I’d like to give a warm-n-hearty thanks to everyone who, over the past few weeks, has made me feel even more anxious and unprepared for our kid’s arrival by asking questions about our intended parenting style or if we’ve picked out a pediatrician or if we’ve finished reading the entire child-rearing section of Borders. Extra credit goes to the person who actually said “oh dear God” when I told them that the only book I was reading was about the actual pregnancy.

Well, pardon me, but if you’ll all just let me finish feeling nervous and inadequate about being pregnant, I promise to graduate to feeling nervous and inadequate about being a parent just as soon as possible! Thanks!

As a little teaser, here’s what our intended parenting style is: we’ll figure it the fuck out as we go along. And, correct me if I’m wrong here, but there’s very little “style” involved in providing a non-recalled crib, diapers, proper vaccinations and two breasts to your newborn baby. Also, it’s not like he’s crying because you won’t let him borrow the car… now, I’m no expert, but it’s my understanding that we’ve got a few years before the manipulative waterworks begin. There’s time, people!

Until then, we promise not put him in his car seat incorrectly or make him feel ashamed of his constant eating and shitting or do anything other than make affectionate cooing noises towards him. And in that time, we may even read a few books. Okay? We all on the same page now?

Here’s yet another promise you can bank on: I will not become those “people” – subhuman monsters, really – who can only talk about their kid, and how cute their kid is, and how amazing everything he says or does is. Picture taking will be kept to levels unseen since the mid-70’s. Likewise, parade-throwing and trophy-giving will be on a strictly as-earned basis. I know… how retro!!

To ensure that these measures are enforced and to counteract the brain-softening affect a baby has on adults, I have strategically instructed friends to observe and report back to me if I suddenly become too boring or one-note. This system of safeguards has been dubbed SNORAD; currently we are at stefcon 5 (according to wiki: this is the condition used to designate normal non-ennui-inducing behavior).

And, as a fail-safe back up, I have retained a large, mute Native American gentleman to come put a pillow over my face in the event that others have fled their posts or are otherwise “incapacitated.”

Now please let me get back to my book. Yes, I’m due in August, but I can’t seem to get past chapter two…

Lately, I’ve been hearing a certain word tossed around a little too liberally for my taste, and I have to admit it bothers me. Now, I’m no prude or blushing flower when it comes to language, but I think people have really crossed the line on this one…

Yes, I am talking about the C-word. That’s right: cougar. And forget just being offensive: I have not heard a stupider or more nonsensical new term since “jiggy” burst onto the scene back in the nineties.

Firstly, it just doesn’t mean anything. Oh, yeah, I get the whole women-as-felines analogy; thanks for pointing that out smarty-pants. So, young women are kittens and old women are… cougars? Uh, cougars are just a particular flavor of the cat family. There is no age associated with actual cougars. There are baby cougars and granny cougars. Nor are they any sluttier than other felines. So all we’re left with is maybe something vague about being a predator, but then wouldn’t lion or tiger be more apt? I mean, cougars conjure up images of high school mascots, not middle-aged women trolling around bars…

Additionally, does anyone else feel it’s nasty and demeaning to have all these labels for every last category of people? I understand that if we didn’t, we’d be forced to describe people lengthily, like “yeah, she’s the 42 year old blonde chick with the fake tits who only dates guys in their twenties.” That mouthful would get tedious pretty quickly, methinks, and then we’d all become wary of trying to label each other, period. Okay, that might be a bit optimistic.

Until that happens, I’ve coined a kinder, gentler term. Are you ready? Make sure you read it out loud…

Dinowhore.

Now doesn’t that sound much nicer… you know, less cruel? It’s also really fun to say; best of all, it actually means something. See, she’s a skank AND she’s old!

Taking it a step further, you can really customize the word. Maybe the chick is covered in weird scales or has crazy sharp teeth: she could be a Stegawhoreus or a Tyrannawhoreus Rex. Think outside the box here, people. I’m tired of doing all the heavy lifting.

Whatever. I suggest you try to weave it into polite conversation as soon as possible. Get it out there. I just know it’ll catch on.

Just remember to give me credit….

In case you don’t watch the “news,” scientists have convincingly validated the theory that 8 out of 10 people who frequent garage sales suck; not to mention are ignorant, tasteless, rude and exhibit unfocused, generalized anger and frustration.

This phenomenon was first observed several years ago by the dynamic saleontologists Doctors Picar Almonds and Tiny MacDougal, after a series of small, regional experiments. So disturbed and disheartened by their findings, the pair was reluctant to conduct any subsequent fieldwork and allowed a lifetime of prime research material to amass, undusted, in their basement. Luckily for science, they were recently persuaded to oversee a definitive study by the new-to-the-field team of Stephievee and Larry, whose blind enthusiasm, untested methods and general ignorance were the perfect counterpoint to the more experienced duo.

