Week 3: Fat Lorenzo’s

As much as I enjoy my new status as a "real housewife of Golden Valley", even real housewives leave their suburban zip codes in search of cosmetic surgery, dermal fillers, and copious amounts of wine. Since I can't help but notice the absence of a camera crew and paparazzi, it was an easy decision to head to South Minneapolis for a pizza data with my beloved. Week 3 brought us to Fat Lorenzo's on the shores of Lake Nokomis in South Minneapolis. For those of you "in the know", this is also the location of the original Fat Lorenzo's – they proudly boast a second location known as "Fat Lorezno's 2" located inside the Everett McClay VFW in Bloomington, MN.

Since I am a notoriously lousy driver and even worse at parking the car without inflicting damages and raising my insurance rates (although I would like to use this opportunity to give a little shout-out to AmEx Property Casualty Auto Insurance. If you are looking for a good rate on your auto insurance from a company who doesn't use reptiles to market to you, give them a call at 1-800-535-2001 for a no-obligation quote.), the hubby decided to drive. It's important to know that he believes in something he's branded "offensive driving", which means that I typically arrive at our destination a little green around the gills, clutching my chest, and muttering the rosary under my breath. I secretly believe that the goal of his so-called offensive driving is actually to offend me, but he claims otherwise.

It had been a busy Saturday for us both with mixed results. Neither of us was feeling on top of the world when we departed for pizza night, but no one was actively campaigning for mayor of Crankytown either. An unscientific pre-pizza poll reported the following.

Pre-pizza mood Ratings:

Princess D: 5

Hubby: 6

 

Parking Situation: Employing offensive driving skills, we arrived at Fat Lorenzo's in record time and assessed the parking situation. There is a miniscule parking lot adjacent to the building. I, a known terrible parker, should never, ever be allowed to enter that parking lot. It's rife with opportunity to smash things, including a dumpster. The lot can fit maybe six cars, and at the time of our visit, it was full, which meant that we were left to navigate the joys of on-street parking in a busy, populated area. The eagle-eyed offensive driver spotted a prime spot near the door and parallel parked his expensive German automobile with ease, while I rocked back and forth in the passenger seat. The only way I can return to Fat Lorenzo's to eat is if someone else drives me or if they employ valet parking.

Exterior Appearance: This place is adorable! Fat Lorenzo's will definitely catch your eye as you speed up and down scenic Cedar Avenue. If you're out getting your cardio on at Lake Nokomis, you'll spot the restaurant patrons dining al Fresco and you'll wonder why you're wearing stupid spandex shorts instead of sitting outside with friends, eating pizza and expanding your waistline. The sidewalk tables maximize the proximity to the lake and give the joint a decidedly Italian feel. As a side note, the sidewalk tables also take up most of the available sidewalk real estate, so if you're innocently trying to navigate the maze of tables, be careful not to step into the street. Overall, high marks for the exterior appearance. It's inviting, whimsical, and fun.

Entrance/Welcome: This place does a booming business with both dine-in, take-out, and delivery options. When you enter Fat Lorenzo's, you'll walk right into the restaurant's hub. You'll see pizza ovens in action, you'll hear orders being taken by phone, and you can scan their impressive gelato offerings. A sign on the wall tells you to write your name on the chalkboard to get into the queue for a table and it's all very clear and civilized in spite of the fast pace. On a Saturday night, we waited just under ten minutes for a table.

Interior Appearance: This place is just about the cutest thing I've ever seen. We were seated in a very roomy booth. In fact, this booth was so roomy that I had a hard time reaching the table from my seat – but had I been in my third trimester of pregnancy with triplets, I definitely would have room to spare in this booth. The tables and booths are modeled after old school Catholic churches, and you know that part of the reason Catholics are moving around so much during mass is because those wooden pews hurt your backside. My left butt cheek has not been the same since eating at Fat Lorenzo's. A piece of butcher paper was placed on the top of our table cloth and some crayon stubs were provided on the table, so I decided to mark my territory.

 

 

Clientele & Overall Vibe: This is a busy place, and the clientele is a great mix of locals, families, and people who are trying it out for the first time. We had a great time people-watching and inventing creative plot lines and dialogue for our fellow patrons. While it was busy, Fat Lorenzo's is true to their Nokomis roots and the place isn't infested with hipster doofuses, which I appreciated. This is a place that's appropriate for a pizza date; a family dinner; or a place for friends to get together and catch up.

Waitstaff: Since I eat so much pizza, I also spend more time than I'd like at a cut-rate fitness facility whose unofficial motto is, "You bring your own towel and maybe we'll fix this broken equipment some day." This means that I have the dubious privilege of seeing a lot of people's fitness fashion choices, which I in turn, judge silently while either mocking them or fantasizing about pinning them to the ground and forcing a stick of butter down their throats. This is relevant only because our server, whose name I never quite caught, clearly started her shift directly after completing her cardio-kickboxing class. She was still dressed in yoga pants and running shoes and jogged by us – probably still doing her cool-down, I assume – periodically. In my experience, this is the kind of place where you might need to wrestle someone to the ground to get your water glass refilled.

