Earning my Merit Badges

UnknownAs someone who has earned her merit badge in procrastination a million times over-and that was just this month-I was simultaneously irritated and intrigued when I stumbled across Lauren Catuzzi Grandcolas’s book, “You Can Do It! The Merit Badge Handbook for Grown-Up Girls.”

It’s hard to argue with the book’s thesis, that it’s high time our “want-to-do lists” got as much attention as our “to-do lists.” But the 60 cleverly monikered “grown-up Girl Scout badges” didn’t really resonate with me. Car repair (pop the hood)? No thanks. Filmmaking (roll ’em), art appreciation (be a renaissance gal) and meditation (get an inner life)? Maybe.

As a former Girl Scout, Brownie, Camp Fire Girl and Indian Maiden, I’ve always had a thing for merit badges. And since goal setting is one of the skills that all former scouts know all about, I decided to coax a few of my own big dreams out of hiding and invent my own set of “earned age-level awards” for grown ups. Incidentally, writing this list should earn me emblem number 60 from Grandcolas’s book, “You can do it!” which encourages people to invent and pursue their own merit badges.

I’ll be checking my mailbox to add the “I can do it” badge to my sash. Meanwhile, here are a few of the other badges on my “want-to-do list.”

The $25,000 Pyramid Badge: For just one day I’d like to consume the recommended six servings of grains, five vegetables, four fruits and two servings each of milk and protein without gaining seven pounds and/or having a monster stomachache.

Badge Steps:

(1.) I always forget, is a tomato a fruit or a vegetable?

(2.) You say tomato, I say chocolate.

(3.) Let’s call the whole thing off and count beer as a grain and vodka as a vegetable.

Do as I Say Badge: Like any loving parent, I live for the day that the words, “But last time you said …” “But you and daddy get to …” and “But everyone else gets to …” are forever banished from my son’s lips.

Badge Steps:

(1.) Rewind my son’s life to when he was a baby and all he did was smile, eat, sleep and poop.

(2.) Or, fast-forward a few years, to when he’ll likely be giving me the silent treatment in protest of something I wrote about him in this column.

(3.) Or, find the mute button.

Too Big for Primetime Badge: There are six magic words that have been haunting my dreams since my show stopping performance as Lucy in my third grade class’s version of “You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown.” They are, of course, “I’d like to thank the Academy.” However, more recently they’ve been upstaged by another six magic words: “Why thank you for asking, Oprah.”

Badge Steps:

(1.) Compliment the fabulously talented, stunningly generous Ms. Winfrey regularly in my column.

(2.) Send her subliminal messages in my sleep until she realizes what a witty and charming guest I would make on her show.

(3.) Appear on show and be so witty and charming that Oprah invites me to “stop by anytime.”

(4.) Appear on show several more times, developing witty and charming repartee with Oprah, my new best friend.

(5.) Write witty and charming screenplay for Oprah to star in and produce.

(6.) “I’d like to thank the Academy.”

It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s super-Leslie Badge: I know I want a super power, I’m just not sure which one. I’ve always wanted the power to freeze a moment in time, like that moment in time when I had a perfect, 20-year-old body. Or the power of invisibility, so that I could steal things. Or I could be a crime fighter. It’s hard for a girl to commit.

Badge Steps:

(1.) Get in industrial accident involving chemicals, radiation, lightening, and some insect that’s not too yucky – maybe a butterfly.

(2.) Conjure up my grandpa’s voice, saying, “Keep exercising that imagination, kid. It’ll take you places someday.”

(3.) “You know Oprah, I’ve always wanted to have super powers. How do you do it?”

The Thrill of Competition Badge: While competing at Wimbledon, the Indy 500 and the Kentucky Derby have long been relegated to video game fantasies; I’d still like to have box seats someday.

Badge Steps:

(1.) Mention to my good friend Oprah that I’ve always to attend Wimbledon, the Indy 500 and the Kentucky Derby.

(2.) Thanks for the time off. Of course I’ll write a column about it, boss.

Send your adult merit badge suggestions to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.comOriginally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 14, 2010.

 

Drive-in Delights

Courtesy Santa Barbara Drive-In and Public Market

Courtesy Santa Barbara Drive-In and Public Market

The Santa Barbara Drive-In Theater reopens tonight after a 19-year intermission and I can’t remember when I’ve been so excited.

