Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Read more Katy at...
LateBoomer.net
Most Recent Posts
- Not For The Faint Of Heart
- New Math
- International House Of…..Watch Out!
- Have Yourself A Merry Little Colonoscopy!
- Spell Check
- You Are Not Alone
- Don’t Know Much About The Big Three
- Why, Oh Why Didn’t I Take Home Ec?
- Really, Really Fun While It Lasts!
- In Defense Of Good Old-Fashioned Books
- Things I’ve Said That I’m Happy Someone Else Didn’t Say First, One In An Ongoing Series Of Several
- Do Depression Meds Work For This?
- The T-Shirt Off Our Backs
- For The Fallible Record
- Long Time, No Blog
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
As Always, Less Is More
It was brought to my attention by a number of thoughtful readers that they weren’t able to access fallible for several days. Sure enough, I couldn’t access it, either! I think the problem is fixed now. Leave me a comment if you missed me!! :)
Ever since last weeks’ Oprah episodes on Thursday and Friday, I have been on a decluttering rampage. Doug is joining me in my renewed mission to make sense of, manage the quantity of, and be good stewards over our possessions.
On Sunday, we took two loads (in our small station wagon) of trash down to the street. Plus, I hauled one enormous load (barely room for my purse in the car!) to Goodwill. Here’s a tidbit I found fascinating: I got to Goodwill, and the person receiving donations came out to the car to help me.
“Are all these things being unloaded HERE?” she asked.
I figured one look in my car would tell her the answer. It was obvious I hadn’t been shopping. No bags from Kohl’s or WalMart or Target were mixed in among the giveaways.
“Um...yes?” I said.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m not sure we’ve got room.”
I stepped into the warehouse and was shocked. In all the years I’ve been donating to this store, I have NEVER seen the warehouse so excruciatingly full. It looked like the lady’s house which was featured on Oprah! Only narrow paths between mounds of boxes and bags, stacked so high I felt frightened for my very extremely short self.
How we managed to add my carload to that warehouse full, I have no idea. We were throwing the lighter weight items onto the top of the heap and hoisting the heavier ones as high as we could, wedging them into whatever crevice happened to make itself available.
It occurred to me on the way home that half the people in the country saw Oprah’s show about drowning in clutter, and got the message--at least to the point that they made one run to Goodwill. What tipped me off was that the employee said ALL the donations in that enormous warehouse had come in THAT DAY. Unbelievable.
I will get back to posting after the holiday. Until then, may you have much--or even less--to be thankful for! I know I do.
Oprah!
You guys! I don’t watch Oprah often, but I am Tivoing yesterday and today’s episodes.
If you are at all interested in the subject of too-much-clutter, compulsive shopping, hoarding, and being owned by your possessions, you have got to see these episodes. If you aren’t able, go to Oprah’s websites and click through the photos.
You know what fascinates me most about this empty nesting couple? The wife didn’t begin compulsive shopping and hoarding in earnest until her first child flew the coop. When the second left, things got worse. By the time the final child exited, she didn’t know how to cope with the loss. Then, in the last couple years, as two of her own siblings died, things accelerated even more, until by now she and her husband could not sleep in the same bed because THERE WASN’T ROOM.
I am endlessly intrigued with this subject, since--as you know--I’m on a never-ending mission to downsize the number while upgrading the quality of our possessions. I have a friend who used to have regular garage sales in which she unloaded her antiques and other truly valuable items for a song, while holding onto all her crap. I was mystified by her faulty logic, and I think I always have her in the back of my thinking as I work my way through our own junk.
Unlike the lady on Oprah, though, I’ve gotten a little more free of the need to hang onto stuff as the months and years go by. Still, I know I tie too much of my identity to being able to snag a great bargain, even if I have no use for it whatsoever. These days, I enjoy shopping for baby outfits marked down to within an inch of their lives. When they go below a certain pre-set price, I purchase them and donate them to a local ministry. I get to experience the thrill of the hunt while making a real difference to some needy parents.
It took a team of one hundred professionals EIGHT WEEKS, under the direction of Peter Walsh, to deal with the scores of TONS of junk in this couple’s house.
If it would take a miracle to deal with yours, don’t miss these episodes!!
Concierge
We live right next door to one of the richest counties in the nation, which happens to fall in Kansas.
The county we live in, by contrast, is not only NOT one of the richest, it’s even in (gasp!) Missouri. When you live in the KC metro area, the State Line is everything. It’s funny, though. Forty or fifty years ago, the flight from Kansas City, MO, began in earnest. Most who fled didn’t consider it sufficient to flee to the outlying suburbs on the “Missouri side.” They hightailed it over to AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT STATE, where there was NO risk whatsoever of their children ending up in “those schools” or them ending up with undesirable neighbors.
