Datebook: Wednesday, August 1st ~ 2007

The town looks like something out of a Harry Potter movie tonight. Instead of Muggles and Wizards however, we have Rugby players and Ice Dancers. Happily, most seem to co-exist easily. Of course Rugby players only have the costume worry of getting grass stains out of their striped shirts.

I am sitting on my balcony nursing a glass of Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon –2003—although the year has no special significance. I might try going for a bottle with a good year for me on the next go-around. Perhaps asking the waiter what he has in 1981 Merlot, as that was a grand year for me as I had front row tickets to see Neil Diamond in concert.

The reason I am drinking a glass and considering the bottle has to do with the wondrous gold waltz dress. It arrived on time, in its little Fed-Ex box and I gasped as I took it from the tissue paper. The fabric appeared to be Elfin made and other-worldly. It was glorious.

I drove the dress to my daughter and carried it, surely like the mice carried Cinderella’s gown, up her 3 flights of stairs where we oohed and ahhed it together

Then she tried it on.

Unlike a fairytale, the dress did not fit.

Unlike a Fairy Godmother, I could do nothing to fix it.

Unlike anything that has ever happened to me, the dress was too big.

It gaped open. By gaped, I don’t mean like how some of my own buttons pull and strain on occasion; where I am sure I might have to staple either side of the hole for reinforcement. By gaped, I mean like how Claire Danes recently revealed way too much cleavage for family television.

Dealing with clothes that are too big is not my forte. I know a bit about slitting a stress point of a seam on the forearm, and I’ve already shared the rubber band trick for the waistband button.

This was way past tape and staples.

A frantic call to the dressmaker offered the slight possibility that it might be altered in time for the approaching waltz competition. But today, our hopes were dashed.

The dress cannot be altered in time.

And now the unthinkable has happened. Not only will my daughter not get to wear her golden threads, but she must wear her waltz dress from two years ago. The waltz dress that she also wore last year.

“Mom, this is the third time I’m wearing this dress at Lake Placid.”

“I know. You are a poster child for thriftiness. You may start a new trend and skating moms from all over will bow down and weep at your feet. Judges will probably comment on how much they have liked this color on you each year.”

“This is like going to the Prom for three years and wearing the same dress—no one does that.”

“Well, I think it’s okay. You have the same escort, so that makes it seem like a special tradition. Just tell people it is your lucky dress.”

“Well,” she sighs, “since you’re taking this so well and you paid all that money and now I’m going to wear it one less time this season, I’ll be okay I guess.”

So here I sit, a woman and her glass. A woman hoping fervently that next year I can order a glass of 2007 Golden Chardonnay without shuddering.

Oh, and please tell my daughter if you see her, that she looks marvelous in her old, old dress.

Mombo

Datebook: Tuesday, July 31st - 2007

Travel Day.

This is the morning I envy all of those who arrived at Lake Placid yesterday. They have a “free” morning to wander to the shops, eat dinner at the “Veranda” and sit in the lobby today as the rest of us arrive, bleary eyed, stiff, and a bit jealous that our skating offspring spent seven of the past seven and a half hour journey sleeping against the side of the locked car door.

In our situation, the parents all arrive at the rink around eight o’clock Tuesday morning to wait for “the signal”.

The signal is when our main coach deems the skaters are now ready to proceed to the competition. We think this means when they have completed the required near perfect run-throughs of the Free Dance and Original Dance, and the required combined 84 patterns of all the Compulsory Dances, but it is soon obvious that this is not the process.

It is a bit like “Ash Wednesday” in that they seemingly get a blessing and are allowed to “go forth”, and unlike it in that it is, of course, on Tuesday and the imprint on the forehead is merely figurative.

As parents we continue to stand around with our cars filled with gas, our empty Dunkin Donuts coffee cups, and our not-so-covert looks at our watches.

The coach is unmoved by our maneuvering and posturing.

In fact, he further prolongs the process by not staying with one team for a lesson but moving through them all per dance, per pattern, and then coming back, time-after-time.

A ground movement usually starts with the parents around 9:00. They practice strategy with each other:

“I’d really like to get going soon.”

“It would be nice to get in before night”

“I’d like to get to the grocery store after we unpack.”

Eventually, one parent will gather the required bravado to approach the coach on an ice cut.

“What time do you think we’ll be able to leave?”

We all hold our breath as the coach looks at us over the top of his glasses and at first, we aren’t sure he will answer. After about ninety seconds, he responds.

“I don’t know. I’ll keep you informed.”

On the next ice cut I ask my daughter if he has given her any indication of when they can leave.

“He hasn’t really said. He wants us to be organized.”

Organized? What does that mean in the skating world? I’m sure the twenty odd parents standing around would gladly go to his house and help him organize anything he wanted. I could take his kitchen silver-wear drawer, or junk drawer, and organize and discard unwanted plastic ties and old pens. Another parent could work on the tool shed while another straightened the coat closet—we could have umbrellas lined up by color and size at a moments notice.

“Well, can you hurry up and do that?”

My daughter just looks at me as she drinks from her sport top Deer Park water bottle.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I beseech her; “I don’t know what that means. Do you all need to line up together, the twenty of you, stroke around on the same foot? Make sure the hems are straight on all of your t-shirts? Whatever it is, it needs to happen.”

