Datebook: December 1, 2008

As we turn to the last page of our calendars for this year, eat the last turkey sandwich made from Thanksgiving leftovers, and read the final results from the last Grand Prix, we are left to ponder the events from the past few weeks.

We have four junior teams going to the Junior Grand Prix Final and two teams going to the senior event being held in Korea. Who would have thought the ice dance bridesmaids would become the main attraction?

It occurred to me that the networks could garner more TV viewers by offering another panel of commentators for nationals. Oh, we could keep Dick, Peggy, and Scott so viewers could have a choice, but, for those who like extreme verbiage, we could offer a scroll line commentary by a selected panel of FSU writers who do the play-by-play in contemporary terms. So, instead of a RoL1 that most people think is a small candy with a caramel nugget filling, we would have the scroll line offering the "street" breakdown of "brief crotch whiff to an outside edge drop."

Viewers would feel more connected when they read the scroll line that says what they were thinking.

"Is she wearing my mother's shower curtain?"

"He looks like a cross between David Navarro and David Cassidy!"

"If looks could burn, he would be vaporized!"

Communication is key in our modern era.

What works in skating also works in the other world. This is why I would like to start a new trend: instead of offering a wish list for the holidays, I proffer that we offer a list of things we do NOT want. For most women I believe this list would include the following:

1. Any type of appliance that can be plugged into an outlet in the kitchen. Be it two or three prong, this falls into what I consider "home maintenance" and is therefore ineligible for a holiday gift.

2. Anything that has a plant that will eventually grow from any portion of its clay-like or ceramic body. Unless you want it Super Glued to the dash of your car, don't put it in my stocking.

3. No motif sweaters. (I don't think I need to explain this.)

4. Nothing that can be purchased while you are waiting in line at the Wa-Wa or a Royal Farm store. This cuts down on the Carpenters' Greatest Christmas Hits CDs, Hess trucks, and energy pill packs.

5. Gloves. I have 400 pair of gloves because my daughter skates, and I have all the discards that she would not wear (although I thought they were cute), plus the 200 single gloves that have lost their partners and are waiting for try-outs with other wooly kinds.

6. Drugstore lotion sets. All women will agree with me -- these are concocted in some aberrant laboratory that seems to have a pipeline from the local landfill. Unless Johnny Depp is the factory owner, walk away from these lethal lanolin locos.

7. Anything from Home Depot. OK, I know there are some fabulous finds in this great superstore, but it has to be outlawed in case you get sidelined by some type of drill, a pink hammer set, or lengths of wood molding. An upgraded riding mower decorated in holly is going to roast more than your chestnuts by the roaring fire.

8. Hickory Farms cheese or sausage logs. These are re-gifted to in-laws or the UPS man.

9. Bedroom slippers. (This is a Ghost of Christmas Past and recalls some conversations on how old you should be to wear Dearfoams without toes. I believe the opinion poll was 84 years of age.)

10. This is your opportunity to write in your least favorite item to open on your holiday morn. You could, for example, add anything that requires a sweeping or mopping motion -- no matter how magical it is advertised as being.


I hope this list can be disseminated to your family members and co-workers. It will help take away some of the stress as we anxiously await the results of the Grand Prix Finals and the approach of January nationals.

If it doesn't work, we can gather in the first month in the Cleveland lobby for an impromptu wine and cheese party using our Hickory Farms cheese and sausage logs.

Mombo

Datebook: November 24, 2008

I think most of you are aware that I have been banned from talking about my daughter in connection to any romantic connections past or present. This has also widened to include my daughter mentioned in any sentence that also includes Charlie White; although in all fairness, I do not think I have ever knowingly written anything that could be misconstrued by either party.

"Are you joking me?" my daughter responds to this defense. "I once could talk to him, but now I hide in case I see him run the other way. I'm sure he thinks I might have inherited the 'Crazy Gene.'"

Of course, this is wrong on so many levels. Charlie White represents the epitome of the model for male figure skaters: he is dedicated, he is intense, he is great at what he does, he possesses a kindness that radiates the arena, and I am told (not necessarily just by my daughter), he is quite attractive -- with piercing blue eyes.

So I cannot be banned from writing about what is essential to figure skating -- a young Paul Newman, if you will.

I risk broaching the subject now because, of course, what happened this weekend at the Cup of Russia.

