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
And The Winners Are….(Denise Hunter, We Need A Drum Roll!) (#999)
It’s 8:30 am in Kansas City, and the contest is closed. What contest? you may be asking.
Funny, that. Here’s the deal: On the writers loop I’m a part of, we are allowed to promote our blogs once and once only. I’ve been a member two years, and have never used my one-time opportunity—until yesterday.
I decided to run a little comment contest over here, which explains all the new names in the comment section. I declared on the loop that four names would be chosen out of one of my many hats, and that each of the four would receive the CBA (Christian Booksellers Association) novel of his choice.
I should have actually blogged about the contest in a separate entry, so that my regular readers would have known what was happening, but I TOTALLY SPACED IT OUT. Now, if that’s not out of character for me, I don’t know what is! Sigh.
However, the names have been duly drawn, and fine names they are!
Lori Chally, Suzan Robertson, Michael Snyder, and Cheryl Wyatt.
I’m off to email the fortunate commenters now. Later, I may post the names of the books they’d most like to read, just for fun.
Thanks to all of you who entered! Hope you keep reading here at fallible. In the next couple of weeks, I’ll be chatting with two great authors, Nancy Moser and Lisa Samson, about their latest books. Should be a great time!
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Overwhelmed, But In A Really, Really Good Way… (#998)
Right off the bat, you can probably picture me sprawled out on the bed in my jammies, worn to within a wrinkle of my life by Writers Conference Overload.
You think I’ve gotten a sinus infection from the unrelenting Texas humidity and now have three prescriptions ready to pick up at Osco, if I can only drag my pathetic self to the car and hit-up the all-night pharmacy.
You think it’ll take me a week to recover from the excitement because, well…I’m kind of an old chick as young chicks go, but you know what? It’s Doug who’s exhausted. That’s right. Doug.
Since we got home from the American Christian Writers Conference five hours ago, I have not ceased to regale the man with fantastic stories of the people I met, the friends with whom I reunited, the editors and agents I pitched and thoroughly enjoyed, the authors who gave of their talents and time so generously, and the stratospheric quality of the down comforter and pillows at the Dallas Marriott.
After an hour, he got a few words in edge-wise. “I’m so glad you had a great time…”
“Oh, baby, you don’t know the tenth of it.”
He didn’t smile too broadly, and I wondered why.
“Let me tell you about…” My mouth off and ran for the next full hour, no inhalation needed, thank you VERY much.
“Hon, that’s great. And you liked the Early Bird session, too—” It was more of a statement than a question, a technicality I didn’t pick up on at the moment.
“Are you KIDDING? It was the highlight of my LIFE!” Of course, I didn’t mean my whole life, but at least the couple days’ worth of my life I’d just condensed into two hyperactive hours. “Colleen Coble and Deb Raney did an amazing job, and the girl with the black hair and the black framed glasses who looked EXCELLENT in the periwinkle silk jacket had a supurb blurb about her romantic suspense and Colleen said she—”
“How was the dinner for the Faith in Fiction crowd? The ones who comment on that Bethany House editor’s blog?”
“You mean Dave Long? How sweet of you to remember! Suzan Robertson—you know the girl I mean, right? the one with the Bronx accent and the naturally curly black hair I’d die (and dye) for? here, let me show you her picture on her blog—well, she organized it and reserved a space forever ago and man, oh, man, were there ever some fun people there. I heard a bunch of them went out afterwards until some hour that could only be described by me as ‘wee’ and did whatever faithy fiction folks do…”
His eyes sparkled, but not for long before the first fruits of terminal glaze set in.
“Are you going to give me a blow-by-blow of every single hour of the entire five days, including the ‘wees’?”
“What, babe? You can’t keep up?”
“It’s not that,” he said, but I had to wonder. “Although, I did lose track when you started describing the Formal Banquet Entree Exchange Program. Did you really trade Lisa Samson’s chicken for your salmon? Scraped it off her china right there in the ballroom, with the crystal chandeliers and the swan-folded napkins and the four forks each?”
It’s not MY fault that he had the poor judgment to ask a question at this stage of the game, knowing that I would have no problem keeping this conversation going well nigh unto forever.
“You know very WELL Lisa is a vegan!” I said, feeling suddenly defensive to think he couldn’t appreciate the finer points of my buddies’ dietary persuasions. I also reminded myself to go to dictionary.com and get the scoop on veganism once and for all. “The polenta went to my right, the rolls and butter made the full circle without stopping twice except at Michael Snyder’s plate, and my cheesecake landed in the middle of the table, up for grabs.”
