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Every Day Should be Grandparents Day

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Illustration by debspoons, freedigitalphotos.net

Illustration by debspoons, freedigitalphotos.net

Sometimes I can’t wait to be a Grandma.

Not that I don’t love this stage of my life-chaotic carpools, homework hassles and morning mayhem aside-because at ten our son is old enough to take almost anywhere and still young enough to want to be with his parents. But I know those days are dwindling fast. The specter of his teenage years casts a long shadow every time he gels his hair or rolls his eyes, which is happening more often every day.

Being a Grandma seems so marvelously simple. As Robert Brault said, “To become a grandparent is to enjoy one of the few pleasures in life for which the consequences have already been paid.” What could be better? You spend time with the kids and you love them. There’s no way to do that wrong. There are no obligations to feel guilty about. No stretch marks, no late night phone calls to “pick me up” from sleepovers, no allowances, no dioramas, no lunches to pack and no laundry to do.

There are a lot fewer vegetables and a lot more dessert if you’re a grandparent.

A grandparent’s sole duty in life is to spoil their grandchildren-to hang on their every word, to bring them a new game or toy every time they see them, to tell them stories of all the rotten things mommy and daddy did when they were kids, to go on adventures, or take them swimming, to ball games or the movies.

Grandparents also make incredible audiences. When grandchildren learn to kick a ball, bust out some fancy dance moves, or jam on their first guitar piece, they can count on their grandparents to watch, listen and applaud-loudly and obnoxiously-every single time.

In turn, their grandchildren adore them. I still marvel at the way Koss’s eyes light up, he grins, mugs, chats up a storm and utterly turns on the charm whenever any of his grandparents are around.

Well, at least most of the time.

Lucky for all of us, his grandparents are around a lot. We’re lucky to all live in the same town. Really, really lucky. They’re great babysitters-which I probably, ahem, okay, absolutely definitely appreciate more than the kids-but they also make meals with him, which can get rather messy; come to watch him kick, run, jump and shoot, depending on which sports are in season; play video games with him; read books together, and take him to the library and the bookstore; and play lots and lots of card and board games. Heck, my dad even volunteered in his classroom and coached his flag football team.

I can relate to what Grandma (and great writer) Judith Viorst wrote in her contribution to the book “Eye of My Heart: 27 Writers Reveal the Hidden Pleasures and Perils of Being a Grandmother.” “Even if we are known to be basically modest, even if, as mothers, we refrained from shamelessly bragging about our kids, we grandmothers feel entitled to inform the world that our grandchildren are not merely extraordinary but…the most extraordinary. And if another grandmother is one-upping us in the extraordinary contest, we one-up right back.”

I know just how she feels. My son’s grandparents are the absolute best, not merely extraordinary but the most extraordinary grandparents around. My son’s grandparents rock! They’re the best grandparents in the world. So in honor of National Grandparent’s Day (which is Sunday, September 13th), thanks guys. You really are the best.

Care to try to one-up Leslie in the extraordinary grandparent contest? Email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.  Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on September 11, 2009.

Books I Wish I Had Written

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Photo by stockimages, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by stockimages, freedigitalphotos.net

I seem to be in a minority, but I’m more amused than annoyed by all of the navel-gazing that happens on Facebook.

One of my favorite features is the “best book lists” that people post on their profiles. Reading them feels like spending an afternoon browsing through a great, used bookstore, or a morning at a bibliophile’s estate sale-and, okay, occasionally like an evening at a very pretentious cocktail party.

You can learn a lot about your friends by eavesdropping on their virtual bookshelves.

Not only have I gotten turned on to excellent but obscure books I never would have picked up-thanks to Heidi for The Giant’s House by Elizabeth McCracken and to Dan for Beginner’s Greek by James Collins—but I’ve been re-reminded of some of my favorite authors who have fallen off my radar screen.

