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
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.
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
My Money Valentine (#1061)
If you’ve read the advice of those who want to help you not be parted so easily from your money, you probably know this little gem:
“Back away from the item. Leave it in the store, or in your online shopping cart. Now, go home (or close down the site) and wait one week. Write the item down on a master list of stuff you want. If you still feel you can’t live without this item in a week’s time, go ahead and make the purchase. Chances are that your ardor will cool considerably over seven days.”
Great advice, eh? I can improve upon it.
Three days ago, Doug and I took a saunter through Barnes & Noble. I’d already purchased Doug’s Valentine’s gift, at a cost of $45. At the bookstore, I fell madly and irreversibly in love with two books, and told Doug that if he’d buy me those two books for VD, I’d be the happiest girl alive. Since they totalled about $40, he agreed.
“But then you’ll know what I’m getting you,” he said, making this one small caveat his only objection.
“Trust me,” I answered. “By Valentine’s Day, I will not remember the titles of these books. Or the subjects. I will be completely surprised!”
I put the books out of my mind—apparently, a skill I’m becoming ever more adept at. This morning, sure enough, I thought my husband the cleverest gift-giver in the world! Such unique, thoughtful ideas the man has! Why, he chooses gifts for me that I love every bit as much as if I’d chosen them myself!
Here’s the best part, though: I can use that time-worn piece of money saving advice and make it work double-strength, maybe even triple if I play my receipts right. All I have to do is apply the one-week rule to any purchases I’m considering, and then NOT write down the desired item.
In my case, *out of sight out of mind* just may make us rich.
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Vail! (#1060)
Congrats to fallible reader Vail, who’s been randomly selected to receive a complimentary copy of Deb Raney’s book, Remember to Forget. Hey, Vail, drop me an email with your mailing address, and I’ll get that book right out to you!
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Small Towns, Big Issues, Wonderful Author (#1059)
Have you read a Deborah Raney book lately? Today, I’m pleased to bring you the lady herself, whom I’ve had the joy of meeting on several occasions. Last fall, at the American Christian Writers Conference, I sat under the teaching of Deb and fellow-author Colleen Coble. I learned so much from them that I still haven’t absorbed it all.
Just a few months ago, the tenth-anniversary of the release of her first book, A Vow to Cherish, was celebrated with a new edition. And the movie by the same name? I finally saw it on TV! Man, did I bawl over the female lead’s early-onset Alzheimer’s and the test it presented to the strength of her marriage.
So I asked Deb if she shed more tears over contracting that first book, or over selling the movie rights to it.
“I CHEERED on both counts!” she says. “And declared it pizza night! No bawling either time.”
I would have cheered, too. Because Deb’s writing career started as a kind of do-or-die deal, and the success of her first novel helped her avoid life in a cubicle. I’ll let her tell you how it happened.
“From the time I was 11 or 12 and read all the Little House on the Prairie books, I held onto a dream of someday writing a book. But after our kids came along—four of ‘em!––I definitely put that dream on the back burner. I’d remember it every time I read an especially satisfying novel, and think ‘Oh, how I’d LOVE to write something that wonderful someday!’ but it just didn’t seem possible. It was only when I faced taking a day job to help our kids through college (but I still had a three-year-old at home and desperately wanted to stay home with her) that I got serious about making my dream come true.”
I’m sorry, but that’s a great story. It’s amazing what the spectre of a looming day job will inspire. :) If you pay a visit to Deb’s site, you can click on photos of her in her beautiful and inspirational home office, a room she’s only recently acquired as her writing space. In fact, until not too long ago, Deb worked in a corner of her living room, with her family surrounding her. I’m afraid that would be enough to reduce a lesser woman to tears and yes, I am a lesser woman.
Since we seemed to be on the recurring theme of bawling our heads off, I wondered how often Deb weeps while writing a particularly moving scene. I mean, people, I cry a lot about MY writing, but it’s rarely because it’s GOOD.
“I definitely weep my way through my emotional scenes. Not quite as much as I used to—I guess I’m growing jaded. ; ) But I never feel a scene that’s meant to be touching is quite there unless it’s made ME cry. I have also bawled a couple times when I was frustrated about a book. A Nest of Sparrows in particular brought me to my knees, thinking it was impossible to make my plot work. Of course, on my knees was exactly where I needed to be at that point, and truly, the story almost wrote itself once I confessed to God my utter inadequacy to write the story without His help.”
I highly recommend A Nest of Sparrows, the first Deborah Raney book I read. From the beginning of the story—and yes, it opens tragically—I could NOT figure out how it could end well. Or even somewhat satisfactorily. And yet, the story had a redemptive quality to it that I think is often missing in women’s fiction, a category which most often revolves around a current-day issue.