Menu Selection: Fat Lorenzo's is not branded as a mere pizzeria. It is, rather, "Italian in a big way" and their menu boasts pizza, pasta, hoagies, and gelato and a nice selection of appetizers and salads. While I am always in the mood for a good hoagie, I had to remind myself that I was eating for research for my pizza-themed blog and kept my eyes focused on the pizza section of the menu. Fat Lorezno's sells pizza by the slice or whole pies in 10, 14, 16, and 18 inch sizes. We opted for a 14 inch "Fat's", which features Italian sausage, pepperoni, onions, green peppers, and olives of the green and black variety. And of course, you're welcome to make your own.

Fat Lorenzo's also serves a full range of popular and craft beer by the bottle and wine by the glass. For those who prefer non-alcoholic drinks, the only bottomless glass available here is water. Soda is sold by the can, which was unpopular with my dining companion. He drank two cans of soda while I opted for Minneapolis' finest tap water for my beverage of choice.

Food Wait Time: Total time elapsed between placing our order and our server jogging by with a hot pizza? 20 minutes – and the pizza was H-O-T. It was so hot, in fact, that steam was rising from the toppings, and those of us who were unable to patiently wait for our food to cool to an edible temperature may have scalded the roof of our mouths. Hypothetically, of course.

Drumroll, please . . . the pizza itself: Before I give you my official review, I'm going to confess something. This was not my first trip to Fat Lorenzo's. I used to live in the 'hood and I had fond memories of the ghosts of pizzas past. When you mention Fat Lorenzo's to pretty much anyone in the Twin Cities, you'll bear witness to a walk down memory lane and the nostalgia of enjoying pizza at an adorable local joint. Maybe it's the nostalgia factor or maybe it's the sugar high from gelato consumption, but I can't lie to you. This place was so much better in my memories than it was in my reality, and I'm sorry if that means we're in a fight because this is your favorite place of all time. I wanted to love Fat Lorenzo's. I really did.

Now, don't get me wrong – this was certainly superior to a Domino's delivery. Our pizza looked amazing – a deeper dish, piping hot, fresh ingredients, and a thick handle of crust. It looked amazing, and we were able to control ourselves long enough to snap a photo before we attacked our dinner like savages.

Unfortunately, it didn't taste as amazing as it looked. While we appreciated the noticeable lack of grease (side note: I have never seen such a non-greasy pizza. It was something of an anomaly) and generous toppings, I was disappointed in the sauce distribution. Some bites were virtually sauce less while other bites were saucier, as if the sauce wasn't spread evenly in preparation. Me, I like some sauce on my pizza so I found the sauce situation wanting. The crust had a unique buttery flavor and was crisp at the ends but limp and damp in the middle, as if the weight of the toppings caused it to simply give up and cave in. I ate two pieces and immediately felt compelled to unbutton my jeans because this is the kind of pizza that fills a gal up. You aren't going to leave here hungry. The hubby managed to eat three and we still had leftovers to box up and take home. We agreed that the pizza itself was strangely salty and thirst-causing; a fact that irritated the hubby because his soda can ran dry. I also caught him picking olives off the pizza because he felt the olive to other topping ratio was out of whack.

Many of you fondly recommended Fat Lorenzo's, and I can feel your indignant rage seeping through my computer screen. It's not personal. I wanted to love it. I wanted to be younger and thinner and relive pizzas of my misspent youth. It just didn't happen last Saturday night. Maybe a few adult beverages would have improved my experience. Maybe I should have topped off the meal with gelato. Or maybe – just maybe – Fat Lorenzo's is so amazing not because of the food but because of the experience.

Price & Value: For under $25, two people can enjoy pizza tonight and have enough to enjoy it for lunch (or a midnight snack) tomorrow. Fat Lorenzo's is a great next-day pizza. It reheats really well and I actually enjoyed it more for lunch the next day than when it was fresh. The formerly limp and damp crust parts firmed up or something and it was a perfect Sunday lunch.

Waiting for the Check: There's no waiting around here. Our Energizer Bunny / Cardio-Kickboxing server sprinted by, threw a box down for us, and deposited the check with lightening speed. In fact, it took me longer to sign the bill than for the entire transaction to complete.

Post-Pizza Mood: Have I mentioned that we were stuffed to the gills? We were definitely not hungry and we had a good time at Fat Lorenzo's. Our post-pizza moods came in at a solid 7.5 for each of us.

Bottom Line: I don't know that I'll make a special trip to Nokomis just to taste this pizza again. It wasn't the worst pizza I've ever had by a long shot, but it also wasn't the best. I would, however, make the trip to meet good friends, enjoy the sidewalk seating and watch the world go by. And next time, I'm going to have the damn gelato.

Week 2: Latuff’s Pizzeria – Plymouth, MN

Prior to departing on our second consecutive Saturday evening pizza data, the hubby and I spent some quality time outlining our official pizza rating criteria.  Developing a consistent rubric for pizza grading is imperative if we want to be able to conduct a true "apples to apples" (or in this case, slide to slice) comparison.

