Category Archives: South Coasting

Don’t Lock the Libraries

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Photo by Stoonn, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Stoonn, freedigitalphotos.net

“Libraries are not safe places, and the reason for that is there are ideas to be found.” –John Bookman

“You know the republic will survive when there is new money for libraries.” –Denis Hamill

A lot of the people I grew up with were surf rats or skate rats or gym rats. I was a library rat. From the first time I signed my name on a card at the public library downtown, I was addicted to being around all those books.

But my obsession with libraries really began when I was nine years old. I had just transferred to Harding School. Sherry Thompson was the librarian.

“Where are the books about the CIA?” I asked her. “I want to learn about them because I think I might make a good spy when I get older.”

And her magic answer: “Let me show you how to find them yourself.”

She led me to the card catalog–for you youngsters who have never heard of such a thing, the cards were like Pokemon cards, only with less information on attack points, and more information on how to find a book–and she showed me how it worked.

Not only did I learn about the CIA, the FBI and James Bond that day, I finally solved the mystery of who that Sarah Bernhardt lady was that my grandma was always comparing me to when I’d get a bit dramatic.

All of those cliches about libraries opening doors came true for me that day. I was hooked. It wasn’t about falling in love with reading; I had caught that bug years before. My mom was a teacher, so I certainly didn’t need a librarian to encourage me to read. But Mrs. Thompson introduced me to research, and I dove right in with vigor, the beginning of a new life-long love.

Learning how to find information, to answer questions all by myself, gave me such a sense of sovereignty over my world. Learning to explore the world of information was just as important to me as learning how to flirt with boys or learning how to swim. I felt like I had harnessed the powers of Wonder Woman, Nancy Drew and Batgirl (a librarian in disguise). I could solve just about any mystery in the world by wielding my magical powers over the Dewey decimal system. What could be better than that?

Mrs. Thompson became my concierge into the world of information. She was always encouraging me to try to find out the answers by myself, but keeping an eye on my progress–and always right there when I needed help. For me she was the perfect kind of teacher.

I keep thinking about Mrs. Thompson when I read about all the budget cuts in the elementary schools. Our libraries have already been hit hard and they’re threatened with being hit even harder. I can’t imagine what my elementary school years would have been like without the library–and the librarian–to rely on.

Mrs. Thompson noticed my preference for fiction and promised me a lunch at the Yacht Club if I could read every biography in the school library. To this day, that was still the best burger I’ve ever had.

Mrs. Thompson was the first person I ever knew that died. I was 13 and knew enough to do some research about cancer, thanks to her.

I know the public schools are in a budget crisis, but asking a school, “an institution of learning,” to cut their library programs seems absurd to me, like asking someone whether they’d rather have an arm cut off or a leg. Cutting off our kids from such an important resource seems just as awful. There has got to be a better way.

“A library that is not accessible out of business hours is of as little value as gold horded in a vault and withdrawn from circulation,” said Alexander Graham Bell. I looked it up–at the library.

When Leslie’s not researching obscure quotes at the library, she’s online writing them at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com or read Leslie’s columns every Friday in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on November 21, 2008.

Family first

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8ball2Sometimes I feel like a Magic 8-Ball, making mundane yet still crucial decisions for my family all day long.

“Should we have pasta for dinner?” “Signs point to yes.”

“Can I wait till after dinner to start my homework?” “Outlook not so good.”

“It looks sunny, should I wear shorts today?” “As I see it, yes.”

“Can we bring snack to soccer on Saturday?” “Reply hazy, try again.”

“Can the classroom rats come home with us for Thanksgiving break?” “My sources say no.”

“Pretty please.” “Don’t count on it.”

Quite frankly, other than the rats, I could go either way on most of these day-to-day decisions, which is why I try to not to waste a whole lot of thought on the more mundane matters of motherhood. Sometimes I actually do use a Magic 8-Ball to make decisions and nobody cares.

