Tag Archives: South Coasting

The guilt gene

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Image by Stuart Miles, Freedigitalphotos.net

Image by Stuart Miles, Freedigitalphotos.net

G-U-I-L-T should really be a four-letter word.

Years ago, when I was in full-blown rebellious teenage daughter mode, I jotted this quote down from Katherine Lee: “If there’s anything that can match the heights of mother-love, it’s the depths of mother-guilt.”

Boy is that ever true.

I was raised on a diet of guilt. Sure, it was well seasoned with humor (which I must add, so I won’t feel too guilty when my mom reads this), but guilt is so deeply embedded into my DNA that I feel guilty not having mastered guilt yet.

I’ve spent most of my life making important decisions based on the avoidance of future guilt. If I don’t finish the laundry tonight then my son will have to wear dingy underwear tomorrow. What if he gets in a car accident because he has dingy underwear? Does the dentist really know if I skip one night of flossing? If I watch “The Next Food Network Star” tonight instead of “Desperate Housewives” will I be personally responsible for the end of scripted television? What if I skip that one school board meeting and they vote to cut out recess? It never seems to end.

Some days it feels like my whole life has been one, big, guilty, mental dress rehearsal for all of the bad things that might happen if I don’t do all the good things I’m supposed to.

Yet, despite so many years of good girl-dom, good wife-dom and good daughter-dom tangled with all the woulda coulda shoulda catastrophes in my head, I am still surprised by how entwined guilt is with being a mom.

It’s not even noon yet and already the ugly wheels of self- recrimination are grinding against each other in my head. When I dropped off Koss at school, I felt guilty for driving my big fat carbon footprint car (but I can’t afford a Leaf or a Volt, so I feel guilty for not working more to make more money). Then I felt guilty paying $4 for a latte when I had perfectly good coffee at home. But I hadn’t gotten up early enough to make the coffee, another thing that made me feel guilty.

Plus it was Beach Day so I made sure Koss had sunscreen, a towel and his own sandwich in case he didn’t like the ones the other mothers made, but I wasn’t driving on the field trip and wasn’t even going to come to the beach until after lunch because I had to finish writing a story first, which of course, I felt guilty about. Then there’s the fact that I didn’t sign up in time to bring the sandwiches he likes, not to mention all the baking I haven’t done for all the parties and events in these last four years of school.

It’s enough to make you drown in guilt.

Erma Bombeck once called guilt “the gift that keeps on giving.” She was so right. I used to blame it all on my mom, who has an amazing ability to shoot guilt darts with the slightest change in the tone of her voice. Of course I feel guilty about blaming her, especially now that I realize that she couldn’t help it.

I’d blame my husband, but he doesn’t care. Whoever said, “men feel guilty about nothing and women feel guilty about everything” clearly spent some time with him.

I finished the story but left dishes in the sink and beds unmade in order make it to the beach before the party was over.

The minute my son saw me he gave me a huge grin and a hug. All that rushing and hustling was worth it after all.

Then he hit me with the stinger: “Finally you’re here, mom. What took you so long?”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t respond to Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. But you should at least go read more columns at www.LeslieDinaberg.com.  Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 26, 2011.

What’s in a name?

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Photo by sixninepixels, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by sixninepixels, freedigitalphotos.net

“Manroot” and “Roadkill” were my husband’s favorite baby names when I was pregnant. I could never quite tell if he was serious- especially when he would wax rhapsodic about all the umlauts we could crow “root” with. I just laughed, as I blew off those suggestions as best I could, and continued looking at naming books.

Then he pushed for “Anastasia,” which I thought was pretty, until Zak admitted that he liked the name because of its potential nickname- “Nasty.” Talk about asking for trouble. That’s even worse than “Roadkill.”

“Tumbleweed” had some traction during the second trimester. We also discussed the possibility of a combination of our fathers’ names-“Jim Bob.” I was joking, but again, I’m not so sure about my husband.

Needless to say, I was overjoyed when we both agreed on “Koss” for our son’s name. It’s my grandmother’s maiden name, so it had sentimental significance; it’s unusual, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the whole “Koss K.” and “Koss A.” in school; and it’s easy to pronounce-or so I thought.

In the 12 years and two weeks and two days that my son has been around, I have never once said his name to another adult and then continued on with our conversation.

