Datebook: Thursday, November 30th ~ 2006

I thought this week would be a bit easier. I mean, we came home from sectionals last Sunday and then had a few days off for Thanksgiving. We have to flip the calendar twice to get to the date for Nationals.

We should be able to relax and just maintain for a week or so.

Ahh, but I forgot about the skates.

Ice skates are a sore subject with me. This is not just because every nine or ten months I have to shell out 1100.00 for a new pair of blades and boots. No, it just seems that for such a critical piece of equipment, there seems to be very little technology applied or money spent on researching improved products.

For example, we ordered my daughter’s skates on June 11th. She got them the week before sectionals and we all thought perhaps she should wait until the week after to try them out. I think in five months I would be at the head of the line for a Hermes Birkin bag, not waiting in anticipation for the U.S. Postal truck to deliver a pair of Kingbeil’s.

Although I could purchase a current season pair of Jimmy Choos or Manolo Blahniks for less than I pay for these white wonders, I humor myself with the knowledge that her boots are “custom”.

This would truly be amusing if I had not witnessed how the custom fittings take place. The skater literally stands on a piece of paper and an outline of the foot is made with a black magic marker.

Really.

It reminded me of third grade when we all made outline copies of our bodies on brown paper so we could see what our shadows looked like. (This was not a happy event for me because I wore a big barrette, as was the fashion at that time, and my “outliner” made a big knob on the side of my head that looked like a mushroom.) Anyway, to be truly custom my daughter’s skates should have arrived with little pockets for her bunion toes and double heels.

But they didn’t.

In fact, they don’t seem very ‘custom’ at all. A suspicious person might think the boots are just regular 6 ½ skates that anyone could pull off the 687.50 shelf.

This year we thought we were ahead of the game. We ordered in June thinking we would receive them in three weeks, with plenty of time to break them in before Lake Placid. Since she had not grown, or changed shoe sizes, we duplicated the order we had placed last September. It seemed so easy.

Instead, her old boots became like traveling gnomes, forced to turn up in different parts of the world when they should have been retired. We became very good at dying, blotting, and using black leather polish on the heels to raise them up to the standard of almost “shabby”.

So the week that should have been relaxing is not.

After the 155 day wait, I got the call.

“How are the new skates?” I ask.

“Ummh. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? What isn’t right?”

“They are bigger than my old skates. My toes have too much room.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? Maybe now those bumps on the sides of your feet won’t get any bigger.”

“I don’t know. I am skating on my heel more.”

“Can’t you just wear socks? I bet someone sells a custom pair of socks for just this reason for about 200.00 that will take care of the problem.”

“I don’t know. It might just be the tongue.”

“The tongue—what does that have to do with the toe of your boot?”

“I don’t know. You know how in bad skates the tongue kind of disappears and then you can lace the sides really close together?”

“No, but I’m getting an image of something that sounds like clown shoes.”

She then assures me the skates are fine.

I think you’ll agree with me that this is not something I would put money on, but of course, ironically, I already have. The clown image is also not easily erased when she tells me she is using pink laces—“for practice”.

To take my mind off of all the debacles of skating I ventured out to the local Target store. In the middle of their shoe department is a large rug where shoppers can remove their shoes and match their foot to the pre-drawn feet on the carpet that will advise the correct shoe size. It is all very professional with no crossover lines or magic marker smell.

Like I said, boot companies should take advantage of the advances made in technology to assist them in offering a better product to their customer.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, November 27th ~ 2006

My daughter is in love.

Not the “Charlie White is the best” type of love where six girls, ages 16 through 20, sit around and vote on his best attribute (last count- 4 votes for sparkling blue eyes, 3 votes for razor sharp wit)(—okay, I voted too, but merely to use every opportunity to show my daughter how important it is to always vote and make your voice heard).

Not the “You are the best Mom in the Whole World--I Love You” love from a 2nd grade card spelled out in uncooked macaroni and glued on periwinkle construction paper.

