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Friends (#1139)

Of the 500 writers who attended the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers conference, something like 135 were first-timers.

They wore little ribbons that said “First Timer.” I made it my mission to meet as many of them as I could, because in 2005, I qualified for a ribbon myself. I probably greeted at least 50 first-timers, just went right up to them and stuck my hand out and chatted them up. Some (waving at Sharon Ball!) became instant friends.

My husband will tell you that I sometimes have difficulty with this type of thing. But you know what? EVERYone at ACFW behaves this way. I have NEVER been with a group of more friendly, outreaching people. Though there are always plenty of inside jokes during the general sessions, the newcomers—I think—feel quickly assimilated into the veteran crowd. I am sure the organization has as one of its goals to welcome everyone with open arms.

If you’ve ever wondered what one of these four-day events is like, you might as well put overwhelming at the top of the list. If you think you’re not the type to bawl, watch out. SOMEthing will get to you, and you’ll have at least a minor meltdown. This year, I did NOT expect to cry, and my dear friend Diann Hunt stood right with me in my puddle of goofy tears, getting her feet wet and not complaining about it one bit.

So what did I cry about? It doesn’t matter. I certainly wasn’t unhappy, since I’d had nothing but great appointments with editors and agents. Maybe it was just that there’s so much involved, as an aspiring novelist, in “putting myself out there” in the conference setting. All I know is, Diann said all the sweet things at the right time. Things like, “I’ve been there, Katy. I’ve felt that way, too…” Within three minutes, The Meltdown ended and I was all smiles again, thanks to a wonderful friend.

I’ve met so many fabulous women (and a few men, too) who have become more than dear to me through this group. A few I know will end up being lifelong friends. Of course, I joined in order to move my career forward. But even if I never become a published novelist, I wouldn’t trade my new friends for anything.

Thanks to all my ACFW buddies for changing my life.

Posted by Katy on 09/24/07
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A New Girdle In Town (#1138)

Wow! I just got home from Dallas. The national writers group I belong to (American Christian Fiction Writers) is growing enormously. I think someone said we had 300 attendees at the annual conference last year, and 500 this year!

It’s hard not to notice that the prospective novelists out there in wannabe land are skewing ever younger. And thinner. Dear Lord, there are some cute young things who’ll be in wrist braces before they know it!

In the meantime, the one thing they’re NOT in is girdles, because—God bless their little pea-pickin’ hearts—they don’t need to be.

Then there’s me. And not only me, either. I have a bunch of middle-aged compadres who compadred notes after the Awards Banquet and Ginormous Gala Event last night at the Marriott Quorum.

One of my best buds had to be THRILLED with an award she’d just won, but when I ran up to congratulate her, she raised her hands to stop me from hugging.

“Don’t touch me or I’ll pop,” she said, barely able to smile.

“But…you won…” I said.

“Katy, have you ever worn a….?” And then she named a brand of girdle that’s all the rage and VERY pricey. It rhymes with Thanks, which is the word I THOUGHT she’d say when I congratulated her.

“I bought one,” I admitted. “For my daughter’s wedding, to wear under a very fitted dress.”

Her cheeks looked awfully puffy and her eyes took on a bit of an overripe, jaundiced tint as she said, “What happened?”

“I tried it out in advance one day. I thought I’d give it an hour, to see if I could handle it through a reception with dancing and all. I looked DANG good, too. Of course, the EMTs cut it off of me when they did the EKG and hooked me up to the ventilator.”

“NO!!!”

“But this isn’t about me,” I said, sensing she just wasn’t her usual, moveable self. “Are you OK?”

“Did you know that all your excess thigh can be forced by Spandex into your ankles?”

She lifted her skirt. It wasn’t pretty. But at least her ankles matched her brightly-hued outfit.

“THAT can’t be good,” I said. “How about…um…the rest of you?”

“This thing came up so high, it almost met the bottom of my bra,” she said. “So there was this little flap of fat, but not too bad, between my bra and the girdle. It didn’t show under my top, and I thought I looked so thin. Glamorous, really…..”

Let me just say for the record that even as she spoke, she looked more regal than ever, a beautiful woman in every way. It looked to me, though, like she was breaking out in a red, prickly rash—perhaps an allergic reaction to elastic?—and I thought about running into the gift shop for a package of Benedryl.

The rash turned out to be glitter, but I wasn’t dissuaded from noticing the red streaks rising up her neck, signs of unhealthy constriction, if you asked me. Or maybe even blood poisoning, but hey. I’m no doctor.

“Well, a little roll of fat isn’t the worst thing,” I said, trying to be diplomatic but honestly, having a heck of a time.

“I know,” she answered. “But right when I got called to receive my award, I realized something strange—something dreadful—had happened.”

“You can tell me, girlfriend.” I reached out to pat her upper arm but she stopped me cold.

“One poke, Katy. That’s all it will take.”

I pulled back with more than an inkling of awe and yes…respect. “So what…happened?”

“It rolled, that’s what. The contraption started on its downward spiral from up around my bra, avalanching its way clear down to my waist. By the time I went up to the podium, I was fatter than before I put the thing on. Not just in the front, either. Back fat, too, baby.”

“Are you OK…now?” I asked.

“I will be,” she said, “if this thing has a money-back guarantee and my inhaler holds out.”

She finally let me hug one of her fingers, one that still had some flesh tones to it and didn’t need to have the wedding rings surgically removed. I thought her finger had remarkable range-of-motion, considering.

“So…congratulations?” I said.

“Aw…you’re sweet,” she answered, nearly able to smile despite the swelling. “But if you breathe a word of this, I’m gonna have to hurt you.”

Posted by Katy on 09/23/07
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BFF (#1137)

I’ve always believed that a person can’t write a novel all the way to the end and not be changed by the experience.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never written an entire story. Maybe I’ve feared the challenges that would come my way, the ones requiring me to grow and mature in ways I didn’t feel capable of.

Maybe I’ve even worried that grace wouldn’t meet me in those last pages, that I’d be left there to sink or swim alone, when swimming isn’t my strong suit.

In the past month, my writing life has changed dramatically. My life has, too.

When I decided to finish this novel once and for all, my husband simply said, “I’ll help you.” Now it used to be when he volunteered to read my chapters, I’d cringe. He’s so talented, so creative, so accomplished that I could hardly bear for him to look at my work.

The thing is, he’s never failed to encourage me in every way he could. He’s been nothing but supportive since I started this crazy venture.

But until this past month, I couldn’t receive what he offered.

As it turns out, Doug is the BEST editor a girl could ever have. Every night, after I’ve worked as many hours as I’m able, he takes over. I fall asleep next to him with the happy music of him keying proverbial red ink in the margins.

It used to be I couldn’t sleep when I heard him typing corrections, changing my words, perhaps even altering the deepest thoughts of my heart. Now I can’t wait for him to take over, to make his suggestions, so I can revise the next day with his edits in mind.

Hard to believe, but after me attempting to write this book for several years, I’ve found my dream editor. He was here beside me the whole time, waiting for me to receive the free gift of a gracious husband. Waiting for me to lay down my insecurities and nutty fears of rejection so that together, we could accomplish something grand.

A major theme in my story is that no matter how long a man and wife live together, imagining past hurts may never heal, there’s hope. And grace to change.

I’m a changed woman. I trust my husband in ways I didn’t think possible. And I’m here to tell you: Doug Raymond is my Best Friend Forever.