So as to attract a truly diverse sampling of the Essex County population this past Memorial Day weekend, advertisements for the supposed “sale” were peppered with coded language like “high-end,” “antique” and “British convertible,” as well as terms that would appeal to ornery geriatrics and other bargain-hunters such as “broken ceiling fan” and “expired medication.”

This tactic worked stunningly. From this broad pool of “people” emerged four distinct garage sale types, all of which can be readily identified by laypersons by referencing the universal traits, dialects and physical attributes listed below:

“The Wordlessly Angry Old Person”

Easily ascertained by both an inability to hide their age or feign politeness/civility, this type is known to pace slowly around the perimeter of the sale, levying silent and negative judgments against the merchandise offered while rebuffing any attempts at discourse or pleasantries by the overseer. Because of their determined muteness, no idioms or common phrases were observed at this time; nor were any purchases.

“The Cheap Jerk With No Taste”

This type wants to buy only your tackiest, least valuable junk but needs to make you feel embarrassed and violated in the process. Look for a permanent smirk, over-confidence (inversely disproportionate to actual physical appeal) and annoying personal tics, such as open-mouthed gum-chewing or astonished head-shaking. He will continue to haggle even after the object is given to him for free, all the while professing sneering amazement at the existence of such a monstrously ugly item.

“The Pussy-Whipped”

Because of his underlying lack of presence or personality, this type went unnoticed until after the study’s results were computer-tabulated. Look for persons who need to repeat themselves several times before the question or remark is heard/understood, or that need to (apologetically) “check with their wife” before committing to a purchase, and, most disturbingly, who attempt to return items several hours later. This is generally accompanied by a hangdog expression so irritating and pathetic that Dr. Vee was forced to smash a refunded item in front of the subject in an endeavor to elicit a reaction other than self-loathing.

“The I-Don’t-Know-What-It-Is-But-I-Want-It:”

This complex and fascinating type actually consists of two subgroups: the Realists and the Dramatists. The Realists genuinely don’t know what they’re holding, but it appeals to them in some way, usually visually (females) or mechanically (males). The Dramatists know exactly what the item is and how much it is worth; they are merely playing dumb in an effort to confuse the overseer and negotiate a better deal. While this tactic has decreased in effectiveness 14% since the onset of Antiques Roadshow, and  59% since the popularization of ebay, it is still employed.

Additionally, there is strong evidence to suggest an overlap with one of the lesser types, the “I-Don’t-Get-Enough-Attention-At-Home.”

Regardless, expect to have resources drained as you field the litany of questions and have patience strained during lengthy, confused-faced, sanity-testing pauses, ostensibly while the item is being further “considered”. In every case, dealings within this group resulted in an average 47% lower purchase price per item as exasperation finally overtook financial reasoning capabilities.

Look for the complete results of the study to be published in the fall issue of Science Unlimited Quarterly, due on newsstands in late August. In the meantime, the doctors wish to make clear that these are just the four dominant types that became apparent from the experiment, and are the most common to all regions of the United States. There are many less pervasive but equally insidious subgroups such as the “Friendly Female Neighbor Accompanied by Underage Child(ren)” and the “I’m-Going-To-Come-Back-and-Kill-You,” all of which will be expanded upon at length in the full report.

Allow me to relay the heartwarming and true story of the recent attempt made to convert me – and more importantly – my unborn son, to Judaism.

For those of you who may not know, Judaism is passed through the mother’s side: if she ain’t Jewish, neither is the kid. Apparently this can be a very difficult issue with which many Jewish men struggle: even those who wouldn’t own a menorah if it were not for their shiksa girlfriends… meshugana! That’s right: I know Yiddish.

The man who made this brazen attempt is of course Lawrence. You heard correctly: he who opened more Christmas presents in his childhood than my entire family combined and doesn’t seem to notice that he eats extra leavened bread during Passover.

While he has, in the past three years, become more religious, meeting weekly with a Rabbi and two other close friends – and the sessions have apparently been both enlightening and helpful – he has yet to put any of his newfound knowledge and spiritual understanding into direct practice around our home. The aforementioned menorah has not been lit properly, beyond the year it was purchased; I have not heard him speak any prayers (although he assures me he is thinking them); and I certainly don’t see any of the personal development I would expect from someone undergoing a religious transformation, i.e. patience, tolerance etc.

