Tag Archives: humor column

Decisions, Decisions …

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Wheat ThinsIt’s the Wheat Thins that get me every time. The anxiety starts as soon I walk down the cracker aisle. Should I go for the low sodium or the reduced fat? The ranch flavor looks good too, but the Harvest Five-Grain Wheat Thins are on sale. What’s the difference between those and the multi-grain kind again?

Before I know it, my head is spinning with visions of calorie and cost calculations and cheese combinations and I’ve spent 17 minutes that I don’t have to spare talking to myself and staring at a shelf full of crackers. What are Chicken in a Biscuits? How do they get them in there?

Am I the only one who has problems making such mundane decisions?

Apparently not.

Decision-making is a source of stress for enough people that you can actually get a degree in Decision Science these days. Evidently Carnegie Mellon University is one of the leading centers in the world for studying decision-making, so I checked out their website to see if they could help me.

No luck. Apparently in order to learn how to make decisions scientifically there are lots of math classes involved, which seems like it would take way too much math. If I could calculate things in my head faster, then I wouldn’t have any problem making simple decisions.

There are some decisions–whether or not to quit a job, have a baby, color your hair, lie about whether you ate that last piece of See’s Candy–that should require a little bit of agonizing over. I’m not talking about those kinds of decisions. But agonizing over what kind of crackers to buy can’t possibly be normal. Right?

I turned to the experts.

Psychiatrist Lynne Tan says it is. “People agonize about the consequences of their decisions. There’s always the fear of getting it wrong.”

“Beware of excessive choice: choice overload can make you question the decisions you make before you even make them, it can set you up for unrealistically high expectations, and it can make you blame yourself for any and all failures. In the long run, this can lead to decision-making paralysis, anxiety, and perpetual stress. And, in a culture that tells us that there is no excuse for falling short of perfection when your options are limitless, too much choice can lead to clinical depression,” according to Barry Schwartz, Ph.D., author of The Paradox of Choice: Why More is Less.

The only time I really feel depressed about having too many choices is when I realize how much time I’ve wasted trying to make a choice that ultimately, won’t really make that much difference. So the Honey Wheat Thins might clash a little bit with the spicy pepper jack cheese. Is that really worth spending another minute of my life thinking about? I think not.

According to Dr. Schwartz’s book, most “good” decisions involve these steps: Figuring out your goal or goals; evaluating the importance of each goal; arraying the options; evaluating how likely each of the options is to meet your goals; and picking the winning option. The easy to remember acronym for this is FEAEP. You then use the FEAEP results modify your goals, the importance you assign them, and the way you evaluate future possibilities.

What the FEAEP? I’m sorry, but the consequence of making decisions using that technique would be that I’d spent my entire life talking to myself while wandering the aisles at the grocery store.

From now I’ve got a new decision-making technique–the Coin Of Destiny (COD, patent pending).

I can’t believe it took me so long to decide on this method. It’s so simple. I should have thought of this years ago. Pick a coin. Don’t spend more than three minutes picking out the right coin. If you’re tempted, close your eyes and pick the first coin you touch. Now it’s time to make your next decision. Flip the coin. If you don’t like the outcome of the flip, take the opposite choice. It’s a nearly foolproof approach.

Oh, and if you don’t have a coin handy, check out www.flipacoin.net, a virtual coin flipping site which offers a choice of 91 different coins from 28 different countries.

Come to think of it, the Eeny Meany Miney Mo Of Destiny (EMMMOD, patent pending) might just be the way to go. I’ll decide later.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound

Embracing the joys of laziness

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The Joy of LazinessPreparing to embark on a week of holiday leisure, I inventoried my reading material and came across the book I’ve been waiting for my whole life. It’s called The Joy of Laziness. The early bird may get the worm, but late sleepers live longer, according to this wonderful book by German Scientists Peter Axt and Michaela Axt-Gadermann.

You hear that, mom–and every single boss who has dared to give me the stink eye when I stumbled in a few minutes late because I needed that triple latte more than I needed to be on time–late sleepers live longer!

According to The Joy of Laziness, everybody has a limited amount of life energy at his or her disposal. The speed with which this energy is consumed determines your life span. Every day we encounter countless demands on our energy, such as stress, hurry, frustration, cold, sleep deprivation, poor nutrition and an inappropriate fitness regimen. A lifestyle that uses a lot of energy accelerates the aging process, makes you more susceptible to illness, and can even shorten your life.

In other words, laziness rocks! And I’m not the only one who thinks so. I’ve got German scientists behind me on this.

My theory is that the only reason we don’t embrace our laziness more openly–and less guiltily–is those darn pilgrims. All that nonsense about every hour needing to be spent productively and idle hands being the devil’s workshop is just that: nonsense.

