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Doug’s In His Office, All’s Right With The World (#1029)

He’s better today. He’s in his home office and I’m in mine. We’re both working, and shooting love emails back and forth. Yeah. It’s like that.

Yesterday, though, I feared for him. Here’s why:

We sat in Starbucks for a few minutes, going over a section of my manuscript. It was during the middle of the work day, so he was likely expecting phone calls. He stopped talking to me long enough to pat his pants, over the pocket area.

“I thought my phone was vibrating,” he said, “but it’s not.”

I stared at him before asking, “So, it’s your LEG?”

“Yep.”

Trust me. You’d be scared, too.

Posted by Katy on 12/01/06
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Bing, Not Bling (#1028)

Doug and I were out and about this morning, staying one step ahead of the snow storm. On the road, we got to talking about some of our favorite feel good songs of all time.

I mentioned “Till There Was You,” which the Beatles recorded back in the day, but which was of course a redux, having been originally performed on Broadway in the Music Man. All in all, not THAT much of an oldie, when you’re as old as we are. Sigh.

Then Doug started singing one of his all-time faves, kind of serenading me now that I look back on it, in his deep crooning voice.
“She may be weary—women do get weary…”

“Oh, no….” I groaned. “Don’t tell me she’s STILL—-”

“...Wearing the same shabby dress….”

“Noooo. It reminds me too much of Glen Campbell singing ‘these are the dreams of the everyday housewife.’ Do we have to go THERE?”

“And when she’s weary,” he sang, “try a little tenderness.”

“You know what I think?” I interrupted his vocal reverie. “If she’s so weary, wearing the same shabby dress—”

And then, we both said the identical words at the EXACT same time.

“Buy her a freakin’ new dress!”

We laughed till we cried. When we got home, I looked up the song and found that Bing Crosby recorded it in 1933, in the midst of the Great Depression. When he sang about “shabby,” he didn’t mean “shabby chic.” He just meant shabby, and a whole lot of it. The rest of the lyric is very touching, and I have now repented of my disgust for the man who thought a little tenderness would get him off the dress-buying hook.

“You know she’s waiting, just anticipating

Things she may never possess;

While she’s without them, try a little tenderness.

It’s not just sentimental,

She has her grief and care,

And a word that’s soft and gentle,

Makes it easier to bear.

You won’t regret it—women don’t forget it;

Love is their whole happiness.

It’s all so easy—try a little tenderness.”

Any old, sweet songs you’re singing today?

Posted by Katy on 11/30/06
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Oh, The Weather Outside Is Frightful. But A Lockdown’s So Delightful! (#1027)

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but my darling daughter is teaching severely disabled 7-year-olds in a public school in the very extremely urban core of Kansas City.

She left here this morning a bit worried about the weather. We live 45 minutes from her school, and on Wednesday nights, she’s supposed to go even farther north to take classes toward her Master’s in special ed. But our favorite meteorologist, Carrie’s fiance Marc, warned her that tonight would not be a good night to get caught outside. She didn’t know if she should attempt to go to class or not, since then the drive home (late at night) would be 1.5 hours in good weather.

So she packed a bag in case she ended up in a hotel somewhere, or at her brother’s house in town. But then she forgot her wallet containing her debit card and all her ID. And her cell phone wouldn’t hold a charge. And she was out of gas, never a plan in Kansas City in the winter. But I digress.

The ice storm began in earnest around noon—many hours earlier than most of the local TV weather forecasters predicted. They’d all said the rush hour would be completely over before the ice made things unbearable. NOT.

So at 3:20, I called her phone and used one of the last bits of juice she had. “Where are you? Katie Horner on Channel 5 says it’s nasty out there.”

I could hear little children in the background, so I knew she was still at school. “Um…I can’t leave yet. We have a bit of a situation here. I’ll try to call you back, but my phone is dyyyyyiiiiinnnnnngggggggg….........”

“Carrie, are you OK?”

“I’m oooookkkkkkaaaaaayyyyyyyyy…....”

Fade to black.

So I waited. And waited. And waited. She finally called Marc to say she was headed to his Mom’s—a much shorter drive which still took her an hour—and he called us. As she pulled up to their house, she called me once more.

“Did Marc tell you about the situation at school?”

“No. What happened?” I’d been so worried about the roads, I’d forgotten the school.

“All the teachers were outside loading the children into the busses. It was pouring sleet, of course. There are these two fifth grade girls who hate each other and constantly fight on the bus. So their parents showed up on the school grounds—with posses of their friends!—and started a big brawl.”

“In an ice storm? Carrie! Is everyone OK?”

“The mother of one of the fifth graders turned to the other mother and said, ‘Do you want me to pull my gun out of my purse right now?’ and then someone shouted to get the kids back in the school and into the gym. We went on immediate lockdown and within minutes the place was swarming with cops.”

“Carrie!”

“It’s over, Mom. Really. I’m here now. I’m at Marc’s.”

Ice pellets—frozen bits of nature’s unleashed anger—beat relentlessly against my bedroom window as I prayed.

Dear Lord, between You and Marc, please take care of our Care Bear.

Posted by Katy on 11/29/06
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What If He Were YOUR Son? (#1026)

If you got an email like this from your baby son, the one you hadn’t seen for THREE WHOLE MONTHS and who you would not be seeing until January 17, what would YOU do?? Especially after reading the last line? I’m tellin’ you what.

“hello mother.

some news from switzerland. i need money. i know these are hard times for us all, but i still must ask. they are asking for the money to stay in the room over christmas, on the days before i leave (to see the world). so i said i would be here at the school, i think, five days out of the break. they are asking for 250 swiss francs for accomodation and food. also they want the money for graduation dinner this week which is 103 swiss francs. that equals 353Sfr or 292.267 US dollars.

in other news: i love you! it may sound like i am trying to sweet talk you, but i assure you i am.

Kev”

Honestly, what WOULD you do?

Posted by Katy on 11/28/06
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The Ultimate Gift (#1025)

Here’s a holiday question for you. If you could only give one gift this year, what would it be and to whom would you give it?

