Category Archives: Columns

Leslie Dinaberg’s columns

The Attention Recession

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Photo Stuart Miles/freedigitalphotos.net

Photo Stuart Miles/freedigitalphotos.net

Lately I’ve had the uncomfortable sensation that someone, or something, has been tinkering with my brain, moving things around, connecting circuits and memories and synapses in ways they weren’t connected before. It’s not that I’m losing my mind exactly—though we do obsess about green tea, crossword puzzles, and red wine in our house, since Alzheimer’s runs in the family-but my mind is changing and I’m not thinking the way I used to think.

Getting completely immersed in a book or even a long magazine article used to be the most natural thing in the world for me. I’d spend hours happily adrift in a sea of prose. Now my concentration goes overboard after just a few pages. I get anxious and start looking for something else to do. And let’s face it, there’s always something else to do.

I blame it in part on the Web. I don’t want to diss it too much, since it supplies a large part of my income, and has made finding sources for stories a breeze, but it’s a huge time and attention vacuum. Even when I’m not working, I’m scanning Facebook and Twitter, reading and writing e-mails, fixing pictures in Photoshop, perusing headlines, watching videos or downloading podcasts.

Then there’s parenthood, an enemy of concentration if ever there was one. Since I became a mom I haven’t stopped multitasking. Even when I’m sleeping I’ve got one ear cocked to make sure my child is still breathing. And when my son is away from me, the other ear is always perched at attention in case the phone rings. It could be the emergency room, or the school principal, or another parent calling to warn me about some horrible disease going through the school.

Yes, parenthood is awful for concentration, but great for the imagination, and that constant fear that something awful will happen now that you’ve got a great big piece of your heart walking around in the world without you.

“I call this concentration thing ‘Adult onset ADD,’ said my friend Angie. “It probably started with child number one, but has progressed rapidly since. Task completion is often difficult. Getting ready for the day involves not just the bathroom and closet, like in the old days. It generally includes the kitchen for breakfast and lunch making, homework signing, etc.; laundry room (gotta get a load going); home office to get the computer booted up for the day; and a ride to school for the ‘drop and run away quickly so I volunteer for anything’ of child number three. Most days I remember to take off my bunny slippers, but it’s a little embarrassing to get to the bagel shop and realize they’re still on. Hopefully I’ve remembered my bra.”

“We all forgot what it was like to finish a sentence, let alone a conversation, once we started bringing kids to social gatherings,” said my friend Tanya, handing me a glass of wine, which probably doesn’t help with my concentration, but does help with my mood.

My friend Janet sent me a text. “It starts with pregnancy and ‘Baby Brain.’ I believed everyone who said it was hormones and that it would get better when the baby was born. Wrong! Then we blamed it on ‘sleep deprivation.’ Then, when my child was a toddler, I figured it was because I was overwhelmed with watching her, Secret Service-style, every minute. But watch out, menopause is the worst,” she warned.

I’d lost my focus by that time.

Rather than blame the kid, I could blame it on technology. What it seems to be doing is chipping away my capacity for focused concentration and contemplation. My mind now expects to take in information the way the technology distributes it-as a swiftly moving stream of particles.

Or maybe my survival instinct kicked in when I read her menopause comment and it won’t allow my brain to go there yet.

I’ll have to think about that later when I have more time and I can concentrate.

When Leslie’s not struggling with adult onset whatchamacalit, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 15, 2009.

A Tale of Mice and Moms

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DisneylandI have to admit I was a little skeptical when I received the invitation to attend a “Mom Bloggers Day to Learn, Eat and Play at Disneyland.” I love Disneyland, and I like eating, playing and learning, and I am a mom and I do have a blog. But was I really a “mom blogger?” I wasn’t so sure. First of all, I have no idea what they call themselves. Moggers? Bloms?

At the same time, there aren’t too many perks for members of the press these days-unless you count all of those forwarded articles about the demise of the newspaper business from my college friends who I accused of “selling out” when they went to law school-so when I read the words “free admission for your whole family” I was sold, despite my apprehension about the words “mom bloggers.” Not that I have anything against these little moggers. But unlike them, I’m a working stiff, who doesn’t have the luxury of spending hours writing blogs only to be paid with cases of Rice-A-Roni, or even trips to Disneyland.

