suburban kamikaze

What's black and white and left all over?

Pretty much everything. Along with stuff in every other color. 

It's on the counters, the floors, the staircase, the beds. It's stuffed into the bookshelves and under the couch cushions. It's piling up around the laundry baskets. It's spilling out of the trash bag.  

We are living under conditions often described as "Holy crap, who lives like this?"

Or "sloth" for short.

Some of us may have taken on too many projects at the same time. Others are expected to take a key supporting role in everybody else's projects as well.

And of course, by "some of us" I mean myself. By  "others," I am referring to myself again. By "supporting role," I mean, "Can't anybody around here do a single thing for themselves? Also: prep work, inspiration, execution, fact-checking, copyediting, scheduling, transportation and what we loosely refer to as "meal planning."  Very loosely.

And sure, thumbtacks are a big part of making it work. But a key drawback to the many organizational systems that I have devised over the years is that they contribute to the sense that any of this is actually possible.       

Related: Like you have a better system 

This week in delusional thinking, starring James Bond and Hannah Montana

I believe that if you have never been tempted to dance to “Pumping Up the Party” by Hannah Montana, you are already a little bit dead inside.

I believe if coffee were declared illegal, a cartel of PTA moms would be powerful enough to rival the Colombian drug lords within six months.

I believe teenage girls are secretly running the world. Otherwise, the success of Twitter makes no sense.

I believe bikini waxing gives me the right to think of myself as brave.

I have trouble accepting the idea that James Bond could actually drive like that without getting someone killed, but I do believe it is possible that Daniel Craig and I could run into each other somewhere, in an elevator maybe, or an airport, where we would bond over a shared passion for olives and wordplay and exchange phone numbers.

I believe my husband would be okay with this.

I believe Post-it Notes are invisible to children.

I believe my teenage son secretly does know which day the garbage goes out.

I believe that scrubbing toothpaste off the sink while blow-drying my hair gives me the right to think of myself as an effective multitasker, even if I end up with toothpaste in my hair.

I believe I am the kind of woman who sports a tattoo in some sexy location. I just don’t think I need a tattoo to prove it.

I believe everybody is sanctimonious about something and that recognizing this fact makes me a better human being than most people.

I believe that my failure to develop a working system of organized family life is the result of deliberate sabotage and not a flaw in my system of charts, thumbtacks, hooks, storage containers and Post-it Notes. 

Delusions of the Caribbean

I am having the kind of week for which nothing less than being kidnapped by a handsome pirate and spirited away for an old-fashioned tumble belowdecks could possibly rehabilitate.

Applicants must subscribe to 21st century notions of grooming, hygiene and foreplay and hold firm opinions on the appalling underrepresentation of women at the top of America's biggest corporations.    

Also, there should be clean sheets belowdecks.

I am one thumbtack away from having it all.

Do not try to discourage me with talk of how it has Never Been Done.

I know I am in "uncharted waters."  Please. I practically wrote the book on Organization Systems that Seem Promising, But Only Serve to Transfer Disorganization from One Place to Another.

Sadly, I forgot to copyright that one.

And yes, I recognize that my track record in matters of organization has been, let's say "spotty."

But this time is different, I swear! No more bins, no more hooks, no more sorting hats.

The answer is: thumbtacks.

Trust me. This time I'm really on to "something."

All I have to do to prove it works is: revise my novel, navigate an impenetrable collection of college and scholarship applications, launch a completely new website, establish myself as the new face of erotic literature and adult figure skating and find a full-time job that will allow my family to continue living indoors.  

It sounds overwhelming until you begin adhering stick-on corkboard to every surface of your work area. From there, it's just a matter of acquiring a collection of thumbtacks, which are available in a wide array of colors and styles.

And voila!   You are speaking French for no reason! surrounded by the exact same to-do list as before except now it has been impaled on tiny plastic-coated spikes.

Which I believe will make all the difference.

Photo: Forget what I said about Paris-themed sticky notes.

The Dozen Habits of Highly Effective Kindergartners

Half an hour at the spa seems a little rushed and there is no way I am vacuuming at 8:15 in the morning, but otherwise, I feel like this could be a significant improvement over the schedule we are currently using in the Kamikaze household.

Our system would look just like this if you took all the strips of paper out, scattered half of them around the room and lined up the rest horizontally so they were all scheduled at exactly the same time, but with each activity taking twice as long as planned.   

Photo courtesy of our Palm Beach area correspondent

Paris-themed sticky notes to usher in new era of organization and uninterrupted productivity

Photo: Les "sticky notes" (bottom right) have the power to transform a work space into an oasis of organization, style and deadline management. Possibly that is just the Cotes dû Rhone talking.

Cookware Chronicles, Part II: In which a raclette maker also calls to us and we are sauteed by indecision

The Backstory: The author, who suffers from aspirations, is taken in by a New York family's description of how a piece of Williams-Sonoma cookware changed their lives. 

***

Was it fear of commitment that kept me afraid of committing to the oddly-shaped Nordic pancakes known as ebelskivers? Or something stickier?