Deb tackles subjects like substance abuse, children falling through the cracks of social services, and domestic violence. While we often think of those problems occuring chiefly in larger cities, Deb’s stories take place in small towns. I wanted to know why she’d made that choice for her novels, and if she could explain to me why it works so well.
“Life in a small town is very precious and special, but the same problems and trials and tragedies exist here as any place. I think the difference, perhaps—and this is both bane and boon—is that in a small town, you go through those experiences in community. Nothing hidden, but nothing borne alone, either. And I think that’s why it works in fiction. All the characters are so interconnected—in their shared pasts, in their present joys and sorrows, and in their hope for the future.”
Deb’s on to something. I think the big-city problems in the small-town context helps provide the secret to success for her latest novel, Remember to Forget. (You can purchase it on Amazon or at fine booksellers everywhere, but Deb can send you an autographed copy if you order through this site.)
It’s a contemporary love story (not to be confused with what we typically call a “romance novel”), and the entire book—blooming romance included—takes place in a short six-week time frame. Besides the two main characters meeting and falling in love, they both go through tremendous personal growth during those few brief weeks. I’m all about transformations, but it usually takes me DECADES to pull off any kind of sustainable, genuine change. So how is Deb able to make the changes Maggie and Trevor go through so believable? Does it take some type of huge “inciting incident” at the onset of the story?
“When I’m writing a romance, I sometimes worry that I’m moving things along too fast. I’ve known a few couples who knew, within a few weeks of meeting, that without a doubt God had brought them together. My husband and I knew within about two months that we loved each other and wanted to get married, but we—wisely, I think—waited a year before we actually tied the knot. It takes time to get to know someone well enough to have seen every side of them and to truly know what you’re getting when you say ‘I do.’ So I’m very cautious about sending out a message that might encourage some young reader to jump into love too fast, just because one of my characters did and it worked out okay for them. I think you hit the nail on the head when you mentioned a significant inciting incident. Usually my story begins when the protagonist is on the verge of change. Most of what she has been in the past is told in snippets of backstory. What the reader sees is the actual process of growth and change. In addition, I very often end the book (as in Remember to Forget) with the character simply realizing that God has been leading her toward this moment and now she must make a decision, or she must begin to live with a new attitude, etc. The reader understands that she will be successful in her quest for change, but doesn’t necessarily see that happen onstage—unless perhaps through an epilogue.”
As an epilogue to this time spent with Deb, I asked her if she could offer three succinct pieces of advice to those readers who are also aspiring novelists. We poor insecure writers thrive on this stuff, don’t we?
“First of all, read voraciously. Read the kind of books you’d like to write. At the same time, practice writing by…well, duh: WRITING! Write every day. If journaling helps you write better, go for it (I haven’t journaled since high school. It feels like a waste of words to me, but I know people who can’t begin their day without it.) Write the story of your heart, but don’t spend the rest of your life trying to get that story published. When it’s finished, do what you can to find a publisher, but while you wait, write the next story. Chances are it will be that one, or the one after that, or the one after that, that will be your breakthrough. Finally, budget for your writing. Earmark every penny you possibly can for writers conferences. Don’t expect to pitch a proposal at the first conference. Go simply to learn. Come home and practice what you learned. Lather, rinse, repeat.”
In the spirit of lathering, rinsing, and repeating, we’ll be giving away a free copy of Remember to Forget to a randomly chosen commenter on this post. So here’s your chance, folks! Knowing Deb, she might even check in here to leave a fallible comment herself, but no, she will NOT be eligible for the complimentary volume. Sorry, Deb! :)
Deb, thanks so much for sharing with us. It’s been a delight and a pleasure to have you here!
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Inflation And Hyperventilation (#1057)
When I was growing up, we were taught that polite company didn’t include discussions of money, politics, or religion. Of course, in real life, what else is there? OK, technically there’s sex. But we’re certainly not going to get technical here at fallible!
I’ve got a few questions for you today, and frankly you should know up front they’re about money. Yours, mine, and ours. But mostly yours.
1. Do you save any money?
2. Do you save any money specifically for retirement?
3. Do you believe that the government (if you are in the US, this means Social Security) will bankroll your needs in retirement?
4. Do you believe you will need Starbucks in your old age, and that Starbucks should be its own entitlement program?
5. Do you believe Medicare will still be around when you retire, paying for your frequent and expensive Starbucks-induced cardiac events?
6. If you do not believe that either Social Security or Medicare will be operational by the time you retire, are you having palpitations right now?
