MAN EATER

Man Eater: Pumpkin Eater (Chapter Four, Part Four)

2012-03-06T21:41:00.002-06:00

To: Erica Rivera

From: Pumpkin Eater

October 2006

It’s a little before 5 a.m. in Taipei. I’m traveling with my Manufacturing Engineer. He has been a great sport on this, his first trip to Asia. He has tried every food placed in front of him. (Last night I took him to the market to try “stinky tofu”.) Usually I shirk a bit when traveling with Mid-Westerners because they tend to be culturally closed. He has been a pleasant exception.

“If you’re serious about stinky tofu,” I said when Pumpkin Eater called to make dinner plans. “P.F. Chang’s is the place to go.”

I knew I couldn’t keep up the caterpillar act and maintain my sexual allure any longer. Pumpkin Eater wasn’t the right man for me, but he was such a nice guy, I figured I'd give fate one more chance to make the magic happen.

As we awaited a table, Pumpkin Eater shifted uncomfortably from side-to-side with his hands in his pockets. I’d never seen him with anything but a gooey, pleased expression on his face; this agitated version of him was downright ugly.

“This restaurant is alright, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Its fine,” he said through tense lips, “Though if you wanted authentic Chinese, this is far from it.”

I shrugged. “Best tofu in town.”

“Hmm,” Pumpkin Eater said.

As soon as we sat down, Pumpkin Eater ordered hot and sour soup, moo-shu pork, and, at my insistence, Ma Po tofu.

When the waitress set a gong-sized bowl of soup before us, I crinkled my nose.

“I’m not a soup person,” I said. “Especially not Chinese soup.”

“You’ll like it,” Pumpkin Eater said, employing that worldlier-than-thou voice that bordered on paternal.

After the waitress waddled off, Pumpkin Eater and I sat in silence. Date number two of the new-and-improved “us” and already we were out of conversation topics.

“I’m thinking about opening an office in France,” Pumpkin Eater said finally.

“That’s exciting,” I said in a very unexciting tone. “So you’ll be traveling there often?”

“No. I’d move there.”

“That’s a big change.”

“There’s not much holding me back here,” Pumpkin Eater said as he sipped tea from a tiny cup. “My ex is moving back to Indiana, so I’ll only see Coral on school breaks.”

I nodded and slurped my soup.

“How would you like to live in Paris?” he asked.

I almost gagged on the mushroom I’d just swallowed. The closest I’d ever been to France was Spain.

“Err…uh…doesn’t it rain a lot there?” I stammered.

Pumpkin Eater shrugged.

“I’d miss Minnesota,” I said. “My whole family’s here.”

Pumpkin Eater stared down as he stirred his soup. “All the great writers have lived in Paris…” he sighed.

A lot of great writers have also offed themselves, but that didn’t mean I’d jump off a bridge in the name of emulation.

The waitress returned with our entrées.

“Here,” Pumpkin Eater said, spooning up the stir-fried pork and spreading it across a doughy beige circle. “I’ll show you how to eat moo-shu.”

He folded the sides of the wrap as though swaddling a baby, then flipped the contraption upside down and handed it to me.

“Chinese burritos!” I joked.

“Not really,” Pumpkin Eater said sternly. The man didn’t have a funny bone in his body. “This isn’t how they eat them in China, but…”

I bit into the moo-shoo; it was crispy and soft, spicy and sweet all at the same time. Like a burrito, I struggled to keep the shredded veggies inside from spilling down my chin.

“Like it?” Pumpkin Eater asked.

I nodded.

Pumpkin Eater piled spoons of Ma Po tofu and white rice onto both our plates. He slid a pair of chopsticks from their paper sleeve and extended them to me.

“I don’t know how,” I said in yet another Ignorant Erica moment.

“It’s not that hard.”

“One of those things I never learned how to do,” I said with a shrug. “Like snapping my fingers.”

“You can’t snap?” Pumpkin Eater’s jaw dropped so low I thought the white rice would fall right out of it.

“Nope.” I rubbed my thumb and middle finger together. Rub. Rub. No snap.

“You could if you tried hard enough.”

Pumpkin Eater polished off his plate in silence and waved for the check.

“I have to get back to work,” he said, passing me a cardboard take-out box. “Take the leftovers.”

“You’ll enjoy them more,” I said.

“No, you,” he said. “For a snack later.”

I reluctantly accepted the food and Pumpkin Eater paid the bill. After a peck on the cheek, I figured I was home free.

As soon as we stepped into the fall sunshine outside, however, Pumpkin Eater turned to me.

“Want to come sit in my car for a minute?” he asked.

So this is what “No such thing as a free lunch” meant…

“Just for a minute,” I said. “I have class.”

Pumpkin Eater led me to his navy blue Audi and opened the door for me.

“Let me put on some music,” he said, flipping through stations on the radio. He stopped on an elevator tune sung by a man with Celine Dion voice.

Pumpkin Eater leaned in and my mouth met his reluctantly. I willed my body to be aroused, but my lips resisted and stiffened. Then his tongue came out; the kiss was as sexy as dog slobber.

When we parted, Pumpkin Eater gave me the googly eyes.

“Don’t look at me!” I blurted out.

“I like looking at you,” he said. His fingertips traced my palm lightly, then skimmed my forehead and circled my cheeks.

I felt like a trapped animal. My heart raced inside my chest and sweat stains spread across the armpits of my blouse. All I wanted to do was run.

“Don’t touch me!” I screeched. I pulled back and covered my face with my hands.

Pumpkin Eater slumped back against his seat, stunned.

“I’ll drive you to your car,” he said.

When he pulled up beside my SUV, he did not offer to open my door. He didn’t even put his car in park.

“I’m sorry,” I said with a hung head. “I’ve hurt your feelings.”

Pumpkin Eater shrugged and kept his icy gaze straight ahead.

“I don’t know what’s going on with me,” I said. “I had a really nice time.”

Lie number one.

“It’s not that I don’t like you.”

Lie number two.

“I want to see you again,” I said.

And I’m out…

Pumpkin Eater leaned over and opened my door.

“Don’t forget the leftovers,” he said.

No sooner had my feet met the ground, Pumpkin Eater whizzed away so fast he might have left skid marks.

I guess that’s how the fortune cookie crumbles.

When I later probed Pumpkin Eater for food memories, this is what he said:

I’m trying to remember what I brought to our first picnic. It escapes me now. I remember it was a beautiful spring day and you wouldn’t kiss me. But I cannot remember what I fed you.

Funny. For me, the only thing worth remembering about our relationship was the food.

Moo-Shu Pork

Ingredients

1 pound pork chops center, cut into match-stick strips

1 tablespoon low sodium soy sauce

1 tablespoon chili pepper sauce

1 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon vegetable oil

1 teaspoon fresh ginger, peeled and grated

1 ½ cups broccoli coleslaw

3 tablespoons water

1 cup button mushrooms, sliced

1 cup shitake mushrooms, sliced

1 cup green onions, sliced

2 eggs

¼ cup hoisin sauce

Directions

· Combine pork strips, soy sauce, chili pepper sauce, and sugar in bowl; cover and marinate in refrigerator for 1 hour.

· Heat oil in large skillet over medium-high heat. Add grated ginger and sauté for 1 minute. Add pork mixture and cook until pork is desired level of doneness.

· Add coleslaw and water to skillet; cook for 3 minutes, stirring frequently, until coleslaw softens.

· Add mushrooms and green onions; cook an additional 1-3 minutes.

· Remove skillet from heat.

· Serve moo-shu warm, wrapped in Mandarin Pancakes (see recipe below).

Mandarin Pancakes

Ingredients

1 cup flour

½ cup water

1 tablespoon sesame oil

Directions

· Boil water in small saucepan.

· Combine flour and boiling water in medium bowl; stir until dough forms.

· Transfer batter to flat, floured surface; roll with rolling pin until ¼ inch thick.

· Cut dough into 8 circles.

· Dab a small amount of sesame oil into the middle of two circles; press the pair of pancakes together, oiled sides in. Roll the double-decker pancake with rolling pin until it measures 6 centimeters in diameter.

· Repeat process with remaining dough. (Though it seems unlikely, the 4 pancakes you have now will double by the time you’re done. It works; I promise.)

· Grease skillet with cooking spray; heat over medium heat.

· Cook each double-decker pancake on skillet, about 2 minutes each side, until dry and lightly browned.

· Remove double-decker pancake from skillet and set aside for 1 minute.

· When cool enough to handle, separate the double-decker pancakes. (For those of you who are bad at math, you should have 8 pancakes by the end of this recipe).

· Spread pancakes with hoisin sauce.

· Spoon pork mixture into each pancake and roll closed.

· Serve with a side of healthy debate about these Mandarin Pancakes are different from—and even superior to—traditional pancakes, crepes, and tortillas.

Hot and Sour Soup

Ingredients

4 cups chicken broth

3 tablespoons soy sauce

½ cup cooked chicken, chopped

½ cup mushrooms, diced

½ tablespoon garlic chili paste

8 ounces tofu, drained and diced

1 cup bamboo shoots, diced

¼ teaspoon white pepper

¼ cup white vinegar

2 tablespoons cornstarch

2 tablespoon cold water

1 egg

¾ cup chopped green onion

½ teaspoon sesame oil

Directions

· Heat chicken broth to simmer in large saucepan over medium heat.

· Add soy sauce, chicken, mushrooms, and garlic chili paste; stir and simmer for 5 minutes.

· Add tofu, bamboo shoots, white pepper, and white vinegar; stir and simmer for 5 more minutes.

· Mix cornstarch and water in small bowl until thick and smooth; add to soup.

· Simmer additional 5 minutes or until soup thickens.

· In small bowl, beat egg with whisk. Pour beaten egg into soup gradually; stir.

· Add green onions and sesame oil; stir several times, then remove from heat.

· Serve whilst wishing your date was as hot as your meal is.

Second Try Stinky Tofu

Ingredients

1 ½ tablespoons vegetable oil

2 teaspoons minced garlic

½ cup chopped onion

½ cup chopped carrots

1 ½ tablespoons red chili pepper paste

1 tablespoon soy sauce

¾ tablespoon sugar

½ tablespoon cayenne pepper

6 ounces firm tofu

1 cup broccoli florettes

2 green onions, chopped

½ tablespoon sesame oil

Directions

· Heat oil over medium heat in large skillet.

· Sauté garlic, onion, and carrots 5 minutes or until onion is browned.

· In small bowl, combine red chili pepper paste, soy sauce, sugar, and cayenne pepper.

· Add spice mixture, tofu, broccoli, and green onions to skillet. Stir gently until vegetables and tofu are evenly coated.

· Lower heat slightly, cover skillet, and let steam for 3-5 minutes.

· Remove from heat. Add sesame oil and stir.

· Serve over white or brown rice.

October 2006

* * *

Today is the big Asian cuisine day.

I’ve been avoiding these recipes—they’re intimidating in their sophistication, not unlike Pumpkin Eater.

Asian cooking, with all its sauces, is definitely the messiest. It’s also the stinkiest. When I open the fish sauce, it squirts all over the sink and the wall. Whoa—does it reek! I can’t believe I’m going to eat anything that includes this as an ingredient—and I’m not even making true “stinky tofu” because it involves fermenting the seafood in brine for six months. Asian cuisine is labor intensive, involving lots of veggie chopping and substantial simmer time.

By the time I’m done with stir-fry, I’m spent—almost as exhausted as I was trying to maintain conversation with Pumpkin Eater. Though it’s all healthy, it also borders on uninteresting. There’s no spice, just like Pumpkin Eater.

The last step is to make the pancakes. While they only require three ingredients—flour, water, sesame oil—the instructions are a full page long. I don’t understand why I have to make two pancakes if I’m only going to roll them into one big pancake in the next step. I hem and haw—I want a short cut.

I set my inner rebel aside and do as I’m told. All the while, I’m sure they won’t turn out.

Just the act of flattening the pancakes and rolling them into one makes my anxiety rise. If pancakes could breathe, I’m smothering both of them! I don’t want them to fuse and I fight to maintain the boundaries. Paging Dr. Freud! It’s a pancake enmeshment emergency!

It reminds me of a therapeutic exercise I did once, whereby two circles—representing a couple—move in toward one another until they are ever-so-slightly overlapping. This way, they maintain their separate identities while still remaining connected. Too much space, and your mate will float away; too much overlap, and you’ll suffocate.

Despite my anxiety, a funny thing happens: I follow the steps and bam! After I cook the pancakes, they separate effortlessly, seamlessly, into two identical circles. So it is possible to merge with another person and make a clean break later on. The secret, in pancake-making or relationships, is trust.

It just goes to show you (or rather, me) that even when you think something isn’t going to work out as promised, it does! Too bad this didn’t apply to Pumpkin Eater and me…or, maybe, thank God it didn’t.

July 2009

Something For Nothing

2012-01-01T12:45:00.006-06:00

Dear Readers:

To kick off 2012, I've decided to post the full Man Eater book on this site, piece by piece, over the course of the year. (Those of you who can't wait can still download the entire e-book onto your hard drive or Kindle right now on Amazon, but it'll cost you.) I will link each chapter below as it is posted to completion.

MAN EATER:

Seductive Stories and Mouthwatering Meals for Readers with an Appetite

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Puck Me

Chapter 2: The Hot Tamale

Chapter 3: EconMan

Chapter 4: Pumpkin Eater

Chapter 5: The-Rapist

Chapter 6: Mountain Man

Chapter 7: The New Me?

Chapter 8: Jail Bird

Chapter 9: Private Gumby

Chapter 10: Beefcake Boy

Chapter 11: Lukewarm Lover

Chapter 12: Pucked Over

Note: The events described in the Man Eater book occurred before the events posted on this blog from 2009 to 2011. I will back-date the book excerpts to 2009 for you Type A readers so the timeline makes sense. All stories are true, though names and some identifying details have been changed to protect the guilty parties' egos.

Best,
Erica Rivera

Spring Cleaning

2011-04-10T11:36:00.001-05:00

"Fiction writing," an ex recently teased me about my blogging.

"No," I replied. "That's the only thing I don't do well."

I'm known for speaking the truth, no matter how messy, uncomfortable or graphic it may be. The words that filled your computer screens, when they came out, were 100% authentic. As time goes on, however, they don't read that way. I'm constantly transforming (and hopefully evolving) and what was once printed on this blog no longer feels like "me". Thus, I've decided to remove the majority of the archives. All of the Rock Star Guest Chef interviews are still here, as are a sampling of the best posts from the tamer side of Man Eater.

I truly appreciate your support over the last year-and-a-half and I hope that you will continue to follow my food-based adventures on www.crazysexydelicious.com.

If you're experiencing Man Eater withdrawal, be a doll and buy a copy of Man Eater, the e-book on Amazon.

Also, if you haven't heard the news yet, I'm single again, so I will also gladly accept flirtatious flattery, dinner invites and thoughtful gifts. :)

'Til our paths cross again...

XOXOXXX,
Man Eater

All My Rock Stars In One Place!

2011-04-07T16:13:00.001-05:00

I finally took the time to make an official slideshow of the best of my Rock Star Guest Chef interviewees: Rogue Valley, The Goondas, Kristoff Krane, Pictures of Then, Ryan Traster, Matthew Inkala, Thomas Kivi, Grant Dawson, Mercurial Rage and Say Like The French Say!

Missed one of my mouthwatering interviews? Catch up by clicking here.

MAN EATER Is Available Now On Amazon.com!

2011-02-16T00:27:00.000-06:00

Big news! (My favorite kind, heh heh.) MAN EATER: Seductive Stories & Mouthwatering Meals is now available on Amazon.com! Get your copy today and eat your heart out!

You know the drill: Boy meets Girl. Girl falls in love with a fantasy. Reality hits and relationship implodes.

My heartbreaker was Puck, a sports medicine specialist, seafood aficionado, and sex-pert all rolled into one. At six feet tall, with massive pecs, trim waist, and an ass as tight as a clenched fist, Puck was the kind of man who could make even his pink dress shirt look macho. He didn’t walk; he did a body-builder strut, the kind of stiff swagger seen on the likes of Sylvester Stallone. In fact, Puck resembled Rocky with his dark hair trimmed close to the scalp and a rough, gruff voice.

The Canadian cutie encouraged me to experiment. He taught me that eating wasn’t only for nourishment; it was a carnal, visceral, sensual experience. Puck filled my stomach—then he broke my heart.

Everyone has dated—and been dumped by—a Puck. And everyone finds a way to cope with the loss of love. Some knit. Some meditate. Some journal. Some drink. I took refuge in the kitchen. My goal: to recreate the meals I shared with Puck and heal my heart in the process.

As I baked and broiled my way through my former flame’s favorite dishes, other memorable men and the meals I shared with them came to mind. Soon I had a feast for every man I’d ever fallen for!

Cooking wasn’t the only task I tackled in the kitchen. My relationship with food mirrored the relationships with men. Each culinary venture revealed hidden wisdom about what went wrong with the affairs. By mastering the recipes, I relearned how to love. As I conquered more and more complex recipes, I reclaimed my self-esteem. As the cookbook came to fruition, so did the healing. Cooking was my cure for heartache.

Along with my oven, my love life heated up. Puck returned and requested a reunion, but both of us had undergone seismic personality shifts. I no longer needed a man to be well-fed or feel satisfied. The secret ingredient for happiness, I realized, was the ability to nourish myself.

It's Over!

2011-02-14T22:42:00.000-06:00

It’s Saturday night and I have plans with another man. The Baconator does not know this. He’s decided to camp out under the stars, in a snow bank, in a sleeping bag, with his uncle (I shit you not). The invite to go out came while I was sitting at home in yoga pants-ponytail-no makeup mode, listening to the “Greatest Breakup Songs of All Time” on the radio, and stuffing my face with heart-shaped Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

My phone beeped with an incoming text around 7:30 PM.

The question: Did I want to go to Rock The Cause’s Valentine’s Day bash with a hunka burnin’ love?

Of course I did! But was this a good idea, to put myself face-to-face with temptation while I was upset with The Baconator over his lackluster courtship?

ME: OK. What the hell.

HIM: Suggested 50’s attire—red n black, in case u care.

ME: I can do red and black but my clothes are all early 90s :)

HIM: Ha—it’s no bigs.

When I walk through the door of “The Mansion of Love”, the man checking my ID says, “You were here on Halloween, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was,” I say. “I’m surprised you recognize me, especially since I was in costume!”

“It’s the lips,” he says. “You have a memorable mouth.”

“Oh, jeez,” I say. “You’re going to make me blush!”

(I haven’t been complimented in a long time. Can you tell?)

I abandon my coat atop a liquor fridge and head toward the main stage area. On the way, I’m “recognized” by several people who have to re-introduce themselves because I can’t remember who they are or when we met. Have I been MIA from my own social life that long?

“Hey!” I say, when I spot the man of the hour. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, looking adorably grubby. His hair is darker than I remember and his beard is impressive. (Another dude even congratulates him on it later in the evening. You know why beards are sexy? ‘Cause only guys with lots of testosterone can grow ‘em! It’s true.)

He beams and hugs me.

“It’s been way too long,” I say.

“How are you?” he asks.

I sigh and smile that “I know you know but I’m going to pretend everything’s okay” smile. I suspect he’s been reading at least one of my blogs, ‘cause his invitation couldn’t have been better timed.

“I’m okay,” I say with a shrug.

He gives me the once over.

“You’re right, those are early 90’s,” he says, referring to my tight red tank with lace collar, tight black sweater with lace back, and tight slit skirt. (Did I mention they were tight?)

“Gee, thanks,” I say.

“I mean, they’re classic. Timeless.”

He's totally lying to me. I don't mind. It feels good. I need all the reassurance I can get. I’m afraid my mojo has been waning lately. Or rather, I’m worried that The Baconator has become immune to it. I know I’m still sexy. It would just be nice if someone else noticed it.

“Is today Valentine’s Day?” he asks after a swig of his beer.

I give him the “Are you retarded?” look. He’s not kidding.

“Is it February 12th or February 14th ?” he asks.

I flash the look again.

“Well, I saw hearts hanging from the ceiling at Target the other day, so I figured it was time to buy a card.”

“You did not.”

“I wish I had a better story, but that’s about how it went down,” he says.

Wow. Is this Valentine’s Day apathy encoded on the Y chromosome or what?! Suddenly, The Baconator’s resistance doesn’t seem so severe; at least he knows the date on which he’s supposed to disappoint me!

“I gave it to her on Friday,” my companion continues, referring to his S.O. “Just to be safe.”

I suppose you want to know who the mystery dude is, don’t you readers?

Drum roll please...

It was Casey Call. Yup, my buddy and former “boss” from Pictures of Then.

I could try to write the rest of the evening with an aura of innuendo as if something sexual *might* occur, but let’s be real. Casey’s hot, I’m hot, but together…um…not so much. I totally clam up around him, especially since I’ve been off the scene for so long. He knows more people than I do now in any given context. He’s the one schmoozing and introducing me to people.

Besides, both Casey and I are artists, which means even if we met in some alternate universe and were both single, it’d never work in the real world. The bills would never get paid, both of us would be insomniac and moody, he’d drink too much beer and I’d eat too much chocolate. It would be a disaster.

But let me repeat: he’s attached. As, technically, am I (until The Baconator or I decide otherwise…but we’ll get to that…). So while a little somethin' somethin' is what my devilsh twin would’ve fantasized about, in reality, I'm grateful to have Casey as a platonic friend. The fact that he’s easy on the eyes is awesome, too, but that’s not why I like spending time with him. He makes me laugh with his deadpan humor and unedited lewdness.

Speaking of which, within ten minutes, the talk turns dirty. When I join in his conversation circle with the drummer from The Icy Shores and a booking agent, it’s all about who has the biggest...um...instrument (Casey, or so he says), where he wants to put it in (not the back door), what toy is the most fun to play with (Rickenbaker) and which cupcakes rocks his world (red velvet applesauce).

“Are you glad you came?” Casey asks me during a break in conversation.

Had I been on top of my game, I would’ve said, “I haven’t yet!" with a wink wink nudge nudge. Instead I say, genuinely, “Yes. I really needed to get out.”

Joe Gamble (a.k.a. Pictures of Then guitarist and the life of any party) soon arrives.

“Have you met the blogger?” Gamble asks a musician we’re chatting with. He waves his vodka in my direction. “She will blog the shit out of this event.”

“Casey and I were just saying how charming you are,” I tell Gamble. “But you’re so unorganized. If only you could get your act together, you’d have it all!”

“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But don’t tell my wife that.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m sure she hasn’t realized it yet.”

“She hasn’t!” Gamble insists. He leans in and wiggles his eyebrows at me. “'Cause I’m really good in bed.”

I nod in that “Uh-huh, riiiight” way.

“I am,” he says.

Gamble swivels his pelvis suggestively at me. In his black tux and ruffled red satin shirt, he looks beyond ridiculous. He’s clearly several drinks in already.

“Don’t aim that thing at me!” I say, putting my hands out to block whatever crotch vibes he's sending my way.

“It’s powerful.”

“I know,” I say (having just found out his wife is pregnant). “And I don’t need anymore babies.”

It’s at this exact moment that two chicks in front of us turn around, wide-eyed.

“I know you heard that conversation,” Gamble says to them. They confirm they did. Every. Single. Word. Somebody shoot me now.

Embarrassment aside, it’s good to see and be seen. I only get hit on once (WTF?!), though I’m going to blame (or thank?) Casey for that. As I explained to him earlier, he has an intimidating aura. It’s part of the reason why I’ve held off on bringing The Baconator to any of the Pictures of Then gigs. Case(y) in point: we’re watching Alicia Wiley singing her intense, soulful tunes in the V.I.P. room. It's packed to the gills and it's sweltering. When Casey retreats to the W.C., a man inches up to me and semi-yells something in my ear.

“Do you know her name?” he asks, pointing at the stage.

“Alicia Wiley,” I say.

He compliments the performance and I add something equally uninventive like “Yeah, she’s awesome.”

“And what’s your name?” he asks.

I tell him, but the walls are up. My body language is not inviting any attention, even if my outfit is. As far as pick-ups go, this one is really awkward. The guy is standing so close to me I swear I can practically hear the gears in his brain squeaking as he tries to think of what to say next.

Saved by the rock star. Casey emerges from the bathroom wearing the biggest, most ridiculous pair of sunglasses ever.

“Oh my God,” I say. Neither Casey nor I can keep a straight face. We start giggling. The guy standing to next to me? Poof! Gone.

So, as you can see, Casey Call is the ultimate cock-blocker. (Perhaps this fact would reassure, instead of concern, The Baconator!)

I stay through Alicia Wiley’s set and most of The Melismatics, but by 11:30 PM, I’m ready for bed. (The Baconator’s early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine has rubbed off on me.)

I head home and check my email before going to sleep. Saturday night seems like an odd time to receive good news, but that’s how creative people work. Like dominoes, suddenly everything I’ve been waiting on to move forward does. I’ve received good news on two job opportunities and the Man Eater book is finally available on Amazon!

Lucrative opportunities for me to refocus my literary and culinary energies and a segueway to stop blogging are what I’ve been longing for. I feel relieved…but oddly, not happy...because I don't have anyone to share it with.

I want to text The Baconator but I don’t want to initiate contact, either. I’m stuck in that “I have to withhold” place again. Ugh.

I go to bed, sans gush session, and the next morning I awake to bright sunshine, 40-degree temps, and the feeling that a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I feel so fulfilled and grateful for all the good things happening in my life...but there's still that lack of excitement 'cause things aren't right with The Baconator.

Is it possible, I wonder, that I overreacted to The Baconator’s recent mood shifts? Could it be that I misinterpreted what he has already attributed to pre-travel and pre-V-Day stress? Maybe I just need to get back to yoga (I’ve cut back to spend time with The Baconator); maybe I need more fresh air and sunshine; maybe I need to know I still have friends—and that I’m capable of hanging out with them without feeling like I’m doing something “wrong”. Whatever it is that’s going on, I know I don’t want to lose The Baconator. On the contrary; I can’t wait to share this giddy sensation of achievement with him.

I go for a run to contemplate all this, and when I return, there’s a message from The Baconator congratulating me on the book. As for my most recent post? "Boo" is all he says.

“I’m so ready to stop blogging,” I tell him in my reply. “I bet you are, too.”

