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Leslie Dinaberg’s favorite columns

The happy-ish place on earth

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DisneylandIs it possible that the happiest place on earth is now just a happy-ish place?

From my first visit to Disneyland as a 4-year-old, to the hundreds of journeys I’ve made there since, I’ve always thought Disneyland was an E-ticket ride.

The thing about going to Disneyland– sweaty bodies that aren’t your own, outrageous prices, long lines and theme park feet aside–is that it’s a chance to spread a little magic pixie dust and journey back to your childhood.

But this time, even though our recent trip was a blast, it was also a sad reminder that while I’m still a kid from the moment I spot Mickey from the freeway, my own kid is growing up way too fast. He didn’t even want to buy mouse ears because he’d “have to take them off on Thunder Mountain.”

Excuse me? Mouse ears are mandatory.

Back in the 70s, when I was rocking white Go-Go boots, pigtails and a Partridge Family lunchbox, my Grandpa Alex did the dry cleaning for Disneyland. This meant we got free tickets to Disneyland. We must have gone a dozen times every summer, but I still got mouse ears every time–and that was when your choices were with or without a bow. Now the ears (37 styles) snap on to 1,569 different hat options, and don’t even get me started on the patches. Yet Koss was not particularly interested.

Hmm … maybe it’s a boy thing? At least he still skipped with me.

New stuff comes and goes in the real world with alarming frequency, but everything in Fantasyland was just where I left it when I was 7. Watching Alice’s teacups spin brought back some of the happiest memories of my childhood–but if some kind of extreme thrill isn’t involved, then Koss wasn’t willing to wait in more than a five-minute line. My husband Zak got queasy just looking at those saucers spin.

I realize that not everyone digs Disneyland the way I do, but Zak was more excited by the free soda refills at one of the restaurants than the new Nemo ride. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best ride ever, but still, it’s a NEW RIDE at DISNEYLAND! To which he responded, it’s FREE REFILLS at DISNEYLAND! Point taken.

I think Zak’s happiest moment of our three-day adventure was when he saw that “It’s a Small World,” was closed for re-theming. I was crushed, but soon realized that even without the ride I could still hear the echoes of my dad singing, “It’s a Small World After All.”

Just so they wouldn’t feel left out, I sang it a few times for Zak and Koss. They were amused for the first ten minutes or so, then, I don’t know what happened. Some people don’t recognize fun, even when it’s screaming in their ear.

Like I said, it was a happy-ish place this time.

Still, I got them off the roller coasters and into the Tiki Room for a little while. The line for the pineapple froth was too long, and Koss thought it sounded icky, but inside I could almost see Grandpa Alex’s belly jiggling as he danced along with the birds in the “Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Room,”

Koss rolled his eyes when I shared the precious Disney memory of when he was a baby and I gracefully managed to spill an entire strawberry slushie on his tushie and then used the very last diaper in all of Disneyland to clean him off.

While I think that one of the greatest things about being a parent is getting to re-experience magic through the eyes of a child, I guess I also have to remember that as a child it’s not that much fun to hear your parents’ stories over and over again.

But seriously, this is a story that involves Disneyland, bodily fluids, and mom being embarrassed. You would think he’d be a little more amused. Where’s the pixie dust when you need it?

I was starting to worry that Koss might not have inherited my Disney gene, when we stumbled onto the parade. His skinny legs bounced along to “Under the Sea” and he grinned as he explained to the crowd that the starfish were doing some of the aerial moves he learned at Circus Camp. Then he waved to Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, forgetting for a moment that he’s almost 9 and too old to get too excited. This place has still got it.

When we finally got home, with throbbing feet and empty wallets, I was too tired to wash the theme park film of saturated fat, sunscreen, sweat and spilled sugar off my body. Koss is still smiling when we carry him to bed and still clutching a couple of magic rings we bought him instead of the mouse ears. Who needs pixie dust? Disneyland’s still got it.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 18, 2008.

My Big Fat Carbon Footprint

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hand holding earth by jannoon028 at freedigitalphotos.net

hand holding earth by jannoon028 at freedigitalphotos.net

The weight of my carbon footprint has been keeping me up at night.

