Man Eater’s loneliness worsens with every degree the temperature drops in Minnesota. Today it was disgustingly gray outside; the world was like a big fucking hair ball. (Would that make me the pussycat? Meow.)
To improve my mood, I baked. ‘Tis the season for pumpkin raisin cravings and mine wouldn’t abate. I ended up with a new pumpkin raisin crumble creation, sprinkled it over a hefty serving of ice cream, and topped it off with excessive caramel drizzle.
YUM.
Trouble is, ice cream and cold weather don’t mix. What I really needed was a burly man to encapsulate me in his piping hot embrace. But where to get one? All my Facebook fishies are ignoring my lures. I can’t get any of my (admittedly, attached) admirers to bite the hook. Where else can you find a man in rural Minnesota on a rainy day?
Match.com. Of course. Locating a guy online is as easy as finding a recipe. They’re EVERYWHERE.
It’s how, in a similar state of sex deprivation, I hooked up with Gorilla Guy last year. It was towards the end of October 2008 when I put up a profile and bam! (Make that: bam bam bam bam bam ow bam bam bam.) There he was, my next lay, on my computer screen with 48 hours.
As I described in the 10-18-09 post, the one-night-stand with Gorilla Guy wasn’t worth the cleanup and recovery time, but I stuck with Match, despite not getting stuck with anything more than hordes of wistful messages from “sensitive” men who were too cowardly to meet up in 3-D.
Don’t get me wrong—there was plenty of action, at least onscreen. Guys eat up my e-mails. I’m a WRITER. Being entertaining with the written word comes naturally to me. The dudes were so satisfied with my little ditties that there was no hurry to see my titties (WTF is up with this Dr. Seuss streak I’m on lately?!).
It wasn’t until the following spring that I realized with all the e-mail writing it required for one lousy outing, I could’ve written a book (i.e. Man Eater). Not only was I giving my words away, I wasn’t getting fed or laid as a result of the exchanges.
Week after week of disappointment took its toll, until during one family dinner, I actually started screaming and slamming my fists on the table, cursing these online assholes for wasting my time.
“They’re all pussies!” I shrieked. That was a low point. Never say “pussy” in front of your parents unless you’re prepared for their heart attacks. I even freaked myself out.
“So why don’t you just STOP?” my step-dad asked once he caught his breath.
Oh. Duh. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that I had a CHOICE in the matter. I suppose because I’m stubborn. When I start something, I finish it. Even—and especially—if it means shattering the situation and all parties involved to smithereens.
So I quit, despite Match.com’s promise that if didn’t find my “special someone” (and why would I? Online dating is a big cesspool of unremarkable nobodies) within six months, they’d give me another six months of service for free. (An asinine guarantee if I ever heard one! Why would I want six MORE months of something that didn’t work the first time around?)
I reminded myself of the Match frustration often during the lonely summer nights and redirected my energy toward Man Eater instead. But now, as fall descends, the leaves scatter, and the trees are left standing there all naked and scrawny and vulnerable, I’m reminded that I’d better hurry-up-and-couple-up before I get snowbound and stranded in the my igloo.
So…I reactivated my account today. (Oh, the shame!) Actually, it wasn’t that much work because Match keeps your info online for AGES. My crusty old profile from a year ago was still there.
I tried to change the photos, though Match’s photography policy has gotten awfully prudish. They wouldn’t let me post any of the shots you see here on Man Eater because they were too “provocative”. (Yeah, as if you didn’t have the entire spectrum of sex addicts already registered on your site, you hypocrites.) I did the best I could with the photographic restrictions. I rewrote my “statement” to the men of cyberspace.
Consider the hook baited and bobbing in the water. Let’s see how long ‘til a decent nibble arrives. Hopefully I’ll get a lil’ sumthin’ sumthin’ before my one-year sex-free anniversary. If not, at least I’ll have some new material. Man Eater doesn’t want the blog to go stale. As my writer friend Melissa says, “Writing without juice…it's just not writing.”
Bartender! Man Eater needs a refill. And a fresh serving of sumthin’ sumthin’. ASAP!
PUMPKIN RAISIN SUMTHIN' SUMTHIN'
INGREDIENTS
1 cup flour
2/3 cup old-fashioned oats
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons butter, softened
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup brown sugar
½ cup pureed pumpkin
½ egg
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup chopped walnuts
1/3 cup raisins
Ice cream (as much as you want)
Caramel drizzle (ditto)
METHOD
* Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease baking sheet with cooking spray.
* In large bowl, combine all ingredients; stir until well-incorporated.
* Spread mixture onto greased baking sheet.
* Bake for 20 minutes, or until crumbly and lightly browned.
* Sprinkle over ice cream.
* Drizzle with caramel.
* Do not eat at computer. Sticky keyboard is not conducive to online dating.