It doesn’t have to cost anything, or it could cost a gazillion bucks. Whether you actually have the means to afford the gift doesn’t matter for our purposes. This is just to get our creative Christmas juices flowing. The dream gift could be given to any person—dead or alive. If you want most to give Whirled Peas to the President of Iran, go for it!

Right now, I’m thinking I’d love to do the work I’ve been postponing on Family Tree Maker and give my siblings the Gift of Roots.

When my father died nearly 23 years ago, he knew the names of his parents and that’s all. Didn’t know their birthdays or birth places, except to say “Scotland” for his mother and “Ireland” for his father.

My father came to this country from Scotland at the end of WWII as a 26-year-old orphan, who’d already served eight years in the British Army. He literally came with the clothes on his back, and he wasn’t stylin’, believe me. His Uncle Frank, himself an Irish immigrant, sponsored my father to come over—along with five of my dad’s six siblings.

In those days, immigration was strictly controlled. You couldn’t get in to America without a sponsor guaranteeing that if you turned out to be a slouch, the sponsor would be completely responsible for supporting you. It was a huge responsibility for the married-but-childless Uncle Frank to take on—and a huge risk. Frank’s place, in a neighborhood in Kansas City which was at that time an enclave of Irish immigrants, became a flop house for his nieces and nephews.

My father and his brothers would work by day, drink and gamble by night, and land on the living room floor just inside Frank’s front door during the wee hours. They didn’t even have beds, the joint was so packed. Of course, even if they’d had beds, they were too drunk to climb the stairs. They’d stagger off the floor in the morning and lather, rinse, repeat.

My mother killed Uncle Frank in 1959, a night I remember well. He came to our place for dinner—the first and last time he ventured to do so—and she fed him something innocuous seeming like spaghetti and meatballs. The Irish cannot abide by a meal like that, and she should have known better. They don’t do casseroles, and want their meats and starches strictly separated on the plate. Anyway, he went home that night and evidently dropped dead from the shock.

Mom killed her own father similarly, with a breakfast of bacon and eggs, after which he only survived an hour, but this blog entry is NOT supposed to be about my mother’s high (or low) culinary crimes and misdemeanors, now is it?

It’s supposed to be about the gift of a lifetime. I’d like to finish the work I’ve started on my father’s family history, and present it to my siblings. And my cousins, for that matter. It’s important to me that they think of their dad in terms of his place in an age-old story, not as just another guy who got plunked down here for a few years and then was gone.

That’s my dream gift, and those are my dream recipients.

What’s yours?

Posted by Katy on 11/27/06
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Hey, Good Lookin’. What’s Cookin’? (#1024)

Tis the season, baby. Whether you’re hosting Thanksgiving at your house or eating with friends or family, chances are you’re whipping up something interesting in the kitchen.

Heck, even if you’re not technically in America, you’ve got to eat, right?

What’s cookin’ at your house this weekend? Anything your family holds as a special tradition that you absolutely refuse to live without during the holidays?

I just read on another site this morning about a concoction called “goopies.” Cloverleaf rolls which, before being placed in the muffin tins, are preceded by chunks of butter and brown sugar. I’ve got to say, that sounds FANTASTIC.

Today Carrie and I will be assembling a carload of bacon-wrapped water chestnuts. Soy sauce and brown sugar will be involved, with a Splenda substitute on a few for the low-freakin’-carbers. Mmmm-mmmm.

Tell me about your kitchen escapades, especially traditions you just can’t give up.

And have a Very Extremely Happy Thanksgiving!

Posted by Katy on 11/22/06
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Pretty Seedy If You Ask Me (#1023)

“I’ll need you to arrive at least fifteen minutes ahead of time to fill out a few forms,” Bea, Dr. Couchonnal’s nurse, said.

Yeah. Yeah. Even with my mother’s medications list ready to photocopy and her history of previous surgeries, hospitalizations, diseases, fractured bones, and accidents (along with their dates, the names of the attending doctors, etc.) emblazoned forever on my consciousness, it’s gonna take more than fifteen minutes.

Give me thirty minutes and a high-quality pen, and I can make it happen. Throw in power of attorney, and you’ve got yourself a deal.

Mom has been battling a nasty infection in a fingertip for weeks, and now—despite antibiotics both oral and topical—it’s spread to the bone. Osteomyelytis. With a fine infectious disease doctor, probably IV antibiotics, and God’s mercy, she’ll probably get to keep her finger. We’ll see.

As for me, the entire landscape of my dining room has been called up for re-evaluation.

The doctor’s nurse continued to rattle off specifics of what to bring to the office visit besides my poor mother. “I’ll need the results of her most recent blood work.”

“They did it last week,” I said. “Forward thinking man that her GP is, he ordered the sed rate and C-reactive protein, in addition to checking her white blood count.”

“Great!” she said. “What about a plain x-ray?”

“Sorry,” I said. “We’ve only got an MRI. You’ll have to do the plain films yourself.”

“Can do,” she said, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to make a trip back over to Diagnostic Imaging to pick up the CD of the MRI.”

“Whatchoo talkin’ about, CD? No films in enormous manila envelopes, so big they take up the back seat of the car and blind me like a white-out blizzard when I’m trying to carry them down a flight of stairs?”

“Films? That’s SO early 2006. We’ve all gone to CDs, honey. Call ahead and they’ll have your mother’s waiting…”

“Sure,” I said, “but what am I going to do with my china cabinet? It serves no useful purpose except to—”

“Your china cabinet? I don’t under—”

“I keep my skull back there! And my mother’s broken humerus! And my daughter’s foot, my sinuses, my mother’s entire skeleton, my mother-in-law’s abdominal abscesses and my ovaries! Where am I supposed to keep my ovaries?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Raymond. Doctor is NOT a gynocologist. But if your china cabinet needs a purpose-driven life, why not just get it some china?”

Smart alec.