I sure do miss the good old days when I’d be overjoyed to find a public bathroom stocked with toilet paper and soap. Show me a recently cleaned floor and seat covers and you’ll see me doing a little “happy dance” as an encore to the “I have to pee dance” I’m usually doing on my way in.

But on a recent visit to the movies, I confronted yet another in a growing number of environmental dilemmas. The facilities were fine, but after I washed my hands I stood stunned by indecision, paralyzed by choices: Should I dry my hands with a paper towel or use the air hand dryer?

“Dryers help protect the environment,” a sign proclaimed. “They save trees from being used for paper towels. They eliminate paper towel waste.” They also suck down electricity and dry out my skin, which increases my hand lotion consumption considerably. Nobody ever considers the Nivea trees.

I also vaguely recall reading something about hand dryers increasing the amount of bacteria in the air, because they suck up your germs then spew them back out onto the next customer. Eww! Just the thought of that is enough to make me resort to my son’s preferred drying method–wiping his wet hands off on my jeans.

“Paper or plastic?” I must have a mental shopping block, because somehow I only remember to bring my canvas bags to Trader Joes, not Vons. I guess I could shop exclusively at Trader Joes, but my husband insists on Kellogg’s Raisin Bran and Tropicana Orange Juice, neither of which TJ’s stocks. Besides, don’t I get some carbon offset credits for reading Star Magazine and the Enquirer in line at Vons and not actually paying for any dead trees that put Britney or Paris on the cover? I suppose if nobody ever read about either of those girls, we might just save the planet. But would such a planet really be worth saving?

I try to do my part. I wish Vons would do theirs, by just charging me for the stupid paper bags (which I always intend to reuse for wrapping paper), so I wouldn’t be embarrassed to leave Ben and Jerry melting in the cart while I run outside to get my canvas bags.

Of course I’m environmentally embarrassed when I do go out to my gigantic gas guzzling Mercury Grand Marquis to get the totes for my melted Stephen Colbert’s Americone Dream.

Here’s the thing: I can’t afford a Prius. Plus I’m not a great driver. Tooling around town in a big safe American car that makes people steer clear of that 80-year-old granny driving is really a safety gesture of good will for the whole community. Seems like I should get some kind of carbon credit for that.

If nothing else, I know I get big carbon points for just being poor. Thanks to our frugal packrat of a landlord, everything in our house is recycled, from the carpet remnants on the floor to the river rock on the walls. Even most of our furniture is family heirlooms, i.e. old junk rescued from the dumpster. Yes, this is quite the P.C. household. Our landlord once spent three hours trying to repair a florescent light that I eventually replaced at Home Depot for $5.99.

My greatest virtue is that rather than succumb to the consumerist temptation to “trade up” a model, I’ve made a commitment to stick to the same old husband. Not only does that cut out the environmental impact of maintaining two separate households, think of all that drive time and paper we’re saving for the lawyers. When you add in the extra showers I’d be taking if I were single, and the hydrocarbons from the hair spray I’d be using if I were dating, I can kick off those heavy carbon shoes entirely. Better hang on tight to your peace prize, Al Gore: I’ll be wearing my carbon halo tonight.

When Leslie’s not agonizing over her carbon footprint, she’s usually on email at email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on November 23, 2007.

Elephant Walk

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© Urosr | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Urosr | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

My first introduction to my future in-laws came via a giant UPS package full of t-shirts and fake poop.

They were living on a boat in Maryland at the time and weren’t able to make it home to Santa Barbara for Christmas. But believe me, they were there in spirit and found a way to make their presence felt.

“Ooh, a gift for me,” I exclaimed, as I opened the package to reveal a t-shirt with a ginormous elephant head on the front, and an even larger elephant bottom on the back. Hmmm. Were they trying to tell me I needed to develop a thicker skin to be a part of their family?

They’d never met me before, so maybe they hadn’t been given an accurate scouting report about my um, fashion sensibilities. Or maybe it was supposed to symbolize something. Aren’t elephants considered lucky in some cultures? Could be. But still, an elephant t-shirt? I know that shopping opportunities are limited when you live on the high seas, but what about a nice abalone shell?

