Category Archives: Columns

Leslie Dinaberg’s columns

Summer is Finally Here

Posted on by
Reply
© Yarko12 | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Yarko12 | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Gotta Go!

No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks–and no more teachers saying “no” when kids have to go. School is finally out for the summer, and kids are free to pee to their hearts’ content once again.

I had no idea that bathroom breaks were such an issue.

As a card-carrying member of “the Amazing Mini Bladderini Family,” I cringed–and almost immediately felt the urge to pee–when I read the headline in USA Today: “Teachers can say no when kids have to go.” Yet there it was in black and white.

What is it with teachers and peeing? Almost everyone I know has a “holding it till I was about to burst” story from elementary school. Then there was a huge controversy in Norway when a teacher wanted boys to sit to pee. It dominated the news for weeks. But I thought those days were over in the United States. I guess not.

We’re still wacko when it comes to potty breaks in school. A short time ago, a sixth-grader in Magnolia, Ohio wet his pants during a standardized test after a teacher refused to let him use the bathroom. In Charleston, South Carolina, a teacher made students pee into a trashcan during a lockdown drill. And in Sacramento, an eighth-grader recently urinated into a Gatorade bottle in a classroom corner because his teacher had refused to dismiss him.

All I can say is, “Ew, yuck!”

Since when is peeing a privilege? I always thought it was a right. A biological imperative, in fact.

I get that teachers have to balance classroom control with the varied and hard-to-predict potty practices of their students, but is it really that complicated? If you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go.

And yet, not all teachers see it that way. They say that the reasons for limiting bathroom use are to keep children from cheating on tests, disrupting the class, getting out of doing class work, or getting into mischief.

Now don’t get me wrong, I believe that children should be free to pee, but the mischief menace is no myth. While it’s possible they may have been lighting matches to get rid of the odors, after five fires were started in the bathrooms over the course of five days, a school in North Carolina (what is it with the Carolina’s and peeing?) started requiring students to have an adult escort when they went to the bathroom. The students protested by wearing numbered t-shirts reminiscent of those worn by prison inmates.

OK, so that may have been a bit drama club, but serious academic research done at the University of Iowa is showing that children are developing bladder problems because they are being denied the opportunity to go to the bathroom at school. As a result, doctors are seeing more and more urinary tract infections, incontinence, and damaged kidneys caused by infrequent trips to the bathroom.

The right to pee movement even has a de facto spokeswoman named Laurie A. Couture, a New England-based teacher, social worker, mental health counselor and political child advocate who is urging students to sign petitions when necessary and talk to their parents, teachers, and principals to stand up for their rights to “bodily integrity.”

Of course teachers aren’t really free to pee whenever they feel the urge during class time either. Perhaps that’s the real reason behind those gigantic grins on their faces this summer.

To audition for the Amazing Mini Bladderini Family, share your holding it horror stories with Leslie at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 22, 2007

A Holiday for Dad

Posted on by
Reply
© Vasic | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Vasic | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

This Father’s Day: It’s All About Me

Searching for the perfect Father’s Day gift? Men are always so hard to buy for. Plus, let’s face it, unless it’s a 500-foot plasma screen or comes from Victoria’s Secret, they pretty much have the same, “uh thanks” reaction to any gift you buy them. That’s why this year I’ve come up with a brand new philosophy about Father’s Day gift buying: it’s all about me.

My first suggestion was that my husband take our son away for the weekend to do manly things, thus leaving me with the house to myself. “How about a father-son camping trip?” I suggested sweetly. “You could go fishing, hiking, maybe even rock climbing. It would be a great bonding experience.”

My husband thought I was kidding about the camping trip, which in retrospect isn’t all that surprising, given that his idea of “roughing it” usually involves a golf club. Once I got him to stop laughing, I suggested he teach Koss to play golf– thus another way of leaving me with the house to myself for long periods of time. Perhaps they could golf in Palm Springs or Pebble Beach, or an affordable place like Bakersfield, I hear it’s lovely this time of year.

He laughed again. He still didn’t realize that I was serious. This Father’s Day was finally going to be all about me.

