Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Read more Katy at...
LateBoomer.net
Most Recent Posts
- Broke And Broker
- Share Wear
- Buy And Bail, Before It’s Too Late!
- On Bad Behavior And Bailouts
- Fair And Fallible Disclosure
- Classy Men
- Well, At Least I Was WEARING Panties!
- Switching Up The Rhetoric
- The Best Writers Conference Maybe Ever!
- Post Hurricane Ike
- The Mondegreen’s English
- Katy McKenna For President
- Unto The Third Generation
- Feelings, Something More Than Feelings……
- Eau de Sugar-Free Jello
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
The Troubles
Last night, Doug and I viewed the longest movie in all of creation.
I love staying home to watch movies. Going to the theater occasionally to see one we just can’t wait to partake of on DVD is fun, but usuallly, we can wait. And so, for the joy set before us--in this case, being propped up in our queen-sized bed in our jammies--we choose home.
The main draw is that we can stop the flick a couple of times for bathroom breaks and to refill the cheese and cracker plate without missing any of the show. Yesterday was my birthday, and there’s nothing better to celebrate an increasingly ominous occasion than snuggle time with a good flick.
So we put in Michael Collins, because for me an ever-refreshed memory regarding the events of the creation of the Free Irish Republic, which began in earnest in 1916, is always a good thing. And then there’s Liam Neeson, whose accent I could listen to from now until kingdom come. And Aidan Quinn’s blue eyes. Need I say more?
I didn’t say more until we’d been watching the film for upwards of 4.73 hours with no end in sight. Then I turned to Doug and said, “How long is this movie? Why can’t the bloody Irish just take down the British flag, raise the Republican flag, and call it a night?”
He picked up the DVD case and said, “It’s two hours, fifteen minutes long. Haven’t we been sitting here for half of what remained of our natural lives?”
So we did the math. One potty break, one beverage break, plus one additional bathroom and cashew break. All told, fifteen minutes worth of time with the remote on hold. What on eath was happening to us? The Irish Republic took less time to be formed, even if you counted the months the instigating rebels like Michael Collins spent behind bars.
And then it hit us. The phone calls. When we’re watching a movie, we tend to let calls go to voicemail, but we listen to our messages almost immediately as they come it, because of The Moms.
If you don’t know what it’s like having Moms Like Ours, well. In one way, I hope you are spared, but in another, I’d be happy to share the wealth. That’s how much I love you people!
My mother-in-law has taken up singing. Into the phone. She’s begun singing the name “Dooougg---lasssssss,” like a mom calling her grimy kid in at dusk. I can picture her ensconced in her recliner at the facility where she lives, industriously busying herself with her new hobby. If she could sing into her phone without it ending up as a message on our phone, I’d be cool with that. But...no.
Hearing her sing her only son’s name over and over defined the joy we experienced with Call Number Three. Another thing: She said, “It’s Mama....” as if she were identifying herself to a small child who’d forgotten his own mother’s voice. I have known her for 32 years or so, and I’ve never heard anyone call her Mama. Nor has she EVER called herself Mama. Usually she calls herself “Mother.”
Out of pure fascination, I replayed this message ad infinitum while gazing upon Liam’s stilled image on the screen across the room. I feared for the future of an Ireland which, it seemed, may be frozen forever under the icy thumb of the British Empire.
Calls Number One and Two, by the way, were hang-ups, occurring within 30 seconds of each other. That’s how we know that Doug’s mom is beginning a new calling rampage. Doug really hesitates to answer the phone, because of his mother’s hearing problems. Her hearing aids lose battery power at approximately the same rate she loses brain power, only she never recognizes the symptoms. Which leads us to Call Number Four.
“Hello!” Doug shouted into the phone. “HELLO! CAN YOU HEAR ME?? IT’S ME, DOUGLAS, YOUR SON!”
In the background, I said, “Hang up, Doug. She can’t hear you....” He hung up, and five seconds later? Call Number Five.