I can, however, remember a lot of great times at the Drive-In.

We moved to Santa Barbara when I was in kindergarten and some of my earliest memories are of my sister Pam and I, bundled up in our footie pajamas, in the back of our parents’ old, Aqua Velva blue Ford Pinto. We’d get to the Drive-In early so we could play on the playground slides, seesaws and swings. My favorite ride was always the spinning Merry-Go-Round-an important rite of childhood, which today’s insurance carriers, and probably a few broken limbs and blows to the head, have all but exterminated. The only thing better than the world of indescribable dizziness the Big Spinner provided was the sugar buzz we got from the assortment of Pop Rocks, Razzles, Bottlecaps, Atomic Fireballs, Grapeheads and Twizzlers our parents let us use to wash down the popcorn.

After all that candy we inhaled, they probably shouldn’t have been surprised that I managed to stay awake well beyond the family-friendly first features like “Fiddler on the Roof” and “Bedknobs and Broomsticks,” into the racier, late night fare. Despite my mom’s command that I, “Go to sleep. It’s way past your bedtime,” I still remember seeing large, incredibly inappropriate chunks of “Carnal Knowledge,” “Dirty Harry” and “Deliverance” at a very tender age.

As I edged into my teen years the Drive-In was still a favorite place to hang out, but by then it had nothing to do with what movies were playing. It was all about seeing friends, being seen, and knowing who was steaming up their car windows in the back row and who was breaking up behind the snack bar. It was all about how many friends you could hide under the cargo hold in the way back part of mom’s station wagon, how many people you could pack in the trunk, or-if you could resist the urge to giggle, and have you ever seen a pack of teenagers who can actually do this-how many pals you could fit under a blanket in the back seat.

Sneaking people in was part of my teenage fun of the Drive-In. For some inexplicable reason, I even remember doing this on the nights when they were charging a flat fee per carload just to keep up with the tradition.

Traditions die hard in this town and the Drive-In theater has been sorely missed.

It’s actually thanks in large part to the efforts of a far more motivated teenager than I ever was, 17-year-old San Marcos High senior Dominique O’Neill, that the next generation of moviegoers will get to go to the Santa Barbara Drive-In.

Last month Dominique organized a fundraiser at the Drive-In to benefit Direct Relief International. It was so successful and so many people wanted to return and share the Drive-In movie experience with their friends that she started a Facebook page to show the current owners, West Wind Drive-Ins, how much public support there was. In just over a week approximately 6,500 people joined the Facebook group (including yours truly) to pledge their support.

“I expected people to want the Drive-In to reopen, but I was astonished by how many people joined so fast,” said Dominique, who wanted to recognize the people who helped her with the Direct Relief fundraiser and spurring interest in reopening the Drive-In. “None of it would have been possible without the help of West Winds Drive-Ins and Public Markets, especially Ken Krummes, Mitch Moore of M&M Painting, Bob Shoppe of Milpas Rental, Kirk Morely of Morely Construction, Clare Moore, Emily Knuutinen, Shelby Zylstra, Maren Walker, Danielle Gruenberg, Whitney Caldwell, and most importantly my mother, Mary O’Neill.”

Awww! What a sweet Mother’s Day present for Dominique’s mom, and a great thing for all of us to celebrate this weekend. I can’t wait!

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The first movie to open at the Santa Barbara Drive-In (907 South Kellogg Ave. in Goleta) is “Iron Man 2,” which runs from May 7 through May 13 and shows at 8:00 p.m. and 10:25 p.m. nightly. After that all screenings will be double features. Tickets are $6.75 and children 5-11 are only $1, with special discounts on Tuesday nights. Visit www.westwinddi.com to sign up for weekly emails with the upcoming movie schedule.

Bring on the popcorn! Leslie would never be so rude as to check her email during a movie, but when she’s not at the Drive-In she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 7, 2010.

Kindergarten Screening

photostock freedigitalphotos.net

photostock freedigitalphotos.net

Playing “tour guide” for the parents of incoming kindergarteners this morning, I couldn’t help feeling a little nostalgic. It wasn’t that long ago that I was holding a tiny, nervous hand in my bigger and more nervous one, as we made our way to the first in a long series of school tests. Sure, they call it a “kindergarten screening” but make no mistake-the kindergarten screening is your child’s first official test as he enters the world of elementary school.

