Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Most Recent Posts
- Bunnies
- Gracie and Sandi, You Are The Winners!!
- American Idol’s David Cook Homecoming In Kansas City
- Through Irish Eyes
- Sleepless In Kansas City
- I KNEW My Son-In-Law Was A Winner!
- Anybody Wanna Make A Quick Five Bucks?
- Looking To Connect With A Wonderful Agent?
- This I Believe
- Beans And Rice, Rice And Beans
- There’s A Whole Bunch Of Stuff I’m Not Being Paid To Do--A Mild Rant
- A Moment Like This
- Twenty-four
- Just Don’t Tax My Romance
- Too Much Fun!
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
Sunday Morning Coming Down
Mom was moved into a nursing home yesterday, but that is not a subject for The Lord’s Day, is it?
No. A subject for The Lord’s Day is Doug.
I just went in to awaken him. I’ve been up for eons, but Doug is not one to rise without a bit of encouragement.
“It’s nearly twenty till eight,” I said. “You’ll want to be getting up if you plan to go to church.”
He rolled over, looked at the clock, and said, “It’s 7:37.”
“Yeah. That’s what I said.”
“No, you said twenty till eight. There’s a difference. In the MORNING, it sounds much better if you say it with the 7 than with the 8.”
“But it’s the same thing.”
“No, Katy. It’s very, very different.”
This is the second new and very extremely weird thing I’ve learned about my husband of 31 years in the past couple of weeks. Here is the other:
If I decide on a complete whim to flip the roll of toilet paper so that it’s hanging against the wall rather than the correct way, Doug will flip it forward the next time he’s in the bathroom.
Then, if I flip it again (ten minutes later) just to see what he’ll do (remember, we are the ONLY TWO PEOPLE in this house), he will return it to the correct position on his next visit.
Furthermore, if he hears me laughing uproariously from the vicinity of the toitie multiple times per day over a five-day period, he will NOT ask me why I’m laughing.I guess he figures I’ve got a new issue of Reader’s Digest or something.
And when I cannot bear the hysterics any longer and confess that I’ve been flipping the TP for five days, he will admit that IT NEVER OCCURRED to him that ANYONE was switching it up--only that it was hung incorrectly.
I hope you have enjoyed this little peek into the lives of an empty nesting couple. Now, I’ve got to go give Doug another wake-up nudge.
It’s five minutes till eight.
Part Trois
Late Sunday night, at 1 am, my sister Liz lay on my mother’s couch, listening to Mom’s frightening sleep-apnea-induced snoring and gasping. (Mom is non-compliant as far as wearing her c-pap apparatus). Suddenly, Mom’s breathing started coming in shorter, stranger snippets.
Liz went out to the nurse’s station and asked the nurse to come listen to Mom breathe. The nurse turned on Mom’s bedroom light and together they found her in the middle of a grand mal seizure. Grand with a capital G.
The nurse called 911, and the paramedics were there, for the second time that night, within approximately 60 seconds. Liz called me and said, “They can’t find any vitals. Get to the hospital as fast as you can.”
Doug and I had a 45-minute drive this time, but it took us maybe 20. They would not let us into Mom’s room for the first 1.5 hours, she was so unstable. Liz had seen enough and would not go into her room for quite a long time after we were allowed. Mom’s heart rate was 165, her temp was 103.7, her blood pressure was low and falling. Her O2 stats were pathetic. Her breathing was so bizarrely labored that we did not know how her body continued the effort. Her chest x-ray and EKG looked great, but everything else? Yikes.
There wasn’t a bed in the hospital to be had for love or money. She spent 18 hours in the ER before a bed became available in pulmonary. During that time, the ER doc asked to see DNR papers and an advanced directive (she has the first but not the second), because he felt certain the need to be put on life support was fast approaching, if that’s what she wanted.
Mom would never make a direct decision about life support when she was in her right mind, so my brother and I (who are her powers-of-attorney) had to go on record with the hospital that she is not to be put on a respirator. Thank God, we both agreed about this.
