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Leslie Dinaberg’s favorite columns

Yes I Cannot Say No

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Can a Yes-Woman Become a No (to)-It All?

“You know how to do it, ” whispers the assertive angel on my shoulder, and yes, she sounds a bit like Lauren Bacall. “Just put your lips together and say, ‘NO!'”

I can feel the unfamiliar sound forming, it’s just a breath away from coming out of my mouth … then the word gets stuck in my throat. Inexplicably, my lips start moving and those other familiar words come out: “Yes,” or “Sure, I’ll do it,” or even worse, “Why not?”

Why not! Why not indeed!

Because I have too much to do.

Because I did it the last time.

Because I want to be at home with my family.

Because I don’t want to.

Because I, Leslie Dinaberg, am a yes-aholic.

There. I’ve taken the first step toward recovery.

Why is it so hard for me to say “no,” I wonder for the umpteenth time, as I sit here writing this column, at home, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, while my son and my husband are off enjoying themselves at the pool?

I wish I could blame this on an evil boss who piles on the weekend assignments, but it’s my own fault. I’m taking the day off tomorrow and I knew I’d have to finish this column before then … but all of last week I kept saying yes to appointments and obligations and assignments that I knew I didn’t really have enough time for.

And here I am, just another “yes-aholic” working on a Sunday, with no one to blame but myself. What’s so tough about saying “no?”

“No” was one of the first words my son learned to say. He mastered it by screaming the word at the top of his lungs, usually in quiet public places. He got so skilled at saying “no” that my husband and I even made up a song (to the tune of that “Meow, Meow, Meow, Meow” commercial) where the word “no” was the sole lyric.

We still perform occasionally when a toddler comes to visit.

If preverbal children can say “no,” why do I have such a hard time?

“Most women find it very hard to say no and set limits on what they do for others,” writes Judith Selee McClure, Ph.D. in Civilized Assertiveness for Women.

While most sentences that begin with “most women” are mostly never true, she does mostly have a point.

“Women are conditioned to say, ‘Yes, I’ll give you whatever you need or want’ — and to feel guilty when they don’t.”

Has McClure been spying on me or are there actually other yes-aholics out there?

When the “Y-word” comes out my mouth instead of the “N-word,” it’s not because I’m so toxically nice I can’t say no, and it’s not that I don’t think someone else can do the job as well or better than I can. That’s a lie, but it’s still not why I’m saying “yes.” Really it’s all about guilt.

As Erma Bombeck put it, “Guilt is the gift that keeps on giving.”

It sticks with you all right. Ask me a simple question and I can’t bear the thought of disappointing my child, my boss, my parents, my husband, the coach, the teacher, even the receptionist.

When they say, “Would you mind, the doctor/dentist/manicurist is running a bit late,” — of course I mind! But I’d feel like I was a terrible person if I told them so. That would imply that my time was equally as important as theirs. How could I be so selfish?

Because ultimately, asserting yourself isn’t about being selfish. There are lots of good reasons to stop saying “yes.” For one thing, saying “yes” when you want to say “no,” makes your stomach hurt and your head ache. You feel like you’re being taken advantage of, and then guilty because after all, you’re the one who said “yes.”

“You go girl,” cheers my assertiveness angel, who apparently doesn’t know it’s 2005. “No more ‘I’m just a girl who can’t say no,'” she sings, sounding more like Gwen Stefani than Celeste Holm in Oklahoma.

She’s right. And in her honor, I’ve devised a three-step program to help combat yes-aholism. I was going to do two steps, but my boss told me to do three. I said “yes.” Hmm.

1. Just say “no” and you and those around you will be happier. Always saying yes will only land you in places you don’t want to be, like therapy, divorce court, or with no friends to complain to because you’ve alienated them all by making them look bad because you do more than they do.

2. Just say “no” and you’ll have more enthusiasm, not to mention time and energy, for the things you do say “yes” to.

3. Just say “no” with a little bit of grace and your kids will learn by your example how to stand up for themselves and balance their goals with other people’s. You don’t want to raise little yes-aholics do you?

All together now, just put your lips together and say “no.” If that doesn’t work, keep your mouth shut, and turn your neck to the left, then turn it to the right. Repeat until the other person walks away.

Originally published in Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 26, 2006.

Birth of a PTA Goddess

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Courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

I woke up the other morning and found myself on the PTA Board. Like all of those stories that start with, “you’ll never believe where I woke up,” I used to hear from my college roommates, I’m not quite sure how it happened.

I was daydreaming my way through a nominating committee meeting and the next thing I knew I was saying “sure, great idea” to what I swear was the rather brilliant suggestion that we have an open bar at our next meeting.

I was wrong.

And then there was training involved.

Last weekend was the PTA Leadership Round Up in Buellton. I got to the cafeteria of Oak Valley Elementary School a few minutes early, salivating for coffee, only to find that the first speaker was already cheerfully jabbering away. What kind of homicidal parent group starts early? And on a Saturday morning! Not only had they started early, they put the coffee in the front of the room. I had to stumble by dozens of perky morning people to get to the java, all the while enduring the stares of the keynote speaker, and it wasn’t my fault.

