Datebook: June 29, 2009

My mom used to say that things happen in "threes." What she didn't say was that this only occurred with "bad" happenings. There was never the possibility of getting three hot fudge sundaes at one sitting, or three pairs of new shoes, or three "anywhere is the continental U.S. roundtrip airline tickets" for getting bumped. If a flood occurred in the Midwest, and a tornado touched down in the South, she became the oracle of foreboding about what new disaster would strike for the trifecta of doom.

It became so ingrained in my subconscious that I didn't even realize I was marking disasters off as they occurred -- and counting. And now, I have discovered that I have passed this three-fold tally system on to my children.

Earlier in the week Ed McMahon passed away. Although he never came to my door with a super-sized check, and I rarely stayed awake to watch his banter with Johnny Carson, I was drawn in to his candor and charm nevertheless. When the news arrived that he had succumbed to the ravages of age I felt saddened that we had lost another great entertainer.

On Thursday, Farrah Fawcett also lost the battle with cancer. This of course set the wheels in motion -- a single event can go solo, but a duo disaster is the call for the third corner of the triangle. Farrah was a famed Charlie's Angel -- from the old school -- and she set the cosmetology world on blunt cut end with a hairstyle smack down that has only been challenged in the past by Dorothy Hamill and Jennifer Aniston.

I feel a little guilty that I started to anticipate who the next victim would be. This is really because I started to hear that weird whistling sound in my mind from "A Fistful of Dollars" in which Clint Eastwood uses one of his four dramatic acting faces. (I haven't actually watched any of those Bad and Ugly movies in their entirety, but my husband considers Clint to be eligible for sainthood when he does pass to the great western in the sky and is not able to discuss range of acting skills in an unbiased discourse.)

The point is I knew there would be a third. It has been prophesized. What I didn't expect was one, my son to text me and say, "It is so weird that things do come in threes" -- and two that he would continue with "Michael Jackson just died."

I cannot really say why I was shocked. The MJ saga did have all the foreshadowing of some type of bad ending. Yet, most of us over the age of forty would admit (to close friends anyway) that during Michael's career highs we have all tried to moonwalk. Some of us would even fess us to knowing and performing the entire choreography of "Thriller" and "Billie Jean" -- even if it was in the privacy of our own family rooms, (or a dance club that will remain unnamed -- there are many reasons to be relieved that cell phone cameras with video were not prevalent in the '80s).

Some people would even admit to getting a bit misty–eyed when hearing the tender lyrics of "Ben" and hearing the break in a young boy's voice -- all of this dedicated to pledge loyalty and love to a feral rat who came out at night to snitch some Cheetos, perhaps, and was cast in the role of "best friend." Perhaps nothing symbolizes Michael's innocence more than this.

So now I am hoping that there will be a slight twist in the "things in threes" forecast. It will be very progressive if the figure skating community abandons overused and overworked programs like "Carmen" and "Bolero" for some classic MJ classics like "Black and White," "The Way You Make Me Feel," and "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough."

Would it bring the house down to have a Theatre On Ice team create an entire program of "Thriller" and "Billie Jean," moonwalk skating and all?

And of course, there will be three commercial ventures that are guaranteed to be collecting revenues from the early passing of Michael Jackson.

Today at a local Arts and Crafts festival I heard three (times 10) cell ring tones made popular by the youngest member of Jackson Five.

There is probably a Broadway musical being penned at this very moment, possibly using the working title of "ABC."

And, of course, the glove making industry is guaranteed a 100% profit if they market the one glove sales approach.


Mombo

Datebook: June 22, 2009

When I was a young girl there were several occasions when you went shopping to buy a new dress: Christmas, Easter, and the first day of school. Occasionally, there would be a bonus event thrown in, but regardless, the outcome was always the same -- some scratchy, ill-fitting garment that required the layering of slips and tights.

This has changed as much as Radar O'Reilly's first crank up "cell" phone has evolved into the iPhone.

For one thing, girls no longer wear "slips," or petticoats as my grandmother used to hail them.

"Mom, it's the 21st Century!" my daughter proclaims as I hold a 5-inch bit of lace and satin (her size) up for her inspection. "What is the point?"

"It's like a layer of insulation; it's the same thing as men wearing white t-shirts under their street clothes."

