Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Katy is represented by
Greg Johnson at
WordServe Literary
Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net
Recent Posts
- Try
- Becoming Brenda Starr
- Off Beat
- Scattered
- That’s It
- So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What?
- The Spoon
- Sciatica
- Sweetheart
- A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose
- However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time
- After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices.
- As with everything in life, balance is key.
- Slow down, you move too fast…
- Yeah, I know. I have issues.
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
The Skinny (#1240)
I’m pretty committed, as I age oh so fallibly, not to have “procedures” done to my face. But even I know it’s gone too far when I define a procedure as Windexing the mirror so I can take a quick peek.
When it comes to my face, I’m clueless. I still remember my grandmother and all her beauty potions. Unlike my mother—whose idea of a skin regimen was 13 pairs of tweezers, a round box of Mabelline powder with a puff on top, and a tube of red lipstick—Grandma dabbled in more refined beautification arts.
Which is to say, she plunked down $1.95 to try any formula advertised in the back of her movie magazines.
She often rhapsodized about Elizabeth Taylor’s magnificent violet eyes, and how no matter how much weight she lost or gained or how many husbands she married and divorced, no one could say she didn’t have the loveliest eyes in the world.
And then, since there were no violet contact lenses on the market to change Grandma’s eyes from plain brown to violet, she did the next best thing. She purchased—and wore—every brand of false eyelash (black and thick!) known to womankind.
Add those to the false fingernails, the mousy hair she kept red forever, eye shadows in every color including magnificent violet, and lipsticks to match each outfit, and well. You can imagine how much fun I had sitting at her vanity and playing grown-up.
While she had fun with cosmetics, she also had some angst about her fair, freckled skin. I’m remembering her at about age sixty, being terribly concerned about her “liver spots.” So concerned, in fact, that she read all the movie magazine articles about which stars were using what, and tried every concoction they swore by.
And then she started examining me. I was just a little kid, but Grandma was quite concerned about bleaching my freckles with lemon juice so that I wouldn’t face the horror of liver spots when I got to be, I don’t know, twelve. So, for a few years, every time I visited Grandma slathered me with a new ointment, cream, or salve guaranteed to save me from a fate worse than…hers.
But, you see, heredity (like gravity) is a winner. The movie magazines did not save Grandma from liver spots any more than People Magazine can save me. But now, after performing yesterday the procedure of Windexing the mirror, I’m getting…concerned.
It’s my neck, doing that thing it does. But it’s not only my neck. My jowls are falling and apparently they can’t get up. Plus, I’ve got laughlines in places that have never smiled.
And if you think I’m a candidate for a product that promises to “visibly reduce the appearance of fine lines,” think again. To call these fine lines is a gross insult to fine lines.
Maybe Grandma traumatized me a little, making me think my freckles weren’t acceptable. Maybe I rebelled by waiting too long in the game to pay attention to my complexion. But now I’m coming to you, O fallible ones, for your BEST tips on how to try to hold wrinkles (Dear Lord, I hate that word!) at bay.
Here’s my hope: I would love it if you’d suggest cheap, easy, time-tested, cheap, and easy remedies.
I would REALLY, REALLY hate having $34.99 plus $7.95 shipping and handling automatically deducted from my checking account each month, all because I skipped church and instead watched infomercials starring Jane Seymour. Seeing that charge come through would make me scowl in a way not consistent with helping the matter.
I also will not get involved in any type of multi-level marketing.
Anybody out there using olive oil as a facial? What kind of results have you had?
All cheap and easy advice graciously appreciated!
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A Mother Remembers (#1239)
First of all, I hope you all know that I am NOT the type of chick to laugh at my husband’s misfortune. Okay, maybe occasionally if he loses a golf game to his sisters or his 14-year-old nephew, but that’s different.
I do NOT laugh at pain. Lord knows, I’ve experienced enough of it myself, and Doug is the most sympathetic and kind man in the world when it comes to helping me deal with pain. I think he would say I show him the same kindness.
It’s just the word bursitis that got me. And yes, Christa in the Comments is right: Bursitis would make an excellent name for a Dude Ranch! Something about the word tickles me so much with its The Real McCoy sound and good-old-boy feeling that I half-expected the doctor to ask Doug if “Arthur” had paid him any visits yet.
