It's Golden, Baby

Still smiling, 50 years later 

The big day in 1960

Some events are so big, so noteworthy that they deserve not only a blog post but a column to commemorate the occasion.  I am speaking, of course, of the major milestone reached by my parents this month - 50 years of marriage.

So here's the column I wrote in honor of their Golden Anniversary:

It’s June and that means brides everywhere are recovering from herniated discs from schlepping around bridal magazines that have the same gross weight as a Ford Fusion.  They offer advice on every facet of your special day, even if it requires selling a kidney or two and channeling your inner-bridezilla to get it.  While they do guide you through every detail to design the perfect setting for exchanging your I Dos, these publications noticeably lack information on that Happily Ever After part, which is infinitely more challenging than deciding between Amazon Roses or Calla Lilies.

I’m curious about what it takes to make it to that Till Death Do Us Part finish line.  After marking twenty-two years of wedded bliss this month, I can offer this pearl of matrimonial wisdom: moving up the death part is not a good option even though some nights at 3 a.m. I’ve entertained the thought.  While it’s true that 99.9% of the time, The Husband is an all-round great guy and my true soulmate. But when he snores, I want to kill him. 

So for guidance I looked to my very own parents who will reach a major milestone this week – 50 years of marriage.  But since less than 5% of couples will reach this landmark, I thought my folks might be the best source of information on the subject. 

I decided to take this on as a little research project, to observe just what it takes to be able to spend a half-century together.  Would the answer be eHarmony-like personality traits, shared interests or a sense of humor? Would it boil down to never forgetting a birthday or anniversary?  Was it the liberal use of those two little words, “I’m sorry,” that are often so very hard to say?

On their most recent visit; I observed my parents with the objective detachment of a laboratory scientist.  I watched how they interacted.  I listened to their conversations.  In one week of surreptitious surveillance, I determined the key to their lifetime together could indeed be boiled down to two words: hearing loss.

My dad’s been partially deaf since his Army days. Although he’s always had hearing aids, he found them annoying and turned them off most of the time.  And now, as the parent of a teenager, I completely understand why Dad abandoned them altogether when I entered adolescence.  So in fifty years, he’s been blissfully unaware of most of what Mom has ever said.

But now that Mom is a little hard of hearing too, their exchanges have gone to a bizarre new level.  And it’s pretty clear to even the most casual observer that the conversations they think they are having are substantially more interesting than the ones that are taking place in reality. 

They discussed food and sports: Mom: Can you believe that call by those referees?  Dad: Yes, I’d love some cheese.  They spoke of movies and the drive home.  Dad: What did you think of that documentary on the Alamo?  Mom: You’re right, that traffic was really stop-and-go.  And then I heard the conversation that really put everything into perspective for me:  Dad (laughing): What would you think if I got a tattoo?  Mom (getting up to give him a peck on the cheek): Oh honey, I love you too. 

Which, of course, really says it all.

Mom and Dad have helped me understand their secret to marital longevity.  And thanks to them, I think I’ve discovered the two words that will help me make it to the fifty year mark with The Husband:  ear plugs. 

*On my recent visit home, Mom shared yet another one of their bizarre conversations with me.  My dad said, "I can't believe Denise will be 50 this year."  Mom apparently yelled, arguably so he could hear her, "It wasn't a shotgun wedding, Ronnie!" (and I didn't observe any firearms - or baby bump for that matter - in the wedding pictures).  And Mom is correct, I'll be 49.

Coming Clean

Since I've had my share of issues on the cleaning front, I found an old column which explains the history of why I'm domestically challenged.

As my mother and I watched TV one night in the early 70s, I never suspected that the Flip Wilson Show would change my life.  As we tuned in and adjusted the foil-covered rabbit ears, the fuzzy image on screen became clear.  It was Helen Reddy belting out I Am Woman, the anthem that encouraged a newly empowered generation of females to roar.  My mother watched, transfixed.  When Helen stopped singing, my mother stood up and let out a barbaric yawp of her own.  “I’m going to college,” she announced and left the room presumably to burn a bra before matriculating.