This past week, I couldn’t help thinking about how different things must be now for Future First Lady Michelle Obama when she makes family decisions. She has described her upcoming role as “Mommy-in-Chief” to emphasize that the girls will be her top priority while living in the White House. It’s not that I don’t think Barack will be involved too, but let’s face it, he’s got a new job and he’ll be traveling a lot and most of the day to day decisions will fall into Michelle’s more-than-capable hands.

Decisions decisions.

She can’t just pick an outfit out of her closet–or dress her kids–without being scrutinized to death. Just days after the election, “The Wall Street Journal” reported that stores across the country were selling out of the Biscotti Inc. dress Malia wore on Election Night, and that Gerson & Gerson Inc., maker of Sasha’s dress, has been calling retailers to let them know it’ll soon be coming out with a new version of the dress (“The Sasha”). What are the girls going to wear? She has to decide–and other people really care.

Everyone and their brother are weighing in on what kind of puppy she should get the girls. Should it be a pure bred or a shelter dog? Should it be hypoallergenic or is there really such a thing? Should it be black or white or black and white, or are we beyond caring about such matters? She has to decide–and other people really care.

She also has to pick a new school for the girls, which she is reported to be researching now. Public or private? It’s a big decision. Amy Carter went to a public school in part to bolster her dad’s everyman image, but she wasn’t allowed to play outside during recess because the playground was too close to the street.

Chelsea Clinton went to Sidwell Friends, a private Quaker-run school, but her parents also took flack for that. Then again Tricia Nixon is also an alum, so it could be considering “reaching across the aisle.” This whole school decision is awfully complicated. She has to decide–and other people really care.

The world already knows that Malia and Sasha set their own alarm clocks and adhere to a strict 8 p.m. bedtime. But what if their schedule changes in Washington? What if they have too much homework at their new school and need to stay up a little later to finish it? Not to mention staying up a little later to get some face-time with daddy. Mom has to decide about that–and other people really care.

And what if the girls need a raise in their $1-a-week allowance. Mom has to decide about that too–and other people really care.

The latest thing I heard–courtesy of “The Rachel Maddow Show“–is that the producers of “Hannah Montana” have asked the Obama’s daughters to come on as visitors or in a guest role “any time they would like.” So all of the sudden it’s not, “Mom can we watch ‘Hannah Montana?'” It’s, “Mom, can we be on ‘Hannah Montana?'”

And not only does Mom have to decide whether to let her daughters appear on their very favorite TV show, she can’t even stonewall them with my favorite Magic 8-Ball phrases like, “Ask again later” or “Cannot predict now,” because the show has agreed to work around their schedule. Oh boy. She has to decide–and other people really care.

I wish I didn’t care so much about this particular Mom’s decisions about her two little girls. I’m conflicted about my desire to watch Sasha and Malia grow up and I’m uncomfortable with the fact that I have such access to the lives of little girls who aren’t related to me.

Should we really care so much about the lives of the First Family? I’m not sure. So I pull out the Magic 8-Ball. My answer: “Concentrate and ask again later.”

Some girls dream of fancy cars, furs and jewels. Others fantasize about being the first president of the United States or running the United Nations. Leslie, however, has always fantasized about one thing: writing a book. She wrote this one with local writers Cheryl Crabtree, Zak Klobucher (“Mr. Leslie”), Nancy Ransohoff and Starshine Roshell. Come meet the authors and check out their new book, “Hometown Santa Barbara,” on Thursday, November 20 at 7 p.m. at Chaucer’s Books, 3321 State Street.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on November 14, 2008.

Shopaholic Hunts for Deals

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confessions_of_a_shopaholic_ver4It’s hard to believe when you look at my closet today, but I am actually a recovering Shopaholic. Hanging out at the mall was once my favorite way to spend an afternoon. Forget the fact that my retail therapy addiction resulted in a ridiculous amount of credit card debit–those banana clips, big belts, and acid washed jeans at Limited Express were just too cute to resist–I am probably personally responsible for the recent stock market dive since I gave up shopping as a hobby just about the same time that subprime mortgages came into vogue.