Tuesday was one of the most fascinating days of our lives. My sister Bridget chronicled some of the things Mom said, but all five of us, including my brother John, witnessed the insanity. Whether we die laughing or crying when we read over her comments now depends upon our frame of mind, I guess.
I will not disprespect my mother by repeating any of her inappropriate language in this space, but I am very grateful that it seems to have moderated. It was probably attributable to her extremely high blood sugars. What I feared was that perhaps the seizure had altered a frontal lobe in her brain, the one responsible for inhibitions.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure every one on earth wants their mother to have a few inhibitions! ;)
When some parts of her conditions stabilized, others rose up to taunt us. Her blood sugar rose to 500 and stayed there for two days, no matter what they tried. Plus, she went into respiratory failure, and was found to have renal insufficiency, hypercalcemia (when the calcium in your bones leaches into your blood), and e coli. Tuesday night, because of all these issues, they transfered her to ICU--the only area in the hospital where they could do an insulin drip.
By last night, her blood sugars were much better and so she was moved yet again to a med-surg floor. Today, someone (a nurse or doctor in another unit, I guess) had asked for a psych consult, so I got to answer all that doc’s questions (out in the hallway...) since Mom thinks she’s at the Ritz and is, according to the good doc, “delusional.”
And so, my friends, am I. OK, maybe not delusional. I’m pretty sure I’ve still got a toe-hold on reality. But sometimes, it feels like just barely. Nevertheless, I am certain of the faithfulness, love, and kindness of God. I’m clinging to Him with all my soul.
If Mom makes it out of the hospital (she hasn’t made it out of the bed yet...), I am certain we are in for another nursing home stay. Then we will see if she can safely transfer back into the assisted living setting. She’s not a happy girl in any way, shape, or form, but when in a nursing home, she is downright miserable. And she pretty much takes me down with her, big girl that she is.
That’s all I have to say about this. Any and all prayers for my mother are GREATLY appreciated.
I need prayer, too. I’ve gotten exhausted this week (the daily migraines aren’t helping) and unfortunately, Mom always seems to have a lot more where this came from.
Mama Land, Part Deux
Because Doug and I had been at Mom’s for three hours before she actually left her facility in the ambulance, my sisters Liz and Mary took the next shift.
They were in the ER for five hours or so on Sunday night. Sure enough, Mom had another UTI. They started her on antibiotics and sent her home. Liz and Mary scared me to death (and yet, I live...) when they said Mom could not take a single step from the ER gurney to the wheelchair. She had to be lifted, then lifted again into Liz’s car.
Mary called me when they were on their way back to Mom’s to tell me this.
“How will you get her into her apartment?” I asked, always one to foresee the end from the beginning. “And will one of you spend the night with her?”
“We don’t know how we’ll get her in,” Mary said, “But Liz is staying with her.”
It never occured to me from then until now to ask how they got her into her place, undressed, and into bed.
But I thank the dear Lord that Liz didn’t leave.
A Week In The Life: A Serial Account, Due To The Frequent Timing Out Of The Wifi
It all started (sure, it did...) on Sunday afternoon. A nurse at my mother’s assisted living facilty called me to say Mom hadn’t been feeling well all day.
“But I just checked her vital signs, and they are all good,” she said.
I waited upwards of 30 seconds before calling Mom’s room. She was completely incoherent. Doug and I arrived at her place within 15 minutes, a much shorter trip than if we hadn’t broken the law by speeding.
Upon seeing her, I was instantly on red alert. She could not lift her head from the bed, where she lay mostly naked. She could not utter more than two words in a row, and those words made no sense. I felt her forehead. Dear God.
I called the new nurse on duty to take her temp. The nurse who called me, claiming her vitals were good, had not charted a temp for her. How charming.
Immediately suspecting another UTI, since she’s had two recently although she did not run a temp with them, I had the nurse call the doc to authorize a run to the ER. The doc on call said, essentially, that it would be up to me to decide, but that it was OK with her. Huh?????
So I decided. I always decide. I am often considered to be overreacting. However, I rarely am.