Now, as poetic and regular justice would have it, the urban core of KCMO is undergoing a resurrgence. Doug and I couldn’t afford to move to town--where I grew up!--if we wanted to. But many of those life-long Kansans are buying lofts downtown. I think for some of them, the day they shopped for their city dwelling might have been the first time they’d ever crossed over.
Yeah, we tease about this stuff here. “They” talk crazy about us Missourians, too. It goes with the territory and makes living here interesting.
Doug just ran across a sales brochure for a business based in the Rich County. I wonder if they’d consider crossing over to help me out?
Here are the services offered by this personal concierge:
Errands, general pick-up and delivery, waiting service, organization, vendor referrals, reservations, light housekeeping, grocery shopping, vacation research, event planning, invitations, post-party clean-up, customized home checks, mail pick-up, stock fridge, gift buying, party preparation, holiday cards, decorate, graduations, weddings, new moms, relocations.
All services are offered on an a la carte basis, but membership pricing is available.
This really DOES raise the question of what people are still willing to do on their own behalf, doesn’t it?
I’ve got a few things I’d like on this list instead of the things on this list. If someone wants to do my items for me, I’d have the energy to do the fun stuff on the concierge’s list.
1. I don’t need someone to do light housekeeping. I need a heavy housekeeper. Someone who moves all the furniture and major appliances out from the walls and cleans behind each piece. Someone who removes every book from every shelf and dusts not only the shelf, but the books. Someone who does all the corners, and edges, and baseboards. Someone who will take my perfectly adequate but DIRTY indoor trash cans all outside for a good bath. Someone who will scour the siding on our house, and the outside of all the windows, on the same day. I need someone who’s greatest joy is to use a toothbrush on tile grout and on the metal track of a sliding glass shower door. Or patio door. Her choice.
2. I don’t need someone to pick up my dry cleaning. I’m too cheap to buy clothes that need dry cleaned, except for Doug’s suits, which he doesn’t wear often. I need someone to treat the stains he keeps getting on his everyday shirts. I need someone to catch me up a on a huge basket or ironing so I can wrap my own Christmas presents.
3. I don’t need someone to stock my fridge. I need someone to clean my fridge with a freakin’ scrub brush. I need someone to remove all the glass shelves (if you can pry them loose from whatever spilled substance has adhered them to the fridge) and the door shelves and clean them to within an inch of their lives. I need someone to get rid of all the salad dressings that are circa 1988, and combine the bottles of ketchup, mustard and KC Masterpiece BBQ sauce. I need someone who’s singularly unafraid of penicillin that isn’t contained in a sterile syringe, but that grows unencombered in my fridge.
4. I don’t need someone to do “customized home checks” while I’m on vacation. All my plants are already dead. I can cancel the mail delivery on my own, thanks. And if what you mean by “customized” is that you’ll take a peek into my lingerie drawer in my absence and giggle, I don’t think I’ll give you the key.
5. I don’t need a “waiting service.” Waiting is a welcome activity for me. It’s my down time. It’s when I can tell others who want a piece of me, “Oh, sorry. I need to be here from ten till six, waiting. Maybe next time!” It’s when I get some writing done, or some praying, or some reading. Oh, the bliss of waiting. You don’t need to pay me the big bucks to wait, and I won’t part with any of my money to lose the privilege.
6. I don’t need any more vendor referrals. I’ve got friends, who all use vendors. Most of said friends live in the Rich County, and know some quality providers. On the other hand, some of my favorite (read:cheap!) vendors are the down-and-dirty MIssouri folks I’ve come to depend on. For instance, if I want one of those fantastic professional cleaning jobs done on my car, I can go over to Kansas and spend $100. Or I can stay on this side and spend $45. My guess is that you would not be referring me to the fantastic $45 guy, so I’ll pass.
7. I don’t need anyone to perform “vacation research” on my behalf. I’m pretty sure personal concierges must have heard the saying “Half the fun is in the planning.” Do you think I’m going to let ANYBODY take away half my fun? I don’t have that many good years left, people!! I am hanging on to all the fun I can.
8. I don’t need anyone to take over my party planning, wedding planning, graduation planning, gift buying, holiday decorating, or any of the other sometimes ONCE IN A LIFETIME amazingly wonderful stuff that happens in a family’s life. Why should YOU get to do all the fun stuff, and I get the leftovers??
If there’s a personal concierge out there who wants to do the stuff I need done, I’m very extremely open to reading her brochure.
Fine Print
So I’ve been getting some nice holiday sales circulars in the mail. Many of them have me pegged in the wrong demographic entirely, but I still like looking. Just so you know, among my fave catalogs, even if I don’t buy a blasted thing, are Travelsmith, Levenger’s, Coldwater Creek, and Victorian Papers. Those four companies alone give me so much pleasure in the browsing department, that I owe them big-time.
