suburban kamikaze

No drawer big enough to hold our 2015 ambitions

The first day of a new year is a day in which no ambition is out of reach. Everything seems possible.

Which is why I know I am not just organizing a drawer as 2015 opens on the Kamikaze family - I am turning the page on an entirely new way of living. We are taking the proverbial first step of a 1,000 drawer journey: 2015 will be The Year of the Drawer. Probably just this one drawer, but still. 

By we, of course, I mean me. The teenagers are perched atop a pile of Chipotle wrappers in the basement playing video games. Mr. Kamikaze is off napping in his Christmas pajamas somewhere. But I am setting the tone, laying down the first layer of our newly organized life - a life in which things make sense and every drawer has a "purpose", or at least a "theme" or at the very least "can be opened." Once the rest of the Kamikazes see how nice it is to live this way, they'll be all in.  

I begin by declaring war on "The Everything Drawer." I know this concept has to be killed and killed fast because it cropped up recently in the basement, where new trends in slovenliness are franchised faster than you can sweep pistachio shells under a couch cushion.   

"What's this?" I ask the girl upon discovering a drawer in the basement kitchen that contains hair brushes, toothpaste and cupcake decorating supplies. "It's the Everything Drawer," she says.

"There is no such thing as an Everything Drawer," I say. I try to sound firm, but there is no disguising the fear in my voice. What sort of new anarchy was this? 

I drag a box up to the kitchen and pull open the drawer I have always thought of as the Takeout Menu and Pencil/Pen/Spare Key and Loose Change drawer where we keep the scissors. I take everything out and pile it on the floor where a quick inventory reveals we are also using it to store lettuce seeds and a rubber cockroach.

The cockroach I understand, but the lettuce seeds make a mockery of my denials. If you had asked me at gunpoint to produce a packet of lettuce seeds from somewhere in my house, I would have sworn it could not be done.

Still, a couple of seed packets, some breath mints, two rulers, an antique protractor, a roll of mailing tape, two wooden Easter egg ornaments, a giraffe-patterned pacifier, some first aid supplies, two flashlights, some old business cards, two last century cell phones, some hand lotion, a tube of lip gloss, an electronic wine guide, an assortment of charging cords for devices we no longer own, the remote control for an air freshening system we gave up on years ago and five pairs of eyeglasses are still a couple of playing cards short of "everything."  And while the 7/9 of diamonds I find at the bottom of the drawer might be doing double duty, it's still really only one card. I get rid of it anyway because I'm not taking any chances.   

Photo: The Year of the Drawer, Day 1.

Christmas 2014 shaping up to be the least artisanal Christmas ever

There was a small part of me that believed there would be seasonal decor and greenery adorning the planters on the back deck by Christmas morning, at the latest. Was I wrong? Not entirely. It was the same part of me that believed the children would wake up to pancakes shaped like little Christmas trees. 

Wishing you all happy holidays! -SK

To do and do not

They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. But really, no shit. It must be nice to have the kind of problems that are so subtle that merely acknowledging them counts as actually taking a step.

My problem announces itself on every surface of my desk, on the seat of my car and in the scraps of to-do lists mocking me from the bottom of my purse:  I can't get anything done. 

I don't literally mean "anything."  I manage to make a lot of lists of the things I need to get done. And I am constantly doing "something." Do something.✔

But getting the stuff on my "list" done is another thing altogether. Sometimes, in an act that is as desperate as it is delusional, I actually put "make to-do list" on my to-do list just so I can have the satisfaction of crossing something off. Which is just sad.

Because other than that? Shit is not getting done. I blame my family mostly, for the obvious reason that they are mostly to blame. Blame family.✔

I didn't go to bed last night thinking I will get up at 6 a.m. tomorrow and spend two hours taking care of everyone else and their pet rabbits too, but that is where the morning went. Again.

Between ferrying various family members to their various destinations and cleaning various rabbit cages and picking up the various items of footwear that accumulate in every corner of the house overnight, my plans for finishing the important stuff on my list before noon were variously fucked.

