Category Archives: South Coasting

Dear Santa

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cescassawin by freedigitalphotos.net

cescassawin by freedigitalphotos.net

Dear Santa,

I’m not sure if you remember me. It’s been a while since I’ve written. Truthfully, I was giving you the silent treatment, whether you realized it or not, because in all the years I did write to you, you never, ever, ever got me what I asked for.

I always thought it was because I was Jewish and we didn’t have a tree, until someone explained to me that saints couldn’t possibly be anti-Semitic.

But I just found this box of old letters in my parents’ garage, so now I realize that it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry, Santa. I really am.

I owe you an apology for all those nasty thoughts I’ve had about you. Like when I didn’t get the pink Barbie convertible in 1970 and I drew a Hitler moustache on your picture. Or when you didn’t bring me a pony in 1974 or that purple Camaro in 1979 and I made those little kids cry when I told them you weren’t real. I feel especially bad for all those mean things I thought about you when Captain Awesome dumped me and took Princess Not-So-Nice to the Winter Formal in 1980, when I had already bought my red taffeta dress and everything. Those ex-lax brownies I left you the next year were truly unforgivable, but I’m asking you to forgive me anyway.

See, now I realize it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t get my letters because my mom never mailed them.

I’m sure my mom meant to mail my letters, but she just got busy. You know how it is. I certainly do. That’s actually why I’m writing to you now, and to apologize, of course. See, this year I really need something I can’t find in the stores, or even on the Internet. Believe me I’ve tried. What I really need this year is a clone of myself. I’m not kidding. There’s not enough of me to go around these days.

I can’t keep up with the whole Christmas comparathon competition. It’s bad enough that I’m losing in the cooking and crafting divisions, but then there are the cards. Those daily reminder letters about how perfect everyone else’s family is make me want to scream. “Matt and Karen’s fetus just received early admission to Harvard for 2025,” and my kid can’t even remember to take his backpack out of the car and hang it on the hook in his room! And he’s trying to remember, that’s the worst part.

I’m trying too. I’m trying my very best.

I’ve tried being in four or five places at the same time, but for some incredibly frustrating reason it just isn’t working. I’m always late and half the time, once I get somewhere, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing in the first place.

I’d love to know how you manage to visit every house on Christmas Eve, Santa. If you would share that one secret with me, then maybe I wouldn’t need to ask you for a clone.

Here’s a typical day, yesterday. I needed to go to Koss’s school early, to help with a fundraiser. This meant I had to wake myself up early and get him up and dressed early, none of which bodes well for the rest of the day. Especially since the mom who was supposed to bring the coffee apparently forgot. If anyone deserves a lump of coal…!

I also had an interview scheduled that morning, a doctor’s appointment, we were out of orange juice and it was laundry day, which means my socks didn’t match. Plus, my husband couldn’t find an address he needed and I really had to pee and he was still brushing his teeth.

The rest of a day went by in a similar whirl of stories to write, calls to make, gifts to buy, and emails to answer.

Then before I knew it, it was pickup time and the phone was ringing, and I forgot I was supposed to bring dessert for a board meeting, and Koss had a play date, but he also had basketball practice, said he was starving, couldn’t find his shoes, and I forgot that I was supposed to be at a completely different meeting that afternoon.

Then, just as I finally got him settled at practice and I had a few minutes to organize myself, the person I was supposed to interview the day before finally called me back. Where did I put my notes again? I seem to have misplaced my short-term memory. I know it was around here somewhere.

Anyway, Santa, if you’re still reading, you get the picture. I could really use some help around here. I just found a huge stack of last year’s thank you notes I forgot to mail, along with a letter that Koss wrote to you. I meant to mail it, I really did. But if you get him that puppy he asked for, then we’re really going to have some issues!

What’s on your Christmas wish list? Tell Leslie at email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on December 14, 2007.

Time to earn your keep

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© Greenland | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Greenland | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I recently spent the day with Lila, a delightful two-year-old charmer who earns her own living simply by smiling and being cute. This got me thinking. If she’s only two and she’s already got a steady income, then it’s high time my eight-year-old started carrying his own weight.