I see the other parents have had similar conversations with their kids and that we have all been deemed “Retarded”—a word I don’t allow in my own house as it is demeaning, but one I have little control over in the ice house.

While I am looking for gum in my purse ten minutes later, the skaters leave the ice, and as surely as I would miss that flash in the Northern Lights, I have missed the second they all obtained “organization”.

I would query further but I am third out the door, as I can easily slip past all of those carrying skating bags, as we all jockey for positions from the driveway.

I glance at the Sun Chips bag, the cooler, the morning newspaper, and a tote bag that has slipped sideways across the back seat. I motion for my daughter to hurry in case my car chaos voids her skating organization, whatever that is.

As I feel the turbo kick in once we hit the interstate, I feel a similar charge shoot through me although my daughter is by now asleep.

We’re going to Placid!

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, July 30th ~ 2007

Packing is really an art form.

There are various components to it that range from how to pack, what to pack, and what to pack it in.

Some people pack each item in a thin sheet of plastic to prevent wrinkles and others roll their clothes so they look like ham and cheese pinwheel hour devours. I, of course, use a variety of these methods and invent my own—I keep my clothes in the plastic from the cleaners and I roll my socks and underwear and keep them as far away from my shoe bottoms as possible—I’m not sure why except I have a phobia of having a dirty shoe outline imprinted on the back of my ladies briefs—maybe it is just too symbolic. The rest is in a kind of “Squatters Rights” arrangement.

Truthfully, my suitcase looks neat and orderly until it is time to put in the afterthoughts.

The afterthoughts are the extra part of black pants, a sweater, another short or long-sleeved top, and tennis shoes and work-out gear in case I fall and hit my head and wake up with amnesia and think I have a daily exercise routine (Otherwise they are good accent pieces—much like a candle-- to leave around the room in case a judge or skater walks by as your door is open and looks in—it gives the impression the whole family is into ‘going for the burn’). These items I generally stuff in through a partially unzipped opening while the suitcase is in an upright position.

The end result is that upon arrival my bag always looks like the authorities had the drug dogs go through my luggage looking for contraband—seriously, I found a tennis ball in my Samsonite upon arrival in Portland, how else could it have got there?

I love to go to events that do not require air travel because I can just keep adding piles in the car in shopping bags or in the various patterns and sizes of Vera Bradley totes that I’ve accumulated through the years. I don’t have to stick to the plan of what I packed to wear as I can take extras—something I can’t do if I am flying because I have to keep spare room for my daughter’s ‘essentials’.

My daughter’s partner’s mom is a genius when it comes to packing.

Seriously, she could hold seminars. Last year she went to Europe with one small, carry-on-type piece of luggage. Each day she displayed a clean, fresh, outfit that she zapped from its little spot in her Mary Poppins-like bottomless bag, and came to the lobby each day as if she were a walking advertisement for Travel-Smith magazine.

I, on the other hand, went to breakfast on the second day with a sock stuck on the back of my blouse from all of the static.

I also never plan for the return packing. Some people fold and pack the dirty clothes in their suitcase for the trip home. I know this makes more sense, but I tend to treat the return packing like I do the hamper at home—“off and toss”. If my husband saw that you can fold dirty clothes and make neat piles he might insist that we all start doing that everyday at home—he might insist that we mate dirty socks and fold them together before placing them gently with like colors in the clothes hamper, that we fold dirty towel corners together to form a military square before stacking them in the used bin.

As it is, he occasionally is the one to open my suitcase when I return home.

“Did your suitcase sit out in the rain today?”

“No, why”?

“I don’t know, the clothes seem a little damp.”

“Oh, that’s probably just from the dogs…it’ll wash out.”

Mombo

Datebook: Sunday, July 29th ~ 2007

With two days left until we leave for Lake Placid, I feel the lure of KandyKakes and Rocky Road ice cream calling to me. This is what happens when you watch people on the ice instead of taking to the ice.

Today I had to actually call some of my friends and apologize for making them heavier.

It seems a new study has found that friends who socialize with other friends of the same or heavier weigh class, tend to gain more pounds themselves. I guess in layman’s terms, this means if you are out with your chunky BFF, and she reaches for a Snickers bar, or stops at the Dairy Queen for a Blizzard, you’ll indulge also.

This seems odd to me because it doesn’t work like this in families. My daughter, not to berate the point, is size nothing. She has no body fat. My son runs eight miles “for fun” and probably has negative body fat (I’m not sure if that is possible but if not what was the point of struggling through college algebra—surely negative numbers weren’t just invented for checkbooks).

And my husband, well, I hate to admit it but he is a scale junkie. He has to check his weight eight times a day and then announce or advise us of his fluctuating body mass after each occurrence.

“194.6,” he announces before breakfast.

“196.3,” he calls out after his shower.

Frankly, it is annoying.

I even found him weighing just his clothes and shoes to make the deductions in his verbal calculations. We live in the same house and mostly eat the same things. He tends to snack more often than I do but in small doses. He eats 3 or 4 Cheeze-Its or Frosted Shredded Wheats twenty times a night. I eat a slice of birthday cake (they sell it that way at my grocery store and everyone knows it bad manners to turn down birthday cake!) or a few cookies one time during the evening—but I’m not going to be calling out my weight to anyone. In fact, I don’t even get on the scale—I have one pair of jeans that tells me all I need to know. If I can sit down in them and I am comfortable, all is good in my Candy Land. If I put them on and I need to use a rubber band to keep the button in a comfortable position, well then I have to pass on the edge pieces of cake and just eat a center square with minimal icing.

