Category Archives: South Coasting

The Boy in the Plastic Bubble

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220px-The_Boy_in_the_Plastic_BubbleI’m not one to mess around when it comes to my son’s safety, so I was a little taken aback the other day when we met some friends to go scootering at a local elementary school.

He was the only one that wasn’t wearing a helmet. A couple of the kids were in full body armor, wrapped in Charmin from head to toe, like that kid in the old commercial, who goes out to play football and practically tips over from all that cushiony padding. But even the more “normal” (meaning less smothery) parents had put their kids in helmets. Every single kid had a helmet—except mine.

It was my James Dean moment. I felt like such a rebel.

It hadn’t even occurred to me to bring Koss’s helmet.

It’s not like he scooters very fast, or goes down hills. Even if he were to fall, he hardly gets enough speed going to skin a knee, let alone hit his head.

So why did I feel like such an irresponsible parent? Being the only one who didn’t even think about protecting her poor child’s skull made me feel like beating my own head against the wall. Should I feel guilty for not being concerned enough for his safety, or proud of myself for being less of a helicopter parent than my friends?

How much hovering does it take to qualify as a helicopter parent anyway? And how much swooping and attacking do you have to do on your child’s behalf to qualify as a Black Hawk pilot? Seems to me we’ve gone a bit too far on this air strike to try to protect our kids.

When I was a kid we played on asphalt playgrounds, jumping off and on those spinning merry go-rounds with wild abandon. Who cared if people had their arms ripped off by playing that way? There weren’t even any adults within earshot, let alone telling us to be careful ‘cause we might lose a limb.

I remember an old John Travolta movie called The Boy in the Plastic Bubble, about a kid who had some kind of a disease where he might die if he were exposed to the germs from the outside world. I felt so sorry for that kid in the movies, he hardly got to do anything.

I couldn’t imagine a world where I wasn’t free to walk to school by myself or roam my own neighborhood at will. That poor kid in the plastic bubble had it so tough.

Almost like kids do today.

More and more, the world of childhood has become helmetized. Forget going to the park by themselves, I know parents who won’t let their children go to another child’s house without doing a thorough background check on the parents. If your name is John Smith, forget about it – there’s no way to Google that.

I don’t want to be naïve about the fact that the world can be dangerous. But raising your children in a plastic bubble is also a risk. The risk is not letting them grow up into responsible people who know how to protect themselves and make intelligent decisions. Isn’t it better to let them fall or fail every once in a while? How else will they possibly learn how to pick themselves up and dust themselves off and get back on the horse—or scooter—again?

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When she’s not discretely hovering over her son on the playground, Leslie can reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on January 11, 2008.

Animal House Hits My House

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animalhouseposter2As you approach the doorway, a headless Pokemon (Pika Pika! Pi-Ka-Chu!) flies out of a window and lands at your feet. Adrian takes a break from his potty break to greet you. Oops, sorry about your shoes… and your leg. Jake whirls by you on a Razor scooter, through the front door and onto the back porch, where he sings a surprisingly good rendition of “Burning Down the House.” Alex tries to accompany him with what’s left of smashed ukulele.

“Sorry,” he says, as he hands me the pieces and runs off. We have … had a ukulele?

Dressed in makeshift togas, Lauren and Caitlin run by with their Rapid Shoot Super Soaker Water Guns cocked, ready to take down Koss and Jared.

“No water in the house,” I shout, without the slightest delusion that anyone is listening to me. Welcome to my son’s 8th birthday party.

When I let Koss pick the theme for his party, I expected him to choose Pokemon, Sponge Bob, or Harry Potter. You know, a commercially exploitable theme that would be easy to incorporate into invitations, piñata, decorations, games, craft projects, band-aids, snacks, cake, favors, little gift bags, ribbons, tags, stickers and candy for the little gift bags.

I got Animal House instead.

Luckily, I lived in a frat house one summer a million years ago. Otherwise I would have been completely unprepared for what happens in a home invasion by seven kids with enough adrenaline to power Bolivia, Kamchatka, and Yakutsk (and that’s before the ice cream sundaes).

Many moms believe that planning a child’s birthday party requires as much tactical planning as invading a small country, more if you have to hire a magician. Since my son’s birthday is right in the middle of the summer, I tend to be a little more laid back.