Did I mention she started early? Who does that? And she was really, actually 10 minutes early, in real time, not Santa Barbara time.

Had I not carpooled with a couple of other moms, I might have turned around then and there.

I daydreamed my way through most of the first session. It’s not that a review of various PTA job descriptions isn’t compelling first thing in the morning. I mean, who knew that “ways and means” was a fancy way of saying “fundraising?” I just thought that my time could be used more effectively by doodling out a series of plots for my new mystery series, Murder at the PTA Meeting. Could you really bash someone to death with fundraising wrapping paper?

Little did I know that a whole genre of this type of novel already exists. Murder at the PTA Luncheon, Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA and my personal favorite, Death of a PTA Goddess, were all conceived during PTA training, I’m told.

I started to understand why when the two head honcho PTA ladies put stuffed fish on their heads (so that’s where Nemo went) and showed us a motivational video of the fishmongers at Pike Place Fish Market in Seattle. Seriously. I learned from this video that I’m supposed to smack the principal with a carp at our next PTA meeting. More and more I’m thinking that my open bar idea was a stroke of genius.

I know that the only two men in the room would agree with me, as I watch them try to pick a door prize from a slew of Mary Kay perfumes and flowered tote bags, FYI guys: join your PTA board, and go to the conventions, even if you don’t have a kid. Fish in a barrel.

The guys also remind me of next fall’s Survivor show. I’m told the producer plans to enlist 12 men, who will be dropped into the suburbs with a van, six kids (each of whom play two sports and take either a musical instrument or dance class), and no access to fast food. They must keep the house clean, correct all homework (receiving at least a “C+” on all papers), complete a science project, cook, and do laundry. Plus they have to shave their legs and wear makeup, which they must apply either while driving or while making six lunches.

The competitions will consist of such things as cleaning up after a sick child at 3:00 a.m.; making an Indian hut model with six toothpicks, a tortilla and a crayon; and attending a PTA meeting and accurately reporting the results.

I would certainly fail at the latter.

But then again, reporting about how nice and normal and less thin and blonde and perky the real PTA moms are than the ones on TV wouldn’t be very entertaining, would it?

As the 37th person in a row introduced herself as someone who “never thought of herself as the PTA type,” I realized I was going to fit right in just fine. Especially once we get the bar installed.

When her mind isn’t wandering to thoughts of murder, Leslie can be found in the carpool lane, putting her makeup on peanut butter sandwiches. Share your PTA adventures by emailing Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally published in Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 26, 2006.

What I learned in kindergarten this year

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Kindergarten, photo courtesy Lucelia Ribeiro, Flickr.

The tears started when I began to compose a thank you letter to my son’s teacher. Trying to put down on paper all of the amazing things he had learned in kindergarten — about the “bossy E,” who was simply silent when I went to school; about raising your hand to get attention, rather than shouting or pulling on shirtsleeves; about using sign language when you need to go to the bathroom; about taking turns and waiting patiently; that gray wolves mate for life and that little acorns grow into great big oaks — proved an impossible task. I just kept smearing the ink with my big, sloppy, sentimental mommy tears.

Kindergarten is such a big year in so many ways. Sure, we felt the influence of the outside world in preschool, like when Koss thought it was odd that his father and I didn’t have tattoos, like all of his 20-something teachers. Or when he picked up phrases like, “Let’s skedaddle,” or “Excuse me, sir,” that he would never have heard at home.

But kindergarten was different. Even I could remember kindergarten, which meant so would Koss, and any mistakes that we made here would go on his, gasp … permanent record! There were goals, standards, expectations, even report cards.

At Back to School Night, when Ms. Geritz told us that every one of the students would be reading by the end of the year, I just about fell out of my teeny, tiny, fake wood chair. They were just babies, many of them clinging to mom and dad for a few precious moments before running off onto the playground, with some stray glances back for reassurance.

Every milestone Koss encounters feels like a mixed blessing, as I give another bit of him away to the universe. As much as I want him to be independent, I dread it too.

Someone recently asked me when I most rejoiced, when he got out of diapers or when he could strap himself into a car seat, which he will soon strap himself out of permanently when he turns 6 next month. Koss can hardly wait. He’ll probably wake up at midnight to throw it out of the car.

As for me, well sure, ditching the diapers did inspire a little happy dance, but even the most celebratory milestones make me feel a little sad. Call me crazy, but I missed those 2 a.m. cuddles when he began sleeping through the night.

In kindergarten, each child greeted Ms. Geritz with a hug. That’s what I’ll probably miss the most. For the simple sweetness and also for the deeper symbolism. These children adore their teacher. For right now she is school to them. I wish I could bottle that love of learning, that openness to all of life’s possibilities and put it in a time capsule to bequeath to them when they’re 13 or 11 or 9 or whenever that seemingly unavoidable teenage ‘tude starts.