Dieting is about sacrifice and self realization.

Once, about ten years ago, my friend and I took all of our combined children to the Aquarium. There was one exhibit where individuals stood on a scale and it gave your weight compared with an aquatic life form. My daughter got on the scale and the voice advised everyone waiting in line that she weighed the same as an adult penguin. My son was the size of a young marlin. Perhaps because I have watched too many horror movies, I waited at the end of our group and so my friend got on the scale first. The voice, sounding a bit like the Wizard from Oz, broadcast to the entire 10,431 people in attendance that day that she was size of an adult “Harbor Porpoise”. Some things leave permanent scars—I’m not sure any of those kids are ever going to have fish tanks.

Still, it is a mystery how friendship can outweigh (no pun intended) family tendencies according to this research study. For example, my friend does not have a skating child and is not in the early stages of nervous eating frenzy due to the approach of Lake Placid. Her husband is also normal and has not been on a scale since 1984 when they had to weight their dog.

My husband on the other hand just got a hair cut today and is heading upstairs to verify this significant weight loss.

I know he is going to miss me while I am in the North Country next week; I’m packing the scale.

Mombo

Datebook: Saturday, July 28th ~ 2007

My daughter is a bit concerned since I am writing everyday that I may cross the line and talk about things that are too close to her.

I told her that was ridiculous and she doesn’t need to worry. I have other things that happen in my life and I don’t need to focus on her.

Skaters sometimes think they are the center of the universe….

Anyway, my daughter has been dating her boyfriend (another skater) for almost eleven months now. He is charming and they seem very happy together and whenever I see them I keep thinking how “sweet” it all seems. If this were the movies, little animated hearts and flowers would be springing out above their heads. His part would be played by a younger Matthew McConaughey/Ashton Kutcher type, and hers would be played by a combination of the actresses that made up the most recent “Charlie’s Angels”.

Her best friend is also dating a fellow ice dancer, although I’m not sure I’m supposed to even know about that, but I don’t think that is one of the things I’m not supposed to write about because, well, it isn’t even about my daughter, right? And my daughter’s best friend’s partner is also dating a former ice-dancer…so I think you see where I am going with all of this ice dance nepotism.

You’re right—reality TV. It would be a good pilot anyway. Just imagine: a group of dating ice-dancers sharing a house in an urban city while viewers watch as they beg their partners to rub the bunions on their feet, compare run-through statistics, and pool their lycra wear for a hefty power wash in the Maytag. The cast would all be in bed by 10:00 and up by 4:45 crunching granola, peanut butter, and packing power bar lunches and talking about edges, twizzles, and Charlie White (I think all ice dance conversation eventually touches on Charlie White from what I have observed).

Of course, being in a reality TV series my take away from their training time so I’m not sure the coaches would let it go to production. But, I was thinking, we could have a game show type event after the Saturday competition in Placid, and contestants could enter with either their skating partner, or their skater boyfriend/girlfriend, for a round of “ICE-PARTNERS”. It would probably be formatted like the old “Newlywed Game”. We would need an emcee for the event and I would probably cast Jon Cole or Bob Horen in this role but I may be overlooking someone. They would ask questions to determine which team knows the most about each other to acquire points. (For the purposes of simplicity, we would use base numbers without pluses or minuses for performance).

Sample questions could be:

“What would your partner probably say as you skate away after your coach tells you to do the fifth free-dance run-through of the day?”

“What is your partner’s favorite Compulsory Dance of all time?”

“If your partner were going to be a flavor of Gator-Aid, what would it be?”

“If your partner were going to invent a Compulsory Dance, what would it likely be called?”

Anyway, I hope my daughter will be relieved to see I have other things to think about in my life besides skating and her involvement in it.

Oh, her answers for the game if mothers were allowed to play-- “Shoot me now”, Paso, Fruit Punch, and “Pop-N-Lock Waltz”.

Mombo

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

Datebook: Thursday, July 26th ~ 2007

I am reminded of the bumper sticker that read. “I can’t be out of money; I still have checks in the checkbook!”

The week prior to the Lake Placid competition, and the week of Lake Placid probably surpass Christmas spending in our house. Indeed, this year it initially felt a bit like re-gifting might take place as we were able to use two of the compulsory dresses from past seasons.

Mistakenly I thought this translated into a savings.

This morning I put the stamp on the check to be mailed to the costume designer that will now complete the 6000.00 payment for only three dresses. I can easily identify with the recent Harry Potter movie where he was forced to write “I will not lie” on his paper but it came out as a painful bloody scar on his hand. My BicClic kept wanting to write, “I buy Ice Dancing Dresses and I Can’t Stop” on my forearm as some sort of fresh ink tattoo.

I might feel better about all of this if I had actually seen any of the completed costumes. But I haven’t.

The previously mentioned gold waltz dress is advised to be “Sensational” and “Indescribable”, which is odd because in my head I often describe it and have several pet names for it, and one of them goes something like, “OMG, she’s wearing my Hawaiian vacation”.

