Datebook: Thursday, August 31 ~ 2006

I am in a bit of a time crunch.

I have less than 30 days to come up with the perfect idea for my daughter’s birthday.

I know what you’re thinking, just give her some hard cash or a gift card and she’ll be happy. Just buy her a piece of jewelry or a watch from Cartier.

It sounds good but I have created this hole for myself.

I developed the “Birthday Extraganza” since the beginning of her time.

A “Birthday Extraganza” does not have to be expensive (although it typically is), it just has to be a process, a procession of special events followed by a gift that reflects love and intense research into the essence of what is “her”.

Wedding Planners have contacted me for ideas and themes.

Husbands have saved marriages by using my ideas for romantic celebrations. I might add my own still asks me on the eve of my own birthday, “What do you want this year?” I reply, “Surprise me” and he does by giving me nothing, just his “blessing” to go out and get myself a “little something.” Even my insurance man sends me a pen every year…

So, I think you can see how this evolved. I have made it my mission that my children feel special and blessed in honor of the day they were born. I am trying to bring back civility to our culture. It is a quest I did not aspire to take on, but everyone must share the load when called.

The problem is, I am without a plan this year. In the past, I have had ponies trucked in (no, not those small farm fair equines but small versions of the Royal Lippazons with a purple velvet theme). I have used the limousine twice; once for a 10th birthday theme that ended at a theme restaurant, and once for a 16 year-old outing to the one of the largest malls in the tri-state area, finishing with dinner.

We have had masquerades, treasure hunts, secret garden parties. We have had concert tickets and back stage passes.

We have tried to find the perfect location to behold the melding of mind and spirit. This has vacillated from the bridge at the Atlantis, to the hills above Carlsbad, to the semi annual Nordstrom sale.

And just so you don’t think it has all been fun and games, I have incorporated important life lessons into each adventure.

The best piece of cake always has an extra flower or your name written on it.

It is better to have one or two really nice things than twenty items of lesser value.

A woman’s face always looks beautiful in candle light, so let the cake burn a bit to get the best photographs.

My husband, looking through the checkbook from the past month, said, “Why don’t you just give her that new pair of skates for her birthday?”

“That’s funny.” I replied.

“Well, I can’t remember the last time I ever had a pair of twelve hundred dollars shoes!”

I start to reply, and then pause. Maybe he was on the edge of an idea. What if I had someone sign her skates with a good luck message? What if I shipped one of her new white Klingbeils to Michigan? What if someone wrote, “Good Job!”

A bit risky. What if it got lost in the mail?

Maybe, I should just bring Charlie White here.

Maybe I should bring Charlie White, Todd Gilles, Brent B., and Chung Gun right to her hometown to sign her skate and sing “Happy Birthday.”

“Birthday Extraganza” is back on track. I think the boys might even agree to jump out of a cake.

Wearing their Free Dance costumes of course!

Mombo #9

Datebook: Tuesday, August 29th ~ 2006

It is difficult being the mother of athletes. My daughter could model for one of those “Tickets to the Gun Show” t-shirts and my son runs six miles as a warm-up to real running.

Living in a two story house, I try not to do open mouth breathing when I take the laundry upstairs.

I believe I am their inspiration.

But not in the way you think.

I think I am their mental refrigerator magnet.

You know, the ones that supposed to turn you away before you open the door. I am sure they are convinced this could be a mutant genetic gene that might expand at any moment.

They are subtle in their attempts to get me to “tone up.”

My son bought me four spin classes at the community college for Mother’s Day. I took my craft bag thinking we would be making tie-dyed yarns. Imagine my shock when I discovered the room filled with women in spandex and stationary bikes.

Okay, I thought. I can do this. I have on flip-flops but hey, I’ve been riding a bike since I was six, how hard can it be?

Calling this a “spin” class was as deceiving as calling a pitbull a lap dog. It sounds so gentile and relaxing, like there might be mint juleps and cucumber sandwiches waiting later in the parlor.

The ladies mounted their bikes and took off at speeds approaching that of light—at one point I actually saw the shifting prism. Seriously, if we had been connected to a power plant we could have supplied enough electricity to keep the southern hemisphere in a 100 watt glow.

I don’t recall how it actually ended.

I think there may have been a paramedic, or else it was a swimmer with a white towel around his neck. The instructor called my house a few days later and told me she had never seen anything like it, that I had hung in there for seven minutes. She told me a refund was in the mail.

In case I was tempted to try to increase my endurance.

My daughter on the other hand advises me about hair styles. She tries to steer me away from short hair cuts.

“Short hair doesn’t look good with the shape of your face.”

I look in the mirror and have trouble seeing different shapes, as everything just looks like, well, a face.

“I think you need to let it grow out,” she adds.

“Really. Don’t you think it will look a bit, well, lanky?”

“No.”

She says this a bit too firmly, like maybe I have a cowlick at the back of my head and don’t know it.

“Having longer hair will make your face appear a bit longer,” she elaborates. “It won’t look so….round.”

Oh, I have a round face. Ah, the classic “pie hole”.

“Maybe I should just tease my bangs.”

“No. You actually should get rid of the bangs, feather them into the sides.”

Oh. My daughter has become Jose Eber.

She is the Joan and Melissa Rivers on the hair runway of life.

“How about a headband?”

She looks at me. “Are you six?”

Maybe I’ll get a perm I think. But I keep it to myself. Better to surprise her with in the stands at her next competition.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Monday, August 28th ~ 2006

My friend and I are Toby Keith Trekkies.

Seriously.

Last week marked our fourth concert in the same number of years as we bob and weave our way to the front of the stage, moving closer through musical chairs each year.

We are on a “Holy Grail” mission to find the best seats.

And we are Toby Keith seat snobs. We can only sit in the center and not past row 14.

I will only admit here, in the shadow of being the unknown, that last year we paid 485.00. Per ticket. That did include VIP parking, and a backstage pass to dine under the Toby tent. This year we saved 200.00 by foregoing the parking and celery sticks under the big top. So, to my way of thinking, we saved money.

Here is the truly odd thing. My friend and I are not cowgirls. We rarely listen to country music. In fact, both of us have a Cindy Lauper song as our ring tones (seriously, neither one of us even told the other before doing it!).

My car CD holder at moment has Prince, Milli Vanilli, Madonna, the soundtrack from “Philadelphia”, Josh Groban, Celine Dion, Elton John and the soundtrack for the Broadway musical “Spelling Bee”. In addition, I have four CDs that my son has made for me of songs I have requested—my favorite starts with “Hallelujah” from Shrek and ends with Clay Aiken’s “To Love Somebody”.

I can’t explain it. Once a year, two seemingly normal professional women don cowboy hats, boots, jeans, and snap-button shirts after removing Donna Karan suits and David Yurman jewelry.

We are incognito as “Red Neck Women”.

Last week was a true test of our commitment. After no rain for 34 days, a torrential monsoon delivered a four hour drenching.

And there we sat.

We had the foresight to bring clear ponchos--okay, the two for a dollar pack that go under the front car seat for emergencies and are slightly less bulky than their cleaner bag cousins.

Well, sitting is not really an accurate depiction.

No one sits for Toby Keith.

With rain running down our backs, and cowboy hats tapping time by the thousands, we sang along to every song we knew.

And I think that might be the answer to the mystery.

This is like detox for me.

This is a release of all the pent up tensions and anxieties that hitchhike on my soul all year.

This is the anti-European/American/Midnight waltz. There is only the sound of the music without watching edges, twizzles, or timing.

So I stood in the pouring rain, while Toby sang “I Should Have Been a Cowboy”, feeling at peace in the universe.

And then my girlfriend turned to me and said, “Wouldn’t this be a great song for the kids to skate to next year? I heard it’s supposed to be a country western theme.”

Of course, I thought.

Where else did they get the idea of a rhinestone cowboy?

Mombo #9

Datebook: Sunday, August 27th ~ 2006

My son came to me and said “Uh-oh!”

“What?” I inquired.

“I think she is going to be mad.”

My son is only sixteen but he is very intuitive and I respect his opinion. He is also like Anderson Cooper or the National Hurricane Center in predicting his sister’s mood.