That was all it took. His eyes coated over faster than hot glaze poured on a Krispy Kreme. Five full hours of chatting him up, and here’s his final whimper of an answer:
“How soon can I sign you up for next year?”
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Five Days, Four Nights, And No Harrison Ford In Sight (#997)
By the end of this post, you’ll be wondering why I mentioned Harrison Ford in the title, so I might as well tell you now. It’s because we just watched that movie with him and Anne Heche, the one where the two of them crash his plane on a deserted island (Man! I almost spelled out “desserted” island, which sounds SO much better!). It’s called Six Days, Seven Nights, or Seven Days, Six Nights, or something like that.
There’s also a second very valid reason why I included Mr. Ford’s name in my title: Because I Can.
My good buddy Kath and I will leave my driveway at approximately 6 am Wednesday morning, along with Chauffeur Doug, who will drop us at the airport for our flight to Dallas. I am as ready as I can be for the American Christian Writers Conference, except that—contrary to popular advice—I have NOT memorized any elevator pitches for my novel.
I’m more of a wing-it type of chick, which could explain my current lack of published book credits. Hmmm….I’ll give that some more thought, but for now it’s time to pack.
I thought I’d let my readers—especially the men—see something of the quandary we women face when we set our faces like flint to fill the suitcase. I’ve set out eight pairs of shoes, one evening bag, one purse, and four computer bags for possible inclusion in my packables. A wheeled computer bag is absolutely going, but it’s mostly for the airport. I would feel goofy wheeling it around at the conference, so one of the smaller shoulder computer bags will also be making the trip.
The question is: Which one?
As for the shoes, they’re all going. If you have to ask why, you’re most likely one of those fellows I’ve been thinking of.
I realized when pulling all these bags out of the closet that I’d given my luggage tags to Kevin when he left for Switzerland 16 days ago. (He’s doing great, by the way, but BOO-HOO! I miss him…) I finally found one attached to a duffel of Doug’s, with his business card stuck into the hard plastic enclosure. On the back of his card, he’d written “San Juan,” and while that should have taken me back, it took me no where.
Has he—or have we—ever been in San Juan? I need to take better notes!
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Anyway, I removed the tag from his bag and replaced his business card with my own. Then I looked at the rubber-band type thingie meant to fasten the tag to the bag. I poked one end of the rubber band through the little slot on the tag and looped the other end around the handle of the bag, but then what?
A total dead end. Unless of course I proceeded to make a jumbled knot out of the flexible rubber, hoping against hope that eventually an unnatural attachment would take place between the independent-behaving tag and the aloof bag.
Fifteen minutes, people. That’s how long I attempted to do the math of this particular puzzle before hauling the bag and my sorry behind in to Doug, the resident genius. Even he managed to be completely perplexed for sixty seconds, but with him—unlike with me—the solution made itself apparent.
Instead of merely poking the end of the rubber band through the slot in the tag and calling it done, he finished that transaction by looping the tag all the way through the waiting band. Then he advanced to Part Two of the whole messy operation, which involved the same technique of looping around and through the suitcase handle.
Have I made myself perfectly clear? Because by now, it should be plainly evident to any intelligent reader that this post should have been called “How Not To Pack.”
But I sure wasn’t mistaken when I called myself “fallible,” huh?
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Faking It (#996)
If you’ve read here for any length of time, you know I’m not normally the nervous type.
In fact, you probably frequent fallible precisely for the sense of calm that automatically descends upon your agitated psyche the second you click over and see that sedate Victorian chick, pensive though she may be.
It pains me to have to admit this to you, but I am often the unwitting (and unwilling) victim of fits of high anxiety, the likes of which you’ve likely never experienced unless you, too, have encountered cobwebs connecting your crystal chandelier to your dining room chairs. Trust me, when this happens in September—with all of spidery October still ahead—even I, a paragon of semi-comatose peace, become a bundle of bristling B-12 deficient nerves.
It’s not just the cobwebs on the chandelier, though. It’s the cobwebs in my mind. Suddenly I’m picturing next week’s 15-minute appointments with agents and editors and my stomach’s twittering. There’s a tempting zit I’d love to take a poke at right about now, but what if the agent I’m hoping to attract thinks I’m the product of spousal abuse, or maybe that those pesky spiders freed themselves from the brass and glass and had their way with me?