"They don't do that anymore either. Unless they want to layer colors."

"Some still do..."

"Yeah, if they're getting AARP brochures in the mail."

I'd like to believe my daughter is a bit skewed by events in her life. She can't possibly view the world as it really is since her "big dress" dress purchase was not for the senior prom, but for her first international Junior Grand Prix event. The coveted high school letter jacket was replaced for her by the yearning and earning of the Team USA jacket.

I could think this, but then I walk into a Victoria's Secret store in the mall. Girls used to buy their underwear in packages of either three or seven. Now they buy single servings in bins that hold "boy shorts," low-rise, low-low rise, thongs, and string thongs. Briefs take on a more literal meaning in this venue. No bin is labeled "Panties."

There are also 836 types of bras. Some with padding, some without, demi-cups, full cups, half cups, cups that make you look one size larger, cups that minimize. There are displays of lingerie and sleepwear.

There is nary a slip to be found.

"We have Spanx," the salesperson answers my query and directs me to a boxed display of what my grandmother would have described as "girdles" in her heyday. The new prototype is flesh colored and seems to work on the same premise as a sausage casing.

What surprises me the most in shopping in this Mecca of underwear is the ratio of males to females. It is a dead heat -- 50-50. The men are not there to make purchases, they are there as fashion consultants. They give a thumbs up to this bra or that, they make the final decision between the boy shorts with the pink dog logo or the low-rises with the "Pink University" imprint.

Most of this would make sense to me if camisoles had not made a comeback ten years ago. Even my grandmother told my great-grandmother, "That's sick" and meant that it would evoke projectile vomiting if forced to wear it, and not the current Lady GaGa "That's the best thing I have ever had come into my line of vision" meaning.

Camisoles now come in every color and girls wear so many of them that their shoulders look like wound Maypoles with all the straps.

"That's different." my daughter tries to explain, "They're more about contrast than necessity. In fact, they are more of an accessory."

She stops me before I can form a line of questioning. "Besides, no one is wearing those anymore."

She is sitting on the bed as I buckle the belt of a new dress I just purchased due to a recent promotion. She is looking not at the shiny surface of my half-inch belt but at my legs sheathed in Hanes "Taupe Tropic" nylons.

She is making a "should I or should I not?" face of indecision.

"What?" I finally cave.

"It's June." She tells me as if I were creating a new Almanac.

"I know." I reply pointing to my short sleeves.

She grimaces.

"No one wears nylons in the summer anymore."

I look down at my legs and then at my toes peeping through the slingbacks.

"My legs are not tan yet -- and these are sandal toes!"

"Right...and those little lines across the tops of your toes are invisible."

I look down at the little worm-like seams across the ends of my toes. I remember the seams that used to run up the backs of my grandmom's legs.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked her as I kick off my shoes and wrangle the pantyhose off my legs.

"I don't think they send out bulletins on this; you just kind of know these things."

You either know these things or not is her implied message.

I slide my shoes back on and stand for her inspection, "Okay, how does this look?"

She closes one eye and looks at me.

"Good," she offers, "but your slip is showing."


Mombo

Datebook: June 15, 2009

The hard thing about being on a diet is that you are "on" it. I mean, this implies you can at some point get "off" a diet. But, in reality, this is not at all like being "on" an escalator or being "on" and airplane. The truth is, this becomes a way of life. If you get off the diet, it has the same outcome as getting off a 737 before it lands -- let's just say, "you plummet."

I have spent my adult life surrounded by people trying to lose weight. Women typically diet, while men "cut back."

In my own house, I am sandwiched by children who are physically active and who make healthy eating choices. My son runs seven miles for fun. I hesitate to drive seven miles without a purpose such as going to the Dairy Queen or the Macy's one -day sale.

My daughter eats organic produce and leans toward the taste buds of a vegetarian. The sight of mayonnaise sends her into a shuddering spasm -- even when paired with a nutritious main course like banana and white bread.

My husband is tall and lean. This is ironic because he eats two helpings of each entree and never gains an ounce. At night he "cuts back" from his usual 3 scoops of ice cream by having a bowl of cereal and one plop of ice cream in the middle. Every night. This is of course while I eat one miniscule 100-calorie bar.