We didn't venture far from home and instead, found ourselves at Latuff's Pizzeria which is located a mere 3.9 miles from our front door - a fact which begs the question, "Why, then, was this our first visit?"  I suspect my own reticence to dine there previously was largely due to my inability to pronounce the name combined with the generally poor aesthetic appeal of the building's exterior.  After an actual visit to Latuff's (whose name I am still unclear on how to pronounce), I must admit that it's actually not the building itself that's ugly.  It's just the sign.  And that is one damn ugly sign. 

 

 

The actual building itself isn't quite so ugly and appears to have a nice outdoor patio, although it was both hot, muggy, and about to thunderstorm the day we visited, so I admired the patio while hustling into the drier, less humid, air. 

 

It's important that you understand that I was actively campaigning for the title of Mayor of Crankytown on pizza day.  I was exhausted, I had a migraine, and I was not in the mood to be around people, places or things.  My better half, however, was jovial and in good spirits, so we were quite a force to be reckoned with.  It was this obvious difference in our dispositions that introduced the first rating criteria; pre-pizza mood.  We used a ten point rating scale, with one being "Mayor of Crankytown" and ten being "beyond awesome".  It is entirely possible that the pre-pizza mood may impact our ability to impartially rate the actual pizza experience, so in the spirit of transparency, here's how we were feeling as we pulled into Latuff's parking lot.

 

Pre-pizza mood Ratings:

Princess D: 3

Hubby: 8

 

Speaking of parking lots, we also agreed that we needed to evaluate the parking situation.  As I may have shared previously, I am a terrible driver and an even worse parker, if that's possible.  Every accident I've ever been in involves my car and an inanimate object, such as a fence; garage; snow bank; pillar; or expensive Jaguar at the Calhoun Beach Club parking ramp.  Parking ramps make me break out into hives, which presents a unique challenge Monday through Friday when I have to park in a ramp in order to go to work.  I am so parking phobic that there are establishments I will not frequent because the parking situation is not to my liking.  (Trader Joe's in St. Louis Park . . . I'm talking to you.)  But I digress.  To rate the parking situation, I asked myself, "Self," I asked, "Would I, a known terrible driver, be able to handle this parking situation on my own?"  And the answer for Latuff's is a resounding yes.

 

Parking Situation: 

Excellent.  Paved lot, wide parking spots, minimal hazards that I might smash into and a short walk from lot to pizza.  

 

Exterior Appearance:

I don't care what my mother (or yours) told you . . . . books do get judged by their covers.  And pizza places get judged by their exterior appearances.  Latuff's . . . eh.   At the risk of repeating myself, there's a reason I live less than four miles away and I never stopped here.  We know it's not the parking lot.  This place doesn't look like much on the outside.

 

Entrance/Welcome:

Last week, when we dined at Parkway Pizza, it was not abundantly clear what I was supposed to do upon entering the restaurant.  Should I sit?  Wait to be seated?  Go away?  Prior to my dining at Parkway, it never occurred to me to rate a restaurant's entrance/welcome, but after my own confusion and observing other equally befuddled Parkway patrons last weekend, it became clear that this is an important part of the pizza experience.   

 

When you walk into Latuff's, you'll see both a host/hostess station where someone will greet you and seat you as well as an area where guests can pick up pizzas for takeout.  Hence, there is a lot of activity in the lobby of Latuff's but minimal confusion.  We were seated within seconds of walking through the door, so I give them high marks for the welcome. 

 

Interior Appearance:

I'm not going to lie to you.  Latuff's is not winning any awards for interior decorating, unless there is an award for best Cracker Barrel impersonation.  There is a strong rooster motif, combined with very dim lighting.  If you're really into fowl, you'll feel right at home.  While the decor didn't do much to enhance my own pizza experience, the dining room is clean and tidy, so I won't deduct points for their obvious rooster love.

 

Clientele and Overall Vibe:

The clientele was a good mix of people who obviously eat a lot of pizza and probably enjoy some all-you-can-eat buffets as well and young families.  It was clearly a local crowd, and the place was hopping at 6:30 PM on a Saturday night. There were a few empty tables when we arrived but the place started to fill up by the time we left, and there was a steady stream of takeaway customers.  If you're a swinging single, I highly doubt that you'll meet your future life partner at Latuff's, but if you have small children or want to have a nice pizza dinner with your parents, I think you'll fit in just fine.

 

Waitstaff:

Our server, Heather, was great.  (Side note: under normal circumstances, I never like girls named Heather.  I have a long-standing tradition of making girls named Heather my arch-enemy.  Way to be the exception to prove the rule, Heather from Latuff's!)  She was extremely attentive, she made a personal connection with us, but she wasn't overbearing nor did she force me to talk to her through a mouthful of food.  The hubby's iced tea glass remained full, and she was quick to offer to get me a second Blue Moon.

 

Menu Selection:

Although branded as a pizzeria, Latuff's boasts a wide and diverse array of menu selections that includes pizza, pasta, burgers, sandwiches, soups, and salads.  I can't comment on their non-pizza menu items although I have it on fairly good authority (my friend Susan) that the lasagna is excellent and my dad fondly remembers the sausage and peppers meal he had at Latuff's not long ago.  And if this was a blog about sausage or lasagna, that would be relevant and interesting.  Moving on.  

