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Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri

Katy is represented by
Greg Johnson at
WordServe Literary

Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net

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Recent Posts

• Try
• Becoming Brenda Starr
• Off Beat
• Scattered
• That’s It
• So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What?
• The Spoon
• Sciatica
• Sweetheart
• A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose
• However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time
• After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices.
• As with everything in life, balance is key.
• Slow down, you move too fast…
• Yeah, I know. I have issues.

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E me at katy @ ngenius.com

The Forrest for the Trees (#320)

The young man and his lady walked right past us and we never looked up.

Doug and I sat like Forrest Gump and his flighty girlfriend on a park bench in Boston Commons, giving our feet and my psyche a short rest before heading down to the Esplanade on July 4th. This was an event I had sworn to him I would not--could not--do, since I have the same response worming my way through public masses of teeming holiday revelers as I do being sausaged into an MRI machine.

But there I was, wordlessly engaged in a minor panic attack, doing Lamaze breathing (very much more useful for anxiety abatement than it ever was for childbirth), and preparing to become way too close to a half million roller-blading, bike-riding, frisbee-tossing, beer-slugging strangers.

I took a cleansing breath, let it out, and waited. I needed another minute. These things take time.

The couple strolled on, and even though their backs were to us, I heard them laughing from twenty feet away, sounding fearless and adventuresome. I envied their apparent freedom and nonchalance. For all I knew, they'd never been to Boston before, either, but they were the kind of people who are at home in the world, no matter where they find themselves.

I looked up then, aware that the man had stopped dead in his tracks and that the laughter had abruptly ended.

He turned slightly in my direction in his attempt to avoid what was about to occur, but it was no use. His whole body tensed as a frightful yellow Boston-variety flying insect-like creature landed on his right shoulder. In one gangly, unfluid motion, he jerked his head to view his attacker, jumped back in terror, and used his left arm to fling the abhorrent thing from him.

When the monstrosity loosened its grip on the young man and flew toward me, he turned. Our eyes met first, and then our souls, and when the Truth introduced us, it was like we'd known each other our whole lives. We exchanged the goofy grins of kindred spirits before he turned back to his lady and his path.

"Let's go," I said to Forrest. And the yellow leaf fluttered at our feet.

---

What’s Dr. Laura’s Fax Number Again? (#321)

I was up early this morning, checking my usual online news sites and a dozen or so blogs while the coffee brewed.

Doug, however, wasn't ready to be in the bed alone.

"Come back," he said, patting the spot in the bed that he thought I should occupy. "Just for a few minutes."

I crawled in beside him long enough to offer him a free thirty seconds of therapy. "Dr. Laura is right, you know. Men's needs are so darn simple."

He patted me on the shoulder a few times and kissed my forehead. "But you're complicated," he said.

What does that have to do with his needs? I thought.

"Um...yeah," I said, and then to clarify, "but your needs are simple."

"Yeah," he answered. "But you're what I need. And you're complicated. So, you see, that makes my needs complicated."

Even Dr. Laura couldn't argue with that logic.

---

Crossroads? (#322)

My sister overheard two middle-aged women discussing religion in the old country (which is, in our case, Scotland).

"I'd really like to wear a cross on a chain like you do," said the younger to the older, "but I'd want one without the wee little man."

---

Blow By Blow (#323)

One of my best friends has nine or ten novels under her belt, and she's a great mentor to me as a writer.

When I was working on my first novel, though, she expressed how mystified she was with my technique--or, I should say, lack of it.

I wrote scenes as they came to me, without regard for where they would ultimately occur in the story. After I'd written about 65 scenes, I spread the index cards describing the sections out on the floor and put them in the order that made sense to me.

"You did what?" Nancy asked. "Ummm...do you have a problem with writing in chronological order?"

"Girl," I answered, "I have a problem living in chronological order."

Imagine the kick I got out of the book review Jerry Schwartz wrote about Bill Clinton's memoirs.

The reviewer says that reading the book feels like being locked in a tiny room with a gregarious man, and being forced to listen to him recite his appointment book from 1946 on, boring entry by boring entry. Ouch.