I’ve purchased from each of them, too. Probably not enough for them to justify the continued hope they display by sending me catalogs, but who knows? ;)
I love getting ads from J.C. Penney’s Outlet store, which I frequent with a modicum of regularity. I rarely, however, go into the “real” Penney’s, since it went upscale sometime after my teenage years and started being pronounced with a French accent and all.
I don’t know how else to say this except to just say it: I’m cheap.
But I got this ad from Real Penney’s that looked pretty darned interesting, including in it several items I imagined giving as Christmas gifts. Then, yesterday, I received a coupon for $10 off a $50 purchase, which I thought would complement my buying plan nicely.
Then I read the small print, and because I love you and wish to spare your eyesight should you receive a coupon from J.C. Penney, I am copying it here. Tell me what you think of this establishment’s gift to us weary consumers:
“$10 coupon is valid for one-time use on a purchase of $50 or more, excluding taxes and shipping charges, in our stores, jcp.com, or catalog from Sunday-Tuesday, November 11-20, 2007. Coupon must be surrendered at time of purchase. One coupon per customer. Discount does not apply to purchases of: Value Right, “2 or more” prices, Cosmetics and Fragrances, Cookware, Cutlery and Gadgets, Jewelry Bonus Buys, Floor Care, Furniture and Mattresses, Personal Care & Fitness products, Small Appliances, Clarks (I’m thinking this must mean “Clocks,” but who knows?), Columbia Sportswear Co., Easy Spirit, Hunter Douglas, Levi’s, Webkinz, Afterschool Promotional items, Outlet Stores, Services, Salon Services and Service Contracts, Gift Cards/e-Gift Cards, or prior purchases, and the following additional jcp.com/catalog merchandise purchases: JC Penney Custom Fit Clothing, Jodee Catalogs, Combo Prices, Housewares, Infant (Bedding/Furniture/Wheeled Goods/Accessories), Video Games, Grand Patrician, Oreck and Teleflora. Discounts cannot be combined with any other discount coupon/certificate or be applied to orders currently being processed. Unauthorized duplications, reproductions or facsimiles of this coupon cannot be accepted. Discount is applied to all qualifying items purchased on a prorated basis; any applicable refunds will be given in the prorated amount. No cash value.”
If that doesn’t crush your urge to shop, I don’t know what would. If anyone would like to use this coupon, I will spend 41 cents to send it to you, and then honor you here in the space for your bravery. First person to comment requesting this valuable piece of holiday cheer wins! Personally, I could have saved $10 worth of my time by NOT READING the freaking fine print.
But, hey, that’s just me.
Tales From The Funny Farm
My mother-in-law, God bless her, has some type of dementia. We don’t know for sure that it’s Alzheimer’s, but the doc has her on medicine as if it is.
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, she called our house very confused. When we moved her into her current assisted living facility, we equipped her with a bulletin board. On it, we wrote--in LARGE letters she can see from across the room--the names and phone numbers of her three children.
The night she called, she was disturbed to hear Doug’s voice, because she thought she had called her daughter Lynn.
“Who are YOU?” she asked.
“I’m Doug, your son.”
“Where do you LIVE?”
He told her the town we live in, a suburb of Kansas City where we’ve lived for thirteen years.
“Oh,” she said. “Where do I live?”
“In the room you’re sitting in right now,” Doug answered.
The next couple days were even worse as far as her disorientation went. I suggested that Doug suggest that the doctor order urinalysis, since a urinary tract infection in an elderly person often exacerbates dementia. Sure enough, she tested positive and has been on antibiotics ever since.
Hoping she’d revert back to her previous level of dementia, we’ve been keeping close tabs on her. Lynn and Nancy took her out to lunch on Sunday, and Lynn sent us the email report to let us know how Adele behaved:
__________________________
Mom was OK at lunch, and very funny. We went to Olive Garden… It was a zoo. They forgot to put in Nancy’s order, and forgot Mom’s coffee.
So while Nancy is waiting, and Mom and I are eating, Mom leans over and says, “Hey, I don’t have any coffee!”
So I say, “Well, Nancy doesn’t even have any food!”
To which Mom replies, “So that means I can’t have my coffee?”
___________________________
I think she’s getting better.
But What If It Is Brain Surgery?
In the comments under my post Reader’s Choice, my long-time reader Joshua has requested that I write about a time my faith was tested. And while I’ll soon be writing about my most embarassing moment, I think I’ll tackle this subject first.
A test of faith, I’d like to say up front, is designed to be passed. God actually sets up the test so we, His students, have every advantage. He hands out the syllabus well in advance of the course beginning, so we have time to skim through the text and get to know His personality as an Instructor before the first lecture is scheduled.
He administers frequent pop quizzes. We learn He means business when He says to pay attention in class because we’re accountable to recall anything He says, does, or jokes about doing. At first, the pop quizzes are murder because they’re unexpected, but after a while, they become well-anticipated and much less frightening.
