New Math

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?

Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/19/08
(5) Fallible Comments • Permalink

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.

Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/16/08
(10) Fallible Comments • Permalink

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.

Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/13/08
(5) Fallible Comments • Permalink

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.

Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/06/08
(26) Fallible Comments • Permalink

My Favorite YouTube Ever

Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/05/08
(9) Fallible Comments • Permalink

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.

Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/04/08
(7) Fallible Comments • Permalink

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!!

Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/01/08
(2) Fallible Comments • Permalink

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.

Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/26/08
(10) Fallible Comments • Permalink

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.

Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/25/08
(1) Fallible Comments • Permalink

You Asked For It, You Got It

Quite a while back, several of you agreed that you’d like to read the story of Katy’s Most Embarrassing Moment. One reader, Mary Anne (whom I’ve known since earliest childhood...), felt certain that the moment involved St. Joseph’s Hospital, circa a really long time ago.

Bingo! We have a winner! I’m not sure Mary Anne was specific enough in her guess, however, as I have actually endured COUNTLESS embarassing moments at or approaching the premises of St. Joseph’s Hospital, including but not limited to the time my doctor asked if he could invite a roomful of medical students to observe while he examined me.

Not being completely in my right mind (like THAT surprises you!), I said yes, amiable sort that I am. Back in the day, medical students were almost exclusively men. In this case, they were all men. About 17 of them, if I remember right. Why I imagined Dr. Barnett was just going to demonstrate to the fellows how to use a blood pressure cuff, I have no idea.

Before they finally exited my room, I knew the full meaning of “semi-private.” Those guys had seen things my husband had only imagined. But I digress.

My very most embarrassing moment occurred when I was, as Billy Crystal would say, only mostly dead.

During my twenties, I had...episodes. Honestly, a diagnosis of my condition was never arrived at, and remains a mystery to this day. I would, for no apparent reason, have a sudden onset of terrible diarrhea and throwing up. A red rash covered my body, my lips turned white, and my extremities turned blue, making quite a fashion statement as they matched my eyes. Then my eyes rolled back in my head and closed as I fainted dead away, making the stunning color coordination much less impressive.

I guess I had a seizure disorder of some kind, I don’t know. Doug witnessed me having these attacks, and they involved foaming at the mouth, rigidity, and sometimes an apparent absence of breathing, which freaked him out a little.

Anyway, this one night it all came down while I was checking groceries at Thriftway. I’d left two crying babies at home, which had me a bit stressed out, and then I’d gotten chewed out by the manager for taking a customer’s bad check. I started feeling iffy and asked the girl at the next counter if the lights were dimming.

“Um...no,” she said.

“I’ve got to run to the back,” I said, leaving a line of customers behind. I recognized the numbness in my hands and feet as the definitive sign that, for me, something good was NOT about to happen.

I hung out in the bathroom for a while, but then came to my senses enough to realize I had to call Doug to come get me. After I used the pay phone to call home, things got dicey fast. He packed up the children and brought them to the grocery store (they’d already been put to bed), where (fortunately) he saw a friend of ours and handed the kids over.

By the time he found me in the bathroom, I had probably passed out and come to several times. I would regain consciousness just long enough to...um...use the facilites and then lose it again.

He tried to get me up and walking, thinking maybe he could get me home, but even at 117 pounds, my dead weight was too much for him. So he used that pay phone to call an ambulance.

I had one, and I mean ONLY ONE, lucid moment before the ambulance arrived. During that moment, I realized that while I’d been passed out, I had made a terrible mess of my underwear.

“Doug,” I said, with the last ounce of decorum I possessed, “you’ve got to help me. Get these jeans off of me, throw away my underwear, and get the jeans back on me.”

No sooner did the words leave my mouth, than I passed out again. My dear husband, though, did my bidding. Of course, I had no memory of it the next time I rallied for thirty seconds. The paramedics arrived and laid me out like a corpse on the cold concrete floor of the back room. They cut through my (cute) shirt, which had perfectly operable buttons, and my (new) bra, the likes of which I wouldn’t be able to afford for another year. I mean, how often does a broke chick come by ninety-eight cents?

One of them attached electrodes to my chest while the others kept taking turns trying to get a blood pressure reading. They decided their equipment must be faulty, since I had no discernable blood pressure, and how could THAT be?? Just in case it was me and not the equipment, though, they kept exchanging dire looks like they were worried they had a catastrophe on their hands.