OK, a lot more laid back. I let my son plan his own party. He had grand plans from the get go. A wild game of Cranium, a water gun fight, and a dance contest. It sounds pretty harmless, right?

I figured it couldn’t be any worse than letting my husband plan the party, which would have involved a few bags of chips, a couple of pizzas and a lot of beer. All serve yourself, of course.

After all, there has to be some advantage to living in the Shack besides a good school district. I finally figured it out. This is a great house for a frat party. There’s almost nothing here that I really care if they thrash. The furniture is old and falling apart, the carpet is disgusting, the yard is full of weeds, and the walls have seen better days.

So this year we decided to bite the bullet and let our son have his dream party. Did I mention he wanted a slumber party?

Not only did we let them thrash our house, and play with fire, we let them stay here and sleep it off afterward.

I use that word, “sleep” in a very loose way. I think at about 3 a.m. a few of them were sitting down. That counts, right?

It’s been almost a week, and our birthday hangovers are still hanging on. My kitchen’s recovered from the food fight, and my headache has almost gone away, but I’m still scrubbing the walls from the home invasion.

I mean this literally.

One of the more ingenious games they played was “Burglar,” which involved repeatedly climbing through the window from the front porch into the living room, throwing throw pillows, stereo equipment and knickknacks into a bag and running through the neighborhood shouting, “Have you seen Delta House?”

It’s listed under my name in the phone book.

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Regale us with your birthday party tales by sending an email to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 3, 2007.

Happy Mother’s Day!

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© Paha_l | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Paha_l | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Given that I wrote a weekly newspaper column for almost a decade, I guess it’s no surprise that I’ve got a Mother Lode of columns about Mother’s Day. Here are a few of my favorites:

The Mother Lode, sometimes hearing just a little bit about someone else’s mother is all it takes to really appreciate your own.

My Secret Mother’s Day Wish for a remote control to stop time whenever I want to.

That Other Mother reflects on the reality that I was a much better mother before I actually had a child.

Mom’s the Word, Happy Mother’s Day, mom. This one’s for you.

Happy Mother’s Day!

My Secret Mothers Day Wish

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© Peterkozikowski | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Peterkozikowski | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

For those of you who have no exposure to TV or calendars or school art projects, it may come as big news that Mother’s Day is coming up.

Now, I wouldn’t say no to being showered with diamonds, although I’d settle for a real shower alone for 10 minutes without someone interrupting me on an “urgent” matter. Candy and flowers would be good, just not sour worms and dandelions. However, what I really want this Mother’s Day is my very own remote control.

No, this isn’t one of those columns about men and their need to control the television remote — although my six-year-old son has mastered the picture-in-picture swap features and figured out how to TIVO every episode of the Power Rangers for the next 327 years. How is it that he still can’t figure out how to get his clothes off his body and into the hamper?

Anyway, what I want for Mother’s Day is that remote control that Adam Sandler has in his new movie, Click.

What a perfect gift.

The next time Koss chatters incessantly about Pokemon — seriously, the kid can go at least 10 minutes without taking a breath — I could simply push the mute button, and smile and nod and think about George Clooney. Or better yet, I could rewind to when Koss was a year old, just learning to talk, and I reveled in his every word.

Still better, I could rewind my life to the time I “just missed” meeting George Clooney at a party because I spent that extra 17 minutes changing outfits because I couldn’t decide what to wear when I met George Clooney. Of course every outfit I’ve ever owned would look ravishing, if I could just rewind my life to that one summer when my height was actually in perfect proportion for my weight.

Ah, the good old days.

I could rewind to 1986, and meet my husband during that legendary summer when he was “peaking,” and supposedly had better abs than George Clooney. That I’d like to see.

That I’d like to be able to even picture.

But enough of the past, my Mother’s Day remote would have a wicked fast forward that I could use to have written a novel, lost 20 pounds, learned Spanish, run a marathon, and avoided a lifetime of awkward conversations — all without the actual effort of writing, dieting, studying, training or talking. That’s my kind of remote.

