Datebook: Monday, July 31st

The packing made me realize that kayak would have come in handy. I could have stuffed quite a few items in that center hole. The weatherman projects a Bermuda High for this area that will bring the temperatures into the 100s and the map takes it all the way to the Canadian border. (I’m not really sure how we have such a problem with border security when the National Weather Bureau can stop the weather at boundary lines). It is hard to imagine 95 to 100 degrees in Lake Placid.

So with departure imminent, I wanted to come clean on another issue (remember the whole karma swirling about).

There is a second reason my husband does not come with me to competitions, or at least, to important ones.

He has trouble recognizing skating as a sport. There should be support groups for this but so far I have not discovered any.

To cope we have developed this pattern, or strategy, where I supply him with cursory information that does not require questions or comments, and if he does feel the need to make a statement, I reply, “That’s an interesting perspective.” This routine usually solves ensuing problems.

Sometimes I have been lulled into believing I can still convert him but this always ends in a Republican/Democrat 2006 type division. He totally believes the skaters are athletes, he just feels their efforts are abused and this is unfortunately due to the fact that he is prejudiced against any sport that does not use a ball, is not timed, or does not have clearly defined rules that spectators can follow.

Example.

Last September he attended a competition at our club. He, seemingly innocently, asked why we had 3 coaches on the boards for our team’s event.

“Because they each have a different skill they bring to the kids” I answered.

“And how much do they charge an hour?”

This is tricky—tell the truth but allow for misinterpretation.

“85.00 an hour”.

“Per coach?”

Cornered, you must always do the right thing.

“Did you bring the camera?” Try to change the subject.

“You’re holding it. Per coach?” My husband can never be distracted about money.

“Yes. But warm-up is only 5 minutes.”

“What can they tell them in 5 minutes they don’t already know?”

I sigh. This is like being in a back-up on the interstate. Do you wait it out or get off at the next exit and weave your way through. Either way will be annoying.

“Well, they can tell them to keep their shoulders up, or their head up, or to go deeper in the knees.”

“And they don’t know that by now?”

“They all get nervous at competitions.”

“Suppose I offer them 255.00 cash not to mess up.”

I give him the look.

“Okay, but they waste a lot of time in five minutes. They skate around, fall or whatever and then go back over to the boards. It would be more cost effective if the coaches would just use a signal system.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, they could hold up one finger to signal “you messed up, do it again’, two fingers could mean, ‘keep your back straight’ three could …”

“Don’t be ridiculous, that wouldn’t work. The coaches also help boost their spirits and…”

“So get some cheerleaders over in the penalty box!”

“That’s an interesting perspective.” I change the subject, “I really love the costumes on the ice, the colors really pop.”

“Hummf” My husband knows these are dangerous water. “So tell me again why there are so many different costumes?”

“Because each team brings their own style to the dance!”

“But, I thought this was a compulsory dance?”

“It is.”

“So they are all doing the same dance? Isn’t there only one correct pattern?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to judge if all the teams wore the same costume, like the same black, no sequins, dress, and guys wore the same black pants and shirt?”

“The judges aren’t influenced by costumes.”

“So they don’t any points for costume?”

“No, but they can get deductions if’s inappropriate or something comes off.”

He is speechless for a moment as I imagine him thinking of the Mets and their matching uniforms. Time for distraction and refocus.

“Would you mind getting me a diet coke, I might want dessert with dinner tonight.”

You just cannot explain the nuances of skating to a bat-and-ball kind of guy.

Safe travels.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Sunday, July 30th

I’m packing slowly.

We cannot leave until Tuesday when our coach figuratively blows the whistle around 10:30 and then we hop in the cars without opening doors to jettison north in a version of Amazing Race 2006. This year, thanks to the costume stop, we are out of the race from the start. I am relieved. Each year teams discover new routes to get there that “shave off” 10 minutes here and 5 minutes there, but ultimately these treks have down sides like waiting for sheep to cross the road or waiting for the next mule to hook up to pull your car up the canal.

The problem with packing early is that you have to allow for travel clothes. Do you want to waste a good outfit in case you see Antonio Banderas/Kevin Costner at the first rest stop on the New York Thruway, or go with comfortable?

Comfortable always wins. Regardless, my clothes will look like a spare coat for a Shar-Pei, and the stains will make people wonder if I work in a day care center. My luck ensures I probably will meet at least Harrison Ford in this condition.

