Valentine’s Day is coming. Slump Buster is going away. Man Eater is…cooking up trouble?
Let’s cut to the chase: Fire Writer is back in rotation. (Have I said “They always come back”? Because they DO!) Nothing’s happened…but the opportunity may soon present itself. Based on the ironic timing these things tend to have, I’d bet the meet-and-greet will happen while Slump Buster is in the Big Apple doing…whatever he’s doing to escape the dreaded V-day.
If you’ve been living under a rock, Fire Writer is the novelist who made me swoon, first on Facebook with his photo, then on the page with his latest love story. He’s also married with children. In other words: off limits. Still…I will admit to an eensy-weensy adulterous urge when he reconnected with me this week.
Before I could entertain the naughty thoughts--wait. Scratch that. The thoughts were there. A plan to enact them, however, had not been hatched. Before I could fantasize about sharing something hotter than caffinated beverages with Fire Writer, Mr. Sandman sent me a warning.
On the night I received Fire Writer’s message, I dreamt that I was in jail. On death row. My crime? Sex with a married man. From my prison cell, I was frantically trying to contact every influential person I knew to get me a reprieve from the death sentence. Nothing panned out. In the final hours before my execution, my mother visited me. She didn’t even seem to WANT to help me stop the proceedings. She may as well have wagged her finger and said, “I told you so.” I felt completely powerless, alone, and deeply regretful that I’d let something as fleeting as fucking cost me the rest of my life.
I woke up with a pit in my stomach. The writing was on the wall. No Jungian translation necessary. Hands off the taken men, Man Eater! Just to prove to the Universe I was serious about changing my ways, I deleted all unnecessary suitors’ numbers from my cell and unfriended all attached assholes (like C’mon Kid) on Facebook.
I used to believe that if conditions were ripe, anyone was prone to stray. Add alcohol, and you were most definitely screwed. With inhibitions lowered (or non-existent, as was often the case with me) things (or men) you swore you wouldn’t eat (or fuck) could easily reappear in your kitchen (bed).
It's kind of like popcorn, one of the few foods that does not entice me in the least. The only exceptions are caramel corn (which is a caloric no-no) and kettle corn, which I don’t buy because it’s so airy and sweet, I could eat a mountain of it and still feel hungry. (See? Keep temptation out of the house—and your cell phone—and you’ll be safe from doing stupid shit.)
During a recent grocery shopping trip, I ran into a pyramidic display of kettle corn. Made of all natural ingredients, it looked wholesome. The price was right. How could I resist? I bought two bags, plus some Valentine’s Day candy. My kids devoured the first bag of kettle corn that night for dinner. The next afternoon found me with nowhere to go, no one to do, the remaining bag of kettle corn and a handful of cinnamon red hots. Those two foods couldn’t possibly couple up…could they? YES!!!
OMG. Welcome to my new addiction. Red Hot Popcorn was better than sex with a taken man could ever be. (‘Cause guilt ruins the flavor of just about everything, especially fucking.) This snack didn’t even taste sinful, though with two sticks of butter, plus corn syrup, it was most definitely heart-UNhealthy. I could’ve shoveled the whole bowl down my throat…and would have were it not for my vow to bring a treat along on my next visit to Slump Buster’s. So I put the popcorn down and bagged it up for my honey instead. And, miracle of all miracles, as soon as I directed that energy into the appropriate person, the popcorn craving went away.
My point is: if you know someone is waiting for a taste (of your popcorn, your pussy, your penis, whatever), it’s easier to refuse the junk food binge. If I know who’s going to eat ‘em, I can save goodies galore. It’s when there’s no forseeable feast in the future that I fill the time by misbehaving.
Plans with Fire Writer are still percolating. If/when we meet up, professional advice and an autograph on my copy of his novel are all I want…unless he’s recently divorced…in which case…hmm... (Is this Slump Buster's cue to initiate the exclusivity conversation?)
Seriously, Fire Writer’s marital status aside, I’m going to keep my hands to myself. Why am I so sure? Because I don’t juggle. It’s not a rule, per se, it’s just how my heart (and other red hot body parts) operate. When it comes to physical affection, I only have eyes, the energy, and the mojo for one man at a time.
And since Slump Buster is keeping me very satisfied (more about that in my next post), the temptation is simply not there. I wouldn’t want to spoil, say, a platter of escargot by stuffing my face with popcorn en route to a four-star restaurant. I can withstand the hunger pangs for a weekend (hell, I survived 14 months!) because I know I’ve got something sexier, stickier, and sweeter than even Red Hot Popcorn cuming my way very soon…
RED HOT POPCORN
INGREDIENTS
1 bag (5 ounces) popped kettle corn
1 bag (8.25 ounces) cinnamon red hot candies
2 sticks butter
½ cup corn syrup
METHOD
• Preheat oven to 250 degrees. Grease two 13 x 9 baking pans with cooking spray. Set aside.
• Pour popcorn into large bowl. Set aside.
• In large saucepan, combine red hots, butter, and corn syrup. Heat over medium, stirring often, until melted (about 5 minutes).
• Pour red hot syrup over popcorn; stir until evenly coated.
• Transfer popcorn to baking pans. Bake 1 hour, stirring every 15 minutes.
• Remove pans from oven.
• Spread one long sheet of waxed paper on countertop. Scrape popcorn from pan onto waxed paper to cool.
• Store in airtight container (as if there would be any leftovers! Ha!)