Posted by Katy on 09/18/07
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Excuses, Excuses (#1136)

Last year at this time, I was getting ready to head to the American Christian Writers Conference in Dallas. This year at this time, I’m doing the exact same thing.

The difference is that while last year I felt pretty good about having typed “The End” at the bottom of a 90.000 word manuscript, this year I realize it wasn’t really ready to submit. So, several drafts later, I think I’ve about got it wrapped up.

I’ll head out next Wednesday and be gone through Sunday. Until then, I’m tying up loose plot ends, formatting, printing out revamped proposals and sample chapters, and getting mentally ready to meet with editors and agents.

And to see some of my favorite friends in the world, my fellow novelists!

If you’ll overlook my lack of blogging for the next couple weeks, I promise to sign a book for you someday. :)

How’s that for dreaming big?

Posted by Katy on 09/12/07
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Inspiration (#1135)

I came across this video today while catching up on some of the personal finance blogs I read. If you want to be inspired to make the most of what you’ve got, watch the story of Mr. Earl.

Here’s a man who’s been a parking lot attendant for 40 years, never making more than $20,000 per year. He and his wife put three children through Catholic school. Now he’s got no debt, a paid-for house, and a stock portfolio worth…drum roll, please!...$500,000.

I have a feeling somewhere along the line he learned how to live on less than he made. What do you think?

Posted by Katy on 09/10/07
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My Hero (#1134)

I took Doug to get his first in a series of epidurals this morning. As it turns out, my little sister Bridget’s doctor-of-choice, Steve Simon, does not do epidurals. So we went with another recommendation of our primary doctor, and ended up in the care of Dr. Kloster at Menorah Hospital.

From every indication so far, Dr. Kloster will provide the treatment Doug needs, without the attitude. We were more than pleased with the first visit. On the 17th, Doug will have his second shot, and depending on the outcome of the first two, may also have a third.

Unfortunately, though, he now has a new back injury, which doesn’t show up on the MRI or the reports that Dr. Kloster viewed today. When I came home from visiting my mother yesterday, Doug said, “You won’t believe this, but I’ve hurt my back….”

I figured he sneezed or coughed, which is all it takes for me to throw something out, if that something is primed to go.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I hacked a six-foot long snake to death and bagged up the remains. I didn’t want you to come home and find it hissing at you on the front step.”

Do you see why I love this man? He is my hero.

But, darling, really. Right now, it’s my turn to take care of you.

Posted by Katy on 09/05/07
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Gratitude (#1133)

Ten years ago, our oldest son moved out for the first time. Today, our youngest son moved out for the last time.

I think. It’s hard to know for sure. We aren’t changing the locks or anything, but if my maternal instincts count for much, this is it. Really it.

He came today to get the last of his things. When he left, he threw his arms around me and said, “I love you, Mom.”

And then to tease him, to prod him into acknowledging all we’d done for him over the past 22 years, I said, “Thanks for everything?”

He answered, and the tenderness of the words he spoke from a sincere heart put a lifetime of motherhood into perspective for me once and for all.

“You’re welcome.”

Posted by Katy on 09/02/07
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Kansas City Pain Center…Not! (#1131)

I’ve been a victim of or witnessed several BAD scenarios in health care settings over the years. But today’s situation was one of the worst EVER.

It makes me want to vote for Hillarized Health Care right now and get it over with. At least that way, if the U.S. ended up with a system like Canada’s or Britain’s, we’d all know in advance that we’d have to wait the rest of our natural lives to be seen by a doctor. We could die in peace, without receiving the kind of horrible, destructive attention my husband received today at the Kansas City Pain Center.

I can’t tell you all the oh-oh feelings both of us had, separately and without mentioning them to each other, over the course of the three hours we were there. From the minute we walked into the waiting room and were treated dismissively by the woman behind the sliding glass window, I knew the place was dicey. What it takes a while to figure out—though, trust me, not very long—is whether the office is infected by one bad apple or whether the joint operates on the “trickle-down” principle.

Sometimes, it’s the folks at the top who have an attitude, which then somehow makes it not only permissable but acceptable and even desireable for the underlings to also misbehave.

Doug went to the KC Pain Center for an epidural to help relieve some of his…pain. Turns out they’re actually PASSING OUT pains to patients. The doctor, who I will not name, was flippant. There’s no other word to describe him. Not exactly what you’d expect from a person trained to help people manage pain.

“This shot might help you and it might not. No way to know. Don’t even know what’s causing your pain. Lots of risks associated with the procedure, though. Probably won’t happen, but you could be the one. None of this matters, though. You’re here for an evaluation only.”

“Um…no,” Doug said. “I’ve been evaluated by my primary doctor, who sent me here. I’ve had an x-ray and an MRI…” He pointed to the counter holding the pictures, which the doctor never looked at. “And I’ve been evaluated by a physical therapist, who’s been treating me for two weeks already. I’m just here for a shot.”

“Sorry. You’ve got Humana.”

“And?”

“Six weeks ago, they changed the way they do things. Now you have to come here for an evaluation and then come back later for the shot if they authorize it.”

I spoke up then. In case you’re wondering, I always end up speaking up. ALWAYS.

“Is that true for all Humana policies? Because we’ve got…”

He interrupted. “I am NOT an insurance specialist! But you can’t have the shot today. New rules.”

So, he gave a cursory and patronizing evaluation (yeah, we DO have the Internet. We KNOW everyone, in a manner of speaking, has bulging discs…) and then sat Doug down with a clerk to schedule another appointment while I excused myself to use the restroom.

While we walked to the car, Doug showed me his appointment card, with a date another week away. “She said it would take 5 days to get the info to Humana, and for them to authorize the shot.”

I said, “Huh? You’ve got the phone number on your card. Call them and get it authorized. Besides, I’m pretty sure our insurance doesn’t even require us to get referrals before we see specialists.”

So he called the number at Humana and got a very helpful person on the other end. She said, “Oh, you’ve got a PPO. You do not need pre-authorization for the epidural.”

I told Doug not to hang up the phone, but to go back into the office and have the Humana person talk to the clerk. Then, since we’re OOP (Kind of like PPO, but it stands for Out of Pocket. We have HIGH deductible insurance as self-employed people, and each one of these visits will be paid for in cold hard cash), I suggested he ask the front office to see if he could be worked back in and get the epidural shot while we were there.

He tried to hand the phone off to Little Miss Snippy (Oh, dear Lord, if you only knew what I would like to call her), and instead of her being pleased that he had cleared up THEIR ERROR (he was extremely polite, as he always is), she marched out from behind her glass-enclosed space into the waiting room full of people and YELLED at him!!!

“You may NOT call Humana!” she shrieked. “I TOLD you that was OUR job!!!”

Oh, yeah, lady? Then do it, because honestly, it only took Doug 30 seconds to solve a problem you couldn’t figure out in three hours. And last time I checked, we wrote the paychecks to the good folks at Humana and to YOU.

“That’s fascinating,” I said to Snippy. “But the doctor himself just told us that often, when dealing with insurance companies, the patient gets the best results when he calls on his own behalf. So. We followed his advice.”

She had NOTHING to say in response, but heaved a huge sigh of exasperation.

Another clerk (the only pleasant one we met) said she would wait until Doctor was finished with his current patient and then ask if he could administer the shot, since Doug obviously had straightened out their little problem. We waited another 45 minutes and left.