I have decided I will not look at any of the costumes on until my daughter takes to the ice for the warm-up, and then for the price I paid, during the CD waltz competition, I am imagining the announcer will lose all capacity of speech after she glides onto the ice, and everyone in her group will get an extra fifteen minutes while the referees decide if the reflection factor is too brilliant for the judges to access. I mean, I’ve heard that judges often make notes and jot down the color of the costumes the team wears—I would hate to think we have made this a hardship for the judges who will be rendered clueless as to what to put down to describe this dress.

The thing I am most afraid of is that a spectator, someone there to see the ski jumps perhaps, but who wandered into the arena by accident, will say something like, “Oh, that shiny dress is cute, I’ll bet she got that at Macy’s after prom season was over because I saw something just like that on the 75% off rack.”

Only parents, and judges who used to compete understand what goes into the concept of “costuming”. In fact, when we check in at the competition desk at Lake Placid we should be given a little pin with a number on it to designate how many costumes we have had to purchase since our children started skating. Anyone with the number 30 or higher would earn a little lycra swatch badge shaped like the traditional ribbons of support for other diseases.

Of course, this might be too hard for Ann to put together at the last minute like this, so maybe we could just start with those sticky “Hello” patches and just write in our own number and any other pertinent data we want to share.

Mine will read:

“Hello….I’ve had 28 ice dance costumes made. I don’t take vacations in Fiji and I still don’t drink…that much…yet.”

Mombo

7.25.07 - MOMBO--ING FOR A YEAR

ICE-DANCE.COM CELEBRATES ONE YEAR OF MOMBO #9

This past year has been enhanced because I have been able to share our skating saga with the ice dance community. Although I write about my daughter, it is also hopefully reflective of your daughter or son as well. For every check I write for a coach, for a costume, or for a choreographer, I know you share the commonality of the wondering at this new meaning of “disposable cash”. For every moment that I have sat in the stands, afraid to watch, with breakfast churning to make a curtain-call performance, I know that you have felt those qualms as well.

Thanks for your support, comments, and shared laughter.

Year Two- Let the Games Begin.

Mombo

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Mombo's datebook from July 25, 2006:

One week until Lake Placid and the to-do lists are now falling off the counter.

Of course, on the top of each list I should write “don’t be nervous”, but we can’t talk about that. No one is nervous. Everyone is prepared. That is the face we are to put on anyway—but we can’t buy that at the Nordstrom’s cosmetic counter. So it is, Don’t worry about a thing—it isn’t that early in the season and by next week we will have at least five run-throughs completed so, what’s to worry about? Certainly not the costumes--I just hope the beading doesn’t melt off the dresses on the 15 hour drive—we are picking up the costumes on the way—it is supposed to save time. Some might think having the costumes a week or two earlier might be more comforting but I guess picking them up this way with add to the excitement and that sense of newness.

Still, nothing brings that sense of calmness like turning off of I-84 and actually heading toward Lake Placid (after thinking you were almost there at Albany!). Every year I keep telling myself I will go to those little towns and shops we pass en route and have iced tea on the veranda, or I will go hiking to discover some little waterfall with a doe and fawn drinking peacefully in the shimmering sunlight. But, each year I am pulled back to the rink, night after night, to watch endless practice groups, and compulsory dances like some Pavlovian mother who salivates at the opening bars of the Hickory Hoedown or the Starlight Waltz. And we look around, we mothers, because we are there to support each other as much as every skater who puts a blade on the ice. We are there to watch groups we don’t know, because we do know how much went into getting there (and if it is a higher group maybe what the competition will be like next year).

I run through the things to get in my head: tights (18.00 a pair and holes after one wearing!), copies of music, car serviced, hair cut, brow wax, books on tape for the drive, snacks for the car, champagne and tequila (depending on which end of the group they fall nearest to) juice boxes for them either way, lipstick, Kleenex, breath mints. Can I buy some magic charm that really works?

In Walgreens the cashier is a bit freaked out when I ask her what music they are playing throughout the store. It is barely audible which is why she hesitates and says “just some taped music from the eighties, ma’am”. I’m not sure which is more offensive, the “ma’am” or “music from the eighties”, when the song drifting through the deodorant and Gatorade is clearly my daughter’s tango music. It is tango isn’t it? I mean, did anyone check the beats to make sure it is a tango and not just some Bon Jovi knock-off? I leave the store like I have Jamie Summers, six-million dollar woman ear and head home to my lists.

I am not nervous.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Tuesday, July 24th ~ 2007

I have 40 pages left to read in the last Harry Potter book and I am waiting for a “good time” to finish it.

In my mind, this would be when I can actually sit down and savor all of the nuances of what has happened through the last seven books and of course, the final dénouement.

This would mean, of course, when my mind is free and unoccupied—which I don’t see happening for two weeks.

To help, my son asked me to take him shopping today. This has never happened before. It is an anomaly, and I guess a sign that my son is growing up and developing awareness of others on this planet. He is leaving for college in 31 days and so far he has only purchased 3 posters and a “Captain Morgan” bar stool for his dorm room. Our mission today is to procure a small refrigerator (for milk and water he says) and new school clothes.

The clothes part frightens me.