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking: Is all of this profanity really necessary? And, why doesn't she just write "provide morning taxi and latte service to family members" and "unplanned rabbit cage cleaning" on her list and then cross them off? Or possibly you are thinking anyone could have told her the rabbit was a bad idea. Which is really not helpful at all.    

The point is, I have rules about what can go on my to-do list. Pretend to be operating under a system of rules.✔ And one of those rules is that I can't put something on the list after I have already done it. That's cheating.

So the interruptions don't count as having done anything, even if they take up the whole fucking morning. Employ a minimum of three uses of profanity in blog post.✔

I can't blame my family for all of it, however. Pretend to share blame.✔ The fact that "finish novel" and "Halloween care package to practically grown man" occupy the same list is surely a sign of trouble in the area of prioritizing. What makes me think I can finish a novel when it has taken me three days to cross "Halloween care package" off my list?

Why does it take three days to cross "Halloween care package" off my list? Because instead of waiting until the last minute to buy Halloween candy like my mother did, I buy it as soon as it shows up on the grocery shelf - to give myself plenty of time. I am pretty sure I am the only one in my family who even understands how "time" works.

Sadly, however, I miscalculated the equation Halloween candy + time so now I have to go buy more candy. Just like last year.

Buy more Candy. Just like last year.✔

Photo: In hindsight, I should have sealed the box immediately. I know that now.

 

from the archives: Hallowhat?

This week in Delusional Thinking: Pre-winter dystopian trilogies under blue skies

Though it is impossible in this part of the world to rule out snowfall at any point in the calendar, an undeniably summery feeling has settled over our house.  

The boy is home from his first year at Bankruptcy U. in Southern California, the girl is preparing for final exams and yesterday I used sunscreen for the first time in, as the teenagers say, literally forever.

I pour some fancy-ish European beer into a glass and read teen dystopian fiction on the back deck, under a literally blue sky. It feels dangerously summer-esque, as if - dare I say it out loud? winter has actually ended. No one really believes that, but still.

At a backyard - the backyard! - cookout on the South Side a day earlier, someone remarks that next winter is only a few months off and we all laugh nervously as if that is even funny. Then we stuff our faces with tacos al carbon and scan overhead for snow clouds.

It is hard not to succumb to the sense of possibility a little bit of UV radiation can provoke, even if you know it's delusional and even if things are going badly for the intrepid young heroine facing down the tyrannical leaders of the future-century Chicago in your book.

My summer reading list is largely assigned by the girl, who inherited a family tendency to become a little pushy about books we like, which, in combination with her generally pushy disposition, makes it a waste of time to argue about anything she wants you to experience. 

"You have to read this," she tells me. Once I agree - a foregone conclusion -  she monitors my progress relentlessly. "What is happening now?" she asks. "Have you reached the part where ---"

The concept of a "spoiler alert" is not something a 16-year-old girl takes seriously.

But it does not matter on the back deck, in the sun, with the fancy-ish beer. I have the entire summer to read Tibetan Peach Pie. First I have to finish Chi-vergent, and possibly the rest of the trilogy. Then I have to read the weepy cancer novel she has assigned me next. But after that, I can read anything I want. 

Everything seems possible when the sun is shining and the children are all sleeping under my roof again. We could take a family vacation! We could get a dog! We could clear out the mountain of Chipotle wrappers covering the basement counter!

Okay, maybe not the wrappers. And definitely not the dog. Family vacation is a terrible idea. But the rest of it? It could happen.

High-heeled tape dispenser spells the end of Casual Friday office supplies

 

Now the publishing world will have to tape me seriously. 

How we live now

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking, put down that spray bottle, Suburban. Nobody cleans the house for a kid home for spring break. 

But I'm not doing it for him.  

I know as well as you do that he has probably already invited a dozen other 19-year-old boys to come over and spill Chipotle all over the furniture in the basement. 

I'm doing it to send a message. And that message is this: Things are different.

We eat from plates now. Sometimes even in the kitchen. Dirty laundry goes IN the laundry basket. It's something new we're trying. Clean laundry goes somewhere else. We're still working on it. But you probably have noticed that entire sections of floor are almost shoe free. And the kitchen countertops? We know now that we have them. 

See how we live now? 