So why is it so imperative that I embrace his religion? Why did I find myself catering, hosting and cleaning up after my own intervention last Sunday? And wasn’t one of the best things about Judaism supposed to be the fact that they never try to convert anybody? I mean they are not exactly door-to-door glad-handers trying to enlighten or save the rest of us heathens. They seem pretty content with their gene pool and procreating within it. If they pick up a few extras through marriage, so be it, but they aren’t actively recruiting.

But there they were, the Rabbi and the two pals, in my dining room for a nice Kosher meal and a “friendly discussion.” I was under the impression that we were merely going to have a rational, calm conversation about raising our child Jewish, which I have never been against. I believe my exact words were “I will facilitate, but not participate.” Sounds reasonable, no?

Of course not… that would be too simple. When it quickly became apparent that merely “facilitating” my son’s Jewishness would be inadequate, and that I would have to work (hard) to earn my street cred, I was put off. Quite put off.

I told the Rabbi, bluntly, that if I had to enter a temple, or memorize, learn or recite anything or otherwise do anything, period, that this probably wasn’t going to happen. Sorry. Except I didn’t really apologize.

He replied by saying that no, I needn’t go to temple; no, there was no specific ceremony; but yes, I did actually need to do some stuff. Just a few “simple” things, he suggested, would be a good start to proving my dedication and embraciocity of Judaism.

Just a few things… like keeping Shabbat (look it up). I balked. Thankfully, Lawrence did, too. He even got a little impatient that the Rabbi couldn’t just knight me right then and there.

The Rabbi, a very nice, well-spoken man, got a little impatient right back. He is an Orthodox Jew, and apparently there’s no “easy” button with that particular flavor. In fact, half the food I served was apparently not Kosher enough; this was not a man who was going wave on through the lapsed Episcopalian.

So after going back and forth (politely, thank you!) for several minutes, the Rabbi finally said, to Lawrence, “Look. If having a Jewish child was so important to you, you should have married a Jew!”

Good point… joke’s on him, though, because we never got married! Ha!!

Anyway, after they left, Lawrence said not to worry, we’d find a nice reformed Rabbi in town to proclaim me Jewish. I countered that by questioning why? I mean, obviously I am only going through these motions to appease him, and that seems terribly insincere on my part. Am I the kind of convert that Judaism wants? I think not…

Now about that briss…

Wow. That’s all I can say after having sat through one of the top ten worst sincere movies ever made. “Sincere” meaning that the studio must have sincerely felt that it had a great script, the right director and a cast talented enough to produce box office gold! GOLD, I tells ya!!

Now, before you all berate me for sitting around on a nice Saturday and watching two and a half hours of total crap, let me just say that I wasn’t feeling all that well AND I didn’t actually watch the whole thing. I came in at about the thirty-minute mark so it was more like two hours of total crap. And somehow, I’m sure I didn’t miss much in the opening scenes.

The movie – for those of you on the edge of your seats – was Alive and boy did it suck. And if you are unfamiliar with the title, it is about how “the Uruguayan rugby team stranded in the snow swept Andes are forced to use desperate measures to survive after a plane crash.” (source: Imdb). Sounds like a can’t-miss, don’cha think?

Alas, no…

But here’s the good news, Hollywood. I propose a remake and an opportunity for you to get this riveting tale right. I read the wiki entry on this tragedy and the movie was factually pretty accurate (or at least wikurate), with enough drama and tension to make for a suspenseful flick. To boot, a lot of the dialog in the script appears to be taken directly from the accounts of the survivors. And they had no motivations for lying about what was said; I mean they had already admitted to being cannibals. Maybe eating human flesh diminishes one’s capacity for spouting better dialog. Hmmm. (Note: google “Joe Eszterhas” + “cannibal”).

Anyway, if the script and story are “solid,” then the fault lies entirely with the actors.

Now, I have to warn you in advance that my improved casting is pure genius. I think I may have finally found a new career path for myself. Are you ready?

The movie should be – nay must be – remade with Will Ferrell in all the roles. I’ll let that sink in for a moment. Unexpected: yes. Daring: yes. Completely unprecedented: no. Think of pretty much every recent Edie Murphy movie. It’s been done. In fact, I’m not sure why nobody thought of this sooner…

Now for all you people out there who have experienced the abomination that is Alive, I dare you to run through some key scenes and not picture Mr. Ferrell saying those lines. Can’t you just see Will playing the Ethan Hawke part, acting like an untouchable golden boy in the vein of Ricky Bobby while sporting the cheesy haircut he wore in A Night at the Roxbury? How about him as the hysterical guy who tried to fix the airplane’s radio? I envision this character as having the effeminate temper of Mugatu coupled with anguish of the Hippie with the bad back from SNL. Most poignantly, the John Malkovich role is merely a smug grimace away from Will’s self-satisfied Ron Burgundy or G.W. Bush.