I am attempting to change my eating habits. By this, I mean I am migrating away from finding joy in food. I am attempting to view and use food as a "fuel" source only. This is a hard concept to wrap your mind around for several reasons. The first is that some foods taste better than others. Any combination of chocolate, peanut butter, and cake hits a ten on my food-o-meter. The substitute of sugar free gelatin does not even move the meter. The second reason changing your eating style is difficult is that we are a nation that celebrates by dining out. A birthday, a promotion, an anniversary, are all augmented by the notion that we must go to a sit-down ceremony of savory scents and tastes. We get caught up in the wine sauces, the sprig of greenery of the rim of the plate, the chocolate drizzle on the dessert tray.
It is hard to turn away from the sensory overload to the grim reality of the portion sizes of Lean Cuisine.

Since this choice wasn't a natural process, I have to admit I was l directed by other factors.

My daughter, as always, is a force to be reckoned with. She, as most women, worries about gaining a pound or two. This would push her to burst from a pair of double zero jeans into a mere single digit of nothing. So she will forgo a dollop of whip cream, she will pass on the butter or cream cheese, and she will turn her head from the sight of a croissant or blueberry muffin. Although she rarely comments, when she witnesses my consumption of a slice of cake, or a mound of mousse, the look on her face is as distressed as if she had just witnessed me heat a hit of gravy in a spoon and mainline it into my forearm.

My son is in pursuit of a medical career. In his spare time, he talks about "Body Mass Index" and calipers to access the percentage. He eyes me the same way others salivate over the newest Taco Bell commercial. I sleep sporadically in case he creeps into my room in the night with his instrument of mass deconstruction.

The remaining reasons have to do with my driver's license information and my closet.

We live in an era that is obsessed with identification. We have threats of terrorism and identity theft hovering over our social security and banking information. Our only proof that we are who we say we are is in the cellophane window of our wallets -- our driver's licenses. This is the proof positive. Most women, however, run the risk of being called out of line, being denied access, or being asked for a subsequent form of ID because their weight on their driver's license is not accurate. It is the one thing we don't update. Even my tiny dancer daughter is not the 101 pounds listed from her age sixteen permit. She has now added on a whopping three pounds. I, on the other hand, have added the weight circle of a large bag of dog food -- the ones you struggle to balance when shifting from the cart to the car.

A woman's closet tells her life story. There is the bridesmaid dress in the back that she will never wear again but is still good for laughs. There is the little black dress from fifteen years ago when little black dresses were more about being little, maybe about having cutouts and showing more cleavage. There may even be a pair of lace up jeans and a sweater vest.

But the real story is the range of sizes. There is the actual size, the former size, and the size she wants to be. Typically recent purchases of the last two are only for extremely great sale items.

Eventually a woman has to ask herself the hard questions.

"Do I want to update my driver's license data with the correct information or have some 23-year-old MVA line clerk call me out on it?"

"Do I want to make some room in my closet by eliminating just one size?"

"Do I want to try on bathing suits in front of the tri-fold mirror in Macy's?"

The answer will either tip the scales against Tasty-Kakes and Ben and Jerry's or not.

Then you will be "on" an altered eating plan. And then you sit back and wait for people to notice—and they do!

"That's great mom," says my 104- pound offspring. "Now when are you going to start an exercise program to firm up everything?"

Mombo

Datebook: June 8, 2009

Typically there is some confusion as to when the end of the year actually occurs. There are various reasons for this.

For teachers and administrators in both private and public schools, the end of the year occurs somewhere within the next 8 days. In reality, this is about 46 days after students have mentally shut down. The last few weeks are made even less tolerable by the fact that the economy has impacted the date for which air conditioning may be turned on in these cavernous tombs of wisdom so that "sweating to the Oldies" takes on new meaning as one tries to analyze the syntax of Beowulf with perspiration upon one's brow. Likewise, the cafeteria, always known for their ½ star rating, tends to mix the contents of the freezer into a goulash that has pizza slices, macaroni, and meatballs congealing in a brown stew.

The end of the year for those in accounting is a real mess. Some fiscal years end on June 30th, some on Halloween, for others it falls on December 31, and for the robust--April 15th. This causes havoc for medical and dental plans and those end-of-the-year bonuses we used to hear about in the trenches.