“Hello!” Doug shouted into the phone. “HELLO! CAN YOU HEAR ME?? IT’S ME, DOUGLAS, YOUR SON!”
“Hang up and call the nurse,” I said in the background. “Tell the nurse to go check your mother’s hearing aid and take care of whatever your mother needs.”
I know she needs something, because she always needs something. Something like her lost TV Guide or a fresh Depends. She doesn’t like to bother the nurses, though. She likes to call us.
Doug hung up and called the nurse, which technically counted as Call Number Six. Several minutes of movie viewing happened next, during which some feisty Irishmen were offed and the cause of independence was only marginally advanced, if that. I started sweating, worried that Liam didn’t have enough good years left to get the job done.
Call Number Seven came in, from the nurse in my mother-in-law’s room. “Everything’s fine now,” she said. “Adele is cold, so I turned up the furnace. That’s all she needed.” Then Doug heard the nurse say to Adele, “Why don’t you hold the phone up to your other ear and see if you can hear your son?”
Adele must have held the phone up to her better side, because she heard Doug reasonably well. She had nothing much to say. Just checking in on a Saturday night.
“This is Douglas, your son,” Doug said. “Can you hear me now?”
“I hear you fine,” she said, sounding awfully satisfied. “Now that I know how this thing works, I’m going to hang up and call you back...”
Poor, poor Ireland.
Some Stuff I’ll Never Want For Christmas
My idea of a truly lousy Christmas present is an item that is only advertised during the holiday season, and completely falls off the consumer radar screen for the remainder of the year.
Then, the next year, dang if it doesn’t make a comeback as clockworked as the McRib at McDonalds. (My father, dead lo these 24 years, loved the McRib. Even then, he’d get so mad when McDonalds pulled them off the market, only to bring them back a year or so later. But has McDonalds stopped jerking around their faithful McRib lovers? No, they have not...But I digress.)
Here’s an old Christmas chesnut I hope to never crack again. One year, when my dear mother obviously had run out of fresh ideas like bathroom scales (hint, hint...) for each of us newlywed couples, she gave us Chia Pets. This year, the company heavily promoted its Chia Herb Garden, which really really reminds me of a Chia Pet so much that I’m tempted to give up herbs altogether. And maybe vitamins and minerals, too, just for spite.
If I manage to escape receiving a Chia Herb Garden for my remaining Christmases, I still have to be alarmed about the possibility that this pesky item might be sprouting under some unsuspecting tree. Where on earth is a typical homeowner supposed to set up a contraption like this anyway? I’m pretty sure you have to buy kits from the AeroGarden company to fuel this high-dollar dirtless indoor salad grower, which makes the bags of pre-cut lettuce at Sam’s look awfully cheap. And space-saving, too.
I’m grateful not to have received either of these items this year, because if I had, I might have thought it a good thing to also be opening one of these puppies. You know, so that I could practice all the choreographed moves I’ve learned from a month’s worth of TV ads in which all the guys and gals at a holiday party grab their Dirt Devil Broom Vacs to clean up a Christmas mess. Did I mention my mother gave me one of these some years back? People! I have never owned a more worthless tool, and believe me, I’ve owned a few.
Vacuums suck and brooms sweep. The broom vac does neither. However, this year it comes in twelve designer colors, one sure to match the outfit of everyone at your party. So that’s something, eh?
Any Christmas gifts you are absolutely thrilled not to have received?
My First-Ever Christmas Letter!
To friends, family, and fallible readers,
“So you’re having second thoughts already?”
Our darling daughter Carrie, now age 25, couldn’t resist poking fun at me.
“Carrie, I have second thoughts about getting out of bed in the morning.”
“We all do that, Mom. But you made it seem to us kids like skipping college wasn’t an option. And now you’ve signed up, and you’re considering dropping?”
Darned if these adult kids of ours don’t have a lot of good points these days. This year has proven that in spades.
In January, our youngest son, Kevin, soon to be 23, came home from Switzerland for a ten-day visit. If you remember, he studied Hospitality Management and Business Administration in Montreux for ten months, finishing a Bachelor’s degree he started here in Kansas City.