It's not 100 percent true. Or any percent, if you want to get all technical. But my theory is this: We have an opportunity to reset the bar as to what constitutes an acceptable level of household disorder. It's a fresh start. Fresh-ish. 

Because it's harder to spill the contents of an overstuffed burrito onto a floor that has been freshly vacuumed. And no one wants to be the first to put a half-eaten plate of food onto a freshly-cleaned kitchen counter. A teenager who walks into a house where he can see his reflection in every solid surface is going to hesitate before he dumps the unwashed contents of his suitcase onto the floor.  [EDITOR'S NOTE: We have since learned that this is actually not true.] 

Before you know it, a couch that doesn't crunch when you sit on it will start to seem normal. We lived like that once. I'm pretty sure. It's possible I am thinking of some other family.

 

For more inspiration in a spray bottle, check out SK on Queen Latifah today.

Snow, actually.

I put my car in reverse and shoot all the way out to the road, navigating the path between the ice mountains in one clean swoop, much like an Olympic skier.  I had a really good run yesterday too, but today, I can picture myself on the podium.

I am high-fiving myself for my Olympic caliber driving-in-reverse skill when Mr. Kamikaze gestures toward the glaciers at the mouth of the driveway.

"I widened it for you," he says. "Did you think you were getting better?"

yeah, I did. 

Photo: The freshly-shoveled driveway as Valentine's Day tribute. 

The backstory.

The Teenager's Guide to Creating an Authentic Costume with Nothing but Money and That Skirt You Wanted Anyway: Plus Cats!

At some point today, in between items 9 and 73 on my to-do list, I am planning to dig a few Halloween decorations out of the basement closet and throw them onto the front steps in a slapdash, last-minute attempt at seasonal decor. For the children.

Coming in at number No Fucking Way on my list is a quick shopping trip for something called a skater skirt that Veruca Salt needs for the last-minute Halloween costume she may or may not wear.

If history teaches us anything, it is that - all profane protestations to the contrary - I will be going to the mall today, despite the fact that this is unreasonable, ridiculous and not particularly relevant to her costume theme.  

But apparently, there is no other way to make a cat costume work. I know this now because the look she gave me when I suggested that any of the 45 pairs of black leggings she already owns could serve the same purpose - made it clear that a skater skirt is the difference between a cat costume that works and a cat costume fail.        

Then, if I manage to accomplish nothing else, I will dig my skeleton hand wine goblets out of the cobweb covered boxes and pour myself a glass of something cheap and red. I may also pull out the remnants of the very tiny, very adorable cat costumes the children wore so many years ago and get a little nostalgic over a giant pile of Twizzlers.

It is a very sorry excuse for a holiday effort and I would apologize, but I know that you are only here for the cats.  

Photo: My neighbor has a giant fucking cat.

from the History has Taught us Nothing archives: Tinkerbelle is so last week

from the costume bin: Hallowhat?

One Direction lyrics for the college bound

In a perfect world, boy bands would incorporate SAT vocabulary into their song lyrics...

    

You're nonchalant

Don't know what for

You're being scrutinized when you walk through the door 

On you, make-up would be superfluous

Being the way that you are is exemplary

 

Everyone else in the room can see it lucidly

Everyone else but you

 

Baby, it's unequivocal 

The way that you flip your hair destroys my equanimity 

But when you smile at the ground, it ain't hard to tell

You don't recognize your own aesthetic

If only you were clairvoyant 

You'd understand why I want you so zealously

Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe

You don't know

You don't know you're provocative

Which strikes me as fortuitous

 

So c-come on

Don't be obstinate

To substantiate my rhetoric 

I'm going to elucidate it in a song

I don't know why

You're being diffident

And suppress your reaction when I look in your eye, eye, eyes.

 

from the Boy Band archives: All Roads lead to One Direction

Still life in paper and delusions

People are always asking me, "Suburban, how do you do it?"

Because from the outside, it does not really seem possible to eat cheese and crackers at your desk while applying a top coat to your manicure. And I won't lie to you: there are crumbs stuck to a couple of my nails.