7. Do you imagine that one of your benevolent children (for whom you’ve sacrificed SO MUCH!) will be willing and able to support you in your doterage, considering the inestimable tax burden their (much smaller numbers-wise) generation will be saddled with?
8. Any guesses how much money you would need to have saved by age 65 in order to continue living without employment in the manner to which you have become accustomed to the approximate age of, let’s just say, 95?
Seriously, folks. Are you thinking about this stuff? Whether you answer any of these specific questions or not, shoot me a comment and let me know what you’re thinking/planning/believing about your financial future as a bona fide geezer.
Enquiring minds, and all that.
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Seven-Year Itch? Not On My Life! (#1056)
You know that statistic that has us discouraged? The one that says something like 95% of everyone who loses weight regains all they’ve lost plus more inside of so many years? What is it—two years? Five?
I LOVE defying statistics. It’s the rebel in me, I guess. The point is, we can get so depressed by believing we can’t succeed, we don’t even try. What’s up with that?
Seven years ago today, I weighed in at 183 (I’m 5’2”, just so you know). I decided I’d had enough. The day before, I’d purchased a copy of Dr. Atkin’s book. I’d read as much as it took to know how to begin, so begin I did.
If I had to sum up the most important element of the good doctor’s prescription for weightloss and lifelong health, it would be this: No White Stuff. I cold-turkey put the kabash on ALL sugar (of every color), plus white flour, rice, pasta, potato, and corn. Other foods were limited for a period of time, too, but those foods (and anything that contains them) haven’t been re-introduced. Ever.
Why? Because I’m a bloomin’ addict, that’s why!
I am NOT a food nazi, though, and would never tell others what they should or should not be eating, unless they ask me to share my experiences.
Still, I will say this: I got on the scale this morning (a doctor’s-style scale) with it set at my all-time high of 183. I slid it to the left until it hit 123. Then I did the Happy Dance right there on the scale, because I can.
How’s THAT for a statistic? I’m going to insert a cliche here, because it’s perhaps the most true thing ever uttered: If I can do it, so can you!
Now. I think I’ll go celebrate with an extra-large hard-boiled egg. It’s a special day, after all!
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Depending On Serenity (#1055)
Doug’s mom called this morning, in a foul mood. She’s always pretty grouchy when she places a phone call before turning her hearing aid up and then can’t hear the person she called, even though he’s yelling loud enough to wake the dearly departed.
She finally got her message across. She wanted him to stop off at the store and pick her up a fresh supply of Depends. She ought to know by now that her only son does NOT make Depends runs.
Just in case he’d changed his mind about purchasing lady’s hygiene products, though, I thought I’d add to his shopping list.
“Hey, babe, while you’re at it, pick me up some Serenity.”
He knew what I was getting at, and he did me the honor of laughing. Serenity has been in short supply this week. I can’t seem to Depend on it for much of anything.
It’s been great—in a bizarre kind of way—having Kevin here. He’s beautiful, kind, generous, and a joy to be with. However, he attracts law enforcement officers something fierce, and for little to no reason. He certainly doesn’t fall into any stereotypical profile that might make him *seem* a likely suspect. He’s clean-cut, respectful, and polite.
He’s also expensive! A good lawyer got his court fees reduced to $160 yesterday, but then a good lawyer costs $750. We’ll get our $250 in bond money back, and Kev won’t have to take classes in anything—including some kind of whacko sensitivity-to-federal-agents training—when he gets back to the U.S. in June. Yesterday, on our way home from court, the roads iced up pretty badly. There was a crazy forty-car pile-up not far from the County Jail.
Kevin wanted to go out with friends last night and I asked him not to, for fear he’d be in a fender bender and he’d get hauled in for something—anything—again.
My little buddy leaves first thing Friday morning. We’ll pull out of here at 7:30, good Lord willing and the fever don’t rise. That’s right. Carrie’s had the flu BAD all week and this afternoon Kev came down with the fever, chills, headache, loss of appetite, a bit of a cough, slight earache….......yada, yada, yada.
I’d asked his doc to prescribe Tamiflu yesterday, when he was symptom-free. I’d picked up the script and he’d packed it in his bag, just in case. When the fever kicked in, Doug called the doc back to get another script for cough meddy with codeine while I not only Tamiflued the boy, but ibuprofened him, Vitamin Cd him, garliced him, zinced him, elderberry extracted him and echinasiad him.
I’m not sure how you spell that last one. As long as you know I didn’t mean “euthenasia,” we’re good.
