Gored by the Truth

Al and Tipper Gore's wedding day, May 19, 1970, at the Washington National Cathedral, courtesy

Al and Tipper Gore’s wedding day, May 19, 1970, at the Washington National Cathedral, courtesy Wikipedia.

“Marriage has no guarantees. If that’s what you’re looking for, go live with a car battery.”

— Erma Bombeck

I was shocked and sad when I heard about the toppling of Tipper and Al Gore‘s marriage. Talk about an inconvenient truth.

With all of the fawning and fanning and cyber-ink devoted to Barack and Michelle Obama’s wedded bliss, I thought crowning them the king and queen of Washington couples so early in their residency was a bit premature. Al and Tipper, on the other hand, seemed to have gone the distance and come out smiling and holding hands. They had even bought a sunny, retirement estate in Montecito, for gosh sakes.

What could possibly have gone wrong?

After so many years in the political hot seat of D.C., I thought they’d be sailing into the Santa Barbara sunset for their golden years. Getting over the painful loss to George Bush, the Gores seemed to be on a roll. Al won a Nobel Peace Prize and an Oscar in 2007, and seemed to be well on his way toward distancing himself from his formerly wooden political punch line persona. And Tipper always seemed to be smiling by his side, happy with the role of helpmate.

Of course the news of the Gore’s separation brought back memories of their famous kiss at the 2000 Democratic Convention. Sure, some found it a bit painful to watch, but don’t forget, back in those days it seemed like the sight of a happy political couple was an oxymoron.

Even now, despite the Obamas’ seemingly solid partnership, there aren’t many examples of long-married-happily-married couples in what one astute Washington Post reader called our “national neighborhood,” so any tension in the ranks can make other married couples feel a little nervous. Instead of that momentary feeling of, “Wow, if they’re still happily married, there must be some hope for the rest of us,” like we did after the convention, Al and Tipper’s breakup feels like, “Huh, if these two people can’t make a go of it, what hope do the rest of us have?”

Not that my faith in marriage or your faith in marriage or anyone else’s faith in marriage-except possibly the Gores’ daughter Karenna who announced she was splitting from her husband of 13 years just a week after her parents announced their separation after 40 years of marriage-should have anything to do with anyone else’s wedded bliss. But still, “it’s more threatening to us if we see a couple we thought were happy just drift apart,” as sociologist Andrew Cherlin told the Post. “If even well-behaved people get divorced after 40 years, then some of us will worry about what our own marriages will be like later in life.”

Thankfully, I have yet to experience one of those, “If those two can split up then is the earth still round and will the sun still rise?” uncouplings among my close circle of friends. Still, I’ve experienced enough vicarious break-ups to know one inconvenient truth-you can never really know or understand what’s really going on in another person’s relationship.

Email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com with your vote on which Gore should get the Santa Barbara mansion if they divorce. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 11, 2010.

Laundry Lessons

tongdang freedigitalphotos.net

tongdang freedigitalphotos.net

My friend Erin turns 40 today. She doesn’t want any presents; she just wants me to tell her the meaning of life.

That’s all. The meaning of life. Just a simple, little gift. I don’t think she’ll accept “no,” “42,” or even “swordfish” as an answer.

Doesn’t she know that I don’t really know what the meaning of life is? I’m not THAT much older than she is. Though I do know from personal experience that you can’t find the meaning of life in any store. Not even the shoe department at Nordstrom.

It’s not in a glass of wine or a tree or a yoga pose. And contrary to what some people say, I never learned about the meaning of life in kindergarten.

But I do know one thing I can share with her: You can learn a lot about life by doing laundry.

On the surface it may seem like a never-ending, redundant chore-whites, brights, darks, lights, towels, sheets, rinse and repeat. Again, five, six, seven, eight, whites, brights, darks, lights, towels, sheets, rinse and repeat. You can never catch up with the laundry. The moment that you match that last clean pair of socks, another soiled and sweaty duo shows up in the basket to take their place.

You’re never done. There’s always another day and another pair of dirty socks.

Of course anyone who does a lot of laundry knows that there’s really no such thing as being able to make all the socks match up in perfect pairs. Sure they start out that way when they’re new and fresh from the factory. Those socks are unscarred and optimistic because they’re too young and naïve to know any better. They walk down the aisles of Target in perfect harmony, believing that plastic staples and a shared manufacturer will bind them blissfully together forever.