It was almost great having him home. Would have been wonderful, really, if not for the whole jail thing. And then having to hire the high-dollar lawyer to push the case through the court system so that Kevin would be free to leave not only the state, but the country. If I remember right, he got picked up for expired plates the second night he was in town. (The stickers for the plates were in his glove box, where I’d placed them when I renewed the plates, but I’d forgotten to tell him that little detail. He also did not know that I had put his current proof of insurance in the same convenient spot.) But when the cops checked his ID, they saw there was a warrant out for his arrest, one that had just been issued the day before. Before he went to Switzerland, while working at a local hotel, he’d accidentally sold ciggies to a minor. I wonder how much minors get paid these days to be a part of a federal sting operation?
So they towed his car, I guess. It’s hard to recall things that happened nearly a year ago, especially when you try to put the grisly details out of your mind. They hauled him first to a local podunk jail, from which he used his one phone call to contact his dad, and then extradited him to the county prison.
The highlight of the evening was when Doug and Kevin held their hands up on opposite sides of the grimy glass, palm-to-palm. The low point was when Doug wrote the big, fat check.
The year improved dramatically after that. Our 28-year-old son, Scott, had his first book published. The title, Ajax On Rails, has nothing to do with fastidious cleaning junkies using abrasive powders to scrub railroad tracks. I’ve tried to read it, but--perhaps because of my propensity for postponing my college education--I don’t seem to have sufficient numbers of firing neurons to grasp the gist of it. It’s absolutely brilliant and I believe it rose to Number One on Amazon for a period lasting several seconds. (Someone correct me if I’m wrong...)
We hosted a book-signing party for Scott after Kevin’s unfortunate incarceration. Sometime during the evening, a guest pointed out the book’s lovely dedication, in which Scott had the wisdom and foresight to mention not only his beautiful wife, Brooke, but also both his parents by name. Even if that’s the only part of Ajax On Rails I ever understand, it worked for me.
A bunch of other stuff happened after that. A lot of it had to do with Carrie’s upcoming wedding, which occurred in June. Maybe a bunch of stuff didn’t happen, I don’t know. It could be that I had long, laborious lists of stuff that should be happening--if the bride and her family were doing things according to the schedule presented in Bride’s magazine--but which didn’t actually happen until approximately three hours before the guests showed up.
OK, that’s not fair. Carrie, who lived with us for nearly a year before her wedding, created the most darling of wall charts on a huge piece of poster board, which she attached to the back of her bedroom door with the kind of Scotch tape that doesn’t ever come off. I used to go up there and use the treadmill and obsess over that chart with its thousands of little squares meant to hold thousands of little check-marks of accomplishment, but were there any check-marks?
Carrie is now into her second year teaching special ed kids in the inner city. But at the time the wall-chart was drawn, she was furiously busy with her challenging career, her new Master’s degree program, her long-distance engagement to Marc, attempting to live with her parents after many years on her own, and planning a wedding. I was only busy worried about the missing check marks.
Kevin’s graduation in Switzerland was to occur two weeks before Carrie and Marc’s wedding, and honestly, we couldn’t afford to go. Besides, I’d be too nervous leaving the country with all those squares unchecked, you know what I mean? So we went. Made the decision almost at the very last minute, and I’m so glad we did. It was a whirlwind six-day trip, during which Doug and I took a panoramic train from Luzern all the way down to Montreux.
There’s nothing better for an evil case of jet lag than a nice train ride. We even drank coffee in the diner car! By the time we reached Kevin, we were coffeed up and ready to roll.
By the time the three of us got home again to Kansas City, Carrie had moved out and into her honeymoon apartment. She’d left the upstairs clean, so that Kevin could move directly in. We gave him two months to find some roommates and a job. He took an extra two weeks, which ain’t bad, huh?