By the time we got home, a lovely message waited on Call Waiting, from the Nurse Manager at the Kansas City Pain Center. She understands, she said, that due to a clerical error on the part of their pre-certifications clerk, Doug was denied the shot he came to receive. “Please call me back, and I will try to get you right in…”

Um…that would be a NOT IN THIS LIFETIME. We’ve already called our primary doctor to say how rudely Doug was treated, and that this place should not be recommended. We will be starting over with a new pain management place, and that’s just fine.

In the meantime, of course, we’ll get a big honkin’ bill for the Kansas City Pain Center’s unnecessary “evaluation.” Which we will not pay. And neither will Humana, because while it is a PPO, it is NOT an OOP (out of pocket).

The Kansas City Pain Center needs to employ someone to be an “insurance specialist,” or I guarantee you that the patients themselves—if they’re anything like us—will rise up and do the job.

In the meantime, I suggest they lose Little Miss Snippy. But even if they don’t, after her performance in front of their patients today, they may be down a few customers.

Yeah. I may just vote for Hillary and put the KC Pain Center out of its obvious misery.

Posted by Katy on 08/28/07
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Baby Got Bad Back (#1130)

My poor fellow, who’s only been sick about three days in his life, has gotten himself into a bona fide situation.

I can’t remember how much I shared about the lead-up to our daughter Carrie’s wedding, but let me just say it was nuts. We decided at rather the last minute to go to Kevin’s college graduation in Switzerland. A six-day whirlwind trip. Doug had been complaining about his lower back and legs for several weeks before we took the trip, but he soldiered on.

He wasn’t better by the time we got home, and then—out of jealousy over all the attention he was getting, I’m sure—I did some crazy move resulting in me throwing my back totally out. I ended up IN BED for days, then up and barely able to walk. By then, Carrie’s wedding was a mere week away.

One night, in desperation, I called the doc after hours. Actually, I talked to his partner, a man I’ve never met. I explained that my daughter’s wedding was right around the corner, and I couldn’t move. I’ll never forget what he said to me, because it was SO condescending and made me cry with frustration.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but there IS no magic shot.”

OK, this isn’t about me. It’s about Doug. Tomorrow, Doug is getting the magic shot. An epidural to ease the discomfort of one of the bulging discs, the one pinching the nerve and causing terrible pain down both legs. The magic shot works wonders for about 80% of everyone. I am glad Doug will get a chance to be one of those people.

It’s been four months of pain for my guy. I feel really bad for him, because he’s just not used to living like this. (We danced like fools at Carrie and Marc’s wedding, in case you’re wondering. Eventually, the piper must be paid, but not that night. No way!)

On Saturday, Carrie came over to get some large items she needs to set up her classroom for the kiddos. I haven’t been letting Doug do any heavy lifting, so Carrie and I hefted an enormous doll house out to the driveway.

I pulled my shoulder all out of joint, and now the pain there is on a kind of continuum with the constant pain of the herniated discs in my neck and my 23-year-long migraine.

I’m pretty sure if I called the doctor about it, though, I’d get told there is no magic shot. What do you think?

Posted by Katy on 08/27/07
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Katy Raymond’s Market Timer, Free-Of-Charge For Fallible Readers (#1129)

What I’m about to share with you won’t help me a bit, but you could stand to gain tremendous amounts of money.

Here’s the deal: Doug and I both work for our own corporation, and let’s just say our contributions to our retirement accounts are sporadic and almost always consist of lump sums rather than monthly investments.

I tend to get a tad nervous when we make a good chunk of change, because that’s when we send in one of those lump-summers. You see, hard won experience has proven to me that THE DAY AFTER our wad o’ cash is placed into a good, sturdy index fund with a long and reliable track record of returning, on average, 11% a year over a gazillion years, the market will drop like a boulder.

The next day, it will drop further. And the next. Lather, rinse, repeat for weeks on end, until your arms go numb or you run out of shampoo.

So. My gift to you, which we’ll just call Katy Raymond’s Market Timer, is that I hereby commit to blogging about my intention to invest in PLENTY of time for you to take all your money off the stock-market table before disaster strikes.

In other Raymond Money News, I recently realized that the personal finance principles I THOUGHT we’d imparted to our children may have missed the mark JUST A TAD.

My daughter Carrie and her new husband Marc opened their wedding cards (checks enclosed!) at our house a few days after returning from their honeymoon. They were thrilled with the generosity of their friends and relatives, but since both of them are fiscally responsible and becoming even moreso, I wasn’t surprised when Carrie counted the considerable loot and said, “This is going to become our emergency fund.”

Emergency fund? I thought that’s what my home equity line of credit was for! Just kidding, really. Kind of.

I felt pretty proud of that girl until she turned to her husband, winked, and said, “Or it could be our emergency FUN.”

Posted by Katy on 08/19/07
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You’ve Got To See This!!! (#1127)

I absolutely love my church, Christ Community Church in Leawood, Kansas. You would, too, if you had the unadulterated joy of witnessing performances like this, a special song our minister of music wrote. Randy Bonifield penned this puppy in response to Pastor Tom Nelson’s current teaching on the book of Daniel, and specifically in response to the chapters of Daniel that deal with the End Times.

For the best entertainment you’ll have all day, ESPECIALLY if you were subjected to repeated viewing of the scary Christian movie “A Thief In The Night” when you were young and impressionable, check out Randy’s creation on YouTube. Destined to become a classic!

Let me know what you think. And leave a comment on YouTube, too!

Posted by Katy on 08/14/07
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So How Am I Supposed To Live With All This Pent-Up Wisdom? (#1125)

It’s hard being as smart as I am.

The worst thing about it is, of course, that nobody cares. There are no throngs of people waiting outside my door for me to open it a crack and toss them a bone. Even the people inside my door don’t exactly seek out the riches of my wisdom.

So what’s an Empty Nesting Mother to do?

Kevin flew through the kitchen last night, where I sat contemplating his future and how best to interfere in it. He’s decided to take Spanish at the local college, because he thinks it’s necessary in the hospitality industry. No argument there, but not to worry. There’s always someplace beyond “there.”

“Did you sign up for your class?” I asked, innocently enough, don’t you think?

“Yeah. It was really expensive.”

Now, I know he’s barely got enough scraped together to pay the rent he’ll owe his new landlord in two days. Did I dare ask him how he might pay for such a venture as a 5-credit-hour class?

You bet I dared!

“Are they sending you a bill?”

“No, but I can pay online.”

“Sure, but how? You don’t have any money.”

Mothers, I’m sure you realize, are fantastic at stating the obvious.

“You’re not going to like this….” he said.

“Not like” is putting it so mildly. Hatred comes much closer, but why split hairs?

“Spill it,” I said.

“I put it on a credit card. But I’ll be able to pay it off immediately, because I get paid in two days.”

I bit my tongue. Everyone knows “two days” never comes. The paycheck that hasn’t yet arrived has been spent five different dreamy ways already. I have a sinking feeling the credit card payment isn’t part of Kevin’s dreams for his new-found salary.

Before the day ended, I’d held back volumes of advice on benefit choices with his new employer, tried not to express my aghastedness (oooh, cool word, huh?) at his intention to shop for clothing at the so-called “sale” at one of the most elite stores in town, and crisply curtailed my bubbling enthusiasm over him opening an online savings account and hey, how about a little thing called a Roth IRA?

