “If you can see that mountain over there, it’s about to rain. If you can’t see it, it IS raining.” Liz: Exactly! Anyway, bright sunny days have little appeal for me—on either side of the pond. On a dreich (bleak, dismal) day, I’m much more productive. Katy: Obviously, it’s working for you! You found the perfect setting for your historical novels, did tons of research, and the first in your Scottish novel series came out in 2003. Tell us a bit about the “Heart for Scotland” book tour you took that year. Liz: I put together that solo tour of Christian bookstores a mere six months after the first novel came out. At that point, the people I met were more curious readers than eager fans! Now, after four historical novels and my travel guide, I’m developing a small but loyal following among Scottish readers. They seem rather amazed—and very touched—that an American would care so much about their country. Besides introducing them to the story of Leana, Jamie, and Rose, sharing my faith was a big part of the “Heart for Scotland” tour, and a big part of why I keep going back. I’ve had the joy of speaking in community centers and store fronts, tea rooms and movie theatres, living rooms and church basements. Organized religion is struggling, but those who know and love Jesus can be found everywhere. Katy: It’s one thing to speak in all those places. After all, I once heard you say in a radio interview that you can “speak two hours without a subject”... Liz: That sounds like me! Katy: But can you really drive on those crazy roads? Liz: The roads in Dumfries and Galloway are not nearly so treacherous as some of the highland single-track roads that cling to the side of mountains— Katy: Pass me the paper bag. I’m hyperventilating. Liz: But it WAS daunting my first time behind the wheel. Now, after nine driving trips in Scotland, I feel right at home, though for the first few minutes I say aloud, “Left, left, left…” One thing that helps is everyone ELSE is driving on the left side, too! From my perspective, you haven’t really seen Scotland if you’ve seen it through the window of a tour bus. Katy: Well, when I read “My Heart’s In The Lowlands,” I sure didn’t feel like I was on a bus! It was just you and me, dearie, white-knuckling it to the next castle and praying we wouldn’t encounter any 18-wheel lorries on the narrow path! Liz: I’m glad you felt like you were taking the trip with me. I’ve read other travel guides and wanted to make mine more personal, more friendly, and more FUN… Katy: Oh, it was fun, all right! I can’t count how many times you had me crying and laughing, all on the same page. Liz: I’m tickled you felt that way as we traveled over the hills and down the glens together. In virtually every reader letter I’ve received, they talk about enjoying when “we” went here and “we” went there—just exactly the reaction I hoped and prayed for when I wrote it! Katy: Thank you, dear Liz, for joining us here at fallible today! And you readers, here’s your chance to win a free copy of “My Heart’s In The Lowlands” by leaving a comment on this post. Whatever you do, read this book. I promise you’ll be hooked on Scotland Forever, and trust me, that’s a very good thing. Posted by Katy on 04/10/07 Permalink Page 20 of 84 pages « First < 18 19 20 21 22 > Last »


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

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You Take The High Road, And I’ll Take The Low Road… (#1077)

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