What? He’s taking a test already? He hasn’t even started yet. Aren’t you supposed to teach him something first? Nope.

While dad is checking out the other incoming kindergarteners, trying to spot the redshirts who are already nine years old and have read the entire Harry Potter series-in Mandarin-and mom is looking around for other moms to be her new best friends, the teachers are evaluating your little angel’s motor ability, conceptual knowledge and language skills, not to mention his vision and hearing.

Talk about nerve wracking.

When Koss was pre-K they had the parents go into the evaluation with the children, but they’ve since wised up and now have the children go in on their own. Having a bunch of anxious parents hovering over them doesn’t exactly inspire natural behavior in most kids.

Hence the introduction of the PTA-provided tour of the school to help distract the nervous parents while their children are (hopefully, please, help me out here kid and I’ll give you a cookie) making wonderful first impressions on their new teachers.

Kindergarten does make a big impression, that’s for sure. It’s been 40 years and I can still remember my own first day of school like it was yesterday. It’s been almost seven years and I can still remember Koss’s first day of kindergarten like it was yesterday. I can’t remember yesterday, but that’s a whole different story.

The parents on my tour asked some great questions about parking and the playground, the cafeteria, cubbies and the computer lab. They asked about volunteering, donations, daycare and enrichment classes, but I neglected to share with them some of the things I remember about Koss’s kindergarten year.

He learned about the “bossy E,” who was simply silent when I went to school. He learned about raising his hand to get attention, and about taking turns and waiting patiently, although he still sometimes has issues with that one. He learned about spiders and wolves and coins and backpacks. He also learned about homework and projects and dioramas and which parent is better with counting and which parent is better with a glue gun. If you ask Koss, he’ll say the best thing that happened in kindergarten was he learned to love to read, surely a marvelous thing for any child, but especially for one without siblings.

If you ask me, the most important thing of all that Koss learned in kindergarten was to love going to school. He adored his teacher. I’ll never forget the dejected look on his face when I explained to him that he would have a different teacher for first grade. Thankfully he’s loved first grade, second grade on up through this year’s fifth grade with almost the same kind of relish. But kindergarten is special. Whether it was their first child to enter kindergarten or their last, I’m pretty sure that all of the parents were marveling that somehow their babies had reached that stage.

I know I’ll be feeling that way again before I know it. Junior High is right around the corner.

When Leslie’s not marveling at how quickly time flies, she’s usually at her keyboard wishing her fingers flew a little more quickly. Email her at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 20, 2010.

Forging Friendships

imagerymajestic freedigitalphotos.net

imagerymajestic freedigitalphotos.net

A certain amount of loose behavior is required to forge a close friendship. You’ve got to let go of your inhibitions and take a risk. Plus, the window of opportunity for personal revelation is small-if you do it too quickly you’re a promiscuous slut who has exposed too much too soon-but if you wait till the 12th date in the relationship, then your friends are likely to feel bamboozled, like they don’t really know you at all.

As easily as women bond on the surface-most of us have no problem chatting up ladies in Pilates class, the carpool lane or the supermarket line-our friendship dance is as complicated and tricky as any Paso Doble you’ll see on “Dancing with the Stars.” As a parent I’ve found that it’s not at all unusual to spend hours and hours with people who have kids that are the same age as yours, are in the same activities or at the same schools, and realize at some point that you have nothing else in common. Sometimes I wonder if this isn’t why I rarely forge deeper connections with people I know socially-because if I know for a fact where they stand on religion, politics, and country western music, then I know I won’t respect them in the morning.

Unfortunately, between this admittedly snobbish attitude I have toward people who disagree with me, and the sheer busyness of my life and the lives of my dearest and closest friends, this means that my truly substantive conversations are few and far between. As a journalist I find that I frequently have more in depth talks with the people I’m interviewing than I do with my own family members-a fact which I find both deeply disturbing and also somewhat titillating. There’s something almost magical about getting to know someone based on a shared confidence, even if the connection is short-lived.

But there’s nothing better than a long, close friendship forged over time and a shared history.