I don’t regret writing the T.G.I.Friday's post, but it did leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I think The Baconator is afraid of how he’ll be interpreted on the blog, so he’s choosing to withdraw instead. I don’t blame him. Situations and feelings are so fleeting, but what I write about them is permanently scrawled on the interwebs. It’s not easy being so exposed. I feel somewhat inoculated to it, perhaps in part because I’m “in control” of what gets put out there and in part because I’ve been putting it out there for so long.

I once told The Baconator that if it came down to my having to choose between him and the blog, I would choose him, no question. I think our relationship is in a precarious state at the moment and while he’d never ask me to keep quiet (well, except for the V-Day events that he’s asked I not share), having a real-time play-by-play of our relationship is not helping matters.

That’s a long and drawn out way of saying: I’m ready to close the Man Eater chapter of my life for good (besides the book plugs, of course!). Whilst rereading some posts from 2009 over the past few weeks, I see how much I’ve changed. It’s time to reinvent myself…and it’s time to reinvest myself in what I really want and need, which is a private relationship.

As I write this now, I’m getting ready for my V-Day date with The Baconator. Yes, to take the pressure off him, I made the plans…and I’m the only one who knows what they are. How’s that for secret keeping? It’s a start.

And this is my way of saying “The End”. Thank you, readers, for sticking with me for the past year-and-a-half. I will leave the archives on here for the time being (though I must admit, I have removed many posts that were incongruent with the new image I’m trying to project). I will also continue to blog PG, recipe-related posts, on the Crazy Sexy Delicious site. And, as always, you can (and should) order Man Eater: Seductive Stories and Mouthwatering Meals on Amazon so you can get your erotic food writing hit whenever you need it!

I don’t know what the future will bring, my dahlings; all I know for sure is that it's bound to be delicious!

xoxoxxx,
Man Eater

V-Day Gives Me A Heart On

2011-02-14T13:42:00.000-06:00

Valentine's Day, in Man Eater’s world, is usually a non-event. I’ve only had one memorable V-day in my whole life and that was when I was 16. So as not to feel totally pathetic last year, I invited the ‘rents over for Valentine’s Day dinner. (Or does that make me more pathetic than if I’d spent the holiday alone?). On the menu: Spaghetti a la Puttanesca. I don’t know where the inspiration came from; I don’t particularly like pasta, but I had a fierce carb craving and a Tupperware of olives begging to be abused in the fridge.

When I Googled the recipe, I found out that Puttanesca is derived from the Italian word for “whore”. The dish is rumored to have originated in brothels, where prostitutes needed a quick dinner they could fix with whatever ingredients they had on hand between customers. Apparently, Italian whores always had black olives, anchovies, and capers in their cupboards. I am not an Italian whore (An attention whore, yes, but we’ll tackle that in another post), so this “easy” dish was a pain in the ass to shop for. I will say this, though: once the ingredients were ready to go, it only took 10 minutes, tops, to cook. A quickie, if you will.

While Spaghetti alla Puttanesca is very sexy-looking on a platter…it’s also very smelly. One online source claimed the charm of this dish is the sauce’s fishy scent that reminded a certain chef of…well, you can fill in the blank. My family only made it through a few bites before my step-dad cautiosly asked, “What’s in this exactly?” Once I admitted to the anchovies, the fork-to-mouth action slowed. I still polished off a plateful (experimentation = endorphins!). Good food, like good sex, is supposed to be raunchy.

After the ‘rents left, I putzed around, eating fistfuls of marshmallows (which I don’t even like!), until restlessness forced me outside for a long, wannabe-romantic walk in the snow with the man of the house (a.k.a. my poodle). Upon our return, I finished watching “The Hangover” while folding laundry. Sexy V-day, eh? Very bachelor-esque.

If you were alone this year, I can assure you it won’t be like that forever. As my favorite DJ once said during “The Greatest Breakup Songs of All Time” radio special, “Love will find you…and even if it doesn’t, just enjoy yourself.” Sage advice indeed. (That’s an herbal pun, BTW.)

I wish you a year filled with many xxx’s and “oh oh oh!” s. And lots of whore house food. Eat up. Eat out. Whatever. Just keep in touch!

Love,
Man Eater

WHORE HOUSE SPAGHETTI

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil
4 ounces (2 tins) anchovies, drained and chopped
3 tablespoons capers, drained
1 teaspoon minced garlic
1 can (14.5 ounces) stewed tomatoes, Italian style
1 cup spaghetti sauce
½ cup black olives, sliced
3 cups cooked spaghetti

Method

• Heat olive oil over medium-high in large skillet.

• Add anchovies, capers, and garlic; cook 3 minutes.

• Add tomatoes, spaghetti sauce, and black olives; simmer 10 minutes, or until sauce is thickened.

• Serve over cooked spaghetti. Plug nose while eating if necessary.

The Anti-V-Day Manifesto

2011-02-09T22:41:00.000-06:00

Dear Dudes:

I hate to break it to you, but Valentine’s Day is not optional. I agree that V-day is a blatant—and often phony—expression of love via commercialism…but I don’t endorse ignoring the holiday altogether.

See, women have been brainwashed since birth about how being attached reflects on their worth as a person. It means something to her in the same way that having a big wedding matters, even if it’s just to parade around like a princess in front of her frenemies. Good men are hard to find; holding onto one is near impossible. Those of us ladies lucky enough to have a mate want this incredible fete acknowledged.

As I concluded in my last post, however, Valentine’s Day is a guaranteed let-down day for most women unless there’s an engagement ring involved. Even if you do your best, fellas, you’re probably going to fail.

But make the effort anyway.

If you’re part of a couple, V-day is just one of those “grin and bear it” events. Better to be with a bittersweet woman than be utterly alone. The key to a less painful evening is this: ladies are obsessed with feeling “special”. Buy, do, or plan something that speaks to her preferences and makes her feel spoiled.

As long as the night isn’t a total bomb, you can comfort yourself with the fact that February 14th is one of the few guaranteed nights you'll get a gift in return, too. (Nudge nudge, wink wink.)

One final tip: if you want V-day to take on less importance next year, try being more romantic in the 364 days leading up to it. If the holiday exists, it’s because Hallmark decided that men need a push to demonstrate their feelings.

As for my feelings about you, readers, know that I am always thinking of you, be it V-day or not. I heart you, totally, completely, unconditionally...even the haters (because you make me work that much harder).

Now go get your heart on!

xoxoxxx,
Man Eater

What Women DON'T Want...and The One Thing They DO!

2011-02-07T22:40:00.000-06:00

In a previous post, I told you what I'm wishing for this Valentine's Day. Here is the "Don't you dare unless you're itching for a break-up" list:

Stuffed Animals

I almost threw up in my mouth when I saw this. Plush toys are creepy. Not even making it potty-mouthed will convince me it’s cute.

(Photo courtesy of www.doobybrain.com)

A Dozen Roses

Flowers can be indescribably beautiful. They also die. I suppose there’s something poetic in that contradiction, but a dozen roses is too cliché for any day of the year. If you must express your love florally, do so in a unique way with an exotic bouqet. Or a bonsai tree. Even a sprig of lucky bamboo would do. Just don’t let some faceless stranger at 1-800-Flowers decide what your gift will look like!

(Photo courtesy of www.takemeouttotherunway.blogspot.com)

Chocolates

I’m around sweets 24/7. “Surprising” me with chocolate isn’t all that appetizing. Really jonesing to give me some sugah? Fine. Just make sure they’re not Ferrero Rocher. I can’t stand ‘em. I don’t know how they got so popular; I’d rather eat a dozen hairballs. I might consider some sea salt truffles but really, you gotta up the ante on balls for this food blogger.

(Photo courtesy of www.expedoodle.com)

Edible Attire

Edible panties? Yes. Edible dresses? No thank you. Especially not if they’re Lindt. And I thought skirt chasers of the male variety were off-putting…

(Photo courtesy of 1800flowers.com)

Over-priced Restaurant Meals

I don’t mean to pick on Crave (I’ve heard their Mac & Cheese is to die for) but starving artists can’t rationalize dropping $75 bucks for dinner when a box of Kraft and a package of hot dogs will do. It’s not the size of the bill that impresses me; it’s the effort you put into it. A guy manning a stove (or better yet, a grill) really lights my fire. Can’t cook? Fine. Let’s go out to eat—but 24 hours before or after the big day, when dinner’s a fraction of the cost.

(Photo courtesy of onlinefloristperth.com.au)

Cards

Greeting cards are beyond impersonal. If you can't speak it, don't buy a piece of cardboard to say it for you. If you thought Hallmark was absurd with their five dollar price tags, check out the latest trend: giant greeting cards. For $25 to $50, you, too, can send your lover something totally cheesy and impossible to ignore! (Another don't: pets in costume.) Go ahead, give a card...but be prepared to be relocated to the dog house. Permanently.

(Photo courtesy of www.bigfunnycards.com)

Do I Sound Demanding?

Of course I do. Here’s why:

A woman will never be satisfied, no matter what you give her for V-Day, because what she really wants is precisely what you can’t afford—or aren’t willing to invest in. She wants you. All to herself. For all eternity.

She wants the rock—and a hefty one at that—as a symbol of how committed to her. Yes, it’s shallow….but a girl who finds a good guy wants to wear proof of his love in a place where everyone can see. No taken lady can resist bragging about how she snagged The One to random strangers or resisting showing off so all her girlfriends get jealous (don’t deny it, ladies). Agreeing to make monthly payments to Tiffany’s until you die is pretty fucking serious and she knows it.

(Photo courtesy of www.tiffany.com)

So. There you have it, dudes. The only thing that will really please her is an impressive sparkler. Go big or go home.

**

You know what song what I have to put in here. I apologize for contributing to the over-playing of this tune, but, hey, shortly after Beyonce recorded it, Jay-Z popped the question. Coinky-dink? I think not.

Go Ahead, Make My V-Day!

2011-02-03T22:36:00.000-06:00

Hooray! The countdown to man's most dreaded (and Man Eater's most anticipated) holiday of the year is underway! Here's what I'm wishing for, in no particular order:

A Plane Ticket

There’s only one person authorized to make that purchase, so, ahem, if you’re feeling generous, you know what to do (and what airport I'm flying into).

For all the rest of you who want to spoil an appetite obsessed lady like me this V-day, how about:

A Classic Facial

Not that kind, you pervs. Cole’s Salon has gift certificates, though. Seventy-five smackeroons should do it. (See how expensive primping can be?! No wonder I'm broke!)

A Sexy Apron*

Because everything old is new again…and I desperately need a cover up enticing enough so I’ll actually wear it. This one from Jessie Steele is surprisingly palatable.

A Pimped Out Mixer

A writer friend of mine just got one of these Kitchen Aide beauties and she named it "Betty". I am soooooo jealous. Help me keep up with the Jones's! Kitten optional.

(Photo courtesy of Patty Cake Bakery on cupcakestakethecake.blogspot.com)

Sexy Sleepwear

Gap has the softest fabric. I’d like an XS nightie in “plum” color, please.

Boxers and a cami are ok, too, as long as they allow for some morning “puff” (I don’t know why I wake up looking like the Michelin woman. I just do.) My preferred hue is ballerina pink (to match the perception of a slim physique in my head, LOL).

Crumbs Cupcakes

I know the shipping fee is God-awful, but I've been so nice lately, I really deserve a naughty indulgence...and Crumbs Bakery is the only place that makes "Good Guy" cupcakes (a.k.a. the best pastry on the planet!). Order now; they don't appear on my doorstep overnight, ya know.

A Bloody Valentine (a.k.a. Medium Raw by Anthony Bourdain )

Confession: Aside from this blog and my Facebook feed, I haven't read in ages! (I owe so much dough to the library for late fees, I may never show my face there again!) Buy me some food for thought from the literary world's crudest author, would ya?

***

I know that most of you, no matter how much you say you “love” me, won’t buy me a V-Day gift. That’s okay. The way to really make this February 14th special would be to buy a copy of Man Eater, the e-book. (I’ll give you the Amazon.com URL as soon as I have it! Any day now!) I’ve gifted you all with 18 months of real-time blogging about the most personal of matters. Do me a solid and drop a few bucks on my behalf, please?

xoxoxxx (as always),
Man Eater

P.S. I'll tell you in a forthcoming post what not to give your lady love on V-Day...plus the one thing that every chic secretly craves...

*All photographs are courtesy of Amazon.com, the products' respective websites, or as otherwise noted. No copyright ownership intended.

And just because we're fantasizing and having fun...

Man Eater's Kind Of Pizza Pie

2011-01-11T00:42:00.000-06:00

Sure, pizza is good even when it's bad, but when it's sweet, it's better.

SWEET TOOTH PIZZA

Ingredients

1 box Betty Crocker gingerbread cookie mix
¼ cup hot water
2 tablespoons butter, melted
2 tablespoons flour
1 cup pumpkin puree
3 ounces cream cheese, softened
3 tablespoons sugar, divided
¾ teaspoon ground cinnamon, divided
3 apples, sliced
½ cup dried cranberries
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Method

• Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Grease round baking sheet with cooking spray.

• In medium bowl, stir together cookie mix, hot water, butter, and flour (use hands if dough is too sticky to stir with spoon).

• On floured surface, roll dough with rolling pin and form into circle.

• Transfer dough to baking sheet; bake 10 minutes. Crust should be slightly underdone.

• Meanwhile, beat pumpkin, cream cheese, 2 tablespoons sugar, and ½ teaspoon cinnamon in medium bowl with electric mixer on low until creamy.

• Spread pumpkin mixture onto crust, top with apples and cranberries and sprinkle with 1 tablespoon sugar and ¼ teaspoon cinnamon.

• Bake 15-20 minutes or until outer crust is golden brown.

• Cool on baking sheet five minutes; slice and serve warm.

Born To Be Wild

2011-01-03T18:03:00.000-06:00

If you ever wondered how I became a Man Eater, I'm gonna tell you. It all started around my thirteenth birthday when I got hooked on Speed.

Keanu Reeves, the star of the blockbuster film, became my overnight obsession. I saw the movie over a dozen times and memorized the entire script. Though others claimed Keanu was an atrocious actor, I sought out every inch of celluloid he appeared on, no matter how obscure the film or how minor the role. I scoured celebrity magazines and newspaper interviews in search of some bread crumb that would lead me to him. (This was in the days before Google, so I had to do the detective work myself.)

I was convinced Keanu was the man I was going to marry. To speed things along, I planned to relocate to Tinseltown, make a career as a maid, and adopt Keanu’s Norton-riding and surfing hobbies.

Luckily for me, I didn’t have to go all the way to the West Coast to find the movie star that made me see stars. That fall, Keanu came to the Twin Cities to film Feeling Minnesota.

The local gossip columnist reported all the Keanu sightings in the paper and I, in turn, followed the trail. My mother was more than supportive—she even let me skip school one day for the sole purpose of stalking Keanu.

Our first stop: The Loon Café downtown where Keanu was rumored to have eaten. We requested “his” booth.

“Which side did he sit on?” I asked the host, indicating the oak banquette.

He pointed to the side facing the door, and I wiggled into place, imagining the melding of Keanu’s ass with mine. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

After bowls of wild rice soup, Mom and I circled the streets of the warehouse district in her Oldsmobile, driving by the site of the Feeling Minnesota movie set over and over, craning our necks to get a glimpse of my crush. All we could see were orange cones and bright lights that white-washed the sidewalk. On foot, we did lap after lap around the block, hoping Keanu would appear for a cigarette break or lunchtime stroll. No such luck. The closest we came to Keanu was his body double, whom we mistakenly followed several blocks believing him to be the genuine article.

My Keanu crush got put on the back burner when I started dating men in 3-D. He didn't enter my mind much (especially after “The Matrix”—what the hell were you thinking, Keanu?!), until one evening about a year ago, my mother brought a surprise to dinner.

“I was feng-shui-ing,” she said. “And look what I found!”

She presented me with a 20 x 30 framed print from Speed.

“Oh, Mom,” I scoffed. “I’m not 13 anymore.”

“It’s a nice poster,” my mother said, winking at Keanu’s seriously sexy expression.

“It’s kind of intimidating; I wouldn’t want to scare a potential Prince Charming off,” I said.

“Keep it in the garage,” my father opined.

Now outnumbered, I ceded to the parental pressure and propped Keanu’s image above the bookshelf by the back door.

I gazed at Keanu’s photo. He was so handsome, it took my breath away, even after all those years.

Then I realized why: The Hollywood hunk bore an uncanny resemblance to another Canadian cutie: Puck.

Suddenly, it all made sense. Is it any wonder that, after eons of staring into Keanu’s chocolate brown eyes, imagining my hands grazing his shaved head, and admiring his rock-hard body, that I would fall obsessively in love with his real-life look-alike?

More mouthwatering connections between men and food in my next post...

BORN TO BE WILD RICE SOUP

Ingredients

1 teaspoon butter
½ cup chopped celery
½ cup chopped carrots
½ cup chopped green onions
½ cup chopped onion
1 ½ teaspoons minced garlic
1 (14 ounce) can chicken broth
½ cup uncooked wild rice
2 tablespoons flour
1 ¼ cup milk
½ teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon salt

Method

• Melt butter in large soup pan over medium heat. Add celery, carrots, green onions, onion, and garlic. Saute 10 minutes, or until browned.

• Pour in broth; stir, making sure to scrape vegetables from side of pan with spoon.

• Add rice and bring to a boil.

• Cover, reduce heat, and simmer soup for 1 hour.

• In small bowl, whisk together flour and milk; pour into soup pan.

• Cook an additional 10 minutes, stirring frequently.

• Remove from heat; stir in salt and pepper. Allow 5-10 minutes for soup to thicken.

The 2010 Recap: Numbers Don't Lie

2011-01-01T21:21:00.000-06:00

In my previous (now removed) post, I described the ups and downs (and ins and outs) of 2010. In this post, I'm sticking to the stats. Numbers don't lie...but what exactly do these ones mean anyway? You be the judge. Then I will, by giving out awards for categories you won't see on any other end-of-year lists!

*** 2010 ***

Number of:

Posts: 153

New lovers: Eight

Breakups: Five (Slump Buster x 3, Honey Buns, and New Dude)

Blow Jobs: Innumerable.

Orgasms: Somewhere in the triple digits.

Orgasms in a Single Sex Session: Twelve? (Last night. The Baconator. One for each year I didn't have a date on New Year's Eve!)

First Dates: Don't Ask.

Online Dating Services Tried: Five (Match, eHarmony, OK Cupid, Plenty Of Fish, MeetLocals)

Emails Received on Match.com: Unknown. I stopped responding after #200.

Men That Sent Me Cock Shots: Three (Playboy, New Dude, and Paul Bunyan)

Boyfriends (according to me): Four (Slump Buster,
Honey Buns, New Dude, The Baconator)

Boyfriends (according to them): One (New Dude)

Men who said "I Love You": One (New Dude)

Men I said "I Love You" to: Zero

Pregnancy Scares: One (Slump Buster)

Computer Viruses: Three

STDs: Zero, zilch, nada.

Items Lost at Lovers' Homes: Two (a rock at Slump Buster's and a bow-tie thong at Paul Bunyan's. Ahem, fellas. I'd like those back!)

Business Trips (which included some guilty pleasures): Two (Portland and Denver)

Award-Winning Poems Inspired By Slump Buster: One ("Untitled for L")

Published Poems Inspired By New Dude: One ("Words Caught Crossways in a Woman's Throat")

New Followers: 500 (Facebook) 90 (Foodbuzz) 50 (Networked Blogs)

Rock Star Guest Chef Interviews: Thirteen

Concerts Attended: 150 (approximate)

Most Frequently Ogled Band: Pictures of Then (Five concerts)

Containers of Parkers Farm Peanut Butter Consumed: 100 (approximate)

Hours spent exercising to burn off peanut butter belly: 848 (the equivalent of 35 days. Wow.)

Awards for:

Best Blog Subject: Slump Buster

Worst Blog Subject: Any who I dated and didn't bother to write about on this site!

Biggest Package: The Baconator

Best First Date: Paul Bunyan

Worst First Date: Coach

Best Male Lover: You didn’t really think I was going to answer that, did you?!

Worst Male Lover: Honey Buns

Best Female Lover: Duh. There was only one. And she was only good in the beginning.

Worst Female Lover: Ditto. Fingernail up the ass. 'Nuf said.

Best Cock Shot: Playboy

Worst Cock Shot: Only those I didn't receive!

Biggest Surprise: Meeting New Dude.

Biggest Disappointment: A tie between Slump Buster’s pseudo proposal and my broken foot.

Best Edible Gift: New Dude's Blueberry Pie

Worst Edible Gift: New Dude's Blueberry Bread

Saddest Goodbye: My poodle, Tito.

Most Popular Recipe (Savory): Happy Accident Pepperoni Bread

Least Popular Recipe (Savory): Gyros

Most Popular Recipe (Sweet) : Kiss of Death Rice Krispies Bars

Least Popular Recipe (Sweet): Disappointing Oat Balls

Most Popular Ingredient: Bananas (Gee, I wonder why...)

Least Popular Ingredient: Anchovies

Is that TMI? Good. If catching up on those juicy posts didn't satisfy you, there's plenty more if you click on the the Most Popular Posts tag.

As for 2011 missives? You'll just have to wait and see... :) 'Til then, my interpretation of 2010 can be summed up in one song. Happy New Year, dahlings!

Eat at Joe's...But Do Dessert at Home

2010-12-27T14:30:00.000-06:00

I last left you, readers, in a blue mood. I’d received some bad news just before my Xmas Eve Eve date with The Baconator. After plopping down on his couch to absorb the immensity of what had happened and dry my tears, The Baconator leaped to his feet.

“I know this is changing the subject, but…what do you think of my new hat? And look! A matching scarf! But how do I tie this thing without looking stupid?” He whipped his new accessories around and I giggled goofily. Silliness aside, the Baconator was beyond hot…and it had nothing to do with the clothes. That bearded grin, his adorable dimple, those breathtaking blue eyes…sigh…

“God, you’re cute,” I said.

The Baconator waved off my compliment.

“Are these jeans too tight?” he asked.

“No,” I said, noticing the slighest rip in the left thigh. “They look great.”

“I liked ‘em ‘cause they were a little edgier than what I normally wear. But I’m not sure about the size…”

“Did you have to jump into them?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Hmm…well, that’s usually a sign…but don’t worry. They’re still not as tight as mine!”

And with that, our two cute asses went out to dinner. The Baconator had made reservations (with nary a nagging from me!) and he drove! (Have I mentioned how much I luvvv when a man, ahem, takes the wheel in a relationship?!) Appropriately, we went to Joe’s Garage in the very hip Loring Park neighborhood.

The waiter led us to a corner, candlelit table on the second floor and slipped us the specials. At the top of the list: Tater Tot Hot Dish. The Baconator didn’t even bother to glance at the regular menu. He knew what he wanted and saw no need to peruse any further. (Decisiveness. Another quality I luvvv in a man.)

I contemplated the comfort food selection, but nothing sounded good; that I wasn’t hungry was a cardinal sign that I was way more upset than I’d let on. I tried to hide behind my hair, but the tears filled my eyes and threatened to spill forth again. The Baconator wasn’t fooled; his gaze was so intense on me that I felt as translucent as a spring roll (That’s the best I could do for a food metaphor at the moment).

I settled on the virtuous SWG (strawberry, walnut, and gorgonzola) Salad with grilled chicken. We tried to talk around The Bad News until the food arrived. The Baconator let me steal several tater tots (OMG. Soooooo good. I would’ve liked a bucketful of that stuff!) and encouraged me to eat his mushrooms (one of his few food aversions).

“Dessert?” the waiter asked after we’d cleaned our plates.

I wanted chocolate cake, but as a tranquilizer only. In a rare moment of maturity, I said no.

“What I’d really like is a Jazz apple with peanut butter,” I confessed after the waiter left.

“We can go get an apple,” The Baconator said. “Remind me after The Walker.”

To tide me over until then, I unearthed a bag of “Snowman Soup” from my purse. The itty bitty gift bag was given to me by my neighbor; inside, it contained a packet of hot cocoa, a half-dozen mini marshmallows, a mini candy-cane, a chocolate kiss and a peppermint kiss. I popped the chocolate kiss in my mouth and offered the peppermint one to The Baconator.

“I’ve never tried these,” he said.

“Me, neither,” I said.

“Here, have half.”

I protested (albeit weakly so) and when he handed me the bitten-off hunk, I happily accepted. He also split the candy cane in two so we could share. (Aww, shucks! Is that sweet or what?!)

By the time we made it to the Walker Art Museum, there was only an hour left to explore before they closed. The Baconator and I instinctively drifted toward a photography exhibit about men who’ve committed “pseudoside” (my new favorite word). This was when guys abandoned conventional lives (and wives) and moved to a place called “Boy Mountain” to live off the grid.

“I could live there,” I said, pointing at a model tree house. “As long as I had wireless, I’d be happy.”

“I might enjoy it for a while,” The Baconator said. “But I’m too practical. I’d want to know where to find the water and the food.”

“True,” I said. “It would probably only be fun until I got hungry.”

Speak of the devil (read: my stomach), a “rumbly in my tumbly” (per Winnie the Pooh) began. After the museum guards kicked us out, The Baconator and I went to Kowalski’s for Jazz Apples. Just my (shitty) luck: the best stocked grocery store in the Twin Cities didn’t have my favorite kind of apples! The Baconator and I wandered around and around the aisles, looking for an appropriate substance to soothe me.

“Forget it,” I said. "I'm the lamest date ever. This is so bad, you should write a blog about it! Let’s just go back to your place."

“No!” he exclaimed. “You. Need. A. Treat.”

I couldn’t decide. Nothing enticed me. Not even apples and peanut butter anymore. All I wanted was to be flooded with pleasure, and fucking seemed like a faster way to go about that.

Instead, The Baconator led me to his version of heaven (a.k.a. the cheese aisle).

“See the puddles on the floor?” he said. (No, there weren’t any, but we were playing Let’s Pretend) “That’s from all the drool.”

We fondled some plastic-wrapped concoctions and gawked at the price tags, then returned to the produce section. I settled for a pair of Honeycrisps (“I’m gonna get the biggest fucking apple they have! And some lettuce!”) and, with the promise of homemade chocolate sauce awaiting on his countertop, we went back to The Baconator’s place. I ate most of the decadently drizzled apple slices, plus a heaping spoonful of chocolate sauce, then I decapitated a gingerbread man.