Most men I know already embrace the laziness rocks theory. They don’t even notice the dust bunnies hopping off the sofa as they plop themselves on to it. And it would never occur to them to wash the dishes immediately after a meal, or fold clothes as soon as they come out of the laundry. They may be on to something there.

The women I know, on the other hand, have an almost impossible time relaxing just for the heck of it. They join book clubs, so they’ll have some justification to read for pleasure, and get dogs, so they’ll have an excuse to walk on the beach.

My friend Suzanne, who is a stay at home mom, says that she feels guilty for playing with her kids unless her house is perfectly spotless.

“You’re a stay at home MOM, not a stay at home MAID,” I reminded her. Her perfectly clean house always leaves me with a sense of wonder. That is, I wonder how much happier she would be if she stopped cleaning and took the time to read People Magazine, watch Grey’s Anatomy and play computer games like I do.

Nonessential household duties have no hold on me. I hate to do things like wash dishes and make beds when I know that the next day there’ll just be more dirty dishes and more unmade beds. Doing the same housework over and over again makes me feel like a hamster on a wheel to nowhere. Look, it’s a sink full of dishes. Look, it’s a sink full of dishes again! Ooh, look, the dishes are here again!

Sure it’s wonderful to have a clean house and a home cooked meal, but I would much rather write a few more stories and pay someone else to provide those things for me. Especially since the domestic arts are not exactly where my talents lie.

I’ll confess, the worst grade I ever got in high school, I kid you not, was in home economics.

Admitting I’m not a domestic goddess takes a lot of the pressure off, especially this time of the year. One of the great advantages of not cooking–or not cooking well–is you get to be the one who brings wine and cheese and crackers to Thanksgiving dinner.

In addition to not having to ruin my makeup while slaving over a hot stove, there are actually intellectual advantages to idleness. According to the book How to Be Idle by Tom Hodgkinson, Einstein launched his theory of relativity by wondering what it would be like to ride on a sunbeam; Newton discovered gravity while sitting in an orchard; and the Harry Potter character popped into J.K. Rowling’s mind as she was gazing out a train window.

I’ll be counting my blessings that a few more people have figured out that laziness rocks, and also makes you healthier, smarter and more creative. And by the way, have you read the latest positive news about dark chocolate and red wine? We’ve got a lot to be grateful for this Thanksgiving–except for those stupid Pilgrims.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound.

Aliens among us

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Captain_Underpants_Talking_ToiletsOnce upon a time I imagined raising my child in an exquisitely gender-neutral environment. None of this pink for girls, blue for boys stuff. I was sure I would raise a boy exactly the same way I would have raised a girl.

Then I actually had a child.

As the epidural wore off, reality kicked in. I had joined the MOB. I was the Mother Of a Boy. Nature, nurture, schmurture. I quickly discovered how little it mattered what I did.

Koss took about five minutes to decide he liked his stuffed football better than his teddy bear and another three to decide that peeing in my face was hysterically funny.

The fart jokes started about ten minutes after that, and seven years later, I’m still holding my breath.

He had his own little alien personality from the very beginning.

I had pictured us cuddled under a bright yellow comforter, sharing my favorite books from childhood. Nancy Drew, Little House on the Prairie, Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret?…yeah, right. Our bedtime reading was filled with Dinosaur stats and Pokemon facts. His boy-brain was so hungry for straight information, I felt lucky if our story time involved any story narratives at all.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I joined the MOB, it’s that boys are actually alien beings. Their brains work differently than ours do. Apparently anything that moves fast is cool; anything that moves fast and is somehow gross is super cool; and anything that moves fast, is gross, and remotely resembles a snort, a burp, or a fart is super duper cool.

Oh, and there is nothing funnier than laughing until milk spurts out of your nose–and if it’s chocolate milk, it’s even funnier. And if you can somehow turn spurting chocolate milk out of your nose into a competitive sport with Olympic or Guinness Book potential, then half the world’s population would forever be in your debt.

This is not just a MOB observation, it’s scientific fact.

It is actually embedded in our DNA that when we go on vacation, I’m the only one who remembers to pack our suitcases with extra sweatshirts, toilet paper, snacks, books, light bulbs, sunscreen, magazines and the directions to our hotel, while my husband, Zak, is the only one who can figure out how to fit all that stuff in the trunk of our car.

And if for some reason Zak can’t get everything to fit, Koss is right there telling him how to do it.

Just like his father, Koss loves information. And just like his father, if he doesn’t know the right information, he’ll make something up.

We call it “Male Answer Syndrome” in our house.

My mom used to call it “Diarrhea of the Mouth,” which Koss finds hysterically funny.