This is not usually something we do together. Typically I buy him clothes, he either likes them or doesn’t like them, and he wears them regardless because they are in his drawer and because it doesn’t really matter to him anyway.

So, I’m not sure how this will play out.

My son is not much of a talker. In fact, he has developed this whole new communication system that is probably a bit more expansive than traditional sign language. With his, you just use the head and neck and it does not require any hand movement.

I don’t know all of the words yet and for me it is a language I can only read—if I tried to use it I fear it would be much like me trying to ‘pop-n-lock’ a hip-hop move.

So our daily communication goes something like this:

Me: “What do you want for breakfast?”

Him: Slight lift of left lip, one inch rise of left shoulder (translation: I don’t know yet, do we have any of the green label Nature Valley Bars or Strawberry Pop Tarts).

My concern for this day is that I live in a world of actual sizes. In fact, as I have mentioned, due to the various manufacturer differences I have 3 sizes of clothing in my own closet.

My daughter, at size zero, has no size. She is measured by her costume designers to the last millimeter, to obtain dresses that fit like another layer of lycra skin.

My son shops by color. Boys no longer buy pants with a waist size, they like them to fall to their hips so they are oblivious to actually knowing their size. Due to my husband not allowing our son to look like a “Gang Member/No Account” (In Son Language: red in the face, neck pushed forward, eyes all big), he actually has a ball-park waist size of 30, with a 2 inch margin of error either way.

So today, out of kindness and compassion, my son is going to take me shopping to take my mind off of my trek to Up-State New York next week. He has only one request.

“Can we not talk about skating today?”

This is ridiculous, of course, because I hardly ever talk about skating.

I talk about his sister and what she is interested in, which just happens to involve a sport with a blade on the foot, but this is just being a loving mother.

I may occasionally talk about some of the people my daughter knows, who just might happen to skate, or coach, or choreograph, but this just shows interest in the people she cares about.

It’s possible that I might see a color on television and it reminds me of a costume worn by another team or skater and I might comment on how well that worked for them with their skin tone, but some people make careers from this type of knowledge and even have their own TV shows.

I may hear music playing in the mall, in the car, or in WaWa that I think might work as a Free Dance and I make a note of it on the back on my checkbook, or grocery receipt, but this is just good planning.

It doesn’t mean I talk about it all the time! I mean, really, my son wastes seven of the 15 words he will actually utter today to tell me what not to talk about.

Please.

It’s not like I’m obsessed or anything.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, July 23rd ~ 2007

One week until Lake Placid.

168 hours.

10,080 minutes.

The past few weeks have been hectic. We have all endured the passing of Paraskavedekatriaphobia, or the fear of Friday the 13th, from a week and a half ago. We had the much anticipated release of the fifth Harry Potter movie and the sale of the final Harry Potter book in the wee hours this past Saturday. I have been grateful for these diversions as it has given me an opportunity to show my commitment to other things. My son said it was crazy to stand in line from midnight to 2:30 am to get a book when you could walk into Target and get it at noon while shopping for toothpaste and Moonpies.

“Where is the fun in that? Where is the sense of adventure? This is about being part of something and not just sitting passively on the sidelines.”

This would have been more a more powerful speech if I had been able to actually start reading the book before Sunday, but alas I could not. And here, with 167 hours remaining until leaving for Placid, I am only on page 200.

Still, I think this brings to the foreground why Lake Placid is so unsettling for parents.

At actual competitions, we are only spectators. Other times during the year, we are part of the driving force, or at least the drivers. We sit in one of the chairs, so to speak, otherwise occupied by Paula, Simon and Randy. Before the competition, we at least have a vote, or a voice in what happens.

At the competition, we are happy just to have a pass to get in to watch. (Well, at least one parent usually gets a pass, the other parent pays full price or sometimes gets half off).

Judges and coaches have no idea how difficult it really is for parents to sit in the stands and just watch. The whole time they are plagued with questions and concerns.

Did she leave the can of Freeze and Shine in the bathroom, at 18.99 that would be the third one this season?

Did he leave his tux lying in a puddle on the dressing room floor when he changed into his samba shirt and pants?

Are there beads missing on that bodice? I just paid 425.00 for those beads and 805.00 to put them on ($35.00 an hour for 23 hours)—can we have an ice sweep?

Why can’t we invoke the ‘do-over’ clause, or at least the ‘best out of three’?

It is very difficult to just sit there and seemingly looked composed and nonplused.

For this reason, I feel we should have parents commentate the event.

That’s right, a parent commentator panel of three. Unless you are in the championship round, no one says anything anyway so it wouldn’t really be taking away someone’s job and it could really add information and insight into the later viewing of the videos.

It would probably sound something like this:

“I think she has a classic fishing line hem in that waltz dress, what do you think, Bonnie?”

“I think you’re right, Tammi. That is really a lost art and it’s nice to see that some of the costume makers are still using the tricks of the trade. But what about that beading? Are those silver-backed, or beveled crystals—I heard the beveled ABs were difficult to get this year?”

“I heard that too, but…ohh…that looked like it could have been a nasty fall, but they look okay. She might have a hole in her tights though, and those look like the low-rise light toast model, another item that is hard to come by and at twenty dollars a pair, well, you hate to see a hole after only one pattern on the ice.”

“We all hate to see that, Deanna. Maybe we’ll all to learn a bit about darning, another lost art.” (Commentators laugh as does viewing audience).

