Dude Food

516AmvTQJnL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big,TopRight,0,-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4,BottomRight,1,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_Is there really such a thing as dude food? If you were an alien looking in on our culture of Burger King and Yoplait ads you would certainly think so. But how much of our “dude food” and “chick picks” food preferences are based on cultural and gender stereotypes and messaging? A lot, according to “Mindless Eating: Why We Eat More Than We Think,” a book I recently picked up.

The author, Brian Wansink, is the director of Cornell University’s Food and Brand Lab and a professor of consumer behavior. We—the American consumer—are the lab rats for this scholar of the drive through window and the office candy bowl. I must say, we make pretty interesting subjects.

The average person makes more than 200 food decisions a day-and can’t explain most of them-according to Wansink. But society certainly seems to play a role.

While most traditional diet and nutrition books focus on what dieticians and health practitioners know, this book focuses on what psychologists and marketers know, and offers some new insight into why we eat what we eat.

For example, Wansink’s research found that 40 percent of people, both men and women, identified their favorite comfort foods as relatively healthy fare like soup, pasta, steak, and casseroles.

However, when it came time to rate a list of the foods they personally found the most comforting, “men and women might well have been from Mars and Venus,” writes Wansink. Women chose ice cream, chocolate and cookies as their most comforting foods. Throw in red wine and a Meg Ryan DVD and you’ve pretty much got my “cure for a stressful day” shopping list. Men, on the other hand, chose ice cream, soup and pizza or pasta as their comfort food faves.

The explanation for these preferences?

“When we asked men why they preferred pizza, pasta and soup over cakes and cookies, men generally talked about how good they tasted and how filling they were.” But when the researchers probed a little more they got additional feedback from the men that those foods made them feel cared for, important, or the focus of attention of either their wife or their mother.

No wonder they found them comforting.

When women were asked about those same foods, they found them less comforting because they thought about having to make them-or how hard their mothers had worked to make them-and then having to clean up after making them. In other words, despite the ease of picking up the phone and calling Rusty’s, which I guess they don’t have in Ithaca, some of the so-called comfort foods signaled discomfort for the women.

“For women, snack-like foods-candy, cookies, ice cream, chocolate-were hassle-free. (I guess they’re not making handmade truffles or Cherry Garcia.) Part of their comfort was to not have to make up or clean up anything. It was both effortless and mindless eating,” writes Wansink.

This book definitely made me wonder if the reason so many men behave like Hoover vacuums when it comes to food is that they aren’t usually the ones to clean up afterwards. It also made me wonder (be still my heart) if the younger generation of men, who willingly drink Diet Cokes and eat Cesar salads without making jokes about keeping their girlish figures, might also be more willing to pick up the vacuum.

Share your thoughts on dude food and chick picks with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 16, 2010.

Off the Record

Image by Stuart Miles, freedigitalphotos.net

Image by Stuart Miles, freedigitalphotos.net

“Abracadabra” is a magic word. So are “salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”

Even “please,” “thank you” and “I’m sorry” have magical properties sometimes.

However, “off the record” is not a magic enchantment spell with supernatural powers to change both the future and the past.

I repeat: “off the record” is not a magic phrase.

“Off the record” is a mutually agreed upon transaction, the terms of use of which should be discussed with a reporter before the person talking “off the record” actually discloses any information.

I don’t know why this is so confusing for people, but obviously it is.

If you really need to confide in someone, tell a priest, tell your doctor or tell your lawyer, but don’t tell a journalist—unless you want him or her to do something about it. True confidentiality is what pets are for. If you must talk to someone about a private subject and you don’t want it repeated, tell it to your dog or cat. Those are the only beings that you can guarantee won’t share your confidences.

When you say something to a journalist, think first about who it is that you’re talking to. Journalists are people who tell stuff to other people for a living. We love to tell people stuff. We get off on telling other people things they didn’t know before. Information is our currency, our life blood, our only substitute for barely making a living wage.

Think before you talk and talk (about whether or not what you’re saying is on the record) before you really talk. Then talk to Gen. Stanley McChrystal if you still don’t understand why this is important. I hear he’s got some time on his hands these days.

This is not to say that there aren’t perfectly legitimate reasons for telling a journalist something “off the record.” We can and will keep a secret if we say we will. It goes back to that “mutually agreed upon” part of the equation I talked about earlier.