Watching mom navigate being a full-time student while also being a full-time parent and wife, I learned a lot of things. I learned how to entertain myself when she dragged me to her classes because the babysitter bailed.  I learned that in the name of time management you have to set priorities.  Given all she had to do, it’s no surprise that teaching me how to clean was never very high on mom’s to-do list.  Thus began my blissful oblivion to dirt. 

My first roommate used to lecture me with a toilet brush in her hand while saying, “How can you be such a slob when you have such good personal hygiene?”  Even my five year old nephew noticed.  During a visit to my house (in my defense it was during finals), he announced, much to the horror of his mother, “Aunt Denise your house is SO dirty!”  A sympathetic friend once gave me a magnet that said: Dull Women Have Immaculate Houses.  In fact, I could probably get a doctor’s excuse to get out of cleaning – I’m pretty sure that whatever optic nerve is required to see grime is not only dried-up, but is also dust-covered.

So when I hear women lament about their sloppy husbands, I have to clam up.  The Husband’s knowledge and execution of all things related to cleaning is truly impressive.  He’s a natural. He learned housekeeping skills from the Master, the Queen of Clean herself– his mother.  Not only could you eat off any surface in her home, you could probably perform major surgery on the kitchen table using any nearby cutlery with much less risk of infection than any hospital OR in the country. So, of course, The Husband knows the names and purpose of even the most obscure household cleaning products.  And he’s not afraid to use them.

But after a friend heard me whine about my housekeeping ignorance, she helpfully suggested that I follow her lead.  “Get a cleaning lady,” she advised, “best thing I’ve ever done.”  Now bear in mind this is the very same woman who will jump up mid-conversation and announce in a panic, “I just remembered, the cleaning lady is coming tomorrow!  I have to go home and straighten up!”

Beg pardon?  Aren’t you missing the point? 

But I’ll never have to resort to that.  Because The Husband will always do a cleaning intervention before the Health Department slaps yellow “Biohazard - Do Not Enter” tape across my front door.  And to any girls out there who might marry my sons one day, I promise not only to let dad teach them how to clean but to send them to Nannie’s Queen of Clean for a week of Household Hygiene Boot Camp.

I don’t blame my mom for not teaching me how to clean; she had more interesting things to do in the 70s.  If there’s anyone to blame, it’s Helen Reddy.  But that’s okay, because just like mom, I’d rather roar than clean any day.

A special thanks to my friend *R* who suggested I do some artwork to go with my columns. So this, of course, is all her fault.                     

 

This is the only known photographic evidence of me actually in the act of cleaning. This is just before my roommate hit me with the toliet brush.          

The Verdict On Junk Food

Trouble was brewing in the cereal aisle.  And the one about to incur the wrath was me.  As my ‘tween and teenaged sons stood there, it was clear they were about to make their case with the tenacity of Perry Mason and Atticus Finch.  “See Mom, you were wrong!” Older Boy said shoving the box within an inch of my middle-aged eyes. “Go ahead, read it.”  Younger Boy then chimed in.  “They’re GOOD for you,” he argued. “It says so right on the box.” 

My bad.

It was hard to argue with the good health claims emblazoned on the front of the Cocoa Krispies and Froot Loops boxes that my boys paraded in front of me like I was a Price Is Right Showcase Contestant.  There they were – boxes of an immunity boosting, fiber enhanced morning indulgence that I’ve denied them based on my misguided beliefs.  And boy, did I feel pretty stupid.  All these years, I’ve been making them eat real froot.

Since they were little guys, I operated under the apparent delusion that spinach, broccoli and bananas were the building blocks for healthy bodies.  Silly me.  Looks like I could have saved a bundle at the pediatrician’s office if I’d been offering them those little orbs of chocolate crunchy goodness from the time they sprouted choppers.  I probably could have bypassed all those annoying vaccinations if I’d jammed enough of it down their young pie holes.   

So that got me thinking, why couldn’t we take better living through chemistry a step further with the marriage of junk food and pharmaceuticals?  It wouldn’t even be a shotgun wedding.  Seems the government fat cats anticipated this day would come when they created the bureaucracy known as the Food and Drug Administration. 