“Oh.” I am ambivalent for a moment; my son is reading, and he is reading his mom’s words in “Mombo” and actually “taking them in”. Unfortunately I cannot bask in this joy because I immediately sense that he is right.

Yesterday might be worse than the Charlie White post, which was a category three.

“Well, I will have to explain that when I say “my daughter”, I actually mean, any member of her group. When I talk about her, it is really a ‘composite’ of parts of one or all of them.”

“And you think she’ll buy that?”

“I don’t know, what part needs work?”

“Probably anything after ‘Datebook that mentions “my daughter’”

“Uh-oh”.

In truth, my daughter is enmeshed with a group of close girlfriends who skate. They are all in various stages of the sport. One has already graduated from college, two are starting college, several are graduating high school soon, one was home-schooled. They skate senior, junior, novice and intermediate. A few have been in long partnerships, most are working through new ones, and a couple have stopped skating competitively. They have such a plethora of experiences that I could make five postings a day.

Right now they are all going through the “Section” selection. They have various methods of making the decision.

Some have made display boards of the all the possible choices for each team. As Daphne posts the choices announced by teams, these are highlighted and moved to the “Hard Board”—think of Jeopardy without the lights.

Others have decided on a “darts” approach. They got one of those maps from a middle school that no longer can teach geography to students (oh yes, not in the curriculum!) and they do the three out of five method of whipping darts to the sections they have colored in.

Others have gone to the Rock (West for rocky coast line), Paper (Mids- the flatness of the farmland), Scissors (East, well, because Lake Placid decides the cut).

None are foolproof. In a week the decisions will be made, the money sent, the section checked.

November will be very hard for me.

My “composite” daughter will be going to all three sections.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Saturday, August 26th ~ 2006

Here is the second biggest problem of being the mother of a skating girl (I say this with a pause because of the whole Britney Spears song), they seem to grow up so much faster than non-skating ones.

Maybe it is the competitions.

Maybe it is wearing bra inserts in their dresses since they were 12.

Maybe it is asking them to perform to Latin music since they were 13.

Which brings up the “two words” my daughter presented to me last week, without gift wrap, or phoning ahead to see if I had room at the inn of my mind.

Before I write them out for all to read I must preface this with the concept that my daughter, being my daughter, is an oxymoron herself.

She is soft/hard.
She is funny/serious.
She is tenderhearted/ she is “that’s life, let’s move on”.

Teenage boys have not been able to stand up to her scrutiny.

She has mowed them with a Tiffany machete. I have felt sorry for all of those who made the feeble attempt to get her attention. I think her prom date may actually be in therapy now. Their downfall is that they try to impress her by acting, well, stupid.

She, a non-graduate of the Henry Kissinger school of diplomacy, says,
“Why are you acting stupid? Call me when you’re not trying to imitate a 3 year-old.”

With that benchmark I was lulled into thinking that I had another ten years before I had to worry about, or absorb, a serious relationship. She seemed to have set the bar pretty high because even the aforementioned prom date didn’t do it for her. He was the reigning king “Hottie” of his school but he made two serious mistakes. He told her he didn’t think skating was a sport, and he told her he liked to hunt. I heard this from the other room and immediately turned up the thermostat knowing the deep freeze was en route.

So, getting back to the two words. You’ll understand now how I was broadsided with them.

And I blame this all on the bombardment of the Tango this year.

She was discussing events and a specific guy when she said, rather calmly I might add upon reflection, “We have this sexual tension between us.”

In real life, there is no rewind button.

So you just repeat it. “Sexual Tension.”

“You know,” she says.

Well, I’m not going to admit to her that I may have forgotten, but I guess I know. Still, it sounds so much more exciting the way she says it. It sounds kind of Catherine Zeta Jones-Antonio Banderas-like sexual tension in Zorro (the first one).

But this is my daughter. My daughter who suffers no fools.
There are boys who will never burp the alphabet or do armpit flatulence noises again without feeling like they will be shocked from an invisible collar.

Sexual Tension!

So as a mom, I must warn you. Dressing them up, sliding in some bra inserts, putting on make-up are only the beginnings. Having coaches tell them to listen to the tango, imagine the tango, feel the tango—will turn a 17 year old into a woman seemingly overnight.

I must ask the Coles if this was how it happened for them.

Where is the Hickory Hoedown when you need it?

Mombo #9

Datebook: Friday, August 25th ~ 2006

Remember when I told you that everything in life is related to, or can be compared to skating?

Well, if you didn’t believe me, think about this.

This week the International Astronomical Union (IAU-- not to be confused with the ISU in any way!) met in Prague to determine the new rules for classifying planets.

It seems previously there were no clear cut rules or guidelines, and naming and classifying planets was a bit, well, subjective.

So, the IAU has a “new judging system”.

Since 1930, Pluto, the famous “9th Rock from the Sun” has been taught to all school children as the small, distant planet. No more.

The IAU has now downgraded its status due to the technology of powerful new telescopes—which you have to admit is almost like having playback and the designation of a technical caller.

Yes, the new rules are quite cloudy-clear on what can be a planet.

There seem to be many levels.

A planet must orbit the sun (Circular Footwork).

A planet must be large enough to assume a nearly round shape (rotational lift or one foot-spin).

And a planet must clear the neighborhood around its orbit—Pluto is disqualified because it overlaps into Neptune’s orbit (Must have citizenship to compete in that country).

The IAU is the official arbitrator and restricts its membership to the 8 planets and has offered no other real definition of criteria. They seem to be a governing body that meets and seemingly consider changes, but basically operate on their own undefined agenda. Hummp.

To further confuse the matter, the IAU has decided to reclassify or “downgrade” Pluto from a “planet” to be named hereafter “a dwarf planet”.

That’s a bit like saying it isn’t but it is.

Maybe like a level one with deductions?

This is a bit like the ISU saying to skaters, okay boys you are planets—you can skate junior (to qualify) until you are 21, and girls, you are dwarf planets—not to be confused with real planets—because you can only skate junior (to qualify) until you are 19. Well, not really when you are 21 or 19, but what you are by July1st.

So if Pluto were in your house when the other stars were aligned, you are probably in for a little Credence Clearwater time as you have a “Bad Moon Rising.”

This however was the real clincher for me on how the moon and stars are like skating:

The New Horizon Spacecraft Mission is still on schedule to journey to the planet Pluto, which is now not a planet.

The Mission will cost 700 Million Dollars and will take 9 and 1/2 years to complete.

Okay, I know.

The space mission is a little bit cheaper and there is an established time commitment.

The destination, you have to admit, is just as clear.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Thursday, August 24th ~ 2006

So here is the problem with being a mom and being the mom of someone who skates: We never feel we have done everything we can.

It is worry times two.

It is fretting to the second power.

The older the child/skater gets, the less you feel able to do as a mom.

You have found the best coaches, the best training facility, the best choreography, the best costumes, the best music—or at least, that was the intention.

Life is about compromise however, and sometimes you have to make adjustments for what is possible and what isn’t possible. Sometimes there is just no more bend in the Gumby stick of life.

For example, I could have been Mrs. Jimmy Buffett but I have an aversion to tequila. Some hurdles are just too high to get over. No one can “Waste Away in Diet Coke with Lemonville”.

So you sit and do the check off list of everything that should be done, has been done, will be done—and there is always this void that feels a bit like maybe you left the iron on when you go out. There is always the question of what “else” can I do to “help”.

Today I found a new source of enrichment.

This is not easy to talk about because I don’t know the proper name for all of the entities.

I have already mentioned how much my daughter and I “symbolically” hold on to good luck tokens. Even if we didn’t quite believe, we certainly wouldn’t bring on a storm of bad karma by not at least respecting the possibility.

Today I went to see a good “witch”, or person who “knows rituals to perform”.

This was not easy.

These people are not listed in the phone book, nor did I get a coupon in my Valu-pack mailer.

No, I overheard a conversation at a dinner party last year and I filed it away in my memory schema of “things I might need in the future”.

I can sense your skepticism here.

I feel a little of a “Mombo is losing it” vive. (I guess from this experience I have developed a bit more of the psychic power all moms possess).

Okay. So some would say, uh-oh, this is just another way to get in on the constant cash flow of skating parents.

Wrong!

Because this woman doesn’t charge anything nor does she accept donations.

