suburban kamikaze

Prose and eros

From the Valentine's Day archives, because I didn't have time to get you anything this year.

But that doesn't mean I am not thinking of you.

-SK

I would like to be able to show you the slutty new tattoo* I am sporting as a Valentine's Day surprise for Mr. Kamikaze, but I can't.

And not just because I didn't get one.

I also didn't get one in a place you can't show on public radio, if you know what I mean.

But seriously. I am actually here to talk about books. 

Not here. Here.

I only used that whole slutty tattoo business to rope you in. It's an old trick and I take no credit for it. But I'm not going to apologize for something that you fall for every single time! You are practically asking for it.

But wait!  Not just any books. These are sexy books. Books to read between the sheets even.

And if there is anything better than getting into bed with a fresh stack of books, then I am not the Internet's foremost authority on sex and/or laundry.

*As for the tattoo, I had envisioned something guaranteed to make Mr. Kamikaze's heart pound with excitement. Upon further reflection, and with a writer's keen instincts for unintentional irony, I decided against having "Antiques Roadshow" emblazoned across my collectibles.

Happy Valentine's Day.

-SK

From the Valentine archives: Sex in the Suburbs

Middle school romance syndicate leaving nothing to Cupid

 

From the archives: Middle School Beauty Co-Op Takes Hard Line on Bad Hair Days

Chicago: Shark free all winter long

Despite my impeccable credentials in the field of laundry romance, this story left me puzzled.

How did Chicago snow-shovel its way past Miami as a Valentine's Day destination?

Was Victoria's Secret making snow pants now? 

Not that Chicago isn't a sexy place in its own broad-shouldered, men in long black coats kind of way.

It's just that when we see broad-shouldered men in long black coats in February, we can't help but think how good they'd look shoveling our driveways for us.

The mystery was cleared up however, by a team of investigative reporters at the Chicago Board of Tourism Tribune who put this winter's record blizzard and bitter cold into perspective with harrowing stories of shark attacks and deadly pool drains. 

Is it any wonder that lovebirds would choose a little snow over the hazards lurking beneath the palm trees? Okay, so it's actually a lot of snow, but still. It's probably not going to kill you.  And certainly not on purpose.

Photo: Cold is the new hot.

 

From the Winter Romance archives: World's Tallest Cliché, Snow way

Tricking your husband into buying a vacuum cleaner on Mother's Day: priceless

Honest to god, we really do need a new vacuum cleaner.

But when he calls from the store for Mother's Day suggestions, I cannot convince him this is a good idea.

He thinks he's being set up.

"Oh no," he says. "You've probably got your blog all queued up just waiting for me to walk in the door with a vacuum cleaner."

"Come on," I say. "You'll probably get a cojones discount."

"How about a video camera?" he says. "Or a device that will turn the old video movies into dvds?"

"We really need a new vacuum cleaner," I say.

But he doesn't trust me. He has this paranoid idea, based on nothing more than experience, that we are competing: If he can manage, against all odds, to produce a Mother's Day Experience that conforms to all traditional expectations, he wins. If I can get him to fuck up by, say, getting up early and making breakfast or cleaning the bathroom or in some small way making the day about the children (Who wants ice cream?) then I win. 

He is on guard from the moment he wakes up and catches me cleaning the bathroom. 

The old vacuum cleaner has been acting up for months.  What could be more convenient? He is already at the appliance store. 

"Be a man," I say. "Besides, I already have everything I need." 

"Right," he says.  He smells a trap and comes home to take me out to lunch.

"Anywhere you want to go," he says.

From the back seat, the kids spot the yellow arches. "McDonald's!" they say.

"Fine by me," I say.

"No way," he says. 

He drives around for a long time until he finds the kind of restaurant where you can drink white wine over a big salad while sitting on the patio listening to music by Alanis Morissette and Sting. 

It is very nice. But I am relentless on the subject of vacuum cleaners. I make another round of appeals to his masculinity.  Then I say, "it's not like Valentine's Day. And I am not your mother. It really falls on the children at this age."

I do not meet his eyes when I say this. I am so close. 

But after five minutes of trying to compare vacuum features, I am too bored to continue. 

"Let's leave," I say. Vacuuming can wait. It's Mother's Day.  "Who wants ice cream?"

 

Mother's Day 2008: All over but the vacuuming

Sex in the Suburbs

Amid all the claims for sexual prowess being peddled by porn stars, rock stars and flat-bellied metrosexual bachelors, the real superheroes of the bedroom go largely unacknowledged.

And so today, a day when suburban mommies everywhere will be showered with construction paper hearts, overpriced chocolates and things from Victoria’s Secret that we will forget to wear ever again, here at Suburban Kamikaze we have have decided to extend some long overdue credit.

The publishing world may not have figured it out yet, but if the truth were told, the best-selling sex manuals on the shelf would be devoted to the Bedroom Secrets of the Suburban Dad. It’s true.

Sorry to bust your bubble Casanova, but these guys have earned the title.

You think it’s hard to pick up a woman in a bar? Puh-leeze. These guys have to convince a woman who has fallen asleep in her clothes reading Thomas the Tank Engine stories that what she really wants right now is some midnight romance under the giant pile of laundry covering the master bed.

You want to brag about technique? These guys keep the steam building knowing that at any minute, and probably more than once, they will be interrupted by a crying child, a ringing phone or their wives’ spontaneous recollection that they forgot to sign a permission slip for the field trip.

We are talking about seducing a woman who, no matter how diligently you work to set the mood, will be filtering your sweet whisperings and best maneuvers through the running commentary of her mental Blackberry: "Oh, that feels … Is that coughing? I will never make deadline if she’s sick. Wait, what is today? Is it the 10^th? And, oh. Oh. Oh. Oh God, it’s the 12^th. Mom’s birthday. I should send flowers. Better write myself a note.  If I could just reach… a pen."

Or perhaps you will find yourself trying to seduce the woman you married in Miami Beach and then foolishly moved to Chicago where she refuses to get naked on any day where the temperature separation between her current life and her old life is greater than 70 degrees.

My point is, these guys have honed their skills under conditions you could not imagine.

You may have better underwear, but you are amateurs next to them.

Plus today, they all get new underwear.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

-SK

Photo: Is it hot in here or is it just me?

Sex in the Suburbs radio version