Category Archives: South Coasting

Let them eat literature

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

“Let me show you how to find them yourself.”

I was nine years old, and that was my first conversation with Sherry Thompson. I had just transferred to Harding School, and she was the librarian.

She led me over to the card catalog (for you kids in the audience, like Yu-Gi-Oh cards, only with less information on attack points, and more information on how to find a book) and showed me how it worked.

Not only did I learn about the CIA, the FBI and British Intelligence that day, I finally solved the mystery of who that Sarah Bernhardt lady was that my grandma was always comparing me to.

All of those cliches about libraries opening doors came true in that magical place. I was hooked.

It wasn’t about falling in love with reading; I had caught that bug years before. My mom was a teacher, for heaven’s sake, I certainly didn’t need a librarian to encourage me to read.

But Mrs. Thompson introduced me to research, and I dove right in with vigor, the beginning of a new life-long love.

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

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

I thought a lot about her last week when I watched the school board vote to reassign all the librarians to classrooms and let the clerks take over. All of those mental doors she helped me open that probably would have remained closed without her.

Sure, a clerk could have found me a book on the CIA, or an encyclopedia entry about the FBI, but I doubt they would have shown me how to find it myself. And I certainly doubt they would have noticed my preference for fiction and promised me a lunch at the Yacht Club if I could read every biography in the school library.

To this day, that was still the best burger I’ve ever had.

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

“Don’t worry. I’ll still be looking out for you,” she told me.

I didn’t believe her then, but now I do.

And I know what she thought about that school board meeting.

Yes, the public schools are in a budget crisis, but asking a school, “an institution of learning,” to do without a trained librarian seems absurd to me, like asking someone whether they’d rather have an arm cut off or a leg. Cutting off our kids from such an important resource seems just as horrendous, especially in a place like Santa Barbara, where the measly $250,000 it will save the school district next year wouldn’t even buy a driveway for a tract house on the Mesa.

American Libraries columnist Will Manley calculated almost a decade ago that if librarians were paid at market rates, they would have annual salaries well over $200,000. For those of you who refuse to pay retail, this is the bargain of a lifetime.

Surely this community can come up with a way to save the library program. Reassignment notices have already gone out to the librarians, so now’s the time to sink or swim.

“In the nonstop Tsunami of global information, librarians provide us with floaties and teach us how to swim,” wrote Linton Weeks in the Washington Post.

Doesn’t every kid in Santa Barbara deserve to learn to swim?

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on March 17, 2005.

Kids put the squeeze on the boundaries of cuisine

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Photo by Mojpe, Pixabay.com.

Photo by Mojpe, Pixabay.com.

“When it comes to feeding your kids, everyone’s a critic,” warned my friend Lori.

Sure the food police may be creeping around cafeteria corners and leering at grocery carts, but I’ve come to realize that when it comes to kids and food, there are a lot more hypocrites than critics.

I, for one, am happy when my son eats at all.

Can he really be the only kid in the United States who has never — not a single day in his young life — managed to down the federally-recommended three servings of vegetables, two servings of fruit and two servings of milk per day?

And I’m told, by other concerned parents who are apparently better able to shove food into their children’s small orifices, that when he turns seven he’ll need even more fruits and vegetables. At this rate, he’ll need a broccoli I.V. and brussel sprout drip or he’ll never be able to catch up

Who are these kids that are eating all of these fruits and vegetables? I’ve certainly never met them.

I called the USDA, and they put me in touch with the five-year-old boy who actually follows all of their guidelines. His name is Oliver Q. Stump, and he lives in Denver, CO. He’s in great health, reading at a fourth grade level, and is exceptionally well mannered. However, I found him to be an exceedingly dull conversationalist.

Have a Butterfinger, Oliver. You need to lighten up.

The rest of us can only try. At their Valentine’s Day party, my son’s kindergarten class not only had cookies and cupcakes on the sign-up sheet, but also fruit and vegetables.

I was impressed. Unfortunately, none of the produce actually made it to the party, and I was surprised to find that when the kids opened their Valentine’s cards, at least half of them contained candy.

Were these the same moms that complained about unhealthy croutons in the school’s salad bar?

I had been buying red and pink foil chocolate concoctions for weeks, but it never would have occurred to me to share them with my son, let alone his classmates — and it’s not just because I don’t share chocolate.

While I’ve been following the progress of “healthy chocolate” research at Mars Inc. for years (according to the New York Times, dark chocolate Dove bars are now loaded with more cardiovascularly-friendly flavanols than many green teas), I know better than to make five-year-olds into lab rats.

I prefer my selective scientific gullibility to work only in my favor, not against the integrity of my son and his friends.

“I want to teach my kids that carrots are just as much of a treat as M & Ms,” said my friend Jody.

Good idea, though there’s a reason they never made Willy Wonka and the Rutabaga Factory into a movie.

If it actually worked, there would be a bunch of orange-tinted kids on the playground instead of a bunch of fat kids. For those of you who didn’t get the memo, or have been living under a rock for the past decade, this will be big news: Kids are eating too much junk food and not getting enough exercise.

In other words, they’re acting like adults.

“Can we go to McDonald’s for dinner, Mommy?” asks my son. “They have salads.”

This is how he tries to sell me on McDonald’s, with the temptation of a 12,000 calorie salad — for me. Nonetheless, “Would you actually eat something if I take you there?” I plead.

That’s how low the bar can drop in our house sometimes.

My son, who is five and weighs less than his three-year-old cousin, is almost never hungry. That is, unless he’s sucking up to Grandma or it’s time to go to bed. Then he suddenly gets an appetite.

Anyone who’s ever met me knows this is clearly not genetic.

Ever look up “food issues” in a psychology journal?

My mom was the one who gave me Tab in my fourth grade lunch box and gave out pencils on Halloween.

My dad was the one who made me the top seller every Girl Scout cookie season. He would eat them before I could even make the rounds of the neighbors, a weakness later discovered by the SBCC women’s volleyball team, who made a fortune by storing their fundraising candy bars in his office one year.

My husband is the tall, skinny guy who, after years of cutthroat “eat all your vegetables” contests with his siblings, has not had anything green pass his lips (other than a beer on St. Patrick’s Day) since he left home for college.

And I am the one who rejoiced at the healthy kids meal we recently had at Bubba Gump’s in Long Beach, which included carrot sticks and celery with the chicken strips and fries.

My heart went pitter-patter when Koss actually ate a carrot.

So what if he mistook it for a French fry, he still swallowed.

Like I said, the bar is low.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on March 3, 2005.

Price points to shopping paradise

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Costco in Irvine, CA, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Costco in Irvine, CA, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Stalking Costco’s aisles is much more than a spectator sport for bargain hunters

Our anniversary is coming, so naturally when my husband told me he needed to “go to Costco,” I was sure he was going to buy me that Chagall lithograph I’ve had my eye on.

When I heard that Costco was beginning to sell fine art, I knew that it wouldn’t be long before we got lured into the excitement. My normally shop-o-phobic husband has a hard time resisting the temptation of big box bargains.

We once ate hot dogs every night for an entire summer, just to use up the enormous vats of relish, mustard and catsup he couldn’t resist. And we’ve still got 39 cans of pickled brussel sprouts sitting around from the time my son swore they tasted delicious, “the way that Grandma made them.”

Pretty much anytime we walk into Costco, we save so much money that we go broke.

So when I read that an original crayon drawing by Pablo Picasso sold at Costco.com for $39,999, I knew that the $8,799 Chagall would soon be on my walls, because when you enter Costco, Costco logic prevails.

Which is why I have an unopened ten-gallon bottle of Tanqueray Gin still making a dent on the top of my fridge, from a long ago party where “someone might want a gin martini” and an industrial-sized kennel of baking powder for all of the cookies I was going to make for holiday gifts one year.

While high-end retailers hire merchandising specialists to help move you through their stores, Costco logic relies instead an unwritten law. “Whatever you look for at Costco will be on the far opposite side of the store. And in your quest to find the desired item, you will always find a minimum of seven other items you can’t live without.”

Try it sometime. It’s science.

I know that eventually, at some point in the future, I’ll come out ahead on my Costco purchases, but I’ll have to live to be 107, because that’s how long it’s going to take me to eat all of the chicken noodle soup I bought three flu seasons ago.

At least the soup purchase had some practical application. Lately I’ve been lured in by “new” products like Sierra Mist Free — which is really just Diet Sierra Mist with microscopically different packaging — or Wheat Thin crackers with zero trans fats (and exactly the same ingredients as the old crackers).

While customers are buying in mass, Costco is taking its profits in bulk. In a flat retail year, gross profit was up 13 percent last year with annual revenues of 47.5 billion dollars.

That’s an awful lot of Cherry Pepsi Free.

What else are people stocking up on?

In my case, there are the 14-foot-long rolls of coordinating wrapping paper, that I may need someday, and the gigantic tub of cinnamon-spice hand cream that I couldn’t resist. My husband’s temptations usually relate to outdoor activities — which is funny if you know him — like the tent could literally house a village, or the ice chest that could surely hydrate them. Costco’s marketing gurus even have a name for these items — the ones that never make it onto your shopping list, but somehow inevitably make it into your shopping cart — they call them the spice.

Then there are the actual spices, like Piment Despelette, which I bought a gigantic jar of once, because a woman who looked like Betty Crocker told me it was a once-in-a-lifetime bargain at 20 dollars an ounce

If the spicy new packaging or the advice from fellow customers doesn’t tempt me, the free samples usually do. While my dad usually trolls the Costco aisles for the “cheapskate special” lunch, I’m more likely to get sucked into the illusion that if I just bought that case of Jennie-O-Turkey with tequila-lime marinade, I’d somehow get in tune with my inner domestic goddess, the one who’s been MIA the past 40 years.

Sure, you’d expect the soccer moms hoarding juice boxes and the college kids stocking up on Easy Mac ‘N Cheese, but I’m most intrigued by the flocks of chic women who buy their thirty dollar Cabernet at Costco and their 200 dollar jeans at Blue Bee.

“Is that a good wine?” asks my husband, ever on the look out for both a bargain and the chance to chat up a pretty young thing.

“Oh yes. It’s quite a good value,” says Ms. Second Wife, as she bats her eyelashes at my First Husband.

“I hear the Chagall’s are quite a deal too,” I say, showing them both the lithograph print from my computer. My husband’s eyes go wide. Is he tempted?

“Wow, $8,799 for a work of art at Costco,” he laughs, in a way that tells me my chances of attaining it are dismal at best.

I wonder if Chagall does multi-packs.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on February 17, 2005.

My life as a movie

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I did all of my best parenting before I had children.

I had a great “Leslie the Mom” movie going in my mind, where I was always impeccably groomed, incredibly patient, and my three perfect kids were always clean, well-rested and well-behaved — yet somehow not the least bit Stepford-like.

After spending some time at the film festival last week, I realized that making movies is kind of like raising a child.

“When you’re inspired, you have the dream and it’s perfect. Inspiration is perfect,” said Phantom of the Opera director Joel Schumacher, recalling a conversation he had with Woody Allen.

Then you get people involved, and it’s a whole other story.

You start out with a perfect, innocent infant. Ten little fingers, ten little toes and the sweetest little face you’ve ever seen. Your movie couldn’t get any better.

Then people start to give you notes on your project.

“Let him cry and he’ll feel insecure.”

“If you don’t let him cry he won’t learn to soothe himself.”

I know just how Schumacher felt on Batman Forever when the studio told him Nicole Kidman wasn’t sexy and the test audiences said she was too sexy.

Sometimes I wish I could just stamp a “child by Leslie Dinaberg” credit on my son’s head and feel secure in the notion that I directed his progress from infancy to adulthood. But I realize that idea is about as absurd as that “film by” credit you see on almost any movie these days.

As soon as you bring a child into the world you have all kinds of outside influences to contend with, and it’s up to you to filter the harmless things (Grandma gives him an extra cookie before bedtime — no biggie) from the dangerous things (friend’s dad falls asleep with lit cigarette while kids play with Uzi’s and lawn darts — biggie).

“You’ve got to trust your instincts, even when no one else agrees with you,” said Jeff Arch, who directed Dave Barry’s Guide to Guys.

Sometimes this involves acting like you think saying, “because I said so” is a satisfying answer to “but all the other kindergarteners are allowed to drink beer and drive their parent’s cars” — even if you’re faking it.

“The buck stops with you. You have got to give the impression that you know what you’re doing, even if you don’t, ” said Hotel Rwanda director Terry George.

Sure the buck may stop with me, but unless I want to raise a bubble boy, I need to realize that his friends, teachers, coaches, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and even current events have parts to play.

Paying attention to those outside influences just makes sense. If nothing else, at you can share the blame with these other people when something goes wrong.

“You don’t have to take people’s advice or their suggestions, but I think if you don’t listen to them you’re a fool,” said Schumacher.

Of course, there are bound to be conflicts. If my husband and I can’t agree on everything, how could I possibly expect the rest of the world to fall in line with my childrearing philosophy?

Then there’s the reality that children have likes, dislikes and quirks just like the rest of us. I sometimes feel like a stranger in a strange land trying to catch my son’s enthusiasm for Bionicles and snakes, but I don’t have the heart to tell him I’d rather be reading about the sale of Jen and Ben’s engagement ring or Martha Stewart’s post-prison reality show. Unlike Schumacher, who said, “sometimes I read excellent scripts but I think I’m the wrong director,” I don’t have the option to pass on building a fort or playing dinosaur bingo because “we have artistic differences.”

Like the script that comes to life with the right actor in the role, my son has taught me more about what he needs than any other parent or parenting book possibly could. Sure I’m his toughest critic, but I’m also his best audience. I just hope he has a boffo opening weekend, as he’s my retirement plan.

As actor/director Kevin Bacon said, the thing about film festival audiences is that they are there because they love films. Their “enthusiasm is seductive,” and tapping into that enthusiasm is partially why you have film festivals in the first place.

While I probably won’t ever match my son’s enthusiasm for tarantulas or his affection for anacondas, the light in his eyes when I read to him is more than worth the slight nausea in my stomach.

And looking back at that first draft of the “Leslie the Mom” movie, it seems a little boring anyway.

Except maybe the well-rested thing.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon  on February 10, 2005.

Psychotherapy for cheapskates

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As fun as it is to vent to the other moms about that horrid boy who passed out his birthday party invitations on the playground and passed over my kid (who could have cared less), there’s something much more satisfying about putting it down in writing.

Psychology Today backs me up.

A recent university study found that writing about stressful experiences actually reduces physical symptoms in patients with chronic illnesses and stress.

For someone like me who is too short on time and money to delve into real therapy, writing is the next best thing. And actually getting paid for it — even underpaid — is a small miracle. Talk about psychotherapy for cheapskates. I even found a website, www.JournalGenie.com, that will analyze your writing and respond “with insightful comments about your emotions — insights that can lead to self-discovery.”

Since they offered a five-day free trial, I figured I’d give it a try.

The first thing I had Genie analyze was an email I sent to my friend Jacqueline.

“Typical Saturday. Soccer game in the morning, then I rushed to buy a birthday present for a party that afternoon. Trying to buy a birthday gift for one 5-year-old and avoid the whining (‘I want a toy too. How come it’s never my birthday?’) from your own 5-year-old is always a challenge. Would I be such a terrible mother if I bought him a toy just to buy myself a few minutes of peace? Anyway, I hope your weekend was more exciting than mine.”

Pretty tame, right? I bet similar emails were whirring back and forth all over the country that morning.

You won’t believe how Genie responded!

“I’m not trying to be an alarmist, but from what I can see, you appear to be experiencing some depressing feelings and I’m wondering how long you may have been feeling this way.”

What do you mean I’m depressed? I’m not depressed, I’m just complaining about how busy I am. That’s what mothers do! That’s how we bond. You must not have children.

Genie continued, “When a person is depressed, they often behave in a way that reinforces the depression. Ask yourself ‘If I weren’t depressed, what would I do today?’ Then, take a deep breath and go do it.”

Genie, you’re brilliant. How could I have doubted you? Sorry about the barren womb comment.

I take my fake doctor’s orders to my boss and tell him I need a mental health day. He says, “Yeah, right,” which my old depressed self might have misinterpreted as sarcastic. My new, happy, self gets a massage at Sea Spa in Montecito, which costs about as much as my first car did, but is worth every penny.

I float back into work on a cloud of relaxation, until I learn that my health insurance won’t cover the massage, and my boss won’t cover my salary for the missed day. This time, his “you might really need a mental health day” comment does sound sarcastic.

As Major Nelson would say, “Genie!”

I vent at Genie, really let her have it.

I feel better. Writing is good therapy. I’m practically back to my massage-induced bliss.

Then I read the shrew’s response.

“Based on your writing, it seems as though you could be feeling pretty disappointed in yourself, possibly for not living up to your own expectations … As Theodore Roosevelt said ‘Far better is it to dare mighty things . . . than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.'”

Not that I want to argue with the insights of a Nobel Peace Prize winner — or a computer — but Genie’s starting to bug me.

I try another entry, a column I wrote about driving with my dad.

Genie says, “I’m picking up a pretty significant level of depression today. Did you know that depression, if left untreated, breeds even more depression?”

You know what else breeds depression? Someone constantly telling you how depressed you are.

It’s like when you go to work without lipstick and someone asks you if you’re feeling sick. I was feeling just fine until you pointed out how pale I look.

The big mouth Genie interrupts my rant. ” That’s why it’s so important to take some form of action about what you may be feeling today, no matter how minute. Some people find it helps to try and silence the negative comments that the mind keeps repeating. If possible, try replacing those thoughts with a positive affirmation.”

Positive affirmation? I can do that. I type the word “happy” into the website 89 times.

Genie replies, “Your journal entry today rates an ‘A’ on the human relationships grade card.”

Great, except I’m having a relationship with a computer program … and I’ve only got her for a five-day free trial.

She continues, ” I may be off base, but is it possible you’re thinking about a love interest? Whatever is behind the feelings coming across in your writing, it seems pretty clear that you may be feeling a real heart-connection. Many people only feel comfortable connecting on a superficial level.”

You mean like people who try to get free therapy from a computer program, or by venting about their personal issues in a newspaper column?

And then I read the fine print: “Journal Genie’s response may NOT be accurate for a Journal Entry of less than 90 words.”

Oh, I guess that explains it.

Happy, happy, happy.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on February 3, 2005.

Forging friendships requires strong arms

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Photo: Wonderland, Flickr.com.

Yes, it’s good to know you’ve got a friend–but it’s better if you know what kind

Thanks to a recent column, my husband and I have experienced a surge in the number of couple friend applications. That, and an unfortunate holiday card count miscalculation, have forced me to do some reevaluating of my Rolodex to reflect a scientific analysis of the types of friends I have in my portfolio.

First there are the Forever-Friends. Whether the friendship emerged from the trenches of third grade, Dykstra Hall or my Lamaze class, these people now know so much about me; they’re stuck with me. These are the kind of friends you call at 4 a.m. — whether you need help with your bail, you just got engaged, or you simply need a ride home. Hopefully you make these friends before you need them.

Next up are the FOBs, Friends-of-the-Boss. My old boss John used to call us his work spouses, but I think of us more like work siblings. You might bicker a bit over parking spaces or time spent in the bathroom, but when push comes to shove, you’re a team, united against common adversaries — the microwave, the copy machine and that rival newspaper down the street.

Then I have the FOKs, Friends-of-the-Kid, a relatively new category for me, as I’ve found that small children are almost as effective as large cocktails as social lubricants. Until I became a mom, I could never understand why every one of my sister-in-law’s close friends had two boys the same age as hers.

Now I get it. When your kids are young you’ll go to great lengths for a semblance of adult conversation, even if it’s as mundane as “Does Biz work on chocolate and blood?” or “How did you get your son to stop peeing on the floor?” This type of friendship can go on for years. By the time you get around to discussing politics or religion or anything even remotely serious, they’re so entrenched in your life they’ve moved into the Forever-Friend category.

Next up are Function-Friends, the people you hang out with at functions, also known as acquaintances. Whether they work out at your gym or have kids on the same soccer team, we have certain people that we gravitate to in those situations when you’re there anyway; you might as well find someone to talk to.

Function Friends should not be confused with Functional-Friends, otherwise known as Friends-in-High-Places. In my younger days, my most Functional-Friends were actually in low places, like movie theaters and bars. Now that I’m a big time reporter for the Beacon, my Functional-Friends are … well, still at movie theaters and bars.

Always of special interest to me are my Foreign-Friends. One of my favorites in this category is Kenny, a lima bean farmer in Jalama Beach. In my daily life, I don’t come across many farmers, or lima beans, so this fellow is as mysterious to me as an Inuit friend might be.

As a writer, Foreign-Friends also help fill in some of the gaps between my own, relatively mundane, middle class upbringing and, oh say, that of my friend Angie, whose mom was a crack dealer, or Kevin, who still won’t admit that he works for the CIA.

I’ve realized that friends don’t always fit neatly into categories. The groupings often overlap. Take Steve, a Forever-Friend of my husband’s, who we’ve nicknamed the monogamist misogynist. While some of his behavior might warrant a reclassification to the Former-Friend category, his tales of romantic woe are so entertaining that they move him into the Foreign-Friend category, which brings me to one the cardinal rules of friendship selection: anyone who can be exploited for laughs in my column will always have a special place in my Franklin planner.

A girl’s got to get her material from somewhere, and Flash-in-the-Pan-Friends fill in when Foreign-Friends fail. These are the people that blast into your life with bright shining promise — their kids are the right age, they immediately get your jokes, they take your call at 4 a.m. — only to fizzle out due to divorce, disharmony or because you called at 4 a.m.

And don’t forget the Filler-Friends. These are people you like, but they don’t make the A list. They get invited to your big parties, but not your intimate gatherings. You might invite them to a large wedding, but then you realize you don’t know their last names. They are not to confused with Fifth-Wheel-Friends, who are extra and unnecessary people, usually brought along as Friends-of-Friends who aren’t very discriminating about who they befriend.

Then there are the Forced-to-be-Friends-Friends, which include your spouse’s friends, your friend’s spouses, the parents of your children’s friends, etc. If you’re lucky, these people will survive this initial phase and become reclassified — hopefully not into the Friends-I-Don’t-Like category.

All of this category hopping can get awfully confusing.

I recently had drinks with a Forever-Friend, a Function-Friend, a Functional-Friend and a Friend-of-a-Friend. We spent the whole time discussing the breakup of our Fantasy-Friends, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. We even became Friends-for-the-Night with our waitress, who had a few choice words about her friend Jen, which prompted my Forever-Friend to talk about Brad’s Friends-With-Benefits friendship with a certain costar.

This got me thinking about another Fantasy-Friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson, who said, “It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”

Right, old friend?

I’ll talk to you at 4 a.m.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on January 20, 2005.

Wishing to be driven to distraction

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Photo: Raysonho courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Photo: Raysonho courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Recent family road trip a timely reminder to steer clear of next one

I love my father, but I never want to see the back of his head again.

In my family, vacations can be hazardous to your health — and I don’t mean from the mysterious “road trip” diet of my teenage years, which consisted of corn nuts, Slurpees and various jerky-like substances, nor do I mean from my adult “road trip” diet, which consists of too many diet cokes, nonfat lattes, and glasses of wine when we’re finally “there yet.”

No, I’m talking about my father behind the wheel.

I recently celebrated the New Year by driving to Northern California in a sausage-packed sedan with my parents, my husband and my son. Unlike many people, I actually enjoy spending time with my parents and would even rank them high on my list of “couple friends” — until we get in the car.

Someone once said that there are three parts to every vacation — anticipation, vacation and recuperation. When my father is driving you need to add a fourth part to the equation — trepidation.

We all have certain genetic qualities we fret about when we marry into another family, those things that we worry about passing on to our children. When my sister announced she was pregnant, my brother-in-law’s first comment was, “I’m teaching the baby how to drive.”

That’s how bad the Dinaberg driving genes are.

My sister and I are bonafide bad drivers, but at least we admit it, and will readily let someone else drive whenever possible. In fact, while most parents worry about the day their children will finally get their driver’s license, I can hardly wait. Even hopped up on teenage hormones and hip-hop (or whatever kind of music is popular in 2016), I know my son will be a better driver than I am.

We all have our talents, and I have no illusions about where I stand when it comes to manning the driver’s seat.

No such luck with dad.

Although he deserves sole credit for teaching my sister and I to use the brakes on an empty freeway, he insists he is a great driver. As proof, he’ll be happy — ecstatic, in fact — to show you his military license. His friend Col. Dan Georgi gave it to him for driving a Humvee in a parking lot. Where’s Colonel Dan now? Afghanistan. Apparently he thought he’d be safer there.

Anyone who’s spent five minutes with my dad knows he has a great sense of humor about most things, but he’s not joking about this. My dad really does think he’s a great driver. The thrill of driving with my father lies in his unpredictability. Where most would choose to accelerate, he might decide to brake; when many would be content with a constant freeway speed, he likes to keep other drivers guessing; and while many would go slowly crazy following that bus right in front of us for the last ten miles, I’m not sure he’s even noticed it with all the futzing around he’s been doing with the radio.

Fortunately, he’s got mom, otherwise known as “GPS Joan,” who gives him at least a 33-mile heads up every time he gets within a half an hour of the next required turn.

There’s nothing like a six-hour drive in the rain with your parents to bring back memories. Comfortably ensconced in the front seat, my husband kept his complaining to an admirable minimum. Meanwhile, I had to endure hours of crying, tears and tantrums. From my inner child. My actual child was a lot better behaved than I was, what with the “are we there yet? ” mantra of yesteryear having been replaced by chants of “can I watch the DVD yet?”

If only I could figure out a legal substance to mellow adults out the way “Teen Titans” and “Yu-Gi-Oh!” calm my kid, I could make a fortune and hire a private jet to take us on our next family vacation.

In lieu of having my own personal “Pokemon” to focus on during the trip, I had to settle for bathroom breaks, lots of them. My husband calls my family “the Amazing Mini Bladderinis,” and with the bottles of water, the sound of the rain on the roof, and all the coffee breaks … I’ll be right back!

When I wasn’t peeing, I spent most of the rest of the drive with my face pressed against the window, slowly mouthing the words “Help me!” to anyone whose attention I could get. As I fogged up the windows I looked on the bright side: I was no longer looking at the back of my father’s head.

And when we finally got to our destination and later toasted the New Year surrounded by family and friends, I remembered a lesson my father taught me well — sometimes the destination is actually worth the drive.

P.S: For those of you passing through Santa Barbara, it may interest you to know that my father used to teach drivers ed. Have a nice drive back to LA.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on January 13, 2005.

Dropping the Ball on Annual Resolutions

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Bratislava New Year Fireworks, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Bratislava New Year Fireworks, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Like many otherwise rational people, I like to take some time at the end of each December to reflect on my accomplishments of the past year and set goals for the next one that will help transform me into a more organized, healthier, wholesome person with a better body and a much cleaner house.

While I haven’t accomplished all that I would have liked to in 2004, a look back at the history of my New Year’s resolutions tells me that at least I’m continuing to make progress every year.

Resolution #1

1990: I will get back to the weight on my Driver’s License.

1997: I will get back to my weight when I got married.

2002: I will follow my new diet religiously until I get back to my pre-pregnancy weight.

2005: I will try to develop a realistic attitude about my weight, buy myself pretty clothes and develop my personality. (Confession: I’d like to take credit for this line, but truthfully it’s what my father said about me the first time he saw me when I was an hour old.)

Resolution #2

1989: I will not spend my money frivolously and save enough money to put a down payment on a small house in Santa Barbara.

1992: I will stay on a strict budget and save enough to put a down payment on a small house in Goleta.

1998: I will not spend any money at all on anything, under any circumstances, and save enough to put a down payment on a small house in Isla Vista, with the help of my parents and anyone else who might want to invest.

2003: I will not spend my money frivolously and save enough to put a down payment on a small used car.

2004: I will stop buying so many new pairs of shoes.

2005: I will try to keep my expenses below 110 percent of my income.

Resolution #3

2003: I will stop smoking.

2004: I will stop smoking.

2005: I will stop smoking. (Confession #2: I never started smoking in the first place, but I always like to give myself one easy thing that I know I can accomplish to make myself feel better about this whole New Year’s resolution thing.)

Resolution #4

2003: I will spend more time with my family.

2004: I will spend more quality time with my family.

2005: I will redefine quality time with my family to mean that we all have to be awake, with no one yelling, but not necessarily doing the same activity in the same room at the same time.

Resolution #5

1997: I will treat my body as a temple and eat only healthy, organic foods.

2000: I will only order out for pizza once a week.

2002: I will remember that Chuck’s Mai Tais do not count as a serving of fruit, even though they come with an orange slice and a maraschino cherry. Apparently the celery in a Brophy Brother’s Bloody Mary doesn’t count as a vegetable either.

2003: I will sit down with my family and eat a healthy, balanced meal at least once a week.

2005: I will eat a piece of dark chocolate and I will drink a glass of red wine every night, but only for the good of my health.

Resolution #6

2001: I will hold my ground with my boss and not let him push me around.

2002: I will not let my sadistic boss drive me to homicidal thoughts.

2003: I will get a new boss.

2005: I will tell my boss how much I appreciate him and take every opportunity I can to suck up to him, so I can get a raise and not work on Fridays.

Resolution #7

1982: I will write a book before I’m 30.

1995: I will write a book before I’m 40.

2003: I will read at least 10 books a year whose titles I’m not embarrassed to talk about.

2005: I will stop letting those People Magazines pile up by my bedside and actually finish them.

Resolution #8

1993: I will not fight with my boyfriend about household chores.

1994: I will not fight with my husband about household chores.

1999: My husband will stop pretending he knows how to fix the car and I will stop pretending I am the least bit competent in the kitchen.

2003: My husband will stop pretending he doesn’t see the pile of laundry that needs to be folded and I will stop pretending I don’t know how to plunge the toilet and pump my own gas.

2005: My husband will make sure I have gas in my car if I give him enough warning when the tank is low and I will stop making New Year’s resolutions on behalf of other people.

Resolution #9

2005: (finally a new one) I will put away a dollar in a little jar every day and maybe when I retire I’ll be able to afford an R.V. that I can park somewhere in Santa Barbara. (Confession #3: Who am I kidding? Pass the wine and chocolate!)

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on December 30, 2004.

Family ways sometimes leave a lot to be desired

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Photo by luist & his inner pig, Flickr.com.

Photo by luist & his inner pig, Flickr.com.

Tribal customs can be a mystery to outsiders. Are you fine with that?

“Feliz Navidad,” sang those sweet, high-pitched voices of the fourth and fifth grade children.
“I want to wish you a Peaceful Solstice. I want to wish you a Happy Hanukkah. I want to wish you a Joyful Kwanza. I want to wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart.”
It was the most politically correct holiday concert I’d ever seen.
If only my own holiday rituals could be so inclusive.
There’s one very important fact about marriage that gets lost in the sea of white silk and perfect place settings that all of those bridal magazines are so enamored with.
You don’t just marry a man; you marry an entire family.
With that family comes decades worth of holiday rituals that are guaranteed to be different than your own.
And let’s be honest here, when it comes to holiday celebrations, different isn’t just different — it’s plain wrong.
So after we’ve cleaned up all of that wrapping paper and eaten our last bite of Christmas turkey and we pull out a deck of cards this year, I’ll have to ask, once again: “Are we playing Dinaberg or Klobucher rules?” Because Klobucher rules are weird. It’s like they actually read the directions or something. And they don’t cheat, which I take as an affront to every thing my father ever taught me.
I love my husband’s family, but sometimes when I’m with them I feel like I’m an anthropologist digging through exotic terrain.
I should have known I was in for trouble when we were first dating and my future husband took me out for a lovely birthday dinner. The food was fabulous. He’d invited only my favorite friends and bought me that perfect pair of earrings I had slyly hinted that I wanted.
It was when he took me home that the trouble began.
There was no cake.
No cake.
Not just no chocolate cake, but no cake whatsoever.
“But we had Crème Brulee at the restaurant,” he protested, like that had anything to do with my missing birthday cake.
He didn’t understand. Birthdays are a big deal in my family. They last at least a month (several months in my mother’s case), with both family and friend versions of the celebration.
The specifics may vary a little from year to year, but one thing doesn’t. There is always cake.
And by the way, the proper way to figure out birthday candles is your age plus “one to grow on.” This is science.
“A little more is always better” is my family’s philosophy.
My husband comes from a mother who fed four growing kids on two Chinese dinners from Ming-ons.
I, on the other hand, come from a Jewish mother.
So I know that if, God forbid, you have a party and there aren’t leftovers for at least a week, you didn’t make enough food.
It’s enough to make you feel guilty for a year.
And if you feel guilty about something you have to talk about it, right?
In my family you have to talk about everything. And talk, and talk, and talk … until you’re so tired of talking you forgot what you were talking about.
Then you can talk about that.
My husband’s family doesn’t get the whole talking thing. Mostly they’re “just fine” with just about everything.
But how do they really feel? We’ll never know. And that’s “just fine” with them.
I, for one, have never been “just fine” about anything in my life.
I certainly wasn’t “just fine” that one year we had Thanksgiving dinner at my ex-Uncle’s house. Sure they had turkey and a killer game of Pictionary but there were no mashed potatoes.
That’s right. Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes.
Can you imagine such a thing? No wonder he’s an ex-Uncle.
Which is why my sister and I spent the latter part of that evening driving around in search of mashed potatoes. It simply wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving without them.
And when we finally found them at a Thai restaurant they were the most delicious potatoes we’d ever tasted.
Kind of like that gigantic flourless chocolate cake the year after my husband didn’t buy me a cake.
“As if I’d ever forget again,” he barked.
“See, that’s why we talked about it so much honey,” I mentioned for about the 12th time that year.
“Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
=
When Leslie is not studying the tribal customs of her in-laws, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on December 23, 2004.

Judy, Judy, Judy

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Are you there God? It’s me Leslie (or Andrea, or Susie or Jacqueline …).

I’d venture to guess there’s hardly a woman out there, who was once a 12-year-old girl, who hasn’t poured over Are you there God? It’s me Margaret and at least considered trying out the exercises that Margaret and her friends attempted with, “we must, we must, we must increase our bust.”

With more than 75 million books sold and translated into 20 different languages, nobody speaks “girl” better than Judy Blume, which is why diehard fans, myself included, cheered last week when she received the National Book Foundation’s Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.

This is one highfalutin award, normally given to those who grace the literature section at Borders. People like Arthur Miller, Toni Morrison, John Updike and Eudora Welty, not exactly the company that Blume usually keeps.

For those men out there who grew up under a rock or never had a sister, Judy Blume is to 12-year-old girls as the Three Stooges are to 12-year-old … well really all … guys. Sorry, but it’s a fact of life that girls mature faster and they stay that way, thanks in part to all of the advice we’ve received over the years from people like Blume, Helen Gurley Brown, and, of course, Marsha Brady.

Blume is real treasure to those of us who grew up as girls. She writes frankly about the lives of kids and particularly girls, going through puberty, which Blume calls “the great equalizer.”

Training bras, menstruation, first kisses, zits, bratty little brothers — her books are the real classics. Unlike the books that are better to have read than to actually read, (the ones you suffer through to pass an English test or to not be ostracized out of future cocktail party conversations), from Blume you learn important stuff, like “all boys of 14 are disgusting — They’re only interested in two things — pictures of naked girls and dirty books,” and “If you ask me, being a teenager is pretty rotten — between pimples and worry about how you smell!”

See, she gets us!

Which is why I’m so happy that the National Book Foundation finally gets her.

Judy Blume was the big sister I’ve always wished I had. How cool would it be if I could come home after school and ask Judy to help with all the big decisions of life?

As a fourth grader at Harding School, when I was freakishly tall and forever trying to fit in, Judy could have told me: “It’s very foolish to laugh if you don’t know what’s funny in the first place.” (Blubber) And later that year, when I discovered boys weren’t so bad after all, if only she could have told me, “I don’t believe in cooties anymore.” (Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing)

Even as a sophomore at San Marcos, when I finally figured out the difference between a real friend and someone you hang out with, it would have been nice to have Blume there to reinforce it with, “You know at first I wanted you to like me, but now I really don’t care if you do or you don’t.” (As Long as We’re Together)

Or when contemplating a major at UCLA. “It’s important to experiment, so when the time comes you’re all ready.” (Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret)

Okay, so Margaret and her friend were talking about practicing kissing on a pillow, but really it applies to a lot of things, not just kissing.

If only I had Blume there when my little sister bugged me incessantly and my parents drove me crazy, she would have understood just how I felt.

If only Judy were there to help me, the knowing voice of another girl who had actually survived growing up.

Huh … I guess she was there for me after all.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on November 25, 2004.