However, even in my daze of Shopaholic frenzy, I had certain boundaries that I wouldn’t cross. It was more than okay to spend $200 in an afternoon, but I would never spend $200 on a single item. As much as I loved to shop, there was a certain price point barrier that I just couldn’t overcome.

When it comes to shopping, my philosophy has always been that more is more. I’m sure I got that from my mother, who heads straight to the sale rack in every store she enters. I can’t tell you how many perfect pairs of boots or jeans I’ve passed up over the years (and still dream of sometimes) because I just couldn’t stomach the price tags.

I bit my tongue the other day when my sister-in-law told me she was buying my niece a $400 dress for a dance. The only dress I’ve ever owned that cost that much was my wedding dress.

Given my ambivalence about shopping, you can imagine my mixed feelings when I read about Sarah Palin’s $150,000 spree. Okay, technically the Republican National Committee’s $150,000 shopping spree FOR Sarah Palin.

My first reaction was, admittedly, incredible jealousy. What woman hasn’t dreamed of having a fairy godmother/personal shopper come and drop a stylish new wardrobe in her lap? It was the same kind of seething envy I felt years ago when lunching with an actress friend who let it slip out that now that she finally had a part on a TV show and could afford to shop to her heart’s content, designers were sending her free Wayfarer sunglasses and Reeboks in the hopes that “People Magazine” would take her picture while she was wearing them.

Ah, the irony of it all.

“Ah, the irony of it all” was my second reaction to the Palin fashion scandal too. While the $150,000 shopping spree price tag is eyebrow raising, if not jaw dropping, in and of itself, juxtaposing it with her winky winky Wasilla mom at Wal-mart shtick is the part that gets me hot under the collar of my Ross-Dress-For-Less sweatshirt.

While personally I consider Target (pronounced “Tarjay”) to be the Mecca of mom-approved fashion, the last time I checked they weren’t carrying Jimmy Choos or Valentino.

I actually considered that same style of Masunaga glasses that Palin wears when I was shopping for new frames last year, but my insurance wouldn’t cover enough of the $400 price tag. You’d think a woman who hunts for moose and wolves would be a little better at hunting for bargains.

But what do I know, really, about shopping. I’m just a soccer/flag football/basketball/chess club/baseball mom, who mostly works at home in her pajamas. I’m also a recovering Shopaholic who could apparently–talk about ironic–teach the Republican National Committee a few things about money management.

As Cindi Leive, the editor in chief of Glamour Magazine, told the “New York Times,” “My first reaction when I heard about this was, ‘Honey, I could have dressed you for a lot less than that.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Share your shopping budget woes with email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 31, 2008.

No rest in restroom

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cbenjasuwan/freedigitalimages.net

Among the many mysteries of womanhood, men often wonder why we take so long in the bathroom. My husband once told me that he assumed women’s bathroom were full of shoe catalogs, chocolate samples, rose gardens, and string quartets, since that was the only possible explanation he could come up with to explain why women would go into the restroom in pairs and stay in there for so long.

My son–who thankfully did not inherit an amazing mini bladderini from my side of the family–claims that all women’s bathrooms must have plasma screen TVs and an endless supply of video games in them, since the only times he’s ever seen his mom, aunt or grandmother run is to get out of the car and run to the bathroom.

Unfortunately, like most of their ideas about my life, their fantasies have no relationship to the restroom reality.

So I am going to clear up the mystery of women’s restrooms, once and for all, by sharing my recent adventure into the public bathroom at a concert. But consider yourselves warned and another myth shattered: not only was there no chocolate, plasma or toilet paper in sight, I actually burned more calories in this “rest” room venture than I typically do at the gym.

Not wanting to waste a drop of my $8 beer, or miss a minute of my $200 concert, I waited until the band took a break to visit the restroom.

