Such was the case after my sexless third date with Paul Bunyan. On the drive home, I cried for the first mile, then realized I'd have an accident if I kept that up. (If only he’d kept it up, we wouldn’t have had this problem…) When the tears stopped, the anger started. I obeyed the speed limit, but my mind was racing. The scales quickly tipped from “PB’s the greatest catch ever!” to “just another douche bag.”
On PB’s D.B. roster: the drinking, the cockiness, the refusal to cuddle with me, the excessive talk about his ex (hint: if your partner is still angry over the break-up, s/he’s not over it yet. Anger is energy. A well-adjusted partner is indifferent to the ex.), the cold house (if you can’t afford to heat it, you need to downsize, honey), the bro-mance with his roomie (30-something men should not spend that much time together), and (yes!) his application to appear on The Bachelor despite his insistence that the process doesn’t work.
I could go on. I won’t. Suffice to say that in the absence of ecstasy, I easily came up with enough of his faults to soothe any sadness over the goodbye. Still, I believe that each man that is dropped into my lap, even if there’s no love connection, has a lesson to teach me. If I don’t learn the lesson, I get the same kind of guy. As you can see, I keep flunking the “keep your pants on” lesson. And I pay attention because, like house hunting, you learn the most from the ones you don’t like.
So what was PB’s lesson? It’s true that I once again flunked the “keep your pants on” course by having sex on the first date with PB. (Hey, don’t blame me. How could I not slip considering the sex began underwater?!) Does that alone explain why I am single despite every bone in my body wanting to make a life with someone? Or could it be that I...OMG...need to stop blogging?
After that question popped into my brain, I went into crisis mode in a way I haven't since the blog began to really heat up in January. Had you asked me, en route from PB's to my place, if I was going to stop blogging, I would have said yes. I would have said I was going to go home, pull an all-nighter, and remove every fucking trace of this blog from the World Wide Web.
But as you can see (read), that’s not what happened.
(Later, as I told Shrink, “I probably just needed to eat something. My blood sugar was crashing.”)
I got home, plopped down in my favorite chair, and pounded out a post. It felt so cathartic to get PB out of my system. I finished the post, I titled it Call Off The Search?, published it, then went to bed. I slept like I’d just fucked my brains out even though I’d only been mind-fucked.
PB cited me going too fast as the reason the relationship never got off the ground. The good news: I can take direction. The bad news: I have two speeds: stop and go. I will slam on the breaks when necessary. So that’s what I did.
I woke the next morning with a rush of energy. I scheduled dates with men that were chomping at the bit to meet me. (One even drove in from out of state to do so!) I wrote. I baked. I catered. I did my own thing.
By 24 hours post-goodbye, had you asked me about PB, I would've said, "PB who?!" Does that seem too quick to forget someone I felt so passionately about? I thought so, too, but all the dating I’ve done has taught me how to let go when something isn’t right rather than fight for someone who doesn’t value me. As they say: easy come, easy go. And as I say: as soon as I don’t come, I’m gone.
After several days sans contact, PB wrote me a gushy email saying what a wonderful person I was and that he was sorry, but that we were not a good match. He said his gut (no shit, natch) told him that something was missing. (Your sobriety, perhaps?) He said I was “sexy as hell” and hoped I’d find a worthy guy.
Before saying goodbye for good, he just had one tip for me: that I should remove any mention of Man Eater from my Match profile.
That was the last straw. Of course I hat to reply.
Oh, honey, I've already moved on. No goodbye message necessary. Your words are sweet, but your actions completely contradict everything you say you're looking for. Thanks for the advice on my profile, but I prefer to be upfront about who I am rather than hide it behind a facade.
I wish you all the best, though I guarantee you won't find better than me.
E
P.S. I'd appreciate getting my panties back. Those don't come cheap. Perhaps you could drop them off at The Turf Club next Saturday eve?
I realized I should’ve CC’d this email to myself, because there was as much of a reality check in it for him as there was for me. My actions were betraying my intentions. Had I held off on having sex with PB, he probably would’ve lost interest right away and I could’ve saved myself the emotional tumult and a lot of driving time. (That said, I don’t regret a single delicious second of it. Some fucks are worth fucking up relationships for, if you know what I mean…)
After washing that man out of my hair, I scheduled a session with Shrink to get an opinion on whether or not to axe the blog. (That's a lumberjack pun, BTW.)
“There’s always going to be people who disagree with what you’re doing,” Shrink said. “If they don’t like it, they don’t have to read it. You’ll know when it’s time to stop.”
Sometimes Shrink makes my head spin. Here I thought she was going to lecture me about how I’d lost yet another great guy and it was all the blog’s fault. On the contrary; she said it was him, not me, who messed up.
“You’re an exceptional woman,” Shrink said. “It’s going to take a very strong man to keep you in check. But once you find him, you will settle down. That doesn't mean you have to settle. You need someone who balls up.”
Shrink paused—and then we both burst into laughter.
“Did I just make that phrase up?” Shrink asked. “It’s not ‘balls up’, it’s ‘mans up’, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I like the ‘balls up’ image!” I said.
“What I meant is that men who get intimidated by you have not dealt with their own issues. A lot of people are hiding behind veneers. They see how upfront and honest you are and that scares them.”
