Tag Archives: Santa Barbara Daily Sound

Obsessed (or Possessed) by Scrapbooking

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Vintage Scrapbook, Tulane University, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Vintage Scrapbook, Tulane University, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

The fine line between “fun hobby” and “neurotic obsession” finally blurred for me last weekend, as I stayed up ’til 3 a.m. hammering little metal plates printed with sincere sentiments like, “A teacher takes the hand, opens the mind, touches the heart” onto little scraps of paper that would eventually find their way into a scrapbook for Koss’s teacher.

I don’t know if it was hammering my already-blackened thumb for the 13th time or downing my 17th Hershey’s Chocolate Kiss and Red Bull cocktail to stay awake, but I had a pre-dawn epiphany: I may not be completely well in the head.

My fascination with scrapbooking began about 13 years ago. I was planning my wedding, a sentimental time of life known to turn even the hardest heart to mush, and you all know that I’m pretty mushy to begin with. Plus, I had recently quit my 70-hour-a-week job, while my husband-to-be’s career was gearing up. In other words, I had a lot of time on my hands, and for the first time in well, ever, the money to match.

I was fish in a barrel at that first Creative Memories workshop. Talk about easy pickings. Cardstock. I must have ten of each, in every single color. Squiggly-edged scissors? I’ll take a dozen. Stickers? I get to buy stickers, and I don’t have to share them with kids? I’ll take two — of each — in every single design and color.

Visions of perfectly ordered memories danced in my head as the U-Haul pulled up to haul my stuff home.

Once home, I immediately got out the merlot, the M & M’s, and the dental floss. No, I wasn’t being attacked by plaque. The scrapbooking teacher said that I was being plagued by something much more sinister: acid.

That’s right, acid, the evil culprit that’s working right this very minute to deteriorate your precious memories into puce yellow, burnt orange and avocado green (no wait, those are just my pictures from the 70s). I tore my old-fashioned, outdated, worse than a shoebox, adhesive-style albums out from under my bed and used the floss to free what pictures I could from the evils of acid.

I went through two bottles of wine, a case of dental floss, seven bags of M & M’s, and three boxes of Band-Aids that night. I saw the sun come up and made friends with the guys on the graveyard shift at the 24-hour Ralph’s down the street. I was definitely hooked.

Having rescued most of my childhood photos, I carefully, painstakingly found them a safe and pretty home in an acid-free environment. There my memories can express themselves freely, creatively, and often elaborately.

So what if that acid-free album costs three times as much as the one with the 40-year life expectancy? And who cares if my son will need a climate-controlled, five-car garage to house all of the scrapbooks he’ll inherit?

The great thing about scrapbooking is how it brings families together. Or, at least it would, if my husband wasn’t actually a man, or if I let my child touch any of my things.

I’m not crazy. My head is well. I’m making memories, here, so back off. Just one more page and then I’ll get some sleep.

Is Leslie obsessed or possessed by scrapbooking? You be the judge, and tell us what you think at email.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 23, 2006.

Some fine marriage advice

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Marriage of Walter John Beckwith and Myrtle Ellenor Brown, 1920. Item is held by John Oxley Library, State Library of Queensland. Courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Marriage of Walter John Beckwith and Myrtle Ellenor Brown, 1920. Item is held by John Oxley Library, State Library of Queensland. Courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Last weekend we celebrated my in-laws 50th anniversary. Can you imagine being married for 50 years? Remember how long that movie Titanic was? Now watch it 127,750 times. That’s how long 50 years is. Drop an iceberg on me now.

It’s not that I don’t love my husband, I do. And even though I’d had a glass of champagne, I still meant what I said when I vowed, “till death do us part” some 12 years ago.

And I only dream about his death once a week, maximum.

But 50 years of marriage. Fifty years. I had to find out their secrets.

To understand the challenges of this quest, you have to understand that my mother-in-law, lovely and easy-going as she is, is not exactly a fount of personal information. I know more about the complete strangers I eavesdrop on at Starbuck’s than I do about my mother-in-law. She’s not exactly what you would call a talker.

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. We talk so much that my dad sometimes has to take little naps while the rest of us talk.

Then we talk about that.

My husband’s family doesn’t get the whole talking thing. They’d rather play games, rhyming their words rather than actually communicating with them.