Posted by Katy on 11/20/06
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Can Robin Lee Hatcher Carry A Tune? I Don’t Know, But Her Writing Sings In “A Carol For Christmas” (#1022)

I am honored to have a wonderful author as a guest on fallible today! Robin Lee Hatcher—still thin even with fifty novels under her belt—has written a beautiful holiday novella called “A Carol for Christmas.” We’ll be giving a copy to one blessed commenter, chosen randomly from among those of you who leave a comment on this post. It’s a lovely story, and short—fantastic for getting in “the mood.” Which leads me to my first question for Robin:

Q. I always have a bit of a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit “on demand.” Shopping doesn’t thrill me (although giving does), and decorations in public before Halloween even arrives? That just freaks me out. A good Christmas story, though, never fails to get me in the mood. I could read “A Christmas Carol” every year, and now I may add “A Carol for Christmas” to my short list. How will your story affect the hearts of readers who might be a little too humbuggy for their own good?

A. For so many, Christmas has become all about spending too much money and getting run too ragged. I would hope that A Carol for Christmas would remind readers that Christmas should be about love—loving others and being loved by God.

Q. There are quite a number of aspiring writers who read fallible. I think they’d be fascinated with a description of your office. Can you describe it for us, and tell us how it suits your writing habits and style? (If you’d like to share any pics, that would be great!)

A. I cannot believe I’m going to share these pictures! And they are of the neat, organized part of my office. I just couldn’t handle taking any photos of the worst parts.

I had my office designed about seven years ago with built-in cupboards, filing cabinets, and countertops. The photos are of just a small part of that countertop area that runs around three sides of the office. I have books and papers spread all over it.

The messier it is, the farther along I am in writing my book. When a deadline is met, I spend time trying to eliminate the paper blizzard and tidy up again before the next round of writing begins. Right now I’m doing line edits and am almost done with another book. In other words, the mess is driving me nuts.

I do just about all of my writing at my desktop computer. It’s setup to be ergonomically friendly. I do have a laptop and occasionally will do some writing on it, for a change of scenery. However, I do better in my office. I like to have my reference books and tools close at hand.

Q. I know your life hasn’t been free of trouble, and yet you’ve given appreciative audiences 50 novels. How do you manage to keep writing day after day when “real life” derails so many of us wannabes? If there’s a secret, bottle it, please!

A. In the early part of my career, I was a mom with a full time job. I learned to write with distractions, working on my books in the evenings and on weekends (Monday through Thursday from 7 to 9 pm and Saturday mornings until noon). After nine years of that routine, I quit my day job to write full time. That was almost seventeen years ago.

When trials come, I try to subscribe to the “write anyway” philosophy. Mostly, I’ve found that writing helps me work through the difficult times. I am in control of my fictional world, even when I’m in control of little else in my own world. However, sometimes “writing anyway” simply isn’t possible. Creativity takes a holiday. I’ve discovered I have to allow myself some grace when I’m overwhelmed or wearied by life. Fill up the well. Read something uplifting. Exercise. Cry. Pray. See a movie. Laugh. Play with Poppet (my Papillon). Then go back to work.

Another important lesson I’ve learned is that how I feel about my writing has little to do with its quality. Even if I feel I have nothing to offer and my work is junk, I push onward. Two of my best books were written during times of great stress. I thought the books were awful because of my feelings. But my editors loved them, and the books turned out to be honored with a number of awards and nominations.
___________

Thanks, Robin, for taking the time to visit with us! Hope you have a lovely Thanksgiving with your family, and that each of our hearts will overfill with A Carol for Christmas.

Posted by Doug Raymond on 11/16/06
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Happy BrainSurgSurvivary To Me! (#1021)

Nobody likes to have their head messed with, right?

Seven years ago this minute, my favorite people kissed me good-bye. And then, immediately after I flubbed-up counting backwards from ten, my head got messed with big-time.

I didn’t expect to survive brain surgery. I had peace about going through with it, though, since a tumor had robbed me of my hearing in one ear and surgery represented my only chance to recover it. It seemed like the responsible thing to do.

But honestly, surviving? I figured I had a MUCH better chance of getting my hearing back than I had of surviving.

But, hey. I come from a long line of gamblers. Hmmm….come to think of it, most of them are dead. Sheesh. What are the odds? ;)

It’s been a fascinating seven years. I’m healthier than I’ve ever been as an adult—but not as a result of tumor removal. As a result of the shock of surviving. Survival made me realize how much I owed God, my family, and myself. I got ahold of the grace to change my diet so completely that almost all of my health problems reversed. Of course, I had not wanted to believe that my poor health resulted from my lousy choices but trust me, it did.

Sometimes, for some people, it takes a shock to get turned around on life’s path, a shock to jolt you into a sudden reversal of direction and momentum.

I know what that shock feels like. It feels like the most radical everything-I’m-thankful-for-this-Thanksgiving-list ever. It feels like a new believer feels when he comes up out of the water after being baptized into New Life, and shakes off every remaining drop of his old ways.

To be given another chance—whether it’s for the second or twentieth or two thousandth time—is the most freeing feeling ever, don’t you think?

Whatever you do, don’t pass yours up.

Posted by Katy on 11/15/06
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Come On, Katy. Tell Us How You Really Feel! (#1020)

“Refined carbs are bad for your health, bad for your energy levels, bad for your mental state, bad for your figure. Bad for your career prospects, bad for your sex life, bad for your digestion, bad for your blood chemistry, bad for your heart. What I’m saying is that they are bad. “-Dr. Robert Atkins, “Dr. Atkin’s New Diet Revolution,” 1992

Man, I’ve waited nearly seven long years to put that quote up here—years obviously filled with self-restraint or you would have seen them on fallible MUCH sooner. But today, well, I just couldn’t help myself one second longer.

Anyway, now you know how I REALLY feel about refined carbs. Nice to have that out of the way, huh? :)

Posted by Katy on 11/15/06
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Mom’s The Word (#1019)

I haven’t posted much about my mother recently because, well, she’s hanging in there. By that I mean, she hasn’t fallen since April or so. In addition, we’ve managed to wean her off 2/3 of her seizure medications and much of the narcotic prescriptions she’d accumulated. Now she’s down to anti-depressants, three Valium per day, and Ultracet as requested.

So while she still sleeps most of the day and all of the night, at least when she’s awake, she is not slurring her words or stumbling badly. For the most part, she makes sense, can do simple arithmatic and sign her name to greeting cards, and engages in family gossip with the best of them. She has regular panic attacks, basically every time she leaves her assisted living facility, but hey. We deal.

This may not sound like much of a difference to you, but compared to where she was a year ago, it’s an improvement. One I frankly didn’t expect.