Okay, maybe I have a little bit of resentment toward the blommies because I actually make my living writing stories, meager though it may be. This isn’t just a hobby for me like it is for most mommygrrs, and I can’t help but remember what my mom used to say about not buying cows when you can get the milk for free.

But the waters are getting murky out there for journalists and bloggers alike. Back in the old days, reputable publications and journalists didn’t take any freebies. But the times are changing, and with barely enough money coming in to pay their writers, publishers are getting much more relaxed about letting their employees enjoy whatever perks they can get.

Just last week, The Wall Street Journal had a story about bloggers getting paid in hard, cold cash to pitch products, which used to be called public relations. According to the article, “Companies see the freebies and payments to bloggers as a cheap way to boost brand buzz during the recession.” It goes on to say that, “The Internet is becoming so rife with paid blogging that the Federal Trade Commission, which guards against false advertisements, is examining whether it should police bloggers.”

I decided to do some detective work of my own. I wasn’t just taking a free trip to Disneyland-albeit with absolutely no promise to them that I would write about them- I was doing some investigative reporting.

I was infiltrating the exciting world of mom bloggers.

Judging from my extremely unscientific sample survey of momoggers who came to Disneyland last week, the vast majority of them took their responsibility to report the objective facts about Disney’s “summer nightastic” plans very seriously. This is despite the fact that some of the mom bloggers had been buffed and bouffanted at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique; many had limbo-ed and conga-ed with Mickey’s crew in his Celebrate! Street Party parade; and all of us had indulged in the tasty “Cowboy Conecakes” served in Frontierland’s new Celebration Roundup & Barbecue restaurant. Seriously, no one turned them down. The presentation was very Martha Stewart, and the frosting to cake ratio was just right, which any self-respecting mom can certainly appreciate.

I struggled to keep my conecake enthusiasm in check, hardened professional that I am. But I couldn’t help but get a little giddy at the reserved front row seating we had for the parade (I could see the flop sweat on Pluto’s face, as he danced his goofy little heart out), and did a little happy dance when they gave us front of the line fast passes for “It’s a Small World,” “Toy Story Midway Mania” and “Finding Nemo Submarine Voyage,” none of which have regular fast passes available to the hoi polloi.

I tried to keep my excitement on the down low as I listened to the mom bloggers talk about some of the biggest issues on their websites.

“Our most lively discussions are always about breastfeeding,” said one of the mooggers, who happened to be 15 months pregnant.

“Not our site,” said a perky blonde. “It’s all about whether or not to go back to work. The great stay at home debate.”

“Not that anyone can afford to stay at home with their kids these days,” offered a tall brunette blogger, in purple sequined Minnie Mouse ears.

Seeing my opening, I pounced. “So do you any of you get paid for writing your blogs?” I asked. They all looked at me like I was crazy. “Does 500 cases of laundry detergent count?” asked a sweet-faced woman with exceptionally clean clothes.

They continued their conversation without missing a beat. It was fascinating, it was fun, and best of all-it was free.

I still don’t know if I’m really a mom blogger. But if you want to know the specifics about all of the new attractions at Disneyland, you can read about them on my, ahem, blog.

When Leslie’s on deadline, or blogging, mogging or tweeting, or on Facebook, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 1, 2009.

The wheaty taste of niche gone nuts

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Wheat ThinsWe have so many choices, yet so few of them are really important.

But that doesn’t stop the marketers from giving us more to choose from. We live in an age of niche marketing gone nuts. There’s actually a $47 marketing book that people presumably pay for, called “Niche Marketing on Crack!” I’m not kidding. Look it up. That’s how insane it’s gotten.

There’s a desperate battle going on for shelf space and brain space, space on your bookshelf and space on your DVR. Just the other day I went shopping and looked for Wheat Thins. Remember Wheat Thins? Square, thin, made out of wheat. They used to be pretty simple. Not any more.