I tried another tactic. If they weren’t going to leave the house, there were all kinds of excellent father-son bonding opportunities right under our own roof. “How about steam cleaning the carpets, painting the bedroom or organizing the pantry,” I suggested sweetly.

That time they both laughed–hard, until milk came out of their noses–like they thought I was kidding or something.

Maybe they didn’t want to be indoors all weekend. I tried again. “You could fix the fence together, or build a hot tub, or plant a rose garden and then strew petals all around the house.” More snorting. Honestly, you’ve got to be so patient with the male species sometimes.

“What about building that shed you’ve been talking about for the past seven years? Then you could clean out our storage unit and maybe even have a garage sale.”

I liked that idea a lot. If they did the garage sale then they could use the money to send me on little getaway to a spa or something.

Suddenly, the light bulb I keep on my head for these occasions lit up: I finally had the perfect Father’s Day gift idea! I would send my husband and son on a little trip to massage-therapy-gourmet-cooking school.

Brilliant. I’m sure I’m not the only one here who knows that when I’m happy, then everyone’s happy (I know there must be some corollary to that, I just can’t think what). And what could make my hubby happier than having me blissed out on massages and food? What can I say, I’m a giver. Happy Father’s Day!

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 15, 2007

Floor Women Only

Posted on by
Reply
© Netris | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Netris | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Have you ever wished there was such a thing as a bar for women only, where you could order a cosmopolitan with “an extra shot of vodka and hold the testosterone?” Guys are great and all, but every once in a while I have those days where I’ve had more than enough of their gaseous noises, dirty socks, smelly armpits and male answer syndrome.

OK, “every once in a while” might be a bit of an understatement.

Every time I wipe the shaving cream off the sink, I dream of sleeping on a bed of rose petals, and waking up to the quiet gurgling of a chocolate fountain, instead of my husband’s snoring.

That’s my version of a mental man-vacation.

My actual man is on a manly vacation somewhere on a river north of nowhere right now, which means it should be my turn next. If I ever actually got to go on a girls’ weekend away, I might choose a resort in Mexico, a spa in Palm Springs or maybe wine tasting in Napa Valley or even sunning myself on the French Riviera, as long as I’m dreaming.

But until last week I never really thought about Michigan as a girls’ getaway hotspot.

Then I heard that J.W. Marriott Hotel in Grand Rapids announced that it would be devoting its entire 19th floor–bar included–to female guests. Their spokeswoman, Andrea Groom, told the Associated Press that with women comprising over half of all business travelers, the all-female floor will allow women to “relax over a drink without getting hit on by guys.” The rooms will feature female-friendly amenities like “jewelry holders” (How did I ever live without one of those?) and “special hair dryers” (Are they pink? Do they color your hair while they dry it?), chenille throw blankets, “special bath products,” a stool in the shower for leg shaving, and copies of Oprah and Cosmopolitan Magazines beside the bed instead of the Gideon’s Bible.

OK, I made that last part up, but the rest is actually true. And so is this: staying in the Marriot’s man-free zone will cost you an extra $30 a night. It costs extra to be surrounded by women? I lived in a sorority house with 80 other girls, and well; let’s just say we could used a shot of testosterone with our morning coffee.

Will women really go for the Club Femme? Let’s just say I’ve got my reservations about the idea. They’ve certainly gone for the all-women gym concept with Curves, which has become the world’s largest fitness franchise in large part because of their “no men, no mirrors” gimmick.

I’ve never really gotten the appeal of the women-only gym. I’ve joined a lot of workout places over the years–and gained and lost the same 20 pounds–and the most fun I had was at an almost all-male (unless you count the transvestites) gym in West Hollywood. There was man candy everywhere I looked. But it was calorie-free, since this particular group of guys only had eyes for each other.

Despite the political incorrectness of it all, businesses with gender specific target marketing are popping up all over the place. There is Knockouts Haircuts for Men, a chain dubbed “the Hooters of haircutting,” which features scantily clad, well-endowed stylists and free beer. Before you laugh, get this: last year Knockouts ranked among the top 30 per cent of America’s fastest-growing franchises.