Now that I’ve had seven years experience in the MOB, I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised to find that Koss would rather read the Encyclopedia of Spiders than Charlotte’s Web. If somebody wrote Captain Underpants and Attack of the Farting, Spitting and Barfing Spiders, Koss would really be in heaven.

So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the potty humor genre has become so popular. Books with titles like The Day My Butt Went Psycho, Captain Underpants and the Wrath of the Wicked Wedgie Woman, and Zombie Butts From Uranus! are somehow more attractive to boys than The Trumpet of the Swan, The Wind and the Willows, and From the Mixed up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.

“Well duh, mom, those don’t sound very funny,” MANswers my seven-year-old son.

“Captain Underpants is totally funny,” MANswers my 41-year-old husband. “Want to smell something gross?” asks Zak, targeting a gigantic fart in our direction and immediately sending our son into peals of laughter.

Like I said, they’re alien beings.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound.

Mag on the Rag

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fourweekslogoPunny magazine debuts for the hormonally challenged

There’s nothing like an unexpected visit from “Aunt Flo” to make a woman roar, snarl, growl, and howl. And howl I did–with laughter–when I heard about the new online women’s lifestyle publication, Four Weeks Magazine, which bills itself as “the first magazine tailored to each week of a woman’s monthly cycle.”

Yes, that’s right. I’m not talking bicycle or motorcycle or rinse cycle–I mean “that” cycle. Reading through the press release, my cramps and chocolate cravings began almost immediately. I had to find out more about this new rag (www.fourweeksmag.com).

Is it just another bloody online magazine? I thought Divorce Magazine (www.divorcemag.com) and Modern Drunkard (www.moderndrunkardmagazine.com) were gimmicky, but Four Weeks takes the old “if it bleeds, it leads” adage to a new level. It’s actually four mini magazines for each of the four weeks of a woman’s monthly hormone cycle and “the distinct moods that her hormones have her feeling during those weeks.” Week 1 is “fun and familiar;” week 2, “exciting and exotic;” week 3, “cautious and caring;” and week 4, “indulgent and introspective.”

But what about “pimply-faced and pissed off?” And what happens if you happen to have a 5-week cycle? Would you be stuck without anything to read? Maybe that’s where “bloated and bitchy” kicks in.

Four Week’s founder and editor Gabrielle Lichterman is the former managing editor of Playgirl magazine, the author of “28 Days: What Your Cycle Reveals about Your Love Life, Moods, and Potential” and a member of The Society for Menstrual Cycle Research. Who knew? All of the grief that woman get from men for traipsing into public restaurants like we were boarding Noah’s Ark, and we could have just told our guys we were going to a “society meeting.”

Talk about giving Martha and Oprah a run for their money. This chick is also the founder of her own science, Hormonology, “the science of predicting your day and planning your life according to one’s own hormone cycle.” Not to be catty, but does this mean we can blame Condi Rice’s hormones for the situation in the Middle East?

Grrr…

According to Lichterman, “Women can gain an advantage by planning their life around their hormonal influences. For example, it makes sense to plan high-energy activities during the week a woman’s hormones make her energy and endurance peak and to plan mellow activities during the week a woman’s hormones make her feel sedate and tired.”

So all of that hard work that women have done the past century to prove that we’re rational creatures not ruled by hormones goes up in smoke? I asked my husband what he thought about all this, and he said, “Yes, dear. You’re smart and pretty.” Okay, maybe not everything’s gone up in smoke.

Now nobody wants a Rorschach Inkblot on their white organza bridal gown, but Lichterman has taken wedding planning to a whole new level and produced “a hormonal guide to picking the perfect wedding date,” with week 4 flagged as a “Bridezilla warning!” week because “descending hormones produce a rise in noradrenaline, a chemical that triggers anger and irritation. At the same time, decreasing estrogen is making it hard to put a positive spin on anything.”

As if one’s mood swings could be so easily predictable, I snarled.

I’d like to go with the flow, but do you think it’s possible that your hormones could get so out of whack that you begin to feel like you live your whole life in week four? It sure would excuse…I mean, explain, a lot.

And if I, or my evil twin sister, were to be living in a perpetual week 4 hormonal hell, what should I be reading? Certainly not news headlines. Instead, the shopping section of Four Weeks offers a story on “Killer Candy Bowls.” No, not my mom’s childhood tales of Halloween razor blades in the Milky Ways (perhaps she was in week 4 and just really needed the chocolate caramely nougat)–these are actually really cool looking bowls made out of recycled plastic candy wrappers by Nepalese artisans and sold fair trade by a non-profit organization that provides health care services in rural Nepal and Vietnam. Where’s the comedy in that?