Not the frantic devotion to Justin Timberlake and his N-Sync buddies, bopping and turning in unison to songs that seemed to have the same lyrics.

No, this is the “other” kind of love.

Not that she tells me about it, mind you.

I have tried to ferret out little tidbits, but there is no resemblance to a Barbara Walters interview confessional occurring in our conversations. In fact, the little bit I know comes from her Myspace account, which she rarely uses now, where she has changed her status from “single” to “in a relationship”.

My husband is oblivious of course. He doesn’t have to be, but he prefers to live in the dark and it is a game we all indulge him in. If he saw her thong underwear at the top of the wash pile, he would ask, “Why does she keep washing her skate laces?” To preserve his sense of balance in the world it was easier to just say, “Because she likes them clean dear,” then to force his mind to wrap around the cold hard facts of life—his daughter wears skimpy underwear.

So he is no help.

Having her move away to skate was hard enough this year. I have almost become used to her being gone in the 177 days it has been since the Ryder truck pulled up in our driveway. I told myself that children go to college at her age so it really wasn’t any different.

But it is. College kids come home for the holidays, but not so ice skaters. Oh, they give you a few hours or two days and fifteen minutes if you really want to count. But when you add in a boyfriend, the numbers start morphing into some type of algebraic formula where X rarely equals home.

But, I am okay with it.

Really. I mean, the guy is wonderful. He is funny, gorgeous, treats my daughter great, and very talented. Oh yes, he is a skater also. This makes life easier for both of them. They have plenty to talk about and commiserate on, and they won’t laugh at the other’s bumpy feet.

My husband, or course, doesn’t see a reason that either one would see the other’s feet and I just remind him that they might be changing from skates back to shoes one day until eventually he just nods and moseys on outside to hang up Christmas lights.

I told you, he is no help.

During my two days of the four day weekend, my daughter did go shopping with me on Black Friday. Of course this made it easy to find things that she would like to find wrapped under the tree. She, on the other hand, spent the morning shopping for her best friend and the man in her life. I reminded her that she had to think of something for her brother.

“Oh, he’s easy; I’ll just get him a shirt or something. It’s harder for the other two--I just want to make sure I find the right thing, you know, something really special.”

Ah, the quest for ‘special’.

In a little craft boutique, I found several stocking stuffers that were clever, cute and unique. I loaded up a small basket and met my daughter at the counter where I saw she had selected several of the same items that I had put in my basket. One was a small flip book with an “I love you” message which I thought of putting in the kids stockings at Christmas.

I quickly realized she had not made the selection with me or her brother in mind.

Oh.

That kind of love. Alrighty then.

This is really going to make Valentine's Day hard to shop for as a mom.

Mombo

Datebook: Thursday, November 23 ~ 2006

Happy Thanksgiving from Ice-dance.com & Mombo #9

Last Tuesday my daughter told me she was packing “light” for Sectionals. She was only taking one suitcase and two carry-ons—a backpack with her computer, magazines and various snacks, and a Puma bag, with her costumes, for me to carry.

“Wonderful,” I said. “Now we can actually fit in the mid-size car I rented.”

“I realize I don’t need to take all of the things I usually take,” she admitted and I basked in her new maturity that surely is due to my insightful parental guidance.

“Do you think you’ll have any room in your suitcase in case I have a few things that need to be packed at the last minute?”

“No problem, I always have a bit of space.” I answered serenely, imagining the outer zipper pocket that usually remains empty.

This is were my dream vision collapsed under the last minute reality of seven pair of shoes, three coats, a pair of skates, a MAC make-up case, and the new hot pink Chi hair straightener.

I had to remove several of my items until I was reduced to the area of a gallon size zip-lock bag with 5 days of underwear and socks, two sweaters, and a change of pants.

