Datebook: Friday, July 27th ~ 2007

Things get a “little tense” around my house in the days prior to leaving for the Lake Placid competition.

I guess some people (insert immediate family) might say I could be a little anxious or slightly on edge, but that is just ridiculous and they should probably see a professional—even if their health care plan doesn’t cover stupidity as a diagnosis, or at the very least, maybe they should just keep their erroneous opinions to themselves—everyone can see I am not tense!

My husband is one of the worse offenders of the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Advise” rule that should be mandatory for the five days prior to leaving for any competition, but one certainly imposed before Lake Placid.

Remember, my husband does not understand the nuances of ice skating. He cannot fathom any sport that does not use a ball in some manner and thereby does not accept skating as a sport since the rules are not clear and measurable.

This seems odd to me since his favorite sport is baseball and the outcome of any nine-inning game centers on some imaginary batter’s box, or strike zone, that only the umpire can see and make decisions on. This does not preclude a spectator, like my husband, from yelling out periodically, “Are you blind!” at said umpire and getting high-fived by surrounding males who are all dressed in team colors, numbers, and jerseys like some mass sport groupie-fest. The fact that none of these people can see this invisible box, let alone pinpoint where the ball was for the millisecond that it zipped past at 95 mph, is a bit like “The Emperor’s New Clothes” to me.

Anyway, it is hard to take advice from a man who also whispers or won’t talk at all during tee-offs of golf on television.

So, as I paced while waiting for the Fed-Ex man to bring the last competition dress, you can understand that I was not consoled when my husband asked, “Did you get the tires rotated on the car yet?” and “What oil weigh did you get when you had the oil changed?”

Yes, to make my life easier he could just acquiesce to any comment I make in the 125 hours before my car heads north to the Adirondacks. For example, if I remind him to stay outside with the puppy while I am gone because she might fall in the pool, a wise and supportive husband would just say, “Of course, dear, you don’t need to worry about a thing.”

Mine says, “Well, she’s got to learn sometime.”

Attempting a normal conversation with him during a commercial from “Last Comic Standing” last night, I ended my critique of the five finalists with the question, “Don’t you agree?”

My husband faltered. We were the only people in the room, yet he said, “Oh, I didn’t know you were talking to me.”

He continued on the downward spiral by adding, “I was trying to filter out the detracting sounds and I missed what you said.”

Modeling adult behavior, I then refused to repeat my previous brilliant commentary and went to double check my lists for the trip.

For my peace of mind I wrote on the “To Buy” list:

“Life jacket for thirteen pound dog.”

Maybe I will have time bead it with left-over crystals—maybe a nautical-bone motif.

Mombo