Category Archives: South Coasting

Bleeping Sally Field

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Sally-Field-You-Like-Me-238x238What is it with Sally Field and award show speeches?

Her dorky “you like me, you really like me” gushing from the Academy Awards Show 22 years ago, still ranks as one of the all-time-most-memorable Oscar speeches.

And at Sunday night’s Emmys, she did it again.

OK, so she could have used a better script. And sure, she got flustered, lost her place, and babbled her lines. But somehow Sally Field still managed to deliver the best momologue I’ve heard at an awards show since, well, her Best Actress win back in 1987.

Bleep the delivery, thanks to the Bleeping Fox network, her censored sentiment–“if the mothers ruled the world, there would be no g–damn wars in the first place”–certainly got my attention. There are surely more articulate ways to speak out against the Bleeping war or praise the nonviolent instincts of women, but that’s beside the point.

Thanks to the Bleeping Bleeps at Fox, Gidget–whom a number of web surfers apparently thought rode her way into the sunset 20 years ago–cowabunga-ed her way into a gigantic wave of media attention.

Instead of being just another Hollywood headliner, seizing her 15 forgettable seconds on the soap box, the Flying Nun’s momologue actually inspired some dialogue and debate about war, God, freedom of speech and censorship.

Who knew that a silly Bleeping awards show could end up being so thought provoking?

I have no problem–obviously–with someone using their minute in the spotlight to voice their own personal views.

Most people blow it. Either they thank a bunch of people that work for them and forget to thank their nearest and dearest, or they thank the Almighty and forget to thank the director who made them look so much better than they actually were.

At least Sally Field tried to do something constructive with her few moments in the spotlight.

Not surprisingly, some people had a field day mocking the idea that putting a woman in charge might actually lead to more peaceful solutions, using examples like Indira Gandhi, Golda Meir, and Margaret Thatcher as mothers who went to war.

I think that’s a load of Bleep.

Nothing makes you value human life more than giving birth to a 15-pound baby with a 21-inch-wide head–unless of course you do it without an epidural, in which case you’d happily start bombing Canada just to distract yourself.

In 1870, long before Hallmark even existed, Julia Ward Howe dreamed up Mother’s Day, intending it to be a Mother’s Day for Peace. After nursing the wounded during the American Civil War, she gave a Bleep of a momologue, declaring:

“Arise all women who have hearts, say firmly: Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We women of one country will be too tender of those of another country to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs. In the name of womanhood and of humanity; take counsel with each other as the means whereby the great human family can live in peace.”

Peace is as patriotic as mom’s apple pie. And so is talking about whatever the Bleep you want to on award shows or anywhere else.

So here’s to bleeping Sally Field. I, for one, really do like her.

Tell us what you think about Sally’s speech, or Leslie’s column for that matter, by emailing email.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 21, 2007.

Yo ho yo ho a pirate’s life for me!

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© Nejron | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Nejron | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Ahoy mates. As we sail out onto the high seas of life, we take our pleasures where we may. I, for one, ‘ave been shivering me timbers for months in anticipation of my favorite holiday. That’s right, next Wednesday, September 19, is International Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Rather than yield this blarney beauty to the Wednesday columnists, I decided to polish my pirate patina now, so I’d be extra, extra prepared to talk like a pirate next week.

6 Bells: My scallywag of an alarm goes off. Time for me dilemma of the morn, do I hit t’ snooze button or hit t’ gym? T’ hook I attached t’ me port arm while gettin’ into character last night accidentally taps t’ snooze. Aye! Problem solved.

7 Bells: Five snoozes later I finally roll out o’ bed and try on a few outfits. “That’s some pirate booty all right,” says me mate, so I discard a tight pair of britches and go for the serving wench look instead. “How’d you like to scrape the barnacles off of me rudder?” greets me this time. I’d better try again.

7-1/2 Bells: Wake up lad fer school. He’s not exactly a Jolly Morning Roger. I use me powers o’ persuasion t’ convince th’ lad’s that he wants cereal instead o’ French Fries fer breakfast.