I do this every time one of my kids is “really” leaving. I try to make up for lost time, try to make sure I’ve done my duty before God and my children, try to…be a good mother. The grown child’s job, at this stage, is to not listen. He has his own ideas now about how the world works, about his place in the unfolding of his own life’s events, and it doesn’t include my last-minute addendums.

The season for my motherly advice has passed. It may roll back around again, but several seasons will likely come and go between now and then. This is the way of things, although I’ve yet to fully surrender to it. I vascillate between confidence in him and regret over myself, congratulations on his success and remorse over my shortcomings.

How can I send him out there, when there’s so much left to say?

The truth is, I am not sending him. He is going. He has much to recommend him to the world, and in some small way, I hope I’ve helped him develop into the wonderful person he is.

I may be a woman whose wisdom has outlived its usefulness, but he…he is a grown man.

Ready or not, my work here is done.

Posted by Katy on 08/14/07
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It’s A Jungle In Here, But Not For Long (#1124)

I don’t know if I got specific here on fallible about the terms of our arrangement with the returning-from-Switzerland Kevin, when he moved back home on June 11. Basically, we told the lad that two months seemed like a reasonable amount of time for him to meet-up with all his long-lost friends, find a job, find a place to live, and hit the road.

It’s funny how these in-and-out transactions with adult children become less romantic as time goes on. If I did a thorough search through fallible’s seven years of archives, I can’t imagine how many times I’ve lovingly referred to my oldest son travelling alone in Asia, or returning from a semester in Europe. And then my only daughter leaving for college in Oklahoma, driving that treacherous piece of highway by herself there and home again…always home again eventually.

A year ago right now, Kevin was preparing to leave for ten months overseas and I was beside myself. (Did I admit that here? Well, it’s true…) Of course, right before he left, Carrie moved back in because she found a job in good old KC. And she got engaged. Could she stay with us until she got married in June? It made all the sense in the world.

I don’t know if you’ve got that phobia about the electronically controlled revolving doors getting stuck with you inside but, um…I do. Maybe that’s why, in real life, I’ve kept the door spinning. But Kevin, my baby, is ready to fly, and even if I am claustrophobic, I’m pulling the plug on the door.

Kev has gotten a great job at the Raphael Hotel, a beautiful place on the Plaza which comes as close to a classic European hotel as anything in Kansas City. His buddy owns a house and rents to two other guys, so—they figured—why not add my son to the mix?

He’s got his work cut out for him, sorting his possessions into the keeps, the give-aways, and the throw-aways, and it’s all got to get accomplished in the next three days. He’ll only have a bedroom at the house, and he actually owns several nice pieces of furniture he won’t be able to take with him quite yet.

I’ve told him anything he can fit into his emptied, vacuumed walk-in closet, I’ll store for him. For a little while, at least. The rest of it has got to go.

I’d be lying if I said I won’t shed a tear when he pulls out of the driveway a few days from now, bound for his own life, one in which—for the first time ever—he won’t be receiving a parental allowance.

I’ll miss my baby and I’ll cry, but for once it might just be because I’ve got a pretty special fellow waiting to share this empty nest of mine.

It’s time we got started.

Posted by Katy on 08/13/07
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An Ode To John Denver (#1123)

Say what you will about John Denver, he had a way of making even those of us who weren’t on a Rocky Mountain High feel pretty darned good about life. I still frequently catch myself humming a tune of his, and if in my old age a few of the words have slipped my mind, I substitute whatever’s handy.

Here’s the way I reinvented Sunshine On My Shoulder in the shower this morning:

Mildew on my ceiling makes me snappy.
Mildew near my skylight, oh so high.
Mildew in the morning, I feel crappy.
Mildew almost always makes me cry.

If I find the cure for common mildew,
I’ll give to you the wisdom of my years.
If I find the answer to the blight I face
I’ll give you more than misery and tears.

Mildew in the shower, I’m not happy.
Mildew under every grout and tile.
Mildew makes me crave another frappe.
Mildew almost never makes me smile.

If I manage to get rid of mildew,
I promise you my method I will share.
If I blow this pop stand bound for Caribou,
I’ll make a wish that you will meet me there.

Mildew in the morning, I’m still singing.
Mildew in the middle of the day.
Mildew sounds like sinister ka-chinging.
Mildew almost always makes me pray.

Mildew almost all the time…makes me pray.

Posted by Katy on 08/10/07
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Talk Dirtily To Me (#1122)

The life of an aspiring author is full of sacrifice.

Of course, there are the years spent toiling in relative obscurity. (Believe me, my relatives think I’m obscure.) During those years, there are scores of near misses—such as viable book proposals that are “going to committee next week and you’ll be hearing back from us very soon…”—which thereafter evaporate into thin cyber-vapor, making me wonder if I imagined the whole thing.

Then there are the rules. Most novelists these days, and nearly all novel-writing instructors, will tell you what you don’t want to know.

“Lose the semi-colons, especially in dialogue.” But; but; but; I don’t understand!

“And the exclamation points, too. Unless your character is frightened to death, she won’t be needing any.” No! Not my exclamation points! I rely on them to show that I’m EXCITED!!!

“Ahem. All those caps have got to go. It’s a visual disaster, and nobody talks like that.”

“Really? Because I do! I mean, I really, REALLY DO!!!!”

“You’re a slow learner, aren’t you? Those l-y words are out of here. Every last one of them. Choose strong verbs, period.”

But I’ve grown SO FOND of inserting the phrase “very extremely” into otherwise healthy sentences! What’s to become of me?!?!

I’ve got to tell you, of everything I’ve lost attempting to become a published novelist, I miss “l-y” words the most. There’s NOTHING like a good l-y word to spruce up an otherwise dull action verb, and let’s face it, action verbs aren’t really my thing anyway. I’m kind of a passive-aggressive-verb girl myself.

I’m going to let you in on a little insider secret, one I’ve never shared with anyone, not even my husband. Doug has tried, in order to get me thinking and speaking and most of all writing like a quality novelist, to eliminate all these offensive elements from our personal communication. So how can I tell him I’ve been getting my fix of exclamation points, caps, and l-y words from friends of mine who are PUBLISHED AUTHORS???

That’s right. If the government ever gets ahold of my email archives and makes them public, there are a bunch of MULTI-PUBLISHED; WELL-RESPECTED; SUCCESSFUL authors who are so, so very extemely BUSTED!!!!

One of them greets me in her emails like this: “LADY!!!” I am not kidding. She’s gets ever more dramatic from there. A darling author friend sometimes sends entire messages consisting of three ENORMOUS bold red words (underlined in case I can’t see them) encircled in a Photoshopped fence of exlamation points!!!
A third uses so many banished l-y words, it does my deprived soul good just to click and then read oh, so slowly while sighing contentedly.

Even though I’ve been saved from a world of bizarrely spare prose by these special friends, my husband and I have suffered. We haven’t exchanged as much as a single exclamation point in years. He thinks he’s encouraging me by eliminating the caps from our relationship, but what kind of a marriage is that?

Last night, he slipped up. Something we were discussing (money? politics? religion?) lit an uncommon fire under the man. He began to strip off his shirt and, without any provocation from me whatsoever, let loose a string of l-y words, one after the other, which finally ended in a verb that just wouldn’t have been the same without his passionate outburst.

“Oooh, baby,” I said. “I LOVE it when you talk l-y to me!!!”