Little do they know that once they hit that laundry basket life is full of surprises. The lucky pairs will stay in the same cycles, dancing around separately by day—while one rendezvous with a favorite t-shirt, the other attaches itself to a sweet smelling sheet—only to reunite in a cozy drawer for the night.

It doesn’t matter how many clothes you have or how often you wash them, every load of laundry is familiar, but if you look carefully enough you’ll always find surprises. Some weeks are full of grays and some are full of color. Some clothes, like some people, thrive in hot water, while others prefer it to be chilly. And try though you may to keep your dainty delicates away from the dryer, sometimes they attach themselves to a muddy pair of khakis or a stinky sweatshirt with an old college logo and they’re never quite the same after that.

An errant burr might worm its way into your sole leaving a scar on your heel that only you can see but you feel it every time you take a step. Buttons fall off and disappear into the ether. An errant purple crayon makes its way out of a classroom to permanently mark its territory on your favorite pink tank top. Things don’t always come out the way you think they will in the wash. That’s why they invented tie-dye.

The rinse cycle is good for cleaning off the grime, but sometimes you have to repeat—rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. And there are some things that never come completely clean no matter how many soaks you give them and some that are always a little rumpled some matter how carefully you iron them.

Another thing you’ll come to realize after doing lots and lots of laundry is that not everything grooves to the same timetable. Those thick, thirsty Egyptian cotton towels turn out to be high maintenance, but worth the extra minutes in the dryer, while that Irish linen blouse demands more TLC than you have the patience for. So what if it was $59.99 (on sale!). Do enough laundry and you’ll learn that some things are just not worth the aggravation.

Sometimes the laundry can enrich you in more than just wisdom. I once made $2.87 in change and immediately went and bought myself a Slurpee. It was the coldest, sweetest, brain-freezing Slurpee in that summer full of Slurpees in a life full of Slurpees. I closed my eyes and wanted to savor every slurp of that special Slurpee. I opened my eyes and saw that I spilled some on my shirt.

And once again it’s back to the laundry. You toss and you tumble and try to sort through things and you clean them and they get messed up and you clean them again and again.

Whites, brights, darks, lights, towels, sheets, rinse and repeat. You’re never done. There’s always another day and another pair of dirty socks.

And another chance to clean them.

Share your laundry lessons with Leslie at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 16, 2010.

 

Relationship Research

Photo  by stockimages, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by stockimages, freedigitalphotos.net

I’ve tried to get my husband into therapy for years – and failed miserably. Why is it that those who are most in need of psychological help are the least able to see it?

Anyway, when I saw an advertisement asking for married couples to participate in a UCSB study on close relationships, I jumped at the chance to get my husband on the couch, even if it was only under the guidance of some 19-year-old psychology students. Not only would Zak finally have the opportunity for some long overdue self-reflection (contemplating one’s navel doesn’t count), but also there was 60 bucks in it for us if we attended two sessions.

Talk about a win-win. They even promised us free parking and snacks.

It was surprisingly easy to talk Zak into going. He was actually excited. On our drive out to UCSB he said, “When they ask about our occupations, do we fight crime or do crime?”

“Honey, I think you should just tell the truth and get as much out of the session as you can,” I said.

“Right. We fight crime,” he said.

Yeah, sure. Whatever gets you onto that couch, dear.

After a brief introduction by a spectacled graduate student in a white lab coat who was, I swear, no more than 14 years old, Zak and I were put into two separate rooms to do some tests.

The first exercise was a series of questions about our relationships. We had to weigh our answers on a scale of one (where you strongly disagreed with the statement) to seven (where you strongly agreed with the statement) or a scale of one (I’m not at all like my mother, how dare you) to nine (I’m exactly like my mother, so deal with it) and so on.

I immediately became utterly and thoroughly confused.

I contemplated using my cell phone to call Zak in the room next door to help me with the test. Would wanting to work together show that we had a healthy relationship or that I was being a complete neurotic idiot? I reminded myself that there couldn’t possibly be any “wrong” answers, and tried to answer the questions the way a healthy person would, giving myself props for refraining from calling Zak as I opened my veins and sweated out answers.

A sample question: “How much time do you spend thinking about your relationship with your spouse?” Does wishing he looked like Brad Pitt count?

Or how about this one, “In my conversations with others, I don’t like to talk about things that don’t interest me.” Who likes to talk about things that don’t interest them? I find boredom extremely exciting, but only if I get to use the time to fantasize about Brad Pitt.