A sample conversation with my in-laws, as we drive by the Madonna Inn: He says, “It’s very pink.” She says, “Do you think?” He says, “Should we have a drink?” She says, “That wouldn’t stink.” He says, “Wink, wink.” She giggles.

She giggles a lot, which brings me to the first marriage tip I’ve gleaned indirectly from my mother-in-law: Marry someone you think is funny.

If it’s too late for that, try to find things you both think are funny. Babies and the disgusting things that ooze from their various orifices are great for this. I’m told that teenage puberty, particularly when coupled with mom’s menopause, can also be a hilarious bonding experience for couples. I can’t wait.

I know I’ll never be a match for my mother-in-law’s impressive ability to zip her lip when it comes to complaining or even commenting on the eccentricities of her husband. They always manage to present a united front. My husband and I are pretty good at that too, although I do try to make sure that Koss loves me more by buying him candy. Nonetheless, we’re equally firm about disciplining him when he gets too sassy, even if I do sneak him a Reese’s for comfort every once in a while.

And I really do try not to laugh too hard when my friends agree with my complaints about my husband. Somebody’s got to stick up for the poor guy, and I know he would never complain about me to his friends. It’s nice to know that we’ve got each other’s backs. Right, dear.

I prod my in-laws for more marriage advice. “Three little words,” says my father-in-law.

I know this one. “I love you.” Right? They laugh.

“Honey, I’m wrong,” guesses my husband. More giggles.

“Buy me toys,” guesses my son, who’s good at math and gets the word count right.

“What is it?” I ask. My mother-in-law smiles and giggles some more.

“Everything’s just fine,” she says, knowing it will drive me crazy. My father-in-law laughs along.

But how do they really feel? I’ll never know. And that’s “just fine” with them.

Leslie is always eager for marriage advice. You can reach her at email.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound.

Wading my Way Through Swimsuitophobia

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Swimsuits of Binibining Pilipinas 2008, by Paul Chin from Manila City, Philippines, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Swimsuits of Binibining Pilipinas 2008, by Paul Chin from Manila City, Philippines, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

“Mommy only goes in the water when we’re on vacation,” my son told his buddy when we ventured to the pool last week. The poor kid didn’t even realize I knew how to swim until a couple of years ago, when an unfortunate heat wave forced me to don a swimsuit for the first time since he was born.

It’s not that I don’t know how to swim; it’s just that I’ve got a bad case of swimsuitophobia. Scientists have still been unable to find a cure for this malady, despite my countless hours at the gym, and hundreds of pounds lost and found, and lost and found again, Swimsuitophobia affects nearly every woman I know. In fact, the fear of buying a bathing suit has replaced fear of public speaking and leaving the house without wearing clean underwear as the number one fear for women over age 30.

The rational side of me — yes, I do have one, dear — realizes that I’m a mom; my body has already done its duty for the survival of the species. I’m 30-12 years old, and I’ve got far more miles on me than were covered by warranty. Plus, I’m smart, and some people think I’m funny.

After all, it’s just a bathing suit, and everyone is going to be checking out the teenage girls anyway.

But still, the idea of putting on a bathing suit in public terrifies me. I can barely do it by myself.

Body image and Big Mac issues aside, I think the root of swimsuitophobia lies in the dressing rooms. Does anyone really want to know what their back fat looks like from 17 different angles? Think of all the homeless people Nordstrom’s could house if they had a companywide mandate to purchase only two mirrors per dressing room. As an added bonus, they would probably sell more bathing suits.

I was this close to whipping out my credit card and buying a tasteful turquoise suit there the other day. The color was perfect, and it seemed to fit most of my body just fine in the first 13 mirrors I looked at. Then lo and behold, parts of me oozed out disloyally on the sides. Apparently my rebellious body wasn’t willing to be confined by the 37-way stretch of this season’s Lycra. How did my left boob get under my right arm? And where did the other one go? How many people does that rear end belong to? It was like one of those clown cars, only buttocks kept piling out of it.

Within moments the store’s funhouse mirrors exposed every Hershey Bar and popcorn tub I had eaten in the past year — even the ones I had consumed standing up to avoid the calories.

All of the sudden the lights in the dressing room got brighter, bringing into full focus my stretch marks, my leg veins, and lack of a tan. I needed to shave my legs, wax, get a tummy tuck, pedicure, liposuction, therapy, and a spark plug change. This was rapidly becoming a very expensive swimsuit.