Kids are fine with “Koss” as a name. I think it’s because all words are relatively new to them, so Koss/Kylie/Klamato, it makes no difference. However, to the Mike/ Jeff/John/Linda/Lisa/Karen generation (i.e. adults), “Koss” inspires all kinds of confusion, and that’s even before he starts telling you about mythical creatures or giving you multiple- choice questions about all the books he read this summer.

An introduction to my son is frequently greeted with: “How do you spell that?” “What language is that?” “Oh, like the headphones?” or most often, “Huh?”

I had no idea that picking an unusual-yet-easy-to-spell-and- pronounce moniker for my son would produce so much additional conversation. I had to feed 75 extra cents into my parking meter the other day, just to explain Koss’s name to a particularly dim receptionist.

I can only imagine the kind of namer’s remorse that “Superman 4Real’s” parents must be feeling right now. Did you hear about those zany New Zealanders? They wanted to name their son simply “4Real,” which is perfectly understandable, but ran into an obscure Kiwi law prohibiting names beginning with numbers. That’s right, there’s actually a law in New Zealand against naming your child “100Proof” and apparently some discretionary power in that country, unlike ours, where they recently took stands against “Satan” and “Adolf Hitler” (the names, not the actual entities).

This whole naming business can be awfully stressful. The Wall Street Journal reports an unprecedented level of angst among parents trying to choose names for their children.

While you can expect to see a lot of Jacob’s and Isabella’s running around playgrounds in the next few years (those were the most popular names in 2010), original names-or at least more original names-are now in. The 1980 Social Security Administration data show that the 10 most popular baby names were given to 41% of boys and 23% of girls. But last year, just 8.4% of boys and 8% of girls were given one of the year’s 10 most popular names.

Not only are popular names getting less popular, apparently the ten zillion baby naming books and websites are no longer adequate tools to select a baby name. The name game is so stressful that people are starting to turn to strangers for help. Mommies- and daddies-to-be can now hire baby-naming consultants, to the tune of $250 an hour.

I could do that job. Flynn Stone, bad idea. Richard Tester, oh please. Harold Butts, are you kidding me?

So, I’ve finally found the answer to Juliet’s oft-quoted question, “What’s in a name?” If I play my cards right, about $250 an hour.

For a special reader’s rate on baby naming consultation, email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 12, 2011.

Viva La Fiesta!

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1707e47c9de6bf305c9143c1031a1948Love it or hate it, Leslie does both

Like many Santa Barbarians, I have a love/hate relationship with Fiesta. I’m not one of those people who flee from town every Fiesta, but you’ll also never catch me running for La Presidenta.

My ambivalence started when I was a kid, and like most things when you’re 7 years old, it was all my mom’s fault.

You see, other than the rare button repair or sock darning, my mom didn’t know how to sew. She didn’t garden either, so even though she let me be a flower girl in the Children’s Parade I never had the prettiest dresses or the prettiest flowers to toss.

It was still fun, but I’m sure it would have been much more fun if I’d had a better outfit, Mom!

The street dances at West Beach were awesome when I was a teenager. Part of the appeal was that parents weren’t allowed, but I guess the city canceled them when they got too rowdy. I’m sure this was my mom’s fault somehow.

Still, Old Spanish Days are always a lot of fun.

It’s too many Old Spanish Nights in a row that I pay the price for.

There’s something about those hot August evenings and Mariachi music that always lead to a little too much fun in the cactus-based beverage department, then one too many late night burritos at Casablanca (R.I.P.) “to absorb the alcohol.”

After almost four decades (yikes!) of Fiesta celebrations, I’ve finally learned to pick and choose my events. It’s hard, because they’re all fun in different ways and it’s always great to see friends. But it’s also a lot of people and a lot of festivities to deal with for five days straight, not counting the pre-events that start five months before.

Did I mention it’s a LOT of people?

But I really don’t love that Fiesta feverish feeling I get towards the end of the week when hearing one more chorus of “La Bamba” will put me over the edge. And as much as I love the colorful cascarones, I hate finding confetti in my laundry basket for the next six months.

But I love watching all of the dancing, running into old friends, and the tamales at Our Lady of Guadalupe. And going to the parties-I really love going to the parties.

But I’d like them even better if I had a prettier dress.

Share your Fiesta memories with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 29, 2011.

Is happiness overrated

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I Just Want My Kids to be Happy!“America’s youth are drowning in happiness,” says Aaron Cooper, Ph.D., a psychologist concerned about the rising rates of youth depression and anxiety.

