Name This Tune......

Ok, 15 or so readers, I need your help.

The last blog entry got a lot of reaction from folks. Truthfully, I worry that I will never be able to top it. A greater part of me desperately hopes I never top it, but that's neither here nor there.

And in the wake of such a gold mine of writing material, I'm finding that this week's post (I'm aiming for once a week if you haven't noticed) just ain't writing itself. The post is waiting offstage like the act to follow Pavarotti, sneaking in one last smoke, holding back a little vomit and nervously exclaiming to anyone passing by, "Seriously? Seriously, people?? I gotta follow that?!?"

Poor little post.

Anywho, I decided that while I figure out how to deal with the fact that this blog may very well have peaked at entry number 8, I would enlist a little help from you.

She needs a name.

"Catchy Title Goes Here" was never intended to be permanent. I'm well aware it's kinda lame sounding and doesn't give the reader any clue as to what he is about to read. However, it is a spot-on accurate representation of what I was thinking at the moment of creation, thoughts that went something like this, "I have no idea what to name this damn blog. Why do blogs need names anyway? That's stupid. I'll name it later."

Also, I was not entirely sure if this second go at writing was going to be at all sustainable, so why waste time and precious brain power thinking up a title for something that may only exist for a week. That's just crazy talk.

So now that this little red-headed bastard stepchild is a few months old, and I think she'll be around for awhile, let's take one step further towards making this whole operation legit by giving her a name that isn't immediately met with a slightly confused, blank stare. After all, I don't wanna be in the same category as this girl's parents.

That's where you, dear friends, come in. I'm halfway decent at many things, ranging from paper/rock/scissors to novice-level Excel spreadsheet manipulations. I can hold my own in the kitchen and on the ultimate field. I've been told I'm a better than average kisser. I've successfully kept two cats alive for several years. I've been known to be an asset at the flip cup table. But I'm crap at naming things.

Some thoughts to keep in mind:

1. While this blog tends to veer towards the dating misadventures of myself and those around me, it's not limited to that. It just so happens that the dating misadventures of myself and those around me tend to make for more interesting reading than what I cooked for dinner last night and are less likely to get me fired if accidentally discovered by my boss than ranting about the latest asinine thing one of my customers said that day. However, in the event that a single, nice, gainfully employed, non-poly amorous man with no mommy or commitment issues should come my way, the name should not have type casted the blog, lest we find ourselves in a pickle.

2. Positive word association is a plus. Becky G. is the one that got me thinking about this re-naming project with her comment on the last post. And while I do think "Don't Hassle the Hop" is a hilarious name, I would like to avoid setting up a mind association between me and David Hasselhoff or similar:

Ideally, the name of this blog will make me sound hot. If that's possible. (Am I the only one that noticed that there was no way to read that line without staring at the Hoff's junk? Made ya look, heh heh...)

3. Keep it family-friendly.... you know, so I can keep making eye contact with family members.

If you have enjoyed reading this blog so far, take a moment and pay it back by dropping a comment with an idea, or at very least an empty promise that you're trying to think of one. No idea will be ridiculed, we're all just brainstorming here. The winner will receive a secret, yet to be announced prize. Probably something lying around my house or if you're lucky a gluten-free baked good. And of course my eternal gratitude 'n stuff.

Talula Plays the Hula ain't got nuthin' on me,

khop

Reason 785 Why Dating is Rough: Sushi Dan

I’ve always been a hater of meeting for “just a drink”.

I mean, come on. Even if shit goes wrong, it’s not as if we can’t put our nose to the grindstone and power through a meal together, right?

As someone who has had her fair share of less than stellar first dates, I know the feeling of knowing ten minutes in that the evening is shot. Pit in stomach, thinking of all the things I could be doing with my evening instead of sitting here, making small talk with you.

But really, how bad could things get? If we’ve agreed to go out at all, can’t we at least invest the time it takes to order and eat a plate of food? After all, let’s face it, we’re not that busy. Besides, deigning only to a drink seems so, well, pessimistic.

I’ve now revised my policy on all this. Why, you might ask? Two words:

Sushi Dan.

