Pledging Beta

Recovering Alpha Mom shirt from cafepress.com

Recovering Alpha Mom shirt from cafepress.com

The book practically leapt off the library shelf and into my hands. How could I resist a title like, The Sweet Potato Queens’ Guide to Raising Children for Fun and Profit? Jill Conner Browne‘s sassy bon mots just cracked me up.

–(On men) “They’ve basically got two gears–horny and hungry.”

–(On women) “There is all kinds of stuff that you just shouldn’t ask any woman. Directly. If you want to know something personal about her, ask her nail technician or somebody who went to high school with her. You can find out just about anything you want to know about her this way–especially if she’s a bad tipper or was prone to stealing ninth grade boyfriends.”

–(On children) “Somewhere around 11 to 13, the eyeballs of children become extremely loose in their sockets, so that just about any disturbance in the air around them–say a word issuing forth from, say, your mouth–will cause immediate and severe rolling.” (My son must be precocious, because he started doing this at age 8)

–(On aging) “Who cares how old you are anyway? I’ve got waaay more interesting stuff to lie about in my life, thank you very much.”

I related to a lot of the book, but there was one section in particular that really hit a nerve. I had been struggling all summer with the question of how much I want to volunteer at my son’s school this year, and her observations about Alpha Moms really hit home for me. Last year I raised my hand to volunteer a few too many times and by the end of June I was burnt out, bitchy and resentful–leaving my husband only hungry.

Not wanting to go through that again–or needlessly torture my family–I thought long and hard and decided to give up some of the boards and committees and projects I had been involved with. My problem was, I still felt guilty.

Then I read the chapter titled, “Life is Hard Enough–Pledge Beta.” Conner Browne talks about how researchers have now come up with official categories for moms, including the “dearly demented and overtly overachievers,” otherwise known as Alpha Moms.

I’m sure you know the type. These women volunteer for everything so energetically that you could swear they’ve sucked all the energy out of the universe for themselves. Just looking at them makes me tired.

These are the women who laugh at the black and orange crepe paper you were so proud of yourself for remembering to bring for Halloween party, then furiously whirl around the room until it’s transformed into Disney’s Haunted House, complete with magic elevators and hitchhiking ghosts. Then they refuse to take compliments because they “just whipped everything up” the night before after their Pilates and Mandarin Chinese classes.

Those are Alpha Moms I realized. I always thought they were called Skinny Witches. Who knew?

A light bulb went on. I had been struggling to be an Alpha Mom, but I just don’t fit in. Why didn’t I see it before? I was trying to pledge the wrong sorority.

I can’t keep myself perfectly groomed and wear heels all the time. Who am I kidding? I consider myself well dressed if I go a day without spilling something on my shirt. Clearly I’m meant to be a Beta Mom.

Beta Moms, according to Conner Browne, “show up late, running down the halls, flip-flops flapping on the floor, breathing hard, sweating, wearing oversized T-shirts and frantic,” because they forgot about the stupid party until five minutes AFTER they were supposed to be there.

These are my people. I belong with the Betas, who the Alpha Moms only trust to bring paper towels and garbage bags to the party, but still bring extras in case we forget.

Boy do I feel better now.

I think I’ll take Conner Browne’s advice–“I can tell you this with absolute certainty: Nobody goes to the nursing home wishing they’d served on a few more committees or kept a cleaner house”–and just say no to a whole lot of things this school year.

And in keeping with my new Beta Mom m.o., “The Sweet Potato Queens’ Guide to Raising Children for Fun and Profit” is overdue to the library. But I just may have to keep it a teensy bit longer.

Send an email to email if you want to pledge Beta. There are no meetings, no dues, and no expectations. But we just may have a party someday.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 29, 2008.

Kindergarten Redshirts

Photo chomnancoffee,  freedigitalphotos.net

Photo chomnancoffee, freedigitalphotos.net

School starts this week and a lot of families will be getting a late start–on purpose.

No, I’m not talking about those people who simply choose to extend their summers until after Labor Day, the way God intended. I’m talking about the people who decide to give their children an extra year filled with preschool or playtime before the academic rigors of kindergarten begin.