And for those of you doubters and fence-sitters who say “inconceivable!” let me bring it home for you: yes, he will rock even the women’s parts and bring new energy to the role of frozen corpse #3. See his work as an ice queen (albeit a macho ice queen) in Blades of Glory.

Basically, he’s got the artistic range and depth needed to cause an emote-induced avalanche and then chew the hell out of an entire mountainside of airplane wreckage. Again, why hasn’t anyone come up with this already?!

Until they do, or someone slips me Will’s number, here’s a little tip: if you happen to spill a giant glass of ovaltine/milk all over your mid-century rosewood desk and cowskin rug, don’t do a half-assed job of cleaning it up, because in about 3 days, it’s really going to stink. Bad.

Almost as much as Alive. Almost…

Is there ANYONE out there who has a friendly relationship with their neighbors? Identify yourself now so that you can be brought in to the appropriate local investigative body for monitoring. Science must measure important vital statistics such as your IQ, BMI and how many greeting cards you buy per week. Only thusly can they determine why you are such a freak medical anomaly and, more importantly, get to work on a cure.

And I’m not talking about the people who regularly wave at a few others on their block. That pretty much describes everyone. No, I’m referring to the people who are stupidly, blindly, whole-heartedly amiable to everyone on the street, even in the face of persistent resistance; the “hey neighbor!” types who you can always count on to put up garish holiday decorations or be the most agitated around Halloween.

The only reason I ask is because of an ongoing “issue” with the couple that lives in the house behind us.

Before we moved in, back in December of ought seven, I was out here in Maplewood, New Jersey, raking the leaves in the yard of our newly purchased – but still undergoing renovation – home. We have several large deciduous trees in the back that made quite the mess that fall; and the couple from which we bought the house did absolutely zero yard work before they left. But apparently their divorce was messier than the giant pile of wet leaves that fell during their watch, so I guess the broken mower that they left in the garage more than made up for the inconvenience.

Regardless, I was out back, raking away, minding my own business when one of the neighbors came out and approached me. There was a sturdy chain link fence that separated us so I didn’t immediately scream or try to mace him. He introduced himself, and I myself, and we proceeded to make friendly chit chat for about a half hour. We talked about how diverse Maplewood is, and how great the old houses here are and the easy commute to New York and blah blah blah.

Finally, his partner popped out as well and the first guy said (as he motioned to the another house that abuts ours), “oh yeah, you’re surrounded by gay men!” I smiled and replied, “gosh, that’ll be a welcome change from my job in the fashion industry.” Ha ha ha ha HA HA HA!!

When we all finished laughing – and me congratulating myself for being so charming and choosing such a great house in a great town and having not one but TWO gay couples as neighbors (talk about your curb appeal!) – the guy made motions to leave, but not before saying, “we’ll come over with a pan of brownies once you get settled.” I expressed my gratitude for the gesture and assured him that we would indeed look forward to the visit.

Flash forward to this spring, nearly one and a half years later.

Hey, gays… I know you can’t tell by the state of our back yard, but WE’VE MOVED IN! And there’s no way we could have possibly laid out a bigger rainbow striped welcome mat for you, short of performing civil unions on our slightly-better-cared-for front lawn!

So what the fuck? Did I imagine you and the discussion about the baked goods and welcome wagon? Did I somehow offend you in the zero times we have spoken since our initial meeting? Or is part of the great “diversity” of Maplewood its sizeable bipolar and amnesiac populations?

Making this story all the more quizzical is that a few months ago their kid’s basketball landed in our back yard. As I awaited its extraction, I kept watchful tabs on it from our kitchen window, wondering if this was the entrée to discourse that they needed to finally acknowledge a broken social promise; a suburban attempt at an icebreaker; and all they were waiting for was for their famous slow-baked brownies to be done (6 days at 105 degrees). But after a week, I concluded that these people clearly thought that the basketball was an improvement over our “naturalistic” landscape, and had donated rather than misplaced it.

That is when I began to explore options that were designed not only to return the ball to its rightful masters, but that also expressed my deep disappointment in the non-issuance of edible offerings.

Sadly, before I could implement my brilliant diplomatic plan (scrawling “where the FUCK are the brownies?!” in Sharpie on the ball, then drop-kicking it through their dining room window) it was stealthily, wordlessly retrieved.

