I khop, take you, KitchenAid 610 Professional Mixer in Empire Red.....

It could work, couldn't it?

I mean, I could marry a mixer and be perfectly happy, don't you think?

Even if you think I'm spewing nothing but crazy talk, be a friend and humor me by smiling and saying yes. Yes, of course.

Ah, that's good. Thanks.

Of course, I'm kidding. Hear that, Mom? No need to sound the alarm just yet. But there is a distinct reason why every time I pass by my beautiful new KitchenAid Professional 610 Stand Mixer in Empire Red I have a fleeting mental dialogue similar to the one described above. It's because, well, I thought by the time I finally owned this beast of a machine, this masterpiece of red metal, this mixer that is the culinary equivalent of a jackhammer in terms of how much of a Martha Stewart badass I feel like when I rev this thing up, I thought, well, that I'd already be married by then.

.....aaaaaaand I'm definitely not.

Lest you feel a hint of that knot in your stomach, a slight panic of "oh no, khop, please stop. She's going to start whining about being unmarried, and I'm so embarrassed for her while reading this because doesn't she know that she's supposed to pretend she's not at all bothered by it, even though she is 32 (yikes), and I can't believe she's about to whine about being unmarried all over the internet, yes she has a mixer, but she has completely lost every shred of her dignity, not to mention her mind," have no fear. I'm going to do no such thing.

Thanks for the vote of confidence, btw.

I will tell you why I have these fleeting thoughts, though, as I think it's kind of cool and empowering, and I wonder if any of my five(? up from 3?) readers have ever experienced something similar.

I come from a family of three daughters of which I am the youngest. My parents, two very fair, equitable and practical individuals, believed that a little assembly line-style parenting went a long way in terms of minimizing disputes and accusations of preferential treatment of one daughter over another. This "if X was given to Daughter #1 at Y time, then X, or comparable good/service/privilege should also be given to Daughters 2 and 3 at times relative to Y, lest mutiny and chaos erupt," approach gave rise, mostly by accident, to a household of milestones. It was cool for me, the youngest, to have these traditions because I knew more or less what to expect. I would be allowed to get my driver’s license exactly one month after turning sixteen. How much my parents were willing to fork over for college tuition was known well in advance of the applications going in. For my twenty-first birthday, I would be getting a cedar hope chest. College graduation, a car, etc.

And then, there were the knives. In addition to the modest but lovely weddings my parents threw for my two older sisters, each couple was presented with a beautiful set of Cutco knives as a wedding present. My God, were those knives gorgeous, each of them housed in its own specific slot in the cedar storage block that sat proudly on the kitchen counter. For goodness sake, I’ve seen the Cutco demonstration; you can cut an old leather boot with one of those things! Like any hopeful girl does, I dreamed of the day I would walk down the isle towards my beloved… and my very own set of Cutco knives. Ahhh, all the things I would chop.

A few years ago, I experienced a rather dramatic change in life direction, as I went from being unhappily coupled and on the brink of starting an unhappy marriage to being single. Despite this change being primarily positive, I went through an extensive mourning period, adjusting and plotting a new course for my life. One piece I took rather hard was the perceived loss of my knives. They had seemed so close, just around the corner, and now, gone. It looked as though I’d be using my Target-brand knives for the foreseeable future. Oh, the horror.

A few months later, as my birthday approached, my mother and I had a rather scandalous idea. What if, instead of waiting for a groom to show up, I got my knives now, as a birthday present? Sure, it’s breaking with tradition, but if you’re the last one in the line, does tradition really matter that much? There was a small part of me that felt like I was selling out, and that by getting the knives early I was ever so slightly entertaining the notion that someday my prince would, in fact, not come.

But then I realized that one thing has nothing to do with the other. So, I got over it and decided to do me some choppin’….

Even more of a rebel, I requested that we switch it up even further. Instead of an entire set of Cutcos, I downgraded in numbers and upgraded in brand, welcoming two gorgeous Shun Ken Onions (the 5” paring and the granddaddy 8” chef) and one sturdy Wusthof 9” serrated bread knife into my kitchen.

Oh the glorious chopping frenzy. The fact that within five minutes of having the chef’s knife out of the box my mother and I had managed to knick the kitchen table and slice one finger is really neither here nor there.

And so, what does the mixer have to do with this? There is no mixer-related family tradition, although the idea of it certainly has its roots in them. Simply put, although I have wanted one forever, I have put off the mixer acquisition for years, because of this firm notion in my head that it was something I would register for. The mixer had become more than a mixer for me; it had become a symbol, a rite of passage. The groom was still nameless and faceless, but damnit if I didn’t see a mixer now waiting for me at the alter where the knives once stood.