“Millions of well-intentioned parents have made life harder for their children by shielding the kids from every kind of unhappiness,” according to Cooper, who co- authored a book on the dangers when parents make happiness the most important thing in their children’s lives. “These parents try to soften every edge in their children’s lives, and it’s crippling the kids emotionally.”

That’s a scary thought, but he might be right. “I Just Want My Kids To Be Happy!” has become the mantra of today’s parents. I hear people say that all of the time. I’m just as guilty as the next mom of sometimes valuing my son’s short-term happiness over the long-term lessons I could-and should-be teaching him.

I just read Cooper’s book called, I Just Want My Kids To Be Happy! Why you shouldn’t say it, why you shouldn’t think it, what you should embrace instead,” which he co-authored with Eric Keitel, M.Ed., and they explain why buying into the happiness mantra is a mistake.

“Without plenty of practice coping with ordinary sadness, upset, disappointment, and hurt, kids don’t develop resilience,” Cooper says. “And without resilience, they’re vulnerable to all kinds of problems.”

Of course everyone wants their kids to be happy, that’s human nature. But according to this book, “I just want them to be happy” is more than just a wish. It’s also expressing a belief that our kids’ happiness is the most important thing.

After reading it I began to think that happiness might actually be overrated.

Some of the negative consequences that result from just wanting children to be happy include:

Being captive to our children’s moods. I am so guilty of this one. From the time that Koss was a teeny tiny baby I have hated to see him be the least bit unhappy or god forbid, cry, and will do just about anything to make it stop.

Feeling unnecessary guilt and shame when our kids aren’t happy. I’m the poster child for this one. When Koss is upset I feel personally responsible. It’s all my fault. It’s always all my fault. Even if it’s his fault, I feel like it’s all my fault.

Overprotecting our children from adversity. Guilty again. I can’t help it. It’s so hard not to want protect your child from life’s pain. Every time I hear about another kid being mean to Koss, or even inadvertently hurting his feelings, the mama bear in me wants to swoop in and make everything all right again-even if it means permanently banishing the mean kid from the forest. I’m still holding grudges from kindergarten while Koss has long since moved on.

Abdicating parental authority rather than cause our kids unhappiness. Again, guilty as charged. Really guilty. I can’t tell you how often I abandon my plans to run errands after school and agree to let him have a friend over, or agree to five more minutes of playtime (which turns into ten or 15 minutes) because he looked at me with sadness in those big brown eyes. This one’s a double whammy because after I give in, then I feel guilty for not being strict enough with him.

It might even be a triple whammy because, as Cooper explains: “Kids know how much their parents want them to be happy, and so when they’re sad or upset for whatever reason, they feel guilty thinking they’re letting their parents down. Many hide their distress at home, which compounds the problem and they end up feeling worse.”

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned as a parent-okay I’m still working on this one-is to allow Koss to be unhappy. My impulse is to want to wipe away his sadness like it was spilt milk. At the same time I know that I’m doing him a disservice by trying to “make it all better.”

When it comes to our children’s happiness, less may actually be more. So instead of focusing on happiness, what should parents emphasize? Cooper and Keitel reviewed decades of research and found eight ingredients in people’s lives that reliably predict who is happy and who is not, including a sense of gratitude, closeness to others, and an optimistic outlook.

I think I get it now. The next time Koss is sad I won’t try to make it all better, I’ll just give him a hug, tell him how much I love him, and hope for the best.

Are we overemphasizing our children’s happiness? Tell Leslie what you think by emailing Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 15. 2011.

Firing up for the fourth

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Image by nuttakit, freedigitalimages.net

Image by nuttakit, freedigitalimages.net

The Fourth of July is the one day of the year when laziness finally gets the respect it deserves, which is why the fourth is number one in my book.

Despite all of the organized activity options in town-which consists of multiple parades; a musical smorgasbord of American standards, symphonies, jazz, flamenco, show tunes, country, Klezmer and Zydeco; plus hayrides, horseshoes, and pancake breakfasts-no one thinks you’re nuts if you decline all that and elect instead to simply recline, relax, sip a beer and watch the sun go down till the fireworks go up.

Now that’s my kind of holiday.

Unless you sell beer for a living, you really can’t go to work that day, because it would be un-American.

