Datebook: Monday, October 29th ~ 2007

Okay, I have to admit it; I do not understand the world of figure skating.

There are times when I think I have “Ice Dementia” because I seem to understand what is happening and the direction we are heading, but then the next day I am in a vortex of confusion again.

I wish I could pinpoint where the slide begins, but I can’t.

For example, I spent several weekends in the summer traveling to one costume designer or another with my daughter. The final products were expensive and glitzy—the mandatory requirement for ice dance, but one of these creations was deemed incorrect and we went back to the drawing board to reconfigure. The problem we were told was the costumes needed to be “more”, they should strive to be “over the top” yet they needed to be “authentic” (for the folk-country of the Original Dance). Our new costumes are actually “less” in the amount of fabric used, they are pushing the pedal hard toward cresting the hill for being over the top, and I now think the reason that Michelle Kwan has been made an international ambassador of sorts, is to repair some of the fallout from how offensive some of our “authentic costumes” might be to the citizens of those selected “folk” countries. In hindsight, we should have picked music from Austria, because that can be the only authentic use of all of those bezillion crystals.

Anyway, I thought watching Skate America would clear it all up for me. Surely the senior level skaters had been taken in hand and given clear direction by the ISU. I don’t know, maybe there was a page break in the memo; they certainly got the “less is more”, and the concept of pushing the envelope toward “the top” but trust me, it is very doubtful there is anything “authentic” going into the arena in St. Paul this January unless lycra and nude netting is now trading as a universal currency.

The second thing I do not understand in figure skating-- and this is across all skating disciplines, is the use of Program Component Scores. I have seen this broached on discussion boards, but I have usually bypassed these topic lines as my doctor has advised me to “eliminate stress” from my life. Oh, the Technical Scores I can grasp and identify with clarity (even if I don’t always agree with the levels or non-levels given out by the technical panel) but the PCS are a bit of a mystery, much like what is really in those cans of Spam I see on the grocery shelf.

PCS scores remind me of when I went to the drugstore as a child and picked a balloon hanging from the ceiling to find-out the price of my hot fudge sundae—the price could be anywhere from one cent to fifty-nine cents (and by the way, even if this does sound ancient, it wasn’t THAT long ago!) .

We have gone to competitions where our skaters have missed elements or fallen in an element (I know, I keep a paper bag tucked in my purse for those occasions) and you know the Technical Scores are going to be lower. But then your friends sitting near you say, “Oh, don’t worry; they have such marvelous edges and lines that their second scores have to be much higher.”

And you wait, breathing into a brown lunch bag hoping the icenetwork camera isn’t focused on you, for those second scores to come up. And when they do, you often need to upgrade to a paper grocery bag.

Because sometimes they are not higher.

Sometimes the second scores are low also, even though they have skated beautifully to the music and their choreography IS stunning, but they aren’t getting the marks that show the 3 minutes and 26 seconds that they were not flat on the ice.

And you ask your friends, “Did they think that fall was part of the Choreography and they didn’t like it, is that why they have 4s—do they think they should have fallen better?”

And not knowing what else to say, your circle says, “Well, I guess they have to take off for the fall because it disrupts from the program.”

“I don’t think they can do that,” I respond. “I think that’s double indemnity, or double dipping, or something double.”

But on a day when ice dementia kicks in, my skaters have skated, or others as the case may be, and they have had a fall, or a trip, or a bobble, and it is just a blip on the screen. If it is a fall, it is a one point deduction and they can, here is the Twilight Zone part, actually put more points between them and their closest competitors.

“Is that really possible?” I ask myself (oh yes, talking to one’s self is clearly a sign of ice dementia).

And so I watched this weekend. During the final group of two, well maybe three of the events, there were some “problems”—you know, the missed-popped-splat trio. I scrutinized the faces of the waiting coaches, skaters, spectators—both fans and those that are “trained”, and I saw the same thing.

All eyes were on the Jumbo-Tron. Shallow breathing. No talking.

All eyes were waiting to see the scores because no one knew.

Whatever numbers came up became “how it is” or “the call”.

Hence, in ice-dementia the Jumbo-tron becomes the Wizard from Oz, or the popped balloon with the price written on a little folded slip of paper from my past.

At least then I got to eat a hot fudge sundae.

Mombo.

Datebook: Monday, October 22nd ~ 2007

I have just completed what in another life amounts to driving a Volkswagen bus to a Grateful Dead concert, or maybe it was more like becoming the 30th pilgrim en route to the shrine of Canterbury Tales fame.

In the planning stages I thought of it as a cleansing of the mind and soul that marks the end of Junior Grand Prixs and before Sectionals begins. You know, those twenty-three days from today until November13th that seem calm and tranquil but in reality are just the eye of the storm.

So my friends, perhaps noticing from previous years that annually my left eye starts twitching, I start practicing for non-existence poetry slams that some suspect masks a mild case of Tourette’s Syndrome, and that I tend to carve pumpkins with skate wearing witches, asked me to go on a journey with them.