Meanwhile, my sweet little boy was squeezed in there with me, offering helpful little comments like, “Is it supposed to look like that?” And, “It’s okay, dad can always take me to the pool.”

Needless to say, we left without the suit.

My son told my husband about the shopping trip, and asked him why he didn’t help mommy pick out her bathing suits. He mumbled something about, “Finely honed survival skills,” and then reminded him that, “Mommy only goes in the water on vacation.”

My son nodded in agreement, but then looked a little perplexed. “Then why don’t we ever go on vacation?”

If you really want help Leslie with her swimsuitophobia, she’s available for free travel during the entire month of August. Email your itinerary to email.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 2, 2006.

Yes I Cannot Say No

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Can a Yes-Woman Become a No (to)-It All?

“You know how to do it, ” whispers the assertive angel on my shoulder, and yes, she sounds a bit like Lauren Bacall. “Just put your lips together and say, ‘NO!'”

I can feel the unfamiliar sound forming, it’s just a breath away from coming out of my mouth … then the word gets stuck in my throat. Inexplicably, my lips start moving and those other familiar words come out: “Yes,” or “Sure, I’ll do it,” or even worse, “Why not?”

Why not! Why not indeed!

Because I have too much to do.

Because I did it the last time.

Because I want to be at home with my family.

Because I don’t want to.

Because I, Leslie Dinaberg, am a yes-aholic.

There. I’ve taken the first step toward recovery.

Why is it so hard for me to say “no,” I wonder for the umpteenth time, as I sit here writing this column, at home, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, while my son and my husband are off enjoying themselves at the pool?

I wish I could blame this on an evil boss who piles on the weekend assignments, but it’s my own fault. I’m taking the day off tomorrow and I knew I’d have to finish this column before then … but all of last week I kept saying yes to appointments and obligations and assignments that I knew I didn’t really have enough time for.

And here I am, just another “yes-aholic” working on a Sunday, with no one to blame but myself. What’s so tough about saying “no?”

“No” was one of the first words my son learned to say. He mastered it by screaming the word at the top of his lungs, usually in quiet public places. He got so skilled at saying “no” that my husband and I even made up a song (to the tune of that “Meow, Meow, Meow, Meow” commercial) where the word “no” was the sole lyric.

We still perform occasionally when a toddler comes to visit.

If preverbal children can say “no,” why do I have such a hard time?

“Most women find it very hard to say no and set limits on what they do for others,” writes Judith Selee McClure, Ph.D. in Civilized Assertiveness for Women.

While most sentences that begin with “most women” are mostly never true, she does mostly have a point.

“Women are conditioned to say, ‘Yes, I’ll give you whatever you need or want’ — and to feel guilty when they don’t.”

Has McClure been spying on me or are there actually other yes-aholics out there?

When the “Y-word” comes out my mouth instead of the “N-word,” it’s not because I’m so toxically nice I can’t say no, and it’s not that I don’t think someone else can do the job as well or better than I can. That’s a lie, but it’s still not why I’m saying “yes.” Really it’s all about guilt.

As Erma Bombeck put it, “Guilt is the gift that keeps on giving.”

It sticks with you all right. Ask me a simple question and I can’t bear the thought of disappointing my child, my boss, my parents, my husband, the coach, the teacher, even the receptionist.

When they say, “Would you mind, the doctor/dentist/manicurist is running a bit late,” — of course I mind! But I’d feel like I was a terrible person if I told them so. That would imply that my time was equally as important as theirs. How could I be so selfish?

Because ultimately, asserting yourself isn’t about being selfish. There are lots of good reasons to stop saying “yes.” For one thing, saying “yes” when you want to say “no,” makes your stomach hurt and your head ache. You feel like you’re being taken advantage of, and then guilty because after all, you’re the one who said “yes.”

“You go girl,” cheers my assertiveness angel, who apparently doesn’t know it’s 2005. “No more ‘I’m just a girl who can’t say no,'” she sings, sounding more like Gwen Stefani than Celeste Holm in Oklahoma.

She’s right. And in her honor, I’ve devised a three-step program to help combat yes-aholism. I was going to do two steps, but my boss told me to do three. I said “yes.” Hmm.

