Appliance stirs women's souls

December 19, 2002|by TIM ROWLAND

Women are right. I just don't get it and here's why.

But before I get to the why, here is a last-minute shopping guide for all you fellows out there who may have put off Christmas shopping for longer than you do trimming your toenails:

A KitchenAid mixer.

Yeah, I know, you have no idea what or why, but trust me.

It will set you back two or three bills, but for some unknown reason - and this is the part about women I don't get - the female half of your equation will love you for it.

Like all guys, I tend to think of mixing in the following terms: Fork. Hand. Round motions.

But this obviously does not do the trick for women who demand a mixer with roughly the same horsepower as the space shuttle.


Don't ask me to explain, but mixers are to women what cars/boats/power tools/computers are to guys.

I had to up and buy one last week as sort of a Christmas present/extortion package that involved the fact that I would get more cookies from the Pillsbury Doughboy in High Heels that way.

There may be some other word for it, but extortion comes to mind.

She said she would bake a lot of cookies if, and only if, I got her this upsidedown helicopter. So on I went to (insert name of retailer who advertises in The Herald-Mail here). I had no idea what I was getting into.

The conversation went something like this:

"So you want a KitchenAid, eh?"

"No, I just want a mixer. Stirs up dough and stuff."

"Well I've got your model right here."


"Puts out an extra 42 amps over the regular model."


"Whips up egg whites nice and fluffy."

"(Even more bored than I was before) "Fine."

"So do you want this with the stainless stee..." at this point my full manlihood took hold and I did a double reverse karate kick. Knocked her right off her crutches.

"How do you know I don't bake, or do whatever it is you do with this contraption, myself?"

I didn't fool her.

Shaking, she handed me the device and I ran it up to the register.

"Oh my heavens," said the clerk.

"This is the ARTISAN model."

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, the Artisan. I mean she is going to LOVE you."

"She who?"

"Well, your wife, or whoever it is that you are buying this fo..."

Again, at this point I became really annoyed and asked how she didn't know that I was actually buying it for myself because, maybe, I like to cook.

We looked eye-to-eye at each other before she said, "... Your wife is going to LOVE it."

I gave up.


I happened, in a complaining mode to mention this purchase at work and the reaction was similar: "A MIXEER, oh WOW." Women began to recall their ancestry and reminisce about when they got their first mixer. "But it's just a mix..." I would start to say, but they would cut me off with a sort of superstitious awe.

"It will last forEVER," they said.

"So does pressure-treated lumber," I replied.

"You don't understand," they said, and indeed I didn't.

I had no idea. This was like buying a woman diamonds and not putting any South African laborers to any extra effort.

At this point, the savvy reader is probably going to recognize the fact that Christmas isn't for another week and in effect I have "given away" my present.

It didn't appear to matter. She was impressed that her new product had more low-end torque than her mom's, or her mother's before that.

And me? Well, I'm just enjoying the cookies.

Tim Rowland is a Herald-Mail columnist.

The Herald-Mail Articles