There’s so much tradition associated with the fourth. I’m sure if they were still alive, the founding fathers-George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, John McCain, Jack Daniels and Orville Redenbacher-would celebrate just like we do, with beer and matches.

What other time of the year do we not only allow-but also encourage-children to play with fire? I’m sure the genius that invented sparklers did it so the kids would have something to do while the adults were getting drunk and overeating.

Plus, I get to play with matches too. What better time to get in touch with your inner pyromaniac than the Fourth of July. I’m always entranced by the fireworks: both the big booming ones shooting from the sky, and the cute, little, funny-named ones on the ground, like June Bugs, Whistling Petes, Glittering Crystal Fountains, and Flashing Peach Flowers in Spring (who my husband says he saw at the Spearmint Rhino).

Then there’s the exceedingly amusing, and mostly masculine mania to stare and poke at whatever’s cooking on the barbecue. I love to eavesdrop on the men folk as they ponder the eternal questions of life, such as, “How many minutes do tyrannosaurus rex steaks have to cook on each side? Hmm. What if I made the pterodactyl sausage instead? Let me look that up on my iPhone. Make sure you wear your headset. It’s okay, we’re outside, it’s still legal. That’s right. How do you turn this thing on? I’m not sure. Let me check my GPS.”

Plus, is there any other day of the year where overeating is considered an act of patriotism?

OK, maybe there is, but Thanksgiving is always so much work for my mom. And it’s not in the summer where you can eat outside and the cooking is relatively simple. Just throw a few dogs or burgers or dinosaurs on the grill and call it a holiday.

Another fun thing about the fourth is you get to dress up in ridiculous outfits and everyone’s too drunk to take pictures. I really wish I had asked Jimbo where he got that t-shirt that says, “Uncle Sam Wants You … To Have Another Beer.” That would have been perfect.

I guess I’ll have to wear the same old “Light my Firecracker” tee again this year. I’ll be the one exercising my independence by lounging on a beach chair if you want to come say hi. Happy Fourth of July!

Share your holiday traditions with Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 1, 2011.

What PMS really stands for

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Image by Ohmega1982, freedigitalphotos.net

Image by Ohmega1982, freedigitalphotos.net

I used to think that PMS was a myth.

Like fat free cheese that doesn’t taste like plastic, the Loch Ness Monster, celery having negative calories, and conditioner that repairs split ends-I was convinced that Premenstrual Syndrome didn’t really exist. I would secretly snicker to myself when my girlfriends complained that the turning of their hormonal tides meant the churning desire to bite someone’s head off was nearing.

While I had heard that PMS stood for “People Must Suffer,” “Pissy Mood Syndrome” and “Pass My Sweatpants” in other households, ours stayed relatively serene. Sure, certain times of the month I might crave a little more chocolate, and then salt, and then chocolate-but I wouldn’t morph into a drama queen the way my friend Rose did when she banished her teenage daughter from the house after she ate the last Kit Kat left over from Halloween. (“Provide Me Sweets”)

What kind of crazy family has leftover Halloween candy in November anyway?

And I certainly wouldn’t yell, “You moron. It says 15 items or less. Can’t you $%@&$%@ count to 15? Each of your %$#@$ 11 jars of prunes counts as one,” to an elderly man in the grocery store like Tia did, on a particularly gloomy day. (“Pass My Shotgun” or “Potential Murder Suspect”)

What was up with these “Particularly Moody Sickos” anyway? Why did otherwise sane women turn into stark raving lunatics? (“Perverse Mean Streak”) I seriously didn’t get it. But I was smart enough to run for cover, and make a few notations on my calendar.

When my otherwise awesome (and sane) friends turned into “Perfectly Mean Sistas” just because a few “Pimples May Surface” I steered clear, and privately wondered if they might need counseling.

Then I turned 40. “Pardon My Sobbing.”

The mood swings came on gradually. I woke up one morning wanting to kill my husband because his breathing was so annoying, (“Plainly Men Suck”) got up, took a shower and felt better.

The next month it felt like a gunpowder and Redbull cocktail had been injected into my bloodstream. A clerk at Long’s was humming an off key version of “Please Men Shut-up” as he stacked a display of Rosarita Refried Beans, and it took every ounce of my self-control not to ram my cart into his vocally challenged face.