As I catalogued the possible meanings of the gift, I noticed something odd: everyone in my boyfriend’s family got the same t-shirt. Huh.

“This is so dad,” mused Big Brother Bruce.

“Here are the instructions,” said Big Sister Julie, as we herded around to listen. I have since learned that elephants live in a very structured social order. “Number one: Put on t-shirts.” I giggled nervously as I watched every single other person in the room put on their ridiculous shirt without a moment’s hesitation.

Was there an elephant in the room that was forcing them to do this? Their parents were miles away. Why were they all following instructions?

“C’mon, Leslie, you’re one of us now,” urged Little Sister Holly. The social circle of the female elephant does not end with the small family unit. She may as well have been telling me to drink the Kool-Aid.

I have since learned that the female elephant’s life also involves interaction with other families, clans, and subpopulations, such as potential sister-in-laws. I gritted my teeth and put the t-shirt on over the cute new outfit I had spent days agonizing over and would eventually spend half a paycheck paying for.

“Number two,” read Julie. “Take the unopened package labeled ‘open at La Cumbre Plaza‘ to mall.” I watched in astonishment as people began gathering purses, sweaters and car keys.

My protest, “but I haven’t finished my wine,” was met by a flash of a flask from Brother-in-law Eric. “Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered,” he reassured me.

Minutes later we were at the mall, as instructed, opening the mystery package. It contained a disposable camera and what I first thought were a bunch of coconuts. Wouldn’t that have been nice? Expensive to ship, but in the range of normal.

No such luck. They turned out to be brown plastic elephant droppings, inscribed with each of our names.

I’ve heard about stock being used as a dowry, or even livestock, but my future in-laws had sent me plastic poop. That couldn’t be a good sign.

“Find someone to take your picture,” read Julie. This wasn’t an easy task, since people aren’t exactly swarming the mall on Christmas Day. All the stores are closed. We managed to flag down a disheveled looking woman who was pounding and screaming at the window of Pottery Barn in an attempt to buy one last perfect sandalwood candle.

I felt like screaming myself. Why couldn’t they have given me a nice candle for Christmas? Or even a book of matches. My reverie was interrupted by Julie’s reading of the order for us to gather in a straight line.

Now I know that elephants communicate over long distances by producing and receiving low-frequency sound, which can travel through the ground farther than sound travels through the air, but the idea that my future father-in-law was choreographing this scene all the way from Maryland still stuns me.

Apparently the long distance sound waves can be felt by the sensitive skin of an elephant’s feet and trunk, which pick up the resonant vibrations. No wonder I felt like pounding my head and stomping my feet. Even the crazy Pottery Barn lady thought we were nuts when Julie read the final instruction to “line up in order of age. Then, one-two-three drop your poops.”

The camera clicked as, one by one, we dropped poop. I’ve never felt so ridiculous in my life. I’ve also never laughed so hard.

In a very, very, very odd way, I knew I had just passed through some sort of strange family initiation.

Ah, the foibles of families. I knew them well. Female elephants spend their entire lives in tightly knit family groups, which my own tribe had prepared me well for.

But male elephants are different. As they get older, they begin to spend more time at the edge of the herd, gradually going off on their own for hours or days at a time. Eventually, days become weeks, and finally the mature male elephant sets out from his natal group for good, as my father-in-law did when he passed away this week.

But I know he’s still with us in many, many ways. We’re elephants, and elephants never forget.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 28, 2007.

Little League, big laughs

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© 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

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© 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

Coffee Confusion

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coffee cupI know that a lot of people have been obsessed with Anna Nicole Whatshername lately, or those out of this world diapers that that crazy astronautress road-tripped with (I’ve forgotten her name already), but I’ve been fretting about the real news story of the month.

In a Consumer Reports blind taste test, McDonald’s coffee beat out Starbucks.

I know, I couldn’t believe my eyes either: a bunch of blind people thought McDonald’s coffee tasted better than Starbucks. I checked the date on my calendar just to be sure that April Fool’s Day hadn’t come early. Nope. Perhaps I’d entered some kind of Bizzaro world? Taken a wrong turn off the information superhighway? That GPS can be kind of tricky.