I think you get the idea and it is very compelling.

I’ll see if Ann will put up a sign-up sheet for auditions for next week but if you don’t see it when you check in, ask for it.

Anyway, I have 559 pages to read in the remaining 166 hours.

Mombo

Datebook: Thursday, July 19th ~ 2007

Getting my hair cut and highlighted is a bit like Cinderella time for me. I have an allotted 24 hours before I crash back into a pumpkin again when I do my own wash and restyle.

I am not one of those people who have “good” hair and my skills in this area would have me riding the shorter bus to hair school.

I am always amazed when I go to a skating competition and look across at the judges, who have probably been sitting on one panel or another all day,--they always look so fresh, comfortable, and warm. Yes, I have to admit it, in addition to wondering what levels Holly Cole and Jenny Mast are plugging into that judging computer, I am speculating on what shampoo they use and questioning if they secretly have a stylist waiting in the Judge’s lounge.



I want to believe they do.

I need to believe they do.

Oh, I have tried all of the tricks of adding body to my hair. I have flipped my head upside down and blown my hair out from the roots. (This is really difficult if you are sitting on the toilet in a hotel room because the mirrors are steamed up—from lack of oxygen you get dizzy and wind up sliding off on to the pile of used towels stashed by the tub). Even if successful, I merely wind up with bigger hair that is sticking out in all the wrong directions. Once I bought a five inch-round brush and wound up cutting my hair out of it because I had it so tangled behind my head the only other option would have been to wear the brush like an odd barrette to work that day.

I have accepted I am not good with hair. I am not resentful because I have other skills that I like to think counterbalance this deficit. For example, I still remember all of my multiplication tables, I have good toes, and I can identify all the symbolism in “MacBeth”.

So I am content with my seven good hair days each year and make plans to have events like my work photo, my driver’s license renewal, and running into my husband’s ex-wife occur on these days.

Skating competitions, however, bring out my feelings of hair despair.

Oh, it’s more than just the fact that those judges appear to have Jose Eber in the Top-Five on their speed-dial.

It has to do with my daughter’s hair.

Okay, so all mothers know their daughter’s have beautiful hair. It’s a fact. My daughter could seriously do a Pantene commercial. She has always had hair that cried out to be braided, and bunned, and French-twisted. And it was.

By her.

Women used to stop us when she was eight or so and compliment her hair and nod at me, “The Good Mother” who seemingly styled those French braids and buns of steel.

It was a lie my daughter allowed me to live.

Secretly I tried to take classes. I was allowed to go to a few cosmetology classes and try to learn beside some of the students. I daydreamed about seemingly brushing a strand of hair off of my daughter’s face and then whipping it into a French knot in a matter of seconds and thus astounding her with skill and sense of uncanny style. The dream died hard when the school owner told me I might want to take art classes instead.

This year, the hair stakes are a bit higher.

The OD calls for actual “Costuming” which means appropriate ethnic hairstyle.

“We should start practicing some hair styles in the next few weeks so we can find one that works best with your costume,” I tell my daughter, hoping that maybe I will be permitted to at least make a part on her head.

She looks at me, nods slightly, and then offers, “It’s going to be a bit tricky this year.”

“Really,” I say imagining this to be more of an understatement than saying going over Niagara Falls in a kayak might be a little rough.

“Well, I have to braid the sides, pull them partially back, and then twist them together while keeping the crown of my head full and free. And I have to glue things in it.”

I feel faint and it is obvious we have to meet this head on.

“Can you do that?” I quiver.

“I just have to experiment a bit because if anything falls off it is a deduction.”

“Oh. So, if it stays on there is no deduction—just a base score of zero. What if it stays on really well—can you get a plus one or two on that.”

She sighs and then so do I.

So much of the pre-competition is about getting costumes, designing hairstyles, and finding accessories yet none of these things brings any points to the scoreboard.

“Just remember what I told you to do when you skate by the judges.”

“I know, smile and look confident.”

“Well, that too, but don’t forget to check out their hair in the arena lights. I think they have low-lights AND highlights. No one gets that kind of shine from Redken alone.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, July 16th ~ 2007

Two weeks until Lake Placid.

It is now time to make the lists.

There are two of course: Things to do and Things to pack.

Under “Things to Do” are the usual. Get the car serviced (oil change and tire rotation). Hair cut and highlights. Eyebrow waxing. Manicure and Pedicure. Go shopping—this requires 3 sub-lists of Grocery Store (Juice, soda, Granola bars) Pharmacy (disposable razors, travel toothpaste, new issues of Us and People all with Jessica Simpson on the cover it seems, snacks for the trip up), and the Liquor store (wine, Seagram’s mixers, and maybe miniatures for those moments that come up during the week that require celebration or oblivion).

The “Things to Pack” list is much smaller. My wants and needs have changed through the years. I now want to be comfortable and hope for some style, but if I have to choose-- I go with comfortable. This means there is elastic somewhere in each of my ensembles—linen with elastic, lycra with elastic….

I also now only pack three pair of shoes. Nine years ago, on our first trip north, I packed seven pairs of shoes or one for each outfit. I also used to try to coordinate wearing the same color as my daughter’s costume, which I now admit may have been a little weird and like a tradition from a medieval jousting tournament—luckily my daughter was only nine at the time.
Although we are there for six days, I still need to pack about 10 outfits. The extra are for the moments when my daughter looks at me before we leave the room and asks,

“Are you wearing that?”