We scrambled to finish all the wedding stuff, including plans to use both an inside room and the rooftop of the downtown Kansas City Library (formerly the historic First National Bank Building) for Carrie and Marc’s reception. At the eleventh hour, our new meteorologist son-in-law (everyone should have one!) agreed with us that we needed to move the whole affair indoors. The forecast was too iffy to take a chance on dancing on the roof, unless we wanted to spring for some of those attendants who hold umbrellas over individual couples.
You may be wondering about The Moms. They are both hanging on. Writing about them in a Christmas letter, though, would necessarily involve descriptions of falls and cognitive lapses and hazardous waste materials that would engage more of your senses than you probably want to devote at this time. Trust me on this.
Doug has begun recording some of the fantastic music he’s written over the years (some tunes his own children have never heard!), using ProTools software on the Mac. I’m so excited for him to work on this project in earnest. Maybe someday soon, fallible readers will have a chance to win a copy of Doug’s CD!
Doug and I are settling into the Empty Nesting thing for what seems like the last time. The doors have stopped spinning for the first season in many years. It’s a sad and happy feeling, the very essence of bittersweet. It’s a good thing we’re not only crazy, but crazy about each other.
And I am second guessing my life. But, for me, that’s what Advent is all about. It’s like a month-long mircrocosm of an entire lifetime of searching, seeking, questioning, and yearning.
This has been a tremendously busy and fulfilling year for the Raymond family. I could tell you some true tall tales you wouldn’t believe, but in the days leading up to Christmas, all the fairy tales and fish stories in the world can’t hold a candle to the Truth lying in a manger.
May the most wonderful true tall tale ever told still your hearts like snow falling in an open field. And may you never second guess His amazing love.
Christmas Cop-Outs
So yesterday I went to see Mom and noticed that someone had given her a small poinsettia. She refuses all Christmas decorations except the two Scottish Santas, which she displays year round, but I thought maybe she’d like the idea of a plant.
“Who gave you the poinsettia?” I asked.
“The banker that keeps a few hours in here on Tuesdays, where I have my little savings account.”
“Well, that was nice of her. I’ll just take the cellophane off so you can see it...”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t want to see it.”
Okay, then.
Today, as if he inherited my mother’s genes but with a more pleasant attitude, Doug’s Christmas cop-out tendencies kicked in. I was eager to decorate, so he dragged the fake tree up from the basement and set it in the corner of the living room, plugging it in as if THAT would solve the problem of the ages.
“Doug,” I called in to his office a few minutes later, “what exactly is meant by the term ‘pre-lit?’ All I know is there’s a clump of lights working on the top left, and another clump on the lower right. What are you planning to do about that?”
“Nothing.” Boy, did he remind me of my mother. Even though a thick wall separated us, I could see him barracading his chest with his arms. “I thought maybe we’d call it ‘artistic’ and just go with it.”
Can Christmas cop-out tendencies cross bloodlines? If so, I have reason to be afraid--very afraid.
In The Spirit!
The ice crashed from the trees on our three-acre lot all afternoon yesterday. You should have heard the cacophonous racket! There were actually warnings on TV to “watch for falling ice!” It’s a good thing most of it melted, since tonight we may end up with 4-8 inches of snow.
We’ve had a boatload of winter weather in December, so much so that retailers have likely suffered. It’s hard to carve out the time (and the driveway) between storms in order to do our duty to the Cash Registers of America.
Even so, I’ve managed to discover the single best gift EVER for the obsessive/compulsive guy (or gal) in your life. I ordered it on Amazon, had it delivered, and Doug and I used the last good weather day (11 days ago...) to test it out. What is Doug’s early Christmas present? A power washer!
If you are a homeowner, you seriously might want to consider plunking down $100 or so for one of these puppies. We now have many power washing extravaganzas planned for nice-weather-days to come, because we SO ENJOYED cleaning the garage.
Yes, folks, removing EVERY SINGLE ITEM from the abyss, power washing all surfaces both vertical and horizontal, and then returning (in a very extremely organized fashion) only those items which MAKE SENSE for our lives NOW is our idea of “decorating for the holidays.”