I think we’ve come to an understanding. No more sacrificial living for me.

Posted by Katy on 08/07/07
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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	Friends (#1139) Of the 500 writers who attended the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers conference, something like 135 were first-timers. They wore little ribbons that said “First Timer.” I made it my mission to meet as many of them as I could, because in 2005, I qualified for a ribbon myself. I probably greeted at least 50 first-timers, just went right up to them and stuck my hand out and chatted them up. Some (waving at Sharon Ball!) became instant friends. My husband will tell you that I sometimes have difficulty with this type of thing. But you know what? EVERYone at ACFW behaves this way. I have NEVER been with a group of more friendly, outreaching people. Though there are always plenty of inside jokes during the general sessions, the newcomers—I think—feel quickly assimilated into the veteran crowd. I am sure the organization has as one of its goals to welcome everyone with open arms. If you’ve ever wondered what one of these four-day events is like, you might as well put overwhelming at the top of the list. If you think you’re not the type to bawl, watch out. SOMEthing will get to you, and you’ll have at least a minor meltdown. This year, I did NOT expect to cry, and my dear friend Diann Hunt stood right with me in my puddle of goofy tears, getting her feet wet and not complaining about it one bit. So what did I cry about? It doesn’t matter. I certainly wasn’t unhappy, since I’d had nothing but great appointments with editors and agents. Maybe it was just that there’s so much involved, as an aspiring novelist, in “putting myself out there” in the conference setting. All I know is, Diann said all the sweet things at the right time. Things like, “I’ve been there, Katy. I’ve felt that way, too…” Within three minutes, The Meltdown ended and I was all smiles again, thanks to a wonderful friend. I’ve met so many fabulous women (and a few men, too) who have become more than dear to me through this group. A few I know will end up being lifelong friends. Of course, I joined in order to move my career forward. But even if I never become a published novelist, I wouldn’t trade my new friends for anything. Thanks to all my ACFW buddies for changing my life. Posted by Katy on 09/24/07 Permalink A New Girdle In Town (#1138) Wow! I just got home from Dallas. The national writers group I belong to (American Christian Fiction Writers) is growing enormously. I think someone said we had 300 attendees at the annual conference last year, and 500 this year! It’s hard not to notice that the prospective novelists out there in wannabe land are skewing ever younger. And thinner. Dear Lord, there are some cute young things who’ll be in wrist braces before they know it! In the meantime, the one thing they’re NOT in is girdles, because—God bless their little pea-pickin’ hearts—they don’t need to be. Then there’s me. And not only me, either. I have a bunch of middle-aged compadres who compadred notes after the Awards Banquet and Ginormous Gala Event last night at the Marriott Quorum. One of my best buds had to be THRILLED with an award she’d just won, but when I ran up to congratulate her, she raised her hands to stop me from hugging. “Don’t touch me or I’ll pop,” she said, barely able to smile. “But…you won…” I said. “Katy, have you ever worn a….?” And then she named a brand of girdle that’s all the rage and VERY pricey. It rhymes with Thanks, which is the word I THOUGHT she’d say when I congratulated her. “I bought one,” I admitted. “For my daughter’s wedding, to wear under a very fitted dress.” Her cheeks looked awfully puffy and her eyes took on a bit of an overripe, jaundiced tint as she said, “What happened?” “I tried it out in advance one day. I thought I’d give it an hour, to see if I could handle it through a reception with dancing and all. I looked DANG good, too. Of course, the EMTs cut it off of me when they did the EKG and hooked me up to the ventilator.” “NO!!!” “But this isn’t about me,” I said, sensing she just wasn’t her usual, moveable self. “Are you OK?” “Did you know that all your excess thigh can be forced by Spandex into your ankles?” She lifted her skirt. It wasn’t pretty. But at least her ankles matched her brightly-hued outfit. “THAT can’t be good,” I said. “How about…um…the rest of you?” “This thing came up so high, it almost met the bottom of my bra,” she said. “So there was this little flap of fat, but not too bad, between my bra and the girdle. It didn’t show under my top, and I thought I looked so thin. Glamorous, really…..” Let me just say for the record that even as she spoke, she looked more regal than ever, a beautiful woman in every way. It looked to me, though, like she was breaking out in a red, prickly rash—perhaps an allergic reaction to elastic?—and I thought about running into the gift shop for a package of Benedryl. The rash turned out to be glitter, but I wasn’t dissuaded from noticing the red streaks rising up her neck, signs of unhealthy constriction, if you asked me. Or maybe even blood poisoning, but hey. I’m no doctor. “Well, a little roll of fat isn’t the worst thing,” I said, trying to be diplomatic but honestly, having a heck of a time. “I know,” she answered. “But right when I got called to receive my award, I realized something strange—something dreadful—had happened.” “You can tell me, girlfriend.” I reached out to pat her upper arm but she stopped me cold. “One poke, Katy. That’s all it will take.” I pulled back with more than an inkling of awe and yes…respect. “So what…happened?” “It rolled, that’s what. The contraption started on its downward spiral from up around my bra, avalanching its way clear down to my waist. By the time I went up to the podium, I was fatter than before I put the thing on. Not just in the front, either. Back fat, too, baby.” “Are you OK…now?” I asked. “I will be,” she said, “if this thing has a money-back guarantee and my inhaler holds out.” She finally let me hug one of her fingers, one that still had some flesh tones to it and didn’t need to have the wedding rings surgically removed. I thought her finger had remarkable range-of-motion, considering. “So…congratulations?” I said. “Aw…you’re sweet,” she answered, nearly able to smile despite the swelling. “But if you breathe a word of this, I’m gonna have to hurt you.” Posted by Katy on 09/23/07 Permalink BFF (#1137) I’ve always believed that a person can’t write a novel all the way to the end and not be changed by the experience. Maybe that’s why I’ve never written an entire story. Maybe I’ve feared the challenges that would come my way, the ones requiring me to grow and mature in ways I didn’t feel capable of. Maybe I’ve even worried that grace wouldn’t meet me in those last pages, that I’d be left there to sink or swim alone, when swimming isn’t my strong suit. In the past month, my writing life has changed dramatically. My life has, too. When I decided to finish this novel once and for all, my husband simply said, “I’ll help you.” Now it used to be when he volunteered to read my chapters, I’d cringe. He’s so talented, so creative, so accomplished that I could hardly bear for him to look at my work. The thing is, he’s never failed to encourage me in every way he could. He’s been nothing but supportive since I started this crazy venture. But until this past month, I couldn’t receive what he offered. As it turns out, Doug is the BEST editor a girl could ever have. Every night, after I’ve worked as many hours as I’m able, he takes over. I fall asleep next to him with the happy music of him keying proverbial red ink in the margins. It used to be I couldn’t sleep when I heard him typing corrections, changing my words, perhaps even altering the deepest thoughts of my heart. Now I can’t wait for him to take over, to make his suggestions, so I can revise the next day with his edits in mind. Hard to believe, but after me attempting to write this book for several years, I’ve found my dream editor. He was here beside me the whole time, waiting for me to receive the free gift of a gracious husband. Waiting for me to lay down my insecurities and nutty fears of rejection so that together, we could accomplish something grand. A major theme in my story is that no matter how long a man and wife live together, imagining past hurts may never heal, there’s hope. And grace to change. I’m a changed woman. I trust my husband in ways I didn’t