8 Bells: Drive me lad t’ school, a wee red convertible comes ou’ o’ nowhere t’ steal me favorite parkin’ spot at Vieja Valley. Arrrr! (Note t’ self: does it sound more pirate-like to say “Arrr,” “Aurgh,” or “Arrrrrrrrrrrgg…?” I wish I could text Peter Skarsgaard an’ ask th’ lad’s advice on how not to get hornswaggled.)

9 Bells: Interview the director o’ a local nonprofit. She doesn’t even crack a smile when I ask her if I can have a peek in her treasure chest. Aurgh!

12 Bells: Job well done. I complete t’ interviews for three stories, and find someone to scrape the barnacles off me rudder. I decide t’ take a break and check me email. Avast! I’m transfixed by t’ shear number o’ emails from t’ PTA. It’s enough t’ make me want t’ hit th’ grog, but I settle fer another cup o’ coffee.

1 Bells p.m.: A glance at me calendar reminds me that t’ lad has a bucko comin’ over after school. I smartly make t’ beds and do t’ breakfast dishes, though I know th’ sprogs will destroy everythin’ in sight within minutes.

1-1/2 Bells p.m.: Me stomach’s growlin’ with hunger, but that scallywag son of a biscuit eater o’ a husband o’ mine forgot t’ put grub on t’ shoppin’ list, so I’m forced t’ go out. T’ owner o’ a local Chinese Restaurant says they don’t serve pirates, so I’m forced t’ eat a burrito. Arrrrrrrgg!

2 Bells p.m.: I pick up me son and his bucko at school and get sweet-talked into takin’ them for ice cream. Beware t’ evils o’ chocolate chips, I warn. They listen t’ t’ wise old pirate lady and order cookie dough instead.

3 Bells p.m.: The wee bilge rats are so wired from the sugar rush that they destroy my garden. Arrr. I’d like to make them walk the plank, but instead I give the wee scallywags a timeout in the bung hole.

4 Bells p.m.: I’ve got one hour t’ write me story, return 17 phone calls an’ read 57 emails. Th’ phone rings an’ its me husband remindin’ me about soccer practice. I’ve got a school board meetin’ tonight, I tell th’ ever-lovin’ landlubber. If ye don’t want t’ be bunkin’ in Davy Jones locker, ye old sea dog, ye better pick up some grub fer dinner on yer way homeport from work.

6 Bells p.m.: Shiver me timbers, will you look at that thar beauty! I exclaim as me swashbuckling hero comes with a big bottle of rum and me favorite dishes, Salt Cod and Rice (heavy on the salt cod), Rice and Salt Cod (light on the rice), and Salt Cod Medley (salt cod combined with chunks of salt cod). That’s my buccaneer. It’s a pirate’s life for me indeed. Argh!

When she’s not talking like a pirate or walking like an Egyptian, Leslie can be reached at email For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 14, 2007.

Back to school blues

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© Silviaantunes | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Slamming the snooze button delays the dreaded alarm clock bell from ringing for three heavenly minutes, then it’s back to reality. Recess is over and it’s time for school to start again.

I know a lot of parents are jumping for joy that summer is over and they can finally escape from their kids–I guarantee you the toasts will be flying at Starbuck’s come Monday morning–but I’m not quite ready to escape from my son. We had such a nice, laid back summer; I’m not ready for it to end.

Maybe after Labor Day. Isn’t that the official end of summer?

It seems ridiculous to be going back to school when the waves have been so perfect and I’ve finally mastered the fine art of carting towels, beach chairs, boogie boards, skim boards, sand toys, sunscreen, hats, clothing changes, reading material, snacks and small children from the parking lot to the beach in a single trip.

What kind of diabolical-powers-that-be traded my summer for extra weeks off at Christmas and Easter? I’m not one to point fingers and call them anti-Semitic, but that is not a fair trade, let me tell you.

I’m not ready to start worrying about bedtime and balanced meals again. I hate the sound of that evil alarm clock in the morning almost as much as I hate going to bed before 1 a.m. so that I won’t have to hear that frigging evil alarm clock.