My best friend lives in Texas now, and when we do manage to get together (unfortunately rarely), the primary thing we do is talk. We don’t need to do anything else. Unlike our days as college roommates, where we spent hours and hours just hanging out and talking about anything and everything, now we both realize what a luxury it is to have deep discussions once you get to be an adult. It’s strange that as you get older you have so much more perspective and experience to offer in conversations, yet so much less time to actually have them.

I definitely treasure the opportunity to have substantive heart-to-hearts whenever I can, yet rarely do I make the first move. I’ve always believed that intimacy isn’t something you can force, but I had an interesting experience last week that made me think about it in a different way. Sitting at a luncheon with 12 other women, only three of whom I actually knew at all, instead of leaving the occasion to whither into typical chit-chat, our hostess asked us to pick conversational topics out of a bowl.

Some of the questions were silly (What’s the item in your house that you are most embarrassed to own?) and some of them were enormous (What is the most passionate, driving force in your life?), but all of them were most definitely excellent conversational fodder. At the end of the day I left feeling sated in a way I don’t think I’ve ever felt before at a party where I didn’t make out the guest list myself. I’m hoping that experience will inspire me to be a little more promiscuous with my chatter, and perhaps take a few more conversational risks.

The next time I see you let’s talk-for real.

Share your thoughts about friendship and conversation with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 23, 2010.

Laundry Lessons

tongdang freedigitalphotos.net

tongdang freedigitalphotos.net

My friend Erin turns 40 today. She doesn’t want any presents; she just wants me to tell her the meaning of life.

That’s all. The meaning of life. Just a simple, little gift. I don’t think she’ll accept “no,” “42,” or even “swordfish” as an answer.

Doesn’t she know that I don’t really know what the meaning of life is? I’m not THAT much older than she is. Though I do know from personal experience that you can’t find the meaning of life in any store. Not even the shoe department at Nordstrom.

It’s not in a glass of wine or a tree or a yoga pose. And contrary to what some people say, I never learned about the meaning of life in kindergarten.

But I do know one thing I can share with her: You can learn a lot about life by doing laundry.

On the surface it may seem like a never-ending, redundant chore-whites, brights, darks, lights, towels, sheets, rinse and repeat. Again, five, six, seven, eight, whites, brights, darks, lights, towels, sheets, rinse and repeat. You can never catch up with the laundry. The moment that you match that last clean pair of socks, another soiled and sweaty duo shows up in the basket to take their place.

You’re never done. There’s always another day and another pair of dirty socks.

Of course anyone who does a lot of laundry knows that there’s really no such thing as being able to make all the socks match up in perfect pairs. Sure they start out that way when they’re new and fresh from the factory. Those socks are unscarred and optimistic because they’re too young and naïve to know any better. They walk down the aisles of Target in perfect harmony, believing that plastic staples and a shared manufacturer will bind them blissfully together forever.

Little do they know that once they hit that laundry basket life is full of surprises. The lucky pairs will stay in the same cycles, dancing around separately by day—while one rendezvous with a favorite t-shirt, the other attaches itself to a sweet smelling sheet—only to reunite in a cozy drawer for the night.

It doesn’t matter how many clothes you have or how often you wash them, every load of laundry is familiar, but if you look carefully enough you’ll always find surprises. Some weeks are full of grays and some are full of color. Some clothes, like some people, thrive in hot water, while others prefer it to be chilly. And try though you may to keep your dainty delicates away from the dryer, sometimes they attach themselves to a muddy pair of khakis or a stinky sweatshirt with an old college logo and they’re never quite the same after that.

An errant burr might worm its way into your sole leaving a scar on your heel that only you can see but you feel it every time you take a step. Buttons fall off and disappear into the ether. An errant purple crayon makes its way out of a classroom to permanently mark its territory on your favorite pink tank top. Things don’t always come out the way you think they will in the wash. That’s why they invented tie-dye.

The rinse cycle is good for cleaning off the grime, but sometimes you have to repeat—rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. And there are some things that never come completely clean no matter how many soaks you give them and some that are always a little rumpled some matter how carefully you iron them.

