Tag Archives: humor column

The Not-So-Newlywed Game

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Courtesy YouTube.com.

Courtesy YouTube.com.

You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’m actually rather competitive. Especially when it comes to stupid things, like knowing the names of one-hit-wonder bands from the 1980s (of course YOU remember when “Der Kommissar” was in town, but I bet you couldn’t tell us that After the Fire was the band that brought him); being able to intuit who is on the phone every time it rings (my mom); and predicting with 99.7% accuracy the words that will come out of my husband’s mouth before he says them. Even if most of those words are, “um,” “well,” and “yeah,” you still have to admit that that is pretty impressive wifely knowledge.

So when my friends Colonel Dan and Lola did a victory lap around the Padaro Beach Grill to celebrate their recent domination of an Alaskan Cruise Ship Not-So-Newlywed Game Tournament, I must admit to feeling a bit envious. I wanted that first place gold-plated bottle of Cold Duck for my mantle.

Sure, their closest competition was a couple from Nantucket who only had one good ear and half a head of hair between the two of them. And sure, the third place bronzed beer can went to a couple that only knew a few words of English. But still, Dan and Lola had won an international Not-So-Newlywed Game competition.

I couldn’t help but wonder how Zak and I would have stacked up. I figured we knew each other at least as well as these hacks. After all, Lola was by herself half the time while Dan was out saving the world on some mission or other. Zak hardly ever left the house without me by his side. Most of the time I knew his thoughts before I let him have them. Surely we could kick their sorry little butts.

Luckily, Colonel Dan was eager to quiz us.

The first question was easy. “If your spouse were lost while driving in a foreign city, he/she would do what?”

“Not ask for directions,” I yelled eagerly, knowing I had aced that one.

“OK,” Dan said. “What if you were the one driving, Leslie?”

Zak and I both laughed. I refer you to my column where I made fun of my dad’s driving. My dad taught me to drive. Me, drive in foreign cities? Not in this lifetime.

Dan threw out a few more easy questions. What color are your spouse’s eyes? Boxers or briefs? Leno or Letterman? Dog or cat? Would you like fries with that?

I was starting to feel a little cocky when Lola mentioned that she and Dan had gotten a perfect score. How do you top that?

Lola asked the next question: “If you were stranded on a desert island and you could only be with one person, who wasn’t your spouse, who would it be?”

I weighed the possibilities. Would Einstein or Da Vinci be better able to build us a boat out of palm leaves and coconut shells? And more importantly, which of them was better suited to help me repopulate society? Hmmm…Then Zak piped up with “Brad Pitt” for me. Please. I like man candy just as much as the next girl, but I’m still angry about the whole Jennifer thing.

Dan interrupted my reverie. “Who would Zak want to be trapped with on a desert island?”

C’mon, we’re down a point. Got to regroup, focus. I know he’s moved on from Uma to Scarlett Johanssen, so I go with Scarlett.

He says, “Leonardo Da Vinci.”

Honey, I really didn’t mean to punch your arm so hard. You know how I get in competition.

Zak was still rubbing his bruise when Dan let us have one final bonus question that would allow us to tie the score with them. “Where’s the most unusual place you’ve ever made whoopee?”

I looked at my husband and giggled. We both knew the answer to this one. All we had to do was say the word and the Newlywed Game honors would be ours.

I looked deep into my husband’s eyes (still blue) and nodded, as he said, “Not in this lifetime.”

We’re Not-So-Newlywedded for a reason, after all. It’s all about how well you know your partner.

When she’s not singing “Tainted Love,” by Soft Cell, Leslie can be reached at email

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 11, 2006.

Reunion Reflections

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Courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Perhaps you too have experienced the nausea brought on by the arrival of an invitation to a high school reunion. The angst-O-meter skyrockets, and your first impulse is to rip the thing into a billion little pieces (or in the case of my low budget reunion, immediately hit the email delete button). Your next instinct is to put yourself through a crash course of Life Improvement 101. Surely two weeks is enough time to get a PhD, lose 50 pounds and get my teeth whitened, right?

Apparently not. Especially when you use the first half of those two weeks to contemplate how different your life is now from when you were a teen, and the second half to go on a crying jag.