"Part of the problem," Schwartz says, "is that My Life is relentlessly chronological."

That's the problem with my life, too, and the reason why, apart from blogging, I think I'll stick to writing fiction.

And, just in case, not in any particular order.

---

Gotta Go, Gotta Go, Gotta Go Right Now (#324)

I'm a nervous Nellie when it comes to highway driving in torrential rains, hail storms, and tornadoes. I just am.

Carrie was home for five days--so much fun, such wonderful bonding!--and needed to head back to her college town at a certain hour if she was to keep an appointment. The rains were so blinding by then that I was a wreck before she even picked up her keys.

My nervousness sent me to the bathroom several times in rapid succession as Carrie nonchalantly gathered her laundry, ransacked the pantry, and scooped up her can't-travel-without-them seven or eight pairs of shoes.

I was wishing she could wait out the storm, but realizing she couldn't. Still, she seemed to be moving in aggravating slow motion, which drove me crazy. The way I look at it, if you have to do something you're dreading, the sooner you get started, the sooner you'll be done.

"I'm about to leave," she finally announced. "right after I pee."

"Again?" I asked.

"Eh," she said, looking bewildered and so, so blonde. "Oh my gosh, did I just, like, pee?"

"Um, on second thought," I said, "maybe that was me."

Did I mention that we're close?

---

What’s Up With U? (#325)

Several words have been causing me spelling difficulty lately, and interestingly--to me, at least--they all contain the letter "u."

Without looking it up, would you vote for "fraught" or "frought"? Sometime ago, a reader corrected my spelling (and since I am the type of woman who gives credit where it is do, her name is Bethany), but even now I can't remember which way is right.

I would know the answer to this next one if I stopped to think before I write, but that's not going to happen in this lifetime. So which one should I have used a couple entries down? "Suberb" or "suburb"? (And what about the fine distinction between "superb" and "supurb"?)

Since those were a giveaway, here's another. I used this word twice in the novel I wrote, and even though several people have read (with a critical eye) the final version I submitted to the contest, only my sister Mary caught it. Should I have written "miniscule" or "minuscule"?

Don't look it up! Just give me your off-the-top answers. And while you're at it, what words cause you a particular problem?

---

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (#326)

My mother is basking in my fleeting notoriety, as mothers are wont to do. I just got off the phone with her, and she couldn't wait to bring up the article in the Kansas City Star.

"Well, hello," she said. "You...you...typist, you."

"Typist?" I was confused, and thought she meant to say writer. Then it hit me. "Oh, you mean blogger."

"I do? Oh, yes, I do. Blogger. Well, I took the newspaper article down to the nurses station to show two gals. I pointed out your picture and the parts about you. I left it with them so they could read the whole thing."

She sounded so darned proud, I felt myself start to blush.

"And then you went back and got it later?" I asked.

"I went back later, and the nurses weren't there. I looked around and didn't see the paper..."

"So you didn't get it back?"

"...and then the parakeet started chirping and I looked over at its cage, and there was your picture in the bottom of it."

Sigh. Some people just don't get blogging.

---

Fifteen Minutes (#327)

Tim Engle, a writer for the Kansas City Star, is a new blogger. And this isn't just any blog. It's a blog he started to orient himself to the experience of blogging, and to document all the stages the newspaper went through during the production of his piece on Kansas City bloggers.

I want to thank Tim here for allowing me to be a part of his story. Today's paper runs the piece in the FYI section, and includes excerpts from fallible, a bio, a quote or two from yours truly, and a couple of pics.

Tim truly immersed himself in the blogging world to pull together his story, and it really isn't his fault that after my mother read it, she said, "Katy, you've never said that word to me before. What is it again?"

Hey, if you're a new visitor here, post a comment so I'll know who you are! And I apologize in advance if you came here because you saw the "warning" in the Star about the high potential for adult content.

You'll find a few references to bras and panties, but other than that, fallible doesn't merit much caution at all!

---

“Tell Me You’re All Republicans” (#328)

Back in the good old days, when Ronald Reagan was president and character was king, I was just a young Republican. I'd already had a short, regrettable stint as a Democrat, with disheartening results.