They still have the original Wheat Thins, but there’s also a reduced fat kind; there’s one with a “hint of salt,” then you have the fiber selects type in garden vegetable or 5-grain; the big size, which are the same as the original only bigger; the multi-grain kind, not to be confused with the 100 whole grain type; the sundried tomato and basil flavor, not to be confused with the parmesan basil flavor; not to mention the cream cheese and chives, the ranch flavor, the reduced fat roasted garlic and herb flavor, the reduced fat country French onion, and the new artisan cheese Wheat Thins, in white cheddar or colby flavors.

I’m not kidding. There are also the toasted Wheat Thins chips, which come in a few more flavors, but in bags, rather than boxes. Plus they have all these flavors of Wheat Thins in at least three different sized boxes, plus the 100-calorie packs and the slightly larger lunch packs, and that’s not even counting the ginormous boxes of Wheat Thins you can buy at Costco.

You can see how this all gets to be exhausting.

I took my son to Barnes and Noble and Chaucer’s yesterday because he had gift certificates for both. The Maximum Ride book he wanted was available in hardcover or paperback, which we expected, but also a larger trade paperback which had a nicer cover and cost a dollar more, so he had to decide about that. But even though the book said it was number one in the series, we later found out from his friend that it was number one in A SERIES but not number one in THE SERIES that he wanted because there were two other series he was supposed to read first. So, of course, he wanted to go back and get those.

And because it was reading, and I like to encourage that, I took him back to the store. By this time I was ready for some escapist reading of my own, but trying to browse a bookstore for plain old fiction is just about impossible these days. Did I want literature, romance, mystery, best sellers or book club favorites? What about women’s fiction or an Oprah’s selection? By the time we got out of there my brain was too fried to curl up with anything other than a nice stiff gin and tonic, because there was no way I could possibly decide which bottle of wine I was going to open at that point.

Then I flipped through the cable music channels trying to find some music to listen to. Can someone please explain the difference between adult alternative rock and adult album alternative?

When I was a kid, everyone watched The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family because there was nothing else even remotely appropriate for us to watch on TV at night. Now we have so many cable stations I can’t keep them straight. Forget channel surfing, I need GPS on my TV.

I couldn’t figure out which music I wanted, but then I stumbled on the Food Network’s Home Shopping Channel.

Guess what they were featuring? Wheat Thins.

When Leslie’s not being bewildered by “Marketing on Crack!” she’s usually on her computer, at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published on April 24, 2009 in the the Santa Barbara Daily Sound. For more columns visit LeslieDinaberg.com.

The Blessings of Boredom

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(Ambro, freedigitalphotos.net)

(Ambro, freedigitalphotos.net)

“I’m bored.”

Ask any parent and they’re sure to tell you that these are the two most irritating words you can hear come out of a child’s mouth. More annoying than “Are we there yet?” and more ubiquitous than “five more minutes,” when a child says he’s bored it’s enough to drive any over-scheduled, multi-tasking adult crazy-especially since most of us would sell our souls for a day of guilt-free, free time.

Even though he’s rolling his eyes like he’s bored, I try to explain to my son that the concept of labeling a huge part of human experience as “boring” is a relatively new phenomenon. “Think about how hard people used to have to work simply to survive. Taking care of the cows and the pigs and fields required rising at the crack of dawn, while preparing meals without microwaves and running water and mending clothes so they would survive another winter kept people busy well into the night,” I tell him. He fake snores in response to my diatribe.

Hmmm, that went well. What’s even more surprising to me is that it’s my kid who has a problem with this, as my husband is a master of playing with himself.

“Why can’t we play on the computer or watch TV?” he asks for what feels like the 900th time.

“You’ve got friends over. You’re supposed to entertain each other. Go outside and climb a tree, run around, make up a game.”

Finally, blessedly, they do.

And they’re happy and they’re stimulating their minds and tiring out their bodies just like kids were meant to do.