There are some implications you cannot ignore in life, like when someone asks if you have eaten onions for lunch, and you haven’t.

My daughter has impeccable taste even if she only wears a size zero and cannot fathom the necessity to “minimize” anything. Still, I try to stall the inevitable.

“I planned to.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She comes over and tries to make some adjustments, she tries to push some things into new places, and tug some fabric away from other areas. This doesn’t work of course so she gives me a little smile. A minute, petite, size zero, extra small little curve of the lips.

I could take that moment and remind her that when she was six she used to wear socks with her jelly shoes (always making sure the toe line was perfectly even) and wear a sweater buttoned at the neck like a super hero cape. I could remind her that she wore her Jasmine Halloween costume until Thanksgiving weekend, even though it was made of polyester and the tie strings in the back were uneven.

“Did you pack anything that you didn’t get at a craft show?”

“This is art! The fabric was hand-dyed and the gold paint symbolizes growth and rebirth.”

“But this is Lake Placid. A moose is the motif here…but if you want to wear that, it’ll be fine”.

I imagine all of the fisherman driving through Lake Placid on their way to the various fishing spots, stopping for the ice dancers to cross the road from the Golden Arrow to get to the rink. The ice dancers, in full make-up, wearing their OD costumes this year that seem to consist of Riverdance, yodeling, belly-dancing, African-drums, Tibetan monks, and I take pity.
“Perhaps it is too much,” I murmur.

Maybe I’ll add to my liquor store list, something at adds a bold, yet fruity flavor to the dressing process.

Mombo

Datebook: Thursday, July 12th ~ 2007

I am trying to talk to my daughter about making inquiries into skating for another country.

I am just asking her to consider, or “look into” the possibility.

I try to open the line of conversation with an analogy of how her father would only buy a Buick, even before it became the Tiger Woods mobile of choice, but then finally condescended to sit in a Toyota and Volvo until even he now agrees there are other quality autos on the market.

But I know this is a hot topic.

Skaters switching countries have some the longest threads on the various on-line skating forums. Most people agree, the United States has some very strong Senior and up-coming Junior-to-Senior skaters in the next few years.

Skating is not like a baseball team, or football team, as there are a very limited number that get to put on the red-white-and-blue jerseys. And if your love of the sport means you want to skate, and compete internationally, then the opportunities to do so are very limited.

So many teams are making the difficult choice of changing citizenship, or using dual citizenship to represent another country. This gives the team a plethora of opportunities that would otherwise be unavailable.

They have the potential of getting Grand Prix or Junior Grand Prix assignments. They have the possibility of making the World Team and getting international ranking. There are also the hidden benefits of traveling, getting funded by countries that pay or reimburse their athletes for doing what they do best, and the biggie, learning the five stanzas of a new national anthem.

So most parents, at one time or another, have given this some thought, have perhaps tried to contact a relative stationed in Germany or Spain, or a former college pen pal. It might just be one of those 2 a.m. thoughts that run past our minds like the haunting melody of Hickory Hoedown.

In reality, my daughter could legitimately skate for another country that is in the federation because she was, through a twist of fate or karma, born off U.S. soil.

It’s kind of like having a “wild card” I say to her.

You’ve probably noticed by now that I have only relayed what I have tried to initiate with her.

She is not open to discussion.

She will not wrap her mind “considering” another option.

If she were in the previous described analogy, she would be driving a Buick Regal even though they no longer make parts for it. (Okay, it would be the Sport package and have chrome wheels, but still…).

When I bring it up, she just looks at me.

With pity.

I am sure I am going to hear Lee Greenwood or Toby Keith singing one of those heart-wrenching “America” songs from some passing truck, or from her cell phone ring-tone, while her Team USA jacket flutters and ripples above the fruited plains.

“Sweetheart. You don’t understand.” I struggle to focus my thoughts for a final appeal. “It’s just important for everyone to try to achieve their dreams.”

“My dream isn’t to skate for a country I don’t even remember.”

“I know, but …well the weather is really beautiful in Fiji…”

“Fiji! I wasn’t born in Fiji…! ”

“What does that matter? It is an island. It may at one point actually been part of the country you were born in, so it’s just semantics. Anyway, I was checking and in order for you to skate for them you have to live there for four months out of the year…I was thinking April through July so you can be back for Placid each year.”

She looks at me again, slightly shaking her head.

“This is about a beach house isn’t it?”

Oh the young, they think they are the only ones with dreams.

“Not necessarily,” I answer. “I think their team jackets are Polynesian Silk. And I think Neil Diamond sings a rendition of their national anthem.

But, I’ve lost her, like sand through an hourglass. Or sand from a Fiji beach.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, July 9th ~ 2007

21 days until Lake Placid.

504 hours.

In the past, I have proffered the suggestion of a comedy revue and a fashion show as diversions and entertainment during the skating week but I guess finding a venue for such a big crowd is a problem. Still, it seems to me that we should have some event that allows all of us to get together to revel in the memories and festivities--Maybe a picnic or a bull roast that we could tout as the “Lake Placid ‘Skating Family’ Reunion.

