Datebook: Monday, October 1 ~ 1007

A few years ago, kids played the inane game that somehow had a Madonna connotation called “Truth or Dare.” The premise was that you seemingly had a choice-- tell the truth about a specified question or suffer the consequences of the “dare” that typically, if I recall, were precursors to the popular reality show “Fear Factor”. So if you didn’t want to eat a bug soaked in ginger ale, you would answer a soul probing question like who would you rather be trapped on a deserted island with.

My family recently participated in a version of this game.

Although we had not planned it, and there was nothing headier than a bowl of mashed potatoes on the table, we ventured down the “what was the silliest thing you’ve ever done” avenue.

My mother laid down the gauntlet with a lengthy story about a strapless chiffon gown with a built-in push up bra that apparently had a manufacturer’s warranty problem. My son stopped chewing his roast beef in a fashion that is reminiscent of drivers who crest the hill of an interstate and see a four-mile back up ahead of them.

My husband, in the same vain as ‘never being wrong’, advised us that he had “almost” been guilty of a “silly maneuver” when he forgot to put Scotts Halts down in the third week of April.

“Dad, that’s like trying to play Jeopardy on Wheel of Fortune—that isn’t close to being silly,” my son admonished.

“Well, I’m not really a silly person.”

“What about when you wear mom’s striped reading glasses at a restaurant because you forget yours and then ponder over the wine list while the waiter wonders how discerning you really could be in your Kate Spade pink and red ripples?” he continued.

“What about when you wore your Hawaiian shirt to the Milio’s southwestern Barbecue party?” our daughter added.

“Hawaii is, in reality, the most southwest of all of our states,” my husband countered.

And as usual when things reach an impasse, all eyes turned to me. Unlike my husband, I have a plethora of incidents that I could offer.

I wore two different shoes to work one day after getting dressed in the dark so not to disturb my sleeping husband.

I locked myself out of the house wearing a towel after showering when I was trying to take a bird from my dog.

I sent a photo of my daughter from a skating competition to the entire county employee file by mistake on a Reply-All email.

So, I had a Wheel of Misfortunate Events to pick from.

But, after swallowing a dinner roll and peas something else came out of my mouth which was as much a surprise as when I volunteered to be Cookie Mom for my daughter’s Girl Scout troop.

“Well, you know that I am not very mechanically minded.”

Nods greeted this proclamation around the table.

“So, last winter I went downstairs to use the tread mill. Someone had set it for some type of Alps workout and I couldn’t figure out how to change the display, so I just left it for the same program…but it was distracting, all that beeping and red spikes on the monitor and you know I like to read while I’m walking.”

More nods.

“So, I decided to turn around, away from the monitor.”

“What do you mean, you decided to turn around?” my son asked.

“I mean, turn around, and walk the opposite way, facing the back.”

The room was quite; even my husband put down his fork. Everyone looks at me. Then they start laughing-- not the gentle laugher of a shared meal’s entertainment, but with the guffawing of an Anglo-Saxon mead hall.

“Mom, you can’t walk backwards on a tread-mill!” my daughter choked.

“I was made aware of that when I flew off the end.”

“But that’s ridiculous—no one would try to walk the opposite way on a tread-mill!”

My children are crying into their buttered Yukon golds. If I allowed cell phones at the dinner table they would be text messaging their entire contact lists before dessert.

“Whose turn is it? I thought that was our purpose, to talk about silly things…”

My son cannot sit straight in his chair. When he looks at his sister they both collapse and lose their breath from laughter. I envision a half-century in the future when they will be sharing this story with their grandchildren, probably using their own walkers to try to pantomime the event.

“Mom, trust me, no one can top that.”

I smile sweetly at him and turn to my mother.

“Mom, why don’t you tell your grandchildren, and then you can show them your photos, of those first “itsy, bitsy bikinis from the 60s.”

My son blanches at the prospect. “Can we pick the vat of spiders instead?’ he mutters.

No, my dearest, my smile answers, you must walk a mile now in my shoes.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, September 23rd ~ 2007

Yesterday heralded the arrival of autumn and like the rest of the country I can pack away the beach towels, white shoes, and damper down my taste buds from their quest of fresh tomatoes and strawberries.

