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
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"Angst" is a substance I wish I was more ridden with, but at this late date, my prospects are looking slim. "Adolescent Angst" won't be happening anytime soon, and I'm too long and happily married to anticipate any large measure of "Unrequited Love Angst." I guess I could frequent my bottle of prescription muscle relaxors for a little "Drug-Induced Angst," but the label says not to use while operating heavy machinery, and my life is still car-pool intensive. I'll just have to be patient. In the meantime, there's only one apparent recourse for me, unless I want to fall into the insipid pool of "Bittersweet," which is at best a watered-down, sentimental version of Angst--without the despair, but with a lot more experience. Do I really want to go there? The only worthy angst left to me now is one much avoided and much maligned. Menopausal Angst. Let the reader beware.(No Title)
I've been thinking about the difference between a puddle and a crater-sized pothole which has recently been filled to street level with three days worth of torrential rains. There is a difference, you know. A puddle is a benign, friendly sort of scooped out place of earth or road, which has collected to its bosom enough frollicking sprinkles to delight a neighborhood of galoshes-shod schoolchildren. A pothole deceives its victims with both the depth and severity of its formation. Its contents had been angry, pent-up storms, which now conceal with smooth-topped waters the rage they just spewed forth. My husband drove through one a couple of days ago, with the passenger side bearing the brunt. "Aaaaah! A pothole!" I exclaimed, to which he replied, "No, it was a puddle." "Don't look now," I added, "but we just left a wheel back there in that puddle..." Oh, the puddles and potholes of life. If only we could enjoy the one without occasionally mistaking it for the other.(No Title)
When expounding upon the story of Jesus multiplying the loaves and fishes to feed the multitude, preachers ask us to imagine ourselves like a young child in the crowd. A child whose mother has packed his lunch for the occasion, but who is willing to give it over to Jesus and risk having nothing to eat at all, on the off-chance that Jesus might use his tiny offering to reach many. This is an appealing scenario, but I'm not that generous. If my mom packs me a lunch, it's mine, and I'm under strict orders not to share it, give it, trade it or throw it away. I'm supposed to eat it. Most days, I feel more like one of the five thousand in the crowd-- hungry, thirsty, tired, weak and unprepared. Too shaky on my feet to make it to town to get some food, and too poor to buy any if I made it. Nothing to offer God, nothing to share with my neighbor. And yet... "They all ate until they were full. 'Now gather the leftovers,' Jesus told his disciples, 'so that nothing is wasted.' There were only five loaves to start with, but twelve baskets were filled with the pieces of bread the people did not eat." John 6:12,13 God only knows where those leftovers had been! Before they were gathered up, they'd been broken, passed from hand to dirty hand, dropped, stepped on, chewed up and spat out. But each person in the crowd got the chance to give back some of what had been given to him. So that nothing would be wasted. Sometimes, I give when I myself am hungry. Most days, I only give back what's left after I'm full. Thank God He can work wonders with leftovers.(No Title)
Being humbled by the stock market is something every investor should go through at least once in a lifetime. It lends the kind of perspective to a life which is difficult to acquire by less costly methods, and which is bound to prove valuable in all manner of future circumstances. Then again, perspective may be overrated.(No Title)
My doctor has a great sign that catches your eye just as you're stepping on the scale--"Just think of it as your I.Q." A year ago, that made me a genius! Now, with a little luck and a lot of hard work, I'm not so bright. A year ago, I looked like a genius in the stock market, too. Now I'm looking for a great sign to tape over my next brokerage statement.(No Title)
I've got to say we love our new Select Comfort queen-sized dual-control air mattress. We're able, just as they advertise, to choose our individual levels of softness and firmness. When one of us tosses and turns, therefore, the other is rarely disturbed, but remains blissfully unaware of the partner's turmoil. When the body's pressure points become aggravated by some whisper of imperfection on the mattress's part, a touch of an individual button corrects the difficulty, and individual repose is restored. Our old, conventional double-sized box spring mattress has been banished to the basement. Here in the midwest, having a bed in the basement is a sound strategy, being in "Tornado Alley" as we are. Our old, conventional bed, which began its life when we were newlyweds, has come upon hard times. In fact, it became so impossible to sleep at any edge of the perimeter, because of our constantly seeking out the center as a young couple, that we were forced to sleep "stuck in the middle with you," whether we felt that strongly about each other or not. For some unexplainable reason, it is the outside edges that have acquired the bumps, lumps, sprung springs and pokey things. The only place that feels comfortable is the two feet in the center, where we slept, together. But, you know, eventually you've just got to get some rest. You get tired of saying, "Honey, wake up, you're having a bad dream," and "Can't you just lie still for a few minutes, until I get to sleep?" You're not sure you want to keep meeting in the middle. Still, I have to say, I'm looking forward to tornado season.(No Title)