She makes crummy blog fodder right now, unfortunately for us. I wish that when she’s not stoned, she could be happy, but it just ain’t so.

She recently told me that the years when all her five kids still lived at home and my dad was alive were the best years of her life. I nodded respectfully, but people, that’s not how I remember it. After a few seconds of silence, she said, “Of course, at the time I hated every minute of it.”

Ah, so my memory isn’t too far off.

Then she added this gem, “If I’d known how much more miserable life would get, I’d have been happy back then.”

Right.

Anyway, Mom’s taking a bit of a break from round-the-clock disasters, but as for Doug’s mom….well. Eight days ago, she moved to the nursing home after a five-day hospital stay. Some days, the extreme dizziness abates to the point that she can do therapy successfully, and other days, not so much. She’s in the same joint my mother was in earlier this year, right across the hall.

She is disturbed by all the loonies in the bin, because she’s never been around “those kind of people.” Heck, I know the loonies by name!

Hopefully, she’ll get to go back to her assisted living place. We shall see.

I will write something fun or profound soon. I promise. Until then, be good kids and have a lovely autumnal weekend!

Posted by Katy on 11/10/06
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Pent Up Theology (#1018)

The Ted Haggard situation brings up a theological sticking point for me, one that rises to the surface from time to time like a chronically imbedded splinter.

Maybe you can be my tweezers and clear things up for me once and for all. I’m inviting you to give it a shot.

My problem is about forgiveness, particularly the type that is so readily extended to someone who has “repented” after just getting caught.

Do you believe (Christians and non-Christians welcome to respond, please!) that you are required to/should forgive everyone who asks, always, under every circumstance? And what does that look like?

Abused wives do it all the time, I guess. For some of them, I suppose their understanding of “I forgive you” includes a belief that when the abuser says “I promise I’ll never hurt you again!” he really means it.

If someone you loved and trusted had a very bad track record of actually changing after repeated episodes of getting caught, would you keep extending forgiveness regardless of the “truth” of his repentance?

Would the type of forgiveness you extend ever give you the option of disqualifying that person from your circle of friends, marriage, church?

In other words, is forgiveness conditional?

Posted by Katy on 11/07/06
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Can Someone Please Adjust Her Meds? (#1017)

I’m really, really awful at remembering jokes. I know there was one going around when my kids were little that we told over and over for years. Even now, I can only remember the punchline, which went “My buns are burning! My buns are burning!”

I smiled as I typed those words, because I have such happy memories evoked by them, but honestly, what was the joke? Can anybody clue me in?

My dad—dead lo these 22 years—used to tell a fabulous joke about a Western Union telegram delivery man. The punchline was sung in a Broadway musical type of rendition. “Da-da-da-da-da-da! Your sister Rose is dead!”

What the heck came before that line? I’ll never know. Dad told that joke for a few years until one day the call came from Scotland. He answered the phone to receive this message: “Your sister Rose is dead.”

It might be the whole repeating the scenario three times with only slight changes and then doing the punchline thing. I can never remember the three dealies and I concentrate so hard on saying them perfectly because I’m so sure that’s the key to telling the joke that I can’t get all the way through it.

I used to watch the Carol Burnett show every week when I was a teenager. I remember only one of her comedy sketches. She performed it with Harvey Korman, and this episode must have been on TV after I married Doug, or it would not have stuck with me through the past 30 years. Or then again, maybe it would.

She played a woman about to be released from an insane assylum, where she’d been in a padded room for years. Korman played her loving, patient husband, who’d remained faithful to wait for her recovery, desperate to have her home again, whole.

He arrives on the long-anticipated day, and she seems totally cured. She’s smiling, fit, serene, obviously in love with her husband, and ready to meet the world.

He opens the car door for her, such a gentleman, and presents her with two dozen peach-colored roses.

“You remembered!” she says.

“How could I forget?”

He smiles, starts the car, and drives toward home. She relaxes.

Then the tapping begins. On the steering wheel at first, but he doesn’t stop there. While his left hand plays bass and guides the vehicle, his right reaches over to the stick shift to tap out the melody. Of course, he still had a freakin’ spare foot, so why not add tympani? Yeah, that’s the ticket.

The corner of her mouth twitches. “What song is that?” she asks. Wait….what’s this feeling of deja-vu all over again? All of a sudden, she knows what he’ll say.

He smirks and taps harder. “Whatever do you mean, my love? Song?”

Her twitches become something like mild seizures. She puts a palm over his right hand and tries to stop the tap-tap-tapping, which has rapidly escalated to a mind-rattling cacaphony, but it’s no use.

“STTTOOOOPPPPPPPP!!!” she shrieks.

He grins evilly, makes a U-turn, and takes poor Carol back to the funny farm.

Why on earth would I remember this particular sketch, you ask, when I’m pathetic at recalling all but the lamest of jokes?

If the psych unit has free wifi, I’ll get back to you on that.

Posted by Katy on 11/04/06
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Half The Night (#1016)

Here’s a book recommendation, one I stayed up half the night reading. I don’t lose sleep over too many books, but I could NOT rest until I found out whether Bell Brown escaped from the hands of her tormentor back into the arms of her unavailable (sigh…) love interest.

Those of you who’ve been reading fallible for long know I have an affinity for occasionally bringing up underwear-intensive topics. It shouldn’t surprise you, then, to realize that any novel with the word “Wonderbra” on Page One gets my vote.

Claudia Mair Burney’s first novel is “Murder, Mayhem, and a Fine Man,” and it’s a debut extraordinaire. You will laugh, cry, and—towards the end—hold your breath.

Her blog is one of my faves, too. She’s known among bloggers as “The Ragamuffin Diva.” Claudia Mair and I have gotten to know each other through blogging and then—joy!—met in person in September at the American Christian Fiction Writers conference. She is a doll, and I’m privileged to call her my friend.

Check her out, leave a comment here, and win a chance for your own free copy of “Fine Man.” I’ll pick the winner around noon on Saturday, KC time.

A fine author, a fine book, and a fine man, indeed. Mmm-mmm.

Posted by Katy on 11/03/06
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Either Or (#1015)

“Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” Benjamin Franklin.