Lemme set the scene. Last week, I was meeting a colleague for a sushi lunch when I met this hotter than hot guy. I’m talking hot. We chatted, there was rapport, business cards were exchanged. We seemed to have a boatload in common. I couldn’t believe my luck. So when he called for a date, I was stoked.

The date he suggested was right up my ally, a little too good to be true, actually: tossing in the park followed by cooking risotto together at his house. (Now if you’re reading this and find it a little odd that I agreed to go to a total stranger’s house for dinner on a first date, I’ll give you that one. I wasn’t entirely comfortable at the thought, but I went for it.)

When we met, he was as hot as I recalled. Hotter, actually. Things were off to a great start when about 10 minutes in, he casually mentioned he was flying home to Michigan this weekend to visit his? You guessed it, girlfriend.

Crap. I immediately took a mental inventory of the possible reasons as to how I had wound up on a date with an unavailable guy. Had I misread the signals, and this date was a “friends” thing? Are hot guys really so desperate for platonic friends that they call up girls they meet in sushi restaurants and offer to cook risotto for them? Didn’t gel. Perhaps I had somehow blown it already, and he was aborting the mission by making up a fictitious girlfriend? After all, the very first thing I do to get an unwanted guy off my trail is to start name-dropping a made up ball ‘n chain. But no, it was too early in the date. We’d barely gotten past the basic get-to-know-you stuff, and at no point thus far had my foot even come close to being in my mouth. Maybe they’re on the verge of breaking up, and he’s too stupid to not mention her? After all, they are long distance. Honestly, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it was the best I could come up with. In any case, I made the call to stick around and get to the bottom of it.

I mean, I did mention he was hot, right?

A bit later, about five minutes into the 60+ minute risotto recipe, he mentioned her again. This time I took the bait and was told that they are allowed to see other people.

Sigh. Experience has taught me that these things rarely turn out well for the new person, and quite frankly I’m just not interested in the drama and complication. I had a feeling that at the end of the evening I would likely request that he be in touch if his GF ever became an ex-GF, but until then, best of luck. So, mystery solved, but now definitely a wasted evening.

Correction. It would’ve been a wasted evening if he’d left it at that. But no, he continued. Seems as though they’ve moved to their current status somewhat recently, and surprise, surprise, she’s having a hard time adjusting. And he let me know that he feels it’s really important that his girlfriend know that she can reach out to other people since he’s not around. So this weekend, when he goes home, they are going to get together with another couple they know. And they’re going to, you know, all be together.

At this, I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud, and food shot out of my mouth. I’m talking, hummus hit the wall. Between gulps of laughter, I clarified, “So basically, you’re going home to have an orgy?”

Without a hint of humor, he replied, “well, yeah.”

Woah.

It soon became evident that he was quite eager to talk about this, and seeing as how I was no longer eager to impress, the date turned into a mini-inquisition on the subject of polygamy. I indulged myself not only in asking the blunt questions but also in being a bit “unplugged”, shall we say, in my commentary.

So without further ado, I give you Poly-Amour 101, According To Sushi Dan. Subtitle, At Least The Risotto Was Good.

Khop: In my limited experience with open relationships, it seems that more often than not there is one person who is into it, and then there is another person who pretends to be into it for fear that objecting will result in losing the person altogether. Tell me about that in general and specifically with you and your girlfriend.

Sushi Dan: In general that is often the case. Specifically, though, well…. that is also the case. If I agreed to be monogamous, I’m sure that’s what she would prefer. But, I think she’s slowly coming around. At least I think she is.

Khop: Huh. Would never have put money on that being your answer. And by “would never” I mean “would definitely”.

Khop: You’ve mentioned your relationship to your girlfriend as being “committed”. Tell me, where is the “commitment”?

Sushi Dan: Oh, well I’m very committed to her. I’m committed to being there for her emotionally and to calling her and visiting her and doing all the other stuff that goes along with being a boyfriend. It’s just that I’m free to see other people, too.

Khop: Oh, so what you mean by “committed” is that you commit to keeping her on the roster, most likely in the starting line up. But you're definitely looking to expand the team and evenly distribute the playing time. You commit to continue sleeping with her - that is, when you're not sleeping with somebody else.