I wrote it off to stress, and self-medicated with bon-bons and romance novels. (“Praying Mood Subsides”)

It took a few more months for me to acknowledge to myself that I was starting to feel touchy, stressed, and well, sort of bitchy on a regular basis. Perhaps PMS wasn’t a myth after all. I was just a really, really, late bloomer. Lucky me.

It took another year to admit to my husband (“Punish My Spouse”) that I might possibly be experiencing some minor monthly mood swings. Perhaps hormones might be causing a few of my increased emotions and incoherent thoughts, i.e. extra tears and crazy rantings.

The relief on his face was palpable. I had finally entered the “Please Make Sense” phase of my cycle. He said, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” (“Perfect Man Sarcasm”) – but then smiled, and asked if I needed supplies. We’ve both finally figured out that “Pinot Means Serenity” and “Peanut (Butter M&Ms) Mean Smiles” as well.

Tell Leslie what you think PMS stands for at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 24, 2011.

A Misty-Eyed Look at Elementary School Graduation

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Photo by David Castillo Dominici, freedigitalphotos.net

Photo by David Castillo Dominici, freedigitalphotos.net

Sorry about the wet newspaper. I’ve been crying big, sloppy, sentimental mommy tears since Koss started sixth grade last fall, when I was shocked to find my still- squirrelly-not-yet-pimply-but-still-closes-his-eyes-when-people-kiss-in-movies little boy in a class full of young women. Never have I seen such blatant evidence of girls maturing faster than boys as I did in that sixth grade classroom.

Never, that is, until sixth grade graduation, when the girls in their high, high heels, stylish dresses, curled hair and lip gloss towered above their slightly dressed up little brothers. After months of anxiety and excitement, elementary school finally ended, and I can’t seem to turn off the waterworks.

Then again, we have had a lot of wind this year, and I do have allergies. I couldn’t possibly be crying this much otherwise.

It’s not that the ending of elementary school hasn’t been endless. We’ve had 17 end- of-the-year parties, 310 play performances, 172 hours of P.E. and a summer birthday party in the classroom.

That was just last week.

Plus I know that Koss is going on to bigger and brighter things, even if that safe little elementary school bubble has burst. I’m not sure that either of us is quite ready to face the world of puberty, pimples and permanent records-otherwise known as junior high.

As I try to compose a thank you letter to my son’s teacher, I realize I’ve got a lot of teachers to thank for getting him to this milestone moment. Dear Ms. Geritz, Mrs. Lauderdale, Mr. Barker, Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Carter, Mr. Barker (the sequel), and Mrs. Brown (part deux): you are all amazing and Koss is so very lucky to have had you on his team. We are so going to miss seeing you all the time, but we will never forget you.

Like every milestone Koss encounters, this one feels like a mixed blessing, like I’m giving another little bit of him away to the universe. And that universe will soon become infinitely larger, with new friends whose parents I may not know and multiple teachers I’m not on a first name basis with. I’m terrified.

As much as I want him to be independent-after all, helping him become an independent person is the job I signed up for when I became his mom, and if he weren’t ready to move on from sixth grade I would really be in trouble-I also dread his independence almost as much as the nightmare teenage rebellion stories I hear from my friends.

I know I’ll get over it when the alarm clock goes off in September (October at the latest), but for right now even the most celebratory rites of passage-including Koss being able to finally walk himself to and from school-make me feel a little sad. Call me crazy, but for all of my whining about driving him to and from school, we’ve also had some of our best talks during those drives. Now we’ll have to figure out another place and time to have them.

I’ll never forget the dejected look on Koss’s face at the end of kindergarten when I had to tell him that he would have a different teacher for first grade, and there would be some different students too. It’s not that different from his face now, when he talks about the handful of classmates that are moving on to private junior high schools, who signed “see you in high school” in his yearbook.

“I wish we could all just stay together,” groans Koss. “It’ll be so weird without them. We’re like a big family.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Whether it was their first child to graduate from elementary school or their last, at graduation all of the parents marveled that their babies had finally reached this stage, and I’d swear, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

It must be all of our allergies. We couldn’t possibly be crying this much otherwise.

When Leslie’s not out buying more Kleenex, she can be reached by email at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 10, 2011.

Heating up to Fifty

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Between a Rock and Hot Place, by Tracey Jackson

Between a Rock and Hot Place, by Tracey Jackson

Let me start out this column by saying that I am not 50 yet.

I am nowhere near 50 years old.