Luck.

I have had many conversations with my daughter about luck.

Going into a competition, we all know that skill and training are steering what happens on the ice. But. None of us can forget that luck, or fate, enters into the picture.

We have our lucky object that we bring to every competition (no I can’t tell you what it is because that brings in that whole karma swirling overheard thing, but, it is an object that is commonly found on a Monopoly board—that isn’t much of a clue really because I just envisioned Boardwalk fries and my daughter could argue it could be anything from Barneys New York, although that is technically on Madison and not Park Ave.)

All skaters have similar objects that are to hale the good luck karma rays. One of my friends, whose daughter GOT OUT OF SKATING (when parents say it, that’s how they say it, all caps, underlined, as if—hang on, someday it will happen. When kids say it, it is “she stopped skating” lower case, lowered voices, with implications that she will need years of treatment and monitoring now that she doesn’t have a life). Anyway, my friend bought her daughter and her partner the “little blue engine that could” and each had them in place at the rail while they skated. The skaters thought this cute at ten but clearly embarrassing at sixteen.
But, you cannot nix a former good luck token. Ever.

You also can’t try to supplant it.

In March, while looking at one of the 3,820 catalogues that arrive daily at my house, I found this adorable little shamrock bowl that came with a packet of four leaf clover seeds. So, I ordered it, imagining growing four leaf clovers, plucking them, pressing them, and distributing them to the five teams at our rink as little mementos of hope for the season.

This became a horticulture nightmare. Finding the right amount of water and the right window for light became a daily ritual of inspection and adjustment. When the tiny seedlings finally popped up my cat discovered the tasty greens and chewed the budding heads off.

So it was late June before I was finally able to survey my crop, my 1/billionth acre of clover. And, I discover, that is what it was. Clover. Just regular 3-headed clover. I kept waiting all month for the 4th head to break loose much like I waited when I was 12 for other things to develop. But nothing changed. They were 3-leaf clover.

Think of the irony of that.

Still, I tried to salvage the message. I harvested my crop. I pressed them. And I presented them to my daughter to keep one and give one to her partner with the message that “You Make Your Own Luck”.

I know.

It could be a Mastercard priceless moment commercial.

My daughter said, “They ripped you off didn’t they?”

I smiled at her like Madonna (not the singer) but it came off more like Barbara Walters thanking Star Jones for her years of service to “The View”.

“The point is,” I tell this 17/18 year old Doubting Thomas, “The obvious luck was in the container. In fact, it was the container. Just like you, you are the container. You hold your own luck.”

I feel wise for a moment and imagine writing and baking fortune cookies for the teams next year.

Then I hear her ask her father, “What does that mean?”

Moral: Don’t forget to pack you original good luck item.

1 more day.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Saturday, July 29th

So, as I mentioned, for safety reasons my husband doesn’t go with me to Placid. Last night, due to my recent comments on the need for spontaneity and his recent viewing of a Dr. Phil/Oprah marathon when the ballgame was rained out, he suggested we go out since I will be “in country” for six days. He was very proud that he refrained from asking “Where do you want to go?” Instead, he suggested a few ideas he had read in the Live section of the paper.

The Ottobar was holding an Interspecies Marriage Ceremony where the club would administer the service and give limousine rides around the block with a sign that reads “Just married to my Pet” or a competing bar was holding a George Thorogood look-alike contest. No cover charge-the winner gets the bar tab.

Since everyone knows that you must eat bland food for several days prior to arriving in Placid, a sort-of body cleansing to allow for the future intake of Nicola’s pasta, Jimmy’s Seafood scallops, The Cottage’s sandwiches, and soup at the Brown Dog—I passed on the Ottobar and company.

Plus, my idea of spontaneity is a Cartier Love bracelet and a gift card for an hour massage and facial (he must have been channel surfing during Oprah’s favorite things)

This is to explain how we ended up at Chick-Fil-A and Sam’s Club.

Chicken, being beige, falls into the bland food group and everyone knows that the waffle fries are half the calories of regular since most of the surface is in fact holes.

I buy several cases of water, Yoohoos, Luna Bars and Tastycake Tandy Cakes (the peanut butter coating is all protein). This oxymoron of shopping is due to the fact that my daughter (sigh) counts calories and fat grams.