Would the female equivalent be Mani-Pedi-Eddie’s with Chippendales-trained technicians to chip away your old polish? That sounds fun and all, but I’d trade it in a second for a nice, hot, uninterrupted bath on a 19th floor that I had all to myself.

OK, maybe I’d be willing to share my floor with a box full of chocolate men–as long as they only had eyes for me.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 1, 2007

I Feel Mad About My Neck

Posted on by
Reply
© Andresr | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Andresr | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

The older I get the harder it is to have heroes.

I still haven’t forgiven Molly Ivins for dying, Gwyneth Paltrow for that ill-fitting pink, Shakespeare in Love Oscar night dress, or Bill Clinton for that blue, slightly stained one. (By the way, a little club soda will clear that right up, or so I’ve heard.)

But today I’m mad at Nora Ephron.

I used to love Nora. How could I not love a woman who still makes me laugh every time I order a sandwich in a deli, thanks to that wonderful scene in When Harry Met Sally? And how could I not love a woman who “fictionalized” the story of her divorce–in Heartburn –by giving her husband a beard and making his cat into a hamster? When I divorce my first husband, I’m going to make him 4’9″ and bald, with extra toes.

Talk about a perfect hero for me. She writes that most of her mistakes turned out to be things she “survived, or turned into funny stories, or, on occasion, even made money from.”

But now I’m really mad at Nora. Thanks to her recent book of essays, I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman, I too feel bad about my neck, and that makes me really, really mad.

It’s hard enough to go through life with a disproportionately large behind, gigantic feet, and unpolished fingernails. Now I have to worry about my friggin’ neck?

There are days when the only solace I can find when I look in the mirror is at neck level. While my hair is still thick and thankfully low maintenance, the grays in my tresses are beyond the plucking stage and I know I’ll give in and start coloring them soon. My son is voting for green.

The laugh lines around my mouth are looking more and more like crow’s feet, and when I remember to put on lipstick, it invariably ends up decorating my teeth a lovely shade of coral. The same teeth that I now have to remember to use two different kinds of toothpaste for every day: Sensodyne in the morning, for my aging gums, and a teeny tiny prescription tube of $29 super-fluoride toothpaste at night, that will supposedly help prevent me from needing another $7,000 worth of dental work this year.

And my eyes, oh my eyes. My vision is getting so bad that I gave myself 47 new wrinkles last night, from squinting down at my 4’6″ husband and asking, “You want me to do what?”

But until I read this book, I was okay with my neck. It has kept my head in the right place for a long time.

Sure, it wasn’t dripping with the diamonds I once fantasized about. And okay, it’s not usually holding up a tiara. And it’s never worn an Olympic gold medal, or even a bronze. But I was okay with my neck until I read this book. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really give it much thought. If anything, I thought maybe the sagging boobs made it look longer, more elegant.

Now, I can’t stop thinking about my neck and I can’t stop looking at everybody else’s. I’ve become obsessed with looking at the necks of the other women at school, at Little League, at the grocery store, and at the gym.

The other day I was watching Grey’s Anatomy on TV, and I had to pause it so I could go put my nose right up next to the TV where I could see and stare at Kate Walsh’s neck. She’s supposed to be 40 on the show but I counted the rings around her neck and I don’t think she’s quite that old in real life.

Or maybe she is that old, and 40 just looks a lot younger than it used to, even on TV. It’s not that I never thought about these things before I read the book, but I never thought about aging in terms of necks. I never even noticed before how many women in their 50s and 60s wear turtlenecks on sunny days, or mandarin collars when they have to dress up. Cowards.

But now I notice. Everywhere I look there are necks, and thanks to Nora, I have this irresistible compulsion to rubberneck and check them out. I can’t stop myself.

What a pain in the … you know what.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 25, 2007

Outsourcing Gone Wild

Posted on by
Reply
Image by Sandid, courtesy Pixabay

Image by Sandid, courtesy Pixabay

“Pasadena Now” publisher James Macpherson’s plan to outsource his city government beat to reporters in India got the boot this week, thanks to public outrage about the ability of writers to report on live news events while sitting at a computer screen 9,029 miles away in a time zone 12.5 hours ahead.