This graying of kindergarten is an interesting phenomenon. For many parents–especially the upper-middle class ones who can afford to stomach the extra year of preschool on the front end and extra year of supporting a child on the back end until s/he graduates from high school or college–the calculation goes something like this: you look at your four-year-old darling, especially if he’s a boy–because they tend to be squirrelier and less verbal when they’re little–and realize that his summer or fall birthday means that he’ll be younger than most of the other kids in his kindergarten class. So you decide to send him to school a year later. Then he’s at the older end of his class, with the presumption that his added maturity will give him an edge from grade to grade.

Private schools have a later birthday cutoff, but even in public school sometimes principals or teachers may suggest waiting another year to start is in your child’s best interest.

Not to mention their own.

One kindergarten teacher I know, Tammy, was nervous about commenting (which is why all of these names are pseudonyms), but did offer this, “All I can say is I’m really NOT into parents starting their kids at age four (turning five in the fall). That’s the worst.”

And as a parent, there is nothing worse than watching one kid who is not ready to be in school dominate all of the teacher’s attention for an entire year.

“I do believe that if a child is really immature, cannot hold a pencil, write their name, color a page and stay within the lines pretty well, cannot sit down long enough to listen to a story, cannot retell one fact from the story, and cannot follow a few simple instructions, then another year would be good for them to practice these steps in preschool,” says Chandra, another kindergarten teacher.

The other part of this equation is that “kindergarten is the new first grade,” according to many educators. Although most adults remember kindergarten as an idyllic year of naps, snacks and feeding the class hamster, it has become more and more academically demanding. With the advent of “No Child Left Behind” the pressure to teach things earlier and earlier gets even worse.

An estimated nine percent of children nationally are entering kindergarten a year later than they could, though there’s little evidence that children perform better in school if they start late.

But the decision to redshirt is such an individual one, and the research on the academic side–while mounting as a topic worthy of interest and study, especially since almost half the states have pushed back their birthday cutoffs since 1975–is still unclear.

At the same time, no one that I spoke to who redshirted their child regretted it.

“I absolutely did it,” says Wendy, whose son’s birthday is in late November. “Best thing I ever did. Especially with a boy. I have a girlfriend that did the opposite and her son is always the ‘baby’ of the class, and although she doesn’t see it, he suffers greatly for it. Pure immaturity. And they get meaner as they get older.”

To some professionals, redshirting children is necessary because kindergartens are more concerned with academics than with the emotional and physical development of youngsters. To others, the practice is not much better than coddling.

“I found that with some kids they acted young because their parents babied them, so it did not matter if they were one year older or not,” says Yvonne, another teacher friend.

Sometimes families decide to redshirt for reasons unique to their family dynamics. I have one friend, Darlene, who held back her second son because otherwise he and his older brother would have been one grade apart, and she didn’t want them competing so closely on the academic, social and athletic playing fields.

It’s no accident that the term “redshirt” comes from athletics, since the one place where redshirting is a proven advantage is on the sports field. Up until a few years ago the birthday cutoff date for Little League was July 31, which is a lot better explanation than astrology for the fact that 60 percent more Major League Baseball players are born in August than in July.

Aside from stacking the sports odds in favor of kids, experts also worry that redshirting puts low-income students at an extra disadvantage. The children who end up going to school young because their parents can’t afford to hold them back are also the ones with the least preparation and lowest rates of participation in preschool. Then those children arrive at school and have to compete with older, better prepared students whose parents may demand more challenging classrooms so their kids aren’t bored.

Still, parents are understandably more concerned with their own child than the bigger picture.

“Around the teenage years, it really starts to suck when your child is a full year younger than all his friends,” says Lola, whose son is entering high school having just turned14. “All the friends who are a year older start to like members of the opposite sex, start growing hair in lot of new places, think their parents are idiots, don’t want to play video games anymore, want to be downtown all the time and get their driver’s license long before your child who is the correct age for their grade. This leaves the correct age for their grade child feeling inadequate to say the least, not to mention lost and confused.”

