When Dan and Casey planned their trip west, they knew we'd take them drinking. They knew we'd drink hangover lattes from The Coffee Bean. And they knew we'd be doing some shopping, with a little shopping on the side. But they couldn't possibly have considered that during their visit, we'd be welcoming a new member of the family into my apartment.

I'm speaking of my new love, the one for whom I would leave my platonic common-law wife if they ever got into an argument over the toilet seat, or petty jealousies. The one I actually stroked last night for thirty seconds before going to bed.

My new KitchenAid mixer.

Every time we walk past a Williams-Sonoma store, one of us stops in our tracks and stares at the hypnotic collection of shiny mixers in gorgeous Easter-egg shades. Jessica wants the pink one. Lauren, I think, is in love with the one they call "pistachio" but which we think is closer to mint green. Grant owns the old orange, and Casey the new tangerine. There are matching spatulas, aprons, and pot-holders. It's a drool-inducing experience for people like us, who love appliances that enable us to bake chocolate and/or sugar-based things and have an added attraction to anything bright and shiny. We're culinary crows.

I got it because of the Oscars, really. We threw a party for the ceremony and I'd planned several varieties of dip for the occasion. Separately, I've been pondering since Christmas what to do with the credit I have with my parents, because they bought me an iPod, not realizing I'd already splurged on one for myself. Mom told me to take the cash and use it on anything I wanted, and I couldn't think of the perfect item.

Through my hangover fog on Sunday, I was planning the cooking schedule and lamenting that we only have two tiny, crappy, crusty old blenders and one wee food processor. Would that I had a bigger one, a newer one.

And then I had a sudden and crushing epiphany: "OH MY GOD! I could use my iPod money for a KitchenAid mixer!"

Sudden because at the time, I was on the toilet, thinking a lot more about whether my head would spin when I stood up; crushing because a KitchenAid mixer is not at all the same thing as either a blender or a food processor, and so as soon as the clouds parted to let in some sun, it got overcast and started hailing.

But then I decided that I could go get the mixer anyway, and at the same time pick up a hybrid blender-food processor. After all, the mixer itself only covered part of my Christmas present money; I'd have a little extra that I could funnel toward something else. And it's the perfect present: Something I desperately want, but wouldn't let myself purchase. And so, after we sucked down bagels and caffeinated beverages, we did our best to beat down our hangovers at The Beverly Center.

I have an inability to make decisions that are win-win -- which, in this case, was, "What color do I want?" I stood there staring at them, asking everyone what they thought, and practically begging them to decide for me.

First, I chose purple. Then I considered green. Then, I nixed purple altogether for being too precious and brought orange into the picture. I viewed them in the light and in the shade, from above and below and every conceivable side angle. I leaned on them. I pretended to work with them. I took one spatula of each color and banged them together. As one would. Then, I put on the oven mitts -- green on the left hand, orange on the right -- and posed with them to see which I liked better. I tried on the orange apron. I chose orange, then I let green back into the picture.

"OOOOH, look at THIS!" screamed another customer, running over to the purple one and patting it lovingly.

"That's the one," I said. "I'm getting purple."

My next task was to pick my blender/processor. They had a decent-looking one from KitchenAid with a twenty-dollar rebate, but I wanted to know whether it was a popular and reliable model. Lauren grabbed a salesgirl for me and asked. "I don't know," the woman replied. "It's a good brand, and it chops good, for when you need to chop stuff."

Who can argue with that ringing endorsement? I added that to my pile -- along with two violet spatulas that match my beautiful new baby.

When I called my parents, I didn't even bother telling my father. I knew he'd be like, "What? I don't get it. Here's your mother." To be fair, this is how he conducts himself at all times on the telephone. He's the one who wants to make the calls, and when he does, the conversation goes, "Hi, Heath! How are you? Here's your mother -- she'll fill me in," and he passes over the phone. I love him.

My mother reacted just as I predicted. "Ohhhhhhh," she said, with confused and politely feigned interest. "And� do you mix stuff?"

Now I will. Now, I'm unstoppable. All those things I've been wanting to cook for years, but couldn't, because I didn't have a violet KitchenAid mixer, are now my collective bitches. Actually, I bake and cook fairly often -- in fits and starts -- and so this mixer will not go unused. Indeed, I suspect I'll be finding lots of excuses to cook things that require extensive mixing. And I have a dough hook! Clearly, I'll be making� dough-related things.

We're going to be very, very happy. I'm going to have a commitment ceremony with my mixer, and we'll be registering at Williams-Sonoma so that we can color-coordinate the rest of the kitchen.

But first, I'm having a commitment ceremony with my faith. Now that I've become holy through giving up sweets for Lent, I've reached a heightened state of grace and will be embarking upon a new life of loyalty to God and Jesus and all their crazy gospels. This relationship will last approximately five more weeks, at which time I'll annul it, bury myself in Cr�me Egg wrappers, and wed the mixer. It will make a glorious second spouse.

In other news, the Oscar party went beautifully. In addition to the pumpkin-cheese dip, Casey and I made wild mushroom and artichoke dip; cucumber-feta salsa with pita chips; some sausage rolls; and bean, bacon, and blue cheese dip. Jess made her signature spinach dip and some cookies, Kim provided more cookie dough, Slip brought oyster crackers (those things are so addictive), and Dr. No brought salted nuts. As is his wont.

We had a great turnout. Our pool was eighty bucks; I tied for second place, which got me big fat nothing. If I hadn't picked against Renee Zellweger just to make a point, if I hadn't thought that a stupid song title (That "Ain True Love" one) would win out over Lord of the Rings, and if I had gone with my initial Harvie Krumpet instinct over Nibbles, I'd have taken the pot. If, if, if.

Why was the whole thing so monochrome this year? All the women, it seemed, were wearing either glittery dresses, tones of beige, flesh, or cream, or some combination of that. Everyone had nude lipstick on, and a few women -- led by Charlize Theron, sadly -- wore the kind of eye makeup that makes you look like you're sporting two black eyes. I'm not sure who told her that gray smudges under her eyes would look attractive; instead, it made it look like Stuart Townsend should be arrested.

Renee Zellweger is such a horrible bitch. After ballots were cast but before the ceremony, Hobag had the gall to say to E! of her Oscar chances, "Well, I've certainly earned it. Last year, I lost for Chicago, but I think this year the Academy voters will be fair."

So it was doubly appalling to see her feign such perfect surprise and modesty when she won. She must be the best actress in the supporting bunch if she can sit there and so precisely replicate "humble amazement." Who does she think she's kidding? I hope the curse hits her and carries her off on a tide of her own ego. And, I hope the voters who tagged her on their ballots feel rightly ashamed, especially because she's from the South and she still couldn't affect anything but a boorish, cartoonish accent. They showed that hideous "it's raining" speech as her clip, and I had to bury my head in the carpet.

Billy Crystal is getting decent press for what had to be one of the least inventive hosting jobs in recent history. He was woefully unfunny, and woefully underclothed. I'm not sure why it's a national crisis when Janet Jackson's nipple is exposed in a long, blurry shot, yet Billy Crystal can stand there cupping his crystals in total clarity and it's considered comedy.

Time for Conan O'Brien to start his Oscar campaign. That telecast needs him, and badly.

Someone got here by searching for: Stefan Edberg ass Eating: Leftover dip Watching: Shirtless Ty Pennington, on tapes we've got coming in from the field. It's a big job perk.