I told my mother over the phone about the diagnosis of bursitis and she perked up considerably. Old people really can’t relate to the stuff I’ve got. When I mentioned to my mother that I’ve got Trigeminal Neuralgia, her eyes glazed over. But good old-fashioned bursitis? That’s something she knows all about. Just hearing the word made her feel like a with-it young woman.
“Why, my mother had that right when your dad and I got married,” she said. Mom can’t remember what she had for breakfast, or even if she had breakfast, but the medical history of Grandma in 1950? Oh, yeah.
“How long did it take to get better?” I asked, because I REALLY AM concerned about my husband.
“A full year,” she said. “And then, darned if her other shoulder didn’t get the bursitis. It lasted a full year, too.”
“Oh, eeek. I hope Doug does better than that…”
“I hope so, too,” she said. “Because you know what comes after bursitis, right?”
“I’m not sure…”
“Pleurisy.”
So, see? I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.
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Where Is Dave Barry When We Need Him? (#1238)
You know how my buddy Dave Barry is always saying, “Hey! That would make a great name for a rock group!”
He, of course, with a group of his author friends like Stephen King and Amy Tan, is a musician with a band called “The Rock Bottom Remainders,” an excellent name for a rock group if I’ve ever heard one.
When I found out I had a brain tumor (years ago), I sent him a note. He didn’t answer me that time (although I do have a handwritten postcard from him framed on my desk), but I still think the name of my particular tumor made a humdinger of a fantastic name for an up and coming band: “The Acoustic Neuromas.”
In fact, I tend to have exotic diseases and illnesses with the kind of names that lend themselves well to nearly all branches of pop culture. Right now, I’m proud to say I’ve evidently got me a strong case of Trigeminal Neuralgia. If “Spinal Tap” can make it, don’t you think my disorder can?
Then there’s Doug, the poor dear. He actually believed—-hoped, perhaps—that he had at least a strained rotator cuff. It sure did seem like he might, from the symptoms he described. So he went to the doctor today with, I just have to be honest here, delusions of grandeur.
“What would Dave say about ‘The Rotator Cuffs?’” he asked before the doctor called him in. “Do you think I’ve got a chance?”
“Possible,” I said, “but don’t set your expectations too high.”
The doctor examined him and delivered the terrible news. “Your rotator cuff is perfectly fine. What I believe you have is…well…” The man looked at his shoes, those crazy plastic ones medical people wear. He seemed nervous, embarrassed even.
“What, doctor? We can handle it,” I said, “You can tell us.”
He looked up, with true sympathy in his eyes. “Um…you’ve got bursitis.”
Do they even still MAKE bursitis?
I laughed till I cried, thinking what a truly horrible name “Bursitis” would make for a rock group. And then it hit me. I remembered all too well what happens next with geezers who come down with bursitis.
“What?” Doug asked, his hopes all but dashed.
“Pleurisy.”
My stuff’s bad, but at least it has star appeal.
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Overdose (#1237)
Well, it happened—-the thing I’d decided to bet against when I agreed to try a trial of the drug Tegretol, in an effort to combat the horrible daily headaches that have plagued me for many years.
I essentially went into mild Tegretol poisoning.
When you start on this drug, which is known most for being an anti-convulsant but which is also prescribed for trigeminal neuralgia (a wicked face pain caused by an irritation of a cranial nerve inside the skull), you start on a low, non-therapeutic dose. You have blood tests often, to make sure your liver is not being affected and that your Tegretol levels remain within a certain range.
Gradually, the dose is raised—as long as you’re not having terrible side-effects—until you are taking a dose that is considered safe and one that is holding your pain at bay. With Tegretol, it’s a fine balance. The goal with me was to use the Tegretol to establish the firm diagnosis of trigeminal neuralgia, and then switch to a drug that has comparable results with far fewer side effects.
Yesterday I saw my doctor and he upped my dose, since I was only experiencing mild relief from the face pain (mine is actually a stabbing pain in my right eye). I took the first increased dose last night. This morning, before I took my morning dose, I noticed I was twitching. Hands, feet, face, thigh—everywhere.
