Datebook: Monday, May 26th ~ 2008


“Dancing with the Stars” has changed ice dancing for me.

Let’s be honest; the costumes were incredible and they were custom made in less than a week. Since we heard the same dance rhythms that we see on the ice each week it became especially hard to seriously consider the soft shoe improvements of a football player and a Latin heartthrob. Kristy, on the other hand, looked natural, albeit without skates on her feet.

Besides the fabulous costumes, the factor that most impressed me was the concept of shared “judging”. The three member judging panel offered their individual critiques and scores each week but the viewing audience then supplemented the scores with their own votes. The audience scoring factor was then the mystery and held the power of elimination of the lowest scoring team.

This concept does give one pause to speculate what would happen if this process were added to some event, say Lake Placid, where the judging panel gets half of the voting privileges and the viewing audience gets the remaining votes. I guess if we had time to organize we could even select a committee of Super Delegates who might even have a bit more power in the voting process, but truthfully that seems a bit too complicated and fraught with improprieties and problems. No, we just need those little electronic boxes that they use on TV shows like “Funniest Home Videos”—the audience votes and it is electronically calculated without the services of Price-Waterhouse. Even if you factor in the skater’s voting family in attendance, the results would self regulate eventually during the process.

This concept of the “Peoples Choice” has certainly been heralded in other genres. There are award shows with numerous acrylic statues offered in tribute. Even if we could not be part of the “real” voting, perhaps we could at least offer one award for each discipline—Novice, Junior, Senior—that reflected the voices of those sitting on the left side of the arena.

I realize that it might take a while for this concept to catch on, so for the first few years we might have to start with the seemingly minor categories that the real judges typically overlook.

For best costuming we might offer then a clear Lucite wallet mounted on a cherry base (symbolically showing there is nothing left in the budget).

For best overall performance we could offer a tinted Lucite Zamboni (logo du jour) that denotes the team that “cleaned up” on the ice.

A trophy of a clear plastic head with a red music note in the middle could be awarded to the team whose music for the year has now been stuck in every viewer’s head and will remain so for a seven month period—probably longer with the added viewing capacity of Ice-network.com.

Of course, even these start-up awards will cost money. So we will need to start fund-raising. Due to logistics we need to rule out candy, candle, and pizza sales. We need to do something at the venue that we will all attend.

That is why I think we need to do our own “Dancing with the Stars” at Lake Placid. We could run a “program dance” night with our own stars—our judges. Funds could be raised by admission to see the event and by those who are willing to pay to “dance” with our “star” judges. I know some rinks do something like this every week where skaters pay five or ten dollars to do a few patterns of a selected dance with a Pro—I guess this is the inflated version of the dime-a-dance program initiated in the 1940s for active duty soldiers.

My own daughter said she would gladly pay to do a few patterns of the “Hickory Hoedown” with John Cole and four patterns of the “Killian” with Bob Horen although she refuses to wear the pink dress again because it is “shortwaisted”. She would also want to waltz with Shawn and Charlie if they had spots available.

Chase Fishpaw would be delighted to take Jenny and Holly around the rink for several Paso or Tango patterns.

Baxter Burbank and Kyle Herring have a few waltzes reserved for some special ladies on panel.

I think you’ll agree this is a goldmine.

And, if we opened our “Star” classification to coaches, well, we would need to go into the wee hours. There are many mothers who have already called me.

If Peter and Sasha are on the dance card we can have those trophies gold-plated.


Mombo


Datebook: Monday, May 19th ~ 2008

Let me be honest—this has not been my best weekend.

For the past three years I have been working towards getting an administrative position in the field of education. This is probably the closet thing to being an indentured servant as we have in our society today. It means six or seven graduate level classes past the Master’s level, numerous committees, several chair positions, projects, team leadership to the third power, and leaping through several fiery hoops in a single bound. And all of this after working a full day. On Saturday I got a letter saying, “No Thanks” for this year—there is no room at the inn because no one is leaving. In skating language, this is like being the 5th or 6th place team at Sectionals—you get to fill out the forms just in case but there is little chance there will be a call up to Nationals. A little recognition and a lot of heartbreak at being so close to getting an invitation.

So, I was feeling a little weepy and sat sipping Sangria and scanning the radio for either some Carpenters or Captain and Tennille songs to sing a duet with when my daughter called me on her way to a Kanye West concert.

“That’s great,” she proclaimed.

“Great? I said I DIDN’T get the job.”

“I know what you said, that’s why it’s great.”

“Really? Great? You realize this may mean you have to wear the same black patent pumps for another season, right?”

“Don’t be silly! You always told us you have to do choose—you either work doing something you love, or you work at something that you at least like that allows you to make enough money to let you do what you love.”

