Datebook: Monday, February 25th ~ 2008

Today I found out I have a great deal of respect for Britney Spears’ father.

Oh, not because he raised two teen idols, no, no, but because he has actually made a legal stand telling the world and his daughter that “he knows best” and is taking over who makes the decisions in her life.

Oh, what a dream. Even if for only one day.

I know that for many of you, this is hard to understand. You are still invited into the dressing rooms to help with hair, make-up, and settle pre-competition nerves. Those with daughters that are fifteen and under still probably get to pick the colors for the free dance and the cut and the line for the waltz dress of the year.

But just remember, something happens when they start driving.

It happens faster when they start driving their own cars that you pay for.

These tiny dancers start thinking they have the right to make their own decisions about everything. As they inch toward the end of their teen years they start forgetting to even mention some of the choices they encounter along the way.

Sometimes, I admit it, I feel like Mr. Spears.

“I saw that Desmond Tutu is coming to your college in April, are you going to go and see him?”

“I don’t know, I have heard of him, what band was he with again? I don’t really have any plans until Cinco de Mayo.”

“When is Cinco de Mayo?”

“Are you joking me? You don’t know when Cinco de Mayo is? It’s in the name—Cinco—five, May—Mayo? I can’t believe you don’t know that?”

“Sorry, I’m a student of the seventies; we took German in high school because the threat of Big Red was hard to die.”

My daughter breathes deeply into the phone, I try to flip my hair a little in a daughter-like imitation but semi-wrench my neck in the process just as she continues.

“You’re not making any sense. You always have to be so symbolic.”

“Sorry. Well, you should really try to catch Tutu if you can, he was an old rocker from way back with a band called “Three Dog Night”. Make sure you tell your friends.”

I laugh silently as I rub my neck. Maybe she has been too isolated in ice dance world.

“Oh,” she continues, “I forgot, I am going to a swap meet next Friday.”

My blood chills for a moment, again, much as I imagine Mr. Spears felt when Britney announced her engagement to Kevin Federline, or perhaps the first time he opened a magazine and saw a photo of his daughter with the little black X indicating she had gone out sans panties.

I try to wrap my mind around the image of my daughter at a swap meet. Black leather, Harley motorcycles, du-rags on long knotted hair. Boot with round toes and steel toes.

I shake my head and wrench my neck a second time. I just can’t see her on the back of a hog wearing her new silver Tory Burch quilted flats.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think that’s safe.”

“What are you talking about, we’re going to be at Gina’s apartment. Would could happen?”

I close my eyes for a moment and then say, “Okay, what are you talking about?”

“Well, a bunch of us are going to bring all of our clothes and accessories that we don’t wear much anymore and throw them into the middle of the room and then we’ll just sort through and pick out new things we like.”

I imagine all the Abercrombie, Lacoste, J. Crew, and Ralph Lauren shirts heaped in a leaf pile on top of a coffee table, a Citizen for Humanity jean leg here, a Kate Spade belt there.

I mentally add up all the ghosts of purchases past.

“You know, sweetheart, some people have been able to recoup a bit of their money selling vintage clothing on Ebay.”

“Mom! What fun would that be?”

Oh—fun, right.

Oh Baby Baby.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, February 18, 2008

This is the time of year that I dread the most.

There are many reasons for this, but I have to be candid and admit that taking our taxes to the accountant is more daunting than going to Victoria Secret’s to be measured for a bra.

On paper it looks like my husband and I are doing quite well—I mean it looks like we could be eating name brand canned green beans instead of the Safeway label, it suggests that we could own a condo at the beach instead of renting one for a week, one might assume we could have a vintage roadster in the garage instead of several boxes of old Christmas decorations.

After the second year, our accountant finally asked us, “What are you doing with your disposable cash?”

He admitted he had clients who gambled, and some who had a passion for Glen Fiddich and drank their bonuses shot glass by shot glass, and a few who speculated in unorthodox commodities.