The Big Tests, though--even though they typically come with startling, almost predictable regularity--are always scary. Even if you’ve aced the pop quizzes.
And even though a non-believer might scoff and say, “Whatever. A test of faith isn’t brain surgery...”, the real truth is that sometimes it is brain surgery.
Eight years ago this month, that’s what the test boiled down to for me. Brain surgery.
If you’ve never had brain surgery, you may wonder what it feels like to get a call from your doctor, who’s ordered an MRI because you’re dizzy, and to hear him say this:
“Well, the good news is that you don’t have MS.”
Praise the Lord, right? Isn’t God faithful? Everything turned out to be fine, nothing to worry about. Now you can get on with your life, the perfect life God promised you in the Bible! That is what He promised--isn’t it?
“Great! Thanks for calling, Doc!”
“We do have an incidental finding, though...”
(Right about now, the doctor is supposed to ask, “Are you sitting down?” My doctor accidentally eliminated this step, not advised for those of you doctors or doctor wannabes contemplating effective phoneside manner.)
“Um...okay.”
“You have a brain tumor.”
What does it feel like to hear that news? It’s a casserole of emotions, not the least of which is fear for your life. You know that expression, “She came face-to-face with her own mortality”? I’ve never bought into it. I grew up with a hyper-consciousness of death and of the brevity and fragility of mortal life. I came face-to-face with mortality when I was two.
I think what’s scary is to come face-to-face with your own immortality. We all know we’re gonna die, right? No big surprise there. But when we come to believe than our souls are going to live forever, we’re faced with some serious questions. Like, for instance, where?
Eighteen long months passed between hearing the news that I had a brain tumor and my surgery date. The tumor was located on the acoustic nerve on the right side of my brain, and was unlikely to be cancerous. It was also quite small, and probably destined to slow growth, so a “wait and see” approach was adopted. As long as I could hear perfectly, we decided not to let anyone mess with my head.
At least, not physically. But let me assure you, my head got messed with every day. My general health was not good, and I feared that if I ever had to go under the knife, I would not survive. A tumor is like a ticking time bomb, folks. Even if you don’t imagine you have a long life expectancy, you figure it’s gonna catch up with you before you croak. You can think Happy Thoughts all you want, but you’ve got a FREAKIN’ brain tumor. Happy doesn’t cut it anymore.
My Ticking Time Bomb caught up with me in October of 1999. Home alone, I was working at my computer and talking aloud to myself, when all of a sudden I realized I could only hear myself out of one ear. When that happens, you hope to God you can hear His voice with only one ear, because you know you’re going to need His precise direction big time.
The tests--and The Test--continued. Surgery was scheduled for November 15, with the goal of removing the tumor while attempting to recover the hearing. (The tumor, which hadn’t grown, had pressed precipitously upon the hearing nerve, causing the complete loss of hearing in one fell swoop.)
No one was more surprised than I was to survive brain surgery. Sure, I was permanently deaf in one ear, and yeah, bizarre complications set in. Like my head swelling to twice its size, the whole right side of my face developing palsy for two months, and my right eye popping open and staying open with me sound asleep. (A bad look, that.)
But I lived. And that represented something like the Final Exam of the Semester for me. Because I knew I owed God a better Rest Of My Life than the one He would have gotten had He not pulled me through this experience.
My life has changed in so many ways since that day eight years ago. My head has shrunk to its previous size, and my body has shrunk by one-third. My eyes open and close in tandem, a relief to the man I’m sleeping with. There are plenty of negatives to report: I have a constant ringing in my deaf ear. My balance isn’t what it was. If I tried to stand in a pitch-black room, I’d keel. My spatial relationships aren’t too whippy, either, although my special relationships are better than ever. :)
Most importantly, though, I have a sense of God going with me everywhere--even into the Valley of the Shadow of Death--that I didn’t quite have until now. I have a sense of purpose that I can’t and won’t ignore.
Sometimes, it really is brain surgery, and for me that’s what it took to come face-to-face with my own immortality. From now on, every day matters. Because when the Teacher says to put our pencils down for the last time, all of Eternity awaits.
Leaving Time
Leaves streak in swirling flurry
Finishing the season’s business.
Hurrying to close the year’s books,
The drably dressed
Scamper to catch
November’s early train,
The sleek easily overtaking the rotund,
Both unaware of the
Downwardly mobile fate
Awaiting them.
Bohemian types wend their way
Through time and space
On perennial holiday,
Playing dress-up
In gaudy costume,
Partying with starving artists,
Unsuited for common work.
All fall down,
Each unconscious of the fall.
A lonely golden leaf
Floats
Like a cotton handkerchief,
Landing on an empty branch.
Moistened then with tears of grief,
It attaches itself to the next aching limb,
And the next.
On a mission,
The handkerchief scurries
From tree to sorrowing tree,
Fleeing time’s chase,
Lending comfort to the bereft
While it’s able.