Sushi Dan: Well, yes, I suppose you could put it that way.

Khop: Ok, just checking.

Khop: So we’ve established that the physical aspect of your relationship has no exclusivity clause. What about the emotional side? Who does the emotional commitment go to? Especially since sex for women quickly leads to emotional bonding. What happens when either of you bond with someone else? And are the women you sleep with just being used as warm bodies?

Here Sushi Dan took the time to explain to uneducated me the difference between swinging, open relationships and poly amorous relationships. Turns out we’re apparently talking about different things here, in an attempt, it seems, to take one Very Bad Idea and give it several layers. The first two are intended to be only physical. Swinging typically occurs with both parties initially present, while open means that the creeping around town is done on one’s own time but with full permission. In both, theoretically the emotional attachment remains exclusive. In poly amorous relationships each partner gets to have their cake and eat it too, as “multiple committed, intimate relationships are acceptable and encouraged.”

Guess which camp Sushi Dan and his lucky GF were in? Yep, not only was the position of girlfriend already filled, but Sushi Dan claimed to have funding for additional girlfriend headcount.

Pun entirely intended.

Khop: Do you mind if I ask how old you are?

Sushi Dan: 26.

Khop: ahhh….

Khop: Have you considered a move to Utah?

Sushi Dan: Now you’re just mocking me.

Khop: You're just realizing this now?

As he walked me home, Sushi Dan asked me how I felt about this, if I would consider going out with him again or if all this poly-amour talk had me “running scared”, subtly implying that if I objected, my old fashioned thinking indicated a character flaw in me. I politely told him that while I generally subscribe to a “whatever floats your boat” kind of philosophy in life, none of this did, in fact, float my particular boat. I thanked him for his transparency, but told him that he’d have to keep looking for the next addition to his harem. In a display of social and self awareness that had been glaringly lacking from the rest of the evening, he said, “well, at least you’ll have a good story to tell, right?”

True dat, Sushi Dan, true dat.

Call me old fashioned, but poly-amours need not apply,

khop

PS: Thoughts?

Reason 539 Why Dating is Rough: Check, Please!

Recently, a certain vertically gifted gentleman and I were catching up over email, and of course the conversation wandered on over to our love lives. He was recounting the various twists and turns he’s currently experiencing when he wrote this (quoted with permission and name changed btw):

“On Thursday I went out with Jennifer (who my friend met at her second cousin's wake). Guess what? I bought two rounds of drinks (as is proper form), but Jennifer neither said thank you nor offered to buy a round. Guess that's how she rolls. Is that weird that I think that's weird? It seems petty on one hand, but strange on the other.”

Upon reading his email I was struck by déjà vu. I just had this conversation not too long ago, but from the opposite viewpoint. A girlfriend of mine had just come home from a first date she had been extremely excited about. The rapport had been great, the signs all good. But then, out of nowhere, I get a text: “I’m done with him – He made me PAY!”

Huh. First dates are so god damn rough. There’s opportunity for fatal error with every word uttered, and I think all of us can probably recount a first date where the evening took a sudden sharp left turn from promising to “well, this was great, but I gotta get up real early….” From “Woo hoo!” to “Uh oh…” From a strong heart beat and good prognosis to flat-lined and morgue-bound. As Wise Cassie recently posted for her gchat status (presumably after a first date), first dates “are like job interviews, except with cocktails.”

Dear God, how do recovering alcoholics and Mormons get through them?

Added to the confusion is this whole “Who picks up the tab?” minefield dance that goes down just as the date is rounding third. As seen from the two aforementioned examples, a perfectly good evening can go down the tubes if this spot is handled incorrectly by either party. A budding relationship nipped in said bud. Good times, but no happy ending. We no longer live in the world of Mad Men when the rules of engagement on this topic were so crystal clear: Boy asks girl on date. Boy pays for date. Girl bats eyelashes, smiles, says thank you, and goes home hoping a marriage proposal is next. This day and age, playing a quick mental game of WWDD (What Would the Drapers Do?) does not a clear answer give.