I’m a little bit comforted when I see Ms. Geritz’s past students — 1st and 2nd graders and even some 6th graders — stop by and give her hugs. She’s a part of them now and she always will be.

I’ll never forget the dejected look on Koss’s face when I explained to him that not only would he have a different teacher for first grade, but that there would be some different students too. He really liked his classmates. So did I. While neither one of us found a new best friend, we did meet a lot of nice people and I know that most of them will remain in our lives for a very long time.

But we’ll never be in kindergarten again and I can’t help but wish I had spent a little more time volunteering in the classroom. Maybe baked a cookie or two, instead of always buying them. Maybe re-learn how to bake, so that I could actually mean it when I say that. Although, I know that I would still feel guilty even if I had never missed a volunteer opportunity and had been a Martha Stewart lunatic about making perfect goodies for every event.

Koss would rather have Oreos anyway, I reminded myself, as I un-packaged the cookies after the end-of-the-year play.

Whether it was their first child to enter kindergarten or their last, all of the parents marveled that their babies had finally reached this stage, reading well enough to memorize lines and stand poised in front of the audience waiting their turn to perform.

For the finale, when the children signed and sang along to Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” there wasn’t a dry eye in house.

Then Ms. Geritz gave them each a memory book with a poem that said they would take a piece of them with her wherever they went.

Sorry if my big, sloppy, sentimental mommy tears smudged your paper. I’m sure I’ll get over it by the fall.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on June 23, 2005.

Cherishing each phrase of my life

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My father always knows how to say it best

“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll buy her pretty clothes and develop her personality.”

This was the first thing my Dad said to my mom when he saw me, his first-born.

Granted, this was 1963, I had a forceps-dented forehead, and the only labor fathers participated in those days was pacing the hospital halls and handing out cigars, so seeing this very un-Gerber-baby-like creature might have been a bit of a shock. Why he repeats the story every birthday is another matter.

Keep this in mind as I begin to tell you about a few of my father’s other favorite phrases. While most people’s Dads offer cliched fatherly wisdom about walking miles to school in the snow, earning just pennies an hour for backbreaking labor, or eating your vegetables because of starving children in faraway countries, my Dad is nothing if not an original.

Pain is Your Friend

Ask any of the 6th graders who helped to taunt, I mean, lead the kindergarteners through an obstacle course for a recent Vieja Valley School fundraiser, and they will tell you that this is my Dad’s favorite phrase. He coached them to use it to goad my 5-year-old son, who’s been the fortunate — or unfortunate — recipient of two generations worth of pent up Dinaberg testosterone. Koss was more impressed that all the 6th graders seemingly knew him.

Growing up with a football coach father, my mom, sister and I would often reflect on how lucky it was that we didn’t have any boys in our family. And surely it’s not coincidental that my sister and I both chose husbands who prefer golf and channel surfing to any sport where they might actually get hit. Luckily for Grandpa Bob, my son Koss, his only male grandchild, loves to wrestle, tackle and play rough, and Grandpa’s edict to “toughen up” doesn’t phase him any more than his bloody noses do.

Developmental Task

Pain was our friend and, according to Dad, if we couldn’t manage to play through it, we could always learn from it. Anything we didn’t want to do — from painting the sundeck to finishing our homework — or wanted to do but couldn’t — like going to that chaperone-less party because “everyone else was allowed to” — became a developmental task for my sister and I to learn from.

I repeated both of these adages to myself as I went through my own labor and delivery, where pain was most certainly NOT my friend, and my developmental task was to realize that I should have demanded an epidural at least two weeks before delivery. I really should stop saying you never taught me anything, Dad.

On Scholarship

My Dad never takes us out to dinner, golfing or to a movie. It must be the former athletic director in him, because we’re always “on scholarship,” and like the coach who is always fighting for more on behalf of his team, my generous-to-a-fault father, gives out many more scholarships than his finance director (mom) would like him to.

I’m Having Fun /Let’s Boogie

Delivered in an infectious singsong voice, I can’t help but smile every time I hear these Dad-isms. He is nothing if not fun to be with, and ready to pursue fun at any opportunity. Not many 41-year-olds still skip through parking lots with their fathers. I probably laugh more with him than anyone else … even, or maybe especially, at the most inopportune moments.

Call Me Sir

Having long given up on me, my sister and our girlfriends to show him the proper respect (Pa, we ain’t southerners!), my Dad has tried, to no avail, to get every male who’s ever come in spitting distance of us to call him Sir. Even his grandchildren stumble over the words. There’s just too much dissonance between the proper “Sir,” and the loveable, affable, completely improper guy that my Dad is.

I wouldn’t want him any other way.

Scoop Bob

Working for a small town newspaper in the same small town that my husband and I both grew up in, you’d think I’d have a pretty good ear to the ground when it comes to news. Certainly better than my father, who sometimes has to be told things a half dozen times before they sink in. But oddly enough, that’s not the case. While my mother often knows about things weeks before they hit the news, and is far too discreet to ever say anything, Scoop Bob works overtime to keep me in the loop about anything remotely newsworthy, including the cat that got stuck in Mrs. Haigh’s tree and the new Wow Cow flavors at McConnell’s.