“Wow. These are still good!” I exclaimed. The gingerbread dudes had been in the fridge almost a week (Note: In most circumstances, I do not recommend keeping baked goods in the fridge. It’s either room temp for right now or freeze for later.) “They’re so soft!”

I told The Baconator about a study that showed that people’s personalities dictate which part of a gingerbread man they eat first. Headstrong people start up top (ahem, me); sensitive people start with the arms. As for those who eat the legs (or other areas)…um, I can’t remember. Oh well.

The Baconator made me a cup of loose leaf tea (another first). I was impressed that not only did he have all the equipment, he knew how to use it! (Yes, this is so rare it deserves an exclamation point.) Alas, I never got more than a tongue-scorching sip, because my honey soon moved onto another mood-brightening tactic too X-rated for my now squeaky clean reputation. Let's just say that when constructing my future dream kitchen, I will make sure the contractors measure the countertops for proper whoopie-making height.

The Baconator and I moved into the bedroom and by the time we were done, I’d forgotten than there was anything else happening in the world beyond him and me, naked limbs intertwined, the flutter of breath and the rhythms of heartbeats between us. (Was that too gooey? Can’t help myself.) I didn’t want to leave, but I couldn't fall asleep, either. If I was going to break my "no sleepovers" rule, I wanted to do so over the holiday weekend when we could bask in bed the morning after rather than rush off to our respective insane schedules.

"Are you sleepy?" The Baconator asked.

"Not really," I said.

"When I can't sleep, I go through my day in my mind from beginning to end," he said. "Then I realize how much I did and it makes me tired."

The Baconator began rehashing--not from the morning, but from the time I'd walked through the door. He enumerated every little detail of the date--even things I'd forgotten about...like how many tater tots I'd robbed.

"Sleepy now?" he asked when he finished.

"Yeah," I said. "So I should go."

Before I left, The Baconator retrieved a plastic baggie from his fridge. I’d recently experimented with a new Chex mix recipe, and The Baconator was my guinea pig. Judging by the crumbs, this was a winning combo.

“Refill this for next time,” he said.

It seemed like the least I could do, considering how well he’d filled me up. (Heh heh.)

The Baconator walked me to my car, which was now covered with a good two inches of snow. Of course he cleaned it off for me. (Quality #3 I luvvvv in a man: chivalry!) I revved the car and though it required many ins and outs, finally I was off. (Oh, the pun possibilities!)

Sleepy, snowy, midnight bliss…plus an excuse to make Chexxxstasy. What more could Man Eater ask for? :)

CHEXXSTASY

Ingredients

3/4 cup brown sugar
6 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons light corn syrup
¼ teaspoon baking soda
8 cups Chocolate Chex cereal (I’ve only found this flavor at Kowalski’s, so you might have to search for it)
¼ cup chocolate chips

Method

• Line cookie sheet with waxed paper. Set aside.

• In large microwaveable bowl, combine brown sugar, butter, and corn syrup. Microwave on high 1 ½ minutes; stir. Microwave additional 30 seconds if necessary and stir again.

• Stir in baking soda until dissolved. Add cereal and stir until evenly coated.

• Microwave additional 2-3 minutes, stirring every minute. Spread coated cereal on wax paper and let cool for 10 minutes.

• Put chocolate chips in separate, small bowl, and microwave at 30 seconds intervals until melted. Drizzle over cereal. Let set, then break into hunks, transfer to plastic baggies or Tupperware, and store in fridge.

• To make sure your recipient actually gets his share of Chexxxstasy, do not prepare too long before your date or you’re bound to down it all!

• P.S. Your love is better than chocolate.

Because we’re OD’ing on sweetness tonight, let’s add a sappy song to our super sugary recipe!

Santa's Big XXXmas Package

2010-12-24T21:34:00.000-06:00

This isn’t the post I meant to write for today. I had BIG NEWS to share with all of you…but just after putting the finishing touches on my Xmas Eve missive, I received a phone call that could, potentially, change everything. I’ll do the best I can to stick with what I originally penned. Here goes...

Santa came early this year. And ho-ho-ho, he brought me a ginormous package. Meaning: The Baconator's. But that’s not why I dig him so much. As he said the other night, “Sex should be the perk of the relationship.” And it is. What I love about The Baconator is that his heart is as big as that *other* part of his anatomy (I’m trying to polite. It’s the Lord’s day after all.) The Baconator keeps in touch everyday. He cooks for me. He makes me laugh with tickling attacks. He gives me thoughtful gifts, like Jazz apples, Dove Promises and windshield scrapers (you’d have to live in MN to truly appreciate that last one). He always asks that I let him know when I get home safe at night.

What’s transpired over the past two weeks hasn’t been a crazy this-is-happening-so-fast-I-can’t-breathe affair. It’s a steadily building bonfire of attraction. It feels natural. And safe. And 100% drama-free. Sometimes we go out. Sometimes we stay in. We eat fantastic food, we talk a lot, we fuck like rabbits. Does that sound simple? It is. But with The Baconator, simple is not the least bit boring.

I know I’m in a healthy relationship when everything else in my life just falls into place. I sleep better, I eat better, I take care of business better and I have more energy than ever. A good partner should bring out the best version of yourself. The Baconator has done that for me.

This is where my BIG NEWS was supposed to go. Because what I wanted to share with you all is in limbo, let’s just say that an opportunity arose (and no, it wasn’t sex-related) and I jumped on it (No pun intended...though jumping on beds never fails to make me giddy).

This new endeavor would require an incredible amount of work. I was looking forward to it. I like being busy (in addition to getting busy).

The Baconator was the first person I told about the big news and last week, over one of our co-created kick-ass recipes, he and I discussed the future of the Man Eater blog. To my surprise, The Baconator was the one advocating for me continuing to write. I was the one enumerating the reasons to stop.

“What you write about might have to change, but you shouldn’t stop. The blog is what keeps you going," The Baconator insisted between bites of what we dubbed Stir-Fry-Or-Something-Like-It.

"True..." I said. "But aren’t you afraid I’ll write about you?"

"I don't mind if you do."

“Everybody says that in the beginning,” I sighed.

“And then they turn into jerks, right? I already told you: I’m going to be different.”

Dare I say I believed him? If everything else that’s transpired thus far (great sex, creative dates, unconditional acceptance, little gestures that make me melt), then this was going to be different from anything I’d ever experienced before. And because I wanted it to be different, I decided the blog would have to end. For once, keeping our most intimate moments private was more important to me than entertaining my readers.

Everything was on the upschwing (err…I mean "upswing") as I mentally prepared myself to wrap up this blog by the end of the year. Then, last night, as I was leaving for my Christmas Eve Eve date with The Baconator, that fateful phone call came and my world came crashing down.

At first I thought, Guh-reat timing! Now I’m going to show up on my date and start bawling! (Which is not conducive to balling, natch.) Then I arrived at The Baconator’s, where, enveloped in his embrace, I felt completely comfortable letting go. I cried. And as I did, he held me tighter and reassured me that everything happens for a reason. I realized there was no better time to have received bad news than right before getting together with The Baconator.

Within minutes, The Baconator had me giggling through the tears. Afterwards, he took me out for what can only be described as a foodie’s dream date. (The deets are in my next post.) At the end of the evening as we cuddled naked in bed, he said, “What are you thinking?”

I nuzzled my face into his fuzzy cheek and said, "That I really, really like you."

Understatement of the century. Confession: I’ve fallen. And I don’t want to get up. I’m very happy prostrate, head over heels. I couldn’t ask for anything more from Santa than this.

Want to know what I’m giving The Baconator for Christmas? Can you keep a secret? (Just kidding, I already let it slip.) It’s something I haven’t given any man in years: a sleepover...plus breakfast. (The few sleepovers I've had this year were hump-and-runs. No lingering in bed the morning after.) There’s just one condition that must be met beforehand…which we have yet to discuss… (Cue "Honey? We need to talk...")

As for the future of this blog…I don’t know what to tell you, dear addicted readers of mine. I have a few straggler posts and plenty of oldies-but-goodies to keep you entertained until Man Eater calls it quits...and Erica Rivera embarks on a whole new chapter...

As for eats, Santa deserves something spectacular for giving me such a big package this year. What better edible metaphor than a big hole (err...I mean "wreath")? Made from Rice Krispies treats, this dessert is hassle-free, super sweet, and topped with red hots for a spicy bite. And yes, you still have time to make one before Old Saint Nick slides down your chimney (heh heh) tonight!

Wishing you all a very sexxxy xmas!

MERRY XXXMAS WREATH

Ingredients

3 tablespoons butter
4 cups mini marshmallows
6 cups Rice Krispies cereal
1 can green icing
¼ cup red hots

Method

• Melt butter and marshmallows in microwaveable bowl for 1 minute (or heat in saucepan over low heat on stove until melted).

• Stir in Rice Krispies cereal. Coat evenly with marshmallow mix.

• Immediately shape Rice Krispies into wreath shape on waxed paper. Let cool, then freeze until firm.

• About an hour before serving, remove wreath from fridge and decorate with icing and red hots.

• Serve, then unwrap his package before the sugar puts him to sleep!

Between A Rock(y) And A Hard Place

2010-12-20T14:44:00.000-06:00

“Didn’t I tell you the story of how I met my wife?” my date asked a couple weeks back.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I must be thinking of somebody else. I guess I might’ve told this story last night, too.”

I laughed because this guy (who I’ll call Rocky, as that’s his movie hero and he used to be a boxer), was way too much like me, a fact I found simultaneously intriguing and frightening.

“I forget who I tell what,” Rocky said with a shrug. “I’m just being honest.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

The How-I-Met-My-Ex-Wife story, Cliff’s notes style: Rocky went to a nudist resort in Jamaica. He witnessed all sorts of freaky things. He met two cheesehead chicks who claimed to know the perfect girl for him…if only he didn’t live so far away from her (she lived in MN; he on the East coast). Months later, the perfect girl got a job only miles from where Rocky lived. Boy met girl, they fell in love, and at the end of the summer, he proposed because he couldn’t imagine life without her.

Aww. Now that’s the kind of fast-paced, impulsive romance I’m looking for! (Without the divorce ten years down the line, of course.)

Appearance-wise, Rocky looked like a cross between Brad Pitt and Stanley Tucci. (If you don’t think Tucci is sexy, watch Julie and Julia and you will see why I say he is.) Unlike Tucci, however, Rocky was tall. At least 6’3”. He had incredible fashion sense, was deliciously fit, and had just joined a rock band. Basically, he was a 20-year-old in a 37-year-old’s body. Within ten minutes I knew that this guy would be a fabulous fuck, but relationship material? No way, Jose.

Rocky was a repeat offender; meaning, he’d hit on me during my first bout on Match (waaaaay back in February 2009!) and again last month when I rejoined…without realizing I was the same person. I knew who he was right away, as he hadn’t changed his profile picture or screen name. (Because as we know, men never change!) I reminded Rocky of our prior online acquaintance and he reminded me of our flirtation surrounding our mutually favorite movie.

HIM: Want to know charming? The whole part in Rocky when he has the old school tank on and he gives a little Rocky love to Adrian in the corner by the door on the floor... so smooth that Balboa character :)

ME: Somehow I read "old school tank" in your email to mean "fish tank". No wonder I was confused! (Rocky liked turtles, not fish...right?) At least we were referencing the same thing--his undergarments. Ha ha.

HIM: turtles...yes...cuff and link :) old school tank = wife beater :) I guess I am rather new school when it comes to undergarments.... regular t-shirts and boxer briefs. I have a feeling that Rocky didn't have a single one of those in that wardrobe of his!

Hell-oh-oh-oh! We were discussing briefs before we'd even met. This guy was right up my alley (or at least, I wanted him to be, ASAP!) But we never got together. I don’t recall what the tipping point was that caused me to write Rocky off. Reviewing my email archives, it looks like there was a failed attempt at him calling me and my refusal to try again. I told Rocky so now.

“You probably met someone,” he said.

“Nope,” I said. “There was absolutely no action going on at that time.”

Whatever the reason Rocky and I didn’t connect way-back-when, I didn’t care. Rocky didn’t, either. There’s no better time to enjoy a surprise package than the present!

I asked Rocky why he’d rejoined Match. He said he’d been dating a ballerina (whose hotness he mentioned multiple times) who toured too much for a relationship. I asked Rocky what his online dating experience had been like thus far.

“Match is like a part-time job,” he sighed. “All those emails. It takes forever!”

Uh-oh, I thought. Do I really want to date someone as popular as me?

“But I like that about Minneapolis,” Rocky continued. “I could have a date every night of the week if I wanted to.”

I nodded without saying a word, but my knee-jerk reaction was: Run. Away. Fast.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I think you’re a player,” I said.

You could’ve heard a pin—or a jaw—drop after that comment.

“Ooops,” I said. “Am I going to regret saying that? Did I put you on the spot?”

“Not at all,” Rocky replied, shifting his shoulders back like an attorney preparing his defense...or a prize-fighter readying for a right hook. “Do I date a lot? Yes. I’m looking for a partner. That’s how you find one. I’m doing exactly what you’re doing.”

“Do you like dating?”

“I like the company.”

“Do you miss being married?”

“I miss being married, yes. Married to her? No.”

Rocky told me how heartbroken he was post-divorce.

“I went through the rampage stage,” he said.

“Ahh, yes,” I said. “The cock rampage.”

Rocky chuckled. “Exactly. Then I went through my saint phase.”

“Yup.”

“Then I went through the I’m only having long term relationships phase.”

“How’s that working out for you?” I asked.

“It takes so fucking long to get anywhere!”

“I know. That’s why you have to have other people in between the genuine prospects.”

And that’s where I’d slotted Rocky: as an in-between-boyfriends beau.

As though on cue, Rocky slid up behind me on the banquette. He rubbed my shoulders, working his way down to my thighs. I tilted my head back and leaned into him, closing my eyes, expecting him to slip me the tongue…but he didn’t, and by the time I had opened my eyes, I realized I was nuzzling my cheek against his temple instead. His lips were nowhere near mine. It was weird. Finally, he kissed me…but he didn’t just kiss me; he sort of lapped at my face like a dog. His mouth—and mine—had been eclipsed by his huge tongue.

Rocky pulled back after a few laps (natch).

“What?” I asked. “You don’t want to?”

“I want to,” he said. “But I don’t know how the restaurant management feels about it. Or those guys.”

Rocky nodded at a table across from us where a few middle-aged men and a teenage boy were dining.

“So where are we going?” he asked.

“Nowhere,” I said.

Rocky smile drooped. He hadn’t had sex in a looong time (meaning, in male measurement: a month) and I was pretty sure he wanted me to be his slump buster.

I’d gotten plowed (and I ain’t talkin’ snow) the night before. I was still (OMG, am I actually going to say this? Yes, yes I am) bleeding a little bit from all the bumping and grinding. (Guys really like to go long the first time. And considering how long he was, I didn’t mind. Not one inch…err, I mean, “bit”.)

Rocky didn’t bother to ask me how long it’d been since I’d gotten laid. I wish he would have…just so I could’ve motioned at his pricey watch and said, “In hours?”

“Just because we go to my place doesn’t mean we have to have sex,” he said.

I laughed skeptically.

“Yeah, sure. Have you ever had a woman over to your house and not had sex?”

“Absolutely. A few times, in fact.”

“Well, if I go to your place, I know exactly what’s going to happen,” I said.

How did I know? Because this date was playing out just like 99% of the others I’ve had lately: Boy meets Man Eater. Boy lures Man Eater to bachelor pad. Man Eater drops pants. Boy assigns Man Eater "booty call girl" title. Boy never takes Man Eater on a real date again.

“Listen,” Rocky said, switching into first-date-sex salesman mode. “I definitely want to go out on another date…but I can tell you right now that it might not happen until January.”

“I’ll be off the market by then,” I said.

“When was your last date?” he asked.

“Last night."

“Are you going to see him again?”

“Yup. Tomorrow.”

“Hmm. Well, I won’t sweat it,” he said. “If the timing’s not right, so be it. I’m not going to force anything.”

Rocky paid for my salad, his fish, and our shared platter of waffle fries (“They charge for that little cup of seasoned sour cream?!” he gaped) and we headed toward the restrooms.

“Oh my God! Chris Koza just emailed me!” Rocky exclaimed when he emerged from the W.C. (Apparently, I’m not the only one who checks email on the John!) “Have you heard of his band Rogue Valley?"

"Of course I have. I interviewed them for my blog."

Rocky wasn't aware. Thus far, he'd stayed away from this site.

"You really should read it," I said. "Just so you know what you're getting into before next time."

Rocky waved off the suggestion like there wasn't anything I could possibly write that would shock him. (Uh-huh. Yeah, right.)

"Do you mind if I reply to Koza?" Rocky asked. "Should I tell him I’m on a date with the Man Eater?”

“Yes! Yes! Do it!” I said.

"Will he remember who you are?"

"The band made breakfast for me." (Which is more than I can say for most of the men I've slept with!) "Koza knows who I am."

Rocky tapped out the message right there in front of me. (Chris was responding to a thank-you note from Rocky for some charity work he'd done.) The moment was sort of sweet…like Rocky was kissing my big brother’s ass so he could go feel me up in the car, guilt free. Which is precisely what we did. We made out like 14-year-old virgins. Meaning: sloppily. Cars are not great make-out spaces. Especially with all the winter gear getting in the way.

Not that it prevented much. Before I knew it, we were in motion. Rocky did naughty things with one hand and steered like a perfect gentleman with the other, all the way through the slushy streets of Eagan.

“Stop,” I said as we drove past the apartment where EconMan proposed five years ago (almost to the date, in fact). “That feels really good but if you keep going, we’re going to end up at your place. And that’s not okay with me.”

Though we were in spitting distance to my house, the return trip felt long. Verrrrry long. And awkward.

“So. How many other dates do you have lined up for this week?” I asked.

“One. It’s Friday or Saturday. I can’t remember.”

“Oh.”

The thought of Rocky going out with someone else after expressing so much interest in me was unnerving. I couldn’t hide my discomfort.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to,” Rocky said sassily.

“Yes, I’m learning that,” I replied.

Rocky pulled up into my driveway. We kissed goodbye. He said he’d check in with me about his schedule so we could get together again.

I’ll save you the suspense. He didn’t call. Or email. Surprise, surprise. Have I said “Trust your gut” already? Of course I have. Because you should. When things don’t work out the first time around, readers, don’t bother with second chances. Not even if a year-and-a-half has passed and he’s way sexier than you imagined. Unless you like torturing yourself or having regrettable sexual experiences.

Two days post-date, Rocky texted me to see how my date went (umm…awkward!). By then, I wasn’t interested in a man who could...um, give me the finger (literally), then give me the finger (figuratively speaking) by not contacting me for 48 hours. (Proper etiquette, fellas, is to touch base the morning after touching any part of a woman’s anatomy!) Forgive me, but I just assumed that single Dads would treat their lovers as they would like their daughters to be treated. (No worries, fellas; karma will come around soon enough. Some guy will knock up your daughter and you'll be a grandpa in no time!)

Rejection stings no matter where it comes from, but I comforted myself with the fact that if a foreplay-with-no-follow-up left me feeling that resentful, thank goodness I didn't let Rocky rock my world!

Delete, next.

***

Ahh, but that's all in the past. I'm scraping the bottom of the bad date stories barrel. Blame The Baconator. He's treating me so well, I'm running out of material! That’s good for me but not so entertaining for you. Or are you interested in sharing my bliss?

If so, we’ll tackle that in a future post. For now, a tidbit of advice: Keep the Rocky Roads in your mouth and the Rockys out of your pants. You'll thank me in the morning.

ROCKY ROAD

Ingredients

2 cups chocolate chips
1 cup peanut butter
4 cups miniature marshmallows

Method

* Line 9 x 9 pan with parchment paper.

* Heat chocolate chips and peanut butter over low heat in a medium saucepan, stirring often, until chips are completely melted.

* Remove pan from heat. Stir in marshmallows.

* Transfer mixture into prepared pan. Let cool. Refrigerate until firm, then cut.

* A tip from the newly matured Man Eater: be mindful about what you put in your body. Don't go overboard or you'll regret it when the high wears off.

The Third Time's A Cheese Curd

2010-12-16T14:48:00.000-06:00

“When you put an intention like this out there, you have to stay vigilant,” my Energy Worker told me last week during my show me the love! session, “because the Universe will test you.”

Pop quiz #1: HukPhun.

A couple weeks ago, I finally met the Match man who I’d rejected over a year ago, blogged about, got chewed out about, and then asked out by again. For our first date, I suggested the restaurant where I was once hired to be a server. I sent an email to my former boss giving him a heads up that I’d be coming down with a date.

“Please do whatever you can to make the evening extra uncomfortable,” I told him.

Apparently, he didn’t know I was joking. Or he did and he wanted to give me a hard time (since he’s married, it’s the only hard thing he can give me, LOL). Within minutes of hugging HukPhun hello, my boss appeared and slid into the booth next to me.

“Sorry I haven’t returned your calls,” he said.

“Yeah, thanks a lot, Mr. Elusive,” I scoffed.

The conversation was purely professional, but my boss was so physically close to me, I wondered if HukPhun got a tad envious. (And if he did, good. Men should know that other men find me find attractive. It keeps them on their toes.)

After my boss went about his merry way, I asked HukPhun where he lived, as he’d mentioned moving in a previous exchange. HukPhun named his hometown. I won’t say where (to protect his privacy) but it’s no where near the Twin Cities.

“What?” I gaped. “I thought you said you weren’t a cheesehead!”

“I’m not interested in football," he said, "But I do live in Wisconsin. I thought you knew that.”

Sometimes men I’ve met online think I forget such information listed on their profiles. The truth is that I never read it in the first place…because 99% of the time, it’s shtick. My bullshit meter is much more effective in person. But once I have a man in front of me, you better believe my radar is set to ultra-sensitive…and I will remember every tidbit of pertinent information.

“Are you in town on business then?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Wait wait wait wait. You came all the way here just to meet me?”

“Why does that surprise you? You’re an exceptional woman.”

Yes, but, I’d also learned my lesson from the Paul Bunyan debacle and was resolved not to make the sex-on-the-first-date mistake again.

“I wish I’d known,” I said. “I would’ve told you not to bother.”

“You’re worth it,” he said.

That’s not what I meant. I know I’m worth way more than I get most of the time. What I meant was: if I’d driven 2 ½ hours, no matter what number the date, I would’ve expected to get laid. And if that’s what HukPhun was expecting, he was going to be disappointed.

We dropped the driving topic long enough to order some ridiculously delicious cheese curds, a buffalo burger (for me) and a shrimp diablo pasta dish (for him).

Halfway through the entrees, our small talk meandered over to the topic of marriage. HukPhun’s opinion on matrimony?

“Marriage is friendship with benefits.”

Conversation came to a screeching halt. My cheese curd dangled frozen in mid-air.

“Um…”I said. “I don’t know if I agree with you on that. If you need a best friend, go get one. Your partner serves a different purpose.”

“Hence the benefits.”

“Something about that doesn’t fit for me,” I said. “I’m going to have to think about that.”

Isn’t the “benefit” part of friends with benefits that you can ask them to leave (or even better, that they do so of their own accord) after sex without anyone taking it personally? Isn’t the point of a marriage that nobody leaves anybody? And what about when children are involved (as was the case with both of us)?

“Marriage is just paperwork,” HukPhun said, digging the hole deeper and deeper. “And I do not want to get married ever again.”

My jaw might’ve dropped. Just a little bit. This guy was, physically, everything I was looking for (tall, dark, handsome and huge!). He’d also pursued me…hard. (Persistence is really sexy.) Now, he’d driven from out of state just to eat with me! (This was quite the change from people like Good Guy who wouldn’t even drive across town to pick me up.) I was incredibly flattered.

But HukPhun’s shitty opinion of marriage did not mesh with my long-term plans.

“If I met someone, we could do the whole commitment ceremony and have a party if she wanted,” HukPhun said. “But no paperwork.”

“Why not?”

“I think either partner should be free to go at any time. Making it legal just complicates things.”

“That’s the point,” I said. “Love ebbs and flows. Knowing how horrific divorce is and how long the process takes to end it will keep the couple together long enough to figure things out.”

HukPhun didn’t agree. His attractiveness instantly dropped to non-existent.

Once the plates had been cleared, HukPhun came over to my side of the table. He was showing me cell phone pix of his kids when a text message popped up at the top of the screen.

Is she hot? it read.

HukPhun’s face turned as red as the Heinz ketchup bottle.

“Oh...um...that’s just my buddy. I told him I was meeting you tonight,” he gushed, slinking back to his side of the booth.

I don’t know why the text shocked me so, but it did. I started to get that icky prostitute feeling.

“I’m just going to go freshen up,” I said.

I gave myself a silent pep-talk in the bathroom. My plan was to return to the table and end the date. On the way back, however, I noticed a cozy little section of the restaurant with a widescreen TV, a fireplace, and a leather couch. When I pointed it out to HukPhun, he suggested we hang for a bit. Considering how far he’d come, and that we’d been sitting in the same booth for over two hours, I agreed…

..and instantly regretted it.

HukPhun put his hand on my thigh. I must admit, it felt good. He had big hands. Strong hands. Hands that could completely contain my ass while I was riding what had to be a ginormous cock...

Wait right there! my smarter alter-ego screamed inside my head. Remember your intentions, Erica! If the goal is marriage, you do not fuck someone—especially on the first date—just to “see what it would be like”. It might feel good, but it’s bad. It’s telling the Universe that you’re not really ready to remarry.

I thought about the driving distance, which HukPhun swore would not deter him from seeing me. This was a major roadblock (pun very much intended) en route to an LTR. Quite frankly, I am an attention whore. I like to have my man close by in case a sudden craving arrives. Besides, that amount of distance would really put the pressure on...and not in a good way. If I drove 2 ½ hours to meet someone (which I never would, BTW. One hour in the car is as much as I can handle at a time), I’d expect a lot of bells and whistles upon my arrival. I’d want a parade to march through the bedroom post-coitus.

“What are you thinking?” HukPhun asked. (Contrary to urban myth, men ask this question way more than women. It’s like they want you to grade them every half-hour of the date!)