1. Just say “no” and you and those around you will be happier. Always saying yes will only land you in places you don’t want to be, like therapy, divorce court, or with no friends to complain to because you’ve alienated them all by making them look bad because you do more than they do.

2. Just say “no” and you’ll have more enthusiasm, not to mention time and energy, for the things you do say “yes” to.

3. Just say “no” with a little bit of grace and your kids will learn by your example how to stand up for themselves and balance their goals with other people’s. You don’t want to raise little yes-aholics do you?

All together now, just put your lips together and say “no.” If that doesn’t work, keep your mouth shut, and turn your neck to the left, then turn it to the right. Repeat until the other person walks away.

Originally published in Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 26, 2006.

Birth of a PTA Goddess

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Courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

I woke up the other morning and found myself on the PTA Board. Like all of those stories that start with, “you’ll never believe where I woke up,” I used to hear from my college roommates, I’m not quite sure how it happened.

I was daydreaming my way through a nominating committee meeting and the next thing I knew I was saying “sure, great idea” to what I swear was the rather brilliant suggestion that we have an open bar at our next meeting.

I was wrong.

And then there was training involved.

Last weekend was the PTA Leadership Round Up in Buellton. I got to the cafeteria of Oak Valley Elementary School a few minutes early, salivating for coffee, only to find that the first speaker was already cheerfully jabbering away. What kind of homicidal parent group starts early? And on a Saturday morning! Not only had they started early, they put the coffee in the front of the room. I had to stumble by dozens of perky morning people to get to the java, all the while enduring the stares of the keynote speaker, and it wasn’t my fault.

Did I mention she started early? Who does that? And she was really, actually 10 minutes early, in real time, not Santa Barbara time.

Had I not carpooled with a couple of other moms, I might have turned around then and there.

I daydreamed my way through most of the first session. It’s not that a review of various PTA job descriptions isn’t compelling first thing in the morning. I mean, who knew that “ways and means” was a fancy way of saying “fundraising?” I just thought that my time could be used more effectively by doodling out a series of plots for my new mystery series, Murder at the PTA Meeting. Could you really bash someone to death with fundraising wrapping paper?

Little did I know that a whole genre of this type of novel already exists. Murder at the PTA Luncheon, Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA and my personal favorite, Death of a PTA Goddess, were all conceived during PTA training, I’m told.

I started to understand why when the two head honcho PTA ladies put stuffed fish on their heads (so that’s where Nemo went) and showed us a motivational video of the fishmongers at Pike Place Fish Market in Seattle. Seriously. I learned from this video that I’m supposed to smack the principal with a carp at our next PTA meeting. More and more I’m thinking that my open bar idea was a stroke of genius.

I know that the only two men in the room would agree with me, as I watch them try to pick a door prize from a slew of Mary Kay perfumes and flowered tote bags, FYI guys: join your PTA board, and go to the conventions, even if you don’t have a kid. Fish in a barrel.

The guys also remind me of next fall’s Survivor show. I’m told the producer plans to enlist 12 men, who will be dropped into the suburbs with a van, six kids (each of whom play two sports and take either a musical instrument or dance class), and no access to fast food. They must keep the house clean, correct all homework (receiving at least a “C+” on all papers), complete a science project, cook, and do laundry. Plus they have to shave their legs and wear makeup, which they must apply either while driving or while making six lunches.

The competitions will consist of such things as cleaning up after a sick child at 3:00 a.m.; making an Indian hut model with six toothpicks, a tortilla and a crayon; and attending a PTA meeting and accurately reporting the results.

I would certainly fail at the latter.

But then again, reporting about how nice and normal and less thin and blonde and perky the real PTA moms are than the ones on TV wouldn’t be very entertaining, would it?

As the 37th person in a row introduced herself as someone who “never thought of herself as the PTA type,” I realized I was going to fit right in just fine. Especially once we get the bar installed.

When her mind isn’t wandering to thoughts of murder, Leslie can be found in the carpool lane, putting her makeup on peanut butter sandwiches. Share your PTA adventures by emailing Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally published in Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 26, 2006.

How About a Hunka Hunka Hotness in the White House?

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west-wingCount me among the many millions of Americans who mourn the loss of The West Wing. How many millions? I don’t know. But apparently not enough to keep this smartest-guy-in-the-room-full-of-dumb-television-shows from being cancelled. Perhaps the ultimate political fantasy–a White House controlled by a president and political staff who always put the best interests of the American people above politics–was just too farfetched when compared with the hard-hitting reality of Fear Factor and America’s Top Model.