I sigh. Surely, if I knew how to do needlepoint I would have made a pillow for the couch with that ditty. I am not in an Erma Bombeck mood however.

“Mom. You love to write. You haven’t been able to write because you have been too busy preparing for this job. And, if you got that job, it would have been worse—you would never have had the time. And, you know what you promised!”

Ah, yes, door number 3, when one and two were a goat and donkey. This should be the new car—but it might just be a team of mules and a herd of goats.

Although I have had several stories and essays published, I had promised to write my first book if I didn’t get the job. Or finish my already started first book. Or start a second book instead of my unfinished first book.

“So now you can take the whole summer and write—you can even take your laptop to Lake Placid to edit if you have to.”

“Lake Placid is 10 weeks away—I don’t think I’ll be finished by then. I’m not even sure what to write…”

“What are you thinking of?”

“Well….the book I started is a bit Janet Evanovich like. The main character is an English Professor at the Community College but she used to be police officer and she keeps getting dragged back into the criminal investigation world by her students.”

“That sounds like your life.”

“No, this would be fiction”

“What else?”

“Well…I was going to write a non-fiction piece about a case I worked where a woman drugged her husband, shot him three times, and then cut his body up in eight pieces so she could carry it away in bags to bury in difference places.”

“That’s so gross…people wouldn’t sleep at night.”

“And then I was thinking of doing a novel about skating—I have a tentative working title of “Prick of the Ice”…”

“Oh, that’s clever—it brings in toe-picks”

“ I guess you could go with that—but I was thinking more of a fiction piece about some of the public personas versus the real personalities. You know, you would have to imagine someone with a big head and a little heart—you could probably do a lot with that theme line.”

“I’m not sure there would be a market for that—maybe you should ask some other people what they think you should write—can’t you just do a Mombo type book and make it longer. Oh, and change the skating character—make it a boy—a skating son.”

“We’ll see. Where are your tickets for the concert—did you get lawn seats?”

“Oh you are funny tonight—getting lawn seats would be like taking food into a restaurant—it would be rude. Besides, you always say, it’s not worth going if you’re more than 10 rows back.”

Gosh, I talk a lot. When did she start remembering all of this?

Mombo


Datebook: Monday, May 12th ~ 2008

Mother’s Day is the annual calendar mark of our lives when we take stock of our progresses and processes.

This year was a bit melancholy for me; my son is away at college studying for finals and my daughter is out of the country having a much deserved vacation. My husband tried to fill the void by making raspberry and white chocolate pancakes for breakfast and offering me cards from the dogs and the cats—this would have had a better outcome if one of the cats had allowed me sleep past 5:30 and if Izzy would have left me to linger over coffee without the constant eardrum-shattering bark reminder to throw her Wubba.

This was a year that, as a mother, I realize I have not had an opportunity to do much “mothering”. Both of my children are making their own decisions, plodding their own courses, and hitching their wagons to their selected distant stars. The only thing they get from me is the daily reminder to “stay safe”, “be aware of your surroundings”, and “do you have to buy the whole album from I-Tunes, couldn’t you just select a few songs” because, yes, all of this independence is still paid for by me.

Because of my mothering-once- removed status, I have asked my daughter at least to come to my aid if she sees me doing something odd or out of character.

She is to intercede if she discovers, for example, that I am on a first name basis with the Fed-Ex man because I am doing 3 am shopping with either QVC or the Home Shopping Network.

She is to raid my closet and take me to the nearest Chico’s if she notices I am wearing one of those smock-type aprons that snap in the front, or, if I start carrying a Kate Spade knock-off with a glued on label.

She is to open a can of Betty Crocker’s Milk Chocolate Frosting and hold it under my nose if she ever sees me lingering over an ad for any footwear made by Croc’s—regardless of color, style or on sale status.

So, with her in Mexico, and me feeling a bit Willie Nelsonish (Mama Don’t Let Your Children Grow Up to be Outlaws) it is probably understandable that I had a break down on Friday night at my monthly Bunko game. On the second Friday of each month, sixteen of us meet and hurl pink dice while drinking wine and snacking on Kailua dip and theme cake. We shout “Bunko” and “Babies” and ring bells, and by the end of the night we are all in our happy zones. This month doubled as a baby-shower for one of our younger members who is pregnant with her second child.

The best thing I gave her was actually the message I placed in her card—“Good Luck—don’t forget to only look at Rec League Sports!!” I had eaten my 10th Kailua dipped strawberry and I felt a wave of sadness ebb up about how quickly the time goes when I dropped my napkin. While retrieving it, I noticed that three of my fellow Bunkoettes had on the aforementioned Croc footwear.

I was stunned.

I mean, what could I say? It’s not as if they are stylish or attractive. They look like miniature clown shoes.

So, as a diplomatic displaced mother, I asked, “Why do you wear those?”