I checked my sources again–the LA Times, the Associated Press, MSNBC, USA Today, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, Chicago Tribune, Shanghai Daily, the Belfast Telegraph, Taipei Times, and of course, Fox News–all ran the story, so it sounded like a legit consumer survey.

But still, something about it just didn’t pass the sniff test. Perhaps it was the thousands of dollars I’d still have in my bank account if I’d been driving through McDonald’s instead of pulling up to Starbucks for my coffee for all of these years.

I decided to do some investigating of my own.

I felt a little strange walking into McDonald’s without having to be talked into it by my son, like I was committing adultery or something. I looked around, but I didn’t see any of his friends, so I wouldn’t have any ‘splaining to do.

The not unpleasant smell of French fries overpowered any coffee aromas that might have been wafting through the air. The comfy couches and giant plasma screen TV threw me off a bit. If not for that familiar eau de fry bouquet, I might have thought I was walking into an airport lounge, or even, well, an extra Venti, oversized Starbucks.

Apparently McDonald’s is now going for a “restaurant casual” style of decor to go with its new offerings of Lattes and Mochas. Granted, the Consumer Reports taste testers tried medium cups of coffee without cream or sugar, but that’s not really my cup of tea, so I went right up to the counter to order a Vanilla Latte.

It wasn’t bad. It didn’t have the pretty little designs in the foam like they do at Northstar Coffee or the “now I’m really awake” jolt of caffeine like you get at Muddy Waters but it was a surprisingly serviceable Vanilla Latte. In the interest of science, I guess I should have had a wine tasting spittoon handy, but I didn’t, and it tasted pretty good, so I drank the whole thing.

Next stop, Starbucks. Thank God, the decor still looks the same as it did yesterday. After my McVisit to McDonald’s, I was starting to think that hell had finally frozen over. In the interest of science, I got in line (a long line) to order my Vanilla Latte. Uh oh. They’re serving something new at Starbucks: Fancy McMuffins. That’s right, McDonald’s started brewing lattes and Starbuck’s started reheating eggs and English muffins in fancy combinations like Black Forest ham, aged cheddar cheese, sausage, and baby spinach. There’s even a reduced fat version with a cholesterol-free egg, low fat cheese, and turkey bacon, which looks a lot like the yuppie version of a McGriddle.

It’s like Starbucks is trying to compete with McDonalds and McDonalds is trying to compete with Starbucks and the earth is spinning even further off its axis, and the world as I once knew it no longer exists and I’m getting dizzy from all of this change, and I think I need a little more coffee.

Make it a McVenti please.

I’m starting to understand the diapers.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound

The thrill is (not quite) gone

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hiram-walker-peppermint-schnapps-usa-10094612tI thought my daredevil days were over last week when I looked up at the beautiful snow-covered mountain and didn’t think about skiing or snowboarding down it, but rather looked longingly at the bar and thought, “What a gorgeous spot for me to hang out and have a hot toddy.”

Not that I’ve ever been the queen of all things daring and dangerous, but this year skiing just looked more painful than fun. It was finally time for risky business and I to part ways. We’d had a good run, but now it was time to slow down and enjoy the cocktails. Sure I’d miss that feeling when my heart starts racing faster at the top of a hill, and my hands get a little sweaty and my cheeks a little flushed, but I could live without it. And I’d feel really stupid if I broke my leg skiing.

Goofing around by a warm fireplace looked a lot more fun than goofy-footing it down the side of a mountain. If that means I’m getting old, I can deal with that. Truth be told, I’ve never been a fan of heights or cold, both of which seem important for skiing. I’m kind of glad I don’t have to pretend to enjoy myself through the terror just to earn my spiked hot chocolate anymore. I can skip the chair lift and go straight to the bar, and I’m OK with that.

Not everyone I know is willing to age so gracefully. At his 40th birthday party, a friend announced he had taken up surfing, even though he can barely swim. Another 40ish pal spent the week at a dude ranch, finally getting back on the horse after a few disastrous childhood attempts.

Getting in touch with your inner daredevil isn’t just an aging male phenomenon, either. One of my girlfriends recently went hang gliding for the first time–with her 8 and 10-year-old sons. Talk about taking your life in your hands. What do you do when they start fighting over the songs the birds are singing, or insist that you draw a line down the middle of the sky to keep them equidistantly apart?