But here’s the thing — when you are a columnist, all of those nausea-inducing experiences have an upside: you can write about them, venting your amusement for the entire world to see.

I figured my high school reunion column would practically write itself. Just like high school, everyone would drink too much and stick to their own little social pods. The math nerds in one corner, the basketball team in another. The soc’s flitting from table to table with insincere hellos to one and all, while the theatre geeks pirouetted and flounced through the cafeteria. I figured the football players and cheerleaders would either be fat and puffy, or liposuctioned and botoxed beyond recognizability; and that short little kid making jokes in the back of geometry class would have grown into a six-foot-tall internet gazillionaire.

Like I said, the column would practically write itself. I knew exactly what my high school reunion would be like.

And then I went.

My first shocker was the size of my class. Had there been a nuclear explosion or discount tickets to Hawaii that no one had told me about? Had everyone missed the email? Somehow, out a class of almost 500 kids, fewer than 20 of us showed up. I run into more classmates on a typical Saturday at the Little League fields, so I know you’re out there, you cowards.

“Were you home-schooled, mommy?” asks my son.

Not exactly.

Please tell me that my classmates aren’t old enough to use Alzheimer’s or Senility as an excuse to forget about the reunion. We’re not that old yet.

Now in defense of the San Marcos Class of 1981, I will say that the reunion was originally scheduled for the previous weekend and then cancelled until someone stepped up and reserved a space at Tucker’s Grove. So it was kind of a free form, come if you feel like it, bring your own lunch, kind of event, rather than the cocktail party kind of shindigs we’ve had for the past two decades. The kind of painstakingly planned, overpriced parties that hundreds of people showed up for, like clockwork, every five years.

C’mon guys. We’ve got spirit … not so much.

The fact is, only one cheerleader showed up, and none of the jocks.

So what if you had a high school reunion and none of the usual suspects showed up? What if a bunch of people who weren’t even particularly friends with each other showed up instead? What would you talk about? Rather than dwelling on our pasts, which were only marginally shared, we talked mostly about the present. Instead of who’s dating who or who’s wearing what, the conversations were about global warming and world politics, mixed with talk about Trader Joe’s and the best summer camps, and of course, how expensive it is to live in Santa Barbara now and how much more overprotective we are of our kids these days–to a soundtrack of Boston’s “More Than a Feeling,” the Doobie Brother’s “Black Water,” and the obligatory Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration.”

Of course, we all secretly wondered what someone as young as our self was doing surrounded by all these old people.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Surely you must have better reunion stories to share with Leslie at email

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on August 4, 2006.

With a Hop, Skip and a Ro-sham-bo

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Dodgeball image courtesy SUARTS, Flickr.com.

Dodgeball image courtesy SUARTS, Flickr.com.

They don’t tell you this in Lamaze class, but one of the most fun things about having kids is that you have the best of all reasons to behave like a kid again. As my son will testify to, I get just as excited as he does about dressing up for Halloween, hunting for treasures from the Easter Bunny and finding the M & M’s hidden in the popcorn while watching the latest Disney flick. And when Santa comes to town … don’t even get me started about all of the long-delayed pleasures a certain big bearded guy brings to a Jewish girl who has lusted after Christmas trees her whole life. Oy!

Given how much fun it is to yell “Yahtzee” at the top of my lungs, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that favorite childhood games like Four Square, Dodgeball and Rock Paper Scissors are being reclaimed by adults.

They actually gave away $50,000 at the first annual USA Rock Paper Scissors League Championship held in Las Vegas last month. Bud Light and A & E Network have signed on as league sponsors. I’m telling you, the duel may be all about the hands, but this sport has legs. Reportedly, Rock Paper Scissors is under consideration as an exhibition at the 2006 Winter Olympics in Turin, Italy. According to a fake press release on the official USARPS website (www.usarps.com), International Olympic Committee President Jacques Rogge is a huge Rock Paper Scissors aficionado who sees this competition as a tremendous way for countries to engage in mental battle and clearly determine which nation boasts the sharpest minds and quickest wrists. “The world will finally find out who has the mettle to medal,” Rogge says.

Sure. At least until Rock Scissors Paper gets ruined by steroids.