The pause button could be pretty cool too. Adam Sandler uses his to slap his boss around a little and hit a little kid in the head with a baseball, but I like to believe that I’d be a non-violent remote controller. When that lady with 14 items in the “10 items or less” line at Vons starts to count her $19.99 in change out r-e-a-l-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y, I would simply pause her shopping and place her butt in the appropriate non-express line. It would all be very civil, no violence required.

Same goes for the mega minivan parked in two spaces at Five Points. I would simply pause all of the other shoppers while I double-parked behind Ms. Minivan and got a few errands done.

Hey, maybe I could use the picture-in-picture function combined with the pause, and simply be in two places at one time. You know, like the lady who sits under the hairdryer at a salon but is also cleaning her oven. I could be sitting at T-Ball cheering on my team while getting a massage, or cooking a gourmet dinner while playing an exciting game of Klondike on my computer, or eating an ice cream bar while running a 10K.

What a great gift that remote will be.

Here’s hoping the batteries don’t run out while I’m speed rewinding past childbirth.

Happy Mother’s Day!

What would you do with a universal remote? Email email

Originally published in Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 5, 2006.

Mom’s the Word

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© Fredgoldstein | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Fredgoldstein | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

“You’ll never know how much I love you until you have children of your own.”

I can’t tell you how many times I heard those words come out of my mother’s mouth when I was growing up.

While other kids’ moms told them to stop making faces or their mouth would freeze that way, or elaborate tales about walking to school in the snow or having only one toy to play with, my mom always told me how much she loved me.

It didn’t matter whether she was proud of me-for getting a good report card or remaining a good sport when I lost a hard fought tennis match -or disappointed -for honing my sarcastic wit at the dinner table or rolling my eyes when my little sister annoyed me -I always knew how much she loved me because she never stopped telling me.

She still tells me, almost every single day, and sometimes more often than that.

She shows me too, by always being there for me in a million different ways.

So here I sit writing a column about her, trying to be funny and not make her mad. It’s not that easy. My mom is often hilarious, without trying to be, but doesn’t really like to be teased or the butt of our jokes. Plus, the last thing I want to do is publicly embarrass someone who has enough dirt on me to fill a small park

“Just write that,” says my husband.

“That’ll make her mad,” says my son, who’s precocious enough to know that moms-and especially your mom’s mom-rank number one on the list of the top five people you don’t want to tick off (the others are your principal, your teacher, the person who’s making your dinner and the guy with the pit bull across the street).

“That’s the thing about having a great mom, though,” I tell him. “It’s okay to make her mad because you always know she loves you.”

“Really?” His little nine-year-old eyes light up.

“That doesn’t mean you should try to make me mad,” I warn. He knows that look, and drops the matter right away.

Smart kid.

It took me until I was at least ten to figure out that my mom had a full range of super powers: eyes in the back of her head, a knack for being able to let me know what she was thinking with just a look, and the ability to fling guilt rays at me from a thousand feet away. She can fling them from even farther away if there’s a telephone involved.

Until I had a child of my own, I didn’t realize what a thankless job it was to be a mother. If surviving nine months of pregnancy and 37 hours of back labor aren’t enough to help you develop a sense of humor, there’s breast feeding, changing diapers, cleaning spit-up, and wiping bottoms to enjoy. Would you do that for someone you didn’t love?

And it’s not like kids ever grow out of needing their mother. When I had bronchitis a few weeks ago, my husband laughed as I whined that I wanted my mommy to come and take care of me. Within minutes she was there, bearing homemade chicken soup. Eyes in the Back of the Head Woman, to the rescue!

Food critic Ruth Reichl wrote a book, Garlic and Sapphires: The Secret Life of a Critic in Disguise, where she talks about dressing up in her mother’s clothes and going out to restaurants disguised as her mom. As much fun as that might be, I have no illusions that I will ever be able to fill my mother’s shoes-even though she hands me down a practically new pair that “hurt her feet” every other week.

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Available at www.someEcards.com.

My sister and I are both convinced that we’re her favorites, as are her three grandchildren. Even her sons-in-law think they’re her favorite. But the truth is our mom’s got more than enough love to go around. She managed to take hordes of family friends, classrooms full of Roosevelt School students and scores of SBCC football players under her maternal wing, without ever making any of us feel neglected. Some of my childhood friends still call her “Mom” and she’s much better at keeping in touch with them than I am.