In the sports world, the end of the year translates to be the end of the season. It can be earlier for those who don't make the finals or the playoffs. In ice skating, the end of the season is officially the Worlds competition in March. Skaters immediately begin working on new programs and getting costumes together for the next competitive year that officially starts for the highest level in October. If they are lucky they may be able to squeeze in one vacation week. Apparently this isn't true for those in sports' highest pay brackets. Basketball hoopsters, baseball hitters, football linemen, and golfing duffers all take a bit of time off. By "a bit of time" I mean months. This is obvious because 97% of these players do not live in the town or city for which they play, so they get to go "home."

My daughter trains at a rink, like thousands of other skaters across the country, that does not allow them to ever go home. No red slippers clicks can get them there. It is just the process; there is no down time. Going home is only for a visit.

And so, my daughter is now on starting her 4th year of living on her own. For her college selection, she theoretically drew a circle that extended a five mile radius around her training rink and applied to those institutes of higher learning--not a practice offered by Princeton Review. Her end of the year is when the lease on the current apartment reaches its full term. Unfortunately, there is always a lap-over period. For example, her current 18 month lease expires on October 1. This is not an ideal time as she will be in school and it is in the middle of the competitive season (and while it is true she is not competing this year it is no surprise that she is at the rink just as much as when she did and she still goes to the major events). In her search for a new apartment that meets the requirements she keeps adding to the list (washer and dryer in unit, walk in closet, bathroom with a vanity that holds at least two hair appliances, a mirror not stolen from a carnival funhouse, floors that do not squeak, and mice that have been placed in the rodent relocation program) she has discovered a "fabulous find" with all the aforementioned amenities plus a pool and health spa, but it is only available until August 15th. So, there is a six week double payment overlap in her end of the year.

People have been pointing out that we really shouldn't just be focusing on the end of the year right now. We should be looking to Nostradamus who predicted the end of everything, the end of the world actually, on December 21, 2012. I am a bit skeptical of this hypothesis however. The great "seer" wrote his foretelling in cryptic quatrains that are left to translators versed in the skills of allusion and symbolism. Nostradamus was also by trade a pharmacist which indicates he may have inhaled a few too many fumes from whatever substance he was pounding and grinding at the moment. For anyone who has ever purchased a blank Day Runner planner, by the time you fill out the dates for that one year you are a bit lackadaisical by October so it seems to me that in 1557, Nostradamus could have fallen to sloppy rhyming couplets and dubious allusions as he processed through 500 years of proclamations and predictions. It seems very probable that he merely said, "Winter Solstice 2012...we're done here."

Of course, if true, this is will be a grand irony. Our children will have graduated college debt-free as we have resisted the lure of student loans. Our home and cars will be mortgage and lien free and we will actually be thinking about when and if we can retire.

Well, if we're looking for an upside, we wouldn't have to worry about Christmas bills or the lines for exchanging gifts after the holiday...of course we would lose the security deposit on whatever apartment my daughter is living in at the time.

Mombo

Datebook: June 1, 2009

**Note-not one of my lighter pieces**

As adults, we have the opportunity to make many of the major decisions in life. Sometimes we get to hold the remote control and select a quality show like “NCIS” or the “Mentalist” over repeats of other programs that seem to have some subliminal hypnotic appeal to those under 25---I’m speaking of “Intervention”, “Obsession” and “Next Top Model”. Sometimes we get to pick the red Thunderbird convertible, at least in our dream worlds, instead of the mandatory 8 years of driving a minivan to soccer, baseball, swim meets, or ice rinks.

Sometimes we have to make decisions that we don’t want to make. We balk at the baton hand-off—we don’t drop it, but we fumble and let it spin in the air before we reach out to take what has been passed.

In 1993, at the height of the Power Rangers take-over of the under ten crowd, I took the kids to the Defenders of Animal Rights to acquire a kitten. We are, and were, a “dog” family. At that time we had three Great Danes living in our cloister—although humble, loyal, and gentle, these are not the creatures to hold in ones lap (although they try). Immediately my kids were captivated by a small black and white kitten that rubbed against their legs and sat beguilingly, meowing into their faces.

They named this feline fur ball “Zack” after the same hued Power Ranger.