Hmm … I wonder if that Olympic archery competitor and actress Geena Davis will start training now that Commander and Chief has been canceled? She could always use her excessive height advantage to compete in Dodgeball, yet another childhood “sport” I hear is under Olympic consideration. Thanks in large part to the 2005 Ben Stiller movie, which played the sport for absurd comedy, the International Dodgeball Federation projects that it will have more than 300,000 sanctioned players by the end of 2007. According to the IDBF’s official website (www.dodge-ball.com) adults aged 25-35 are the sport’s largest and hottest growth segment. The Federation recently welcomed new leagues in Pakistan, Australia and Puerto Rico. Even though it’s also known as “war ball;” clearly the UN should be looking into incorporating Dodgeball as a possible peacekeeping measure.

Apparently my old recess favorite, Four Square, is back in vogue for adults as well. It’s one of the most popular sports in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with frequent tournaments and more than a dozen teams competing in an adults-only league. Norfolk, Virginia is a hotbed of adult Kickball, another of my childhood favorites. Stickball never made it to any of my Santa Barbara playgrounds, but apparently it’s big back east, where New Yawkers relive their youth in three different adult Stickball leagues. Kansas City has the Tag Institute, where kids of all ages indulge in variations of the game, Tag. Here in California, where we like a little showbiz with our sport, we have San Francisco’s Double Duchess Jump Rope Troupe, whose adult members do their acrobatic routines dressed in Catholic schoolgirl uniforms. My husband is not allowed to go.

“Not last night, but the night before

24 Robbers came knocking at my door…”

My toes immediately start tapping to the familiar rhymes. I’m having a flashback to fourth grade, where schoolwork seemed much easier to face after a few turns of the rope or kicks of the ball.

A little voice says, “Wanna play tag, mom?” brings me back to the present. “You bet,” I say. I may be older and slower, but I can still use my wits to dominate a six-year-old.

“You’re it,” we say simultaneously.

“One, two, three jinx. You owe me a coke.”

Anyone up for a game of Kickball? Email Leslie at email

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 21, 2006.

Cheers to Good Friends

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Photo courtesy Pixabay.com.

Photo courtesy Pixabay.com.

Like clockwork, the same thing happens to me every year about this time. That one-two-punch of euphoria and melancholy that comes from hanging out with dear friends, repeating stupid jokes, rehashing old stories, and laughing, eating and drinking a lot. It’s great. It’s invigorating. It makes me believe all that cliched crud about friends being tied together with heartstrings or that they are the chocolate chips in the cookie of life. Good friends are the stuff that Lowenbrau commercials are made of. Tonight is kind of special.

And then they go home to whatever far flung corners of the country that they live in, and I’m stuck feeling sad and depressed and wishing that somehow, some way, all of my cherished friends from all over the place could come and live next door to me in Santa Barbara.

It happens every summer. They flock to our town for the charming little shops, the easy access to the beach, the random parades, and of course, to see us, their fabulously fun and witty friends who happen to live in a beach town. Somehow I don’t think people in Des Moines and Dubuque have out of town friends visit them every summer.

But once or twice a year just isn’t enough. Why can’t all my friends live right here? It would make life so much easier.

Now don’t get me wrong. I have great friends here in town. More than I probably deserve. Plus, contrary to a recent Time Magazine article about reports by a topflight team of sociologists that found Americans to be more socially isolated today then we were barely two decades ago, I meet interesting new people all the time. I could make new friends if I wanted to. Really, I could.

But new people just aren’t the same as the old people. The old people have already endured a complicated vetting process that involves sneaking through bedroom windows in the middle of the night, playing songs on the sink, holding my hair back from the barf, and a long list of quotes that are only hysterically funny if you’ve lived through them. Killing machine, hit list, cartoon eyes, it’s just a phase? See what I mean? You had to be there.

And it’s harder to be there now that we’re getting older. Chances are good that once you have a job that requires you get more than four hours of sleep a night, you just don’t have the same amount of time to spend contemplating your navel alongside your friends. And once you add kids to that mix, you really want to keep that belly button as far out of view as possible.

So you still make friends, but it’s just not the same.

With old friends, we’ve already weathered and survived the eternal “What should we do for dinner debate?” a thousand times. They already know why bike rides are a bad idea and that they’d better keep that pickle juice away from my plate. And, if I were the type who farted, old friends would be the first I’d do it in front of.