But we have this “I’m bored” conversation more often than we should, primarily when other kids come over to play and I refuse to let them plug in to the television or the computer. So far we’ve resisted the Nintendo marketing cry in our house, but if we ever do give in (who am I kidding – when we do), I can guarantee I’ll be that mean old mom who won’t allow plugged in play dates.

There’s a huge upside to downtime and I worry that today’s kids are so overscheduled and over stimulated that they have no idea how to entertain themselves.

A survey by the University of Michigan found that in 1997 children between the ages of 3 and 12 had nearly eight hours less free time each week than they did in 1981. And I’m sure it’s only gotten worse. It’s no surprise that in a recent study approximately half of adolescents surveyed said they feel stressed out at least once a week. They’ve got too much on their plates. They need a little time to be bored.

But they also need some guidance from their parents so they can carve out the free time to explore, create, connect, contemplate or just be. Even a bit of intentional boredom stimulates creativity and can help children become more relaxed more self-sufficient and, ultimately, happier.

Instead of letting the phrase “I’m bored” send us scrambling for ways to stimulate, entertain or occupy our kids, I think we should try to embrace it. Children are like nature, they abhor a vacuum. Give them some do-nothing time and the odds are pretty good they’ll find an interesting way to fill it. Hopefully they’ll learn something, and even more hopefully very little property will be damaged.

The next time my son says, “I’m bored,” I’m going to try my best not to be annoyed. “That’s great,” I’ll say instead. “Have fun.”

When Leslie’s not fantasizing about having some guilt-free, free time of her own, she can be reached at email . Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 17, 2009. For more columns visit LeslieDinaberg.com.

Brag Hags

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There’s a bit of a Brag Hag in every mom.

Can’t you just picture Ghandi’s mother on the playground? “It’s the strangest thing, every time I give little Mahatma a snack, he starts passing it out to all the other kids.” Or Bill Gates’ mom: “Last night little Billy figured out a way to wire our freezer, microwave, and stereo together so we ate Lean Cuisines and listened to Raffi tunes with the push of a single button.”

Of course you can’t blame them. If my kids were that impressive I’d be taking out billboards to advertise their accomplishments. As it is, I have a hard time restraining myself in the “my kids are smarter, sweeter and better behaved than your kids” competition. Thankfully Grandma and Grandpa are around to enthrall with tales of Koss’s mastery of important life skills such as double digit scores in Boggle, eating three whole scrambled eggs and unloading the dishwasher without being asked 25 times.

I know my friends don’t want to hear it.

I still have nightmares about becoming like X, this woman from my preschool, who would greet me everyday with polite questions about how Koss was doing until finally, try though I would to resist, I would have to break down and ask about her kid.

The opportunity to crow about her son would magically transform this otherwise mild-mannered mom into the Brag Hag. Turning her eyes red with glee, she would snort and grimace and smack her lips together in delight and howl things like, “Can you believe little Wolverine has started reading and he’s only three? He insists on reading the newspaper headlines to us every morning. Isn’t that cute?”

“Adorable,” I would mutter, thinking her kid must be a total nerd.

Then she would start in about his tee-ball prowess and how many goals he scored in soccer, and how the other day he figured out that she was using too much flour in her chocolate chip cookies and thanks to little Wolverine’s recipe tweaks she’s sure she’ll win the Pillsbury Bake-Off this year. At that point I would tune out-or wake up in a cold sweat-depending on whether this was happening again in real life or just in a very, very, very bad dream.

I know I don’t want to be that mom.

While X was the extreme, it’s easy for moms to fall into competitive conversations, our claims getting more and more outrageous as the dialogue progresses (“Little Johnny sat up and sang ‘Take me out to the Ballgame’ the moment he was born.” “Oh yeah, well my little Abbie learned to speak 13 different Chinese dialects before she was two.”) The problem with these Brag Hag competitions is that no matter who “wins” we all go home secretly convinced that our little darlings are doomed to live lives of mediocrity since they lack the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound or poop solid gold nuggets after eating a banana.

According to one expert, “judging other people’s parenting has become a full time sport with too many people keeping score of every nuance.”