As I slowly got out of the car on Sunday (“Hurry up mom,” Koss yelled.), I weighed the relative benefits of taking a nap versus checking my email. While my husband put in yet another load of laundry, it occurred to me — for the first time in my life — that I truly am my father’s daughter.

“It’s good to see me,” I said to myself, as I dialed my Dad’s number.

“Happy Father’s Day, Sir. Let’s celebrate by scholarship-ing me to some pretty new clothes at Nordstrom.”

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on June 16, 2005.

Disneyland never gets old

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Sleeping Beauty Castle at Disneyland Resort, Anaheim CA, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Sleeping Beauty Castle at Disneyland Resort, Anaheim CA, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Magic Kingdom brings out the kid within

Outrageous prices, long lines, and theme park feet aside, taking a child to Disneyland for the first time is still an E-ticket ride. While my 5-year-old son Koss is a seasoned Disney veteran, his cousin Jordan recently celebrated her fourth birthday with Mickey and friends at what was, for her, truly the happiest place on earth.

Of course my brother-in-law, Brian, would have rather had a root canal — but some people don’t recognize fun even when it’s screaming in their ear.

I, on the other hand, love Disneyland with an almost geek-like passion. My fervor would be more than “almost geek-like” if I were talking about vanilla lattes or Chuck’s Mai Tais, but with mouse-maniacs rivaled only by trekkies in their fanaticism, my enthusiasm is relatively tame.

Sure, I make my family wear the same color shirts when we go there, but it’s not like we have “Dinaberg Family Disneyland Trip” t-shirts printed up like the Densmore family did, and it’s not like we’ve fashioned our old curtains into Butterick Pattern Nos. 1187-1199 like the Von Trapp family. No, that would be ridiculous. At least, not until after I finish my sewing class.

My obsession certainly doesn’t reach the heights of the Krock’s, who created a website about “the happiest potties on earth” (www.mouseplanet.com/potties/). While it’s a truly brilliant site, and would have been useful when Koss 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, I’m not that obsessive.

Still, my heart starts thumping a little faster as we pull into the lot, and it’s not just because of the $37 parking fee — I love Disneyland.

I’m probably the only person to have enjoyed visiting Walt Disney World and Epcot Center solo, on more than one occasion. (OK, so I was there on business, but I still bought — and wore — the mouse ears.)

I couldn’t help reflect on how well my son and his cousin Lauren would have fit in at Tokyo Disneyland where all sense of personal space is eclipsed by a strange need to fit as many people in as small a space as possible. I know that Disneyland can sometimes feel like the most peopled place on earth, but trust me, anywhere in the U.S. would feel spacious in comparison to Tokyo Disneyland.

I bet Brian’s head would explode if we made him go there.

Jordan’s eyes turned to saucers as she watched the teacups spin. New things come and go in the real world with alarming frequency, but everything in Fantasyland is just where I left it when I was 4. I can almost see my lip print on Dumbo’s ear and my Grandpa Alex’s belly jiggling as he danced along with the birds in the “Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Room,” and just about hear my dad singing “It’s a Small World After All.” Oh — never mind. That really is my dad singing “It’s a Small World After All.” Some things you don’t have to remember, you can just relive them over and over again. Like, “It’s a small world after all, it’s a small world….” I must stop now.

One of the greatest things about being a parent is getting to re-experience magic through the eyes of a child. Watching their responses was often more entertaining than whatever it was they were watching. Lauren wanted to dance with the prince in the “Snow White” stage show, Jordan tried to pick a fight with some of the pirates in the Caribbean, and Koss believed that Buzz Lightyear remembered him from their last hug and photo op.

I guess it is a small world after all. It’s a small world after all. It’s a small, small…No! Stop it!

It certainly feels like a small world when a woman I don’t recognize spots me in line and asks me, “Are we going to read about this in the Beacon?” I’m not sure whether to feel flattered to get recognized or guilty because she busted me for taking my son out of school.

“It’s my sister’s fault,” I want to say. “She didn’t want to fight crowds on a weekend.” And really what I mean, if you’re reading this and you happen to be the principal at Vieja Valley, is that he was very sick that day with a fever of 112. Or, at least a massive stomachache from all the $12 boxes of popcorn that grandma bought him.

Jordan’s chubby little legs bounce along to the Lion King’s “Hakuna Matata,” landing her on her rump every so often. She laughs out loud just because she’s 4 and in her world this is nothing short of nirvana. Even Brian cracks a smile, and I feel grateful to have a glimpse back to feeling that way.

Though my theme park feet are asleep after the long drive home, and I’m too tired to wash the theme park film (saturated fat, sunscreen, sweat and spilled sugar) off my body, laying in my own somewhat lumpy bed next to my own somewhat grumpy husband is actually the happiest place on earth.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on June 2, 2005.