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just processing.”

I repeated the warning signs in an attempt to turn myself off: HukPhun had a history of rule-breaking. There was the ever-popular bipolar ex. (Men love the crazies. Luuuuuuv them.) And despite his masculine physique, there was something, um, effeminate about him.

I slunk down into the cushions and sighed. No, this was not going to work. My brain knew it. My body? Still unconvinced. HukPhun’s eyes were doing that horny man twinkling thing. I could tell he wanted to kiss me. The familiar sensation of butterflies swarmed my stomach.

"I can get a room,” HukPhun said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t do that,” I replied. “’Cause I’m not going there with you.”

“Why not? I know how to stop.”

“Yeah, but when I start something, I like to finish.”

“I don’t have any expectations, Erica.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t!”

“I know you must have fantasies.”

“Okay, there is one thing I want.”

“I knew it.”

“A second date.”

“That I can do,” I said. “But for now, I need to call it a night.”

Someone whooped behind us. I got up on my knees and leaned over the back of the couch. A group of inebriated 20-somethings were testing out the mechanical bull—and my ex-boss was behind the control panel, plotting every buck and twist. Was I really going to forgo an awesome fuck to keep my promise to the Universe?

Yes.

“Would you walk me to my car?” I asked.

HukPhun obliged. Then he asked me for a ride...to his car. I hesitated, knowing the kind of intimacy cars encourage. But, again, despite my better judgment, I agreed.

“Is this one yours?” I asked, pointing at a white pick-up.

“Yeah, I think that’s it.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Gimme a break! I just stole it today!”

“Ah-ha, so that’s where the ‘hitchhiker’ came from?” I said.

(At the start of our date, HukPhun confessed to giving some stranger a ride to the Mall of America. In under an hour, the two guys bonded over their exes. The hitchhiker provided endless opportunity for mockery.)

“Is there a dead body you need to dispose of in there?” I asked.

“Now there is.”

I started laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. It felt incredible. I thought maybe, just maybe, HukPhun might be something more than another “I wanna fuck Man Eater” fan.

HukPhun was waiting for me to change my mind. I could smell his desire polluting the air like exhaust seeping in through the window. I felt bad that he’d driven. I felt like I owed him something in return. I was thisclose to making the fun but stupid decision of getting a room.

Then I reminded myself that my company should be enough. I deserve to be wooed. I deserve to be spoiled. I deserve to respect myself in the morning. I would not change my position just to get laid. (Natch.)

Sleeping with HukPhun, no matter how much fucking fun it would be, would not change his opinion on marriage. And I knew how unlikely it was that a hook-up would turn into a satisfying relationship. To sleep with him just because the opportunity was there would be (gasp—I can’t believe I’m going to say this) wrong. It would be using him for his body…and it would be abusing mine.

(Pat me on the back, people. This is growth.)

I could tell HukPhun wanted to kiss me. I didn’t make the move—or invite him to—and he read my cues correctly. He gave me a peck on the cheek instead and opened his door.

“Since my phone’s dead,” he said, “You can just give me your number on Facebook.”

I agreed, though I didn’t have any plans to do so. By the time I got home (a 15 minute drive, which made me feel supremely guilty in comparison to HukPhun’s ride home), HukPhun had already emailed me asking for my thoughts. (Tip for the fellas: follow-up is essential...just wait until the next day to do it, okay? Women only like pressure in the bedroom!)

“I need to sleep on it,” I said.

The truth was, though I’d enjoyed HukPhun’s company, I felt incredibly empty. It sucked coming home unfucked. Normally I’d never pass up a chance to get naked with such a hottie (I’m like a man in that way), but I recognized this for what it was: the Universe asking if I was serious about finding a mate. I’d passed the test. And yet, the pride of keeping my pants on paled in comparison to the pleasure of fucking my brains out.

The next morning, I composed a message to HukPhun. The new (and utterly asinine) Facebook deleted all our message exchanges, so I can’t take the easy way out and just copy and paste. My reply went a little something like this:

ME: I’ve been dating long enough now that I know I need to trust my instincts. If all I wanted was to get laid, I would’ve jumped (literally!) at the hotel suggestion. But I’m trying to keep my actions in line with my intentions. Marriage is really important to me but it sounds like we’re not on the same page with that. I’ve wasted enough time and energy on men who I hoped would come around and realize how fantastic I was and put a ring on it. You said you weren’t interested in that, so I don’t see how our dating would be healthy for either of us. Have I scared you off yet?

Apparently not. HukPhun wouldn’t let me get away that easy. Now that I was clearly uninterested, he continued to pursue me. Message after message arrived. He posted poetry on my fb page. He tried to retract his no-more-marriage statement, telling me that he didn’t know me well enough when he blurted that out, and that for someone like me he could easily see himself changing his mind…

Uh-huh. Where have I heard that before? (Easy. Econman.)

HukPhun pushed and pushed and pushed. I thought I’d made a firm decision about not proceeding to date #2, but ultimately, the "free food + starving artist = ‘nuf said" equation decided for me and I agreed to a second date a week hence.

Me: OK, OK. Let’s do another din din. Get a room. That’s not a guarantee about what’s going to happen if/when we go there, but if something were to occur, I wouldn’t want you driving home afterwards. I WILL wear you out.

I wasn’t really looking forward to the date, but I wasn’t dreading it either. Luckily for me, fate intervened. As we know, a lot can happen in a Man Eater’s world in seven days. And it did. I went out with someone else (actually, I went out with a couple people, but I stayed in with only one of them). We made bacon. Literally. Afterwards, we made out on the couch. Before the clothes came off, he pulled back to check the time. I was supposed to rush off to an impromptu concert by my Pictures of Then peeps.

“Do you want to go?” he asked.

Absolutely…not. I wanted to come. And boy oh boy, did I ever. The evening was indescribably yummy. And I was happy.

But I still had the unfinished HukPhun business to deal with. A worse woman would’ve gone out with HukPhun anyway, just for the meal ticket. But no amount of grub, no matter how good (not even truffle mac n’ cheese as we’d discussed) would compensate for me having to fake it through a dinner when I’d rather be elsewhere. So I canceled. And went out with The Baconator for pizza instead. And, yes, you know what comes next. (Me. Innumerable times.)

The moral: Trust your gut. Especially when it’s asking for hot and spicy cheese curds.

THREE ALARM CHEESE CURDS

Ingredients

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 cup milk
1 quart oil
1 pound hot & spicy cheese curds (psst…you may have to order them ‘em online)

Method

• In medium bowl, combine flour, baking powder, and salt. Add eggs and milk; stir until combined.

• Heat oil in large skillet over medium heat.

• Dip cheese curds in batter, then drop into skillet. Fry 1 minute or until golden brown. Remove with spatula and drain on paper towels.

• Serve with Chipotle Mayo (recipe below).

SPICY CHIPOTLE MAYO

Ingredients

½ cup fat free mayo
¼ cup fat-free sour cream
2 Chipotle chilies (from can of Chipotle chilies in adobo sauce)
¼ teaspoon dried oregano leaves

Method

• Combine mayonnaise and sour cream in medium bowl; stir and set aside.

• Remove 2 chilies from tin and chop finely, allowing some adobo sauce to cling to chilies.

• Add chilies to mayo and sour cream mixture; stir.

• Add oregano leaves; stir.

• Serve with cheese curds.

• Any sensation still left in your tongue? You know what to do with it. Just make sure to stop before you get stuffed.

Return To Sender--This Package Is Damaged!

2010-12-10T21:09:00.000-06:00

There’s a theory that from the moment a woman wakes up, she keeps a mental list of all the annoying things her man does. At the end of the night, she erases the list. I don’t buy it. I say the list begins as soon as you meet a man and it isn’t wiped clean until after an orgasm. No big O? The annoyance tally lengthens. And if my body’s not being put to good use by the bad boy in question, you better believe I’m stuck inside my own head, revising that list until I’m totally turned off.

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.

Don't You Wanna Get Lei'd?

2010-12-06T14:22:00.000-06:00

"What time do you want me?” I asked Paul Bunyan when he finally called to schedule our third date.

“That depends," he replied. "Do you want to have sex before or after the movie?”

“Both!” I said.

PB chuckled, but I wasn’t joking. After a week away from my boy toy, I was starving for his touch. My recent “Why don’t you like me?!” email originally received a written response from PB—and what he said was a delightful surprise. As I complimented him later, he acknowledged my feelings, offered an explanation for his actions, and proposed a plan of action. He said he’d call that evening and, as promised, he did. Since I sensed PB wanted to take the reins, I let him choose the day, time, activity, and film for our next date.

When I woke up on the appointed date day, however, I wasn’t happy. I was anxious. Anxious in a way I’d never been with PB. I tried to stuff down the insecurity bubbling up in my tummy with fistfuls of Puppy Chow. (I’d made it as a treat for PB, but by the time I left for the date, I’d already eaten half.)

Foremost on my mind: how does a man deny himself sex as delicious as what PB and I had for seven days?! It felt like an eternity to me.

When I arrived, I slipped into the bathroom to freshen up before going upstairs to greet PB. Next to the sink, there was a recent issue of Time magazine, open to an article on whether or not marriage was passé in modern society. The article was not optimistic. Basically, it predicted the imminent demise of matrimony, especially given the current economy.

I didn’t read the entire piece…but I did see some stats about the average child of divorce witnessing up to six lovers sharing mom’s bed before the kiddos turn 18. That disgusted me. It’s also why, after EconMan bonded, then abandoned, my two (then toddler) daughters, I swore no man would ever meet my children again until there was a wedding date set.

PB and I were alike in our desires to protect our respective daughters from love-and-leave-‘em partners. In fact, we were alike in a lot of ways...so much so that this article was sitting there, mid-read, seemed suspicious. It’s something I might do if I wanted my S.O. to take a hint.

I went upstairs, hoping my lover was still in the shower so I could join him. He wasn’t; he was dressed and drying his hair. When I first saw his face, fresh, friendly, and familiar, my heart sighed. I know that sounds corny, but that's how I felt. Any tension melted away and I thought, “Damn. You are so handsome. I am one lucky girl.”

I attached myself to PB like Velcro…but he didn’t welcome my affection as he had in the past. He detached and went about cleaning his ears.

Since we’d both been slow to warm up during our first two dates (Hard to believe, I know, but it was true. It took a good half-hour or so to really let our guards down for some reason.), I didn’t think too much of it.

“My back is killing me,” he said. “Do you happen to have any ibuprofen?”

“I do, actually,” I said. I’d popped a pain pill on the way over--because the anxiety (or the sugar overdose) had given me a horrific headache. I retrieved the drugs from my car.

“Now all I need is some beer and I’ll be fine!” PB said. (He wasn’t kidding.)

We went downstairs to his chilly kitchen, where PB devoured the Puppy Chow I’d brought him. I stood by and watched, wondering when he was going to ravage me. PB seemed content tuning into a TV program about hunting with hawks. It was interesting, sure, but I wanted this man to give me some attention, not zone out in front of the boob tube!

“Hungry?” he asked.

“A little,” I said.

“We could order a pizza. Or I have a frozen one we could heat up here…”

I probably cringed. You all know how I feel about frozen pizza by now, don’t’ you? In the words of football player Randy Moss: “I wouldn’t feel this shit to my dog.”

“Or would could go to California Pizza Kitchen,” PB suggested. “It’s right next to the movie theater.”

Was this a test? PB had often complained about how expensive it was to go out (tip: your alcohol is the most expensive item on the tab, honey!). I will do a lot of things to cut costs, but eating frozen pizza isn’t one of them. Besides, I’d offered to bring pizza over and PB didn’t bite. If PB wasn't going to eat me out on the floor like he did on our first date, we might as well eat out.

“That sounds good,” I said.

In truth, I didn’t really care where the pizza came from. I didn't care about dinner at all. I just wanted dessert. But it appeared PB wasn’t in the mood for whoopee makin'. He put on his coat. I followed suit.

“You’re going to freeze!” PB exclaimed when he saw my corduroy button-up.

(Oddly enough, my mother had said the same thing about my outfit when she saw me earlier.)

“I'll be fine,” I said. I showed him the lining of the jacket. “This has fuzzy stuff in it.”

“Still,” PB said, giving me the disapproving head-shake of a step-father. “You’re dressed like it’s summer.”

Okay, so my blouse was sleeveless, but as I told PB, “I felt like being pretty in pink and wearing butterflies. Is there something wrong with wanting to look nice for a date?”

PB raised his eyebrows like I had a screw lose. “It’s not very practical,” he said.

“Well, I felt feminine,” I said. “Next time I'll wear my best hoodie for you, okay? Jeez.”

Soon we were in PB's truck, about to back out of the garage, when...PB groaned and leaned over the steering wheel.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My stomach…I think I need to go use the bathroom.”

Readers, I’m sad to say that this is not the first time a man has used this excuse to duck out of a date with me. (That story's in the Man Eater e-book!)

We went back inside so PB could use the W.C. and I watched Man Versus Food on the flat screen.

“Let’s stay in,” I said when PB emerged ten minutes later. I would've been happy to hang. He, on the other hand, was really preoccupied with doing the dinner-and-a-movie date. So we went...but the longer the date went on, the less confident I felt that we would ever have another one.

In a nutshell, PB was so full of shit (metaphorically speaking, of course), that I could smell it on him. If your stomach hurt, would you order pizza with pineapple (an extremely acidic fruit that can cause diarrhea)? Would you request Tabasco on the side? Would you drink wine? I didn’t think so. Whatever. I didn't call PB on his shit (natch); I just kept a mental list.

PB and I split a tray of chips, a scoop of ho-hum guacamole and a very unexciting Hawaiian pizza. I was dying for some chocolate (since cock seemed to be off the menu tonight), but PB didn’t want dessert.

“What did you think of that last post?” I asked, referring to the (now removed C’mon down! ditty. “Was it too mean?”

PB shrugged. “You write like a man, Erica. It’s all about getting laid.”

“You understand that the blog is written for entertainment. My readers don’t want to hear about the nights I spend watching YouTube clips in my bedroom while I paint my toenails. That’s not interesting.”

“I get that. I just think I need to stop reading the blog.”

“I think you do, too.”

“And to answer your question: I don’t know if that post was mean. It was honest. But…”

(Insert huge awkward silence in which a big elephant stopped alongside our table and began breathing down my neck.)

“…it’s like that email you sent me,” PB said. “It sort of shocked me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I like to be in control. And I don’t want to move that fast.”

“The problem I’m having is that I don’t want to date anyone else,” I said. “I don’t want to pressure you, but I’m still getting asked out. I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to do,” PB said in that utterly-unhelpful male way that made something very complicated sound so simple.

I nodded as though I understood, but I was left wondering if my words—or my appetite—had once again sabotaged a good thing.

The bill came. I paid. Thirty bucks. (In other words: fucking ridiculous. I would’ve rather eaten an entire loaf of my Happy Accident Pepperoni Bread.)

“That was unexpected,” PB said.

“It shouldn’t be. I told you last time that the next meal was on me.”

PB hadn’t remembered that. (I wonder if he’s been dating too much?) “Thanks.”

PB and I walked across the parking lot to the movie theater; it was bone-chilling cold and, yes, for a moment I regretted not wearing a warmer coat.

"I hate Minnesota," PB said, suddenly launching into what I will now call the Ultimate Man Fantasy: him, alone, on a boat, for all eternity. (Do you know how many times I have heard this, readers? No man is an island, but unmarried guys about to turn 40 sure as hell want to live like one.)

"I'd like to leave, but I don't think I ever will," I said. "I'd miss the people too much."

PB "pswah"ed. "As long as I see my daughter a couple times a year, I'd be fine."

Rather than delve deeper into uncomfortable topics, PB hurried me inside. We saw The Next Three Days, a film about a husband who goes to great lengths to free his wrongly-convicted wife from jail. It was a pretty good movie; the only thing that would have made it better was if PB had bothered to touch me, just once, during the film. But he didn’t.

“I don’t know if I agree with killing people in order to steal money to break your partner out of prison,” I said after the credits rolled.

“Those people were meth dealers, Erica,” PB said, his voice taking on an “I-want-to-debate” tone. “How many people do you think they killed by selling drugs?”

“Okay, good point,” I said, “But still. His wife wasn’t in imminent danger. He didn’t have to steal that money.”

“That's how far men will go for the people they love. What would you have done in that situation?”

“Wait.”

“For twenty years?!”

“If he loved her, he’d wait,” I said. “Besides, breaking her out seems like a big risk. What if he’d gotten caught or killed? Then their son wouldn’t have had parents. Better to have a full-time single parent than no parents at all.”

PB shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in that “Let’s agree to disagree” kind of way.

“Well, thanks for going to the movie with me,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“That makes it sound like you’re saying goodbye to me already,” I said.

“No,” PB replied, but his lack of eye contact implied the opposite. He sighed. “But I couldn’t fuck you tonight if I wanted to, Erica. And I do want to. But my back is killing me. Maybe I should have cancelled, but I can only imagine how upset that would’ve made you.”

The realization that PB and I were not going to get naked hit me like a surprise snowball in the face. I couldn’t hide how let-down I was.

“This is the problem with having sex right away,” PB said. “Now you expect it. And if I don’t fuck your brains out tonight, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Yeah, I’m disappointed,” I said. “But could we lie down for a while? Would you at least…hold me?”

As soon as the cliché request left my mouth, I scoffed at myself.

“What? Why’d you say it like that?” PB asked.

“Because it’s such a girly thing to say,” I replied.

“What’s wrong with—oh, never mind. It’s not worth talking about.”

I suddenly felt like chopped liver. I fixed my gaze on the nothingness in the distance. I knew if I looked at PB, I was going to start crying.

“Great,” PB said. “I can see it now: He took me to dinner and a movie and he didn’t fuck me.”

“Blog post forthcoming,” I muttered. When PB didn’t respond, I turned and reached for his hand. He was as responsive as road kill.

“I don’t mean that,” I said. “It’s just…I would at least like to cuddle with you.”

PB was not enthused.

“Shit,” he said as he pulled onto his street. “I have to take the garbage out.”

Don’t forget to toss yourself in that bin, I thought.

After PB finished hauling the trash, we sat down on the couch together. The silence was suffocating. It was like he wanted me to leave but he didn’t want to say so. I leaned in; PB recoiled.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You’re throwing yourself at me,” he said. “It’s really a turn-off.”

Now I pulled back in shock. If I was too much, he was not enough. I wanted to be kissed and caressed and adored. I needed to feel like even if extenuating circumstances prevented sex that at least he wanted to have it.

“It’s like…you’re trying too hard,” PB said. “The way you’re dressed, the Puppy Chow…”

Well, yes, I was trying too hard…but only because I could feel him pulling away. What was I supposed to do? Show up unkempt and demand he make me a steak? PB was clearly in a bad mood, so I picked up the slack by being extra agreeable. Relationships are supposed to be balancing acts…aren’t they?

A line from the movie shot through my brain: You want this too much. You're going to mess it up. Gulp.

“I’m sorry for liking you so much,” I said, semi-sarcastically.

“Don’t apologize. It’s just…it’s all sex, all the time with you. I’m looking for something more.”

“So am I. That’s why I told you I don’t want to date anyone else.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. You’re moving too fast.”

My head was spinning. This was the warped alcoholic logic that reminded me of when Slump Buster would get angry and make my pain sound like my fault. Here was PB, saying he wanted something more than sex, yet dodging any discussion of exclusivity. WTF?! The confusion, coupled with my chocolate and cock deficiencies, hit me all at once. Tears started rolling down my cheeks.

“Do you want me to leave?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that. You don’t need to get upset. I’m just being honest about how I feel.”

“And I’m being honest about how I feel. I’m hurt. And I’m not going to stay where I’m not wanted.”

“Don’t you get it? I don’t feel good,” he said. "I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of our date. Do you know how embarrassing that is?"

“Yes, I understand. But you're human. You have a body. It's not a big deal. I'm suggesting a compromise. You don’t have to fuck my brains out, but could we at least cuddle?”

PB grimaced. Yes, grimaced. Now my stomach was upset.

“I don’t want to be touched,” he said.

“Well, I do. So if you’re not willing, I’m going.”

The tears came harder and faster than I could wipe them away. I hid my face behind my hair as I zipped up my boots. When I stood up and turned around, PB was right behind me.

“Bye,” I said without brushing my hair back.

He hugged me. It was a good hug, but I wasn’t really engaged in the embrace because internally, I was torn. I didn’t understand how his body could be doing one thing, his words another…though I was no different. On one hand, I wanted to grab his junk and coax him upstairs; on the other, I wanted to stab him in the shoulder with my keys. (I believe experiencing those opposing urges simultaneously is what is known as “passion”.)

The drive home was 45 minutes, which meant I had a lot of time to think...but we’ll do a post-mortem analysis in my next post…

**

For your oral and aural pleasure today, I’m going to get a little cheesy with the Hawaiian theme from what turned out to be my "last supper" with Paul Bunyan. Time for the soothing sounds of Meiko and enough carbs to put me in a coma until my heart mends...

"DON'T YOU WANNA GET LEI'D?" HAWAIIAN PIZZA

Ingredients

For crust:
3 ¼ cups flour
¾ tablespoon (1 packet) granulated yeast
¾ tablespoon salt
1 ½ cups water

For toppings:
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 ¾ cup shredded mozzarella cheese
6 ounces Canadian bacon, sliced
1 can pineapple junks, drained

Method

• Whisk dry dough ingredients together in large bowl.

• Add water; stir with wooden spoon just until dough forms.

• Cover bowl with plastic wrap and let rise for 2 hours.

• After initial rise, chill dough in fridge at least 2 hours for easier handling.

• When ready to bake, place pizza stone in oven. (A pizza stone ensures the crispiest crust. If you don’t have a pizza stone, a greased baking sheet will suffice.)

• Preheat oven to 525 degrees.

• Roll dough out on floured surface, shaping into heart shape (use pizza wheel to cut dough into heart shape if necessary). Transfer onto large sheet of parchment paper (so dough does not stick to stone. If you are using a baking sheet, no parchment paper is necessary.)

• With pastry brush, coat surface of dough with olive oil.

• Top with half of cheese, followed by Canadian bacon and pineapple. Top with remaining cheese.

• Gently transfer pizza, on parchment paper, to baking stone.

• Bake 8 minutes; slide parchment paper out from under pizza. Bake additional 4-5 minutes or until crust is browned and cheese is bubbly.

• With oven mitts, remove pizza and stone from oven. Cool slightly, then slice.

• It lieu of getting laid, get lei'd!

**

Manipulation Always Starts With A "MAN"

2010-12-05T21:54:00.000-06:00

After a mind-blowing first date like the one I had with PB, it’s pretty much impossible to demand a repeat performance. Our second date was not as impressive--in any way--as the first.

Cut to my PB collapsing in exhaustion in bed and asking for a massage instead of something more moan-worthy. I didn’t mind; I used to give The Mexican massages all the time. It didn’t feel like a chore since I'd already been satisfied and we were both naked.

“Oh my God, Erica. That elbow!” PB moaned.

I giggled. “I’ve been complimented on many a body part, but never my elbow,” I said.

I dug aforementioned elbow into multiple knots in PB's shoulders and neck.

“You know what the yogis would say about this?” I said. “That your throat chakra is blocked. You’re not speaking your truth.”

PB scoffed at me, but I knew what was up (or rather, what wasn't).

Post-massage, we spooned nude on the dirty sheets, and PB started to fall asleep. I was falling, too; I could feel it. I felt so safe there in his embrace. Our bodies fit perfectly. I was totally blissed out...but I had to stick to my rules. I leaned over the edge of the bed and reached for my clothes, just as PB snored himself awake.

“I’m going,” I said.

PB pulled me towards him.

“Don’t.”

So I didn’t. At least, not before getting my rocks off.

As we lay there afterwards, PB seemed to be fishing for info on what I’d write about him.

“I wonder what my pseudonym is going to be,” PB mused.

“I already know,” I said.

PB perked up. “What is it?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to blog about you. At least, not as long as we’re still dating. When it’s over, all bets are off.”

“Tell me what it is."

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

PB rose up on his knees and hovered above me. He grabbed my hips. Hard. “Tell me.”

“I gotta keep at least one secret,” I said.

“Tell me, Erica.”

There was an edge in his voice; a dangerous edge. I liked it. It turned me on. Him, too, apparently, by what ensued. It felt good to withhold something that he wanted...something that I wasn’t going to give it up. PB continued to repeat his “tell me” plea but no matter what "torture" tactics he used, I kept the lips zipped. It was sick and twisted and incredibly sexy.

“I’m not telling you what your pseudonym is because I just might change it,” I said.

I was so tired after all the go-round, I wished I didn’t have to go. PB knew about my sleepover rule, so he didn’t expect me to stay. I don’t think he expected me to fall asleep, either. Whoops.

“Shit, Erica, it’s 2:30,” PB whispered, nudging me awake a couple hours later.

I started getting dressed. In the dark. I didn’t want PB to turn on the lights, so I ended up putting my shirt on inside out...and left without panties.

PB kissed me at the door. Sweetly. And pulled me against his chest. His body was so warm and comforting; I wanted to make a nest right there on his pecs. I was totally smitten. Finally, finally, finally! I thought. I’d found what’s referred to in Spanish as my “media naranja” (half-orange)...

…which is why I wasn’t surprised when PB started pulling back.

The next few days involved a few text exchanges, but no date invites. I didn't understand what the hold up was.

I continued on with my weekend, pretending that I wasn’t thinking of PB the entire time, wondering when I was going to see him again, and getting increasingly pissed that on a rare kid-free Saturday night, there were no concerts worth the cover charge nor was I going to get laid.

That night, PB sent me a picture of himself cooking up his kill in his kitchen.

ME: Soooo jealous! Enjoy that meat, caveman!

PB: What R U doing?

Have I said men can smell each other on me? They can. I was just leaving my latest bad date in St. Louis Park, a suburb neighboring PB’s hood. (From my house, his place was anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour, depending on traffic and weather.) If we were going to hook up over the weekend, this was perfect timing!

ME: Just leaving SLP…and could use a nibble…

I refused to sit in a cold parking lot waiting to see if PB was going to invite me over or not. I drove in the direction of home. I tried to detach. I tried to not care. But, damn, it was only 9 PM and if he was awake and capable, I wanted some meat! Five minutes into the commute, I put one more feeler out there.