Still, it’s almost impossible for me to create a list of my favorite books. Two of my favorite writers, Jane Austen and Nora Roberts, have written almost 200 books between them! There are way too many to choose from. A favorite book list seems like a daunting task.

Instead I’m going to take a stab at a mere fraction of the “Books I Wish I’d Written.” In no particular order, here are five of the books that I am mesmerized by and in fact worship to the point that they could easily turn me into a ginormous green-eyed monster if I didn’t like their authors so darn much.

The Accidental Tourist by Anne Tyler—Tyler makes it look deceptively easy to portray the complexities of relationships in this book about a guy who recovers from mourning the death of his son with the help of a very quirky dog trainer. Incidentally, he writes travel books for people who don’t like to travel but are forced to, hence the title. I’ve read everything Tyler’s ever written and I am constantly awed by her ability to bring characters and relationships to life with her minimal but letter-perfect prose.

Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott—I doubt there has ever been a more honest, hilarious and brutal depiction of early parenthood than this book, which is a journal of Lamott’s son’s first year of life. Forget the baby booties and the bassinets; Operating Instructions is my favorite baby shower gift for expectant parents.

Are You There, God? It’s Me Margaret by Judy Blume—This book could have been called “Are You There, God? It’s Me Leslie” when I read it in 6th grade, that’s how strongly I related to her treatise on training bras, menstruation, first kisses, zits, and bratty little brothers and sisters. Unlike many classic books that are better to have read than to actually read (the ones you suffer through to pass an English test or to not be ostracized out of future water cooler conversations), this is a REAL classic.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling—Granted, I’ve only read about half the series and have been more than satisfied with watching the movies and updates from my son, but is there anyone in this world who doesn’t wish they had come up with this jackpot of an idea? So what if I’m only marginally interested in fantasy books. Rowling is a real life Cinderella story, complete with a Scottish castle to stash all of her millions. Between that and getting so many kids excited about reading, how could I not want to have written this book and its six successors?

High Fidelity by Nick Hornby-Remember mix tapes? This book-a story about a “bloke” who runs a London record store and his reluctant ascendance to adulthood-is one of those perfect mix tapes combinations I wish I had thought of, a funny, sweet and endlessly interesting argument about growing up, falling in love and arcane pop music. Hornby’s writing is both brilliantly thought provoking and accessible. As a writer, he’s everything I look for as a reader, and everything I want to be when I grow up.

When Leslie’s not reading or writing, she’s usually on a hunt for her next favorite book. Send your recommendations to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 28, 2009.

School needs a longer recess

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Photo by Naypong FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Photo by Naypong FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Why oh why does school have to start in the middle of summer? I’d like to put school in detention for at least another month. Can’t we have a longer recess?

This happens every summer: just as I get used to the lazy morning camp schedule and I master the fine art of carting towels, beach chairs, boogie boards, sunscreen, hats, clothing changes, reading material and snacks from the parking lot to the beach in a single trip, it’s time to start adjusting to a “schedule.”

As far as I can tell, school is the one place in town that actually adheres to real time “schedule,” not Santa Barbara time, which is always about ten minutes late.

What’s up with that? Isn’t Labor Day the official end of summer?

UCSB doesn’t start classes till September 24th. I tell you; those kids are getting smarter every year. September is one of our most beautiful months. Wouldn’t it make a lot more sense to have summer in sunny September and school during June gloom? Who do I call about that? Is it too late to make this one of the key issues in the mayoral campaign?

This is a community-wide issue, you know. It has almost nothing to do with the fact that my June To Do List still intact. I’m not the only one who’s upset about this-and it’s not just kids and their parents who are affected. The entire town changes when school is back in session. There is more traffic, roaming gangs of parents and babies hit the streets between the hours of 8 a.m. and 3 p.m., and senior citizens take over the counters of yogurt stores, coffee shops and smoothie joints.

Are we really ready for this? I think not. Can we move summer out a month? Yes we can.