Then he started complaining that his ears hurt, so we ran him down to the urgent care joint and he wrote him a script for antibiotics, even though his ears appear clear at this time. He’s got a Blue Cross policy that covers this trip home, just for catastrophic events, of course. Since the garden-variety flu is not a considered disastrous by Blue Cross, we’re only out a few hundred bucks on the deal.
Amazingly, weirdly, or perhaps miraculously, by the time we got to the doctor, his appetite had returned, his fever was normal, his headache was gone and his ears felt a lot better. So perhaps catastrophe has been averted? If so, we’ll pop him on a plane in the morning. If he gets sicker, we may postpone his travels for some days. We won’t know till morning.
Please say a pray for Kevin!! He has a four-hour layover in NJ, and then an overnight flight to Geneva. I hope he can relax as much as possible and get lots of rest on the plane and feel up to the new school term starting up on Monday. But first of all, he needs a fantastic sleep tonight.
It’s good to know that no matter how nervous all this stuff makes me, we really can cast our cares upon the Lord, for He really does care for us.
I can be full of Serenity when I Depend upon Him.
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Wipe Out (#1054)
Tomorrow’s our young son’s court date. We were advised by essentially everyone in the universe to get a lawyer, so we did. He’s an old friend of ours, actually, a man who regularly deals with the judges and prosecuting attorneys in the county in question. He asked us what our goals were as far as a favorable outcome. We only had two that mattered: That our kid not have a permanent blot on his record for selling a pack of cigarettes to a minor in a sting operation, and that he be allowed to leave the country in two days.
It looks like the terms have been worked out already, and that our showing up in court will be something of a formality involving the handing over of several checks with our siggies. Hey, there’s a great motto for us: Siggies for Ciggies.
Yesterday morning, Doug and I took his mother to the hospital for a CT of her abdomen. We never DID know what caused the abscesses to fill her abdomen, adhering to intestines and organs, 18 months ago. Post-surgically, she was not followed up on sufficiently, IMO. I’ve been pushing for another scan for months and finally got the doctor to order it. We’ll see.
In the meantime, our daughter has contracted a severe case of influenza and we are struggling not to breathe on the same planet with her. After several phone calls, my son has acquired his very own prescription of Tamiflu, to be started in case symptoms set in, which as everyone knows would be most likely to occur while flying over the Atlantic. Pity the poor passengers sharing that cooped-up flight!
The book launching party in honor of Scott was a resounding success and oh, so much fun. I think there must have been 60 people here Saturday night, cheerful but unwitting exposees to the influenza one and all.
Today I am exhausted and have had difficulty keeping my eyes open. I hope Doug and I—who imagine ourselves to be too young and healthy to get flu shots but who are wrong!—manage to elude the worst of the germs.
That’s all, folks. I’m going to bed.
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Of Warrants And Warranties (#1053)
Some days, I just want to add a PayPal button to the sidebar of fallible and take donations. Today, you might have guessed, is one of those days.
My youngest son, whose name I will refrain from mentioning in the same post as words like “Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms,” lest he be apprehended for yet another low crime or misdemeanor, is racking up some large debts on his little trip home from Switzerland.
Unfortunately for us, we had to front the money to post bond for the kid, as his life on the lam (and on the Continent) has left him penniless. Sure, it was only $250, but still, it stung.
The screen on the boy’s Canon digital camera, exactly 1.1 years old (isn’t everything?), failed yesterday. I spent an hour hunting down the paperwork on the purchase and finally found it. Yeah, I’d purchased what I thought was an extended warranty on the thing, for $78. It wasn’t extended, it was “essential.” Or some word like that. Meaning it would cover all the dumb stuff a kid might do, like run over his camera with his car or fling it off a Swiss mountain or slide it off his plate with the unwanted cauliflower into the garbage disposal. However, the term of the warranty only covered the first year of possession. My mistake.
It took umpteen phone calls to Wolf Camera, until we’d almost reached the level of corporate headquarters, before we were told we’d be allowed to purchase, for another $78, a warranty to cover this year’s defects. The screen would have cost $150 to repair, so they met us halfway.
Our youngster headed down the road to the camera store, and then planned to visit his brother and sister-in-law at their home. When he didn’t arrive back at our house within the time I expected, I called his cell. Actually, his cell which now contains the battery from my cell because his battery has failed. I have no cell. But that’s OK, because when he goes back to Switzerland on Feb. 2, my lack of cell phone will match my lack of camera. (We’ll give him ours to take and then hang on to his when we get it back from its 4-week repair job.)
I probably should go ahead and mention that since he’s been home he’s also had to replace a failed harddrive on his iBook. He purchased the computer in August and by December, it was kaput. This has NOTHING to do with my story, except to illustrate that so far, his time home has been about product failures and attempting to make them right.