It’s sick, I know. And really, tomorrow the wreaths will be hung, the tree will be trimmed, and the mantle will be the happy bearer of garlands and ribbons and stockings galore.
But for today, we’re going to revel once more in a totally clean garage, in which we can house two cars who’ve spent their whole lives braving the elements. The poor dears.
Here are the pics to prove our diligence, and the fact that “getting in the Christmas spirit” means different things to different people.
This decluttering thing? It’s got me MAJORLY in the spirit! Now, get thee to the Home Depot and get your own power washer!
It’s really fun to use the focused stream of stinging water to calligraphy “Merry Christmas” into the big oil stain on the garage floor. That and some hot chocolate, and you’ll be sighing with contentment.
Happy SEVENTH Blogiversary To Me!
In honor of the day, I am posting again my very first post, this time with (ta-da!) pictures. Mary Beth, is--as you’ve probably guessed--the pixie cut. The picture of us with the corsages? That’s our joint 14th birthday party! My grandpa sent us the matching corsages--a first for both of us.
And now, for Fallible Post Number One:
 Mary Beth 1959  Katy 1959  14th Birthday | Today is my very first best friend’s birthday. We were five years old when we laid eyes on each other, in Mrs. Pendergast’s afternoon kindergarten class. Mary Beth was playing with the three-story doll house, which dwarfed her, and I was overwhelmed by her tinyness. I was a fragile girl myself, but being the oldest child in my family, I felt big. Mary Beth was the baby of five children, and looked and acted the part. We wore sturdy, navy blue, Catholic jumpers, starched white blouses, and impossibly cumbersome black-and-white saddle oxfords. Mary Beth’s minuscule body was lost in these symbols of sameness, but her sparkling expression was anything but uniform. I thought she was delightfully different. Suddenly, this little living doll was tip-toeing toward me, happily interrupting my project involving a huge sheet of manilla paper and a virgin box of eight perfect crayons. And there, trailing around, behind and beside her left clod-hopper was a 24-inch long shoelace, which threatened to be her undoing. And then, she spoke. “Can you tie my shoe for me?” Could I? Interruptions like these were to become the essence of our childhood union. Best friends like Mary Beth are forever calling when you’re doing your homework, or coming over when you’re supposed to be washing the dishes. She’ll want to exchange gifts when you’re supposed to be at Christmas Eve Mass, and talk about boys while you’re watching Ozzie and Harriet. |
When she’s grown older and less self-absorbed, she begs you to dump your English pen-pal and start writing to her big brother Vinnie, who’s in Vietnam, so he won’t be lonely. A first best friend doesn’t happen often, but she happens with an unmistakeable audacity. Happy 47th Birthday, Mary Beth! You can interrupt me anytime.
Blogging With The Stars
All I had to do was get a REAL comment from the very REAL Peter Walsh (star of “Clean Sweep” and author of “It’s All Too Much") and suddenly all the stars want a piece of me.
Maybe they’re jealous of Peter, I don’t know. But I’m starting to understand how they must feel getting chased by the paparazzi when they’re in their scuzzy sweats and make-up-less. There’s no where to hide from the rich and famous here on fallible! I’m breathless from trying to escape the attention.
Some recent visitors in the comments section include Natalie Portman, Nicole Kidman (twice just this morning!), Hugh Jackman, Lindsay Lohan, Adam Sandler, and Angelina Jolie.
I’m not complaining, but I gotta say I keep waiting for George Clooney, and so far? Nothing.
Any of the rest of you getting lots of visits from the stars?
Fallible Winners, Send Me Your Addresses!
Some weeks ago, I wrote a post called “Reader’s Choice,” in which I asked for your ideas about what to post. Yeah, I get desperate sometimes, and you guys are great at bailing me out!
I’ve chosen three commenters to receive a vintage Christmas album called “Let Us Go To Bethlehem.” This CD--recorded in a basement by Marc Haney and friends--includes narration, singing, and instrumentation by none other than Doug Raymond, circa 1974. Guaranteed to please, fresh off the CD press. The winners are: Anna, Carrie K, and Joshua.