I also noticed I was replacing a word in a spoken sentence with another word which made absolutely NO SENSE. Doug was NOT THRILLED when I told him I planned to fix “newspaper” for dinner. Now, if I’d just been looking at a newspaper, or had just emptied the trash and laid my eyes on a newspaper, it might explain why that word came out of my mouth, but there were no newspapers anywhere. Hmmm.
I went ahead and took the morning dose. Four hours passed. I was still twitching and told Doug that my brain was so fuzzy all I could do was crochet a simple pattern. NO WAY could I have driven a car. In fact, when I cut up the onion and potato to put in the crock pot with the newspaper, I mean pork chops, I KNEW I should NOT be using a knife.
Around noon, things began deteriorating rapidly. It all started when I stood up. Within a couple of minutes, I was staggering, slurring my words, and finally actually falling on the floor. (Doug caught me not once but twice before I crashed. My hero…) Doug tried to get me into bed, but I knew I had to go to the ER. Fast. The rapid onset of the symptoms was too alarming for me to wait for the doctor to get back from his lunch break before trying to get medical attention.
I do not know how Doug got me in the car, especially since he also had to fit all four of him in the driver’s seat. That’s right, four. One of the symptoms of Tegretol poisoning is double vision, but I’m talkin’ quadruple, baby. To only have double vision, I had to keep one eye completely closed—-which I did.
I remember nothing of the 20-minute ride to the hospital. I do remember telling Doug not to let me fall asleep, because I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be a good thing. He chatted me up the whole time he drove, the sweetie. I also don’t remember much of the first hour we were there.
It’s all one big Tegretol poisoning blur.
I do know that the Tegretol level in my blood came back at 13.8. A therapeutic level is considered between 4-12. Anything higher than that is just too darned high and can cause the kind of overdose symptoms (and much worse ones) I experienced today.
Yikes!
So. I’m to skip my dose tonight. (Ya think?) Then take a lower dose for the next few days. Then maybe switch to the other drug that won’t carry these risks, because it looks like we may have hit on a diagnosis.
On this intoxicating dose of Tegretol? My head hardly hurts at all!
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Bunnies (#1236)
I got a call from my literary agent this morning. It’s freakish how much fun we have talking on the phone, about everything from Mother’s Day, to getting lost in the big city, to not being able to keep houseplants alive.
But I digress. Apparently, a lot.
The good news is that Rachelle has read my book and loves it! However, she’s got a few “ish,” ones she and I will clear up together before she starts submitting my manuscript in earnest.
“You go off on bunny trails,” she says.
“But did you see my post about going downtown to see American Idol’s David Cook?”
I KNOW she and her daughters are huge David Cook fans. She will want to talk about David Cook, right?
“Yeah, I did. Very cool, Katy. Now about the bunny trails…it happens most often during dialogue.”
“We TOTALLY got on the wrong bus leaving downtown. Ended up in kind of a scary part of town. There was a guy on the bus saying stuff into his cell phone like, ‘You’re my Tasmanian Devil, baby.’ Can you imagine?”
“No, honestly, I can’t,” Rachelle says. “Now, about your book, which—please remember—I really, really love. Sometimes, you have two lines of dialogue, followed by a bunny trail, and then another two lines, followed by another bunny trail.”
“We live on acreage, you know. TONS of bunnies,” I say. “I am not kidding, Rachelle. I can sit here near the window and count literally hundreds of bunnies in, like, an HOUR. You would not BELIEVE the bunnies!”
“I’m thinking we could do a bit of an edit on your book and deal with the bunny trails. It needs to happen.”
So she wasn’t calling about David Cook or taking the wrong bus or fear of killing my Mother’s Day orchid? This was sobering, indeed.
“Katy, the bunny trails have to go.”
“But…what about the bunnies?”
“We’ll build a hutch.”
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Gracie and Sandi, You Are The Winners!! (#1235)
Congrats to Gracie and Sandi, who’ve each one a copy of BJ Hoff’s newest novel release, Song of Erin. If you’d both email me (Katy at ngenius.com) with your postal addresses, I will put your books in the mail right away!
Congrats, and Happy Reading!!