Price points to shopping paradise

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Costco in Irvine, CA, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Costco in Irvine, CA, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Stalking Costco’s aisles is much more than a spectator sport for bargain hunters

Our anniversary is coming, so naturally when my husband told me he needed to “go to Costco,” I was sure he was going to buy me that Chagall lithograph I’ve had my eye on.

When I heard that Costco was beginning to sell fine art, I knew that it wouldn’t be long before we got lured into the excitement. My normally shop-o-phobic husband has a hard time resisting the temptation of big box bargains.

We once ate hot dogs every night for an entire summer, just to use up the enormous vats of relish, mustard and catsup he couldn’t resist. And we’ve still got 39 cans of pickled brussel sprouts sitting around from the time my son swore they tasted delicious, “the way that Grandma made them.”

Pretty much anytime we walk into Costco, we save so much money that we go broke.

So when I read that an original crayon drawing by Pablo Picasso sold at Costco.com for $39,999, I knew that the $8,799 Chagall would soon be on my walls, because when you enter Costco, Costco logic prevails.

Which is why I have an unopened ten-gallon bottle of Tanqueray Gin still making a dent on the top of my fridge, from a long ago party where “someone might want a gin martini” and an industrial-sized kennel of baking powder for all of the cookies I was going to make for holiday gifts one year.

While high-end retailers hire merchandising specialists to help move you through their stores, Costco logic relies instead an unwritten law. “Whatever you look for at Costco will be on the far opposite side of the store. And in your quest to find the desired item, you will always find a minimum of seven other items you can’t live without.”

Try it sometime. It’s science.

I know that eventually, at some point in the future, I’ll come out ahead on my Costco purchases, but I’ll have to live to be 107, because that’s how long it’s going to take me to eat all of the chicken noodle soup I bought three flu seasons ago.

At least the soup purchase had some practical application. Lately I’ve been lured in by “new” products like Sierra Mist Free — which is really just Diet Sierra Mist with microscopically different packaging — or Wheat Thin crackers with zero trans fats (and exactly the same ingredients as the old crackers).

While customers are buying in mass, Costco is taking its profits in bulk. In a flat retail year, gross profit was up 13 percent last year with annual revenues of 47.5 billion dollars.

That’s an awful lot of Cherry Pepsi Free.

What else are people stocking up on?

In my case, there are the 14-foot-long rolls of coordinating wrapping paper, that I may need someday, and the gigantic tub of cinnamon-spice hand cream that I couldn’t resist. My husband’s temptations usually relate to outdoor activities — which is funny if you know him — like the tent could literally house a village, or the ice chest that could surely hydrate them. Costco’s marketing gurus even have a name for these items — the ones that never make it onto your shopping list, but somehow inevitably make it into your shopping cart — they call them the spice.

Then there are the actual spices, like Piment Despelette, which I bought a gigantic jar of once, because a woman who looked like Betty Crocker told me it was a once-in-a-lifetime bargain at 20 dollars an ounce

If the spicy new packaging or the advice from fellow customers doesn’t tempt me, the free samples usually do. While my dad usually trolls the Costco aisles for the “cheapskate special” lunch, I’m more likely to get sucked into the illusion that if I just bought that case of Jennie-O-Turkey with tequila-lime marinade, I’d somehow get in tune with my inner domestic goddess, the one who’s been MIA the past 40 years.

Sure, you’d expect the soccer moms hoarding juice boxes and the college kids stocking up on Easy Mac ‘N Cheese, but I’m most intrigued by the flocks of chic women who buy their thirty dollar Cabernet at Costco and their 200 dollar jeans at Blue Bee.

“Is that a good wine?” asks my husband, ever on the look out for both a bargain and the chance to chat up a pretty young thing.

“Oh yes. It’s quite a good value,” says Ms. Second Wife, as she bats her eyelashes at my First Husband.

“I hear the Chagall’s are quite a deal too,” I say, showing them both the lithograph print from my computer. My husband’s eyes go wide. Is he tempted?

“Wow, $8,799 for a work of art at Costco,” he laughs, in a way that tells me my chances of attaining it are dismal at best.

I wonder if Chagall does multi-packs.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on February 17, 2005.

Forging friendships requires strong arms

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Photo: Wonderland, Flickr.com.

Yes, it’s good to know you’ve got a friend–but it’s better if you know what kind

Thanks to a recent column, my husband and I have experienced a surge in the number of couple friend applications. That, and an unfortunate holiday card count miscalculation, have forced me to do some reevaluating of my Rolodex to reflect a scientific analysis of the types of friends I have in my portfolio.

First there are the Forever-Friends. Whether the friendship emerged from the trenches of third grade, Dykstra Hall or my Lamaze class, these people now know so much about me; they’re stuck with me. These are the kind of friends you call at 4 a.m. — whether you need help with your bail, you just got engaged, or you simply need a ride home. Hopefully you make these friends before you need them.