Until last night. Yeah, last night he really switched it up.
When he didn’t answer his cell containing my battery, I didn’t think too much of it. Oh, sure, the usual imaginings involving ditches and rollovers, but I’m used to those pictures passing through my paranoid mind. They started when the first kid got a learner’s permit and ended, well…never.
He finally called, and it was a good thing his dad answered. Those unlimited minutes we love to crow about? Don’t matter a bit when they only give you “one call.”
He’d been stopped for expired plates. Of course, I renewed his stickers while he was in Switzerland. The metal plates were so filthy that day that rather than clean them before applying the new stickers, I put the stickers in his glove box and forgot all about it. With the stickers, attached by a paper clip, is his current proof of insurance, which he also managed not to find when he got pulled over.
When the cops looked up his info, they informed him there was a warrant out for his arrest. A pat-down occurred. Handcuffs were produced and attached. I can only assume a policeman protected the top of my son’s head while lowering him into the squad car. I do know that Miranda and her rights did not arrive on the scene at any time.
He was hauled to the most local jail and put in a cell. From there, he was extradited to the larger county jail, handcuffed during the 30 minute ride through residential areas filled with good children on bikes wearing knee pads and safety helmets, who pointed to the car window and said, “Who is that bad man, Mommy? And why is he sticking out his tongue at me?” And all the mothers for miles around soothed their offspring by answering, “Don’t worry, little Miles or Madison or Lily or Lucy! That man will never be able to hurt anyone ever again!”
Mug shots were snapped, which I have not seen, but which I figure look just like his passport. Dear Lord, his eyes are gorgeous.
His crime? Last August, perhaps the same day he purchased his iBook and therefore found himself in some altered state of Apple-induced euphoria, he sold a pack of ciggies to a minor at the hotel where he worked behind the front desk.
I don’t know if you realize this, but figuring out someone’s age isn’t always easy. The girl in question (pressed into service by the ATF for their sting operation) presented her genuine drivers license, and she was genuinely underage. Something about negotiating that tricky turn of the century, though, makes it complicated to quickly do the math in situations like these. Most hotels have a little calendar on the wall, showing an historical date of precisely 18 years ago. The clerk glances at the calendar and at the ID presented and knows that if the person was born on or before the date on the calendar, they’re legit.
What can I say? My kid’s employer didn’t have this helpful prop, and the New Apple Smell that night must have gotten to him.
Anyway, he’s sitting here beside me right now, playing guitar. He looks so innocent, so unlike what you’d expect of a common misdemeanoron. Too bad we can’t say that to the judge, huh? Next Wednesday, just 48 hours before he’s set to leave the country, he’ll have his day in court. With us, of course, the wielders of the mighty debit card. Who knows how much we’ll fork over before the next time he’s leaving on a jet plane?
One thing’s fairly certain: the warranty on my sense of humor expired a while back. If I do install a PayPal button on fallible, I promise any contributions beyond those needed to keep my kid on the right side of the law will be used to purchase me a new funny bone.
If you’re lucky, I won’t misplace it in the glove box.
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Statistics Schmatistics (#1052)
So I’m reading this front-page article in today’s USA Today, called “Retirees Up Against Debt.” And I get to a paragraph toward the end of the article in which the author writes about seniors (here defined as those 55 and older. Doug will be 55 this year…) who still have mortgages. When he talks about “housing debt,” he’s referring to first mortgages, home equity lines of credit, reverse mortgages, etc.
We all know that a sound financial goal should be to have all mortgage debt paid off before retiring, if not long in advance of that. Still, at age 54, we think of ourselves as having “a few good years left” to resolve outstanding debt. Not too many, mind you. But a few.
With that in mind, I was surprised at the statistics the Employee Benefit Research Institute released regarding housing debt. Here’s the sentence that’s got me scratching my head: “From 1992 to 2004, the percentage of households 55 or older with housing debt rose to ___% from ___%. The median amount of mortgage debt rose 63% during this time, to $_______.”
Anyone want to take a stab at filling in those blanks? How many households ages 55 and older, expressed by a percentage, do you think have ANY mortgage debt? And what do you think is the median amount of that debt?
This doesn’t included credit card debt or any other type of loan. Only mortgage related.
Hint: I think the Employee Benefit Research Institute is wrong.
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Finally! (#1051)
My favorite barista (waving at hubby Doug!) just made me the yummiest latte ever. I’m pretty sure this is the second happiest I’ll be today.
The happiest I’ll be? In four hours, Kevin will land in Kansas City from Switzerland!
He’s between terms, and has ten days before classes start up again. So, hey, baby. He’s comin’ home.