Most of us find we have less time in these days where daylight vanishes like the surf at low tide. With the ever-increasing rise in skating expenses, and the reality that both of my children are living either at college or “at skating”, I agreed to take on a second job two nights a week at an alternative school—with this think more of ankle monitoring devices and less making clay sculptures in lieu of writing an essay. I might be able to eke out a feeling of satisfaction in this role but on a different parallel of my brain I am aware that I am making one-third of the hourly rate of my daughter’s secondary coach—and in fact, still less hourly than what my daughter makes giving skating lessons several times a week. This could make an ambitious person hurry to order a pair of Klingbiels and download an application to the PSA, but in the hierarchy of sports, skaters and their coaches still garner pocket change compared to even third-string football players.

Since I now have less time to ponder the inequities in our world, I was amazed to read that President Bush is able to read 2 books each week and follow an exercise program that burns off 2000 calories a day.

Okay. Anyone that knows me knows I am not going to be getting an infomercial hawking exercise equipment anytime soon. I do know however that any program that burns that many calories is into quantum numbers—I mean you are talking running ten miles, doing 10,000 jumping jacks, doing 200 levels on a stair-master, swimming five miles. That is amazing.

And then, on top of this man-of-steel work-out, the President reads two books a week?

My work week consists of working about fifty hours, buying groceries, feeding the cats and dogs, a little thing called “straightening-up” which seems to have a great deal to do with the mail and daily newspapers, preparing food that may or may-not involve calling Applebee’s Carside-To-Go, checking various sites on the internet, talking 3.5 minutes to each of my kids, eating ice-cream while watching a few minutes of The Biggest Loser, TiVoing shows I like to watch but usually don’t, talking to myself about my kids, and talking to my dogs (the cats won’t stay around for it) about the logical processes employed by the USFSA and/or the ISU on a litany of matters.

Occasionally I read for a few minutes before falling asleep.

Now, perhaps if I had an advisor there might be some ways to trim down my hectic schedule, but I still don’t see how I would have the time allotment that would allow me to exercise enough to burn off 2000 calories—that has to be about a 3 hour work-out—I would have to actually walk on the treadmill while doing another activity such as watching “The Biggest Loser” and eating ice-cream, which seems as self-defeating as thinking the Free Dance or OD you started early in the year to be ahead of the game is going to closely resemble anything you actually have by the time Sectionals rolls around (please—our OD costumes now look like we changed continents). But I guess the President doesn’t have to worry about feeding the animals or preparing or ordering food. Still, I think his “straightening-up” category might be a bit more involved than sorting pre-approved credit card offers and tossing Bed, Bath, and Beyond 20% off coupons.

Since I am a voracious reader, I guess I am feeling a bit blue by the fact that he is getting, well, level 4s on his reading while I am apparently getting level ones.

With his standard as my template I am now on a mission to read 2 tomes each week as well. I am starting with Edward Jones’ The Known World and hope to have it finished by Wednesday when I believe Dorothy Hamill’s new book is coming out. I’m not sure if this is on the President’s reading list but I will finish it by Friday and shoot off a quick review to his Pennsylvania House abode.

And I thought that could be a good goal for all of us. We can bring our books to sectionals and have a big book club meeting during the Zamboni times or after practices.

Let me know what good books you are reading.

Maybe we can read while doing jumping jacks?

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, September 17, 2007

It is only Thursday but already the week has been capped by the fact that one of my co-workers asked me for advice about a matter of the heart.

She is about twenty years younger so I was initially flattered until I realized she must think I write a “Dear Abby” type column. This means some of my professional peers are merely glancing at the letterhead and not actually reading the lines when they profess their fingers finding the path to Ice-dance. I was about five seconds into an internal sigh when the last part of her lament filtered into my gray matter.

“It was such a shock. I feel so bad for him. He said it wasn’t me, it was just him, something he is going through right now.”

I stared at her. At her red-rimmed eyes and trembling lips and felt the thunder of an eternity of feminine deja-vus pushing against my temple.

Ah. She got “The Speech”.

In the past month I have heard this from three quivering voices.

In my lifetime I am afraid I can not count the number. In fact, if Drew Carey has this as a question on the new show, “The Power of Ten”, “What percent of women have been given the break-up line “it’s not you, it’s me—I just need to find myself”, I’m afraid the number would cap between 95% and 105%. (Over the expected limit because some women have actually heard this candy-coated diatribe several times).

The numbers are so high in fact that there is some speculation that this is somehow taught in school--perhaps the last ten minutes of one of the boys-only math or science classes the American public keeps hearing about, or maybe while the shuttlecocks are being collected in gym class.