I need to additionally submit that, although I have the subscription to IceNetwork for the live feed, I choose to read the play-by-play on FSUniverse as the event transpires and then watch the videos. That may seem odd, (even for me) but I love the comments on FSU, and the described action makes me laugh out loud as the suspense of the event builds. They invent names for lifts that might be banned for the under 13-age group, and their list of worst-dressed skaters makes Simon Cowell look like a junior Girl Scout, but I feel like I am actually sitting with these people -- albeit blindfolded -- as they tell me what happens. It feels more interactive than merely watching the 5 x 7 images freeze or skip through their live broadcast program.

So the comments on FSUniverse as Charlie and Meryl skated the OD were typical of what was on the minds of every skating aficionado engrossed in the outcome of the fifth Grand Prix event.

What happened to Charlie? Did someone sabotage his skates? Did someone put a little Russian vodka in his water bottle when he wasn't looking? To be sure, it was uncanny.
First a step out of a twizzle and near fall with a hand down on the ice, then a full fall seconds later, to be followed by another encounter with the ice.

Two and one half falls in nineteen seconds...

Most would have been shattered. As a reading spectator, I was shaken and had an almost out-of-body experience where I was looking down at myself at the computer monitor (I really have to start taking more time parting my hair -- it gets a little wacky toward the back.)

And this is why I risk my daughter's ire. Charlie White did not fall apart. Both he and Meryl continued through the program with as much drive and character as possible.

As they sat in the Kiss and Cry, waiting for what we all knew would be disastrous scores, our hearts broke for them. I envisioned the montage of falls that would replay over and over again in their heads as they perhaps watched their medal chances -- and maybe even a spot at the Grand Prix Final -- disappear.

Still, both waved to the crowd when the bottom fell out and offered a smile of thank you for the audience who had supported them.

And so I write about Charlie White, not as the heartthrob of the female skating world, but as the sportsman that he is. Of course he was questioned afterwards, and in a rare moment we do not often get to see in our overly-competitive world, he answered very simply. He did not place blame anywhere -- the ice was not bad, a flash did not go off to blind him, he wasn't getting over a cold, and he did not step on a lost sequin on the ice.

It just happened. It was one skate in the life of an ice skater. As I have said many times -- a "bad" skate doesn't define who you are as an ice skater.

Well, unless you are Charlie White. A bad skate allowed us to see that he is a humble and classy guy.

Datebook: November 17, 2008

I am going to admit right up front this was a hard week for me. I went out and bought a few more wine bottles with cute little animals on the labels that I always imagine decorating with lights after I have drained the contents.
The reason is simple.

My daughter is not competing this year.

While I have known this for ten months, it did not hit me until I read the Sectional rosters that her name was not on any of them; and to our credit, through the years, we have competed in all three.

So it started as a little bubble of sadness and then erupted into a full fledge case of depression by Wednesday when all planes had landed at the three destinations -- east, mids, and Pacifics. Truly I could have starred in one of those commercials on television where even the dog is looking sad and longingly at his leash hanging on the wall. I didn't have any of the meds from those commercials, so I used M&Ms instead. By Thursday night I was watching all her skating videos on the DVD player like a future divorcee watching her wedding tape over and over.

I discovered a few things while watching these back crossovers down skating memory lane.

My daughter used to really wind up before she launched herself into a waltz jump -- on tape this looks more difficult than a triple Lutz. Of course she was hindered by the fact that her boots were size 7 1/2 when she was 12, and now they are 6 1/2 -- this goes back to that question about "custom" skates and how accurate those Magic Marker tracings really are. Anyway, this poor kid was wearing what looks like the equivalent cement boots, and her hair was in one of those buns covered with a knitted sack. (I think librarians and ballet dancers are the only ones who ever wear them.) I had forgotten that she suffered from my hair impairment, too, when I applied my talent to her tresses.

The second thing I learned is that although I have great intentions, I am only a one glass of wine drinker. I am all about the presentations though. I like the candles, the elegant glass, and the bouquet from the bottle that is open and breathing. I like to look at those kangaroos, spotted owls, and running horses that appear on the labels and feel cultured that I am drinking imported wines from Australia or Baldwin, Maryland; but honesty, one glass is all I can manage. At two glasses, my teeth start to feel thicker, and my funny bone needs Prozac.

The third thing I learned -- and you'll agree the most important -- is that I do not have a video of my daughter wearing her gold dress. How can this be? you might ask. I put in the disc for 2008 Nationals and instead of juniors, my eyes were treated to the novice competitors. I know, I know. I should have checked this out earlier, but who really watches compulsory dances after the last one of the year? I'm not sure I've ever watched her junior CD tapes. But now that I've discovered I can't watch them, I feel it is vital that my eyes feast upon the last Viennese Waltz.