Of course no one wants their child to have any disadvantages, which is why my friend Angie might have the best idea of all. “My recommendation to parents would be to have babies born between October-March.”

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 22, 2008.

When you know you’re a grownup

UntitledLast weekend we were heading down to the beach and as I rummaged through the five bottles of sunscreen and three different hats in my trunk I had a stunning revelation–I might actually be a grownup!

My days of frying on the sand in a mixture of baby oil and iodine are certainly over. I don’t even call Hendry’s Beach “the Pit” anymore because hardly anyone knows what I’m talking about. Now I’m that lady in the hat and huge sunglasses that makes sure to bring water and snacks for the kids. Wow, I might actually be a grownup.

Here are some other signs:

My friends have stopped hooking up, then splitting up. Now they’re getting married and divorced. And sometimes they’re dating people half their age–and it’s legal.

The last time I went to Disneyland, my favorite rides were the ones that didn’t hurt my back.

I could have gone to high school with Barack Obama. He would have been a senior, but still, we could have gone to school together.

No matter how impossibly cute the shoes are, I won’t wear them for more than an hour if they hurt my feet.

I’ve actually started mailing in those rebate offers.

My friend Sandy has a daughter that graduated from college, and Sandy is younger than I am.

A $4 bottle of wine no longer tastes “just fine” to me.

At the gym the other day I saw an aerobics class that looked about my speed, then realized it was for seniors.

Not only have I stopped buying cereal for the toy prizes, I’ve started stocking up on Raisin Bran and Cheerios when it’s on sale.

Sometimes my idea of a fun Friday night out involves pizza, Scrabble, and not leaving the house.

I consider the speed limit more than “just a guideline.”

I call my doctor by his first name, I’ve seen him drunk, and I still trust him.

Sometimes I hear my mom’s voice coming out of my mouth (“Because I said so.”) and it only freaks me out a little, but every once in a while, I’ll look in the mirror and see my mom’s face and it freaks me out a lot.

There’s a lot more food in my refrigerator than beer.

Thinking about having sex in a car makes me fantasize about back injuries.

When Koss asked me the other day, I couldn’t remember how to make a cursive capital “T” since it’s not a part of my signature.

When my friends suddenly become very moody, I wonder if they’re pre-menopausal, rather than pregnant.

I left a concert early at the County Bowl this year because I was too stressed out about someone getting hurt in the mosh pit to enjoy the music.

When the phone rings, I always hope it’s not for me.

I finally know for sure that my secrets are safe with my friends because they can’t remember them either.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 15, 2008.

The remote truth about men

Image courtesy of Photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

Image courtesy of Photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

My son snatched the remote control out of my hands with the same vehemence I might have for rescuing the very last Dark Chocolate Bordeaux in a box of See’s Candy, and I said to myself–for the zillionth time this week–“Oh my God. I really don’t understand men.”

What could possibly be so enticing about controlling that remote control? I thought we had already picked a show. Why did he need to be holding the remote?

I couldn’t figure it out. Was it the power control aspect of being able to pause the show or control the volume at will? Or was it the “ooh, look at all the pretty buttons” technology gadget aspect that makes it so appealing? I had no idea.

My son was too busy furiously flipping through channels–while watching Boy Meets Grill in the picture in picture screen–to be of any help.

If sitcoms–and now reality TV–are any indication of reality, then it’s pretty obvious that men like to be in control. Things like asking for directions, going to the doctor, or getting professional help to fix a leak in the kitchen sink are seen as signs of weakness, as well as comedic gold mines.

That’s probably why my Dad is so enamored with his GPS navigation system. It gives him help without his having to ask for it. So what if it directs him to the house next door, and he follows those directions instead of turning into his own driveway? It’s all about the illusion of power, and the cool remote control gadgety thingee, of course.

Plus, with GPS, no one–except a computerized voice, which apparently doesn’t count– is telling you what to do. At least that seems to be Dad’s logic.

My husband seems to be a pretty typical member of his species in that he HATES when I tell him what to do. It doesn’t matter what it is. A burning Ferrari could be falling from the sky about to hit him on the head, and he’d be annoyed if I told him to watch out.