I looked back at Angela (name changed to protect her identity—although now that I know Karen doesn’t really read this anyway why bother?) and had to refocus. In reality, I had forgotten her boyfriend’s name. I had a vivid image of a dark complexioned man that had hair growing up from the neck of his J.C. Penney polo shirt and meeting his straightedge hair cut. We were at someone’s house who had attempted to start a “Bunko” league and I remembered being a little sidetracked with wondering why his barber didn’t trim the hairs from below.

Some facts were coming back to me.

Angela had moved here from Ohio to get a job in education. She had no family in the area and Chia-Pet Man had swooped in on her like a crow on a shiny dime on the macadam. Although she wanted to take it slow and get to know him, he had pushed and become a carnivore of her time. And like any creatures that take what they want, when they are finished, well, they are finished.

But that sounds a bit, well, selfish, so the old “It’s not you, It’s me.” mantra comes out.

“Why do you feel bad for him”? I ask, puzzled.

She sniffles again and I see tears well up in her eyes.

“It was just so painful for him.”

She shoves a used tissue in the waistband of her suit skirt and fans her face to cool it down because she has promotion interview in two hours.

“Did he know you are going before the panel today”?

“Yes, but he didn’t want to hurt me anymore because he says I deserve so much better.”

I try to cover the noise that comes from my throat like it was just a repressed hiccup. I don’t write advice columns for this reason—I would suggest calling his barber and asking him to shave a big bubble lettered “J’ in the back of his head for Jerk, but I see she isn’t there yet.

“That was certainly considerate of him,” I say without any inflexion in my voice.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “I think every woman goes through this. I remember being in Portland for Nationals and picking up the USA Today paper outside my door and reading the headline that Brad Pitt left Jennifer Aniston. I screamed “Sweet Jesus” so loud the housekeeper dropped her spray bottle. I mean, please, if Jennifer Aniston gets the speech, what hope does anyone have?”

Angela looks at me and even if it isn’t as poetic as what Abigail Van Buren would have offered, I think I at least distracted her. Hopefully not in the fact that Brad’s “it’s not you” was “it’s Angelina”. I smile and wish her good luck on her interview and know that hopefully in three months she will be shining like a new dime on the blacktop again.

Still it made me ponder. I thought of another “how to pay the skating bills” money making idea. T-Shirts to be mailed to those smooth talkers in all of our pasts.

“You were right

It really was you”

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, September 10th ~ 2007

I realized today I am not a practical person.

Oh, I have fooled myself in the past, shopping at Sam’s Club and BJs, bringing home those twelve bottles of bungeed ketchup, 280 ounce cans of baked beans, and a 20 pack of Mennen Speed Stick deodorant for my husband—and then lugged it out to the car and into the house without the benefit of a box or a bag. I’ve cut coupons from the Sunday newspaper and used Entertainment Books for fifty percent off of dinner entrées.

But it has just been a ruse apparently.

My diagnosis of impractically comes on the heels of the fact that for the second time in three weeks I have witnessed someone wearing a “Fanny Pack”. Now I’ll admit the name is misleading. Fanny Packs, if you don’t remember or if you are in denial of ever owning or craving one of these little zippered wonders, were designed to be worn, well, belted around your waist and riding your derriere.

In America, we are not such a trusting nation, so we tugged the catch-alls around to the front to protect our horde and in reality they became “belly packs”. And they were popular for a while among the older citizens who liked to have their hands free to shop, and take photos, and gesture with both hands while talking. But they were never stylish and never fell into easy favor with those who read any fashion magazines.

Oh, they tried. There were genuine leather models and a few designers even put out a line bearing initials, but we as a nation refused to be captivated by these marsupial carriers.

Yet, as I watched these two people in past fortnight walk uninhibited amongst the crowds, not weighed down by a purse strap, or rendered like the quest of The Fugitive, a one-armed man, I felt a certain envy.

To be sure, my own purse weights 18 pounds at the moment: I have a wallet filled with reams of paper that are not green, and enough change that has settled to the bottom to please a whole room of kindergarteners at a Chuck E. Cheese outing. I have a skate screw driver although I think in twelve years it has been used twice. I also have a camera (five years old so it is more the size of a cereal box than a credit card) and of course my Day-Runner planner. Oh, I know they have Blackberries and I-Phones that offer electronic scheduling but I must have my “Month at a Glance” planner and a pencil or I feel like I left home with two different shoes on.