Then, a few days back, I asked for recs of Christmas books, movies, and music, promising a CD to a randomly chosen commenter. Melodyrose is the winner!
If you four would send me your postal addresses, I’ll get your Christmas cheer in the mail to you! Congratulations!
Peter Walsh Rules!
OK, I’m going to indulge in a bit of Friday night hero worship. Of course, you all know Doug is my main man in the hero department, but sometimes, I gotta tell ya’, other guys step up.
On my post entitled “Shock and Awe,” in which I describe the wonderful effect Oprah’s episodes about hoarding and de-cluttering have had on me, I mentioned Peter Walsh and his great work with the couple on the show.
Guess what? He left a comment on that post! He’s just motivated me to take another pass at the linen closet! :)
I love Peter’s book “It’s All Too Much,” and won’t be ridding myself of it in any purging process in the near or distant future. Now I’m looking forward to his next release, “Does This Clutter Make My Butt Look Fat?”
Um...clutter may not be completely responsible, but it sure doesn’t help!
Thanks for the encouragement to straighten up and fly right, Peter. I owe you, big time.
So I Posted That Last Post, Which Led Directly To Posting This Post
Brandy commented on my previous post that I needed to avail myself of the Christmas music of Andrew Peterson. I assured her I would do just that.
While thinking about Christmas music, I decided I’d better dig out those tickets Doug and I purchased for a concert at our church and put them in my purse, since the event’s tonight. Way to get those neurons firing, eh?
So then I actually LOOKED at the tickets, beyond just to see what time the doors open. I mean, I actually read the names of those performing. Here is what my ticket says:
“Behold the Lamb of God: The TRUE tall tale of the Coming of Christ. A concert with Andrew Peterson and special guests Sara Groves, Andrew Gullahorn, Bebo Norman, Andrew Osenga, Jill Phillips, and more.”
So, Brandy! Amazing, wouldn’t you say? Here you mention a musician I know NOTHING about, and it turns out I’ve got tickets to see him tonight!
How cool is that?
Reading, Watching, Listening
I plan to spend a fair amount of time this Christmas season curled up with a good book (or movie) and a cuppa something yummy.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read A Christmas Carol during December. And while Doug did not love John Grisham’s Skipping Christmas, I got a huge kick out of it and read it almost every year.
Of course, I can’t survive the holidays without a viewing of It’s A Wonderful Life. Even if I could survive, it would feel wrong.
Now I’d like your suggestions. Any books or movies that have become traditional Christmas fare for you?
Weigh in with your fave Christmas music, too. I’ll share mine: A lovely album called “Let Us Go To Bethlehem,” by Marc Haney and friends. One of the “friends” happens to be Doug Raymond, my favorite musician and singer in the whole universe. This vintage album was recorded in (I think) 1974, but is one for the ages.
I will randomly choose a commenter to receive a CD of “Let Us.” It’s sure to become one of your very own holiday treasures!
Shock And Awe
It’s been two full weeks since Oprah aired her episodes about the hoarding couple. Two full weeks since I witnessed Peter Walsh, who wrote “It’s All Too Much,” go through that house with a nit-picking comb, subjecting himself to a fungal infection that spread from his leg up to his scalp.
If you could see the transformation that has taken place in our home since those fateful episodes, well. You’d be proud, and maybe even motivated. We should have taken pictures, but the idea of looking at the pictures seemed very overwhelming at the time. And I didn’t need anything else to feel overwhelmed about!
It’s been well-established by now that hoarding--which of course occurs across a spectrum of severity--is a type of obsessive/compulsive disorder. As hoarders go, I’m not bad. Really, I’m not.