OK, the sum total of my journeys around the sun is not quite 50–yet–but I’m a heck of a lot closer to being 50 than I am to being 30.

The fact that I have difficulty wrapping my head around this oh-so-obvious reality was part of the inspiration for Tracey Jackson‘s humorous new book, Between a Rock and a Hot Place: Why Fifty is Not the New Thirty, a part memoir, part self-help, part rant and always entertaining look at what happens to women when they hit the big Five-O.

“The idea that just because we want to we can turn back the clock and pretend to be thirty is both amusing and insane,” laughed Jackson, speaking to me from the back room of a hair salon. This busy lady fit in our interview during a quick trip home to New York before flying off to D.C. to continue a book tour that includes visits with Kathie Lee and Hoda, Meredith Vierra on “The Today Show” and the Writing Mamas of Corte Madera County.

“Being on a book tour is tiring, but it’s a good kind of whirlwind,” said Jackson, who has had a lot of whirlwinds since her childhood in Santa Barbara, where her extended family still resides. A comedy screenwriter for 17 years–Confessions of a Shopholic and The Guru are some of her better known titles–Jackson writes frankly about being shocked when she got older and the writing jobs started drying up. Ironically, her last screenwriting job was adapting a book called “The Ivy Chronicles,” about a woman who loses her job and reinvents herself.

Jackson also reinvented herself, producing and starring with her daughter in a documentary film called Lucky Ducks, (about the complex relationship boomer parents have with their over-indulged teens), daily blogging and most recently, writing “Between a Rock and a Hot Place.”

All of the hot button middle age stuff is there, with her amusing takes on what could be depressing topics like menopause (“it’s not all in your head, it’s in your vagina”), money (“I didn’t mean to spend it all”), death (“ready or not, here death comes”) and my favorite, “Sex, Estrogen and Not So Much Rock and Roll.”

Of course I immediately turned to the chapter about sex, where Jackson describes in hilarious detail her attempt to spice up her marriage with a trip to a very posh sex store. The resulting misadventures involving Jackson, her husband, a shiny black bag of toys, and Lola Falana (their Chihuahua) made me laugh so hard that I woke up my husband.

With sex, face lifts, finances and sandwich generation challenges of aging parents and exhausting teenagers sitting side-by-side, the book casts a pretty wide net over the issues of “second adulthood.” Jackson said that was her plan from the start.

“When you’re writing a comedic book, which a lot of this is, and then you have to throw in things that aren’t funny, it’s hard. … When you’re writing about death, you’re writing about death so it’s trickier to make that buoyant and make that something that people don’t go ‘OK now I’ve read this really funny chapter about sex and now I’m reading about dying.’ How do you keep that light? … At the end of the day you kind of give in and say OK I’m writing about death, this is not a funny topic any way you cut it, so we just have to kind of go for it. ”

She still manages to get the comedy in– when she talks about death she includes the story of her husband’s spinning teacher dropping dead at the gym. In fact, no matter what the topic, the laughs and hard truths resonate throughout both the book and my conversation with Jackson.

“We aren’t old and we aren’t young; we are in kind of in-between states, passing through the transit lounge of life,” she writes. “No matter how much Botox you get, things will start falling apart: some marriages end, some kids are job, some jobs are terminated, most faces fall and all boobs do. No one bothered to fill us in on this.”

Luckily that’s where Jackson and “Between a Rock and Hot Place” come in.

Tracey Jackson blogs daily at www.traceyjacksononline.com. Maybe Leslie will do that when she’s 50, but for now she writes weekly. Read her columns every Friday in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound or at www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on March 4, 2011.

Film Fest Screen Shots

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Santa Barbara International Film FestivalA Little Teenage Charm Goes a Long Way

One of the best perks of being a reporter in Santa Barbara is access to the film festival. No matter what you’re in the mood for–movie star mania, industry panels, blockbuster film screenings, documentaries, surf films or obscure foreign films that would never otherwise make it to the Metro 4-our film festival has a little bit of everything.

But despite my primo access to the festival I always feel a little jealous of the Santa Barbara Middle School Teen Press. Those guys really have it made–and they’re way, way too young to appreciate it.

This year Shuba, a 7th grader, got James Franco to recite Lord Byon’s “She Walks in Beauty” poem to her. Oh lord indeed. He looked right at her with those big brown eyes. James Franco and Byron … it just doesn’t get much dreamier than that.