He might even be planning to do exactly what I tell him to do, (“You should duck, a burning sports car is about to hit you!”) and he would still hate me telling him what to do, maybe even more because he was already planning to duck and I should have realized that.

It’s the oddest thing. As soon as the words, “You should …” or “Would you …” or “Could you …” start to come out of my mouth, he becomes a rebellious teenager and I become his nagging mother. This is not one of those fun role-playing games at all. Plus, he refuses to do whatever I’m asking him to do on principle. It doesn’t matter if it was something he wanted to do or not, the point is that I’m asking him and therefore taking control away from him and violating his free will, and I may well just cut off his manhood right then and there. I guess.

My son HATES when I tell him what to do too. I really don’t understand this. It’s my job to tell him what to do and how to do it. But he doesn’t see it that way, and my husband is no help in this regard at all.

The two of them are usually as full of MANswers as they are of gas, but not today. When I ask them about their need to hold on to the remote control, they both shrug their shoulders and grab for it immediately.

“Not so fast, boy,” says my husband with a “get the hell out of Dodge” tone to his voice. My son relents control of the remote immediately. I’m still baffled.

Later that night, after much persuading, I finally get my answer.

It turns out that while I was busy delivering Koss, Zak called out “Dibs for Life” on the remote control in the hospital room. Aww, how sweet, he still remembers his first words to his newborn son.

Unfortunately, now I sort of understand.

Share your control issues with email . For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 25, 2008.

The happy-ish place on earth

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

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

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

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

Excuse me? Mouse ears are mandatory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bringing up Babies

Claire Bloomfield photo

Claire Bloomfield photo

I was interviewing this fascinating, accomplished, professional woman and it was going great. Our conversation had a nice rhythm, she had some anecdotes and zingers I knew would jump right off the page. Oh joy, oh boy, this profile was practically writing itself. Then, when the interview was just about over, I dropped the bomb. A conversational dud that fell with a big fat thud: Do you have any kids?

It sounds like a pretty innocent question, right? It’s not like I asked her about her favorite sexual position. But she didn’t have kids and that simple truth made me feel like I had crossed a line and was intruding into her personal life.

How is it that we can live in a society that teaches the four R’s–Reading, ‘Riting, ‘Rithmetic and Reproduction–and yet asking someone whether they have children can be considered rude? I wanted to explain to her that even though I’m now on the mom side of the fence, I’m not so far out of her neighborhood.

It wasn’t that long ago that I was childfree and working late nights at the office, cursing my colleagues who got to leave at 5 to pick up Timmy and Susie from daycare, while I had to work late to pick up their slack. I remember what it was like. As much as I love my son, I do sometimes long for the days when every dining out experience didn’t come with complimentary crayons.

There’s been so much written about “the mommy wars” between the stay-at-home moms and moms who work, but nobody really talks about the “my life choices are better than yours” tension between the women who have children and those who don’t. Like it or not: I could feel it in the air as I awkwardly ended the interview.

Now I’m not one of those women who believe it’s everyone’s fate to procreate. I can certainly understand why everyone doesn’t want a baby on board. Not everybody pines for progeny. I know plenty of cheerfully childless people, I thought. Look at Oprah, and Mother Teresa. What about Condoleezza Rice? What’s the big deal? I wanted to explain all that to this woman and couldn’t find the words. It just felt too personal, like I was asking her how much money she made or whether she believed in God.

But as I flipped through my address file later, I realized that the vast majority of people I hang out with have kids. It’s not that I don’t know a lot of childless people, but we don’t really run in the same circles. Apparently, they like their conversations uninterrupted by shouts of, “Stop stabbing your sister with a fork!”

The moment I walked down the aisle and got married it seemed like people started asking me about “the pitter-patter of tiny little feet.” It was amusing at first, but became progressively more painful and annoying as we struggled to have a baby, and the ticking of my biological clock joined in the pitter-patter chorus.

When I was struggling with infertility it seemed like the whole world was pregnant or potty training. I began to cringe inside every time someone asked about kids. Was this what it was like all the time for people without kids?

