LP EDITION: July 30, 2008

We are not staying at the Golden Arrow (or whatever name it has this year) as we have done on all of our previous visits. I thought it would be better to stay somewhere that has a bit more ambiance of the region and was close enough if you want to walk, or far enough that you could justify driving and not going green. I also thought we might save a little bit of money since we were stopping at the designer outlets, but alas, I think the total savings is $.84 cents.

It is quite lovely but there are a few things that probably keep it at two stars instead of three. The curtains are those short little numbers that cover the window only and do not grace the floor, and they are uneven. The pictures are not velvet Elvis, but they are not going to need additional insurance riders either.

The real celestial stopper is the bathroom shower curtain. It has blood on it.

I don’t mean as if an episode of the Sopranos was filmed here, but definitely a previous inhabitant had trouble shaving and would have needed a large Band-aid after their slice and dice adventure in the shower.

It is still a bit disconcerting considering the whole “Psycho” movie scene.

Anyway, since my daughter is not competing this year, I though we would have a bit more time to walk around town and take in some of the sights. I am therefore stunned to discover that my first day at the rink was actually longer than any previous year. This is because I now no longer have the excuse to go back to the room so the competitor can rest, change, eat, or sleep.

Tomorrow the day starts for us with the junior free dance groups and then moves into senior free that, combined, I believe add up to a total of 43 hours of viewing pleasure.

This would work for me if there were no Latin numbers.

It isn’t that I dislike Tangos. It is just that we have seen enough of them in the past few years. So now when a team comes out wearing black or red, I get those little prickly bumps on my arm. I’m sure it is just me as everyone has little quirks or pet peeves, like
yellow fingernail polish, or Starbuck’s coffee, or judges who are seemingly doing Sudoku while the skating is going on.

My daughter has just left to go on a three-mile run around the lake. She asked if I wanted to go with her and for a moment I was speechless. This was so considerate and Hallmark-ish that I had a bit of tear in my eye. I declined, however, because I did not want to throw off her pace.

Maybe I’ll walk to rink.

Mombo

LP EDITION: July 29, 2008

This is the first year that we planned a day of shopping in our Lake Placid itinerary. On the recommendation of Liz Smith, New York columnist and shopper extradonaire, we pulled into the Woodbury Commons Outlets (exit 16 off of I-87) at 10:30 a.m. These are a bit different than the typical outlet stores that offer a plethora of last season’s offerings—these are New York City designer shops that offer a smattering of last season’s offerings. Initially we thought we would spend the day wandering into Gucci, Chanel, Longchamp, Ugg, Tory Burch, and 200 other stores. We revised out travel plan when, at 1:30, we had made a few good purchases (Joe’s Jeans $99.00, Longchamp bag $65.00, Dipping Dots $3.50) and bypassed a few others (Chanel suit $4,200.00 from $8,700.00) and found ourselves again heading northbound on the New York Thruway.

My daughter and friend Liza Branella wanted to be let out at the ice rink on the way into town, which shows their passion for watching all things ice dance including Tuesday practices, and their creatively as we had to carry all the bags into the room.

Liza did give us a great quote for the week—one that she reworked from a Tom Hanks baseball movie—and it will serve as our motto for the week: “There is no crying in ice dance.”

And we hope this is true at least through Saturday.

We ventured over to the rink around 7:00 p.m. and caught a bit of the senior and junior practice sessions. Everyone looked relaxed and focused and offered proof of what they have been doing this summer.

My attention was immediately captured by the Hubbells—who looked amazing—but more so by Maddie’s haircut. OK, so I know this is the 8th deadly sin--to covet thy neighbor’s hair--but I couldn’t help it. Well, I wasn’t coveting her haircut for me, but the concept that she had found a stylist that had given her a look that captured her essence. I, in the past, have taken photos from magazines and asked for that look, while the stylist taps her foot and then points to a sign that says “I am not a magician.” I have also gone to stylists and said I want something easy yet chic—something that shouts—“this is me—I am woman, hear me roar.”

I leave with a bowl cut.

Also sporting Level 4 hair was Piper Gilles. Her hair was perfectly crimped and obviously took more time than I allow for hair control for an entire week.

Anyway, we are all here and taking our places.

OK, so let’s practice our mantra, “there is no crying in ice-dance.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, July 28th ~ 2008

Okay, so I have to admit it, the concept of watching 39 junior teams, 18 senior teams, and 33 novice teams is a bit daunting.

Ninety Free Dances?

I don't know if I will then be able to stumble into the juvenile and intermediate events to watch the up and coming talent, even though these are usually my favorite events. In fact, I may listen to talk radio on the drive to Lake Placid just to cleanse my music mind palette.

Today, in over 300 homes across the country, the trek north begins.

