It’s been almost two years since I stuffed my family into a minivan and boldly left Brooklyn for the ‘burbs. Such journeys are never easy, but today, I am a proud citizen of the United States of Suburbia. I know what you are thinking. “Dan, you are a pioneer; an explorer; a brave and inspiring Suburbanaut. Please, share your wisdom with us so that we may forward it to all of our city-slicking friends who swore they’d never leave, but now find themselves suddenly suburban.”

And to you I say this: You have come to the right guy.

                                          DAN ZEVIN’S TIPS FOR NEW SUBURBANITES

1. When you first move to the suburbs, it may be difficult to meet lots of people, so focus on making even one friend who has a pool.

2. Building contractors who say they can start the job on Wednesday are talking about a different Wednesday than you are.

3. The four phases of suburban lawn care are: old-school push mower, gas-guzzling power mower, high school student, gardener.

4. For the price of one meatball at that trendy “charcuterie” in the city, you can buy the whole cow at Costco

5. Love thy neighbor, but know it is easier to love thy neighbor when thy neighbor resurfaces his driveway and thusly increases thy real estate values.

6. The longer you deny your desire for a stainless steel gas barbecue grill with flush-mounted side burners, the longer it will be until you free your inner suburbanite and lead a fulfilling existence.

7. If your city friends don’t visit you within the first seven months of your suburban stay, they are not going to visit you.

8. As you settle into a family friendly lifestyle and the comforts of your own home, remember: there is a fine line between a happy suburban couple curled up on the couch and two carcasses who’ve fallen asleep to the same Netflix movie they’ve tried to watch for five Saturday nights in a row.

9. Show me someone who says they could never move to the suburbs because it means they’ve have to drive everywhere, and I’ll show you someone who’s never stood next to a guy on a rush hour subway who picked his nose and wiped the boogie on the pole they were holding.

10. You’re either on the minivan or off the minivan.

What do you get when you cross a Jew with a Gentile?

Here in the Zevin household, April ushers in both Passover and Easter, reminding us that another year has gone by without my wife and I getting our act together and deciding what religion our children are.

I am a non-practicing  Jew and she is a non-practicing shiksa. It wasn’t an issue before we had kids, since both of us were fans of any activity that didn’t require practicing.  This doesn’t mean I don’t feel culturally Jewish, or that she doesn’t feel culturally gentile. On second thought, she doesn’t feel culturally gentile.  I’d describe her as a culturally Jewish girl trapped in a culturally gentile woman’s body. Especially the nose. It’s no wonder she loves teaching our kids Yiddish words, yet tends to teach them the wrong ones. “It’s so hot in here,” she’ll tell the kids. “I’m  fapitzing!”

Religion-wise, she’s just a little mixed up. We both are. Which is pretty surprising, since we both have fathers who were raised in strict religious households. Mine is the son of an Orthodox cantor, and hers is the grandson of a Baptist minister.  Listening to our dads reminisce about their childhoods–those lazy weekends spent panicking about what God would do once He found out about The Sabbath Light Switch Incident (Papa Zevin), or The Using His Name In Vain Digression (Papa Tingley)–it’s easy to see why they’d want to raise their own kids free of guilt and fear. (Well, at least “fear,” speaking for myself. Let’s not forget I’m the one who also got the Jewish mother.) In the process, they also raised us pretty much free of religion.

Our early religious identities were shaped not by whether we went to temple or church, but by whether we celebrated Passover or Easter, Christmas or Chanukah, that one where you eat the cookies or that one where you give up eating cookies. I’m a holiday Jew and she’s a holiday shiksa. Where does that leave our children? Simple. They’re Holiday Both.