I’m going to miss The West Wing’s idealized vision of what the country could be like if our leaders said what they really thought, without filtering their sound bites through a blender of image consultants, polling data and checkbook loyalties. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve shouted at Martin Sheen, “Why can’t you be the real president? So what if you’re a midget!”

And I’ll definitely miss creator Aaron Sorkin‘s razor sharp writing, which took us behind the scenes for a look at how Washington really operates–or would operate if spectacularly witty and deeply principled people ran it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve shouted at my TV, “Why can’t I write like you do, Aaron? So what if you’re a coke fiend!”

While Aaron’s been in rehab the past few seasons, I have also been working my way through withdrawal from his witty repartee. I almost gave up on the show in 2004 until the new writing staff lured me in with a brilliant bit of casting.

Jimmy Smits. All those m’s in his name spell out mmm, as in yummy. Come to mummy yummy.

I can’t believe they cancelled the show just as Jimmy was sworn in as president. We were robbed! Jimmy Smits would have made an amazing president.

His Hispan-ethnicity makes him a pollster’s dream come true. His character had intelligence, youthful vigor, a sweet, supportive wife and photogenic young children to make him easy to relate to. But that’s not why I was really looking forward to watching him every Sunday night.

Quite simply, Jimmy Smits is hot. And a hunka, hunka hot president could go a long way toward healing what ails us in this country. Just think about it.

Americans are arrogant and insecure; we’re fat and lazy and simple-minded; we yell a lot (not just at our televisions but at each other); we’ve got short attention spans; and we’re violent, promiscuous and hypocritical–and with a few exceptions, we just keep on electing dumb guys who start too many wars and can’t balance the budget.

But we’re not blind.

Therefore, I nominate Jimmy Smits for president. His campaign platform: he’s a hunka, hunka hot kind of guy.

A hunka, hunka hot Jimmy Smits as president would cure political apathy, as women would flock to support his initiatives, and men would eventually get up off the couch to see where all the women went.

A hunka, hunka hot Jimmy Smits as president could single-handedly restore the economy with his “buying American is sexy” campaign. I’m picturing a series of commercials where I viciously tear that cheaply manufactured, “made in China” shirt off his rippled abs, thus exposing the benefits of buying U.S.-manufactured items. Or maybe I tear those cheap buttons off with my teeth, one by one… This may require some further thought to get the creative details just right.

A hunka, hunka hot Jimmy Smits as president would rock on the international relations front. With his legal expertise from “LA Law,” his street cred from “NYPD Blue” and his intergalactic diplomatic experience from Stars Wars, this guy would surely dazzle the UN into doing his bidding.

Do you think I’m too old to be an intern?

Want to join in on the Jimmy Smits for president bandwagon? Email email

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 19, 2006.

Caution: Images in Mirror May Be Closer Than They Appear

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Image courtesy Wikipedia Common.

Image courtesy Wikipedia Common.

Every once in a while, I’ll look in the mirror and see a face that’s not my own.

Now I know how that French woman with the face transplant feels. At least she got a stranger’s face. Not me. The face I see is my mother’s.

I’ve never been one of those mini-me kids, who are the spitting image of their parents. If I were, I guess I’d be used to this by now. Which is not to say I’d like it. After almost 20 years of clogged drains, my husband recently cut off his Fabio-like mane, and people keep saying how much he and our son look alike. My son doesn’t like it one bit, and quite frankly, I can relate. At least he doesn’t look like me anymore.

At least my mother is not a bad person to look like. She’s quite lovely and I’m not just saying that, mom.

Not only does she have great eyebrows and a killer smile, she also has a full range of super powers I’d be happy to develop: eyes in the back of her head, a knack for being able to let me know what she is thinking with just a look, and the ability to fling guilt rays at me from a thousand feet away.

According to my son, I’ve mastered the first two. But practice though I may on my husband and friends, the guilt thing is still really challenging. Maybe it’s because Koss is only six and hasn’t developed the sophisticated sensitivity to respond to guilt yet. Right now all he does is cry when I try to guilt him into doing something he doesn’t want to, which doesn’t exactly make me feel better. And even worse, it doesn’t exactly make him do what I want him to.