This is my motto for November, with the emphasis on Phrase Number One. So far, so good!

Posted by Katy on 11/02/06
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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	Doug’s In His Office, All’s Right With The World (#1029) He’s better today. He’s in his home office and I’m in mine. We’re both working, and shooting love emails back and forth. Yeah. It’s like that. Yesterday, though, I feared for him. Here’s why: We sat in Starbucks for a few minutes, going over a section of my manuscript. It was during the middle of the work day, so he was likely expecting phone calls. He stopped talking to me long enough to pat his pants, over the pocket area. “I thought my phone was vibrating,” he said, “but it’s not.” I stared at him before asking, “So, it’s your LEG?” “Yep.” Trust me. You’d be scared, too. Posted by Katy on 12/01/06 Permalink Bing, Not Bling (#1028) Doug and I were out and about this morning, staying one step ahead of the snow storm. On the road, we got to talking about some of our favorite feel good songs of all time. I mentioned “Till There Was You,” which the Beatles recorded back in the day, but which was of course a redux, having been originally performed on Broadway in the Music Man. All in all, not THAT much of an oldie, when you’re as old as we are. Sigh. Then Doug started singing one of his all-time faves, kind of serenading me now that I look back on it, in his deep crooning voice. “She may be weary—women do get weary…” “Oh, no….” I groaned. “Don’t tell me she’s STILL—-” “...Wearing the same shabby dress….” “Noooo. It reminds me too much of Glen Campbell singing ‘these are the dreams of the everyday housewife.’ Do we have to go THERE?” “And when she’s weary,” he sang, “try a little tenderness.” “You know what I think?” I interrupted his vocal reverie. “If she’s so weary, wearing the same shabby dress—” And then, we both said the identical words at the EXACT same time. “Buy her a freakin’ new dress!” We laughed till we cried. When we got home, I looked up the song and found that Bing Crosby recorded it in 1933, in the midst of the Great Depression. When he sang about “shabby,” he didn’t mean “shabby chic.” He just meant shabby, and a whole lot of it. The rest of the lyric is very touching, and I have now repented of my disgust for the man who thought a little tenderness would get him off the dress-buying hook. “You know she’s waiting, just anticipating Things she may never possess; While she’s without them, try a little tenderness. It’s not just sentimental, She has her grief and care, And a word that’s soft and gentle, Makes it easier to bear. You won’t regret it—women don’t forget it; Love is their whole happiness. It’s all so easy—try a little tenderness.” Any old, sweet songs you’re singing today? Posted by Katy on 11/30/06 Permalink Oh, The Weather Outside Is Frightful. But A Lockdown’s So Delightful! (#1027) I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but my darling daughter is teaching severely disabled 7-year-olds in a public school in the very extremely urban core of Kansas City. She left here this morning a bit worried about the weather. We live 45 minutes from her school, and on Wednesday nights, she’s supposed to go even farther north to take classes toward her Master’s in special ed. But our favorite meteorologist, Carrie’s fiance Marc, warned her that tonight would not be a good night to get caught outside. She didn’t know if she should attempt to go to class or not, since then the drive home (late at night) would be 1.5 hours in good weather. So she packed a bag in case she ended up in a hotel somewhere, or at her brother’s house in town. But then she forgot her wallet containing her debit card and all her ID. And her cell phone wouldn’t hold a charge. And she was out of gas, never a plan in Kansas City in the winter. But I digress. The ice storm began in earnest around noon—many hours earlier than most of the local TV weather forecasters predicted. They’d all said the rush hour would be completely over before the ice made things unbearable. NOT. So at 3:20, I called her phone and used one of the last bits of juice she had. “Where are you? Katie Horner on Channel 5 says it’s nasty out there.” I could hear little children in the background, so I knew she was still at school. “Um…I can’t leave yet. We have a bit of a situation here. I’ll try to call you back, but my phone is dyyyyyiiiiinnnnnngggggggg….........” “Carrie, are you OK?” “I’m oooookkkkkkaaaaaayyyyyyyyy…....” Fade to black. So I waited. And waited. And waited. She finally called Marc to say she was headed to his Mom’s—a much shorter drive which still took her an hour—and he called us. As she pulled up to their house, she called me once more. “Did Marc tell you about the situation at school?” “No. What happened?” I’d been so worried about the roads, I’d forgotten the school. “All the teachers were outside loading the children into the busses. It was pouring sleet, of course. There are these two fifth grade girls who hate each other and constantly fight on the bus. So their parents showed up on the school grounds—with posses of their friends!—and started a big brawl.” “In an ice storm? Carrie! Is everyone OK?” “The mother of one of the fifth graders turned to the other mother and said, ‘Do you want me to pull my gun out of my purse right now?’ and then someone shouted to get the kids back in the school and into the gym. We went on immediate lockdown and within minutes the place was swarming with cops.” “Carrie!” “It’s over, Mom. Really. I’m here now. I’m at Marc’s.” Ice pellets—frozen bits of nature’s unleashed anger—beat relentlessly against my bedroom window as I prayed. Dear Lord, between You and Marc, please take care of our Care Bear. Posted by Katy on 11/29/06 Permalink What If He Were YOUR Son? (#1026) If you got an email like this from your baby son, the one you hadn’t seen for THREE WHOLE MONTHS and who you would not be seeing until January 17, what would YOU do?? Especially after reading the last line? I’m tellin’ you what. “hello mother. some news from switzerland. i need money. i know these are hard times for us all, but i still must ask. they are asking for the money to stay in the room over christmas, on the days before i leave (to see the world). so i said i would be here at the school, i think, five days out of the break. they are asking for 250 swiss francs for accomodation and food. also they want the money for graduation dinner this week which is 103 swiss francs. that equals 353Sfr or 292.267 US dollars. in other news: i love you! it may sound like i am trying to sweet talk you, but i assure you i am. Kev” Honestly, what WOULD you do? Posted by Katy on 11/28/06 Permalink The Ultimate Gift (#1025) Here’s a holiday question for you. If you could only give one gift this year, what would it be and to whom would you give it? It doesn’t have to cost anything, or it could cost a gazillion bucks. Whether you actually have the means to afford the gift doesn’t matter for our purposes. This is just to get our creative Christmas juices flowing. The dream gift could be given to any person—dead or alive. If