Imagine the ease of a world where you could have Ambien Plus Bars for those sleepless nights. Parents would appreciate having Special Keflex Cereal on hand for those nasty ear infections that inevitably occur after office hours.  Keep Xanax Fruit-Flavored Rolls in the candy dish in your office.  Make the teacher happy and send junior off for a great day at school with a handful of Reece’s Ritalin.  Enjoy some guilt-free KFC Lipitor Hot Wings.  Women could unsuspectingly slip their men Soft Batch Viagra Chip cookies.  Talk about a Happy Meal. 

So I only had to deliberate for a moment.  I delivered the verdict and my boys triumphantly threw the cereal formerly known as junk food into the cart.  And who am I to argue?  Because the day I see Premarin Pop-Tarts “Now with Botox!” you can bet I’m filling the cart.

Denise Malloy is pretty sure that her childhood favorite, Sugar Pops, had no nutritional value whatsoever. 

I Love Me Some (College) Basketball

It's March and just like in years past, my house will undergo an extreme transformation.  Life as my family knows it will screech to a halt. There will be no food preparation except for heating frozen pizzas and microwave popcorn. Phone calls will not be returned.  The television will be commandeered, the remote will be hogged and any attempt to change the channel will be met with a shrill, “DON’T TOUCH THAT THING!”   For four weeks, my house is utterly possessed by a potent force and I am powerless to control it.  No, it’s not a Linda Blair meets Lucifer moment, it’s March Madness, baby!  And the one that needs the basketball exorcism is me.

My family tries to pretend that life is normal even though I have become a stark raving lunatic totally unrelated to hormones.   But they tiptoe around me in my month long, semi-rabid state over college hoops.  “Mom, here’s something to eat,” my oldest says as he drops a bag of microwave popcorn at my feet.  This is either his attempt to pacify the crazy woman in the basement or grab the remote when I’m distracted.  But most of the time, I am left to my own devices: no one can stand to be in the house with me.  Because March Madness brings out the irrational and illogical side of my personality - shrieking at people who can’t even hear me. 

At first blush, this basketball obsession seems somewhat odd for a short middle-aged woman who has never played the sport.  On a good day, I can manage a three inch vertical trying to reach something on the top shelf.  But I come from a long line of season ticket holding, college basketball fanatics.  In fact, I’m betting we are direct descendants of James Naismith who tossed the first ball into a peach basket. 

For me, March Madness does not involve slack jawed watching or arm chair coaching.  I’m constantly on my feet in my own personal full court press as I rant and rave my way around the family room shouting at refs for bad calls.  I probably get more aerobic exercise than if I were training for a marathon.  If it weren’t for the steady stream of popcorn, I might even lose weight.

And just as important as the opportunity to rationalize watching college basketball 24/7 is my second favorite part of the season: Bracketology.  Hubby and I have a not-so-friendly, battle of the sexes competition in choosing the 65 teams on the Road to the Final Four.  My preparation starts early with the Sports Illustrated College Basketball Preview Issue supplemented with a daily dose of the sports page and Sports Center.  My research approaches a fervor generally reserved for those taking the bar exam.  In my quest to be a basketball oracle, I use flash cards.  I use flow charts.  I use my Magic 8-Ball.

I love everything about the final hurrah of my favorite sports season.  I love the upsets, the overtimes, the last second, game winning shots (see Laettner, Christian – whose last second shot to beat Kentucky in 1992 ranks among my favorite moments in college basketball).  I love the Cinderella Team that plays with such heart that you can’t help but root for them.  I love it that despite my best efforts it’s still a toss up who will make it to the next round.  But in the midst of this uncertainty, there’s one thing I do know for sure.  At my house, March is sheer madness.

 Our family's basketball jones is a genetic condition. I am not related to the guy in the middle, but I'm guessing The Parental Unit adopted him.            

Update on Monday, March 8, 2010 at 08:25AM by Denise

After posting, I realized that some of you may not be familiar with the basketball jones.  It is from a 1975 Cheech & Chong animated short film to promote the release of their song Basketball Jones featuring Tyrone Shoelaces, a teenager who loved basketball.  The song actually has some big name performers including George Harrison on guitar, Carole King on piano and Billy Preston on the organ.  I've provided the link to the YouTube video below but be forewarned, it is very un-PC by today's standards.  But if you're even vaguely familiar with Cheech & Chong, then you shouldn't be surprised.