So far this study wasn’t really doing much to bring me closer to my husband, although we did go out to lunch with our stipend.

For our final session, they flipped a coin to decide which spouse would do which activity. Zak got to do a puzzle (something that’s incredibly fun and easy for him) while I had to give a speech (something that’s exceptionally painful and stressful for me).

Hmmm … I wondered just how random that little coin toss was as I contemplated my speech instructions, to fill five minutes, as though I were on an interview for my ideal job. While I can fill thousands of column inches writing about myself, actually talking about myself for five minutes felt like an eternity. Luckily Zak stepped in with some questions, coaxing me into describing how working no more than 25 hours a week would benefit my future employer (I’d be in such a good mood if I could sleep in till 9 every morning!) and why the loan of a company car (preferably a convertible) would help reduce my stress and therefore enhance my creativity.

The researchers found our silly banter to be symptomatic of a healthy relationship. Who knew? We later found out that we had been observed by the psych team the whole time. Thank goodness we didn’t turn the waiting room into a “What’s the craziest place you’ve ever made whoopee?” response, as my husband had suggested earlier.

They explained that the study was designed to help understand how spouses help each other cope with stressful life events and how that relates to marital satisfaction.

I didn’t have the heart to tell our grad student (who actually was 24, even if she looked 12) that the tests weren’t really that stressful, especially when she seemed so pleased with our performance. When Zak and I reviewed our answers we found that despite our contention that his father and my mother would make a terrible couple, we were actually more alike that we thought.

If he’s more like me than I thought, maybe he doesn’t really need therapy after all.

I told Zak, column comedy opportunity aside, participating in the study actually left me feeling pretty good about our relationship.

“That’s good,” he said, “because it really took very little work on my part.”

And that just might be the real secret to a healthy close relationship. That and fighting crime together.

Share your relationship secrets with Leslie @LeslieDinaberg.com. For most columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on February 5, 2010.

Boys Will be Boys

Ed Hardy Tee ShirtI learned a new word recently: “Dad-olescence,” described by Daily Beast writer Sean Macaulay as the modern, midlife crisis-aged male’s tendency to “act like a sullen teenager … a low-grade regressive style of acting-out that’s now so widespread among midlife males it deserves its own label.”

Unlike the stereotypical midlife crises our parents’ generation had-using the fruits of their success to buy boy toys such as sports cars and hot, young girlfriends-Macaulay says that the double-whammy of delayed parenting and the economic crisis have created an epidemic of Dad-olescents grappling with their own mortality at the same time the credit crunch “nixes any chance of the classic ego-boosting spending spree” and their post-feminist upbringings and subsequent “guilt airbags” keep them faithful to their wives.

No wonder some of these guys are feeling down in the dumps. Party games like “dueling ailments” and “pin the hair on the bald guy” don’t exactly help to lift their 40-something spirits, as evidenced by some of the soirees I’ve attended recently. And piercing your ears and wearing Ed Hardy tee shirts is a lot less fun than driving with the top down on your Porsche.

Yet my husband remains suspiciously chipper, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a Porsche or a hottie. He might be able to keep a Porsche hidden from me, but who has the time or money for a girlfriend? No, I credit this to the fact that he’s so in touch with his inner child. While few women will admit their age, I have found that even fewer men act theirs. I often feel like I have two boys living with me: a ten-year-old and a 12-year-old-in-a-44-year-old-body-who-thinks-he-has-a-34-year-old-body.

For the most part, my two boys play really well together. They both love science fiction/fantasy stories, computer games, Doritos, pretending not to hear what I’m saying, jumping on the furniture and fart jokes. The younger one also likes Pokemon (again!) and watches a lot of sports on TV. But the older one can drive-and buy beer-which is very convenient for me.

The ten-year-old is in that preadolescent, unpredictable tween stage; still young enough to sit on my lap one moment and then greet me with a too cool for school head flip the next. His father’s behavior toward me is equally erratic; depending on what he wants, what he did wrong and who else is around to witness it.

But most of the time, thankfully, they’re both pretty happy guys. I guess I should consider myself lucky there’s not a lot of Dad-olescent behavior going on in our house. Of course there’s always that possibility that they’ll both evolve into moody, uncommunicative teens at some point, but for right now boys will be boys-and so will a lot of middle-aged men.