My daughter called me during my discovery of Rhys and Chloe completing their last pattern.

"What's the matter with you? Your voice sounds funny?"

"I'm getting a cold."

"It sounds like you're crying."

"I was just watching a sad movie." My voice breaks in the middle.

"Mom, you promised me you would not watch Disney alone."

I sniff into the receiver. How could I explain to a girl who can sit dry-eyed through "Beaches"? I sip my wine.

"It is actually a documentary -- it follows the life of a mother and daughter."

"And..."

"And there is something wrong with the daughter's feet. They appear super-sized or something. She has them in what looks like full casts."

"Oh. That sounds weird. She'll probably get an operation and everything will be fine."

"I know," a small sob escapes my opened mouth, "but it is really hard on the mother."

"Isn't Ellen on? She can always dance you into happiness. You need to change the channel."

So there are only two possibilities to correct this. Someone will have to send me the correct junior compulsory dance tape from Nationals -- and by now, at the bottom of my glass, I am convinced there are no existing images of my daughter in her gold dress -- or my daughter will have to return to the ice in competition mode.

I am leaning towards the latter. I think one of the sections only had three teams and I recall there is something about a "Fill-In" rule. I don't know what it is (as my teeth are feeling a bit thick right about now) but I'm guessing it a bit like the write-in process when voting for president.

Anyway, I have a few more pre-preliminary tapes to watch and a few more Kleenex boxes to empty before I see the sun shine in on my parade.

And, if anyone has the correct DVD or would like to swap a Hickory Hoedown for a Golden Waltz, let me know.

Mombo

Datebook: November 10, 2008

Dear President-elect Obama:

I know this is a busy time for you, what with everyone giving you advice about what you should do or what you could do. In fact, right about now you must be feeling like you have twenty mothers-in-law camping out at your house with no plans of going home anytime soon.

The world (or at least Entertainment Tonight) has already cast you and your family in the role of the new "American Royalty." You are the 21st century Camelot. You have brought the promise of youth back to the White House with your smartly-dressed wife and young, bright daughters. Outfits worn by Michelle and the girls have sold out at department stores within hours of being spotted by the inquiring minds of the public. Dog breeders everywhere are waiting anxiously to see what breed of dog you select for your household pet while staying on Pennsylvania Ave -- the selected canine will surely start an avalanche of copy-dogs the likes of which we haven't seen since 101 Dalmatians and Paris Hilton's pocketbook Chihuahuas.

So I think you see where I am going with this. This isn't just about what you do regarding issues like the economy, health care, and national security. This is a bit bigger than all of that.

You, President-elect Obama, get to decide what "look" becomes the style; you can probably even surpass Oprah if you start a Barrack Book Club. Which brings us to the focal point of my letter.

We all know of your passion for basketball. Well, at least, your little game of one-on-one before each election. I think it will be interesting to see an outside hoop being used in front of that, well -- what do you have there in Washington? -- twelve-car garage.

But there are some other sports that been hurt in the past few years -- maybe we can link it to the recession -- that could use a little shout out or a little bit of presidential participation. Let's face it: a country that has become hardened to the highs and lows of the stock market naturally gravitates to the more extreme sports like snowboarding and ultimate Frisbee. A country forced to navigate the complexities of co-pays and prescription deductibles is no longer content to passively watch synchronized swimming or ribbon dancing.

Moving from the thriving metropolis of Chicago to the Politi-gate capital of our country is going to be a big adjustment for your family. While you are able to burn off some energy shooting the hoops with some leggy Secret Service agents, your family may find it a bit more difficult to acclimate. With this in mind, I wanted to offer the suggestion of Michelle taking the girls to one of the training facilities near your new residence that specialize in teaching the basics of ice skating. (You can decide which genre later.)

Ice skating has taken a few hits lately. The public viewing audience has fallen like Republican seats in the House. Some have attributed this to the fact that the public doesn't understand the new judging system -- which works a bit like the Electoral College in that respect -- while others think it is just that skating is not a "blood sport" and spectators now need the thrill of anticipating carnage since their 401Ks and retirement plans have seemingly been cast as thug extras in a Steven Segal movie.