 

There is a good selection of specialty pizzas available and of course, you can make your own.  In the spirit of, "when in Rome", we figured, "when at Latuff''s" We ordered a 14" Latuff's special, a thin crust pizza topped with sausage, pepperoni, green olives, black olives, onions, mushrooms, and green peppers.  We may or may not have enjoyed a greasy plate of onion rings prior to the pizza.

 

Food Wait Time:

We are not patient people.  In fact, we are so impatient that we are borderline hostile - and there is nothing we hate waiting for more than a meal.  Because we are also fat and hungry.  All the time.  It took 24 minutes from the time we ordered our pizza until it arrived, piping hot and ready to enjoy.

 

Drumroll, please . . . the pizza itself:

Latuff's, I owe you an apology.  You are the pizza I never knew I could find within a 4 mile radius of my own front door.  Your thin crust is delectable and crispy.  Your sauce is tart and has just the right amount of tomato and bite.  Your toppings are fresh and plentiful and I, for one, appreciate that you did not over-cheese the pizza.  While I love cheese, I do not love excessive amounts of melted cheese that has the potential to coagulate into something designed to strangle me in my throat.  Your pizza is not dripping with grease, it's cut into fun to eat squares, and it goes great with a glass of Blue Moon, as pictured below.

 

 

Price & Value:

Latuff's wasn't a cheap date.  Our large specialty pizza - which was more than enough to feed two fatties with big appetites - was $23.95.  We ate 2/3 of it there and brought the rest home.  I'd love to tell you how the leftovers tasted, but the hubby ate the remaining pizza as a 3 AM snack while I slumbered.  I didn't hear any complaints, though.

 

Waiting for the Check:

I've explained how we're impatient.  We also loathe waiting around for the bill.  Our bill arrived promptly - we didn't feel like we were being kicked out but we also didn't have to beg for it - and we were able to make a speedy exit.  I needed to get home to change into elastic-waist pants after all that food.

 

Post-Pizza Mood

Although my mood was altered by beer (positively), both the hubby and I agreed that we felt like perfect 10's after dining here.  We also felt ten pounds heavier but we didn't let that bring us down.

 

Bottom Line:

The next time I'm hankering for a thin crust pizza, I'll consider making the trip to Latuff's, although I will probably opt for takeout.  Easy to find, easy to park, tasty pizza.  If you live or work within 5 miles of Latuff's, there is no excuse not to eat pizza here.  For the rest of you . . . would I make a special trip?  Probably not.  But if you are visiting beautiful Plymouth, MN with $30 burning a hole in your pocket and craving some pizza, you could do a whole lot worse than Latuff's.  Trust me.  

For Better and For Worse

When you're having the big Cinderella wedding, standing in your puffy white dress in front of God, your family, and your friends, you're amazed that it's finally happened. You've found love. You're making a lifelong commitment. This is it! So, you stand there and proclaim your vows, talking about for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, yadda yadda yadda. What I didn't realize as I pledged my undying love to my prince is this – according to an Ohio State University study of 10,000 men and women, there's going to be a lot more of me to love. The average new wife gains over 20 pounds in the first year of marriage alone! Here's the best part – major weight gain is pretty much inevitable for women who marry after age 30. If you're not a Buckeyes fan, simply Google ""women getting fat after marriage" and watch as over 133 MILLION results come back in under 0.22 seconds. There is an entire cottage industry dedicated to "post-wedding pudge" removal.

I pride myself on being able to be as cliché as the next gal, so you know that I busted a move to look my best in my wedding dress. In the 10 months leading up to my nuptials, I engaged the professional help of Trainers Dan; Jared; and Eric, not to mention that adorable supermodel at the YMCA who gave private TRX lessons to Mom, Dad, and me. In fact, I spent most of the 10 months prior to my wedding applying heat to various body parts, mainlining ibuprofen, and complaining about various aches and pains from my shoulders to my calves to my ass. I lost about 15 pounds and became slightly less weak, although no more graceful and significantly whinier as a result. I subjected myself to monthly weigh-ins and evaluations, which led to monthly lectures about my diet and nutrition, which I promptly discounted and ignored. Had I employed even the smallest bit of willpower, I wouldn't have had to work nearly so hard to get into my wedding dress.

In my seven blissful weeks of wedded bliss, I've been on a cruise ship with all-you-can-eat everything available around the clock. I've written out a zillion thank you cards. I returned to work after a two-plus week hiatus to find that I was buried under a pile of electronic mail and to-do's . . . and I have embraced carbs. Especially cake. The numbers on the scale would be jumping up if I had the nerve to step on it to assess the damage. I've made it to the gym for a total of three workouts since my wedding, and I would be lying to all of us if I said my heart was in it. Like Stella, I seem to have lost my groove. She managed to get hers back, though, so I'm maintaining optimism.