How do you keep your cool in a world filled with drool? My friend Cara, who gets asked all the time about kids, laughed, “I usually just tell them I’m raising kittens instead.”

Daisy, a college friend who tied her tubes in her 20s, said when people ask her “why don’t you have any children,” she simply retorts: “why don’t you have any class?”

Angie, who’s approaching 40 and is cheerfully childless, says she’s been asked, “Aren’t you getting to the age where you should be having babies?” Her favorite response: “Nah. But aren’t you getting to the age where you should have better manners?”

But my favorite response came from Camie, who said, “I’ll consider having a baby when maternity clothes and minivans are sexy.”

Hmm … I wonder what Angelina Jolie drives?

Is it rude to bring up babies? Share your thoughts–and horror stories–with email.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 11, 2008.

Father Knows Best

Image by nongpimmy

Image by nongpimmy

Though he spent a lot of my childhood hard at work on the football fields of Santa Barbara City College–calling plays, not mowing the lawn–and a lot of my adulthood on the golf course, playing poker, or retired on the couch–in deep snoring thought–my father still manages to provide his children and grandchildren with a lot of hard-earned, sensible advice.

While most fathers offer cliched wisdom about how they walked miles to school in the snow, or earned just pennies an hour for backbreaking labor, my Dad is nothing if not an original.

One of his favorite expressions is, “pain is your friend.” Thanks to my Dad this sage advice (good for skinned knees and bloody noses, bad for PMS) gets lobbed around our household almost daily. Ask any of my son’s soccer, basketball, chess or baseball teammates and coaches, and they will tell you that this is Koss’s favorite phrase. As the fortunate–or unfortunate–recipient of two generations worth of pent up Dinaberg testosterone, Koss now gets the advantage of Coach Bob’s advice on a regular basis.

Growing up with a football coach father, my mom, sister and I would often reflect on what a good thing it was that we didn’t have any boys in our family. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my sister and I both married guys who prefer golf, swimming and channel surfing to any sport where they might actually get hit.

Luckily for Grandpa Bob, Koss, his only male grandchild, loves to wrestle, tackle and play rough. Thanks to Gramps, Koss has embraced the idea of “pain is your friend” wholeheartedly. This is a good thing because as an only child, he needs all the friends he can get.

“Developmental tasks” are another favorite Dad-ism. With pain as our friend, if we couldn’t manage to play through it, we could always learn from it. Anything we didn’t want to do–like paint the sundeck or tar the roof–was a “developmental task” in Dad’s mind. Same thing with anything we wanted to do but couldn’t–like going to a parent-free party because “everyone else was going”–they all became “developmental tasks” for my sister Pam and I to learn from.

When I went through my own labor and delivery, I repeated both of these adages to myself, Dad, and I’m sorry to report that pain was most certainly NOT my friend, and my “developmental task” was to learn that I should have demanded an epidural at least two weeks before delivery.

I don’t think I ever realized it at the time, but those themes of learning from things that are painful or out of your control have played a big part in my life.

Time has a sneaky way of rewriting history.

Legend has it that the first thing my Dad said to my mom when he saw me at birth was: “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll buy her pretty clothes and develop her personality.”

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–yet here I am, sharing my pain with my friends. Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

Share your father’s wisdom with email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 13, 2008.

Shiny happy people

sohp-logoI joined a secret society a couple of years ago. It’s taken me a while to write about it because, well, shush …it’s a secret society. Don’t tell anyone.

Plus I’m a little bit embarrassed or maybe just ambivalent about the whole thing. This is hard for me to confess, but I think I’m one of those shiny, happy people you sometimes hear about.

It all started when I ran across a news story about a group that was petitioning governors to establish a “National Admit You’re Happy Day.” At first I thought it was a joke. The group called itself “The Secret Society of Happy People.”

My initial snicker quickly snowballed into howls of laughter as I imagined Minnie Mouse and the munchkins gathered at secret society meetings. Did woodland creatures dress them all up in their Sunday best? Did animated birds make them cupcakes and chirpily clean up after the meetings were over?

Surely my co-workers thought I was certifiable, as I was laughing too hard to explain to them why I was laughing.