If, for example, something really bad is going on but you don’t want to be fired-or killed-talking to a journalist “off the record” might be a good way to set the wheels in motion to do something about it. I know this, because I’ve seen it in a movie. For example, if you’re being chased by a black-ops, rogue faction of the government, give me a call.

Sometimes there might be a need to provide background information or context for a story, stuff you don’t want to be quoted about, or even “double super secret background,” which is stuff you really, really, really don’t want to be quoted about. The old, “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you” kind of information that many of us deal with on a day-to-day basis, at least in the movies.

And let’s face it; some gossip is just too juicy to keep to yourself. But come to think of it, that’s probably what Twitter is for. I haven’t quite figured that one out. But “off the record” is something I’m pretty clear about and you should be too.

Just keep in mind that while the line between edit and advertising has become blurred in many publications-along with the line between bloggers and journalists, professionals and hobbyists, and fact and opinion-newspaperman H.L. Mencken defined news as “what somebody does not want to see in print. The rest is public relations.”

Or, as Rolling Stone writer Michael Hastings wrote, when he took to Twitter to defend himself against criticism of his recent cover story which resulted in the firing of Gen. McChrystal, “Hard not to respond to this without going back to an old saying. I’m paraphrasing: Reporting is what someone somewhere doesn’t want known. Everything else is advertising.”

Share your journalistic pet peeves-on the record-with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.comOriginally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 9, 2010.

Why it’s okay to swoon

TwilightAt the last Twilight movie, my girlfriend and I decided there should be a drinking game where you did a shot every time Jacob (18-year-old actor Taylor Lautner) took off his shirt and you heard the gasping chorus of all the teenage girls in the theater.

When you gasp you gulp. When you gasp you gulp. Big gasp. Big gulp.

Had we been playing I would have been just as tipsy as the Clearasil crowd.

I know that some people will be appalled to hear that even middle-aged moms can still swoon at the sight of a beautiful teenaged werewolf man-boy. I can understand their reaction. Every year I get a little closer to having a teenaged son of my own and then I understand their reaction even more. But here’s the thing: somewhere inside every grown up lives the child-and the teenager-they used to be.

Admittedly, I may be more in touch with my inner 13-year-old than many of my peers-though certainly not the ones who attended Tuesday’s night’s Angels Foster Care benefit screening of Eclipse at the Arlington Theatre. This is sometimes great and sometimes downright annoying, but it definitely helps me appreciate pop culture.

When I watch the Twilight movies I’m not someone’s mom and I’m not someone’s wife, I’m a teenaged girl, just like the rest of Team Jacob.

Clearly I’m not alone.

Describing the indescribable pull of the Twilight series (both books and movies), a 36-year-old mother of two told CNN reporter Breeanna Hare: “As grown women we know that we never forget our first love, the first time our heart was really broken. I just think that so many women can kind of identify with the experiences and emotions and underlying message of how difficult it is to make choices in life.”

New York Magazine columnists Em & Lo eloquently put it, “Twilight taps into a time when passion is as much about fantasy as reality, before drunken college hookups, before booty calls, before scheduling sex into a marriage. Twilight reinvents sex for women who might have placed it at the bottom of a to-do list.”

Some of my friends feel the same way (though not passionately enough to let me use their real names).

“Every time I look at R-Pat (tabloid-speak for Robert Pattinson, who stars as dreamy vampire Edward in the films), I feel like I am 12 years old again,” says Gena.

“Of course we don’t read the books or watch the movies for their literary merit,” laughs Serena, another mom friend. “But Twilight is the ultimate teenager girl’s fantasy. Two beautiful, sweet and undemanding boys fall madly in love with a plain, ordinary Jane. How can any woman, of any age, resist the spell of that daydream?”

Author Stephenie Meyers sounds a little surprised by the attraction to these characters. She told Time magazine, “I didn’t write these books specifically for the young-adult audience. I wrote them for me. I don’t know why they span the ages so well, but I find it comforting that a lot of thirtysomethings with kids, like myself, respond to them as well-so I know that it’s not just that I’m a 15-year-old on the inside.”

I think she’s wrong-Meyers is a 15-year-old inside, and a 9-year-old and a 25-year-old and so on. We all are. But sometimes it takes a cultural phenomenon like Twilight for us to realize it.

Share your Twilight theories with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.comOriginally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 2, 2010.