Another thing you’ll come to realize after doing lots and lots of laundry is that not everything grooves to the same timetable. Those thick, thirsty Egyptian cotton towels turn out to be high maintenance, but worth the extra minutes in the dryer, while that Irish linen blouse demands more TLC than you have the patience for. So what if it was $59.99 (on sale!). Do enough laundry and you’ll learn that some things are just not worth the aggravation.

Sometimes the laundry can enrich you in more than just wisdom. I once made $2.87 in change and immediately went and bought myself a Slurpee. It was the coldest, sweetest, brain-freezing Slurpee in that summer full of Slurpees in a life full of Slurpees. I closed my eyes and wanted to savor every slurp of that special Slurpee. I opened my eyes and saw that I spilled some on my shirt.

And once again it’s back to the laundry. You toss and you tumble and try to sort through things and you clean them and they get messed up and you clean them again and again.

Whites, brights, darks, lights, towels, sheets, rinse and repeat. You’re never done. There’s always another day and another pair of dirty socks.

And another chance to clean them.

Share your laundry lessons with Leslie at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 16, 2010.

 

Bag Lady

stockimages freedigitalphotos.net

stockimages freedigitalphotos.net

It’s taken me a while to get to this point. I’ve struggled and the results haven’t always been pretty, but I can now admit, loudly and proudly, that I’m a bag lady. The weight of my big fat carbon footprint has been keeping me up at night for years-not to mention all those agonizing times I’ve had to resolve the eternal debate between paper and plastic-but this year on Earth Day I’ll have a little more spring in my step because I’m finally, consistently doing one environmentally-friendly thing right.

I’m a bag lady.

I’ve got a lightweight, foldable, little chartreuse green number tucked away in my purse, ready to pull out at the pharmacy or the video store or library. And my car’s trunk is loaded with a vast assortment of canvas bags to be used for grocery shopping, picnics and all of the random sports equipment that seems to attach itself to my son.

Inside the house we’ve got tradeshow swag bags advertising products no one’s ever heard of, reusable bags with dividers to hold wine, insulated bags to keep beer and sodas cold, and a scary number of canvas bags with the names of my employers who have long since gone out of business.

Note to the Daily Sound: do not give me a bag with your name on it.

It took a while for me to make the bag lady transition. I started accumulating reusable grocery bags a few years ago, keeping them in my trunk so that they’d be ready whenever I went shopping. I can’t tell you how many times I left Ben and Jerry melting in the cart while I ran outside to get my canvas bags. Despite the fact that we should all be equally invested in preserving the environment, I’m sorry to say the people behind me in line didn’t really take a global view of that particular situation.

Rather than further alienating Mother Earth by risking an altercation, I decided to start purchasing a canvas bag every time I forgot to bring my own into the grocery store. Kind of like my own personal, environmental tax. This is what finally made me make the change for good-it had to hit me in the wallet before I got in the habit of actually taking the bags out of the car before I walked in the store-my own personal tax.

Now I understand that some people think “tax” is a dirty word, so if you’re one of those people you can substitute “benevolent donation to the environment” for “tax.” Our local city council recently bagged on an effort to put a bag tax on the ballot, after some members of the public were fit to be tied over the $23,000 they were planning to spend to survey the issue (though I hear they’re going to “study it” again this summer). Personally I think the council would have had more success with a “benevolent donation to the environment” campaign than a bag tax, but I’ve got an even simpler suggestion: stores should just stop stocking disposable bags. Use up what you’ve got and don’t order more.

This seems to work just fine in France, where they’ve got some of the chicest bag ladies around.

Don’t have a bag? Sorry, you’ll have to purchase one. That’ll cost you a dollar. Eventually your purse and your trunk and your garage will be so full of bags that you’ll have to start bringing them with you when you shop. Talk about an easy way to change people’s habits. San Francisco sacked plastic bags a few years ago after a study found that each bag represents a 17-cent local expense for cleanup, disposal, and lost recycling revenue. This January, Washington, D.C. (where “tax” apparently isn’t a dirty word) started charging a nickel for each disposable paper and plastic bag and their use went down 86 percent in a month. Imagine what a buck a bag would do?

We’d have some pretty chic bag ladies running around Santa Barbara in no time flat.

When Leslie’s not carting her canvas bags around town, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 9, 2010.