This magazine might actually be kind of useful. There’s an article on “How your guy’s hormone cycle can bring you closer,” which features nifty tidbits like: “When a man watches a romantic movie, it raises the level of his progesterone by more than 10 percent, making him mellow and more nurturing.” So it’s not just because he thinks he might get lucky.

The food section has an article on “The surprising ways candy can be good for your health.” Is it just my hormones, or am I actually starting to like this woman? Unlike the typical women’s magazines, which recommend either healthy diets and exercise or plastic surgery and expensive baubles, this article prescribes eating caramels for stress, licorice for bloating, peppermints for coughing and congestion, and my personal favorite, chocolate for cancer.

It’s hard to growl too much about that. Meow.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound

MONOPOLY Goes Modern

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Would you like fries with that labradoodle?

Mr. MonopolyIf I were dead, I’d be rolling over in my grave right now. But since I’m not, I’ll have to settle on rolling my eyes along with every kid who ever suffered through a rainy day MONOPOLY marathon, which is basically every kid and ex-kid in America.

Love it or hate it–and I feel a little bit of both whenever I play–MONOPOLY is a sacred part of our culture. Everybody plays. You play because your little sister bugs you till you say yes. You play because you can’t go outside because it’s raining or they’re spraying Naled. You play because it’s Christmas vacation, you’ve already tortured your little sister, and you don’t have anything else to do. You play because you don’t want to play strip poker with grandma. You play because there’s nothing else your family can agree to do together.

And now, it pains me to say this, MONOPOLY–the most popular board game in history, with more than 250 million copies sold–has gone commercial.

I know it seems an ironic complaint to make about a game that glorifies capitalism and has aggressively licensed versions from Armyopoly to X-Menopoly. I think we still have a version of Santa Barbopoly around here somewhere.

But despite these transgressions, one part of the game remained sacred: the tokens. You may abhor the game, or make up your own rules to make it go faster, but everyone has a favorite MONOPOLY token, and it never feels quite right when you’re forced to play with your second favorite.

Parker Brothers, the game’s manufacturer, has even done a nationwide analysis and found that certain personality traits are associated with certain MONOPOLY tokens. You’ve got your wheelbarrows, who are always prepared to take in loads of easily maneuverable money; your canons who are constantly aiming to make a big noise; your race cars, who drive hard deals in their negotiations; your shoes, who trod their way patiently around the board; and your top hats, who simply want to own it all.

Not only do we get attached to our game tokens, they’re also educational. The only iron–and for that matter, the only thimble–my son has ever seen is the one in his MONOPOLY game. And now, or rather “Here & Now” which is the name of the new edition, they’ve gone corporate.

Instead of traveling along the board as a battleship, you can now trudge along as a Motorola RAZR cell phone, McDonald’s fries, Starbucks coffee, a Toyota Prius or a New Balance sneaker. The trendy labradoodle is the least commercial of the new tokens, which also include an unbranded laptop computer and passenger jet.

I could understand the branding better if Parker Brothers was suffering through hard times. Toys aren’t the big sell they once were and board games are in danger of going the way of the Pteranodons. Kids are now electronic game experts in preschool and two-dimensional toys have a tough time competing for attention when there’s a super-surround-sound-mega-amazing Game Boy in the room. Or so I’m told. My poor deprived child, as he constantly reminds me, has to play with books and balls and art supplies most of the time, so he’d probably be glad to play something that actually came with instructions.

But believe it or not, this commercialization of MONOPOLY has nothing to do with sponsor money. McDonald’s, Starbucks, and the others did not pay for product placement fees. Yes, you read that right: they got the brands on there for free. They are simply there to represent a sign of the ubiquitous branding of American life. According to the company, MONOPOLY: Here & Now Edition was designed to answer the question: “What would the most popular board game of all time look like if it were invented today instead of in 1935?”

In addition to giving the old shoe the boot in favor of a New Balance running sneaker and trading in the terrier for a labradoodle, there are new properties with inflated prices (landing on Times Square with a hotel will cost $20 million), larger currency denominations, airports replacing railroads and more modern utilities like internet service replacing the old water works. I guess you can always buy your Evian online.

The Chance and Community Chest cards have also been updated. Instead of winning $10 in a beauty contest, you can now win $100,000 in a reality TV show, and when you go to jail, it’s for identity theft and insider trading. Oh, and when you pass GO, you collect $2 million dollars. Not bad for a few hours work.

 

 

 

Matt Collins, Vice President of Marketing for Parker Brothers, says, “For the past 70 years, millions of Americans have tasted the thrill of ‘owning it all’ by playing MONOPOLY. The new MONOPOLY: Here & Now Edition allows aspiring real estate tycoons to enjoy an elevated game play experience that more closely matches today’s America.”