She’s got more energy than someone half her age, more friends than a brand new lottery winner and does more for other people than anyone else I’ve ever known. She defeated breast cancer and lung cancer while hardly missing a tennis match, and while she officially retired from teaching, that doesn’t stop her from teaching her grandchildren, the kids her granddaughter’s school and anyone else who will listen, at any opportunity.

She’s still teaching me things, and I’m still listening, Mom. I love you too.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 8, 2009.

The Mother Lode

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© Alexkhrom | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Alexkhrom | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

While she snipped away at my curls, the hairdresser’s caffeinated swirl of invectives about what a terrible mother she had filled me with sympathy. I know there are horrible mothers out there–Mommy Dearest is one of my favorite horror movies–and clearly this girl had been deeply, deeply screwed up somewhere. I just hoped she wouldn’t take it out on me with her scissors.

Still, I smiled as I tried to picture my face with a mullet, knowing my own mom would tell me how beautiful I looked, no matter how much of a “don’t” my “do” turned out to be.

Good mothers are like that. They say just the right thing to make you feel better. My mom is great at that.

When it comes to mothers, I was lucky: I hit the mother lode. Every time someone complains about their awful mother, I say a silent prayer for mine. I don’t always say it out loud, but I know I’m really lucky to have her.

I may be grown up and perfectly capable of using the microwave, but I still whine for her homemade soup when I’m sick–and usually get it within minutes. Whenever I’m feeling down she seems to magically know when to call or stop by, usually bearing a brand new pair of shoes that “hurt her feet.”

Before I become a mom she used to always tell me, “You’ll never know how much I love you until you have children of your own.” Now I know just what she means.

It didn’t matter whether she was proud of me –for getting good grades or being a good sport when I lost a hard fought tennis match–or let down–cringing while I honed my sarcastic wit at the dinner table or rolled my eyes at my annoying little sister–I always knew how much my mother loved me because she never stopped telling me.

She still tells me, almost every single day, and sometimes more often than that. And she shows me too, by always being there for me in a million different ways.

So here I am, once again, writing a column about her and trying to be funny without making her mad. It’s harder than it seems. My mom can be unintentionally hilarious, but doesn’t like to be teased about it. Not one single bit.

Plus, the last thing I want to do is publicly embarrass the one person who knows more about me than I know about myself. I can’t hide anything from her. I swear, the harder I try the better her memory gets. It must be all of that Ginkgo biloba and green tea.

“Why don’t you write that?” says my husband.

“That’ll make her mad,” says my son, who’s smart enough to know that moms–and especially grandmas–are people you really don’t want to tick off.

“But the thing about your mom is that it’s okay to make her mad because you always know she loves you,” I explain.

My son’s face lights up. Uh oh…

“But that doesn’t mean you should try to make me mad,” I warn him.

Then I ruffle his hair and tell him that I love him. He says, “I know that mom. You only tell me that like, a million times a day.”

I just smile, and look into his eyes that are so much like my mother’s.

You’ll appreciate it someday, kid.

And by the way, mom, I do.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 9, 2008.

That Other Mother

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© Paha_l | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Paha_l | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I was a much better mother before I actually had a child. I did so many things right back in the old days, when I was that other mother.

That other mother lost her pregnancy weight in two weeks, breast fed for three years, and had a child who immediately slept through the night, allowing her beautifully romantic relationship with her husband to be completely unaffected by parenthood.

That other mother was naturally slender, polite and patient. She cooked healthy, yet tasty food and kept an immaculately clean house. She was tolerant and fair and she didn’t make snap judgments when her kids appeared to be guilty of something. She wasn’t a pushover. Once she laid down the law, she stood her ground.

She spoke fluent Spanish, Chinese, German and French, and could play piano by ear and sing with perfect pitch. She taught her children sign language, and they did simple little experiments on her home particle accelerator.

Teachers and coaches were always telling her how wonderful her kids were. Her children were the ones that other mothers used as examples of perfect behavior when their own kids misbehaved. I can’t tell you how many times I heard, “I bet Leslie’s son would never talk back to his mother like that. I bet her son goes to bed immediately when told and does his homework without complaining a bit. He even likes to do the extra credit pages.”