If your daughters became figure skaters, you would be bringing civility back to our country. Little girls could once again be concerned with looking like princesses instead of High School Musical seniors. They could wear skating tights instead of thigh highs and garter belts. Musical selections in ice skating (at an early age at least) tend to follow the classic lines of the great composers instead of the bleeped out beats heard on most iPods.

If your daughters became figure skaters, we could return to the times when figure skating was the most watched sport in any Olympics. We could return to a time when the talk of Axels, toe loops, and change of position lifts dominated the dinner table. A time of Kristi, Michelle, and Peter & Naomi.

A return to a time of civility.

Of course, I'm not trying to say that sports are more important that politics -- that would be ludicrous. If that were true, a football player or basketball hoopster would make more money than someone in a high political office.

Anyway, I think the rinks in Fairfax or Laurel would be perfect for Malia and Sasha to learn their Snowplow Sams. If you get back to me soon, I can even connect you with a group of skating moms who have closets full of little skating dresses.

Sincerely,

Mombo

Datebook: November 3, 2008

Tomorrow we take part in the historic event of electing a new President and Vice-President. Whether is it is the red or blue, the donkeys or the elephants, the Dems or the Reps, the ultimate result will be a first for our country -- the first female or the first bi-racial elected official in one of the top two seats of our government.

It was exciting six months ago but like a Dick Button monologue about a slo-mo replay of a pitiful layback spin, it has gone on for too long now for it to still be that interesting. And although I'd like to think I am an optimist, I fear the end result will be pretty much the same in terms of what actually happens -- much as we were promised the new figure skating judging system would eliminate the biases and confusion of the old 6.0 system -- we are in for a rough patch right now.

Maybe I am not the best gauge of the barometer though. Since my daughter competed for ten years, I have not had to watch my 401K rise and then plummet to new lows with the recent fear of a global recession. She was my 401K, my beach house, and my trip to the Pyramids. My portfolio today consists of a large Deer Park water jug where we drop our loose change laying at the bottom of my purse or clinging to the lining of our coat pockets.

And though I am gravely concerned about the plight of our country, I have a few other pressing issues that came to the forefront of my existence this weekend. (In fact, I intend to look up the name of the man who owns Chick-fil-A and write his name in on the ballot on Tuesday -- seriously, he delivers what he promises, and he is closed on Sunday, which means he is more concerned with people and families than making a profit seven days of the week.)

OK, what is really haunting me is my inability to find anyone who knows how to give an honest haircut. By honest, I mean: "here is a picture -- can you make my hair look like that, or is it impossible?"

I know, it sounds simple, but it is an impossible mission.

We have already established that I am not a hair maven. I can wash it, and dry it with the occasional cowlick on the right side. I can put a clip in it. There ends my talent.

I have kept it short to limit the tangle factor. I have kept it curly so no one could tell if it was askew, or not. I have hot-rollered it and I have straight-ironed it (sometimes on the same day if one side gets carried away). I have let it "grow out."

I have colored, I have frosted, I have highlighted, and I have low-lighted, but it is still basically just, well, brown. It is the color of the Mississippi river after a rainstorm. It is the color of the bottom of a Yoo-hoo bottle before you shake it up. Highlights for me really only look like a log floating down the middle of said river.

My daughter told me to let my hair grow, and I did.

She advised me that having short hair makes my face "too round and full." It is always a joy for any parent to realize her child possesses the needed skills of diplomacy.

At no time did she mention the word "fat." She did however reiterate that short hair "is not a good look for you." So I let it grow.

But eventually even Rapunzel had to say, "All right already."

I spent months looking at hair magazines, assessing clerks in stores, considering actresses dead tresses on television. I finally had my top three selections. I eliminated Lisa Rinna's hair immediately as my mouth is not that pouty and large. I was torn between a design in a magazine and the hairstyle of a co-worker. I cleverly compromised by asking my workmate the name of her stylist so I could take the magazine photo there.

I was a bit giddy when I stepped into the new shop. It is always exciting to get a makeover. Armed with my 8 x 10 color hairstyle, I gladly handed it over to her when she asked what "we were doing today."

Gina gazed at my glossy pix hair and fingered the edges of my real hair before proclaiming, "This is perfect for you. You're going to look great!"

I almost started humming "At Last" by Etta James before my neck hit the back of the shampoo bowl.

I suspect hair stylists are much like choreographers. Rarely what they picture in their minds comes to fruition in its entirety. But Gina had my picture and my hair both in hand, so I'm not sure how she could get it wrong. But she did.