Peace Love Dirt

Courtesy Live Oak Music Festival (Instagram)

Courtesy Live Oak Music Festival (Instagram)

Welcoming summer at Live Oak Music Festival

The salty smell of Coppertone. A colorful explosion of tie-dyed t-shirts and low-backed beach chairs. A cacophony of live music out in the sun and under the stars. That first sip of an ice cold Cadillac Margarita where the sweet kiss of Grand Marnier meets the sour tang of lime-laced tequila. Summer has finally arrived and I couldn’t have conjured up a better place to greet it than the Live Oak Music Festival.

Believe it or not, this was my first journey to this timeless spot, nestled in the peaceful Santa Ynez Valley, just minutes away from my Santa Barbara home, but worlds away from my fall-winter-springtime life in the carpool lane.

I know it seems like an oxymoron to say that a live music festival featuring a kaleidoscope of sounds ranging from traditional folk, bluegrass, gospel, to blues, jazz, classical, pop, world music and pirate aurghs could actually be peaceful, but somehow this one was.

Unlike some of the musical festivals I’ve been to in recent years, at Live Oak there was no mosh pit to fear, no skunkweed stink and no stale beer spills to accidentally step into. It was just an eclectic mix of great opportunities to hear, make and learn about music in a pleasant atmosphere alongside a community of several thousand genuinely friendly people relaxing and enjoying themselves. What a great way to welcome the summer.

No wonder people have been coming back here for 22 years.

It was Rickie Lee Jones who finally lured us to Live Oak. I was first introduced to her spacey, jazzy, sad chick sounds when I was in college, and thought “We Belong Together” was the most romantic song on earth. I still can’t resist Johnny the King walking in the streets without her in the rain looking for a leather jacket and a girl who wrote her name forever.

Her “Flying Cowboys” CD tunefully distracted me while her album of standards (“Pop Pop”) amused me through my commute during my driving years of living in Los Angeles. Zak was a fan too. We’d seen Rickie Lee Jones perform half a dozen or so times over the years, mostly in dark, smoky clubs, so we jumped at the chance to see her outside under the giant oak trees. The fact that it was Father’s Day was a bonus, as the rest of my family (and a few friends) jumped at this unique way to celebrate the holiday.

As usual, she didn’t disappoint. The sound was great, the setting unparalleled and I still love her music just as much as I did the first time I heard it.

I didn’t have any idea what to expect from the rest of the artists and was happily surprised. Starting with the high energy antics of Baka Beyond, who fuse African music from the Cameroon rainforest with Celtic fiddling, and sing about things like peace and porridge. Then there was the amazing jazz organist Dr. Lonnie Smith, who you really have to see-and hear-to believe; followed by the folksy rock tunes of Josh Ritter, an indie artist who is making a dent in the mainstream big-time, having recently been discovered and marketed by Starbucks.

They were all enjoyable but I have to say I took as much pleasure in people watching as I did the music.

Where else can you see (and Solstice doesn’t count) an absurdly fun parade led by an octogenarian Grandma in a purple tutu; a tribe of Zinka-nosed surf rats; a blissed-out hippie swaying to a tune that only he can hear; a weathered cowboy hosing down the dusty path as a bevy of tiny fairies hand out wishing dust; joined by a 50-ish brunette with a stylish haircut, Prada shoes, and a pair of ladybug wings and a yupped-out backpacker couple loaded down with the entire REI catalog worth of coolers and chairs?

My son liked playing soccer the best and I think my dad enjoyed his nap, so three generations of our family and friends all found something to like under the giant oaks this Father’s Day.

“This is a really cool thing. We should do it again next year,” said my mom, smiling and passing some more food. I couldn’t agree more.

What signals summer to you? Email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 25, 2010.

Suck it Up Buttercup

© Pkruger | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Pkruger | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I had one of those yowza, take-a-deep-breath-and-try-not-to-cry parental moments the other day with my son.

We were talking about the school talent show, of all things. He had originally planned to form a band with a group of his buddies but all of their “rehearsals” had deteriorated into impromptu soccer games and water fights, so the budding Beatles never blossomed. They never even came up with a name for the band, which, as we all know, is the best part of being in a band.

Instead, a group of the boys decided to form a mime troupe and neglected to invite Koss. There’s a sentence I never imagined I’d write. Not that he had the slightest desire to climb his way out of an imaginary box-after years of seeing his father mock mimes, the mere idea of giving it a try was a genetic impossibility-but Koss was still sad that he hadn’t been asked.