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American Idol’s David Cook Homecoming In Kansas City (#1234)
David Cook, who’s now arrived in the top three on American Idol for VERY good reason, was home in Kansas City today to celebrate among his peeps. And celebrate we did!
Before appearing in a parade in his honor and then singing to a stadium full of fans, David took the stage outdoors in the new Kansas City Power & Light entertainment district downtown. With a canopy overhead to shield the audience from sprinkles and multi-levels for great views, the venue proved a perfect one, especially since it’s directly across the street from the acclaimed Sprint Center arena where the top ten Idols will be performing in August.
David opened by seeming genuinely shocked by the turn-out, saying to the crowd, “Why are you all HERE?” I’ve got to think it’s such a different thing to be in the “Idol Bubble” for all these many weeks and then to suddenly be out with the rest of everyone—the regular people who are rooting for you and proud of their hometown boy. He sang Living on a Prayer and Always Be My Baby.
Speaking of pride, I could not be prouder of my husband Doug, who practically got arrested (okay, that might be a small exaggeration, but not much of one at all considering how excited I am!) by positioning himself and his camera within one foot of the limousine door through which David Cook eventually entered to leave the area.
My son Kevin, our friend Rocky and I stood across the street and watched Doug’s boldness increase moment by moment. He was not deterred by officers of the law (who tried to push him out of the way!), by bodyguards (who gave him threatening looks!), or by Kansas City Chiefs cheerleaders (who honestly had on almost no clothing!) from fulfilling his mission of getting THE BEST POSSIBLE close-ups of David that he could.
 “There’s Katy! Make sure you read her book when it comes out.” |
The pic of David pointing? He was looking RIGHT AT ME. I mean, we locked eyes. Read the caption to get the full impact. You will be amazed!
Here’s the whole set of photos from my flickr photostream.
After Doug took the close-ups, by the way, he crossed the street to where the three of us stood cheering and said, “Wow. David seems like such a humble guy.”
See, THAT’S how we should feel when we get to know someone as closely as Doug now knows David.
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Through Irish Eyes (#1233)
I will eventually read all of BJ Hoff’s historical novels, but you probably won’t be surprised to know that I’ve started with the Irish stories. I know, I know. I can’t help myself! I have learned so much about my own heritage by reading her books that I just can’t say enough good about them.
Today, I’m thrilled to present BJ to you right here on fallible. If you haven’t had the occasion to enjoy her blog, allow me to recommend it to you! You will find a wealth of information there about books, music, mac computers, culture, faith, and writing. And I’m blessed to have two copies of her latest release, Song of Erin, to give away to a couple of very fortunate commenters. So don’t hold back, fallible readers!
Katy: BJ, you had me completely hooked when you opened Song of Erin with a character attempting to survive the devastating 1839 hurricane on the island of Inishmore, off the west coast of Ireland. As I read closer, I realized that the fort in which Terese finds herself trapped (Dun Aengus) is one Doug and I visited in 2000! (I’m posting two photos to prove it…)
BJ: Katy, you should know that you’re the first person I’ve heard from who’s actually seen the old fort up close.
Katy: I’m telling you, once I climbed to the top of the hill (click on the pic to the left to see me huffing up the path) on which the fort was built supposedly around 1000 B.C., I didn’t have ANY strength left to cling to a rock for survival like Terese did!
BJ: Isn’t it a wild and formidable sight? Can’t you just imagine a hurricane blowing through there? Oops—I forgot that you’re supposed to be the one asking the questions!
Katy: Ha! Okay, here’s a question: Can you tell fallible readers how you choose such fascinating bits of history around which to build your novels?
BJ: So much of what turns into story ideas originally comes from my own leisure reading (and, of course, my own family tree!). I tend to incorporate pieces of history that captured my interest and intrigued me when I was reading not for research, but simply for my own interest.
Katy: My own family is new to this country. My father came directly to Kansas City, sponsored by his Irish immigrant uncle. So somehow I’ve missed out on the Irish/New York story as it unfolded in the 1800s. How my family in County Monaghan avoided starvation during the potato famine, I’m still discovering…
BJ: Before I ever wrote my first historical novel, I spent years reading about the Irish potato famine (the “Great Hunger”) of the mid-1800s that resulted in the near devastation of Ireland and in the mass immigration of the Irish to America. It seemed that every book or journal I read caused me to go searching for more.
