The FixMaster

I am not just an ordinary bird. Not that eagles are at all ordinary, but warrior eagles who have been known to battle harsh accusations of narcissism while battling a few narcissists of their own are certainly a rare breed. Add to that some latent white knight traits, and you've got yourself one rara avis.

My versatility (if you'll indulge me and let me rustle my own feathers for a moment) never ceases to amaze me. I've spoken often of my "Fionas," my beautiful warrior goddess sidekicks who remain poised for battle on my behalf whenever I need reinforcements. Lately, I've had some difficulty being my own white knight, and have recruited the troops more frequently than I care to admit. Well, maybe I haven't so much recruited them; they just seem to appear when I need them. Uncanny.

You can only imagine the performance anxiety that overtook me yesterday when one of my most dependable Fionas needed a Fiona of her own, and I mean a full blown, pistol packing, tough talking, take no prisoners Fiona capable of scaring the living shit out of the demons. Certainly not an impostor such as myself, but when someone you love is struggling you just gotta dig deep, no matter how unqualified you feel.

So I grabbed a bottle of red in my talons, fluffed up my feathers and hopped in the eaglemobile, trying to remember as I soared down the street what exactly it is that my trusted Fionas do when they work their magic. When I arrived, my friend was curled up in a fetal position, but she had as yet held back the tears. What I learned, quickly, is that white knights figure things out by trial and error (at least the good ones do), and as long as you care enough, it's really not that hard. My first task was to steady her with every ounce of my eagle weight (don't let the feathers fool you -- there's some heavy muscle underneath) while her body shook uncontrollably with the repressed sobs. Then I just had to listen. And, of course, I offered up every platitude I've ever stated in these blogs and then some, vomiting them up until she threatened to break every bone in my wings unless I shut the hell up. What are friends for?

For a faux Fiona I think I did a pretty good job, because in short order my friend was up and running, being her own white knight and doing what any self-respecting warrior goddess would do in a crisis: bake cookies. I felt like I was in a James Bond movie. All of a sudden, she had opened a door and pushed a button and one of those gargantuan fancy shmancy mixers rose like a phoenix from the depths of the cabinet up to the level of her kitchen counter. I half expected the thing to morph into a twenty-second century super sonic automobile and start shooting gobs of enemy seeking missiles up through the skylight and into the frigid night. Even better: it started magically blending various and sundry ingredients into mouth watering chocolate chip cookie dough, and no matter how high tech the machine, there's always enough batter left stuck to the bowl for two warrior goddesses wielding spatulas to annihilate. We left no morsel unturned; white knights don't mess around.

For years, I have pressed my nose against the windows of upscale cookware stores, coveting the giant mixers in every color of the rainbow, hoping I would get one for Christmas. That was real hope (even though it was always dashed); to do so this year would be a prime example of false hope, since I will not be celebrating Christmas.

Yep, you guessed it. I'm flapping my wings, flexing my talons, and soaring over to Williams Sonoma to grab my own damn mixer. And if any of my dear, dear Fionas finds herself in trouble, my spatulas will be polished, and I will be armed and ready.