I know. It is hard to believe. Even the waitress at a buffet restaurant expects 15 percent for bringing drinks and a stack of plates.

I went to this good luck guru’s work (at the local community college where she is a professor!). (I know, you were thinking Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman, and a little shop that sells lotions and soaps).

She told me EXACTLY what to do to bring good luck and support when my daughter skates in future competitions.

I have to burn two candles. (I can’t tell you the color because they need to be specific to your own needs). I have to look intently into the flames and “make my request known”. I must write an identified number on a piece of paper, sprinkle cinnamon on it, fold the paper, and keep it with me all day. Close to my heart.

Okay, so I am feeling a little bit better. I now have a plan of action instead of just sitting in the stands and sending a mental email to all deities and muses for help when I see her guards come off before she steps on the ice.

Of course, now I can be easily identified.

I will be the mom in the stands whose Marshalls/T. J. Maxx bra smells like French toast.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Wednesday, August 23rd ~ 2006

As I peruse my closet, I am reminded of Dickens and “A Christmas Carol”.

Not just because things look out of date. I, like most woman, have three sizes in my closet; the size I used to be, the size I am now but don’t admit to, and a few things that are the size I want to be that I got at a “one day” sale.

No, the whole Dickens connection comes from looking at the costumes of seasons past that hang in my closet. They are stored in my closet because my daughter has been able to move on, and I am the one hanging on, therefore I get the ‘hanger’ so to speak.

We have sold several of her juvenile and intermediate dance dresses. And this is not an easy task. We don’t have a real “marketing venue” for used costumes, there are no annual “yard sales”, although I have considered setting up a table as you walk in the doors at the rink at Placid—(Street Level before the steps!)—maybe a co-op.

No, the main culprits for my ghosts of seasons past, are the tiny no-test costumes. These are from the time era when most of us thought this was a still only a “hobby”. Remember those days? Skates were only 500.00. Costumes were about 150.00. There were only 2 or 3 lessons a week. And no-test programs were only 1 minute in duration.

Would we have believed it if someone had told us 10 years ago how it would be evolve to be what it is today?

This might be a generational concept though. My mother can’t believe I pay for bottles of water each day.

Those cost more than juice or soda and you have it running free right there. If you turned on the faucet and orange juice came out, you wouldn’t buy Tropicana would you?”

““This is better.”

“Why?”

“Well, this is pure. Spring Water.”

“Did you read the label? It’s bottled in Jersey.”

“It’s easier to carry.”

“Really. How about I go buy a case of water and drink it, and then refill all the bottles for 1.00 each. I’ll just keep refilling the bottles, putting them in the frig so they’re cold…”

“Mom, you can’t sanitize the bottles properly like that”

“Really. Don’t you put your forks in the dishwasher everyday? You take them out and they’re clean, you don’t have each one assigned to people because someone else ate off of it?”

Okay, so maybe even if we did know, we still would have taken the same path. The little tikes costumes from those early days still brings smiles to our faces, and as MasterCard would say, these are “priceless” memories.

My mom, on the other hand, keeps a mental register tape going, of the returned half-used water bottles left in the skating bag.

“I water the house plants with this,” I offer to her raised eyebrows.

“That’s good,” she replies, “I’ve heard they have nice vegetables on the Jersey shore.”

Mombo #9

Datebook: Tuesday, August 22nd ~ 2006

I think it is time we talk about pictures.

(Not the photos from the “official photographer” at competitions. I actually fear talking about those because a bouncer—wearing Kodak colors of course-- might be sent out to confiscate any disposable cameras used at a recent competition in case I planned to sell these pieces of art to the masses).

No, I mean the photos we offer to the world everyday. The ones on our official documents. Like our driver’s license photographs.

First of all, it clearly states that a driver’s license is to be used only for identification of operating a motor vehicle. It is not supposed to be used to verify my Visa signature. I don’t want the sales clerk at Macy’s to see my latest photo. If she isn’t on my Christmas card list getting my annual family photo, she certainly doesn’t qualify to see my pix in August.

It is always the same, I have to surgically remove it from my wallet like its been superglued to the leather, I present it, the clerk looks, does this little blink thing with her eyes, and then avoids looking directly at me ever again.

There are reasons driver’s license photos look horrible.

First of all, there are only 4 or 5 birthdays we care about. 13, because you can finally say you are a teenager. 16, because you can drive. 18, because you are an adult according to the criminal digests of any state. 20, because you can say you are no longer a teenager and 21, because, well, you get to actually sit in the light and drink.

That’s it. We don’t want to celebrate other moments in our history.

The Motor Vehicle Administration has this odd way of photographing drivers. If dog years equal 1 for every 7 of ours, they use the Beagle model. That’s right. Every five years we get a notice that we need to go to the MVA and get re-photographed for our new license.

This is not a cause for celebration. In fact, they won’t give you the old license back in case it was a good previous photo year. They will cut the little picture out and you can use it to keep a running progress of your life at five year clips.

I wasn’t sure what to do with them so I started adding them to the back of my high school yearbook.

It is kind of like a bell curve I guess.

Passport photos are other captured moments in time. Adults always look like they are about to be incarcerated. There is no way to stand against a blue background draped over a concrete wall in a government building and not think the next step involves getting black ink on your fingers.

These should be happy photos.

These are the pre-photos for vacations

Or skating travel.

They should not look like you were just handed a bill for the cost of every skater who placed higher than your child at the last competition. Eyes should not look glazed; hair should not stand on end.

We need some free-lance photographers to stand on the sidelines at MVA and the Post Office to assure quality control or at least competitive incentives.

Someone who makes sure the light is falling softly across our cheekbones. Someone who knows what a “good side” is, and knows how to tip the chin at just the right angle to hide the recent addiction to Nutter Butters.

Passport pictures stay with us for a decade. It does seem like a sentence and there is no possibility for parole.

I am getting travel materials ready for my daughter and so of course I have her passport in hand. There is no denying that being on the up side of the Bell Curve has advantages.

I take some comfort in seeing the numbers and U. S. seal that flits across her face like one of those rings in a Cracker Jack box. Still, I have been with her when custom agents look at her passport, then at her, and then smile sweetly, saying, “Good picture.”

I’ve resigned myself to accepting there will be some things I will never hear in my lifetime.

Topping the list: The salesperson at Talbot’s will never say, “Great picture, Mrs. Banderas.”

Mombo#9

Datebook: Monday, August 21st ~ 2006

I came to spend the night with my daughter to have a little quality time before school and the demands of skating come front and center.

So I can explain why I am up at 4:00 am.

It is true that it is difficult to sleep in a full size bed with a person who is used to sleeping alone, especially when that person throws her firmly toned arm over your head in the middle of night reminding you that you did not spend those hours in the gym this summer.

But, what kept me hovering at the edge of sleep were the ticking of that 5.00 yard sale clock and the scurrying sounds of “the mouse”.

The mouse is not a pet that was brought here from home by either of the girls who live in this apartment. My daughter comes from a typical cat and dog background and her roommate had a feline companion. (Neither of these girls ever cleaned the yard or a litter box I might add). No, this fuzzy dynamo is living under the stove without the added 30.00 per month security deposit.

His presence will not generate the same feeling that Michael Jackson had when he penned “Ben”.

The girls don’t want to buy this one a toy convertible per Stuart Little.

Okay, it’s not that we are anti-traditional pet people. In other circumstances I could have a lion or tiger of my own, I love big cats. Good friends of mine own several snakes, lizards and other things in cages that I dump crickets and frozen mice to when they go on vacation—okay, okay I do close my eyes as I do it and hum really loud, but I take care of them! (So you don’t think my friends are weird, the big lizard is named RuPaul because without the wig their heads look the same. Okay, even if you still think they are weird, you have to admit they have a sense of humor.)

So not liking this mouse is not a prejudice against non-traditional pets. It is a prejudice against free-range rodents.

The girls wanted to evict this free-loader.

Okay. The methods are pretty straight-forward. Traps or poison. We went to look at the implements of battle at the hardware store.

There are three kinds of traps. One is baited and has a huge bar that snaps across, crushing the little mouse body. This seemed so Louis XV without the blade and a bit barbaric. The girls were horrified that they would have to retrieve the body and look at the evidence of their cruelty.