Katy: Before reading Song of Erin (a re-release of two novels—Cloth of Heaven and Ashes and Lace—in one volume), I devoured all five books of your Emerald Ballad series. I couldn’t read them fast enough—or slowly enough, either—to make me happy. I loved (and hated) learning about the notorious slums of New York (such as Five Points), in which the Irish immigrants often found themselves subsisting.
BJ: By the time I decided to write the first book of my Emerald Ballad series, I had more ideas waiting to be developed than I knew what to do with! In Song of Erin, I deal again with aspects of the Irish making America their new home.
Katy: Tell us a bit about your writing process. Does the setting occur to you first or an inciting incident, perhaps? Or do characters appear and dictate what situations you place them in?
BJ: Every book I’ve ever written has begun with my anchor character. I’ve been asked time and again where my characters “come from,” but I’ve no idea. They simply … happen. First comes the main character, then the others. The story evolves from the people. Always. That’s been the way of it from the first book, and it’s never changed.
Katy: I love the way you say, “That’s been the way of it.” Sounds very Irish to my well-trained ear.
BJ: Well, I don’t mean to make the process sound at all “mystical,” but I truly have no real explanation for the way my stories develop.
Katy: Speaking of main characters, I think you’ve said that if a movie were ever made of Song of Erin, your choice for the dashing character, Jack Kane, would have been a young Sean Connery. (Be still my heart.)
BJ: You would not believe how many readers have sent ideas to me about the casting for some of my novels! And out of all the suggestions I’ve seen for Jack Kane, a young Sean Connery is the one most often posed. Well, we can’t roll back the years for Sir Sean, so if the need ever presents itself, I’m not sure where we’ll look.
Katy: Will anyone else do? I don’t suppose Pierce Brosnan could fill in?
BJ: Sorry, Katy. Not Pierce.
Katy: Give me one good reason! I would be perfectly happy with Pierce.
BJ: He just wouldn’t do, not at all. Maybe Clive Owen or Gerard Butler?
Katy: Pierce Brosnan! Perfectly. Happy. Oh, wait. This isn’t about me…
BJ: I understand, Katy. These things happen.
Katy: I’ve read somewhere (perhaps on your blog?) that you attach particular importance to infusing your stories with hope. Toward the end of Song of Erin, I could not see how you could possibly pull off such a feat!
BJ: I honestly don’t believe I could write a book that’s without hope. Our God is a God of hope, and if we genuinely believe in Him, we have to believe in that hope.
Katy: But everything conspired at once to almost guarantee your characters would fail in their quests, and that their dreams would die a morose Irish death complete with old ladies keening at the wake.
BJ: Ah—but that’s only how it seemed, right? Seriously, the most miserable people (and characters) in the world must be those who don’t believe in hope or who have never come to know the God who makes it possible to hope.
Katy: Of course, not all of your characters meet a happy ending, but somehow the reader is left sighing with satisfaction that there is indeed hope for man and womankind. Tell us about the redemptive nature of hope and why it’s important to you to impart it through fiction.
BJ: This isn’t the kind of hope that “wishes for the best” or some fluffy mist of self-deceit we try to impose upon ourselves and others, but a gift. A God-gift that enables us, even in the midst of suffering and struggle and sorrow, to believe that He’s still in control, still guiding our lives, and still working His best will for each of us. So if hope truly does permeate my fiction, it’s because I believe this … because I believe Him.
Katy: It’s been a true joy to have you with us here on fallible, BJ! Thank you for coming.
BJ: This has been fun, Katy. Thanks for inviting me.
Leave your comments, one and all! I’ll give away two copies of Song of Erin sometime on Friday.
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Sleepless In Kansas City (#1232)
I have some relatively young readers, and I’m afraid you may be misled into believing that when you have babies and small children, you are living through the most sleepless nights of your lives. You may actually be deceived into looking forward to your later years, when you plan to snooze undisturbed.
If you’re anticipating the type of “deep and dreamless sleep” that would do a Christmas carol justice, think again. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since Scott Douglas Raymond, soon to turn 29 years old, took three days to be born.