The 15-minute pitches are wracking enough, but it’s the table-for-eight pitches—wherein an editor or agent hosts a table and the conference attendees RUN (think the opening of Macy’s on the day after Thanksgiving…) to sit with their notables of choice.
At a round table, I can hear exactly one person—the one on my left. There will be 400 people in that banquet room, and every lunch and dinner is a new but not improved chance for me to pitch my novel, to receive from the table’s host that all-coveted invitation to “Yes, please send me your proposal! Here’s my contact info.”
What do you think my chances are that Mr Agent or Ms. Editor will ever sit on my left?
I dread dinners out with family and friends, because they more often than not catch me faking it. I’ll say something that I think provides kind of a catch-all response to whatever might have just been said by someone else—my way of trying to stay in the take-a-chance-and-make-up-a-non-word Scrabble game of life.
“Mom,” one of the kids invariably pipes up, “What did you THINK I said?”
Maybe unilateral deafness isn’t something to get too worked up about, I don’t know. If I say something stupid like “I love you,” (hat tip to Frank and Nancy Sinatra), the old one-ear-is-stone-deaf-please-accept-my-apologies line could come in handy.
Deaf or no deaf, one thing’s for sure. Thinking about selling myself makes me nervous, and next week I’ll be doing a whole lot of faking it.
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Suspicious Mind (#995)
OK, it’s like this: I did the dishes a couple of hours ago. There are only two of us in the house, and we haven’t eaten since the kitchen was last cleaned.
So I hear Doug in the kitchen banging around. It sure sounds like he’s doing dishes. There’s that signature move he does wherein the washee gets knocked precipitously against the faucet a couple of times for good measure. (We’ve actually got a few glasses that have survived being washed by Doug. More power to them, I say.)
Doug knows I’m in a grouchy (read: progesterone imbalanced) mood. He knows that the last thing I dreamed before awakening this morning was that MY ENTIRE HEAD of hair turned grey overnight, the Excellence of L’Oreal notwithstanding.
But surely he wouldn’t try to suck up by washing ONE SOLITARY dish, would he? Because that would make me really, really…...you don’t want to know.
I walk to the bedroom door, where I’ve got a good view of him with his hands immersed in the sink. Steam rises, and not just from the water. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says—and you’ll have to trust me when I say this is not my favorite answer. It had better not be his final one.
“Nothing?”
He turns and looks at me, and uses an even more nonchalant voice than usual. “Just washing a cup.”
“A cup,” I say in a deadpan tone. “Why?”
“Um….because I used it in the bathroom.”
What? He’s pregnant and needs to produce a urine sample? Impossible. He’s 54. I don’t say a word. I just stand there staring and wait until he decides to finish the story.
Finally, the whole truth. “I used it to catch a frog.”
Nice save.
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Novel Approach (#994)
Two weeks from today, I’ll be sitting with thirty others in the Early Bird Session (think I’ll catch any worms?) of the American Christian Fiction Writers Conference in Dallas.
In the session, authors Deb Raney and Colleen Coble—who will have been perusing our manuscripts since September 1—will offer personalized tips for improving our stories. Besides their valuable critiques, time will be allowed for each novelist’s work to be brainstormed by the others in the group.
I’ve been party to a few critique groups, but never a brainstorming session. I hear you can come away from a good brainstorming time with more ideas for your book than you know what to do with. I hope I can be a viable contributor to the others, since some days I feel that my storm is more like a mild sprinkle. :)
This whole crazy novel-writing thing started nearly five years ago, when I challenged myself to do National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) in November of 2001. I completed 50,000 truly horrible words that month, words I’ve never shown anyone because they are more dreadful than even I can bear. But, hey, it was a start.
I abandoned that ill-begotten story and moved to the next. I worked on Novel Number Two for a year or so before giving it the heave-ho, too. Before I trashed it, I actually took the beginnings of that novel to the Calvin College Festival of Faith and Writing in 2002, and several editors asked me to send them the proposal and three chapters. What? You mean I’ve got to finish THREE WHOLE CHAPTERS? And what on earth, I wondered, is a proposal?
They say the third book’s the charm, don’t they? Man, I hope they’re right!
I’ll go to Dallas with my third novel actually finished, except for the kind of tweaking that writers always do, even to novels long published. I learned how to write a proposal, and even how to get past writing the first few chapters over and over again, ad infinitum.
Every scene in a book should move the story forward, and it’ll be fun to see if every book in my life moves me forward. I can’t wait to meet the editors and agents in the line-up at ACFW, plus all my wonderful writer friends in the group.