I felt sure his friends hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings, and Koss agreed. But when I helpfully suggested that he let them know how he felt, he rolled his eyes at me and said the words I’ll never forget: “Mom, guys don’t do that. We act like nothing happened and move on.”

Why don’t you just mime an imaginary dagger stabbing through my broken heart?

When in the world had my tender, sweet, communicative little boy become, well, a guy?

Sure there had been symptoms over the years: plenty of fart jokes, burps, air guitars, sweaty socks and ESPN. But a certain tenderness had remained in my boy, despite all of the testosterone-fortified mayhem. I even worried that he was too tender sometimes. He cried more readily than most of his buddies and would obsess in great detail and for long periods of time when his razor-sharp radar detected a minute slight from a teacher or a friend. Truthfully, his hypersensitivity reminded me of my own thin skin and I worried about the future of his tender heart in the big, bad world.

My husband, who has never been accused of sensitivity, would often address Koss’s tender moments with a joking cackle of, “suck it up, buttercup.” My father, who never had any sons of his own, taught his grandson that, “pain is your friend,” a catch-all phrase meant to address any pain, physical or emotional, that might possibly prevent you from scoring the next goal, kicking the next ball or simply getting up and getting on with it.

Not that there was any overt sexism involved in these terse responses to life’s ups and downs. I had heard the “pain is your friend” adage from dad plenty of times over the years, and I think the stink of the stinkeye I gave my husband the one and only time he dared to tell me to “suck it up, buttercup” was more than sufficient to shut down that mode of communication-permanently. I’m just saying that my husband and father aren’t insensitive solely to Koss, they’re insensitive to everyone. Very egalitarian.

Resilience is a good thing to develop, right? But I still can’t help feeling sad that my little boy is becoming a big guy, which unfortunately seems to include the requisite rite of passage of sucking his emotions right back into his pointy little Adam’s apple.

No wonder there’s a lump stuck in my throat.

Sound off about sucking it up to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 18, 2010.

Gored by the Truth

Al and Tipper Gore's wedding day, May 19, 1970, at the Washington National Cathedral, courtesy

Al and Tipper Gore’s wedding day, May 19, 1970, at the Washington National Cathedral, courtesy Wikipedia.

“Marriage has no guarantees. If that’s what you’re looking for, go live with a car battery.”

— Erma Bombeck

I was shocked and sad when I heard about the toppling of Tipper and Al Gore‘s marriage. Talk about an inconvenient truth.

With all of the fawning and fanning and cyber-ink devoted to Barack and Michelle Obama’s wedded bliss, I thought crowning them the king and queen of Washington couples so early in their residency was a bit premature. Al and Tipper, on the other hand, seemed to have gone the distance and come out smiling and holding hands. They had even bought a sunny, retirement estate in Montecito, for gosh sakes.

What could possibly have gone wrong?

After so many years in the political hot seat of D.C., I thought they’d be sailing into the Santa Barbara sunset for their golden years. Getting over the painful loss to George Bush, the Gores seemed to be on a roll. Al won a Nobel Peace Prize and an Oscar in 2007, and seemed to be well on his way toward distancing himself from his formerly wooden political punch line persona. And Tipper always seemed to be smiling by his side, happy with the role of helpmate.

Of course the news of the Gore’s separation brought back memories of their famous kiss at the 2000 Democratic Convention. Sure, some found it a bit painful to watch, but don’t forget, back in those days it seemed like the sight of a happy political couple was an oxymoron.

Even now, despite the Obamas’ seemingly solid partnership, there aren’t many examples of long-married-happily-married couples in what one astute Washington Post reader called our “national neighborhood,” so any tension in the ranks can make other married couples feel a little nervous. Instead of that momentary feeling of, “Wow, if they’re still happily married, there must be some hope for the rest of us,” like we did after the convention, Al and Tipper’s breakup feels like, “Huh, if these two people can’t make a go of it, what hope do the rest of us have?”

Not that my faith in marriage or your faith in marriage or anyone else’s faith in marriage-except possibly the Gores’ daughter Karenna who announced she was splitting from her husband of 13 years just a week after her parents announced their separation after 40 years of marriage-should have anything to do with anyone else’s wedded bliss. But still, “it’s more threatening to us if we see a couple we thought were happy just drift apart,” as sociologist Andrew Cherlin told the Post. “If even well-behaved people get divorced after 40 years, then some of us will worry about what our own marriages will be like later in life.”