Offering his rationale for outsourcing, Macpherson said, “A lot of the routine stuff we do can be done by really talented people in another time zone at much lower wages.”

While I do think the ability to actually be in the room and ask officials pesky questions is an important aspect of the job when reporting about even the most routine workings of our government, Macpherson may have been on to something with this outsourcing idea.

A 2004 study at Cornell found that 406,000 jobs were outsourced to other countries, so by now there must be a bazillion U.S. jobs being done overseas.

I’ve got to get in on this action. I wonder if I could spend a few rupees to outsource some of my more “routine tasks” to a highly qualified Indian?

I draft my Craig’s List India post: “I am seeking a competent, experienced professional based in India to run errands, provide transportation, cook meals, attend meetings and functions, assist with homework, dispense medication and nursing care, keep house, listen to and resolve family problems, maintain family order and harmony, keep family on schedule, and care for pets and elderly relatives.”

Sounds good so far.

According to Edelman Financial Services’ annual Mother’s Day survey, the combined salary of these jobs–Caretaker, Chef, Computer Systems Analyst, Food/Beverage Service Worker, General Office Clerk, Registered Nurse, Management Analyst, Child Care Worker, Housekeeper, Psychologist, Dietitian/Nutritionist, Property Manager, and Bus Driver–is worth about $773,700 per year in the United States.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

Luckily, this translates to roughly about five bucks a year in India. I think I can handle that. Plus my earning capacity would increase. Just think about how much more time I’d have to write if I could outsource all of that “routine” stuff.

Only five bucks a year. Hmmm …

You know what else takes a lot of my time these days? Upkeep. If I could get someone else to clean, condition, polish, hydrate, exfoliate and exercise for me, I’d really have a lot of extra time. Plus, what a great gig for an Indian woman who might not otherwise have access to top-of-the-line hair care products and an elliptical machine. It’s a win-win. I can outsource all of my grooming, earn myself boatloads of free time, and actually help out another woman in a far away land.

I wonder if this is how Anita Roddick felt when she had the Body Shop’s Pomegranate Seed Pink Grapefruit Peanut Butter Ocean Spray Body Lotion manufactured by Nicaraguan sesame farmers?

With all the money I could save outsourcing the “routine tasks” of my life to India, I could buy a huge house with an enormous yard and lots of servants. Then I could travel around the world with Angelina Jolie, adopting orphans to fill all of those empty rooms. Of course some of my new children might be babies, and require even more of those “routine tasks” to be outsourced. I wonder what the going rate is in India for changing diapers and midnight feedings?

When Leslie’s not actually doing those “routine tasks” she’d rather outsource, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 18, 2007

In Search of my Inner Audrey

Posted on by
Reply

Breakfast at Tiffany'sShe was elegance, glamour, sophistication, and charm personified. She taught us the meaning of the word “gamine,” and was the epitome of boyish beauty. It’s been 14 years since her death and almost 30 years since her last major film role, but Audrey Hepburn is still an icon. Today would have been her 78th birthday, and it’s in her honor that I’ve spent the week channeling my inner Audrey.

Day 1

I immerse myself in all that is Audrey by watching “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” “Roman Holiday,” “Charade,” “Sabrina” and “My Fair Lady,” while gracefully sipping champagne and delicately nibbling on Bon Bons. When my husband asks, “What’s for dinner?” I laugh charmingly and say, “Love darling, we’ll dine on love.” He looks hungry and annoyed.

Day 2

I consider getting a pixie haircut, but it’s taken forever to grow the layers out, and I don’t think I have the cheekbones to pull it off. Instead, I buy an enormously stylish hat, which they still sell at Nordstrom. Since I don’t have access to the Ascot Race, I wear it to a Little League game instead. Everything goes with jeans, right? Bad news: my hat blocks the view of the five people behind me. Good news: it stops a foul ball from denting my skull, plus I get a 50 cent coupon to use at the snack bar. Thanks, Audrey.

