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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

What Mom Said (#350)

I've been thinking about the conventional wisdom mothers pass down to their children, and how it can come back to bite you. Who would think that "Always remember to wear clean underwear, in case you're in an accident" could backfire?

I think so, that's who.

When Scott and Carrie were babies, I was the unwitting victim of a string of gastrointestinal disasters. My typical pattern was for horrible stomach cramps to set in, followed immediately by weakness, sweating, puking, diarrhea and--if God was particularly merciful--passing out.

The worst of these incidents occurred while I was at work one night, checking groceries. The cramps started but I valiantly tried not to abandon my check-out lane, which was filled with customers. When my co-worker let me know that no, the lights weren't dimming, I ran to the john.

That's about all I remember, until I awakened and Doug was there with me in the bathroom. The next time I came to, I was laid out on the cold concrete floor of the store's back room, and three paramedics--two men and a girl named Fiona, for whom I named a character in my novel without even realizing it until just now--worked feverishly to detect any blood pressure at all. (It would be three long hours before anyone could find a pressure. Seriously.)

While I slipped in and out of consciousness and the teenage boy sackers watched, the paramedics cut off my blouse, which had perfectly operable buttons, and sliced through the center of my brand new $2 bra, just for good measure. (Hey, do you think these events explain why so much of my blogging ends up being about underwear?)

Time passed. My temperature dropped. My lips and fingernails turned blue. My blood pressure stabilized at zero over zero.

The intensive care unit became my cocoon that night, and it was there my sisters visited me the next day, bearing gifts, of course. I opened the lingerie store box, not feeling quite up to lingerie, if I remember right.

"I thought you might need a new bra," Liz laughed. Funny girl, that Liz. I'd told her the humiliating story of being laid bare on the stone-cold storeroom floor, and she'd run with it.

Then I pulled out the matching panties. "Well," I said, struggling to recall the events of the previous night, "I love the set, but the paramedics only destroyed my bra."

"But I thought you said," Liz clarified, "that before the ambulance arrived, when you and Doug were in the bathroom and you couldn't stop passing out, you made him get you out of your ruined underwear and back into your jeans..."

My sisters and I put bra and unders together, and it wasn't pretty. When the paramedics unzipped my jeans to examine my abdomen, I was clearly sans panties, but at that very foggy time, I didn't remember removing them. I still wonder what they must have thought when I, a mother of two children, looked up at them and said, "It's a good thing I wore clean underwear."

At least, the highly trained medical professionals had the common decency not to laugh.

Have you had a piece of common parental wisdom turn on you? I've shown you mine (ouch!), now you show me yours.

BTW, I am hereby, with this blog entry, committed to leaving the subject of underwear behind.

---

Believers (#351)

Sunday nights were always the same at our house when I was a kid. Dad cooked steak on the grill winter and summer--rain, snow, or tornado.

One night just after I turned ten was different, though. Dad, who usually lingered at the table with a newspaper and coffee, was the first to finish and head for the TV room.

"Youse people get in here!" he shouted, his Scottish brogue thick. "You won't believe this!"

Mom and I and my two younger sisters ran in to find the Ed Sullivan show turned up full blast, and Dad pointing and laughing hysterically at the four mop-tops shaking their healthy manes.

Forty million people tuned in that night, and many of them--like my dad--never quite made the leap to "true believers."

But from the first moment we saw them, my sisters and I believed with all our hearts.

February 9, 1964. Forty years, and yet it seems like Yesterday.

---

Baby, Baby Talk (#352)

Doug and I occasionally eat breakfast at a geezer hangout not far from our place. It's the kind of joint that makes a great cup of plain old coffee, the kind of establishment where no one--waitresses, cooks, or customers--knows the meaning of the word barista.

When we're in one of those nobody can screw up eggs moods, this is where we go.

I'm observant enough to have realized that most of the patrons are old coots in farmer hats, that no women eat there without men accompanying them, and that couples are rare.

It's all geezers, all the time.

On some level, it had sunk in with me that all the waitresses were middle-aged, meaty bleached-blondes, whose nametags read Tammy or Rhonda. And while those features would have been sufficient to attract this restaurant's clientele, I'd never noticed the piece de resistance until the other day.

Rhonda sashayed our way with the coffee pot, from which Doug had already imbibed deeply, and started pouring.

"Honey," I said, keyed in to the fact that he was overdoing it on the caf, "you've had so much...."

"Oh, he's OK," Rhonda said. She leaned over, pursed her lips, filled his cup to the brim, and patted him on the hand. "He was a fursy boy."

She trotted off to the next geezer and I looked at my husband and said, "Did she just call you fursy?"

"Yeah," he said, pouting, "and I liked it."

I took a good look around and saw a dozen smiling geezers pulling out their wallets and plunking down hefty tips.