Thankfully, I have yet to experience one of those, “If those two can split up then is the earth still round and will the sun still rise?” uncouplings among my close circle of friends. Still, I’ve experienced enough vicarious break-ups to know one inconvenient truth-you can never really know or understand what’s really going on in another person’s relationship.

Email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com with your vote on which Gore should get the Santa Barbara mansion if they divorce. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 11, 2010.

Taking the voluntary out of volunteering

Photo by Stuart Miles, Freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Stuart Miles, Freedigitalphotos.net

My son’s going into sixth grade and I’ve only missed a handful of class parties, PTA meetings, and field trips, all for very good reasons, documented in my guilt archives for posterity. I definitely don’t need to be forced to volunteer for anything; in fact, my husband tries to force my raised-hand down on a regular basis. I’m not looking for brownie points by volunteering at school, as far as I’m concerned it’s just what you do.

Well, it’s just what I-and the vast majority of parents that I know-do.

But not everybody volunteers and I’m mostly okay with that. Of course, my son attends a school that is stacked with parents who raise their hands to help out. Sure, it’s a lot of the same people helping out over and over, but does that really matter as long as the work gets done?

Probably not.

But not every school is as fortunate as mine and recently I’ve been reading about some that want to require parents to donate their time to the school.

Require. Not suggest, or encourage, but require.

This is common practice at private schools, and is starting to be more common at charter schools, which have more flexibility to govern themselves, but these are public schools I’m talking about here. Can they really take the “voluntary” out of parental volunteering?

Apparently they can.

At Pennington School, a public elementary/middle school in Prince William County, VA, parents are required to volunteer at least ten hours per year, reported the Washington Post. The parental contracts and other requirements are “an essential part of Pennington,” said Principal Joyce Boyd about the procedures, which have been in place since 2004. The PTO president told the same newspaper, “The school prefers to have the obligations performed at school during the day, but working parents can perform data entry at home, volunteer on weekends or help with spring beautification …”

In 2008 the Ohio legislature even went so far as to propose a bill that would force parents with kids in underperforming schools to volunteer for 13 hours each school year-or face a $100 fine. That bill didn’t pass, but now there is another bill under consideration requiring parents to attend at least one conference with a teacher each school year, or face a $50 fine

Last month the New York Times reported that San Jose’s Alum Rock Union Elementary School District was working on a proposal to require the families of all its 13,000 students to do 30 hours of volunteering per academic year. Many of the schools in the district, where 88 percent of the students are poor, do not even have parent-teacher organizations. It seems to me that starting a PTA is probably a better place to begin organizing parents than requiring volunteer hours.

Apparently this district was inspired by the success of another area school that actually graded parents on whether they contributed to the classroom.

I’d love to know what kind of grade other people would give to the idea of mandatory parent volunteerism.

When Leslie’s not at her son’s school, she can be reached at leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 4, 2010.

Telling My Inner Critic Where to Stick It

Photo by Stuart Miles, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Stuart Miles, freedigitalphotos.net

Sometimes my inner critic can be a real bitch.

She sticks her nose into every aspect of my life, from work (“Nice of you to finally put your butt in the seat and start writing. Not that anyone cares what you have to say, but you should at least be grateful to have a job, since so many more talented people than you don’t have one.”), to parenting (“Of course he likes his dad better than you, all you do is nag him to do his homework, eat his vegetables, wake up and get ready for school or hurry up and get ready for bed!”), and even my relationships with friends (“They’re just running late. Yeah, right. They don’t really like you and they’re going to ditch you and laugh about it behind your back.”).

The more tired and overwhelmed by life I let myself become, the more she seems to insinuate herself into my day.

“Who do you think you are?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What could you possibly have been thinking?”

Sometimes she makes so much noise it’s a wonder I can hear myself think through all of her yakking.

Which is why I was intrigued when I saw the invitation from the Glendon Association to attend a free webinar by Dr. Lisa Firestone on “Conquer Your Critical Inner Voice.” The Glendon Association is a local nonprofit that focuses on the prevention of suicide and violence and I was familiar with Firestone’s writing from her work on “Huffington Post” and, well, the price was right, so I decided to check it out.

Not that my inner critic is telling me to commit suicide or anything that serious, but she does beat me up from time to time, so what better time than now to try to put an end to it.

I wish I could say that attending a one-hour online seminar completely changed my life, that my inner critic has taken up residence in an undeveloped country far, far away, with no email, Twitter, Facebook or phone service, so she can no longer contact me.

