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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

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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.

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E me at katy @ ngenius.com

Trivial Excuse (#230)

A few posts down (See "On the Edge"), I wrote about "pushing the envelope." Alert reader Tim (Dave Barry's not the only one who has alert readers!) commented about the origins of the phrase.

I have to admit I knew nothing of these origins! And so, dear readers, without looking at Tim's astute comment, can any other among you explain the term "pushing the envelope"?

It's pretty pitiful that I didn't at least google the darn thing before I started writing, but since I didn't, you can't either!

Any guesses?

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Well, I Never! (#231)

I'm the kind of woman who never gets her hair done by the same stylist twice.

Even if I'm perfectly happy with Rita or Richard or Rose, by the time I'm ready to go again, I settle for pot-luck. Until recently, that is.

In July I decided to get a perm to look gorgeous for my son's wedding (the first one in six years--perm, not wedding) and, since I knew no stylist well enough to go back for seconds, I ended up as a walk-in with Suzy.

Let's just say Suzy and I bonded. We're about the same age, both married with grown kids, and each of us in full possession of most of our wits and an outstanding sense of humor.

Suzy has not one, but two sons serving with the armed forces in Fallujah. I never know when I go in whether she'll be laughing or crying, talkative or pensive. Either way, we're on the same wave length. So to speak.

That's why it was so hard for me to hear the news she had to tell me the other day. She wasn't quite herself, I'd noticed, but I didn't want to pry. She seemed troubled, like she had when I went to see her in September and she was stressing about her son who's battling depression.

I figured if she wanted to share, she would. I was right.

As she took the rods out of my hair and put it through its final rinse, she said, "This perm is going to work well for you. The curls really help cover the gray."

Gray? What gray?

Just then, someone in the shop turned up the radio and Suzy and I began to sing the chorus in unison, with feeling. I think we both knew what was happening.

"Didn't we almost have it all, my friend..."

Some relationships just aren't meant to be permanent.

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Number One (#232)

Have you seen the horrifying ads in which two young women (I'm talkin' my age!) are driving down the highway, hair flying in the breeze, on the Thelma-and-Louise-style road trip of a lifetime? And how they've made Depends undergarments part of their regular "travel gear"?

Did I mention they're MY AGE?

I groan every time I watch those chicks zip their pants up over their supposedly sleek adult diapers, and wonder how long it will be before a huge honkin' package of Depends is part of my travel gear, too.

Today, I was trucking down the road at a pretty good clip, realizing I still had quite a few minutes left until I'd be arriving at my destination. I started humming that song for the anti-pee drug: "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now..."

It's hard to cross your legs while driving, but somehow I managed. Until, that is, a huge flatbed filled with at least two dozen porta-potties merged onto the highway right in front of me.

I followed those toities all the way to my exit. I wish I could describe the measure of comfort I found just knowing that, in case of emergency, they were there.

I may be getting old, but at least I'm still living life at the speed of Johnny-On-The-Spots!

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The Lifetime of An Opportunity (#233)

Hey, everybody! I've been nominated (okay, by Doug, but still...) to win a 2004 Weblog Award, in the highly prestigious category of "Best of the Top 1000-1750 Blogs." The category any given blog falls into is determined by how many other blogs link to it. Since fallible has about 100 blogs linking to it, this is where I belong.

If you'd like to see me move up the scale of nominees, I'd not only appreciate it, but I'd also get a huge kick out of it.

Vote Here!

You people are the best...

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The Art of Creation (#234)

“It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical encore.”

---

No matter how many times I watched Grandma do it, I still couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Watch closely,” Grandma said, and then she folded a short but wide length of paper back and forth like an old-fashioned fan. She laid flat on the kitchen table what looked to me like a single piece of paper about the size of the queen of hearts.

“Now I’m going to draw a little girl…”

She took up her number-2 pencil and began to lightly sketch, starting on the inside edge. First a half-circle head with flipped hair resting upon a bony shoulder, then an arm that reached all the way to the other side of the paper (ending too apruptly, I thought, in a deformed-looking fist), then a right-angle shaped skirt under which I could easily picture a prickly crinoline petticoat, and finally a single leg with an out-turned shoe.

The poor child. She didn’t look like much. If she’d shown up in Miss Walterbach’s second grade class that year, I might have turned my head away with an utter lack of Christian charity, thinking her only half the girl I was.

I always felt a little twinge of sorrow when Grandma picked up her scissors and started cutting along the lines she’d drawn. I felt even sorrier for the simple creation she seemed intent on mutilating. Grandma was an artist, I knew, and could have drawn a portrait that ended up looking just like me, if she’d wanted to.

Why didn’t she? Did she really think anything good could come from cutting up a dopey-looking half-girl?

When she finished with the operation, she put down her scissors and held up her pathetic creature for my inspection. I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. How had my talented grandmother managed to create something so…awful?

“Here,” she said, “hold the little girl’s hand.”

It was a mission of mercy, but someone had to do it. I reached out to take hold of the misshapen fist. As I did, Grandma unfolded the paper, stretching the group of hand-holding dancing girls clear across the table.