So $2 million for passing GO matches today’s America? I hope my editor reads this. I’m gonna ask for a raise.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound

A Sugarcoated Lesson on Navigating the News

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Image: Jon S, Flickr.com

Image: Jon S, Flickr.com

Certain Santa Barbarians, who shall remain nameless for fear of lawsuits, seem to be having a humongous amount of difficulty understanding what constitutes the difference between a news story, an opinion piece and a column. So, as a public service for the seven of you who don’t have the benefit of high school journalism experience, I offer this column as an attempt to help clarify the differences.

Not to put the seven of you on the spot or anything, but this very morning I explained the difference between fiction and nonfiction to my second grade reading group, and they got it in about three seconds. I also apologize in advance for the complexity and sophistication of my examples, but not every story can be about animals.

News–Candy Kidnapper Strikes Again

Chief Johnny B. Good addressed a crowd of reporters at a press conference yesterday about the recent rash of candy thefts at local schools. “The good news is that children are eating less candy. Without all that sugar zipping through their brains they are able to concentrate better on their schoolwork, which will ultimately bring in more taxes to increase our salaries. The bad news is that there appears to be a serial candy thief in our community, and we won’t be able to catch him until we have higher salaries.”

According to data presented by Good, since September 1 a total of 103 pounds of candy have been stolen from local schools, including: 19 Abba Zabbas; 13 Big Hunks; 11 Mars Bars; 59 Snickers Bars; 52 Rolo Rolls; 27 bags of plain M & Ms; 11 $100,000 Bars; 39 Oh Henry’s; 17 Butterfingers, and one still-fresh Twinkie which had been stapled to the wall of a 5th grade classroom at Harding School since 1978.

Other schools reporting candy thefts include Montecito Union, Monte Vista, Laguna Blanca and Garfield Elementary School, which has been closed for more than 30 years.

Anti-cavity activist and Dentist Wally Wonka, said, “Whoever the candy thief is, he should not be hunted down by the police, but rather he should be applauded for his valiant efforts to improve the dental health of the children in our community.”

Chief Good said there are no leads or suspects in the case yet, and encourages anyone with information to contact the police at 555.1234.

Opinion–Kudos for Kidnapper

Faster than an eating contest, more powerful than a ten-ton Big Mac, there’s an alarming problem facing our nation’s children and it’s called obesity. We have met the enemy, and then we et the enemy.

Sure we can force kids to take P.E. class instead of running around on a football field with all those silly instruments. And yes, we can also regulate the percentage of fat in the cafeteria’s chicken nuggets that no one ever eats anyway. But there’s a better way to fight this epidemic, and the Candy Kidnapper has found it.

As any parent knows, the only way to control kids these days is through fear. Make them so scared of the notorious Candy Kidnapper that not a single Skittle will ever again pass their lips.

We’ve tried facts–more than 30 percent of American children are considered overweight–and they’ve had absolutely no impact. We’ve tried force, like no dessert until you eat all of your vegetables, and they fed them to the dog when we weren’t looking. Now it’s time to try fear.

Column–A Sweet Confession

It all started with that teensy tiny Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup peeking out of that sweet little kindergartener’s Dora the Explorer lunch box. It was going to melt before lunchtime anyway, and then she would have had chocolate all over her pink polka dotted dress.

We certainly didn’t want that.

So I took it.

It was the best Reese’s I’ve ever had, and believe me; I’ve had a lot of Reese’s. Taking candy from that kid was like taking candy from a baby, only a slightly bigger baby.

That peanut butter cup was my gateway drug; once I got a taste I couldn’t stop myself. But the police got it wrong, I never took a Mars Bar: I hate coconut. And there’s no way it was 103 pounds. It was 97 pounds, at the most.

Nothing tastes better than stolen candy. You know what I mean. It’s Halloween and as a parent you’re forced to “inspect” your child’s loot for the good stuff, leaving them only the sour fruity crud to fight over.

If these kids weren’t so darn gullible they would still have their treats. Kindergarteners will fall for “Look, over there,” and even “share” their candy with you if you ask in a high squeaky voice.

Yeah, it’s a bit sinister, but it sure goes down sweet.

So the next time you read one of those rabble rousing newspaper stories, make sure you get your facts–and your fiction–straight.

Class, are there any questions? You can email Leslie at Email email

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound

Science Goddess, Hear me Roar!

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Image courtesy Wikipedia, creative commons.

Image courtesy Wikipedia, creative commons.

An introduction to the Leslie Science System

Quite frankly I’ve been confused about conventional science since elementary school, where I learned in English class that “i” goes before “e” except after “c,” and then it was time to open up our scIEnce textbooks.