Much of my hoarding seems to be related to my image of myself as some kind of benevolent Earth Mother. I can’t begin to describe the amazing preparations I made for Y2K, and more recently for the possibility of a bird flu epidemic. OK, now you all think I’m nuts, but I’m reasonably certain most of you had arrived at that conclusion already, so what have I lost by being honest? :)
The thing is, I’m getting a little old for the Earth Mother role. I’m ready to hang my hopes for survival on someone much younger and more energetic than I am. Don’t worry, though. If I end up at your house in the case of a disaster either God or man made, I promise to bring the few paltry items of sustenance and OTC meds I haven’t pitched by then. I may even have a blanket to spare, and one of those crank radios.
Beyond that, I’ll expect you to have stored up enough food, water, rechargeable batteries, generator fuel (you do have a generator, right?),bedding, gasoline, and unground wheat to last until kingdom come. Just remember, I would have done it for you, even though--as it ends up--I didn’t.
But this isn’t about you. It’s about Doug and me, and how we are freeing ourselves from junk. So far, we’ve made two runs to the Goodwill, with a station wagon absolutely loaded. This weekend, we’ll pack the station wagon with the third full load of pure trash. (Wow, an oxymoron, wouldn’t you say?) In addition, we’ve listed many large and heavy items on Craigslist, though we haven’t had any luck with those yet.
Our final steps will be to rid ourselves of all the chemical waste in the house, garage, and basement--paint, and everything else that falls into that category. Then, whatever we can’t sell on Craigslist or give away through Freecycle, we’ll have hauled out of here.
I know how hard it is to do this level of dumping when you still have kids in the house. During the summer of 2006, when both Carrie and Kevin moved all their things back in, I realized it would be fall of 2007 before we’d be able to make much of a dent. We were cool with that.
But here’s the deal: If you miss your window of opportunity to get rid of it, it may not come again. Both of our mothers were young widows (around my age), and once our dads died, all bets were off.
Both ladies continued to accumulate junk until the day we had to shovel them out of their homes and into assisted living. Their homes became way too much for them to manage by themselves, especially since they both tended toward being, let’s just say, packrats.
I am so grateful Doug can help me with this. I do not have the type of brain that can easily make decisions about what to let go of and what to keep. I tend to justify holding onto things because I got “such a good deal,” whether I ever actually loved or needed the items at all.
I also tend to consider myself the protectress of Other People’s Stuff. I have purchased furniture at garage sales when the owner mentioned that the piece had originally belonged to her grandmother. By golly, if the granddaughter wouldn’t honor her own grandma by hanging onto her couch, then I would! Because that’s the kind of granddaughter I am!
By Christmas, we’ll be done with this gigantic purge. It will feel so good that I won’t need another gift to celebrate the season.
If you can’t resist getting me something, promise me it won’t be anything I’ll have to pay big bucks to have carted off. Or anything that belonged to Someone Else’s Grandma.
Black Friday--Deal Or No Deal?
I don’t do Black Friday. I just don’t.
It’s a matter of principle, really. The principle is that I’m very extremely short, or at least it sure feels that way when I’m surrounded by giants cramming their way through a store’s door. The air down here gets awfully thin, and I tend toward hyperventilation. I’m afraid the rushing, crushing throngs will pop the lunch bag I use to manage my breathing, and that would be a true crisis, don’t you think?
I did try a bit of Amazon Black Friday shopping, though. One item interested me. It went on sale at precisely 8 am, and the sale ended at 9 am. One whole hour of leisurely online shopping. I poured a cuppa and waited for 8 am. Clicked “buy” the second the clocked rolled over the time. Too late! The item had already sold out.
On a lark--since I have to go up into town to the bank and post office--I asked Doug to call Westlake Hardware about an advertised power washer we could REALLY use to clean all the newly exposed surfaces of our garage floor and basement floor, not to mention our expansive front porch and our house’s siding.
The store had ONE power washer--the display model without a box--and they AREN’T offering rain checks! I think this is a bizarre policy for a store to have on ADVERTISED day-after specials, especially when retailers claim their whole year’s bottom line rests largely on this one day.
Ah, well. I remember now why I don’t do Black Friday. But I’m curious. Did you venture out, or online? Any luck actually getting what you went for? See any brawls break out?