I can't help but wonder if my struggles are a signal from the universe. My first workout as a Mrs didn't go so well. I dragged myself to the gym, overcoming a very strong urge to skip the exit and drive to the nearest all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. I started bargaining with myself – out loud – in the car. "It's just a 25 minute session with your trainer. Get through that and you can go home. You can skip the cardio. It's ok." After talking myself out of egg rolls, I pulled in to the parking lot at my cut-rate, bargain (You bring your own towels here, folks. If you don't bring your own, you'll be drying yourself with toilet paper.) gym, I noticed right away that something was amiss. Specifically, 2/3 of the parking lot was missing. Since I hit the gym after work, I'm there with all the gym dolls, muscle heads, and other lazy fatties trying to work off their caloric sins, and parking is at a premium all the time. Suffice to say, the recent deconstruction of the parking lot to make way for a Goodwill store (yes, really) threw me for a loop as I couldn't find any place to park and wound up parking illegally at the Target store across the street and hoofing my big, fat, wedded ass to the gym. Strike one. I changed clothes, greeted my trainer, and started my torture session . . . er . . . workout. About five minutes into our session, my trainer informed me that he would no longer offer evening sessions but he'd be glad to continue our work together at 5:30 AM. Strike two.

Since I was finding the gym so torturous and the whole parking situation was irritating me, I decided maybe I needed to try something new, and I convinced a friend and my cousin to sign up for a barre class with me. Because the class was scheduled for Wednesday evenings, I rearranged my entire fitness schedule to accommodate this new foray into physical fitness, only to find out the day before the class was supposed to start that it was canceled due to low attendance. Strike three. I rescheduled myself for a MONDAY barre class, which in turn, has screwed up my entire summer personal training schedule and frankly, has me reaching for the chips and salsa. I would call it strike four but that's overkill, even for me.

Do I want to gain 21 pounds between now and April 26, 2014? Not particularly – because that will require me to buy new pants, and there are very few things on earth that I find more loathsome than shopping for pants. I also don't particularly want to audition personal training candidates, nor do I maintain a high degree of confidence that barre fitness won't kill me dead. I don't want to change my eating habits either, but let's face it. I'm not getting any younger and if I'm merely average, I'm doomed to gain 20 pounds in the next year. As an overachiever, I assure you – I will do more than just the average. If the average woman gains 20 pounds, I'll pack on 40 – and the fear of 40 additional pounds of me to love is the only thing getting me off the couch and out of the fridge. As we say in the exciting world of change management, I have reached a point where the pain of maintaining the status quo is greater than the ongoing pain I will feel in my muscles and joints as I work to beat the odds.

I managed to get married without being a total Bridezilla, so the last thing I want to do is become a body double for Godzilla in year one of marriage. I hope that's enough motivation to help me recommit to an exercise program. And – since I have definitely piled on some post-wedding pudge in the last seven weeks, I'm going to watch my diet and whittle my waistline so I don't need to go buy all new pants. In the next eight weeks, I am going to work with Trainers Aaron and Jared at the gym with a Goodwill building where the parking lot should be. I'm going to try barre fitness class with my brave and way more graceful and fit cousin, Jhanel. And I am going to use My Fitness Pal to log every calorie that passes my lips. My poor prince. It's going to be a long summer.

 

© 2013 Princess D

From Princess to Missus: The End of the Frog Blog

In 13 days, I will walk down the aisle, pucker up, and never have to kiss another frog again. It's a monumental achievement for this lazy blogger and princess-in-her-own mind. As I obsess about things like centerpieces, sand ceremonies, and whether or not my bustle makes my butt look big, I find myself sleeping very little and instead, spending time replaying Princess D's greatest hits (and misses) in my head.

The beauty of wedding planning is that it is all-consuming. Even if you outsource the details to a professional like I did, you'll still find yourself neck-deep in decisions. Selecting plates and flatware was a task on par with taking the GMAT; a fact whose irony isn't lost on me since I currently possess approximately 194 forks, none of which match. If you swing by my palace for a meal, you won't find matching dishes or cloth napkins. Let's be clear: until recently, you also wouldn't have found a table at which to eat. Wedding planning also introduces you to all sorts of interesting new concepts and lingo, which begs the question, "Am I truly a rube?" Why wasn't this covered at my useless liberal arts college? Between making life-altering decisions about music selection and linens, sweating to the oldies with my personal trainer so my dress will fit, and trying not to get fired from my day job, I haven't had a lot of time to consider anything beyond the wedding . . . like the fact that I am getting married. For better or worse; in sickness and health; 'til death do us part.

It's a little ironic and a whole lot sadder that we pour so much time, money, and energy into creating the perfect wedding instead of focusing on what really matters, which is creating a marriage. It's really not all that hard to clean yourself up, put on a big dress, keep your elbows off the table, dance around a little, and throw a good party. Frankly, that's the easy part. What's not to love when you're showered, made-up, and looking radiant in a tiara? But is any of us really so lovely or loveable when we're rotting on the couch in mismatched sweats, a baseball cap, and we can't quite remember the last time we spritzed our pits? Or when one of us keeps the other one awake by snoring like a pack of wild sows (not guilty – but I can point fingers a dog and a dude who are both guilty as charged) at 3 AM? Or when someone's (guilty) incessant shedding hair causes the vacuum cleaner to spontaneously combust?