I always thought that if applied wisely, guilt was hereditary, easily inflicted, and would last a lifetime. Why doesn’t it work on my two guys? Is this yet another Christmas/Hanukah, Easter/Passover, Let’s Ignore the Problem/Let’s Talk the Problem to Death, Bacon-Wrapped Shrimp/Brisket and Gefilte Fish complication in this Jewish/Goyish marriage of mine?

Back to the mirror. It’s a weird thing to see these resemblances creep up. It’s not really about aging (although I certainly have issues with that). When I picture my mom in my mind, I’m actually older than the age she was then, and fatter, and not nearly as pretty.

I should be flattered when I see her face in mine. What could be better than seeing one of the people you love the most in your own reflection? At the same time, what could be worse than looking in the mirror and seeing the one person who can push all of your buttons? I’m tempted to tell myself to sit up straight and not to wear so much makeup.

It’s not just my mother’s face I see glimpses of in the mirror. There are times when I hear her voice in my head, and it can get a little bit irritating. “Cut it out, you’ll leave fingerprints,” “Did you write a thank you note,” and “Hurry up, we’re going to be late,” are all on an endless loop on my mom soundtrack.

I can also hear her telling me, “You are smart and kind and a good friend,” or “You can do anything you set your mind to,” on a pretty regular basis. And she never stopped telling me she loves me. She still tells me, almost every single day, and sometimes more often than that.

So when I tell my son I love him, and he says, “I know that mom. You only tell me that like, a million times a day,” I just smile, and look into his eyes that are so much like my mother’s.

You’ll appreciate it someday, kid.

And by the way, mom, I do too.

Am I the only one who sees others in my mirror and hears voices in my head? Email email

Originally published in Santa Barbara Daily Sound on May 12, 2006.

Suit Up!

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publicdomainpictures.net

Courtesy publicdomainpictures.net

“The clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.” –Mark Twain

I’ve had the pleasure of working at home in my sweats, pajamas, and bunny slippers for the past several months, and I’ve got to tell you, that particular perk of self-employment is way over-rated. There’s something about having just the right outfit for work that makes you want to, well, actually work.

My first real, grown-up suit was from Ann Taylor. It was a “power suit” that my mom bought for me in anticipation of my college graduation. It was blue worsted wool with a kick pleat in the narrow skirt and a stylish cut that made me feel like Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday. I was totally posifticated.

Sure the wool was itchy, I ripped my panty hose half the time, and I’ve always been walking-in-pumps-challenged, but I could swear my vocabulary went up an SAT point or two when I wore that suit. I joked that it was actually made of armor, because it protected so well from my workplace insecurities.

Having the right outfit made me feel busy, important, like someone on the move with places to go and people to see. My power suit also made me stand up a little taller, maybe even work a little harder.

The right clothes can do that for you. The right outfit can work wonders. But it’s got to be the right outfit in the right place. Your derriere may rival J-Lo’s in those awesome $900 jeans, but that doesn’t mean they’ll fly at a funeral. And unless you’ve got an Olympic gold medal coming your way, that banana sack Speedo is always a fashion don’t.

In the TV show, How I Met Your Mother, Doogie Howser is one of the rare males to extol the virtues of “suiting up” to his friends. Like Superman, Batman, and George Clooney, Doogie knows the power of the suit.

Most men don’t get this, despite the metrosexual revolution of hair gel and manscaping.

My husband would actually prefer to wear an old pair of pants till they literally fall apart, than buy something new that wouldn’t be “quite as soft and comfy.” The other day, he had the nerve to ask me if I really thought I needed a 27th pair of black pants when I hadn’t worn out the other 26 pairs yet. Since when do women wear out their clothes? Other than gym shoes, I haven’t worn out an article of clothing since the 5th grade.

Besides, can you see how slimming this new bonded cotton fiber is? This is the pair of pants that is going to revolutionize my whole wardrobe in a way the salmon pink pashmina shawl of 2003 and the neon green polyester wrap skirt of 1989 only promised to.

Plus — and here’s the real kicker — like the four-inch hoop earrings of 1993 and the Madonna corset of 1987, having this new pair of pants makes me feel good. Not as good as it would if they were a size 8, but there’s an issue for another column.

Men don’t understand our relationship with clothes.

Shockingly, I have a theory about this. It all comes down to tuxedos.