Did you know a chick can talk with no blood pressure? No discernable blood pressure for THREE HOURS?

As a dreadful case of hypothermia (whether from the concrete floor or my own near-death condition, I don’t know. Only God knows...) set in, the paramedics continued to hack away at my remaining clothing. The one called Fiona (yes, I remember her name...) unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans so they could do...whatever.

And that’s when Chatty Katy kicked back in with the line that will haunt my floozy self for the rest of my days.

“Good thing I remembered to wear clean underwear.”

People!! I had totally forgotten that Doug had removed my ruined underwear! And I’m pretty sure, when I made the classic underwear crack that EVERYONE makes when they end up in an ambulance, I WINKED at a couple paramedics!!! (And I ain’t talkin’ Fiona.)

It wasn’t until several days into my two-week hospital stay, when my sisters brought me a gift of a new bra and matching panties, that I regained any cognizance of these events.

“I remember they cut off my bra,” I said, “but why are you bringing me panties?”

“Don’t you remember telling the paramedics that it was a good thing you wore clean panties?”

“Yeah...”

“Well, you told us Doug had taken them off...”

The moral of this story, dear readers, is to NOT DO THE STUFF I’VE DONE! And when in any doubt about the location and condition of your panties, just play dead.

Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/24/08
(8) Fallible Comments • Permalink

Out Of The Mouths Of Wives

We recently moved our retirement account from an online brokerage firm to a company with local advisors. I guess we figured we needed a bit more guidance than, well...none.

Since hooking up with this new company, though--and through no fault of our advisor’s, by the way--the market has taken a precipitous drop. Our balances have done likewise.

So today, we ran in to our investment advisor and his wife at the post office.

“Hey, it’s you,” I said, in as light a tone as I could manage. Even If I am somewhat disenchanted with our fledgling relationship, I wouldn’t want him to think I was about to go postal on him. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about our money...”

I thought maybe he’d spout a bit of timeworn advice like “This looks like a great buying opportunity...” or maybe “We’re going to need to keep a long-term perspective.”

But no, his lips were sealed. Instead his wife spoke up with the most funny money line I’ve heard in a long time.

“Hope you’ve got a lot of it!”

Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/16/08
(3) Fallible Comments • Permalink

Books, Glorious Books!

The delightful Mary DeMuth, herself the author of both fiction and non-fiction of the life-changing variety, has tagged me to play along with a book meme, and I cannot resist.

1. One book that changed your life.

“Dr. Atkins’ Diet Revolution.” (Hey, the meme didn’t specifiy we had to choose fiction titles!) It’s been eight years since I ate any sugar, and my life has changed completely. For the better. And the skinnier, too!

2. One book that you have read more than once.

“Trinity” by Leon Uris. An epic about the Irish struggles over many years, heavily based in fact. Fantastic storyteller, Uris. I remember my father reading this in the ‘70s, and now I own two copies of it. Who knows but what I might wear one out and need another? :)

3. One book you would want on a desert island.

My French Bible. It’s perfect for wiling the hours away, languishing over a solitary phrase and mining it for meaning, or even an approximation of an accurate translation! Also, “My Utmost for His Highest,” by Oswald Chambers, or any excellent daily reading/devotional. While I’m not a fan of devotionals per se, if they are theologically sound and spiritually challenging, I love them. Plus, on that desert island, they sure would help me keep track of how many days had passed since I’d gotten stuck with only Wilson to talk to.

4. Two books that made you laugh.

I am a lifelong fan of anything by Erma Bombeck. And Dave Barry. As some of you will remember, I met Dave and had our affectionate encounter photographed. It was truly a highlight of my life. Maybe that doesn’t say too much for my life, but after that, I could honestly die happy.

5. One book that made you cry.

“My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult. A story replete with complicated and fascinating family dynamics and an ending to die for. Literally.

6. One book you wish you’d written.

“What To Expect When You’re Expecting” or any of its subsequent incarnations. Can you say Cash Cow? If anyone has any fantastic ideas I could develop that would set me up for life, let me know!

7. One book you wish had never been written.

I remember starting Jonathan Franzen’s “The Corrections” and just having an eeeeky feeling while reading it. I thrive on dysfunction as much as the next chick, but enough is enough. Could not get that novel out of my life fast enough.

8. Two books you are currently reading.

“For Better Or For Worse” by my good friend Diann Hunt, and “The Year of Living Biblically” by A.J. Jacobs.