The second type of trap uses some type of super glue; the mouse is lured onto the sticky pad and then cannot get free. This produced two concerns—what if they got this stuck to their own hands as they set it up, and would the mouse scream and whimper when caught? Since we would also have to deal with the body again, although in this scenario perhaps a sad, live body, we passed on this method also.

The third trap seemed idea at first glance. The mouse is lured into this black box, the door is slammed shut and the mouse cannot escape. You can pick up the box and discard it. So, we debated the humane issues involved, trapping a living creature and discarding it to starve to death in a small dark prison. There was also the issue of who would carry a box containing a squirming mouse to the dumpster….

I think you see the trend.

Poison was also judged and ruled inhumane, and still leaving a body that needs to be discarded.

And so these skating girls live with ‘the mouse’.

My insomnia was inspired by my thoughts at 4:00. Why would a mouse choose to live in this apartment on Luna bar crumbs? Surely he smelled the brownies that were baked in the apartment below us last night. A mouse that chooses to live licking trashed yogurt lids and granola is a scary creature.

At 4 am the imagination can take over. A mouse that is making better life choices is just a little too much to endure so I get up to turn on the light.

Ben II cannot stand light. Especially the unhealthy fluorescent kitchen bulb!

In the morning, well, in the more traditional morning, I will call the apartment manager. I believe they have a program to relocate apartment mice and I’ll make sure the girls get put on the list.

In the mean time, we’ll be going out for breakfast.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Saturday, August 19th ~ 2006

The first thing I want to do is thank all you who have taken the time to read these utterances and to those of you who have written to me. I would like to respond personally but my email address has my name in it. I have to get one of those exciting names like, LetzbringsXeyBacK2o’r40 or s8nHOtmaMa. Because I do think “not knowing” is better or else it might be a bit like looking behind the curtain in “Wizard of Oz.”

So, with all of my free time I have started working on my book again. I have given it a working title of “Oxymoron” and it is like early Janet Evanovitch-Sarah Strohmeyer-Laura Lippman in style. The working title is (of course) because everything in my life seems to contradict each other.

I want a convertible Volvo—the safest car without a top.

I am on a diet but I gain weight.

I teach Journalism yet we don’t put out a newspaper.

I teach English yet my students don’t read.

My garden has tomatoes that won’t turn red.

I have a pool but I can’t swim

So I think you see that I had inspiration in coming up with the title. In reality however, publishers and editors select the title. There is apparently an applied business approach to this. They often even “suggest” that authors change their name or use pen names. The reasoning is, if your name is Scotty King for example, your books will be shelved next to Stephen King and may entice readers (insert buyers) to pick your book also. Picking it up is half the battle. Then the cover and title then have to “stick”. What works are titles of one, two, or three words, typically nouns.

Catherine Coulter for example probably had a working title for one of her books called “My Stepfather Was Murdered By A Psycho”. Research and Development put a big X across that because this brings the whole connotations of Bates Motel/shower stabbing so they came up with “Blow Out” instead. This title has no real connection to the book except how you feel at the end, when you can let out the breath you have been holding. Pretty clever.

So, how does this relate to skating, because unless you haven’t admitted it yet, everything in our lives is tied to some cord that goes back to that central source?

Well, I think it shows we have put these teams together a bit haphazardly.

We really need to heed the advice of the experts.

I think in the future other things need to be considered in try-outs.

It shouldn’t just be about if the two can skate, and with each other. It shouldn’t just be about who can move for one part of the country to another. It shouldn’t just be about who will pay.

We need to look at the names. And how they sound over the public address system as they are announced across a clean sheet of smooth ice.

I saw several trends this year at Lake Placid.

Many teams have alliteration-or their names start with the same letter. This is good unless it is overdone and too many teams are using this concept and then they slide into being called one of the “alphabet teams.”

Some teams have a play on words as their initials stand for other things. This is good as long as the association is strong and not for something embarrassing, like a hemorrhoid cream.

Some teams have the same number of syllables to each name so there is a natural cadence to the sound and no one gets more air time. Siblings and married couples get this automatically by sharing the same last name, probably even earns an extra 1.0 points on the “relates to each other” point scale.

So, I think we must consider that one partner may have to change his/her name at the very beginning, or add a middle name, to take advantage of this concept of marketing for success.

Perhaps they can still train under their “working names.”

Mombo #9

Datebook: Friday, August 18th ~ 2006

So here is the 1000 dollar question.

What are we going to do about their feet?
I know, I know, we can ignore this for most of the year.

I have learned the ‘quick glance and avert’ method to get through it most of the time, like after the shower, or first thing in the morning. But, come flip flop weather we have to live with it constantly, unless you are the mother of my daughter’s BFF—her daughter wears flip flops twelve months straight, so she never has a break.

That’s right, we pay thousands for those costumes, thousands for those smiles, and at least a thousand for those skates—custom I might add—that hide all the distortions they are creating. The blisters heal, the scabs eventually form, well, other scabs.

But, in between, what about those hideous carbuncles, those shiny bunions that look like sixth toes! Those rolled and bunched calluses that look like small bonsai trees. What are we going to do about those?

I’m afraid there may be nothing we can do at this point. Although it is a rare sighting, have you looked at feet of female coaches? Well, don’t. Not directly anyway. Turn you head slightly and use your peripherals.

On a few occasions I have gone with my daughter when she wanted to get a pedicure—typically before a big dance at school. This has really taken courage.

Most of the shops are run by immigrants who do not speak English as a first language. As soon as my daughter’s feet hit the water, the comments flow. I can’t understand them, but in the course of forty minutes everyone has filed by to take a gander at the tootsies bumbling in the water like witches brew. My daughter is unaware, blissfully reading a magazine and having a chair massage while the pedicurist tries to decide if she has to put polish on the lump growing out of the side of her foot.

I signal ‘no’ to her and let her see the twenty dollar bill that will be her tip if she can keep a pleasant look on her face as she works around the gnarling.

Yes, Lake Placid had beautiful scenery as long as you don’t look down.

Seeing 400 sandal clad, bare, skater feet is not for the feint of heart.

Occasionally, tourists will pass a group of competitors on their way to the rink. (Moms are always trailing behind with costume bags and water so we hear the comments).

“Oh my, there must be a podiatrist’s convention in town. Did you see their feet?”

“I know, poor dears. I guess they wear all that make-up to keep people from looking at their mutated feet. They are very brave!”

Eventually we are going to have to talk to someone about this deformity or we are all going to be on Dr. Phil in 10 years answering for it. (Well, I guess everyone but Charlie White’s parents. As the girls have deemed him “perfect”, his feet have probably come through this with nary a carbuncle.)

Until then, we do what we can. Lake Placid brought new ideas for competitions.

“Mom, someone threw socks to us on the ice today.”

“Really. They must think your feet get cold!”

Mombo # 9

Datebook: Thursday, August 17th

The first time my daughter went out of the country without me was in the summer between sixth and seventh grade. She had been recruited for People to People and had decided to take part in the 3-week Australia-New Zealand experience. I remember very clearly going to the movies the week-end prior to her departure and watching Tom Hanks in “Castaway”. I can’t imagine why this would have been my choice, I don’t typically take on known painful experiences and this was, I believe, the equivalent of suturing my own wound.

In case you don’t remember this movie, it placed Tom Hanks as a Fed-Ex executive who crashes in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. He lives alone for four years enduring dental problems, loneliness, and hunger on an uncharted island. Unlike Gilligan, these were not happy times where he always appeared clean, well-dressed, and in plentiful supply of hammocks from L.L. Bean.

It was the movie of nightmares.

I may have over-reacted to the movie.

Seriously, if you asked my daughter today she would tell you that she had a bathing suit and an inflatable inner-tube in her carry-on luggage.

I didn’t sleep for sixteen days. The only bright spot of that time is that I went to the summer sale at Nordstrom’s and bought a Kate Spade purse since I was saving money at the rink. (This pleasure was short lived when the wife of one of the coaches came to the rink sporting a similar purse. Although the Kate Spade moniker was only glued on hers and not stitched like mine, there was a 150.00 difference. Again, a suturing metaphor.)

So, now my daughter is set to leave again in a short time. Without me. And although I want to go with her, I can’t. I have a responsibility to teach the youth of today and set a good example about attendance.