What right do I have to march down the aisle? I've screwed up every relationship I've ever been in. I'm stubborn; I'm selfish; and I am universally messy. I am perfectly content to live in my own filth; to eat nothing but Lean Cuisines and cheese; and to waste an entire day in front of the TV watching Lifetime movies. I'm moody; I'm chemically imbalanced; I'm sensitive even though I pretend I'm not; I cry at Subaru commercials. My senior prom date turned out to be gay. I spent 14 years in a relationship with Mr. Wrong because I was too afraid to walk away – and I tricked myself into thinking it was completely okay to treat him as terribly as I did. Ever the optimist, I figured there was life after Mr. Wrong and I began dating again. Because I couldn't handle the rejection and the truth, I turned my dates into caricatures, called them frogs, and mocked them publicly in a blog that may or may not actually be read by anyone beyond my immediate circle of friends. I radiated loneliness and almost ruined perfectly good friendships with male non-frogs because we let mutual loneliness and red wine trick us into leaving the friend zone. And because I'm kind of an asshole, I blogged about that too.

Long after the party is over, it's the marriage – the love and commitment we have for each other that really matters. In spite of the snoring and the shedding and all the things we do that drive each other nuts, we're committed. Even though I don't say it as often as I should and I probably don't show it as much as I should, I really did kiss a frog and watch him transform into a prince. One of the very best things about my prince is that he doesn't want me to be anyone other than exactly who I am. I don't have to apologize for all the mistakes I made before we met or put on an act. I can just be me – no matter who or how that happens to show up – and I know that I have a partner who will support me no matter what. Worth waiting almost 40 years for? I think so.

We're smart enough to know that our wedding – which is taking place in a castle and which may or may not involve a horse and carriage and which will be a lovely, amazing celebration of our love – isn't happily ever after. It is, in the words of Robert Fulghum or maybe Dr. Seuss, the recognition that "we're all a little weird and life is weird. When we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and full into mutually satisfying weirdness and call it love – true love." There is absolutely no weirdo I would rather be with from this day forward, for better or worse (but hopefully better), for richer or poorer (but hopefully richer) in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, and to be weird with, until death do us part. That, my friends, is the best reason I can think of to throw one hell of a big party.

Thus concludes the story of how this princess kissed a whole lotta frogs until she found her prince.

 

To my faithful readers . . .The "frog blog" helped me maintain some semblance of sanity in what was brewing to be one ugly midlife crisis – and as I prepare to write a new chapter in my own story, it's time to close this one by retiring the frog blog. Thank you for cheering me on during this journey, and most of all, for making sure that I never took myself too seriously. With love and always with a tiara, Princess D.

 

© 2013 Princess D

 

 

 

 

 

Princess? No. Queen of the Bridezillas.

I took all the precautionary steps to avoid becoming a Bridezilla. I never intended to tear out clumps of my own hair, shriek in tones that only dogs can hear, or throw a temper tantrum that would give the average two year old a run for his money. I found a wedding planner who offered a package called "Just Show Up" – a modest goal I felt I could achieve. Show up for the wedding? Yes, I can do that. Mind you, a more appropriate name for said wedding package would be, "Just Show Up and Write a Lot of Big Fat Checks" but that doesn't fit nicely on the marketing collateral. Since preparation is the key to success, according to no small number of dead philosophers and large-toothed current day motivational speakers, I was confident that I would sidestep the bridal angst and just show up and be happily married. Imagine my surprise and profound disappointment when, a couple of weeks ago, I found myself curled in the fetal position, shrieking all manner of wild and insane statements, and losing no small amount of water weight (win!) as I sobbed as if my pet goldfish died.

Much like 90% of projects in the business world, my wedding has its very own Gantt chart and budget, including color-coded pie charts that chastise me for overspending and make me want to stress-eat an entire Bakers Square pie. Or, actually, the entire display case of pies. Unlike the projects I see at work, my wedding is on schedule to happen on the pre-planned and agreed-upon date. That's a plus since I've put deposits on things such as a venue, a caterer, a photographer, a florist, a horse and carriage, etc. for that date. Being off-schedule would throw a real wrench into things as a result. So, from a scheduling standpoint, I feel pretty good. Look at me, finding the silver lining! Would a crazy person be so optimistic and cheerful? I am the epitome of a positive, together, calm bride, right? Wrong. Let's talk budget. And let me frame this up as if this wasn't, you know, my big day and a hugely important milestone in my life, but rather, a simple mathematical equation. At this point, if I had any mathematical abilities, I would insert a clever X and Y type algebraic equation to show you how smart I am and to illustrate my point. Since I am not qualified to do so, let me just put it this way. The wedding is currently running 50% over budget. If this was work, I would fire myself for being an impractical, impulsive, irresponsible spending nutcase. If I didn't fire myself, at the very least, I would discipline myself severely and I would not allow me to make any decisions involving money for the foreseeable future. My prince is unable to demonstrate any empathy and instead, wanders around saying versions of "I told you so" when looking at the budget. While I'm sure he enjoys being right, and for those keeping score, I will give him the point on this one, let me also point out that the running commentary is not exactly helping me keep my cool.