Note to my Younger Self

marin, freedigitalphotos.net

marin, freedigitalphotos.net

You know all that gibberish older people always spout about wishing they had smelled the roses, stayed out of the sun and flossed more when they were younger? Forget that. If my older self could fly back in time and give one worthwhile piece of advice to my younger self it would be this: Have your picture taken in a bikini every chance you get. In fact, take naked pictures if you can rustle up the nerve. Just don’t put them on the Internet or on a cell phone. Seriously, use some common sense.

I’ll say it again – take pictures in a bikini. Wear a bikini to work if you can. Spend as much time as possible in a bikini. You won’t regret it.

When I think of how many times I threw a towel over my perfectly tanned and toned tummy, or how many times I tried to cover up my non-veined and not-the-least-bit-thundering thighs, I want to slap that young girl upside her head and scream, “Flaunt it while you can, you look great.” All of that toxic self-consciousness was so stupid.

I’d tell her to enjoy those looks – in fact I’d tell her to revel in them – because they won’t last forever. You might not know it now but one day you’re pretty hot-whether you realize it or not-and the next day you wake up and you’re just plain pretty-as long as you’re wearing makeup-and before you know it you’re a mature woman and the only men who flirt with you are homeless and hoping you’ll spring for a meal.

The painful evolution from Miss to Ma’am will strike so quickly you might mistake it for a hot flash. You’ll be looking in the mirror looking for yourself instead of at yourself. That girl is gone, leaving a reflection you barely recognize. On a good day she’s a cross between some distant relative and Herman Munster. Hunt for that has-been-hottie all you like, she’s gone. You’ll find yourself hunting for your lost looks the same way you must constantly hunt for your lost keys or that lost Post-It note with the name of that great dermatologist that whatshername told you about. Sure you can find traces of that young girl at the gym or the salon, but they’re fleeting traces.

Enjoy your looks while you’ve got them. Someday you’ll look back on the reflection of your fading, younger self and wonder how you could possibly have ever had a moment of anxiety about your looks. Silly girl. What were you thinking? Someday you’ll squint in the mirror at your rapidly aging self and wonder why you never paid attention when all those old people told you what a cruel trickster time was.

The truth is that inside every older person is a younger person wondering what the hell happened. Remember that.

When a saleslady tells you how flattering your driver’s license picture is, you’ll want to slug her-until you look in the mirror and realize that while your eyes are closed and your hair is cattywampus, the photo was taken ten years ago and look how nice your skin looks. You had no age spots, no crow’s feet, and no gray hair. Talk about lowering the bar.

It’s humbling to know that-if I’m lucky to live long enough-one day I’ll look back on today’s picture and think how marvelous -looking I was, how little gray I had and how great my skin looked. I read a great quote from Suzanne Braun Levine the other day: “Imagine how many good laughs we would miss if our bodies weren’t giving us so much hilarious material.” She’s right of course, but I would still tell my younger self to laugh while she was wearing a bikini.

When Leslie’s not looking for her car keys or her old self in the mirror, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 2, 2010.

Heeled

Manolo Blahnik Pumps

Manolo Blahnik Pumps

In elementary school my nickname was Big Bird. No, I wasn’t covered with yellow feathers back then-nor am I now, for that matter-but compared to the other kids I was absurdly tall. Taller than all of my friends, taller than all of my female teachers and even a few of the men, I was as tall as I am now. Well, almost. I was measured at 5’8 3/4″ the other day and I used to be only 5’8,” which is really not that freakishly tall these days, like it was when I was ten.

Despite my self-consciousness about my height, my mother’s constant reminders prevented me from slouching and probably a lifetime of bad posture and back problems. But what she didn’t prevent me from was a lifelong fear of high heels.

Sure, plain old walking is easy. Babies can learn how to do it without being taught. On a good day I can even walk and talk at the same time, and if I’m feeling like I’m really hot stuff, even chew a little gum. It’s when you add heels that I get into trouble. I just never learned to walk in them properly.

Anything more than a two-inch heel and I stumble, literally. I just can’t walk in high heels. I’d like to be well heeled; I really would. In my fantasies I’m strolling jauntily down the streets of New York in a pair of red-soled Christian Louboutin embroidered, peep-toed pumps. Or gallivanting along the Seine in Manolo Blahnik‘s patent leather leopard print tapered toes. Or gliding elegantly around the dance floor of a Parisian palace, in Prada platform pumps.