Could I be more excited than I am right now? Ummm….NO!
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Bingo! We Have A Winner! (#1050)
Nancy Wood, you have won a free copy of Hot Tropics and Cold Feet by Diann Hunt. Email me with your mailing address and I’ll get your book right out to you. :) And again, Diann, thanks for joining us here at fallible for such a fun and frothy interview!
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The Thrill Of The Hunt! (#1049)
When you’re an aspiring author, you get to meet THE most fun people ever. You can participate in local and online writers groups and you may even venture farther afield and attend a large national conference now and then. These days, if you’re trying to break in, these networking opportunities are invaluable, almost essential.
Not, of course, as essential as actually writing a good book and selling it to a wonderful publisher. But still, relationships—which in this business, often turn into friendships—matter. Since I had the joy of meeting humor author Diann Hunt at the American Christian Fiction Writers Conference last fall, I’ve been blessed with one more friend than I’d ever counted on.
Now I’d like to introduce her to you, too, because my fallible readers deserve the best of everything.
Katy: Diann, in my book, you are the Queen of Comedy for boomer-aged readers. How did you get started writing the funny stuff? Did a hormones-and-chocolate combo put you over the top?
Diann: I guess I’ve always been a little quirky, but hormones have definitely given me a dark side. I used to be this nice person and now I scare myself. If I saw someone in a dark alley with a box of DeBrand truffles—well, I just can’t be trusted, that’s all.
Katy: Have truffles, will travel, eh?
Diann: Oh, yeah. Chocolate and humor help me cope with the growing older thing. Life’s a journey, and I’m taking in every minute of it. I mean, what’s not to enjoy? Scientists have discovered dark chocolate is good for your heart, for crying out loud! It’s a great day to be alive!
Katy: Well, we’ve established that chocolate is of supreme importance to a successful transition through mid-life. Does chocolate also get the credit for your menopausal funny bone?
Diann: Not completely. That literally (ha!) came one morning when I looked in the mirror and saw my grandmother looking back at me (I didn’t know my biological mother, so I couldn’t envision her there). Anyway, with one glimpse, the seed for Hot Flashes & Cold Cream was born. Scary, I know, but there it is.
Katy: I’ve got the shivers just thinking about it. And a hot flash. Kind of at the same time. Weird, huh? I’ve read three of your books now: Hot Flashes and Cold Cream (which I’d just enjoyed right before we met in September), RV There Yet?, and Hot Tropics and Cold Feet. The theme of friendship is one you keep coming back to. As a woman in the general neighborhood of fifty years old, do you look for different qualities in a friend than you did when you were, say, twenty? Your characters are fabulous at nurturing their relationships. How do you keep your own friendships perking along?
Diann: Oh, those are great questions.
Katy: Why, thank you.
Diann: Very deep and thought provoking.
Katy: I know!
Diann: Which begs the question, why are you asking ME? :) No really, women are all about relationships. We need to be surrounded by other women. There are some things men just don’t get. When my husband sees me crying over a Hallmark commercial, it scares him. He picks up the phone to call 911.
Katy: I like a proactive man.
Diann: Sure, you do. A girlfriend, on the other hand, would cry with me and pass the Kleenex. See the difference? I don’t think my tastes in friends have changed all that much over the years. I look for the type of friend that I want to be—someone encouraging, positive, upbeat, and fun. Oh, and they MUST love chocolate and coffee. ;-)
Katy: Them’s my sentiments exactly!
Diann: I try to keep my friendships perking by scheduling regular coffee get-togethers. I’m terrible at talking on the phone, but if I schedule a coffee time, I can keep up on what’s going on in their lives. I’m trying to “give back” more this year by mentoring some younger women.
Katy: How young? Because by my mother-in-law’s standards, I’m an ingenue.
Diann: Uh-huh. It’s a selfish thing, really. As a writer, it’s easy to get into my own little world and not reach out around me, so this is helping me feel more in touch with my physical community. Though it does require me to actually “share” my chocolate.
Katy: Ouch! OK, tell me this. Once you’ve gotten a reputation for being a comedienne, do people treat you differently? Like, at parties, are you expected to be the “life of”? Are people always saying stuff like, “Say something funny!”? Being funny on demand, now THAT sounds scary!
Diann: My friends don’t do that, but when I’m asked to speak now, an audience expects me to be funny. And of course, when I’m expected to be funny—especially if I’m nervous—it’s just not there. Besides, I don’t see myself as funny. Weird, yes. Funny, no. My brain just goes off in quirky directions.
Katy: Any exotic chocolate in your future?