If Koss got a job it would solve a lot of my problems. I keep telling my husband that driving 25 miles to Ojai for brunch doesn’t really count as a vacation. We’d be able to afford much better trips if Koss chipped in. Plus, let’s face it; unemployed kids are a pain the neck, with all the Lego’s and crushed popcorn underfoot and the dirty fingerprints on the walls. This is what jobless children do: they track mud and leaves into your house, they spill orange juice onto your keyboard, and they want play dates and snacks. Trust me, I see this kind of slovenly behavior every day.

Leeching off mom and dad is a way of life for unemployed children, and they’ve got no qualms about it whatsoever.

Enough of this freeloading, it’s time for Koss to get a job. He won’t even have to start at the bottom. Koss has already proved he’s management material. You know how schools and sports clubs try to shamelessly turn children into miniature salespeople? Well, instead of going out and doing his own wrapping paper pushing and raffle ticket racketeering, he’s conned me into doing it.

I’ve got to admit, Koss is an excellent supervisor. He’ll say, “Mom, have I sold enough wrapping paper to get the shiny spinney silly noisy flashy thingee that will break in the car on the way home from school yet?” Then he’ll give me the sweetest little smile that makes my heart melt, so I’ll call up yet another family member and con them into a few more rolls. Then he’ll add in the ultimate sales motivational tool–and give me a big fat hug.

I’m told that in the good old days, when a kid was old enough to make his parents crazy, you put ’em to work slopping hogs or tarring roofs, or knocking on doors collecting for newspapers.

But now, annoying kids are usually sent off to go throw a ball against a wall, or play computer games, which doesn’t do much to help my vacation fund, or our trade deficit with China, for that matter.

If ever there was ever a kid who could benefit from a solid day’s work in a Chinese Gap clothing factory, it’s Koss. Okay, maybe that’s too extreme. He might not make it in a Chinese sweatshop if they don’t serve Red Bulls and goldfish crackers. I’d settle for him putting in a solid day’s work at the Gap in the mall. The skills he’d learn folding all those waffle knit hoodies would sure come in helpful on laundry day.

Of course Koss’d be grumbling and complaining so much that he’d probably get fired the first hour. He’s eight, and already lagging with the work ethic. Maybe the Amish have the right idea, with their centuries-old tradition of having children tend to the fields and work in sawmills.

That’s the problem with trying to make kids work. They start out as babies. Adorable, sweet-smelling, cuddly babies to be sure, but keep in mind, babies are society’s most devious leeches. Think about it. A baby makes the tiniest little peep, and his every need is taken care of. Not only that, babies are praised–actually gushed over–for doing what comes naturally. Everyone oohs and ahs and claps their hands when they pass gas. They say, “what an angel you are” when all they do is fall asleep.

No wonder most eight year olds are so lazy, they’ve been lying around, eating, sleeping and playing since they day they were born.

But children are remarkably well suited for many careers. Why just the other day, my husband and I were out to dinner with our son, and when the server came to take our drink order, Koss spoke right up: “My dad will have a Firestone, mom will have a glass of merlot.” So you can see why we decided to promote him to vice president.

When she’s not being “managed” by her son, Leslie’s usually typing away at email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on December 7, 2007.

Shop Till You Drop

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Courtesy of stockimages:freeimages.net

Courtesy of stockimages:freeimages.net

Leslie’s Holiday Gift Guide

While theoretically fun, in reality, shopping for holiday gifts can be more stressful than a root canal. And you don’t get any Percocet afterward, or even a balloon.

Shopping is so painful that, come December, many newspapers and magazines publish gift guides to “help you out.” These gushing depictions of thingamabobs and doodads aren’t just there as an excuse to obliterate the line between advertising and legitimate content so that the sales staff can take the last two weeks of the year off. They’re also published so that the writers can score free samples and cross a few names off their own shopping lists, while still affording their weekly latte allotments.

In the interest of perpetuating this fine journalistic tradition, here is my first annual holiday gift guide of groovy things you can buy without ever leaving the comfort of your own home. (Note to stores: if you send me free stuff I’ll do a sequel for Martin Luther King Day, a vastly under-gifted holiday in my humble opinion)

For your wandering nephew–who really should be sedated whenever you’re forced to take him to a crowded public place–buy a Missing Milk Carton Costume (www.prankplace.com). His cute little face sticks out of the label, and his relevant contact information is printed right on the carton.