Unfortunately, so did every other woman at the show.

It doesn’t matter what time of day or night, or what the event is, even in an otherwise completely empty venue, there is always a line of women assembled to use a public bathroom. Usually I just smile politely and take my place, using the opportunity to check my email, fix my lipstick or just stare into space.

This time I had to pee so badly I got some aerobic exercise in (257 extra steps according to my pedometer) while waiting, including some power crunches as I checked for feet under the stall doors every three minutes, figuring that no one could actually be taking this long while I was waiting so anxiously.

When the door finally opened my bladder was ready to burst. I nearly knocked down the woman leaving the stall, then earned a few more crunches while helping her pick up her belongings from the floor. Who knew you could fit so many cosmetics into a teeny little clutch purse. Sorry!

Then I had to wrestle two drunk teenagers for the privilege of getting into my stall, burning approximately 239 calories in the process. A few deep breaths, then the door wouldn’t latch but I was about to wet my pants, so that was the least of my problems. The seat cover dispenser was empty and the door hook was missing, so I carefully hung my 400-pound purse around my neck, yanked down my jeans and assumed the “universal restroom position,” otherwise known as the URP.

In the URP my thigh muscles began to shake, rattle and roll. Of course I’d love to actually sit down and rest them, but there were no seat covers and I had to pee too badly to wipe the seat and lay toilet paper on it, hence, the URP.

As my thighs were shaking, and my head was aching, I reached for what turned out to be an empty toilet paper dispenser. Thank goodness I carry Kleenex pocket packs in my purse, the 400-pound purse that was precariously hanging around my neck.

As I tried to search the enormous black caverns of my bag for the five packs of Kleenex I know were in there somewhere, the sensor on the toilet flushed, scaring me to death, while propelling a fine mist of water onto the edges of my still URP-ing thighs. I shook them double time, burning at least 745 calories trying to dry off the mist while still searching for Kleenex and hand sanitizer that I now needed to wash off my legs.

The band was on its third encore by the time I returned to my seat, exhausted from my intermission workout. “What took you so long?” asked my husband, between bites of a truffle sampler he said he got in the men’s restroom.

Unbelievable, I thought, grabbing the candy from him. For once I gulped it down guilt-free. After all, I had already gotten my workout in the restroom.

Share your ladies room tales of woe with email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 17, 2008.

The Great Schlep

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No one in Hollywood could resist the pitch.

“It’s Fiddler on the Roof meets Hello Dolly meets Emma, The Matchmaker and Clueless for the Internet age,” says Papa Herman.

“Oh and Sarah Silverman looks adorable and cusses a lot,” adds Bubbie Essie.

“It’ll be bigger than “The Bachelor” and “Love Connection” were combined,” promises Cousin Stewey, whose great Uncle Al plays golf with Zadie Frank, who lives next door to Bubbie Essie.

You may think that this weekend’s celebration of the “Great Schlep“–in which hundreds of young, young-ish, and the-biological-clock-is-ticking-so-loudly-it’s-keeping-me-up-at-night Jews will travel to Florida to visit their grandparents, organize political discussions in Leisure World community rooms, and “have just a few more bites” of homemade rugelah–is all about supporting Barack Obama’s candidacy for president. After all, the “Great Schlep” is organized by the Jewish Council for Education and Research, a pro-Obama political action committee.

But really it’s all a just brilliant ruse designed by the Bubbies and the Zadies and the Nanas and the Papas and the Grammies and the Grandpas to get their grandchildren to stop messing around and meet and marry that nice Jewish boy/girl already.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” winks Bubbie Essie, whose up-do isn’t all that different from that of a certain vice presidential candidate. If we play our cards right, the “Great Schlep” might actually do more to repopulate the world’s Jewish population than the Barmitzah industry has.”

I agree. This has got to be the most brilliant Jewish matchmaking scheme ever. Not only will Jews be flocking to Florida this weekend, there are also “Great Schlep” events scheduled in Cincinnati, Las Vegas, Pittsburgh and Akron. It’s amazing how this thing is catching on.