This woman, this other mother, never once lost her temper with her child or her husband or even that lady with 14 items in the “10 items or less” line at Vons who always counts her $19.99 in change out r-e-a-l-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y and then finds a coupon in her wallet and has to re-count the whole thing again. This other woman had a street named after her.

Plus, she never had a bad hair day in her life, and looked perfectly groomed without a stitch of makeup. She was quite amazing, this other mother, the one I was going to be before I had kids. She was really kind of perfect, but in such a down-to-earth, good-humored way that nobody even hated her for it.

And then there’s me.

I’m the mom who asked her son what he had eaten on Saturday, and when he answered “pancakes and Pringles,” pretended to be horrified, but was actually relieved he had eaten anything at all, since I couldn’t remember feeding him.

I’m the mom who told her son that the swear words he learned at camp weren’t really the worst swear words in the world, and then, more interested in expanding his vocabulary than avoiding detention, went on to give a few examples.

I’m the mom who forgot to tell the Tooth Fairy to come to our house the other night, and then tried to blame her son for not putting his tooth in the right place. “Silly boy. Tooth Fairies never look under the left side of the pillow.”

I’m the mom who teaches her son logic by giving “because I said so” as the reason for making him do something whenever I can’t think of a better one.

I’m the mom whose son once told me I reminded him of the bossy girls at school. Then he shook his butt at me and, rather than punish him, I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I do that a lot–laugh inappropriately at butt shaking, arm farts, belches, and other behaviors that I absolutely know I should not encourage.

For example, when my son was three, he used to eat his boogers. When I’d scold him, like that other mother would, he’d always say, “tastes like chicken.” It cracked me up every time.

That other mother–not that her child would ever in a million years exhibit such imperfect behavior, but let’s just say for example’s sake that he did, maybe because some other mother let him eat too much cake, ice cream and cotton candy at a birthday party–would have scolded him gently and explained why that was disrespectful in kid-friendly language.

That other mother’s family probably sends her to the spa on Mother’s Day, just so they can take a break from her perfection and eat take-out burritos on paper plates and not worry about cleaning the kitchen.

Guess what I’ll be doing on Sunday?

Not being that perfect other mother, and maybe, just maybe, being OK with that.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 11, 2007

Salute to Secretaries

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© Dashk | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Offices aren’t what they used to be. When I was a kid, my dad–and everybody else’s dad that I knew–had a secretary. She was always very nice and had candy on her desk, plus she answered his phone, ran his errands, kept his calendar and knew where he was all the time, even when my mom had no idea.

When I got older and got cubicled for the first time, I discovered that these secretaries weren’t just the ones who knew where the bosses were all the time, they were the ones who knew how to make the coffee, operate the copy machine, send a fax or find an extra large paper clip. They also knew when the boss was in a good mood and was likely to say “yes” to a day off, and even more importantly, when the boss was in a bad mood and was likely to bite your head off if you asked him to hold the elevator. Secretaries had super powers like eyes in the backs of their heads, and ears that could hear through walls. They could make appointments appear or disappear with a flick of their pen, and make or break your career with the raise of an eyebrow.

My boss called his secretary his “work spouse,” which was a pretty apt description. He would have been literally lost without her–she printed up a color-coded itinerary (“don’t forget to go potty and eat lunch”) and driving directions for him every day. Now, a whole generation of these Wonder Women seems to be lost. I’m guessing they’ve discovered they have the power of invisibility.

According to the International Association of Administrative Professionals (IAAP), there are more than 4.1 million administrative assistants and secretaries in the United States, but I defy you to find one anywhere but on school campuses.

Call an office today and you’re lucky to get a real live person to answer the phone, let alone a real live person that resides in the same country, let alone the same building, as the person you’re trying to reach. And as to knowing the boss’s whereabouts: good luck. You can try her cell phone, pager, emailing or texting her, but if she doesn’t answer, there’s nothing you can do but sit there in limbo and wonder if she’s mad at you or just taking a day off.

We used to have Secretaries Day, where everyone in the office chipped in for flowers and took our Gal Friday out for their annual lunch. That’s all over with now. Secretaries, where they still exist, have been transformed from the Target to the Tiffany’s of office professionals.