ME: Going once…going twice…

Nothing…until 20 minutes later, that is, as I was approaching my exit.

PB: :( I’m just sitting at home with my roomie and his girl.

I stared at my phone, befuddled. I had the slightest inkling of déjà vu. This situation reminded me of a time when I swore Slump Buster did the reaching-out-without-grabbing-onto-anything trick. (Note: subsequent texts are verbatim, including his misspellings.)

PB: Uh hu

ME: ?

PB: U say yes.

ME: To what? I haven’t seen an invitation…

I pulled into my driveway as my phone chimed at random intervals with a barrage of incoming texts. Instead of engaging in further drama, I got into my own hot tub and enjoyed several effortless orgasms, thanks to my favorite jet.

PB: I say yes.

PB: Huh??

PB: What?

PB: OK. Forget it. Sorry.

PB: Drive safe. O

WTF?! (Male readers, please hear me out: if you’re an asshole sober, you’re doubly so drunk. Alcohol does not make you sexier, funnier, or more charming; it only makes you think you’re new and improved. If you stopped drinking, you’d lose weight, get harder, go longer, and be less buffoonish in general. Lay off the booze already, all right?)

PB: I’m confused. Yes? No?

ME: I’M confused. What question am I answering yes or no to?

PB: U r or r not coming over. Ok so I thought maybe u should but u don’t think like me huh?

The only thought I had at that point was “GRR!” I decided no response was the best response. Over the next half-hour:

PB: Will y come or no

PB: Ok. Ni ni.

PB: I love being yor back up. I get it though, just wish u could talk straighter than u already are arrow o

PB: Hello

That was it. What I did next surprised myself. I played the part of mature adult, picked up the fucking phone, and (gasp!) called him.

PB answered in Spanish. Slurred Spanish. There were people laughing in the background, which really irked me. It was like this was a skit put on for his friends’ entertainment. I hung up and texted instead.

ME: To be clear: I’ve been wanting to see you. You’ve been busy. Too bad the wires got crossed tonight. You’re not my “back up”. I don’t want to discuss via text. Call me when you’re sober.

End of conversation. Confession: I was so upset, I cried myself to sleep. My dreams of finally meeting a mature man had turned into reality (read: a nightmare).

PB didn’t call the next day. He texted to say the pepperoni bread I'd brought him on date #2 was really tasty (tell me something I didn't know). And then? Silence.

I admit, I started to freak out. I was finally psyched about a guy who was fun in and out of bed, yet now all he seemed interested in was mind-fucking me. So, on Monday morning, despite all my common sense to the contrary, I sent PB a message:

So I know it's totally uncool to ask this, but my curiosity wins out over the rules every time. Is there some reason you don't seem to want to see me again? No need to sugarcoat anything. And if you have any questions, just ask.

Sometimes men say they're intimidated by me and I don't understand that. I'm an open book. Literally. And, while I'm laying all my cards on the table here, I really like you. I know there was some concern about being my "back-up" and that you mentioned insecurity as being a problem in past relationships. I think you're the whole package and I'm kinda bummed that the feeling doesn't seem to be mutual. :(

Anyway. I don't want to sell myself to you and I'm not trying to "sway" you. I think I'm pretty fantastic. It'd just be nice if you thought so, too. :)

Erica

PB responded...and what he said stunned me. But we'll get to that next time...

***

I wish I had a recipe for you today, readers, but my baking mojo has been off lately. Everything I've made has either been either over-baked and crumbled or too moist and limp. (You should be laughing, people. You really are what you eat.)

'Til I get back on track, this song from The National should be plenty of food for thought. I can't decide if I relate more to the man who penned it or the woman it was written for, but the contradictions inherent to falling in love fascinate me either way.

I was afraid I'd eat your brains
'Cause I'm evil

I'm a confident liar
Have my head in the oven so you know where I'll be
I'll try to be more romantic
I want to believe in everything you believe

I was less than amazing
Do not know what all the troubles are for
Fall asleep in your branches
You're the only thing I ever want anymore

Man Eater In Hot Water

2010-12-03T14:04:00.000-06:00

This story is two weeks old. Why did it take me so long to post it? 'Cause I wanted to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. (Go ahead, ask me how that's working out...)

It's over now, so let’s begin at the beginning.

Back up to the morning after a really shitty third date with someone else, followed by a three-hour drive home in an ice storm. (I tell ya, my life is stranger than fiction.) I’d only slept a few hours and still had a chip on my shoulder about having to drive so much for so little pleasure, so I tried to postpone my coffee date with Paul Bunyan 48 hours hence. He was willing to switch to a venue closer to me and convinced me to follow-through because he said if we hit it off, we could go out again in two days.

“Wear your lucky thong,” his last message said.

I giggled to myself, thinking, There is NO WAY you’re gonna see it today, honey. I hadn’t slept with a man on the first date in over two years and that was such a disaster, I trusted my willpower to keep my pants on. I didn’t even shave my legs as an insurance policy.

Right on time, I settled into a plush armchair at Starbucks with a peppermint mocha (holy shit, those are good. If I could afford to have a java addiction, that would be my drug of choice!) and prepared for more bland getting-to-know-you small talk with the down-to-Earth single dad.

I got anything but.

Not that I’m complaining.

PB was just my type: 39, never married, scruffy faced, six-foot-something and seriously cut. He had a really rough, sexy voice and the most hypnotizing eyes I’ve ever seen on a man. It was hard to look away. He wasn’t just hot; he was handsome. A man’s man. Think George Clooney’s younger, darker-haired brother.

Personality wise, we were identical. As PB exclaimed, “You’re like me, but with long hair!”

The dull chit-chat I expected quickly progressed from caffeinated flirtation to a discussion on threesomes--his versus mine. (Both involved way more emotional fallout than either of us had expected.) PB was also a writer with dreams of penning a TV show script. (Think Sex and the City for guys.) Though he’d seemed shy onscreen, PB didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by me in person. He was cocky, even. The only thing I hated about him was that I suddenly liked him more than he seemed to like me. After an hour or so, when he stood up, I thought that he was going to awkwardly excuse himself, never to be seen again.

Again, I was wrong.

“Want to get something to eat?” he asked, pointing across the Galleria to Kozy’s.

A switch inside me flicked. The only meat I wanted was his. But I kept that to myself and we went to the steakhouse.

“Thoughts?” the waitress asked after PB and I had studied the menu for a few minutes.

My date ordered beef tips and calamari for us to share. I smiled naughtily.

“What are you thinking?” PB asked.

“I’m not thinking about anything,” I said. “I’m watching a movie in my head.”

“What kind of movie?”

“You know exactly what kind of movie,” I said.

PB’s gaze met mine and…holy mother of God. If I thought I felt fireworks with Good Guy, what I felt at this moment was Pearl Harbor, part two. Even better? Now I knew the feeling was mutual.

“You must be a terrible liar,” PB said. “Your eyes would give you away every time.”

(He’s right.)

“Didn’t you just have a date last night?” he asked.

“Yeah…” I said.

“With someone that you really like?”

“I guess…though I’m pretty sure it’s not going to work out. I just haven’t admitted it to myself yet.”

“What date was it?”

“The third.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“We’d already gotten that out of the way on the second date,” I said and shrugged. PB flashed a look that I wasn’t sure how to interpret, but it looked like disgust mixed with concern.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Was that TMI? Did I turn you off?”

“Not at all,” PB said. “I’m just jealous that you had sex last night!"

“The sex last night was mediocre, if that makes you feel better,” I said.

“That’s still better than no sex! I haven't fucked in a month.”

"You say that like it's a long time!" I gawked. "Fourteen months is a slump. One month is a pause."

PB did not agree. He was hungry. (For a piece of me, naturally.) I was salivating for a taste of him, too. My eyes were undressing this man already. Though he was completely clothed, I could tell that PB was harder than any hard body I’d ever been with. I wanted to leap onto his lap right then and there.

Again, my eyes contradicted any attempts to play it cool.

“You want to ride me, don’t you?” PB said.

I blushed in response. (Yes, I am capable of being embarrassed.)

“I know you want to," he said. "I know what you like. I’ve read the archives of your blog.”

“It’s not going to happen,” I said.

“You know it’d be good.”

“No doubt. But I didn't shave."

"I'll shave you."

"I meant my legs," I said. "Besides, I know I'd regret it if we had sex on the first date.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you. I don’t want this to be a one-night-stand.”

“Who said that’s what this is?”

“Have you ever had sex on the first date that turned into a relationship?” I asked.

“Yup.”

I rolled my eyes. “Uh-huh. And how long did that last?”

“Five-and-a-half years.”

Well, then. PB smiled like he knew what was about to ensue and I was a sucker for thinking I’d ever get out of this date fully dressed.

“I know what you’re doing,” I said.

PB jerked back like I must’ve been crazy to think he was up to something. I suddenly felt like I was in a used car lot, being sold a lemon…and I couldn’t wait to take it for a test drive and floor that mother fucker.

“It’s not like I haven’t been seduced before,” I said.

“We’re not exactly strangers, Erica. This isn’t the typical first date. I told you about my threesome. You told me you just got laid last night. Most first date conversation is, ‘So…what’s your favorite movie?’ ”

I giggled because the thought of wasting time discussing such mundane bullshit in front of such a hottie seemed fucking ridiculous.

“I have a hot tub…” PB said. “Do you have a suit?”

What did Cupid expect me to do, readers? You can’t combine the orgasmic dissatisfaction and sleep deprivation from the night before, then put a sex stallion with a completely free evening in front of me and expect me to walk away un-laid! It’s impossible to keep your pants on if your date invites you to take a dip in his hot tub. I’m just sayin’…

“I happen to have a suit in my gym bag,” I said. “But do I really need one?”

PB’s smile spread so wide, it almost split his face in half.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

“No. You’re trouble,” I replied.

Half-an-hour later, I emerged from PB’s guest bathroom wrapped in a towel. He was wearing trunks and a vintage silver chain.

“Turn around while I get in,” I said, dropping my towel on the deck and tip-toeing into the hot tub. I lay back and tried to enjoy the full-body jets while keeping my naughty bits underwater.

We talked for ten minutes or so. All the while, PB kept a respectful distance on the other side of the hot tub. I started to wonder if he’d changed his mind…so I bobbed closer. I traced the tattoo across his shoulder blades with my fingertips.

Then he kissed me.

Oh. My. God.

What happened next was pornographic beyond belief.

The next few hours passed in an ecstatic blur. I came something like a dozen times. He came three. (I didn’t even know men could do that!)

I drove home with the dorkiest “I just got laid” grin on my face...and a big-ass bruise on my bedonkadonk.

"I'm still in the 'wow' stage," PB texted me the morning after.

Yup. I get that a lot. Alas, all good things, even multiples, must come to an end. We’ll tackle that topic next time. ‘Til then, how about my favorite song by one of PB's favorite bands?

Call Off The Search?

2010-12-01T15:16:00.000-06:00

Man Eater is in a pickle…because the only way to rid myself of this incessant restlessness is to write about it, yet the man responsible for putting ants in my pants is also one of my readers (hell, during our 2nd date, he whipped out his iPhone to catch up on the blog, some of which he read out loud, including the phrase “clear as jizz”) in a crowded bar.)

The other part of the pickle (perhaps the part above is the head and this is the shaft?) is that since I originally wrote this post over the weekend, things between this man and I have changed dramatically.

So what’s a blogger in lust and a lover in flux supposed to do?

Write it anyway and let the chip fall where they may. Here goes...

The theme is falling. No, I’m not talking about ice (though I do have a nasty bruise on my ass…but we’ll get to that later...)I’m talking about falling into that four-letter word.

How does it happen? How fast is too fast? Are you supposed to chase the spark or should you run from it? And, most importantly, can you find The One on TV?

Okay, so maybe that last question isn’t foremost on your mind, but the man I'm thinking of (we'll call him Paul Bunyan, because he's big and brawny all over and has that luscious beard and brown hair like the Minnesota folklore icon) and I recently got into a debate about ABC’s reality show The Bachelor. Surprisingly, I was all for the cattle call courting and he was against it.

“You can’t find your soul mate by making out with 16 people in six weeks!” PB (ooh--digging this pseudonym even more since the initials are the same as my favorite food!) stated over mussels and edamame at Stella’s Fish Café. (Nostalgic side note: I hadn’t been there since my first date with Puck over three years ago. Sniffle.)

“Sure you can,” I said. “That’s totally what my life is like right now. I’m only two weeks into this and I’ve already identified who stands out as long-term relationship material.”

PB wanted to know how many Match get-togethers I’d had. (Let’s just say it’s in the double digits, but not as high as my *other* number.)

PB, for all his drop-dead gorgeousness, hot-bod flaunting, motorcycle-riding, mansion-owning awesomeness, said he prefers to date as little as possible until he finds someone that interests him, at which point he stops seeing other people.

“What do I need more dates for?” he asked. “If I find someone I like, I want to focus on that person.”

“I’m the same way,” I said. I’d much rather get to know one person in depth than a dozen superficially. But if the opportunities to do the former are sparse and the latter are abundant, what's a girl supposed to do?

PB insisted that, given the choice, he'd rather mate than date.

“And yet," I pointed out, "Only hours after we first met, I was giving you a blow job in your hot tub.” (What did I tell ya readers? Very hot story for another time...) “How does that behavior fit into either of our plans to find a partner?” I asked.

“So what if we fucked like rabbits on the first date?" PB countered. "Who made the third-date rule anyway? Now we know we’re compatible in that area. That’s good. Next we need to see what other areas we’re compatible in.”

This was only date two, but I felt like I knew PB already. I felt comfortable. Confident. I not only liked this guy; his pheromones were so intense, I could've come just sniffing him. Seriously! Of all the dates I’ve been on lately, PB was the one who came closest (and also came more times than I’ve ever seen a man do in one evening) to what I’m looking for. He was also my only first-date fuck in two years. Doesn’t that mean something?

I tried to ask that question. I rephrased more than once. PB didn’t seem to understand what I was trying to say was: “Do you think of me as just a booty call? Did I fuck it up by fucking you right away?”

If, for only a moment, we’re going to believe such dating bibles as Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, a spark as strong as what I felt for PB was a warning sign. It meant I should've run in the opposite direction, because if someone you just met feels familiar, that’s probably because they are, as in: you’ve dated some version of that person before. Many times. And what happened to you in those relationships? Heartbreak buffet.

But, as always, I refused to believe the experts. PB was the total package. (That he also had the most delicious package I've ever had in my mouth didn't hurt either.)

But PB, despite endorsing sex on the first date, could not be convinced that two people could fall in love in six weeks a la The Bachelor. His ideal timeline was five years! (TV shows don’t even run that long, unless they’re a soap opera! It’s a good thing I hit the snooze button on my biological clock or that might've been a deal-breaker!)

"Five years is about how long it takes to really know a person," PB said.

I disagreed. I believe that what you see is what you get. People show you who they are right away; the question is whether or not you pay attention. Gut instincts are pretty fucking powerful. Remember Slump Buster? Of course you do. I hated him on our first date. Imagine how peaceful (and, okay, anticlimactic) 2010 would have been had I stayed away from him based on that first (foul) impression!

For the sake of argument, let's pretend it does take five years to get to know someone. PB is almost 40. WTF is the hold-up? Why hasn't he gotten married yet?

"Good guys always finish last," he sighed when I pushed him on the issue.

Bullshit. My theory: girls don't choose who they love. And when they really love a man, they're willing to disregard the flaws. If good guys finish last, it's because they were never in the running in the first place!

"I don't buy that," I said. "Because I totally put you in the bad boy slot."

PB insisted he was closer to the sensitive side of the man scale. He said he’d been criticized by women for being too intense, too emotional.

“I’ve been accused of being those things," I said. "But I've never seen guys struggle with that. Most of the men I’ve dated don’t have emotions, period.”

One could argue, I suppose, that I haven't been with a man long enough (forgive me; the phallic puns are bound to keep popping up as my sex privileges have been revoked...) for him to feel comfortable expressing emotions.

The best analogy I can think of is eating a peach. Dating as I have been (meaning, like a 29-year-old man would date: many people for brief amounts of time) is like licking the outside of a peach. All I get is the fuzz; no flavor. It sucks! It even makes me wonder if I like peaches at all. What I'd rather do is bite through that thick skin (PB loved when I did that) and get to the juicy part of the guy's personality. Sure, if you get to know someone in depth, you'll also hit the pit. But by then you've eaten the peach; your sweet tooth is satisfied. Life is good.

PB compared dating to finding shells on the beach (a curious metaphor, since he was simultaneously checking the mussel shells to see if they were empty).

“If you keep looking, you’ll always find a better shell,” he said. “I’d rather pick one and be done.”

“If you really believe that, though, why are you still single?” I asked.

(Psst: this question never fails to piss off guys. Still, I can’t resist asking.)

“Because I haven’t found the right one," PB replied. "Why are you still single?”

“I’ve been with several people who I would’ve married if they’d asked,” I said. "But they didn't man up."

“Okay, so there were obstacles,” PB said. "Same as my situation."

“No," I said, "Because the men put the obstacles there. Had they asked me to marry them, I would have said yes.”

“You could’ve asked them.”

“No. I’m sorry. A woman cannot ever ask.”

Power differentials of courtship aside, I still didn't think PB could justify his single status away by pointing the finger at me. He had 16 more years of experience beneath his belt (not that I’m looking, LOL) when you factor in the decade age gap and my six years of marriage. (If I’m still single in 16 years, readers, take me out to a field and shoot me in the head. I’m not joking.)

“What I need is a partner who’s my best friend,” PB said.

“Do you want to fuck your best friend?” I asked.

“Well…no, but let’s face it. We’re going to get old. Things won’t always work like they do now. Passion won’t last. There has to be something more.”

Yes, but...I say you can learn to like--or at the very least, look past--someone's personality defects. You can adapt to their quirks or tolerate them in degrees. Chemistry is either present or absent. If you don't have a big bang (literally) at the beginning of a relationship, how likely is it that it will occur organically later on? I don't think that great sex prevents relationship problems, per se, but it can be the glue that holds a partnership together while you find solutions to the problems.

My current dilemma isn’t how to find someone. Match has turned me into a dating monster. I averaged 5 dates a week for the month that I was on the service. (Jesus, I can't believe it's been that many, but it has.) What I need help with now is: how does a woman know when to stop dating? Until the man asks her to, she’s technically free game. Every dating book in existence advises women to keep their social calendars full, lest we let an opportunity for a wholesome relationship escape while we’re waiting by the phone, pining for the bad boy.

The issue that I'm having is: if I really like a guy (read: am satisfied sleeping with him and only him), it feels disingenuous to meet new people when my head and heart are elsewhere. But how am I supposed to navigate this if the guy I like (PB) doesn't seem all that interested now that he got what he wanted out of me?

It's not like I can postpone current date offers by telling suitors that they're second (or third or fortieth) in the pecking order and that they'll just have to sit tight while I wait to see if I will be riding PB's cock on an exclusive basis!

An answer came to me from an unlikely source: the man who cancelled dinner last Sunday (which is why I had time to give PB a BJ in the jacuzzi). That guy had rescheduled, but the night before date one, take two (as I was having all these revelations), he cancelled again. Normally I would've been pissed...but this time I was grateful. His excuse was sincere--and it was exactly the language I'd been grappling for to use with my other suitors.

His message said something like: "I've gone out with someone a couple of times and I feel like I owe it to her to see where it goes. I'm not very good at dating more than one person at a time, so for now, I need to cancel."

If only I'd heard those words a week earlier, I could've saved myself (and some of my blog subjects) a lot of grief!

So. Confession: After that second date with PB, I cancelled my Match subscription. I left a lot of suitors in the lurch. I received several "WTF happened to you?!" emails. (My answer: "Sorry. Too many balls in the air.") I even opted out of two dates at the last minute because I needed time to (girly statement coming...gag) process my feelings about PB. (Thank you to Mother Nature, though, for providing a better excuse.) I composed a mature email to Good Guy saying I couldn't see him anymore (yes, despite that last post about my orgasm issues, he still wanted to get together!) Then I retracted the post about my last date.

I started thinking about how I could change this blog to be more in alignment with the kind of woman I know I am (read: a marriage-able one). I waited for PB to ask me out again. I spent the weekend solo. It was horrible. I felt vulnerable and lonely. I cried over my keyboard as I journaled. And then PB called.

There have been no exclusivity requests yet, but I'm doing what feels right. While the recent windfall of men has been a delightful surprise, I’ve also gone on enough mediocre dates to last a lifetime. My chit chat is predictable and my puns overused. I don’t need any more daisies in my chain (or whatever the appropriate foodie metaphor would be) and my astrologer promised that 2010 was the year for committed love. I'm fucking ready for more than just fucking!!! And yet, God forbid I say that to a man or he’d go bolting toward the hills never to be seen again.

PB has said more than once that finding the right partner is hard. I say it should be easy. And when it is, you'll know you’ve found someone worth exclusivity.

You’ll know because you aren’t afraid to look them in the eyes. You’ll know because when they complain about their bad day, your first reaction isn’t to fix the problem but make your partner feel better by whatever means necessary. You’ll know because you offer to pay a portion of the tab. You’ll know because you stop thinking so damn much about yourself. You’ll know because the hours when you’re with him pass too fast and the ones when you're apart go too slow. You’ll know because you want to suck his cock until he explodes--and you've never particularly liked giving blow jobs before. You’ll know because spooning in the nude can be just as satisfying as sex. You’ll know because you feel safe enough to fall asleep in his arms. You’ll know because when you wake up, you don’t really want to get out of his bed. You'll know because your "no sleepovers" rule suddenly seems incredibly stupid. You’ll know because you won’t want to blog about the experience at all, no matter how Earth-shattering and orgasmic it was. And you’ll know because if you do write about it, he won’t do the freak-and-ditch thing.

And yet, as soon as I say all that, I can easily enumerate how many times I thought I knew I was with The One only to discover I was dating a douchebag.

Am I overthinking this? Hell, yes, I am. I even have a new wrinkle in my forehead to prove it. Really, if I believe my own theory, I shouldn’t have to think about it at all. I know. What I don’t know is how he feels about me.

Amanda Hesser, food writer for the New York Times, recently created a texting helpline for cooks called "foodpickle". Have a question that you’d normally swallow your pride and call your mom about? (i.e. “What I can use as a buttermilk substitute?”) Submit your query and one of the experts will answer via text. (i.e. “Combine one tablespoon white vinegar with one cup milk and let stand for five minutes. Use only in an emergency, however, because there simply is no substitute for the real thing.”)

If only such a service existed for dating, my question would read something like this:

“I know. Now what?”

Morning After Berry Good O's

2010-11-18T15:36:00.001-06:00

MORNING AFTER BERRY GOOD O'S

Ingredients

1 cup milk
1/3 cup unsweetened applesauce
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 egg
2 cups whole wheat flour
1/3 cup sugar
3 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 ¼ cup fresh blueberries
2 teaspoons raw sugar
1 bottle Duncan Hines vanilla glaze

METHOD

• Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

• Grease doughnut pans with cooking spray.

• In large bowl, combine wet ingredients; whisk until incorporated.

• Add dry ingredients, stirring just until combined.

• Gently fold in blueberries.

• Scoop batter into pans. Sprinkle with raw sugar.

• Bake 10-15 minutes or until firm and lightly browned on top.

• Cool 3-5 minutes. Meanwhile, heat bottle of Duncan Hines vanilla glaze in microwave according to directions.

• Transfer doughnuts to sheet of waxed paper. Coat doughnuts with drizzle. Serve immediately or freeze up to 3 months.

• Makes about 12 doughnuts. Indulge moderately. As for the other Big O's...go ahead. Have as many as you want.

Meat Me At The Strip Club

2010-11-12T15:47:00.000-06:00

“Introduce me to Obama and I’ll arrange a meet-and-greet with The Goondas.” That was the deal I made with my latest Match.com suitor before we met for dinner. “Kidding,” I continued. “You’re probably as interested in punk rock as I am in politics; which is to say, not at all.”

My last political act was submitting my Black-and-White Birthday Cake recipe to the Food Tasters for Obama bake-off. (I won, BTW. I have the t-shirt to prove it.)

So, no, we were not a perfect match. In fact, there was no match action involved. That’s why I liked this guy. He took the time to do his research, found the Man Eater website on his own, and emailed me directly. That was classy. I told him so…then promptly Googled him to make sure he wasn’t a freak. Nope. Far from it. In fact, he’s friends with the president of the United States! (They went to school together.) And now he wanted to date me!

It’s time to whip out a pseudonym for this democratic party pusher. How about "Politico"? On with the show...which took place at The Strip Club.

I’d been wanting to hit up the steak house since I met its owner at a cooking club get-together two years ago. Unfortunately, my bank account was so anorexic that I couldn’t afford to eat his grub. Enter Politico.

“Are you game, big spender?” I asked when I emailed my restaurant pick to Politico.

He was.

Does that sound like I prostituted myself for a meal, readers? I thought so, too. So I did what a proper prostitute does: I wore a dress. With, like, stockings. And high heels that I could barely squeeze my feet into. I figured if Politico was going to pony up the big bucks for my big hunk of beef, the least I could do was provide the eye candy.

No sooner had Politico ushered me to our table (perfectly situated next to the fake fireplace), he complimented me on the dress.

“I haven’t worn this since my Insatiable release party a year ago!” I said. Politico was flattered that I’d pulled the frock out of retirement just for him. (Hey, what can I say? Buy me steak and I will dress like a piece of meat.)

I felt a little overexposed, however—and it wasn’t even my wardrobe’s fault. The Strip Club was way too bright for dinner time.

“Excuse me,” I said, reaching for the lamp behind me and dimming the bulb. “I have a thing about proper lighting.”

(If Slump Buster is reading this right now, I hope he is laughing his ass off. He knows about this quirk of mine all too well.)

“So. How was your day?” Politico asked, squinting slightly as his eyes adjusted.

“I have so much energy to burn!” I said, practically jumping out of my chair like a puppy mid-potty-training. “I had a double job interview today and I didn’t make it to yoga!”

Politico admired my energy. He said his number one complaint about Match dates was that they were boring.

“I’ve had the same problem!” I said. “Match never works…and yet I keep coming back for more!”

Politico confessed that he was a fellow Match masochist. Both of us were on our third go-round.