“How can that be?” you might ask. “Three whole days?” Yeah, and three whole nights, too. OK, technically, they charted my labor at 26 hours. Scott was born at 2 a.m., which means that whole night was lost, sleepwise. However, I was in mild labor the entire night before that one, and after enjoying him during the day after his birth, I was too excited to sleep the NEXT night.
It was like REALLY bad jet lag, but with a darling baby and a sitz bath for scenery.
Scotty was a wakeful child. Day and night, from birth. I once complained (while pregnant with Carrie) to his pediatrician that I was desperate to find a cure for his naplessness. Hoping to connect on an intellectual basis, the doctor turned to two-year-old Scott and said, “You need to take a nap in the afternoon because your mother is very tired.”
It’s safe to say I haven’t slept more than three hours at a time for all these years. And if, during those three hours, so much as a faint shadow passes in front of my closed eyes (indicating someone standing near me in the room), I’m SO awake it’s pathetic.
Once all the babies are born and getting older, you might think things settle down. You only think this if you’ve never heard of ear infections. Or throwing up. You don’t think these illnesses strike during daylight, do you? Where have you been all your life??
The nocturnal sicknesses begin to die down when the first child gets his driving permit. You will lie wide awake, your eyes fixated on the ceiling, just imagining the day your podunk backward state grants a license to your obviously terrible driver of a child. You will pray the age to drive is raised to at least 35, quick. You might even circulate petitions to that effect.
Then, when the inevitable happens and your incompetent license bureau grants permission for your kid to wreak havoc on interstate highways at a speed that may very well be faster than guardian angels are able to fly, your eyes won’t close for upwards of four years. Per child. This is where having twins would come in very handy.
During this time, your prayer life will experience a remarkable resurgence. The main thing you will pray about, besides the safety of your driving children and every vehicle with which they come into contact, is that you will be able to function for a much longer time than you ever thought possible on no sleep. None whatsoever.
About the time your youngest child has been driving for four years, and you are catching a cat nap of fifteen minutes or so every now and then, your oldest child will decide on backpacking across some very iffy countries in Asia—alone—for several weeks. He will email you that he is staying in hole-in-the-wall dives to the tune of $1 per night. He will even email you a picture of the so-called room.
You will discover that most of your children’s traveling passions—whether for missions or personal fulfillment—involve countries with epidemics of malaria, non-existent legitimate governments, and State Department warnings urging Americans to STAY AWAY. (Waving to Carrie and Kevin!)
You will be scared, very scared. Jesus will soothe your fears, but will you sleep? Try it and let me know how it works for you.
Mixed up with all this kid stuff, there will probably be a few parent things going on, too. In 2008 alone, I have spent five nights thus far with my mother in the ER. I’m talking all-nighters, people! I used to get sick if I stayed up all night at a slumber party, and I was only fourteen at the time. My body wasn’t made to stay up for 24 hours at a time, and yet—I do.
A good night for me is now one during which I’ve got a kid galavanting around a country in which a ton of travelers end up caught dead while also dealing with Mom and her seriously infectious bacterial infection of the intestine. (Please don’t ask for a list of symptoms.) When you ain’t sleeping anyway, you might as well double dip. You know what I’m sayin’?
Just when you think things are settling down a bit, your daughter will get married to a terrific guy. A really stable guy, you know? But the weather isn’t stable, and that’s when he comes to life. For you see, he’s a meteorologist.
Kansas City, as you may know, is in the thick of what’s known as Tornado Alley. I have spent fourteen years in this house, and I can count on a few hands how many times I’ve visited my own basement—and none of them have been during a storm. But now? I’ve got my darling daughter Carrie calling me at 1 a.m. saying, “Mom, Marc says you and Dad HAVE to go to the basement! NOW!!”
“Carrie,” I say, “honestly, we’ve just now gotten to sleep. Can’t this wait till morning?”
“Mom! Tornado! Promise me you’ll go to the basement!”
And so I promise her. Because that’s the kind of mom I am. And I’ll just bet you’re that kind of mom, too.
The kind of mom who goes from staying awake worrying about others to staying awake while others worry about you.
That, fallible ones, is the Sleepless Circle of Life. I’m not sure it lasts forever, but you might as well know that I’m at 29 years and counting.