“Things must have been pretty bad to motivate you to take this dramatic type of action,” I say.

“You have no idea,” says Bubbie Essie.

“We tried investing in J-Date, J-Singles, Jewish Cafe, Jewish Love Connection, even Saw You at Sinai.com, but my beautiful Rachael kept coming home with goys,” says Papa Herman.

“And my Steven, oy vey, that boy. So smart, yet so stupid! Blonde shiksas up the wazoo,” says Bubbie Essie.

“But then I heard Sarah Silverman talking on TV about Barack Obama, and this idea began to gel,” says Papa Herman. Now it’s his turn to wink. “We figure it’s a win-win-win. Worst case, we get a visit from our grandkids. That’s not so bad, eh?”

“It’s gonna work. Sarah Silverman’s so adorable. She’s just what we need. Though she cusses a lot, but I think that actually helps to get the kids’ attention, especially when she talks about all the things that old Jews and Blacks have in common,” says Bubbie Essie. “Sarah says, ‘they both wear track suits, they both love bling, and everyone they know is dying,’ and she’s so right!”

Bubbie is referring, of course, to the irreverent Internet video from Sarah Silverman promoting the “Great Schlep,” the theme of which is basically, “If Barack Obama doesn’t win this election, I am going to blame the Jews, so get your fat Jewish asses on a plane to Florida.” (www.thegreatschlep.com)

If at least 33 of your friends have forward this video to you, then you must be Jewish. And if at least 75 of your mother’s friends have forwarded this video to you, then you must be Jewish and single, in which case, have fun this weekend and don’t forget to wear protection–I mean sunscreen–of course.

Now it’s my turn to wink.

Share your “Great Schlep” stories with email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 10, 2008.

Battle of the blab is a draw

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51tKTrr+gaLConventional wisdom says that women talk more than men, and up until recently there was relatively conclusive research to back that up. Women use 55 percent more words per day than men do, according to a book called The Female Brain.

I don’t know about their findings, but in my own extremely scientific, highly controlled experiment, I found that women use 100 percent more words per day than men do.

I told my husband about this very exciting scientific breakthrough.

Me: ” I think women talk about talk twice as much as men. What do you think?”

Husband: “Huh?”

Me: “See. I have to repeat everything I say.”

Husband: “What?”

Nothing like a true-life example to prove my theory.

But that was last week. It’s even quieter at my house this week. My husband is away on business, and my son’s at school, then soccer, then homework, and then he’s too exhausted to be much of a conversationalist. So Chatty Cathy (a.k.a. Loony Leslie) has mainly been chatting with herself.

With no one to talk to at home, I was trolling around the Internet for entertainment (not that kind of entertainment, get your minds out of the gutter) when I came across a University of Arizona study that found–unbelievably–that women don’t talk more than men, after all.

Oops.

In tracking the number of words used by male and female college students by equipping them with digital voice recorders, researchers found that statistically, men and women were just about even.

So the battle of the blab is a draw. I can hardly believe it. I’m practically speechless. You would think we’d hear more about the death of another enduring male-female stereotype. I’m guessing it’s because these were college students. The guys hadn’t gotten married yet, so they were in courtship mode and had to at least pretend that they would continue speaking after the wedding– kind of like women and sex.

But even if you buy into the research that men and women speak about the same number of words–which certainly wasn’t done at my house–they definitely don’t speak the same words.

Based on my own carefully documented research, men rarely utter the words “accessorize,” “size zero,” “cellulite” or “Botox,” unless they happen to be actors. Nor do you hear them describe someone as “unconventionally attractive,” or having “emotional intelligence.” “Grocery store,” “laundry” and “birthday card” also seem to be off limits.