“How many dates have you gone on?” he asked.

“From Match?”

“Yes.”

“Ever?” I gawked.

Politico’s eyes widened as if to say, “That many?!”

“I suppose I could just read your blog…” he said.

“Nah,” I said. “Only three of them are on there. The rest weren’t interesting enough to write about. Not one quotable in the whole damn conversation.”

“So you get asked out a lot, I suppose?” Politico asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know what to compare it to. I’d need a baseline. How many dates have you gone on from Match?”

“One.”

"One?!"

Well, then. If that’s the baseline, I am way above average.

Politico seemed to be waiting for my magic number, but my lips were zipped.

“Let me just state for the record,” I said, “That getting hit on, getting asked out, and agreeing to go out with someone are all very different things. I get hit on a lot, I get asked out less than that, and I accept even fewer invitations.”

(With a non-answer like that, I should really consider a career in politics!)

“How old are you?” I asked him.

“Guess.”

“Noooooo way. If I shoot low and I’m wrong, it’ll be obvious that I’m trying to flatter you. If I shoot too high, you’ll be offended. It’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. I know you must be in your 40’s.”

“I’m 46.”

Another shrug on my side of the table.

“I’ve had older,” I said.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. At least two.”

“You’ve dated two men older than me? I’m surprised.”

“No, I’ve had two long-term relationships with men older than you.” (I later calculated that at least four of my former lovers were over 45.) “As for how many middle-aged men I’ve dated…again, I don’t know. A lot of my dates don’t even make it to the ‘How old are you?’ point.”

“If that’s the case, I should feel honored that you’re still here,” Politico said.

“Yes, you should! I rarely agree to dinner on a first date. But a well-written email says a lot. You’d be surprised how many men are incapable of putting a few coherent sentences together.”

“Do the men you go out with know about Man Eater beforehand?” Politico asked.

“Oooh, good question!” I had to think about that for a minute. “Yep. This year, they all did. Except for one.”

“Did he approach you in a bar?”

“Nope. At a concert. We didn’t date very long, but now he’s one of my best guy friends.”

This would be Cameraman Chris. I didn’t mention it, but perhaps should have, that when Chris and I were on our second date, I asked about his political leanings. “Everyone who’s involved in politics is unhappy,” he’d said. “I don’t want anything to do with that.”

That comes pretty close to describing my feelings on all things election-related. (I’m much more interested in the erection action.)

“Psst…” I said, leaning across the table to confess my dirtiest secret to Politico. “I didn’t vote in the last election.”

Perhaps in some states, this wouldn’t be a big deal. In Minnesota, where we’re facing yet another election too close to call, requiring a recount, my ballot might have made a difference. Politico said he didn't want to talk politics. He was fed up with the cyber-vultures and nastiness. Lucky for him, our salads were served before I could stick my foot in my mouth any further. I dug into a delightful mixed greens concoction while Politico contemplated his Ceasar. Had it not been for the name, I might not have recognized it. It was basically one unchopped heart of romaine with a single, giant crouton stacked on top and drizzled in dressing. It looked like finger food.

“You seem rather guarded,” I said after we chewed in silence for a few minutes.

“You’re right about that. In politics, you have to be discreet.”

“Isn’t it odd, then, that you were attracted to me, who puts it all out there?” I asked.

“I’m attracted to interesting people. Your blog piqued my curiosity.”

“Oh, please,” I said. “You just liked the half-naked photos.”

“What?” Politico said, almost dropping his fork. “Where were the half-naked photos?”

“Ah-ha. You haven’t done your homework after all!” I said. “But I’m not going to tell you now.”

“At least tell me which half is naked.”

I raised an eyebrow in response. “Nope. You’ll have to do the digging on your own.”

Our waiter arrived for the ump-teenth time to see if we were ready to order the main course. I was still waffling.

“Take your time,” the waiter said with a dash of sarcasm. “I’ll be here ‘til next week…”

Politico had been to The Strip Club before and knew what he wanted: New York Strip with bleu cheese, cooked medium.

The waiter turned to me.

“What he said,” I said.

As it turned out, Politico and I had little more in common than our dinner orders. Though we were both marathon runners, he raced much more frequently, but much slower, than me. Though we were both bookworms, he liked fiction and historical tomes; I only wanted to read memoir and erotica. Other mismatched traits included his pack-rat nature and affinity for felines, whereas I live simply and love pooches.

Personality-wise, it was a fascinating dynamic. Though Politico and I were both big fish in small ponds, and notorious in our respective environments, neither of us had ever gotten our feet wet in the other’s waters. We hardly had any mutual friends, except...

“How do you know Carnage?” I asked.

“One of my staffers dated him,” Politico said.

“No way! I dated Carnage!” (And he has been the only suitor who specifically requested off-the-record interaction, which is why you’ve never read about it.)

We were both silent for a moment as we contemplated the incestuousness of the Twin Cities. Then Politico told me he had never married and was childless.

“Excuse me,” I said, “But some people might say that a man as successful as yourself doesn’t end up single at 46 unless he’s either dating 20-year-old undergrads or he doesn’t really want to be married.”

“I would have asked a couple of my exes to marry me…eventually…” Politico said.

(Uh-huh. Why does that sound familiar?)

Our steaks soon arrived, tender and red on the inside, swimming in their own bloody juices. The meat was accompanied by piles of thinly-sliced carrots that tasted way more savory than vegetables should.

“These carrots have been bathed in butter,” I said after one slid down my throat.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all. What I mean is: the food tastes so good, it must be bad for me.”

I polished off most of my plate; I really wasn’t in the mood for dessert, but when the waiter arrived, Politico suggested I might want something. After the waiter waxed poetic about a peanut-butter-chocolate layer cake, I knew it'd be impossible to resist. The caloric damage would be tempered if I shared it, right?

“Do you have a sweet tooth?” I asked Politico. He nodded, almost maliciously so. When the waiter returned, I asked for the cake…and Politico ordered his own dessert!

“Are you implying that I might eat all of this by myself?” I asked when a monster wedge of “peanut butter love” was brought to the table.

“Not necessarily," Politico said. "The apple tart just appealed to me more.”

“Bah,” I said. “I could make that at home.”

(I could make the PB chocolate cake at home, too. In fact, when I shared the leftovers the next day with my 7-year-old daughter she said, “I give it an 'A', but if you had made it, I would have given it an A plus!”)

Desserts mostly devoured, I mentioned that I was looking for some supplemental income.

“Do you know anyone who might hire me?” I asked. “Like, to go as their date to political events?”

“There’s a name for that, you know," Politico said.

“Yeah, an escort. I want to be one!”

"I don’t see why anyone would pay you to do that."

"Becauce I'm a really good date!"

"When I go to an event, I already know everyone in the room. Having a pretty woman on my arm wouldn’t help me out at all. I’m the guy sitting next to Obama. If the ladies can’t get him, they’ll take me; and even if they don’t, I’d have no trouble finding someone to take home.”

“Well, then!”

The restaurant emptied and the waiter brought the bill. I let Politico pay. I didn’t even offer to leave a tip. (I wiggled my way into tights, people! I earned that free dinner!) Then the waiter informed us that my reputation had picked up a portion of the check.

“The desserts were compliments of the chef,” he said.

Politico and I were both pleasantly surprised at the sweet gesture.

“It's because I blogged about him,” I bragged under my breath.

"You're right," Politico said as he walked me to my car. "You are a really good date."

While I’ve lost most of my first-date jitters by now (after having gone on these things so many times), I'm still uncomfortable with the goodbye etiquette. The driver's side door of my vehicle has been the site of more awkward make-out sessions this year than I care to count!

Politico leaned in...for a hug. I think he might have wanted to kiss me on the cheek, too, but I swooped out of the way.

That should have been my sign, but I clung to my ambiguity. As I drove home, I wondered what my indecisive emotional state was all about. Despite two-and-a-half hours of steady conversation, which had gone by in a flash, I wasn't sure if I'd felt any sparks. It was like two firecrackers whose fuses had been watered down. The heat just wasn't there. But why? There was nothing outwardly "wrong" with this man. I tried to identify the problem. Was I afraid that Politico was a workaholic or a commitment phobe? (The former can be cured; the latter, not so much.) Was it his hair color? (Bad experiences with blondes.) Or his height? (I prefer not to date short guys. Then again, as the Millionaire Matchmaker says, "Every man is over six feet tall when he stands on his money!") Were those pheromones I was picking up on...or the deceptively alluring scent of power? Politico hadn't asked if I wanted to do this again...but even if he had, I wouldn't have had an answer. At one point, I even thought, I might have to sleep with this guy just to find out if I want to go on a second date.

I was trying to fool myself into feeling something I didn't; not unlike when I eat embarrassing amounts of mediocre food, hoping with each swallow that the flavor with improve.

I didn't realize that, however, until 48 hours later, when I went on another first date with a different match man...and Cupid completely knocked my socks off. As we said our mutual "Nice to meet you"s, this new suitor flashed his smile and...

Fireworks, readers!!! Fucking fantastic fireworks.

But we’ll gush over those flashing lights in my next post…or not. Because as you know, no news is good news…

What's Your Beef?

2010-11-10T15:52:00.000-06:00

“Have you ever had a ménage a trois?”

This is the second time I’ve been asked this question during training day on my new job. Yes, this gig fell into my lap just like most happy accidents do, via Facebook, accompanied by a quote about a blood-soaked hard-on. The restaurant seeking servers features a rock-n-roll theme…and it’s also the only one in the state that has a mechanical bull! Talk about a match made in heaven!

Now I’m in the back room of this brand spankin’ new, fine dining establishment. I’m a day behind, according to the corporate training calendar. In experience, it’s more like light years. Need I remind you, readers? I’ve never waited tables in my life.

But I really like my boss. He’s upbeat, flirtatious, and has two bands. During our initial ninety minutes together, we joke and gossip and tease each other as I distractedly fill out a job application (which, clearly, is just a formality. I’m in and I know it.).

It’s all good until my boss sends me back for a crash-course in serving with a handful of other new hires and the corporate head. Despite his hard-bodied hotness, the suit—and the company he represents—is rather uptight.

For starters (and I don’t mean appetizers), there’s a dress code. It includes a button-up shirt. On our off days, we’re expected to starch them. The only starch I know how to use is cornstarch…and I can’t afford dry cleaning. Then there’s the tie. I don’t own one of those silky nooses, I don’t have a boyfriend to borrow one from, and even if I did, I don’t know how to tie the damn tie.

Perhaps some of you are rolling your eyes, saying I should suck it up and be grateful I have a job. Still…I’m a rebel. I’ve been self-employed for five years…the last two of which I worked mostly in my bathrobe. I haven’t worn a uniform since I was 15 and a photo shop employee. Even if I could stuff down my pride for a few shifts a week, why do I have to dress like a man?

(Would you like a cheese platter with your whine, Man Eater? Yes, please.)

Speaking of drinks, this job involves serving alcohol. I didn’t realize how much that bothered me until I’m now being asked not only to serve it, but to sell it to people. And not just a beer or two. As much as possible…at the highest price. Like this thing called Ménage a Trois, which is a blend of the finest red wines and a favorite of Corporate Head. When he asks who's had a ménage a trois, I bite my tongue. No one in attendance admits to having the drink my boss calls “bastardized wine”. If only my sexpertise was worth something here, surely I’d get a rise (err, I mean a “raise”) out of Corporate Head.

My stance on drinking is: most of my peeps drink too much of it as it is; and the majority of Americans don’t need help acting stupider. But my opinions don’t matter here. This is all about making money for the company. And that’s when I know this isn’t going to work out. Money, despite its noticeable lack in my life, is also the least motivating force for me to take a job. There will always be opportunities to make money. Time, however is limited. I’m not sure I’m ready to sell my soul yet.

Corporate Head continues with the rules. There’s another one that rubs me the wrong way, and it involves appropriate language. Obviously, four-letter words are forbidden…but so are the words “Okay”, “No”, “I don’t know”, and “Customers”. Instead, we’re supposed to say “Absolutely!”, “Let me see what I can do”, “I’ll find out for you”, and “Guests”.

There are also time limits…like how many minutes one has from the time a beverage order is placed to the time it must be on the table (3 minutes for soda; 4 minutes for cocktails; 5 minutes for wine), or how one serves aforementioned beverage (never refill soda in the same glass; never touch the rim of a martini glass; wine bottles cannot make contact with the table whilst being opened).

There are also guidelines about which side of the diner to serve on and which side to clear from (Are we mounting a horse here or what?), plus a numbering system so the food is not “auctioned” (i.e. “Bacon cheeseburger with kettle chips?”) when it is brought to the table. Jesus Christ! Since when did eating out get so anal?! (Don’t answer that.)

Last, but not least: no cell phones on the job. And no food. No breaks, either. (Because, God forbid, you update your Facebook status and/or eat during your six hour shift).

WTF?!

My anxious ruminations drown out Corporate Head’s monotone recitation of the menu. I’m slightly zoned out in my own little world (which revolves around me, naturally), until Corporate Head says, “Now you’re going to take the test.”

“I’m totally going to fail,” the bartender sitting next to me says. Forgive me, but the fastest way to describe her is TPT. (Go Google if you don’t know what that stands for.) Bleached blonde hair, skin as bronzed as a rotisserie chicken, and a Southern accent. We do have one thing in common, however: she doesn’t like the language rules either. (“Why can’t I greet people as ‘Y’all?’ ”)

At least she’s had a 24-hour head start on me to memorize the menu. I don’t have a clue how many chicken tenders are in the standard order or what kind of dressing—chipotle or ranch—they come with.

Truth be told, my boss already gave me a copy of the test…but I was so busy teasing him about the animal sounds emanating from his cell that I didn’t finish filling it out ahead of time! Damn me and my Chatty Cathy nature.

“You’re in luck,” Corporate Head says when he returns from around the corner. “The printer’s out of paper.”

Don’t sigh in relief quite yet, readers. The exam won’t be overlooked…it’s just switched forms. To oral. If only I could lure the Corporate Head into the bathroom, I’d examine his head and pass this pop quiz, no problem.

“Name a domestic beer,” he says to a girl at the other end of the table. She does. They go down the line, one by one, rattling off brands like seasoned drinkers.

Hallelujah, there aren’t that many domestic beers served here, so by the time my turn comes around, my coworkers have already named them all.

“Name an import beer,” Corporate Head says to me.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

I am confident of one, and only one, being an import: XX. (Which is also an Indie band, BTW.) How do you suppose I pronounce it?

“Dos Equis,” I say.

Ole! I nail it. Apparently I did learn something during my marriage to The Mexican. (You may now heave that sigh of relief on my behalf, readers.)

Still, that’s as far as my alcoholic knowledge goes…and I’m scheduled to serve this Saturday.

“It’s not brain surgery,” my boss tells me more than once. No, but…fuck, learning all this by the weekend is going to suck the energy right out of me. Like my typical relationship, this is moving way too fast. I thought I was just coming in just to fill out an application today. Now I’m cramming on which entrées are served with coleslaw, the three flavors of buffalo wings, and we haven’t even tackled the “Aloha” computer system yet!

I knew serving was hard work, but wow. I’ve only been here for four hours and my brain is going to explode! Then I get to come back tomorrow and do it for twice as long as today. (Hmm…that sentence has so many sexy interpretations…) Meanwhile, outside, what may be the last 60-degree sunny day in Minnesota is passing me by.

This is so not going to work out. I won’t make shit for tips, especially since my two biggest money makers are my witty banter and my boobage. Wearing a button-up shirt while providing “silent service” is a recipe for failure. This is the complete opposite of catering, where the gift of gab was perhaps the only job requirement I met.

I’m trying to trust my inner compass; why, I don’t know. It sure as hell hasn’t helped me while driving.

My body is primed to run. My heart is racing, the blood is thundering in my head, and I’m starting to sweat. I want to get out of here ASAP. Am I just scared of responsibility or is this gig really not right for me? Maybe if this were a locally-owned restaurant, not a chain, I would feel differently. Maybe if this place cared about where their beef came from, I would be more likely to “up-sell” it. Maybe if I thought I could learn something that I could use in any of my diverse dreams for the future, I could stick with it.

But I’m not that interested in stuffing already overweight, over-imbibed mall-goers with more artery-clogging cheese, beef, and creamy sauces.

Then again, I’ve sort of scraped the bottom of the job search barrel. The next most enticing listing I saw on Craigslist lately was for a farm hand to feed and milk goats. Of course, I have even less experience in that arena (unless you count breast-feeding…) than I do waiting tables.

Perhaps my dating life can shed some light on this dilemma? Just because an opportunity presents itself doesn’t mean I have to say “yes” (Or rather, “Absolutely!”). I’m not doing anyone any favors by forcing something that doesn’t feel right. The search may be exhausting, but I refuse to give up. I’ll take a breather if necessary, but I won’t stop believing that The One is out there.

No. This job will not do; or rather, I will not do it. It’s not that I can’t learn it; it’s that I don’t want to. And considering my allergy for anything half-assed, I can’t move forward if my heart isn’t in it.

So. I sleep on it. Then I take the coward’s way out (read: email) and tell my boss that while I enjoy his company (there’s a pun there if you want it), this position is not my cup of tea. (Go ahead, LMFAO on me.)

My boss responds well. Better than well. He’s completely supportive and even invites me back to restaurant to eat in two days’ time. I accept the offer. In fact, I think I’ll make a blind-date with one of my Match men out of it…

Several hours later, I’m walking through the doors of another restaurant…one owned by a former blog subject…where I’m meeting a very high-profile suitor for the first time. I’m not earning any money, but I’m not spending any, either. My date can more than afford the steep menu prices here…and though the man in question is not exactly my type, I’d rather be a trophy wife than a waitress any day…

…but we’ll talk about that in my next post…

Hee. Hee. Hee.

Berry Me Coffee Cake

2010-11-07T13:54:00.000-06:00

BERRY ME COFFEE CAKE

Ingredients

For the dough:
¾ cup warm water
¾ tablespoon (1 packet) granulated yeast
¾ tablespoon salt
2 eggs, beaten
¼ cup honey
½ stick (4 tablespoons) butter, melted
3 ½ cups flour

For the streusel topping:
½ cup oats
½ cup flour
½ cup brown sugar
½ cup pecans, chopped
2 tablespoons butter, melted
1 teaspoon raw sugar
½ teaspoon cinnamon

For the fruit:
1 cup fresh blueberries, washed and patted dry
¾ cup fresh raspberries, washed and patted dry
1 ½ tablespoons brown sugar

Method

• Mix together water, yeast, salt, eggs, honey, and butter in large bowl. Add flour gradually and stir with wooden spoon until incorporated. (Use wet hands and an extra tablespoon or two of water if necessary.)

• Cover bowl with plastic wrap and let rise at room temperature for 2 hours.

• After initial rise, chill dough in refrigerator for at least 2 hours and up to 5 days for easier handling.

• When ready to bake, turn out dough on floured surface. Separate into two equal-sized balls. Using rolling pin, make two circles the same size as an 8-inch round (or heart-shaped) cake pan. These will be your bottom and top layers of the coffee cake. If desired, spread dough across bottom of pan and cut with pizza wheel for exact measurements.

• In medium bowl, make streusel by mixing oats, flour, brown sugar, pecans, and butter. Stir just until incorporated; streusel should be crumbly and lumpy. Set aside.

• In separate bowl, combine berries and sprinkle with brown sugar.

• Grease cake pan with cooking spray.

• Place one of the dough circles into bottom of cake pan. Top with half of the berry mixture and half of the streusel mixture. Repeat with second dough circle, berries, and streusel. Sprinkle with cinnamon and raw sugar.

• Cover pan with plastic wrap and let rest for 90 minutes at room temperature.

• Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

• Bake 45 minutes, or until lightly browned and skewer inserted in center of cake comes out clean.

• Remove pan from oven and cool 10 minutes. Put large plate on top of pan and gently flip upside down. Cake should release onto plate. Cover with serving plate and invert again.

• Most importantly, serve hot and with whipped cream!

P.S. for the fellas: Save yourself all this work. Just marry me and I promise to make you Berry Me Coffee Cake every day as long as we both shall live.

Happy Hallowiener!

2010-11-02T15:59:00.000-05:00

The seed for my Halloween costume was planted several weeks ago at a party in the Warehouse District.

“You write that Man Eater blog, don’t you?” the doorman said as he checked my ID and slid a band around my wrist.

“Why, yes, I do,” I said. Normally I’d blush, but this kind of salutation has become awfully common lately…and while the recognition is flattering, it also puts a bit of pressure on me to live up to my reputation.

Luckily, the man I attended this party with was provocative enough for the both of us.

“I’d say we should go hit a strip club if they weren’t so expensive,” he said between gulps of beer.

My eyebrows must’ve shot up to the ceiling, because he asked, “You have been to one, haven’t you?”

“No…”

“But you’re the Man Eater!”

“Which is why I wouldn’t be at a strip club,” I said. “I know what a naked woman looks like. And they don’t do it for me.”

“There are tons of men there. If you walked up to one and put your hand on his arm…”

I shook my head. “The quality of men that go to strip clubs—”

“Hey, now!” my peep said, waving both hands toward his chest. “I’ve gone to strip clubs. You’re saying you wouldn’t…with someone like me?”

Well…hmm...he was cut, tall, and charming. He’s also one of the few men I actually enjoy more when he’s drinking. There’s just one problem.

“You’re married,” I said. “Which only proves my point. Those are the kinds of guys that hang out in strip clubs.”

This titillating conversation was cut short when the first band of the evening began to play. It was two chicks and their cellos. They called themselves Eve and the Apple. That title, combined with the images evoked during the stripper conversation, planted the seed for my costume.

When it came time to choose, the decision was a no brainer. My disguise had to be sexy, corset-esque, and evil. Hello, Eve, plus plastic apple purse and stuffed snake! Though the get-up cost more than I’d usually spend on something I was only going to wearg twice, I rationalized the splurge as a business expense as my Pictures of Then peeps were having a “costumes encouraged” show on the Friday of Halloweekend.

The dress was a success. Though I was the most naked I’d ever been in public before, I felt completely comfortable. Sure, the hem of my dress barely covered my butt in back, but with a lacy boy-short style panty on, all my assets were covered. And I haven’t even mentioned the boobs yet. While the DD’s featured on the costume’s model were much yummier than mine, I made do with a flesh-hued strapless number and a little heave-hoeing to keep those puppies perky and in place.

I’m pretty sure the boys noticed…in fact, they followed suit, stripping down to short shorts and sports tanks for the show. It was hot. Doubly cool: Mike Devins caught it all in a video so sharp, you can taste the sweat on my boys’…um…brows. (See below.)

The next night, a.k.a. Halloween Eve, I rocked the Eve costume again…at Rock the Cause’s Phantasmagoria (I swear there’s an orgasm in there somewhere), a benefit for an incredible non-profit organization.

Within 5 minutes of my arrival, a familiar face approached me.

“Hey, you were at that show last night!” he said.

“Yes, I was. I remember you,” I said. The dude and I had chatted briefly about PofT’s brilliance. Tonight, he was in costume, too (though all I remember now is a jersey of some sort and a few blackened teeth. Football player, perhaps?)

“I suppose I should be embarrassed that you’ve seen me in the same outfit two nights in a row,” I said.

“I recognized you because of your face,” he replied. “But maybe I should be looking elsewhere?”

On any other day, I’d happily swallow that sweet excuse. But in this get-up, even when I looked in the mirror, my eyes zeroed in immediately on my delicious tits. If I had a cock, I’d totally have given myself a hard-on. But I digress.

“So…there was talk last night that you’re that writer,” he said. “But I’m from New York, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, um, yeah, I have a blog,” I said nonchalantly. “And a book.”

For once, I wasn’t up for bragging about my Man Eater status.

“I didn’t get what the buzz was about,” he said. “I deal with press all the time.”

I wasn’t about to inform him that my recent City Pages interview had sparked a hater parade on the comments section of the Hot Dish blog. The last thing I needed was another judgmental a-hole raking me over the coals.

NY Guy wasn’t my type, but he was nice. Attractive, even. But as I’ve mentioned, I don’t feel particularly open to a new affair right now. I’d take someone back (Ahem! You know who you are!), but I’m tired of the whole getting-to-know-you rigamarole, especially when the possibility that I’ll still know the person six months down the line is slim. Factor in long-distance geographical complications and…ugh…it’s too much turmoil.

Like refusing to buy Reese’s peanut butter cups at the grocery store so I won’t leave myself the opportunity to binge on them late at night, I didn’t want this interaction with NY Guy to progress beyond polite conversation. So I kept my guard up. NY Guy was not getting anywhere with me, unless he pulled a rabbit out of his hat. (Or a magic wand out of his pants, lol.)

As though reading my dirty mind, NY Guy reached over and squeezed my snake. (This was not the first abusive incident my poor serpentine suffered. Over Halloweekend, my snake was fondled more times than I can count, plus stuffed down one guy’s shorts and forced to lick another guy’s chest.)

“Is it real?” NY guy asked.

I forced a smile. How would he feel if I grabbed his snake and asked if it was real?

“It’s a little limp, don’t you think?” I said. “If it was real, it’d be dead.”

He shrugged as if to say, “I simply had to ask.”

Saved by the bell. Or rather, the Call. Casey Call. The frontman of Pictures of Then appeared behind me and I sighed with relief as though I’d finally found my lifesaver. I introduced the dudes.

“You guys are a real tight unit,” NY Guy said to Casey. Tight is right. Tight in all the right places…hmmmmmmmmm…

Wait. Where was I?

Oh, yeah. Just in case your mind, like mine, is in the gutter, I should state that Casey and I are not an item. (In my dreams, maybe…or my masturbation fantasies…) After he popped my Rock Star Guest Chef cherry back in June, I offered to help promote his band Pictures of Then. It truly is a labor of love, as I haven’t seen a cent (yet?). I do, however, consider myself damn lucky to have a “boss” that babealicious, with whom I must attend networking events.

Casey and I mesh so well together that it was once a point of tension between me and New Dude. Though New Dude didn’t complain, per se, I could sense the suspicion from my ex-boyfriend. And I don’t blame him. Ping-ponging texts during dates, sharing my secret weapon of seduction (a.k.a. my pepperoni bread), and swapping innuendo-laden jokes with a guy as desirable as Casey would make my “say whaaaaat?” radar go wild, too. But it’s not like that. It’s just business as usual. Which, on this night, was very unusual indeed.