I can assure you she wasn’t raised this way, but peer pressure always finds a way to sneak in and take some control. She has witnessed me model the balance of many a meal with a hot fudge sundae and a diet coke. I have dutifully explained to her the Fig Newton law of gravity—if you look at both the calorie content and the fat content you will never recover from the gravity of realizing there is no guilt-free eating.

As a result she is a size 0, which we all know is not even a size—most catalogs start at size 4. I have tried to talk to her about her non-size and tried to give her a real life comparison—like high school Algebra—if you have something and you take 0 times it, you make that thing nothing also. She is potentially a danger to society.

She, of course, just gives me that slight Madonna (the singer!) smile and hands me a Luna bar. I am not a nothing size but the size that corresponds with the age of when most teens start getting mouthy. Think teens starting early!

She, of course, skates 55.00 worth of ice sessions a day, works out in the gym, takes Pilates, has a personal trainer and a personal “stretcher” so her zero looks pretty buff and healthy.
I have old Tae Bo and Jane Fonda VHS videos that I can’t play in the upstairs DVD machine so I am thwarted by technology working against me. Besides, Luna Bars taste like something is missing, and that something is what is typically found in chocolate croissants and centers on the needed ingredient of –well-- flavor.

On the way to the check-out I throw a vat of Swedish Fish in the cart for the drive—everyone knows adding fish to your diet is a healthy option.

2 more days!

Mombo # 9

Datebook: Friday, July 28th

Okay, so here’s the thing.

Lake Placid is not a vacation. I know, I know. I see some of the families arrive with 2.5 children with beach chairs and bikes protruding from the back of the SUV. And I am envious. I am envious that I didn’t think of this illusion before. I have spent the day calling around to try to find a kayak to tote along on my luggage rack—I would prefer a red kayak because this is, of course, the color of power, but I will accept any color except camo green which is just a bit too much Coleman lantern for me. I may have waited a bit too late to act on my epiphany or oversight this year, but mark my words, some type of water apparatus will be in place in 2007. This is the best statement of nonchalance and good will since WalMart started doling out smiley faces, “Oh we always go to the mountains and sometimes there is a little thing at the local rink we attend while we’re there”.

I don’t tell my non-skating friends that Lake Placid is not a vacation, just like I don’t tell them how much it costs, how much time it takes, and how much it all matters. I let them assume I spend the time hiking, swimming and sightseeing. I don’t tell them this of course, because that would be a lie (and a lie might bring down bad karma which might result in a judge sneezing during my child’s level 4 spin and then the video breaking for the play-back and she winds up with a level 1 with deductions), but I do tell them of the thousands of hiking trails, and of the pristine beach outside of my hotel. I do take home little souvenirs of white birch candles, honey, and moose print coasters to distribute, but there is no way the karma gods can call that misleading.

In reality, many parents go alone to the former Olympic village. These are probably the same parents who take different planes during family travel. In case of a crash, one survives to carry on.

This is my premise and my role.

I forage to Placid (multi-attendees drop the little candy-coating “Lake”) and act as the point man. I call back the battle positions and coordinates to the safe house to keep them apprised but out of harm’s way. I often mentally award myself a silver star.

At the competition, solo attendees nod slightly at others in a barely discernable way, much like Harley riders who pass each other on the interstate. We recognize and salute the sacrifice the attending parent has made. When it is over, we return to camp (the “home” camp, not one of those 8 billion dollar camps on the lake where absolutely no one in the family participates in competitive skating) and regroup.

Then we go on vacation. Yes, a survey would reveal that 9 out of 10 skaters and families go vacation August 9 through the 16th, confirming my point that Placid is no more of a vacation than the Tour de France is biking through the wine country.

Placid is not for the timid.

Placid is not for the meek.

Much skill is needed to maneuver the course and maintain your balance—hence the need for the red kayak.

And then we have to think about what it must be like for the skaters!

And now it is 3 days away.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Thursday, July 27th

I consider this “the weekend” since we are leaving in four days and since departure is all that I am thinking about and because our costume designer called and prefaced the opening remarks with “There might be a problem”.

It is times like this you wish you were wearing a heart monitor just to see the surge.

The “problem”—the need for more crystals that have been special ordered from Austria and that are being FedExed to the States pronto but may not arrive until Monday. And then must be glued on and have drying time. Yes, crystals, like those I see lying all over the dressing room floors and lobbies of every competition in the country. Crystals that cost a dollar piece when purchased, but are as worthless as a Beanie Baby when found.