Yes, there are only so many times a year you can have a sinus infection and bronchitis. A historic review of my personnel file would reveal reoccurring events every November and January for the past few years. Knowing how I feel about lying and karma, you will be comforted to learn that I always get sick from plane air anyway and come home to suffer at work since I have already used my sick and personal time. This usually helps the story, however, because the kids are all amazed at how sick I had to be the week before if this is how I come back to work. Usually we are on MacBeth and/or satires and they are thrilled to have me gone for several days so in reality, I am providing them with a much needed break from the three witches and Ireland eating their young.

This year, the movie selection is “Snakes on a Plane”.

I’m sure you have seen the trailers for this. A transatlantic flight with what seems to be the entire India/Africian population of snakes. No cute little garden snakes. Only deadly, bully-faced, large-teethed snakes were issued passports for this flight.

So, of course, one questions what kind of sick mind came up with this idea. Are there many out there that would not pass out just from seeing one snake slither across their feet or hang from the overhead compartment? I can see this being the ultimate terrorist plot. Just the thought of several thousand snakes on board could result in DBS or Death by Snake.

Make no mistake. I am not seeing this movie.

And I truly doubt that the majority of America will either. Oh, I know, there will be a few reptile aficionados who will be in the audience, who will probably feel saddened as a few cobras bite the dust. But for the most part, Americans will not want to see this any more than they will watch a liposuction procedure on the Discovery Channel.

Anyway, today I’m sure you can’t get a snake on board in carry-on. I mean, you can’t take Chap-Stick or toothpaste. Certainly you can’t take a snake in one of those little pet carriers that fit under your seat.

Can you?

Mombo #9

Datebook: Wednesday, August 16th

Magazines are a problem.

Take “Elle” for example. This month the magazine is 560 pages chockfull of great ideas that will never happen. Oddly enough, the table of contents is on page 114. The 113 pages before are all ads. And not typical ads. These are ads for Prada, Louis Vuitton, Bottega Veneta, Gucci. There are no prices listed for any of the products and sometimes you aren’t quite sure what is being advertised so you have to read the small print at the bottom of the page to see you need to explore Chanel.com. The magazine makes no pretense that is purely and simply an advertiser’s showcase.

I’m not sure how we started getting this magazine. I don’t recall ordering it or paying for it. But I realized this month I can live without knowing “How to wear Skinny Jeans and Platforms—the 12 pieces you must buy now”, and “Take off 10 years—it’s all about your neck” (okay, maybe I will read that before I pass this copy to my daughter)—they hide a few articles amongst the gloss. For the most part, we never see people dressing like the models in these magazines. This month the ideas seems to focus on boots with fur, tent-like dresses, military type blazers and jackets—all worn together, and when you go to the Elleshops-- on approximate page 350 (they don’t use actual page numbers) you finally get prices—satin dress with pleats (I know, it looks like it sounds) 1500.00, cotton and wool twill cape 895.00, studded pump 1125.00…

In July, my daughter and crew went to New York for the weekend to shop and take in some culture—(they walked by the MOMA on their way to shop on 5th and Madison avenues). This was a power shopping weekend by the girls who had saved birthday and graduation money, and whatever else could be squeezed from the ATMS (Automatic Teller Moms).

This is now the story of the shorts.

The shorts were in a small shop on Madison. The shorts could have been on page 15 of “Elle”—probably teamed with Nina Ricci pumps, torn fishnets (this also seems big this fall) and a metal and velvet necklace probably found at Neiman Marcus. The shorts were linen and beige and from a distance of 15 inches looked a bit like khakis I’ve seen in the windows of Old Navy. The shorts were tried on and, truthfully, looked great although they were short and low cut.

“Should I get them?”
“They’re cute. They look nice on you. It’s your money,”
She hesitates and I get a clue there is an “issue”
“They’re expensive,” she says.
Oh. Expensive.

I have to put this is regular everyday perspective. These are shorts, they are not associated with skating. This is a hard process for me, I’ve decided money related to the “real world” and money for “skating” is a right brain-- left brain concept. No one in their right brain would pay what we pay to coaches, dressmakers, ice rinks, boot-makers. This is counterbalanced by our left brain that questions an occasional 12.00 Cosmopolitan, buying shoes not on sale, or taking the car to Jiffy Lube without a 4.00 coupon.

“How expensive?”
“Well, about half a punch card at the rink.”

And there you have it. Having magazines that deliver ads for things we don’t really buy (oh yes, we might have a real Louis Vuitton tucked away, a Christmas present from 18 years ago, but it is not the fur trimmed number on approximate page 46 that sells for $15,000.) and putting kids in skating totally skews their perception on value.

She bought the shorts. A treat. A splurge. (Truthfully, a toned body in size 0 shorts, who could resist. If they had them in my size I would have tried them on for her and her horror would have prevented the sale but they only had to size 6).

Later, I checked the price tag in the hotel room (on sale at priceline.com) and stifled a groan.

They were tiny. They were like a potholder in my hand.
They cost more than ½ of punch card—they cost at least a sleeve of a waltz dress.
My left brain makes me smile back at her. She is relieved and asks,

“What shoes should I wear with them?”

Somewhere in the back of my brain I want to say ‘your skates are the only thing that could match them au couture’ but instead I hear myself say, “I saw these cute little sandals in “Elle”….

Mombo #9

Datebook: Tuesday, August 15th

I think I’m going to need your help.

Things start changing for many of us next week.

Summer ends for most of us within the next 7 to 10 days. I know, I know, this is misleading. It is not how the families in “Dirty Dancing” functioned. They seemed to have the whole summer to lounge in the Catskills, staying for that awful group number on Labor Day weekend.
But, school starts for the majority of us the week before Labor Day.

This is where things are starting to fall apart a bit for me.

I’ll just list the problem areas:

* I am employed to teach high school students. (Okay, I’m not sure I heard a sufficient groan there. I am supposed to teach 17 year olds the joys and wonders of “Beowulf’. I am to try to sway them away from “My Space” and text messaging and discover the wonders of reading! Ok. That’s more like it!)

* My daughter is starting college in less than two weeks while she also trains full time. Is this really possible? This is the Ying and Yang of skating—we buy used college books so we can pay for the replacement beads that came off at Lake Placid (Excuse me, if beads come off it should be scored at least a level 4 lift!) and ice time.

Yesterday she skated 8 sessions. Yes, 8. Fortunately we have a 300.00 punch card which should last 4 days.

* My son will be a senior in high school. What was I thinking? Even getting past my initial lack of planning, I could have held him back another year—he has a late birthday. He has been involved in rec league sports which costs about 40.00 for the entire season (including uniform) but now he is getting brochures from MIT, Bucknell, and Princeton. Oh, in case you don’t know this, FASFA does not consider skating expenses in the formula for loans, grants, or scholarships. Instead, I imagine this group, similar to Keebler Elves, who laugh and yell out, “Here’s another one with skating expenses!”

* And finally, here is the BIG one--my daughter is preparing to leave in the next few weeks for her first international assignment. And the jacket has not arrived yet. Oh, I know, you are probably thinking I should be worried about the week she will miss from college and the new terror alerts, and the fact that she might have to use hotel shampoo instead of her required Pantene combination shampoo and conditioner. But I feel I can be honest here. We all know, it is all about the jacket. My daughter saw the first one 10 years ago, from across the rink. It was as if E.F. Hutton had personally entered the building. Not a sound was heard. And we found out, “you can’t just buy those jackets, you have to earn one.” (Well, except last year when you could actually buy a replica, which was exactly the same). You have to make Team USA. And we see people wear them proudly, their badge of honor, years later—coaches, judges, former skaters, who were members of that coveted group. The “letter jacket” for skaters. The elite varsity club. Those beautiful red, white, and blue jackets (except for last year when they were black) that proudly claim the USA team (except for last year when it was a tiny, microscopic flag). And so we wait. And the big question, what will it be? The jacket that dreams were made on? Or the one I could have bought last month for 129.00. Either way, it will be special—the real thing! But when will it come? There is now the daily watch for the mail, Fed-Ex, UPS. There will be the trying on. Photos that need to be taken. Oh, and I will have to call my daughter and tell her it arrived!

So, I think you understand now why I need your help.

How am I going to give up that jacket?