Initially, it was a bit of a hard sell because it involved riding in a bus for seven hours, but when it was verified that an ice-rink was not within a hundred miles, I was in. The details were sketchy, but the basic facts were: be on the bus on Friday morning at 3:00 am and be returned to your car on Saturday night at midnight.

It sounded plausible in August.

On Thursday night, I felt like I could have made a better plan by having elective surgery, like having my tonsils or appendix removed. My husband, lord of all remote controls and the alarm clock, set the alarm for 2:00 am.

I am not a great sleeper in any scenario, except when my favorite show is on television. I tend to sleep in anticipation or perhaps resemble one of the watchers on Meercat Manor who is always peering out at the ready. So my night began with waking every fifteen minutes to peek at the clock to compute the frequent fourteen minutes interludes. Unfortunately, my husband has a period of time during his slumber when he rests on his right side. When adding the height differential of his two pillows, his head, the sheet, blanket, and the autumn quilt, this requires what amounts to a one-arm push-up on my part to see over his cocooned form to view the clock on his night stand.

What can I say? One more go-for-the-burn-inch and I would have discovered that the time was really 11:45 and not 1:45, but alas, I was showered and dressed with a two hour window of time to spare, well before my scheduled departure time.

I drove to the Park-N-Ride location, confident that every other car on the road was operated by a driver that would probably blow a .20 on a breathalyzer. There were five other cars in the parking lot and we eyed each other speculatively, trying to ascertain the degree of insanity that placed us all at this location, on this mission.

“Please don’t let anyone be wearing a logo sweatshirt,” I said to myself as I eyed the new motor coach pulled to the side. “Maybe people will think we are activists going on a freedom march, or on a “greening of America” mission.”

My hopes of being incognito were dashed when I turned and saw the brown shapes that approached from out of the darkness. Warm Brown actually, with splints or leather handles. Small Boardwalks, Medium Carry-alls, a retired Gathering with a fruit medley liner.

Baskets were everywhere.

And why not? They were making their way to their birthplace, the motherland, the Mecca: Dresden, Ohio, home to Longaberger Baskets.

And you might ask, how bad is a skating mom life, that you would venture in the early hours of the morn, to a land, far, far away to see the birth of the famed basket? That you would stand in front of a seven-story building shaped like a double handled basket; send that photo to your skating daughter on her cell phone, to have her text back, “Freak”? That you would spend the night at a Comfort Inn in Zanesville, Ohio, home of the renown Zane Grey, and where the smell of oak and mahogany splints lingers in the autumn air? That you would wait in line to have Jerry and Judy Longaberger sign your baskets with almost the same anticipation of Michelle or Kristi?

And I would answer: I needed it. I needed all of it.

The games on the bus, watching “Holiday” on the way home, the diner food, the rest stops, the view of the red-gold leaves in the warm afternoon sun. This, more than any skating year, has been one of joy and triumph, and sadness and loss. The threads of life, and skating life, braid together to form the memory of what we hang onto, of what we use to shape the future.

But sometimes, we really need to let go and do something zany and different.

Sometimes we just need to get on a different bus and just enjoy the ride. I hope you get a chance to do that before the events of Easterns, Mids, and Pacifics unfold.

Just make sure you have a good view of the alarm clock before you start the journey.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, October 15th ~ 2007

With USFSA unleashing the perpetual countdown clock of 100 days until Nationals, we must force ourselves to remember a few other events that fall under that umbrella of time:

Thanksgiving—36 Days—a true Holiday as it is one of three that no one actually has to skate anywhere in the country.

Christmas—70 Days—(Please, I haven’t even started shopping and am considering creating a mix CD of “Programs She has Skated To” with a bonus CD of “Songs that Played in the Arena While I Waited for Her to Skate and Are Now Stuck in My Head,” (Not Sold in Stores!) to be distributed to relatives.) Another Skate-Free day.

New Year’s Eve—76 Days—this is where my husband and I sit on the sofa and watch the revelers in New York party-hearty while we sip hot tea and comment on Dick Clark’s medical progress with all the skill of a trial judge.

New Year’s Day—this is truly bittersweet. It is also a day without skating, but the flip of the calendar reminds of us of so many things. It is a mere fortnight until Nationals. We must fill out Fafsas again for colleges although we receive no benefits—apparently the space for “unusual expenses” is only a source of laughter for the Free Application for Federal Student Aid employees who must yell out whenever they get one from an ice skating household,

“Marty, look at this one…10,000.00 a year in costumes, 8,000.00 a year for ice time…whadda I tell you…it’s cheaper to live in the Midwest…even with the cost of shipping crystals to the middle of the country…those eastern states always round up to the nearest hundred on labor. Geez, what is with these ice dance people?

The other problem with New Year’s Day is that it is the day of resolutions.