I considered layering clothes but was happy I decided against it when I was pulled from the baggage inspection line with the suspect Puma bag. Apparently, under x-ray, my bag looked like a diamond smuggler’s cache, and my “shifty” look (mostly of me glaring at my daughter, who in flip flops had an Emeldo Marcos array of foot apparel at her disposal upon arrival, while I had to be content in black backless Clarks even when I wore my brown pants thank-you-very- much).

I had to be subjected to the full search and “puffer” exam looking for explosives.

My daughter, of course, disappeared into the crowd leaving me to explain tiny spandex costumes with thousands of crystals.

“They’re not mine” I tried to explain.

“You didn’t pack this bag?”

“No, I mean…yes. These are my daughter’s and she is a skater and we are going to a competition.”

“Oh. Skating. Can your daughter do a triple axel?”

“No, she does ice dancing,” I replied.

This resulted in some raised eyebrows and a re-wanding of my body.

With weather delays we arrived at the destination airport Tuesday night at 11:00 to discover our rental car company had overbooked cars. We were left with the choice of a cab, or a dirty PT Cruiser with a quarter tank of gas. We took the car and ‘cruised.

Every competition has its own quirks and culture and we heard of several at the three regions.

With a limited number of skaters, those on the east coast were a pleasantly surprised to find that there were two practice groups. They were therefore taken aback when advised that only one minute of music would be played for the OD and Free Dance.

So practice went like this.

“Skater’s you have 6 minutes of warm-up.”

“Team 1 will be first and then Team 2.”

1 minute of music for each team was played—(thankfully the first minute and not just a random selection which admittedly would have made it more interesting).

“Skaters you have 24 minutes left in this practice session.”

Some tried to address the problem and suggest a logical and reasonable solution like using the remaining minutes to actually play the entire program, but these were pooh-poohed.

Coaches, skaters and parents alike were turned away and left as if they had just had an encounter with the Motor Vehicle Administration on the last day of the month, or tried to cancel a contract with a wireless phone network.

Mids skaters had to keep watch for tornados and Coast skaters, well, will be traveling back to the same state in January.

My daughter will be taking two suitcases to Spokane. On the way home her bag weighed 53 pounds and cost an additional twenty-five dollars—the only things she added were a medal and a new pair of size 2 “skinny” jeans.

She said I shouldn’t feel irked about it.

But I am a bit. It seems redundant to wear that size and still need to call them “skinny”.

Congratulations to all, for your work and hard effort. Happy Thanksgiving.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Monday, November 20th ~ 2006

I am not really a daytime television watcher. Yet, there I was on election day, sitting in the neighborhood nail salon, trying not to smell the caustic fumes of burning cuticle dust, captivated by the seemingly same story line on Bold and the Beautiful as when I watched it a bejillion years ago. The only difference is that now they have sound effects.



Yes, those smoldering looks are now broadcast with cracks of lightening and dings and pings like the basic power point show on employee benefit night.

The afternoon continues with “Ellen”, one of my favorites and I realized how much I miss her smiling face and dancing feet from the days of her sitcom era. She is one of my idols actually. She has never been afraid to wear comfortable shoes and socks with any outfit, and I doubt that she spends double-digits on hair care products annually. Yes, she seems so casual and comfortable with life. And we all love her and wish she lived next door.

Unlike the women on “The View”.

I have to admit that although I like all of the women on this show, I just cannot sit through more than ten minutes of all of them trying to talk over, around, and between each other. I feel a bit battered after a few minutes, as if I have been to one on my own family gatherings where my relatives try to out shout each other because their hearing aid batteries are giving out, or worse, they think what they have to say is more important than what anyone else has to say. And none of them listen to what anyone else says anyway.

The daytime afternoon builds for the fabulous duo- Dr. Phil and Oprah.