“Would it be a problem to wear something else for this one competition?”

It is hard to answer that question due to the air bubble that has formed in my throat—I suspect this is capsuling a suppressed scream. I pride myself that I sound like Condoleeza Rice when I reply, “No, Madam dressmaker, she has nothing else to wear”, when in reality I actually say, “NO. She can’t wear her Hickory Hoedown dress for a waltz. Oh my God. Can’t she just go with the 800 dollar beading package instead of the 1500 dollar beading package?”

I am searching my purse for my inhaler until I remember my doctor wouldn’t give me one because he used some technicality that you actually needed to step on the ice to qualify for skating induced asthma.

“She needs her costumes to look her best, so she will feel her best, so she will skate her best! If she doesn’t have her costumes she won’t feel the music.” I’m not even immediately aware that I am using parallelism—my 11th grade English teacher would be high-fiving me.

“I know, but she only wore her costumes last year four times, wouldn’t something from last year work, temporarily?”

I inhale sharply.

How do I explain…girls don’t wear prom dresses over and they certainly don’t wear last year’s Freedance costume at the premier of the season-- the red carpet of Lake Placid where we oogle and ahh at costumes and make notes of ideas for next year. Plus, if she only wears it three times instead of four it means (early morning math takes a few minutes longer), yes, each wearing is 689.00.

“I will call around and see if anyone I know has the right crystals, but I might have to pay more for them.”

“That’s okay,” I say, offering what seems to be the carte blanch ending to all skating matters. “Do whatever it takes.”

In my head I imagine all the Jimmy Choos I will never wear, or think of buying. This exposes the class system of skating. Mothers who would never, or rarely, buy a 2500.00 dress for personal use, will buy four or five of these lycra marvels a year for her skater. We can’t wait for it to go on sale, or use coupons. Maybe I should check with my credit card company and see if they have a rewards option for skating.

This of course reminds me that I need to stop by Marshalls to get new underwear for the trip. My daughter’s Victoria Secret order came last week.

Mombo #9

Datebook: Tuesday, July 25th

One week until Lake Placid and the to-do lists are now falling off the counter.

Of course, on the top of each list I should write “don’t be nervous”, but we can’t talk about that. No one is nervous. Everyone is prepared. That is the face we are to put on anyway—but we can’t buy that at the Nordstrom’s cosmetic counter. So it is, Don’t worry about a thing—it isn’t that early in the season and by next week we will have at least five run-throughs completed so, what’s to worry about? Certainly not the costumes--I just hope the beading doesn’t melt off the dresses on the 15 hour drive—we are picking up the costumes on the way—it is supposed to save time. Some might think having the costumes a week or two earlier might be more comforting but I guess picking them up this way with add to the excitement and that sense of newness.

Still, nothing brings that sense of calmness like turning off of I-84 and actually heading toward Lake Placid (after thinking you were almost there at Albany!). Every year I keep telling myself I will go to those little towns and shops we pass en route and have iced tea on the veranda, or I will go hiking to discover some little waterfall with a doe and fawn drinking peacefully in the shimmering sunlight. But, each year I am pulled back to the rink, night after night, to watch endless practice groups, and compulsory dances like some Pavlovian mother who salivates at the opening bars of the Hickory Hoedown or the Starlight Waltz. And we look around, we mothers, because we are there to support each other as much as every skater who puts a blade on the ice. We are there to watch groups we don’t know, because we do know how much went into getting there (and if it is a higher group maybe what the competition will be like next year).

I run through the things to get in my head: tights (18.00 a pair and holes after one wearing!), copies of music, car serviced, hair cut, brow wax, books on tape for the drive, snacks for the car, champagne and tequila (depending on which end of the group they fall nearest to) juice boxes for them either way, lipstick, Kleenex, breath mints. Can I buy some magic charm that really works?

In Walgreens the cashier is a bit freaked out when I ask her what music they are playing throughout the store. It is barely audible which is why she hesitates and says “just some taped music from the eighties, ma’am”. I’m not sure which is more offensive, the “ma’am” or “music from the eighties”, when the song drifting through the deodorant and Gatorade is clearly my daughter’s tango music. It is tango isn’t it? I mean, did anyone check the beats to make sure it is a tango and not just some Bon Jovi knock-off? I leave the store like I have Jamie Summers, six-million dollar woman ear and head home to my lists.

I am not nervous.

Mombo #9