And you know what I’m really not looking forward to? Homework. I hear third grade’s a lot harder than second, and that they really pile on the homework. And you have to use cursive writing. I’m really worried about that. My son suffers from something called “dysgraphia,” otherwise known as “bad handwriting,” which teachers really hate.

I’m also worried because Koss has another disorder called “wiggle wormitis“–he has a hard time sitting still. It’s pretty common in little boys. In fact, Koss’s teacher last year (who was maybe 12) had been diagnosed with “wiggle wormitis” too, so he was very understanding and let him stand up and wiggle while he read or wrote or drew or whatever he needed to do. Do they let you wiggle in third grade? I’m not so sure.

I’m a little bit worried about those third grade teachers. I hear they can be kind of intimidating. What if they don’t like us? What if we don’t get any of our friends in our class? What if they make us sit still and write in cursive? What if all the other kids make fun of me for being 43 in third grade?

PTA is worrying me too. I didn’t hear anything from them all summer, and then all of a sudden, this week, there were 347 emails and 52 phone calls related to PTA. Oops, make that 53 phone calls. Thank goodness for voicemail. How will I get any actual work done with so much volunteering to do?

Plus there are all those healthy lunches I need to find time to prepare. And the holiday gifts I want to get started on. And of course I’ve got to increase my workouts at the gym, but at the same time I’d really like to get started on that novel I keep wanting to have written. No wonder I’m so stressed. How am I ever going to get everything done?

Koss actually seems excited for school to start. Something about friends, yadda yadda. But what about me? Doesn’t he realize the pressure it’s putting on me?

Sigh. I still have time. It is still August, after all. No matter what the school says, MY summer doesn’t officially end till next month.

When Leslie’s not stressing about school, she can be found soaking up those last rays of summer at the beach, with her trusty laptop in tow. For surf and tide information email email . For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 24, 2007.

I Dream of Oprah

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9781464511448_p0_v1_s260x420Some girls dream of fancy cars, furs, and jewels. Others fantasize about being the first president of the United States or running the United Nations. For me, it’s all about meeting Oprah.

We’ve had so many imaginary conversations, I know when we actually meet on her show it’ll be like sinking into the couch of my new best friend.

And boy will we dish.

It doesn’t matter what the subject of the show is, Oprah and I will both have plenty to say.

I might be promoting my new book, or that movie I found time to write between Little League innings. I could offer cooking tips (order takeout at least five nights a week, the other two you can eat leftovers) or investment advice (play both the Mega- and Super-Lotto to maximize your winnings). Whatever the subject, I know that Oprah will find me charming no matter what happens to slip out of my mouth. Best friends are like that.

Since it’s clear that Oprah and I will be best buds once we meet, I just have to figure out a way to get myself on the show. Which is why Steve Harrison’s email promoting a free telephone seminar on “The Three Big Secrets of Getting Free Publicity On Top National TV Shows” immediately caught my eye.

If Oprah’s former guest booker Michelle Anton was going to be on the call, then deadlines schmedlines, I was going to be on that call too.

I made sure my teeth were lipstick free as I nervously dialed the phone. Harrison had already started. “You are one idea away from accomplishing anything you want,” he boomed, with the pumped up passion of a preacher.

I hurriedly jotted down my ideas of things I could talk about. How to stay married without killing your husband; the top ten ways your screw-ups make other parents feel better about themselves; a 17-point presentation that proves Glenn Close and Meryl Streep are actually the same person; why chocolate should be at the top of the food pyramid; the Leslie science system; how to create a theory and write a column about every random idea you’ve ever had.

Clearly the big ideas are not a problem for me.

Harrison went on and on about why television appearances are so much better than advertising and how being on TV would make me ten times more famous and ten times more successful than I am today–which let’s face it, still wouldn’t really make me all that famous or successful. But that’s OK, because all I really care about is making friends with Oprah.

Then he introduced the panel, which included people from Fox News, the Today Show and the View. Of course, I only had ears for Oprah (and her surrogate, Michelle).

Finally Michelle, who is considered a media expert having worked with Oprah, Leeza Gibbons and Danny Bonaduce, gets on the line. She says, “It’s important for prospective show guests to develop a relationship with the producers. They may not have a guest spot for you right away, but if they know you then they’ll call you when then right opportunity presents itself.”