There’s a reason men look so good in tuxedos (the 1980s polyester pastel/ruffled shirt phase and my unfortunate prom pictures aside). Most men stand a little taller and behave a little more politely when they’re dressed in a traditional black tux. Plus they can feel confident they’re dressed appropriately, and they never seem to worry that someone else has appropriated their look.

For a woman there’s nothing worse than seeing another woman in the same dress — unless of course that other woman is younger and thinner. Can you imagine walking into a formal party and hearing a man say how embarrassed he is, because there’s another man in a black tuxedo?

They say every bride is beautiful because she’s so happy and in love. I say it’s all about the clothes. Think about it: she’s standing next to man in a tux, and all of her best friends are lined up next to her — in the most unflattering garments imaginable. As a bride you can’t help but giggle at the unflattering glow the puce green taffeta sheds on your beautiful cousin Rhonda’s face.

Bridesmaid’s dresses are intentionally ugly because they’re all about flattering the bride. It’s the law.

But what’s the law for work clothes? I would feel ridiculous putting on a power suit just to sit and type in my kitchen. And we have no air conditioning, so I’d be taking my jacket off and putting it back on all day long. Plus I couldn’t afford the dry cleaning bill every time the spontaneous urge to dust the blinds or paint the kitchen attacks, as it sometimes does when I’m on deadline.

Like my mother, and grandmother, and great-grandmother, I decided the only cure for this particular ailment was a little bit of retail therapy. Unlike my foremothers –who didn’t have the Internet– I didn’t even have to suit up to leave the house to go shopping. There I found a whole new category of clothes for stay at home workers — loungewear.

To the naked eye, my new duds may look like yoga pants and t-shirts, but I know a power suit when I see one.

Want to know what Leslie’s wearing next week? Email her at email

Originally published in Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 28, 2006.

Not Me (By Koss Klobucher, understudy for Leslie Dinaberg)

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Courtesy Adam S., Flilckr.

Courtesy Adam S., Flilckr.

Do you remember how every time Bil Keane was sick, he’d have little Billy draw the Family Circus comic like a real six-year-old would draw a Family Circus comic… if that six-year-old was extremely precocious with the same soul-crushingly bland sense of humor as Bil Keane?

Well, Mommy is sick, so I’m Billy this week. But I promise I won’t do any “Not Me” or dotted-lines stomping through clothes-line jokes. Even though I’m only six and I’ve never actually read a Family Circus cartoon, I’m sure that I’ll grow up to have the same disdain for it that my father does, since I worship him and want to be like him in every way.

Nonetheless, I decided to steal this idea from Bil Keane, even though my mommy has two Ls in her name like a real person, unlike some people.

If, purely as a hypothetical, my dad was helping me write this column, and he was stuck trying to describe exactly how he felt about the Family Circus in the first paragraph, then I might chirp in with something like, “Glassy, shallow, hi-tech, furious, other stuff. Just think of adjectives.”

I like to help. And, I’m good at Mad-Libs.

The other thing I might do while I’m writing this column is sing a ten-minute song composed purely of stream-of-conscious ramblings, and then ask if it’s good that I’m singing, and ask how it’s helping.

I suppose I should let you know why Mommy is sick, and how she got that way. My dad thinks it has something to do with how I came into their room the other night at two a.m., crying. I told them about a nightmare I had where I stepped on a bunch of cats, and where Dad got really mad at me.

I know if Mommy was in my nightmare, she wouldn’t have gotten mad at me just for stepping on cats. She hates cats. And we’ll never have a cat in this house. I know. I know. If Mommy was in my nightmare she’d probably raise my allowance for stepping on the cats. So, really, she got herself sick by not showing up in my dream.

Anyhow, I told them my nightmare, they patted my back, and then I barfed all over Mommy’s side of the bed. I felt better.

So that’s my dad’s theory. I think she’s sick because an evil Genie was released from a jewel and spread this green mist stuff all over her, which made her look very green and stony.

You know what I’m saying?

Man, these columns are tougher than they look. I just asked Mommy how long they had to be, and she said 600-800 words, and I’m only about 400 into it. I’m tempted to start one of my rambling tales about when I went skiing with ghosts. It was a long time ago, when I was about three or four, and I was…

Sorry. I digress. It’s part of what happens to us six-year-olds when we recover from being sick. We get strange little bursts of energy, and… whoa! Did you hear that hiccup? I’m going to check out Pokemon.com.