Because the nurse considered Mom’s trip to the ER to be a non-emergency, she expressed it that way to the paramedics. It took them 1.5 hours to arrive. I thought we’d be going 5 minutes down the road to the hospital she always goes to. It took me the full 1.5 hours to get her dressed and her hair combed.
When the EMTs arrived, they said she’d be going to St. Luke’s or no where at all. It’s a 30 minute ride from Mom’s place, but EVERY ER in the KC metro between here and there was shut down to new patients. Overflow crowds all over town. The craziest thing I’d ever witnessed.
At least, up until then.
Trust me, a lot can happen in four days.
Testing The Wifi From…You Guessed It…The Hospital
Don’t know if I can successfully post from beautiful St. Luke’s Hospital on the historic Country Club Plaza in Kansas City or not.
If this works, I’ll post more......
Agents Are Funny People, Too
You may have noticed that there has been a veritable dearth of blogging going on here at fallible. If you are a long-time reader, you may also remember that I have referred to a “veritable dearth” of blogging on at least one other occasion in the past seven plus years. It happens, sometimes. And when it does, I love nothing better than to refer to it as exactly what it is: a veritable dearth.
Believe me, I will be posting something of substance again soon. Because tons of substantive stuff is going on. Really. Why, just three days ago, Doug and I celebrated our 31st wedding anniversary. Except for, we didn’t celebrate. Actually, we skipped out on Valentine’s Day, too. But we did so happily, and with a vision for a future celebration, not too many days hence, which will more than make up for it.
When Rachelle Gardner of WordServe Literary offered to be my literary agent on Tuesday, February 5, 2008, at 4:30 p.m. Central Time, she said she would not be able to read the rest of my novel (she’d read three chapters) until March 1. So, since that hour, I have spent every waking minute and most of the sleeping ones getting my book in the best shape I can.
So that’s my excuse for not blogging much, but what I want to share is one of the first things Rachelle said during our phone call that day. It threw me completely, and until she explained what she meant, I was my typical fallible self.
“I want to read that scene,” she said.
I knew she’d already read many more scenes from my novel, so I wasn’t sure what to say.
“I don’t understand...Which scene?”
“The one you say you’ve used to pitch agents, in your blog post called ’An Open Letter To All The Remaining Literary Agents I’ve Not Yet Contacted.’”
It’s really bad when you have to ask the woman who might be about to offer you representation what the heck you wrote in your own blog post, but um...I had to ask her.
“You indicated that you’ve got exactly one scene written, and you sure aren’t going to go to the trouble of writing more unless someone signs you. I wanna see that scene!”
You know what’s crazy about spoofy Open Letters To Literary Agents? It could actually happen, because of the kookiness known as the Internet, that The Agent who ends up representing you READS THAT LETTER.
So, if you’re going to write one, make it memorable. And it wouldn’t hurt to write a really good scene, either.
Permalink
It’s The Meme Thing!
My new friend Christa Allen tagged me to do a meme. Because I felt an instant kinship upon my online meeting with her, I agreed.
Here are the instructions: “Find the book that is nearest to you. Turn to page 123. Read five sentences, then write the next three. It must be the book NEAREST you right now. No cheating!!!”
It was the “No cheating!!!” clause that got me. Ever since I read the meme rules, I’ve been tempted to cheat my brains out.
The book nearest to me did not happen to be The Holy Bible. Or “My Utmost for His Highest.” Or any other devotional-type book, like one by Max Lucado or something.
What can I say? I’m afraid I keep Dave Barry nearby. Garrison Keillor is close, too. And others of their ilk.
So I almost cheated. I found Utmost on my shelf and nearly presented you with Oswald Chambers’ profound insights on surrendering utterly to God’s will, after which I would have expounded on how it must be more than coincidental that his words so perfectly reflect what God is doing in my life right this minute.
But I couldn’t go through with it. Instead, I offer you lines from the book actually nearest me. And believe me, fallible readers, these are words to live by just as certainly as if I were reading something...else.