9. One book you’ve been meaning to read.

“A Steadfast Surrender” by my darling buddy Nancy Moser. I have an entire shelf dedicated to her books, all of which she’s signed for me. HOW, I ask you, have I neglected to read this one? Ah, well. These things happen.

How about you? If you post on your own blog, leave a comment here with a link. It’ll be fun to see your answers!!

Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/13/08
(11) Fallible Comments • Permalink

An Open Letter To All The Remaining Literary Agents I’ve Not Yet Contacted

Dear Literary Agent,

If you think I haven’t read your blog, you’re wrong. I thought I’d clear that up right away. I am so diligent, I’ve even delved into the archives, perusing entries from as long ago as two weeks. I know what you’re looking for in a client even better than you do. In fact, because I am such a devoted student of your career, writings, and personal life, I feel I can say without a doubt that I am your next dream author.

How am I so sure? I am glad you asked!

For one thing, you’ve very clearly expressed your preference for having “good writing” sent your way. I’m betting your definition of good writing is the same as my mom’s, which means I’m in luck. Attached is the only scene I’ve slapped together so far. After you read it (get a move on!) and I’ve agreed to be represented by you, I will gladly crank out the rest of the novel. It could take a while, though. I am currently in communication with many notable agents, and I feel certain you’ll realize that these relationships represent a considerable time commitment on my part.

In addition, submitting a proposal for a book I haven’t gotten around to writing would be a giant waste of my time, as I am sure you will agree.

Second, you have indicated you don’t want to sign any high-maintenance, best-seller wannabes. I can assure you that I’ve never personally obtained a pedicure (photos availble upon request). Also, I can produce yellowed postcards from both my dentist and OB/GYN verifying that I am nine years behind in my supposedly annual (ha!) check-ups. NO WAY am I high-maintenance! If you’ll either call me on my cell or email me within fourteen minutes of receiving this--as you should if you are truly the professional you profess yourself to be--we can discuss this point until I’m satisfied that you understand.

Third, you state that any client you take on must have a platform already in place. Bingo! We have a winner! I have been an active blogger for seven plus years, during which time I have chronicled with sterling clarity my aging mother’s propensity for swearing like a drunken Marine (no worn-out cliches here, baby!) as well as her advancing incontinence. Google my stats and you’ll see I now have six regular readers, half of whom have agreed to be sent free copies of my first book.

Finally, you say you are seeking authors who seem unlikely to end up one-hit wonders. While I’d prefer NOT to promise you the moon until my staggering work of heartbreaking genius reaches the top of the NYT list, I think it’s pretty safe to say there’s PLENTY more wherever that first scene came from.

In conclusion, I am absolutely brimming with potential, just the way you like ‘em.

I look forward to hearing from you soon. Very soon.

Best regards,
Katy McKenna
http://www.fallible.com

Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/09/08
(8) Fallible Comments • Permalink

How To Know For Sure That You’re Old

All my life I’ve heard people say that you’re only as old as you feel, and honestly, I just don’t get that.

I mean, I hear ancient women proclaiming that hey, they may be 99, but they FEEL 29. I personally didn’t think 29 was anything to brag about. I’ve felt better at many subsequent ages than I did during my twenties, and what’s the big deal about freezing age at 29, anyway? It’s overrated.

My mother-in-law (who, along with my mother, forms the pair affectionately known as The Moms) is about to turn, I think, 87. It doesn’t matter anymore whether I know how old the gal is. SHE believes, and advertises, that she is 63. Why should I think otherwise?

My own mother, a youngster at nearly 78, is quite accurate when asked by the paramedics (which just happened during our last ER run on Thursday night) how old she is. I don’t know, though, whether how old she FEELS might be affected by what year she imagines it to be. What asked THAT question, she came up with an unequivacable “1908.”

(By the way, if I just spelled unequivacable wrong, bear with me. I ain’t getting any younger here.)

I understand the 1908 answer. Really, I do. When you’re born in 1930 and everyone in your family tends to die rather young, I suppose you don’t think you’ll ever be asked a question that requires an answer in the next millenium. Besides, by the time we got to the hospital and the doctor asked her the same question, she succinctly spat out, “2-0-0-8.” So there.

The Moms are aging, that’s for sure. And none too gracefully, if you ask me. But what do I know? I’m just a young whippersnapper, right? You do know that 54 is the new 37, don’t you?