Your workout buddy would probably appreciate a waistband stretcher (www.carolwrightgifts.com). This ingenious device allows you to stay a size six through the holiday pig out extravaganza by simply stretching the waistband of your jeans. Diet schmiet!

The office Secret Santa Torturama will be lot less nightmarish this year when you gift your coworkers with a fine collection of abusive office rubber stamps (www.prankplace.com), allowing them to stamp those annoying expense reports in triplicate with sayings such as, “This is F**KING URGENT,” “Staple this to your FACE,” “Confidential – read this and I’ll have to kill you,” “File under T for TRASH,” and “Complete and Utter BULLSHIT.”

Overachieving teenage relatives can multi-task with the SAT Math Shower Curtain (www.alwaysbrilliant.com), which has test questions printed right there. No calculators allowed.

Teenage relatives who aren’t on the college track will enjoy the Crime Scene Towel, (www.baronbob.com) which holds their place at the pool with its classic chalk outline of a victim.

Your brother-in-law will be surprised and delighted by a stylish 100% silk “Ties Suck” Tie (www.thinkgeek.com), featuring a repeating binary pattern that, when translated into ASCII, reads: “ties suck.”

Your geeky brother will totally dig the Wi-Fi Detector Shirt (www.thinkgeek.com), which displays the current wi-fi signal strength to admirers as far as the eye can see. Talk about a chick magnet. You may have a new sister-in-law before the year’s end if he wears this baby.

Coffee addicts will appreciate a shot of Caffeine Soap (www.lazyboneuk.com). Who says they’re not a morning person? Lather up in the morning to a dose of 200 milligrams per shower/serving, which should provide just enough perk to hold off the a.m. demons until they can make their way to Starbucks.

I’ve found the one-size-fits-all perfect hostess gift for holiday gatherings: Pick Your Nose Party Cups (www.perpetualkid.com).

A new spin on the traditional party cup, each goblet comes with printed nose on it so that guests can pick their own nose for an evening of fun. Great stuff like this is why Santa invented the Internet. You’d be smart to stock up.

Your favorite artists will enjoy creating with Chew-By-Numbers Gumball Art (www.perpetualkid.com). No need to worry about mastering a paintbrush or pastels, all they’ll need are their chompers to provide the tools for this wadded-up gum masterpiece. I’m pretty sure this is how Jackson Pollock did it.

Your uncle the lush (and the bouncers at the County Bowl) will appreciate the Barnoculars Binocular Flask (www.after5catalog.com), a double-chambered liquor flask disguised as binoculars. Don’t confuse them with your actual binoculars–let me tell you, it burns.

Those endless soccer games will be a lot more bearable for moms and dads with a Cell Phone Flask (www.after5catalog.com), which looks just like a mobile phone but instead of a charge, holds their favorite adult beverage. Ditto with the don’t confuse them advice.

If you’re feeling really generous, your favorite columnist would kvell to receive a His & Hers Double Portrait in Chocolate by Vik Muniz (www.neimanmarcus.com), featured in the Neiman Marcus Christmas Catalog. For a mere $110,000, the Brazilian artist will capture your likenesses in a double helping of Bosco® chocolate syrup and you’ll come away with a one-of-a-kind framed museum-quality photographic work of art.

As long as we’re dreaming big, I wouldn’t mind reserving my spot on the Virgin Galactic Charter to Space (www.neimanmarcus.com). Boarding begins in 2009 for this ultimate getaway, which is now being “planned, designed, tested, and executed down to the last detail to ensure its safety and success.” The $1,764,000 price tag includes a six-passenger charter, so you’d better send me some nice Hanukah gifts if you want to make my top five friends list.

== When she’s not succumbing to her, “one for me, one for you” holiday shopping survival strategy, Leslie can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on November 30, 2007.

My Big Fat Carbon Footprint

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hand holding earth by jannoon028 at freedigitalphotos.net

hand holding earth by jannoon028 at freedigitalphotos.net

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spirited Women Come Out to Play

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Image courtesy of freedigitalpics.net by Ambro.