you want most to give Whirled Peas to the President of Iran, go for it! Right now, I’m thinking I’d love to do the work I’ve been postponing on Family Tree Maker and give my siblings the Gift of Roots. When my father died nearly 23 years ago, he knew the names of his parents and that’s all. Didn’t know their birthdays or birth places, except to say “Scotland” for his mother and “Ireland” for his father. My father came to this country from Scotland at the end of WWII as a 26-year-old orphan, who’d already served eight years in the British Army. He literally came with the clothes on his back, and he wasn’t stylin’, believe me. His Uncle Frank, himself an Irish immigrant, sponsored my father to come over—along with five of my dad’s six siblings. In those days, immigration was strictly controlled. You couldn’t get in to America without a sponsor guaranteeing that if you turned out to be a slouch, the sponsor would be completely responsible for supporting you. It was a huge responsibility for the married-but-childless Uncle Frank to take on—and a huge risk. Frank’s place, in a neighborhood in Kansas City which was at that time an enclave of Irish immigrants, became a flop house for his nieces and nephews. My father and his brothers would work by day, drink and gamble by night, and land on the living room floor just inside Frank’s front door during the wee hours. They didn’t even have beds, the joint was so packed. Of course, even if they’d had beds, they were too drunk to climb the stairs. They’d stagger off the floor in the morning and lather, rinse, repeat. My mother killed Uncle Frank in 1959, a night I remember well. He came to our place for dinner—the first and last time he ventured to do so—and she fed him something innocuous seeming like spaghetti and meatballs. The Irish cannot abide by a meal like that, and she should have known better. They don’t do casseroles, and want their meats and starches strictly separated on the plate. Anyway, he went home that night and evidently dropped dead from the shock. Mom killed her own father similarly, with a breakfast of bacon and eggs, after which he only survived an hour, but this blog entry is NOT supposed to be about my mother’s high (or low) culinary crimes and misdemeanors, now is it? It’s supposed to be about the gift of a lifetime. I’d like to finish the work I’ve started on my father’s family history, and present it to my siblings. And my cousins, for that matter. It’s important to me that they think of their dad in terms of his place in an age-old story, not as just another guy who got plunked down here for a few years and then was gone. That’s my dream gift, and those are my dream recipients. What’s yours? Posted by Katy on 11/27/06 Permalink Hey, Good Lookin’. What’s Cookin’? (#1024) Tis the season, baby. Whether you’re hosting Thanksgiving at your house or eating with friends or family, chances are you’re whipping up something interesting in the kitchen. Heck, even if you’re not technically in America, you’ve got to eat, right? What’s cookin’ at your house this weekend? Anything your family holds as a special tradition that you absolutely refuse to live without during the holidays? I just read on another site this morning about a concoction called “goopies.” Cloverleaf rolls which, before being placed in the muffin tins, are preceded by chunks of butter and brown sugar. I’ve got to say, that sounds FANTASTIC. Today Carrie and I will be assembling a carload of bacon-wrapped water chestnuts. Soy sauce and brown sugar will be involved, with a Splenda substitute on a few for the low-freakin’-carbers. Mmmm-mmmm. Tell me about your kitchen escapades, especially traditions you just can’t give up. And have a Very Extremely Happy Thanksgiving! Posted by Katy on 11/22/06 Permalink Pretty Seedy If You Ask Me (#1023) “I’ll need you to arrive at least fifteen minutes ahead of time to fill out a few forms,” Bea, Dr. Couchonnal’s nurse, said. Yeah. Yeah. Even with my mother’s medications list ready to photocopy and her history of previous surgeries, hospitalizations, diseases, fractured bones, and accidents (along with their dates, the names of the attending doctors, etc.) emblazoned forever on my consciousness, it’s gonna take more than fifteen minutes. Give me thirty minutes and a high-quality pen, and I can make it happen. Throw in power of attorney, and you’ve got yourself a deal. Mom has been battling a nasty infection in a fingertip for weeks, and now—despite antibiotics both oral and topical—it’s spread to the bone. Osteomyelytis. With a fine infectious disease doctor, probably IV antibiotics, and God’s mercy, she’ll probably get to keep her finger. We’ll see. As for me, the entire landscape of my dining room has been called up for re-evaluation. The doctor’s nurse continued to rattle off specifics of what to bring to the office visit besides my poor mother. “I’ll need the results of her most recent blood work.” “They did it last week,” I said. “Forward thinking man that her GP is, he ordered the sed rate and C-reactive protein, in addition to checking her white blood count.” “Great!” she said. “What about a plain x-ray?” “Sorry,” I said. “We’ve only got an MRI. You’ll have to do the plain films yourself.” “Can do,” she said, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to make a trip back over to Diagnostic Imaging to pick up the CD of the MRI.” “Whatchoo talkin’ about, CD? No films in enormous manila envelopes, so big they take up the back seat of the car and blind me like a white-out blizzard when I’m trying to carry them down a flight of stairs?” “Films? That’s SO early 2006. We’ve all gone to CDs, honey. Call ahead and they’ll have your mother’s waiting…” “Sure,” I said, “but what am I going to do with my china cabinet? It serves no useful purpose except to—” “Your china cabinet? I don’t under—” “I keep my skull back there! And my mother’s broken humerus! And my daughter’s foot, my sinuses, my mother’s entire skeleton, my mother-in-law’s abdominal abscesses and my ovaries! Where am I supposed to keep my ovaries?” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Raymond. Doctor is NOT a gynocologist. But if your china cabinet needs a purpose-driven life, why not just get it some china?” Smart alec. Posted by Katy on 11/20/06 Permalink Can Robin Lee Hatcher Carry A Tune? I Don’t Know, But Her Writing Sings In “A Carol For Christmas” (#1022) I am honored to have a wonderful author as a guest on fallible today! Robin Lee Hatcher—still thin even with fifty novels under her belt—has written a beautiful holiday novella called “A Carol for Christmas.” We’ll be giving a copy to one blessed commenter, chosen randomly from among those of you who leave a comment on this post. It’s a lovely story, and short—fantastic for getting in “the mood.” Which leads me to my first question for Robin: Q. I always have a bit of a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit “on demand.” Shopping doesn’t thrill me (although giving does), and decorations in public before Halloween even arrives? That just freaks me out. A good Christmas story, though, never fails to get me in the mood. I could read “A Christmas Carol” every