"Why are you staring at me?" she demands to know, self-consciously, like she's imagining a zit on the end of her nose. Maybe there is one--or something stuck in her teeth, or a price tag hanging on, or a major "frump" thing happening. I wouldn't know--I don't see it. "It's a habit, Carrie," I say. "I've been staring now for a very long time." Take a picture, they say. It lasts longer. But it's not true. Sure, a snapshot of a three-year-old who dressed herself records the mismatched knee socks and the cowboy boots worn with the frilly Easter dress. A camcorder chronicles a little girl on a virgin bike ride, and a teen-aged Irish dancer winning a competition. But it's the subtleties I'm after--the nuances of flashing eyes, not flashing bulbs. The inflections in her body language that a camera cannot detect, the almost imperceptible changes in the tone of her voice when she looks the way she looks. It's Carrie I'm after, and always have been, and always will be. "Why are you staring at me?" she demands to know. It's a habit, Carrie. It's just a life-long habit.(No Title)
OMG! Fallible.com is, albeit it briefly, a blog of note! Look quickly--it won't last. But sometimes the really quick stuff is the really fun stuff!
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Nineteen years ago tonight, I brought forth into this world a 10 lb. 5 oz. baby girl. We had planned to name a daughter "Brittany Rose," but somehow we had imagined a girl of that name to be a beatific blonde. Our daughter was a brunette bruiser, so we named her Carrie Kathleen. We did not realize that often brunette bruisers become beatific blondes, and so it was with Carrie. We humans don't get many chances to produce something of eternal value. My husband and I were given three such opportunities--gifts, really--and we seized upon them with all the grace and love God made available. Every earthly accomplishment fades into nothingness next to the joy of raising a wonderful daughter to womanhood. In the novel "We Were the Mulvaneys" by Joyce Carol Oates, the mother of the teen-aged girl says that having boys is great, but "my only daughter is my gift to the world." Carrie, I couldn't give the world a better gift than the one I received nineteen years ago tonight.(No Title)
You know how geezers sometimes say they still have the first dollar they ever made? Not only does my husband not have that infamous first buck, he doesn't even have the ones he made last week! A couple of nights ago, he went to listen to an Irish traditional music "session" at Border's. This informal group of musicians meets every other Wednesday for a regular paid gig. Doug likes to go, and always takes his pennywhistles, just in case, even though he only knows maybe a dozen tunes out of a gazillion possible. He was happy when they asked him what he wanted to play, and was able to join them on a number of tunes. But the twinkle in his eye when he showed me his share of the night's kitty--$5--was astonishing. Sometimes, you have to take your thrills where you can get them. He took his straight into the living room, disassembled a framed print of Celtic musicians, and added his five dollar bill to the mat of the picture. "It's the first time I've been paid for an Irish music gig," he said. Dollars come and dollars go, but even for an "old" guy, firsts are always exciting.(No Title)
When Doug and I purchased our "starter" home back in 1979, we were in the high energy years. Back then, home improvement meant anything, including sweat, which would increase the value of our home. We didn't have any money, but we worked hard to landscape the property, update the kitchen and modernize the baths. Anything to build up equity (as cheaply as possible) so we could "move up" later in life. In 1990, we moved into our "middle" house. It was located, located, located in an up-and-coming neighborhood in the 'burbs. Suddenly home improvement meant upgrading our automobiles to reflect our new status, whether we could afford to or not. No one had a rusted old "boat" like our Cutlass parked in their driveway--I think there was actually a home-owner's association rule against it. So we went the minivan route like the neighbors, and even kept the car's color sedate to coordinate with the almost-comatose-looking neutrals of the houses. We still didn't have any money, and even less energy, but we worked hard to add those "designer" touches which would support an exaggerated resale value. Finally, we built what may be our last house in 1994. We can see a couple neighbor's houses (the only couple neighbors we have) in the winter when there are no leaves. In the summer, we see no one's land but our own. I'd love it if we had our youthful energy back, but I wouldn't use it to do much landscaping. Unless it was to paint that old Cutlass purple and make a funky piece of yard-art out of it. Now we're not worried about resale value and sweat equity. Now our idea of home improvement is anything which requires less maintenance than it did before, with no loss of function. To that end, yesterday we impulsively ripped out the shower door in the master bath. For six years, I had hidden from my husband my loathing for that scum-magnet, but the truth will eventually out. Now I have a beautiful lace shower curtain, and the most hopeless, thankless, worthless cleaning job in the history of housekeeping is no more. That's home improvement!(No Title)