think possible. And I’m here to tell you: Doug Raymond is my Best Friend Forever. Posted by Katy on 09/18/07 Permalink Excuses, Excuses (#1136) Last year at this time, I was getting ready to head to the American Christian Writers Conference in Dallas. This year at this time, I’m doing the exact same thing. The difference is that while last year I felt pretty good about having typed “The End” at the bottom of a 90.000 word manuscript, this year I realize it wasn’t really ready to submit. So, several drafts later, I think I’ve about got it wrapped up. I’ll head out next Wednesday and be gone through Sunday. Until then, I’m tying up loose plot ends, formatting, printing out revamped proposals and sample chapters, and getting mentally ready to meet with editors and agents. And to see some of my favorite friends in the world, my fellow novelists! If you’ll overlook my lack of blogging for the next couple weeks, I promise to sign a book for you someday. :) How’s that for dreaming big? Posted by Katy on 09/12/07 Permalink Inspiration (#1135) I came across this video today while catching up on some of the personal finance blogs I read. If you want to be inspired to make the most of what you’ve got, watch the story of Mr. Earl. Here’s a man who’s been a parking lot attendant for 40 years, never making more than $20,000 per year. He and his wife put three children through Catholic school. Now he’s got no debt, a paid-for house, and a stock portfolio worth…drum roll, please!...$500,000. I have a feeling somewhere along the line he learned how to live on less than he made. What do you think? Posted by Katy on 09/10/07 Permalink My Hero (#1134) I took Doug to get his first in a series of epidurals this morning. As it turns out, my little sister Bridget’s doctor-of-choice, Steve Simon, does not do epidurals. So we went with another recommendation of our primary doctor, and ended up in the care of Dr. Kloster at Menorah Hospital. From every indication so far, Dr. Kloster will provide the treatment Doug needs, without the attitude. We were more than pleased with the first visit. On the 17th, Doug will have his second shot, and depending on the outcome of the first two, may also have a third. Unfortunately, though, he now has a new back injury, which doesn’t show up on the MRI or the reports that Dr. Kloster viewed today. When I came home from visiting my mother yesterday, Doug said, “You won’t believe this, but I’ve hurt my back….” I figured he sneezed or coughed, which is all it takes for me to throw something out, if that something is primed to go. “What did you do?” I asked. “I hacked a six-foot long snake to death and bagged up the remains. I didn’t want you to come home and find it hissing at you on the front step.” Do you see why I love this man? He is my hero. But, darling, really. Right now, it’s my turn to take care of you. Posted by Katy on 09/05/07 Permalink Gratitude (#1133) Ten years ago, our oldest son moved out for the first time. Today, our youngest son moved out for the last time. I think. It’s hard to know for sure. We aren’t changing the locks or anything, but if my maternal instincts count for much, this is it. Really it. He came today to get the last of his things. When he left, he threw his arms around me and said, “I love you, Mom.” And then to tease him, to prod him into acknowledging all we’d done for him over the past 22 years, I said, “Thanks for everything?” He answered, and the tenderness of the words he spoke from a sincere heart put a lifetime of motherhood into perspective for me once and for all. “You’re welcome.” Posted by Katy on 09/02/07 Permalink Kansas City Pain Center…Not! (#1131) I’ve been a victim of or witnessed several BAD scenarios in health care settings over the years. But today’s situation was one of the worst EVER. It makes me want to vote for Hillarized Health Care right now and get it over with. At least that way, if the U.S. ended up with a system like Canada’s or Britain’s, we’d all know in advance that we’d have to wait the rest of our natural lives to be seen by a doctor. We could die in peace, without receiving the kind of horrible, destructive attention my husband received today at the Kansas City Pain Center. I can’t tell you all the oh-oh feelings both of us had, separately and without mentioning them to each other, over the course of the three hours we were there. From the minute we walked into the waiting room and were treated dismissively by the woman behind the sliding glass window, I knew the place was dicey. What it takes a while to figure out—though, trust me, not very long—is whether the office is infected by one bad apple or whether the joint operates on the “trickle-down” principle. Sometimes, it’s the folks at the top who have an attitude, which then somehow makes it not only permissable but acceptable and even desireable for the underlings to also misbehave. Doug went to the KC Pain Center for an epidural to help relieve some of his…pain. Turns out they’re actually PASSING OUT pains to patients. The doctor, who I will not name, was flippant. There’s no other word to describe him. Not exactly what you’d expect from a person trained to help people manage pain. “This shot might help you and it might not. No way to know. Don’t even know what’s causing your pain. Lots of risks associated with the procedure, though. Probably won’t happen, but you could be the one. None of this matters, though. You’re here for an evaluation only.” “Um…no,” Doug said. “I’ve been evaluated by my primary doctor, who sent me here. I’ve had an x-ray and an MRI…” He pointed to the counter holding the pictures, which the doctor never looked at. “And I’ve been evaluated by a physical therapist, who’s been treating me for two weeks already. I’m just here for a shot.” “Sorry. You’ve got Humana.” “And?” “Six weeks ago, they changed the way they do things. Now you have to come here for an evaluation and then come back later for the shot if they authorize it.” I spoke up then. In case you’re wondering, I always end up speaking up. ALWAYS. “Is that true for all Humana policies? Because we’ve got…” He interrupted. “I am NOT an insurance specialist! But you can’t have the shot today. New rules.” So, he gave a cursory and patronizing evaluation (yeah, we DO have the Internet. We KNOW everyone, in a manner of speaking, has bulging discs…) and then sat Doug down with a clerk to schedule another appointment while I excused myself to use the restroom. While we walked to the car, Doug showed me his appointment card, with a date another week away. “She said it would take 5 days to get the info to Humana, and for them to authorize the shot.” I said, “Huh? You’ve got the phone number on your card. Call them and get it authorized. Besides, I’m pretty sure our insurance doesn’t even require us to get referrals before we see specialists.” So he called the number at Humana and got a very helpful person on the other end. She said, “Oh, you’ve got a PPO. You do not need pre-authorization for the epidural.” I told Doug not to hang up the phone, but to go back into the office and have the Humana person talk to the clerk. Then, since we’re OOP (Kind of like PPO, but it stands for Out of Pocket. We have HIGH deductible insurance as self-employed people, and each one of these visits will be paid for in cold hard cash), I suggested he ask the front office to see if he could be worked back in and get the epidural shot while we were there. He tried to hand the phone off to Little Miss Snippy (Oh, dear Lord, if you only knew what I would like to call her), and instead of her being pleased that he had cleared up THEIR ERROR (he was extremely polite, as he always is), she marched out from behind her glass-enclosed space into the waiting room full of people and YELLED at him!!! “You may NOT call Humana!” she shrieked. “I TOLD you that was OUR job!!!” Oh, yeah, lady? Then do it, because honestly, it only took Doug 30 seconds to solve a problem you couldn’t figure out in three hours. And last time I checked, we wrote the paychecks to the good folks at Humana and to YOU. “That’s fascinating,” I said to Snippy. “But the doctor himself just told us that often, when dealing with insurance companies, the patient gets the best results when he calls on his own behalf. So. We followed his advice.” She had NOTHING to say in response, but heaved a huge sigh of exasperation. Another clerk (the only pleasant one we met) said she would wait until Doctor was finished with his current patient and then ask if he could administer the shot, since Doug obviously had straightened out