Only recently have our kids become aware that Holiday Both is not a recognized denomination by the people who organize these things. Who can blame them? They’re six and nine. Developmentally, these are the years children spend defining their own personal brands. Mets or Yankees. Barbie or American Girl.  Mezuzah or crucifix.  Our son could barely ride a two-wheeler when he proudly declared himself “eggnogstic.” But that was before so many of his friends started going to church on Sundays or Hebrew School on Saturdays. Our daughter, meanwhile, hasn’t seen the inside of a synagogue since the day she blew out of nursery school. It’s my fault.  Two years ago, when we first left Brooklyn for the ‘burbs, I decided Josie should go to the nursery school in the temple. The reason I decided she should go to the nursery school in the temple is that it’s really close to our new house. Granted, the nursery school in the church is even closer to our new house. But the problem with the nursery school in the church is, it’s in a church.

I may only be Holiday Jewish, but there’s no way in hell I’d ever be comfortable sending my daughter to school in a church. Wait. Do Jews believe in hell? I don’t even know. See how messed up these kids are going to be? You should have seen us trying to explain to Josie why it wasn’t a good idea to wear her Mrs. Santa shirt to temple nursery school last winter.

“But I thought I’m both,” she protested.

“You are both, honey,” I replied. “It’s just that Mrs. Santa over here isn’t.”

Josie’s in kindergarten now. Thanks to her, we light the Sabbath candles every Friday night that she remembers to remind us.  Okay, they’re not really Sabbath candles. They’re votive candles from Pottery Barn. Megan’s mother gave them to us for Christmas last year.

Also thanks to Josie, we still  get the emails from her temple nursery school’s interfaith committee. I save them all, thinking one day we’ll find time to get ourselves to an interfaith meeting, and this meeting will be enlightening, and soon we will be season ticket holders at Friday night services, and thus our children will develop a strong sense of identity because they will be official interfaith children, as opposed to Holiday Both.

Then I remember something Leo said on Christmas when he was just three. “It’s impossible for reindeer to fly,” he said. “They’re quadrupeds.“ Six years later, let’s just say it’s hard to imagine dragging him to temple and expecting him to buy the one about the dude who parted the Red Sea. Or, for that matter, dragging Josie to church in her Mrs. Santa Sunday best, so she can learn the significance of that sparkly rhinestone cross necklace she put on her Chanukah list last year.

So it’s one more year of being Holiday Both. I’d like the kids to be more Holiday Jewish, but seriously, who can compete with the Christians? They’re so much more sensible with their holidays. Look at Easter. The Christians are like, “Okay, every year, we’re doing it on a Sunday. Egg hunt, chocolate bunny, bonnets, baskets, boom, we’re done.” But with Passover, it’s never the same day of the year, it always has to start at sundown (or maybe it’s sunrise), then it goes on and on for eight days and nights, then you have to blow the shofar, build a sukkah, and find costumes so your kids can dress up like Queen Esther and King Hamentashen.

Or maybe that’s Purim.  Which I’m glad I’m bringing up, because what parent’s religious identity crisis would be complete without an amusing little Purim anecdote? This year, I found out it was Purim at five p.m. in Grand Central Station. On the way to my train, I passed a Zaro’s bakery, where a guy in a baker’s hat (Zaro, I assume) was giving out free samples of hamentashen. Hamentashen, for those of you who are not Holiday Jewish, are dry little triangle cookies. But at least they’re cookies. That’s the good news. The bad news is that they’re filled with prunes or apricots instead of some sensible Christian substance, like icing.  Still, I was determined. If I bring these hamentashen home to my children,  I convinced myself, they will develop a strong sense of their religious identity.

My problem was that Zaro wanted 20 bucks for a box of 12 hamentashen. I’m not here to embody negative Jewish stereotypes or anything, but that’s 19 more bucks than I was willing to spend (and 11 more hamentashen than my children would be willing to eat). Zaro refused to sell me just two, one for each kid not to eat.  But he did tip me off to a nearby tray of rugelach, which were available in single size servings. That’s the good news. The bad news is that your average rugelach looks more like a dog treat than a human cookie, not to mention how it somehow manages to be dry and soggy at the same time.  The other bad news is that rugelach are Chanukah cookies, not Passover cookies. Or possibly they’re Rosh Hashanah cookies. Or Tu Bishvat. Whatever kind of cookies they are, I bought some for Leo and Josie. They wouldn’t know the difference, I figured. After all, they’re just Holiday Both.