Since we were a dog family we did not know some of the basic facts needed to be known about cats before owning on--the main one being they are liars. Okay, maybe that is harsh. To be accurate, they are brilliant actors—each capable of a nomination for an Oscar. When we brought our cuddly little bundle of purr-fection home, he took one look at the dogs, one look back at us, and basically said, “You’ve got to be kidding. We’re going to change some things around here.”
The things that changed were basic. Sleeping, eating, and a sense of well-being.

Zack would prowl at night, screaming in some ancient dialect that clearly established his warrior status. If you managed to sleep during some of his nocturnal war declarations, he would call forth his panther forefathers to obtain the speed and weight necessary to run across your prone body and render it mauled and clawed.

It is hard to imagine we initially thought this kitten would be something that rested on our laps as we read by the fire. Instead, we all lived in dread of the moments he would climb on your lap in a reclining pose. He would inevitably bite your leg or hand when he felt either were lumpy, soft, hard, or annoying.

And so he has outlived six dogs—probably taking several months off the short life spans of the our gentle giants. But now he has met his match times two. His first nemesis is Izzy, who as a Fox Terrier has no fear of grouchy, cantankerous old souls.

His second foe is time.

Now, close to seventeen years old, which in human time must be 134, he is deaf, feeble, and a bit unstable on his feet. He wears his pitiful gauntness as only he can—he demands to be fed on the kitchen counter which he must reach by leaping across from the center island. It is a bit like an Evel Knievel leap over the Grand Canyon—you watch in horror as he springs and loses it a bit in the crossing and slides to a bone crunching end against the wall. He walks for ten feet and then lies down on the hard floor (something never heard of in the prior sixteen years) and looks up at you, eyes narrow slits, tail waving slightly, defying you to show sympathy.

And so now the baton is being brought to me—I see it coming around the track. I am the one to make the decision, the one to make the call, the one to make the drive.

It is not one I want to accept—I want to pass it to another team, I want to step out of my lane and let it keep going.

In years gone by, I have walked with this duty to the final moments of my dear canine friends. I have held them as the last heartbeats slowed and then stopped in their chests; I have held them as their lives become only memories in my own heart.

But other races have been run and lost in the time in between.

My own father and step –father have passed from the ravages of the Horrible disease. I have watched them suffer and linger at the threshold for months that dwindle to weeks, and then to days, and finally to hours. And the last minutes are the most painful—to watch, to imagine.

So somehow, even as I reach out my hand to take what is being passed, I wonder at this concept.

“We can’t let him suffer.”

“There is no quality of life left.”

“He would hate to lose his dignity.”

Yes, they did.

Yes, he would.

Datebook: May 25, 2009

There seems to be a plethora of dot com businesses out there that specialize in finding people who are compatible with each other. Sometimes this is a dating service, often it is an employment program, or the new genre of "finding friends."

For those of us who grew up talking on a Princess rotary phone, this seems a bit off the mark. In reality, all of us could come up with three questions that would determine if someone could be a life partner or a BFF. It really is that simple. The difficult part moves in because a, we didn't ask the questions or b, we asked them but decided to overlook their answers.

For example, my first question would be: "do you like animals?" This is a deal breaker, as the response must be "yes." Not a "yes, particularly with A-1 sauce," but a yes followed by some vignette about a childhood or current pooch. People cannot co-exist that do not share the joy of dog ownership be damn the hair and muddy feet on occasion.

My next question would be: "How many chemistry classes did you take in college?" The correct answer here would be "One or less," followed by a long shudder. If they answer "Three" or "Does Bio-Chem. count?" I know there would be communication issues. This is a person who will use logic to the 3rd power and analyze things that should just be enjoyed for the mere spirit or tone. So even if they answered, "Yes" to the first question, they would never hold a birthday party for said pet, or have three different call names for their dog. Their dog would in fact be named after an element found on the periodic table or perhaps an enzyme.

My third question would have to do with ice skating. It would be: "Do you believe ice skating is a sport?" This is tricky. You may have to consider the hesitation factor. Be prepared for follow-up questions.

"Do you mean like in the Olympics?" (Yes, but even if the skater isn't going to the Olympics.)

"Do you mean ladies or men?" (That is a potential curb-kicker as overlap here would carry over in so many areas.)

