suburban kamikaze

Grievance Tuesday

I don't like to complain, but when I heard that there was more snow in the forecast this week, my first thought was [expletive deleted].

My next thought was also profanity laced, but it was more along the lines of, "of course." It's February. In this part of the world, that means snow. Or ice, or possibly just life-threatening wind chill temperatures. Whatever.   

As Midwesterners are fond of saying, it's the days like this that make you appreciate the muddy, grey chill of the coming Midwestern spring even more. This is what is known in the Midwest as "perspective." The winter-hardy people of the plains are famous for it, along with something called "green bean casserole," which is a dish people make when they have completely given up.   

Click here if you want to read more weather-related grievances. Click here if you would prefer your weather-related grievances with a side of cheesecake. Click here if you have had it with weather-related grievances.

It's cold.

Good Morning Kamikazians and welcome to a brand new season of "It's Too Fucking Cold in the Greater Chicago Area."  It is - despite an ongoing smear campaign by certain members of my immediate family - one of our most popular features.

And why is that? I'll tell you why: It's because I am not afraid to say it. It's too fucking cold in the Greater Chicago area. People know this on a certain level, but no one wants to talk about it. The people of the prairie are in complete denial.

"You call this cold?" they will say, raising a frozen eyebrow in scorn. "Back in the winter of 00-something, it was so cold we had to wear coats over our clothes."

If you get caught wearing a coat before the temperature falls below ice rink, they will look at you as if you are an alien, which let's face it: if your parents' parents didn't grow up within a snowball's throw of the house you're freezing in, you are. 

There is a lot of pressure to pretend it isn't cold. You can see it in the icy grimace of the early morning dog walkers, the stroller pushers, the teenagers who walk to school with icicles hanging off their basketball shorts.

And of course, a few years back, the conspiracy went so far as to include a recalculation of wind chill, which had the effect of making the reported temperatures higher than they really were, which was already higher than they actually felt.

I'm pretty sure I read this somewhere. I could look it up for you, but my whole point is: I don't need someone else to tell me when it's time to start complaining about the weather. I just know.

Photo: Too soon? That's what they want you think.

from the archives: Chicago winter forecast: Yeah. It's Going to be Cold 

99 Reasons to Drink in the Suburbs #27: Flamingos

You know that margarita season has officially arrived when you wake up to find a family of flamingos on the front lawn.

It's traditional. It is extra nice to find them not buried up to their necks in snow, as the result of what Midwesterners like to call a "late season snow" but which really just means "snow again."

Midwesterners, unlike flamingos, have learned to keep their weather-related expectations very low. They are, however, pretty goddamn finicky about the margaritas.

from the tequila archives: This week in Margaritas 

Middle schoolers shocked to discover link between social studies and stuff they actually care about

Strange but true: Eighth graders couldn't care less about the state symbols of Illinois. 

While adults may be fascinated to learn that fluorite was established as the official state mineral by a vote of the Illinois General Assembly in 1965 or that citizens went to the polls to vote the eastern tiger salamander into office in 2004, middle schoolers react to this information by immediately texting  "SOOOOOO BORED" to the 613 members of their immediate circle.

Because what does any of this have to do with vampires?

Which is why it seems odd when my eighth grader, Veruca Salt Kamikaze, informs me that the White Oak, one of approximately 20 oak trees native to Illinois, and which grows to a height of between 80 and 100 feet, is the state tree. Her social studies teacher had outlined the facts in a lecture that she recounted like this:

"The White Oak is the official state tree of Illinois. It grows to a height of up to 100 feet, has a whitish-grey  bark, and a sharpened stake made from its wood is the only known method of killing an Original vampire."

Which, as pretty much any eighth grade girl on the planet can tell you, is 100 percent true, according to The Vampire Diaries, where the characters have spent pretty much the entire season trying to locate a white oak for exactly that reason.

Apparently their search has not yet taken them to the Prairie State, where at least one eighth grade class could tell them what they need to know. 

Photo courtesy of the Justin Bieber Junior High yearbook committee.

from the SK Vampire Diaries: What to Expect: The Vampire Years

I wish to apologize in advance for next week's record snowstorm.

Temperatures are expected to reach 80 degrees. And the sun is totally visible.

But the hardy people of the Midwestern suburbs are unconvinced. They've seen this kind of thing before. They know.

All that stands between them and a late season snowstorm that will bring traffic to a standstill and swift death to the presumptuous array of foliage that has sprung too soon from the earth are the weather gods. And me.