She must have seen the surprised look on my face. It must have amazed her that no matter how often she repeated this magic, I still couldn’t believe that a lonely half-girl could end up with so many whole friends.

“You can color the girls,” she said, grinning as she produced a box of 64 crayons. “Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Make each one a little different, if you’d like.”

So I did, but by then I didn’t need to, really. The little paper girls were already different enough, I thought.

So different, in fact, that they looked just like me.

---

On the Edge (#235)

"Sometimes when you think you are done, it is just the edge of beginning."
Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

---

Did you ever really understand what people meant when they talked about pushing the envelope? What kind of envelope? Empty and unsealed, filled with unpaid bills, crammed with old love letters from need-to-be-forgotten beaus? Stamped and postmarked? Containing the secreted names of the next Oscar winners? Addressed to me or to someone else?

And to which ultimate destination were we, envelope-pushing novitiates, to push it? Into the mailbox? Into the waiting hands of someone more qualified or prepared to delve into its contents? Into the desk drawer, already stuffed with the envelope pushings of a paper-intensive lifetime?

I can only imagine that the proverbial envelope was meant to be pushed all the way to the edge--and beyond.

But there are edges, and then there are edges.

I wouldn't have any problem pushing the envelope to the edge of the kitchen table, and even over the edge. Watching it flutter to the hardwood floor like a Forrest Gumpian feather wouldn't bother me a bit, since I'm completely able to bend over and pick it up again. I'm still in control, you see--the envelope hasn't exited my field of vision or the reach of my grasp. I still have first right of retrieval.

Nothing can be lost with edge-of-the-table pushing. And nothing gained, either.

There's more risk involved in pushing an overflowing second-day air envelope over the edge of a Fed-Ex box, especially if the envelope contains my latest book proposal and is, after being pushed, irreversibly on its way to an editor or an agent. The possible rejection inherent in that push is one that's caused me to pull back from the edge more than once.

Something can be lost with edge-of-the-mailbox pushing. And something gained, too.

The Bible says that Jesus, through his sacrifice on the cross, cancelled the enormous debt of my sin, which racked up interest minute by minute and accumulated late charges and overdue fees I could never repay. I can picture Him writing "Paid in Full" on the wretched bill, sealing in into an envelope with the King's insignia, and casting it as far away from me as the east is from the west. Over the edge, into a more certain eternity than anything this side of the chasm.

When this life is done, I'll be on the very edge of beginning.

And I'll be thrilled that Jesus knew just where to push the envelope.

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And the Two Shall Become… (#236)

Finally. The day I've been waiting for lo these many long years has arrived! My hubby Doug has started blogging. You can find his thoughts at marginalcomments.com, where he's hoping you'll leave lots of comments of your own!

From this day forward, whenever you see a clickable icon beside one of our posts, you'll know that the other one of us has written a companion post. Our idea is to start our respective entries with the same quote, then to be surprised and delighted by the vast discrepancies in the way our minds work.

We're not going to talk about the quote before we write, and we'll only see each other's entries after they're written.

It should be a fun look at how even two people who think alike on almost nothing can enjoy a happy long-term marriage.

The two shall become one, yes indeed. Which one is the question.

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Happy Blogiversary to Me! Happy Blogiver…OK, You Get the Idea! (#237)

In honor of my 4-year-blogiversary, which happens in December, I am the happy recipient of a new look! Well, not I, exactly. But fallible. Not that I couldn't use a new look, but that is outside the scope of this discussion. Please.

Many thanks to my techie husband, Doug, for devoting the better part of his Thanksgiving weekend to all kinds of stuff I don't pretend or even aspire to understand. He's brilliant and handsome, and has never himself, in my opinion, wanted for a new look. Unlike me.

If you enjoy the functionality, thank him. If you like the look, we're both responsible. Mostly me. But still. All my design ideas are pretty useless without someone who can make them happen.

I'll end by saying that Doug and I will soon be entering into a little experiment here in the blogosphere, one that might be entertaining, enlightening, and maddening. In which order, I can't possibly predict.

But I do hope you'll enjoy it!

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Thanks to You (#238)

I woke up this morning thinking about how much I love blogging. And the thing I love the most about it is my wonderful readers. Thanks to each and every one of you for stopping in here, for sharing your thoughts, and for making this so much fun for me.

Hey, if any of you who have never commented would like to say "hi," I'd love to know you're here!

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Lifting Up Cindi (#239)

I haven't mentioned this much here, because it's just been too painful to write about.

On April 16 of this year, our good friend Butch Lombardo, along with his two adult sons, Guiseppe and Nino, were killed in a car wreck. Butch's wife and the boys' mom, Cindi, was home cooking dinner for Guiseppe's birthday when the call came. She is the sole survivor in the family.

This family was one in a million, a city set on a hill, shining for the glory of Jesus. All four of them shared an amazing passion for touching the hurting, reaching the lost, feeding the hungry, and seeing the captive set free.

