Confessions: I Bought the Mix Master and, Officer, I Stand Corrected

I've wanted it for years. Coveted it from afar. Congratulated friends on their acquisitions while secretly wondering what they sacrificed in order to make the purchase. Was it that month's deposit into their child's college fund, a skipped credit card payment or two?

Truly, it cost as much as a car payment. Even with the $60 off coupon I used at Costco.


But isn't it beautiful?
And it works. I'm sure it does. It's been sitting on my counter for two months and the one time I tried to haul it closer to the counter's edge (that things weighs a ton!), and whip together a batch of chocolate chip cookies, I couldn't get past the lock that kept the beaters in the low-down position.
It's not that I don't want to use it--I have a whole list of sweets I want to pop in the oven--but I don't have the time to read the owner's manual (and no real talent at deciphering technical directions). I have been writing--nearly six hours every day--cooking up some tender moments and steamy sex scenes. All the good stuff that goes into today's romantic relationship.

Speaking of the good stuff, I got pulled over the other day, and not to sing my own praises, I managed to get through the whole experience without bawling. In fact, I was not only calm, I carried an air of indifference I'm sure worked in my favor.  I was not speeding. Did not run a stop sign. Did not hit any parked cars. My car is new, rolled off the dealer's lot not 3 months ago, so I knew I didn't have a blown tail light. While he took his time doing whatever officers of the law do inside their cars before coming to your door (I wonder if it's a deliberate attempt to reduce our emotions to mush?), I thought about all the possibilities and crossed each one off my mental list. I was sure I'd done absolutely nothing wrong.

And then he materialized at my window. I'd already cranked it a few inches so we could hear each other. My natural inclination was to smile at him, but remembering my last experience on the side of the road (a rookie cop, his elderly mentor and an expired fix-it tag; the rookie yelling, me crying and the old guy apologizing) I kept a stiff upper lip and watched him out of the corner of my eye.

"Hi, Ma'am. Having a good day?"

I was. "Hello, Officer."

"Nice car. New?"

I bought it a year old, but I was still waiting on the registration to arrive in my name. In the meantime, the salesman at the dealership taped a temporary registration to the windshield.

"Driver's license? Proof of insurance?" I asked. No chitchat for me. Once bitten, twice shy and all that.

"Not for this." He lifted his hand and I saw a flash of powder blue. Fleecy. Familiar. "I think he's probably a little too young to drive."

He laughed softly. My stomach fell. Well, it did a little somersault first, responding to the husky timbre in his voice. Then it did a nose dive when I realized why that thing in his hand looked so familiar.

"She," I corrected, and explained, "My favorite color is blue."

I faced him then, with a full flush. I was incredibly rude and the guy didn't deserve it. "That fly out the window?"

He nodded. "About a mile back." He turned it over. "Doesn't look too bad."

In the back seat, my three year old called for her lovey. I wondered how she managed to stuff it through the small opening in the window. I wondered if he'd ticket me for littering.

"Roll down the window," he suggested.

I did. I thanked him. Smiled, even, and he paused long enough to confide, "My daughter threw her bottle out the window last week."

Charmed, definitely.