Diann: Every day. My calcium comes in the form of a chocolate chewable. It’s not DeBrand’s, but it helps.
Katy: If you’re like me, O fallible ones, you want a fun book to go with your goodies. Hot Tropics and Cold Feet has just hit the stores, so you’re in luck. And one of you is in even MORE luck. Leave a comment on this post, and you might just win a free copy of Diann’s latest. (I’ll randomly draw a name from among the commenters and post the winner on, we’ll say, Thursday.)
In the meantime, check out Diann’s site, and then take a spin over to the group blog she hosts with three other great authors—her buddies, Colleen Coble, Denise Hunter, and Kristin Billerbeck. The friendship of these four ladies is yet another testament to Diann’s heart for women’s relationships.
Thanks for sharing some time with us, Diann! I’ll lift my next latte to you.
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Fallen Apple Makes Good, Tree Notwithstanding (#1048)
I’ve been waiting a good long while to make this announcement. If not for the virtue of patience, gracefully refined in me lo these fifty-three years, I would not have been able to keep my blog shut. Ha.
I’m proud to announce that Scott Douglas Raymond (my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased) is now a published author! He was approached by O’Reilly Publishers to write a book entitled “Ajax on Rails,” which—contrary to what many of you fallible readers are thinking right now—has NOTHING to do with the diligent, abrasive scrubbing of filthy train tracks.
No, my friends. No housewives will be harmed in the reading of this book, or in following its instructions, either. It’s a computer language manual, a fascinating tome that I was honored to help edit—at least, the parts of the manuscript that include actual words. I don’t edit code too well, in case you were wondering.
Not to brag or anything (OK, to brag and everything!), but Scott is considered something of a world-renowned expert in this field. He’s regularly invited to speak at conferences around the US and even in Europe. Pretty cool for a young whippersnapper, eh?
Please join me in congratulating Scott and his lovely wife, Brooke, now a seasoned pro herself in (among many other things) living with an author-in-progress.
Here’s the link to Ajax on Rails!
If you’re in KC on the 27th, pop by the house for Scott’s book launching party!
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My Idea Of Outragious Fun, Except For The Hungry Masses Yearning For Their Next Meal Part (#1047)
I had to get in the grocery line behind the girl with the cornrows, I just had to. If you’d been there, you would have done it, too.
I knew it would take 11.3 minutes longer in that line than any other, but for once, I didn’t care.
We first encountered each other in the health food section, which in HyVee Stores is really rather nice. Lots of bulk nuts and grains and spices, plus organically grown this and that, and some sugar-free items that never fail to call my name.
She was young, maybe 25, and looked at first to me to be the funky student type. Her plaid wool skirt hit her just above the knee, and although she had a cute figure, the thick knit leggings with the baggy knees did not do her justice. The leggings ended at the ankle, and beneath them she wore heavy socks of the same color—brown—and over the bunched-up socks, leather toeless sandals strapped the whole multi-fibered concept together.
Now this get-up, replete with a sweater vest and then a fleece cardigan, might have been overlookable if it had been cold outside. But the thermometer hit sixty early on, and seeing her dressed like that made me have a minor hot flash. OK, make that a major one.
Still, I surreptitiously followed her from the flax cereal to the check-out lanes, where I got a good, long chance to view the contents of her cart.
Placed in an unrelentingly methodical fashion were three piles of frozen veggies. Does “stacks” sound more precise than “piles”? I don’t know. Maybe “pillars” is the right word. Five bags of corn niblets were laid one upon another with the perimeters of the bags lining up like a perfectionist might match the edges of a folded towel. I wondered what would happen if one tiny niblet got separated from its compadres and forced its way into the corner of a bag, causing a seismic shift of such magnitude that the whole tower came off kilter, but of course, I kept my fears about such a mishap to myself.
Exactly three inches separated the stack of corn bags from the stack of five bags of broccoli. And another three inch path delineated the broccoli from the stack of five frozen bags of peas.
These fifteen items occupied the side of the cart closest to the girl, who I now remember wore no glasses although she looked (because of her costume) like the sort who would need coke-bottle lenses and even then would stumble in semi-blindness. As it was, she carried herself flawlessly erect, with the posture and composure of a classically-trained ballet dancer. The only item separating the girl from her veggies was her purse, which sat squarely in the very center of the kiddy seat, until it began squriming and begging for candy at the check-out lane. OK, I made that part up. Her purse was very well behaved, indeed.
On the far end of the cart were three see-through bags of fresh produce. One bag contained three large yellow onions, one three large green peppers, and the third three large orange oranges. Each bag had been twisted at the top, the twisted portion had been fixed beneath the bag, and they’d been placed in the cart at the exact same slant—with the little twist at a 45 degree angle, pointing directly at the clerk who was about to serve this customer.