I’ll give the frenzy a couple days to die down, and then take a run at it. Frenzy and I just don’t get along well. It SURE doesn’t make me feel in the holiday spirit--whatever that is.
If you can define “holiday spirit,” I’d like to know about it. Does it have ANYTHING to do with Black Friday? I’m thinking it’s GOT to be something else altogether, something that doesn’t involve sleep deprivation, fisticuffs, and surliness. And really awful Christmas music.
What do you think?
As Always, Less Is More
It was brought to my attention by a number of thoughtful readers that they weren’t able to access fallible for several days. Sure enough, I couldn’t access it, either! I think the problem is fixed now. Leave me a comment if you missed me!! :)
Ever since last weeks’ Oprah episodes on Thursday and Friday, I have been on a decluttering rampage. Doug is joining me in my renewed mission to make sense of, manage the quantity of, and be good stewards over our possessions.
On Sunday, we took two loads (in our small station wagon) of trash down to the street. Plus, I hauled one enormous load (barely room for my purse in the car!) to Goodwill. Here’s a tidbit I found fascinating: I got to Goodwill, and the person receiving donations came out to the car to help me.
“Are all these things being unloaded HERE?” she asked.
I figured one look in my car would tell her the answer. It was obvious I hadn’t been shopping. No bags from Kohl’s or WalMart or Target were mixed in among the giveaways.
“Um...yes?” I said.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m not sure we’ve got room.”
I stepped into the warehouse and was shocked. In all the years I’ve been donating to this store, I have NEVER seen the warehouse so excruciatingly full. It looked like the lady’s house which was featured on Oprah! Only narrow paths between mounds of boxes and bags, stacked so high I felt frightened for my very extremely short self.
How we managed to add my carload to that warehouse full, I have no idea. We were throwing the lighter weight items onto the top of the heap and hoisting the heavier ones as high as we could, wedging them into whatever crevice happened to make itself available.
It occurred to me on the way home that half the people in the country saw Oprah’s show about drowning in clutter, and got the message--at least to the point that they made one run to Goodwill. What tipped me off was that the employee said ALL the donations in that enormous warehouse had come in THAT DAY. Unbelievable.
I will get back to posting after the holiday. Until then, may you have much--or even less--to be thankful for! I know I do.
Oprah!
You guys! I don’t watch Oprah often, but I am Tivoing yesterday and today’s episodes.
If you are at all interested in the subject of too-much-clutter, compulsive shopping, hoarding, and being owned by your possessions, you have got to see these episodes. If you aren’t able, go to Oprah’s websites and click through the photos.
You know what fascinates me most about this empty nesting couple? The wife didn’t begin compulsive shopping and hoarding in earnest until her first child flew the coop. When the second left, things got worse. By the time the final child exited, she didn’t know how to cope with the loss. Then, in the last couple years, as two of her own siblings died, things accelerated even more, until by now she and her husband could not sleep in the same bed because THERE WASN’T ROOM.
I am endlessly intrigued with this subject, since--as you know--I’m on a never-ending mission to downsize the number while upgrading the quality of our possessions. I have a friend who used to have regular garage sales in which she unloaded her antiques and other truly valuable items for a song, while holding onto all her crap. I was mystified by her faulty logic, and I think I always have her in the back of my thinking as I work my way through our own junk.
Unlike the lady on Oprah, though, I’ve gotten a little more free of the need to hang onto stuff as the months and years go by. Still, I know I tie too much of my identity to being able to snag a great bargain, even if I have no use for it whatsoever. These days, I enjoy shopping for baby outfits marked down to within an inch of their lives. When they go below a certain pre-set price, I purchase them and donate them to a local ministry. I get to experience the thrill of the hunt while making a real difference to some needy parents.
It took a team of one hundred professionals EIGHT WEEKS, under the direction of Peter Walsh, to deal with the scores of TONS of junk in this couple’s house.
If it would take a miracle to deal with yours, don’t miss these episodes!!