Next up are the FOBs, Friends-of-the-Boss. My old boss John used to call us his work spouses, but I think of us more like work siblings. You might bicker a bit over parking spaces or time spent in the bathroom, but when push comes to shove, you’re a team, united against common adversaries — the microwave, the copy machine and that rival newspaper down the street.

Then I have the FOKs, Friends-of-the-Kid, a relatively new category for me, as I’ve found that small children are almost as effective as large cocktails as social lubricants. Until I became a mom, I could never understand why every one of my sister-in-law’s close friends had two boys the same age as hers.

Now I get it. When your kids are young you’ll go to great lengths for a semblance of adult conversation, even if it’s as mundane as “Does Biz work on chocolate and blood?” or “How did you get your son to stop peeing on the floor?” This type of friendship can go on for years. By the time you get around to discussing politics or religion or anything even remotely serious, they’re so entrenched in your life they’ve moved into the Forever-Friend category.

Next up are Function-Friends, the people you hang out with at functions, also known as acquaintances. Whether they work out at your gym or have kids on the same soccer team, we have certain people that we gravitate to in those situations when you’re there anyway; you might as well find someone to talk to.

Function Friends should not be confused with Functional-Friends, otherwise known as Friends-in-High-Places. In my younger days, my most Functional-Friends were actually in low places, like movie theaters and bars. Now that I’m a big time reporter for the Beacon, my Functional-Friends are … well, still at movie theaters and bars.

Always of special interest to me are my Foreign-Friends. One of my favorites in this category is Kenny, a lima bean farmer in Jalama Beach. In my daily life, I don’t come across many farmers, or lima beans, so this fellow is as mysterious to me as an Inuit friend might be.

As a writer, Foreign-Friends also help fill in some of the gaps between my own, relatively mundane, middle class upbringing and, oh say, that of my friend Angie, whose mom was a crack dealer, or Kevin, who still won’t admit that he works for the CIA.

I’ve realized that friends don’t always fit neatly into categories. The groupings often overlap. Take Steve, a Forever-Friend of my husband’s, who we’ve nicknamed the monogamist misogynist. While some of his behavior might warrant a reclassification to the Former-Friend category, his tales of romantic woe are so entertaining that they move him into the Foreign-Friend category, which brings me to one the cardinal rules of friendship selection: anyone who can be exploited for laughs in my column will always have a special place in my Franklin planner.

A girl’s got to get her material from somewhere, and Flash-in-the-Pan-Friends fill in when Foreign-Friends fail. These are the people that blast into your life with bright shining promise — their kids are the right age, they immediately get your jokes, they take your call at 4 a.m. — only to fizzle out due to divorce, disharmony or because you called at 4 a.m.

And don’t forget the Filler-Friends. These are people you like, but they don’t make the A list. They get invited to your big parties, but not your intimate gatherings. You might invite them to a large wedding, but then you realize you don’t know their last names. They are not to confused with Fifth-Wheel-Friends, who are extra and unnecessary people, usually brought along as Friends-of-Friends who aren’t very discriminating about who they befriend.

Then there are the Forced-to-be-Friends-Friends, which include your spouse’s friends, your friend’s spouses, the parents of your children’s friends, etc. If you’re lucky, these people will survive this initial phase and become reclassified — hopefully not into the Friends-I-Don’t-Like category.

All of this category hopping can get awfully confusing.

I recently had drinks with a Forever-Friend, a Function-Friend, a Functional-Friend and a Friend-of-a-Friend. We spent the whole time discussing the breakup of our Fantasy-Friends, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. We even became Friends-for-the-Night with our waitress, who had a few choice words about her friend Jen, which prompted my Forever-Friend to talk about Brad’s Friends-With-Benefits friendship with a certain costar.

This got me thinking about another Fantasy-Friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson, who said, “It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”

Right, old friend?

I’ll talk to you at 4 a.m.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on January 20, 2005.

Wishing to be driven to distraction

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Photo: Raysonho courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Photo: Raysonho courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Recent family road trip a timely reminder to steer clear of next one

I love my father, but I never want to see the back of his head again.

In my family, vacations can be hazardous to your health — and I don’t mean from the mysterious “road trip” diet of my teenage years, which consisted of corn nuts, Slurpees and various jerky-like substances, nor do I mean from my adult “road trip” diet, which consists of too many diet cokes, nonfat lattes, and glasses of wine when we’re finally “there yet.”

No, I’m talking about my father behind the wheel.

I recently celebrated the New Year by driving to Northern California in a sausage-packed sedan with my parents, my husband and my son. Unlike many people, I actually enjoy spending time with my parents and would even rank them high on my list of “couple friends” — until we get in the car.

Someone once said that there are three parts to every vacation — anticipation, vacation and recuperation. When my father is driving you need to add a fourth part to the equation — trepidation.

We all have certain genetic qualities we fret about when we marry into another family, those things that we worry about passing on to our children. When my sister announced she was pregnant, my brother-in-law’s first comment was, “I’m teaching the baby how to drive.”

That’s how bad the Dinaberg driving genes are.