Of course, old friends could also tell you about that not-so-pretty bi-level haircut I had in the 80s or the not-so-pretty way I made out with my husband on the dance floor when we first met.

Maybe it’s better that all my old friends don’t live here. I’d probably be tempted to write about them, and the last thing I’d want to do is publicly embarrass all the people who have enough dirt on me to fill a small park.

But it sure would be fun to hang out there.

Old friends, and new readers can lift Leslie’s spirits by dropping a line to email

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on July 14, 2006.

At This Office, It is OK to Show Up Late

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The Office, courtesy Wikipedia.

The Office, courtesy Wikipedia.

You know what I miss most about my day job — besides the paycheck? I miss the water cooler.

It’s not that we don’t have plenty of cold drinks and snacks available here at home. I’m perfectly well sweetened, salted, and hydrated–repeat–repeat again–with a special emphasis on sweets during a certain time of the month. Believe me, I’ve got the literal water cooler covered, except for the whole “free” part.

What I miss is the water cooler chitchat about the latest episode of Grey’s Anatomy and The Sopranos. I looked forward to our Monday morning quarterbacking of Tony and Carmela’s latest relationship upheaval or Meredith’s most recent ill-advised conquests.

Our little chats were like standing play dates that lasted 13 weeks, not counting re-runs.

Now that school’s out, I can’t even kibbitz with the PTA moms about the latest episode of Sponge Bob. I’m already feeling withdrawals, and it’s only the first week of summer.

Ironically, now that I no longer have an office to go to, I’ve come to appreciate the pleasures of The Office on TV. I came a little bit late to this delightfully deadpan show, where inappropriate remarks, petty behavior, and zero productivity are all in a day’s work.

And unlike the real offices I’ve worked in, at the Dunder-Mifflin paper company, no one ever has the energy to go out to lunch, let alone talk about important political and social events like TV shows.

The workplace scenarios are oh-so adult and familiar, even though the humor is oh-so wonderfully, and quoteably juvenile. If only I still had a cubicle to toss lines over like, “This is our receptionist, Pam. If you think she’s cute now you should have seen her a couple of years ago!” Or another favorite: “You know what they say about a car wreck, where it’s so awful you can’t look away? This is like a car wreck that you want to look away from but you have to stare at it because your boss is making you.”

My teenage nephews appreciate the show as much as I do, which comes in handy, since I no longer have office-mates to discuss it with.

We can hardly wait for the July 13 “webisodes” to begin. I’m betting they’ll be about Toby, the HR guy, who is, in my humble opinion, a character with a lot of unexplored potential. As Michael (the boss) says, “Toby is in HR, which technically means he works for corporate, so he’s really not a part of our family. Also, he’s divorced, so he’s really not a part of his family.”

His HR-like HR-policies have been the driver behind most of my favorite moments at “The Office.”

For example, when Toby talks with Michael about inappropriate fraternizing with employees, Michael summons the troops to make one of his infamous announcements.

“Attention everyone, hello! Yes, I just want you to know that this is not my decision but from here on out, we can no longer be friends. And when we talk about things here, we must only discuss work-associated things. And uh, you can consider this my retirement from comedy. And in the future if I want to say something funny, or witty, or do an impression I will no longer, ever, do any of those things.”

Jim, who is actually the only character on the show who resembles anyone I’ve ever worked with, then says, “Does that include ‘That’s what she said?'” (See what I mean about the nephews appreciating it?)

Michael replies, “Mmm hmm, yes.”

Jim: “Wow. That is really hard. (My nephews are rolling on the floor at this point, as is my husband.) You really think you can go all day long? (On the show, Michael nearly bursts trying not to say it.) Well, you always left me satisfied and smiling.”

So much for dignity, I am practically peeing my pants by the time Michael finally says, “That’s what she said!”

Did you see that one? Wasn’t it hysterical? OK, you’re drafted. You are now officially my new water cooler buddies. I’m so happy that we can be that kind of friends.

That’s what she said!

Leslie is clearly desperate for some office humor. If you’ve got any to spare, email Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. That’s what she said!

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 30, 2006.

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.

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.