In fact, it’s hard to find anyone who’s not in the White House Cabinet that calls themselves secretaries. The politically correct term is “Administrative Professionals,” with this entire week designated to wine and dine them and generally try to bribe them into making sure your career stays on track.

According the IAAP, there’s been a ginormous evolution in clerical duties in the past 20 years. Where secretaries once took phone messages (remember those little pink slips of paper?), now they “coordinate communications.”

Technology has taken over so many of the tasks that secretaries used to do; we’re now up to Office Assistant version 3.3. Secretaries used to take dictation and shorthand, then type memos and letters. Now they’ve mastered integrated computer software applications and use the work “task” as a verb.

Whereas before we always knew they could do the boss’s job blindfolded with their hands tied behind their backs, now they actually do the boss’s job.

How do you show your appreciation for these unsung someones who run the show? As far as gifts go, forget the candy and the flowers. IAAP’s advice is a presentation from a motivational speaker or a membership in a professional organization, or–get this–a computer hardware/software upgrade. You call that a gift? I say nothing says “thank you” better than cold, hard cash–and pick up your own dry cleaning this week.

What’s your take on secretaries? Send me a memo, or better yet, have your people email my people at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 27, 2007

My 100th Column

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Leslie was very young when she wrote her first column! Image © Daviddomi | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Leslie was very young when she wrote her first column! Image © Daviddomi | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Writing 100 columns sounds like a big deal, doesn’t it? You’d think my editor would have thrown me a party or at least bought me a candy bar or something.

I started writing this column right after Koss started kindergarten. When he had his 100th day of kindergarten, they had a big celebration and all of the kids had to bring in 100 of something. Most of the children brought in buttons or pennies or crayons or fish crackers–you know, kid stuff.

As an overambitious first-time kindergarten mom who really needed to impress the teacher, I had the brilliant idea that we bring in a jar filled with 100 wishes. Of course I didn’t realize at the time that Koss only had the attention span to make about 47 wishes, and 23 of those were to have another one of the cookies I used to bribe him to focus on the remaining 69 wishes.

Despite all the duplicate wishes, I eagerly anticipated my gold star from his teacher, who would surely be blown away by our creativity.

Instead she tactfully suggested that perhaps I was giving my son too much sugar, and that his attention span might improve if he expanded his vegetable repertoire beyond potato chips and French fries.

I’ve learned a lot since then. Don’t ever let you kid tell his teacher what he really eats for dinner, for starters. And don’t ever start work on a class project until you’ve had at least one glass of wine.

I’ve learned a little bit about column-writing too. For example, even if I had learned 100 things since I started writing this column, I would never have enough space to include them here. Besides, 100 is an even number, and if there’s one rule I’m absolutely sure of, it’s that odd numbers are funnier than even numbers. My husband told me so. He also seems to think the number 69 is a lot funnier that 67 or 65 for some reason.

Writing this column has really done a lot to deepen my relationship with my husband. Now, instead of crying or throwing things when we fight, I get out my notepad and start taking revenge, I mean, ahem, taking notes.

And when my son does something horribly embarrassing or cute, I get out my camera and my notepad, and sometimes my tape recorder too.

My parents didn’t realize it, but when I started tape recording their childhood stories last weekend, it wasn’t just for the family archives. You never know where you might find new material.

Another great thing I’ve learned is that when you’re writing a column about your life, everything you do can be considered working.

“Why are you napping, Leslie? It’s the middle of the day.”

It’s work. I’m writing a column about napping.

“Why are you shopping/drinking/staring at your navel in the middle of the day?”

I’m working of course. There’s never a minute for myself, I just work, work, work, even when I’m sleeping I work. It’s 25/7 around here.

Apparently writing all of those columns hasn’t done anything to improve my math skills.

This is actually my 101st column. I realized that at some point last week, but I wanted to write about spring break, so I fudged it a little bit.