“A reader once wrote to Ann Landers asking her advice about what she should do if a married man had a heart attack while having sex with her in the bed. Do you have any idea what the odds are of that happening? About the same as Mister Rogers dancing on the table with Madonna.” Erma Bombek, All I Know About Animal Behavior I Learned in Loehmann’s Dressing Room
So there you have it. No cheating!!! Anybody else wanna play?
Flummoxed
Without checking your online dictionaries or consulting your linguist sons (You do have one of those, don’t you? Because I sure do...), I’m hoping you’ll answer my pop quiz for the day.
My question concerns the usage of the words ingulge and endulge.
To my mind, the difficulty here is the same as with the words insure and ensure. I was taught (and still practice) that insure is only used as a verb if one is literally speaking about an insurance product. “I’ve decided to insure my car with Geico.” In all cases in which a verb is not meant to convey the idea of procuring insurance, the correct word is ensure. “I’d like to ensure that I use the correct word.”
My understanding of indulge and endulge is similar. Unless the Sisters of Saint Joseph of Carondelet were sadly mistaken, one should use endulge as a verb, and indulge...not. A correct usage, therefore, would be to say, “I think it’s about time for me to endulge in an indulgence.”
What say you?? Did the nuns and my British father ruin me for the language? It wouldn’t matter to me so much, except I’m about to endulge in shipping my book off to my agent and, well, these things matter.
So what do you think? Please, endulge me in a little indulgence.
Bath Day For The Moms
“Who ratted me out?” It’s my mom on the phone. She’s furious, but I’m thinking you knew that.
We’ve been having a lot of trouble recently with the facility where my mother lives. So, conversations with the staff members and director are ongoing. One thing that needs to happen is a method needs to be established for verifying when/whether Mom is actually receiving the services she is paying for.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mom...Um, hold on for just a second. The other line is ringing.”
“Yes, this is the nurse at your mother-in-law’s facility. Adele won’t stop arguing with us about her bath. You need to call her--now.”
“Give me thirty seconds,” I say to the nurse, before switching back to my other Bathing Beauty.
Mom takes up where she left off. No memory loss whatsoever, at least not on this subject.
“You do, too, know what I mean! When Cha-Cha came in here to give me my bath--”
“Cha-Cha?” Sometimes, I have to take my laughs where I can get them.
“You heard me,” Mom says. “Cha-Cha tried to get me to sign a card to prove I was gettin’ a bath. Like I was a little kid or something.”
I’ll tell you right now, my mother is deathly afraid of water. She has panic attacks on Bath Day, for fear the dreadful stuff might splash on her face. The attendants can barely coerce Mom in and out, and it only happens twice a week. Less often, if Mom has her way.
Plus, Mom’s paranoid. She thinks we tattle on her when she’s naughty, instead of that we’re holding the facility accountable to meet her needs. She thinks if she’s having a sad day and sheds a tear, she’ll get reported. And that then they’ll put her out on the street.
Of course, just because she’s paranoid doesn’t mean everyone isn’t out to get her.
“Stay on the phone, Mom. I’ve got to use the other line. I’ll be right back.”
“I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not signin’ anything, either, bath or no bath.” Some days, Mom’s humor strikes me as dry.
I dial my mother-in-law’s number. “Adele, the nurse says you’re being stubborn.”
“I wanna take a bath. Without help. ALONE.”
“You know it’s too slippery. That’s why you need help...”
“I DON’T need help. I WANNA TAKE MY BATH ALONE!”
Adele loves her nurses, and she’d hate it if she caused any of them to get in trouble. That’s how I’m gonna play this when I get back to her.
“Can you stay on the line for just a minute?” I ask. “Don’t turn on the shower yet, OK?”
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU.” I hate to say it, but I could almost picture her fingers stuffed into her ears.
I switch back to my mother. “Mom, think about this. We’re just trying to make sure you get everything you’re paying for.”
“You ratted me out.” Dang if she didn’t sound like Jimmy Cagney. “I’ll have you know I’ve never had a dirty day in my life.”