Still, my gut instinct told me that these people were on to something. After all, I was laughing at the mere mention of their name, so that had already made me happier. Not only that, my colleagues were laughing at me laughing–without even knowing what I was laughing about. This whole happiness thing was infectious.

I considered signing up for the society right then and there, but felt sort of embarrassed. Somewhere between Mr. Smith going to Washington and Mr. Stewart joking daily about Washington, just talking about being happy became kind of uncool. With the exceptions of wedding, funerals, graduations and Hallmark commercials, it’s become hipper to complain than to admit that you’re happy.

I have a twisted, ambivalent reaction to most overly cheerful, seemingly happy, people. I just don’t trust them. As William Feather put it, “One of the indictments of civilizations is that happiness and intelligence are so rarely found in the same person.”

It’s hard not to be cynical about happiness. Just look at pop culture’s obsession with brooding rock stars and drug addicted model-actress-whatevers, or comedy, which is so often laughter generated at the expense of others. Then there’s the post-9/11 reality we live in, where being happy sometimes seems, well, downright inappropriate.

But still, that ray of happiness keeps poking through.

Though I may mock the people who speak with more exclamation points than vowels (one more example of laughter generated at the expense of others), for the most part I am, I admit, generally happy.

I just I’m just one of the people who choose to see the glass as half full–and fill it to the brim whenever possible, provided there’s any wine left.

Maybe it was because the notion of “The Secret Society of Happy People” gave me the giggles, or maybe I just wanted to get a column out of it, but starting on that fateful day, I took the “Happy Challenge” to write down something that made me happy each day.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t that hard. Sure, the words “chocolate,” “Margarita,” and “bedtime,” came up pretty frequently, but not as frequently as my husband’s and son’s names–which was kind of a relief. Also making the happy list was girls night out, living near the beach, free parking, great friends who don’t care how late–or how often–I call, nonfat lattes, editors that pay $1 a word (not this one, unfortunately), having my parents and sister live nearby (and not just for the free and frequent babysitting), book club, remembering to back up my computer, voicemail, hummingbirds, and whole host of other things that add up to a general feeling of contentment.

Contentment. Not ecstasy, or rapture, or bliss, but happiness, just the same. So even if our Governor hasn’t signed off on “National Admit You’re Happy Day“–yet–they can add my endorsement to the list.

Are there any other secretly happy people out there? Write to email . For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 6, 2008.

Third Gradeitis

I don’t need to flip my calendar page to June to know that the end of the school year is near. I merely need to look at my alarm clock to realize that I’m running alarmingly late in getting my son to school again. We’ve got a bad case of third gradeitis at my house.

I know we’re supposed to wake up chipper and happy now that sunny days are here, but we’ve been taking advantage of those sunny days with leisurely late nights and now the waking up early is killing me.

My first sacrifice to the snooze button was making the beds–you’re just going to mess them up, anyway, right? Next was my every-once-in-while practice of actually “cooking” breakfast. Now we’re lucky if any of us sits down for an apple or a Starburst before we run out of the house ’cause we’re late. And I’m sure the teacher has noticed that Koss has worn his baseball uniform for three days in a row. There are just too many games. I don’t have the time to actually peel it off of him and wash it.

I can hear the beach calling my name, but every time I pick up the phone, it’s someone from the PTA, or the school, asking for help with something or other. I’m sure my public declaration of yes-aholism didn’t help. Our home life is falling to pieces and I haven’t got the time–or the energy–to put it back together right now. Besides, that beach looks so enticing. Maybe just a few hours on the sand after school, we’ve got lots of time before it gets dark.

Our slow deterioration is evident everywhere you look. My son’s backpack is held together with yards of finger knitting (thank you Mrs. Brown for teaching him such a useful skill). His lunch box smells like rotten eggs, even though I swear I’ve never packed them. Still, I refuse to replace those fall essentials till school starts next year. Same with his pants, which are now the pedal pushers I try to convince him that all the cool boys are wearing.

Meanwhile I’m all stocked up on swim goggles and sunscreen. Isn’t it summer yet?