That’s all too true. The fact is that when you walk into just about any situation with your child, on some level you are prepared to judge and be judged. Moms realize this. We all want to believe that our choices are the best ones and we’re looking for confirmation that our way of parenting is the right way (and therefore our child is the best child). And sometimes we brag, just to avoid criticism. Because no matter how secretly critical we are of other moms, and their children, we’re always our own most unforgiving critics.

Isn’t it better to brag than to beat yourself up? I think so. Koss just pooped a diamond. I’m so proud.

Share your bragging rampages with Leslie at email. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 10, 2009.

Reality Bites

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Photo Ambro, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Photo Ambro, FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Am I the last person in America who hates reality TV?

My head starts to throb every time I flip through the channels and I feel my brain’s gray matter transform into a gelatinous oozy substance, perfect for the aliens to come take it over. I’ve got 900 channels and most of them are filled with so-called “reality” shows.

Why are these shows called “reality television” when they are so far detached from reality anyway? Reality is not competing for a prize on an island and it is not trying to become the biggest pop sensation in the country. Just writing these words makes my head spin. I’m literally dizzy with annoyance, that’s how much I hate those shows.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those alternative school parents who drives around with a “Kill Your TV” bumper sticker on my minivan, like ahem, one of my dearest friends.

I’m not against TV. I watch plenty of television, and most of it’s not on PBS. And it’s not that I have a problem with lowbrow entertainment-anyone who has met my husband can testify to that. But there’s something about the cheesy search for stardom on American Idol,  and the ridiculous search for romance on The Bachelor that I truly loathe. These show are more than just “not my cup of tea,” I despise them with all of my heart. They make my skin crawl.

Partly it’s the desperation to be in the spotlight that unifies the “stars” of all of these shows that makes my stomach churn. When I was six I wanted to be a ballerina, when I was eight I wanted to play on center court at Wimbledon, and when I was nine I wanted to sing on Broadway. But when I was 12 I accepted the reality that I didn’t have the talent to do those things, so I went on with my life.

These reality TV people need to realize it’s time for them to go on with their lives too.

But no, instead we now have this new group of overnight celebrities who are famous because they slapped someone, stole their boyfriend or spit in their face. That used to be how you became famous in junior high, not the pathway to fame in America. Now all of those overgrown teenagers are chatting up Leno, Ellen, and Regis and Kelly. Not to mention all the airwaves that are filled by wannabe/has-been actors trying to stretch their 15 minutes of fame to the breaking point by humiliating themselves on reality TV.

Here’s the thing: real stars have real talent. I don’t know what reality “stars” have. Chutzpah? Balls? A deluded sense of their own importance? Sure, some reality “stars”-albeit very few-may actually have some talent, but the only thing I’m sure they all have is the ability to really, really annoy me.

It’s not just that these shows are so popular and I can’t understand why; it’s also that as a writer I know that the cheap production values and nonexistent writing staffs of these shows are forcing the professionals out. It’s always been an uphill battle to get a well-written comedy or drama onto network television, but the success of these reality shows has made it almost impossible to get good shows on TV.

I can’t wait for the day when America’s fascination with reality TV finally runs its course. While I too enjoy watching my favorite characters claw their way to success through conniving, backstabbing, lying, cheating and stealing-I prefer to watch them do it gracefully via the piquant prose of  Mad Men, the dexterous dialogue of Damages or even the morose monotones of CNN.

When Leslie’s not ripping into reality TV, she can be reached at email . Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 3, 2009.

The After-Effects of Cruising

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Love BoatI know cruises are supposed to be a splendid way to replenish your energy and deplete your bank account, but I didn’t realize the effects of going on the Love Boat would be so long lasting. It’s been three months since we went on a five-day cruise to Mexico for my parent’s 50th anniversary, and we’re still feeling the after-effects.

I finally got my land legs back last month, and the trip is paid for, but my son still expects turn down service and a mint on his pillow.