Mombo #9

Datebook: Sunday, August 13th

A Skating Mom’s Haiku:

I need to confess
I have been admonished
By my small daughter

It seems she doesn’t “want the entire skating world” to “think I am a Charlie White stalker!” And I have to “write about something else!” And I am to say that she is “really a 12-year old red-headed boy who skates pre-juvenile and is interested in the complexities of tree bark.”

I said okay, but that really makes the whole living with another girl thing a bit more complex.

Anyway, it seems to me that I am probably not the only skating mom who listens to music throughout the year imagining the free dance possibilities for the following year. Sometimes it is just a snippet of the scanning radio, or the piped tunes in a department store dressing room. I have grabbed pieces of an envelope or crumpled receipts from my purse and written obscure notes of fragments of the song lyrics because it is rare to ever hear the title or the artist. Several times I have called the radio station and given them the time and date to try to identify the song but that rarely works. I am often left trying to sing partial lyrics to friends. This is not pretty. I was removed from the voluntary 5th grade chorus and asked to turn the piano songbook pages instead.

And regardless of the lengths and depths I have battled in the quest for the holy grail of songs, I have never actually had any of my selections used.

And I think if the coaches and choreographers would have just given it a little time and let me present it in powerpoint we might have had a few GREAT free dance numbers—at least they would be memorable.

When the kids were younger, I was really sold on “Raspberry Beret” by Prince. I mean, the sequined beret alone would have been spectacular. There might have been a few places where the lyrics would have to be dubbed out but that really isn’t a problem in this technologically advanced era.

My all time favorite however, was Billy Ocean’s “Caribbean Queen”. The music builds, there is a fabulous horn section, there is plenty of interaction for the skaters, and the costumes—can’t you just see the costumes!

Vetoed.

Just like my selections by Milli Vanilli. I am quite sure no one has ever skated to the original grammy-winning song. Who cares who really sang those tunes, they were incredible. Michael Buble will probably do an album of their hits and then everyone will be on the bandwagon. Someone just has to be willing to make that first leap of faith.

Since you have not heard Joe Cocker or Steve Miller wafting across the ice rink, you know how those were received also.

No way.

“Not the right sound.”

“Not the right direction we are looking for this year.”

Oh.

I see.

I didn’t know we were going into the freedom-fighter, action figure, Egyptian fairy-winged, crop dusting, secret agent, nomadic pirate outlaw theme this year.

No problem.

I think they have sequins in those colors.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Saturday, August 12th

Okay, so I have to send Michelle W a HUGE bouquet of roses.

I should anyway just because she takes such great photos. Photography is truly an art form that goes way beyond what I am capable of creating with my automatic Canon. I mean, I hope to get people smiling and with most of their eyes open, but for the most part it typically looks like one member of the party suffers from narcolepsy.

No, the reason I must send Michelle flowers -- she gave me the best compliment that any person could give to the mother of a young girl-woman. She compared my writing ability with Charlie White’s skating ability. Take out all of those extra words like we did when we were eleven to discover our future true love, and it ends with me and Charlie White. Okay, not in a Demi Moore/Ashton Kutcher sort of way, but in a “your mom is as cool as Charlie White” sort of way.

Mega points for the mom.

Even when subtracting, “You’re not wearing those pants to the rink are you?”

(Someone needs to explain to the youth of today that there are no “new” styles. There are only recycled styles. The capris of today were the pedal pushers of yesterday and yes, I am wearing those pants to the rink!).

My daughter has a major crush on Charlie White who, by all counts of the female skating population, pushes the Hottie meter past the limits of finite measuring. This is, of course, fine by me as he lives 1500 miles away, she sees him twice a year, and she is too struck with situational shyness to ever have an actual uninhibited conversation with him.

This is a surprising fact to her friends who never find her at loss of words in any other situation--in fact, Michael Chertoff could use a little of her diplomatic honesty.
(This is particularly surprising to her own partner, who seems to have major Hottie rankings also, although, like most partnerships, that is a “no go” because they are “too close”. Other top of the scale Hotties FYI- Keiffer, Evan, John, Travis, Taylor).

I mean, no offense to the judges’ critiques, but the only thing that stands out to her is that:
“Charlie White said “great job’ to me”.

“Did he see you put your foot down on that twizzle?”

“He said, “Great Job”.

“What did the judges say?”

“They said we basically did a good job and some other stuff.”

“Did they give you some suggestions for improvement?”

“Umm. I guess so. But did I tell you, Charlie White said “Great Job”.”

Okay.

Thank you Charlie White.

With this in mind, I will confess, I was one of the 487 mothers on their balconies watching that photo shoot on the sandy beach.

I mean, Michelle, we didn’t know it was going to happen, we just looked out our window and there you were.

It was almost like a unicorn sighting.

It was like getting tickets to the Oprah show and finding out it was her Favorite Things day!
And then you asked him to unbutton his shirt.

I don’t want you to think we were a horde of lecherous woman. But, we instantly knew we had the Golden Ticket. A photo of Charlie sans shirt is priceless in the “making points with your daughter” samba—we are so often in negative numbers.

So Michelle, I am admitting, I snapped a few photos. Covertly of course.

But, unfortunately, with my lack of fine photography skills, and the automatic focus, the shot centers on the balcony railing and Charlie is just a blur in the distance.

So, if you would care to send one of those 5 by 7s my way, just for comparison purposes only of course, I would probably be in the black for several months. Maybe into the New Year. We are talking major points here!

Or, maybe you could just post one for all.

You know, for the good of the cause and all of that.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Friday, August 11th

The newspaper and CNN had the same story this morning. “Terrorist Plot Thwarted”. The “what could have beens” are horrifying, yet I take much comfort that intelligence was able to monitor and stop these attacks.

To distract myself I move to page 5 of the newspaper.

Page five is always a great distraction because it is typically the opposite page of the local department store’s underwear sale ad. I have personally never viewed an ad of this sort and felt the need to rush out to buy panties.
Anyway, ignoring the blonde in high cut briefs, page five didn’t let me down.

It seems Debbie Phillips in Charleston, West Virginia, came home to find her house, not robbed or vandalized, but cleaned. Not just your regular, “I have so much to do today so I’ll just straighten up” cleaning, but a super spic and span, Mr. Clean brings the white tornado cleaning. Lemon fresh scent and all.

Instead of a missing TV, she had missing dust bunnies.

Instead of dusting for prints, the “intruder” dusted her prints.

So, what was that call to the police like?

“9-1-1.”

“Yes, I’d like to report a cleaning in my house.”

Do they have a code for that?

It’s not a B&E, so it must be a B &C.

Seriously, the police and Phillips could not find the person who did this wondrous crime. Her husband and friends denied any knowledge of how it occurred. Although I am not a crime solver, I would be looking at the mother-in-law or perhaps a girlfriend of the husband. You know, that old, “This place is a mess, I’m not sleeping here”.

Still, the surprising thing is that Debbie Phillips called the police.

If I came home and found my house clean and the laundry done I wouldn’t call the police and risk them finding the person, hence forfeiting future action with bucket and mop. No, I would pour a glass of freshly made lemonade from the frig and silently thank my fairy godmother (who obviously lives in the town of Karma).

The second little article I read was the most important.

I actually had tears in my eyes.

It seems scientists have developed a vaccine that eliminates fat from forming on the body. I know, I know. This is obviously a Nobel Peace Prize in the making. Although it is still in the testing stages, the vaccine is hoped to be on the market in 2008.

This means so many things:

Only two more summers of wearing shorts over my bathing suit.

The ability to wear white, semi-transparent shirts again.

Perhaps a factual description of my weight on my driver’s license.

As it is Friday, my daughter is coming home “from college” where she also skates. I have stocked all of her favorite foods: skim milk, Special K, rice cakes, tuna (in spring water). I have hidden my Ho-Hos, Dove Bars, and Doritos.

Parents have to be good role models.

At least for two more years!

Mombo # 9

Datebook: Thursday, August 10th

I keep thinking that things are so much worse than when Anne Murray sang about needing “A Little Good News”. Although our focus seems to be channeled into Lake Placid results, where teams will go for sectionals, JGPs, GPs, sectionals, and nationals, underneath it all we are all aware that there is little good news happening in the world—or at least it isn’t getting much coverage on CNN.