Of course. That makes so much sense. I make a note to invite Michelle over for fruity frilly umbrella drinks next week. We’ll bond. Hey, maybe she’ll even bring Oprah over with her. I’m sure she will. I’m sure they’ll both come, and bring a lovely house gift, like a car or a houseplant. I wonder if she likes Manitaropita Mushroom Packets or Lemongrass Chicken Stix?

“Your first phone call is a mini audition,” Michelle advises. “When you leave a producer a voicemail, make your passion for your subject come through in your voice. The idea is so we can see what an entertaining guest you would make.”

Ah, another great tip. Thanks, Michelle. I wonder how much it would cost to get Glenn/Meryl to read this column into the phone?

Oh, well, enough with the wild fantasies. I’d better get back to cleaning the house, so that my mother won’t be embarrassed when Oprah drops by.

If you have the inside track on Oprah, email us at email. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 17, 2007.

How can I hate you if I won’t look away?

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© Leeloomultipass | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I felt a little sick to my stomach when the wax model image of Lindsay Lohan in prison garb flashed on the TV, with a ten-year-old girl posing adoringly next to it. What a Kodak moment for her proud mama. Lindsay and the little girl even had matching alcohol-detecting ankle bracelets.

And yet, it’s hard to look away.

I muster my will power and flip the channel quickly. There was a report about Britney Spears declaring, “Now I’m a Brainiac!” while playing topless truth or dare with some college kids.

I feel dirty, and not in a good way.

I turn on my computer to learn that Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie’s recent antics have inspired a new porn movie: “Paris and Nicole Go to Jail.”

Their parents must be so proud.

I’m repulsed by these girls on so many levels; I hardly know where to start. Yet I’m attracted to them too, like a train wreck, I can’t look away. Their dalliances with sex, drugs, high-speed car chases, fame, millionaire boy toys and fashionable clothing are more over-the-top than any plotlines on Days of Our Lives, yet still they hold my interest.

What kind of a person am I that I know more about Paris and Nicole than I do about Hezbollah and Darfur?

Why are these girls and their predictable plotline patterns –watch how the mighty fall, rise, forget to put on their panties, and fall again–so fascinating? Little girls may be in danger of wanting to grow up to be like Lindsey and Britney, but I certainly don’t look up to them. I mean my gosh, they’re so skinny I could crush them both with my left elbow.

So why do I continue to follow their hijinks? Is it some kind of attraction repulsion compulsion syndrome, or is there actually a lesson to be learned from their stories?

I suppose on some level their screw-ups make me feel better about myself. As Nora Ephron wrote, “How fabulous to look at those Hilton parents and say to yourself, well, whatever I did as a parent, it wasn’t that. Whatever my regrets, whatever my failings, whatever my ineptness, however much I worry that I forgot to tell my kids about how to use the soup spoon, at least I am not on the phone to Barbara Walters in the middle of the night trying to negotiate a television appearance for my daughter on the occasion of her release from prison.”

My friend Louise thinks we should all stop reading the tabloids and watching the Rehab All Star News because our interest in girls behaving badly actually causes it. “I mean, how shocked are you that these girls whose every body part, boyfriend, and bad hair day has been publicly debated, scrutinized and drooled over have a few issues? We should all just leave them alone.”

If only I could, but their stories are hard to avoid and a lot easier to digest than the rest of the news. Perhaps that’s the real reason for the explosion of gossip on TV, newspapers, magazines, and the Internet: real life is too scary to deal with right now. Paris, Lindsay, Britney, Nicole–they’re just scary enough.

I may feel dirty, but I’m not above a shameless plug. If you’d like your daughters to read about some positive role models for a change, check out Leslie’s new children’s book, “Women in Charge” (Child’s World 2007) available at LeslieDinaberg.com

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 10, 2007.

Everything I Know About Motherhood So Far

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© Pkruger | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

My son turns eight next week, and since it looks like I won’t be having another child to practice on, I won’t be needing a lot of these hard-earned lessons for my next kid. Therefore, I give them to you, gentle reader.