When Leslie’s not stocking up on Clearasil for her boys she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.  Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on December 4, 2009.

Every Day Should be Grandparents Day

Illustration by debspoons, freedigitalphotos.net

Illustration by debspoons, freedigitalphotos.net

Sometimes I can’t wait to be a Grandma.

Not that I don’t love this stage of my life-chaotic carpools, homework hassles and morning mayhem aside-because at ten our son is old enough to take almost anywhere and still young enough to want to be with his parents. But I know those days are dwindling fast. The specter of his teenage years casts a long shadow every time he gels his hair or rolls his eyes, which is happening more often every day.

Being a Grandma seems so marvelously simple. As Robert Brault said, “To become a grandparent is to enjoy one of the few pleasures in life for which the consequences have already been paid.” What could be better? You spend time with the kids and you love them. There’s no way to do that wrong. There are no obligations to feel guilty about. No stretch marks, no late night phone calls to “pick me up” from sleepovers, no allowances, no dioramas, no lunches to pack and no laundry to do.

There are a lot fewer vegetables and a lot more dessert if you’re a grandparent.

A grandparent’s sole duty in life is to spoil their grandchildren-to hang on their every word, to bring them a new game or toy every time they see them, to tell them stories of all the rotten things mommy and daddy did when they were kids, to go on adventures, or take them swimming, to ball games or the movies.

Grandparents also make incredible audiences. When grandchildren learn to kick a ball, bust out some fancy dance moves, or jam on their first guitar piece, they can count on their grandparents to watch, listen and applaud-loudly and obnoxiously-every single time.

In turn, their grandchildren adore them. I still marvel at the way Koss’s eyes light up, he grins, mugs, chats up a storm and utterly turns on the charm whenever any of his grandparents are around.

Well, at least most of the time.

Lucky for all of us, his grandparents are around a lot. We’re lucky to all live in the same town. Really, really lucky. They’re great babysitters-which I probably, ahem, okay, absolutely definitely appreciate more than the kids-but they also make meals with him, which can get rather messy; come to watch him kick, run, jump and shoot, depending on which sports are in season; play video games with him; read books together, and take him to the library and the bookstore; and play lots and lots of card and board games. Heck, my dad even volunteered in his classroom and coached his flag football team.

I can relate to what Grandma (and great writer) Judith Viorst wrote in her contribution to the book “Eye of My Heart: 27 Writers Reveal the Hidden Pleasures and Perils of Being a Grandmother.” “Even if we are known to be basically modest, even if, as mothers, we refrained from shamelessly bragging about our kids, we grandmothers feel entitled to inform the world that our grandchildren are not merely extraordinary but…the most extraordinary. And if another grandmother is one-upping us in the extraordinary contest, we one-up right back.”

I know just how she feels. My son’s grandparents are the absolute best, not merely extraordinary but the most extraordinary grandparents around. My son’s grandparents rock! They’re the best grandparents in the world. So in honor of National Grandparent’s Day (which is Sunday, September 13th), thanks guys. You really are the best.

Care to try to one-up Leslie in the extraordinary grandparent contest? Email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.  Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 11, 2009.

The meaning of marriage

© Lissdoc | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Lissdoc | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I’m ambivalent about marriage in many ways.

I’m not a religious person, so the church stuff isn’t meaningful to me. Zak and I lived together for almost six years before we got married, and most things didn’t change after we tied the knot. He got fat, and I started denying him sex-otherwise, status quo.

Granted, we had two sets of china and enough barware to serve 50 different drinks to 50 people, but certainly our feelings for each other or our level of commitment were not really different on March 13th 1994 than they were on March 12th. We loved each other; we wanted to spend our lives together. We had a great party, said some nice things, shed a few tears and then we still loved each other, and still wanted to spend our lives together.

The thing that did change when we got married was how other people treated us. Zak’s parents were much warmer to me. My sister finally admitted that the relationship wasn’t “just a phase.” I immediately became “Aunt Leslie” to the nieces and nephews I had already spent years growing to love.

Some of our friends also treated us differently once we were married. A few of my high school girl friends insisted on addressing mail to “Mrs. Klobucher,” even though I never changed my name, and I’m pretty sure they weren’t trying to invite my mother-in-law to their baby shower.

The bank treated us differently too, and so did the government. It seemed almost everyone had an investment in marriage, although it meant different things to different people. My friend Susan said she felt “ten thousand times more secure in her relationship” after walking down the aisle. Joe said getting married made him feel “like a grownup,” and Tammy said it felt a lot like joining a sorority, “till death do us part.”