Monday was Doctor Day for Mom. I managed to get her back and forth by myself, but it wasn’t easy. It involves transferring her from a wheelchair to my car (she’s 6” taller and weighs 80 pounds more than I do), hoisting the chair into the back, pushing the chair up steep ramps, leaving her tapping her foot while I run back out to park the car, and then...well, lather, rinse, repeat.

I worked up a bad enough sweat that by the time I got home, I needed another shower. But that’s not the worst part. The worst is that Mom noticed and couldn’t stop mentioning that I talk to myself. A lot.

I don’t do it all the time, but when I’m juggling the Mama, filling out a million forms, praying a kind stranger will appear out of no where and open the door for us, and trying to answer the doctor’s questions about the history of Mom’s urinary tract infections while getting her urinary tract completely confused with my mother-in-law’s, yeah. I talk to myself.

When she heard me say, “Grab Mom’s purse from the back seat,” she brought it up. Later, when I muttered, “OK, Katy, you put her name as the party responible for payment, not yours...” she gave me one of those looks and said, “You’re doing it again.”

On the way home, remembering previous doctor runs, I guess I must have said out loud, “She probably wants a chili cheese dog with extra onions from Sonic...” because Mom blurted out, “You’re getting old!”

Like boomers everywhere, I can congratulate myself on my perennial youth all I want. Apparently, I’m still with-it enough to know when I’m busted.

Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/09/08
(8) Fallible Comments • Permalink

Following In His Path

So yesterday I didn’t exactly ask the Lord for a word for the year 2008. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not overly brave and I am subject to both flights of fancy and great leaps of misinterpretation.

But I did go ahead and choose a word that I thought might help me focus on the little (and big) ways God is involved in my life on a daily basis. I mean, I don’t want to miss Him in action, when I’m certain that He’s here with me every day, directing my paths according to His purposes for me.

The word I’ve chosen is Serendipity. I prayed and told the Lord that I wanted to see every event, every chance meeting with another person, and even every difficult circumstance as if He were right there with me in the middle of it--because, of course, He is. All I need to do is keep my eyes open and pay attention.

Right before Christmas, I did something awfully impulsive. I signed up for a full-time semester at a local university, as a psych major. Classes were scheduled to start tonight, and would have been intensive and compressed into 8-week sessions, rather than the typical 16-weeks. In fact, before the first session, I would have needed to read a couple hundred pages of text and to have written four 1000-word essays.

I realized I’d bitten off more than I could chew, and that I’d probably done it in reaction to my current frustration trying to break into publishing fiction. By Christmas I’d decided to drop the classes, but the business office wasn’t open until today.

Doug went with me because, man, those books were heavy! Plus, to drop classes and return my books I had to visit three different far-flung buildings, walking in the freakish cold on icy sidewalks.

Some people don’t look down when they walk, and they say to develop optimum balance it’s better to look straight ahead. But that’s the thing: My balance was negatively affected when I had brain surgery eight years ago and has never been the same since. Yeah, yeah. I know the balance nerve on one side of your head will theoretically compensate for the severed nerve on the other side, but I’m just sayin’, theories don’t always pan out.

So we’re walking along, our collective teeth chattering in time to our shoes crunching the ice, when I--the one who’s looking down--say, “What IS all this?”

Doug peers at the sidewalk, small stretches of which are cleared, and says, “It looks like...”

“But it CAN’T be,” I say. “There so MUCH of it. How many animals would it take to produce that volume of--”

“Sh....eesh,” he says.

“Um...ya think?” I say. “Why can’t they REMOVE it? It would be bad enough to slip on the ice, but I’d hate to have to sue for slipping on ice-encrusted, um...you know.”

That’s right. Thousands of the...items...were enshrouded in transparent ice, like caterpillars unfortunately never destined to become butterflies.

Doug danced something of an Irish jig in a nearly futile attempt to avoid...stuff. I--who had managed to leave the house in shoes with lots of openings and NO SOCKS--begged God that a combination of my iffy eyesight and my challenged balance would somehow see me through.

That’s when the truth hit me, with as strong a sense of serendipity as I’ve ever known. Going to school full-time right now would be a s----y path for my future. Literally.

Balance is overrated. Looking down while I’m strolling along the path of life? It works for me.

Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/02/08
(7) Fallible Comments • Permalink

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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Read more Katy at... LateBoomer.net Most Recent Posts New Math International House Of…..Watch Out! Have Yourself A Merry Little Colonoscopy! Spell Check You Are Not Alone Don’t Know Much About The Big Three Why, Oh Why Didn’t I Take Home Ec? Really, Really Fun While It Lasts! In Defense Of Good Old-Fashioned Books Things I’ve Said That I’m Happy Someone Else Didn’t Say First, One In An Ongoing Series Of Several Do Depression Meds Work For This? The T-Shirt Off Our Backs For The Fallible Record Long Time, No Blog Droppin’ Gs Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	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? Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/19/08 (5) Fallible Comments • Permalink 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. Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/16/08 (10) Fallible Comments • Permalink 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. Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/13/08 (5) Fallible Comments • Permalink 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. Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/06/08 (26) Fallible Comments • Permalink My Favorite YouTube Ever Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/05/08 (9) Fallible Comments • Permalink 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. Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/04/08 (7) Fallible Comments • Permalink 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!! Posted by Katy McKenna on 02/01/08 (2) Fallible Comments • Permalink 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. Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/26/08 (10) Fallible Comments • Permalink 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. Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/25/08 (1) Fallible Comments • Permalink You Asked For It, You Got It Quite a while back, several of you agreed that you’d like to read the story of Katy’s Most Embarrassing Moment. One reader, Mary Anne (whom I’ve known since earliest childhood...), felt certain that the moment involved St. Joseph’s Hospital, circa a really long time ago. Bingo! We have a winner! I’m not sure Mary Anne was specific enough in her guess, however, as I have actually endured COUNTLESS embarassing moments at or approaching the premises of St. Joseph’s Hospital, including but not limited to the time my doctor asked if he could invite a roomful of medical students to observe while he examined me. Not being completely in my right mind (like THAT surprises you!), I said yes, amiable sort that I am. Back in the day, medical students were almost exclusively men. In this case, they were all men. About 17 of them, if I remember right. Why I imagined Dr. Barnett was just going to demonstrate to the fellows how to use a blood pressure cuff, I have no idea. Before they finally exited my room, I knew the full meaning of “semi-private.” Those guys had seen things my husband had only imagined. But I digress. My very most embarrassing moment occurred when I was, as Billy Crystal would say, only mostly dead. During my twenties, I had...episodes. Honestly, a diagnosis of my condition was never arrived at, and remains a mystery to this day. I would, for no apparent reason, have a sudden onset of terrible diarrhea and throwing up. A red rash covered my body, my lips turned white, and my extremities turned blue, making quite a fashion statement as they matched my eyes. Then my eyes rolled back in my head and closed as I fainted dead away, making the stunning color coordination much less impressive. I guess I had a seizure disorder of some kind, I don’t know. Doug witnessed me having these attacks, and they involved foaming at the mouth, rigidity, and sometimes an apparent absence of breathing, which freaked him out a little. Anyway, this one night it all came down while I was checking groceries at Thriftway. I’d left two crying babies at home, which had me a bit stressed out, and then I’d gotten chewed out by the manager for taking a customer’s bad check. I started feeling iffy and asked the girl at the next counter if the lights were dimming. “Um...no,” she said. “I’ve got to run to the back,” I said, leaving a line of customers behind. I recognized the numbness in my hands and feet as the definitive sign that, for me, something good was NOT about to happen. I hung out in the bathroom for a while, but then came to my senses enough to realize I had to call Doug to come get me. After I used the pay phone to call home, things got dicey fast. He packed up the children and brought them to the grocery store (they’d already been put to bed), where (fortunately) he saw a friend of ours and handed the kids over. By the time he found me in the bathroom, I had probably passed out and come to several times. I would regain consciousness just long enough to...um...use the facilites and then lose it again. He tried to get me up and walking, thinking maybe he could get me home, but even at 117 pounds, my dead weight was too much for him. So he used that pay phone to call an ambulance. I had one, and I mean ONLY ONE, lucid moment before the ambulance arrived. During that moment, I realized that while I’d been passed out, I had made a terrible mess of my underwear. “Doug,” I said, with