My heart was thumping just watching the video, and Shuba’s not even old enough to appreciate it. She probably wishes it were Justin Beiber or Will Smith’s kid.

Youth is wasted on the young, especially when it comes to reporting.

A few years ago those Teen Press kids were the only ones that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie even stopped for on the red carpet. Sorry, we’re too busy adopting children and saving the world and looking gorgeous to talk to any professional reporters. “Oh you’re in middle school. How’s it going, dude? We’d love to talk to you!”

Yeesh. Those kids get all the breaks.

Then last year, while I rubbernecked on the red carpet, a couple of other teen pressers, Kendall and Lia, got within smoldering distance of Colin Firth. Seriously, I’m getting flushed just thinking about it. Be still my heart, it was Colin Firth, Mr. Darcy in “Pride and Prejudice,” Colin Firth, Mr. Darcy in “Bridget Jones’ Diary,” Colin Firth, Mr. Darcy in the other Bridget Jones’ Diary, and Colin Firth, Mr. Darcy in the other “Pride and Prejudice.” Did I mention my favorite character in all of literature is Mr. Darcy?

I wonder who James Franco’s favorite character is? I could have asked him if I was part of the Teen Press and got to interview him alone in the green room after his award. Alone in the green room! Geez, those kids don’t know how lucky they are.

Like I said, I’m a little teensy bit jealous. Mostly I wish the film festival had existed when I was in high school. I only missed it by a few years. Just think, I could have been interviewing Mary Tyler Moore and Ted Danson instead of watching wrestling matches and exposing the evils of cafeteria food.

For more information (and to see the video of James Franco reciting Byron) on the Santa Barbara Middle School Teen Press visit www.sbmsteenpress.org/TP-v14/5-sbiff-00.html. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on February 4, 2011.

Dancing with Horses

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Image courtesy http://www.sylvia-zerbini.com/

Image courtesy http://www.sylvia-zerbini.com/

Aside from a ginormous collection of plastic Breyer horses–thanks to a grandpa and an uncle in the toy business–I’ve never been much of a horse girl. Not that I don’t find them beautiful, but I was never one of those girls who begged their daddies for a pony. The horse phase that many of my friends went through pretty much clip clopped right by me.

But after seeing Sylvia Zerbini in action last week, I think I finally get it!

I watched in amazement as Sylvia–a lithe blonde who could easily rock a mermaid costume–single-handedly controlled nine Arabian horses, her whispers and gestures conducting them in an amazingly synchronized dance. They would gallop in circles, then divide into smaller groups, then come together once again like the a drill team. They did incredibly complex routines of trotting, cantering, turns and pivots that would be difficult on two legs, let alone four. At one point they actually did a marching line formation that could rival the Rockettes. It was truly one of the most astounding things I’ve ever seen.

I have no idea how she does it, but this one act alone, called “Grande Liberte,” is more than enough for me to recommend that all of those horse-crazed girls (and their moms and their dads and their brothers) make it a point to go down and catch “Cavalia” if they can.

The show, developed by Cirque du Soleil creator Normand Latourelle, is under a big top in Burbank till mid-February. And when I say big top I mean big: it’s reputed to be the largest in North America at 110 feet tall, with more than 71,000 square feet of canvas and seating for 2,300.

But even more impressive are the 49 horses in the show, representing 13 different breeds. Like I said, I’m not a horse girl, but these beautiful animals are artists, and Latourelle has said he built the show around their personalities, so each show is different.

Of course, the human performers are impressive as well, 37 of them, mostly acrobats and equestrians, leaping and dancing and strutting around in the same kind of dazzling, dreamlike and just plain weird display of showmanship that I’ve come to expect from a Cirque show.

“Cavalia” begins simply with two foals (rescue horses) frolicking across the 160 foot long stage, but it quickly becomes big and eventually becomes huge, with epic themes ranging from ancient Rome to the Arab souk to the American wild west. All the while, the rider-acrobats make it look like it’s easy to do a flip on horseback or a sideways handstand on an animal running at full speed.

I don’t quite know how they do it, but this unbridled display of horseplay is definitely a whole lot of fun.

Cavalia runs through February 15 in Burbank. For tickets and information visit www.cavalia.net.

When Leslie’s not out horsing around she’s usually at work on her computer and can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com. Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on January 28, 2011.