So much goes into this moment. Endless practices, costumes constructed, music mixed, choreography completed, and prayers prayed. The summer is really short at this point; most summer training programs started a mere five or six weeks ago. In reality, we all know that none of this is at peak performance level, and we all murmur that it would/will be so much better in another four weeks, but this is the pivot point more or less. When we return from Placid, programs are changed, choreography is adjusted, and costumes get more beading and glitz. Some teams will be heading for a Junior Grand Prix in four weeks, some for the senior Grand Prix in 10 weeks, and the majority will be competing at Sectionals in three months.

As we all know, Lake Placid is the start of bigger things.

This is not an easy event for parents. Oh, I know how hectic and anxious it can be for skaters, but I am here to proffer that it is worse for the parents.

Most of this centers of the “split in the road” so to speak. By this I mean parents, by the nature of the sport, are forced to take one of two paths.

Choice one is that they are actively involved in what happens—they offer selections of music, they offer design suggestions and color considerations for costumes, they put 8,000 miles on their cars in the past five weeks buying tights; going for fittings; getting skates sharpened; going to additional practices; seeing sports psychologists; getting haircuts, highlights and or shaping; going to off-ice conditionists. And then they write checks at the end of each month to pay for it all that total more than the monthly payment for a BMW 335xi, a condo at the beach, an annual vacation budget for an excursion to Maui. It should be noted that although they are allowed to offer ideas and suggestions, there is no guarantee that any will be heeded.

Choice two is that they have no voice in music, costume, or training but they still put 8,000 miles on their cars in the past five weeks buying blade guards, arranging for fittings, running to get skates sharpened at the last minute, finding a stylist close to the rink who will take walk-ins, arranging for visits to sports psychologists, and finding other rinks so the kids can skate on the 4th of July. At the end of the month they write checks to pay for it all that total more than the price of a new refrigerator, or getting new carpet for the family room, or having the dining room painted with a new texture treatment, or the sum total of groceries, the electric bill, and gas at $4.00 a gallon for three cars for the month. Since they have been forced to live in the dark, so it seems, they are usually hardened to the fact that their offspring are currently skating to the Snow White selection of "Heigh-Ho" or wearing costumes that look as if they are going spelunking.

Skating is harder for parents because although the process has slight variables, the cost is the same.

Skating is harder for parents because regardless of which camp you fall in, none of these factors predict the outcome with any degree of accuracy.

Lake Placid is the common ground in which we all meet, as after this we are divided by regions and sections and go, symbolically and figuratively, to our respected corners.

As we gather in the hallways outside the 1980 rink, or sit to watch or quasi-watch the competitions, the parents nod their heads in respect to one another. The old-timers, those who have made the transitions from juvenile up to junior and senior ranks, have that world-weary expression that is haunted by eyes that are perhaps a little to wide; they have been through the trenches after all—they have been there when the tapes were only for minute programs, they have been there for the haunting replays of the Hickory Hoedown, and the seemingly 22 seconds of the Killian. They have been there for all the Austrian crystals, at $1.45 a piece, and watched them pop and spring at a hundred-dollar loss per competition. The newbies are still bright-eyed and excited, perhaps from watching "The Cutting Edge" the night before where one skate is assisted by malfunctioning lederhosen and the team is then vaulted to the Olympics.

So before the National Anthem is played for the athletes at the start of the competition, maybe we should hold a moment of silence for the parents—just in tribute for all they do to make it all happen.

And because it will be the last they have until the end of Nationals in January.

Mombo

Datebook : July 21, 2008

We are into the “Dog Days of Summer” although recently I am not sure if this should not read “Daze.”

The highlight of each day seems to center on if I should have Honey-Nut Cheerios or settle for the more sensible plain, whole-grain variety.


My son, home for the summer from his freshman year at college, announced last week that he wanted to spend an afternoon with me for some “quality time.” I packed a travel package of Kleenex for our outing and my new Coolpix camera anticipating in-depth conversations and photo-ops at the city museum. “Quality time” to an 18-year-old turns out to be a stop at the local running-shoe store for new Asics ($132.00), a haul from Office Depot for second year school supplies ($84.00), and a jaunt through the aisles of Target ($76.00). We had more of a Saturday Night Live spoof for a MasterCard commercial than soul searching discovery. It was, however, time with my son who will now deny that he ever skated, let alone had the leading role in the ice version of “Peter and the Wolf”—an off-Broadway production to say the least.

As usual, the high drama in my daily existence is anchored to my daughter and all things skating.

My aforementioned promise to my daughter to complete a novel this summer has been productive. It is a work of fiction but, of course, some truth may have layered itself into the plot and characterizations.

“Mom, you Cannot Use these names!” my daughter editorializes from the bottom of page three.