My year of letting my hair grow so I could have long layers was wiped out by the technical call of Gina's scissors. When the apron was unsnapped from my shoulders the hair on my head looked as much like the photo as my Fox Terrier looks like Michelle Kwan.

Gina, beaming, asked the inevitable question. "What do you think?"

What do I think?

I think I look like Little Lord Fauntleroy meets The Little Dutch Boy. I think I look like Florence Henderson. I think I look like one of those Barbies you find at a yard sale who has had her cut with rounded scissors by a five-year-old.

What I didn't look like was the woman in the picture -- the woman with shoulder length hair with soft layers that framed her face.

"And you can wear it behind your ear for a different look." Gina continued in what amounted to an adult version of "I've Got Your Nose," as she tucked a clump of my hair behind my ear and then pulled it back as if I would be impressed with this seemingly magical trick.

Two years ago, Jenny Mast sent a hair care package to me through my daughter. It was like a miracle inside of that little velvet pouch -- shampoo and conditioner -- nectar from the judging gods with the beautiful hair. She did not include instructions however and I discovered it was not like Jack and the Beanstalk -- I used it and my hair was shiny and soft and had great bounce for a week. But it also gave more bounce to my cowlick and unruly layers.

I had planned to surprise my daughter with my new do but as I viewed the back of my head with the hand held mirror courtesy of Miss Gina, those plans drifted away like the four inches of brown ends being swept away by the shampoo girl.

Gina waited and I formed the critique in my brain -- how I hated it, how she should warn customers she was dyslexic before cutting (There was a Dutch Boy Paint ad on the opposite side!) how she had crushed my holiday dreams of flipping my hair out of my face over the steamy green bean casserole.

But I was a product of Miss Manners.

I could not say, "I look worse that I did a year ago and my hair is in a bowl cut."

Instead I said, "It's amazing, I don't know how you did it." I paid the bill and gave her a twenty percent tip.

And this is why, no matter who wins the election tomorrow, we should ask our President-elect to address the serious issue of finding the way to an honest haircut. Our problems are really in the basic issues of life.

Life and hair-stylists have foreclosed on my hair.

Mombo

Datebook: October 27, 2008

This week I became a true believer in buying the Kleenex with lotion. When you have a cold, this small comfort is worth the extra coin even in an economy that is sliding towards a flat-line.

The week started with the usual nasal drips, chills, and fever spikes that typically accompany this malady, but I was forced to drag my limpid hair across my forehead, put on clothes with elastic waistbands, and scuttle off to work disregarding the double vision and out of body experiences. Every skating mother who works knows the logic behind this action; sick days cannot be taken for actual illnesses, they must be saved for competitions. And while it is true that my daughter is not competing this year, we seem to be going to the same competitions. And even if we were not, my mind and body are trained this way, like muscles doing double run-throughs of a free dance.

I find myself on Saturday morning high-fiving the tissue filled wastebasket—I made it through the week without using any hours of my coveted sick leave bank. I could linger in my pajamas watching the live-or-not-live video feed from Skate America.

My cold had moved south from my nasal passages into my chest and rendered my voice either "sexy" (as classified by the 81-year-old grandfather of one of my students who left early because of a headache (that is such a lame excuse—the youth of today!)) or "witchy" (as categorized by the remaining students in said class).

So waking on Saturday with my raspy Elvira-ish voice and what sounded like a five-pack Marlboro smoker's cough, I was hoping my watery eyes were misreading what was written on the calendar.

"John's Birthday Party"

John is one.

John is my stepdaughter's son. John makes me a grandmother by the simple fact that my husband, the grandfather, was previously married to John's mother's mother. I think you see my point here. I am not really a grandmother. It is merely a technicality brought on by marriage.

Truly, I am fine with it. When my husband was signing the card, he asked me how I wanted to be named: Granny, Grams, or Nana. I'm not sure what he put. I guess in my haze of NyQuil blending to DayQuil and then back to NyQuil I had forgotten the date of the event.

I had not forgotten the location.

The festivities were to be held at the home of my husband's ex-wife.

I looked in the mirror at my red, watery eyes, at my cracked and swollen nose, at my pale and blotchy skin, at my GI-Jane-does-the-desert hair, and said, "You've got to be kidding."

I sounded like Boris Karloff.

I did a mental dry-cleaner conveyer belt search of my clothing inventory. Nothing seemed to stand out when accessorized with a film of "Vick's VapoRub" coating the chest.