Until this year, when as my birthday once again approached, I looked about at the landscape of my life and decided that about the only thing missing in it was my mixer. Beautiful new house, rewarding job, phenomenal friends and family and a big empty space on my countertop that only a mixer could fill. So I called my mom and said, “The thing is, mom, I make a lot of gluten free bread…” The rest is history.

There’s an adjustment, I think, one goes through when you pass into your 30’s still single. Meeting your mate early means transitioning to a different level of adulthood with a partner as opposed to on your own, and there are many things that unconsciously feel unnatural if done before that partner shows up. Like we’re doing them out of order or something. A first home purchase and getting organized about retirement are two big examples. A mixer and some knives are seemingly smaller but symbolically large ones for me.

A little bit of waiting is OK, I suppose. After all, as satisfying and empowering as it is to take the horse by the reigns and charge past each of these milestones by myself, refusing to put life on hold, it is bittersweet. Partially because of the nagging concern that he’ll never show up. But also because each one represents another first my future “him” and I won’t have, because I’ll already have had it. There comes a point, however, where waiting any longer becomes silly, and treading water turns into sinking. I know a guy my age currently living in his father’s basement. Several times home ownership has come up in conversation, and his comment always is, “I’ve never really thought about buying a house before, because I’d always assumed I’d have the wife first, then the house.”

My advice to him? You’re 33. Buy the house.

Bakin’ the bread, and slicin’ it up,

khop

I blame Steve....

As I mentioned last night, I skipped my 7:30pm Monday night swim. I skipped the 1.5 hour, blackout-inducing, booty-reducing workout that also serves as an escape from whatever else may be on my mind as I concentrate intently for 90 minutes on Trying Not To Die.

All day I fully intended and wanted to go. I ate my 6pm bowl of pasta to fuel up on carbs. I got all my work done in time, and my bag was all packed. There was nothing stopping me. So how did this happen? Well, a rather complex rationalization process started to unravel, prompted the side of my brain that rather resents such a brutal ass kicking and wishes the same result could be obtained via 20 minutes on the elliptical or similar. It went down something like this:

6:11: Text comes in from lane mate, Steve, giving me a head's up he's not going. huh. To give some background, I am, by far, the slowest person that swims at this time slot, and I have not yet obtained the mental fortitude to not be intimidated by this. There are a group of 5 or 6 swimmers that are within my grasp of keeping pace with, and if enough of us are there to fill a lane, then I'm in OK shape. If not, it's just, well, pathetic.

6:12: - 7:00: Fleeting thoughts in the back of my brain wondering who else will be at practice. Several mental notes made to get all lane members' cell digits. "So what?!" yells Booty, each time. "You're going!" "Fine..." mumbles Wimpy Self, along with a few unintelligible expletives.

7:00 - 7:10: Lie down on bed to read for just a few minutes prior to departing at 7:15 for practice. Enjoy breeze of ceiling fan. Ah, so nice and cool.

7:11: Recall that awful moment of the first cold dive in the water and the following 50 m spent adjusting to the water temp. Ugh. Only 19 minutes away from that. The deliciously evil thought occurs: What if I just didn't go?

Oh my! How naughty!

7:11 - 7:20: Open combat in my brain as Wimpy Self battles my Booty in a sudden, forceful sneak attack, looping the following arguments:

• You just swam yesterday.
• You didn't sleep well last night and desperately want to sleep early tonight, which never happens on a swim night because said swim revs up your metabolism so much.
• Wouldn't your time be equally well if not better spent working on the basement?
• You can swim tomorrow instead.
• Steve isn't going. Who else might be not going? Remember the time you had to swim in a faster lane and even with fins on you couldn't keep up?
• Didn't the new issue of Time just report that eating well, not exercise, is more effective at weight loss? So you'll just make sure to not eat anything else tonight.

Booty kept its replies short and sweet, "Just GO, you fat fuck. GOOOOO!"

"You know, you don't need to speak to me that way."

Oh, for crying out loud.

Soon I had arrived at the conclusion that it was acceptable to skip practice as long as I a) made good use of the evening by working on unpacking my basement (which I did. some.), b) went to bed and got up early (check and check), and c) swam the next day (not as good as going to practice but better than nothing.) Besides, I had deliberated for so long that it was pointless to go now because I would be late and no one likes a Tardy Tess. (complete BS)

Problem is, even if I do swim today, thus keeping up Wimpy Self's end of the bargain, I still feel like I let myself down.

Please tell me you do this too???

Slave to the Booty,

khop

Speaking of my 7th grade self....

So I skipped my swim tonight, but only because I made the agreement with myself that I would work on unpacking my basement (more on that another time). Because I am in no particular hurry, and because I do not see myself repacking anytime soon, I have the luxury of being able to do this at a leisurely pace, stopping to examine various unearthed treasures. I found something so awesome that I was compelled to cease and desist all other activities in order to come tell you, my three (count 'em, 3) readers.