Having come from a land where the only two seasons are Patio Furniture in the Pool and Patio Furniture out of the Pool, I do not share their sense of caution. I moved the palm trees outside a week ago. Yesterday I grilled chicken with lime and I didn't even have to sweep snow off the grill.  

Today I am thinking of opening Margarita Season. Unofficially, of course. I am not a total idiot.

The locals are skeptical.  "Don't do it,"  they warn. "Make some sort of vodka drink instead. Anything but Margaritas. You will only anger them."

"But there is no mint for mojitos," I say. "Mojitos?" they hiss. "Are you out of your mind? Do you want to bring about Snowmageddon?"

"It's practically April," I say cautiously. 

"Hah," they say. "April." They practically spit the word. 

They shake their heads and check their supplies of salt. Not the kind you use for the rim of a glass. They do not even think of putting the snow shovels away. 

I know they're right. But the blue skies are too hard to resist. Also, I am new to these parts. The weather gods probably don't even know who I am yet. Besides, the high school girls have been wearing shorts for weeks. 

It won't be all my fault.

Photo: A pair of weather gods discuss plans for next week's record snowfall.

 

from the weather archives: A blizzard runs through it, Storm warnings call for a little Midwestern pluck, Things that did not survive the winter

An optimist sees the chair as half empty

from our winter clearance sale: A Blizzard Runs Through It, Cold Play, The 5 Stages of Winter

Forecast calls for cold winter in Chicago; wet oceans

Forecasts in Chicago can be very confusing to newcomers. But after you have lived through a few Chicago winters, they start to make even less sense.

This year for example, we have been told to expect "extreme cold." Which is easily confused with "bitter cold."  Or sometimes referred to as "very, very cold." Which is virtually indistinguishable from "really very fucking cold,"  regardless of what the old-timers say.

No matter how you try to dress it up in scienc-y words, the experience is not something that can really be captured by meteorology. Once you can no longer feel your face or your hands or see your car, the actual snowfall and/or temperature are meaningless. 

Not that there aren't subtle differences from year to year. 

Our first Chicago winter was so cold and snowy we had to move all of our dinner parties indoors. Where it was still too cold, but less snowy.

 

But the winter after that we didn't have to move a single party. We had completely lost our will to entertain.   

 

There are years where you spend the entire winter dreaming of Miami. These are known as "Miami winters"  until the point at which your capacity for irony has frozen over. 

 

"Bitter" cold is when Miami winter dreams mutate into dark fantasies in which the entire southeast coast of Florida is submerged beneath shark-infested waters as the result of global warming. Now who's living in paradise?

The momentary pleasure spawned by these thoughts is known as schadenfroze.

  

One winter it was too cold for hot chocolate, though this was hushed up and rebranded by the tourism shills, who called it "Frappuccino Winter."

 

Last winter included one storm so severe that salons called women to have their highlights and bikini waxes touched up. This is known as an  "Extreme Beauty Winter."

This year, according to the professionals at Accuweather, will be known as the winter "Chicago Residents Will Want to Move Away," which distinguishes it not at all.

 

From the endless winter archives: A blizzard runs through it, The Five Stages of Winter

Driveway buffet sets new standard in no-frills entertaining

Photo: Actual, unretouched photo from a neighbor's children's party. Martha Stewart never really caught on in the Midwestern suburbs. Garnishes are strictly accidental.

Trash talk from a woman wearing an apron

My neighbor, the one I call "Mary" because they're pretty much all named Mary in these parts, gives me about five minutes notice.

"We're coming over for margaritas, baby girl," she says. "Get your lime on."  She's bringing the one they call "Kate." 

"I'm going out for drinks in the city," I object. "With grown-ups."

"We're grown-ups," she says.

Yeah, they're grown-ups all right. Grown-ups with about 11 kids between them. Some of them theirs, some of them strays. I have never seen her with fewer than four.

"How many?" I say.

"How many what?" she asks innocently.

"How many children are with you?"

"They will just play in the backyard," she says, an evasion that suggests double digits.

"Fine," I say.  "But I can't drink margaritas in the afternoon and go out for drinks in the evening."

"And you call yourself Irish," she says.

"I call myself Kamikaze," I say. "I'm pretty sure that's Japanese."

She sits on my deck a minute later drinking Mexican cocktails in a woodland-themed apron she has worn deliberately to provoke me into saying something about Midwestern women. As if her shoes weren't enough. 

