Kickin' Asphalt

This column apeared in today's Bozeman Daily Chronicle:

It started as a mere snicker. A tee hee that morphed into the kind of laughter that suggests a Depends might be in someone’s future. And it was coming from the backseat.


I should have kept my mouth shut. Since I’m not known for that, I naively asked, “What’s so funny?” Little did I know it was me.

“Mom,” Older Boy said, in between spasms of laughter, “have you SEEN your arm?”

I then asked stupid question number two. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It sort of just hangs there,” Older Boy said poking it. “You have, like, an arm goiter.”

Younger Boy chimed in. “It’s like tether ball,” he said. “Let’s smack it and see how many times it goes around!”

Charming.

Now I will admit I’ve been lax in my fitness efforts. After getting a brand spanking new resurfaced hip last year, I babied it. I pampered it so much it wouldn’t have been surprising to see me wheeling it around town in a Bugaboo Stroller singing it lullabies.

Actually, I was terrified to use it. And I was under strict orders not to. Not by the doctor but by The Husband. “If I ever see you running again I’ll tackle you,” he told me. But what’s the point of having a new hip if you’re not going to use it?

Since Older Boy took up running, I’ve been a little antsy to lace up my shoes again. But I knew it would have to be on the sly and I’d have to fake a hot flash if busted. I looked forward to everything about running again but one thing: starting over.

It would be just like the day I joined the running craze of the early 1980s. Armed with my copy of The Diet Pepsi Guide to Running, I was twenty-one and ready. The book covered all aspects of becoming road ready – eat plenty of carbs, fat grams are your sworn enemy and hydrate with plenty of, you guessed it, Diet Pepsi. I laced up my pristine white Nikes with a red swoosh and opened the book to the training schedule: Day 1: 3 minutes. Surely that was a mistake. Only three minutes? That was the dumbest thing I could imagine if I wanted to be a Real Runner. I was going to Really Run, for a Really Long Time. And I took off down the street like Usain Bolt.

It was the first and last time that I ever ran that fast.

Two minutes and forty-seven seconds later I was lying on my back in the front yard red-faced and gasping. But I got my first taste of those brain tingling endorphins – the runner’s high. And I was hooked.

Then I got up the nerve to enter my first race. And I was slow. Really slow. A three-legged dog beat me. Old folks outside Dosker Manor Nursing Home offered me hits off their oxygen. They were rolling up the chutes when I got to the finish.

One race under my running shorts, I decided my goal was to run a marathon before I was impossibly old at forty. I beat my self-imposed deadline (the only thing I’ve ever beaten) by a mere three weeks.

At thirty-nine, I was trying to outrun what I thought was the first mile marker for middle-age. At forty-eight, it’s a lot more complicated because now I’m trying to outrun arm goiters, a meno-pot and the occasional hot flash.

But I’m going for it.

It won’t be pretty. It won’t be fast. But I don’t care; I’m gonna kick some asphalt anyway. At least until I get cold-cocked by my arm goiter.

These running socks were apparently designed by and for the peri-menopausal woman.

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.

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.

Sign of the Times

This was my column as it appeared in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle today.

In my 47 years, I have never, ever had any incident in a public restroom that prompted me to think that is SO weird; it must be captured on film. But on a recent trip, that’s exactly what happened.

I think it’s safe to say that upon entering the stall, a woman’s first and foremost concern is to check for the availability of paper. When it was my turn, I was no exception to this rule. I also caught a glimpse of a sign above the toilet but didn’t pay much attention since it’s usually the “What Not To Flush” admonition. But when I turned to give the handle a flush with my foot, I examined the posted placard more carefully and couldn’t quite believe what I was reading was real. In fact, I checked other stalls thinking that it might be a joke. But it was clear this official posting was not done in jest. It was so bizarre that I couldn’t stop myself from whipping out my Nikon to record perhaps The World’s Strangest Sign. Ever. The sign read: RECLAIMED WATER IN TOILET! DO NOT DRINK!

No one would argue that people get thirsty while traveling, sometimes at inopportune moments. Many of us habitually tote a water bottle like an extra appendage. But I can never fathom the occasion that ANYONE in a public restroom would think I’m mighty thirsty and would you just look at all that water served up in a cute little porcelain bowl before dropping to all fours to stick their head in to quench an inconvenient thirst. If I hear slurping noises coming from the adjacent commode, when I look over, the feet I’d better be seeing are four furry ones and a wagging tail. If I see a woman dressed in sporty capris and leather mules on her hands and knees, she’d better be making a refund, not a purchase. Otherwise you are so busted.