It must be admitted that I was confused, caught off guard. Maybe it was the disorientation of just having driven through a blizzard to arrive at my son Scott's new apartment, where he has set up housekeeping (right!) with a couple other guys. From total white-out to dim candlelight, our senses were jolted by the sights and sounds of three twenty-one-year-olds putting the finishing touches on the tossing of a salad and the heating of a lasagne. They juggled items in and out of the oven, recycling them through the fire in order to keep everything at serving temperature until the other honored parents arrived. They worked utensil-free, but in proud possession of several virgin potholders, the innocence of which my kitchen hasn't beheld lo these 24 years. I kissed the boys hello and hurried past them into the living room, where I joined the others in ooohing and aaaahing over the imaginative furnishings and expressive decor. After all had arrived, I figured we would be filing through the kitchen, filling our plates and moving again to the living room, since there was no dining room table, per se. And that one of the boys would suggest that we, their beloved family members, would precede them in line. These are the vain thoughts that frequently fill an aging mother's head. But, no. Without so much as a "soup's on" or a "come and get it," the guys were side-by-side at the counter, with their backs to us, loading their salad plates and diving into the lasagne headlong. I must have clenched my eyes tightly against the disappointment, for I did not see what happened next. All I remember is the sound of his voice. "Here's your salad, Mom. What can I get you to drink?" The heart of a mother is often clouded with blizzard-like conditions, and frequently lit with only the remains of a dimly burning wick. But when the eyes of my heart are opened, my son shines through.(No Title)
I was wrapped in an afghan, talking to my friend from my chilly bedroom in Kansas City, feeling kind of cozy, and entertaining thoughts of starting yet another winter fire. And then she had to ruin it by telling me she was sitting on her porch in Orlando, swatting at those darned bugs! Bugs, in February! Peggy is the loveliest of friends, the kind you might talk to once a month for a while, and then maybe an entire year passes, and neither of you knows where it went. "When did we last talk?" you ask, mystified. Then she tells you her daughter is five months pregnant, and you sheepishly ask if she's married. "Katy, she got married a year ago! Didn't you get the invitation?" And then we laugh at our incompetencies, and commiserate about the almost empty nest, and giggle about the years just ahead filled with in-laws and grandbabies and old-fashioned mortgage-burning parties. And for a few wrinkle-free moments we are kids again, carefree, excited about every little thing on the horizon, joyful. It's fascinating to be a kid again with Peggy, a girl I didn't even meet until we were in our late thirties. When I'm with Peggy, I'm the youngest I'll ever be.(No Title)
Yesterday, Doug and I celebrated our 24th wedding anniversary in the best way possible. Together. The highlight of our day was the purchase of a one-and-one-half seat recliner, narrower than a love seat, but wide enough for two smallish adults to cuddle up in. One year ago, I would have needed the one-and-one-half seater for my one-and-one-half sized seat. But I digress. It'll take 8-10 weeks for the recliner to be delivered, since it is being custom upholstered with a tapestry fabric depicting a scene of a French sidewalk cafe. Who knows? Maybe for our 25th, we'll go to Paris. In the meantime, we'll learn to relax, maybe check out some travel videos, and just enjoy being. Together.(No Title)
We bought a new fake Christmas tree this season. The old one had the kind of branches you have to spend a gazillion hours poking into their very specific color-coded holes. By the time you are done, you are doubting your Christianity. And that's before you plug in the burned-out lights. We told the sales guy we wanted the kind of tree with hinged branches, which, after the festivities, you merely fold upward like praying hands before lugging the spruce back down to the basement. He was out of that particular style, and tried to convince us of the merits of the pokey-branch type. He had one himself, he explained, and it only took three hours to assemble it...he was about twenty-one years old. "That tree won't work for us," I explained. "We don't have that many good years left." If we have regrets after death, as I believe we will (perhaps only temporary regrets for those of us fortunate enough to find ourselves in heaven), it might be useful to imagine while on earth what form those regrets might take. It occurs to me that most of my regrets in eternity may center around my casual expenditure of that which eternity has effectively put to an end: time. When you know you're looking back on more than half your time on earth, it starts getting easier to give up pokey-branch Christmas trees.
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