Long story short, they took a bite each, then spit it out into the sink. I put the rest in the freezer. I plan to defrost them in time for our fried chicken Seder. Or maybe we’ll just stuff them into their Easter baskets

Take two dolphins and call me in the morning.

For parents of school-aged spawn throughout the land, this will be the second week of reality following mid-winter recess. We recessed in Florida. At least that’s where I think we recessed. As any vacation-going individual knows, once you’ve been home for two weeks, you’ve forgotten that you ever left. Your rosy vacation glow gets blotchy and scaly. And you know that laid-back, spread-the-good-energy-all-around vacation voice you had in the back of your head two weeks ago? That soothing voice that said, “Dan, you should really try taking an introductory yoga class at that place around the block when you get home?” (Well, your vacation voice probably didn’t call you Dan. That would be a coincidence though). Once you hit the two-week point of the re-entry process, that honey-toned vacation voice starts saying stuff like, “When did all this crap pile up like this?!” And, “Why is everyone in my office acting so swamped and crazy?!” And, “Can someone please explain to me how this inflatable toy dolphin got into the playroom?!”

In an effort to get our vacation groove back, I gathered the fam together last night and we did something to remind us all that, yes, we did in fact go to Florida on vacation two weeks ago. We watched the video of us at the dolphin place. Where we swam with dolphins. No shit. They came right up to us, politely extended a friendly fin, and the next thing we knew, we were holding on for a high speed ride through their dolphiny waters. It was like Wave Runners, except dolphins.

And that’s not all we did with these dolphins. When we held our arms out in a circle like the dolphin lady taught us, the dolphins swam into them so we could give them a hug. Or, more accurately, a head-hug. The heads on these things are huge. I know this for a fact because I hugged one of these dolphin heads during mid-winter recess in Florida, where I was on vacation with my family two weeks ago. At least it looked like my family on the video last night. Now I’m starting to wonder if it was really us. See what I’m talking about? Post Vacation Re-Entry Syndrome. That was my PVRS talking right there.

It wasn’t my idea to swim with the dolphins on the mid-winter break that we absolutely spent in Florida two weeks ago. It was my wife’s. When it comes to family vacations, Megan has an annoying tendency to think about what will be fun for the kids (swimming with the dolphins) instead of what will be fun for the father (room service). No disrespect to the dolphins. I have no problem with the dolphins. Some of my best friends are dolphins. You’re talking to a guy who actually makes his kids watch old school Flipper episodes on Hulu because it was my favorite show when I was their age. I also make them watch The Partridge Family on Boomerang Channel. Now stop making me talk about topics I should be saving for another blog. My point is that I like dolphins. But I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Megan on vacation two weeks ago: “I also like monkeys, but that doesn’t mean I want to climb into their cage at the Bronx Zoo and swing around the branches with them.”

Megan was right, as it turned out (for the past 20 years). Dolphins are the single most fun vacation activity ever invented. And our children liked them, too. But enough about them. Come on, little kids get to experience thrilling “firsts” every day of their lives. Riding a bike, skiing down the bunny slope, eating at Benihana of Tokyo, the list goes on. What the hell do they need vacations for? As far as I’m concerned, the number one selling point of being a kid is you get to do something brand new every day of your life. And the number one selling point of being a parent is you get to help your kids learn how to do all this new stuff, especially at Benihana of Tokyo. The number two selling point, at least for me, is re-living all this new stuff through their eyes.

When we went swimming with the dolphins two weeks ago (which we did in fact do), there was nothing my wife and I could teach them about it, and there was nothing we were re-living through their eyes. As I watched our retrospective footage last night, I suddenly realized that it was probably the first fun thing we’ve ever done as a family that was as new to us as it was to them. It was a family first.