I don’t know a lot about dating. In fact, some could say I’m the last person that should be handing out advice. This particular spot, however, I do feel as though I have mastered and can execute flawlessly every time. That being said, allow me to recommend a few guidelines for both sexes on how to successfully navigate this oh-so-precarious spot. (a.k.a. “How shit should go down”)

Section 1: “The Main Tab”

Note: The term “Main Tab” is somewhat self explanatory and refers to the main event of the date, usually the meal tab, not including tip.

Guys, as a rule of thumb, know that you are on the hook for paying for the Main Tab at least for Dates One and Two. That being said, pick somewhere you can afford. We’re not looking for you to wipe out your bank account; we’re simply looking to be courted and made to feel special. Plus, it’s cringingly nails down a chalkboard awkward for us if there’s even the whisper of a wince when you see the total. So if pizza by the slice is all you can manage at this juncture, then slices all around. Just be sure to hunt down the best slices in the city.

Normally, I’d like to say Date Three is where it’s acceptable to let the lady pick up a Main Tab, but by all means, if you are aiming to send a strong WOO message, go for it. Think of it as Extra Credit. Please know that if you cruise past Date Four without allowing the lady to treat, you are conditioning her to expect you to treat at all times from now until eternity. Do not, then, get your panties all up in a bunch when after two years of dating her and picking up the Main Tab each time, your lady stops even reaching for the check. You did it to yourself. (Woops, how did that piece of baggage slip into this conversation??)

One you’re past the initial chunk of dates, I think it’s perfectly acceptable to alternate who foots the bill, especially if both parties are gainfully employed professionals. It is never, ever, under any circumstances, in my humble opinion, acceptable to go “dutch”, no matter how long you’ve been together. Nothing kills the romance quicker than the look the waitress gives you when you ask her to “split it between both cards….”

Section 2: “The Secondary Tabs”

The person who has just been treated should now seek out a Secondary Tab to pay for as a gesture of gratitude and reciprocity. This could be as simple as offering to leave the tip at the restaurant (see below suggested script), or to grab the next round of drinks. Or it could be to pick up the next activity on the date: the movie tickets, dessert at a neighborhood ice cream shop, a round or two of ammo… You know, whatever. Whether or not your date chooses to take you up on this offer is immaterial. As you can see from the account my gentleman friend gives, it is the attempt that matters.

Section 3: “It’s the first date, and the check has arrived: A suggested script”:

Scene: The check has arrived. It’s sitting on the edge of the table in the little black sleeve. No one has touched it; the tab is not known. Lighthearted conversation is still bouncing back and forth, as if a time bomb has not been just placed six inches away. However, all mental energy on the part of both parties is now focused on how to navigate the next five minutes. Assuming both diners are even somewhat interested in a repeat of the evening, may I suggest something similar to this:

Man – picks up and looks at the check. Places credit card in folder and closes it, if possible without even pausing in what he’s saying.

Woman – in a timid voice, gesturing towards the closed folder, “Can I help with that?”

Man – “Oh absolutely not. I’ve got that covered.” Smile, showing teeth.

Woman – Show surprise and slightly exaggerated gratitude. “Oh! Thank you so much – that’s so sweet of you!” Touch his arm here, if at all possible. “Perhaps… I could leave the tip?” (Note to women – Always carry enough cash in the right increments to make this easy if he says yes.)

Man – You have two choices. You can either say, “Um, well, ok! Let’s see, looks like $15 should be plenty.” OR you can say, “Nah, I’ve got it covered. Thanks, though. Why don’t you grab us a round of drinks at this great bar down the street.”

See how easy this can be? No muss, no fuss.

I’ve been told the average male dreads this moment during a first date, because he is presented with a potential lose-lose situation. In this age of female empowerment, his date may get offended if he won’t accept her money. On the flip side he may be labeled cheap if he does, as was the case of the guy with whom my girlfriend dined. Upon further review of that particular play, however, a blunder on her part became evident. The bill came, and he picked it up. She offered to chip in, and he declined. Instead of thanking him, though, she went around the bend one more round, asking if he was sure. He froze in panic and then after a long pause finally blurted out, “Err, fine. Why don’t you just give me a twenty?” Yikes.