“They are just ‘working names,’" I explained. “It helps me keep things in order. ‘Brock’ was actually a name from a popular soap opera. I think he was a bit of a cad for at least one season but may have redeemed himself. I’m not sure. I stopped watching.”

“Don’t you think it is a bit drastic to have the murder plot center around the three positions for the Olympic team? Is that going to be believable?”

“Sweetheart, it will be so believable. You were too young to remember the mother of girl who was trying out for cheerleader; she killed the mom of a team member hoping the daughter would be so distraught it would open a position on the squad. In real life things are not so tight. In fiction anyone with any sense would have realized that would not work.”

My daughter looks at me with a slight elevation of her eyebrows. (As she advances toward the end of her teen years this seems to be a more fashionable conveyance of annoyance or vexation than the previously moderated eye roll.) She has added more capitalization to her speech patterns however.

I try to placate her.

“I toyed with centering the plot around a costume ordered from Russia that had real diamonds smuggled in instead of the ever-glued Austrian crystals, but that seemed so, I don’t know, trite and expected.”

“Ummh…well, you aren’t using any character names that might cause me Embarrassment, are you? You don’t have any minor characters with extraordinary skating abilities covertly named ‘Chuck Black’ or ‘pixie’ girls with oxymoron names?”

“Sweetheart, this is a work of fiction. Of course there will be some truth to it—the training schedules, the friendships, the moms sitting in the stands. The actual sport itself will be clarified and researched. Some things have to be changed of course—I cannot divulge the price of skating costumes or the hourly rate of skating coaches—to do so might launch a horrific fluff piece regarding Lycra and spandex before the Cleveland Nationals and commence an IRS investigation into unreported income, or at least padded expense accounts.”

She sighs and closes the manuscript.

“I think I will wait for this to come out in hard cover. When do you think this will be published?”

“Well, I’m thinking they might wait until right before the 2010 Vancouver Games. It can be part of the pre-hyped press. Maybe it will even get a bit of play like the Harry Potter series, or the new Twilight books. Oh, not in sales of course, but that the book stores will open at midnight and fans can come dressed in skating costumes.”

“That is an image I want to erase my mind. There should be a weight restriction on Lycra.”

“Well, it isn’t that far-fetched. Remember you went to see Blades of Glory a few years ago with about twenty of your fellow skaters, and you were all decked out in glissenette, rhinestones, and beads.”

“Yes, well, that was a bit different AND several years ago. I think we’ve all grown a bit since then.”

“Of course you have dear, and I would never reveal secrets like that in my novel. No one would believe it anyway.”

Mombo

Datebook: July 14, 2008

So for the second time in the last two years, Miss U.S.A. has tripped and fallen at the Miss Universe pageant. I mention this because Matt Lauer informed me of this monumental fact this morning on the Today show.

My heart goes out to Crystal Stewart’s mother.

The parent of any skater understands the significance of this blip.

We live in fear of “the fall.”

We become superstitious about it. We bring our “lucky” bits of personal flotsam to ward off slipped edges and caught toe-picks. We learn to hold our breath and increase our lung capacity as the program length moves from two to seemingly 84 minutes.

During the last few competitions, I have watched the parents in the audience and am amazed at the varied degrees of watchability.

Some parents sit calmly, a few even sip coffee during the twizzles. Some sit on the edge of their seats with clenched hands, seeming to go through each jump and spin with their team. Some secretly gulp a few swallows from silver flasks.

I am a little suspect of the parents who can watch calmly with a sweet smile of their face. These are the same people who say things like, “Oh, I don’t mind what birthday is approaching, I’ll be just as happy at 70 as I am at 30.” And “no, you eat the last piece of cheesecake” or “you go ahead with your full grocery cart; I have plenty of time.”

I am suspect because I have also sat like that, but it was with the aid of whatever tranquilizer one of my friends brought to the rink. Seriously, I who in real life hesitates to take even a Tylenol, open my mouth for whatever my RX-savvy friends choose to pop in.



Oh, it wasn’t always like that. I used to feel a bit stronger than the parents who had to wait in the lobby or on the outer concourse of the arena. But, I secretly envied them and as my daughter got in the opening pose I longed to make a run for it myself. I devised ways to watch by not watching. I would cheer and clap for them as they entered the ice and then when their music started, I would close my eyes. I would then listen to the music and play in my head what they should be doing—and trust me—they had all level fours in my version—while asking my friend and partner’s mom repeatedly, “How is it, How is it?” (She is in banking and therefore steady as a rock—she typically can run a spreadsheet at the end of each program and know the variables to compare to previous performances.) I would open my eyes during parts of the program--inching out to the edge of the cliff so to speak (well, squinting just a little)--allowing my eyelashes to shield any potential for disaster.