Not one word of apology for blighting my view with its ugly orange plasticity or for tromping over my dead branch collection or for it even landing there to begin with.

And yet I’m left with the lingering feeling that I’ve done something to repel or annoy these people!

I suppose I could take the advice of one person who suggested that we throw a little get together to introduce ourselves to the neighborhood. Or, we could take comfort in the idea – as another has proposed – that we are better off not knowing anything about these people, beyond their first names. That yes, your neighbors are there to dial 911 if they see your house is on fire, but it’s better not to want or expect much else from them, as you probably have nothing more in common than a street name.

And he’s right. It’s better this way. There’s no pressure, no pop-ins and best of all, no moronic chit chat. Phew!

Meanwhile, I’ve decided that the best way to deal with the brownie-liars is to mess with their heads. So the next time I see them loitering about their driveway, I am going to rush out with a big tape measure and start sizing up the space that borders their fence. Invariably, they will ask, dryly, “finally getting around to the landscaping?”

To which I will earnestly reply, “No, I just want to make sure that the swing-set, trampoline and above-ground pool will all fit back here.”

“Thanks!”

And tune in next week when I discuss the assholes across the street…

For the last week or so, I had been struggling with the wrenching, torturous and cringeworthy personal decision to join Facebook, and more importantly, start a group for my cartoon. While the cons are numerous and obvious, I had yet to fathom even one of the “strongest” arguments provided by those friends who are advocates of the social networking website.

Until now. I finally succumbed after conceding the one point that was inescapable: it works. If you want to get info out to as many people as possible, the old method of emailing your friends/relatives and hoping that they forward the message to like-minded individuals isn’t effective anymore. Face it: your real friends are kinda flaky, or too “busy” with their own BS to help you with yours. Clearly I have been looking at an out-of-date social contract; pardon my mistake.

But your efriends, now they’re the real pals. Like a bee in your garden flitting from flower to flower or a college student back from spring break who doesn’t cover his mouth when he coughs, they’re out there infecting touching others and making connections… for you! Sure it’s in a passive, tentacle-y, cog-in-the-machine kind of way, but hey, whatever works. And we’ll just see if it does.

While we wait to find out, in true stephievee style, I would like to take a highlighter to the overall stupidity and narciselfishness that Facebook enables and even encourages. That’s right; bite the hand that feeds me. Clean off, if possible. But don’t worry, the intense heat from my scornful glare will probably cauterize the wound and Facebook will learn how to tie its shoes with one hand, eventually.

It was these same two issues that made me first (and still) resist blogging: the concern that somehow I would be the idiot that tipped the balance of writers to readers into the ‘oversaturated’ column. I’m personally uncomfortable with the level of self-fascination that appears to be a prerequisite for writing a regular column or manically updating your status on Facebook. And I certainly don’t think of myself as more interesting or insightful than anyone else. Sarcastic and entertaining, maybe, but so far nobody has given me any money for those particular talents.

Even more pathetic is the conceit that anything you write and post will actually be looked at, especially all the boring shit. I mean, have you seen how much there is out there on the internet?! Where do you even begin? And does anyone really think that the rest of us need or want to hear all the cutesy details about junior’s play date or what you got at Whole Foods or that you just made a BM? Only grandmothers are interested in this kind of crap and even they’re not that interested. There’s only one person whose poo I’m truly concerned about and I live with him. And I definitely don’t need Facebook to alert me to the fact that he’s used the bathroom.

This endless glut of personal information is tedious. It’s like the horror of hearing a coworker’s interminable story of how their kid said the! cutest! thing! yesterday, except instead of just having the horror of listening to it, you have the horror and effort of reading it. 

More disturbingly – and I know this isn’t a new concept – all the time spent writing about and posting pictures of our glorious existences leaves precious little time to actually live them. This stupid blog took over 2 hours to write; time I could’ve spent drawing or lying on the floor. Clearly I need to  figure out how to make them shorter.

And now, after rereading what I just wrote, it all sounds kinda tame: hardly a rant with which to terrorize the establishment or incite the masses. Where’s the missing appendage and the paint-peeling snarl that I promised? Maybe I’m softening a bit. Or maybe the snake handler that comes and drains my venom did an exceptionally thorough job this week. I do feel curiously light-headed…

So I’m on Facebook. Big whoop. All you people who have been scoffing at me for being such an antique can stop laughing and pointing… and those who are still staunchly resisting the website can start.

“Thanks.”

Whoopsie. Computerdunce uploaded her own cartoon today for the very first time. You can see the results, but hey, that’s what scroll bars are for; please disregard if the web guy has managed to fix it already! And I promise to figure it out for my future postings…