Datebook: Monday, June 25th ~ 2007

Editor's Note: Due to technical issues, Mombo #9's blog was posted on Tuesday, June 26th instead of it's usual Monday postings. Coming in July, Mombo will increase her blog postings to Mondays & Thursdays.

My daughter and I just returned from our annual pilgrimage to New York City.

The part of me that wishes I had nurtured the love of architecture and the knowledge of the 12 kinds of vegetable squash in my children would love to say that we wandered the streets noting the granite cornices and unique columns of century old buildings. I would love to say we ferried out and saluted our most grand gift from France, the noble Lady of Liberty.

But, alas, we did not.

Instead, we journeyed, seemingly as in Oz, to visit the wizard.

The wizard in this case, is the fabulous Tania Bass.

Let me clarify a bit here-- we have had fabulous costumes designed and crafted in the past by masters in the field. Our crystal count last year alone had me x-rayed, scanned, puffed, and sniffed at every domestic airport through which we traveled. But the yellow brick costume road has never led us to doors as golden as those of Ms. Bass.

In February, my daughter asked if she could have one dress made by the New York magician. I probably paled a bit, but with the new highlights in my hair it probably wasn’t that noticeable. One dress I thought. How expensive can that be?

“I want her to make a waltz dress. I want it to be special” my daughter explained.

“A waltz dress,” I pondered. Good choice, I decided. If she had asked for a Free Dance (rock) or OD (please…I still can’t go there) she would probably get limited wear. A waltz dress will certainly be something she can wear again, like perhaps when she gets married. A waltz dress is all about flow and has a certain cut of the back--all the elements required for a wedding dress.

“That’s a good idea. Maybe you should get white this year.”

“White? I don’t think so. The coaches want me to get a dress that when I step on the ice, all the judges think ‘Wow, she is exquisite, she could be skating senior’”.

“Really…that sounds like an expensive feature; maybe we could just get more beading.”

We took the train into the city and walked to Tania’s 36th Street design studio, tugging Samsonite and Vera Bradley duffle bags.

If I only had the words to describe the salon—it is the Willy Wonka Chocolate World transformed to fashion wonderland. There were millions of beckoning crystals, a thousand bolts of tantalizing fabrics, miles of embellished trims, and costumes and pictures adorning every wall.

It is a magical place where magical things happen.

Ms. Bass looked at my daughter and asked her what color she was thinking of—(I had stopped thinking green the color or cash in my wallet and moved on to blue the color of checks in my wallet).

“I was thinking of gold this year—a beautiful rich gold.”

Tania smiled and looked at my daughter as if she had answered the secret riddle and went behind the counter and from some hidden recess produced a bolt of fabric the color of an iridescent sun as it sets on a Gulf coast. She then draped an inch wide piece of trim across the front and talked of beading patterns that shifted in the arena lights.

After the measurements, Tania sat on a small stool and took out a plain book and in five minutes sketched a dress so exquisite even Leonardo DaVinci would have marveled at its proportional perfection.

Like with any great work of art, before I left, I didn’t even mind writing a deposit check that was slightly more than my mortgage payment. We may have skipped to the hotel on 45th Street because people did move over as if we looked like we were from out of town.

The remainder of the weekend was not at good as meeting the wizard—we did go to a comedy club and were made part of the show in our front row seats, we did go to see “Wicked” but my daughter was more impressed that Eva Longoria and Tony Parker sat in front of us.

“They’re getting married in two weeks! Can you believe they are out on a date like regular people?”

“Umh.” I murmured absently.

“Don’t you just love her white dress? It’s so simple—but stunning on her. I think people look best when they stick to classic, simple lines, don’t you.”

I sat for a moment thinking there were flying monkeys in that scene as well, but I merely took a deep breath and answered her as best as I could.

“You’re probably right, sweetie. Do you think they’ll let me bring a drink from the bar back to my seat after intermission?”

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, June 18th ~ 2007

If my husband and I ever get a divorce, it will not be because of affairs, gambling, or incessant snoring. It will be because I am too hot.

Oh, not in the Paris Hilton iconic catch- phrase type of ‘hot’. ‘Hot’ as in-- my Ban Solid deodorant is failing, I have sweat running down the middle of back, and I am considering cutting my clothes off with scissors type of hot.

It is just barely approaching summer and the debacle of thermostat control has reared its ugly head again.

In the winter, my husband wants the climate set at a “comfortable” 68 degrees. I have found that it is easier to brush your teeth in water that has not started to crystallize but I gave up this argument years ago. I now wear layers of clothing, have flannel sheets, and eat soup with mittens on once we pass the winter solstice. I have even considered putting heated bricks under the covers like Jane Eyre but gave up on this idea once I discovered the fireplace is merely for “show” and actually sucks the heat from the rest of the house rendering the temperature 60 degrees in the uppermost corner bedroom.

The oddity of the situation is that in the summer we should then be able to reside in the same pleasant temperature we established in the winter—68 degrees. Not so. In a twist of conventional logic, the “correct” temperature for summer habitation (per my life partner) is 74 degrees.