Image courtesy of freedigitalpics.net by Ambro.

I spent a recent Saturday hanging out with some new gal pals. The “Spirited Woman of Enoughness” was there. So was the “Yes-I-Will, Yes-I-Will Matadora,” the “Self-Trusting Guruess,” and the “Diva of Humanitarians.” We played dress up, we danced, we laughed, we cried and we ate chocolate.

No, it wasn’t a 10-year-old girl’s birthday party. And no, it wasn’t an acid trip.

This was a different kind of journey entirely. One that involved immersing myself into a circle of spirited women, an inspirational group that has grown like gangbusters since founder Nancy Mills put up her first flyer in a downtown Santa Barbara restaurant five years ago.

Let me back up a minute and say that I have a love-hate relationship with the whole notion of self-improvement. I’m addicted to browsing the tables of contents of self-help books–it’s physically hard for me to walk by a self-help book without taking a dip inside. If a book is really good, I’ll spend an entire afternoon nursing a latte at Borders so I can actually read the entire thing from cover to cover without forking over $24.99 plus tax for titles like “How to Pee Standing Up: Tips for Hip Chicks,” “I’m with Stupid: One Man. One Woman. 10,000 Years of Misunderstanding Between the Sexes Cleared Right Up,” and “How to Be Happy, Dammit: A Cynic’s Guide to Spiritual Happiness,” any of which would be greeted by pure mockery if they were to find a place on my bedside table.

Given my tendency toward skepticism, I have to admit, I was a little apprehensive as I made my way to the Spirited Woman Workshop. But Nancy advertised it as being a “fantastic combination of creative playfulness, empowerment, and fun that reinforces that you are enough as you are.” Plus, I heard there might be chocolate, so I figured it was worth a shot.

And I knew I could get a column out of it.

I had Nancy pegged from the moment she greeted me at the door of a private home on the Mesa. She’s one of those people who is so genuinely herself, so obviously comfortable in her own skin, and so ready and willing to make an absolute fool of herself in front of complete strangers that the gamer in me won out over the cynic almost immediately.

I was completely charmed and about 87% ready to be enveloped in whatever the day might bring.

First, it brought dancing. A little “Celebration” on the CD player to loosen us up. Once I got over my self-consciousness–I don’t often dance these days unaided by alcohol or instructions from my 8-year-old son–I started tapping in time with the music and getting in touch with the “Dancin’, Shakin’, Rockin’ Woman” that Nancy says we all have inside of us.

I have to admit, I was having fun. And the other women were fascinating. When else would I ever have the opportunity to be in a room with three psychics? By the way, none of them wore turbans and there wasn’t a crystal ball in sight.

What there was instead was a lot of heartfelt sharing and conversation, with the whole focus on looking inside to find the strengths we already have inside ourselves rather than looking outside, or to the future, to find ways we can improve.

As Nancy says, “I am a Dancin’, Shakin’, Rockin’ Woman. I am alive with my spirit, I am the birthday girl of the universe, I wear a party hat, and most importantly, I am enough as I am, I am enough as I am, I am enough as I am.”

Did I mention she wears a pink feather boa when she says this?

Then she laughs, along with the “Spirited Woman of Enoughness,” the “Yes-I-Will, Yes-I-Will Matadora,” the “Self-Trusting Guruess,” the “Diva of Humanitarians,” and me, the “Formerly Cynical Columnist.” I laugh too–and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just the chocolate talking.

The next Spirited Woman Workshop in Santa Barbara will be held on Saturday, February 23. For more information visit www.thespiritedwoman.com or call 888.428.1234 or email NancyMills@thespiritedwoman.com. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on November 9, 2007.

Something spooky this way comes

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Image courtesy of samattiw,www.freedigitalphotos.net

Image courtesy of samattiw,www.freedigitalphotos.net

Five billion dollars buys a lot of wax lips, talking Draculas and glow-in-the-dark plastic maggots. The National Retail Federation (NRF) says that Halloween spending will be up 10 percent this year, carving out an absolutely mind-numbing, record-breaking chunk of cash from our pockets.