the last ounce of decorum I possessed, “you’ve got to help me. Get these jeans off of me, throw away my underwear, and get the jeans back on me.” No sooner did the words leave my mouth, than I passed out again. My dear husband, though, did my bidding. Of course, I had no memory of it the next time I rallied for thirty seconds. The paramedics arrived and laid me out like a corpse on the cold concrete floor of the back room. They cut through my (cute) shirt, which had perfectly operable buttons, and my (new) bra, the likes of which I wouldn’t be able to afford for another year. I mean, how often does a broke chick come by ninety-eight cents? One of them attached electrodes to my chest while the others kept taking turns trying to get a blood pressure reading. They decided their equipment must be faulty, since I had no discernable blood pressure, and how could THAT be?? Just in case it was me and not the equipment, though, they kept exchanging dire looks like they were worried they had a catastrophe on their hands. Did you know a chick can talk with no blood pressure? No discernable blood pressure for THREE HOURS? As a dreadful case of hypothermia (whether from the concrete floor or my own near-death condition, I don’t know. Only God knows...) set in, the paramedics continued to hack away at my remaining clothing. The one called Fiona (yes, I remember her name...) unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans so they could do...whatever. And that’s when Chatty Katy kicked back in with the line that will haunt my floozy self for the rest of my days. “Good thing I remembered to wear clean underwear.” People!! I had totally forgotten that Doug had removed my ruined underwear! And I’m pretty sure, when I made the classic underwear crack that EVERYONE makes when they end up in an ambulance, I WINKED at a couple paramedics!!! (And I ain’t talkin’ Fiona.) It wasn’t until several days into my two-week hospital stay, when my sisters brought me a gift of a new bra and matching panties, that I regained any cognizance of these events. “I remember they cut off my bra,” I said, “but why are you bringing me panties?” “Don’t you remember telling the paramedics that it was a good thing you wore clean panties?” “Yeah...” “Well, you told us Doug had taken them off...” The moral of this story, dear readers, is to NOT DO THE STUFF I’VE DONE! And when in any doubt about the location and condition of your panties, just play dead. Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/24/08 (8) Fallible Comments • Permalink Out Of The Mouths Of Wives We recently moved our retirement account from an online brokerage firm to a company with local advisors. I guess we figured we needed a bit more guidance than, well...none. Since hooking up with this new company, though--and through no fault of our advisor’s, by the way--the market has taken a precipitous drop. Our balances have done likewise. So today, we ran in to our investment advisor and his wife at the post office. “Hey, it’s you,” I said, in as light a tone as I could manage. Even If I am somewhat disenchanted with our fledgling relationship, I wouldn’t want him to think I was about to go postal on him. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about our money...” I thought maybe he’d spout a bit of timeworn advice like “This looks like a great buying opportunity...” or maybe “We’re going to need to keep a long-term perspective.” But no, his lips were sealed. Instead his wife spoke up with the most funny money line I’ve heard in a long time. “Hope you’ve got a lot of it!” Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/16/08 (3) Fallible Comments • Permalink Books, Glorious Books! The delightful Mary DeMuth, herself the author of both fiction and non-fiction of the life-changing variety, has tagged me to play along with a book meme, and I cannot resist. 1. One book that changed your life. “Dr. Atkins’ Diet Revolution.” (Hey, the meme didn’t specifiy we had to choose fiction titles!) It’s been eight years since I ate any sugar, and my life has changed completely. For the better. And the skinnier, too! 2. One book that you have read more than once. “Trinity” by Leon Uris. An epic about the Irish struggles over many years, heavily based in fact. Fantastic storyteller, Uris. I remember my father reading this in the ‘70s, and now I own two copies of it. Who knows but what I might wear one out and need another? :) 3. One book you would want on a desert island. My French Bible. It’s perfect for wiling the hours away, languishing over a solitary phrase and mining it for meaning, or even an approximation of an accurate translation! Also, “My Utmost for His Highest,” by Oswald Chambers, or any excellent daily reading/devotional. While I’m not a fan of devotionals per se, if they are theologically sound and spiritually challenging, I love them. Plus, on that desert island, they sure would help me keep track of how many days had passed since I’d gotten stuck with only Wilson to talk to. 4. Two books that made you laugh. I am a lifelong fan of anything by Erma Bombeck. And Dave Barry. As some of you will remember, I met Dave and had our affectionate encounter photographed. It was truly a highlight of my life. Maybe that doesn’t say too much for my life, but after that, I could honestly die happy. 5. One book that made you cry. “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult. A story replete with complicated and fascinating family dynamics and an ending to die for. Literally. 