Until it, too, stumbles,
For the first and final time,
Upon the greedy earth.
S.A.B.L.E.
I’m a fairly crafty chick, or at least I thought I was until now.
This morning, I read about a term thrown around in knitting groups--S.A.B.L.E. Have any of you heard about this? It stands for Stash Acquisition Beyond Life Expectancy!
There are evidently millions of women who collect yarn “for comfort,” like folks who survived the Great Depression might hoard bits of twine “just in case.”
These ladies talk of being invited to a baby shower and not having enough time to run to the yarn store, but HAVING enough time to make an entire baby sweater before the event. So they MUST have that baby yarn stored in their home! I’m thinking when the invite comes, it provides another reason to add to their SABLE. What do you think?
I’ve got my own Stash Acquisition Beyond Life Expectancy, but it’s not yarn. It’s quilt fabric. Doug gave me a new sewing machine some ten years ago (to replace the one Dad gave Mom, which I’d been using since the 5th grade). The first thing I did, upon acquiring the machine, was scope out a thousand sales of quilt fabric. I bought several books on rotary cutting, and thought I’d teach myself how to do the piecing on the machine.
I’ve made a number of quilts, but I’ve done everything completely by hand. And while I imagined myself making the transition to the sewing machine, it hasn’t happened. Sheesh. I ain’t getting any younger here, and as my life expectancy shortens, my pile of fabric looks that much bigger.
Here’s the deal: When my crafty grandma died, she left behind a SABLE. I inherited her SABLE, because I’m the only one of her grandkids who’s much into needlework. She died when I was 19 (you do the math!), and I’ve STILL GOT HER SABLE!! I am the possesser of her embroidery floss, button box, needlepoint yarn, cotton crochet thread (she did fantastic filet crochet bedspreads and tablecloths), unfinished quilt tops, and etc.
I feel WAY more sentimental about her SABLE than my own. I feel like the Keeper of the SABLE, the one girl in the world given this responsibility, this sacred trust.
It’s completely nutty. When I die, my kids won’t know the difference between my SABLE and my grandmother’s. They never knew my grandma, so her SABLE will definitely get pitched. And I’ll be sitting up there in heaven, wondering why I held onto it all those years, when it was going to end up in the trash bin anyway.
And what about my own SABLE? What exactly is the POINT of having more craft supplies (or anything else...) than you can reasonably expect to use in a lifetime? What will my kids do with all that fabric? I sure don’t want them to feel like they have to keep it because they love me.
I JUST LAST WEEK got rid of some of my mother-in-law’s SABLE--several long lengths of cute-printed corderoy she’d purchased when her girls were young, with the intention of making them pants or jumpers. She gave me the SABLE when I got married to her son, 30 years ago. My own daughter is now 25, and her SABLE didn’t get used by her, her daughters, me, or my daughter. Time to pass it on!
I can’t dispense of any of my fabric SABLE yet. I still feel guilty for over-purchasing and not using it. And God forbid that I should EVER walk into the bedroom where it’s stored and not feel guilty!
SABLE isn’t just about craft supplies, I’m sure you realize. It’s about ANYTHING you’re hanging onto in quantities which respresent an obvious belief that you don’t ever intend to exit this world.
Got any SABLE in your life?
You’re Kidding, Right?
Some of you (many, I hope!) will remember how utterly kind, full of consolation, and accomodating I have been during Doug’s ordeal involving back pain.
You may recall that he’s endured a series of three epidural shots in his lower back, and that while he seems to be doing much better now than at any time since April, I continue to baby him.
That’s right. The Housekeeping Duties Formerly Known As Doug’s, which include but are not exclusively limited to taking out the trash, have not been strictly done by Doug in recent months. If I have not accomplished these Duties on his behalf with the regularity they demand, at least I have not nagged him about it.
I have tried to be The Nicest Wife A Man In His Condition Could Have, but now...he’s turned on me.
A couple of years ago, I had issues with a cyst on my middle finger, which kept getting infected, risking problems with the bone. I finally had it operated on, but the surgeon warned me that the cyst, with its accompanying pain, swelling, and stiffness, might recur.
I just finished editing a book-length manuscript for my pastor, and I guess my fingers hovered over the keyboard for too many hours each day during the last month, because man, my finger is SORE. The joint is twice as big as my other middle finger, with kind of a white ring around the top joint and then a purplish fingertip. Lovely, but Halloween’s over.
Anyway, I guess I was looking for a bit of sympathy, the kind a husband feels right before he says to his wife, “Maybe you just need a jaunt over to the Penney’s Outlet Store to give your finger a break and your mind a rest...”
Instead, this is what I got:
“Well, writing is what you do...”
“I know, but look at this thing. Don’t you think I should spare it an afternoon’s worth of trauma?”