But believe me, it’s not going to be a family last. Next year at this time, you will very likely find this family of Zevins skiing with the dolphins, or perhaps going to Disney — and/or Legoland with the dolphins, or — who knows? — maybe even inviting the dolphins to come visit our house for a change. We’ll fold down the back row of seats so they can fit their giant heads into the minivan, and we’ll road-trip with the dolphins into the city, maybe take them to see a Broadway show and have dinner. The only trick will be finding a restaurant that the dolphins and the kids can agree on. Legal Seafoods would probably work.

Or maybe we’ll just go back to Florida again. Because, thanks to the dolphins, that vacation was unforgettable. Even two weeks into my PVRS.

We got a pocket party goin' on.

MONDAY:

Today is the first day of Fashion Week, and what style-conscious dad wouldn’t want to kick things off by rocking a roomy pair of cargo pants? Speaking as a guy who owns 28 pairs, (that’s a grand total of 168 pockets), I can’t say enough about how much simpler life became once I started wearing a filing system on my legs. And talk about versatility! When the kids were babies, I’d keep the backup diapers in my right thigh pocket, the ready-made Similac bottles in my left, the wipes in my left hip pocket, and a baggie full of nipples in my right (rubber, not real–they were for the formula, weirdo). But remember, fashionista fathers: Once the kids get older, your pocket needs will change. That is why today, you’ll find this dashing dad strutting his stuff with an entire bag of goldfish crackers comfortably concealed on my right thigh. On my left, I will be boasting a Trader Joe’s juice box or two, which I will pair with an I-Phone stocked with Cookie Doodle and Angry Birds apps in my left waist pocket, accessorized by a pocket-sized bribe of some kind in my right. I used to keep Fruit Roll-ups in that one to get them to do whatever I said, but they wised up over the years and realized how much that stuff sucks. Now I never leave home without a cargo pants pocketful of “fun size” candy left over from Halloween. I hand it out like dog treats to move the kids from the playground into the minivan, and from the living room into the bath. You know something? To celebrate fashion week, I think I just might toss a stale KitKat straight into the water tonight and let them jump right in and fetch it! And once they’re bathed and sound asleep in bed, I think I just might change out of these cargo pants and seduce my wife by slipping into something more comfortable. Something such as…

Check this page tomorrow for Tuesday’s edition of: FASHION WEEK FOR SUBURBAN DADS

Peek-a-boo

WEDNESDAY…

With two days of fast-paced Fashion Week action behind us, we’re schlepping into the midweek stretch with no signs of slowing down. No wonder dads in the hottest suburbs from Westchester to Winnetka will be dressed for the occasion in a basic black adjustable knee brace paired with Old Man Sneakers. First, the knee brace. I found mine–a Futuro one-size-fits-all in classic neoprene with itchy Velcro strap accents–in aisle 3,947 of Costco. A must-have for style-minded dads like me who are recovering from medial meniscus surgery, this is one brace that looks just as good on the greens as it does on the commuter train. Worn casually to the middle school soccer field with a roomy pair of cargo shorts (please refer to Day One, below), you’ll drive the mommies wild with desire as they gaze in lust at your naked kneecap. That’s right, fellow dads of suburbia, there’s a daring “peek-a-boo” hole cut straight into the center of this situation. Could the message from Milan be any more clear? When it comes to kneecaps this season, if you‘ve got it, flaunt it!

If you’re a man of modesty, simply drape a pair of sweat slacks over your brace, and no one will know what you’re wearing down there except you and the little lady. And anyone who notices the strange, swollen lump protruding above your shins.

And now it’s time to look at what’s hot below the shins in suburban dadwear. When night falls on this wild Fashion Week Wednesday, don’t be surprised to find me accessorizing my knee brace with a three-year-old pair of heavily cushioned, ultra-padded, thick-soled, triple E-width Old Man Sneakers. Available from Nike in sizzling white mesh, mine feature a dynamic orange lightning bolt, a fashion statement that says to the world: “I am too young for the Rockport Fitness Walkers my father wears with his pajamas, yet too old for the cool, flat-soled blue Pumas I bought for $300 at the hip sneaker store around the corner from where I used to live in Brooklyn when the kids were still babies and my feet didn’t hurt like this all the time.”