And just when I thought the signage on this trip couldn’t get any stranger, I encountered bizarre sign number two which again required the use of my camera. Sitting in the hotel Jacuzzi, I started reading the gigantic blue notice advising me of all the things that could go wrong as I sat shoulder-to- shoulder with my fellow vacationers. So when I got to the line “the Jacuzzi shall be immediately closed for cleaning in the event of an accidental fecal or vomitus discharge,” I started to panic. Perhaps I’m a stickler for semantics but this implies that there is a different rule if these actions are intentional. But it only got worse. The sign continued “all bathers shall be ordered to leave until such substances are removed.” This wording contemplates that someone might actually be inclined to stay there with a Baby Ruth bobbing nearby unless someone with authority tells them it’s time to vacate what is now a heated toilet bowl. I can only imagine one of the guests remaining in the hot tub while telling the hotel staff, “Oh I’m not leaving, that was just Edna. She does that all the time at home.” I don’t know about you but if I see anything remotely resembling a Twix bar hovering near the surface, I will move faster than Marion Jones while stepping on your head to get out of there. And I will then promptly shower in betadyne, torch my swimsuit and check out of the establishment.

So on future trips, I’ll always be sure to keep a full water bottle handy. You can also bet that I’ll avoid all hot tubs that offer access to the public. Guess you could call it a sign of the times.

You gotta love kids

It's Mother's Day and my youngest, age 10, woke me up "Good morning, mom. Happy Mother's Day! Can you get me something to eat?" How perfect is that?

Today was also my debut as a Chronicle columnist on the Sunday Op/Ed page. I have to admit, it was quite exciting to see it really happen.

Column

This was my column in Balance today.


A Letter to My Health Insurance Company

Dear Mr. CEO Sir:

I’m really sorry to bother you. I’m sure you don’t know me, but I’m one of those folks who dutifully writes a really big check to you twice a year for my really high deductible health insurance policy. To date I have paid you premiums somewhere in the neighborhood of $43,965.87 – but who’s counting? I know you don’t get those record profits (and CEO perks) by charging bottom basement prices. I also wanted to thank you for ponying up that $29.32 after I finally met my $5500 out-of-pocket deductible for my emergency room visit last year. You shouldn’t have! Since your correspondence regularly assures me that we are Partners in Healthcare, as your ever faithful check writing associate, I just have a few matters I’m hoping you can clarify.

Now let me start by saying that I know how much THE COMPANY cares. You really do and I am deeply touched. When I called your customer service number yesterday, a female voice repeatedly told me so. Since she also advised how valuable my time was, I decided to put it to good use and peruse the War and Peace sized copy of THE CONTRACT. I must say, it was riveting. At regular intervals, the cheerful woman’s voice broke into the block of 80s movies hits that even Otis Elevator deemed too offensive to pipe into its little moving boxes. But to be honest, sir, the rendition of St. Elmo’s Fire was enough to make me want to gouge my eardrums out with anything on my desk in arm’s reach. Although I only got to read for 47 minutes (and notably never found anything which THE COMPANY actually covered), I did learn that self-inflicted injuries sustained while waiting on hold with THE COMPANY are specifically excluded. (see page 27, subsection VII, paragraph 4) Glad I didn’t reach for that Bic!

But the ever-so-helpful customer service rep, Tim, made those 47 minutes worth the wait. I told Tim that I had received my explanation of benefits, but didn’t understand why THE COMPANY had denied one-half of my claim. I felt pretty certain that Tim wanted to say, “Well duh, we deny everything,” and hang up but just he sighed loudly and typed in my claim number which cleared things up in pretty short order. Tim advised me that, “the second procedure was included in the first so the second wasn’t covered.” Silly me, I knew there was a simple answer!

I know that should have ended the conversation, but I just couldn’t hang up - I asked more questions. I mean, THE COMPANY is looking out for my best interest, right? So when I asked for more explanation, Tim’s irritation with me grew quite obvious. I explained that the procedure involved two completely different body parts so it just didn’t make sense to me how one could be excluded. Now I’m sure that Tim’s high school biology class and THE COMPANY’S 30 minute training session (Motto: Just Say No!) gave him more than adequate knowledge of the inner workings of my female plumbing and the ability to determine the medical necessity of procedures. So I suppose it was rather brazen of me to question his wisdom. But Tim’s final comment was that I was to blame improper scheduling. “If you’d had the procedures done on different days, they both would have been covered,” he explained. So what’s the moral of the story: stirrups twice, get your price? Bet that policy would change if Mrs. CEO was in the saddle.
And while I’ve got your attention, sir, just a couple ideas to shoot around the boardroom. Far be it from me to criticize THE COMPANY but you might want to have the calculators there checked out; they don’t seem to be functioning properly. The calculators in the benefits payable department seem to only be equipped with the subtraction key, since every claim I submit has some amount subtracted. But clearly you do have some calculators with an operational addition key. They’re just dandy in the premium billing department since every bill I get goes up on average of 15%.