It seems ludicrous to be going back to school when the weather will finally be perfect. Can’t we enjoy just a few more weeks of summer? I am so not ready to start worrying about bedtime and balanced meals and homework.

How much homework is there in fifth grade anyway? There can’t possibly be more than there was in fourth grade. I didn’t have as much homework in college as my son did in fourth grade.

Then there’s the PTA. I wish I could say I didn’t hear anything from them all summer, but this year’s president is really organized and quite frankly, it scares me. Just last week I had 247 emails and 33 phone calls. How will I get any actual work done with so much volunteering to do?

The night before the first day of school is always the longest night of my life. I lie awake worrying that my alarm clock no longer works after spending summer in storage, that no one will sit with me at Java Station after drop off, or that I’ll be ostracized for not reusing all the baggies in my son’s lunch.

Then of course there are all the other children at school to worry about. The ones that will remind my son that I am totally unfair about everything, and an incredibly evil embarrassment who is depriving him of a cell phone, and iPod, a Nintendo DX, his own laptop, and just everything else he needs. Come to think of it, this ongoing conspiracy among school children really should also be an issue in the mayoral election.

Can we do it? Yes we can!

Sigh. Pass the margaritas. I’m not ready to worry about all this yet. It is still August, after all. I don’t care what the school calendar says-my summer doesn’t officially end till next month.

When Leslie’s not complaining about school, she can be found soaking up those last rays of summer at the beach, with her trusty laptop in tow. For surf and tide information email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 21, 2009.

I Like to Watch

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9fb5e72e6e4eae69_FoodnetworkchefI have a confession to make.

I like to watch people play with exotic tools like drizzlesticks, poach pods, mincers and mandolins. I find the sight of a grown man rubbing naked chickens down with butter dangerously alluring. In fact, I’d rather have Duff Goldman whisk my eggs and Bobby Flay pinch my salt than watch Skin-a-Max any night of the week.

Whether it’s Nigella Lawson lustfully sucking up oil-soaked spaghetti, Guy Fieri ferociously French-frying a potato, Paula Deen daintily deboning a chicken, or Michael Symon taking mucho macho control of an impossible mission, I love to watch the Food Network.

Food porn is my porn of choice.

“Just like sexual porn, food porn is something that you watch but not necessarily with the view of doing or putting in practice,” said a story in “The Montreal Gazette,” which quoted Valerie Bourdeau, a Concordia University student who did her master’s thesis on the subject. “The watching is the entertainment.”

I couldn’t agree more.

But my predilections aren’t limited to the small screen. “Big Night” is one of my favorite movies, as are “Chocolat,” “Ratatouille” and especially “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.”

I appreciate print as well. One of my favorite times of the year is chocolate catalog season. Though I’ve never actually ordered anything from Hickory Farms, their catalog has kept me company through many a long winter’s night.

Yes, I’ll admit it. I am addicted to food porn.

And just like some people who like to watch that other kind of porn (or so I’m told), just because I like to watch other people do it, doesn’t mean I want to try that at home.

With all of these joy of cooking shows on TV, “Julie & Julia” lighting up the big screen and everyone from Maureen Dowd to Barbara Kingsolver writing about food, it’s a culinary orgy out there-but I just like to watch.

Watching other people cook is, well, potent. Watch Giada or Ina or Mario for a half hour and then go shopping. You’ll see that even a fairly standard grocery store can feel like a glutton’s paradise, with the smells and the colors and the labels of the food romancing your senses.

But while I lust for all things gastronomic, I have absolutely no desire to bisect a living lobster, truss up a pheasant or go anywhere near a sweetbread, despite it’s deceptively enticing sounding name. Like the best of pornography (or so I’m told), food porn depicts beautiful things arranged in ways you might not have previously thought of, with star chefs doing things onscreen that few amateurs like me would ever try at home.

In fact, if my husband told me he wanted to take over ALL of the cooking tomorrow and forevermore, I could quite happily never set foot in my kitchen again.

Sadly, that’s not going to happen.