We toyed with the idea of telling him we converted our cash into Japanese gold and hid it in the basement or that we had invested in a Koi farm, but we finally just admitted, “Our daughter skates.”

“Oh.” He said, rather surprised--perhaps because as parents we do not look like ones that might produce an athletic prodigy, more likely perhaps, a duo that might offer the world a child that would grow up to conjure up a better potato chip recipe.

“Like roller derby—I’ve heard that’s making a come-back.”

“No, as in ice skates,” I reply.

My husband had gone into mute mode, as if this is something he would add to his list of improbable things, like the time I made him go to a couples baby shower, or to a dog show in Orlando, or the lowest point—a Longaberger basket bingo.

“Oh, that’s excellent—I understand Michelle Kwan is a multimillionaire.”

“Yes, well…our daughter ice dances.” I don’t elaborate but perhaps my tone gives him a clue that this might be the equivalent of Vanilla Ice making a comeback in rap music.

“So, there is no return on the investment?” he queried softly.

My husband had started examining the wall art, which appeared to be several charcoal and ink sketches and a signed Artist’s Proof. I did notice that the muscle above his right cheek was twitching just a bit.

“Well,” I began with some noticeable hesitation, “She did earn 3500.00 this year from skating.”

“And what was the outlay of expenses for this?”

I write a figure in pencil and slide the paper across the table to his waiting hand. He takes a deep breath and holds it before expelling it slowing. He has, of course, turned pale.

“I’m sorry” he says with such sincerity that I suspect he would be in Hallmarks the next day looking for a card, if such a card existed.

“You realize...” he starts, but I stop him.

“We know. But, of course, I’m sure you realize, not everything in life has a monetary value. My daughter is learning some very valuable lessons in life—she is learning self-discipline, and she gets to travel, and she seems to have a maturity level beyond her years…”

I would have continued, but I see that he is also getting a twitch under his right eye—similar to my husband’s.

I don’t know why they take it this hard; I mean what better way to dispose of cash than for skating—hence the appropriate term “disposable cash”.

Anyway, I dread putting grown men through this anguish.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, February 11th ~ 2008

Since this is Cupid’s week I suppose some would expect me to wax poetic about the anomalies of our heartfest holiday. And I probably would except for the ticking of the clock by my desk (true there is a bowl of pink and red peanut M & Ms in front of it, but I’m ignoring that for the common good).

All of my clocks are set on Eastern Standard Time. They are as accurate as possible since, to me, that seems to be the point of having a sensitive time piece.

Unfortunately, my spouse, and alas, my daughter live in an altered time zone—one that I have discovered is inhabited by a huge percentage of our populace. In fact, the numbers are as close as the Clinton-Obama delegate count—those who live on “real time” and those who live on, well, let’s call it what it is, “fake time”.

My husband and daughter survive and navigate the rooms of our lives by a series of altered clocks that are as complicated as navigating the Panama Canal in an oil freighter.

The bedroom alarm clock is 8 minutes fast.

The microwave time reads 5 minutes ahead of reality.

The Bose boasts a 4 minute head start.

“Why do you do this?” I ask them.

And I get the look. The look that all clock defacers give to nondefacers—probably how smokers look at non-smokers who fan toxic clouds out of their pathways.

“Because it gives us more time!” They respond as if they are writing the introduction to “The Dummies Guide to Changing Time.”

I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I try to reason with them.

“How does it give you more time?”

“Because, when the alarm goes off in the morning, I know that I can turn it off and I still have 8 more minutes to stay in bed.”

“So why don’t you set the clock for 5:22 and know that you can just stay in bed until 5:30.”

They shake their heads. They look at me with pity.

“You don’t get it.”

No. No I don’t. I am forced to disregard any clock in my home that is not set by a central control, like Comcast and Verizon—the only sane source of digital imaging in my home. The others haunt me like constant versions of Liar’s Poker—chiming and bonging at odd moments of the day and night, Ave Maria going off at 5:10, Westminster Chimes at 3:13, some as much as twenty minutes off the mark.