On the other hand, men are 77 times more likely to use the word “fine” than women are. As in, “Okay, fine” to end an argument, when he really means, “You’re wrong but I’m tired and don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Or “You look fine,” when you’ve finally accessorized the 17th outfit you’ve tried on and he’s showing his emotional IQ by urging you to get out of the house.

Men will also say, “I’m fine,” rather than reveal weakness, say, when being tortured or held up at gunpoint.

Just the other day I came home and asked my husband how his day was. He said, “Fine.” But I know darn well what he really meant was “I know you want to talk about my day and all my relationships with my colleagues and boss (if I actually had relationships with any of them) but I just want to drink a beer, eat a bag of chips and zone out on CNN.”

At least we understand each other.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 3, 2008.

When Leslie’s not repeating herself, talking to herself, or changing her clothes, she’s usually on her computer, answering emails at email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Marcia Marcia Marcia

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250px-BradyBunchtitleOh Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.

You were the high point of my Saturday nights from September 26, 1969 (yep, that’s 39 years ago today, folks) till March 8, 1974, when the final “Hair-Brained Scheme” episode aired, and Greg bought hair tonic from Bobby that turned his hair red. Oops! LOL.

Dad was coaching football in those days, so mom would go root him on and leave us with a babysitter and TV dinners on TV trays. Macaroni and cheese with a brownie for dessert if we were lucky. Salisbury steak and mushy apple pie if we weren’t.

But no matter what the frozen fare was, The Brady Bunch was always on the menu.

I couldn’t wait for the next episode. Years later I chuckled for different reasons at the pilot “Honeymoon” episode, with Mr. Brady telling his bride to “take a Valium” to relax her on their wedding day. But back in those days there was no finer television than “Jan’s Aunt Jenny” who looked like Jan as a girl but grew up to look like Imogene Coca, or when Peter walked around saying “pork chops and applesauce” and pretended to be Humphrey Bogart in “The Personality Kid.” It still cracks me up.

As much as I treasured the Brady family vacations–like the three-part Grand Canyon (“Ghost Town U.S.A.,” “Grand Canyon or Bust,” and “The Brady Braves”) and Hawaiian adventures (“Hawaii Bound,” “Pass the Tabu,” and “The Tiki Caves”)–my favorite episodes were the ones that focused on Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.

Whether she was signing up for every club on campus, running against Greg for student body president, or getting Davy Jones to come to her prom, Marcia always did it with grace, style, groovy go-go boots and a perfect hair flip. My six-year-old self adored her.

And when my eight-year-old self finally met her in person at a Girl Scout Fashion show, she couldn’t have been sweeter (unlike Greg, who I met in my 20’s–he couldn’t stop talking about his Camaro).

I know that The Brady Bunch is one of the most reviled and ridiculed shows in the history of television, but to me it’s always been one of the most revered, and that’s mostly because of Marcia.

But now I’m worried because Marcia, Marcia, Marcia wrote a book. Here’s the Story: Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice by Maureen McCormick comes out October 14th and I can’t wait to read it. But at the same time I’m terrified that I’m going to learn that my childhood idol isn’t all I imagined her to be.

According to the press release: “Marcia Brady, eldest daughter on television’s The Brady Bunch, had it all. But what viewers didn’t know about the always sunny, perfect Marcia was that off-screen, her real-life counterpart, Maureen McCormick was living a very different–and not-so-wonderful–life. Maureen tells the shocking and inspirational true story of the beloved teen and the woman she became.”

It goes on to talk about her struggles with bouts of depression, cocaine addiction, bulimia, and estrangement from her family (not to mention all those Internet rumors about her and Jan being “more than sisters”). Here I thought she spent all her time off playing with Laurie Partridge.

What do you mean it wasn’t always a sunshine day?

Oh Marcia, Marcia, Marcia, say it isn’t so! You were my first girl crush. You made me want to sing with my mother, flirt with my brother and straighten my hair. Face it Marcia, you made me want to be a better girl. But now I hear you’re writing a tell-all that says you’re just like Britney, Miley and Lindsay and all of those other girls today who simply make me want to be a better mom.