This Just Rubs Me The Wrong Way

This column appeared in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle. 

When I think of spas, I think of aromatherapy candles.  I think of soft lighting.  A little new age music, peace and tranquility.  I think of an hour long massage and blissful relaxation.  I think - how do I hide this in the checkbook? But when I think of spa treatments, not once have I ever thought of carnivorous reptiles or aquatic vertebrates.

In my limited view, spa treatments consisted of getting your toenails painted fire engine red and a Swedish massage.  Looks like I didn’t know Shiatsu.  It seems that some spa goers have grown bored with the traditional massage/mani/pedi combo.  That or too much Yanni music made the purveyors of these services a little crazy. So spas have developed some rather unconventional treatments in an effort to introduce a little novelty into the experience. 

Now I could live with the Japanese Saki Bath (just a thought, how about a margarita soak with a salt scrub?)  The Arctic Ice Room treatment with mint infused air and snowflakes sounds just dandy.  I would fully embrace an afternoon of Black Pearl Body Buffing, assuming Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow is in the mix.  But throw a writhing wad of snakes on my back and call it a massage and somebody’s going to get hurt.

For 80 bucks, Ada Barack will drop a tangle of non-venomous king and corn snakes on your back for a supposed hour of tranquility at her Snake Spa.  Venom is the least of my worries, girlfriend.  Ada, when this so-called massage is over, you can go ahead and pull the sheet up over my head and slap a toe tag on me.  Because I’ve gone to the great spa in the sky where hopefully I can get a real massage.

According to Ada, her clients find interacting with the snakes relaxing.  If you’re going to toss a writhing wad of reptiles on my back, or anywhere in my vicinity for that matter, the price better include being hooked up to a hearty drip of Propofol, otherwise known as milk of amnesia.  Because I won’t want to remember one second of the experience.  Just looking at the images of a woman having a slithery spa treatment nearly made me apoplectic. 

And then after your visit to the Reptile Ranch, you might want to stop for the latest trend in pedicures.  Just sit back, relax and dip your tootsies into the warm water where a school of doctor fish will gnaw on the dead and flaky epidermis previously known as your feet.  The swarm of toothless carp will work tirelessly to beautify your feet for 30 minutes after which they will presumably go look for a better job.

Now I don’t know about you but at certain times of the year, my feet start to look like I’m wearing Doc Martens even when I’m barefoot. So when it’s pedicure time, I need more than toe separators and foot scrub  – I need a belt sander.  So I would not be the least bit surprised if I went in for a fish pedicure and they unleashed the piranhas. 

I can promise you there’s no way I’ll be stopping off at any roadside snake stand for Bubba to fling a couple snakes on my back in the name of novel relaxation.  And at my pedicure, I don’t care if the gal uses that belt sander on my heels.  In fact, she can use a chain saw on my calluses for all I care.  Just as long as she doesn’t have gills.   

I have received an unusual amount of reader comments letting me know they thought it was really funny but totally made up. Au contraire. Below, I introduce Exhibits A & B to show that this piece was in no way the product of my ever-so-warped imagination.  In fact, it is the perfect example of the truth being stranger than fiction proving that you just can't make shit like this up.

IN SUPPORT OF MY DEFENSE I OFFER EXHIBIT A:

WARNING: IF YOU ARE IN ANY WAY AVERSE TO REPTILES OF THE SLITHERING TYPE, YOU MIGHT WANT TO GIVE THIS ONE A PASS.  IN THE EVENT YOU FEEL COMPELLED TO WATCH IT, YOU MAY NEED A COUPLE XANAX BEFORE YOU DO SO.  IT TOTALLY FREAKED ME OUT.  STILL DOES. 

EXHIBIT B - THIS REQUIRES NO WARNING.  IT IS LIKE PURGING YOURSELF WITH AN EPISODE OF SPONGE BOB AFTER WATCHING THE GODFATHER.  A LITTLE FUNKY, YES, BUT THE FREAK FLAG DOESN'T FLY QUITE AS HIGH.