Older generations have a very different view of marriage. Greg said getting married made him feel like he “had this huge burden of responsibility for his wife,” while Connie said, “I felt like I was leaving my parents and joining a new family.”

Marriage can mean a myriad of things to individuals and couples, but it’s clearly hypocritical to pretend that it’s a sacred part of our society as a whole. Just look at the state of our unions in the last month, with Mark Sanford’s Argentine disappearing act eclipsing Jon and Kate’s primetime split and Sandra Tsing Loh’s marital implosion on the pages of The Atlantic.

The government’s definition of marriage is a legal union. That’s the one and only part of marriage that seems pretty simple and straightforward to me. Being able to marry who you want to seems like a basic human right, along with matching china and a great big party with all of your friends and family looking on.

It’s up to each of us to interpret what marriage means to us as individuals and couples. Men and women, women and women or men and men, all of us should have that right. Even though none of my gay friends got married when they had the opportunity-most of them felt more commitment than an actual marriage would confer, and they wanted to stay skinny and keep having sex-we all knew that they at least deserved the choice.

Tell Leslie what marriage means to you at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 10, 2009.

My Two Dads

Image by nongpimmy

Image by nongpimmy

On the surface I married a man who is nothing like my father.

Dad is a sports guy, through and through. One of his most defining-and endearing-characteristics is his love of the games. Any games, really, other than baseball, which he barely tolerated when my son played Little League.

Though it’s hard to imagine looking at him today-in fact, it makes for great slapstick in my head-my dad was once a gymnast. He even wrote his masters thesis on the Loop Dismount off the Side Horse, though by then he had bulked up considerably and was doing more tackling than tumbling. He played football at UCLA and it was a football coaching job at Santa Barbara City College that brought us to town. He was also Athletic Director there for what felt like decades. It seemed like he never missed a game. He still helps out with the women’s golf team, although I think it’s more for the free time on the links than anything else. Dad is definitely a sports guy. Even in retirement, he spends much of his time obsessively studying whatever’s on ESPN, checking his Fantasy Football league updates, and rooting for the Lakers.

It’s not that Zak is not athletic. He’s actually very graceful. He played water polo for a while, but couldn’t understand why the other guys took it so seriously. And now he swims masters to keep in shape. But the athletic fields were never his true calling. The only blocking he did in high school was on stage, and even then he was more motivated by access to cute senior girls than he was by curtain calls. In college he joined the Hasty Pudding Theatricals, where his fishnet clad high kicks took him to off-off-Broadway and Bermuda.

If I ever want to make my dad squirm, all I have to do is pull out the Newsweek photo of my husband in drag. Come to think of it, Zak’s own father wasn’t particularly comfortable with that picture either.

Zak is long and lean, while my dad is round and cuddly. My husband will nurse a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Heath Bar Coffee Crunch for at least a week, if we let him. He likes nothing better than to morsel a bite or two out at a time as a late night treat, smoothing out the ice cream’s edges so it looks like it’s fresh from the factory.

As a kid I remember my dad also liked to smooth out his ice cream, but his style was different than Zak’s. He bought gallons rather than pints, and instead of a bite or two each night; dad would eat all except a bite or two in one sitting. Then, he’d smooth the miniscule remnants up into the plastic window of the lid, so that it looked like an entire gallon of ice cream remained untouched-until you picked it up and it was light as air. Truth be told, I’ve never been sure if he did this to hide the evidence that he ate all the ice cream, or because he was too lazy to throw the container away.

Dad’s a plugger and a plodder who plows his way through just about everything he does. If slow and steady wins the race then my dad would win every time. When he jogs it looks like walking to the rest of us, and when he hurries, it looks like a relaxed pace, but he gets the job done eventually, and he’s nothing if not consistent.

Zak, on the other hand, spends ridiculous amounts of time trying to think of the most efficient ways to do just about everything. Consequently, even if it appears to only take him five minutes to complete a task, it may have taken ridiculous amounts of time to do just about anything.

They both drive me up the wall with irritation, and make me laugh so hard I cry.

On the surface they couldn’t be more different, but inside they’ve both got hearts as big as oceans. They both love to play, have fun and be with their families. And my son and I both know that deep inside where it counts we’ve got the best two dads in the world.