“Congratulations. You ain’t gonna have a dirty day today, either.”
Then I pushed Adele’s button, in more ways than one.
“I’m getting in that bathtub by myself NOW, and you can’t stop me.” Adele is modest. Stubborn and modest. She abhors nakedness as much as my mother despises clothing.
“It’s the nurse’s job to help you. If you don’t let her do her job, she might get fired. Wouldn’t that be awful?”
“I don’t care! I wanna take my bath ALONE!”
“If you don’t let the nurse help you, I’m going to have to come over there and help you myself,” I say.
“Oh, no you don’t. I will NOT let you see me nak-nak-nak...” She can’t even say it, much less do it.
I put on my best Cagney voice, learned from my mom, the master. “Oh, yeah? Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”
Two Moms. Two phone lines. Two baths. And me.
I believe my work here is done.
A Very Super Tuesday For One Fallible Woman
OK, in my previous post called The Evolution of the Rejection Letter, I kind of neglected to mention something.
But as of right this minute, I am abandoning my neglectful ways! I have a story to tell you, and--even though I’m still so thrilled I can hardly see straight--I’m reasonably sure it’s all true.
Around January 1, coinciding with the time I was busy dropping out of the Psych classes I’d enrolled in largely because of frustration with my stalled writing career, I got an email from a dear author buddy.
“Send me your proposal and three chapters,” she said, “and I’ll forward them on to an agent friend of mine.”
Now, if you’ve ever tried to get an agent (I’ve made four previous attempts), you may realize that a referral from a respected author can make a big difference. I didn’t want to blow this chance, so I worked on my chapters yet again until I felt like they were in really good shape. Then I flinched and hit “send.”
Last Friday, my friend cc’d me a copy of the email she sent to the agent. She’d included a short but VERY sweet comment about me. I would say it made me blush, but unless I’m looking in a mirror seeing red, that would be an unacceptable use of point-of-view. Ha.
Anyway, since then Rachelle Gardner of WordServe Literary has read my materials, emailed, and called me on the phone.
“Send me the rest of your book,” she said, after we talked more than an hour. “But I won’t be able to read it until March 1.”
I spoke over her as she continued to talk, and when I realized it, I said, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
And she laughed and then said very seriously, “Katy. Listen. To. Me. I am offering you representation.”
Then I said something stupid like, “Um...starting when?”
And she said, “I’ll get the agreement in the mail in the next couple of weeks, but I’d like to be your agent starting today.”
I was stunned half to death. (Maybe further, it’s hard to say. Death is funny like that.) We chatted some more about how to get the rest of my book ready to submit and then I said, “Rachelle, I have to ask this directly, so there’s no confusion. What EXACTLY do I say when I’m telling my friends and family and fallible readers what’s just happened during this conversation?”
And SHE said the most delightful words I’ve heard, maybe, EVER. “Tell them, I HAVE AN AGENT.”
So that’s what I’m telling you! Let it ring from the fallible rooftop:
!!!!!! I HAVE AN AGENT !!!!!!
Thanks to all of you who have continued to believe that maybe SOMEDAY this might actually happen for me. Your encouragement means so much!
And Rachelle, it’s my highest hope to do you proud.
My Favorite YouTube Ever
The Evolution Of The Rejection Letter
I admit it. I am one of those sorry schmucks who’s kept every single rejection letter I’ve ever received.
I’ve got some that date so far back, you might not have been technically born then. At first, when I’d write some humor essay extolling the advent of cordless can openers, I’d shoot for the moon as far as possible publishers went. I mean, if Good Housekeeping published columns by Erma Bombeck, they’d certainly want my piece, right?
For my chutzpah, I received a mimeographed form rejection on a 8"x2" slip of paper, which looked like it had been cut to size with a pair of crummy scissors. I believe it was signed by someone called “The Staff,” which made me fear the paper might be infected with some type of germ. But I filed it away just the same.