year, and now I may add “A Carol for Christmas” to my short list. How will your story affect the hearts of readers who might be a little too humbuggy for their own good? A. For so many, Christmas has become all about spending too much money and getting run too ragged. I would hope that A Carol for Christmas would remind readers that Christmas should be about love—loving others and being loved by God. Q. There are quite a number of aspiring writers who read fallible. I think they’d be fascinated with a description of your office. Can you describe it for us, and tell us how it suits your writing habits and style? (If you’d like to share any pics, that would be great!) A. I cannot believe I’m going to share these pictures! And they are of the neat, organized part of my office. I just couldn’t handle taking any photos of the worst parts. I had my office designed about seven years ago with built-in cupboards, filing cabinets, and countertops. The photos are of just a small part of that countertop area that runs around three sides of the office. I have books and papers spread all over it. The messier it is, the farther along I am in writing my book. When a deadline is met, I spend time trying to eliminate the paper blizzard and tidy up again before the next round of writing begins. Right now I’m doing line edits and am almost done with another book. In other words, the mess is driving me nuts. I do just about all of my writing at my desktop computer. It’s setup to be ergonomically friendly. I do have a laptop and occasionally will do some writing on it, for a change of scenery. However, I do better in my office. I like to have my reference books and tools close at hand. Q. I know your life hasn’t been free of trouble, and yet you’ve given appreciative audiences 50 novels. How do you manage to keep writing day after day when “real life” derails so many of us wannabes? If there’s a secret, bottle it, please! A. In the early part of my career, I was a mom with a full time job. I learned to write with distractions, working on my books in the evenings and on weekends (Monday through Thursday from 7 to 9 pm and Saturday mornings until noon). After nine years of that routine, I quit my day job to write full time. That was almost seventeen years ago. When trials come, I try to subscribe to the “write anyway” philosophy. Mostly, I’ve found that writing helps me work through the difficult times. I am in control of my fictional world, even when I’m in control of little else in my own world. However, sometimes “writing anyway” simply isn’t possible. Creativity takes a holiday. I’ve discovered I have to allow myself some grace when I’m overwhelmed or wearied by life. Fill up the well. Read something uplifting. Exercise. Cry. Pray. See a movie. Laugh. Play with Poppet (my Papillon). Then go back to work. Another important lesson I’ve learned is that how I feel about my writing has little to do with its quality. Even if I feel I have nothing to offer and my work is junk, I push onward. Two of my best books were written during times of great stress. I thought the books were awful because of my feelings. But my editors loved them, and the books turned out to be honored with a number of awards and nominations. ___________ Thanks, Robin, for taking the time to visit with us! Hope you have a lovely Thanksgiving with your family, and that each of our hearts will overfill with A Carol for Christmas. Posted by Doug Raymond on 11/16/06 Permalink Happy BrainSurgSurvivary To Me! (#1021) Nobody likes to have their head messed with, right? Seven years ago this minute, my favorite people kissed me good-bye. And then, immediately after I flubbed-up counting backwards from ten, my head got messed with big-time. I didn’t expect to survive brain surgery. I had peace about going through with it, though, since a tumor had robbed me of my hearing in one ear and surgery represented my only chance to recover it. It seemed like the responsible thing to do. But honestly, surviving? I figured I had a MUCH better chance of getting my hearing back than I had of surviving. But, hey. I come from a long line of gamblers. Hmmm….come to think of it, most of them are dead. Sheesh. What are the odds? ;) It’s been a fascinating seven years. I’m healthier than I’ve ever been as an adult—but not as a result of tumor removal. As a result of the shock of surviving. Survival made me realize how much I owed God, my family, and myself. I got ahold of the grace to change my diet so completely that almost all of my health problems reversed. Of course, I had not wanted to believe that my poor health resulted from my lousy choices but trust me, it did. Sometimes, for some people, it takes a shock to get turned around on life’s path, a shock to jolt you into a sudden reversal of direction and momentum. I know what that shock feels like. It feels like the most radical everything-I’m-thankful-for-this-Thanksgiving-list ever. It feels like a new believer feels when he comes up out of the water after being baptized into New Life, and shakes off every remaining drop of his old ways. To be given another chance—whether it’s for the second or twentieth or two thousandth time—is the most freeing feeling ever, don’t you think? Whatever you do, don’t pass yours up. Posted by Katy on 11/15/06 Permalink Come On, Katy. Tell Us How You Really Feel! (#1020) “Refined carbs are bad for your health, bad for your energy levels, bad for your mental state, bad for your figure. Bad for your career prospects, bad for your sex life, bad for your digestion, bad for your blood chemistry, bad for your heart. What I’m saying is that they are bad. “-Dr. Robert Atkins, “Dr. Atkin’s New Diet Revolution,” 1992 Man, I’ve waited nearly seven long years to put that quote up here—years obviously filled with self-restraint or you would have seen them on fallible MUCH sooner. But today, well, I just couldn’t help myself one second longer. Anyway, now you know how I REALLY feel about refined carbs. Nice to have that out of the way, huh? :) Posted by Katy on 11/15/06 Permalink Mom’s The Word (#1019) I haven’t posted much about my mother recently because, well, she’s hanging in there. By that I mean, she hasn’t fallen since April or so. In addition, we’ve managed to wean her off 2/3 of her seizure medications and much of the narcotic prescriptions she’d accumulated. Now she’s down to anti-depressants, three Valium per day, and Ultracet as requested. So while she still sleeps most of the day and all of the night, at least when she’s awake, she is not slurring her words or stumbling badly. For the most part, she makes sense, can do simple arithmatic and sign her name to greeting cards, and engages in family gossip with the best of them. She has regular panic attacks, basically every time she leaves her assisted living facility, but hey. We deal. This may not sound like much of a difference to you, but compared to where she was a year ago, it’s an improvement. One I frankly didn’t expect. She makes crummy blog fodder right now, unfortunately for us. I wish that when she’s not stoned, she could be happy, but it just ain’t so. She recently told me that the years when all her