Day 3

I need a dashing man to accessorize my outfit, but Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, and Rex Harrison are all dead. My husband dresses in shorts and Hawaiian shirts, so he won’t do. I settle on the ticket taker at the Arlington. He’s a snappy dresser, and in the motion picture business.

Day 4

Trying to make my speech more ladylike, I walk around Paseo Nuevo with marbles in my mouth mumbling, “the rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain,” and “wouldn’t it be loverly.” Bad news: I choke on a marble and have to be Heimliched by a group of tourists. Good news: I’m Heimliched with grace and style.

Day 5

I buy myself a swanky cigarette holder, fill it with licorice, and fling it around saying (sans marbles) ” I do well on trips to the powder room. Any gentleman will give a girl $50 for the powder room.” My husband says, “Yeah. What’s for dinner?” What’s this guy’s problem?

Day 6

I do my best to lose the sarcasm. Audrey once claimed, “I could never be cynical. I wouldn’t dare. I’d roll over and die before that.” I do quite well until 7:30 a.m. when my son wakes up. Yeah, like I’m going to spend a whole day not being sarcastic.

Day 7

I try to emulate Audrey’s saintly side by volunteering to read to the blind, sing for the deaf, and walk for the wounded. I get a little discouraged when the news crews don’t show up, and can’t believe that no one brings me Bon Bons. Can I be Audrey? I’ll never fit into those skinny black pants, and her stylish flats make my feet look like U-Boats.

Instead I decide to embrace the one Audrey legacy I can actually live up to: “The most important thing is to enjoy your life –to be happy–that’s all that matters.” To celebrate her birthday I have her quote etched on a champagne glass. I toast my emaciated husband. Cheers to the inner Audrey in all of us.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 4, 2007

Little League, big laughs

Posted on by
Reply
© Artproem | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Artproem | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

My son finally graduated from T-Ball to Mini Minors Little League this season and I haven’t stopped laughing. As a mom, I don’t have a whole lot of ego invested in my son’s sports career. Most dads are another story.

My experience with dads who volunteer to coach is that they fall into a few major types: the “Super Dad,” who wants the kids to learn a little bit and have fun; the “Winning is the Only Thing Dad,” who feels he’s a failure if he doesn’t make everyone cry at least once; the “I Coulda Been a Contender Dad,” who plants all of his unrealized athletic ambitions onto his kid, and never takes him out of the game; “The Clueless Wonder Dad,” who thinks that he knows all about a sport despite all evidence to the contrary; and the “Dad on the Prowl,” who only picks the kids with the best-looking moms. My husband would never volunteer to coach, but if he did he would definitely fall into this last category, and wouldn’t even pick our own kid for his team.

Despite our child’s lackluster tryout performance, somehow we managed to get a “Super Dad” coach who lives and breathes baseball. Excellent. Maybe Koss–who has never actually seen an entire baseball game–can be the first one in our family to actually take to baseball. He certainly has the long, slow, sluggish pace of the sport down, especially when it’s time to go to school in the morning.

At our first practice we got the list of equipment. Pants, shirt, hat–check. Belt, socks, spittable snacks–check. Mitt, cleats, cup–check. Huh? Cup? A Dixie Cup or a Big Gulp?

When I bought it I felt like a teenage boy buying condoms–on my way toward the checkout stand I grabbed some freeze dried camping food and golf tees, just so that the Champro Youth Athletic Cup wouldn’t look so lonely in my basket.

Speaking of baskets, my next challenge was how to put the darn thing on. Did it go inside or outside of the underwear? Was it really supposed to be made of plastic? My husband was absolutely useless in this regard–apparently the Water Polo team didn’t wear cups either.

Koss tried it on.

“What if I have to go wee wee?” he asked. Wee wee? What kind of sissy expression is that? I may not have any brothers but I know enough to know that wee wee is for T-Ball players, baseball players have to take a piss.

“If you’re going to teach to say, ‘take a piss,'” argued my husband, “you should really go for it. Take a wicked rhinoceros piss.”