Oh Marcia, Marcia, Marcia, say it isn’t so!

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 26, 2008.

The politics of friendship

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elephant-donkey-politicsThe election is still more than six weeks away and I’m starting to get a callus on my tongue from biting it.

It’s not that I don’t like to talk about politics. I love to talk about politics. Just ask my husband, or my family, or any of my friends who happen to share my opinions. We talk about politics all the time and we love it. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve solved all the problems of the world over dinner and a few bottles of wine. It’s not that we don’t argue. We certainly don’t agree on everything, but we do share some very core ideas about the way the world should be run.

I love to talk about politics.

I just don’t want to talk about politics with certain people that I know because I like those people, and I want to continue liking them and I know that I won’t like what they have to say about the upcoming election and then I’ll have to either bite my tongue until it bleeds or try to have a rational conversation with someone who is clearly out of their mind if they really think what I think they think about the upcoming election.

But I’m scared to ask them because, honestly, if they feel the way I think they do I don’t want to know.

So I’m deluged with emails and links to blogs and funny YouTube videos from friends who know I think the way they think and I forward them on to friends who I think think the way we think, but there are a lot of people in my address book who don’t. With them, I try to pretend that there isn’t an election going on because I want to continue being friends with them and I know if we talk about it, it will be hard for me.

See, I have to deal with them daily at work, on soccer teams, PTAs and nonprofit committees, and I want to deal with them in a pleasant, respectful manner and stay friendly. They are my friends, after all. But quite frankly, I’m scared that if we start to talk about certain things I’ll lose all respect for their intelligence.

Then my blood pressure will go up whenever I see them, or perhaps even think about them. Then I won’t be able to sleep at night because I’ll have endless conversations with them in my head where I brilliantly and logically explain my point of view in a way that they couldn’t possibly disagree with me–and yet they still do.

So I’ll try again and again and again until I feel like I’m banging my head against the wall and then the alarm goes off and it’s morning and it starts all over again.

So I don’t talk about politics with them.

And it’s really not the end of the world. We have plenty of other things to talk about. In fact, it’s amazing how much time you can spend with someone when your children are the same age or you’re working on a common cause before you realize how far apart you are politically.

But once that barrier has been broken it’s hard to go back, and politics becomes the elephant–or the donkey–in the room that you try to ignore but can’t quite get out of your mind.

Published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 19, 2008.

Live Long and Argue

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Don Ameche and Frances Langford as John and Blanche Bickerson (Wikipedia)

Don Ameche and Frances Langford as John and Blanche Bickerson (Wikipedia)

I believe that there’s always a silver lining. This one fell in my lap, in the form of a magazine article titled “Bickering Has Benefits.”

A study by the University of Michigan School of Public Health found a bright side to marital blowouts. Following nearly 200 couples for 17 years, researchers found that when people in a marriage suppressed their anger toward each other (rather than arguing), they had twice the risk of dying early, compared to couples that shared their emotions.

Got that honey? Fighting is good for us.

It gets better. According to the study, even if just one partner spoke up and resolved their conflict, they still got the benefit of bickering.

When I talk to my husband in a slightly loud and elevated tone, say, to gently bring his attention to something that needs doing around the house, I often feel like I’m talking to myself. But thanks to this study I’ve realized that it doesn’t really matter. Even letting him have it when he’s glued to the television or half asleep, it’s still good for MY health.

Got that honey? Fighting is good for both of us even when it’s just good for me.

There’s something sort of comforting about knowing that fighting is actually healthy for a relationship.

I grew up devouring romance novels and romantic movies. It took me a long time to figure out why there are relatively few romances written about marriage or long-term couplehood. The romantic-comedy formula is all about getting to fall in love–or getting to fall back to love–and after that the couple is on their own to live, well, presumably, happily ever after.