But, oh, the beautiful people over whom I’ve lost all that sleep.
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I KNEW My Son-In-Law Was A Winner! (#1231)
Marc Ryan Dahmer, you are now the proud owner of $5 you didn’t own before leaving a comment on my blog!
I’m actually shocked by how close your answer was. You guessed Americans spent $4.5 billion on ATM fees in 2007. According to this article in the New York Times, we spent $4.2 billion.
Isn’t that just the craziest amount of money to blow on something so nutty?
Marc, I trust you to handle your extra five bucks with the utmost wisdom!!! :)
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Anybody Wanna Make A Quick Five Bucks? (#1230)
I’ve got five bucks that says we Americans are paying WAY too much for ATM fees.
I’ll tell you right now that I’ve never used an ATM machine, except for a few times in Europe and man, did we pay for the privilege. But this isn’t about the Old Country. This is about the good old U.S.A.
The reason I’ve never used an ATM machine is simple. It costs money, and it’s no more convenient for me (perhaps even less) than getting cash when I use my debit card at WalMart or Target or the grocery store. ALL of those places—-and a gazillion more—routinely ask upon checkout if I want “cash back.” If I realize that I need a bit of green for walking about, I ask for a $20 or whatever. It’s a free service. FREE.
Here we are, calling into Idol Gives Back and contributing millions of dollars out the goodness of our hearts, helping the disadvantaged both in our own country and in Africa. Here we are, planning how to spend our rebate checks, or even planning how to get out of debt with that money or start a much needed emergency fund.
I’ve got an emergency fund for you, fallible ones! I just read how much Americans spent on ATM fees in 2007. I’m not going to link to the article just yet, but let’s just say the amount could pay off the national debt of a few small countries.
For the commenter who guesses the closest (and I’m trusting you not to search for the answer before commenting), I’ll send you a $5 bill via the US Postal Service. That should cover your next cash withdrawal, assuming you use an ATM not associated with your own bank, and get charged twice for the so-called convenience.
While I’m at the USPS, I’ll probably ask for a $50, just in case you’re wondering.
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Looking To Connect With A Wonderful Agent? (#1229)
Wanna get in on another fun (and not time consuming!) contest on my agent Rachelle Gardner’s blog?
Check it out! You may win your choice of a $20 Amazon gift certificate or a 5-page critique of your writing from Rachelle.
As of this writing, 89 people have entered the contest, and I’m thinking it stopped being about the $20 forever ago.
This could be your break, O ye fallible ones!
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This I Believe (#1228)
I BELIEVE in the sanctity of sock marriage. Socks are, by their very nature, knit together in monogamy. If the clothes dryer perchance puts them asunder, a pair of socks never pursues divorce. The missing mate is merely vacationing somewhere, such as on the vast white beach of that new sheet I got on sale at Target. Therefore, the sock which languishes in loneliness waiting for its partner’s return must never be cast away, for then it would surely lose hope.
I BELIEVE that the tube of mascara, the tube of lipstick, and the tube of toothpaste are veritable bottomless pits, but in a good way. Upon awakening from a deep and dreamless sleep on the morrow, I shall be blessed with the daily manna of one more portion from each of these tubes, for such is the strength of my belief. If upon arising I am unable to squeeze, extract, or dip one additional measure from one of my beloved tubes, I shall allow such a tube to lie fallow for a period of a week, at which time I shall give it another whirl.
I BELIEVE that emory boards that have lost the power of their emory shall, after reproof, be put to rest inside the linen closet, lo, even mixed in among those quality emory boards of which it could be rightly said that “iron sharpens iron.” Upon blindly reaching in to lay hold of a random emory board with my set of ragged fingernails in a fortnight or so, I believe that the smoothness of the affected emory board shall have been restored to the glory of its former abrasiveness.
I BELIEVE that an item for retail sale with a slogan emblazoned on the packaging in the upper corner bearing the fortuitous words “As Seen On TV” is verily 99.94% more likely to be effective. Therefore, I believe I shall buy it.
I BELIEVE that if I compose a fresh to-do list, all the items on my previous to-do list must have obviously been accomplished heartily, as unto the Lord, even if they weren’t exactly checked off. I believe I do not need to look back at the old list ever, ever again.