Hey, a girl can dream.

I just know that if I had those Jimmy Choo silver gladiator style platform sandals I would look at least 20 pounds thinner (and my wallet would be about $1,295 slimmer). Not only couldn’t I walk in these shoes, I couldn’t afford them and I have absolutely nowhere to wear them. But that doesn’t stop me from dreaming about Jimmy Choo as I scoop up Mossimo’s 13th runner up bridesmaid version of the gladiators at Target, which I still can’t walk in, but thankfully only set me back $24.99.

They don’t call me Imelda for nothing.

My closet is filled to overflowing with beautiful heels in mint condition because I’ve only worn them once since they’re so uncomfortable. Though they’re mostly from the Nordstrom’s sale rack and Ross Dress for Less, I hesitate to think of all the money I’ve spent on shoes over the years.

I still don’t think I’d have quite enough to buy the most famous shoes in the world. Inspired by Dorothy’s ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz, and designed by the House of Harry Winston, these babies have 4,600 rubies of 1,350 carats and are estimated to be worth at least $3 million. I don’t think I’ve spent quite that much money on shoes over the years. But if I had it all back I’d easily be a shoo in to be able to afford Manolo Blahnik’s fabulous $14,000 alligator knee length boots, which are black and would go with just about everything in my wardrobe-if only I could learn to walk in them.

When Leslie’s not fantasizing about adding to her shoe closet, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on March 19, 2010.

Ineffectiveness and the N-Effect

Photo chomnancoffee, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo chomnancoffee, freedigitalphotos.net

Is the school board creating a GATE-way to mediocrity?

Did you hear the one about the N-Effect? A research study published in Psychological Science found that when it comes to academics, the more competitors you have, the less motivated you are to do your best.

Researchers Stephen M. Garcia (University of Michigan) and Avishalom Tor (Haifa University) found students’ average test scores on the SAT and other tests go down when the number of test-takers increases. People taking the tests don’t even have to see their competition to have their scores go down, just an awareness that they’re out there seemed to have the same influence on the outcome.

Garcia and Tor named this phenomenon “the N-effect.” The larger the “N”- number of participants involved in a task-the worse the outcome for the individuals who are participating. In an ongoing series of experiments they have found again and again that people work harder, and perform better, when they are up against just a few people.

For example, they gave students a trivia quiz, saying there was a prize for those who finished the test the fastest. Some students heard that they were in a group of ten students, while others were supposedly competing against 99. The students who believed they were in the smaller pool finished the quiz significantly faster than those who thought they were one of 100.

The N-effect seems to be there regardless how difficult or easy the task. People work harder if they believe they have better odds of winning, but this also goes to their motivation to succeed.

All of this makes me think about the current debate over the future of GATE (gifted and talented education) in the local schools. Full disclosure so you can question my motivation – my son has been fortunate to be in the pullout GATE program at his elementary school. Frankly, I think he’s benefited more from the small group-learning environment than the actual curriculum, because there are only a handful of kids in the GATE class as opposed to the 26 in his regular class.

In a Newsweek article Garcia said, “How we compare ourselves to other individuals is the engine that drives how we compete against others. When there are only a few people in the race, we put our foot on the gas, working harder and harder to outpace our competitors. And the competition becomes very personal. How we compare ourselves to others in the room becomes a referendum on our own ability.”

This is so true. And this is one of my primary concerns about folding the GATE program into what is now labeled “Honors.”

“In contrast, when we are against many, many competitors,” said Garcia, “we don’t care as much about how we stack up against one other competitor. Once the crowd is large enough that we don’t feel the element of personal competition, the result doesn’t feel like a personal statement of our worth, so we don’t try as hard.”

I believe that the school board probably has their hearts in the right place when considering this change. I know that the hairs on my neck stand up whenever I hear the label “GATE,” as though some kids are “gifted” and others are not; when I was a kid they called the accelerated program MGM for “Mentally Gifted Minors,” which was even worse. Nonetheless, I think they’re going in exactly the wrong direction. What they should be doing is expanding the number of ability groupings to fit the needs of all children, not limiting them even further. Call them group 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5, or name them after fruits, or call them anything you want-but limiting the number of ability groupings serves the best interests of no one, other than champions of mediocrity.