1. Forget all of those gender-neutral parenting plans you had. Once the epidural wears off, reality kicks in. Nature, schmature, nurture, schmurture. You have joined the MOB. You’re the Mother of a Boy and there’s no turning back. The fart jokes will start in about ten minutes, and eight years later you’ll still be holding your breath.

2. Your child will never appreciate those first few years you spent sleepless, showerless, and adult-conversationless. In fact, he may even laugh loudly at a picture of what you looked like back in those days. If you get a chance for some time to yourself, run, as fast as you can. Sure your one-year-old may whine a bit and your two-year-old may throw a tantrum as you leave, but your seven-year-old will never know the difference.

3. All history happens to a kid, “when I was three.” “I had a really bad dream when I was three, that’s why I can’t go to sleep until midnight, mom.” “When I was three you slammed my finger in the car door.” “I heard you say a bad word when I was three.” Whatever the memory, it happened “when I was three.”

4. The only scientifically documented thing that actually happens at age three is kids become obsessed with their feet. Never accept food of any kind from a three-year-old.

5. Four-year-old boys can get a bit emotional when you deny them things. Here’s my favorite tip: You can say “maybe” and mean “no.” “Maybe” buys you time. “Maybe” helps you avoid tantrums in public places. “Maybe” gives your child a teensy tiny bit of hope he can hang on to for a little while, and he just might forget about what he wanted in the first place. This works with husbands as well as kids.

6. When you figure out how to explain to a five-year-old that some people get pretty offended when you take a certain someone’s name in vain, please, please, please help me explain it to my son. Meanwhile, if you know a way to avoid cussing when you spill a piping hot latte all over your new Coach purse, could you also let me know?

7. I know we haven’t had a rainy day in a long time, but when Koss was five, it rained a lot. Santa Barbara is not a rainy day friendly town–I’m surprised the bowling alley isn’t outdoors. When you coop up 48 pounds of five-year-old boy energy inside a teeny tiny house for too long, something’s got to give–your sanity. My suggestion is to hook him up to an electricity generating treadmill. Viola, no more global warming.

8. Six-year-old boys turn into lawyers–everything is a negotiation or a stall tactic, and you have no choice but to develop your own legal skills. For example, after the 13th time you tell him to brush his teeth/finish his homework/put out the recycling/tar the roof, he’ll finally look up from his whatever game he’s into that week and say, “chill, mom.” This is what’s known as stalling. Forcibly take the game from him and turn it off. Tell him he’ll get it back after he brushes his teeth/finishes his homework/puts out the recycling/tars the roof, etc. This is what’s known as a negotiation.

9. Seven-year-olds can chatter incessantly about mythical creatures and who would beat who in a fight — seriously, my kid can go at least 10 minutes without taking a breath. The trick is to nod your head and think about George Clooney. When your son finally stops talking, answer, with a straight face, “I think the second one is more powerful.” Works every time.

10. If he says he’s “gotta go,” he’s gotta go. And even if he says he doesn’t, make him pee anyway before you leave the house. If he’s two, your best friend’s new hardwood floors will thank you. If he’s seven, his baseball coach will thank you.

11. Seven-year-olds can do a lot of things for themselves, but they need very specific directions. Don’t say, “get a snack” unless you’re OK with him snacking on leftover Halloween candy. And if you let him snack on the fruity-chewy-gooey-not-worth-the- calories-candy, remember, you won’t be able to use it in his birthday piñata in July.

12. Never, under any circumstances, even if you have to push him away from the scale at Weight Watchers, let your child see how much you weigh. Show him your tax returns if you need to distract him.

13. Male Answer Syndrome kicks in early. If you want to know anything about anything, ask your seven-year-old son.

14. Keep in mind; sarcasm is a sign of wit, intelligence, and cleverness…until your kids use it.

Share your parenting lessons with Leslie at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 9, 2008.

Lucky Me

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© Zangfubin | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

It’s Friday the 13th

The rest of you might be knocking on wood or throwing salt over your shoulders, but today is my lucky day.