Don’t worry, fella’s, she’s got the script down now. We’ve rehearsed it several times.

Now, if only the rest of dating could be this easy…..

Buyin’ the movie tickets,

khop

Mad Props to all my Teacher Friends, yo!

Somehow, along the way, my circle of friends has suddenly started boasting a rather high teacher to non-teacher ratio. As a matter of fact, as I do a mental scan of the people currently in my life, teaching is probably the most common profession. And not just with the old Philly crowd either. Seems as though quite a few members of my new Charm City posse spend their days in front of a chalk board, handing out detention slips. May God bless you.

So on this, the day after Labor Day, the day that just reeks of all things “School Year”, the day on which I looked out my bedroom window and noticed that the leaves are already starting to change, I must give a quick shout out to all my teacher friends with this highest of accolades:

Y’all rock.

Our lives are a series of choices of how to spend the various forms of currency we have. All day, every day, we get to choose how we spend not only our money, but our time on this earth and the talents we are given. A person chooses a certain career path, and thus how she will spend the bulk of her time, for a multitude of reasons, both internally and externally driven. I love my line of work, I really do. And while I do firmly believe there is somewhat of a contribution to the “greater good” in what I do, mostly my job just benefits me, mentally and financially. If I made a pie chart out of my professional motivators, or better yet a bar stool, each of those three motivators would have an equal presence. Of course I am well aware that the societal contribution my job makes is not exactly Mother Teresea-esque, per say, but if you’d been privy to some of the conversations I’ve had over the years, you would agree that those in my line of work can and do have a positive impact. And it is this ounce of a contribution that has attracted me to my particular arena as opposed to, say, widgets. However, I’ll be the first to admit it, take the leg of the bar stool out that represents the financial reward, and I’d be flat on my ass in the bar with a spilled beer and a mouth full of curse words. And in about ten minutes I’d be out of that bar, headed home to troll around on Monster.com.

From the outside looking in, it seems to me that the legs of a teacher’s bar stool are largely made of the altruistic motivation to shape the lives of the children they teach. Why else would they do it? After all, last I looked, teaching was not topping Fortune 500’s list of most lucrative careers.

Sure, there are perks. Teachers love to remind the world that they get the summers off, to be spent sleeping in and smugly lounging about all day, while those of us in Corporate America spend our summers toiling away for The Man. All summer long they post status updates on Facebook lamenting sleeping through yet another episode of The Price Is Right and similar. However, in taking a quick mental scan, I notice that at least half of my teacher friends have to take some form of employment during the summer months, thus winding up right next to us in the salt mines and negating the one big non-altruistic lever.

No, no, no, as best I can tell, the thing that keeps a teacher coming to work every day ain’t the dough, and it probably ain’t the summer vacation. It’s the high that comes from living a life of service to others.

It’s not that I’m trying to pass out halos for all my teacher friends to wear around or to blow sunshine up their fabulous rear ends. Or maybe I am. Maybe encouraging my teacher friends with these mad props is my small way of joining in on their high before heading off for another day in a career that largely benefits only me. After all, I’m insanely jealous of the meaning and purpose that is innately infused into their lives as a result of their career choice. Sigh, not jealous enough to join them, but still.

In any case, I don’t think we in this world tell others often enough how highly we regard them. So, without further ado, to all my teacher friends: Thank you. You do important work. Not only is it appreciated by your students and their families, but also by those of us who were most definitely not called to your noble profession.

Readers (all 10 now? boo-ya!), if you feel me on this, drop a line. If you know a teacher in need of a halo, pass this along...

My blood runs corporate,

khop

Ommmm..... Ommmm...... Ommmm......

I’m absolutely desperate to learn how to meditate.

Stop giggling and shut up.

It’s true. Although I’ve done painfully little towards this end, it’s something I’ve wanted for quite some time now. See, like probably most people, I have this insane level of internal dialogue, sometimes positive, often negative, but absolutely never ending. It exhausts me at times, and I long for greater control over it, to still it or to even just slow its pace. I’ve commented before that I regret the fact that I can’t enjoy the act of sleeping in the actual moment. Sure, there’s an after the fact contentment of having woken from a satisfying night’s sleep, but I can’t enjoy it while it’s happening because I’m, well, asleep. In exploring this idea further, I’ve concluded that it’s the peacefulness present during sleep that I wish to experience on a more conscious level. Simply put, I’d like to be able to make myself just shut the hell up.