And who knows? One of these days, I may be blogging about getting a contract to publish my very third book.
Whoa. The idea of it sends me right back to the tweaking board.
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Time (#993)
Not much is going on with the Raymond family these days, but I thought I’d fill you in on a few tidbits.
You may remember that our daughter moved back home on July 31. She hadn’t lived with us for six years. That very day, her boyfriend Marc asked us for her hand in marriage. Doug told him, “She’s more than a hand. She’s a handful.” Since then, of course, he’s proposed. On Sunday, we did the Meet the Parents dinner at Outback (what a lovely family…). Yesterday, Carrie started her new job teaching severely handicapped first-graders in the inner city here in KC. She’s going through so many changes, so fast…and so are we. Even though she’s right here with us, she’s moving on, and I miss her.
Ten days ago, after we had the blow-out party for my youngest son, Kevin, he also moved home. He’d only been gone one year, but still. He’ll be here until Friday morning, when he’s moving to Switzerland for ten months to complete a degree program. We may fly him home once during that time, if Carrie and Marc settle on a wedding date inside of ten months. He asked me to hem his three new pairs of pants yesterday. Something about him asking broke my heart. I’ll miss him so much.
Our oldest son, Scott, who’s married to Brooke, hasn’t moved back home. However, he’s on a September 1 deadline with O’Reilly Books. He’s under contract with them to write his first manuscript, a manual on Ruby on Rails, a computer language in which he’s considered an expert. Look for it in better bookstores in December! If you go to Amazon and key in Scott Raymond, you can read all about it now! I haven’t wanted to bother him for the past month or so, because I know he’s feeling the stress, but I miss him.
On Thursday, I’ll be with my baby sister Bridget at the hospital all day. She’s having surgery to repair two herniated discs in her neck. Say a prayer for her, please! She’s nervous, and understandably so. I told my mother not to worry, that I would be her baby’s Mama for the day, but even as I reassured her, I realized how much I miss being the child, and my mother being the mom.
I’m kidding when I say not much is going on. You caught that, right? I am trying to finish editing my novel before I go to the American Christian Fiction Writers conference next month and Doug is trying to keep all his business plates spinning. Often, if we try to speak one complete sentence to each other these days, we’re interrupted by the phone or a slamming door or an excited kid filling us in on the latest details. All amazing life interruptions, but I miss my tender husband.
So this morning, somehow I found myself at a site called “Alarm Clocks Online.” I love clocks, as long as they’re not electric. Battery operated clocks are OK, but my personal lifelong favorite is the wind-up alarm clock.
I should have known what would happen when I clicked on the page called “Wind-Up Alarms.” There they were, lined up in all their 1950s-style glory, taking me back to the edge of my parents’ bed. And there sat my father, winding his clock, silently assuring me that even though the Cubans had missiles pointing at our very house, the sun would come up again tomorrow.
It had no choice. My Father had wound the clock. How I miss him.
I cried this morning over wind-up alarm clocks, let my tears fall as if my father sat right beside me, the steadfast clock in his hands. He never said much, but this morning I just needed to picture him there, needed to remember that no matter what tomorrow might bring, life’s clock must every night be wound.
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Cheap Dates (#991)
I’ve always been a cheap date. In fact, expensive dates make me really nervous. If my hubby takes me out for steak, I don’t want to dollar cost average each tiny bite. Kind of sucks the fun right out of a rib-eye, doesn’t it?
Sure, ambiance is nice, and there are restaurants in Kansas City with plenty of it and price tags to match. I’ve been in quite a few of them—once. To me, they’re like limousines. You’re only meant to experience them once in a lifetime and if you do it more often than that, you dilute the effect.
So, while Doug and I have always prided ourselves on our cheap dates, we’ve lowered the ante. Exactly how cheap have we gotten?
These days, we’re pretty much insisting that the date pays us. For example, we received notice in the mail of a new Caribou Coffee joint going in not far from us. The first 100 people through the doors at the Grand Opening were promised coupons for free drinks.
We made sure we were in that 100, folks. We got free coffee on the spot, 5 oz. of ground decaf to brew at home, gourmet cookies, two Caribou t-shirts, and two gift cards for $4 each. We had the pleasure of an outing which cost us zero, zip, nada, plus we scored some goodies. Yesterday, we popped in to use one of our gift cards. Since we ordered decaf, they gave us another free bag of ground decaf for our home stash!