It also might be time to review the REASONABLE AND CUSTOMARY AMOUNT allowable. I know, call me crazy! But the last time amount THE COMPANY deems reasonable for an office visit was appropriate was when I wore diapers.

And speaking of billing, I have enclosed my check for the next six months’ premium. Please note that the amount due has been reduced; this bill exceeds my REASONABLE AND CUSTOMARY AMOUNT payable. But don’t blame me, it must be the calculator.

Now that she understands company policy, Denise Malloy regrets not scheduling her hip surgery on two different days.

8 days and counting

Surprisingly, I'm more than a little embarrassed to start a blog. It's particularly surprising since I write a monthly column where I recount in detail the goofy things that seem to happen to me and my family.

But with hip resurfacing surgery coming up in one short week, I thought it might be helpful to share my experience leading up to surgery with anyone who might be contemplating the procedure. It seems like a long time getting to this point. I have to face the fact - I'm going to be a hippy.

My most recent column gives the details of finally coming to the conclusion that surgery was a necessary evil:

A Very Hip Valentine’s Day

It’s almost that time of year again - Valentine’s Day - the day set aside for remembering that special someone with a romantic dinners and a $75 bouquet of roses. On this extraordinary day of love, we can momentarily forget the fact that our adorable man who now belches the alphabet with the gusto of a third grader and remember why we fell in love with him in the first place. For those fellas who spend most of their time in the doghouse, Valentine’s Day presents the perfect opportunity to suck up for ignoring your sweetie the other 364 days of the year. Most women I know would always welcome sparkly adornments like diamond studs, gold bracelets or a silver BMW convertible on Valentine’s Day. Although lacking the glitz of such accoutrements, most men have the good common sense to show up bearing a love offering of flowers or chocolates for their beloved.

This year, my husband and I will celebrate our twentieth Valentine’s Day together and he knows exactly what I want. It’s sparkly to be sure but it’s far from the ordinary, which is exactly what I would expect to celebrate the longevity of our love. And I have to admit, I’m feeling pretty special because I don’t know a single soul who will be celebrating the same way I’ll be. No, it’s not a dazzling Forever Ring that he plans to give to me on the steps of some photogenic European plaza with family and 37 of my closest friends present to share in my joy. It won’t involve a delightful night out with a bottle of wine, flowers and a tear inducing Hallmark moment. And sadly, I won’t even be able to show it off. But this Valentine’s Day he’s giving me some hip bling - literally. A high carbide cobalt chrome resurfaced hip. He’s such a sentimental fool.

This year, I will celebrate the day of love in the most non-traditional way I can possibly imagine: surgery. But after three years of limping around in complete denial while eating ibuprofen by the handful like they were Junior Mints, I acknowledged that it was indeed time to seek medical intervention. It came on slowly, limping a bit after my daily run or a little morning stiffness. I chalked it up to middle-age and years of having the misguided view that stretching was for sissies. But the post-run limp morphed into one that was all the time. Friends would inquire about my distinctive Quasimodo Shuffle. “I’m fine,” I’d reply emphatically as I dragged my right leg along behind me. I somehow assumed my state of denial would result in a miraculous, spontaneous cure. When my kids starting calling me Hitch and my right shoe began to wear out first, I started to think that perhaps they were right.

This summer, however, was the tipping point in facing the fact that my limp had evolved into a public freak show on par with the bearded lady of carnival sideshow fame. While attempting to take a walk, I heard a vehicle slow as it drove up behind me. A young man pulled up beside me and stuck his head out the window. I assumed incorrectly that he was going to ask for directions. Instead, he inquired helpfully, “Ma’am, are you hurt?” “No, just my pride,” I mumbled under my breath as I hobbled away from his car. I shuffled back home and promptly scheduled a doctor’s appointment. During my visit, it didn’t require a radiologist to see that my right hip was bone-on-bone and far beyond WD40 and duct tape. My doctor announced the sad news: my right hip had reached its expiration date.

Now I have to admit, in the 1970s, I imagined how cool it would be to have the superpowers of the Bionic Woman, Jaime Sommers, but I never imagined that I’d have my chance. Thanks to surgical intervention, the Bionic Woman was able to leap to the top of a 12 story building, run 60 mph and bend steel with her bare hands. While I can’t fathom that leaping tall buildings or running will be in my post-surgery future, I’m looking forward to the day that I can take a pain-free walk with my husband, my kids and my dog. And that will be a gift that’s more extraordinary than superpowers, diamonds or gold.