Worse yet, he’s decided he likes the 19 meals a day plan. It seems like every time I rinse another dish the kid is asking for more food. “Hey mom, my stomach’s got a little more room. Isn’t it post-brunch, second snack, pre-high tea appetizer time?”

Seriously, I don’t know what they put in the water on those Carnival Cruises, but we’ve created a monster.

Case in point: we went out to dinner the other night and Koss wanted to order crab legs as a starter, followed by a Cesar salad, French onion soup, steak and lobster, with both rice and French fries on the side, and a molten chocolate lava cake and crème brûlée for dessert. “Oh, and don’t forget the warm towels between courses,” he asked politely. The cashier at McDonalds was very confused.

At least the cruise taught him about washing his hands with something other than his tongue. But seriously, he’s having a bit of a hard time adjusting to his tough life as an average nine-year-old.

I get it.

It’s hard to go back to real life once you’ve experienced having a whole crew of maitre d’s and supervisors watching the waiters, dessert staff, bartenders, sommeliers and toque-toting buffet servers at your beck and call, just to make sure you don’t do something for yourself that they could do for you.

Then there’s the freedom of being able to sign for anything extra your little heart desires. I understand how it went to his nine-year-old head, but it’s got to stop. When we stopped by 7-Eleven for Slurpees the other day, he wanted to just “sign the bill” for all of his friends.

I fear all that service has scarred him for life. Thank goodness it was winter, which saved him from seeing a lot of people nearly naked that we would all prefer not to see nearly naked— although not from having to witness a case of suntan lotion being spread over the white expanse of skin belonging to a certain family of die-hard sunbathers from the Midwest.

Meanwhile, after traveling with our whole extended family (my side, which is much more opinionated than his) my husband and I have lost all capacity to make decisions for ourselves. We’re working on this, day by day.

I almost broke down and called my mom the other night when I couldn’t decide whether to make chicken or fish for dinner.

Luckily, Koss solved that dilemma for me. “I’ll have them both, Mom. What are we having for a palate cleanser?”

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on March 27, 2009.

When Leslie’s not reminiscing about vacations, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

 

 

Butchering Barbie

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Candidate BarbieBarbie turned 50 this week. And if Barbie, with her perfect, plastic persona, is anything like the red-blooded, hormone-drenched women I know who’ve turned 50, I would never dare say a word against her.

Except that every time I look at Barbie she pisses me off.

It isn’t her impossibly disproportionate measurements. Though the International Journal of Eating Disorders says that if she were life-sized, Barbie’s measurements would be 38-18-34. And others say that her legs are 50 percent longer than her arms, making it physically impossible for her to even walk, let alone snowboard, samba or play in the WNBA.

It isn’t her incredibly vast wardrobe either. Although I was terribly jealous when I heard that 50 famous fashion designers gifted her with custom made couture this week, including Tommy Hilfiger’s hand-beaded white minidress, Diane von Furstenberg’s hot-pink wrap dress and Betsey Johnson’s outrageous green party dress.

It isn’t Barbie’s refusal to let herself age gracefully that gets me hot under the collar either. A little Botox here and there is understandable; she’s always in the public eye. Though she’s had so many injections her face doesn’t move, and she’d be a much better communicator if it weren’t so hard to tell what she was thinking because her expression never changes.

It isn’t even her flakiness that ticks me off. Though I must admit, at 50 years old it’s about time Barbie figured out what she wants to do with her life. By my count, she’s had more than 100 careers-including teacher, Prime Minister, Mary Kay consultant, World Cup soccer player, nurse, yoga instructor, life guard, sign-language teacher, NASCAR driver, fighter pilot, Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader and rapper -you’d think that by now she would have found something that holds her interest for more than a season.

But that’s not it either.

Every time I look at Barbie she pisses me off because I see dollar signs floating away from me. Lots and lots of dollar signs.

I suppose I should explain.

When I was a kid, my Grandpa Jules was in the toy business. He never worked for Mattel, but somehow he got a hold of one of the original prototype Barbie sets. That’s right, one of the originals, with 20 different dolls from 1959, including Barbie dressed in her original black and white zebra striped swimsuit and signature blonde topknot ponytail.