"Maybe I shouldn't go -- I don't want to get the baby sick," I said to my husband.

He looked at me for a moment and weighed his approach before going straight to the jugular of vanity.

"You don't really want her to think you were afraid to come, do you?"

Some people might have considered punching him, but he is a grandfather, after all. And he knows me too well. If I had been in an iron lung, I would have made them wheel me in sporting a tiara, as long as my hair was done, my face was aglow, and that I looked relatively thin.

But a cold hits below the belt. It takes all the vitality out of a person leaving them a scabby shadow of their former self, like they are in the computer sleep cycle netherland.

"You'll look fine when you put on some lipstick," my husband continued with a smile.

I trace my chapped lips with a finger and sigh deeply.

"Just think how lucky you are not to be sitting in a cold ice rink this weekend. You would be miserable."

I looked at our image reflected in the mirror above the buffet: Pop-Pop and Grandmom Robutussin. I considered checking Travelocity for last minute flights to Everett, Washington but unwrapped a Hall's cough drop instead. I sucked in the cool flavor.

"I hope John likes the smell of Menthol."


Mombo

Datebook: October 20, 2008

The "real" Skating Season begins this week.

My daughter has already programmed every DVR in our home and in her apartment to tape all things figure skating for the next three months. This means my husband may be sitting watching an episode of "Corner Gas" (no, this isn't a reality show coming from the local Exxon station on the fluctuating gas prices, but a low, low, budget series from Canada written and directed by the star of the show -- it is listed as a comedy, but from my perspective, a web cam following my cat's multiple sleeping locations in a twenty-four period is more entertaining) and the red light will come on alerting us that on one of the 725 channels we allegedly subscribe to, figure skating is happening and being captured for future viewing.

This causes my husband to get a twitch in his eye.

He turns to me and always says the same thing, "What is she taping now?"

I have the luxury of making up something since he doesn't know one competition from another one.

"I think it is the Grand Masters. The winner's get a silver jacket."

He nods his head and goes back to watching the gas station owner talk to the diner owner (sorry if I've ruined the plot for you).

Occasionally, he will flip channels when the red light is on and pause momentarily if he thinks he recognizes a skater. This usually means if there are two people on the ice at the same time, he assumes they are "Ice Dancers." If they do a death spiral or a triple throw, he will turn to me and say our daughter "does that better." I just raise my eyebrows a bit and let him live on in his oblivious dream world. (To be fair, he has witnessed a few miscues on the ice where it may have looked like a death spiral, but it was really a "oh I'm down, get me back up" type of move).

More often he will comment when we land on an actual ice dance moment of the show, "Oh, we've seen this before. I remember those costumes."

I try to explain that they wear the same costumes all year, so he can't be sure if he has in fact viewed that particular competition.

He gives me the blank look.

"They don't have home costumes and away costumes?"

"No. They are always 'Away'."

I am starting to feel a little Tabasco sauced under the collar -- while true I have kept him in the dark for his own protection, he is a man of normal-to-high intelligence.

He tries again.

"But her costumes are always changing."

I smile tightly.

"No, they are always in a state of evolution. They start out one way and end up much differently by the end of the season, but it is the same costume."

"Oh. I thought you just did that to fool the judges, so they'd think you were having new ones made each time but you were really being thrifty."

I shake my head "no." Thrifty is not a word I am used to hearing when discussing ice skating.

"Really? But last year she started with that blue one, and then you added purple, and then some cords, and then some veils. That wasn't saving money by making a new look for each new event?"

Now I am getting a twitch.

"No. That was because they said we needed to make it more authentic."

"Who said?"

"The coaches said. Well, the coaches said the judges said."

"Oh. It goes pretty quick. I would have thought it would hard to keep all that straight -- where each foot is, how long that foot is there -- and they still have time to consider the costume?"

"It's complicated," I say a bit tightly.

"I guess so." He looks back at the screen and nods at the picture. "So she keeps the same dress all year?"

I look at Tanith and Ben spiraling down the center ice.

"Well, no, not always. Sometimes skaters just go back to the drawing board so to speak in the middle of the year and come up with something new. But then other skaters might borrow the old costumes."

"That is complicated. Tiger Woods would never do that -- and no one would wear his red Nike shirt for the final round of golf. It must keep the judges on their toes -- I guess that's why they need nine of them."

We look back at the picture as the red DVR light comes on again.

Yes, the figure skating season is upon us.


Mombo