My sister and I are bonafide bad drivers, but at least we admit it, and will readily let someone else drive whenever possible. In fact, while most parents worry about the day their children will finally get their driver’s license, I can hardly wait. Even hopped up on teenage hormones and hip-hop (or whatever kind of music is popular in 2016), I know my son will be a better driver than I am.

We all have our talents, and I have no illusions about where I stand when it comes to manning the driver’s seat.

No such luck with dad.

Although he deserves sole credit for teaching my sister and I to use the brakes on an empty freeway, he insists he is a great driver. As proof, he’ll be happy — ecstatic, in fact — to show you his military license. His friend Col. Dan Georgi gave it to him for driving a Humvee in a parking lot. Where’s Colonel Dan now? Afghanistan. Apparently he thought he’d be safer there.

Anyone who’s spent five minutes with my dad knows he has a great sense of humor about most things, but he’s not joking about this. My dad really does think he’s a great driver. The thrill of driving with my father lies in his unpredictability. Where most would choose to accelerate, he might decide to brake; when many would be content with a constant freeway speed, he likes to keep other drivers guessing; and while many would go slowly crazy following that bus right in front of us for the last ten miles, I’m not sure he’s even noticed it with all the futzing around he’s been doing with the radio.

Fortunately, he’s got mom, otherwise known as “GPS Joan,” who gives him at least a 33-mile heads up every time he gets within a half an hour of the next required turn.

There’s nothing like a six-hour drive in the rain with your parents to bring back memories. Comfortably ensconced in the front seat, my husband kept his complaining to an admirable minimum. Meanwhile, I had to endure hours of crying, tears and tantrums. From my inner child. My actual child was a lot better behaved than I was, what with the “are we there yet? ” mantra of yesteryear having been replaced by chants of “can I watch the DVD yet?”

If only I could figure out a legal substance to mellow adults out the way “Teen Titans” and “Yu-Gi-Oh!” calm my kid, I could make a fortune and hire a private jet to take us on our next family vacation.

In lieu of having my own personal “Pokemon” to focus on during the trip, I had to settle for bathroom breaks, lots of them. My husband calls my family “the Amazing Mini Bladderinis,” and with the bottles of water, the sound of the rain on the roof, and all the coffee breaks … I’ll be right back!

When I wasn’t peeing, I spent most of the rest of the drive with my face pressed against the window, slowly mouthing the words “Help me!” to anyone whose attention I could get. As I fogged up the windows I looked on the bright side: I was no longer looking at the back of my father’s head.

And when we finally got to our destination and later toasted the New Year surrounded by family and friends, I remembered a lesson my father taught me well — sometimes the destination is actually worth the drive.

P.S: For those of you passing through Santa Barbara, it may interest you to know that my father used to teach drivers ed. Have a nice drive back to LA.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on January 13, 2005.

Family ways sometimes leave a lot to be desired

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Photo by luist & his inner pig, Flickr.com.

Photo by luist & his inner pig, Flickr.com.

Tribal customs can be a mystery to outsiders. Are you fine with that?

“Feliz Navidad,” sang those sweet, high-pitched voices of the fourth and fifth grade children.
“I want to wish you a Peaceful Solstice. I want to wish you a Happy Hanukkah. I want to wish you a Joyful Kwanza. I want to wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart.”
It was the most politically correct holiday concert I’d ever seen.
If only my own holiday rituals could be so inclusive.
There’s one very important fact about marriage that gets lost in the sea of white silk and perfect place settings that all of those bridal magazines are so enamored with.
You don’t just marry a man; you marry an entire family.
With that family comes decades worth of holiday rituals that are guaranteed to be different than your own.
And let’s be honest here, when it comes to holiday celebrations, different isn’t just different — it’s plain wrong.
So after we’ve cleaned up all of that wrapping paper and eaten our last bite of Christmas turkey and we pull out a deck of cards this year, I’ll have to ask, once again: “Are we playing Dinaberg or Klobucher rules?” Because Klobucher rules are weird. It’s like they actually read the directions or something. And they don’t cheat, which I take as an affront to every thing my father ever taught me.
I love my husband’s family, but sometimes when I’m with them I feel like I’m an anthropologist digging through exotic terrain.
I should have known I was in for trouble when we were first dating and my future husband took me out for a lovely birthday dinner. The food was fabulous. He’d invited only my favorite friends and bought me that perfect pair of earrings I had slyly hinted that I wanted.
It was when he took me home that the trouble began.
There was no cake.
No cake.
Not just no chocolate cake, but no cake whatsoever.
“But we had Crème Brulee at the restaurant,” he protested, like that had anything to do with my missing birthday cake.
He didn’t understand. Birthdays are a big deal in my family. They last at least a month (several months in my mother’s case), with both family and friend versions of the celebration.
The specifics may vary a little from year to year, but one thing doesn’t. There is always cake.
And by the way, the proper way to figure out birthday candles is your age plus “one to grow on.” This is science.
“A little more is always better” is my family’s philosophy.
My husband comes from a mother who fed four growing kids on two Chinese dinners from Ming-ons.
I, on the other hand, come from a Jewish mother.
So I know that if, God forbid, you have a party and there aren’t leftovers for at least a week, you didn’t make enough food.
It’s enough to make you feel guilty for a year.
And if you feel guilty about something you have to talk about it, right?
In my family you have to talk about everything. And talk, and talk, and talk … until you’re so tired of talking you forgot what you were talking about.
Then you can talk about that.
My husband’s family doesn’t get the whole talking thing. Mostly they’re “just fine” with just about everything.
But how do they really feel? We’ll never know. And that’s “just fine” with them.
I, for one, have never been “just fine” about anything in my life.
I certainly wasn’t “just fine” that one year we had Thanksgiving dinner at my ex-Uncle’s house. Sure they had turkey and a killer game of Pictionary but there were no mashed potatoes.
That’s right. Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes.
Can you imagine such a thing? No wonder he’s an ex-Uncle.
Which is why my sister and I spent the latter part of that evening driving around in search of mashed potatoes. It simply wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving without them.
And when we finally found them at a Thai restaurant they were the most delicious potatoes we’d ever tasted.
Kind of like that gigantic flourless chocolate cake the year after my husband didn’t buy me a cake.
“As if I’d ever forget again,” he barked.
“See, that’s why we talked about it so much honey,” I mentioned for about the 12th time that year.
“Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
=
When Leslie is not studying the tribal customs of her in-laws, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on December 23, 2004.