As we look toward Day Four of Fashion Week, I realize that most of you are asking, “Dan, how can I emulate you?  How can I, too, rock the cutting edge suburban dad styles you’ve been chronicling all week?” My expert advice: tie each look together with one consistent feature. Remember that peek-a-boo hole in my Futuro Knee Brace? Look closely at the left big toe region of my Old Man Sneaker, and you will find a peek-a-book hole there as well. Did I plan it that way? Of course not. It is the result of a toenail I didn’t trim for six straight weeks. But that is the essence of fashion for fathers like me. Spontaneity. Surprise. Suburbia.

Be sure to check this page tomorrow for Thursday’s edition of: Fashion Week for Suburban Dads.

Tonight's Must-Have Item

THURSDAY…

Tonight, the crème de la crème of A-List suburban dads will be at the most sought-after show of Fashion Week, the Rangers vs. Blackhawks game at glitzy Madison Square Garden. What will the real “Players” among us be wearing? Shimmering poly-blend hockey jerseys in patriotic color schemes, bold block-style numerals, and surnames of our favorite players. Yours truly will be resplendent in the signature style my eight-year-old son wears to school on an average of five days per week: 30 on the front, Lundqvist on the back. Why no “u” after the “q?” Because real style icons make their own rules, including the rules of grammar, whether they’re on the runway or on the rink.

And with that in mind, this maverick suburban dad isn’t waiting for game time at J.J. McFuckington’s Sports Bar and Wings to show off the flowing, fluid lines of my XXL hockey jersey from Overstock.com. I’ve had it on since I flossed after breakfast, and I will strut it like a peacock to each of the sizzling Fashion Week hotspots I’ll attend through the wee hours of the night, including Home Depot to buy a new WetVac.

Word to the fashion-wise: please resist the temptation to achieve a “layered look” by pairing this piece over a long sleeve Spandex Under-Armour T-shirt that is three sizes too small. I tried it this morning, and it detracted from the rugged pleasure of this piece: the stimulating sensation of my bare belly hairs poking through each of the jersey’s micro-mesh holes. And just between us suburban dads, let me tell you that the wife seemed rather “stimulated” herself when she noted my existence for at least one or one-half second today while preparing a baggie of Pirate’s Booty for our daughter’s lunchbox.

“Why do grown men wear sports jerseys in public like they’re dressing up for Halloween as professional athletes?” she asked.

“The same reason grown women wear cheerleader uniforms and carry pom-poms to work,” I replied.

Score!

Gotta run, big daddies. Or should I say, “Gotta glide!” Be sure to check this page tomorrow for the final edition of:

FASHION WEEK FOR SUBURBAN DADS

Fleece is the word.

FRIDAY…

Last night, scores of us sleek suburban dads turned up –and turned heads– at the most prestigious sports bars in the tri-state area, bedecked in dazzling, Rangers-inspired apparel from Modell’s. Though the Blackhawks emerged victorious in subtle, racist-toned tops featuring head dress insignia, I’d like to close out my fashion week coverage by sharing an inspiring quote which my close buddy Tommy Hilfingers once shared with me: “It’s not who wins or loses that counts, it’s who looks better.”  (Shout out to Tommy! Dude, I’m wearing your boat shoes today–with no socks.)

And nobody is going to look better on this Fashion Week Friday than suburban dads. Why? Because we will be wearing exactly the same thing we wear every Friday of every other week. That’s right: FLEECE.  On Monday through Thursday, we’re  all business in our buttoned-up clearance clothes from Banana Republic. But by the end of the work week, it’s time to TGIF. Thank God It’s Fleece Day.

When wearing fleece, particularly on anything-goes occasions like the grand finale of Fashion week, it’s a major “Daddy Don’t”  to “stop at the top.” Instead of selecting a single lime green fleece pullover from the Lands End catalogue, dapper dads like me dare to wrap ourselves from head to toe in a go-to-hell array of fleecy colors and textures. Party on in a pile carpet-quality fleece pullover from the LL Bean catalogue layered over a Thermax microfleece long underwear shirt from the Orvis catalogue paired with ultra-nappy après-ski fleece stretch slacks from the Patagonia catalogue (chocolate) and swirling, tripped-out patterned fleece bootie slippers from the Eddie Bauer catalogue.