You’re probably admiring us right about now. You’re probably thinking you should even model your (most likely expensive) dating life after us. I don’t blame you one bit.
But before you attempt to keep down with the Raymonds, I’ll go ahead and confess where we went for free on Saturday morning.
The University of Kansas Medical Center was sponsoring—for FREE!—a Community Preparedness Bird Flu Conference! Free breakfast, people! All the free coffee we could drink! Free coffee mugs with the KU logo to add to our collection of coffee mugs we end up giving to the thrift store!
And laughing out loud at our exorbitant cheapness all the way home? Priceless.
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Hot (#990)
After six years relatively symptom-free, I’m having hot flashes from hello.
Do you remember when you were a little kid and you had a fever, complete with chills and then sweats? How you’d have seven blankets piled on top of you and tucked in by your Mommy, who said she needed to help you “break the fever,” and then you’d wake up an hour later drenched all the way through your I Dream of Jeannie pajamas?
It’s like that, without the fever. But hey, who needs a thermometer when you can bodily experience the temperatures both in the steamy tropics and in the frozen tundra all in the space of ten minutes flat?
I’m not bitter, really. But I’m not happy, either. People, I’ll soon be 53 years old! I’m far too mature to have to be reduced to someone so…immature.
Having the sweats overtake me makes me say crazy things, things I don’t mean. I said a few of those things to my beloved husband this morning. He looked aghast for a moment but then answered me like the saint he is.
“Well, I’m never going to leave you, if that’s what you’re afraid of…”
Afraid? Is he nuts? The only thing I’m afraid of is that he might look at me cross-eyed one more time, putting himself in serious danger.
As soon as I let him know my views about my supposed fears, we had to pile in the car for an appointment. The hot flash had not let up and honestly, I was frantic. When I’m frantic, I…um, say stuff.
So I said a bunch of stuff I didn’t mean, and do you know what he had the NERVE to do? Instead of putting a few conciliatory words out there so that I could say even MORE stuff, he reached up to the car’s dashboard and pointed EVERY SINGLE air conditioning vent at my FACE.
Have you EVER?
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Love Is In The Air! (#989)
If romance is your thing, the Raymonds are your people, especially this week.
Two years ago tonight, on the twenty-eighth anniversary of the day Doug asked me to marry him, our oldest son Scott married the girl we now think of as our second daughter, Brooke. I blogged about their engagement and about their wedding, too, but I don’t think I’ve posted any pics of this beautiful couple.
We took the two of them out for lunch today. When I had a few seconds alone with Brooke, I hugged her and whispered, “Thank you for marrying our son.”
I don’t know if she realized that she blushed, but she did. Maybe she doesn’t know quite how much we adore her, how much we believe that she is the perfect girl for Scott, how grateful we are that they found each other.
“It’s gone so fast,” she said. “And yet it seems like we’ve known each other forever. We’re very, very happy…”
I can’t express how wonderful she made me feel. You’ll just have to take my word for it.
Scott and Brooke, we love you with everything in us. Happy Second Anniversary!
“I have no greater joy than this, to hear of my children walking in the truth.” 3 John 1:4
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Seasons (#988)
It shocks me that in any given season—this summer, for instance—we can experience enough change to make it feel like we’ve gone through several years’ worth of transitions.
Did I mention that three weeks ago, Carrie moved back in with us? She’s taken a job in the Kansas City school district, where she’ll be teaching first-grade-aged little girls with serious physical and mental handicaps. She hasn’t lived with us—or even in Kansas City—for six years, so we all wondered how we’d handle this change.
After all, Doug and I have been empty-nesters for a whole year now and believe me, we’ve enjoyed it. But having that girl back under our roof has been a beautiful thing, a joy I’m glad we didn’t miss. Granted, she won’t be here long. She’s engaged to be married to an amazing man, and already her heart is with him.
It’s a good thing we’re so happy with the temporarily fuller nest, though, because any minute another kid will come home to roost. Kevin’s broken up housekeeping with the gazillion guys he’s been living with, moved all his stuff back into our joint, and tonight he’ll be sleeping in his old room.
Granted, he’ll only be here until September 1, when he leaves for Switzerland—when we’ll have to make yet another adjustment to life without our buddy nearby.
But for ten whole days, we’ll have two of the kiddos with us, just like in the old days, before the speed of change almost caught up with the speed of light.
