Open Season

It's that time of year where Gus transforms into Caddyshack's groundskeeper, Carl Spackler. He wanders the yard mumbling incoherently. And the only thing that will make him happy is greasy, grimy gopher guts.

When we got home last night, the gophers looked like they were having a beach party. I fully expected to see tiny beach umbrellas, coolers and a little gopher volleyball game there were so many of them. This threw Gus into a complete tizz and he and the boys raided the garage for the gopher smoke bombs.

The neighbor, who was also out battling gophers, offered them his pellet gun. Being a city dweller, and a female, I just don't get it. (this reminds me of the guy at the hunter safety class who said his gun would turn the gophers into a "red mist") Watching them (the boys, that is) you would think they were on the trail of an 8 point buck, not a rodent that weighs mere ounces.

Watch out Carl, Gus is going to give you a run for your money. If I hear the strains of Kenny Loggins' "I'm Alright" and see a dancing gopher, I'm outta here.

Mayo Clinic Couple Rocks

If this doesn't make you smile, nothing will.

A Slight Problem

After beginning to put the house back together, I realize I have a slight problem - an overabundance of books. I'm running out of places to put them all as evidenced by the stash I found sporting a quilt-like layer of dust under the bed. I think I need Readers Anonymous.

It's Getting Better All the Time

This is a dramatic improvement. . .

My New Best Friend

I never thought I'd be smitten with a piece of HVAC equipment, but I predict we'll be inseparable. As I have discovered recently, women of a certain age (that would be me) should not have to sweat anymore.

Dave Lennox, I love you.

Still Improving

When in doubt, tear up the whole house at once. I realized that the bedroom carpet was coming but hadn't painted (even though I had over a month's notice) - can you say procrastinate? So we emptied the bedroom, furiously painted while the old, crapastic carpet was still there (installed on Election Day 2000 - I remember having a fairly heated political discussion with the installer). When this is finished, I know I will love it - it's just getting there that sucks.

Out with the Old

As you will notice, I have not been writing - this is why. That's right it's home improvement time. I started with the downstairs bathroom, which looked like it had been finished with whatever was on sale. Functional but an ugly melange of flooring and counter tops. Not that I'm all that into aesthetics.

So since the toilets were 20 years old, rusted and leaky we decided to go for it. Visitors were not allowed to use the bathroom without detailed instructions - "First, you turn the water on for the toilet, use the rusty handle. Here's the toilet brush and the plunger. When you flush, pray. Then get ready to run." Needless to say we don't have many friends anymore.

So here I am disconnecting the sink and unhooking the vanity from the wall. I am just glad there's no soundtrack with this photo, because I'd have to include a parental advisory here. Now looking at the picture I realize it looks like either I was severely injured in the process of doing so or a homicide has taken place in the cabinet. I will spare you the disgusting task of pulling the toilet. It was just as foul as one would imagine.

As a total fan of HGTV, I was disappointed to discover that this project was not magically finished in the 30 minutes it takes for me to watch a show. They so lie.

Everybody Needs Red Shoes

Apparently even sprinters. Maybe I could use some too.

This is Crazy Legs after coming in 2nd in the 100m. He didn't get it from me. I'm built for comfort, not for speed.

Begging for Mercy

No Mercy? No kidding.

A Shout Out for All Real Mothers on Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day and I can hear the wrecking crew busily doing something in the kitchen. I have been banished to the basement. . .

In honor of all real mothers out there, here is my column from yesterday's Chronicle.

>“Hey Mom, where’s my ski helmet?” “Hey Mom, have you seen my homework?”

I know why my mother is losing her hearing: she wants to. After raising this chatterbox, she’s used up her allotment of hearing for this lifetime. She doesn’t want to listen to anyone anymore about anything. And I can see the very same thing happening to me.

“

"Hey Mom, do I have to practice piano today? Hey Mom, how long till Christmas?”

I haven’t had a complete thought over fourteen years. It started when I was pregnant. During pregnancy, your brain starts to short circuit in preparation for your child’s vocabulary development. Much like your body prepares for labor and delivery; hormones now help your brain vaporize all coherent thoughts upon formation.

“Hey Mom, what’s a prism? Hey Mom, where’s the milk?”

It begins as we coo over our adorable little bundles of joy. Operating under the delusion that our child is a Genius Baby, we mentally transform what in reality is a belch into their first complete sentence at 8 weeks of age. Before long, when the authoritative parenting books tell us they should know nine words, we’re quite certain that our intellectually superior tyke is actually saying sixty. Before long they really do know 300 words and use them all - before you’ve sucked down your first cup of morning coffee.

"Hey Mom, how do you find the area of a parallelogram? Hey Mom, how many days till school’s out?"

When they are babies, the interruptions signal basic needs – feed me, change me, hold me. me. When they are toddlers, the disruptions are physical in your role as Goalie Parent: moving fast enough to keep them out of harm’s way. But once they start talking you enter new and uncharted territory. You cross the threshold into the Stream of Consciousness Parenting Zone where every thought that enters your child’s mind is verbalized the instant it forms. While the inner monologue will eventually develop, don’t count on it anytime soon. Because you are now Mom, Interrupted.

“Hey Mom, why can’t dogs laugh? Hey Mom, how long till I can drive?”

Some women think they can outsmart the immutable laws of language acquisition. But it’s simply not possible. Once you’ve read the same paragraph twenty-three times, wave the white flag. It’s over. You might manage to read a caption in Time Magazine when they’re seven. But save yourself the frustration. You can read after they go to college.