Leslie wishes her dad, her son’s dad and all the dads Happy Father’s Day. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 19, 2009.

Romance heats up

Photo by Dan, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Photo by Dan, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It’s not just the approach of summer playing tricks on your mind-bulging biceps and busting bodices are gracing the covers of paperbacks everywhere you look, from aisles at drug stores to the book store shelves.

Harlequin Enterprises Ltd. celebrates its 60th anniversary this year.

But the venerable publisher has lots of company. According to Romance Writers of America, romance fiction was responsible for $1.375 billion in book sales last year. That’s more than a quarter of all books sold and 51 million readers.

That’s a lot of crumpled sheets and hearts skipping beats.

While sales of books in other categories are declining in this down economy, romance novels are thriving. It’s no surprise that people want to escape when business is bleak and reality is even bleaker.

Love may not conquer all, but it sure conquers at the cash register. Business is booming.

According to the Associated Press, Kensington has seen a five percent increase in sales of mass market paperback romances for its current fiscal year, while Harlequin reported forth quarter earnings up 32 percent over the same period a year earlier. Nielsen BookScan data for May had romance book sales up nearly 2.4 percent compared with the same time last year, while sales of self-help, travel, and mystery books all showed declines for the same period.

An Associated Press Ipsos Poll found that of those who read books in 2007, one in five read romance novels. Not only that, new technology is bringing new steam to the genre. While the vast majority of readers may still prefer to curl up with an actual book (I prefer mine in a warm tub with lots of bubbles and candlelight), romance publishers are also reaching readers with electronic book formats that can be read on a variety of devices from cell phones to computers to Kindles, and services such as Daily Lit, which allows readers to read their romances through e-mail and RSS feeds.

For about a $45 investment you can even give your loved one the gift of a personalized romance novel. For example, at www.booksbyyou.com you can customize your 160 to 200-page novel with more than 26 personalized names, features and places. You can even get your pets into the story, with book titles such as “Vampire Kisses,” “Western Rendezvous,” and “Medieval Passion” to choose from. The website www.torridromance.com lets you put yourself into titles like “Allure of the Cowboy,” Beauty and the Bodyguard,” “Knights of Passion,” “Strangers in Paris” and “Taming the Tycoon.” They even have a special “buy three, get one free deal” for these books, in case you want to share your romantic adventures with your friends.

Sounds like a pretty good business-and a happy ending for somebody in today’s economy.

My husband suggested that rather than reading romance novels or writing about romance novels, I write a romance novel myself. Hmmm … perhaps a fantasy about a woman who spends 20 years with a poor but loving man and then discovers he’s really a prince, which makes her a princess, and they go off to live in a castle in the style to which she would like to become accustomed to.

My heart’s beating faster just thinking about it.

Or better yet, a woman who spends decades toiling in the newspaper business before she heaves her bosom into fiction and finds fame and fortune as a romance novelist. Stay tuned.

Share your romantic favorites with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 12, 2009.

Battle of the blab is a draw

51tKTrr+gaLConventional wisdom says that women talk more than men, and up until recently there was relatively conclusive research to back that up. Women use 55 percent more words per day than men do, according to a book called The Female Brain.

I don’t know about their findings, but in my own extremely scientific, highly controlled experiment, I found that women use 100 percent more words per day than men do.

I told my husband about this very exciting scientific breakthrough.

Me: ” I think women talk about talk twice as much as men. What do you think?”

Husband: “Huh?”

Me: “See. I have to repeat everything I say.”

Husband: “What?”

Nothing like a true-life example to prove my theory.

But that was last week. It’s even quieter at my house this week. My husband is away on business, and my son’s at school, then soccer, then homework, and then he’s too exhausted to be much of a conversationalist. So Chatty Cathy (a.k.a. Loony Leslie) has mainly been chatting with herself.

With no one to talk to at home, I was trolling around the Internet for entertainment (not that kind of entertainment, get your minds out of the gutter) when I came across a University of Arizona study that found–unbelievably–that women don’t talk more than men, after all.

Oops.

In tracking the number of words used by male and female college students by equipping them with digital voice recorders, researchers found that statistically, men and women were just about even.

So the battle of the blab is a draw. I can hardly believe it. I’m practically speechless. You would think we’d hear more about the death of another enduring male-female stereotype. I’m guessing it’s because these were college students. The guys hadn’t gotten married yet, so they were in courtship mode and had to at least pretend that they would continue speaking after the wedding– kind of like women and sex.