In my former life as a musician, I would sometimes reach this euphoric sense of stillness while playing. Conscious dialogue would stop, and I would literally be able to ride a wave of music. The sense of peace I would experience during and immediately after is like nothing else I’ve ever known. Now that music is no longer a part of my daily life, I’ve found that I want and need another way to tap into this and, if possible, take it to a higher level.

Once again, stop sniggering and making the hippie jokes under your breath. You know that’s not very kind and loving ‘n stuff.

I’ve practiced yoga on and off over the years, and while I enjoy it and am able to tap into a certain amount of stillness through it, it’s not ideal. Physically speaking, my muscles are so tight and inflexible that I can barely touch my toes, meaning the only yoga I have a prayer of successfully pulling off is hot yoga. This means huffing it off to a yoga studio for a 90 minute class (so a 2 hour venture when it’s all said and done), not something that is easily incorporated into the daily agenda of a working adult who happens to have a variety of interests. Publishing this rag, to name just one.

No, I’m looking for something a little shorter and sweeter, something that could perhaps be incorporated into my morning routine to, you know, start the day off on a peaceful, transcendental foot. I have this vision in my head of getting to such a place of meditative peace that it carries me through the day, such that each time a customer gears up to kick me in the face (usually figuratively but sometimes literally), the fake smile I normally wear actually becomes genuine, and the hostility rolls right off me like water off a duck’s back.

Perhaps I should just smoke a bunch of weed instead?

Naturally, in getting this started, I headed straight over to iTunes and started a’clickin’ away, to see what there was to see. All kinds of meditation podcasts and audio books for download, and after a few minutes of searching, I found one that seemed as good as any to start with. Who knew that self-actualization is only a few mere clicks away?

I’m three days into this, and I’ve already confirmed my initial assumption which was that I have the mental fitness equivalent to one of those half ton people who need a crane and a team of caregivers just to shower. Still my mind? Oh, sweet little Khop….

But even though this was my assumption headed in, why am I genuinely surprised at all the chatter that goes on in there while I’m trying to do this thing? I always do this. I charge into an activity I have never done and have little to no natural inclination for and then am mildly shocked when I’m not an immediate expert. And then I’m embarrassed for being shocked. After all, who the hell do I think I am?

I think this whole meditation thing will be good for me….

The guided meditations are having me focus on different things each time, like the flame of a candle or a vision of me sitting on a cliff overlooking the ocean – all very chill and groovy. And so far, I’ve had pin pricks of time each during session where I think I’m kinda focused (the contradiction already being painfully evident, as the point of the whole thing is to not think…sigh…). We’re talking flashes, gone before they’re here, whispers of focus, before the stream of conscious dialogue comes rushing back in. Dialogue like this:

· My foot’s falling asleep.

· Huh, I’ve never really watched a flame this long. Look how much it’s moving. That means the air around the flame is moving that much. Weird. What exactly is fire? Am I a moron for not knowing that? Thank goodness there’s such a discrete boundary between fire and not fire. Cos else everything could catch on fire. And that would suck.

· If I move my foot so that it doesn’t fall asleep, does that mean I’m not meditating?

· I’m supposed to be flying over the ocean now. Ok, that’s cool, I can see it. Ahhhh…..Wait, am I supposed to have wings? I think the guy mentioned wings. Wings look lame, though. I’d rather just fly with my arms than with big bird wings. Everyone knows bird feathers are really dirty, and if I had wings, they’d look weird under clothes.

· Wow, the cats seem to be staying at a distance. I’ve heard that cats communicate through telepathy. Maybe I’m telling the cats to leave me be while I do this. Yeah! We’re talkin’ all telepathically ‘n shit! Heel, kit-tay! Nope, nope, a cat is now sitting on my lap.

You get the jist.

Anyone got any tips?

Ommmm……

khop

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