“Hey Mom, where’s Oman? Hey Mom, have you seen my iPod?”

Pretty soon, lobes of your brain actually begin to shut down from the oral assault. The remaining functional lobes now operate more like a strobe light. Your auditory nerve begins to shrivel and go limp like a long forgotten piece of celery in the back of the fridge. You fear your ears might actually bleed if they tell you about that scene from Star Wars. Again.

>“Hey Mom, was there electricity when you were in school? Hey Mom, can we get a pet llama?”

But there will come a day when the interruptions will push you to the breaking point. The resonating sounds of the constant chatter threaten to reduce your ear canal’s hammer, anvil and stirrup into a tiny pile of dust. At some point, years of verbal tap dancing on the acoustic nerve will shrink your patience to zero and you will snap. And just when you think you can’t take it anymore, that’s when. . .

“Hey Mom. . .”

“WHAT??!!”

“I love you.”

Denise Malloy doubts she will get peace and quiet for Mother’s Day. But she remains hopeful.

Bad dog, no biscuit

Who would imagine my cute, generally well-behaved 9 month old puppy would be capable of this?

After being banished back to jail for a few weeks for chewing up my sandals (thankfully they were very old) I figured I could spring him for a few hours.

Bad idea.

When I returned home, Destructo Dog apparently had a little party with whatever he could find chewing up a few books (The Husband's, not mine), festive wrapping paper and the underside of the box spring. But notice the title of the one book that didn't get decimated in his little ramapage.

Maybe he can read. . .

My Old Kentucky Home

I hope the sun is shining bright on my Old Kentucky Home today - it's Derby Day! Best time of the year to be in Lou-a-vull. Two weeks of non-stop partying and festivals in celebration of the fastest two minutes in sports.

In honor of the Run for the Roses and my Southern heritage, I'm posting my column from the Bozeman Daily Chronicle on April 25.

Strange things happened on my roundabout journey to Montana – I lost a lot of stuff. Not the things that went missing between Indiana and Wyoming. Not the possessions that I left on the side of the road in New York because they wouldn’t fit in my Montana-bound U-Haul. What I lost is something that I miss most – my y’all.

I hail from the land of fried chicken, grits and sweet tea. I was born and raised in the Bluegrass State where the thoroughbreds will Run for the Roses next Saturday in the Kentucky Derby. While there’s no way to convey my Southern accent in writing, if you ever overhear me ordering pie, it’s a dead giveaway. If I get talking fast enough, my accent becomes so thick it threatens to strangle every word.

Try as I might, I’ve never been able to shake my twang. But after moving around the country so often, I took great pains to remove all Southernisms from my vernacular. I’ve told people I’m from Louie-ville, not Lou-uh-vull as the good Lord intended it be pronounced. But I quickly learned if I said it correctly, people would look at me with their head cocked to one side like the Victrola dog.

Not surprisingly, some people equate a Southern accent with being a dim bulb. I’m guessing these are the same folks who have witnessed a mullet-headed male, usually clad in a tank top, utter -“Watch this, y’all” – signaling their imminent Jackass inspired demise.

But we really do sit a spell and chew the fat. We say Ma’am. On Sunday afternoon we go over to Mom and Thems (pronounced correctly as one word and rhymes with homonyms). We fry everything from okra to Twinkies. We always have enough fixins on hand to whip up a casserole or Jell-o mold in case of a bereavement emergency.

A Southern woman’s daily conversation is sprinkled with colorful phrases particularly when sniping about other women. Hushed whispers occur when a woman has let herself go to pot. This is especially true when said woman has developed a front fanny at which point you can’t tell whether she’s comin’ or goin’. (We also drop the ‘g’ at the end of all words). Under no circumstances should a woman ever look like she’s been rode hard and put up wet or throw a hissy fit in public. The worst offense is for an uppity gal to get above her raisin’. And as all Southern women know, uttering “bless her heart” after any derogatory comment negates the meanness – well, most of it anyway.

Our unusual terminology can even be found in the legal system. In a murder trial a witness can succinctly sum up the character of the deceased for the jury with “Your honor, he needed killin’.”

Most of this was easy to eliminate from my daily jargon. But the idiom that has caused the most consternation for me was a staple of my speech – the word y’all. But after being stared at blankly when I’d say it anywhere outside the Mason-Dixon Line, I simply gave up. By the time I was living in New York, not only had I lost my y’all – I had substituted “you guys” in an effort to promote cross-cultural understanding. (I’m sure Grandmammy Kate was spinning in her pine box at this juncture.)

But now I aim to give my Southern dialect its due. I vow to embrace the verbal eccentricities of my heritage ‘cause that would just butter my biscuit. I reckon y’all won’t mind. And I’d sure be much obliged.

Denise Malloy misses hush puppies almost as much as her y’all.

Funny Times Says so

The May 2009 Funny Times is out! How cool to find my name and essay in between those by Garrison Keillor and Dave Barry. The piece, Moms Gone Wild, is about the original real mother - my mom.

http://www.funnytimes.com/

Let's Talk About You And Your MotherBy Garrison Keillor

Moms Gone WildBy Denise Glaser Malloy

Bye AmericanBy Will Durst

The Borowitz ReportBy Andy Borowitz

Kicking And HuggingBy Dave Barry

As New York Eats, So Might YouBy Lenore Skenazy