6. One book you wish you’d written. “What To Expect When You’re Expecting” or any of its subsequent incarnations. Can you say Cash Cow? If anyone has any fantastic ideas I could develop that would set me up for life, let me know! 7. One book you wish had never been written. I remember starting Jonathan Franzen’s “The Corrections” and just having an eeeeky feeling while reading it. I thrive on dysfunction as much as the next chick, but enough is enough. Could not get that novel out of my life fast enough. 8. Two books you are currently reading. “For Better Or For Worse” by my good friend Diann Hunt, and “The Year of Living Biblically” by A.J. Jacobs. 9. One book you’ve been meaning to read. “A Steadfast Surrender” by my darling buddy Nancy Moser. I have an entire shelf dedicated to her books, all of which she’s signed for me. HOW, I ask you, have I neglected to read this one? Ah, well. These things happen. How about you? If you post on your own blog, leave a comment here with a link. It’ll be fun to see your answers!! Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/13/08 (11) Fallible Comments • Permalink An Open Letter To All The Remaining Literary Agents I’ve Not Yet Contacted Dear Literary Agent, If you think I haven’t read your blog, you’re wrong. I thought I’d clear that up right away. I am so diligent, I’ve even delved into the archives, perusing entries from as long ago as two weeks. I know what you’re looking for in a client even better than you do. In fact, because I am such a devoted student of your career, writings, and personal life, I feel I can say without a doubt that I am your next dream author. How am I so sure? I am glad you asked! For one thing, you’ve very clearly expressed your preference for having “good writing” sent your way. I’m betting your definition of good writing is the same as my mom’s, which means I’m in luck. Attached is the only scene I’ve slapped together so far. After you read it (get a move on!) and I’ve agreed to be represented by you, I will gladly crank out the rest of the novel. It could take a while, though. I am currently in communication with many notable agents, and I feel certain you’ll realize that these relationships represent a considerable time commitment on my part. In addition, submitting a proposal for a book I haven’t gotten around to writing would be a giant waste of my time, as I am sure you will agree. Second, you have indicated you don’t want to sign any high-maintenance, best-seller wannabes. I can assure you that I’ve never personally obtained a pedicure (photos availble upon request). Also, I can produce yellowed postcards from both my dentist and OB/GYN verifying that I am nine years behind in my supposedly annual (ha!) check-ups. NO WAY am I high-maintenance! If you’ll either call me on my cell or email me within fourteen minutes of receiving this--as you should if you are truly the professional you profess yourself to be--we can discuss this point until I’m satisfied that you understand. Third, you state that any client you take on must have a platform already in place. Bingo! We have a winner! I have been an active blogger for seven plus years, during which time I have chronicled with sterling clarity my aging mother’s propensity for swearing like a drunken Marine (no worn-out cliches here, baby!) as well as her advancing incontinence. Google my stats and you’ll see I now have six regular readers, half of whom have agreed to be sent free copies of my first book. Finally, you say you are seeking authors who seem unlikely to end up one-hit wonders. While I’d prefer NOT to promise you the moon until my staggering work of heartbreaking genius reaches the top of the NYT list, I think it’s pretty safe to say there’s PLENTY more wherever that first scene came from. In conclusion, I am absolutely brimming with potential, just the way you like ‘em. I look forward to hearing from you soon. Very soon. Best regards, Katy McKenna http://www.fallible.com Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/09/08 (8) Fallible Comments • Permalink How To Know For Sure That You’re Old All my life I’ve heard people say that you’re only as old as you feel, and honestly, I just don’t get that. I mean, I hear ancient women proclaiming that hey, they may be 99, but they FEEL 29. I personally didn’t think 29 was anything to brag about. I’ve felt better at many subsequent ages than I did during my twenties, and what’s the big deal about freezing age at 29, anyway? It’s overrated. My mother-in-law (who, along with my mother, forms the pair affectionately known as The Moms) is about to turn, I think, 87. It doesn’t matter anymore whether I know how old the gal is. SHE believes, and advertises, that she is 63. Why should I think otherwise? My own mother, a youngster at nearly 78, is quite accurate when asked by the paramedics (which just happened during our last ER run on Thursday night) how old she is. I don’t know, though, whether how old she FEELS might be affected by what year she imagines it to be. What asked THAT question, she came up with an unequivacable “1908.” (By the way, if I just spelled unequivacable wrong, bear with me. I ain’t getting any younger here.) I understand the 1908 answer. Really, I do. When you’re born in 1930 and everyone in your family tends to die rather young, I suppose you don’t think you’ll ever be asked a question that requires an answer in the next millenium. Besides, by the time we got to the hospital and the doctor asked her the