Despite the warning signs, and the threat of public mockery in my column, on Thanksgiving my husband decided to take up snowboarding.

Keep in mind that this is the man who has to pop Aleve and Zantac to survive a round of golf. And now he thinks taking up a sport where the only way to stop free-styling down a hill is to free-fall in the snow is a good idea? My brother-in-law, who’s got to be almost 50 by now, also joined Zak on the slopes that day. You’d think he’d be old enough to know better.

Suffice to say that when we counted our Thanksgiving blessings, all night drug stores, extra strength painkillers, and Jacuzzi’s were high on the list. Zak and Brian checked off the “snowboarding” box on their life experiences list, and cursed the idiots who wrote the list.

I still get the need for new challenges, but I don’t really understand the desire to seek out new aches and pains. They seem to find me all by themselves without any invitation at all. But I hated to think that my aching back had completely won out over my daredevil ways. Surely there must be something I could do to prove to myself that I still had it.

A few days later we were off to watch UCSB take on Northwestern in the NCAA soccer playoffs. My father will probably ground me for writing this, but I’ll risk it. Rather than face the Wildcats unarmed in the cold November air, my sister and I snuck a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps in my purse to help fight them off. Sorry Dad, but it was really cold!

My heart started racing faster when the campus security guard asked if he could check my purse on the way in. My hands got a little sweaty and my cheeks a little flushed. So I did what any self-respecting, outlaw mom would do. I pretended I couldn’t hear him and kept on walking.

Maybe the thrill isn’t gone after all.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound.

Purse-u-ing the perfect purse

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Photo by Linnaea Mallette, publicdomainpictures.net.

Photo by Linnaea Mallette, publicdomainpictures.net.

I’ve been searching for the perfect purse for about 30 years and I’ve finally come to a conclusion: there is no such thing. If you’ve ever tried to dance, as I did recently, with your everyday purse hanging from your shoulder because you can’t fit your digital camera and reporter’s notebook into your party purse, you know what I mean.

The perfect purse has got to be able to hold everything you need, yet still look stylish and feel light.

I think I’ve almost mastered the hold everything part.

My friend Ramey used to joke that anything you ever needed could be found in my purse. Can opener? Check. Band-Aid? Check. Sweatshirt? Check. Tire iron? Check. … Just kidding, I got rid of that years ago!

But I do think I’m a shoo-in to dominate on Survivor, the Purse Frontier, where contestants have to live off the contents of their handbags. After all, I am the reigning champion of “The Purse Game,” a baby shower thriller where you score points for matching a list of items with things in your handbag. I’ve got a whole closet full of jelly-bean-filled-baby-bottle-prizes, but I know my big score is coming soon, which is why I keep finding innovative new items to store in my purse, like that glittery pink Swiss army knife keychain that once said “princess” and now says “prin,” or those handy-dandy dissolvable Listerine mouthwash strips.

Since my son was little, he’s thought my purse was like Mary Poppins’ magic bag, filled with toys and treats and things to keep him relatively clean and quiet. Now that Koss is 7, my purse has become the receptacle of choice for his treasures, not just mine. I’m dumbfounded when I hear other moms talking about emptying their son’s pockets before doing laundry. My kid doesn’t want to look “bulky” and besides, I am Koss’s pockets — or at least my purse is — which is one of the reasons why we had to institute the “you can only take one small rock/shell/glass treasure home from the beach” rule.

When my husband tries to hand me his sunglasses, his wallet, or a frog he just found, that’s where I draw the line. My purse is heavy enough already.

I feel a little bit guilty when they make special requests, (“Mom, do you have a purple glitter crayon and some string cheese?” “Honey, do you have our 1992 tax returns and that New Yorker I’ve been wanting to read?”) then are utterly shocked when I’m not packing their little hearts’ desires.

I wish I could carry around the refrigerator and the filing cabinet with me but my purse is getting a little heavy. Besides, where would the shoe rack go?

In fact it’s so heavy that it’s leaving a permanent mark on my right shoulder. I wonder if there’s a way to make that look stylish, like the next hot thing after piercing and tattooing.