I have developed middle-aged onset perfectionism. I cannot possible live with the chairs at our reception venue. They are ugly! The caterers' standard plates? Revolting. They look like prison cafeteria plates. I obviously require four thousand yards of expensive fabric in the reception venue or I will not be able to go on with my life. Why? I have absolutely no idea. Mind you, I don't get invited to a lot of events due to my unpleasant demeanor and general distaste for humanity, but I can assure you that even a social hermit such as me has attended a fair number of weddings in her day. I can honestly say that I cannot recall what anyone's chairs, plates, invites or programs looked like. Nor, as a guest, did I actually care. It never occurred to me that the bride may have developed a nervous tic obsessing over the texture of the napkins or selecting the centerpieces. In fact, there are only two weddings I've ever attended that stand out in my mind. One took place on St. Patrick's Day and, if memory serves me correctly, the bridal party all wore mint green ensembles. The second took place in a very small historic mansion that wasn't equipped to hold the large number of guests and I was wedged against the wall, next to the boom-box that served as the sound system for the event. A member of the wedding party shoved me aside in order to press play on the Luther Vandross CD that would provide the soundtrack for the blessed union. Perhaps it was the bruise on my ribcage that made the event so memorable? On the plus side, I do seem to recall that the Luther Vandross event featured some of the best onion rings and chicken wings I've ever sampled as appetizer fare.

But I digress. My point – and there is one, I assure you – is that my cognitive mind understands that as long as I provide a meal and an open bar, my guests are unlikely to care about much else. As long as no one chokes, gets food poisoning, or hurts themselves, I should be in good shape. Unfortunately, my lizard brain has been supplanted by something even more primitive and dangerous – the bride brain. The bride brain is unreasonable, irrational, and frankly, a bitch. It's a real thing, folks. You can go online and take a 10-question quiz to determine whether or not you're at risk of becoming a bridezilla. Signs that resonated for me personally include spending yourself into the poorhouse; anger and rage; total inflexibility; and alienation of family and friends. I'll also admit to being single-minded and boring as hell. I used to read books, see movies, have opinions and think/talk about a wide variety of topics. Now, unless you want to talk about cake or invitations or possible venues for the rehearsal dinner, I am incapable of engaging with you. The other irritating feature of Bridezilladom is the paranoia/victim mentality that accompanies it. There are days when I swear everyone is conspiring to make me nuts.

On the topic of crazy-making, let me give you a few recent examples and you tell me if I'm paranoid. Let's start with the invitation list. Ever since my prince had an invitation-induced nightmare 10 months ago, "the list" has been a hot topic in our household. I mistakenly believed that we would invite a list of people we wanted to have attend our nuptials. Due to venue size and budget constraints, we determined that 100 – 120 guests would be an appropriate celebration, and we each began crafting our lists. I created my list using the following criteria:

1. Am I related to this person?
   

   If so, have I seen, spoken to, or interacted with this person in the past ten years?
   

   If not, no invitation
   

2. Is this a person I want to share this experience with me?
   

   If so, will they view attending my wedding as a form of torture?
   

   If yes, no invitation
   

While I felt secure in my logic and while I created a small list of invitees, I also was proud of myself. As someone who was forced to attend any number of weddings against my will (guilt is a powerful motivator), I made a conscious effort not to invite people who would feel obligated to attend while secretly wishing they were at home with an SVU marathon and a pizza. If that's your idea of an awesome Friday night (and who could fault you? That sounds pretty kick-ass to me!), then please – have a slice for me. Stay home. In fact, I was feeling pretty smug until I was schooled on the error of my ways by my parents. As it turns out, they had a whole different set of criteria for invitations. I failed to realize that, in 2013, I could bring shame onto the family by not inviting a cousin whom I haven't seen or spoken to in more than a decade and who I am confident I wouldn't recognize if I saw him on the street. I actually think these obscure cousins will be irritated to be invited to my wedding and not putting them on the hook is perhaps the greatest gift I could give. And I would be so very, very, very wrong. This course of action would bring disgrace and shame to the family name and would create sibling wars among the AARP set that would rival the Hatfield and McCoy feud.

Once learning the error of my ways and begging forgiveness for my flawed logic in the first place, we began the first of many, many, many edits to the invitation list. This in turn, led to the first of many conversations about being over-budget since our budget was built on 100 guests, not the 150 we were currently planning on. Thus, we began negotiations. Guests were cut. The first cuts were our friends, which was painful but necessary. The second cuts were some relatives who behaved badly recently – to which my own family responded with some impolite behavior of our own. And then I started cutting deeper. I am so annoyed with the invitation list that I have failed to select invitations because frankly, the thought of invitations and the mail and the list causes my blood pressure to surge and I'm starting to develop hives. And no. The list still isn't done. My parents had some late-breaking edits as recently as 24 hours ago, and even though I took a blood pressure tablet in front of them in the middle of the discussion and also laid my head down on the counter while rocking back and forth and muttering, I'm not confident that we're done. Maybe that's an incentive to get these invitations picked out and in the mail, actually. Once they're in the mail, we're done.