I used to love Dr. Phil, but now I have to admit it, I am getting a little ‘phil’ed up. He is insightful and intuitive but lately his shows have been a bit Jerry Springerish without the flashing body parts. Plus, it seems a bit daunting to me that everyday his wife is sitting in the audience. Watching him. Imagine if the average wife did that. Follows her husband to work, walks him into the building and walks him out of the building. We’ve done that with our children in elementary school…I mean women who really do this could be on a daytime talk show getting advice on how to have their own lives. Now I see that Robin has written her own book, as did son Jay. So, I’m thinking they should have a Dr. Phil board game—you pick a card with a problem stated and you write down advice that you think fits the scenario. You then match your advice with the Dr. Phil advice card. As long as you use common sense and suggest the basics of civility you are going to win.

This means all of us could have our own talk or game show.

I would call mine “The Mombo Hour”. And I would wear red everyday.

I would have parents on my talk/game show as contestants betting on “Where did I go right” and “Where did I go wrong”. To add excitement there would be degrees of correctness and wrongness, of simply stated, “levels”. So if you really messed up in a child-rearing situation, but added special nuances to your errors, you could get a -1 for the skill, but pluses on the uniqueness of the problem. It is a bit complicated and we would probably need technical specialists to make each “call”.

Oh yes, and I would have Antonio Banderas on the show, and Kevin Costner. And Toby Keith. I know they don’t fit the format I just laid out but having your own show seems to indicate that you can do whatever you want. And I’ve noticed there are a great number of hugs and hand touchings on all of these shows.

Very platonic but still exciting.

The next non-major holidays that might allow for lounging on the sofa in the afternoon are Martin Luther King’s birthday and/or President’s Day (unless you’re are off for Bill of Rights Day on December 15th). Pick a day-time drama that you might have watched five years ago when you had the flu and see if you can still pick up the storyline.

Or you can keep watching old skating tapes and count the Carmens.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, November 13th ~ 2006

Editor's note: Mombo #9's blog will not be posted on Thursday due to Sectionals.
Rest assured, Mombo will return on Monday, November 20th.

A rainy Sunday is not helped by 500 football games and a replaying of SkateCanada on one of the obscure ESPN channels. In fact, the replaying of the skating competition is made more annoying because they televise all 12 ladies freestyle skaters and merely mention the ice dancers—this seems like the Oscars when they announce in low voices that the “following awards were given earlier in the day” and the camera pans to a small crowd seemingly eating breakfast.

No. Nothing good on television so I am left with time for pondering.

These are the moments I wonder about the obscure and senseless.

Why, for example, do we have two spellings for ketchup, it is either that, or catsup. Both are accepted by Microsoft spell check. Is this a result of hard-core phonics learners who later went to work in marketing?

Why does my son have 12 hoodies in the wash this week and only five pair of underwear?

I did ask him this question and he replied, “Because I am swimming,” as if this is supposed to make sense to anyone that is not seventeen years old. And male.

So, as usual, when confused, I turn to skating because usually there is a correlation somewhere.

I am wondering why parents are not “having a bone to pick” with a particular Sectional group that is attempting to “smush” ice-dancers.

This is true. Smush, as in “jam together in random order.”

Although these are four day events and the clubs have bid on, and been awarded the contracts several years in advance, the ice dancing competition is slated to be smashed together.

Mids did change their schedules to show the modern reflection on the demands of adrenaline on athlete’s bodies but Easterns is showing a schedule that has ice dancers skating two compulsory dances and then in less than two hours the teams must skate their OD.

Any trainer will tell you that this is flawed logic and puts undo strain on the system.

It also seems a bit insensitive to the kids skating. Like, “hey could you hurry up so we can zam the ice for the freestylers, and, oh, by the way, since you are leaving anyway, could you empty a few of those trashcans on the way out.”

This is probably the same logic that results in some people thinking a chiropractor is not a real doctor, a tomato is not a real vegetable (hence the confusion in spelling), and ice-dancing is not a strenuous sport--so “you go kids go out there and do ¾ of your requirements in a three hour window of time—We’re sure you’ll be fine.”