That’s right. Friday the 13th is upon us, and I figure if you’re going to believe in superstitions, you may as well believe that good luck is just as likely to be around the corner as the curse of a black cat.

Though most people scoff when accused of being superstitious and insist they’re too mature to believe in such hooey, you don’t catch a lot of people purposely walking under ladders, and people don’t really seem to be considering that those rabbit’s feet key chains didn’t bring much luck to the poor bunnies that owned them, unless of course you count being eligible for disability.

Bunny scam–I smell a Pulitzer.

Friday the 13th is one of those days that cues the Twilight Zone music for me, but in more of an “Ooh, this could be the day I win the lottery” way, rather than an “Uh oh, the crows are swarming above my head” kind of way.

Although, Alfred Hitchcock was born on Friday the 13th, so if you see the birds swarming it’s probably just a lucky homage. Besides, crows love Hitchcock. If it weren’t for the residuals from The Birds, they’d have to sell their feet or something.

While I may be in the minority, apparently I’m not alone in thinking that today just might be my lucky day. In China and much of Asia, Friday the 13th is considered a fortunate date, and in Australia, lottery agents reportedly sell 50 percent more tickets than average on these lucky Fridays.

I thought I’d give Friday the 13th a warm and fuzzy name like Timmy, Barney, or Snuffleupagus, so that more people would realize that this is actually a lucky day. Unfortunately, thanks to the wonders of phobia.com, I found out that there’s already a name for this superstition: Pararkevidekatriaphobia. It’s a combination of three Greek words–Paraskevi means “Friday,” Dekatria means “Thirteen,” and Phobia means “Fear.”

Just trying to pronounce Pararkevidekatriaphobia brings out my fears…parasailing, parasites, the paranormal. Talk about paranoid! Friday the 13th has nothing on phobia pronunciations.

Yet even engineers and architects struggle to soothe our superstitions. Skyscrapers and hotels have no 13th floor; airplanes have no 13th aisle. I say bring on the 13th row. I’d be happy to have the extra legroom.

It’s estimated that $800 or $900 million is lost in business on this day because people will not fly or do business they would normally do. The Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute (Wouldn’t that be a fun place to work?) estimates that more than 17 million people are affected by a fear of this day.

In fact, some people are so paralyzed by fear that they are simply unable to get out of bed when Friday the 13th rolls around. Yes! No traffic!

Still feeling a little superstitious? After you’ve adorned yourself with garlic and walked around the house 13 times to ward off evil spirits, you might want to get rid of those unlucky one dollar bills by sending them to me. Take a look: there are 13 steps on the pyramid, 13 Latin letters above it, 13 stars above the Eagle, 13 feathers in each of the Eagle’s wings, 13 leaves on the olive branch, 13 arrows, and 13 bars on the shield.

I bet you can’t wait to get rid of those unlucky dollars this Friday. Happy Snuffleupagus. I told you this was my lucky day.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 13, 2007

A Long Way Baby

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You’ve come a long way, baby … but you’ve still got a long way to go

“I’ve often thought there is nothing that makes a man a feminist faster than becoming the father of a daughter.” — Peggy Orenstein

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© Amysuem | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Title IX had its 35th birthday last week. It’s hard to believe that the statute designed to level the playing field by banning sex discrimination in federally funded education programs is now officially middle-aged. From my over 40 vantage point, 35 doesn’t seem even close to middle middle-aged, but that’s another subject for another column.

What I want to talk about today is women in sports, and the maddening fact that despite the past 35 years of progress we’ve made, it was three little words from a radio talk show host that got the most attention for female athletes this year.

The statute itself is only 37 words long, but those three words Don Imus spewed about the Rutgers women’s basketball team managed to generate a lot more ink than the fivefold increase in the number of women participating in intercollegiate athletics today; and the tenfold increase in the number of young women competing in high school sports.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not here to join the dogpile on Imus. I think he should be free to say whatever idiotic thing he wants–with the exception of yelling “fire” in a crowded room–just as we should be free to throw tomatoes and boycott anyone who advertises on his show.