This is not comfortable. My husband says that my inner-body thermostat has become mal-adjusted due to my decade of sitting in ice rinks.

This is the temperature that makes those red Christmas candles you left out all year start to melt and sway left in the candelabra. This is the temperature that makes ants pack up and head to an abode that has free utilities included in the rent. This is a temperature that almost sends you to Macy’s to buy a new bathing suit.

My husband swears his thermostat commandeering is founded in the principle of saving the environment. I suspect that it is grounded in the recent 50 percent electric rate hike.

Like any good wife I have offered helpful advice to assist in keeping our utility bills low. For example, he could skip watching golf tournaments every weekend on television, I mean really, every Sunday is the culmination of some Open, or Masters, or Classic, somewhere. He could actually wait until the ten o’clock news and find out the results with view the highlight reel. He could also forego his obsessions with “Family Guy”, and “Scrubs” reruns. With a bit of modification, we could probably have the thermostat down to 73 degrees at no additional cost.

I readily admit that we have become a spoiled nation. We like our comforts. Most of us did not grow up with them. My family did not have central air-conditioning in the house; my parents had a small window unit in their bedroom that they used without guilt to the exclusion of the rest of us, who sat in sweat-pooled puddles on vinyl kitchen clad chairs before the open ice-box door. (This would not happen today. Today parents would install units in children’s bedrooms to the exclusion of themselves, and take second jobs to get them oscillating air flow.) Our cars also did not have air conditioning. My sister and I craved trips in the backseat of the Corvair, risking dragonflies, bees, and discarded cigarette butts, just for that feeling of moving current. As a parent I often start the car five minutes before our departure so the vehicle will be at the right temperature when my kids enter.

It is true, we all get spoiled for our creature comforts and once we have them, we don’t want to give them back or give them up.

I proffer to you that if blood could boil it would probably be at about 100 degrees centigrade.

But I suspect it starts to roll a bit at 74 degrees Fahrenheit.

Life and marriage is about compromise and restructuring goals.

I have turned a blind eye to the luxury lawn tractor that sits in our shed that has halogen headlights (although I don’t recall any midnight grass snipping ever occurring on our lawn), cup holders, and a lumbar comfort seat. I have remained mum when my husband bought new golf irons that allegedly added ten yards to his fairway drives and I have been muted that greens fees are often 20 times the price of a movie admission.

I have compromised by living the life of a lumberjack in the winter and now that the heat index is approaching triple digits I would like to have the opportunity to feel as if I could sit and have a mint julep, so to speak, without the ice melting faster than the glaciers north of Greenland.

I am petitioning for 72 degrees and control of the thermostat during the summer months. Perhaps on my birthday in August I could even have a day at 70 degrees—I like to live right of the cusp of needing a sweater.

Anyway, those are my demands that I will give to the mediator.

Sometimes being “hot” is not all that cool.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, June 11th ~ 2007

Remember back in the winter, when I was a bit in the doldrums and decided to get another dog? Well, remind me what it was like before because I am fast losing that image of a settled life.

Some people, I am told, have affairs during mid-life reckoning, some get powerful sports cars when they previously owed a Buick LaSabre, and some get implants in various or all places.

I, in some odd twist on the concept, got a dog.

I am a dog person by design and choice. This is easy to confirm because most of my coffee mugs have one dog or another painted on them, I own and wear dog dresses, and I have several thousand dollars of dog art accosting my walls. (Most of this was before skating took over of course). I judge dog shows and people come to me with “dog” questions. The problem is, we have always had good dogs, translated to mean calm dogs. We have had Working breeds or as now, Non-sporting breeds. Working breeds are really like Non-sporting breeds—the essence of their day is deciding where they will snooze next, the bed, the new chair, or on a soft cushion.

With my daughter-going-away-to-college-which-really-means-she-will-never-come-home-because-she-is-skating-more-than-she-is-colleging (yes it can be a verb), and my son graduating from high school, and the freshman 15 finding its way to my thighs times 2, I decided I needed a little pick-me-up.

A little puppy pick-me-up. You know, the smell of puppy feet and puppy breath and a little pink tongue.

I know. I could have gone with that convertible. I could have gone with that spa membership or some Pilates and Yoga lessons.

I went with the Fox Terrier.

This is not a breed that I was really familiar with. In fact, you don’t see many of them in the real world. You do see their calmer cousins—the Jack Russells (now officially called Parsons Terriers).

I made some calls in my dog network and was told the same thing.

“Are you crazy? You don’t want to get one of those.”

This, of course, made it more appealing. I needed the distraction. I wanted to be pulled out of empty-nest dreading stupor into the demanding task of Frisbee throwing and Fly-dog.

I was guided to a breeder in California who had two litters at the time. She emailed photos and I was captivated by the liquid brown eyes of the canine infants.

“Wire nine hundred dollars and I’ll ship your little girl this weekend.”

