Datebook: Monday, December 31st ~ 2007

It is hard to put closure on this year when the final event for 2007 takes place for some of us in less than three weeks.

I am trying to look forward to it. I am trying to get excited. The problem is there is this heavy weight that is sitting in the bottom of my stomach that I haven’t felt since 1989 when I tried a new meatball recipe that involved a merging of 3 kinds of sausage, lamb, and ground chuck.

The US Nationals in St. Paul officially starts the first practice on Saturday, January 19th. I know the television cameras will be turned on the single skated events but those in the skating world know that the real competition this year is in the dance events. They are all too close to call and too deep with talent to be able to make any “bets on the table” predictions.

But that isn’t what is giving me a sense of heaviness.

I am pretty hardened to the usual maladies. My daughter has already speculated on the number of suitcases required for a ten day trip to a cold weather location. I think she initially envisioned a steamer trunk or two.

Since she is now 19, I broached the truth to her with little fanfare.

“You are going to have to wear some things twice.”

She blanched as if I forced her stand in the express line at the grocery store with a three-week stockpile of perishables.

“I can’t wear something over again. Who does that?”

“Sweetheart, I’m not telling you to wear your Tuesday panties on Thursday. I’m just saying that you can take one pair of black pants and wear them with a different sweater on another day.”

She was clearly horrified, as if I offered to make balloon animals for her next birthday party. “That’s not possible. What is the point of going away if you are going to wear the same thing every day?

The outcome, as I knew it would be, is that I will pack her extras into the emptiness of my bag since I am packing “light”.

To be sure things are different this year.

My daughter is truly a young woman more that she is a girl. She has gone through her first year of college, she has spent a year and a half of living on “her own”, she has traveled without me internationally, and she and her partner have made their own decisions and choices in the direction their skating took this year. Other than working two jobs to pay for it all, I have had little input into her skating life since the plane touched down from Spokane last year.

I know this is as it should be—this is the “natural order” of life.

I know that tomorrow we will flip the page for a new month, and a new year. We will have made resolutions and self-promises (please, I have a case of Slim-Fast Milk Chocolate sitting in my pantry!) as we look forward to the glory of change in the coming year.

So, maybe it is okay, on this last day of this year, to reflect on the past a bit—to remember that first skating costume (a beautiful tuxedo dress that cost a total of $175.00) styling the hair into a bun, and putting lipstick on seven-year-old lips that spewed it was “yucky”, and being there to applaud a waltz jumped “no-test” performance.

I suppose it is natural to feel a bit of heaviness for what has passed, and excitement for what still lies ahead.

I guess that’s what we know as life.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, December 17th ~ 2007

I know that the holiday season is that special time of year that is supposed to bring out the best in all of us, and I think it typically does.

But, we all lie during this tinsel time.

We all say, “It really isn’t about the gift, it’s about the thought and love that goes into selecting the gift.”

And this is true to an extent.

But, some marketing executives have foisted their products on the American consumers with such guile and cunning that many will be unwrapping beribboned paper to discover some horrors of the holidays.

Proffered Gift One: Chia Pets. A new outbreak has appeared, after a decade of being seemingly Chia-free, much like some mutant flu virus, and based on the information from a recent commercial that asserted they are back with a vengeance with the concept of a digital clock built into the base of the vegetation growth-line making it truly a “multipurpose” gift. If the world is truly as close as 6 degrees, this means that 4 out 10 people will be receiving these terra-cota nightmares, and 2 out of those 4 will spread the seed packs after wetting those nude heads and sit back to watch the miracle in action. I am sure there is a Chia Pet section at all landfills where the bulldozers use their molded heads for crushing practice.

Proffered Gift Two: My Pretty Puppy Purse. These would be considered adorable if they were sold in Toys-R-Us for five year-olds who wanted a Christmas puppy. Sadly, they are sold in moderate department stores for adult women who seeming have a passion for unzipping the backbone of a vinyl Dachshund, Cocker Spaniel, or Pug and stashing their keys, wallets, and lipsticks in the snout or hindquarters of these canine pretenders. I pray that Coach, Gucci, or Louis Vuitton do not become entranced with the idea and put out a monogrammed version that might force this new breed to stay in existence past the weaning stage.

Proffered Gift Three: Any Cork Screw that comes in a box that needs to be assembled prior to use. Typically these contraptions weigh about six pounds and have clever names like “Wine Gods” and “Cork Extractor”. Trust me; you couldn’t get more overkill unless you use a street-sweeper to pick up cookie crumbs from your tiled kitchen floor.

So Mombo thought this would be a special time to make a list for what we really wish for our skating friends this year-- wishes that truly are from the heart and wrapped with warmth, and maybe, just maybe, with a bow tied with humor. Please feel free to add onto the list on via the comments section so everyone is included:

Christmas Wishes For:

Daphne: A year filled with healthy felines and an award at the end of the year for offering the best coverage of Ice Dance--in the World!