I tried to participate in my junior high science fair, with what I thought was a brilliant and much-needed scientific investigation into which jokes are most likely to make my classmates laugh so hard they pee their pants in class or spurt milk out their noses in the cafeteria.

Believe it or not, my teachers quickly killed that line of scientific inquiry.

Darwin, babe, I feel your pain.

From that day on, I became more of a liberal arts kind of girl. Physics, schmysics–the only relationship I had with Newton was through his fig cookies, which in the Leslie Science System actually qualify as health food. Any food that substitutes bowel cleansing fruit filling for chocolate does not qualify as a cookie.

While not everyone buys into it yet–hey, relativity wasn’t an easy sell for Einstein either–the Leslie Science System has served me well over the years. Particularly when it comes to dealing with my husband, who is one of those oddball people who believes in using logic to win arguments. I say there’s nothing wrong with choosing the cutest doctor to deliver your baby, since you’ll be spending so much time together. Or voting for a particular political candidate because you think that Jon Stewart will have a lot of fun mocking him for the next four years.

The Leslie Science System is also great for procedural explanations. I’ve used it to explain to my husband the proper way to light a birthday cake’s candles (Leslie math: your age plus “one to grow on”) or to clarify why it costs $500 every time I go to Costco (Leslie’s law: for every item you put on your Costco list, you will stumble on seven other items you can’t live without).

It’s the same kind of highly evolved logic that comes into play when you buy new sheets for your bed, and then have to replace the carpet and the dressers and the curtains and the husband because the new sheets made them look shabby.

It is also the same kind of advanced thinking required to understand the intricacies of preparing to go on a diet (eat a lot for at least two weeks before, so that the first few pounds will come off easily and encourage you to stay on your diet).

It’s really quite simple once you understand the system. It’s science, Leslie style.

Still, man, given the slow speed in which the world embraces new scientific methods such as the Leslie Science System, I was quite surprised when I was recently asked to write two children’s science books. Perhaps this would be my opportunity to revolutionize the world of children’s books. Perhaps people were finally coming around to my way of thinking.

Imagine my surprise when my editor told me I had to do actual research on spiders and volcanoes and include actual facts in my stories.

“You mean I can’t just make stuff up, I mean use the Leslie Science System, like I do in my column? I really think it’s catching on,” I told him.

“Sure you can,” said my editor. “But I won’t pay for it.”

So I bit the bullet, wrote the books, and cashed the checks. Now you can buy the books at www.lesliedinaberg.com. Just click on “read” for more information. After all, as my fellow unappreciated-during-his-lifetime scientist Einstein said, “Science is a wonderful thing if one does not have to earn one’s living at it.”

“Not only is the universe stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine…” and strange as it may seem, Leslie really did publish two science books this summer. . Email email

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 15. 2006.

A Tale of Two Trips

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Family travel by Traveloscopy, courtesy Flickr.com.

Family travel by Traveloscopy, courtesy Flickr.com.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of childhood, it was the age of parenthood, it was the epoch of excitement, it was the epoch of dullness, it was the season of laughter, it was the season of bickering.

It was August, and it was family vacation time.

It is not often that a 30-12-year-old woman has the opportunity to vacation separately with her family of origin (mom, dad, and 30-10-year-old sister) and her family of record (husband and 7-year-old son)–and certainly not within the course of a week.

There are reasons that these double family vacations haven’t really caught on. Most people have a lot more common sense than I do.

This kind of travel time warp doubleheader is definitely not for the faint of heart, stomach or ear.

Traveling with Zak and Koss (my husband and son, or my “roomies”) is always an adventure into the great unknown. Each new phase of our son’s maturity comes without warning, so we never know how he’s going to behave from vacation to vacation. One summer he was napping through five-hour car trips and the next it was, “Are we there yet?” “I’m hungry,” “Can I get a toy?” and “Are we there yet?” every two seconds.

On the other hand, traveling with my parents and sis (my “homies”) is an adventure into the well-trodden paths of the past. My whole life flashed before me many times during the week, and not just in deja vu over the ultra-competitive card games and battles over the shower schedule. When my dad is behind the wheel, you take your life into your hands. Other people dream of snakes on a plane, but the only scarier thing I can imagine besides dad driving in the rain, in the dark, on unfamiliar Colorado mountain roads, is his reaction to having my sister and mom point out that he just drove over the median strip and wouldn’t he rather let one of them drive instead?

Unlike the rest of my homies, I have no illusions about my driving skills, although I do often wonder whether to attribute them to nature or nurture. My dad deserves credit for teaching me to use the brakes on an empty freeway, and my mom (otherwise known as “GPS Joannie”) gives my dad at least a 33-mile heads up every time he is within a half an hour of the next required turn. With this gene pool to draw on, it’s hard for me to believe that my husband doesn’t appreciate my navigational skills when we travel down unfamiliar highways.