I'd voted for George McGovern as a hippie-wannabe eighteen-year-old, and stayed up all night with a bunch of drunk friends watching the election results come in. We all thought the world had ended when McGovern lost, and I considered opting out of the whole process right then.

I voted in a more informed, thoughtful way for Jimmy Carter. Even now I believe that Habitat for Humanity is one of the best causes around, so that's something. Still, I've worried a bit about my latent capacity for committing adultery in my heart ever since he admitted he'd done it, even though he was a decent enough man not to tell us with whom.

It's hard to turn away from Republican philosphy when the first--and greatest--one you ever had the privilege of voting for--twice--is Ronald Reagan.

Doug and I were poor new parents during the Reagan years. I'm not sure it could be said we prospered much under his tenure, but we believed it was possible, and that was something. Our taxes weren't cut a bit, since we barely earned enought to pay taxes, but the "trickle down effect" of a strong economy caught up with our little family eventually.

The fact is that we were so poor during most of Reagan's administration, we consistently fell below the poverty line. We easily qualified for food stamps, WIC (free food for women, infants, and children under age five) and maybe even a little Aid to Dependent Children. We probably could have gotten a brand new federally-subsidized apartment in the suberbs for a buck a month if we'd applied.

But we didn't apply, not for any of the perks to which we were so clearly "entitled." We decided that the good taxpayers of this land had not compelled us to pop out three kids on one inadequate income--we'd done it of our own free will, and in good conscious, we couldn't ask for the handout. As the months went by, instead, we learned ever more about why God made bootstraps. And guess who provided a wonderful example?

Ronald Reagan.

We enjoyed the less tangible but more impressive benefits of living in a country in which our leader refused--out of respect for the office he held--to remove as much as his suit coat within the Oval Office.

In essence, we grew up.

If you think those weren't the days, think again. And pick up a couple of papers today. Perhaps they'll print a few of the seven hundred essays the Great Communicator penned in his own hand, on virtually every subject under the sun.

And if you think you can't miss what you never had, I'll have to disagree. Ronald Reagan is missed by all, even by those who don't remember.

---

The Knowledge of Evil (#329)

You know it's bad when on a Friday night your air conditioner--which has been wheezing spasmodically for a couple of weeks--gasps its last, and service calls cost three times as much on the weekend.

You know it's worse when you fling open your bedroom window and turn on the attic fan, resigned to a long weekend of heat and humidity and bizarre allergic reactions.

You know it's tragic when, within five minutes of flinging and fanning, a dozen dogs start barking and a skunk sprays outside said window.

You just know.

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A Truer Word Was Never Said (#330)

As a writer, I make every attempt to keep my prose as cliche-free as possible, but in my "real life," it's not easy.

The one that's got me going recently, for reasons I won't go into, is "A watched phone never rings."

If a truer cliche was ever said, I'd like to hear it. What's the one cliche you can't stop using, no matter how you try, because it's just so darned TRUE?

Or do you know of one that doesn't even deserve the moniker "cliche," because it doesn't hold any water at all? (How about, "A watched pot never boils." Um, yeah. It does.)

I'd like to know.

---

Volatility (#331)

Those of you who know my husband may think he's perfect, and you'd be nearly correct. Like the old ads for Ivory Soap, he's pure (of heart, mind, and body) about 99 44/100 percent of the time.

That's a lot of goodness, people.

Don't get me wrong. He slips up occasionally, but he knows that when he does, it will stay between the two of us. Last night he got furious about some little thing, something that wouldn't even register a blip on my ferocity radar screen.

I know, I know. He's been under a tremendous amount of stress lately. I should cut him some slack, right? But I've got to think you'd be as shocked as I was to hear your dearly beloved say "Crap!" for only the second time in 27 years.

I've got to tell you: I'm frightened. Tomorrow, my brand new computer is being delivered. It's been months--or is it years?--since I've enjoyed the reliability of a dependable computer, much less a functional printer.

In fact, for the past month or so, my entire computing experience has been reduced to emails and pop-ups asking, "Katy, wouldn't you love to have a bigger BLEEP?"

No, can't say that I would.