five kids still lived at home and my dad was alive were the best years of her life. I nodded respectfully, but people, that’s not how I remember it. After a few seconds of silence, she said, “Of course, at the time I hated every minute of it.” Ah, so my memory isn’t too far off. Then she added this gem, “If I’d known how much more miserable life would get, I’d have been happy back then.” Right. Anyway, Mom’s taking a bit of a break from round-the-clock disasters, but as for Doug’s mom….well. Eight days ago, she moved to the nursing home after a five-day hospital stay. Some days, the extreme dizziness abates to the point that she can do therapy successfully, and other days, not so much. She’s in the same joint my mother was in earlier this year, right across the hall. She is disturbed by all the loonies in the bin, because she’s never been around “those kind of people.” Heck, I know the loonies by name! Hopefully, she’ll get to go back to her assisted living place. We shall see. I will write something fun or profound soon. I promise. Until then, be good kids and have a lovely autumnal weekend! Posted by Katy on 11/10/06 Permalink Pent Up Theology (#1018) The Ted Haggard situation brings up a theological sticking point for me, one that rises to the surface from time to time like a chronically imbedded splinter. Maybe you can be my tweezers and clear things up for me once and for all. I’m inviting you to give it a shot. My problem is about forgiveness, particularly the type that is so readily extended to someone who has “repented” after just getting caught. Do you believe (Christians and non-Christians welcome to respond, please!) that you are required to/should forgive everyone who asks, always, under every circumstance? And what does that look like? Abused wives do it all the time, I guess. For some of them, I suppose their understanding of “I forgive you” includes a belief that when the abuser says “I promise I’ll never hurt you again!” he really means it. If someone you loved and trusted had a very bad track record of actually changing after repeated episodes of getting caught, would you keep extending forgiveness regardless of the “truth” of his repentance? Would the type of forgiveness you extend ever give you the option of disqualifying that person from your circle of friends, marriage, church? In other words, is forgiveness conditional? Posted by Katy on 11/07/06 Permalink Can Someone Please Adjust Her Meds? (#1017) I’m really, really awful at remembering jokes. I know there was one going around when my kids were little that we told over and over for years. Even now, I can only remember the punchline, which went “My buns are burning! My buns are burning!” I smiled as I typed those words, because I have such happy memories evoked by them, but honestly, what was the joke? Can anybody clue me in? My dad—dead lo these 22 years—used to tell a fabulous joke about a Western Union telegram delivery man. The punchline was sung in a Broadway musical type of rendition. “Da-da-da-da-da-da! Your sister Rose is dead!” What the heck came before that line? I’ll never know. Dad told that joke for a few years until one day the call came from Scotland. He answered the phone to receive this message: “Your sister Rose is dead.” It might be the whole repeating the scenario three times with only slight changes and then doing the punchline thing. I can never remember the three dealies and I concentrate so hard on saying them perfectly because I’m so sure that’s the key to telling the joke that I can’t get all the way through it. I used to watch the Carol Burnett show every week when I was a teenager. I remember only one of her comedy sketches. She performed it with Harvey Korman, and this episode must have been on TV after I married Doug, or it would not have stuck with me through the past 30 years. Or then again, maybe it would. She played a woman about to be released from an insane assylum, where she’d been in a padded room for years. Korman played her loving, patient husband, who’d remained faithful to wait for her recovery, desperate to have her home again, whole. He arrives on the long-anticipated day, and she seems totally cured. She’s smiling, fit, serene, obviously in love with her husband, and ready to meet the world. He opens the car door for her, such a gentleman, and presents her with two dozen peach-colored roses. “You remembered!” she says. “How could I forget?” He smiles, starts the car, and drives toward home. She relaxes. Then the tapping begins. On the steering wheel at first, but he doesn’t stop there. While his left hand plays bass and guides the vehicle, his right reaches over to the stick shift to tap out the melody. Of course, he still had a freakin’ spare foot, so why not add tympani? Yeah, that’s the ticket. The corner of her mouth twitches. “What song is that?” she asks. Wait….what’s this feeling of deja-vu all over again? All of a sudden, she knows what he’ll say. He smirks and taps harder. “Whatever do you mean, my love? Song?” Her twitches become something like mild seizures. She puts a palm over his right hand and tries to stop the tap-tap-tapping, which has rapidly escalated to a mind-rattling cacaphony, but it’s no use. “STTTOOOOPPPPPPPP!!!” she shrieks. He grins evilly, makes a U-turn, and takes poor Carol back to the funny farm. Why on earth would I remember this particular sketch, you ask, when I’m pathetic at recalling all but the lamest of jokes? If the psych unit has free wifi, I’ll get back to you on that. Posted by Katy on 11/04/06 Permalink Half The Night (#1016) Here’s a book recommendation, one I stayed up half the night reading. I don’t lose sleep over too many books, but I could NOT rest until I found out whether Bell Brown escaped from the hands of her tormentor back into the arms of her unavailable (sigh…) love interest. Those of you who’ve been reading fallible for long know I have an affinity for occasionally bringing up underwear-intensive topics. It shouldn’t surprise you, then, to realize that any novel with the word “Wonderbra” on Page One gets my vote. Claudia Mair Burney’s first novel is “Murder, Mayhem, and a Fine Man,” and it’s a debut extraordinaire. You will laugh, cry, and—towards the end—hold your breath. Her blog is one of my faves, too. She’s known among bloggers as “The Ragamuffin Diva.” Claudia Mair and I have gotten to know each other through blogging and then—joy!—met in person in September at the American Christian Fiction Writers conference. She is a doll, and I’m privileged to call her my friend. Check her out, leave a comment here, and win a chance for your own free copy of “Fine Man.” I’ll pick the winner around noon on Saturday, KC time. A fine author, a fine book, and a fine man, indeed. Mmm-mmm. Posted by Katy on 11/03/06 Permalink Either Or (#1015) “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” Benjamin Franklin. This is my motto for November, with the emphasis on Phrase Number One. So far, so good! Posted by Katy on 11/02/06 Permalink Page 24 of 84 pages « First < 22 23 24 25 26 > Last »


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

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