Why are we so enamored with inflatable skeletons, candy corn, and fake cobwebs? I’ve got a few theories:

Halloween is the naughty little sister of Christmas.

There are parties and candy associated with both, but little sis (Halloween) is a lot looser than big sis (Christmas). She doesn’t feel that same sense of tradition and responsibility. She just wants to have fun. Instead of mistletoe, which must be grown or purchased, little sis (Halloween) has cobwebs, which you can find for free at my house. Big sis (Christmas) takes herself so seriously, with all that ritual stuff about keeping traditions alive, not to mention the cooking, the tipping, the shopping, the wrapping, the cards. … No wonder she gets migraines.

Halloween has gone to the dogs.

Talk about tricks for treats, one in ten Halloween celebrants plan on putting Fifi or Fido in some kind of frightful frock this year. That’s 7.4 million furry friends getting in touch with their inner Devils (12 %), pumpkins (9.2%), witches (4.5%), princesses (3.8%) and angels (3.3%). What about Cat Dog? That’s always my pet fish’s favorite costume.

“Many consumers who own pets think of them as family members,” said NRF President and CEO Tracy Mullin. “Pet owners will go all out to include dogs, cats and other critters in Halloween festivities, including trick-or-treating, handing out candy or even celebrating at a friend or family members’ house.”

Halloween is the new Christmas.

It comes earlier, lasts longer, and gets more expensive every year. While the boatloads of Mini Hershey Bars and paper pumpkin decorations that adorn store aisles just minutes after the Valentine’s Day conversation hearts and cupids are put on clearance pale in comparison to the plethora of dancing Santas, candy canes and fake snow, that’s only because my Christmas shopping theory of “one for you, one for me” is finally catching on. Otherwise, Halloween would be winning the consumer consumption race by now. Just think about how many of your Halloween purchases are edible (Reese’s peanut butter cups must be consumed with a week or they will haunt you), potentially delinquent (pumpkins will either end up as roadkill or as a landscape accoutrement to toilet paper), or non-repeatable (like that Monica Lewinsky costume from 1998).

The only “green” thing about Halloween is the glow-in-the-dark goblins.

The Grinch stole Christmas, but the adults stole Halloween.

Increasingly, adults have been elbowing children out of the way to claim the creepiest holiday as their own. Nearly a third of adults will be hitting the town in costume this year and I’ll be right with them. After all, what’s not to like about a holiday where you can dress up in an esoteric costume and pat yourself on the back for being smarter than other people when you continually have to explain what you are. Or a holiday where you can knock on someone’s door while wearing a mask and don’t have to worry about them calling the cops, or eat mini candy bars and fantasize that you’ve become a giant.

But the very best thing about Halloween is that it’s the only holiday no one can claim you’re “forgetting the true meaning of.” It’s all about the two “C’s”: costumes and candy. Think about it. You get to wear slutty or scary (or slutty and scary) costumes and no one gives you a hard time, and then demand chocolate from other people because you did so. Now that’s my kind of holiday.

Leslie’s favorite Halloween joke is: “What did one ghost say to the other ghost? Do you believe in people?” Send yours to email. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 26, 2007.

The “F” Word

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Candidate BarbieIt is ironic that feminism has become the “F” word at the same time a woman is finally the frontrunner to become president.

Maybe there’s something in the air, some kind of 2007-meets-1955 pheromones being emitted from our plastic water bottles. I felt like I entered a retro time warp zone the other day.

I was addressing envelopes, which felt a bit retro to begin with, but apparently hand written envelopes get opened 67% more frequently than others do. One of the nonprofits I’m involved with sent out an appeal to all of the neighbors in specific zip codes. We got the addresses based on a title search, and lo and behold, about 93% of the homes have a man’s name listed as the sole owner.

Now I know that the majority of these million dollar plus homeowners are not single men; in fact, I know a lot of their wives. And I know that we have community property laws in California, which means that the wives actually do own half their homes, regardless of whether their name is on the deed. But still, why on earth wouldn’t you put the house in both partners’ names? Surely not all women have credit like mine.

I’m seeing some other disturbingly retro trends in the air.