We are way past recreational pledges of losing weight and smiling at strangers. We are mainlining mandates of “keeping the same Free Dance”, “no changes to the Original Dance AND Free Dance after Placid” “Getting back to the basics of costumes without beading” and “We are taking a 10-day vacation this summer”. These sound firm and resolute at 6 am as we sit at the table sipping coffee and reading the Book Reviews in the New York Times. “That’s right, this is a different year. Those coaches work for us. We need to start telling them what is what and when is when. And another thing, I think I’m going to sit down with them and tell them they need to get rid of that spin—what is with that—I mean, I pay the bills they have to consider my opinion.”

My husband just looks at me briefly as he folds over the sports sections. It’s true; he has seen this look before. It is the same euphoria that follows eating ten baggies of brownies that I buy from the Girl Scout’s bake sale table at the grocery store. It is the same logos that I have used when attending a sales pitch for a time-share at St. Maartens, Orlando, or Las Vegas. I can get caught up in the moment.

Reality returns the week before Nationals.

It is riding the coattails of nervousness, anxiety, and insomnia. I imagine it is like riding one of those new roller coasters without being belted or clamped in. During Nationals week you are just holding on, keeping your eyes closed, and praying to whatever muse or higher power you can to just survive it.

And like a recovering malaria victim, it takes until Washington’s Birthday in February to recover. By then, you have committed to whatever plan de Jour is in action. Scuba diving lessons to increase lung capacity. Interpretative Japanese Drum Ballroom dancing. Non-Diesel Zamboni Aroma Therapy for Cognitive Awareness.

And the next year begins. In 107 Days.

And of course, the real year begins in 278 days. At Lake Placid.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, October 8th ~ 2007

These are tumultuous times, this ending of the Junior Grand Prix and commencement of the Senior Grand Prix seasons. For me, Thursday starts out by calculating the time difference in Croatia, Vienna, Sofia, Chemnitz, and Sheffield and hitting the refresh button on the ISU site to see if the scores are up.

It’s nerve-wracking.

So I was a bit bamboozled by ISU’s recent attempt at the old Monty Hall-pick-one-of-three curtains trick with the Nebelhorn Trophy last week. The ice-dance teams got to “draw” a compulsory dance to skate and then they competed against each other doing different dances.

That’s right, you could wind up with the Austrian Waltz, the Argentine Tango, or the Yankee Polka.

Oh, I know, it is supposed to work out, and maybe it does. But I can’t help thinking it might be a bit like being told you are going on a blind date with a movie star to Ruth Chris Steak House. When you go to the door you will either greet Danny DeVito, Steven Segal (think the current hefty man version), or Orlando Bloom. While it might be true you are going to have a good meal regardless, one will be much more enjoyable and easier to get through.

The Nebelhorn issue makes it especially difficult because it just goes to show you never know what to expect at one of these events. I mean, really, is it so far out the realm of possibility that they’ll just throw all the skates in the middle of the rink and the order of retrieval will decide the warm-up groups?

My daughter would say I am “just getting silly”, which is something I do when she is preparing to travel for a competition that I cannot attend. I want to make lists for her but she is not inclined to read them. She tries to reassure me early that she is getting ready and doing fine.

“I have my passport in my purse already mom.”

Instead of reassuring me this makes me flustered. “What?’ Why are you carrying it around now, suppose you lose it or someone steals your purse?”

I want to counsel her on the merits of just using the hotel shampoo and conditioner so she doesn’t have to pack her 32 ounce bottle of Panteen Sleek and Shine in her luggage saving room for perhaps an 18th pair of shoes but she is not receptive to this.

“Mom, you can’t wear knock-off shampoo, you don’t know what is in those bottles? Do you know what your hair could look like in a week if you just use any thing?”

She stops herself of course because she knows this is one of my two Achilles Heels.

I am hair challenged and I am not capable of doing anything with a needle regardless of the size or purpose.

“Oh, that reminds me,” my daughter continues, “Jenny Mast sent you a little present from her hair salon.”

I look at the glossy package for a moment as tendrils of hope spring forth, dreams of silken strands shining in the warm autumn glow. My fingers tremble for a moment as I take the hair products. “That’s so kind of her to share her secret….but…how does she know?”

“Mom! Who else has hair like yours? And who else talks like you? You just used alliteration like four times—who does that in real life?”

So you see the problem. She doesn’t think she needs my help for everything.

She did agree to let me rent a phone for her that works internationally. This is just a safety net for me to know that it is there. I, of course, can’t call her to ask if she remembered to get her jacket, backpack, and purse before she gets off the plane—I’ll just have to worry about that. In fact, I probably won’t call her at all. I’ll just have to wait for her to ring me at home where I don’t have any catchy ring-tones like Maroon Five’s “Wake Up Call”, but I’ll answer on the first sound never-the-less.

I just keep telling myself, “It will all be over soon.”

Then we just have to get through sectionals.

Mombo