I can’t believe Koss actually had homework last night. I thought California state law was that all reading, writing and arithmetic stopped immediately–so party time could begin–once the standardized testing was over. The aim may be “no child left behind,” but the target for the last month of school is more like my college spring break in Mazatlan, where many of my brain cells still reside.

I can’t believe how many parties and activities they cram into the last few weeks of school. Just this month we’ve had Spring Sing, a golf tournament, a Noche Mexicana celebration, two PTA meetings, three foundation meetings, a read in, an open house, a school board meeting, the Spring Boutique, talent show signups (which mean talent show talent development), Science Night, a beach party, the talent show, an end-of-year party and various teacher appreciation tidbits to buy, bake and accidentally burn in the oven.

“Uh, Mommy, the smoke alarm’s going off again!”

Not to mention how many checks there are to write. Do they really still want money for the ad in the program of the fundraising event that got cancelled because the whole school came down with a bad case of third gradeitis?

I can’t wait for summer, when I’ve got ten whole weeks to work my magic spell of sun, Slurpees and sleepovers to undo all the good habits Koss’s teachers have worked so hard to inspire in him.

Sorry guys. You had your turn with him and now it’s mine. We’ll be sleeping in mornings and hanging out on the beach in the afternoons. I can hardly wait.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 30, 2008.

Rumbling about Taxes

Photo by Arvind Balaraman

Photo by Arvind Balaraman

It wasn’t a coincidence that there was an earthquake Monday night just a few minutes after we e-filed our tax returns. There’s always a bit of rumbling when I do my taxes–or more accurately, when my husband does my taxes for me.

Not everyone understands the intricacies of my professional life as a columnist and all of the legitimate expense write-offs that I am entitled to. Luckily my husband and I are on the same page here: we believe that as loyal U.S. citizens we have the obligation to prepare our tax returns with the same level of consistency and creativity that Congress shows in spending our money.

I think we’ve finally got it down to a science.

The first step, year after year, is for my husband to buy a tax-deductible copy of TurboTax at Costco, bring it home, spend seven hours trying to put it on the computer, and then declare that, “our electronics are all obsolete and there’s absolutely no way we can do our taxes without buying a new computer.” Thank God it’s a business expense.

Once the technical support side is taken care of, which usually takes a few weeks for Zak to kick the tires of different operating systems, laptops versus desktops, etc., the next step for my husband is grumbling about my accounting system. I honestly don’t understand what his problem is. Whenever my purse feels extra heavy, I empty out all of the receipts into a snazzy little gift bag labeled “receipts.” There is no reason to uncrumple them or sort through them at this point, since it’s much more fun to do it every year in April. Or so he tells me.

For example, last year, during our fun-filled, nine-hour receipt sorting session, my husband invented seven extremely colorful phrases, which later showed up in my columns, thus making the case of Firestone he consumed during his “recovery period” 100% deductible this year.

And by the way, that snazzy little gift bag filing system was purchased from the PTA at my son’s school: another tax deduction!

Once the receipts are sorted, it’s time to fill in the blanks. This year we’re claiming four dependents: Koss, our only child; Beta, our fish; Josie, our dog, who we had for a total of five days; and Leslie, my inner child, since she plays such a key role in my work.

I don’t know why I have to keep repeating myself every year. Of course, every latte, lunch, massage and mani-pedi should be considered a business expense, since all of those things are regular fodder for my column. Come to think of it, we’d better take a larger deduction for my most critical writing supplies–wine and chocolate.

Finally, 677 Trader Joe’s receipts later, my husband sends off the file to the IRS. It feels like everything we have is taxed, including our patience. Thankfully, most of it is deductible.

Sure, we could be audited. That kind of aftershock has happened before. But I would like to point out to all of those extremely good-looking, smart, funny and sensitive IRS agents, that I know a stripper who wrote off the cost of enlarging her ta-tas and a bodybuilder who got a tax write-off for waxing his back, so writing off the cost of the plasma TV I had to buy to get my husband to do my taxes again this year doesn’t seem so earth-shattering after all, does it?

Send your tax tips to Leslie at at email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

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