I gotta get me one of those name tags.

---

That’s Why She Makes The Big Bucks (#353)

Very small, very loud talk overheard in Starbucks on the Plaza, between a woman I came to realize was something called a Change Management Consultant, and her male client, the owner of an insurance agency. I ask you, Does this man sound like someone who is changing, much less someone who wants to have his change managed?

She: So, how have you been?
He: Good.
She: Wow! When did we see each other? After Thanksgiving?
He: Yeah.
She: So, things are going good? How have you been?
He: Fine, good.
She: Was Christmas good? How's your family?
He: They're good.
She: Wow, it's been so long. Was it before Thanksgiving? Was it Halloween? How have you been?
He: Good, good.
She: I'm glad you could make it.
He: Yeah. Sorry I'm late. I feel bad.
She: Oh, it's OK. But how have you been? Been busy?
He: Yeah. Really busy. I would have called.
She: So, what's been going on?
He: Not too much. Not much. Nothing.
She: You're feeling good? You look good.
He: Yeah. Pretty good.
She: Wow. So when did we last meet? It's been too long.
He: Yeah.

These are the types of overheard conversations that make me so happy I'm not a Change Management Consultant, or for that matter, a client.

---

Snow Day (#354)

"The baby's here," my mother said, "and it's a girl!"

Mom had left our house in a snow storm, alone. A taxi driver took her to Baptist Memorial Hospital. My father could not go with her--doctor's orders. He was recovering from his first heart attack, and the excitement might have been too much for him.

So my father and I and my two little sisters and one little brother spent a long day waiting by the phone, only five minutes away from my mother by car, stuck.

"Everyone gets to vote," Mom said, "Shall we name her Bridget Colleen, Bridget Maureen, or Valerie Jane?"

I still remember thinking how incredibly brave my mother was, to go to the hospital alone like that, facing what I was sure must be agonizing discomfort, with no husband pacing back and forth in the new fathers' waiting room, like men used to do.

Getting to vote on our baby sister's name was by far the most democratic event that had ever occured in our family. Hilarious glee broke out as we took the tally. I bet Mom could have heard us cheering even without benefit of an aqua princess phone.

Happy 37th Birthday, little Bridget Colleen! By the way, the vote was unanimous.

---

Book of Common Share? (#355)

Since we purchased a Sleep Number bed by Select Comfort a few years back, we haven't had a headboard--just queen-sized mattresses on a frame. I miss my antique Ethan Allen cannonball bed, but not my crummy mattresses.

When herniated disks and fibromyalgia set in, sacrifices must be made. Sigh.

A couple of weeks ago, we made up for our lack of a headboard with matching floor-to-ceiling bookcases. His and hers, one on each side of the bed.

There was a time when a peruser of our eclectic 1500 book collection might have imagined one or both of us to be multi-faceted, well-rounded readers. When we divided our books along party lines, the truth became evident.

His:
The Bible
A Brief History of Time (From the Big Bang to Black Holes) by Stephen Hawking
The Elegant Universe (Superstrings, Hidden Dimensions, and the Quest for the Ultimate Theory) by Brian Greene
Euclid's Window (The Story of Geometry from Parallel Lines to Hyperspace) by Leonard Mlodinow
The Quark and the Jaguar (Adventures in the Simple and the Complex) by Murray Gell-Mann
The End of Physics (The Myth of a Unified Theory) by David Lindley
The Last Three Minutes (Conjectures Avout the Ultimate Fate of the Universe) by Paul Davies
Icons of Evolution (Science or Myth?) by Jonathan Wells
The Genesis Question (Scientific Advances and the Accuracy of Genesis) by Hugh Ross
Anti-American Terrorism and the Middle East by Barry Rubin and Judith Colp Rubin
Church History in Plain Language by Bruce Shelley

Hers:
The Bible
Memoirs of a Misfit by Marcia Ford
Traveling Mercies and Bird by Bird, both by Anne Lamott
The Artist's Way and The Right to Write, both by Julia Cameron
Making a Literary Life by Carolyn See
How to Write a Damn Good Novel by James Frey
How the Irish Saved Civilization by Thomas Cahill
The Oxford Book of Ireland by Patricia Craig
Atkins for Life by Dr. Robert Atkins
The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club (True Tales from a Magnificent and Clumsy Life) by Laurie Notaro
The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands by Dr. Laura Schlessinger
Damn! Why Didn't I Write That? by Marc McCutcheon

No separate beds for us, but separate bookshelves? A dream come true.

---

Filing System (#356)

So I was talking to one of my dearest friends last night, a girl I met when we were just seventeen--and you know what I mean.

We spoke of Doug's mother moving into assisted living, and us beginning the endurance contest of going through the contents of the house she's lived in since 1970, sorting through an accumulation which is sure to include buried treasure, and so must be handled with care.