Yes, the one and only original Barbie who sold at auction for $17,450 back in 2006. And there were 20 of them in the box, including some I don’t think ever made it to market. Can you imagine what they’d be worth today?

Growing up with a father in the toy business, my mom didn’t give a second thought to letting me play with the original Barbies. $17,450 for just one little Barbie! They may as well have given me dollar bills and matches to play with.

I shaved their heads, decapitated them, painted them with nail polish and ink, removed their limbs and put them into compromising positions with Ken, G.I. Joe, and Raggedy Ann and Andy.

But unlike all of the millions of other little girls who were torturing Barbie-by the way, this is such a common occurrence that Britain’s University of Bath did a research study which found that Barbie torture was a legitimate play activity-I was actually desecrating something that should have been locked away and cashed in as a down payment on my son’s college education.

I know it’s a cherished part of American girlhood to dote on, dress up, and then eventually torture Barbie with scissors and ballpoint pens. And I loved every minute of it. But couldn’t I have weathered these important lessons in love, accessories, destruction, and deconstruction, on a less valuable Barbie’s body? After all, my sister and I had heaps of Barbie Dolls, which were left naked and either headless or with their heads twisted impossibly, arms and legs in agonizing positions, and abandoned to mingle with our extra cards, stubby pencils and lost buttons under the couch. Why oh why did mom have to let us play with the valuable ones?

When Leslie’s not blaspheming Barbie, she can be reached at email . Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on March 13, 2009. For more columns visit LeslieDinaberg.com.

Nailed

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Photo by Maggie Smith, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Maggie Smith, freedigitalphotos.net

I roll up my jeans, soak my toes in that mysterious blue powdery stuff and sink into the fake leathery comfort of a foot spa chair. I set the roller massage to just the right speed and pressure, so it kneads up and down my spine without shaking my body so hard that my boobs kiss my nose, then I close my eyes and prepare for bargain basement bliss.

Ah, Nirvana. There’s nothing better than a lunchtime pedicure to relax you in the middle of a long, hard workday. It’s the perfect cure for stress.

Ah, Nirvana. There’s nothing better than a lunchtime pedicure to relax you in the middle of a long, hard workday. It’s the perfect cure for stress.

I close my eyes and pretend I’m being pampered at the Bacara, or better yet, the Ritz-Carlton in Maui. Ah, this is the life.

Then I hear it: “trông như thế nào là chất béo của cô ankles.”

Huh? They’re talking about me already. This must be a record. I haven’t even gotten to the part about the crashing waves or the umbrella drinks at my fantasy spa.

“I said you have such pretty eyes. A rhinestone bleeding heart on your thumbnail’s gonna really play them up,” says my nail technician.

“Uh, I just want a pedicure,” I say, closing my eyes and trying to get back to Maui.

“Only $4 extra if you want a knife going through the heart,” she says, shoving a card full of rhinestone designs under my chin.

“Um, no thanks. I’m not really a bling girl, or a knife through the heart girl,” I say.

“Không có bạn nhiều hơn một giá rẻ chất béo bò girl.”

“What?”

“I say you have boyfriend. You have such pretty eyes you must have lots of boyfriend. Boyfriend like the bling on toes, let me tell you,” she says.

I pull out my phone. I’m not sure what she said yet, but I know she did not say that.

“Không có bạn nhiều hơn một giá rẻ chất béo bò girl,” she says.

Hey, cut it out. I know you’re talking about me in Vietnamese and pretending you’re not.  And I’m sick of pretending not to notice.

And by the way, that iPhone I’m playing with has a translation app on it, so I know you just called me a big fat cow. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult in your culture, but cut it out.

And now I know that before the cow comment you made fun of my cankles, which isn’t very nice in any culture. Please just let me enjoy my pedicure in peace and quiet, instead of my usual paranoia that all of those giggles and guffaws from you and the other nail technicians are because you’re making fun of my outfit.

And while you’re at it, stop trying to upsell me every other minute. If I wanted to spend more money on my nails I would have gone someplace that wasn’t decorated with plastic flowers in December and Christmas tinsel in July.