Should I be insulted that on our recent trip up the coast–take Highway One for a million, zillion, windy, narrow miles, then look for the signs to Monterey–Zak trusted the map to our second grader, rather than rely on the Dinaberg sense of direction? Not only did Koss get us to our hotel without a single wrong turn, he managed to avoid all cries of “Are we there yet?” by plugging himself into DVDs, books (“Snakes in a Car,” anyone?), and inexplicably, the soundtrack from “Rent,” while skillfully shunning exposure to any of that pesky scenery that his dad and I find so appealing.

Despite our differing levels of enthrallment with the Pacific Ocean, for the rest of our trip, my roomies and I were in perfect sync on almost everything. This was the first vacation I can remember where we were able to choose our restaurants without the added consideration of what kind of toy came with the kid’s meal. I could lose sight of my son for more than a second without feeling the symptoms of a heart attack, and wishing I had the nerve to use one of those kid leashes. Sure I was still the parent, but my roomies and I could be buddies too, equally sharing in the coolness of the aquarium’s jellyfish and our amusement at the sea lions that “wrestled” right under our noses at one waterfront restaurant.

Traveling with my homies, on the other hand, brought out my inner teenager. I couldn’t help but bristle a little when, for each and every outing (including going downstairs to the hotel gym) my mom made sure I had a sweater and a room key. And while we didn’t have to sneak the champagne at this particular family wedding, mom did hand me my place card, decide when it was time to leave, and remind me to make sure to go pee and say thanks to my host and hostess.

On the other hand, traveling with my homies allowed me to bask in the magic of uninterrupted sleep in the morning and uninterrupted reading time in the afternoon. I had almost forgotten what a pleasure it was to read a single book in the course of a day, and not be responsible for anyone else’s teeth, clothes or bedtime story. While I spend plenty of time with my homies year round, it was nice to be able to have the luxury of long, adult conversations about art, politics, and family. OK, so it was People Magazine versus Us, Hilary Clinton’s hair, and how funny it was to see Grandma Evie dancing to “My Hump,” … but nobody interrupted us to ask for dessert or needing help with the TV remote. Except my dad, that is.

It’s funny how going on vacation with your parents can make you feel both old and young at the same time. Come to think of it, so can spending time with your kids.

Is Leslie the only one crazy enough to try a roomie/homie doubleheader? Let her know at email

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 1, 2006.

Harvard Schmarvard

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Harvard University, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Harvard University, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

I used to think that people who had degrees from Harvard had arrived into the elite upper echelon of higher education. Like most people who have seen Love Story, and Good Will Hunting, I pictured Harvard guys a certain way. Preppy, sophisticated, erudite and of course, rich.

Then I met my husband.

It’s not that the guy isn’t witty or smart–I married him, didn’t I? It’s just that he isn’t exactly any of those other things that I had previously associated with a Harvard education. People have a surprised reaction whenever they find out where Zak went to school. It is probably because he looks like more of a UC Santa Cruz kind of guy, or one of those kids in that new movie, Accepted, who invents their own college when they can’t get in anywhere else. People are either appalled, like my cousin Todd, who coughed up an entire six pack when he found out Zak went to Harvard; or impressed, like my friend Sienna, who immediately suggested she take us out to an expensive dinner so she could start sucking up to get her four-year-old son in.

I was actually impressed by Zak’s Harvard pedigree when we first met. That is until I realized that despite his English degree, he’s better schooled in the works of Stephen King than he is in those of F. Scott Fitzgerald. And that he would never deign to actually use any of those seven figure college connections to, oh say, try to get a frickin’ job.

Needless to say, we’ve developed a friendly collegiate rivalry over the years, though it’s not really much of a competition. My alma mater, UCLA, continues to stack up basketball and football championships while Harvard alumni rule the lesser worlds of politics and Nobel prizes. Clearly I come from the superior school.

Did I mention that with only a minor in English and a major in frat boys, I’ve read more classic literature than my husband, Mr. English Degree from Harvard, ever did? Or that MY college loans have been paid off for more than a decade? And that there’s never been an American president who went to UCLA?

Despite the clear superiority I feel in being a Bruin, I have to admit I took a little bit of pleasure in this week’s Time Magazine cover story, titled “Who Needs Harvard?” Especially when the next day’s news logged a defeat for Harvard in the U.S. News and World Report college rankings, which rates Princeton over its Ivy League rival. That UCLA was ranked number 26 didn’t faze me a bit, as my husband gently pointed out. We Bruins know better than to put our faith in things like college rankings, unless they are from the NCAA.