This descent from pseudo-watching to being tranquilized did not occur naturally. No, it happened after I witnessed a 2-fall event. That’s right---I have heard the gasps two times in the same program and opened my tangled eyelashes to a double splat-fest.

The lowered scores aren’t the worse part of the falls. The worse part is coming up with what to say to your offspring when they finally make their way to the stands.

Nothing works of course. (You can discard these as tried but not successful: “That didn’t go as planned;” “I wish you could skate that again;” “Well, except for about eight seconds, that was a great program!”)

The side effect, of course, is that once there is a fall, you as a parent fear the reoccurrence.

This morning, Matt Lauer confirmed that fear. I didn’t watch the Miss Universe pageant (although it is a great event to get costume ideas!) but now I know the fallee’s name and propensity of the U.S.A. candidate to fall on the steps. Matt called Crystal this morning and asked her what happened and she was forced to come up with an answer.

But sometimes there just isn’t an answer. It just happens and we’ve seen it chip away at dreams big and small.

So, as the skating season nears (two weeks and counting!) I might recommend the Jimmy Buffet/Alan Jackson approach to watching—It’s Five O’clock Somewhere!

Maybe Ann could sell decorated flasks at Lake Placid (to adults of course).

Mombo

Datebook: July 7, 2008

In these few weeks prior to Lake Placid, we are captivated each night for two hours of prime time coverage by the summer Olympic trials and awake each morning to guttural grunts from the grass courts of Wimbledon.

It is amazing.

First of all, I am shocked at the technology that has raised the bar, so to speak, with these athletes. Seemingly, for swimmers, this new “onesy” swimsuit is shaving seconds off of world records. Don’t get me wrong, the great ones are still great—in fact they are now seconds “greater”—so, it makes you wonder how much time and effort goes into developing new ideas for athletic wear. Speedo and Nike are certainly leading the race in innovative results-based products. They have second skin swim suits, golf clubs with whatever metal du jour is hot right now, shoes that have allow one to jump higher, land softer, and run faster.

Why then, has there been no advancement in skating product lines?

In a sport that roughly captures several hundred thousand participants (recreational and competitive) in our country alone, we are still living in the dark ages metaphorically speaking.

When my daughter was nine she moved into the much-feared category of “custom skates.” Before this, I had heard this mythical process whispered around the rink as a journey that equated to the sixth level of Hell. Let’s be honest, ordering “stock” skates involved a process that can only be compared to selecting the local Motor Vehicle Administration as the destination for your next weekend getaway in that it is long, it is boring, and it is never worth the wait. When our coach uttered the words, “I think she’s going to need to get customs,” we all paled even a bit more than our normal five-hour-inside-sunless-ice-rink pallor.

We made the appointment. This was a bit like getting an audience with the Pope—or getting an appointment with a dermatologist in the summer. We were given a window of time for the next month that had an “r” in it, and at an hour that is typically used as the pivot point of horror films.

My daughter was given a stock boot that was roughly her size—6 ½. She put it on. The “pro fitter” asked a pro-guru-type question that translated to “How does that feel?” My daughter would clump around the room in this cement type boot and announce: “Good.”

The fitting genius would then have her sit on a chair and remove the boot. He would then bring out the tools of his trade: a magic marker and a sheet of paper. He then traced the outline of her foot with the accuracy of a blind 4-year-old.

He then brought in his prior knowledge and developed area of expertise. He had her stand up and he reviewed the foot corpse outline, making the marker lines a little bit darker in some areas.

The foot schematics were then shipped to the boot-maker and in a mere seven months the new boots arrived in a box oddly marked “6 ½.” We had a 50/50 average at that point if the boots actually fit and had toes pointing vaguely in the right general directions. Half of the time the boots “worked,” meaning they might have to have the ankles punched out (remember the custom measurements only took in the bottom of the foot!) or sent back for adjustments. Of course by the time you picked up the new boots you had to order a new pair for the following year.

The point is Nike and Speedo have not picked up on this goldmine of opportunity to develop a skating boot that actually fits AND promotes enhanced performance ability to the athlete. We are stalled at the Crayola stage of development in a world that has pushed past titanium and hybrid Fastskin and Flexskin material to create super athletes.

We need a cross-trainer skating boot that promotes edges and fast spins, we need a blade that both grips the ice during lifts yet allows the flexibility for great stoking and Ina Bauers.

We need compulsory dance material similar to the Racing Flexskin/Fastskins that offers the ability to stay on time and yet have memory to follow previous patterns.

I am sending a query letter to both Speedo (hoping they can launch a new line hyped as “Skateo”) and Nike (Just Do It Again!) asking their assistance in these matters.

I expect they will send representatives to Lake Placid. Hopefully Ann will give them a Goodie Bag and have nametags available.

In the meantime we must stand firm in our mission.

Just say “No” to not-so-magic markers.

Mombo