Unfortunately, as you can see from a recent inventory — wallet, keys sunglasses, cell phone, Band-aids, Kleenex, lip balm, lipstick, dental floss, floss sticks, paperback book, magic 8-ball, post-its, Tylenol, pens, notebook, camera, water, hair pick, mints and two changes of clothing — there’s absolutely nothing I could do without.

Believe me, I’ve tried. I have a closet full of nearly new (and now woefully out of style) handbags that aren’t big enough to fit all of life’s essentials. I once got stuck overnight in the Newark Airport with nothing to read and a terrible gift shop selection. There are 5,873 squares on the roof of the United Airlines terminal and I will never again leave home without extra reading material. As for the bottle of water, well, I was once stuck in the Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas.

With the exception of last weekend, I do try to lighten things up a bit when I go out at night. That’s when the party purses come out. But these can be tricky too. Some of those adorable little Judith Leiber rhinestone numbers won’t even hold a credit card and a lipstick, let alone car keys. If you need to bring sunglasses, you’re really up a creek. I think what I really need is a purse-onal assistant to schlep my bag, like all the movie stars have when they walk the red carpet.

Yes, that’s what’s missing in my life.

But I wouldn’t want an assistant digging through my bag. Who knows what embarrassing things she might find there. There are only so many places to hide a body. As the Illinois State Supreme Court found, “a woman’s purse occupies a peculiar status and is a possession in which a woman expects supreme privacy.”

And in the interest of full disclosure, the handbag inventory I provided here isn’t quite complete.

Now, for the three straight men and my father who made it all the way through this column — you win! I have your prize right here. … Just a sec … I know it’s in here somewhere…

Originally published 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.

Happy Birthday to Me

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Photo courtesy George Hodan, PublicDomainPictures.net.

Photo courtesy George Hodan, PublicDomainPictures.net.

When I was born they had to use forceps, which screwed up my face. Family lore has it that dad’s first words upon seeing his firstborn were (to my mom): “It’s okay honey, we’ll buy her pretty clothes and develop her personality.”

My husband gets a big kick out of that one. Until I remind him that now it’s his turn to buy me pretty clothes, and maybe a diamond trinket or two.

Like that’s ever going to happen.

He has lowered the bar on my expectations down so low that I’m thrilled if he remembers to make dinner reservations, and positively orgasmic if he deigns to call a babysitter. So maybe he learned something at Harvard.

The one thing he doesn’t have to be subtly reminded about is the all-important cake. The chocolate cake. We settled that issue early on in our relationship.

I was young and naïve and googly-eyed in love at the time, and tickled to death when my future husband took me out for a lovely birthday dinner. My favorite friends were all there, the food was great, the drinks were plentiful, and he had even bought me the perfect pair of earrings I had slyly hinted might flatter my lobes.

After a rough, first year start—“not every girl dreams of a boyfriend who will give her a $3.99 birthday gift from K-Bee Toys,” I explained, gently—it seemed like Zak was finally starting to “get” me.

It was that night that I started to think our relationship might not just be a phase (which my sister still thinks), that he might actually be “the one.”

Then he took me home, and the trouble began. There was no cake. No cake! Not just no chocolate cake, which would have been a near-fatal error in itself, not an ill-advised angel food concoction or an unfortunate cheesecake. Not even a pineapple upside down cake!

I was about ready to turn Zak upside down when he offered the pitiful excuse, “But we just had crème brulee at the restaurant. With a candle.”  And what on earth did that have to do with my missing birthday cake?

He truly didn’t get it.

In my family, birthdays are a big deal. They last at least a month, with both family and friend versions of the celebration. In recent years we’ve widened the spectrum a bit to include the family with and without kids celebrations, and the friends with and without kids celebrations, which should pretty much fill my calendar until Thanksgiving.

Cake is mandatory, but candles are optional. However, as my husband learned the hard way (“it’s just a flesh wound, darling”), the proper way to count out birthday candles is your age plus “one to grow on.” This is science, and his family is clearly medieval.

And by the way, I saw a really cute purse on sale downtown. I think it would look great with my personality.

Leslie will be accepting birthday wishes—and cake—for the next several months at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 8, 2006.