Mids (finally) and Pacifics spread the event over the whole four days which, thankfully, seems a bit avant-garde and might let the skaters practice and rest for each event so perhaps they can actually perform at their best instead of just getting it over with.

But, what do I know?

Actually, I do know that the phrase, “A bone to pick” originated in Italy where the father of the bride-to-be would give a prospective bridegroom a leg of meat to pick clean to the bone. This was symbolic of how difficult the task of marriage would be in the years ahead.

I think skating parents could add new analogies to that symbolism.

Good luck to all in the smushed and unsmushed sectionals.

Mombo

Datebook: Thursday, November 10th ~ 2006

My son is trying to think of a special present to get me for Christmas this year. But what I am finding out is all the things he suggests for me are really items he might secretly be craving.

I don’t need new snowboard bindings thank-you-very-much because the one time I stood on a snowboard I envisioned what it felt like to wear “cement boots”.

I don’t need anything with an “I” in front of it. I don’t own any pods or macs or apples so I certainly don’t need an I-sound system for my car or room.

I don’t need satellite radio because I drive one mile to work and most of the time I forget to turn on the radio because I am still adjusting my seatbelt when I have to turn the car off.

I know.

I can’t complain about the price of gas, or the complexities of negotiating traffic. But, it all evens out in the end because I used to put 60,000 miles on a car every eighteen months just driving back and forth to the ice rink where my daughter skates. My neighbors used to marvel at my trading cars every other year, imagining that they were still under warranty instead of actually needing brakes at 100,000 miles. Now I let my car warm up longer than the drive to work and I never get to hear a complete song on the radio anyway before I am pulling into the parking lot.

So it sounds a bit mawkish that I now often miss the drive to the rink. I mean, it offered a plethora of opportunities to listen to entire unabridged editions of books on tape. I could watch the drool roll out of my daughter’s mouth as she slept on the way up—sometimes her eyes flash around in her head when she is sleeping like those old pinball machines,-- and enjoy (for the most part) the conversation on the ride home.

I found an article in the paper about a man who works in San Jose, California who drives 3 ½ hours each way commuting from his house in Mariposa. That is 185 miles each way. In traffic. Apparently there is a contest sponsored by Midas, the auto service company, which gives 10,000.00 to the winner of the annual “Longest Commute Contest”. I’m not sure that would pay for the gas and the car maintenance but there must be a trophy to attract the 3000 entries they received last year. 2nd place drove 175 miles each way, and 3rd place drove 164.4 miles each way.

They could use satellite radio.

So, I thought about commuting and all the moms, dads, and skaters who are still driving all those distances to ice rinks and decided we should have a “Longest Commute to the Rink Contest”. The rules are pretty simple—email Daphne with the number of miles traveled from home to rink—(that being the rink you train at least 3 times a week) and win a travel prize.

Well, it won’t be with the Midas touch, or satellite radio coverage, but it will be fun never-the-less.

On the way home from work a few weeks ago, I had my daughter and her partner’s OD music in the CD player (Don’t ask—you do the same thing). I had to sit in my driveway for about thirty seconds to finish listening to it.

Why does it seem so much longer when they are skating to it?

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, November 6th ~ 2006

I don’t know about you, but I will certainly be glad when Election Day is over.

Everyday my mailbox is jammed with letters and flyers tucked in between my daily offering of Victoria Secret catalogues. There are candidates running for offices I didn’t even know existed.

And then there are the requests for money so that those seeking office can continue their “pursuit of justice”—that was the quote from one gentleman running for Comptroller—I thought that job only pursued signing checks?

I’m thinking if they didn’t send out 482 cardboard color mailers they might have a few more dollars in the kitty.

All of my telemarketer calls are being interrupted by political party supporters who want me to take a poll, have me listen to a taped message, request that I host a gathering, invite me to attend a 500.00 dollar a plate dinner so I can offer my fair share.