But here’s the point: without Title IX, it’s doubtful that the Rutgers women’s team would have even had the opportunity to play basketball, let alone make international headlines.

When I was a kid, I remember being mesmerized by Billie Jean King‘s trouncing of Bobby Riggs in “The Battle of the Sexes.” At the time I thought it was just another example of the “Girls Rule, Boys Drool” battle we played on the playground. I had no idea that part of King’s motivation was to inspire the enforcement of the law.

She recently said, “I wanted Title IX to succeed so badly. I was trying to change the hearts and minds of the people about it. This had nothing to do with tennis; it was about social change.”

To a large degree, it’s working. A poll by the National Women’s Law Center shows overwhelming support–with 82 percent in favor of preserving Title IX and 88 percent in favor of girls or their parents utilizing Title IX to legally challenge disparities of treatment of boys and girls.

But the battle for equality has still not been won. “In 2002, women made up 54 percent of college students, but they only comprised 43 percent of college athletes. Meanwhile, men received 36 percent more athletic scholarships than women. Women also receive only 20 percent of computer science and engineering-related technology bachelor’s degrees, and only 39 percent of all full professors at colleges and universities are women,” said Representative Carolyn Maloney (D-NY) in a statement celebrating Title IX.

At the same time, as the mother or a boy — Really? Only 46 percent of college students are men? Maybe my kid’s going to need that athletic scholarship. Although, after watching him barely hold his own during the Fourth of July WWF smackdown with Dr. B’s daughter, I’m not holding my breath. He would have been fine if the other Dr. B’s daughter hadn’t leapt in and put him in an illegal choke hold, the nappy headed… Oh! Sorry. Carried away. Well, he’s good at math and science. Maybe that will carry him.

Besides, it’s not just about scholarship opportunities; it’s also about access to competition, an essential piece of being in the work force, and succeeding in life. By now, research has established beyond doubt that girls who participate in sports have higher self-esteem, lower drug-abuse and pregnancy rates and better odds of attaining a college degree. Then there are the intangibles: lessons in teamwork, winning and losing gracefully, and rebounding from failure.

Girls today assume they have a right to athletic opportunities–even girls who cheat at wrestling just to humiliate my child. Let’s make sure to keep working so that those playing fields are truly level.

Inspired by the women at Wimbledon, and despite her middle-aged knees, Leslie recently dusted off her tennis racket only to brush up on the art of losing gracefully. Share your athletic adventures with her at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 6, 2007

Admission Impossible

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Part Deux

It used to be that once you got accepted to college you had that last semester or two to relax, slack off a bit, and finally enjoy yourself without all that pressure to get into the school of your choice.

Ah, the good old days. I remember Senioritis running so rampant at my high school that even the teachers stopped showing up those last few weeks. My Biology lab was empty, except for a note on the chalkboard that read: “Gone to Maui. Will the last person in class please turn out the lights?”

I still use some of those stolen beakers for mixing my more exotic cocktails.

Ah, those were the days.

Apparently the good OLD days. There is no more slack for slackers, the Los Angeles Times reported this week. As if conquering Admission Impossible weren’t enough, now students have to remain focused–or face the consequences.

The article said that starting this month, some universities are revoking admission offers to students whose grades were good enough to gain acceptance when they applied, but whose final exams and transcripts took a fourth quarter dive.

For example, my alma mater, UCLA, has begun to send out letters informing some students that their academic record no longer meets the standards for admission.

Oops! Bummer.

I guess these days college admission is not a done deal until those final grades are in. Talk about a harsh cure for Senioritis. When too much partying couples with too little studying–a.k.a. Senioritis–it can actually put your college admission in remission.

Of course, Senioritis has infected the college-bound since, oh, the beginning of time. But with a high-stress admissions process that now begins in kindergarten–at age 7, Koss is already behind, having yet to master a third language or a fifth instrument–today’s seniors may be more tempted than earlier ones to let up once they get in.

And of course colleges have always threatened kids with rescinding their admissions, telling them college acceptance is conditional, they have to keep up with their studies, blah, blah, blah. But until now, it was just an idle threat.