Koss ended up hating the cup and not wearing it. Apparently, none of the kids did. I heard that one of the boys wouldn’t wear it because it “made him look too big down there.” All of the dads laughed when they heard this–and none of the boys could ever find their cups again.

Cupless, we were ready for first game–except nobody told us they were 12 hours long. We spent five of those hours trying to decipher a sign that said, “Alcoholic Beverages or Softball Playing.” We were very close to choosing alcoholic beverages when someone pointed out the “No” that had faded from the top of the sign.

The 17th inning started off extra slowly–apparently because they were dressing my child in a Star Wars Stormtrooper outfit so he could play catcher. I guess a full body cup is better than nothing.

“What’s he doing?” I asked my husband, Zak, as the other parents started to giggle. Apparently when the coach told him to “get down behind home plate,” Koss took him literally and did just that. I was laughing too hard to yell to him to stand up. He played the entire inning on his knees, even chasing after balls. Does Knee-Ball come after T-Ball?

We really should take that kid to a Dodger game or something.

It was finally his turn to be up at bat. At the coach’s urging, he took a practice swing that actually looked pretty good. Then all of the sudden he started to do a little dance I recognized. “What’s he doing?” asked one of the moms. Oh dear. Koss dropped the bat and yelled to his coach, “I have to pee,” and ran to find the bathroom.

It brought down the house. Talk about comedic timing. It was my proudest sports moment to date.

“At least he could have said ‘like a rhinoceros,'” said his father, the “Coulda Been a Contender” comedian.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound

Everybody Loves Leslie

Posted on by
Reply
© Jiristastny | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Jiristastny | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

My Life as a Sitcom

Wine, chocolate, and naps are indispensable tools in my “how to deal with life” arsenal, but sometimes fantasy is the only narcotic that does the trick. As a kid I thought that life at the Brady house or singing “Hello World” with the Partridge Family looked a lot more fun than anything my family had to offer. At the very least, it seemed like my little sister should have been recast in the third season.

And now, I’ve had just about enough of this “Life with Leslie” reality show. I want to my life to be a sitcom, where no matter how monumental my problems, they can always be happily resolved in 23 minutes.

It would go something like this:

Monday: My long-lost identical twin, Lisa Dimebag, shows up at my door. It’s teacher conference week, which means I’ve only got an hour left before pick-up time to write an article, return seven phone calls, read 57 emails and watch yesterday’s Oprah. The phone rings and its my crotchety but loveable husband reminding me about baseball practice, which starts right in the middle of basketball practice.

Lisa accidentally deletes all of my emails, falls into the pool, and volunteers to drive carpool. Amusingly clumsy, but what a lifesaver. She’s so helpful and friendly; I’m going to love having a twin around.

That night, when I return a call from Kyle’s Dad at school he says something about “taking me up on my very interesting offer” in a way that makes me think my twin may be a little bit TOO friendly. I sit her down and explain, in a very older-sisterly way, that she can’t act too slutty when she’s pretending to be me. We hug. She leaves and we never hear from her or Kyle’s Dad again. My crotchety but loveable husband seems oddly depressed.

Tuesday: Koss and I enter the parent-child talent show at school. The kids all laugh at our attempt to dance like the stars. Koss can’t even do any of the lifts, even though they worked fine when we practiced by the pool.

I cry because I’m so embarrassed by my dancing. Koss tells me to “man up, mom.”

We win first place in the talent show for our beautiful singing act. We hug. Koss cries because he’s so happy. I tell him to “man up.”

Wednesday: We go on a disastrous field trip to the zoo, where the kids are treated to the unfortunate spectacle of two otters mating, and my crotchety husband makes jokes that are completely inappropriate for the eight o’clock hour. Driving back to school, I accidentally sideswipe a police car because I’m yelling at the kids to quit saying, “Why, I otter…”

When I show Officer Bud my insurance card, Koss realizes that I don’t actually have the $10 million insurance policy that the school requires to drive a bunch of seven year olds around (probably because I’ve spent all my money on dance lessons instead of real estate). Busted. My own son tells Officer Bud to arrest me.