After a while, the rejections started coming on entire half-sheets of paper. I sensed I was making serious inroads into the world of publication. The purple ink of the mimeograph machine still ruled, but on occasion, the signature of an actual editorial assistant appeared at the bottom. Once, under one of these signatures, I made out the words, “Try us again with something else.”
In the universe of newspaper and magazine writing, it honestly didn’t take long before I figured out to start local and small. I started racking up some nice acceptances from first the Kansas City Star, then several other newspapers, and finally some regional and national magazines.
Then one day seven or eight years ago, I decided on a whim to take a novel writing class at a local college. My friend, author Nancy Moser, was teaching it, and I felt confident my article and essay writing skills would translate smoothly into novel writing finesse.
After two aborted attempts at stories I’ll never pull out of the cabinet again (one was a NaNoWriMo 50,000 word monstrosity), I started the book I’ve been working on for several years. Unless I’m mistaken, I’ve written 8-10 complete versions of this manuscript, but what I’ve learned about craft with each new version is staggering.
Some of you may remember that I entered it in a contest in early 2004, in which I finaled. I shudder to think about the manuscript I entered, since it was--I now realize--nothing more than a seriously flawed first draft.
Since then, I’ve gotten paid critiques at conferences, pitching sessions face-to-face with editors and agents, submitted a piece of it to a panel of editors who ripped it up in front of an audience, entered a few chapters at a time in several contests, and had input from trusted friends and fellow writers. I’ve also emailed my proposal and three chapters to several editors and agents, garnering ever more valuable rejection letters every step of the way.
If you think I’m kidding about the value of a rejection letter, you haven’t seen the comps. When you’ve got ones from the old purple-ink days signed by The Staff, believe me, you’re grateful for the professionals who offer a kind word of advice for improving your submission.
These days, I get the best rejections in the world. My idea of a great rejection is an email from the editor in which the word “However” does not appear until at least the beginning of the third sentence. That means the first two sentences will likely say something encouraging (or at least not depressing) about my submission, which is a very kind thing for the editor to do before she uses the H word.
I’ve grown used to scanning the first few lines until the H pops off the screen. I turn to Doug and say, “Well, phooey. I just got rejected by so-and-so.” And he’ll say, “Did you read the whole thing?” And I’ll say, “Not yet. But I saw the H.”
By the way, a perfectly acceptable alternative to the H is the U. Which stands, of course, for Unfortunately.
If you’re hoping to get published like I am, don’t despair. Even though mimeographed slips are a relic from days gone by, you, too, will likely find your rejection letters evolving from “No, thanks. Not for us,” to something downright positive, right up until you get to the H word.
I’m sure another type of letter is out there, people. One without the H word anywhere in it at all.
I hope to soon let you know how it feels to get a letter like that.
Quotes To Live By
It’s February 1, and I’m still accumulating some inspirational quotes by which to live my year. I’ll share a few of my favorites here:
“Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but not their own facts.” Daniel Patrick Moynihan
“Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy which sustained him through brief periods of joy.” Yeats
“I don’t have much time left. Please don’t try to suck it out of me.” Anon
“Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.” Winston Churchill
“The chief cause of failure and unhappiness is trading what we want most for what we want at the moment.” Anon
“What you want is practice, practice, practice. It doesn’t matter what we write (at least this is my view) at our age, as long as we write continually as well as we can. I feel that every time I write a page either of prose or of verse, with real effort, even if it’s thrown into the fire the next minute, I am so much further on.” C.S. Lewis
“Fate finds persistence irresistable.” Unknown
“The best advice on writing I’ve ever received: Finish.” Peter Mayle
“A hunch is creativity trying to tell you something.” Frank Capra
“Everything comes to those who hustle while they wait.” Thomas Edison
“Few people do what they want to do in life. Be one of them.” Andy Broer
“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left and could say ‘I used everything You gave me.’” Erma Bombeck
“I spend half my time doing my stuff. I spend the other half of my time making sure I’m not doing your stuff.” Anon
“When you have got a thing where you want it, it is a good thing to leave it where it is.” Winston Churchill
And finally, just to see if you’re still tracking with me:
“You’ll never make up for with speed what you lack in direction.” Katy McKenna Raymond
And this:
“How about something from the cheese family?” Doug Raymond
Any great inspirational (or just funny) quotes you’d like to share? All contributions most welcome!!