Was it a thousand bucks? No. An Antique Roadshow-worthy pocket watch? Um, no. The body of Jimmy Hoffa? Ok, now there's no way to go from this except down.

Hell.

I found my first "serious" journal, the volume of pages that recorded every single minute detail of my existence from May 5, 1995 to August 19, 1996. This book walks through high school graduation, the summer before college as well as my entire freshman year. Events are recorded with painstaking detail and are dripping with the melodrama you'd expect from a seventeen year old female. Senior Prom, a trip to Europe, a white water rafting trip few will forget, and boy after boy after boy after boy

Dear God, I even tried my hand at poetry.

The excerpt that made me race up the stairs and start tapping away was written while I was on a trip to Europe sponsored by my youth orchestra. No international trip would be complete without a bit of romance, and as such I found myself caught up in a flirtation with a certain 17 year old bass player before the wheels of the plane left U.S. soil. For page after page after page I faithfully recorded every word of every conversation between the two of us as we toured eastern Europe. I waxed poetic about how I felt, what I thought he may feel, what others may feel about us feeling the way we feel. You get the jist. During these entries my cursive was very fluid and romantic, as it was clearly an extension of my mood.

Then, all the sudden, the melodrama stops, as does the flowing, loopy penmanship. The following entry was written, no scribbled, on July 16, 1995 at 10pm:

"Mental note: Never give into temptation! NEVER USE NAIR AGAIN! When ever you spot it in the store and think, "Man that'd be really convenient!" PASS RIGHT BY!! DEAR SWEET BABY JESUS, IT AIN'T WORTH IT!

yikes!

The next entry shows that it's back to business, with a reemergence of the loopy handwriting and the waxing of the poetic.

I heart 17 year old Khop.

Melodramatically,

khop

PS: the other piece of note that just begged for a mention was the second entry, written on May 14, 1995. It begins with this: "Sigh. Dean Cane doesn't even know I exist." Don't you just wanna give 17 year old me a big hug....followed by a big smack upside the head? I kinda do....

Khop, take 2?

I used to be a blogger; in fact, I used to write all the time. And then I stopped. Why? Somewhere along the line I developed this gut-wrenching and alarming case of self-consciousness at all the over-indulgent narcissism that comes with being a blogger. After all, to write a blog, you must have the audacity to assume that someone will take interest in what you have to say. Otherwise, you'd stick to recording your thoughts in a diary kept under the mattress. For three years I charged ahead, clicking away on my laptop without so much as a hint of stage fright. Then, without warning, I was transported back to middle school, you know, where blending in is crucial to survival. Wardrobe, hair and make-up decisions are made fraught with worry. Every day is navigated with the terror of saying the wrong thing and looking uncool. Funny thing is, I didn't have any of that self-consciousness in middle school. Photographic evidence shows that I could have grossly benefited from it, too, as let's face it, I was a fashion train wreck. But I digress.

Anyway, I found myself filled with embarrassment at making this assumption; after all, who the hell do I think I am? And why would anyone care to know about my foibles making butternut squash soup or my quest to make it to and from work on the ghetto train without getting mugged? Slightly mortified, I found myself paralyzed. Where did all this stage fright come from? I have all these theories that have to do with boyfriends and Facebook and my job and my audience. Perhaps I will expand on these reasons another time. Perhaps not. Bottom line is that my poor little rag has grown cobwebs over the past year and a half, and if you take a gander on over over to it, you'll see some tumbleweed floating past and hear nothing but crickets.

I've decided to pick it up again for a few reasons. First and foremost, because I miss the process and the finished product. Finishing a new post gave a feeling akin to the euphoria one feels after a super big puke. Ah, so good. Plus, it was cool to see the body of work grow over time, like I had something to show for all the bad dates, kitty surgeries, home improvement attempts, and career misadventures. For all that's happened to me over the past year and a half, the period of time feels surprisingly hollow, like I've forgotten a lot of the good bits because I haven't written about them.

Plus, I've told the story of The Concussion so many times, I'm starting to feel like a broken record.

In addition to the organic motivation to get back on the writing horse, I've been given some external motivation, as well. I went after a writing gig I would have loved, loved, LOVED to snag, but was told that while my style is entertaining and that I do posses certain level of proficiency for the written word, my lack of current web presence gave the editor serious pause.

Fair enough. How convenient for me that I've rid myself of both the boyfriend and the high-falutin' job. Coincidentally, my stage fright has dried up as well, and these days I find myself channeling the spirits of my seventh grade self and my dearly departed grandma, neither of whom could not care less what others thought. I'm going to take care to practice this new outlook in moderation, though, as my grandmother was a woman who did not believe in Daylight Savings Time. And I was a pre-teen who thought she was the shit, strutting around in her harem pants. The Facebook compulsion? Well, three out of four ain't too bad...

Too legit to quit,

khop