He examined my finger before raising his hands in the air and fake keyboarding with nine fingers. He purposely kept his right middle finger extended straight out while he worked the rest of those puppies, trying to get me into the spirit of the thing, I guess.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“About what?” I gave him one of those looks, but he missed it.
“Can you work without that finger?”
Reader’s Choice
Lord knows I’m not a focused blogger.
Back in the day when I started fallible, nearly seven years ago, most of us were what I’ll call generalists. I had one goal, I guess: to make my writings not sound like I’d pulled them from one of those old-fashioned 5-year diaries in which every day is allotted a crummy three lines.
My grandfather kept a diary like that for most of his adult life. He’s been dead 30 years, but we still have those volumes. In the five-year book which contains his summary of 1955, October reads like an abbreviated horror novel.
“Bought candy for the trick-or-treaters. Hope we have a few.”
“Carved pumpkin after work. Bernice fixed the fried chicken we slaughtered on Saturday.”
Then, in the third week of October, he speaks about my parents and my big brother, Patrick, who’d just turned four years old.
“Scotty and Mary took Patrick to hospital for heart surgery tomorrow. Kate will stay with us.”
“Patrick made it through surgery. Kate doing fine here.”
And finally this:
“This is the worst day of my life. Patrick died.”
My Papoo stopped keeping a diary for a while. Even now, when I scan those old books, my heart stops on the blank places. Only three available lines for each date, and he could not write, did not dare put his thoughts on paper.
I get it. After all, it’s what he didn’t say that decades later still gives me chills.
I’ll probably never be a focused blogger, at least not here on fallible. And sometimes, like Papoo, I can’t fill more than three lines to save my soul. But today I’m wondering: Are there any blank, fallible spaces you’d like to see filled with something specific? Anything I’m not writing that you’d like to read?
Tips on holiday shopping? Low-carb Thanksgiving dinners? Humorous tales about The Moms? Personal finance fiascos? Marital mishaps? Serious, funny--you decide.
Throw out a subject and let’s see what sticks. I may not be able to compose a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, but then again, who knows? My grandfather made my heart break using no words at all.
It’s Reader’s Choice! I’ll send some kind of Award to the suggesters of the Top Three Subjects about which I actually compose a post. Don’t let me fall into a blogging slump when you, dear readers, have it within your power to inspire me, if not to laser-like focus, then at least to astonishingly good generality.
I’m depending on you!
The Six Love Languages
OK, technically, psychologist Gary Chapman has only identified five primary love languages. A love language is a way of communicating which, when someone directs it toward you, expresses love better than other methods they might try.
It’s a really smart thing to know your partner’s love language. If Doug likes to be loved by me suggesting we take a hike through a park with swirling autumn leaves falling all around us (and he does), that’s an indication that his primary love language might be “Quality Time.”
I’m always a little suspect when a person claims their primary love language is “Receiving Gifts,” and even if I felt that was mine, I wouldn’t admit it here. :)
Besides those two, Chapman writes about “Words of Affirmation” ("No, your butt does NOT look big in those pants!"), “Acts of Service” ("Hey, babe, I’m out of clean underwear!") and “Physical Touch” ("How about we watch that movie at home so we can cuddle?")
I think I’ve finally figured out my primary love language and it’s none of the above. It’s “Spontaneity.” I can’t TELL you how much I love it when Doug unexpectedly suggests we blow this pop stand and take what my Scottish father always called a “half-dee” (his pronunciation for “half-day").
We’ve taken a couple half-dees in the past ten days, and it was bliss. No big plan, no need to spend big money. Just a few hours away from the phone and the computers and the clients, alone with each other.
Spontaneity makes me feel so loved precisely because I DON’T sense that Doug feels obligated to be with me or to give me stuff or to say certain things, like about my butt size. He wants to be with me just because he thinks it would be FUN.
Spontaneity makes me feel like the most loved girl in the world. How about you? What’s your love language? And do you know what floats your beloved’s boat?
No sense offering him a massage when he really wants you to mate his socks. I’m just sayin’.
My Scariest Halloween
You might think it’s weird that I celebrate the 30th anniversary of my first major surgery, but that’s the kind of girl I am.
On Halloween in 1977, the year we got married, I had an operation to remove cysts from both ovaries, and to take out my appendix, just in case. As it turned out, that darned appendix was about to burst, and was most likely the cause of all my pre-operative pain.
I was in the hospital for a full week (we’re talking the good old days) and several goofy things were said and done during those seven days. Why I can recall them all with utter clarity, I don’t know, but I can.
As I came to after surgery, my mother was on hand, holding a cup of chipped ice, a commodity every post-surgery patient craves.
“Would you like some ice?” she asked, trying to be helpful and kind. The thing is, back in 1977, the two most popular colors for appliances and carpet and, by extension, hospital paraphernalia, were harvest gold and avacado green. The cup of ice my mother held in her hand happened to be harvest gold.