According to the Boston Globe, “asking dad for her hand in marriage” is a hot trend among bridegrooms to be. Call me old-fashioned, but doesn’t this set the stage for the old “I’ll give you five goats, three porcupines and half an acre of rutabagas for your daughter” negotiation? What if the daughter doesn’t want to marry the guy? And if dad gets a vote in the son-in-law race, doesn’t mom have anything to say about it?

Maybe mom’s not there to negotiate her daughter’s chattel merger because she’s too busy redecorating. That seems to be the not-so-subtle-message with new toys like Hasbro’s Rose Petal Cottage, a pretend house where little girls can make their housewife fantasies come true.

I checked, and the cottage does not come with any bon-bons, red wine, or a masseuse named Sven. Where’s the housewife fantasy part?

The Rose Petal Cottage tag line is: “Where dreams have room to grow.” One of the commercials croons: “I love when my laundry gets so clean/ Taking care of my home is a dream, dream, dream!”

More like a nightmare, nightmare, nightmare!

I don’t know what the elves at Hasbro were smoking when they came up with this idea, but maybe they were reading the Los Angeles Times, which recently did a story about the Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary’s new program in holy homemaking. The “academic” homemaker major enrolls only women, and includes coursework on baking cookies, laundering and child rearing. I tease, but it turns out that the kind of women who enroll actually need the instruction–many had been rearing their laundry and baking children.

This is the kind of stuff that makes Brain Surgeon Barbie look like a feminist icon. Though I guess there’s some hope in the news that the “Barbie I Can Be” career series is being updated. Barbie’s new job opportunities include becoming a pet sitter, art teacher, ballet teacher, baby doctor, ocean trainer and a cake baker. Maybe she can bake us up a yummy smelling chocolate layer cake to counteract the scent of all this retro stuff in the air.

While she’d rather be eating bon bons and watching Grey’s Anatomy, than cleaning her house and baking cookies, Leslie’s computer is almost always on, and you can email her at email. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 19, 2007.

The Itty Bitty Titty Charity

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© Alfredofalcone | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Alfredofalcone | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Men are such boobs.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear about the latest “charitable” Internet scheme, where “philanthropically-inclined” guys go online to support women in their quests for fake breasts. That’s right, I’m talking about MyFreeImplants.com, the testosterone- and alcohol-fueled brainCHILD of Jay Moore and Jason Grunstra, a Bay Area entrepreneurial duo who first came up with the idea during–what else?–a bachelor party in–where else?–Las Vegas.

Of course, I visited the site as soon as I got to my computer–my cups runneth over with comedic possibilities. According to the founders, during the bachelor party a conversation started up about “how one of the ladies had the most perfect set of breasts.” It was probably right between discussions of Darfur and the Democratic primary.

Anyway, the perfect-breasted woman told them how she had recently gotten implants, and “her beautiful friend (Natasha, who became the first woman to get implants from the site, and is now the company’s official spokesmodel) chimed in and mentioned that she wanted to get hers done but could not yet afford the $6,000 price tag that her friend had just paid. One of us yelled out ‘I got $5 on it’ and then someone else offered $10, and then $20, and then $50. By the time we got around the suite there was a verbal commitment amongst all the guys in the room to pay for 25% of her implants!”

Just think, if Natasha hadn’t been beautiful, that light bulb would probably never have ignited and the more than 20 other women that have been “helped” by this site since it’s 2005 debut would still be flat chested and unfulfilled in their life’s ambitions. Bless you, Natasha.

When the site refers to its suckers, I mean donors, as “benefactors,” somehow I’m thinking this endeavor is not the gateway to inspire a new generation of young men to join the Peace Corp. or volunteer at the Red Cross. But you never know. People who are really involved in charity work always say that helping others is addictive. I’m that when there’s a hops crisis, these are the guys who will be there for “Beer Aid.”

Maybe my mind is in the gutter, and the site’s plea to, “Help the girl of YOUR dreams, get the body of her dreams. Develop a connection with a girl of your choice and help her earn Free Breast Implants!” is just a charitable appeal, pure and simple. ‘Cause it doesn’t feel like porn at all.