I refuse to take the bait. Even when she starts telling me I made the drinks too weak. "Someone needs to teach you how to make a margarita," she says. 

But I do take her picture. She's adorable. She looks like she should have a tray of cupcakes in her hand.  They would be terrible cupcakes, and she would break them into little pieces and scatter them among the children like chicken feed, but still.         

 from the Something about Mary archives: Some people claim that there's a woman to blame

Midwesterners are not a shiny people

Picasso's mommy leaves a message on my voice mail:

"I'm calling to find out where at your house you would like me to leave the glitter bomb I am making for you. Please direct me to the least convenient spot possible, because that is where all the glitter in my house has accumlated, thanks to you. As soon as you've got your spot picked out and properly coated in glue I will drop it off."

Look, I tell her, if you send me your first-grader for the afternoon, things are going to get glittery. I thought I made that clear.

I didn't spend the equivalent of an Ivy League tuition payment at Overpriced Craft Extravagana Incorporated just to let that shit sit on the shelf.

I am not responsible for the "glitter bomb" that went off in your house any more than I am responsible for the fact that little Frida Kahlo went a little heavy on the stuff in creating her masterpiece, Glitter on Glitter, 2011. 

Inspirational, maybe, but not responsible.

I am not the type of parent to come between a first-grader and her artistic vision. Not with all this glitter just sitting here!

Those two surly teenage postmodernists who replaced the adorable little Impressionists who used to live with me? They couldn't care less about glitter these days, unless it is in the form of currency or nail polish. So yeah, you send me your little Jackson Pollock and I am going to open the glitter studio.

I am bursting with repressed glitter ideas.

If there is anything more satisfying than a day spent doing elementary school arts and crafts, I don't know what it is, although hearing you describe the glow that our project brought to your office comes very close.

And maybe it's just the margaritas talking but if there is anything in your office worth more than your child's creative impulses, it may be time to rethink your unshiny Midwestern priorities. Maybe you could make me another margarita while you're at it?

Look at the bright and sparkly side, I tell her. When I sold the house in South Paradise where my children spent their arts and crafts years, it was worth twice what we paid for it. I have to think all of the glitter crusted into the tile grout had something to do with that.  You should be thanking me.   

"Midwesterners are not a shiny people," she says. 

Really? Then how do you explain this?

Glitter seashore with ice cream, Midwestern first-grader, 2011.

Things that did not survive the winter

Also, my belief in winter as an institution.

Photo: Dead palm trees can be used to create a seasonal centerpiece that sets exactly the right tone for your Easter buffet. You're welcome. -SK

Midwestern Winter Diary: A blizzard runs through it

Feb 1: The snow is thigh high in places and we are dangerously low on Cotes du Rhone.  

  

There is talk of having to drink the chardonnay, but we pray it does not come to that.

Outside, the hearty Midwestern people shovel the snow from one side of their houses to the other, and back again, in a ritual it seems even they do not fully understand...

Inside, the middle school girls have tracked in enough snow to build a sledding ramp.

I am haunted by daughters.

  

 

From the winter archives: I shouldn't have done it

Storm warnings call for a little Midwestern pluck

I was inclined to discount the increasingly dramatic weather warnings as hype.

Then I get a call from the salon suggesting that I move my bikini wax up because a blizzard is on the way.

Now I am scared.

I lived through three decades worth of hurricane preparation in Florida and never once was I instructed to have my pubic hair removed.

You cannot match these Midwesterners for preparedness, apparently.

 

From the Midwestern Diary archives: Heartland Horoscope

Five stages of winter

1. Denial - The permanent state of longtime Chicago residents: "This is nothing. When I was a kid, we played outside until it hit 40 below."  

2. Profanity -Why the fuck do I live here? Why the fuck does anyone live here? I fucking hate everyone in fucking February.

3. Bargaining - The Lord & Taylor Clearance Center boot sale: At these temperatures can you really own too many pairs?

4. Soup Making -  Is there anything better than avgolemono?  Other than airfare?

5. Resignation -  Also known as "freedom from layering."  What is the point of dressing like the Michelin tire man? I will never be warm again...

Photo by Rick McCawley

Neighborliness gives way to trash talk as competitive raking season opens in the Midwestern suburbs

 

More from the Midwestern Diary:  The Corn Whisperer, Study: 30 percent of fall leaves end up in house