An Incredibles imagination

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Our Leslie Dinaberg sure gets animated when it comes to fantasizing about superpowers

Ah, to be a super. Is it too much to fantasize about? For the five of you who weren’t at the Metro Theatre last weekend, The Incredibles follows the adventures of a family of former superheroes trying to fit in with the rest of the world by not using their powers. Until one day ….

6:33 a.m.: my alarm goes off. Aargh! Time for my daily dilemma, do I hit the snooze button or hit the gym? A light bulb illuminates above my pillow. With a few superwoman stretches, I am finally the right height for my weight. I can skip the gym and snooze a little bit longer. If only my feet weren’t hanging off the bed.

6:47 a.m.: I hit the snooze again. Now that I’m a superwoman, I can simply jump into my closet/phone booth and jump out perfectly coifed and ready for work. Ka-sweet!

6:49 a.m.: I don’t like this outfit. Sha-hooey! Wrong color. Sha-bizzle! Does my super butt look big? Sha-Channel! Ahh, perfect!

7:32 a.m.: wake up son for school. Use my mind control powers to convince him that he wants Wheat Germ instead of Cocoa Puffs for breakfast. Sha-psyche!

8:03 a.m.: driving to school, it looks a little cloudy. Mmmpf! I send those clouds away with a flick of my fingers, and then teleport that suburban right out of my favorite parking spot at Vieja Valley.

10:45 a.m.: I’ve already completed all my interviews for three stories. It’s amazing the quotes you get when you can read people’s minds. I always thought Marty Blum liked kittens. Meow!

11:37 a.m.: the construction next door to the office is driving me crazy. Yaarg! I use my x-ray vision to see what’s going on. They’re moving way too slowly on the new Walter Claudio spa. I use my mind control ability to convince them to work nights from now on and to give me free facials forever for this cheap plug. Ka-score!

1:15 p.m.: on my way to an interview, a silver Porsche cuts me off to get out of the “exit only” lane of the 101 at Milpas. His mid-life crisis in not my problem. Kapow! He’s got a flat tire.

1:53 p.m.: I’ve only got 45 minutes till my next appointment and my stomach’s growling. Sha-gurgle! I decide to fly over to La Superica and make the line disappear till I’ve got my lunch.

2:17: p.m.: on my way back to the office I fly by Ortega Park. A small child chases a ball onto the street. Mom is nowhere to be found, and the oncoming car doesn’t see the kid. Yowza! I stretch my arms extra long to bring child and ball back to safety. No need to thank me, it’s all in a day’s work. Now I have to write a story about myself.

3:09 p.m.: my meeting is dragging. Zzzz! I go invisible and leave for a while to run some errands. A lady with 14 items in the “10 items or less” line at Vons. Shazam! Learn to count next time! When she gets out to her car a bird will have just done his business on the windshield.

4:30 p.m.: I’ve got one hour to write my story, return seven phone calls and read 57 emails. The phone rings and its my husband reminding me about soccer practice. Holy AYSO Batman! As I calculate ways that my superpowers can help me out of this situation, I spy an ad for The Polar Express, where Tom Hanks plays six different characters in the same movie. Since I only need to do four things simultaneously — write, read, call and kick — my fifth persona goes to see the movie and the sixth one goes home to make dinner.

Me? Make dinner? Rats, I’ve gone too far. Clearly, it was all a fantasy.

Mild-mannered Leslie Dinaberg possesses superhero powers as a wife, mom and reporter. If you’re in trouble, contact her at email

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on November 18, 2004.