Officer Bud, a parent himself, arrests my son instead. Koss learns an important lesson about speaking out of turn. We hug. I make him finish all of his prison dinner before I bail him out.

Thursday: I accidentally TIVO last week’s news and find out I picked all six Super Lotto Plus numbers a week late. I fantasize about what I’d do with my millions.

Dripping with diamonds, I swoop out of my limo and hire a private detective to track down my twin sister and Kyle’s Dad. I have him put Lisa Dimebag in deep freeze in case I ever need any of her body parts. My crotchety but loveable husband seems oddly happy.

I hang out at the country club and drink martinis while I pay other people to golf for me. My now-spoiled rotten son has a fit when I won’t let him buy the Miramar. He tells me I was a better mommy before we got rich. I realize he was right. We hug and we’re right back in our living room watching TV again. We didn’t win the lottery but it’s still a wonderful life and “A Christmas Carol” is on TV.

Friday: We sit at a little league game for an entire episode, with no commercial breaks and no alcohol allowed. My crotchety but loveable husband is extra crotchety.

Saturday: I get bonked on the head when a bottle of wine falls off the top of my refrigerator. I contract temporary amnesia and we run Tuesday’s episode again in fast motion. My dancing doesn’t improve, but I’m blown away by own singing voice. Hey, it’s my fantasy.

Sunday: Clip show — television-ese for “day of rest.”

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound

Pillow Talk: Confessions of a Naphomaniac

Posted on by
Reply
© F4f | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© F4f | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I am not looking forward to Sunday.

Sure, I’ll come to love the extra daylight that comes from “springing ahead.” And yes, sooner or later I will get used to waking up in the dark. But this Sunday morning I am guaranteed to be really really grumpy.

That first day of daylight savings time always ticks me off. The clock never stopped its tick tock, so where did that hour go? I never gave you permission to take it away from me. I want my hour back and I want it now.

Not that it makes it any easier on anyone who dares to cross my path, but I’m the first one to admit that I get cranky when the clocks change. You know that saying, “you snooze you lose?” When I lose an hour of sleep, I tend to get violent with my snooze button. You never know, if I slap it around enough, eventually maybe time will stand still. It hasn’t worked yet, but that doesn’t discourage me from trying again, year after year. I’m nothing if not determined when it comes to sleep. If I cared half as much about my writing career as I do about catching my zzz’s, I’d be famous by now.

And this year, thanks to a congressional calendar caffeine conspiracy, my computer is going to be crabby too. Did I mention I want my hour back? I think I’ve finally figured out a way to do it. Sunday is the day to set the clocks ahead, but Monday, bloody lovely Monday, is National Workplace Napping Day.

I kid you not.

This isn’t a Costanza tribute, but a real made-up holiday with its own website (www.napping.com) and everything. Conceived in 1999 by Camille and Bill Anthony (Can you believe we missed out on seven years of celebrations?) Workplace Napping Day–which occurs every year on the Monday after Daylight Saving Time kicks in–is our day to lie down and be counted.

Not only have the Anthonys written books on the subject (The Art of Napping and The Art of Napping at Work), they give napping seminars (Can’t you just picture the audience snoozing away without fear of recrimination?), and have even invented their own napping vocabulary. My personal favorites are “napkin,” a napper’s relatives; “snapper,” a person who nags at a napper; “constinaption,” napping irregularity; unable to nap for several days; and “naphomaniac,” a napper who overdoes a good thing.

I’ve long contended that naps are sometimes the only things that make life worth living. My favorite thing about pregnancy was being indisputably productive (“Hello, I’m growing a person here.”) while I was catching a few extra zzz’s. Now the research has finally come out to support my theory: adults who nap regularly have a 37 percent lower chance of dying from heart attacks or heart disease.

According to the Associated Press, “the workplace nap–once derided as the refuge of the worthless and weak–is being embraced like a soft pillow by American businesses”

I love that.

