Datebook: Wednesday, August 1st ~ 2007

The town looks like something out of a Harry Potter movie tonight. Instead of Muggles and Wizards however, we have Rugby players and Ice Dancers. Happily, most seem to co-exist easily. Of course Rugby players only have the costume worry of getting grass stains out of their striped shirts.

I am sitting on my balcony nursing a glass of Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon –2003—although the year has no special significance. I might try going for a bottle with a good year for me on the next go-around. Perhaps asking the waiter what he has in 1981 Merlot, as that was a grand year for me as I had front row tickets to see Neil Diamond in concert.

The reason I am drinking a glass and considering the bottle has to do with the wondrous gold waltz dress. It arrived on time, in its little Fed-Ex box and I gasped as I took it from the tissue paper. The fabric appeared to be Elfin made and other-worldly. It was glorious.

I drove the dress to my daughter and carried it, surely like the mice carried Cinderella’s gown, up her 3 flights of stairs where we oohed and ahhed it together

Then she tried it on.

Unlike a fairytale, the dress did not fit.

Unlike a Fairy Godmother, I could do nothing to fix it.

Unlike anything that has ever happened to me, the dress was too big.

It gaped open. By gaped, I don’t mean like how some of my own buttons pull and strain on occasion; where I am sure I might have to staple either side of the hole for reinforcement. By gaped, I mean like how Claire Danes recently revealed way too much cleavage for family television.

Dealing with clothes that are too big is not my forte. I know a bit about slitting a stress point of a seam on the forearm, and I’ve already shared the rubber band trick for the waistband button.

This was way past tape and staples.

A frantic call to the dressmaker offered the slight possibility that it might be altered in time for the approaching waltz competition. But today, our hopes were dashed.

The dress cannot be altered in time.

And now the unthinkable has happened. Not only will my daughter not get to wear her golden threads, but she must wear her waltz dress from two years ago. The waltz dress that she also wore last year.

“Mom, this is the third time I’m wearing this dress at Lake Placid.”

“I know. You are a poster child for thriftiness. You may start a new trend and skating moms from all over will bow down and weep at your feet. Judges will probably comment on how much they have liked this color on you each year.”

“This is like going to the Prom for three years and wearing the same dress—no one does that.”

“Well, I think it’s okay. You have the same escort, so that makes it seem like a special tradition. Just tell people it is your lucky dress.”

“Well,” she sighs, “since you’re taking this so well and you paid all that money and now I’m going to wear it one less time this season, I’ll be okay I guess.”

So here I sit, a woman and her glass. A woman hoping fervently that next year I can order a glass of 2007 Golden Chardonnay without shuddering.

Oh, and please tell my daughter if you see her, that she looks marvelous in her old, old dress.

Mombo