We both admit to marrying poorly in the kitchen department. While I cook more than I used to out of necessity, my most used recipe card is still the one my sister-in-law gave me, with phone numbers for all the local takeout places that deliver. The only thing I truly “like” to make is reservations. In fact, we once joked about holding a Plastic Chef competition at our house. Hey, if the Chairman lets us hold it in Kitchen Stadium with Alton Brown doing the play by play, then “let the battle begin.”

That’s something I’d really like to watch.

When Leslie’s not perusing the Food Network, she’s online at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 14, 2009.

Testosterone Central

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Photo by Ambro freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by Ambro freedigitalphotos.net

How do you raise a boy to be in touch with his sensitive side, but not to be a wimp?

I’ve been thinking about this question a lot recently.

I just returned from a few days at “Testosterone Central,” otherwise known as my friend Andrea’s house. She has three strapping young men between the ages of 9 and 15-in addition to her rather strapping husband and large male dog-so Andrea’s house oozes more testosterone than a bachelor party at a NASCAR race on St. Patrick’s Day.

Now don’t get me wrong. It’s beautifully decorated and there’s always something wonderful cooking on the stove. But from the moment you get out of the car-and trip over the discarded scooters, soccer cleats, gym bags and tennis shoes-you know that this is not a place for wimps.

These boys live in a swirling cauldron of testosterone and they’ve marked their territory everywhere you look.

Of course, my son Koss loves it there. What boy could resist the chin up bars, Lacrosse sticks and Old Spice products hiding in every corner? I can practically hear Koss’s voice deepen and the hair start to grow on his (barely) ten-year-old chest after a few minutes with “Da Boyz.” It doesn’t matter how much time has gone by, it never takes him long to pick up the stride at “Testosterone Central.” The older kids, and the various neighbor boys who hang out all the time, treat Koss just like another little brother—which is both good and bad.

He loves being part of the gang and tagging along for whatever adventures may happen, but as an only child he’s not used to having to keep up with anyone, and even less used to not having anyone coddle him or help him along. In fact, I know he’s getting older because this is the first time he’s left their house without any injuries.

I’m not saying that “Testosterone Central” is dangerous, only that Andrea is on a first name basis with the emergency room nurses in multiple states. Those kids get hurt and she barely blinks an eye. I guess having three sons toughens you up. Come to think of it, when her kids get hurt they barely blink an eye. I guess having brothers toughens you up too.

Koss is not all that tough. He’s never really had to be. I’m sure part of the reason that he still sits on my lap and likes to cuddle is because he doesn’t have any older brothers to tell him not to. I love that sweet, cuddly side of him.

But he also loves to immerse himself in that boy energy at “Testosterone Central.” It’s not exactly animal house, but you can tell that it would easily slip into fraternity style mayhem if mom-and the housekeeper-went away for an extended period of time. No wonder Koss loves it there.

He’s spent a lot of the summer hanging out with his girl cousins, and was completely comfortable being assigned to an all girl group (plus one male counselor) at Nature Camp. I don’t think the boys who live in “Testosterone Central” would be-except maybe the oldest one, who’s got a whole other level of testosterone kicking in.

I asked Koss about whether he felt he behaved differently with all boys or all girls. “When I’m with the boys I definitely feel more aggressive with them,” he said. “I try to be funnier with the girls.”

That’s when I realized that I didn’t have to be too worried about him one way or the other. He already knows exactly how to behave with both boys and with girls. If he can make the girls laugh and then go tackle the boys-and as long as he knows the right ones to cry in front of-he’s going to be just fine.

Share your MOB (mother of boys) tips with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 7, 2009.

Brand Teen

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Photo by stockimages freedigitalphotos.net

We live in a superficial society, so I suppose it was inevitable that the image consulting business would eventually expand its horizons to teenage girls.

It must be tough to be a teen today.