See, unlike my other job–as a reporter, where you have to pay special attention to things like truth and accuracy–you get to fudge a little when you’re a columnist. So when I tell you that this is my 101st column that doesn’t mean it’s my 101st column for THIS paper; I worked for another paper before this. And it wasn’t my fault they went out of business–although it might have helped if THAT editor had thrown me a party.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 13, 2007

My Gym Diary

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© Tadija | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Tadija | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

The Weight Watchers theory is that writing down what you eat can make you lose weight, so I decided to keep a going-to-the-gym-diary to help me get in better shape. Here is what happened my first seven (non-consecutive) days at the gym.

Day 1- Feel That Credit Card Burn

Like most new endeavors, getting in shape takes motivation, determination, commitment, and cold, hard cash. I want to change my life, so buying the “lifetime gym membership”–where I pay $45 a month for the rest of my life, regardless of whether I ever break a sweat–seems like a really good idea.

I’ll also need new shoes, socks, a gym bag, sweats, a heart rate monitor, water bottle, an iPod and a lifetime subscription to “Ahnold Magazine” to get started on my journey.

No wonder all these people are wiping off their equipment with $20 bills. I guess that’s the price you pay to get in shape.

Day 2 – Just Do It

There’s nothing like new shoes to put a spring in my step. I drive the 12 blocks from my house to the gym, then circle around the lot 17 times before parking 3 blocks away. I’m exhausted before I set foot in the door.

I see some moms I know from school and end up chatting for an hour, while I occasionally look appreciatively at the equipment. If you’re at the gym, does that time count as a workout? I decide that it does and feel a little superior as I leave and notice the same three cars from an hour and a half ago still waiting for parking.

Day 3 – Checking Things Out

I go up to the weight room to look around. The grunting, the cyborg noises and the mirrors all bring back horror movie flashbacks and the armpit-vomit smell reminds me of my college dorm. Maybe I’ll try the cardio machines.

I’m still learning to use the equipment, so I peek over at Skinny Sally’s control panel to see what level and program she’s using on the elliptical machine. Of course I’m not very subtle and almost lose my balance trying to crane my neck for a better view. Must be the traction on my new shoes!

She gives me a dirty, sweaty, scary stare and quickly throws her towel over the lit up panel. Meow! It’s not like I was snooping in her purse, and why is it filled with ex-lax and breath mints?

Day 4 – Not Checking Things Out

I can’t stand it any longer. My bladder’s about to burst like a wicked rhinoceros. I force myself to go into the locker room to pee. As I wash my hands, I try to avoid making eye contact with Skinny Sally, who is completely nude except for her hair dryer, and now friendly as can be.

I sit down on a bench to compose myself.

When I look up, there’s a 95-year-old naked woman, Wrinkled Rhonda, two inches away from my face.

Day 5 – Real Time Versus Gym Time

I keep switching treadmills, but they are all defective. There’s no way I’ve only been working out for 17 minutes. It’s been at least an hour. I try to focus on what I’ll write my column about next week. If I’m thinking about work, can I bill for my time? I would call my accountant, but the gym has gotten very strict about enforcing their no cell phone policy on the gym floor and in the locker rooms–and I don’t have an accountant. Earlier today, Wrinkled Rhonda was naked in the hallway, taking a call from her great great great great grandson.

Day 6 – Power Reading

I have an epiphany. If you read while you’re on the treadmill, the time goes by faster. I should be reading War and Peace for my book club, but Bolkonski and Tolstoy are a lot less compelling than finding out what’s going on with Carmen Electra and Joan Jett.

Is reading the “National Enquirer” at the gym the same as reading it in the grocery store? I’m pretty sure that as long as you read it standing up, then it doesn’t have any calories.

Day 7 — Look Out

I’ve discovered something else about reading at the gym. I can’t read with my glasses and I can’t see other people without them. This is good and bad. My sister still hasn’t forgiven me for not recognizing her the other day. Give me a break. She was pretty sweaty, and very blurry.

On the other hand, if I don’t make eye contact with my high school homecoming date over there on the elliptical machine, maybe he won’t recognize me. Of course I’m twice the woman I was back then–hence the gym membership–so there’s no way he’d recognize me.

I remember from theatre arts that if you’re backstage and you can’t see the audience, they can’t see you either. I wonder if this is how it works at the gym? Maybe I should just take off my glasses when I look at the scale and forget about the gym completely.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound March 30, 2007