Obviously it’s ridiculous to believe that a single test given to a third or fourth grader is the sole determinant of a student’s educational destiny, despite all the sweating of parental palms over their child’s place in the mini-meritocracy.

But no matter how special we all think our kids are, there is such a thing as an average child and there is such a thing as a child that will be lucky to graduate high school. It’s as ridiculous to try to alter that reality with politically correct labels as it is to try to mend the achievement gap by removing the top tier of instructional offerings, which is what it seems to me that the school board is considering doing.

Why don’t we aspire instead to do a better job of assessing students so they can be challenged and motivated to the best of their abilities in smaller groups? And while we’re at it, maybe we can come up with a better name for the GATE program. Maybe the LESLIE program?

When Leslie’s not wringing her hands over the state of education, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on March 12, 2010.

Fanning the Flames For the Winter Olympic Games

TeamUSAOne of my favorite things about the Olympics is that they allow me to root for America’s quest for world domination without a bit of ambivalence. Unlike the complicated wars and diplomatic situations our country gets involved with, for often incomprehensible reasons, the winners and losers of the Olympic Games are fairly clear cut, with none of those pesky gray areas to fret about. Go USA!

The competition between the Summer and Winter Olympics is a little bit murkier.

It might be easy to assume that because I grew up in Santa Barbara, the Summer Olympics would always get the gold. Volleyball, swimming, gymnastics, water polo, diving, basketball, tennis-these were the sports I played and watched, so I could easily appreciate the athleticism required to be the best in the world at any of the summer sports.

The Winter Olympics are a bit more foreign to me. Curling, Luge, Bobsleds—I’m never quite sure what these events are about. Not that this stops me from putting in some marathon TV hours. I’m staying up well past midnight this week to do my part for the Olympic team, yet no one’s giving me million dollar endorsement deals. I don’t even get a free Nike Jacket, and the snowboard team’s plaid ones are really cute. Heck, at this point I’d settle for a Gatorade.

But even more than the exotic challenge of figuring out some of the rules, the thing about the Winter Olympics that keeps me faithfully glued to the TV—for many, many more hours than can possibly be healthy—is the drama. Almost all of the winter sports have the possibility for huge airborne, gravity-defying success or even more ginormous, dream-crashing failure.

The brutally cold hard fact that so many of these athletes could bite it and get seriously hurt is what keeps me on the edge of my seat for the Winter Olympics. Just uttering the name “Skeleton” (a sport where people lie face down on a sled and go careening down a frozen track without any brakes) runs a chill down my spine. The same thing with “Biathlon.” Did anyone really think it was safe to combine cross-country skiing with speed trials and shooting? Next thing we know they’ll make it a “Triathlon” and bring in Curlers to throw rocks.

The Winter Olympics could be a great action adventure movie. I can just see the trailer: Exotically handsome Apolo Ohno (Oh! No!) courageously fights off two South Koreans who knock each other out, and then victoriously clutches the American flag on the short track. Meanwhile, injured Lindsey Vonn “America’s fastest bikini-model-not-named-Danica Patrick,” whooshes her way downhill for an impressive gold medal victory. Could a romance be brewing between these two?

But wait, there’s danger around the corner, as a quick cut reel of dramatic wipeouts, snow snuffs and faceplants reveals the anguished falls of the Netherlands’ speed skater Annette Gerritsen, France’s skier Anthony Benna, Russian speed skater Yulia Nemaya, Canada’s cross country skier Ivan Babikov, Chinese short track skater Nannan Zhao and German pairs skater Robin Szolkowy, fading into a final shot of Canadian hockey player Marie-Philip Poulin practically eating the net.

And that’s just the first few days of action.

Watching the ice skating in particular, I feel like a rubber-necker at a car crash, anxiously waiting for a triple axel to turn into a bone-bursting accident or a salchow to spin into a crushing calamity. Pairs skating even has a move called the death spiral. You don’t see that in beach volleyball. No wonder I can’t look away.

Pass the popcorn. I’m gonna be here awhile.

When Leslie’s not glued to her TV screen for the winter games, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on February 19, 2010.