“NO!” I said with more emphasis than a skinny girl should have been allowed to have. “Those are Dorritos and that’s fattening!”
If only I’d held on to my early leanings toward low-carb, I could have saved myself years of heartache (and expansive rear end), but no....
Later that day, I told my dear mother, in a fit of profundity, that I had “something of extreme relevance to share.” Those are the exact words I said, people! What kind of chick says stuff like that? Of course, you need to understand, in case you’ve never gone under the knife, that anesthesia can make you feel WAY more relevant than you really are.
“OK,” my mother said, very willing to hear me out, the poor thing. “What is it?”
The next sound she heard out of my mouth was profound snoring.
That first night after surgery, on Halloween, the RN instructed me about how I was to behave in order to prevent pneumonia from setting in.
“Every time you wake up,” she said, “take ten deep breaths in and out.”
I’m such a conscientious girl, I did exactly as she directed. The thing was, I woke up every sixty seconds all night long, and obediently did my ten breaths, which took me at least 30 seconds. Needless to say, I didn’t get pneumonia. But I didn’t get any rest, either.
Those are my spooky Halloween remembrances. Got any you want to share?
Getting To Know Him, Getting To Know All About Him
I think you’ve figured out by now that Doug and I really are Empty Nesters. Not counting, of course, that we crammed upwards of 50 people in here for an OctoberFest Friday night, that is. But those were the kind of people who have the good sense to leave by, like, midnight, unlike us. We stay here, together. Just the two of us.
I’m getting to know my husband all over again these days, and it occurs to me that you should have that privilege as well. My little friend Galadriel just interviewed her young man over at I Hate Laundry, and she inspired me to do the same. (I think her idea of regularly interviewing a randomly chosen commenter is SO fun that I might hafta copy offa her. Stay tuned.)
But we’ll start with Doug, the poor fellow. If you have any follow-up questions for him, feel free to post them in the comments. I am sure he will be more than happy to answer!
Katy: I distinctly remember the moment we met. The near proximity of a drinking fountain was involved, with a water-stained brown carpet underneath it. Our Bible teacher was in the next room, waiting for class to start up again. A mutual friend of ours introduced us. Can you tell me her name?
Doug: Dorothy. (Or possibly Annie). I always wanted to buy and frame the little piece of stained carpet, but it’s gone now.
Katy: Do you remember what I thought the moment we met? Oh, wait. Can you remember things I thought, or just things YOU thought?
Doug: You’ve told me you thought “I will marry this guy.” A better thought might have been, “I’ll check up on this guy later when he figures out what he’s doing with his life.”
Katy: OK, then. What did YOU think at the moment we met? Did you like the cute little red-haired girl even a little? Or were you wanting to get back to class so you could focus on learning Greek words and talking about raising people from the dead?
Doug: I always had my eye out for cute little red-haired girls, and, lucky for you, you were the only one in the school. I was quite distracted during class that semester, which is unfortunate since raising people from the dead would have come in handy.
Katy: Two and one-half years later, I gave up hope on you becoming aware of my existence. Did you?
Doug: This is when I sat around with the guys talking about the great women of the church, and you were always top of the list. Everyone’s list--so I figured my chances were slim.
Katy: But then we finally had that one date. You know the one, on July 8, 1976?
Doug: You were about to leave for Scotland for a month, so I figured I better feed you since the food over there is so awful. But that was one awesome date, and segues nicely to your next point.
Katy: That we got engaged on August 21.
Doug: Is that a question? Because it’s a little late to reconsider now. The park where I popped the question was on its way to becoming a scary, crime-ridden hang out. When you said “of course,” I wasn’t sure if you meant it or just wanted to get out of the park fast.
Katy: Tell my fallible readers about what you like to do now that the kids are raised and you have a bit of leisure time on your hands. Travel? Golf? Raise people from the dead?
Doug: Nay on the resurrections per the lack of training noted above. The kids are gone? I guess I should come out of my office more often. Let’s travel, girl!
Katy: Then there’s your music. You’ve written some darned good songs over the years. What do you plan to do with them? Record them? Do videos of yourself performing them on YouTube? Sing them while attempting to raise people from the dead?
Doug: I’d love to get some worship songs published, shared, distributed free inside Cheerios boxes, etc.
Katy: If you could only come up with three major reasons why you’re madly in love with me, what would they be? I know it must be very extremely difficult to limit yourself to three, but try.
Doug: The red hair (which you bravely told me was L’Oreal right after we got engaged), your fun, witty, snarky sense of humor, and the amazing way you give yourself away so selflessly.
Katy: If neither of us croak in the near future, where do you see us in 5 years? Ten years? Twenty years is pushing our luck, so we won’t go there.
Doug: Don’t worry about the croaking part, because I still have those textbooks, and I have every intention of catching up on that lesson. In case I die first, I’ll leave a sticky note on that chapter.
Katy: Do you think God has some plan for us as Empty Nesters and how the heck do we figure out what it is?