their little problem. We waited another 45 minutes and left. By the time we got home, a lovely message waited on Call Waiting, from the Nurse Manager at the Kansas City Pain Center. She understands, she said, that due to a clerical error on the part of their pre-certifications clerk, Doug was denied the shot he came to receive. “Please call me back, and I will try to get you right in…” Um…that would be a NOT IN THIS LIFETIME. We’ve already called our primary doctor to say how rudely Doug was treated, and that this place should not be recommended. We will be starting over with a new pain management place, and that’s just fine. In the meantime, of course, we’ll get a big honkin’ bill for the Kansas City Pain Center’s unnecessary “evaluation.” Which we will not pay. And neither will Humana, because while it is a PPO, it is NOT an OOP (out of pocket). The Kansas City Pain Center needs to employ someone to be an “insurance specialist,” or I guarantee you that the patients themselves—if they’re anything like us—will rise up and do the job. In the meantime, I suggest they lose Little Miss Snippy. But even if they don’t, after her performance in front of their patients today, they may be down a few customers. Yeah. I may just vote for Hillary and put the KC Pain Center out of its obvious misery. Posted by Katy on 08/28/07 Permalink Baby Got Bad Back (#1130) My poor fellow, who’s only been sick about three days in his life, has gotten himself into a bona fide situation. I can’t remember how much I shared about the lead-up to our daughter Carrie’s wedding, but let me just say it was nuts. We decided at rather the last minute to go to Kevin’s college graduation in Switzerland. A six-day whirlwind trip. Doug had been complaining about his lower back and legs for several weeks before we took the trip, but he soldiered on. He wasn’t better by the time we got home, and then—out of jealousy over all the attention he was getting, I’m sure—I did some crazy move resulting in me throwing my back totally out. I ended up IN BED for days, then up and barely able to walk. By then, Carrie’s wedding was a mere week away. One night, in desperation, I called the doc after hours. Actually, I talked to his partner, a man I’ve never met. I explained that my daughter’s wedding was right around the corner, and I couldn’t move. I’ll never forget what he said to me, because it was SO condescending and made me cry with frustration. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but there IS no magic shot.” OK, this isn’t about me. It’s about Doug. Tomorrow, Doug is getting the magic shot. An epidural to ease the discomfort of one of the bulging discs, the one pinching the nerve and causing terrible pain down both legs. The magic shot works wonders for about 80% of everyone. I am glad Doug will get a chance to be one of those people. It’s been four months of pain for my guy. I feel really bad for him, because he’s just not used to living like this. (We danced like fools at Carrie and Marc’s wedding, in case you’re wondering. Eventually, the piper must be paid, but not that night. No way!) On Saturday, Carrie came over to get some large items she needs to set up her classroom for the kiddos. I haven’t been letting Doug do any heavy lifting, so Carrie and I hefted an enormous doll house out to the driveway. I pulled my shoulder all out of joint, and now the pain there is on a kind of continuum with the constant pain of the herniated discs in my neck and my 23-year-long migraine. I’m pretty sure if I called the doctor about it, though, I’d get told there is no magic shot. What do you think? Posted by Katy on 08/27/07 Permalink Katy Raymond’s Market Timer, Free-Of-Charge For Fallible Readers (#1129) What I’m about to share with you won’t help me a bit, but you could stand to gain tremendous amounts of money. Here’s the deal: Doug and I both work for our own corporation, and let’s just say our contributions to our retirement accounts are sporadic and almost always consist of lump sums rather than monthly investments. I tend to get a tad nervous when we make a good chunk of change, because that’s when we send in one of those lump-summers. You see, hard won experience has proven to me that THE DAY AFTER our wad o’ cash is placed into a good, sturdy index fund with a long and reliable track record of returning, on average, 11% a year over a gazillion years, the market will drop like a boulder. The next day, it will drop further. And the next. Lather, rinse, repeat for weeks on end, until your arms go numb or you run out of shampoo. So. My gift to you, which we’ll just call Katy Raymond’s Market Timer, is that I hereby commit to blogging about my intention to invest in PLENTY of time for you to take all your money off the stock-market table before disaster strikes. In other Raymond Money News, I recently realized that the personal finance principles I THOUGHT we’d imparted to our children may have missed the mark JUST A TAD. My daughter Carrie and her new husband Marc opened their wedding cards (checks enclosed!) at our house a few days after returning from their honeymoon. They were thrilled with the generosity of their friends and relatives, but since both of them are fiscally responsible and becoming even moreso, I wasn’t surprised when Carrie counted the considerable loot and said, “This is going to become our emergency fund.” Emergency fund? I thought that’s what my home equity line of credit was for! Just kidding, really. Kind of. I felt pretty proud of that girl until she turned to her husband, winked, and said, “Or it could be our emergency FUN.” Posted by Katy on 08/19/07 Permalink You’ve Got To See This!!! (#1127) I absolutely love my church, Christ Community Church in Leawood, Kansas. You would, too, if you had the unadulterated joy of witnessing performances like this, a special song our minister of music wrote. Randy Bonifield penned this puppy in response to Pastor Tom Nelson’s current teaching on the book of Daniel, and specifically in response to the chapters of Daniel that deal with the End Times. For the best entertainment you’ll have all day, ESPECIALLY if you were subjected to repeated viewing of the scary Christian movie “A Thief In The Night” when you were young and impressionable, check out Randy’s creation on YouTube. Destined to become a classic! Let me know what you think. And leave a comment on YouTube, too! Posted by Katy on 08/14/07 Permalink So How Am I Supposed To Live With All This Pent-Up Wisdom? (#1125) It’s hard being as smart as I am. The worst thing about it is, of course, that nobody cares. There are no throngs of people waiting outside my door for me to open it a crack and toss them a bone. Even the people inside my door don’t exactly seek out the riches of my wisdom. So what’s an Empty Nesting Mother to do? Kevin flew through the kitchen last night, where I sat contemplating his future and how best to interfere in it. He’s decided to take Spanish at the local college, because he thinks it’s necessary in the hospitality industry. No argument there, but not to worry. There’s always someplace beyond “there.” “Did you sign up for your class?” I asked, innocently enough, don’t you think? “Yeah. It was really expensive.” Now, I know he’s barely got enough scraped together to pay the rent he’ll owe his new landlord in two days. Did I dare ask him how he might pay for such a venture as a 5-credit-hour class? You bet I dared! “Are they sending you a bill?” “No, but I can pay online.” “Sure, but how? You don’t have any money.” Mothers, I’m sure you realize, are fantastic at stating the obvious. “You’re not going to like this….” he said. “Not like” is putting it so mildly. Hatred comes much closer, but why split hairs? “Spill it,” I said. “I put it on a credit card. But I’ll be able to pay it off immediately, because I get paid in two days.” I bit my tongue. Everyone knows “two days” never comes. The paycheck that hasn’t yet arrived has been spent five different dreamy ways already. I have a sinking feeling the credit card payment isn’t part of Kevin’s dreams for his new-found salary. Before the day ended, I’d held back volumes of advice on benefit choices with his new employer, tried not to express my aghastedness (oooh, cool word, huh?) at his intention to shop for clothing at the so-called “sale” at one of the most elite stores in town, and crisply curtailed my bubbling enthusiasm over him opening an online savings account and hey, how about a little thing called a Roth IRA? I do this every time one of my kids is “really” leaving. I try to make up for lost time, try