Cut to the chase: One woman's failed journey to buy a boning knife

My family has been nervously monitoring my mental and emotional instability for years as it has slowly eroded from cute bouts of claustrophobia, keeping away from crowds, and mysteriously going deaf whenever forced to respond to a heavy accent. The societal changes resulting from the pandemic escalated these adorable abnormalities. I foolishly thought, though, that my quirks were pretty well contained to my family, friends, and the four people who read my blog. 

I was wrong.

Apparently, I'm on a list.

A hunter's wife for over thirty years, we process one, two, and occasionally, three deer each season. "We" is Brad in our poorly lit basement-slash-butcher's shop and me, upstairs, hiding. Despite my limited involvement, I am still very aware of the importance of a quality set of knives and when Brad expressed a desire for a new boning knife, I "virtually" sprang into action...not blinking an eye at the three figure dollar amount. But before hitting "purchase," I paused, brightening. There was a personalization option! Glorious! I sat back, considering my choices. Brad and I are not a conventionally romantic couple. Poems and posies are not our style. Any card exchanges are usually filled with cutting commentary. "Cuts like a knife" came to mind but Bryan Adams doesn't really monopolize our playlists. 

Wait! I had it! 

On two notable occasions, I had responded to environmental challenges with my typical good grace and charm. Once, while careening through the Chunnel, fatigued and underfed, I made it to the crowded breakfast compartment to discover that only ONE chocolate pastry remained. Overhearing the two students in front of me planning their order, I interrupted them...my first introduction of a phrase that is now legendary in my family. I would have cause to repeat this utterance several years later when my pastor selfishly blocked my inevitable exit by (gasp) conversating with new parishioners. I waited patiently for approximately four seconds before leaning in to growl, "I WILL cut you," before dramatically brushing by. My pastor, as usual, took it in stride but, upon reflection, I don't recall seeing the new parishioners again. 

Confident, I typed this loving message into the personalization box and clicked "purchase," pleased with my decision. This object had now been elevated from "practical gift" to heirloom status. 

Several days later, I received an email from the knife company asking me to contact them. Unsuspectingly, I dialed the 800 number, expecting that I'd entered my information incorrectly or that they were going to warn me about delayed shipping or something. Never did I imagine that my order had been cancelled and my status as a customer had been red flagged. 

"It was a joke," I explained, willing to remove the message and still buy their expensive product. 

"It is company policy to refuse sale to clients when safety becomes an issue," the representative said soothingly, "The health, both mental AND physical, and well-being of our customers is our top priority."

I bit my lip in a surprising show of self-restraint as I fought back every impulse in my body to scream at this lunatic as I realized that would only lend more credence to surfacing doubts of my being a safe and sane member of society. 

I swallowed my pride and apologized ("Like you should have done to our pastor," Brad remarked unnecessarily later.) but the damage was done. I had been officially cut off from the knife company. I may have made one or two stabbing retorts before ending the call. "Naturally," Brad nodded.

So, yes. I had to go undercover to make a knife purchase. My daughters delighted in being the accomplices to my little deception, howling with laughter at my little pickle. "She stressed mental and physical?" Sydney snickered, "Wow, she really went for the jugular!" Savannah suggested buying Brad a gun next to see if I was on Homeland Security's radar yet. "Way to twist the knife, girls," I growled.

So Brad received his sad little unadorned boning knife and I fought to pay three figures to have my mental stability questioned when I could have that done at home...for FREE. No matter how you slice it, it was a painful lesson.

 

Stirring the pot

The groundhog recently ventured out of his burrow to get the lay of the land before delivering his, not unsurprisingly, dismal prediction and scampering back into his hole to wait out this white apocalypse. 

I never realized, until this very moment, how very alike are we...the groundhog and I. I, too had gone-to-ground months ago...refusing to face the realities of this crazy world we now occupy. Writing, which was once a therapeutic outlet, was now very low on my list of priorities as it took all of my energy to battle the claustrophobic forces that faced me as I entered any and all buildings outside of my own home. Let's add social interactions to that scenario and what we would have then, folks, was a Condition Red. I'm not even sure if I will be allowed back to my dentist's office after my last disastrous visit. 

Responses to my blog and conversations were also unsettling as, when I would (as diplomatically as I possible can...so factor THAT in) gently suggest that the truth of ALL matters (~~with the exception of Jesus Christ as Lord & Savior, of course) always lies somewhere in the middle...would be slapped soundly with responses such as "There wasn't a gray area with Hitler!" or "A good Christian wouldn't think like that! You're being selfish" or the tried-and-true, how-can-I-possibly-argue-with-this, logic: "People could die!" No one could seem to get the idea that BOTH radically-opposing views...in their name-calling, accusations, and demands...were the proverbial pot calling the kettle black situations. It didn't matter. Either way...we were ALL in hot water! So it was easier...and far less stressful, to literally and metaphorically, wall myself in, The Cask of  Amontillado-style. 

My family (and the few friends I still have left) encouraged me to write. But like the painting of that pained figure in "The Scream," I feared that I would start and never stop. Or, even worse. I would find that I had nothing to say. And scared, I wondered...who would I be then? I had allowed this pandemic to rob me of much of myself already. I was afraid to risk losing even more.

Of course there were things to write about. But where I would normally see potential in the smallest of the most obscure and silliest of things, I now questioned, Who on earth would care about that? Forgetting that that didn't actually matter. Writing was for me. It was my own little superpower. It helped keep me sane. It helped to keep me from flying off the handle.

Until the handle actually came off.

A scorched pan incident in the early years of my marriage revealed a few things about Brad and me. Whereas I was a "cut your losses" kind of gal, Brad, it turns out, was a salvage and/or repurpose sort of fellow. When our favorite spatula (a sign of true adulthood, by the way) whose lineage can be traced to our wedding day, tragically snapped, marking a day of intense mourning and spatula-snap-shaming, Brad bemoaned the hitherto limitations of Gorilla Glue and Duct Tape. "Never again," he vowed, as we gathered for a moment of silence around the trash can, throwing discreet but incriminating glares surreptitiously at one another. "As God as my witness," he vowed that day, "I will not let another thirty-year-old kitchen utensil's life go to waste." 

So it was when another decade's old pan opted for an early retirement. Brad stood, horror-struck when, as he was stirring up a batch of our weekly chocolate pudding, the handle snapped off in his hand. I said nothing. I didn't want to be disrespectful. It was our pudding pan after all. Respect was owed. But Brad wasn't ready to let it go. "We don't need a handle," he declared, whipping out our twenty-year-old oven mitt as he continued to stir our simmering snack. I sighed. Obviously, the pandemic was getting to everyone. I guess you could say the whole world has gone to pot!

Fortunately, my birthday was right around the corner and, to my delight, I received my heart's desire: A pudding pan with a firmly-attached handle. Call me a crack-pot, but I'm look forward to many long and happy years with it. 

Whew. I'm exhausted.

Like my old pudding pan handle, obviously I'm a little rusty. But I'm here. Inspired by our friend, the groundhog, I'm tentatively peeking out, one paw raised...ready to run. But hopefully the climate is changing for the better and I figured it was time to write or get off the pot.