Doug: Seriously, I’m sure He does. The writing and music will find more space to happen, but we’ve also talked lately about teaching ESL locally, and taking missions trips (but only to moderate climates ;)
Katy: If you could name three of my cutest personality traits, what would they be?
Doug: Riotous laughter, total honesty, and true kindness.
Katy: Do you know I think you are the most handsome, brilliant, spiritual, talented, and sexy man in the universe? If you DON’T know, you might not be as brilliant as I thought. Because, honestly, I tell you all the time. Discuss.
Doug: I think you know I know you think that’s true in our little corner of the universe on Rolling Hills Road, and that’s good enough.
Katy: Can we go to Starbucks now?
Doug: Do you have a coupon?
Yes, Your Life Really CAN Change Forever!
I couldn’t be more shocked if I tried.
Three weeks ago, my life changed forever. I had NO IDEA when I met my friend Terri for lunch that I was on the very cusp of a monumental revolution. Terri and I, you should know, have been friends more than 35 years. I was 17 and she was 13 when we met, so yeah. We’ve spent our formative years...together.
Somehow, though, I have eluded the lessons Terri has to share. Doug reminded me a few days ago that when he and I got married, Terri tried to help me set up my kitchen in an organizational manner that would make sense for longer than it took to unload the dishwasher, but I didn’t get it.
I’ve never understood how less could be more, and how a few good tools could make up for a whole junk drawer full of nonsense. I actually LIKE junk drawers. I like not knowing what I might find if I go foraging there, or--as my darling grandmother used to say--"swishing."
I have not one, but two swishing drawers in my kitchen. If I ever thought I might need a bigger kitchen, it wouldn’t be to accomodate a granite-countered island or a commercial sized refrigerator or a huge stove. It would be so I could have more swishing drawers, especially now that the kids are gone and I have the leisure time to enjoy swishing to my heart’s content. :)
Terri hasn’t had her way with me in the kitchen. In fact, she gave up trying twenty years ago. But as we sat across from each other over salads and French onion soup, I noticed her new purse--the very purse I had nearly purchased for myself at WalMart a couple days earlier.
“I LOVE that purse!” I said.
She just looked at me, amazed at my excitement. “So buy yourself one. WalMart, clearance-priced at $7.”
“I almost did, but then I decided I don’t really need a purse...”
“If you get a new one, get rid of one of your old ones. What are you keeping all of them for?”
“You’re right, of course. I am going shopping after we eat. I am getting that purse. We’ll be purse twins!”
She gave me that look again, but I didn’t mind. Since she already thought I was a little off-balance, I went ahead and asked her something I have never asked another woman on this earth.
“Terri, may I see the inside of your purse?”
“Sure,” she said, like she gets asked that every day. She said it with the tone of voice you’d expect from a woman with nothing to hide and nothing about which to be humilated beyond belief, like coupons dated 1983 or paper money not all facing the same direction.
She opened her purse, and suddenly everything clicked in my addled brain. Inside her handbag, she didn’t have a bunch of junk rolling around loose. Instead, she had not one, but two different sized make-up bags. In one (yes, I made her open them so I could get the whole story...), she kept make-up, a mirror, nail files, a Tide spot remover, and other small essentials. In the other, she stored medication, Kleenex, a contact lens case, pens, etc.
Besides those two bags, she had a spot for her phone, her keys, and the thinnest, most functional wallet I’ve ever seen. In her wallet, unbelievably, she kept her MONEY! And her cards and receipts.
Who knew those weren’t things that women had free-floating in their purses? Along with band-aids, earplugs, capless lipsticks, a random sock, a skanky toothbrush, and a gunky bottle of nail polish?
I don’t know if Terri realized she’d just changed my life. I wouldn’t believe it myself, except that three weeks have passed and the inside of my new purse is as glorious as it was the moment I got home from WalMart and set it up. In addition to the purse I wanted, I got two matching lavendar make-up bags of differing sizes (so I would remember which things are stored where...) and a very thin wallet.
Besides the things Terri carries, I have a small Moleskine journal, which I can’t live without even if I CAN (it ends up) ditch the stray sock. That’s all she wrote, folks! One thin wallet, two make-up bags, a journal, keys, and phone.
And here’s the truly amazing thing: When I want to switch purses, it only takes five seconds, instead of upwards of eight hours! Did you people KNOW about this? Or have I just discovered the miracle of the ages?
I hope you enjoy my before and after pics. And Terri, there’s hope for me, after all. It only took 3.5 decades, but it goes to show old chicks can still learn new tricks. I, too, finally am reaping the benefits of the purse-driven life.
Nancy Wood, Come On Down!
You are today’s book winner! Kristin and I are proud to present you with a copy of Split Ends. Hope you enjoy Kristin’s novels as much as you have Diann Hunt’s!! Congratulations.