They pounced on me like the only attendee to an Amway party.

I was given the testimonials: They are so comfortable; they massage the feet; there is never an offensive odor.

I accepted an offer to wear a pair around the room. I liked the feel. I liked the clunky oddness and the rubber “gellin” padding. I liked the ‘in your face” color attacks of the bring pink and purples.

I capitulated. I conceded. I converted.

I wanted to go to Dick’s Sporting Goods at 10:30 and buy a pair but was forced to wait and make an on-line purchase at midnight (please—this is very different than QVC shopping).

And now I wait.

For my son to come home from his first year of college. For my daughter to get off the plane, looking tanned and rested.

For my Croc’s to arrive Fed-Ex Express.

I will need to distract my daughter from my new footwear selection and I think I have found that vehicle. I have to call Ann Greenthal and a few other ladies who I will need to organize some regional branches of MSST-or what I am tentatively calling Mothers of Skaters Syncho Team. The concept is simple. We skater moms (and dads) will choreograph and skate to six minute programs where we use artistic concepts and skill to present a group medley of our children’s free dance from the previous year. With the focus on adult skating I think this is truly the bridge program.

If we can pull this off by Lake Placid there won’t be a dry eye in the house. This will be great since Croc’s are supposed to be good in wet weather.

Mombo


Datebook: Monday, May 5th ~ 2008

This has not been my best week. I am slowly coming to terms with things but the transition is not all that smooth.

Oh, there were minor things. I had to endure Jason Castro attempt to sing two Neil Diamond songs on American Idol. This I imagine was the equivalent of me trying to sing “Get Rich or Die Trying” by 50 Cent. I of course know I can’t sing and would not attempt it but some don’t have my keen insight into these matters. I waited ten long weeks to hear my childhood heart throb be honored on Idol only to have it parodied by dreadlocks.

The weather knocked on my headache door all week and when opened it let in the highest pollen count in decades. I am feeling like a bee with so much dust on me that I could pollinate a rose garden by merely shaking my hair. I am now a Claritin D redi-tab junkie.

I decided to help my mood in this topsy-turvy time by eliminating the use of any past-tense verbiage by the 12th graders I teach. It’s one of the perks of actually being the language police. So we lived in the “literary present” all week.

No one “stopped” anything.

Nothing “ended”.

“How can we keep talking about everything in the present tense—that doesn’t make any sense,” they grumble and whisper with undercurrents of “hormone therapy” and shock treatments. I merely peered at them above my half-rim glasses as I walked down each aisle with a toss of my “English Teacher” issue teal/purple shawl, ignoring their whines and rants. “Let’s get back to the intricacies of Canterbury Tales, shall we.”

Of course the big thing is my daughter. She has this odd sense of humor—I ‘m not really sure where she gets it. She called me on Wednesday and said, excitedly, “Guess who is going to be sleeping in my bed?”

This is not something on which a mother wants to speculate.

I went through the visual manifestations of a Tourette’s victim before I could muster a willowy, “Who”?

She laughed then and told me the Orlando Bloom of the skating world will be using her apartment for the week she is away as he needs a place to stay.

And of course that is the rub.

My daughter is having the time of her life while I am wearing basic black everyday and listening to old country music songs and writing bad poetry on the backs of M & T bank receipts (a new genre I am creating). She just returned from Denver and the Governing Council meeting where she got to hear Michelle Kwan give an articulate and memorable speech, and she got to vote on issues that are “paramount to the future of figure skating”. My daughter is now, or perhaps she has always been, an activist for USFSA.

She returned home for the day to repack her suitcase with five bathing suits, a few sundresses, and shorts to leave tomorrow to go to Cabo for the week. Sun, sand, and relaxation at some fabulous resort where they have pool bars manned by handsome young bartenders named Antonio or Cortez.

I, on the other hand, might get Applebee’s curbside-to-go one night this week. The waitress’s name is Renee and she seems to be about seven months pregnant and although she has looked the same for about a year I still feel compelled to give her a 30 percent tip.

I have heard that mothers are often jealous of their daughters but I never realized until now why.

“How have you been sleeping?” I ask my peppy daughter.

“Great. I sometimes don’t even remember turning off the light and putting my head on the pillow.”

“That’s wonderful.” I smile faintly as I look at her face—is it possible to get rosier cheeks at her age?

“Maybe you should try meditation mom, if you are having trouble sleeping,” she offers serenely.

“Hmpph…meditation is just thinking…I’m pretty sure I’m doing enough of that.”

“Maybe you should listen to music before you fall asleep then. I’ll download some songs for you on my old Ipod—I think you can even get American Idol songs each week and I know you like that.”

I smile. “That would be great, sweetheart.”

And there you have it—life is truly a circular venture.

Mombo