We could get t-shirts and cocktail napkins printed.

The problem is that during the week you only see skating people in four places:

• The rink—where you try out all of the facial expressions you have practiced in the mirror at home (these include the gritty “Oh, I’m not nervous, I just have irritable bowel syndrome”, and the “Oh, did the competition start already, I keep forgetting this isn’t merely a vacation” chuckle).
  
• The hotel lobby—either that of the Golden Arrow for those who want to stay on the same sea level altitude all week, or in the Crown Plaza for those who like to continue with their Lamaze breathing fifteen to twenty years after the baby.
  
• Main Street-where you watch for a break in the Ben and Jerry’s line and where you read the real estate listings for the golden opportunity of living La-Placid-Loco for another 51 weeks of the year.
  
• In The Gap—as my daughter points out, this is probably the only time most of us go in this chain store but it seems to have some type of magnetic attraction to all skating aficionados who simultaneously develop a burning desire for “4 for 20.00” white brief purchases.”

So, I think you’ll agree we need some type of opening ceremony before the actual commencement of this much anticipated event. For example, in Spain this week, before the beginning of the major bull-fighting season, there was the traditional “running of the bulls” through the streets of the famous quaint town. Young men find it exhilarating to run in front of the bulls and high-five each other if they only get cuffed by bull hoof, or get a minor pricking from a bull horn.

I pondered this and imagined we could all bring a “Zamboni” styled pinewood derby type car, painted in the colors of our home skating clubs, and race them down Main Street to the corner of Mirror Lake Drive.

Who knows, maybe the judges would decide separately to run in front of the pinewood cars for added excitement while the Dutch Waltz played from an ice-cream truck parked at the Hilton.

Perhaps Ann will take pity on us and will decide to rent a huge white party tent and put it on the oval at the high school for a huge pre-event barbecue.

We would pay of course.

Perhaps the organizers could procure pizza catered by Mikes, scallops distributed by Nicola’s, and soup from The Brown Dog Café.

If this doesn’t happen, I guess we can all meet near the briefs display at The Gap before all the size “S” is sold out.

That will be in 503 hours.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, July 2nd ~ 2007

I have to admit, these are scary times. With the flip of the calendar we are now officially on the countdown, by days, to Lake Placid.

Four weeks. 28 days.

The scary part? Our choreography is not finished for the OD and I believe we have only had one “complete” run through of the Free Dance. ( I say “We’ here as if I the parent am some type of omniscient presence, like maybe the Sky Cam that they use at Nationals, or actually ‘part of the team’ like Melissa, Dennis and Johnny—three people on the ice).

Because my daughter lives away from home (that only caused two heart palpitations!) I don’t see the programs in progress, I only hear snippets of details about them unless I ask.

“So, how is the OD coming along?”

“Great, we just have to come up with the ending, but we have the final pose. We just need to put in our final two lifts.”

“Wonderful. How many lifts do you have so far?”

“You can only have 2 lifts.”

“So you have no lifts yet and you are going to put them both at the end of the program?

“It’s not a big deal, they’re short lifts—they can’t be more than 6 seconds long.”

“So, you have about 15 seconds left to choreograph?”

“Like I said, it’s going great.”

“And what about your Free Dance?”

“Great. We did our first run through yesterday and we only fell twice.”

“Really.” By now I am open mouth breathing.

“You know you can have jumps now? Yeah, I come out of a sequence and turn and, well, it can’t be more than ½ rotation or it might be considered part of the sequence and that’s not allowed, you can’t have a pattern retrogression.”

“I see.” I answer, not seeing at all. In fact, I am instantly haunted by the fact that I have lived in this fairytale land of not watching the develpment of their programs, so I don’t know them. I will be “seeing” them for the first time perhaps at Lake Placid. And what has happened?

Has the ISU hired Quentin Tarentino as a consultant for “Kill” program requirements? I am going to have to watch lifts, spins, footwork sequences AND an axel, and/or lutz thrown in for a bit of added drama?

I would have grabbed a paper lunch bag to breathe into but I was afraid it would pop and scare the dog who just had surgery.

“I can’t wait to see it,” I lie like any good parent.

“Yep, it’s all good. These are my favorite programs.”

Scary Times, part two. Costumes.

We don’t have any.

Oh, we’ve ordered them, in much the manner I imagine people order a luxury car. You know, where you actually order some of the options in the catalog and don’t just take the show room model. That’s right. We can’t just use crystals from the selection of 8,221 in the workshop, we have to special order crystals from Austria that are 1/100 of a shade lighter, or maybe it’s darker, than the possessed deluxe sparklers.

Because of this I wish Ann Greenthal would consider having a fashion show on Tuesday night before the competition really kicks in. All the skaters could do the “ice-walk’ wearing their current fashions of the year, and the parents could have orchestra type seats so they could appreciate and commiserate together while viewing the current designs in Samba, Yankee Polka, and Blues. Maybe we could make it a charity function.

Anyway, I’m sure the costumes will be ready the day before we leave for up-state New York. Maybe we can stop in Albany so the kids can actually skate in them once before they compete. I am still a bit worried about the OD costume because this year the ISU hinted that they expected more, like hats, and other attachments.

Will the pitchforks and cobras stay in place?

But I retrogress….

Mombo