This fluffy ensemble can be worn with confidence wherever your sizzling weekend plans take you, whether it’s the family room, the playroom, or even the laundry room. And when every other Saturday night rolls around, don’t be afraid to strut your fleecy stuff in the bedroom as well. After all, what suburban wife wouldn’t want to have marital relations with a spouse dressed like Fozie Bear?

And now, my haute-couture comrades, I’d like to thank you for following my fashion coverage this week, and to remind each and every one of you that Costco is currently stocking swimming trunks that would be ideal for those of you spending school vacation next week at your in-laws’ condo complex in Deerfield Beach, Florida. As for me, I’ll be combing the malls of Milan and the Chuck E. Fromage’s of Paris, prepping for next year’s edition of…

Fashion Week for Suburban Dads

LOL!

This month, the brilliant humorist Andy Borowitz released a new book entitled The 50 Funniest American Writers According To Andy Borowitz, and guess who made the list?! Did you guess David Sedaris? You’re correct. How about Dave Barry? Right again! But guess who else Andy Borowitz included in his “anthology of humor from Mark Twain to The Onion?” It gives me great pleasure to report that Fran Lebowitz, Woody Allen, Sloan Crosley and 45 other side-splitting scribes were selected. I myself was not one of them. Though I’m sure this was simply a matter of space limitations (normally I like to blame anti-semitism but it seems like a long shot in this particular instance),  I couldn’t help but feel deflated and glum when I found out the news. “Come on, Andy Borowitz,” I deflatedly and glumly thought to myself. “You’re like my role model. Don’t you think I’m funnier than this James Thurber guy you picked? Or Dorothy Parker? I mean, what has she written lately that’s so hilarious?”

And then, I stopped beating myself up just because I am not one of the 50 funniest American writers according to Andy Borowitz.  Instead, I wiped the tears from my eye (the tears of a clown, it goes without saying), and I transformed my pain into comic gold. If there was ever a doubt in anyone’s mind that I am not one of the 50 funniest American  according to Andy Borowitz, they need to look no further than the cavalcade of comedy I have prepared below.

1). Knock knock.

“Who’s there?”

Dan.

“Dan Who?”

That’s what Andy Borowitz said.

2).  Why did Andy Borowitz cross the road?

To get away from Dan Zevin.

3).  “Dan who?”

       That’s what Andy Borowitz said.

4).   So it seems a rabbi, a nun, and a Chinaman walked into a bar.

“Read any good books lately?” the bartender asked.

The rabbi said, “ The 50 Funniest American Writers According to Andy Borowitz.” The nun said, “The 50 Funniest American Writers According to Andy Borowitz.” When it was the Chinaman’s turn, he said: “The 50 Fifty Funniest American Writers According to Andy Borowitz.”

The bartender looked surprised. “How is it that such different people from such different backgrounds can all agree on the same book?” he asked.

“Because Dan Zevin isn’t in it,” they answered in unison.

5).   When Dan Zevin sits around the house because he’s not one of the 50 funniest American writers according to Andy Borowitz, he really sits around the house because he’s not one of the 50 funniest American writers according to Andy Borowitz!

6).   Take Dan Zevin. Please!

7).  There once was a writer named Dan

       He wasn’t a humorous man

His jokes were not funny

He never made money

From the Borowitz book, he was banned.

8).  A straight man/funny man schtick:

       Straight man (played by Dan Zevin): A funny thing happened to me on the way to theater tonight!

     Funny man (played by Andy Borrowitz): That’s not funny.

9).  I just flew in from America, which is the country where I am not one of the 50 funniest writers according to Andy Borowitz, and boy are my arms tired!

10).   Q: What do you call a person with a sense of smell, a sense of taste, a sense of sight, a sense of hearing, but not a sense of humor?

A: Dan Zevin.