MyFreeImplants.com offers “benefactors” the opportunity to “interact with real girls, receive custom photos, send ladies donations, receive custom videos, and chat with girls online.” Bizarrely, this is the same bosom buddy interaction that Sally Struthers’ Christian Children’s Fund offers in exchange for your support of orphans in Africa.

The site’s banner ads feature a bikini-clad cartoon female, on her hands and knees as a hand drops coins into her back and her breasts grow, above the headline: “Create the Perfect Girl at MyFreeImplants.com!” Classy. If nothing else, it proves the one and only proven theory about the Internet–where there are breasts, there’s an audience.

Sadly, increasing the size of one’s breasts does nothing to the intelligence of the person they’re attached to–but it can affect the brainpower of the person staring at them.

This is why I’m starting a website with nothing but boobs on it, called FreeMoney4Leslie.com.

So are these guys philanthropists, marketing geniuses, or just a bunch of boobs? They do offer this disclaimer: “While we at MyFreeImplants do not believe that physical beauty is all there is to a person, we do firmly believe that those with confidence in themselves and their appearance are more likely to be happy and content in their everyday lives. Please, let us help you to become all that you are capable of. Change your life for the better, one step at a time.”

Maybe I’m the boob, for giving these guys even more publicity. Then again, it is my job to keep you abreast of this sort of thing. Bad Leslie! If only there was a FreeMyPuns.com.

Send your thoughts on the online knife life to email. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 12, 2007.

Sometimes I feel like bologna on wry

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© Jkstudio@aol.com | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I had one of those “aha” moments the other day when I found mold in a piece of frozen bread. Isn’t that why we freeze bread in the first place? To keep those gross green spores from invading our otherwise pristine baked goods?

It’s a metaphor, I realized. My life is sandwiched between the beginning and the end. I’m somewhere between that fresh, hot-out-of-the-oven, mouth-watering, buttery baguette, and a dried-up end of old pumpernickel that you’ve been saving in the back of the freezer for a science experiment. And the mold is … ignore the mold. It doesn’t work in my metaphor, but it was gross and I thought I’d share.

How did this happen? It seems just a minute ago that I was in the middle of elementary school, and now my son is there. Wasn’t it just yesterday that my mom was the one running errands for her parents and schlepping the kids around town? Why am I driving carpool? Where are all the adults? Shouldn’t there be a grownup here to pass my overflowing plate of stresses and responsibilities along to?

I read a study recently that says the average person will spend 17 years taking care of a child and 18 years taking care of a parent. But my parents have been taking care of me for 44 years now and I’ve been “helping out” with them for, well, I’m planning to start next week. Which means they’ve got to live a good long time if we’re ever going to even things up statistically.

Again, I’m the grown-up? When did I make the switch from having mom to cut the crusts off my bread to being the one making sure we had peanut butter in the cabinet and cheese in the fridge?

And when did my membership shift from Generation X (by marriage–it counts) to the Sandwich Generation? Did I miss a meeting? I’m definitely missing some brain cells. The other day, I was driving away in my car when it dawned on me that my 8-year-old son was still sitting in our living room, home alone, since my husband had gone out to pick up his mother.

I know–from friends I’d like to keep, who shall therefore remain nameless–that this kind of “whoops, I forgot Johnny” incident happens to people with lots of kids all the time. But, let’s face it, they have extra children, so leaving one of them behind by accident is only a minor disaster.

As an only child, Koss is our not just our only contribution to the future of the planet, he’s also our great white hope for the future (a.k.a. our retirement plan), so if something were to happen to him, well, let’s just say that wouldn’t be chopped liver.

Although I think he’s caviar, or whatever that really rare and precious Japanese fish is that people pay millions of dollars for–he’s an open-faced sandwich, with no siblings to keep the ingredients together. When eventually it’s his turn to juggle that massive Dagwood sandwich made up of his kids on one side, us (his parents) on the other and him jammed in the middle, he’ll have no one to help him.

This does not bode well for me, ’cause he’s already killed a fish and lost a dog.

Another “aha” moment: We may have to adopt a nurse someday.

If life is a sandwich, which kind are you? Tell us at email. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 5, 2007.

Elephant Walk

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© Urosr | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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