I wish I could say that, but my outer critic had a few comments to make.

A lot of what Dr. Firestone said about childhood being the source of much of our inner critic’s power didn’t really resonate with my own memories, but some of the practical solutions that she offered for identifying your critical inner voice made a lot of sense.

“Recognize the events that trigger your critical inner voice.”

As I alluded to earlier, for me this has a lot to do with feeling out of control. My inner critic is a creature of habit and I should recognize that she shows herself mostly when I have what I perceive as too much to do. Then I start to doubt my ability to do anything at all. This is despite the fact that I’ve never missed a deadline, and somehow even when I feel overwhelmed I always manage to get whatever’s absolutely essential done. I need to remind myself of that when I start to panic. And sometimes I need to tell my inner critic to shut up. I’ve got this covered.

“Recognize the specific outside criticisms that support your critical inner voice.”

I may be in denial but I think it’s all me. That’s certainly what my husband tells me, and he’s always right-or so he says.

“Become aware of times you may be projecting your self-attacks onto other people.”

There’s nothing worse than seeing your own worst character flaws projected in the people you love. I wish I could say it’s just my son, but sometimes those same qualities drive me crazy in my husband too. I guess I need to remind myself of this, and perhaps take a whack at that inner critic of mine with a sledgehammer the next time she tries to take control. Not that I’m a violent person. I’m really not. But sometimes she has it coming-and I’d like to be the one to give it to her.

“Notice changes in your mood.”

I like this one the most because by telling my inner critic where to stick it, I suddenly feel a whole lot better.

For more information about Dr. Firestone visit www.psychalive.org. When Leslie’s not telling her inner critic to shut up, she’s usually online at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 28, 2010.

Of Course She Doesn’t Have Kids

Photo by Sura Nualpradid freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Sura Nualpradid freedigitalphotos.net

“A surprising percentage of women nominated to top government jobs have no children,” stated a recent Daily Beast story by Peter Beinart about Elena Kagan’s nomination and the gender make up of the Supreme Court.

That chortle you heard all the way across town was me, laughing out loud. Seriously? How can this possibly be surprising? It’s hard enough to balance a 40-hour-week middle management job with homework, soccer, ballet, piano, swimming, play dates, PTA meetings, birthday parties and getting a healthy meal on the table every once in a while. And these women being considered for the Supreme Court are ultra-achievers who’ve probably never worked a mere 40-hours a week in their lives!

Sometimes in the dead of night when I can’t get to sleep because I’m so overwhelmed by my to do list I console myself by the fact that even Oprah, who’s a rock star in every possible way, doesn’t have any kids to worry about. Neither does Condoleezza Rice or Janet Napolitano. And somehow–seriously–knowing that Martha Stewart doesn’t have kids or a husband at home makes me feel just a little bit better about the crazy high wire juggling act that my life can sometimes become.

The most recent census found that 27 percent of women aged 40 to 44 who have advanced degrees are not mothers. At the top end of the work pyramid, only 23.4 percent of women in the workforce are in executive level positions, yet a recent study commissioned by Maria Shriver and the Center for American Progress (“A Woman’s Nation Changes Everything“) found that now, for the first time in our nation’s history, women are half of all U.S. workers and mothers are the primary breadwinners or co-breadwinners in nearly two-thirds of American families.

So women are bringing home paychecks, just not big ones.

“About 67 percent of married mothers and 69 percent of mothers without a spouse today are employed outside the home. More women become the primary breadwinners for their families, yet they still earn less than their male counterparts. About 67 percent of workers paid at or below the minimum wage are women,” according to Secretary of the U.S. Department of Labor Hilda Solis, another contributor to the Shriver study.

In 1967 women made up only one-third of all workers, so this is a dramatic change and the workplace itself has yet to adjust to it. Of course this change has also been exacerbated by the goofily named “mancession,” which highlights the face that more men than women have lost their jobs as a result of the recession. Yet, for the most part we’re still working in environments where policies on hours, pay, benefits, and leave time are designed around the outdated model of male breadwinners who have little to no family care-giving responsibilities. This is not the reality today for men or women.

The reality is that the expectations placed on highly ambitious professionals and on mothers are both so demanding that it’s incredibly difficult for women to have it all.