While the U.S. News and World Report rankings take things like endowments into account, there’s more to a great college experience than sitting in a beautiful library. What about sitting in a library full of beautiful people? UCLA’s close proximity to Hollywood and Southern California’s year-round sunshine make for an exceptionally photogenic student body. Score one for UCLA.

Then there’s our superior five squirrel rating. According to the annual rankings published by Academic Squirrels of California and Beyond (www.gottshall.com/squirrels/campsq.htm) which uses the simple algorithm that the quality of an institution is directly related to the number of squirrels on its campus, the size, girth and health of UCLA’s squirrel population is second only to the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. And that’s only because those squirrels have had 156 years of federal government protection. And they got extra squirrel points for having Rocky and Bullwinkle as their mascots. Harvard ranks a lowly three on the squirrel-o-meter because squirrels, like everything else, tend to freeze their nuts in those unpleasant east coast winters.

Score two more for UCLA, for furry friends and weather.

Then there’s the school pride factor. While proud Bruin alumni line up alongside busloads of tourists to purchase the latest in bear wear fashions, you’ll never spot a real Harvard grad in a Harvard sweatshirt. It’s like they are too cool to admit it or something. When I went with Zak to his 10-year college reunion, they gave us crimson hats that said “HR class of 1987,” like it was a secret code or something! What could possibly be so great about a school that people don’t want to admit they went to?

Finally, though, it all comes down to mascots. UCLA has the bruin. A bear. How cool is that? Harvard has crimson. A color. A color you have to have a degree from Harvard to identify. Crimson is the color a Harvard student’s nose turns when he’s out in the snow trying to cheer on his sorry excuse for a football team.

Harvard Schmarvard, indeed.

When Leslie’s not out in the sunshine, cheering on the Bruins, she can be reached at email

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 25, 2006.

Why Do Men Have Nipples

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Why do Men Have Nipples? BookWhy? Because it’s an awfully catchy title.

The screaming titles in the window of Barnes & Noble caught my eye: “Why Do Men Have Nipples?” and its sequel, “Why Do Men Fall Asleep After Sex?” by humorist Mark Leyner and Dr. Billy Goldberg. Sure, “Dr. Billy” sounds like he should be playing with a plastic stethoscope, but I could forgive him his name if the books actually delivered the answers to these mysterious questions. After all, the obstetrician that delivered my son was Dr. Howie Mandel, and I’ve almost gotten over that one.

Did these books really have the answers to these long-pondered questions that had been taking up my valuable brain space for almost as long as, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” I decided to investigate.

Since the books are subtitled, respectively, “Hundreds of Questions You’d Only Ask a Doctor After Your Third Martini” (nipples) and “More Questions You’d Only Ask a Doctor After Your Third Whiskey Sour” (sleep), I decided to pour myself a glass of wine and ponder the imponderable in my quest for factoid fun.

The merlot seemed like a good choice, given my history of falling asleep after my third glass of just about anything resembling a martini and the fact that we had no whiskey in the house. Does anyone actually know how to make a whiskey sour anymore? It sounds like something Dudley Moore drank in “10.”

Like most college graduates, I had already spent countless drunken hours contemplating the mystery of why men have nipples, and unless I had missed a memo, knew that that answer was an unsatisfying, “nobody really knows.”

Just to be sure, I double-checked. According to the authors, while only females have mammary glands, we all start out in a similar way in the embryo. The embryo follows a female template until about six weeks, when the male sex chromosome kicks in. At that point males have already developed nipples.

It takes men six weeks to develop nipples, but at 40 years old, my husband still has to be reminded how to wipe the sink down properly after shaving and put the seat down after peeing? I’ve got a few ideas for Dr. Billy’s next title, like “Why Are Men Such Babies When They Get Sick?” and “Why Can’t Men Write Down a Phone Message When There are Notepads All Over the House?” and “Why Did You Say You Were Listening to Me When Clearly You Weren’t?”

Actually, Dr. Billy has an answer for that last one. He says it’s not that men listen less than women. Get this, it’s that they listen “differently.” This sounds suspiciously like not keeping score in T- Ball and pretending the kids won’t know the difference. However, according to Dr. Billy, “Men use one side of their brain whereas women use both sides. And when men hear women’s voices they hear those voices in different areas of the brain than women — they hear women’s voices in the same area of the brain they use to process complex musical sounds — so you can extrapolate the women’s voices are more complex. … And more difficult for us to listen to.”

So women use our whole brain to listen and men only use half a brain when they listen to women. And why did that chicken cross the road? Maybe he wasn’t listening when his wife asked for directions.

When she’s not pondering life’s eternal questions, Leslie can be reached at email

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 18, 2006.