"Well, maybe in Asia -- they seem to excel in this arena," (Please -- some of you can imagine why this sends me to the snack bar or exit door.)

"Do you mean as in Hockey?" (No, no pucks are involved. No striped referee uniforms. Just your basic crossovers and three-turns into a jump or lift.)

"Do you mean where they wear all those sparkly gee-gads and make-up?" (Yes, it is the equivalent of black marker under the eyes for baseball players and the 97 tattoos on each NFL member.)

These are the questions that should be asked for my particular mission in life. Perhaps others could be added, but the outcome would not change.

In hindsight I should have asked my husband what temperature he likes to keep the thermostat set, or does it really matter which way the paper towels go on the holder, or is it really irreparable if I put my foot on the threshold of the car door. I should have asked, but I did not.

Maybe all of those fables and tales where the genie grants three wishes were wrong; maybe they should have granted three questions.

-Mombo

Datebook: May 18, 2009

After years of fixing ice bags of frozen peas and heating rice packs in the microwave for bumps and bruises for my skater, I have been walking a bit akimbo myself with a bum knee. Instead of surgery, my doctor (who makes Dr. Quinn, medicine woman, seem like a risk-taker) decided I should get physical therapy.

This basically means I enter a therapy room where I observe other patients in whirlpool tubs -- a seemingly relaxing and comforting treatment -- as I strap on weights and proceed to pull the equivalent of a heavy road grader across the room about forty times. I think the logic here is that so many other parts of my body will hurt that I will not be able to focus on my knee. Truthfully, I may in the next Budweiser Super Bowl ad.
And I do this because my doctor also gives me medication that makes my knee feel fabulous -- seriously fabulous. In fact, I can do an off-ice Biellmann with absolutely no pain. So although I knew there would be a downside to my newly discovered flexibility, I initially thought it was just going to be the Iditarod-type therapy I had to endure. But I was wrong.

I developed a rash. It started on my leg and then moved to my arm. And my oh-so-conservative doctor said, "Wonder what that's all about." He then suggested I stop taking my-knee-feels-great medicine until my system "calmed down."

"Maybe it's just my body reacting to the stress and strain of pulling several tons every other day."

"That doesn't sound probable," he answered.

"Really, because I am sweating in places I previously had no idea I had sweat glands in the near vicinity. I think my skin could be rebelling against that."

So I had to relinquish my pills. Then I was limping and breaking out in some mutant form of what looked like poison ivy with a red Mohawk.

And still my rash raged.

A phone call to Dr. No got the advice that I should take some Benadryl. So then I limped around trying not to scratch while also drinking coffee to stay awake.

No change. This time Dr. I Won't Even Wear a White Lab Coat Because It's Too Bright asked, "Have you tried anything new -- new laundry soap, new sheets?"

"No," I responded, "Other than working like a mule on the Erie Canal, nothing has changed."

"That's odd," he concluded.

"Can you prescribe something for it?"

"Well, you might be allergic to it if I did."

"Or," I retorted, "I might not be."

He finally agreed to phone in a "salve" that had to be mixed by the pharmacist. From his expression it must have last been used in Mayberry.

So I think you see a pattern here. Now I am limping, sleepy, scratchy, and gooey.

I weighed my options. I could go to the Express Care office located in the next town and get a shot by a doctor who was not fazed by all the new-fangled advances in medicine, or I could resort to the home health magic that my mother used throughout my entire childhood.

In the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding, the audience is supposed to laugh when the father uses Windex on everything from zits to diaper rash. I didn't get the joke the first few times. This is because my own mother has a similar remedy that she has dosed us with since my first cognitive memory. No, not the sweet smelling window cleaner but full strength Listerine -- and not the citrus or spearmint options either. No, this has to be the original brand that was so strong they had to pack in a brown cardboard wrapper.

And so I bathed with a cotton ball with Listerine, berating myself as I dabbed. In truth, it took two treatments until my rash subsided to a mere pink blush upon the skin.

Two days later my doctor called. "How's the rash?"

"It's gone."

"Just I suspected. It just needed time to run its course. I'll call in another prescription for your anti-inflammatory."

"Oh, that's OK. My knee is feeling much better also."

Of course I'll never know if it was because I stopped my torturous regime or because I dabbed some Listerine on my patella each night.


Mombo