Cindi Lombardo still does. She holds Bible studies in her home, ministers to a group of young women who are sharing her house, and accepts speaking engagements as often as she can, telling others about her wonderful men, their beautiful hearts, and their readiness to meet their heavenly Father.

You probably don't know her, but would you take a moment to pray for Cindi over Thanksgiving, and then again if you think of her? And please pass this request to anyone you know who might want to pray, as well. She needs to be held close in the Lord's arms...

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Thanks for…Something (#240)

Okay, friends, before you pick up that fried turkey leg or dive into the mashed potatoes, it's time to go around the blogospherical table and tell us what you're thankful for!

Only instead of telling what you're thankful for from the past year, or that you're most thankful for that fantastic pumpkin cheescake sitting over on the buffet, tell us what you're thankful for that's still in the future.

I know, I know. You'll have to go out on a limb here. Believe me, so will I.

But I'm thinking that thinking thankfully about our own futures might inspire a bit of faith and courage in even the most trepidatious among us. And if trepidatious isn't a word, by the way, it should be.

So. I'm thankful that I'm going to be eagerly working with a like-minded editor to get my novel ready to publish, and that I'm going to finish a second one before the next Thanksgiving rolls around.

There's a Scripture I'm thankful for, too, and it's a promise for the future. "He who began a good work in you, will be faithful to complete it."

Yes. I'm very thankful. And trepidatious. How about you?

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What Thanksgiving Means to Me (#241)

I thought my 22-year-old daughter and I were just making a routine run for her pre-op admission procedures at Research Hospital, but I was wrong.

First of all, nothing is routine when your child is having surgery, even if she is an adult. And secondly, Carrie's still my little girl.

She told the nurse she's very excited, and that probably explained why her blood pressure was elevated to almost normal levels (oh, my!) Carrie's right foot is going to be operated on tomorrow morning by Dr. Robert Bruce. (All prayers appreciated!) It has a big bump on top, a bone spur which is most likely the result of her broken foot not healing right when she was ten.

Back when she was a grown up, or at least so she seemed to me.

"Will I get to wear a hospital bracelet?" she asked me this morning. "I love those!"

"Yes, baby, you'll get a bracelet with your name on it..."

And then the nurse called us in for the rigamarole, the thousands of questions about neurological disorders and cancer and stroke and cataracts. It's such a miracle to be young and healthy (or old and healthy!) and to be able to answer "No, no, no, no..." to all these questions. It's such a wonder to be innocent enough to not even know what some of the conditions are--like, say, renal failure--but to be smart enough to know that if you don't know, you must not be a victim.

When the nurse got to the more personal questions, I almost asked Carrie if she wanted me to leave the room, but she fired away her happy "No's" like streams of water over a falls.

"Any STDs?"

"No."

"Any recreational drug use?"

"No."

"Could you be pregnant right now?"

"No."

Carrie shot me a couple smiles during the interrogation, but I don't think she saw the tears welling up in my eyes. I don't think she knows how honored I felt to be sitting in her presence, how much I admire the childlike faith in Jesus that has led her to hold such strong convictions, how much I wish I could be even remotely like the woman she's become almost overnight.

I have a ways to grow to be like Carrie, and I know it. But while I'm watching and learning, my heart is overflowing with gratitude for the gift of a beautiful daughter.

And this is my Thanksgiving story.

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Deaf In One Ear, But Still (#242)

We've eaten an inordinate amount of Italian food in the past five days--first in Baltimore's Little Italy and then a couple more times in DC. Not only that, but we visited the World War II Memorial, where I couldn't help but focus on the conflict in Sicily, since my dad spent years there with the British Army.

Still, even I was surprised that when Doug used the word "miscellaneous," I managed to hear "Mussolini-ish."

I'm sorry, but that's just scary.

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Maybe What I Need Is A Political Agenda (#243)

Conzoleezza Rice is my age, and is considered a "young woman" in her new position as Secretary of State.

I'm Condoleezza Rice's age, and considered an old woman, having just written my first novel.

Some poetic justice.

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DC Lobbyist (#244)

So I'm sitting in the hotel lobby, waiting for Doug to get "home" from work. And there's this tall, dark, and handsome businessman (first and only impression here, since I'm really not looking...) who keeps moving from chair to couch to closer chair to propped against a pillar to closer couch, all in an apparent effort to disuade me from thinking he's scoping me out, which I'm certain he is.

Now he's perched on a loveseat against the wall, directly opposite from where I sit, in my line of vision except for an enormous specimen of palm-tree-like synthetic foliage. Every few seconds, I take a quick glance without stopping the continuous loud clicking of my fingers on the keyboard, so utterly businesswomanlike am I. And at exactly each instant I look up, he has found a sliver of space between two fronds through which to peer at me with steady (or are they stealthy?) eyes.

His phone must have rung because he's picked it up now and he stands so that I see his whole face, and I wonder why they don't make taller fake trees for situations like this.

Just before he walks away, he speaks to his faraway wife on the other end of the line, but he looks directly at me.

"Hi, honey."

I don't even breathe.

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