But the point is, I'm not going to stop multitasking just because it's messy. Life is messy. So sure, while I did spend a few minutes indulging in workspace envy over the Tumblr images of Where Bloggers Blog, I have to wonder: do people really get anything done in those tidy, color-coordinated  Martha Stewart-esque workspaces? Also, where the fuck are my scissors?

I need to clip this recipe for lobster pasta with yellow tomatoes and basil out of the newspaper before I realize I am never, ever going to make lobster pasta with yellow tomatoes and basil.

Photo: Where bloggers do their nails.

A strawberry-frosted slippery slope

Oh god. You know that woman who googles "Pop-Tarts" late at night and then hits the "send" button on two 36-count boxes of strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts for delivery to a dorm room 2,015.3 miles away? And then googles "dorm room toaster" to see if there is something small and safe that can be used to toast strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts in a dorm room? Because those are his favorite? And then googles "are toasters allowed in college dorms?" Because what if they're not? And then worries, will he even eat 72 strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts if he can't toast them? 

If I am not careful, I could turn into that woman.  

Photo: Little Ernie gets a taste of dorm life. 

#delusions

I don't approve of the way they pack my stuff one-item-per-bag into those flimsy plastic bags at the grocery store, but I refuse to be the kind of person who has an opinion about how grocery bags should be packed.

That would just be sad.

No, seriously. It's beautiful.

Another Mother's Day is almost here. Go ahead, pretend to care. We see right through your shabby little arts and crafts efforts. Who do you think is going to have to vacuum all that glitter spilling out from your sticky tribute?  Who is in charge at that preschool anyway? Just kidding. You're adorable.

Whatever, middle schoolers. You can't buy us off with some cheap chocolate your dad bought for you at the last minute just because you can't drive and you don't have any money. You think we don't know what you tweet about us? Well, we don't actually. We are too busy trying to get that smell out of your bedroom.   

Just kidding. We know you care.

OMG high schoolers! You are going to clean the house for us? That is so sweet, even if you are the ones who made it such a mess in the first place. There is nothing as satisfying as the smell of cleaning products and burnt toast on a Sunday morning. Unless it is the smell of cleaning products and burnt toast accompanied by the sounds of a protracted argument over who has to do the vacuuming. Why should you have to do it anyway? It's not like you are going to do a good job. You can't even make toast. Who is going to eat that?

Seriously though, keep it simple. Last year's 11-course champagne brunch was lovely, but a little over the top.

I am only joking. It really is the thought that counts. I am not sure whose mom said it first, but it is just as true today as it was then, or whenever. 

Whatever,

Mom

Scotch tape may be the answer but now I have forgotten the question.

I know. I recently led you to believe that thumbtacks were the way to go. And I'm not saying they don't have a point. 

It's just that my current system (binders, thumbtacks, Paris-themed sticky notes, profanity) does not seem up to the job lately. I don't know exactly how Sheryl Sandberg does it, but around here there is way too much leaning in. Don't you people have anywhere else you could be leaning? 

So when I find myself copying 35 pages of tax returns at 6 a.m. because of a scholarship application Boy Esq. needed to file five minutes ago, I begin to wonder - and not for the first time - what the fuck is wrong with my life system?

Also, what happened to the extra copies I assembled a month ago and filed in a blue folder marked "To be Lost Immediately"?

That is when I realize I should have taped the extra copies to the desk, along with my scissors, my favorite pens, my Notes-to-Self. That way, when I get up in the morning at zero-dark-thirty, everything will be exactly where I left it just before I went to bed two hours earlier.

Binders full of men and takeout menus

As an authority on organized living, I feel a responsibility to clear up some recent misconceptions regarding binders.

I love binders. That doesn't make me some kind of 1950s throwback who panders to people who believe Planned Parenthood, Big Bird and gay people are aligned in a plot to destroy America. Big Bird just doesn't strike me as having the kind of critical thinking skills to pull something like that off.    

The point is, binders play a key role in my attempt to keep the demands of career, household, parenting and delusional thinking organized and distinct. Because there's only so much a thumbtack can hold.

If there is a better way to juggle the requirements of making a living in the language-based arts while pursuing your dreams of getting the teenagers out of the house, I don't know what it is.

Paper clips, maybe?