Slackers beware: after hundreds of years of “conditional acceptance,” schools are finally making good on their threats. They really are. In addition to reading the Los Angeles Times article, in order to verify the authenticity I did extensive research on this (asked my dad), reviewed my files (back issues of Oprah Magazine), and consulted my advisors (a small boy named Koss and a turquoise fish named Beta).

It’s a new era. There’ll be no more slacking during your senior year of high school. You may think you’re done. You may have gotten a thick envelope with a relentlessly perky congratulatory letter from the admissions office. Your parents may have even sent in a nonrefundable deposit.

Worse yet, you may have excitedly told strangers on the street where you’re going to college. (How embarrassing!) You may even already be wearing your collegiate colors with pride, having bought out the student store logo wear department.

You’re in. They said you were in. You have the letter encased in an acid free scrapbook to prove it. But remember, you’re not quite done.

It’s the end of an era–no more slack for seniors. High school won’t be the same anymore.

Of course, college isn’t exactly the same either. At an average of more than $20,000 per year for tuition, room and board, it’s enough to make me want to stay poor. I just hope that by the time Koss graduates high school there are scholarships for students who excel in computer games and doing math while twitching. Otherwise I’ll have to win the lottery, sell a kidney–or encourage my son to slack off during his senior year.

Email email if you know anyone who’s had their college admission invitation rescinded. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 29, 2007

Summer is Finally Here

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© Yarko12 | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

Gotta Go!

No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks–and no more teachers saying “no” when kids have to go. School is finally out for the summer, and kids are free to pee to their hearts’ content once again.

I had no idea that bathroom breaks were such an issue.

As a card-carrying member of “the Amazing Mini Bladderini Family,” I cringed–and almost immediately felt the urge to pee–when I read the headline in USA Today: “Teachers can say no when kids have to go.” Yet there it was in black and white.

What is it with teachers and peeing? Almost everyone I know has a “holding it till I was about to burst” story from elementary school. Then there was a huge controversy in Norway when a teacher wanted boys to sit to pee. It dominated the news for weeks. But I thought those days were over in the United States. I guess not.

We’re still wacko when it comes to potty breaks in school. A short time ago, a sixth-grader in Magnolia, Ohio wet his pants during a standardized test after a teacher refused to let him use the bathroom. In Charleston, South Carolina, a teacher made students pee into a trashcan during a lockdown drill. And in Sacramento, an eighth-grader recently urinated into a Gatorade bottle in a classroom corner because his teacher had refused to dismiss him.

All I can say is, “Ew, yuck!”

Since when is peeing a privilege? I always thought it was a right. A biological imperative, in fact.

I get that teachers have to balance classroom control with the varied and hard-to-predict potty practices of their students, but is it really that complicated? If you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go.

And yet, not all teachers see it that way. They say that the reasons for limiting bathroom use are to keep children from cheating on tests, disrupting the class, getting out of doing class work, or getting into mischief.

Now don’t get me wrong, I believe that children should be free to pee, but the mischief menace is no myth. While it’s possible they may have been lighting matches to get rid of the odors, after five fires were started in the bathrooms over the course of five days, a school in North Carolina (what is it with the Carolina’s and peeing?) started requiring students to have an adult escort when they went to the bathroom. The students protested by wearing numbered t-shirts reminiscent of those worn by prison inmates.

OK, so that may have been a bit drama club, but serious academic research done at the University of Iowa is showing that children are developing bladder problems because they are being denied the opportunity to go to the bathroom at school. As a result, doctors are seeing more and more urinary tract infections, incontinence, and damaged kidneys caused by infrequent trips to the bathroom.

The right to pee movement even has a de facto spokeswoman named Laurie A. Couture, a New England-based teacher, social worker, mental health counselor and political child advocate who is urging students to sign petitions when necessary and talk to their parents, teachers, and principals to stand up for their rights to “bodily integrity.”

Of course teachers aren’t really free to pee whenever they feel the urge during class time either. Perhaps that’s the real reason behind those gigantic grins on their faces this summer.

To audition for the Amazing Mini Bladderini Family, share your holding it horror stories with Leslie at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 22, 2007