Not Getting A Tax Rebate Check? Ask The Expert
A number of fallible readers have submitted questions to me about the new tax rebate plan which, along with almost every political candidate in the universe, promises to put “money in your pocket.” It behooves me to respond in this space.
Alicia from Arkansas writes: “Dear Katy, My mom and dad would be divorced by now if they’d ever gotten married. If they were divorced, everything would be cool. Only one of them could claim me on their taxes and then I’d know for sure that I’d be getting my chunk of change. (I am 12 and have my eye on a wii.) As it is, I don’t know which one to play, Mom or Pop, since I have no idea who will end up getting my piece of the American pie. What do you think?”
Dear Alicia, As always, play both parents to the hilt. Now more than ever, in this precarious economic environment, you need to protect your own interests (read:wii) by pitting them against each other while making each of them think your loyalties are unwavering. I predict before summer you’ll have your wii. Congratulations! With strategic skills like yours, you obviously have a bright future ahead of you.
Sam from San Diego writes: “Katy. It’s like this. I make a lot of money, see? And I’m an American citizen, too. OK, so most of my income goes unreported, but I DO have a valid social security number. The thing is, I stopped believing in the constituionality of the income tax when I started making a lot of money. You might say I’m a conscientious objector. Yeah. That’s it. I sure would like to get my hands on one of those checks, though. What can be done for me?”
Dear Sam, It’s more a question of what can be done TO you, but all is not lost. If you can find it within your obviously well-honed conscience to claim a mere $3000 worth of your enormous income on your taxes, you will receive the highest possible rebate. It might not be enough to pay a lawyer when the IRS gets ahold of you, though. Weigh your options carefully. That’s what freedom is all about!
Betty from Buffalo writes: “Katy, I never thought I’d be writing to you. I have been a lurker until now, but I have to speak up. I am 77 years old, and my only income is Social Security, or as that cutie Al Gore calls it, ‘So-security.’ However, I have three of my low-life middle-aged sons sharing my efficiency apartment and they make money hand over fist. Can I claim them as dependents?”
Dear Betty, Isn’t motherhood the best? Under the current save-the-economy plan, stay-at-home moms are not penalized for having no income. God and Uncle Sam (not to be confused with the aforementioned Sam) gave you children for a reason! Claim those kids, Betty, and pocket a cool $900 for your trouble. Gotta love that revolving door, eh?
Jose from Houston writes: “Dear Katy, Just so you know, I would gladly be a legal immigrant if I weren’t already an illegal. I send all of my wages back to my wife in Mexico. Cash money, baby, sealed with a kiss. So far, this has worked fine, but now my “wife” in Houston is kicking up a stink. It’s just that in 2007, she earned no income due to a temporary disability. She’ll go back to work for us in 2008, no problem-o, but how is it fair that we won’t be getting a tax rebate?”
Dear Jose, It’s not fair. Unfortunately, there will be those solid, dependable wage-earners like yourself who still somehow manage to fall through the cracks of this patched-together stimulus program. If you’d had the foresight to obtain an invalid Social Security card and to be paid in a form other than “cash money, baby,” in an amount equalling at least $3000 for the year 2007, you still could have sent most of your dollars to Mexico. However, in that scenario you and your Houston “wife” would have had an additional $1200 to help speed her recovery with a nice vacation. Remember, Jose, planning is everything!
Candy in Kansas City writes: “Dear Katy, I am single (widowed, actually) filing jointly. You read that right. Gerard died 17 years ago, but somehow the corporation he worked for failed to get the message. Anyway, I’ve been depositing his pay-checks (complete with annual cost-of-living and merit raises) every two weeks since his untimely demise. Now I’ve got a real mess on my hands. Gerard’s pay has escalated WAY beyond the allowable amount for tax-rebate purposes. I have no earned income of my own, and there’s a Kate Spade purse out there with my name on it. What should I do?”