Wire money? Since I don’t have secret bank accounts in the Cayman Islands, this was a new procedure for me. In the past, I have dealt with Credit Cards, Checks, and Money Orders. This is the modern age, I told myself, get used to it.

During the week, pre-money wiring, I talked with the breeder everyday or through email. She offered promises for all kinds of networking and support once the puppy arrived on the litany of new adventures that awaited—ear-gluing, table stacking (for show), grooming.

Once the puppy arrived, and we confirmed she was safe and healthy, we have never heard from the breeder and entourage again.

And I almost understand why.

Had she called the first month I would probably have told her it wasn’t working out. I did in fact need at least four hours of sleep every night and ten fingers, although I feared the lost of two that were constantly falling into the terrier’s mouth when she jumped waist high in her constant battle with trying to keep four feet off the ground. I would have told her it was a bit unsettling to have a 10 pound dog launch itself at you from shadowed corners and stairs, often getting tangled in your hair like those bats that originate in Transylvania. I would have told her that it is not humane to deliver an animal to people that does not EVER sleep, an animal in fact, who seems allergic to sleep.

The “wired money” now also makes sense. If I have charged the purchase I could probably have convinced a Visa customer service representative that I had been mislead, had an act of fraud committed against my person. This was not a dog delivered by American Airlines, but a sonic set of teeth attached to fur.

In desperation I did make one attempt to contact the breeder. After several attempts to leash break my Terror-ier I found it was a task I could not do. Attaching a cord to her collar was like lighting a gasoline soaked rag and trying to hold on to it.

“I just wanted to ask if there was some special lead you use to train the puppies…” I sighed into the answering machine on the other end. Like maybe Wonder Woman’s magic lasso I thought.

No response, no reply. I suspect the breeder has now retired and is living in Hawaii with a team of miniature poodles and a cache of wired money from people all over the country.

My daughter, home for the day, a week ago remarked, “Mom, there’s white hair on the back of the couch, how does she get up there?”

I sighed and looked at the ceiling fan remembering what I had found there the day before. But since this is my folly, I can’t admit just how far it has all gone, “I don’t think they’re Izzy’s hair, babes, I think they’re probably mine.”

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, June 4th ~ 2007

In random order, there are three things I hate about summer:

Trying on bathing suits in front of tri-fold mirrors.

Summer television.

Mosquitoes.

Let’s be honest- we all hate mosquitoes. Those nasty little gnats take the romance out of any full-moon watching or lounging by the pool at midnight. So far the only “cure” is to spray on some deep woods deet that seems to mix with the natural chemicals in the body to produce a smell that is as pungent as ‘wet dog rolling in cow dung’. Or, you can wear one of those little primary colored wristlets that supposedly emit a timed released deterrent—this seems odd to me because the sales associates at Target also wear these on their wrists with their keys attached, but, on the other hand I don’t often see mosquitoes in Target…

I hate summer television. My daughter skates so this is basically “free” entertainment that I take advantage of. Well, after you deduct the 130.00 cable bill that is. I have a varied interest. We have watched all of the Planet Earth segments, and most of the cooking shows. We have revisited the episodes of “Scrubs” and “Monk” on their marathon Sundays. What I hate is waiting until fall to find out why our favorite shows left us with more questions than answers. Why didn’t Yang marry Burke? Did he really pack before the wedding knowing he was going to leave her at the altar? Is Meredith going to mess up her relationship with McDreamy again?

We have to wait until October to find out.

Until then we are left with odd shows I just can’t watch, “So You Think You Can Dance” and “America’s Greatest Talent”. I did watch the pilot for “The Starter Wife” last week and loved it but felt a bit intimidated by the fact that she wore 8 pair of designer sunglasses in a two hour block of time.

I wondered how we could get a figure skating show on television—even for the summer months. I came up with some ideas to pitch to the Fox network.

“The Starter Partner”- dancers are left in the shaved ice crystals as partners move on to new partners with the lure of lucrative sponsorship deals for Nike or federations with four colors in their national flag.

“Lesson Up”—coaches take on new skaters who have not progressed past Basic Skills and teach them all they need to know to compete in their first real competition at the “No-Test” level--emotions and tensions run high in this dramatic series of thrills, chills, and yes, spills.

“Bill Swap”—parents and skaters vie for the opportunity to swap skating bills for the season. Winners will range from the expenses of the elite and famous to the club combos. Excitement will abound as parents open envelopes with coaching fees demanding payment for loss work and expenses and bar tabs at four-star hotels.

The “biggest-winner” will have grand total statements nearing six figures. Anticipation will mount until the last calculator stops adding.

“Parent Trap” follows the adventures of four parents as they sit in the stands daily discussing their lives, skating bills, competitions, costumes, and the snack bar. Guest appearances of real skating parents possible.

I know, any of these might get picked up for the fall line-up also if the Nielson ratings are high enough.

And no, I did not go into detail about bathing suits in three-way mirrors. The only time I have a fashion commonality with my daughter is when we both have on lyra and spandex.

She, however, can go out in public.

Mombo