Message to our oldest son Scott and his wonderful wife Brooke: If you want to crash this Partay at the Raymond’s, there’s no time like the present!
From empty nest to full house, for probably the last time ever. We’re relishing the days in this oh, so short season.
Gotta run. I think I hear a kid at the door now!
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Roses In The Rocks (#987)
Eight dozen altogether, ninety-six roses placed by strong, gentle hands into the craggy rocks.
Made to look as though they’d sprung up there spontaneously in the summer twilight, as though planted by God Himself, in the rough but discernable shape of a tender heart.
And with the roses, a diamond ring, and the promise of forever transcending both the frailty of the rose and the permanence of the rock.
In the center of the heart of blooms, three words scribbled in the dirt. “I love you…” Longer than the rocks or the roses, the center will hold.
He loves you, our little girl, our beautiful grown up baby woman.
Our Carrie. Your Marc.
Love him with all your heart.
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It’s The Meme Thing! (#986)
I’ve been tagged by not one but two lovely ladies for the same meme. OK. “Same” and “meme” are slightly redundant, since in French meme means same, but there it is!
I decided not to do memes several years ago, so I guess I’ll stick to my guns this time. But I want you to know about two of my favorite bloggers, in case somehow you’ve missed them until now.
Check out my buddy Mary DeMuth, author of several books, who shares French-inspired fun and writing tips at relevantblog.
And Bonnie Bruno, also a published author and online friend, posts deep thoughts and fantastic photos at macromoments.
Enjoy my blogging taggers! They are some of the best you’ll read.
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Recap (#985)
Wow! The bon voyage party for Kevin was a huge success! Many, many thanks to all of you who made it even more fun by joining in my impromptu comment shower. Kev got a big kick out of it, not to mention a cool $150.
I never know what to expect when I throw a bash at the Raymond house. We invited everyone on both sides of the family, which—if all the invitees were to show up—is around 50 people. After a minor slowdown in family growth, things are kicking into high gear again—all the kids in my children’s gen are getting married and my mother now has four great-grandchildren. To think Mom was an only child, and now is matriarch to around 45 of us.
Besides family, Kev put out an open invite to his friends. He expected ten or so. I’d say forty of them showed up! What a fantastic group of young adults. I love every darn one of them.
In other news, today is Day Sixty And Still Counting Without Starbucks. In our world, that means we’ve prevented the spending of $480! I’m sorry, but that’s starting to sound like real money.
Today, however, I did spend $15 that wasn’t completely essential. I have been desperately craving a snow cone maker all summer long. My blender will NOT crush ice, and I have wonderful DaVinci and other calorie free syrups that I wanted to use in crushed-ice-intensive treats. I’d decided that when Walmart put theirs on sale, I’d pick one up, which I did today for $12.
I also had a CVS coupon for $5 off a $5 purchase. I’ve needed a couple lipsticks pretty badly, if anyone can ever really “need” lipstick. Loreal was BOGO, regularly priced $8 each. So I picked up two, and only had to add $3 to my coupon.
Fifteen bucks in two months. That’s how much I personally have spent on items I didn’t have to purchase. Now, you should understand that funding a going-away party for a son we’ll be separated from for ten months is in my mind an essential espense. If it’s about relationships, I’ll spend money.
Evidently, I can also be induced to spend if it’s about wearing a nice shade of lipstick while imbibing a homemade snow cone.
Everyone has a price, eh?
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Kevvie’s Comment Shower! (#984)
Some of you (Waving at Bridget and Michael Number Two!) will remember the crazy day I threw a comment shower for my darling daughter Carrie, to raise money for her missions trip to Haiti.
No dollars belonging to any of my readers were harmed in the throwing of that shower. Rather, for each and every well wish left for Carrie, her dad and I donated a buck to the cause.
Now, dear people, I have another needy child. His responsibility this summer, besides supporting himself, has been to raise the funds for a laptop, round-trip tickets for his journey to Switzerland where he will complete (over the next ten months) a Bachelors in Business Administration in hospitality management, and enough money for miscellaneous expenses for the year.
I think “misc” is coming up a bit short, but the real purpose of this comment shower is to show our 21-year-old son a little bit of that blogging love and encouragement for which you are all so famous.
So pour it on, fallible readers!!!
We’re having a big old-fashioned bon voyage party tomorrow night, and I’ll present him with one dollar for every comment received before then. As happened with Carrie, though, I may have to put a limit on it if our bank account squeals too loudly.
Until then, have fun and show Kevin the love!
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