Michelle W: One photograph of all the hundreds of skaters you have captured on film in their moments in the spotlight so that you can remember what you have given to so many.

Sylvia: An unlimited international calling card and a five-way calling plan so you can be even seconds faster than you currently are at getting the results in.

Wicked Witch: Ruby slippers so what you wish for comes true more often.

Bonnie Gilles: A weeks vacation to somewhere warm-- far, far, away from any ice rink and your three skating children.

Susan Hubbell: A collection box at Nationals—she does what we all do times two!!

Christine Binder: Use of a Private Jet from LA to BWI.

John Cole: A week with no phone calls about skating.

Holly Cole: A BMW convertible hidden in a garage until the 25th.

Jenny Mast: A non-skating vacation without the possibilities of an earthquake.

Bob Horen: Too many great teams to make a selection.

Julie Schmitz: 200 thank-you cards from Team USA

Charlie White and Meryl Davis: A big, new trophy/medal case.

Tanith and Ben: The top spot for the Worlds Podium.

Melissa and Denis: A healthy, happy year.

Emily and Evan: Smiles at Nationals.

Brent and Kim: Another “Best Performance” Award.

John Corona: an endorsement by your obvious sponsor.

Clare Farrell: A team USA jacket.

Chase Fishpaw: Unlimited mileage between Delaware, NYC, and North Dakota.

Pilar Bosley: “Wild Horses”.

Piper Gilles: Someone to take down the holiday lights or no more climbing on the roof.

Tim and Lauren Mckernan: Safe Returns.

Jennifer and Daniil: A special anniversary.

Maddie and Keiffer: Smiles at Nationals.

Sara Bailey: No more flu bugs.

Anastasia and Isabella: More ties!

Baxter Burbank: Your 80.00 cash back.

Liz Lewis: Your ‘6’ is really ten!

Ben and Liza: A trip to remember.

Lili and Zack: Medals next year.

Travis Mager: More Columns.

Lauren Ely: The best of both worlds.

Charlotte Maxwell: Returned smiles.

Nick Traxler: A heart tattoo.

Todd and Jane: More years together.

Logan and Lynn: Standing Ovations.

Mauri and Joel: Fifteen Ice-sweepers!

Robbie Kaine: Everyone “Stays Organized”.

Ann Greenthal: 50 more Lake Placids!

Add a comment to add to the list....

Datebook: Monday, December 10th ~ 2007

This is the time of year when sleigh bells ring and the scent of pine nectar fills the air with pungent fumes.

Well, except at our house.

My husband and I have been engaged in the decade-old battle of “plastic or paper”; or in the language of the holidays—real or artificial.

I have voted for “real” for twenty years. A real, live, beautifully sculpted Douglas fir—one with tiny pine cones embedded on the branches, one with the scent of a northern forest that cannot be captured by a Glade Mist candle, one that symbolizes the blend of nature and custom that is shared around the world.

My husband has opted for the fake, pole-in-a-box version of color-coded Brillo-like limbs that assemble to look as much like a Christmas tree as those black and white puckered plastic knock-off handbags are supposed to look like classic Chanels.

Two years ago I got excited because my husband told me we were going to try something new for Christmas. I imagined trekking through the woods with the entire family, Izzy wearing a plaid sweater and making little paw prints in the snow for us to follow, carting a thermos of hot cocoa and a bag of crisp Madelines, and finding the perfect Christmas tree—size, shape, smell, color--graded like a flawless diamond. We would shake off the snow and cut it down with a small handsaw thus not disturbing the ambience of the forest setting.

My husband’s comment of seemingly spontaneous action was instead to go to the department store to purchase a “Pre Lit” tree.

Our new tree is seemingly powered by 5000 Halogen Jeep headlights. On the brightness meter, the only measurable object above our tree is in fact, the Sun. One of the benefits of this is, of course, our family room is fifteen degrees warmer than the rest of the house.

I know some families gather around the Christmas tree, trimming and decorating it together, perhaps singing Christmas songs and sipping Eggnog while humming along to “Granny Got Run Over by a Reindeer”.

This is not the case at our house.

My husband must place each ornament on the tree because only he “knows its place’. The rest of us sit on the floor holding decorations in our hands with expressions much like the young boy asking for more gruel in “Oliver Twist”—as in “please sir, can I give you more”.

The finished tree is dressed to the nines in an eclectic array of finery. We have Waterford and pre-school macaroni. We have dogs, ceramic angels, and painted crab shells. We have antique wax mixed with Precious Moments figurines.

And then we have the skate ornaments.

By skate ornaments, I don’t mean one or two. I’m talking enough to decorate the mammoth fir in Rockefeller Square. I’m sure we never intended to acquire as many as we did, just as we never thought we would own 300 Beanie Babies, but there they are never-the-less—spotlighted by 8 million candlelit beacons.

My husband takes comfort in the fact that my daughter will one day want these for her own home. But I know the truth.

Just as my son will never take the Fox Terrier when he graduates from college, my daughter will never want 600 skate ornaments for her tree.