So, sure, it would be great to have another mom on the Supreme Court so that she could have play dates with Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s kids. The kids could go arbitrate playground disputes or smack each other with gavels. But can we really be surprised if the next woman on the Supreme Court is not a mom?

Leslie has reconciled herself to the fact that she’s been way too candid in print to ever be nominated for the Supreme Court-that, and the whole not going to law school thing. Therefore, heretofore and forevermore you can reach her at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com or www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 21, 2010.

Earning my Merit Badges

UnknownAs someone who has earned her merit badge in procrastination a million times over-and that was just this month-I was simultaneously irritated and intrigued when I stumbled across Lauren Catuzzi Grandcolas’s book, “You Can Do It! The Merit Badge Handbook for Grown-Up Girls.”

It’s hard to argue with the book’s thesis, that it’s high time our “want-to-do lists” got as much attention as our “to-do lists.” But the 60 cleverly monikered “grown-up Girl Scout badges” didn’t really resonate with me. Car repair (pop the hood)? No thanks. Filmmaking (roll ’em), art appreciation (be a renaissance gal) and meditation (get an inner life)? Maybe.

As a former Girl Scout, Brownie, Camp Fire Girl and Indian Maiden, I’ve always had a thing for merit badges. And since goal setting is one of the skills that all former scouts know all about, I decided to coax a few of my own big dreams out of hiding and invent my own set of “earned age-level awards” for grown ups. Incidentally, writing this list should earn me emblem number 60 from Grandcolas’s book, “You can do it!” which encourages people to invent and pursue their own merit badges.

I’ll be checking my mailbox to add the “I can do it” badge to my sash. Meanwhile, here are a few of the other badges on my “want-to-do list.”

The $25,000 Pyramid Badge: For just one day I’d like to consume the recommended six servings of grains, five vegetables, four fruits and two servings each of milk and protein without gaining seven pounds and/or having a monster stomachache.

Badge Steps:

(1.) I always forget, is a tomato a fruit or a vegetable?

(2.) You say tomato, I say chocolate.

(3.) Let’s call the whole thing off and count beer as a grain and vodka as a vegetable.

Do as I Say Badge: Like any loving parent, I live for the day that the words, “But last time you said …” “But you and daddy get to …” and “But everyone else gets to …” are forever banished from my son’s lips.

Badge Steps:

(1.) Rewind my son’s life to when he was a baby and all he did was smile, eat, sleep and poop.

(2.) Or, fast-forward a few years, to when he’ll likely be giving me the silent treatment in protest of something I wrote about him in this column.

(3.) Or, find the mute button.

Too Big for Primetime Badge: There are six magic words that have been haunting my dreams since my show stopping performance as Lucy in my third grade class’s version of “You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown.” They are, of course, “I’d like to thank the Academy.” However, more recently they’ve been upstaged by another six magic words: “Why thank you for asking, Oprah.”

Badge Steps:

(1.) Compliment the fabulously talented, stunningly generous Ms. Winfrey regularly in my column.

(2.) Send her subliminal messages in my sleep until she realizes what a witty and charming guest I would make on her show.

(3.) Appear on show and be so witty and charming that Oprah invites me to “stop by anytime.”

(4.) Appear on show several more times, developing witty and charming repartee with Oprah, my new best friend.

(5.) Write witty and charming screenplay for Oprah to star in and produce.

(6.) “I’d like to thank the Academy.”

It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s super-Leslie Badge: I know I want a super power, I’m just not sure which one. I’ve always wanted the power to freeze a moment in time, like that moment in time when I had a perfect, 20-year-old body. Or the power of invisibility, so that I could steal things. Or I could be a crime fighter. It’s hard for a girl to commit.

Badge Steps:

(1.) Get in industrial accident involving chemicals, radiation, lightening, and some insect that’s not too yucky – maybe a butterfly.

(2.) Conjure up my grandpa’s voice, saying, “Keep exercising that imagination, kid. It’ll take you places someday.”

(3.) “You know Oprah, I’ve always wanted to have super powers. How do you do it?”

The Thrill of Competition Badge: While competing at Wimbledon, the Indy 500 and the Kentucky Derby have long been relegated to video game fantasies; I’d still like to have box seats someday.

Badge Steps:

(1.) Mention to my good friend Oprah that I’ve always to attend Wimbledon, the Indy 500 and the Kentucky Derby.

(2.) Thanks for the time off. Of course I’ll write a column about it, boss.

Send your adult merit badge suggestions to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.comOriginally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 14, 2010.