Anyway, it falls to techie Doug to successfully transfer all salient files to my new computer, and I just don't know if he's emotionally up to the task right now. After the jolt of Crap! last night, who knows what crusty language may spew forth in the valiant attempt at file-transfer? (Talk about corrupted files...)

I'm taking no chances. I'm writing books now, and my work is too important to me to lose any of it. So, until the new computer is successfully set up, Doug's going to get the royal treatment--anything to enhance his concentration and reduce his frustration.

Ironed clothes, lattes to order, an organized office, and--in case he's been suffering from low blood sugar--plenty of good food. Especially good food.

Hey, isn't there a sermon called "Dinner in the Hands of a Hungry Doug"?

---

Life With Mama (#332)

"Did you try to call my doctor last night?"

Mom sounded a little suspicious, I thought. Too suspicious, in fact, to be ill.

"No," I answered. "What makes you ask?"

"I went for my appointment today. He said my daughter Katy left a message for him last night, and that she asked him what he planned to do about yesterday's bout with low blood sugar."

"It wasn't me," I answered. "Have you told someone about your blood sugar? Maybe one of the others called the doc."

I have four siblings, and Mom has a number of nurses in assisted living. Any one of them might have found a compelling reason to call her doctor.

"I haven't told anyone. And I haven't even talked to you for quite a few days."

Now accusation was being added to suspicion.

"Then how would I know you had problems with low blood sugar yesterday?"

"I didn't."

"You didn't what?"

"Have problems with low blood pressure. Did I say blood pressure? I meant blood sugar. In fact, my blood sugar and blood pressure have both been better than ever. But Dr. Barnett kept asking me if I was sure I had a daughter named Katy, and I said yes..."

"It wasn't me, Mom, but I'm glad the doctor thinks you're doing great."

"I don't have to go back for three months! Unless, of course, someone calls him to report that I'm having problems with low blood sugar..."

You know what they say: If it's not one thing, it's your mother.

---

Fashionista (#333)

When Carrie, the twenty-two-year old, and I plan to appear in public together, I try to coordinate what I'm wearing with what she puts on. My last inclination in the world would be to do anything that might embarass her refined fashion sensibilities.

Yesterday she had a doctor's appointment and I planned to go with her. She put on jean shorts and a white sleeveless top. I followed her lead with jean capris and a blue t-shirt.

But then I noticed my new silk scarf sitting on the dresser, the one I got at my favorite store in the world, Victorian Papers. It's long and narrow, and printed with a period montage of Spencerian script (love letters, all), fountain pens, cancelled stamps of ages past, and postmarks.

I draped it around my neck and went to where she stood in front of my bathroom mirror. "Look at my scarf, Care. Isn't it so me?"

"Um, yeah," she said. "It's you all right." I glanced into the mirror and saw the tinge of panic in her eyes. "But you're not going to wear it..."

I began to loosely tie it in front, which only further accentuated the horror of the contrast between it and my well-worn t-shirt. "Sure I am," I said. "Don't you love it?"

"I do," Carrie answered, which translated means I don't. "But, Mom, it just doesn't go..."

I whipped the elegant accoutrement from my neck. "Just kidding!"

Carrie's shoulders dropped a full six inches and the terror left her face. And then my daughter spoke the line I treasure most, the one I couldn't wait to hear her say.

"Mom, don't do that! You scared me!"

---

Showers of Advice (#334)

I'm invited to several wedding showers this summer, at least one of which will be for Brooke, my son Scott's fiancee. Fun, huh?

I'm betting that before the summer's out, I will be called upon, along with millions of other shower-bound women, to give the bride a piece of salient advice on marriage.

You know the drill: "Never go to bed angry." "Communicate." "Squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom." And my personal favorite, "Never wash the fiberglass drapes in the same load with the underwear."

My least favorite piece of marriage advice, and one we followed religiously until we rebelled about a year ago: "Never have a TV in the bedroom." Guess what we found out? You can have a TV in the master bedroom and, just as if it was in any other room in the house, you don't have to turn it on! Who knew?

Help me out here, guys! (And girls, of course.) I want to win the shower prize for the best bit of advice! What's your favorite? Or do you have one you think is a stinker?

All advice appreciated!

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