In addition to padding their 9.5 grade-point-average resumes with mastery of tennis, Mandarin, water polo, texting under the table, and ballroom dancing—not to mention the 9,000 hours of community service that top colleges look for-girls are now looking to upgrade their images to give them that much-needed competitive edge.

Wardrobe, hair, and makeup used to be things that mothers and daughters would fight about. Apparently now there are third parties to help settle those battles. But why?

At first I was horrified when I read about “minor makeovers” in the Washington Post. According to the story, by Cathy Alter, “…a dozen D.C.-, New York- and Los Angeles-based image consultants and personal shoppers all report an increase in their number of clients who are minors, despite the flagging economy.”

Wow. Are we really so concerned about looks that we need to make girls feel even more self-conscious when they look in the mirror? Whatever happened to developing their inner beauty? Since I don’t have a teenage daughter, I decided to ask around.

“I’ve never heard of this, but it doesn’t surprise me. My initial reaction, knowing nothing about it, is a negative one,” said Charlene. “Part of growing up is experimenting with your image and identity. I don’t like the idea of paying someone to tell my kids how they should look.”

Renee had an even stronger negative reaction: “I think this is disgusting. With our culture already way too focused on the superficial, the last thing we need is for that process to start earlier in life. … Do yourself a favor, instead of investing in ‘looks,’ think about spending some quality time with your kids, enroll them in some art or theater classes, or go on a volunteer vacation in a foreign country. You’ll get way more bang out of your buck and your kids will no doubt be healthier and better human beings.”

“My kids are so gorgeous, stylish, confident and well rounded that they could be consultants to other teens. It is a shame that parents are hiring someone to alter who their teens are to be what is portrayed in magazines and such. What ever happened to individuality?” said Dina.

“I want to belly laugh really loudly at this notion of image consultants for kids,” said Linda. “EEEEW! Like they are not already self-conscious enough? Leave them alone for god’s sake! It will increase their body obsession and make them even more paranoid. What a bad idea.”

But not everyone agreed.

Thousand Oaks-based personal image consultant Connie L. Gregory says she has had a few teenage clients. No big surprise, it turns out mothers and daughters don’t always agree on what constitutes “fashion.” Gregory once worked, through the Make a Wish Foundation (which grants wishes to children with life-threatening medical conditions), with an 18-year-old young lady who wanted a glamour makeover. Even under those circumstances, she still had a mother who wanted a more conservative and more modest look than the daughter did.

“I must say, part of me thinks this image consultant for teens idea is cool, the other part of me is scared sh-less,” said my friend Nan. “What if our teens all end up looking like droids when they go out into the world? Wouldn’t image consulting be better for after college?”

When directly related to entering college and the working world, the idea of image consulting for teenagers becomes more palatable for many.

“It’s tougher for girls to get in college than any time I can remember,” said my friend Lisa, a prep school college counselor. “As much as it turns my stomach to have to advise them to place so much emphasis on looks, sometimes acing that personal interview is the most strategic thing they have in their arsenal.”

I guess she had a point. Now that the college entrance scales have flipped against women, I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad to help them out a little.

While this may be big on the east coast, my friend Sally was the only one I could find who admitted that she and her teenage daughter went to an image-consulting seminar together. But mom reports, “It was really boring for her.”

My favorite response of all came from my sister. “I have never heard of this kind of image consulting thing. I kind of thought that building my girls’ self esteem was my job. However, I guess if your kid is not feeling good about themselves, I am all for whatever works.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Tell Leslie what you think about image consultants for teens at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 31, 2009.

Fig Leaf Schmig Leaf

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Photo by by photostock, freedigitalphotos.net

Summertime means bare feet and bare arms, but does it mean bare buns?

A recent New York Times article by Julie Scelfo about parents’ clashing sensibilities concerning nudity among young children (cleverly titled “When Do They Need a Fig Leaf?”) got me thinking about how much times have changed.