But even if you buy into the research that men and women speak about the same number of words–which certainly wasn’t done at my house–they definitely don’t speak the same words.

Based on my own carefully documented research, men rarely utter the words “accessorize,” “size zero,” “cellulite” or “Botox,” unless they happen to be actors. Nor do you hear them describe someone as “unconventionally attractive,” or having “emotional intelligence.” “Grocery store,” “laundry” and “birthday card” also seem to be off limits.

On the other hand, men are 77 times more likely to use the word “fine” than women are. As in, “Okay, fine” to end an argument, when he really means, “You’re wrong but I’m tired and don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Or “You look fine,” when you’ve finally accessorized the 17th outfit you’ve tried on and he’s showing his emotional IQ by urging you to get out of the house.

Men will also say, “I’m fine,” rather than reveal weakness, say, when being tortured or held up at gunpoint.

Just the other day I came home and asked my husband how his day was. He said, “Fine.” But I know darn well what he really meant was “I know you want to talk about my day and all my relationships with my colleagues and boss (if I actually had relationships with any of them) but I just want to drink a beer, eat a bag of chips and zone out on CNN.”

At least we understand each other.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 3, 2008.

When Leslie’s not repeating herself, talking to herself, or changing her clothes, she’s usually on her computer, answering emails at email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

The remote truth about men

Image courtesy of Photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

Image courtesy of Photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

My son snatched the remote control out of my hands with the same vehemence I might have for rescuing the very last Dark Chocolate Bordeaux in a box of See’s Candy, and I said to myself–for the zillionth time this week–“Oh my God. I really don’t understand men.”

What could possibly be so enticing about controlling that remote control? I thought we had already picked a show. Why did he need to be holding the remote?

I couldn’t figure it out. Was it the power control aspect of being able to pause the show or control the volume at will? Or was it the “ooh, look at all the pretty buttons” technology gadget aspect that makes it so appealing? I had no idea.

My son was too busy furiously flipping through channels–while watching Boy Meets Grill in the picture in picture screen–to be of any help.

If sitcoms–and now reality TV–are any indication of reality, then it’s pretty obvious that men like to be in control. Things like asking for directions, going to the doctor, or getting professional help to fix a leak in the kitchen sink are seen as signs of weakness, as well as comedic gold mines.

That’s probably why my Dad is so enamored with his GPS navigation system. It gives him help without his having to ask for it. So what if it directs him to the house next door, and he follows those directions instead of turning into his own driveway? It’s all about the illusion of power, and the cool remote control gadgety thingee, of course.

Plus, with GPS, no one–except a computerized voice, which apparently doesn’t count– is telling you what to do. At least that seems to be Dad’s logic.

My husband seems to be a pretty typical member of his species in that he HATES when I tell him what to do. It doesn’t matter what it is. A burning Ferrari could be falling from the sky about to hit him on the head, and he’d be annoyed if I told him to watch out.

He might even be planning to do exactly what I tell him to do, (“You should duck, a burning sports car is about to hit you!”) and he would still hate me telling him what to do, maybe even more because he was already planning to duck and I should have realized that.

It’s the oddest thing. As soon as the words, “You should …” or “Would you …” or “Could you …” start to come out of my mouth, he becomes a rebellious teenager and I become his nagging mother. This is not one of those fun role-playing games at all. Plus, he refuses to do whatever I’m asking him to do on principle. It doesn’t matter if it was something he wanted to do or not, the point is that I’m asking him and therefore taking control away from him and violating his free will, and I may well just cut off his manhood right then and there. I guess.

My son HATES when I tell him what to do too. I really don’t understand this. It’s my job to tell him what to do and how to do it. But he doesn’t see it that way, and my husband is no help in this regard at all.

The two of them are usually as full of MANswers as they are of gas, but not today. When I ask them about their need to hold on to the remote control, they both shrug their shoulders and grab for it immediately.

“Not so fast, boy,” says my husband with a “get the hell out of Dodge” tone to his voice. My son relents control of the remote immediately. I’m still baffled.

Later that night, after much persuading, I finally get my answer.

It turns out that while I was busy delivering Koss, Zak called out “Dibs for Life” on the remote control in the hospital room. Aww, how sweet, he still remembers his first words to his newborn son.

Unfortunately, now I sort of understand.

Share your control issues with email . For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 25, 2008.