Phantasmagoria was held in a three-story condo that looked like nothing special from the street; the treat was that inside, it was the most tricked-out place I’d ever seen. The dining room table was shaped like a guitar, there was a room dedicated solely to Twilight Zone patient paraphernalia; a breakfast nook shaped like a life-sized half-teacup; a private movie theater and staging area with balcony; a spiral staircase, hidden passageways, and all sorts of sexy places to explore…

…like a love den.

“Oh!” I exclaimed as I crouched down and peeked through a curtain of beads. “Hello, again.”

Inside the love den, on a circular couch, was my former rock star guest chef, Matthew Inkala, and his girlfriend, Medusa…err, I mean Maria (disguised as Medusa).

“Do you want to go in?” I asked Casey.

Stupid question. I should know by now that a man rarely refuses to stick his head in mysterious openings.

In fact, looking back, that room was rather cunt-like, architecturally-speaking. After squeezing through the narrow entry, it opened up into this womb-like dome, complete with, yup, vagina lighting.

“I love when the lights turn this shade,” Casey said, pointing at the chandelier as the bulbs darkened to a lush scarlet hue.

The Grim Reaper slid through the entryway silently and sat down beside Casey. I had no idea who was beneath the creepy veneer and he didn’t give any clues as our companions volleyed ideas around the room on how to make Death laugh. Soon our conversation swerved from her burlesque artwork to drizzling syrup on your lover.

“I’m getting major make-out vibes from this room,” I said as I squirmed on the couch next to Casey.

“Like there should be a bottle spinning somewhere?” he asked.

“Exactly! I feel like I’m in high school…and it’s making me uncomfortable.”

(Yes, I actually said that. And yes, it was true. Imagine how a woman on a diet would feel dropped in the middle of VooDoo Doughnuts. That’s how anxiety-riddled this experience was for me.)

“Let’s move on, then,” he said.

We slipped out of the room and let our ears lead us toward the sounds of Cadillac Kolstad.

“I’m sorry. I totally backed into you,” Casey apologized to my friend, and cheesecake maven, Tami.

“That’s okay,” she said with a smile. “I kind of liked it.”

“You have no idea how many times I’ve been told that before,” Casey replied without missing a beat. I couldn’t help but beam at how well my rock star was, ahem, performing for the ladies.

Casey headed toward the bar to refill his classy plastic cup. The place was so packed with partiers, he barely made it two steps.

“Getting to this bar may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he exclaimed as throngs of people pushed past us.

“Let me try,” I said, slithering ahead of him. Casey looked confused. What could I possibly do that he couldn’t?

“Nakedness gets you places faster,” I explained.

“In that case,” he said. “Let the cleavage lead.”

Alcohol in hand, I asked, “Do you want to go down?”

Casey chuckled.

“What?” I asked, glancing down to make sure my tits hadn’t jumped ship.

“You just asked if I wanted to go down,” Casey said.

“I can’t believe I didn’t catch that!” (See? I was in appropriate employee mode! The naughty part of my brain was completely turned off.) “But now that you mention it…”

We did go down…stairs, where we shook some more hands, talked shop, and uploaded photos to Facebook. Then we hugged goodbye.

“Good job on the costume,” Casey said before he took off. He hadn’t worn one (though when someone asked what Casey was dressed as, I replied on his behalf: “A rock star.” The commenter’s response: “It works for you, man!”)

Before my spook-tacular festivities (I was too pooped to party on Halloween proper) officially ended, I had to run (Ha! Impossible in those heels!) upstairs to retrieve my coat. En route, my snake was groped again. Grr! Next year, I’m donning the same costume, but copping a different identity: Poison Ivy.

Pictures of Then 501 Bar from Michael Devins on Vimeo.

As for a recipe...well, I didn't make any Halloween-themed eats this year. I bought my favorite orange-creme filled Oreos, planning to make some complicated cheesecakes out of them, but in the end, it was easier to just eat the cookies than bake with them. So, in lieu of something new, I'm bringing back my WTF fudge, which is a perfect way to use up all that extra Halloween candy you moderated eaters must have around your house.

WTF? FUDGE

Ingredients

1 bag chocolate chips
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 tablespoon butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup mix-ins (anything but candy corn)

Method

• Line 8 x 8 pan with waxed paper.

• Combine chocolate chips and milk in medium saucepan. Heat on medium heat, stirring constantly, until chocolate melts.

• Remove saucepan from heat. Add butter and vanilla; stir until better melts.

• Stir in mix-ins, then pour immediately into pan.

• Refrigerate at least two hours.

• Enjoy in small portions or prepare for stomachache.

Belated Birthday Boulders

2010-10-30T15:05:00.000-05:00

I've kept my big mouth shut about my latest goodbye for almost a month...but birthdays are the best time for introspection and I figured what better time to dish up some food for thought...

Flash back to my reunion with Slump Buster in September. I told him he seemed too weary for a man in his thirties.

“How old are you anyway?” I asked.

“You don’t remember?”

“I didn’t memorize every detail about you, no.” (Yes, I did. And he knew it, as evidenced by his smirking expression.) “If you told me, I must’ve blocked it out. Our relationship was so traumatic!”

He told me his age and birth date. I knew I’d remember it this time because it was the same date as my Pictures of Then peeps' Halloween show. As he and I sat there on that first day of fall, I silently fantasized about him joining me for a wild rock-and-roll birthday celebration, complete with buttercream.

Alas, shortly after this guy and I decided to be “just friends”, I had to reinstate the no-contact rule. The deal-breaker went down something like this (edited for your reading pleasure):

He texted me, per usual, at some ungodly hour. Normally, with my summer rock star schedule, I’d be awake. Now that I’m transitioning to responsible adulthood, I’m in bed before midnight. Such was the Saturday night in question. The reason for the text? He had a migraine. Misery wanted company.

Now, if parenting has taught me anything, it’s how to deal with whiners (i.e. most men under 50 years old).

I ignored the texts until...

HIM: Spirit-crushing migraines last night and nary a peep from you, eh?

ME: I was sleeping, m’dear.

HIM: Brutal migraines! Clear enough for you? No puns included.

ME: Wow. Touchy, touchy. I didn’t know you got those. Probably from thinking too much and/or texting in the dark…but nice segueway to what I’ve been overthinking lately…

HIM: What haven’t you been overthinking lately?

ME: Ha ha. Exactly. I’d much rather be DOING than thinking. That’s the problem. I don’t think this “friendship” thing is working for me. I’m not a very good friend when I have an agenda in my back pocket. And throwing myself at you to only get “meh” in response is wearing on my self-esteem. I’m deluding myself.

HIM: I’m glad to hear you’ve once again divined my role in this play all in your head. Why do you think you have all the answers in these internalized morality plays?

ME: I don’t know what that means. All I’m trying to say is that I’m pretending to be cool and do the platonic thing when inside it just hurts that something more isn’t happening. I don’t just want to be your friend. And I hate that I feel like I’m trying to convince you that I’m worthy. Ugh. Total girl moment.

HIM: Deep breaths and less total girl moment please.

ME: Deep breathing is good for some things but it’s gonna take more than that to feel ok about this pseudo friendship…

HIM: Pseudo-friendship? Is that what you think this is?

ME: That’s what it feels like. I have an agenda and you’re keeping me at a distance. Is that how friends behave?

HIM: So would you like to not be friends then?

ME: I don’t just want intermittent texts. All my other platonic guy friends make plans and hang out with me once in a while.

HIM: I’m quite busy with work and I truly don’t care what your other platonic friends do or don’t do. It seems they’re of more interest to you than me. That’s too bad.

ME: Don’t try to fucking spin this around. I am totally interested in spending time with you. Name your date.

HIM: With my current schedule, it is what it is. There are numerous people I’d like to see more often, but I am committed to being successful at work.

ME: Then why do you keep coming back into my life? Does having me as a text buddy really meet your needs? Have you ever considered that the lack of real relationships is what’s making you miserable? You need people. In the flesh. You need a family.

HIM: I needed a patient friend, not a lecture. Well-intentioned, I’m sure, but unneeded nonetheless.

ME: True friends can give each other reality checks without having to end the relationship. What is it that I needed to be patient for?

HIM: Nothing. Obviously not to be. I’m not interested in giving out reality checks, so I’ll pass on that. Sorry this was so frustrating for you. Not the intention.

ME: Whatever your intentions, the result has always been the same: hurting me and denying yourself any meaningful connection. I don’t want to play this fucked up game of yours ever again. Please do not contact me. Good luck with whatever it is you think you’re going to find with this “success” of yours…though I bet it’s gonna feel awfully empty. And no one who really cares about you is going to avoid reality checks. That’s bullshit. Grr. Bye.

So. Ahem. I hate to blow up people’s phones like that, but sometimes, a girl’s gotta speak her mind, you know? I stand by my assertion that true friends can—-and should-—be brutally honest with one another.

The other day, I had coffee with Music Mensch (with whom, I’m told, SB had shared a woman. The incestuousness of the Twin Cities rears its ugly head again. Ewww…).

“Do you have an idea of what your soul mate would look like?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I’ve learned to be open. You never know who you’re going to click with.”

“But if you had to pick someone from your past, who has come closest?”

(Insert gigantic sigh here.)

I said SB's name. “And I'd like to believe he feels the same way considering how many times he’s come back into my life. The question is, why does he keep messing with my head? What could he possibly want with me?”

“I don’t think he knows,” Music Mensch said.

Hmm. What’s a girl supposed to do with that?

Eat a ton of sugar, that's what.

The other day I had the wackiest urge to whip up a batch of Rice Krispies cupcakes...but those are boring by now, right? I wanted to make them special. Well, the only thing better than marshmallows are Marshmallow Pebbles cereal, plus more marshmallows, all welded together with melted butter. I made these super-sweet, colorful cupcakes, except, well, they turned out more like boulders. Later, as I posted the photographs on Facebook, I thought, “Jeez. Those really look like they’re for a birthday.” That’s when I remembered that SB’s b-day was coming up...and that he’s almost over the hill. Coincidence? I think not. (There’s a me-pushing-the-boulder-up-the-hill metaphor somewhere in there, but all this overanalysis has exhausted the brain cells…)

Oh well. It's his loss, especially since I kick butt on birthday gifts. Just ask EconMan, whom I surprised with a brand new bed for his 50th after we’d been dating for only six weeks. (Okay, that was somewhat selfish, as I was sleeping over at his place a lot and couldn’t tolerate his ultra plush mattress. If I could afford it, I’d buy every man I'm with a new bed.)

I'm incapable of hating my ex (in fact, if I had my way, I'd be with him right now!) so I must say: I wish you the happiest of birthdays. I hope you celebrated in style with someone very special. xoxoxxx

BELATED BIRTHDAY BOULDERS

Ingredients

4 tablespoons (½ stick) butter
1 bag mini-marshmallows
1 box Marshmallow Pebbles cereal
½ cup chocolate chips

Method

• Line muffin tins with paper cups. Coat cups with cooking spray. Set aside.

• Microwave butter in large bowl for 45 seconds or until melted.

• Add marshmallows; stir to coat. Microwave additional minute or until marshmallows are completely melted.

• Add cereal and mix gently until well coated.

• Coat hands with cooking spray to prevent stickage.

• Shape cereal mixture into “boulders” with hands. Place on sheet of waxed paper to cool.

• Microwave chocolate chips in small bowl on high 1 minute or until melted.

• Dip bottoms of “boulders” in melted chocolate and place in cupcake liners. Chill until set.

• Do a "Happy Birthday, Mr. President"esque serenade, followed by hand-feeding him boulders.

There’s too many miracles happening here
It’s the same old story, different year
Oh, I’m glad you are here
Been this way since the day you were born
The age of romance is dead and gone
Maybe a chance I’m wrong
People falling out of love
I don’t know whose side you were on
Got to call these people along
And tell them they’ve been going wrong
There’s no shame in changing and being alone
Jull pull yourself one for the road
Hasn’t it been a strange old year
Well too many miracles happening here
I’m so glad you are here
Been this way since the day you were born

The Marathoners: Man Eater vs. Mark Mallman

2010-10-14T15:08:00.000-05:00

Twin Citians spent last weekend celebrating Mark Mallman’s Marathon III. During that 78-hour stint of nonstop music, I did a marathon of my own. A man marathon.

(Before we dive in--and yes, be prepared for nautical metaphors, despite the marathon theme of this post--a note for the Man Eater readers who like depth: there will be some profound revelations by the end of this post. Stick with me…)

Mallman and I first crossed paths this summer outside First Avenue…after a hot-dog eating contest, of all things. When our two monstrous egos were introduced, Mallman and I stood there, skeptically sizing each other up like, “Who the hell do you think you are?” Suffice to say, no sparks flew on either side. Still, I can respect a man insane enough to attempt the longest song in history.

On the first day of the 78-hour-long event, I was contemplating whether or not to catch Josh Miller’s set at the Turf Club; on the “Go!” side: the yummy drummer’s propensity for playing bare-chested. On the “Stay!” side: the last time I’d invited their manager, Cody Broccoli, to bring The Goondas over to my place to *unload* in the Jacuzzi, he’d said, “The boys are afraid of you. Especially your hot tub.”

Well, then. So much for my skinny dipping orgy! But was it worth the drive to see Josh's six pack?

ME: Do I get two-for-one eye candy if I come down to the Turf?

CB: Yeah. Mallman and Josh will be there.

ME: NOT who I was referring to...

Mallman's marathon was a must-see, but that's as far as my interest in him goes. He's one of the few rock stars I have no desire to see nude. Instead of devolving to groupie status, I went to yoga. In between “om” and home, Cody texted me to say he was at the club.

Grr!!! You guys have no idea how much work it takes to look like a sexpot! There are hot metal instruments involved. And don’t get me started on accessorizing. It’s a pain in the ass and a major time investment. If I’m gonna get gussied up, I don’t want to come home alone.

ME: I’m not coming down there unless Josh takes his shirt off and/or I’m getting laid.

CB: He’s already shirtless. Watch online and…

Now we’re talkin’! May I just say how brilliant live streaming is? This way, I could ogle Josh banging away on the drum set while simultaneously enjoying my favorite Jacuzzi jet! Score!

My good luck continued. On Saturday, I landed a guest blogging spot on Gimme Noise (a.k.a. the aural authority). My shift happened to coincide with Pictures of Then's set. I was psyched!

Technical difficulties delayed my first post. Thank goddess for Erik Hess, who, on top (heh heh) of being a kick-ass photographer, is also a computer whiz. I was reluctant to hand over my oft-infected computer, but in his capable hands, he not only fixed the problem, he made some mind-blowing stuff appear onscreen.

“I’ve never seen my computer do that before!” I exclaimed as he clicked and connected, uncovered secret tabs, and sounded all the bells & whistles I knew were on my laptop but had never figured out how to control.

Erik smiled slyly at me, as if to imply that women often praise the prowess of his fingertips. When Erik and I have a conversation, virtually (there’s a computer pun for you!) every sentence could be followed by, “That’s what she said.” His subtlety is what makes him such a great dirty-talker.

That weekend, Erik was also going the distance, photographically speaking. He’d hardly left the Turf since the event began.

“What was your favorite set so far?” I asked.

Erik shrugged. “That’s like turning to your partner in the afterglow and asking, So, which part did you like best? It’s all good.”

I agreed...but admitted that I was nervous about my ability to convey the aural ecstasy onscreen.

“Again, it’s like sex,” Erik said. “It’s better if you don’t over-think it.”

True...though guest blogging is a whole different animal. Or a caged animal. At the very least, it’s Man Eater on a leash. Without my innuendo, suitors, or the mention of food…fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck! (Oh, I forgot, no F-bombs allowed, either.) Working under the constraints of proper grammar, tame puns, and impeccable punctuation, I was downgraded from a literary tigress to a domestic pussycat. You can read my five hours of relative brilliance here.

Though Mallman was generous with both edible references and naughty puns, it took all my concentration to keep up with his constant flow of quotables, plus snap a few pictures of my boys mid-performance. The stress was rough on my brain and the sound tore up my ears. By the end of Pictures of Then’s set, I was practically deaf.

“You need earplugs,” Erik shouted at me.

“Earplugs are like umbrellas and sunglasses,” I said. “Responsible adult stuff I avoid.”

Erik shook his head.

“If you’re going to hang out with these kinds of guys, you need to use protection, Erica…”

Touché.

When my shift was done, the party was just getting started. Former interviewees Dan Zamzow took the stage and the Mercurial Rage cuties had just arrived. I wanted to stay, but I had a pair on mini-me’s waiting in PJ’s at home for a bedtime story.

Later that evening, as I was about to slip off to dreamland myself, PofT frontman Casey Call texted me. He was back at the Turf with the rest of the boys…and Playboy was there.

Knowing all those bearded men were in the same club would make it impossible to sleep. Back across town I sped.

“You’re back!” one of the many musicians I’d blogged about earlier exclaimed as soon as I walked through the door. “But you’re wearing the same clothes! The least you could have done was showered.”

(Wow…where’s that Minnesota Nice when you need it?)

“I know, I probably stink,” I said. “But I figured everyone else was stinky, too.”

Just as I was saying those oh-so-unsexy words, who do you suppose appeared? Playboy, of course. The last two times I’ve run into Playboy in public, our encounters have been a tad awkward. It’s almost as if we don’t have anything in common besides those fantastic fuck sessions of the past. Cue Ida Maria's "I like you so much better when you're naked!" song.

“So…” Playboy said.

“How have you been?” I asked.

“Good.”

“Good.”

Playboy inhaled slowly, his face tensing as though it was physically painful to attempt small talk with me.

“I need to get some air,” he sighed and slipped out the door.

I guess there’s something to be said for leaving a man breathless, but...what a bummer.

Had the weekend hit its peak already?

The next day was 10-10-10, a numerical combo that suggested something magical was in the stars, so I pumped iron and primped with my hot instruments and returned to the Turf. There were tons of young, attractive men in attendance, several of whom were giving me the look. I felt like I could have my pick…if only there had been one I wanted…but the one I really wanted wasn't there...

A wave of loneliness washed over me. Despite the corporeal closeness of the hotties around me (Yes, one "accidentally" bumped by boob. He apologized, but I almost wanted to thank him.), I realized I haven't been touched by a man (hugs by my many platonic male friends, delicious though they may be, don't count) in two months. That's a looooong fucking time considering how much time I've spent fucking this year!

I was dying of thirst in the middle of the ocean! I felt waterlogged and weary. Most people would say I wasn’t allowed to complain of being tired considering the musician onstage who was still singing after three days sans sleep…yet Mallman had a huge crowd cheering him on. Mallman could count down the minutes until he was done. My race to find a mate wouldn’t end until…well…what would define the finish line in this scenario anyway? The moment when I finally meet my groom at the altar? Who knows how long that’s going to take?! And even when I do remarry, who’s to say how long it will last?

To keep my myself from having a nervous breakdown in the middle of the dance floor, I boogeyed. At 10 PM, Mallman staggered offstage and I headed toward the exit…where I ran smack into another former blog subject.

Some time back, this man had mailed me to express his displeasure about finding himself in the blog. (Kinda makes you wonder why he was reading in the first place...)

“You’ll get over it,” I reassured him. “They all do. In a year from now, we might be...well, who knows...”

Now, here we were. Eyes locked. No escape hatch. Of all the people I could've bumped into, why did it have to be the only one who didn't want to bump and grind with me?

I was prepared to pull the Minnesota Ice act and walk right past him as if we’d never met. To my surprise, however, he addressed me. We then (gasp!) engaged in civil conversation (albeit momentary). Dare I add that I was aroused? Like, nipping out up top and getting juiced down below? Yes!!!

Even more shocking: when he and I parted, I said, “Good to see you.” And I meant it!

WTF?! Go ahead, Universe, throw me another loop because I’m not confused enough as it is!

As I sauntered out to the parking lot, feeling completely out-of-body, Mallman was being ushered into a car behind the club. Fans were huddling around, eager to speak to, and spend time with, the now historic rock star.

“He needs his rest!” someone exclaimed and slammed the car door shut.

I know the feeling (of being depleted, I mean). This past year of dating has been like swimming as hard and fast as I can toward some distant shoreline...which somehow turns out to be a mirage every time. I, like Mallman, just wanted to crawl into bed. The difference between me and him was that I didn’t want to do so alone...

***

I arrived home that night and did my desperately childish wishing-on-a-star thing that I do when the sky is especially glittery. A moment later, as I fished for the front door key in my purse, something jumped out from the shadows and landed at my feet.

It was a frog.

No, I didn’t kiss it. (Haven’t I done enough of that already?!) And truth be told, it was probably a toad. But I was feeling superstitious…so I sort of kissed my pointer finger and gently pressed my digit to the frog’s slimy skin.

After a shiver shot up my spine, I went inside, got in the hot tub, came until I lost count, and cried myself to sleep.

Mark Mallman's Marathon III? Complete. Mine? The never-ending story...

***

In honor of Mark Mallman and his super-human fete, I created this muffin recipe. These pastries are so packed with healthy stuff (and a fair amount of sugar), they'll power you rock star wannabes out there through *any* endurance event!

MARK MALLMAN MARATHON MUFFINS

Ingredients

3 ¾ cups flour
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup brown sugar
1 ½ tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
¾ teaspoon cinnamon
4 medium, ripe bananas, mashed
1 ½ cups milk
1 ¼ cup smooth peanut butter
5 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 ½ teaspoons vanilla
1 ½ large eggs, beaten
2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips

Method

• Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Fill 3 muffin tins with 36 liners or 4 Jumbo muffins tins with 24 liners. In other words: this recipe makes a lotta muffins. Come hungry.

• Combine flour, sugars, baking powder, salt and the cinnamon in large bowl; stir.

• In separate bowl, combine mashed bananas, milk, peanut butter, egg, oil, and vanilla; mix until incorporated.

• Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients; stir just until uniform. Fold in chocolate chips.

• Fill muffin cups ¾ full of batter. Bake for 20-25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean.

• Remove tins from oven; let stand 2 minutes, then gently transfer muffins to cooling rack.

• Enjoy immediately and go rock someone's world tonight!

***

And now for some eye candy. Here's a vid of my Pictures of Then boys rocking out with Mallman:

Once You Go Black, You'll Never Go Blondie

2010-10-02T19:28:00.000-05:00

ONCE-YOU-GO-BLACK-YOU-NEVER-GO-BACK BARS

Ingredients:

1 cup flour
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup (1 stick) butter, softened
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup brown sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1 egg
¾ cup Nestle swirled chocolate and white chocolate morsels

Method

• Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Coat heart-shaped, 8-inch square, or 8-inch round pan with cooking spray.

• In small bowl, combine flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt. Whisk until combined.

• In large bowl, cream butter and sugars. Add vanilla and egg; stir with spoon until incorporated.

• Add dry ingredients to wet ingredients gradually; stir until dough forms.

• Coat hands with small amount of cooking spray. Using hands, transfer dough to pan and press until evenly distributed in bottom of pan.

• Sprinkle with swirled chocolate morsels.

• Bake 20-25 minutes or until set. (I prefer mine slightly underdone and really gooey.)

• Remove from oven; cool on wire rack before cutting.

• I can’t speak for the guys, but once you’ve had a piece of this in your mouth, you will never go back to Blondies ever again!

Kissing Bundts In The Boys' Club

2010-09-27T15:19:00.000-05:00

Articulate though Man Eater may appear to be onscreen, she loses her shit on occasion. Like Saturday night at the Uptown VFW Block Party, for example. Chris Koza of Rogue Valley had just come up to greet me and Casey Call of Pictures of Then.

“You look great without your glasses on!” I gushed to Koza. In fact, he looked like a different man altogether. His face was streamlined; his moonstone eyes unobstructed. If I thought he was hot before, consider this on-the-brink-of-combustion Chris.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I mean, you looked great with your glasses, too,” I continued as I leaned in for a bicep squeeze (I’m sorry, I know that move is overused, but it’s become a natural reflex. It’s the only body part on a married man I am allowed to touch!)

Chris stood there, expressionless, as though waiting to see if I would further shove my foot in my mouth.

Of course I did.

“Hell, you look great all the time!” I said.

Had I dug the hole deep enough yet?

No fucking way.

Chris’s bandmate, Peter Sieve, came over next. For about five minutes, Casey and Pete talked a blue streak about subs and who-the-hell-knows-what. I understood the gist of it: the sound on Casey’s stage was not up to snuff.

“So we did what anyone would do in that situation,” Casey said. “We turned the amps up all the way.”

“When all else fails, blast the volume,” Pete agreed. “And show more crotch.”

Both guys turned to me as though I was supposed to compliment them on their problem-solving techniques.

Talk about being put on the spot! I suppose I could’ve pretended to comprehend the technical side of rocking of someone’s world or pulled something semi-intelligent out of my ass, but instead…I told the truth.

“The only word I understood in the last five minutes was crotch,” I confessed.

Pete got a rise out of that. He said the feeling must be similar to when he’s watched Telemundo and the only words he understood were “Dennis Hopper.” (Though, really, we can’t compare the visceral reactions to Dennis Hopper’s name to the word “crotch” in any context.)

These awkward encounters with the Rogue Valley crew were midway through a marathon weekend of music networking. Haven’t I told you yet? I’m with the band. As in Pictures of Then. And when I’m them, I’m just one of the boys. Casey may be my new “boss”, but mixing business with blog subjects has proven oh-so-pleasurable.

My association with PofT + the Rock Star Guest Chef contacts + Mother Nature’s perfect timing (ovulation coinciding with the block party) = raining men. And boy, oh, boy, was I wet.

Having spent so much time up-close-and-personal with musicians lately, I've come to admire how they (mis)treat their guitars...and it totally turns me on. There are surely terms to describe these moves, but the strumming, the plucking, the rattling, the smacking. OMG. I'm getting all hot and bothered just typing the verbs, much less imagining a pair (or two) of practiced hands going to town on my own flesh.

In addition to oodles of musicians in 3-D, I had Cody Broccoli, Chris the Cameraman, and Slump Buster all texting me at once. The entire relationship spectrum from colleague to platonic friend to ex-BF was blowing up my phone!

Then there were the Man Eater admirers. I’ve never met so many in one night! It was totally flattering, especially because some of them I’d actually consider spending time with one-on-one.