But, do I really need to carry all of that with me, all of the time. Could I not survive with a medium size fanny pack clasped around my waist? Could I not benefit from losing the cutting straps of my shot-put weighted handbag that dents the tops of my shoulders like footprints in the sand? Wouldn’t it be lovely to relax and have the freedom of all arm movement without the fear of said purse jolting from the shoulder position, down the arm, to the crook of the elbow, where all nerve and muscle sensation is magnified like on an episode of “House”?

And the answer is, Yes! Yes it would be great to carry just what I need and not have the burden of the added weigh like an albatross across my clavicle. Yes, it would be fabulous to drink a cup of coffee in one hand, and rub the worn strap mark on my healing shoulder with the other. Yes, it would be fascinating to try to be ambidextrous.

But, I am not practical.

I cannot bring myself to buy or wear a fanny pack. And, I am ashamed. This realization is much like in middle school where I realized I had lied to the overweight boy with glasses who asked me to dance. My foot really did not hurt in those new patent leathers.

And I still feel so 8th grade now, remembering how I limped away then for good measure.

Except now as I walk away from the carefree fanny-packers, I am truly listing to one side as my body tries to counter-balance the weight shift as my Vera Bradley slides down my arm and my elbow snaps like it is landing a marlin.

They would make great competitor gifts though…..

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, September 3 ~ 2007

I must apologize for my seemingly sporadic musings of late which have prompted some to speculate that I am retiring my column. That is not the case: I have just been wandering the mental turbulence that has existed between the two Placids.

Lake Placid II was a bit like seeing Tom Jones appear at a small dinner theatre—there is the excitement of a big event held in an “intimate” venue where everyone can have front row seats.

For us, front row actually had to be row H or higher so we could see the whole sheet of ice without a mounted camera or Nancy Kerrigan’s head in our viewfinders.

Kyle Herring’s parents brought hats and headbands to bedeck the attending American audience with so much red, white, and blue that I expected to see fireworks ala “Blades of Glory” or a New York 4th of July at the end of each Team USA performance. Their enthusiasm never waned although Sara had a horrible case of tonsillitis and the team’s performances were marked most with images of athletic valor by Kyle and fortitude by Sara.

Team USA garnered the gold medal in ice dancing with stellar performances by Emily and Evan, and the bronze medal after “Still Loving You” by John and Pilar. Although the medals and bounty (prize money) were won “individually” by teams, Lake Placid II was truly a celebration for “Team USA” as each parent and spectator counted an Ice Dance win as “Two More for the Team”.

There were however, some other revelations encountered along the way:

There is no way to eat any type of red sauce pasta dish from Nicola’s without experiencing a splatter pattern across the front of your shirt or blouse. I mention this now so you can keep it in mind when you pack for your return to Lake Placid in 10 ½ months.

Evan Bates did not get his humor from reading “Highlights” magazine in the pediatrician’s office while waiting for a well-child visit—he got it from his mother, Nancy Bates. She is funny, compassionate, and articulate--and can be all three at a competition while watching her son skate which is truly a level four skill with pluses.

Bonnie Gilles must be named “Skating Mother of the Year”. I say this for many reasons but mostly because she has three children that skate competitively for Team USA—Todd (Senior Dance), Piper (Junior Dance), and Alexe (Junior Ladies). First of all, the thought of how much that must cost would make any accountant hyperventilate. Secondly, I can’t imagine dealing with the costuming, choreography, and logistics of the whole thing—two kids are on the Junior Grand Prix circuit, and one is on the Senior competitive circuit (Golden Spin). Bonnie, however, keeps this all straight and never loses her stride and, in fact, was the cow bell ringing cheerleader for every Team USA skater at the Lake Placid Junior Grand Prix.

The last revelation has to do with a quote I read in a book recently that is roughly translated to be “It is better to be lucky than good”. In skating, I don’t find this to be true. You must be a good skater but it certainly doesn’t hurt to have a bit of luck on your side—hence the cadre of “lucky” items I carry around with me in unusual places.

On the way home, my daughter and I had a black bear run across I-287 in front of our car. It was startling and unexpected. If you are looking for signs this could go either way if you consider the nuances of a small black cat crossing your path.

I took my eyes off the road for a moment and met those of my daughter’s. She smiled first.

“That was incredible!”

Yes, I thought. Yes it was.

Mombo