Today, I went to the train station to pick up my daughter and I drove her car, using her gas. I had a few errands to run and I was running a bit late so I was happy to pull into the small station and see no one waiting on the platform. I thought it odd when the passengers starting arriving fifteen minutes after the train was to pull in—as if they had advance notice there had been a delay.

When my daughter got in the car I asked if they had been behind schedule in Washington.

“No, we were a few minutes early actually.”

I looked at her clock on the dashboard, flashing valentine red numbers.

Et tu, RAV4.

“Just tell me why you set your car clock ahead. You’re already dressed and in the car—so you’re on your way—why can’t you be on real time when you’re driving?”

“Because it gives me more time. I can stop for a coffee or a bagel.”

I cannot respond to this because, well, there is no response. I can only speculate on the huge consumer market that exists untapped as yet; calendars with Tax Day marked as April 5th, Labor Day, the last Monday in August, July 4th being bracketed with fireworks graphics on June 27th.

April 1st would of course have to remain as it is.

No one should forget the day we honor fools.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, February 4th ~ 2008

I seem to have enhanced jet-lag. Seriously, this is like high–definition hang-over jet-lag compared to just the every day cable-ready version.

This is unusual because St. Paul was only in a one-hour time zone difference.

I think this might have something to do with diminished stored body heat—I have spent the past seven days wearing turtleneck sweaters and wool pants, sleeping under two blankets at night, and wearing my scarf in-doors even after I took off my coat.

And I have been extremely tired and sleepy.

“I’m going to bed”, I told my husband on Tuesday night.

“But the news is on,” he answered as if I make my life as an AP correspondent.

“I know, we always go to bed when the news comes on,” I replied with a yawn.

“But it’s the six o’clock news!”

On Saturday, NBC aired what they billed as the Exhibition from the Sunday performances. Since we were on the tarmac at 10:30 Sunday morning, we missed this extravaganza and I was almost looking forward to watching it from the comforts of my multi-blanketed family room. As the camera panned the Xcel Center though, I started getting that feeling in the pit of my stomach—the one that seemed to “back-to-the-future” me with the smell that permeated the arena—a mixture of burnt popcorn and Walleye sandwich (I never ate one but it was on every menu in town!). I listened very carefully and thought I heard “Genie in a Bottle” and “Skater Boy” on the first warm-up, but then the program shifted and I was watching the short and long of women and men again. I kept hitting the info button, but it still kept reading, “US Nationals Exhibition of Champions”.

And then, of course, we had the replay of the Evan and Johnny orchestrated hate-fest. It just seems like whoever wanted this rivalry forgot to tell, well, Evan and Johnny. So instead of coming across as the modern version of the Sharks and the Jets, or a lame version of a Zoolander run-way walk-off, it is unfolding as a minor blimp, much like two drivers racing for one parking space and the one who doesn’t get it smacks his steering wheel in frustration.

No need to go to the Truth Booth.

Wow, imagine how scary that could be instead of merely having a Doping Policy with mandatory samples, if all skaters would be forced to go into the Truth Booth and honestly answer questions from either Nancy Kerrigan or Bob Costa.

“No, I did not like doing double run-throughs the last few weeks, and I may have taken my coach’s name in vain. Okay, I did use a few of the George Carlin list of words you cannot say on television attached to my coach’s name.”

“No, I did not feel authentic wearing my (turban, lariat, lederhosen, crystal ball, Jasmine, Mufasa, leprechaun) costume for the OD, but, on the bright side I think I now have an audition tape if I want to try out for Disney on Ice.”

Anyway, I fell asleep during the latter part of the exhibition, so I’m not sure if it actually got around to showing any of the Sunday skating.

I’m thinking my malady is akin to the nature of bears; they hibernate in cold weather in escape those minus degree temperatures, and the boredom that comes from countless days of watching the thermometer.

Mombo