I could not WAIT to see how the girl would empty the cart, if there would be an equally fascinating arrangement made on the counter. I smiled to myself when she reached for the top bag of corn and placed it alone near the scanner. She watched the monitor as the clerk scanned it, making sure the price rang up to her satisfaction. Then she removed the next bag of corn and repeated the procedure—watching the monitor again.
Lather, rinse, repeat. Never more than ONE item on the counter. Time passed. A very, extremely large quantity of time. The store emptied. Clerks punched time-clocks and sped out of the parking lot.
Finally, a manager walked by and said, “Here, let me help you unload your cart…” and she did not object. The bags of fresh produce, though, she handled herself. She picked up the bag of onions, unwound the twist she’d made at the bag’s opening, rewound it, tucked the twist under the bag, and laid it near the scanner at an angle replicating the angle she’d used in the cart. The broccoli and the oranges? Untwist, retwist, tuck, place, and point.
I knew, knew, knew by then that she would be paying with cash. I also knew her payment would probably be drawn from a neatly folded pile of one-dollar bills.
“What do you mean, you knew?” Doug asked me later. “Easy,” I said. “Some things you just know.” Sure enough, while the sacker placed her groceries in plastic bags, she counted out what she owed from a pristine collection of dollar bills.
I was still chuckling over all of this as I tossed my groceries carelessly onto the counter. I don’t even have the decency to keep multiple copies of the same item together, much less a system for fastidious organization of what I figure will just become a messy situation when I get home anyway. I guess I purchased fifty items, paid, threw the bags in my cart and turned to leave when I realized the girl’s cart was still there—parked right in front of mine.
But where was she? She was removing each bag from her cart, carrying it over to the station where the fellow had sacked, and inserting the bag into another bag in order to achieve the two-ply effect. Then she’d carry that one bag back to the cart, remove the next one, and so on. And so on. And so on.
“Have a nice day,” I said, as she moved her cart and I scooted past her.
“Oh, I will,” she said. “Once a week, I make lunches and deliver them to people who can’t get out.”
What a kind soul, I thought. “That’s sweet of you,” I said. “So, tomorrow’s your day?”
“No, actually, it’s today.” She smiled as she calmly double-bagged her three oranges, but I couldn’t help worry about those poor starving shut-ins.
It was already three o’clock.
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It Only Hurt When I Laughed (#1046)
Only three times in my life have I produced something so beautiful, brilliant, and original that the events themselves became annual holidays.
Twenty-two years ago today was the third time. I don’t expect ever in my life to feel as happy again as Kevin Patrick Raymond made me feel that day.
They induced labor, since I was a gestational diabetic and they didn’t want the baby to be overdue. I protested for the first six hours or so that if they didn’t crank that drip up several severe notches, the child would never be born. I was used to hard labor in the early stages, and figured unless suffering was intense, progress would not occur.
“Relax,” the nurse would say at regularly scheduled five-minute intervals. “You’re moving right along. We don’t need to increase the drip as long as you’re continuing to dilate.”
How could I be dilating? I wasn’t even having to do ridiculous breathing techniques, not that I would have submitted to them anyway. Let’s just say I am NOT a big Lamaze aficionado, the proof being that during labor with my first son, I threatened to kill my poor “It’s-not-pain-it’s-discomfort” instructor for “lying.”
At two in the afternoon on Kev’s birthday, my mother and three sisters—all of whom had taken the day off to be with me and Doug—decided to turn on my then favorite TV program, The Guiding Light. Right there in the room where I was trying to get them to turn up the drip, trying to make myself work harder than God intended, trying to be a serious mother.
I don’t remember what the episode was about. Josh and Reva’s storyline was the entertaining one, so likely they were involved in what became high shenanigans surrounding my bed. Mom and the girls got me laughing SO HARD about my soap opera that the labor pains (and they really ARE pains, for the uninitiated) were horribly magnified.
In between spasms of laughter and contractions off the chart, I said to Doug, “Get them OUT of here! NOW!! And turn OFF the blasted TV!”
It only hurt, you see, when I laughed.
I still credit the women in my family for making my labor kick into high gear, without which I might still be dripping with little more than irony in that earth-toned room, sucking ice. Oh, wait. They didn’t let us have ice back then.
Within two more hours, Kevin was here in all his adorable glory. Before long, I forgot all about The Guiding Light. Kev’s been making me laugh all these years, and since that very first day, it’s never hurt a bit.
Happy Birthday, Dear Kevin.
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