If I was going to be completely honest with myself, I had to acknowledge that there was something about the oozy fruit filling and the dusting of powdered sugar that suggested the teenagers would take to them like teenage ants on a pile of powdered sugar and oozy fruit filling.

And where was the satisfaction in that?

I was looking for something to build a tradition around, in which we would be a completely different family than the one currently occupying our house. 

We'd be a family for whom a meal was an unpronounceable mix of new cultural experiences built around cheese and good wine. The children would use forks.

But I was beginning to doubt that ebelskivers were the answer.

As much as I liked the sound of ebelskiver, there was also their resemblance to doughnuts, which are very hard to pair with wine and taste like something a 16-year-old boy would make for dinner, if somebody else were there to make it for him.  

It was then that I turned my attention to raclette, a cuisine, that according to its Wikipedia entry:         

"... was mentioned in medieval writings as a particularly nutritious meal consumed by peasants in mountainous Switzerland and France (Savoy region). It was then known in the German-speaking part of Switzerland as Bratchäs, or "roasted cheese." Traditionally, the Swiss cow herders ... "  

The factual accuracy of which is "in dispute" and which only raises more questions than it answers. How, for example, had medieval peasants gotten their hands on the Williams-Sonoma electric raclette maker, with its 8 individual broiling trays and spatulas, granite grill top and adjustable thermostat?

I was beginning to see the makings of a new weekend tradition - one that had both cheese and controversy going for it. Williams-Sonoma, it seemed, had a dark side after all...

 

Next: In which it is all revealed to have been a dream. Except the teenagers are real and I am still leaning toward the raclette maker.

Cookware Chronicles, Part 1: Ebelskiver Dreams

All our previous attempts at weekend traditions built around Nordic cookware had ended in disappointment

But something told me this would be different.

How could ebelskivers be wrong? Were we so different from any other family in Newburgh, N.Y.? 

"Ebelskivers are now a weekend tradition in our home." - Newburgh, NY. (Excerpted from "Nordic Ware," by Williams-Sonoma)

What did the overpriced cookware catalog family have that we didn't? Other than a $39.95 nonstick pan designed with seven deep wells to ease the batter into the traditional ebelskiver shape? And possibly the accompanying set of ebelskiver turning tools? ($12.95) 

There was only one way to know for sure. But first I had to overcome the deep skepticism of a family easily spooked by exotic cookware.   

Could they even be persuaded? What sort of literary tie-in could be folded into the experience?  What exactly is an ebelskiver?  I had to know...

Coming Next Week Or Possibly the Week After That:  The shocking and somehow completely predictable conclusion of "We Are Thinking of Buying an Ebelskiver Pan." 

1. Get something done. Done.

It is a mystery to me why I have not yet been tapped to run the space program. It probably has something to do with budget cuts, or possibly my algebra grades. But if someone did ask me to run the space program, I would probably say yes and then I would just write it down on my to-do list under "finish screenplay" or "finish a single cup of coffee without interruption." 

Which brings me to the point of today's topic: How I Manage to Get So Much Done Despite Near-Constant Sabotage By My Family Members. Also the neighbors.

I'm sorry... what was I saying? I was interrupted by a neighbor calling to complain about a Margarita hangover she believes is my fault. Which is another story that I am not going to get into here except to say that I told her the Margaritas were too strong and she just laughed at me and called me by an anatomically-derived vulgarity.  But who's laughing now?

My point is that despite having been diverted from an important errand to a Mexican restaurant last night, I am still ahead on my to-do list.  When Mary showed up in her minivan and insisted I get in, I was on my way to replace the ink cartridges that my children used up printing out important school assignments that they later abandoned all over my office and which I will be asked to locate at some point a little closer to my next deadline. But rather then let myself get behind, I simply write "Margaritas with Mary" on my list and then cross it off.    

This morning I have to buy the ink before I can get started on the rest of the list, which, allowing for interruptions, I will complete sometime before Christmas. But rather than focus on the fact that I must have been insane to volunteer to help build sets for the middle school production of  "Weekends Spent Painting," I simply go to the part of my list that says "buy ink cartridges" and change it so that it now reads like this:

134: ink cartridges (black)

135:  ink cartridges (magenta)

136: ink cartridges (yellow)

137: ink cartridges (cyan) 

Then, when I return with the ink cartridges,  I cross four items off my list, which if you do the math, results in three more things accomplished than if I had not had Margaritas with Mary last night. Then I add "do the math" to my list and cross it off too.

Perhaps you are thinking that this is more an exercise in delusion than accomplishment.  But that would be completely missing the point. And the point is this: Delusion is the underpinning of organized family life.  At least on paper. 

You're welcome. 

- SK

If electric pie is so wrong, I don't want to be right

I am not one of those people who makes a big secret of my birthday. I have never understood the thinking of women who repel all attempts to celebrate this day as they get older.

Last time I checked, goading your friends and family members into taking you to the spa, buying you a Coach handbag or picking up your Margarita tab was not a cause of the actual aging process.

If it was, trust me, I'd be 150 by now.  

My point is, my birthday is almost here again but I've been so busy I almost forgot to start compiling my Annual List of Suggested Birthday Tributes.