“Why did you buy all of these?” she asks when their glass blades blind us in reflection.

“I didn’t buy ALL of them,” I answer, “some were gifts.”

She looks at me skeptically. I turn away from her and the tree of one thousand suns. It has been rumored that I seemingly “go overboard” sometimes. This is a myth, but myths are hard to defuse, look at that whole King Arthur craze.

I ponder what to do with my box of skating ornaments in the years to come and then smile at my plan. Since I cannot have a “real” tree, nor trek into the forest to covet a piney trophy of my own, I will venture forth each year, to the local Christmas tree farm and anoint one special tree of my own. Instead of tagging it and cutting it down, I will hang an ice skate ornament from its boughs and some lucky family will find a partially decorated tree in the woods.

I will hereafter be known as “The Skate Fairy”, no longer a myth, but a legend.


Mombo

Datebook: Monday, December 3rd ~ 2007

I am now working on my second fever blister in the last three weeks—the first one started the day before the drive to Sectionals.

The second one started pulsating on Thursday night when my son called from college and told me we needed to talk, but it had to be when we had “more time”.

“More Time” as in, the previous weekend when he was home for the Thanksgiving holiday and I had the privilege of watching him sleep in various locations throughout the house over a 96 hour period of time?

“Why can’t we talk now,” I asked, “I don’t have anything pressing to work on.”

“I’m walking across campus right now to meet my group.”

“Oh, to work on your final engineering project?”

“No, this is my group for the talent show. Some of the guys are dressing up like female pop singers and doing a dance—I’m Jennifer Lopez.”

“Well, I can see where that would take a good deal of time.”

“Yeah, J-Lo has a lot of hard moves.”

I feel my hand tighten on the phone and my upper lip start to puff. This is the boy who stopped figure skating when he was eight because of a green lycra onesy he had to wear for a skating show.

“Can you give me a hint about the subject that you want to discuss?”

“It’s just about Bio-Medical Engineering and how miserable I am.”

I start to think I can actually see my top lip when I look down; one side is huge, like I have had a collagen injection just on the right side. He told me he would call me the next night when he could “present his case.”

I called my friend on my way to Costco to get a muti-pack of Abreva.

“I can’t believe he is going to give up Bio-Medical Engineering—this is all he has talked about and why he went to that school. What if he wants to go into Political Science like his roommate—he would be horrible at that—he doesn’t lie well. Or worse, what if he wants to be a Social Worker. I have a skater in the family, I can’t support a social worker too.”

I get through the evening by having a Bailey’s Irish Crème mini I had stashed in the frig, and slathering small dollops of the tiny, seeming trial-size tube of Abreva, all over my Angelina- Jolie like upper lip.

My daughter calls when I am really starting to appreciate the Emerald Isle and regales me with the saga of her new skating boots.

“They’re great. I’m just wearing them straight through. The tongue falls in a different place so it’s rubbing on my right shin, but I wrapped it so the blood wouldn’t come through and stain the leather. I’m getting a bit of tendonitis too, but if I ice it for an hour after skating and then before I go to bed, it stops hurting.”

“That’s great babes, I’m glad they’re working out for you,” I answer while reaching for the comfort of my minuscule blue and white tube.

“Oh, and mom, my flat tire light keeps coming on, but that doesn’t make sense because you just put new tires on my car two weeks ago. What do you think that means?”

I don’t answer because I am searching behind a half-empty bottle of Power-aide and a jar of Mrs. Fanny’s pickles for another mini bottle. Without luck, I grab the lemon-lime mixture and wince as the lemon hits my Mt. Everest-like lip.

I tell my daughter to stop by the Toyota dealer in her “free time” which she denies having, and check my look in the mirror (Billy Joel style) —no lipstick in the world can cover this eruption.

Through the night, my lip seems to have its own heartbeat which I am able to count so I get up at three in the morning to check my email and do Christmas shopping on-line.

Insomnia makes me want to reach out to the source of my sleeplessness and I consider calling my son to see if he is free to talk then, or calling my daughter to see if her flat tire light is still on, but I talk myself off that ledge of crankiness. My lip will soon need its own zip code so I continue to rub the magical elixir onto my mouth.

My son calls at three in the afternoon. I hold the phone to the other ear so my protruding lip doesn’t touch the receiver.

“You know, freshman year is always hard. You don’t have to make your mind up now, you just need to keep going and finding the right path.”

“That’s just it. I think I have found the right path. I really like the biology part of my classes and the engineering functions less so--I might want to double-major and be in Pre-Med.”

I swallow.

“So, you’re not thinking of Sociology?”

“No. Where do you come up with these things?”

I don’t respond to this because I really can’t.

“Oh, and mom, we won the talent show. I’ll send you the link for YouTube and you can watch it—it’s pretty funny.”

YouTube? The fumes from the Docosanol have now penetrated my brain so I answer him a bit too happily, “Oh, I have my own tube,” and I reach again for my blue and white Abreva.

Mombo