When I was a kid in the 60s and 70s, there seemed to be naked children everywhere and nobody gave it a second thought. I remember when I was about five, my Grandma Etta crocheted me an orange and pink bikini, and I couldn’t wait to wear it in the ocean at East Beach. Of course, being made of stretchy yarn, the suit was down to my ankles by the time I caught my first wave. I kicked it off and stayed in the water the rest of the afternoon. I doubt my mom even noticed, given how prevalent naked kids were on the beach in those days.

Today it would be a different story. For example, a friend of ours recently returned from river rafting with a bunch of other families, and among the notable memories of the trip were the four and five-year-old girls who spent most of their vacation naked.

The fact that this was commented on at all tells us how far we’ve come. As Scelfo wrote, “For many parents, allowing a child to run around naked at home is perfectly natural, an expression of physical freedom that represents the essence of childhood, especially in the summer. But for others, unclad bodies are an affront to civility, a source of discomfort and a potentially dangerous attraction for pedophiles. These clashing sensibilities can create conflict, even when the nudity in question takes place at home.”

My son never particularly liked running around naked, so this wasn’t an issue at our house. But I’ve heard other mothers express concern, especially about their daughters’ eagerness to drop their drawers at the drop of a hat. There’s such a fine line between wanting to be protective against perverts and wanting kids to feel comfortable with their bodies. I do believe that parents who are overly paranoid about nudity are setting their children up to feel ashamed of their own bodies. Then there’s also the social factor. As a matter of common courtesy, you don’t want to make other adults-or even other children-feel uncomfortable if your kid’s running around in the buff.

So where do you draw the line in the summer sand?

Is it at a certain age? (Three? Four? When they start elementary school? When they start puberty? My husband says 27, but I’m pretty sure that’s wrong.) Every family is different and that’s okay. Ultimately, I think it’s okay to teach kids that they need to take situational peculiarities into consideration when it comes to their state of dress, or undress.

Sometimes different situations call for different outfits-and that includes birthday suits.

Which side of the fig leaf do you stand? Email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 24, 2009.

Yogurt Culture

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Photo by Rakratchada Torsap, freedigitalphotos.net

I’ve been spending a lot of time in yogurt stores lately. You can’t cross the street without bumping into a new one, so they’re kind of hard to avoid. In fact, the last time I was at Yogurt House in the Yogurt City pavilion, construction workers were putting up the walls for a brand new Yogurt Pantry inside. I tried to go home to avoid it, but they were busy installing a Yogurt Heaven between my kitchen and the living room.

They’re scaring all the cupcake stores away.

I hear they’re even chasing Starbucks out in some towns, though thankfully, not in ours-at least not yet. But it only takes a short stroll down State Street to see froyo fans of all fashions digging their pink and green plastic spoons deep into quadruple latte sized paper cups. Clearly frozen yogurt has regained its cool.

“The Restaurant Guy” John Dickson attributes the yogurt store invasion to the huge success of Pinkberry, a tarter and tangier version of the frozen treat, which first came to California in 2005 and opened in Santa Barbara in January.

There’s no doubt that the popularity of tart, healthier tasting yogurt has spurred some new business, but I have some theories of my own about this new yogurt culture.

Theory 1: People like frozen yogurt because it’s a treat masquerading as health food.

Yogurt stores throw around buzz words like “organic” and “probiotic” and “active cultures,” but let’s face it, the real selling points for most of us are the toppings, which give us the chance to eat Captain Crunch, Heath Bars and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and still feel like we’re being virtuous.

Conclusion: Or maybe that’s just me.

Theory 2: It’s all about self-service.

While not all of these new stores let customers serve themselves, a lot of them do. There’s something decadent about being able to fill your cup to your heart’s content with flavor combinations you would never order over the counter.

Conclusion: Peanut butter, root beer, and cheesecake anyone?

Theory 3: You can tell a lot about someone by watching them fill up a cup of frozen yogurt.