I know some of you will be thinking, My god SK, we haven't even finished making the payments on last year's list of Suggested Birthday Tributes, but last time I checked, I wasn't chairing the financial planning committee.

And here's the thing. When I opened my e-mail today, something jumped out at me that I felt instantly compelled to solicit as a birthday gift.

It's odd how many of those ridiculously ambitious Williams-Sonoma suggestions you can laugh off and then suddenly out of the blue, just because you have 15 deadlines and a back-to-school to-do list that looks like you are scheduling a shuttle launch, you are struck by a burning desire to make pie.

The next thing you know you are forwarding the ad for the Best-Selling Breville Electric Pie Maker to your husband.

"What is wrong with me that I totally want this?" I ask him.

"Borderline personality disorder," comes the reply. 

I should point out that my husband has absolutely no credentials whatsoever in the field of mental health.  Also one of my best friends happens to be a fully credentialed mental health expert and I'm pretty sure she would tell you that what certain people might refer to as "borderline personality disorder," other people recognize as simply "personality."

Or possibly just "disorder."

Either way, it's not going to stop me from living out my dream of creating delicious snacks and desserts in three easy steps.

Now I know some of you will argue, "But Suburban, you have never made a pie in your entire life."  To which I can only say: Exactly. If the people at William-Sonoma - retailers of such culinary must-haves as the 5-star electric raclette maker - think I am capable, who am I to put it off any longer? Also, what exactly is a raclette? I might want you to make me one for my birthday.

 

Photo: Irresistible little pies: the Best-Selling Breville Electric Pie Maker. $79.95

from the gift registry/archives: Go ahead. Make her day.

Backcountry Paris: What doesn't kill you makes you hungry

The story is a crock - as anyone who has ever seen me kill a moose, clean a fish or build a storm-worthy shelter out of nothing but twigs and leaves could tell you.

But Mr. Kamikaze never gets tired of telling people how I sat down in the middle of a hiking trail and cried because I thought we were lost. I had seen Deliverance. And read the book.

It was a a pre-kids, pre-suburbs, backcountry, backpacking experience that transported us deep into all of our future grievances. 

But his version - and he's been seeding it into the public record for 20 years - is a little short on key facts:  there was no "middle of the trail" because he had steered us off the trail and refused to admit it.

Still, people tend to believe him. I have mostly given up trying to defend myself.  

But enough is enough. This year, I'm heading off for a backpacking adventure in which I can prove once and for all that I have the stuff for the kind of rugged, no-frills, adventure travel that --

"Wait," interrupts Mr. Kamikaze. "Rugged? No-frills?"

"Backpacking," I say.  "Only no backpack. They're too touristy I think. The spirit of backpacking, but carrying something more like the Coach bookbag. In black leather."  

"That I would like to see," he says. He is not talking about the bag. He's talking about me sleeping on the ground, eating out of a can or living for two weeks out of a carry-on bag with less than 3 ounces of hair care product.   

Well paperboy, I can't wait to see your face when the pictures come back. I already have my hair products picked out. 

In one week, I will begin a grueling 14-day (spirit of) backpacking adventure across Europe, or at least the French parts accessible by train, accompanied by only a single member of my posse, our teenage daughters and a professional photographer who has agreed to document every hardship, but who will not step in to rescue us, no matter how much we eat, drink or mangle our attempts to flirt with French booksellers.

I'm not saying we'll end up in an IMAX film, but as far as I know, Jon Krakauer hasn't yet attempted the transatlantic crossing with middle schoolers.

I will send back postcards from whatever grimy little accomodations we come across as we make our way across the roughest parts of Paris, where the cobblestones lie in wait to destroy our shoes and there is every danger that we will be wearing all the wrong clothes.

Photo: How long does it take to make a mimosa?  --No one who has ever vacationed with me - or seen my hair first thing in the morning - has any doubts about my ability to rough it.

- SK

This week in delusional thinking: Kitchen Design

 

"A climate of abundance and an emphasis on consumer choice embraced during the Cold War as hallmarks of capitalism and democracy put a new spin on the now well-established rhetoric of efficiency and anti-drudgery in design for the kitchen."  -- from  "Counter Space: Design and the Modern Kitchen" at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

 

"I am pretty sure capitalism and democracy are the reason there are five open jars of pizza sauce in my refrigerator." -- from "Recipe for Disaster: A Family Dinner Memoir" by S. Kamikaze 

 

from the family kitchen archives:  More questions than answers in my refrigerator, Family Values, Like "Julie and Julia" only with bigger pots

Post-It threats go unheeded in housekeeping standoff

 
From the delusions of order archives:  Multicolored Ikea scrubbers to launch new era of  cleanliness, order and household cooperation 

This week in delusional thinking

Don't think I will be driving you to school every day.

 
No more drinking from the juice jar. Carafes are definitely the answer.

 

The children are probably wondering what to get me for my birthday.

 

Multicolored Ikea scrubbers to launch new age of cleanliness, order and household cooperation

Further reading from the Household Mismanagement Archives: Bin There, Done That