Dear Candy, You are in luck! See that box on your 1040 called “Married, Filing Separately”? Check that puppy. Now all you have to do is come up with a spare W2 form from McDonald’s or somewhere (surely you have a little friend who can assist with this project...), fill in your “income,” and you’re home free. Please do accept my belated condolences regarding your husband.
If you have a question about the chances of a rebate ending up in your mailbox, don’t hesitate to comment here. I especially enjoy helping those of you who, for whatever reason, feel that it’s JUST NOT FAIR. Any of it! I feel your pain.
Hello Mother, Hello Fodder
Due to an online class I’ve been taking this month ("Defeating Your Self-Defeating Behaviors” by Margie Lawson, a practicing psychologist who works with a lot of writers), I’ve largely given up my chronic negativity.
What? You didn’t realize, after reading umpteen entries here at fallible, that I’m not exactly Pollyanna? Awww....that’s sweet. But I don’t believe you! Not for a minute! ;)
Anyway, in spite of all the brilliant techniques I’ve learned from Margie, and in spite of the many ways my life has changed for the better in the past three weeks, I gotta be honest with you. Some aspects of 2008 are turning out to be a piece of work.
So far during January, Doug and I have spent two entire nights in the ER with Mom. I’m the type of girl who--like Glen Campbell who kept his sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind her couch--always has a duffle packed. I’m sorry, but with mothers like ours, a chick would be nuts not to have an overnighter stuffed with reading material, a crochet project, spare change, phone numbers, the old gals’ insurance information, a list of current meds and conditions, and power-of-attorney papers.
And clean panties. Don’t forget those! Not to mention a toothbrush, deoderant, snacks, and room to pop the laptop in at the last minute. I may not travel light, but trust me, I travel often.
Besides the two ER soirees, Mom has managed to fall twice since Christmas. Amazingly, she did not hurt herself either time. But I’ve had to line up some PT visits for her, since she apparently has misplaced the skills required to either sit from a standing position or to stand from a sitting position. Maybe some brush-up lessons will help--we can only hope. (See? I’m a bloomin’ optimist--really!!)
In the meantime, she’s been having precipitous spikes in blood pressure. The last ER doc prescribed Clonidine for her facility to have on hand when it happens, which it did yesterday morning.
She called me a few minutes ago, quite frantic. “I need to telll you what’s going on here,” she said.
I just saw her Wednesday afternoon and nothing much seemed to be happening then. “OK,” I said.
Her voice shook and she spoke in something of a tremulous whisper, as if she imagined her room was bugged. “They took my blood pressure yesterday morning and it was so high, they told me to stay in bed for the rest of the day.”
“Hmmmm....” I said, thinking if it were THAT bad, they would have called me.
“Then today it was high again, so I’ve been in bed for two whole days....they called my doctor at 6 yesterday morning, and he still hasn’t returned their call. I am so nervous, I won’t get out of bed until he calls.....”
“I hate to point this out, Mom, but you don’t get out of bed anyway.”
She sounded insulted. “Well, that’s another story.”
I told her I would call the nurse’s station and try to get to the bottom of things. I did and then called her back.
“The nurse says that Liz is on her way there to take you out to dinner.”
“Yes. Even if I don’t eat, I’m going to go out.”
“Mom, why wouldn’t you eat, if she’s taking you out to eat?”
“It has to be the right time.”
“But it is the right time.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, the nurse is here to take my blood pressure again.”
“Do you need to get off the phone?”
Because Mom has a permanently broken humerus, they can only take her BP on her good arm, which is also the only side she can use to talk on the phone.
“The nurse says I can switch the phone to the other side.”
Dear Lord, are the staff members even AWAKE at this joint? Her arm has been broken for 2.5 years and counting.
“Mom, I don’t think that will work with your broken arm...”
And then this, spoken with utter incredulity: “I don’t have a broken arm.”
Who says I’m not a positive person? I’m positive she’s driving me bonkers.