So what if they turn into the Bickerson’s before the honeymoon is paid for–no one wants to fork over ten bucks (plus another ten for popcorn and milk duds) to watch that movie.

The truth is–as much as we’d all like to believe that good unions float through life on a featherbed of love and roses, mutual respect, and kind words–the reality is that as much as you may love your partner, sometimes you just want to throttle him. And that’s okay. In fact, fighting is more than okay; it may even help you live longer.

Isn’t it great to know that spousal spats may actually serve a larger purpose than making you feel better by getting it off your chest? I knew that silence wasn’t really golden.

The best marriage advice I ever got was to talk it out. And if he’s not listening, keep talking and talking and talking until he hears what you’re saying and gives in.

Got that, honey? Did you hear me? Are you listening to me at all? You may as well turn off the TV and listen. Then again, your need to space out while pretending to listen attentively meshes perfectly with my need to talk everything out to the last detail. They really should make a romantic comedy about us.

We’re going to live forever.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 12, 2008.

The M Word

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Photo by Ambro/freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Ambro/freedigitalphotos.net

I had never met a four-letter word I didn’t like — under the right circumstances — until that one day, on the cusp of my 40th birthday, when the 12-year-old Vons checker dared to speak the most offensive word of them all.

“Need help out to your car, ma’am?”

Who me? Ma’am? When did that happen?

He didn’t even have a southern accent.

#@*&! When did that happen?

It seems like just days ago, at that very same Vons, when I had just had my wisdom teeth out and that cute Box Boy in my Geometry class helped me out with my single bag of groceries. I was sure he was going to ask me to the Homecoming Dance, swollen face and all.

Then he asked if I had an older sister at San Marcos. He didn’t even recognize me!

How did I go from that kind of minor adolescent humiliation to the adult-sized humiliation of ma’am?

It must have happened around the same time our neighbors stopped noticing when we had parties. Somewhere around the same time our friends stopped hooking up then breaking up and started getting married and divorced.

Growing old gracefully is highly over-rated.

At my 20th high school reunion, all of the friends I had stayed in touch with looked wonderful that night, but everyone else — who were still 18 in my mind — looked old, fat and gray.

#@*&! When did that happen?

Is this what it’s like to finally be a grown up? You blow out the candles on your 16th birthday cake and the next thing you know you’re blowing out an “over the hill” candle at your 40th birthday, because to actually put 40 candles on would take a much bigger cake!

I’ve still got the lollipop on my desk that says “40 Sucks.”

Now that I’m approaching 45 and that lollipop’s getting rather dusty, I can say with some authority that it doesn’t really suck. At least not most of the time.

For the most part my friends aren’t aging any more gracefully than I am. Although none have bought Ferrari’s or dated 19-year-old supermodels, I’m sure that’s only because they can’t afford them. We talk a lot more about our corns and bunions and a lot less about our sex lives.

At a recent 40th birthday party, a friend announced he had taken up surfing, even though he can barely swim. Another spent the week at a dude ranch, finally getting back on that horse after a few disastrous childhood attempts.

What I want to know is when did surfing and riding horses become daring, and golf become the sport of choice for people my age? When did I stop relating to the teens on Gossip Girl and start relating to their parents? Is this what it feels like to sit at the grown up table?

I’ve heard people say that “old” is about 15 years older than you are, which sounds about right. Until I realize this makes me “old” to that Box Boy and even to many of my colleagues.

I guess I should have clued in last year, when I told one of my young colleagues about the amazing Pearl Jam concert I had seen the night before.

His comment: “That’s so cool. I hope I’m still going to concerts when I’m your age.”

What am I, 55?

I’ve been going to concerts since before you were born, you little whippersnapper!

I wonder what he’d say if he knew I was online trying to buy Stone Temple Pilots tickets?

“Wow, they’re still around,” said a teenage intern. “My dad used to love them back when he was in college.”

Is this possible?

Oh #@*&!

At least he didn’t call me ma’am.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 5, 2008.