For those of you (ahem, RunDoc) too pussy to approach me online, much less in public, here’s a crash course in meeting your fave erotic food blogger:

1) Introduce yourself. Full names, please. Anonymity is creepy, not cute.

2) If you’ve read my blog, say so. Though I’ll probably blush when you admit to being a Man Eater fan, if I know you know about the most embarrassing (and enticing) parts of my life, I’ll let my guard down faster. It’s an invitation to drop the façade and jump right into the yummy stuff.

3) Compliment, don’t question. The worst pick-up line (after “Where’s your boyfriend?”) is “Are you having a good time?” And when you stroke my ego, start with my smarts, then move on to my physical assets.

4) Finally, whatever you do, don’t insult me.

To demonstrate, here’s the worst of the worst of bad interactions from the weekend:

ME: (Sexting with Slump Buster in middle of crowd)

UNIDENTIFIED HOTTIE (UH): “Anybody on there is far less interesting than anything happening on stage.”

(Ever heard of multitasking? I am capable of listening to music and sexting simultaneously, ya know!)

ME: “I’ve seen this band before. Several times.”

UH: (Leaning over my Blackberry screen to read what I was typing. Hello! Talk about being in my "bubble"!) “Who’s so interesting anyway?”

Readers, before you assume this was your run-of-the-mill dirty talk, let me say this: sexting with Slump Buster makes my brain ache (among other body parts…) With a man as wicked smart as him, there’s a certain amount of mental gymnastics involved to make the sexting, well, sexy.

ME: “Do I know you?”

UH: (Giving me the I-just-sucked-a-lemon expression like there was no way in hell someone like him would be friends with someone like me.) “No.”

ME: “Well, what a way to make an impression!”

Lesson: Grade A Asshole behavior will not get you laid.

When the real rock stars and I moved inside the VFW, things heated up. On every level.

Who knows what it is about me (hmm…perhaps this blog?), but when I’m surrounded by skinny dudes wielding big instruments, they tend to forget their manners. They treat me like one of their peeps. Which is perfectly fine. What’s foreign is being surrounded by so many hotties who don’t want to fuck me. Or, correction: something sexy might ensue if they weren’t attached, but since they are, they’re more interested in what I bring to the boardroom than the bedroom. It’s all about what’s happening on the sheet music, not between-the-sheets. It’s making booty shaking tunes, not making booty calls. Playing guitars, not playing with body parts. Getting into the Kitty Cat Klub instead of my feline anatomy. Hmph.

And yet, the things I witnessed in the span of one Saturday night are enough to make any groupie come in front of her computer screen right now.

I was surrounded by dudes (some of whom will remain nameless by request) talking about nipping out, showcasing chest hair, and pulling girls’ hair. Rock stars bragged about rubbing one out, being sex machines, and having too much junk in the front to wear boxer shorts. (My response: “No you didn’t.” Him: “Yes, I just went there.”) One took off his shirt and said he didn’t mind if I watched (I wanted to, but didn’t). With another, I insisted he lift up his shirt to show off his abs; at which point, I couldn’t resist running my hand over the taut, tan musculature in a circular motion like I was waxing a Corvette. Vrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooom!

Remember the rock star that made me mute upon appearance? (Okay, there’s been more than one, but this one especially shuts me up on site for some reason.) On Saturday night, he still made every pore on my body sweat, but for once, the cat did not have my tongue. (Though his tongue on my clit would’ve really made me purrrrrrrr…)

He and I finally had a conversation, though the naughtiest it got was him remarking “You’re a forward lady.”

Forward? Yes, to put it mildly. Lady? Far from it.

And thank goodness for that, because any proper lady would've been offended by the language in the VFW. Forget locker room talk. This was pure and almost-adulterated cock talk. If you thought Man Eater had a filthy mouth, you have not been in a bar full of musicians at closing time. The raunch was through the roof. Boys I once considered wholesome were cracking jokes about cuming during each other’s songs, using set lists to mop up the jizz, and poop-packed porn.

Before Pictures of Then and I could call it a night, a lot of bumping went down. And I’m not talking fist-bumping (though musicians like to greet me that way, too, for some reason). “Bumping” is when two cell phone fanatics smash their cells together to transfer information. It’s quite funny. And rather inefficient. But whatever.

I woke up the next “morning” at 12:30 PM with a major hangover...and I’ve never been drunk a day in my life. Seriously, I don’t know how these guys do it night after night. (And by “it”, I mean drink. I could totally do them night after night, heh heh.)

Later that day, as I was cleaning out my car, I found a water bottle in the backseat. The “water” was yellow. I suspect it was whiskey, though it could have been piss. Had I really wanted to know, I suppose I could have taste-tested it. Then again, it’d probably taste the same to my palate either way.

Speaking of which, it’s about time we had a recipe on the so-called food blog! This may be TMI of the mother-daughter variety, but the VFW Block Party coincided with a surprise party for my mother’s 60th birthday. Because Mom hasn’t given a rat’s ass about my creative achievements for years (This might explain why I often distrust women and feel so at home with men), I totally blew off her festivities in favor of ass-kissing musicians. Bad karma? Probably. But to my credit, I contributed the cake...as in “Kiss My Bundt” cake. Gotta love that passive-aggressive MN Nice girl in me.

So. We've come full circle. At least where the cake is concerned. I’ve yet to come anywhere but the hot tub. Hmph, take two.

And on that note (musical pun alert), here's a clip of my Pictures of Then boys finishing off their set. Now I'm going to finish myself off. Consider this your invitation to join me...

For more aural pleasure, subscribe to Man Eater's YouTube Channel. For your oral enjoyment, try this recipe. Intimidating though it may appear, it's a piece of cake. Literally.

KISS MY BUNDT CAKE

Ingredients

For chocolate batter base:
1/3 cup Ghardelli (or equally quality) cocoa powder
¼ cup boiling water
3 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons oil

For vanilla batter:
7 eggs, separated
¾ cup water
1 ½ cups sugar
½ cup oil
2 ½ cups flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon cream of tartar

For decoration:
1 bottle Duncan Hines vanilla glaze
Crushed Oreos
Sprinkles

Method

• Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Coat bundt pan with cooking spray and sprinkle with flour. Set aside.

• Combine cocoa and boiling water in large bowl. Add 3 tablespoons sugar and 2 tablespoons oil. Whisk until incorporated; set aside to cool.

• In separate bowl, whisk egg yolks and ¾ cup water until incorporated. Add sugar, oil, flour, baking powder, and salt to bowl. Whisk until incoprated.

• In third bowl, combine egg whites and cream of tartar. Beat with electric mixer on high until stiff peaks form. Fold into vanilla batter.

• Transfer 2 cups of vanilla batter into chocolate batter bowl; stir until incorporated.

• Alternately spoon scoops of each batter into bundt pan. Swirl with knife.

• Bake 25-30 minutes or until toothpick inserted near center comes out clean. Transfer to wire rack to cool.

• Heat glaze in microwave according to package directions and drizzle on cooled cake.

• Alternately, transfer tub of frosting to Ziploc plastic bag and heat on high at 10 second intervals until melted. Snip off corner of bag with scissors and drizzle over cake.

• Decorate with crushed Oreos and/or sprinkles.

Saturday Night Fever

2010-09-21T15:28:00.000-05:00

There are so many things wrong with this Saturday night I don’t know where to start. First, I’m at Jeremy Messersmith’s concert. With an ex. The ex that I originally met at a Jeremy Messersmith concert.

Lookbook is to blame. The Minneapolis electronica duo broke up (professionally and personally, from what I’ve gleaned) just before their show at Cause, which I’d planned to attend tonight. Hmph. What’s a single girl with cabin fever supposed to do?

I'm not psyched about the show. Having listened to Messersmith’s music so many times I have the CDs memorized, it’s not exactly new stimulation. It's also an early show, which means there are a lot of parents here…and not of the MILF variety. Talk about a buzz kill.

My ex-turned-BFF arrives and we shoot the shit before Messersmith takes the stage. Shortly after the crooner, and his cronnies, all decked out in white ("Didn't you get the memo? I'm starting a cult."), take the stage, my BFF takes off. (Later I’ll find out that he was equally disenchanted and chose to get drunk in a dive bar while another man tried to buy his way into his pants. True story.)

As the show comes to a close, I wonder how it is that I haven’t gotten hit on. Quite frankly, I look hot. Somehow I've squeezed into a skin-tight pair of jeans and it’s warm enough in the club that I’ve shed my sweater. All my curves are on display, I’m having a kick-ass hair day, and damn, if it were anatomically possible, I’d totally jump my own bones right here, right now.

Alas…be careful what you wish for. The much anticipated come-on occurs during the very last encore song, when a dude who looks totally out of place (don’t you belong at a Limp Bizkit concert somewhere?) bops over to me (yes, bops), takes a slurp of something red from a plastic cup (oh-so-classy) and that’s when I know it’s just a matter of time until…

“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks, sliding his hand across the small of my back. There’s only a thin layer of cotton separating his skin from mine. I must admit, it sends a little shock of arousal up my spine. I adore ballsy moves, but why is it always the a-holes that use ‘em?

I look at Limp Bizkit with a “You’ve got to be kidding me” expression and shake my head. I have a biting retort or two on the tip of my tongue (“On his way over to kick your ass” comes to mind), but there are no satisfactory answers to this question. So I stay silent.

(For future reference, fellas, put “Where’s your boyfriend?” on the Top-10-Shittiest-Pick-Up-Lines list.)

I leave before the music stops, lest Limp Bizkit thinks it’s cute to escort me to my car. I’m home by 10:30 PM. This Saturday night sucks ass.

Flash back a few weeks prior to another Saturday night, this time at Cause (a.k.a. the best bet for last-minute live music in the Twin Cities). I’ve come to ogle Speed’s The Name frontman Ryan McNally, but between sets, I spy Cody Broccoli (a.k.a. manager of The Goondas) at the bar. I head over to say hello.

“Damn!” he says as soon as I slam into him for a hug. “You hurt me! Do you have a nipple piercing or something?”

No… (but I have been with a woman who had ‘em…)

During the next set, while I’m flirting with a fb friend on my phone, Cody creeps up behind me and covers the screen with his hand.

“Which one do you like?” he asks, lifting his chin to indicate the rockers onstage. There are five young studs to choose from. None of them my type. They look, well, dirty. As in: desperate for a date with bar of soap and a hairbrush.

“They’re all performers,” Cody says like a proud pimp. “I know for a fact. Which one do you want?”

“Whichever one takes off his shirt first,” I say, a wink-wink nudge-nudge at one of Cody’s other boys (a.k.a. yummy drummer Josh Miller) whom I’ve yet to fuck.

Once the dirty dudes are done, I say my goodbyes.

“You’re not staying?” Cody gapes. “Did you get a booty call?”

“Ha! I wish.”

“I’m taken,” Cody says. “But I’ll give you a hug if you want. I know you like those tight squeezes.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“I read your posts,” he says.

“Oh, no!” I moan, though I don’t mean it, at least, not in this case. I figure if anyone can find me a decent rock star to rock my world, it’s Cody. All the better if he knows what I do and don't like between the sheets.

“Yup. I’ve been reading,” he muses. “And you’ve been around…”

“Uh…gee, thanks.”

“I don’t mean you’re a whore. I just mean that you referenced like four other dudes in one post.”

“Hmm…”

“Besides, you have kids, right?”

“Yup. Two of them.”

“Boys or girls?”

“Both girls.”

“Uh-oh. You must be a bad influence on them.”

“I’m not around enough to be a bad influence!”

“Same dad?”

“Yeah…”

“Divorce?”

“Yes…”

“I don’t mean to invade your privacy or anything.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s much privacy left if you’ve read the blog.”

“Hey,” Cody says. “Don’t feel bad. About Josh, I mean. He turned you and another chick down recently. I asked him what the deal was and he said he was ‘working stuff out over his ex’.”

Now that is bullshit. I don’t think Josh has evolved past penis think. He's still at the young, dumb, and full of cum stage of development. Hence, my intense desire for a one-night-stand with him.

In the interest of self-disclosure, the man front has been quieter than usual lately. Or rather, it’s cyclical. And I’m closer to the celibate side at the moment. Not that there aren’t men on my radar; there most definitely are.

The other night I sexted with Slump Buster while I skinny dipped in my hot-tub…and made very good use of the strategically placed jets whilst imagining his hand smacking my ass. That was fun. Not as fun as fucking, but, you know.

Then there’s the mysterious “Run Doc” who friended me on Facebook and refused to reveal his identity because he’s “shy”. (To which I responded, “I don’t do shy dudes. Identify yourself or I’m filing you in the ‘stalker’ section.”)

Then there’s the fan who’s offered to chauffer me to Trampled by Turtles concert in Rochester next month. As if I needed bribing, he has also offered to throw in a bag of Halloween Oreos. My favorite. Nom nom.

And, for better or worse, the exes continue to hover. New Dude recently subscribed to my YouTube channel under an unfamiliar screen name, knowing that eventually I’d get curious enough to check out his playlists. Um, yeah, posting songs like Violent Femmes “Day After Day” and Lady GaGa’s “Bad Romance” takes passive-aggressiveness to a whole new level. Ugh.

In sum, there’s activity. Just not wild, sweaty, throw-down action. I could use some of that. Sigh.

So I keep going to Cause. And once in a while, it pays off. Like last Hump Day. It was pretty fucking fabulous. With five minutes of my arrival, I’d been kissed by Playboy and told I looked “as cute as ever”, gotten a few friendly words from She (of the infamous threesome), been hugged and told “you look happy” by Carnage (not a pseudonym, BTW, but a hip-hop alter ego), bumped into Chris Koza for the ump-teenth time (and gasped “Are you stalking me?!”), chatted with rock photographer Erik Hess about the hottest shows around town, and given another former blog subject the cold shoulder.

(Recounting the evening later to my lil’ bro, I tell him that all my favorite characters were in one room and/or on my phone. “It was like Man Eater, the musical!”)

Then a guy devouring some succulently scented appetizer next to me turned and introduced himself.

“You look so chill,” he marveled. “I just had to say hello.”

Yup, Man Eater has the confident single lady act down pat. Now if only someone would pat me down…and eat me out…

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…………………………

***

What’s that you say? A recipe? Fuck that. Man Eater needs to squeeze into her skinny jeans by this Friday, when I’ll be reading at the Bryant Lake Bowl in Minneapolis at 10 PM. My topic? Irish appetites. Hmm…plenty of material to choose to from…

So come on down, Twin Citians (stalkers excluded)! Those who do *might* get lucky…

Say Like The French Say...and Eat Like Them, Too!

2010-09-16T15:34:00.000-05:00

Sacre bleu! That’s what the French would say if they saw Adam Gears’s kitchen. It’s a foodie’s dream with stainless steel appliances, countertops so pristine I hesitate to set my purse down, and an island big enough to sleep on, much less slice and dice on.

With a set-up like this, it’s a shame the frontman of Say Like The French Say can’t cook. No worries, though; he’s recruited the band’s drummer, David Nicoletti, to cover the culinary portion of the interview.

“This isn’t a family blog, is it?” David asks right off the bat. “Because I might drop an F-bomb.”

“Definitely not a family blog,” I reply.

But this is a full house. Aside from a Man Eater, two dudes, two absent roommates, and a girlfriend, Adam has three dogs. He’d warned me in an email that the pooches would be present; what he didn’t mention was their gymnastic abilities. Within minutes of hellos and hand-shakes, the newest addition to the canine family jumps up and steals my pen and my pad of paper. His next target is my camera.

David intervenes in the nick of time and, after being scolded for pestering me, the dog moves on…to hump one of his own.

“Your dog is totally fucking your other dog in the ass,” David remarks.

“He’s just playing,” Adam says.

Dog one sinks his teeth into dog two.

“That’s not playing! Now he’s biting him!”

“People always project their own behaviors onto animals…” Adam sighs.

“Nah,” David says. “I don’t attack from the side like that.”

“Leave ‘em alone,” Adam says. “If they want to be gay, I support them!”

Aside from the gay dog farm and SLTFS (“slut-fus” as he calls it), Adam has had a potpourri of day jobs. His latest transition was from ESL teacher to manager of Glitz, a formal wear store in the Mall of America.

“You sell, like, prom dresses?” I ask.

“Yup,” he says, not an ounce of self-consciousness evident. “If you ever need a gown…”

I laugh—perhaps a little too loud—at the mere sound of the word “gown”.

“I haven’t worn a gown since…well, probably my wedding!” I say.

And quite honestly, I have no interest in putting one on any time soon. I’m much more interested in disrobing…

I tell Adam that being surrounded by teenage drama queens trying to squeeze into sequined things sounds like hell to me, but he seems to genuinely enjoy what he does…as long as he keeps producing tunes.

“When I was in grad school, I was really depressed and couldn’t figure out why,” he says. “Then I realized it was because I wasn’t making music. That’s my outlet. When a song comes together in a way it didn’t exist before…there’s just no feeling that compares to that.”

Say Like The French Say was a long time coming. Both Adam and David played in other bands for years. When they decided to form this group, they didn’t even do a musical run-through to see how they sounded.

“At this point in the game, it’s all about compatibility,” David says. “It’s not like you go on a date and ask a girl if she has a vagina.”

SLTFS’s sound is Death Cab for Cutie-esque, but the name of the group was stolen from a line in a Fugazi song: Say like the French say: bon soir regret a demain which translates to “Goodnight regret; see you tomorrow.”

“We had 20 pages of band names,” Adam tells me. “What I liked about this one was that it didn’t make me want to puke.”

I ask about their latest album, entitled This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, of which Candystore’s Kent Weis said, “There are no 'duds' on this record. You won’t be disappointed unless, of course, your taste sucks."

That’s quite the endorsement if I do say so myself. But why an album and not the ever-popular EP?

“We did an album because we could,” David says.

Adam’s dad, a voice talent, has his own studio, so there were no time constraints.

“It took four months to record,” Adam says, “But it felt like 16 years. Efficiency is one advantage of an EP, but I like the continuity, the flow, and the experience of albums,” Adam says. “An EP isn’t as cohesive. It’s over before you get into it.”

“So what’s the secret to getting airplay?” I ask. “Because I hear a lot of local bands are having trouble with that.”

“Back flips off the kick drum,” Adam says definitively.

“Or a hat,” David says. “I’ve gotta get a crazy hat.”

“These are the things City Pages doesn’t tell you,” Adam teases.

“Fireworks, maybe?” David continues. “Or dancers?”

“Seriously,” Adam says. “It would probably help if we didn’t swear so much. Someone pointed out to me that every track on our album has profanity in it.”

David isn’t so concerned with getting on the radio. “I gave up the dream of fame at age 18,” he says. “Now I’m just in it for the chicks.”

“I hope Heather doesn’t read this,” Adam says, referring to his drummer’s S.O.

“Girls at shows are just back-ups,” David jokes. “Heather gets it.”

“Speaking of which, I saw on Facebook that you’re in a new relationship,” I say to Adam.

He chuckles. “I really wanted to add and it’s complicated just to be funny, but I didn’t think Amber would appreciate that.”

“Is it complicated?” I ask.

“It’s actually the least complicated relationship I’ve ever been in,” Adam says, slightly surprised to hear himself verbalize that. Then he asks if I can explain why, when high school girls post their relationship status on Facebook, they say they’re married to their BFF’s.

“I didn’t realize that was a trend,” I say. “Then again, I don’t know many high school girls…”

“I do,” Adam says. “But only because of my job. I’m not a creeper!”

“A creeper?” David asks.

“I’ve never heard that, either,” I say. “There must be a story there.”

Of course there is…in the form of a post-performance escapade with a group of girls who were barely legal.

“You guys aren’t creepers, are you?” the ladies asked Adam and his companion en route to their home.

As the story continues, it’s actually Adam who got creeped out.

“This girl had arrows tattooed on her thighs, pointing inward. She said they were a reminder to keep her legs closed.”

(Readers, don’t you dare recommend I do something that drastic!)

“She said she ‘used to be’ a stripper…but she didn’t look old enough to say ‘used to’ about anything.”

The high schoolish hook-up soon went stale.

“They took me and my buddy in the sauna,” Adam says. “We were drinking and…”

(Does anyone else see where this is going?)

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing. The girls got sleepy.”

“Of course they did!” I said. “That’s just bad strategy!”

(Never combine heat and booze if you want to get laid.)

Adam is familiar with being left unsatisfied. On a trip to Guatemala (ironically, to learn Spanish in order to teach ESL better), he stayed with a woman who’d promised three meals included in the price of room and board.

“Breakfast was Cocoa Puffs,” Adam says. “Of course, they weren’t called Cocoa Puffs. They were called something crazy.”

“Like El Capitan?” David asks.

“Yeah. El Capitan del Cruncho!” Adam giggles. “That would be a great name for our next album!”

But day after day of cereal, no matter how exotic it sounds, gets boring.

“On the weekends I sang a song so she’d cook pancakes,” Adam beams. “And now I know how to make pancakes. Chocolate chip ones. Amber loves them.”

“Guys and breakfast food,” I say. “Explain this to me.”

“It’s pretty hard to fuck up breakfast,” David says. “Besides, when you wake up at noon, breakfast is the only meal you really have time to cook. I, on the other hand, have a real job, so I also know how to cook dinner.”

No matter what the meal, the dudes agree: bacon can’t be beat.

“My dad is a bacon snob,” Adam says. “He likes it cooked at a certain consistency, almost underdone.”

“I like my bacon crispy, just before it gets burnt,” David says.

I’m on David’s side when it comes to pork; but Adam and I agree on beef. One of his faves is The Bulldog’s Volcano Burger, which is topped with pepper jack cheese and pineapple.

"Avocado is really good on burgers, too," Adam says.

“The only three foods I really don’t like are avocado, onions, and mushrooms,” David says.

“I hate mushrooms, too,” Adam concurs. “They taste like dirt.”

“That’s because they’re a fungus.”

“The other kind of mushrooms, though…” Adam says, a twinkle in his eye. "When I did those, I saw Jesus on a wooden bowl!”

Per their Facebook page, I know SLTFS has hobbies other than drugs, including “Chipotle, PBR, frozen pizza, and a few different musical instruments. We are also interested in other things. Just not as much.”

Having covered music and booze, it’s time to get cooking.

David slices and sautés chicken and red pepper as practiced as though he could do it in his sleep. Adam observes.

“Why don’t you put the pasta in?” David suggests.

Mammoth sized pause. Adam peers into the pot of boiling water, utterly stumped. He has as much experience with a box of Barilla as I do with a sound board…which is to say: none.

“Read the directions,” David says.

Adam does: “Prepare pasta according to directions.”

After we all have a chuckle about the absurdity of the instructions, Adam continues reading and decides 11 minutes should do it.

“See?” Adam says triumphantly. “I can fucking cook!”

Or fuck-up cooking…as evidenced who-knows-how-many minutes later.

“How do you like your pasta?” David asks.

“Al dente, of course,” Adam says.

“How long has it been boiling?” David asks.

“Um…”

“You didn’t set a timer?”

“No…”

David shakes his head in a silent “I told you so” motion, removes the pot from heat, and drains the pasta.

“I feel like it needs more garlic,” David says as he transfers the skillet’s contents to the pasta pot.

“If this is a ‘seal the deal’ meal,” I say, “You might not want too much garlic.”

“I have garlic powder…” Adam says. “But it’s chunky…”

David and I are borderline disgusted.

“I have a garlic press…” Adam offers.

“Do you even know how to use it?” I ask.

Of course he doesn’t. (My latest theory—that men who have lots of fancy cooking equipment are trying to compensate for culinary ignorance—is confirmed.)

The least Adam can do is stir.

“I like wooden spoons,” he tells me. “I was paddled with them as a kid.”

As though on cue, Adam’s girlfriend Amber arrives. Thus far in the Rockstar Guest Chef series, Man Eater has always been the only female in attendance (excluding children and animals). Sitting at the table as a foursome—boy, girl, boy, girl—should feel weird. But it doesn’t. It feels like…family.

“Good job on the chicken,” Adam compliments the chef. “You wouldn’t believe how many guys I know who dry out their chicken.”

“You want it to be floppy,” David says. “You know when it’s ready when if, say, you threw it against the wall, it stuck.”

“I thought you were going to say that if you threw against somebody, it’d stick,” Adam says.

“That would be a good test, too,” I say.

“And a relationship saver!” Adam says. “Because if you threw chicken at your partner in the middle of a fight, two things would happen: either you’d start laughing or you’d get killed.”

“More?” David asks everyone.

“More chicken,” Adam answers.

“You’re such a demanding diner. I can’t take you anywhere!”

“We didn’t go anywhere,” Adam sasses back. Then he looks at me. “Forgive my word vomit. I am such an asshole.”

And with that, Adam goes to the kitchen for seconds…but doesn’t return to the table. Eventually we all stand up to clear our dishes…and there’s Adam, standing over the almost-empty pot with a ladle in one hand, licking the fingertips of the other.

“Don’t come in here!” he shrieks.

“Wait,” David says, pointing at Adam. “Is your chin sweating?”

Adam wipes away the shiny spot.

“No,” he says bashfully. “It’s oil from the pasta.”

This is when I laugh so hard I almost piss my pants. But first, I take a picture.

“Put that in your blog and eat it!” Adam says.

Touché.

***

Visit Say Like The French Say on their MySpace page for upcoming performances and view the photo album of our evening on Man Eater's Facebook page.

***

FRENCH ME PASTA

Ingredients

1 box penne pasta
12 ounces chicken breast, cubed
½ teaspoon Italian seasoning
½ teaspoon paprika
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 teaspoons minced garlic
1 whole red pepper, sliced
1 cup fresh baby spinach
Dash each salt and pepper
1 tablespoon Newman’s Own sun-dried tomato salad dressing
¾ cup parmesan cheese, shredded

Method

• Prepare pasta according to package directions. :) Drain and return to pan. Set aside.

• Sprinkle chicken with Italian seasoning and paprika.

• In large skillet, heat 1 tablespoon olive oil. Add minced garlic and chicken.

• Sauté chicken just until juices run clear. Add pepper and spinach to skillet; sauté additional 2 minutes.

• Transfer chicken and vegetables to pasta pan. Stir. Add salt, pepper, salad dressing, and cheese; stir until cheese melts.

• Serve hot, family style; then get hot, doggy style.