They lose me after “fair share”.

So I tried a new tactic on them.

I explain to my zealous political party callers that my daughter skates.

That I bought a pair of skates for my daughter in June and I just got them. That I paid 1000.00 at the beginning of summer and we finally get them the week before sectionals. This is quite a dilemma for skater and coach.

Should she try to break them in with seven skating days left before sectionals?

Keep in mind her old skates are breaking down and are a bit past shoe polish and turpentine.

Shouldn’t skate shops hold money in escrow when orders take so long?

What would they think seem fair?

I get silence on the other end.

This just goes to prove that the conundrums of skating are even above politicians.

So one more day of negative TV ads, phone calls, and mail-a-grams.

Wouldn’t it be nice if candidates were given PCS, which would stand for Political Content Scores--

Choreography could be based on how they dance around the issues.

Skating Skills could be how many times they came off of “thin ice” during the campaign without suffering a major fall.

MO- This could still be their linking footwork, but specifically how they link their political foundation to the real world.

Performance would be judged on how much makeup was worn during the debates and if there were large perspiration circles under the arms.

Interpretation and Timing would be based on when and how the candidate released the “mud sling”—did it allow time for counter measures? Did the audience applaud the move in the guise of “right to know”.

I think the winner could be announced at the end of the evening—we could throw out the counties or districts with the lowest and highest votes—and have poll results at 8 pm.

So, I’ll be glad with the campaign signs come down and things go back to normal.

You know, like they will be starting November 14th.

Mombo

Datebook: Thursday, November 2nd ~ 2006

With Sectionals less than two weeks away, I am trying to focus on anything but the thought of that event. I dread it.

First of all, we are all divided and peppered across the country. Sectionals are a bizarre paradox-they are just under Nationals in importance, but there are typically only eight people watching each event, well nine if someone’s grandmother goes. I might actually be forced to learn how to text message just to get the results from the other two sections pronto.

Additionally, they are held at a horrible time of year—the week before Thanksgiving--so everyone is forced to re-hash the event as they sit around the cranberry and gravy the following Thursday. With people who are not skating aficionados.

So the conversation can go something like this:

“So how did you do at the skating thing you went to last week?”

“Good, I got first.”

“Really. So you beat Michelle Kwan, did you?”

“No, Aunt Em, it wasn’t that kind of event?”

“Oh, I thought you said it was important. Dorothy, didn’t you tell me this was a big deal?”

Or worse.

“So how did you do at the skating thing you went to last week?”

“Good, I got fifth.”

“Really. Did you fall, or what?

“No, I skated great. That’s how it worked out though.”

“Oh. Well maybe you should try something else. Dorothy do they still have water ballet, because I think she would be great in water ballet?”

Non-skating people do not understand the subtle nuances of skating and the complexities of competitions.

To distract myself from the thought of another plane ride with 200 pounds of luggage (daughter’s) and a train case (mine), I am reviewing recipes. Not for Thanksgiving. (We visit relatives for that festivity and they are a bit anal about the menu—for example the gravy has to be made by first shaking the main ingredients in a 10 year old Franco-American jar).

No, I’m thinking we could all sit down on Sunday, November 19th for a Post-Sectional dinner at our respected abodes across this great land. We could all gather some comfort knowing it was a universal bond.

I don’t know, but I was thinking about serving a meat loaf shaped like an ice- skate. We could bake some mashed potatoes to form the blade. Dessert would have to be something frozen, perhaps shaved.

I think this is a great way to release the tensions of that competition and move on to whatever is next on the skating agenda.

You’ll have to send me your ideas to add to the festivities list.

You know, colors for linens, the wine to serve, perhaps a name to call our event.

Perhaps Daphne could visit a different family each year as a mystery guest, like a Skating Clause. Perhaps we even need a jingle.

But then someone would wind up skating to it.

Mombo # 9