Knowing this makes it even more incredulous that I decided to take my son to see “World Trade Center” today, but off we went for the 1:00 matinee. We had planned to go for Rita’s Water Ice afterwards, but neither of us could actually contemplate swallowing when we walked out into the afternoon sun.

Instead, we needed a fix of comic relief and if we could have main-lined Chris Rock jokes we would have been junkies for sure.

Oh, for a piece of fruit sprayed from Gallagher’s mighty mallet.

I will confess that I am really not a good movie companion in the best of situations. I tend to cry easily. I am particularly morose at Disney movies. Even the cartoon epics. This is apparently like a childhood illness such as asthma or diabetes, because it tends to get worse with age. It is now impossible for me to watch any movie with an animal or young child. Sometime during that movie the animal/child will be orphaned, suffer the loss of a friend, become lost and or lonely, or be injured.

I practically needed to be medicated after watching Incredible Journey, My Dog Skip, and Lion King. (I know, I probably should seek help for this…) Because of my propensity to sobbing my children were never allowed to watch or own the classic of all horror stories, Bambi.

My reactions have had a tremendous impact on my children.

My son will peruse the reviews looking for potential pit falls before he will go with me, and if one pops up unexpectedly, like the renewed popularity of Mariah Carey, he will leave the theater and go to the bathroom (example “Independence Day”, the scene with the Golden Retriever in the tunnel).

My daughter, on the hand, either laughs or ignores me. She shakes her head and says, “It’s not real. It is make believe. What is wrong with you?”

I was quite frankly worried about a child who did not shed a tear when there were only 14 puppies left in “101 Dalmations” so I proceeded with an intervention.

I made her watch “Beaches”, “Terms of Endearment” and “Steel Magnolia’s”.

And she just raised an eyebrow, “What’s the problem. These are movies. They are acting.”

Right. And Johnny Depp is just a man.

It just wasn’t natural.

I am only slightly mollified when she finally admitted that she got a bit misty-eyed during “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.”

“Did you actually cry?” I asked skeptically.

“Almost.”

“Did you need a tissue?” I pressed.

She just looked at me, in that oh-so-45ish-going-on-18 face.

“Then it doesn’t count!” I admonished.

So, the points that I discovered after the movie today--my son was really putting himself out there, going to a movie guaranteed to need hankies. I’ll give him a big hug for that later.
The second, when my daughter sees it, she will finally understand that it doesn’t matter if it is only a movie and that they are only acting.

And, the third, is for Anne Murray. Our good news is right in right in front of us, or at least sitting beside us.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Wednesday, August 9th

So the problem to being back to normal is-- there is no ‘normal”.

Especially in skating.

While 90% of the skating world takes a much needed vacation, we are still in training due to another competition that is fast approaching.

And I say “we” in the ice-skating accepted plural. “We” means of course that my daughter skates, works-out, talks to the coaches, makes changes-- while I write checks, ask if she needs water, and hold my breath. (At Lake Placid I discovered that it is possible to not breathe for 2:37 seconds with no real harmful results other than the typical vertigo and nausea that is associated with any ice dancing event).

Actually, I don’t even get to ask about the water part anymore. This is because 61 days ago my daughter left for college.

This is how I think of it anyway.

My daughter found a great partner four years ago. The training commute for us was 150 miles round trip, and $11.00 in tolls each day. (Don’t try to figure that out, my husband has already computed this in Excel). Typically she slept on the drive up after school, and did her homework and talked to me on the way home. And although she got her license I didn’t want her defying the laws of fate by driving on the interstate and being flung upside down and suspended over the ice at 20mph all in the same day so I continued to act as chauffeur.

Last year she told the guidance counselor she only wanted to look at colleges that were within a ten mile radius of her training rink.

I got a call, of course. It seems this is not the best way to pick a college. Picking a college because of a sport is probably the deciding factor for many students, but, that is typically because the sport is offered at offered at that college. Maybe even with a scholarship.
No scholarships for skating.

My daughter could have told them she shot marbles, perfected blow-darting, or choreographed ribbon dancing and received more respect and interest.

But she was accepted at all five colleges within the area and we completed the required educational comparisons to make the logical and rational selection.

We drove to each campus with a stopwatch, analyzed traffic patterns and traffic flow, and evaluated class schedules to see which interfered the least with her skating.

Voila!

Then, we realized she could not live on campus.

She goes to bed by 10 and gets up by 6—the basic anti-freshman schedule. Also, the dressers and closets in dorms wouldn’t even hold her American Girl doll wardrobe when she was 10, let alone her skating gear and costumes now.

It was cheaper and more practical to rent an apartment with another skater.

Yes. You see where this is going.

Since summer training is usually more intense she moved in June to be at the rink to train now, and to be settled for the start of college in three weeks.

So I tell anyone who asks that she moved for college. This is not a lie and does not incite the whole karma thing.

I am really not that sad about the whole thing.

I have created a small shrine for her at my desk which includes a note she wrote to me when she was six (when I was “the best mommy in the world”), several photographs, a hair clipping, and a constantly running compilation video of her life that, admittedly, would probably make Donald Rumsfeld cry.

Ice skating mothers are made of tougher stuff.

So now I see her twice a week. Once for laundry. (It seems clothes don’t come out folded and smelling fresh in those apartment laundry rooms). And once for dinner. She calls me every night when she is in for the day, but this is not always comforting. Before Placid a call was highlighted with, “We saw a mouse run under the stove so we turned on the oven.”

Anyway, we are getting back to normal.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Monday, August 7th

Yesterday was “The Great Return”.

Of course, it was a beautiful morning. The postcard view to entice us to return again.

I packed all of the dirty clothes in my fake Louis Vuitton carry-bag until I was afraid to try to zip it (you can always tell a fake Louis by the dollar store zipper and the safety pins holding it together) on Saturday night while the kids were “out”. The “out” part has been the worry of many of a parent in previous years, but thankfully, I am past that. The fact is, the kids typically go to the bowling alley (where else could you get them to consider bowling?), sit in the lobby or a room in groups of 40, and a few drink beer and canoodle in someone’s van.

Okay, I made up the last part to see if you were really reading. But seriously, although this isn’t “7th Heaven”, I believe most of the kids only over-indulge in a 3 scoop waffle cone at Ben and Jerry’s.

Anyway, the packing is of course the prelude to the “leaving”. I would personally like to leave at 6:00 but since I wake up every 20 minutes anticipating getting up to leave, I am typically tired when the alarm finally goes off.

All-in-all, we had a great week. My daughter and partner won some medals and had all but one good skate, and even that didn’t get any “ehhhh’s” from the crowd. Still, I feel a bit bashed around, like I rode one of those new roller coasters at a theme park. My neck is a bit stiff and I have a tooth ache from gnashing my teeth or clamping my jaw too much. Most in our group did not fare as well, so although privately we hug, hang the medals on the armoire door, thank our skating muses, and peruse the result pages for point spreads like we are horseracing bookies, we must sweep the room if a knock sounds at the door.

I discovered if I placed one of my bras (think non Victoria Secrets) on the table that held all of our results paraphernalia, no one would look too closely and certainly they wouldn’t go near it.

We left at 8:30. My daughter and her best friend (another skater) were in the car with me. I give them that status because they were asleep before we reached “Stewarts” on Main Street and didn’t wake up until I pulled in at the Little Baltimore rest stop below Albany. We had at that time listened to the same 20 track CD four times.

The problem came several hours later.

Did we take the Map Quest route—several back roads with 518 red lights or the toll road? These are decisions I hate. This is how I invested in municipal stock instead of buying gold or acreage like my friends. (They have second homes at the beach and someone named Antonio who answers the front door of their first home. I don’t even have a time share. They also don’t have children who skate….)

I picked the toll road, lulled by the concept of 4 lanes of highway which usually have some movement.

Unless a tractor trailer carrying lumber decides to careen through the barrier into the southbound roadway and flip over, spilling 200 gallons fuel in the process.
Since no one was hurt I started to get grumpy after the first hour.

It was like a block party, with people out of cars sharing coolers of food and beverage. Remember, I had the left-overs from the week. No one wanted smushed Luna bars, Fat Free Pringles or warm PowerAide. I was like the cook-out guest who brings jello jigglers shaped like the holiday du jour.