My nine-year-old son likes to add things like gummy worms and Froot Loops to his yogurt; really anything that leaves candy colored streaks in his chocolate flavored yogurt is yummy in his book and disgusting in mine. He also likes to stir it to milkshake consistency, at which point he decides it tastes bad and he wants a new one.

Conclusion: Little boys like to make a mess, and if they can gross their moms out at the same time it’s even better.

Little girls tend to pick their topping and yogurt combinations by color. They like to combine multiple flavors with a variety of toppings, especially sprinkles, M & M’s and jimmies.

Conclusion: Little girls like to accessorize.

I’ve noticed that teenage boys also fail to note the delicate differences between fruity sweets (which are a waste of calories to me) and actual sweets. They like to layer the yogurt and the toppings parfait style, and are not at all concerned with food faux pas like mixing Irish Mint yogurt with Nerds, Cappuccino with Kiwi Lime Sauce or even Cookies and Cream with Ketchup.

Conclusion: Teenage boys will eat anything.

Teenage girls tend to be yogurt purists. They know what they want, since they frequent yogurt stores almost as frequently as they text. In general, they stick with fruity flavors like mango or strawberry topped by actual fruit or granola, or go for the gusto with Cheesecake yogurt and brownie bites or Chocolate Decadence and Carmel sauce.

Conclusion: Teenage girls know everything, so of course they know exactly what they want.

Their moms are the same way. It seems there’s no middle ground when it comes to frozen yogurt, it’s either healthy or diabetic coma inducing.

Conclusion: Moms are good decision makers.

Hmm … should we go to Yogurtland or Yo Yum Yum this afternoon? Clearly this frozen yogurt trend is not going to be melting anytime soon.

Share your favorite yogurt combinations with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 17, 2009.

The meaning of marriage

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© Lissdoc | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Lissdoc | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I’m ambivalent about marriage in many ways.

I’m not a religious person, so the church stuff isn’t meaningful to me. Zak and I lived together for almost six years before we got married, and most things didn’t change after we tied the knot. He got fat, and I started denying him sex-otherwise, status quo.

Granted, we had two sets of china and enough barware to serve 50 different drinks to 50 people, but certainly our feelings for each other or our level of commitment were not really different on March 13th 1994 than they were on March 12th. We loved each other; we wanted to spend our lives together. We had a great party, said some nice things, shed a few tears and then we still loved each other, and still wanted to spend our lives together.

The thing that did change when we got married was how other people treated us. Zak’s parents were much warmer to me. My sister finally admitted that the relationship wasn’t “just a phase.” I immediately became “Aunt Leslie” to the nieces and nephews I had already spent years growing to love.

Some of our friends also treated us differently once we were married. A few of my high school girl friends insisted on addressing mail to “Mrs. Klobucher,” even though I never changed my name, and I’m pretty sure they weren’t trying to invite my mother-in-law to their baby shower.

The bank treated us differently too, and so did the government. It seemed almost everyone had an investment in marriage, although it meant different things to different people. My friend Susan said she felt “ten thousand times more secure in her relationship” after walking down the aisle. Joe said getting married made him feel “like a grownup,” and Tammy said it felt a lot like joining a sorority, “till death do us part.”

Older generations have a very different view of marriage. Greg said getting married made him feel like he “had this huge burden of responsibility for his wife,” while Connie said, “I felt like I was leaving my parents and joining a new family.”

Marriage can mean a myriad of things to individuals and couples, but it’s clearly hypocritical to pretend that it’s a sacred part of our society as a whole. Just look at the state of our unions in the last month, with Mark Sanford’s Argentine disappearing act eclipsing Jon and Kate’s primetime split and Sandra Tsing Loh’s marital implosion on the pages of The Atlantic.

The government’s definition of marriage is a legal union. That’s the one and only part of marriage that seems pretty simple and straightforward to me. Being able to marry who you want to seems like a basic human right, along with matching china and a great big party with all of your friends and family looking on.