I sure hope Mommy gets well soon. I want her to start playing with me again, ’cause it’s not that much fun to bounce on the bed while she just lies there and moans. I also miss the story-tales of her life she tells me right before I fall asleep at night. Dad tries, but most of his tend to be about getting drunk in college, which seem kind of inappropriate to me.

Mostly, I miss her working, because I simply do not have the focus for this. What do you expect? I’m six. Maybe I could draw a bad comic, but not write a whole column. Billy had it easy.

Phew. Finally. 600+. I’m going to go give Mommy her column, but first I’ll visit all the neighbors, and draw huge dots to mark my path. Just my luck, I’ll run into some of their cats on the way and step on them.

Not Me!

Leslie Dinaberg will be convalescing and, if she loves me, ignoring the e-mails you send her at email

Originally appeared in in the the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 21, 2006.

The ABCs of Parenting

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Courtesy Pixabay.com

Courtesy Pixabay.com

Sure, Passover has just passed over. I’ve got a Matzo Ball hangover to prove it. Yes, the chocolate bunnies are in their spring finest for the first-ever rainy Easter in Santa Barbara. Keep those chocolate umbrellas handy. But with all due respect to those observations, I’ve got another holiday to celebrate. Today, April 14th, is the 178th anniversary of the day that the first edition of Noah Webster’s “American Dictionary of the English Language” was published.

Inn honnor of speling gud, Iv ritten a shoret dixionarie uv mi owne.

A is for ALCOHOL: an essential ingredient to household harmony. It may lead to AMNESIA, which is the condition that allows a man who has watched his wife give birth have sex with her again.

B is for BABY: my husband when he gets a slight cold. B is also for BASKET CASE, if he actually spikes a fever higher than 98.7.

C is for COOK: a mythical household creature that, legend has it, mixes more than two ingredients together to make something called “not-take-out.”

D is for DATE NIGHT: infrequent outings where Mom and Dad try to find something to talk about besides their kids.

E is for EXCUSE ME I FARTED, I’M TERRIBLY EMBARRASSED: a phrase my husband, and now child, says repeatedly, with a huge grin.

F is for FEELINGS: which were discussed three times a day before you got married, and are now part of the date night discussion at least every three years.

G is for GENIUS: your own child, of course.

H is for HOOKER: anyone else’s child.

I is for INTAXICATION: the short-lived euphoria when you realize you are getting a refund from the IRS this year. I is also for IDIOT, when you blow it all shoes

J is for JACKPOT: when your kids are unexpectedly invited to sleepover somewhere else for the night.

K is for KARMA: what you threaten your kids with when, “Santa and Mommy know if you’ve been good for goodness sake” loses its effectiveness.

L is for LIKE: ya know, like, as if, like, m’kay?

M is for MAYBE: which usually means no.

N is for NO: which means no, no matter how many times you ask.

O is for OK: which means you wore me down this time, but next time, “No means no.”

P is for PARK: Before children this was a verb meaning, “to go somewhere and engage in an adult activity, such as necking.” After children, it became a noun, meaning, “to go somewhere and engage in what now passes for adult activity, such as nodding hello to other adults.”

Q is for QUEEN: a figurehead title, referring to mom’s role before the children were born.

R is for ROYAL RELATIVE: mom’s new role now that his highness has arrived.

S is for SHOW OFF: which is any child more talented than your royal heir.

T is for TOWELS: a mysterious cotton floor covering that can apparently only be hung up or folded by the Queen.

U is for UMPTEEN: the number of times Mom must instruct her husband and offspring to do something before it actually gets done.

V is for VALENTINE’S DAY: I have no idea what that means.

W is for WEINER: a hotdog if you’re at all mature, something else entirely if you’re my husband or child.

X is for XOXOXOXO: mom’s lunch box note signoff guaranteed to delight anyone under 7 and horrify a teenager.

Y is for YIPPEE: what mom would jump up and shout if her kid stopped asking “WHY” for at least seven consecutive minutes.

Z is for ZILLION: the number of times mom tells you why, goes to the grocery store, picks up your towels, and counts her blessings every week.

Gut eny werds tow ad? Email email

Originally appeared in in the the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on April 14, 2006.