I nodded.
“I remember when I first met you, Erica,” Shrink continued, referring to our initial meeting back in 2006. “You were so…vacant. Now I look at you and I can see the fire has been lit!”
I walked away delighted that for once, I was not the one who needed to be in therapy after all!
The next day, still on my self-improvement (or ego stroking) kick, I went to see my Energy Worker. Instead of doing the usual aura-cleansing, chakra-aligning routine, I told her I only had one objective for our session.
“2010 was supposed to be my year for committed love,” I said. “I’m ready and I want the Universe to know it.”
“You seem especially confident,” Energy Worker remarked.
“I am!” I exclaimed. “It’s amazing. I haven’t felt this much clarity about what I want in a man in a long time. I’m getting really good at identifying when someone is right for me and when he’s not. I know by the end of the first date.”
“What do you see as obstacles getting in the way of a relationship?” she asked.
“I don’t see any,” I said. “I think it’s the guys. I’m ready. I’ve never felt more ready in my life.”
“It could be that the Universe recognizes that you’re ready, but the man isn’t,” Energy Worker said. “It might be a logistical question. Perhaps he travels and he just hasn’t made it to Minnesota yet. Maybe there’s something he’s still working out and you just have to be patient.”
Energy Worker used a special technique in which she infused me with different colors of energy (sapphire blue for the lower region, rose pink for the upper region, and a golden ball of light for my third eye). She put stones on me. She burned sage. She put her hands on various body parts and infused me with positivity.
It might sound hokey, but if you’ve ever tried Reiki-style healing touch, you can attest to the (literally) good vibrations you feel while doing it. Afterwards, I was oddly drained; even a little irritable. That was a sign of toxicity leaving my body.
Energy Worker gave me two assignments which I’ve had practice with before. One is Celtic and includes fantasizing and masturbation to thoughts of my future mate. Needless to say, I was eager to get started on my homework.
Not to toot my own horn, but: I know I'm a hot ticket. I have a lot of energy, optimism, ambition, love and (hello!) blow job skills to offer a man. I also have six years of housewifery experience; washing dishes, doing laundry, and cleaning bathrooms are enjoyable to me. And, ahem, you may have noticed I can cook, too. I'm like a Stepford Wife...with a big brain and even bigger sex drive! I look equally enticing dressed as the girl-next-door as I do decked out in a cocktail attire, and I'm crude enough to hang with the guys but I clean up quick enough to take home to Mom & Dad.
I may not have a lot of cash, but don’t men feel more manly when they’re the ones providing for the family anyway? Speaking of which, instead of thinking of me as a single mom with spawns to support, let's say that I come with kids included! No procreation necessary! Believe me, fellas without offspring, this is a huge plus, because pregnant women are no fun. And because they’re my kids, my new man shouldn’t feel the same drain--psychological or financial--that a biological father would. My girls are also only with me part-time. In fact, their dad recently proposed that he take them off my hands every weekend forever!!! (And on weeknights, my mom is happy to babysit.) It’s a win-win all around. I’m the total package…now all I need is a good man willing to share his package!
Where will I find this guy? No worries, readers, I'm waaaay ahead of you. When I checked back in with Match (after canceling my subscription for less than a week), I had 127 emails waiting for my response. (To give you a baseline comparison, during the previous two dalliances with online dating, I maxed out at 10 emails.) I went from boo-hoo to double-booked in three days flat. And, yes, there's already one stand-out contender. But not a peep from me while the going's good...
To keep myself from blathering, let's fill that pie hole (the other one, you dirty bastards) with something edible ASAP. Today's recipe, in honor of PB, is for pancakes, since they are my post-breakup comfort food of choice and a metaphor for lazy lovers. These are no ordinary pancakes, however (nor do they contain peanut butter). These pancakes are pumpkin—a little spicy, a little sweet, and best devoured in excess. They’re also packed with protein. (Yes, you too can eat like ME and still stay cut like PB!). Finally, you’ll notice this recipe uses Almond Breeze instead of cow’s milk for those of you with sensitive stomachs (ahem!).
"PAUL BUNYAN WHO?" PUMPKIN PANCAKES
Ingredients
For the pancakes:
½ cup canned pumpkin
¼ cup unsweetened Almond Breeze
1 packet (½ teaspoon) Stevia
¼ cup oats
1 scoop vanilla whey protein
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup egg whites
½ teaspoon pumpkin pie spice
For the topping:
1 cup vanilla yogurt
1 pint raspberries
Method
• Coat griddle or skillet with cooking spray and heat over low heat.
• Mix all ingredients together in a large bowl.
• Pour batter by ¼ cup onto griddle or skillet.
• Cook pancakes until bubbles appear on surface; then flip and cook until set on other side.
• Serve immediately, preferably for dinner (it feels extra indulgent somehow), garnished with vanilla yogurt and raspberries.
• The nice part about pancakes? If you’re not hungry for them while they’re hot, you can wrap them up and freeze them for another day. They’ll still be just as scrumptious for up to three months from now. As far as dating goes, I can’t say the same…in three months, I very well may be off the market...
As for music to dine by, how about a little Dolly Parton? Country is not my usual go-to tunes, but these lyrics fit the PB situation to a T.
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