It’s up to each of us to interpret what marriage means to us as individuals and couples. Men and women, women and women or men and men, all of us should have that right. Even though none of my gay friends got married when they had the opportunity-most of them felt more commitment than an actual marriage would confer, and they wanted to stay skinny and keep having sex-we all knew that they at least deserved the choice.

Tell Leslie what marriage means to you at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 10, 2009.

Greeting the Grunion

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I couldn’t help but giggle as I watched the silvery fish wiggle into the sand to lay their eggs. These mesmerizing creatures are only found along the coast of southern California and northern Baja California where they lay their eggs on sandy beaches just a few months out of the year.

Growing up in Santa Barbara, my parents took us “Grunion Hunting” at East Beach. I remember the thrill of being up and out on the sand hours beyond my usual bedtime. My sister and I would catch the Grunion in our hands and then throw them back to sea, not really understanding anything about the fish except that they were our tickets to dance around barefoot in the moonlight.

It had been decades since I’d thought about Grunion-until I wrote a story for Seasons Magazine about Santa Barbara Channel Keeper, a local nonprofit that works to protect and restore the Santa Barbara Channel and watersheds.

One of Channel Keeper’s programs, in coordination with Pepperdine University, is “Grunion Greeters,” where volunteers monitor Grunion behavior on local beaches during spawning season. As soon I heard about this I called my Dad, and we volunteered to be “Citizen Scientists,” the title the program generously bestows upon participants.

After one night’s training at UCSB, I was presented with my “Citizen Scientist” tiara and a spawning schedule in a surprisingly moving ceremony. Okay, maybe I really just got a free bag and a pen, but they called us all “scientists,” which is a crowning achievement I would love to report to my college physics professor, if he were still speaking to me, and if I actually took physics in college.

So science isn’t really my academic forte, but citizen science is fun. Unlike many fish, Grunion spawn completely out of the water, so you can actually watch them lay their eggs in the sand, which looks a little like the “Shake Your Booty” dance my son used to do in preschool.

Koss did a delighted version of the “Funky Chicken” along with some excited yelps the first time he saw the Grunion, and I was right back in my own childhood mode. We were lucky to spot Grunion right away during our scheduled monitoring time, 11:20 p.m. While the Grunion can be spotted shortly after high tide on specific nights, our trainers warned us that we wouldn’t always be able to see them-although sometimes the beaches are covered with thousands of Grunion dancing on the sand. The popularity of Grunion runs in some places means that some nights there are more people lining the beaches than Grunion in the run.

That definitely wasn’t the case at Leadbetter Beach, where we did our monitoring last week. We only ran into a few other people-some more interested in human spawning than animal mating behavior-along with a couple who had happened upon some Grunion the night before and were there for an encore, and some tourists who were enchanted by these strange silvery fish. “Whoa, Dude, that was awesome. What were those things,” they asked.

“Professor” Dad and I explained that they were Grunion there to spawn. Providing human or animal predators didn’t intervene, the eggs would remain buried in the sand for their incubation time of approximately two weeks. Then the larvae would hatch and the eggs would be washed out by high waves during tides before the new and full moons.

“Radical man. And to think we just happened upon them during one of the few nights of the year they’re in Santa Barbara. Totally awesome,” was their response.

It is totally awesome, and totally fun. The last expected Grunion runs of the season are at local beaches next week, on July 8 (Wednesday) at 10:40 p.m. and July 9 (Thursday) at 11:10 p.m. I can’t wait.

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Some tips for Grunion Greeters:

Nature doesn’t always follow our schedule. The scheduled times are for high tide when the runs may begin, but keep in mind that they typically occur within a two-hour period and plan accordingly.

Bring a flashlight but use it sparingly, as less light means more of a chance that the Grunion will spawn.

It can get cold at night, so wear layers and shoes that can get wet.

If you decide to catch the Grunion (Grunion Greeters discourages this) you may only use your bare hands; no nets, hooks or gear are allowed.

For more information on this program visit www.Grunion.org.

Share your Grunion adventures with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 4, 2009.