same question, she succinctly spat out, “2-0-0-8.” So there. The Moms are aging, that’s for sure. And none too gracefully, if you ask me. But what do I know? I’m just a young whippersnapper, right? You do know that 54 is the new 37, don’t you? Monday was Doctor Day for Mom. I managed to get her back and forth by myself, but it wasn’t easy. It involves transferring her from a wheelchair to my car (she’s 6” taller and weighs 80 pounds more than I do), hoisting the chair into the back, pushing the chair up steep ramps, leaving her tapping her foot while I run back out to park the car, and then...well, lather, rinse, repeat. I worked up a bad enough sweat that by the time I got home, I needed another shower. But that’s not the worst part. The worst is that Mom noticed and couldn’t stop mentioning that I talk to myself. A lot. I don’t do it all the time, but when I’m juggling the Mama, filling out a million forms, praying a kind stranger will appear out of no where and open the door for us, and trying to answer the doctor’s questions about the history of Mom’s urinary tract infections while getting her urinary tract completely confused with my mother-in-law’s, yeah. I talk to myself. When she heard me say, “Grab Mom’s purse from the back seat,” she brought it up. Later, when I muttered, “OK, Katy, you put her name as the party responible for payment, not yours...” she gave me one of those looks and said, “You’re doing it again.” On the way home, remembering previous doctor runs, I guess I must have said out loud, “She probably wants a chili cheese dog with extra onions from Sonic...” because Mom blurted out, “You’re getting old!” Like boomers everywhere, I can congratulate myself on my perennial youth all I want. Apparently, I’m still with-it enough to know when I’m busted. Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/09/08 (8) Fallible Comments • Permalink Following In His Path So yesterday I didn’t exactly ask the Lord for a word for the year 2008. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not overly brave and I am subject to both flights of fancy and great leaps of misinterpretation. But I did go ahead and choose a word that I thought might help me focus on the little (and big) ways God is involved in my life on a daily basis. I mean, I don’t want to miss Him in action, when I’m certain that He’s here with me every day, directing my paths according to His purposes for me. The word I’ve chosen is Serendipity. I prayed and told the Lord that I wanted to see every event, every chance meeting with another person, and even every difficult circumstance as if He were right there with me in the middle of it--because, of course, He is. All I need to do is keep my eyes open and pay attention. Right before Christmas, I did something awfully impulsive. I signed up for a full-time semester at a local university, as a psych major. Classes were scheduled to start tonight, and would have been intensive and compressed into 8-week sessions, rather than the typical 16-weeks. In fact, before the first session, I would have needed to read a couple hundred pages of text and to have written four 1000-word essays. I realized I’d bitten off more than I could chew, and that I’d probably done it in reaction to my current frustration trying to break into publishing fiction. By Christmas I’d decided to drop the classes, but the business office wasn’t open until today. Doug went with me because, man, those books were heavy! Plus, to drop classes and return my books I had to visit three different far-flung buildings, walking in the freakish cold on icy sidewalks. Some people don’t look down when they walk, and they say to develop optimum balance it’s better to look straight ahead. But that’s the thing: My balance was negatively affected when I had brain surgery eight years ago and has never been the same since. Yeah, yeah. I know the balance nerve on one side of your head will theoretically compensate for the severed nerve on the other side, but I’m just sayin’, theories don’t always pan out. So we’re walking along, our collective teeth chattering in time to our shoes crunching the ice, when I--the one who’s looking down--say, “What IS all this?” Doug peers at the sidewalk, small stretches of which are cleared, and says, “It looks like...” “But it CAN’T be,” I say. “There so MUCH of it. How many animals would it take to produce that volume of--” “Sh....eesh,” he says. “Um...ya think?” I say. “Why can’t they REMOVE it? It would be bad enough to slip on the ice, but I’d hate to have to sue for slipping on ice-encrusted, um...you know.” That’s right. Thousands of the...items...were enshrouded in transparent ice, like caterpillars unfortunately never destined to become butterflies. Doug danced something of an Irish jig in a nearly futile attempt to avoid...stuff. I--who had managed to leave the house in shoes with lots of openings and NO SOCKS--begged God that a combination of my iffy eyesight and my challenged balance would somehow see me through. That’s when the truth hit me, with as strong a sense of serendipity as I’ve ever known. Going to school full-time right now would be a s----y path for my future. Literally. Balance is overrated. Looking down while I’m strolling along the path of life? It works for me. Posted by Katy McKenna on 01/02/08 (7) Fallible Comments • Permalink Page 7 of 77 pages « First < 5 6 7 8 9 > Last »


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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