I know you’re talking about me, just as surely I know there’s no way your name is really Tammy or Heather. I know you’re talking about me, just as surely as I know there’s no way you can possibly be comfortable in those hooker shoes. Relax, put on some flip-flops and stop talking about your customers while they’re sitting right there. I’ve got an app and I’m not afraid to use it.

You’re in America now, and here in America we make catty comments about people AFTER they leave, not when they’re still sitting there within earshot—and certainly not before they’ve given you a tip.

Share your nailed adventures with Leslie at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on March 6, 2009.

 

 

I swear

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The curse of language arts

My 42-year-old husband swears his parents have never heard him swear.

I wish my 9-year-old could make that claim.

His latest favorite expression is “Oh, Jesus!”

I don’t where it came from. He certainly didn’t get it from me. My expletives tend to be a lot more colorful.

He didn’t get it from his father, who saves his swearing for his own generation (although it’s mostly regarding another generation).

Even the Cartoon Network doesn’t use that particular phrase.

Koss, on the other hand, weaves it loudly into conversation at every opportunity. On a recent Sunday we went for his and hers cheap haircuts at Fantastic Sam’s. The place was crowded with families on their way home from church. We sat side by side as our locks were chopped. I smiled proudly at my well-behaved little angel. He beamed back at me and said, in his loudest voice, “Oh Jesus, Mom, look at all that hair on the floor.”

I hope the 12 sets of eyes that turned to stare at me were praying for my hair and not my soul.

And if you were one of those people in the store, and you were praying for my hair, could you ask for some natural highlights in a color other than gray?

Thanks.

How do you explain to a kid that some people get pretty offended when you take a certain someone’s name in vain?

I’m sure it was just coincidental that a few days later my package of art supplies from Thailand had been opened and inspected by the Office of Homeland Security. And I’m sure those little clicks on my telephone line were just static.

The Cuss Control Patrol is a force to be reckoned with these days. I read about a Michigan man who faced a possible jail term of up to 90 days and a $100 fine for swearing in front of children, after he was dumped from his canoe. Thank goodness they weren’t around when I slammed my finger in the car door.

Unless you’re on TV or in the movies, swearing these days requires a certain stealth.

My clever niece sneaks in potty talk by telling stories about other kids in her preschool. “Ethan said poo poo. Can you believe he said poo poo? That’s all he says. Poo poo. Poo poo. Poo poo. That Ethan.”

I try not to encourage her by laughing, but I can’t help but admire her subversive skill.

Apparently we have a subversive family.

A few years ago, my son and his father collaborated on a book about the evil adventures of Mr. Dr. Big. When Koss returned to school and proudly shared the creation with his kindergarten class, his teacher changed “they kicked his butt” to “they kicked his tushie” before reading it aloud.

I guess my Offend-o-Meter needs a tune up.

The writer in me knows that superheroes don’t kick tushie, they kick butt. But apparently the mom in me should know better.

Even if I can get past the somewhat distasteful idea of deciding on a list of unacceptable words for my child’s ever-expanding vocabulary, and stop myself from swearing in his presence, I still have another huge challenge ahead – keeping a straight face.

Sure, children swearing can be embarrassing, but it can also be downright hysterical. Some of the biggest laughs in “Meet the Fockers,” come from the baby’s first word, “*%^hole.” And I’ll never forget the litany of swear words coming out of my friend Ari Echt, when he was only 2. His vocabulary could rival a truck driver’s, and his gravelly voice made it all the more amusing.

So I think I understand the distinction. It’s funny when other kids do it, but it’s not funny when your kid does it.

Especially when Grandma’s around.

Or at a birthday party last weekend, for example.

“Hey fartface.”

“Shut up, bonehead.”

“In your face, stupidhead.”

I giggle to myself and then remember, I’m a mom and I’m obligated to turn the Offend-o-Meter up a notch.

Oh Jesus!

Share your favorite phrases with email . Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on February 27, 2009. For more columns visit LeslieDinaberg.com.