I had to share with my friend my kid's philosophy about the process we're facing.

"My son has already told me that when we croak, he's pulling a dumpster up and throwing everything out the window. And so I told him, well then. I hope the other two kids get to the gold coins before you show up."

My girlfriend, a woman who would enjoy being published some day and with whom I've shared a sensitive and confidential letter correspondence for our whole lives, was aghast, and for good reason.

"But some of my best writing is in your panty drawer!"

Message to my son: When we croak, A.F. has first crack at my panty drawer.

---

Two Little Words (#357)

I've always had a problem deciding which three little words are my favorite. Conventional wisdom would point a hopeless romantic in the direction of "I love you," of course. But what about the other three, "Let's eat out"?

If I never choose, I'm okay with that, because now I know what my favorite two little words are: "The End."

I've never in my entire life had more fun than when I just typed those words at the bottom of my manuscript. Getting the story published will be a blast, if it happens. But in my book, "The End" might end up being the biggest thrill of all.

---

Lapsed Blogger Checks In (#358)

It's been pointed out to me by my blogging little sister, Bridget, that I am not producing a quantity of blog entries consistent with my typical output. She is right, and I am sorry.

I am, however, working approximately twelve hours per day, eight days a week, on completing my first novel. I hope to have the disk in the mail on January 19. If I am a spotty blogger between now and then, please forgive me.

And make a few resolutions, on the off-chance that they will sink into your sub-conscious even if you lose the written copy, and affect your coming year in positive ways. It can't hurt, and it might help.

Last week, I found my resolutions for 2003, and was surprised to find I'd actually succeeded in several points. I exercised diligently for at least eight months of the year, a record for me. And I established an inviolable writing schedule, which has resulted in me being hired to edit three novels for others, and to complete my own book--all in all, a banner year.

A very Happy New Year to all my friends here at fallible.com. I treasure you more than you know.

---

Rattle, Rattle, Thunder, Clatter (#359)

Quote on writing by Katy Raymond, which she sincerely hopes other writers will wish they'd said first:

"When writing a novel for the Christian market, resist the urge to preach. Instead of asking 'What should this character do or say next?' force yourself to ask "What would he do or say next?' If you begin to write what should happen, don't worry. You'll recognize the gravity of your error soon enough. The death rattle of an expiring story makes a truly frightful sound."

---

Escape (#360)

My novel has its funny moments, which I hope are somehow inspiring. I read this today, and it struck me as right:

"Comedy is an escape, not from the truth but from despair; a narrow escape into faith."
--English playwright Christopher Fry

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Self-Talk (#361)

I don't think a day in the past eight months has started without me sitting down in front of my computer, staring at the screen, and saying out loud I can't do this.

In the past two months, I've added an addendum to my pathetic self-talk, and it is this: But I'm doing it.

I ran across a journal entry of mine from months ago, and thought I'd share it.

"I'm never going to feel competent to write a novel. My feelings of inadequacy are deep enough that I will have to write a book in spite of how I feel, and stop waiting for the day when my feelings change.

It may turn out that I really am inadequate to write a book, that I just don't have what it takes. The only way I'll ever know for sure is to push through the feelings and work my butt off.

Do I want to give up now? Because if I want to, I can. I can walk away and have a pleasant life doing absolutely...nothing.

I feel called to write, but so often I feel incapable of fulfilling the calling. What if I just skipped the whole thing?

How would I explain that to God when it's time to answer for my life?"

The early morning negative self-talk persists. But the novel is almost done.

---

Dance (#362)

I'm thinking if those graves weren't so shallow, 400,000 Iraqui citizens would be dancing in them right about now.

---

Holicraze (#363)

You know you're overindulging when, at the end of a long day of writing, snacking, and having the weird feeling that there's a creepy crawling thing inside your shirt, you remove your clothing and find a huge hunk of chocolate in your bra.

Sugar-free, of course, but still.

---

The Limited (#364)

With the gift-giving season fully upon us, I've been thinking about spending limits.

I overspend during the holidays. When the glitzy sales circulars start to circulate, I go and do likewise, making the rounds of stores with all the other crazies until I'm dizzy.

I won't admit how many dollars I might spend just getting warmed up for the main event. By the time I have a clear idea of what I intend to purchase for each person on my list, I'm a hot shopper with empty pockets.

"I figure we can spend x amount on each kid," I'll tell Doug when we're on the way to battle the crowds at Best Buy. What I don't exactly tell him is that I've already spent x and more at Kohl's, Old Navy, Barnes and Noble, and Target.

It's just that gift giving is so darn much fun.

What kind of joy must God the Father have felt when He personally delivered the best gift ever given, all wrapped up in that new baby smell?

One thing's certain. He'd never heard of spending limits.

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