Blinding rain forced us back in the car for the second hour and for some reason this made us yearn for a bathroom even more. Since no locust came, I continued to think we were pretty lucky.

The remainder of the trip was just a blur of tail lights and Alicia Keys lyrics.

Next year. (Sorry, I had to pause.)

Next year we decided we will leave on Monday. Sunday will be a “vacation” day and we will enjoy the sights without the thought of lacing up skates for another event.

Next year, wow, is only 358 days away.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Saturday, August 5th

It is 5:45 am.

I am awake and writing by the dim glow of this tiny Mac Powerbook.

My daughter has set her phone alarm for 6:05 so she can get up and coiff her hair into a style for practice “in case the judges are watching”.

Okay, I’m thinking, by now even the most dedicated judge has had enough. He/she has judged for five days and really doesn’t feel the need to “bone up ” on a compulsory dance practice. I tell my daughter she could just wear a pony-tail and half make-up.

This was apparently the equivalent of telling her to go out in curlers and Keds.

Because I got “the look”.

Thankfully, it was not accompanied by “the sigh” or an eyeroll.

I told Daphne I would not talk about the specifics of skating. We do that enough in our own groups and it often requires the stimulation of alcohol.

Yesterday, however, felt like a round of Extreme Dodgeball.

I don’t think they really have extreme dodgeball, at least not without jerseys, but its cousin, regular dodgeball, was my favorite elementary school game. They have since banned it from schools became it is considered “excessive in force” and “personal”.

Yesterday, the majority of the teams seemingly took some headshots and some in the kidney areas of the back.

As an audience, we sent the look, some sighs, and numerous eyerolls across the way but there must be a glare from the ice because they seemed to go unnoticed. Today we are sending the skaters back in the center of the rink, armed only with those dazzling smiles and sequins as armor.

But, alas, the most important part of waking up today is realizing it is Saturday and we can leave tomorrow. There is the whole packing issue. But, thankfully, after today we can go home and rest.

From our vacation.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Friday, August 4th

How can it be Friday already?

This morning I awakened to the ducks aflac-ing on the lake and the sun casting a soft glow across my daughter’s cheek.

I must add that my bed had the same sheets as it had on Tuesday because I am “Saving the Planet”. After being advised that bed sheets ‘washed daily in thousands of hotels in this world use millions of gallons of water and tons of detergent’, I caved and left the ‘get out of the room fast pass’ for the maids. I am a bit confused by this however. It is true that I don’t change the sheets as often at home, but it is nice to be pampered a bit while away. Especially at 219.00 a night plus tax.

I did leave a note at a hotel last year that said “ink used for thousands of daily hotel bills produces millions of gallons of tears due to their excessive nature” but no one has responded yet.

Anyway, getting back to the sunrise on Mirror Lake.

It was a quite moment. But, it is the eye of the storm.

We got through yesterday with little to no damage. There may be some question that my daughter’s rockers are so fast that they appear, or are, three-turns. But that can be nailed down before hailing the free dance winds again.

The second wall of the storm hits today. The OD and the first round of compulsories.

Quite frankly, this is a bit much for one day. It is draining for the parents and I imagine the skater’s find it a bit difficult also. I personally like to stay in one cuisine or genre. I can’t mix sushi and cheesecake, or Dr. Phil and Fear Factor. It is just hard to do. First of all, the compulsories require a fast change in between. This is difficult for the girls. They must transform their persona from Audrey Hepburn (waltz) to Carmen Miranda (the latin number du jour). I personally take several minutes deciding which flip-flops to wear each morning and can’t comprehend the quick change artistry that goes into flipping a soft bun into a saucy temptress. Plus, it is, I’m looking for the right word here, oh, yes, boring! watching 30 waltzes. I can’t imagine judging four levels a day or 520 plus waltz patterns. It must be like looking at the TV guide channel on cable and realizing that 15 minutes has passed and you’re still looking at the screen.

Anyway, like in any storm, remember to keep plenty of water, batteries and toilet paper at hand.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Wednesday, August 3rd

We are staying at the Golden Arrow for several reasons. The most important: the view of Whiteface and the calming effect of the lake. Honorable mention: it is closer to Black Bear, Goldberries, and Soulshine Bagel. And I just can’t do that hill.

Seriously, that hill is brutal. And you can’t let anyone know that it is brutal so you have to hold in you stomach and walk and talk at the same time. It is impossible.

So we stay at the Golden Arrow, 3rd floor so we are on ground level. Also, it has a better view of the lake without having paddleboats in your bedroom.

This year we have a whirlpool bathtub in our room. A nice feature but who takes a bath in hotel room? We all try to pretend no one uses our rooms, but we are all quite aware these are passed around more than a toaster from a bridal shower. Anyway, this was made very clear to me this year when I checked in and found a Viagra pill on the floor by the bed. My bed. Well, I am assuming it was a Viagra because it had a large V engraved on it and it looked like the ones from those all too happy commercials. I flushed it down the toilet but then of course the sex life and probable outcome of the previous night where within touching distance of my brain and it was hard (no pun intended) not to be “kootieed” out.

Another new feature of the Golden Arrow (I’m not counting the readily available Viagra) is that they have wireless internet in the south side of the building. This is wonderful. Except I am staying in the north wing. So, I must take my computer and wander the halls like it is some great divining rod searching for the magical elixir.

We are actually going to have breakfast this morning before the COMPETITION. I am not nervous. I’m pretty sure that my heart rate is around 130 beats a minute and I will try to avoid the smell of bacon and sausage. I may also need to drink my coffee through a straw so the cup doesn’t rattle in the saucer but fortunately odd behaviors are a bit typical for me so my daughter will be none the wiser. She thinks I am a rock… and she must never know that is just what is at the bottom of my stomach.

We must not be nervous.

This is only Lake Placid. It’s not even a qualifying competition.

Datebook: Tuesday, August 2nd

Yesterday was the big travel day and it was a bit draining, 100-degree weather, IPOD in my daughter’s ear, daughter sleeping, construction on the road, and of course the biggest concern—driving without a rider. I mean this in the purest form—as in insurance.

We did stop to pick up the costumes. It is only now, a day later, that I can say this without a brown paper bag near by. Our costume designer makes appointments so that clients never run into each other—which is very sensitive and considerate, but I think it is also so those arriving aren’t frightened by the faces of those leaving.

It occurred to me during the drive that perhaps the world economy could be aided if we based our economy on sequins. I mean truthfully, they are easier to store and weigh less than gold!

That gives you an idea of what is coming.

Yes, I joked before about the price but you surely knew that because anything to do with skating uses 4th grade math—everything is rounded to the nearest dollar or 100th dollar. This is not the gas station, where we pay 3.07 9/10 a gallon. There are no 9/10s of a cent in skating. Even though we deal in hours, or portions of hours, the bills are always in easy round numbers.

So, after all the costumes were tried on, my daughter’s partner’s mother and I were handed bills. Neatly folded. And we reacted as if there had actually been an Emily Post class on what to do when handed a large bill for sequins and lace—we didn’t gasp, or even look at each other. I wrote the check, leaving plenty of room for the zeros, from my checkbook—with the cover that came in the box with the checks. He accepted the check and put it in his Louis Vuitton wallet, inside his Louis Vuitton (vintage) briefcase. Within minutes the room had brightened and my peripheral vision returned almost to normal so that I could walk unaided to the car. I was hampered slightly by the 50 pound costumes.

During the drive I obsessed about the costumes. I didn’t park at a rest area unless we could see the car, we cracked the windows just enough to let in some air so that the sequins would be cool—like traveling with a poodle! but not enough to allow a thin coat hanger to intrude to unlock the door.

My daughter worried about her Ipod and laptop, and I snorted, “that is like the change at the bottom of my purse compared to your dresses.”

“I’ll pay you back one day,” she said quietly and looked small and contrite.

I paused and brushed the hair from her eyes.

“You’d better. I’ll expect some shiny buttons on my nightgowns when you put me in that nursing home.”

During the last hundred miles I consider calling State Farm and asking about an insurance policy but then remember the unwritten rule we all have.

“Never divulge financial information to Outsiders.”

I wonder if you can get a clothing Lojack or one of those chips they put in dog’s ears…

Mombo #9