I BELIEVE that if I am faithful to apprehend a cumbersome piece of exercise equipment and drag it home, that I will have burned so many calories and built so much strength, it won’t much matter if I use it a second time. Kind of like Samson knocking down those huge pillars, but with a better haircut.
I BELIEVE that sour milk, if returned to the fridge from which it came, will thusly smell miraculously better the next day.
I BELIEVE that vengeance is not mine, but the Lord’s, and therefore that a multitude of ballpoint pens—no matter how poorly they produce ink—shall be saved by grace. Of course, if they fail to work after experiencing a merciful junk-drawer salvation quite a few times, I reserve the right to banish them into the abyss forever.
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Beans And Rice, Rice And Beans (#1227)
I feel sorry for nationally known financial advisor Dave Ramsey, I really do.
I love the guy. LOVE. I think he can be credited for getting more regular folks on track with their finances than maybe anyone out there.
But here’s the deal: He regularly advises those who are serious about getting out of debt to get “gazelle intense,” to start delivering pizzas in the evenings for extra money, and to go on a diet of “beans and rice, and rice and beans.”
Hello! Word is that the economy’s gotten so stinkin’ bad that Americans will be spending their so-called stimulus checks not on something exciting like electronic gadgets or Alaskan cruises, but on gasoline and FOOD.
It’s just that the food they buy might not be beans and rice, if stores keep up the trend of rationing these supplies. The food purchased with a stimulus check might not be flour, oil, or corn, either. And if you think you can rely on your old cheap standby for great protein—eggs—check that price tag!
So I’m proposing that Dave change his motto to “Rib-Eye and Cheesecake, Cheesecake and Ribeye.” If we’re all going to the Poorer House anyway, why not go in culinary style?
Now, THAT’S a stimulating financial plan!
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There’s A Whole Bunch Of Stuff I’m Not Being Paid To Do—A Mild Rant (#1225)
My husband and I are both self-employed, working from home. It’s been eight years since either of us worked for Someone Else’s Company, which suits us just fine. We even, usually, enjoy the fact that we’re together almost 24-7. If we can ever afford to retire, we’ll already have made THAT adjustment.
We’ve also gotten plenty used to the fact that we’re frequently called upon to handle duties that are difficult for those who must keep regular 9-5 hours. It’s not easy—since we are only paid for the hours we actually work, and not necessarily for all of those—but we deal. We really are the ones most available to handle the needs of The Moms during the work day, and in the middle of the night, too.
But what I’m coming to increasingly resent is the attitude out there in the world that not only should we be doing our own jobs and taking care of extended family responsibilities, but we should also be doing bits and pieces of the work of every clerk, salesperson, repairman, server, and admin assistant on the face of the planet.
Here’s my most recent example. I take several prescriptions on a regular basis. Every month, two days before I really need to, I call the automated line at my pharmacy to order refills. Occasionally, the recording informs me that the doctor must be called to authorize the refill, and to allow extra time. That’s precisely why I call two days before I really need to.
Two days after I call, I run into the pharmacy to pick up my scripts. The new habit of the pharmacy technician is to say to me, “One of them isn’t ready. The doctor still hasn’t called back.”
“But I’ve waited two days,” I say. “Your directions say to allow one day, unless the doctor must be called, in which case to allow two days. It’s been…” and then I look at my watch for effect, “...two days.”
Then she says, “Have you tried calling them? Because they never called us back…”
Starting a few days ago, this is my new answer: “No, I haven’t tried that. And I’m not going to try that.” Mind you, I say all of this with a very pleasant voice and a friendly expression on my face. When the technician looks at me like I’ve lost it, I add, “Because, you see, that’s your job. I’ve got a job, and calling my doctor to beg him to fill my monthly prescription is not it.”
“I could try calling again…” she says.
I smile. “I think that is an excellent idea.”
I really don’t get paid enough to do my job and parts of everyone else’s jobs, too. So I’m setting up boundaries. I’m betting that, if sufficiently challenged, there are a lot of workers out there who are capable of fulfilling every jot and tittle of their job descriptions. Far be it from me to deny them the opportunity.
Got any people who’ve tried to pass off parts of their jobs on you recently? How do you deal with it?
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