In the old days, when my boss caught me napping, I would say “amen” and claim I’d been praying, or sheepishly admit that I was channeling Albert Einstein, who napped frequently during the day to help him think more clearly. Thomas Edison and Leonardo da Vinci were also known to nap regularly, I’d explain, so I’m not just yanking your chain when I say that napping is part of my creative process, boss. Besides, it’s a national holiday, you know. I, for one, will be celebrating on Monday. In fact, I’m feeling rather patriotic. I may just get a head start on celebrating Sunday afternoon.

OK contestants, what’s the zaniest place you’ve ever taken a nap? Let us know by emailing leslie@lesliedinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound

The Twinkie Defense

Posted on by
Reply

TwinkiesI’ve been thinking a lot about vitamins and Twinkies this week, and it’s not just because I’ve started on a new diet.

First there was the Women’s Literary Festival, where “chica-lit” author Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez used a vitamin-filled Twinkie analogy to describe her books. Her brightly covered book jackets tease with titles like The Dirty Girls Social Club and Playing With Boys, evoking late night cable visions of Manolo Blahniks and Cosmopolitan-drinking single gals, but apparently there’s some actual nutrition to go along with the fictional junk food that she’s serving.

Then there was the Academy Awards, where Letters From Iwo Jima was nominated for best picture, even though I’m betting most people would rather parade around in Borat’s lime green banana sling bathing suit than sit through a two and a half hour movie about World War II.

Given the depressing state of the headlines, and the stressful lives that most of us lead, I would rather spend my hard-earned $100 evening at the movies with a laugh out loud comedy (a Twinkie) than a Film with a capital “F,” (a vitamin) that requires me to stop munching on popcorn and think.

I consider myself a relatively intelligent person. I can carry on a conversation about world events, I read books (and not just the ones for my book club), and I balance my diet of People and Star with Newsweek and the New York Times. I even watch PBS when I have to, but when it comes to entertainment, I prefer to actually be entertained.

I can’t possibly be alone on this.

Look at the movie box office figures. Maybe it’ll do blockbuster business in Japan, but here in the United States, Letters From Iwo Jima made just under $13 million dollars. To give you some perspective, that’s about 33 times less than the domestic gross of Pirates of the Caribbean 2 and five times less than Jackass 2 made.

That $13 million figure is also the amount that Borat himself, Sacha Baron Cohen, will reportedly get up front from Universal Studios for his next movie, Bruno, where he’ll portray a gay Austrian fashion show presenter with a Nazi streak. Sounds like a Twinkie to me. Or does it? Could there actually be some vitamin fortification to be found in something that’s bound to be flat out funny?

Borat, for instance, was really a vitamin: I learned not to wrestle naked fat men at insurance conventions.

Keep in mind, Charles Dickens and William Shakespeare are now required reading for anyone who wants to graduate from high school, but both were considered Twinkies in their day. Come to think of it, so was Jane Austen, and that was long before Emma begat Clueless. Like, oh my god, totally, I’m so sure.

Then there are all of those comic goofballs that guys seem to worship, like the Three Stooges and the Marx Brothers. To me they’re not really Twinkies, but more like those pink coconut Sno Balls that I can’t stand but I know some people adore. But I’ve heard the word “genius” applied to Groucho by people I respect, more than once. So are they vitamins or Twinkies, or a little bit of both?

After quizzing everyone I know about this for the past 73 hours, I’ve come up with a theory: the Twinkies that stick with you are really vitamins in disguise.

If I were to make a list of my all time favorite books and movies, they would all be entertaining, first and foremost, but there would also be some vitamin-fortification to make them stick in my mind all these years. Think about When Harry Met Sally. Sure we all remember Meg Ryan’s fake orgasm in the deli and “I’ll have what she’s having,” but along with a ton of laughs, the movie also had some real insights about relationships. So did Four Weddings and a Funeral, The Sure Thing, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai, The Breakfast Club, and, come to think of it, just about all of my other favorite movies. They’re all vitamin-fortified Twinkies–and none of them won an Academy Award for best picture.

All of which is my brilliant way of arguing that we should watch Desperate Housewives tonight, hubby. Who knows–it could be next century’s Shakespeare.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound