Category Archives: South Coasting

An Incredibles imagination

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Our Leslie Dinaberg sure gets animated when it comes to fantasizing about superpowers

Ah, to be a super. Is it too much to fantasize about? For the five of you who weren’t at the Metro Theatre last weekend, The Incredibles follows the adventures of a family of former superheroes trying to fit in with the rest of the world by not using their powers. Until one day ….

6:33 a.m.: my alarm goes off. Aargh! Time for my daily dilemma, do I hit the snooze button or hit the gym? A light bulb illuminates above my pillow. With a few superwoman stretches, I am finally the right height for my weight. I can skip the gym and snooze a little bit longer. If only my feet weren’t hanging off the bed.

6:47 a.m.: I hit the snooze again. Now that I’m a superwoman, I can simply jump into my closet/phone booth and jump out perfectly coifed and ready for work. Ka-sweet!

6:49 a.m.: I don’t like this outfit. Sha-hooey! Wrong color. Sha-bizzle! Does my super butt look big? Sha-Channel! Ahh, perfect!

7:32 a.m.: wake up son for school. Use my mind control powers to convince him that he wants Wheat Germ instead of Cocoa Puffs for breakfast. Sha-psyche!

8:03 a.m.: driving to school, it looks a little cloudy. Mmmpf! I send those clouds away with a flick of my fingers, and then teleport that suburban right out of my favorite parking spot at Vieja Valley.

10:45 a.m.: I’ve already completed all my interviews for three stories. It’s amazing the quotes you get when you can read people’s minds. I always thought Marty Blum liked kittens. Meow!

11:37 a.m.: the construction next door to the office is driving me crazy. Yaarg! I use my x-ray vision to see what’s going on. They’re moving way too slowly on the new Walter Claudio spa. I use my mind control ability to convince them to work nights from now on and to give me free facials forever for this cheap plug. Ka-score!

1:15 p.m.: on my way to an interview, a silver Porsche cuts me off to get out of the “exit only” lane of the 101 at Milpas. His mid-life crisis in not my problem. Kapow! He’s got a flat tire.

1:53 p.m.: I’ve only got 45 minutes till my next appointment and my stomach’s growling. Sha-gurgle! I decide to fly over to La Superica and make the line disappear till I’ve got my lunch.

2:17: p.m.: on my way back to the office I fly by Ortega Park. A small child chases a ball onto the street. Mom is nowhere to be found, and the oncoming car doesn’t see the kid. Yowza! I stretch my arms extra long to bring child and ball back to safety. No need to thank me, it’s all in a day’s work. Now I have to write a story about myself.

3:09 p.m.: my meeting is dragging. Zzzz! I go invisible and leave for a while to run some errands. A lady with 14 items in the “10 items or less” line at Vons. Shazam! Learn to count next time! When she gets out to her car a bird will have just done his business on the windshield.

4:30 p.m.: I’ve got one hour to write my story, return seven phone calls and read 57 emails. The phone rings and its my husband reminding me about soccer practice. Holy AYSO Batman! As I calculate ways that my superpowers can help me out of this situation, I spy an ad for The Polar Express, where Tom Hanks plays six different characters in the same movie. Since I only need to do four things simultaneously — write, read, call and kick — my fifth persona goes to see the movie and the sixth one goes home to make dinner.

Me? Make dinner? Rats, I’ve gone too far. Clearly, it was all a fantasy.

Mild-mannered Leslie Dinaberg possesses superhero powers as a wife, mom and reporter. If you’re in trouble, contact her at email

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on November 18, 2004.

Great expectations not always timely

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Courtesy pexels.com.

Courtesy pexels.com.

Sometimes with childbirth, the real labor part comes at the beginning and not the end

Driving across town with a vial of my husband’s freshly spun sperm staying warm beneath my blouse, I thought, “I must really want to have a baby.”

After almost three years of trying to conceive, I would have hopped down State Street on stilts and squawked like a chicken if I thought it would help us have a baby.

I practically did.

At least that’s the way it felt during the almost three years it took for my husband’s stubborn sperm to finally stop and ask for directions to my “playing hard to get” eggs.

Only the “baby making challenged” can truly understand the lengths one will go to get pregnant. When I think of all the years I spent trying NOT to get pregnant, and then all of the late nights spent talking about whether the time was right, not being able to have a baby on board felt like the ultimate indignity.

Anyone who thinks that trying to have a baby sounds romantic and fun should “try” for a few years. We “baby making challenged” people know that too much of a good thing can be awful!

And we were amongst the lucky ones. We both had minor little problems that rated us a B- rather than an A+ on the baby-making scorecard, but according to all of the experts, there was no definitive medical reason why we couldn’t conceive.

Hence the years of poking, prodding, testing and temperature taking. I was buying early pregnancy tests in bulk at Costco, and after dozens of false alarms, believe me, one-liners are NOT as funny as you think. I could almost feel my biological clock going tick-tock as the weeks of trying turned into months and then years.

Meanwhile my eggs were getting older and I saw babies and pregnant women everywhere I went. They seemed to be multiplying by the minute as my childless friends dwindled.

The sperm cleaning procedures and subsequent intrauterine inseminations were but a few of the medical interventions we tried to get pregnant. I was seeing the doctor so often that feet in the stirrups felt like my normal seated position and sitting upright felt kind of weird.

When plain old prayers didn’t work, we turned to the spirit world. My friends Ramey and Debbi Echt sent me a Kokopelli necklace (a Hopi fertility symbol) they swore had safeguarded their pregnancies. I wore it religiously even though its flute scratched my chest and it didn’t go with half my clothes.

I “stirred with a fork to expect the stork” and ate all kinds of disgusting food combinations to encourage fertility.

When my mom swore that cleansing our house with a sage and smudge ritual would “purify the atmosphere for us to conceive,” my husband and I (who are normally first in line to mock this sort of thing) giggled our way through the house with burning twigs and even smoked up our cars for good measure.

We were willing to try just about anything, but we were starting to run out of options.

With no solid medical explanation for why I couldn’t conceive, I came close to exchanging my dream of becoming pregnant for the dream of adopting a baby.

Then we decided to take some time off and relax.

No more taking my temperature and checking my ovulation cycle. No more answering “day 15,” when someone asked me what that day’s date was. No more hallucinations that the entire world was populated with pregnant women and every time I picked up the phone it was someone else calling to tell me their good news.

When I was just about ready to write the book on “What to expect when you’re NOT expecting” something unexpected happened.

There were two blue lines on my pregnancy test. The most beautiful blue color I’ve ever seen. I swear my heart skipped a beat, and I thought to myself, “I must really want to have a baby.”

Leslie, proud mom of a 7-year-old boy, can be reached at email

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on November 4, 2004.

Kids will say the darnedest things

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Dude_Wheres_my_Mad_Libs_book_detailStill undecided this election? This voters guide is handy but we won’t vouch for its usefulness

It’s election season once again. While my editor keeps his own counsel in these matters, I relied on my other boss — my five-year-old son — in preparing my own MAD-LIBBED slate of political endorsements.

Keep in mind; this in-depth analysis can be easily adjusted (to the right or the left) with a few flicks of your very own number two pencil.

President

(FAMOUS PERSON) Spiderman

With his years of experience as a (JOB) backhoe driver (ADJECTIVE), (SAME FAMOUS PERSON) Spiderman has the (NOUN) Power Puff Girls backpack and the (NOUN) Legos to lead us in (PLACE) the kitchen as well as in (PLACE) the Chicken Ranch. The fact that (NICKNAME FOR FAMOUS PERSON) Spidey has (another FAMOUS PERSON) Yu-Gi-Oh! as his vice president, makes him a very (ADJECTIVE) pretty choice for President.

U.S. Senate

(FAMOUS PERSON) SpongeBob SquarePants

Since first being elected to office on (DATE) my birthday, July 27, (SAME FAMOUS PERSON) SpongeBob SquarePants has been a tireless advocate of (ADJECTIVE) sweaty environmental protection, (ADJECTIVE) gassy military, (ADJECTIVE) tattooed education and fiscal (PLURAL NOUN) juice boxes.

U.S. Congress

(FAMOUS PERSON) Captain Underpants

While serving as a (PLACE) Legoland’s County Supervisor, (SAME FAMOUS PERSON) Captain Underpants was a key player in a successful effort to force (ANOTHER FAMOUS PERSON) the Power Rangers to clean up (PLACE) Chase Palm Park and make restitution for one of the largest (EVENT) birthday parties in history. (ADJECTIVE) Sassy-minded, (ADJECTIVE) bumpy-working, and at times (ADJECTIVE) silly, (SAME FAMOUS PERSON) Captain Underpants will prove to be a (NOUN) triceratops when he gets to Sacramento, where he’d be environmentally (ADJECTIVE) burpy, yet fiscally (ADJECTIVE) super-duper. We believe (same FAMOUS PERSON) Captain Underpants experience as a (NOUN) Ninja Turtle will help him (verb) dribble California’s public schools.

Proposition (NUMBER) 10 million

Summary: Would (VERB) kiss a bond for (NUMBER) infinity dollars to fund (NOUN) snakes and (PLACE) Kid’s World.

Supporters: People for the ethical treatment of (NOUN) Pop-tarts; California (JOB) Ice Skaters Association; (FAMOUS PERSON) Mayor Blum.

Opponents: Save the (ANIMAL) Unicorns; (TEAM NAME) The Gauchos; Senator (FRIEND’S NAME) Jared.

Our Take: Never underestimate the power of an (SAME JOB) Ice Skater. (NUMBER) A billion people in (ADJECTIVE) squishy tights just can’t be wrong.

Proposition (NUMBER) 66

Summary: The proposition would change the states (NOUN) three strikes law.

Supporters: Several (NOUN) civil rights groups, including the ACL (LETTER) U and the (POLITICAL GROUP) NAACP.

Opponents: Governor (ACTION STAR) Schwarzenegger; State (JOB) Prison Guards Union.

(Editors Note: What are the odds?)

School Board

(THREE FAMOUS PEOPLE) Pikachu, Where’s Waldo and President Bush

The (ADJECTIVE) brainy candidates running for the open seats on the School Board are all (ADJECTIVE) shiny, (ADJECTIVE) happy people who have the students’ best (body part) funny bone at heart. They will face problems like (NOUN) carnivores, (NOUN) herbivores, (ADJECTIVE) stretchy enrollments, and a (ADJECTIVE) farty achievement gap. We feel (THREE FAMOUS PEOPLE) Pikachu, Where’s Waldo and President Bush stand out as the best qualified to (VERB) jump the (NOUN) shark.

—

When not writing this (ADJECTIVE) catsupy column, chasing down (NOUN) chocolate or out (VERB, ENDING IN -ING) kicking people to vote, Leslie Dinaberg can be found (VERB, ENDING IN -ING) shopping, (VERB, ENDING IN -ING), bouncing, or on her computer at email

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on October 28, 2004.

Elements surprise is really good service

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A la carte advice for restaurant owners: Staff must remember who’s serving whom

Arigato in Santa Barbara

Arigato in Santa Barbara

I recently spent a wonderful evening dining out with friends. We started with dinner at Arigato, which is my favorite sushi place. The sushi is consistently divine, but the appetizers are really my favorite. I especially recommend trying the “Locals Only” and “Rincon Magic.”

After dinner we ambled over to Elements — in the old Cafe Figaro space across from the courthouse lawn — for wonderful desserts. We actually had enough people in our group to order the entire dessert menu, a fantasy come true for me. If I could just win the lottery so I could pick up the tab for the entire room, my restaurant fantasies would be complete.

Although it pains me to say it, my favorite thing at Elements was the Cool Blue Hawaiian Granita, a cross between a pina colada, a slurpee and a Popsicle. It wasn’t chocolate, which legally disqualifies it from the dessert category, but it was still yummy.

While my loved ones can always be counted on for good company, and most of our restaurant excursions result in pretty good food, one thing made this evening unique in Santa Barbara dining experiences — we had really good service.

Not “really good for Santa Barbara service,” but really good service. Period.

Dear Santa Barbara restaurant owner:

You’ve lowered our expectations enough. Unless 100 percent of your proceeds are going to charity or you’re trying to lose money in some kind of tax shelter scheme I don’t want to be part of, it’s time to get with the program on your service.

Not to get all uppity about things, but I came to your establishment to be served. If I want fries with that, I’ll drive through In and Out Burger, but when I come to your restaurant I expect a little more pampering.

I shouldn’t have to flap my arms like a dodo bird to get your hostess’s attention when I walk in the door. She should be waiting to greet me, and seat me, whether or not my entire party has arrived.

And while we’re on the subject of seating, unless the restaurant is full, would you kindly not seat me on top of the other patrons. Spare me my neighbor’s discussion of her affair with her boss and her gynecologist appointment (both of whom I probably know) and let the waiter walk the extra five steps that separate our tables.

And if I’ve got kids with me, let the waiter walk an extra ten steps. Your patrons will thank you, I promise. While we’re on the subject of dining with small children, remember, they’ve got short attention spans. Smart waitresses, like Isabel at Petrini’s, know that crayons won’t keep them as quiet as crackers, and that parents with kids under five are fast with the tips when you’re fast with the food.

I have never felt rushed when a waiter left the bill right after dinner, but I have been late to movies (or settled for my second choice at the multiplex) when the waiter apparently decided to go wax his car before deigning to let us know what our meal cost.

Speaking of speed, as laid back as Santa Barbara is, I only have an hour for lunch. Going to a restaurant should not be the equivalent of shopping at Ross Dress For Less, where you can find really great bargains if you’re willing to invest 57 minutes to find a pair of matching shoes and 23 minutes to wait in line to find out how much they cost.

I’ve already spent 17 minutes trying to park. I’d like to spend less than that waiting to order. After all, I’ve got a column to write and I get a little bit cranky when I’m hungry.

For comments about Santa Barbara’s renowned service economy, Leslie Dinaberg can be contacted at email

Originally published in South Coast Beacon

Taking a trip down memory aisle

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© Lissdoc | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Lissdoc | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

For better or for worse, the pictures of our past only tell part of our stories.

Weddings and high school dances — certain life events feel more like scrapbook pages in the making than actual experiences. The excitement builds with the planning, like a movie score playing in the background leading up to these special days.

While the vision of perfection varies widely from bride to bride, almost every woman I’ve ever known (myself included) has a dream of the perfect wedding. There’s the cake, the flowers, the bridesmaids, the groom (a mere supporting player), and then there’s the dress.

To my knowledge, I am the only person in the universe ever to have bought the very first wedding dress I tried on.

I had to try on another 3,781 dresses to verify that the first one was perfect, but that’s beside the point. I knew exactly how I wanted to look on my wedding day (like myself, only perfect) and would have gone to the ends of the Earth to find the dress that would magically play up my assets while hiding my imperfections. My mom, my sister and I went to all 347 bridal salons between Santa Barbara and Orange County before buying that very first dress back at Rumours right here in town. I recently re-experienced some of that “finding-the-perfect-wedding-dress frenzy” with our art director, Andrea Harbour, who is getting married in the Bahamas this weekend. After staking out every bridal boutique between San Diego and San Francisco (and a few in her hometown of Dallas), Andrea finally found the Monique Lhuillier gown of her dreams and was able to order it from Rumours.

I think all of us at the Beacon got a lump in our throats when she had her final fitting last Wednesday. The fitting occurred in our conference room. On deadline.

By the way, if you found her garter belt in your paper, could you please return it? Thanks.

I know Andrea will remember the dress, and the fact that her original destination was taken out by Hurricane Ivan. I hope she’ll also remember the way the skirt felt swirling around her feet, the sound of the ocean in the background, the pink sand in her toes, and the way her soon-to-be husband Rich looks the first time he sees her in that once-in-a-lifetime white confection.

Shopping for the perfect dress is part of the buildup to those big days, the ones we take all the pictures of. Pictures that we stuff into boxes and swear we’ll put into albums real soon.

While Andrea’s walking down the aisle a continent away, the San Marcos High homecoming princesses will be showing off their own dresses as they’re escorted onto the field Friday night. My first homecoming dress was a horror in dusty rose taffeta, but still a step up from the emerald green Quiana number in my junior year.

Have you seen what high school girls wear to homecoming lately? It’s appalling. Classic black cocktail dresses. Tasteful designer sheathes. What kind of embarrassment-free memories are these poor girls creating for themselves?

If they can’t share my tortured fashion memories of crimped hair and day-glow eye shadow, then hopefully Carmel Aguirre-Kolb, Kaitland Ely, Alma Flores, Katie Levien and Sarah McGinnis will remember the sounds of their classmates cheering, the October nip in the air, and those looks of awe and pride on their fathers’ faces as they escort them to the 50-yard line.

And when they get to the homecoming dance, I hope they remember the details. The music, the room decorations, how beautiful their friends look in their too-grown-up dresses and the look in mom’s eyes when you introduce her to your date. In short, all the stuff you can’t see in the cheesy photos in front of the fireplace and the even cheesier photos in front of that fake sunset background at the dance.

It’s the story behind the pictures that make the real memories.

And I promise to get it all in my album tomorrow. No, really.

———————————————————-

Having caught nostalgia fever, loyal Royal Leslie Dinaberg will be spending time with her yearbooks this homecoming weekend.

She can be contacted at email

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on October 7, 2004.