to make sure I’ve done my duty before God and my children, try to…be a good mother. The grown child’s job, at this stage, is to not listen. He has his own ideas now about how the world works, about his place in the unfolding of his own life’s events, and it doesn’t include my last-minute addendums. The season for my motherly advice has passed. It may roll back around again, but several seasons will likely come and go between now and then. This is the way of things, although I’ve yet to fully surrender to it. I vascillate between confidence in him and regret over myself, congratulations on his success and remorse over my shortcomings. How can I send him out there, when there’s so much left to say? The truth is, I am not sending him. He is going. He has much to recommend him to the world, and in some small way, I hope I’ve helped him develop into the wonderful person he is. I may be a woman whose wisdom has outlived its usefulness, but he…he is a grown man. Ready or not, my work here is done. Posted by Katy on 08/14/07 Permalink It’s A Jungle In Here, But Not For Long (#1124) I don’t know if I got specific here on fallible about the terms of our arrangement with the returning-from-Switzerland Kevin, when he moved back home on June 11. Basically, we told the lad that two months seemed like a reasonable amount of time for him to meet-up with all his long-lost friends, find a job, find a place to live, and hit the road. It’s funny how these in-and-out transactions with adult children become less romantic as time goes on. If I did a thorough search through fallible’s seven years of archives, I can’t imagine how many times I’ve lovingly referred to my oldest son travelling alone in Asia, or returning from a semester in Europe. And then my only daughter leaving for college in Oklahoma, driving that treacherous piece of highway by herself there and home again…always home again eventually. A year ago right now, Kevin was preparing to leave for ten months overseas and I was beside myself. (Did I admit that here? Well, it’s true…) Of course, right before he left, Carrie moved back in because she found a job in good old KC. And she got engaged. Could she stay with us until she got married in June? It made all the sense in the world. I don’t know if you’ve got that phobia about the electronically controlled revolving doors getting stuck with you inside but, um…I do. Maybe that’s why, in real life, I’ve kept the door spinning. But Kevin, my baby, is ready to fly, and even if I am claustrophobic, I’m pulling the plug on the door. Kev has gotten a great job at the Raphael Hotel, a beautiful place on the Plaza which comes as close to a classic European hotel as anything in Kansas City. His buddy owns a house and rents to two other guys, so—they figured—why not add my son to the mix? He’s got his work cut out for him, sorting his possessions into the keeps, the give-aways, and the throw-aways, and it’s all got to get accomplished in the next three days. He’ll only have a bedroom at the house, and he actually owns several nice pieces of furniture he won’t be able to take with him quite yet. I’ve told him anything he can fit into his emptied, vacuumed walk-in closet, I’ll store for him. For a little while, at least. The rest of it has got to go. I’d be lying if I said I won’t shed a tear when he pulls out of the driveway a few days from now, bound for his own life, one in which—for the first time ever—he won’t be receiving a parental allowance. I’ll miss my baby and I’ll cry, but for once it might just be because I’ve got a pretty special fellow waiting to share this empty nest of mine. It’s time we got started. Posted by Katy on 08/13/07 Permalink An Ode To John Denver (#1123) Say what you will about John Denver, he had a way of making even those of us who weren’t on a Rocky Mountain High feel pretty darned good about life. I still frequently catch myself humming a tune of his, and if in my old age a few of the words have slipped my mind, I substitute whatever’s handy. Here’s the way I reinvented Sunshine On My Shoulder in the shower this morning: Mildew on my ceiling makes me snappy. Mildew near my skylight, oh so high. Mildew in the morning, I feel crappy. Mildew almost always makes me cry. If I find the cure for common mildew, I’ll give to you the wisdom of my years. If I find the answer to the blight I face I’ll give you more than misery and tears. Mildew in the shower, I’m not happy. Mildew under every grout and tile. Mildew makes me crave another frappe. Mildew almost never makes me smile. If I manage to get rid of mildew, I promise you my method I will share. If I blow this pop stand bound for Caribou, I’ll make a wish that you will meet me there. Mildew in the morning, I’m still singing. Mildew in the middle of the day. Mildew sounds like sinister ka-chinging. Mildew almost always makes me pray. Mildew almost all the time…makes me pray. Posted by Katy on 08/10/07 Permalink Talk Dirtily To Me (#1122) The life of an aspiring author is full of sacrifice. Of course, there are the years spent toiling in relative obscurity. (Believe me, my relatives think I’m obscure.) During those years, there are scores of near misses—such as viable book proposals that are “going to committee next week and you’ll be hearing back from us very soon…”—which thereafter evaporate into thin cyber-vapor, making me wonder if I imagined the whole thing. Then there are the rules. Most novelists these days, and nearly all novel-writing instructors, will tell you what you don’t want to know. “Lose the semi-colons, especially in dialogue.” But; but; but; I don’t understand! “And the exclamation points, too. Unless your character is frightened to death, she won’t be needing any.” No! Not my exclamation points! I rely on them to show that I’m EXCITED!!! “Ahem. All those caps have got to go. It’s a visual disaster, and nobody talks like that.” “Really? Because I do! I mean, I really, REALLY DO!!!!” “You’re a slow learner, aren’t you? Those l-y words are out of here. Every last one of them. Choose strong verbs, period.” But I’ve grown SO FOND of inserting the phrase “very extremely” into otherwise healthy sentences! What’s to become of me?!?! I’ve got to tell you, of everything I’ve lost attempting to become a published novelist, I miss “l-y” words the most. There’s NOTHING like a good l-y word to spruce up an otherwise dull action verb, and let’s face it, action verbs aren’t really my thing anyway. I’m kind of a passive-aggressive-verb girl myself. I’m going to let you in on a little insider secret, one I’ve never shared with anyone, not even my husband. Doug has tried, in order to get me thinking and speaking and most of all writing like a quality novelist, to eliminate all these offensive elements from our personal communication. So how can I tell him I’ve been getting my fix of exclamation points, caps, and l-y words from friends of mine who are PUBLISHED AUTHORS??? That’s right. If the government ever gets ahold of my email archives and makes them public, there are a bunch of MULTI-PUBLISHED; WELL-RESPECTED; SUCCESSFUL authors who are so, so very extemely BUSTED!!!! One of them greets me in her emails like this: “LADY!!!” I am not kidding. She’s gets ever more dramatic from there. A darling author friend sometimes sends entire messages consisting of three ENORMOUS bold red words (underlined in case I can’t see them) encircled in a Photoshopped fence of exlamation points!!! A third uses so many banished l-y words, it does my deprived soul good just to click and then read oh, so slowly while sighing contentedly. Even though I’ve been saved from a world of bizarrely spare prose by these special friends, my husband and I have suffered. We haven’t exchanged as much as a single exclamation point in years. He thinks he’s encouraging me by eliminating the caps from our relationship, but what kind of a marriage is that? Last night, he slipped up. Something we were discussing (money? politics? religion?) lit an uncommon fire under the man. He began to strip off his shirt and, without any provocation from me whatsoever, let loose a string of l-y words, one after the other, which finally ended in a verb that just wouldn’t have been the same without his passionate outburst. “Oooh, baby,” I said. “I LOVE it when you talk l-y to me!!!” I think we’ve come to an understanding. No more sacrificial living for me. Posted by Katy on 08/07/07 Permalink Page 17 of 84 pages « First < 15 16 17 18 19 > Last »


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

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