Other crazy-making topics include but are not limited to:

1. Cakes. When I went to the cake store, there was a dead fruit fly smashed in the frosting of a cake in the display case. When I pointed this out to the bakery-gal, she apologized to me but left the bug there. This has put me off cake shopping.
   
2. Tuxedos / groomsmen wear. Thank GOD my prince selected his ensemble and the groomsmen's' outfits on his own. He did a great job, too. He wisely asked me to preview the ensembles and pre-approve before any ordering took place. His tux was dapper as hell – he cleans up nicely! – but when he showed me the groomsmen' outfits, I almost passed out cold. Don't get me wrong – they looked amazing, except I couldn't figure out why they featured an iridescent eggplant purple vest and tie, since the bridal party will be in amethyst. Problem solved and we're back on track.
   
3. Bridesmaids. Half of my bridal party optimistically ordered dresses 1-2 sizes smaller than their measurements dictated, thinking this would motivate them to lose weight and get into shape. Thus far, it hasn't and the dresses will be here in three weeks. I may have suggested that they wire their jaws shut or develop an eating disorder. Your princess would never be so mean. She embraces practicality and prays for a good tailor to let the dresses out. Bridezilla, on the other hand, had no problem suggesting rib removal as a method of fitting into dresses.
   
4. Wedding planner. She is great and everything is as on track as it can be given the aforementioned budget issues. The problem is that she is great only when I pin her down and force her to meet with me face-to-face. She doesn't respond to emails and it's hard to pin her down, which can stress me out. Of course, there is nothing off track so I should just simmer down, but Bridezilla? Simmers for no one!
   

And the list goes on. I now understand why everyone looks at me knowingly and says, "You should just elope." In the meantime, I have 114 days to pull my head out of my ass, put Bridezilla back in her cage, and return to my normal, regal, princessly state. Here's hoping.

©2013 Princess D

 

Vain Vs. Lazy – A Princess Gets Less Fat

There are some people in this world who claim that a good old-fashioned workout, complete with grunting, moving heavy objects, jumping, and running around is fun. These are the same people who've created a market for iPod armbands; gym bags; yoga mats; and energy drinks. They roll around in muddy pits and do things with the word "tough" or "iron" in the title as a pastime. These people are not like me in the least little bit, and as the reigning princess in these here parts, I hereby declare them physically fit freaks.

I don't start my day with an incredible, edible egg – a wonderful source of protein. The very smell of an egg cooking activates my gag reflex. I don't leap out of bed, slap on my sneakers, and jog around the neighborhood. Instead, I hit the snooze somewhere between three and 30 times; drag myself out of bed (usually bumping a shin, knee, or elbow into some inanimate household object in the process); and begin injecting myself with caffeine in order to face the prospect of being upright and alert for the next 14 hours.

Thankfully, I'm slightly more vain than I am lazy (although it's a close call), which means that although I generally eschew healthy living, I really don't want to become Jabba the Hut's body double. However, because I am quite lazy and frankly, I don't like to participate in any activity that will cause me to pant, sweat, stink, look silly or mess up my hair, I've avoided morbid obesity through a variety of women's magazine endorsed short-cuts for most of my life.

I'm no small princess – I stand at about 5'11 inches tall, a height and fact that almost caused my prince to opt out of our first date. While it can be difficult to buy pants with a 34 inch inseam, I'm awfully glad for the extra real estate, because it means that my weight can fluctuate by about 20 pounds before it's really noticeable to the general public. At 16 years old, I wore a size 14 jean and extra large shirts – and thus began my eternal battle between lazy and vain.

In the 16 or so years since then (I'm a princess, not a mathematician – and furthermore, I just told you I'm vain as hell, so if you honestly think I'm going to shout out my true age, you should pour yourself another gin and tonic!), I've been as small as a size 6 and as large as a size 16, and every single size in between. I've done Weight Watchers (both before and after the introduction of Points), I've cleansed, detoxed, joined Slim for Life (now Slimgenics); banned carbs; embraced carbs; gone vegetarian; and the list goes on and on and on. If you wonder why the diet industry is such a money-maker, I assure you, I've been doing my part to keep it afloat.

And until recently, my size wasn't a problem. When I met my prince, I was a happy size 10. I exercised a little and life was good. When we got serious, my body convened a top secret meeting where it agreed that it really wanted to be a size 12. (Or larger). Love, pizza, and buffalo wings expanded my waistline – and none of my previous get-thin-quick schemes were working anymore. In fact, with each new technique I tried, I seemed to get bigger and puffier.

To be clear – big and puffy may be desirable qualities in a wedding gown, but they are not desirable qualities in a would-be bride. When the Weight Watchers, the detox, and the fish oil all failed me, I knew I had no other choice. I was going to have to do this the hard way.

I've read enough women's magazines to know that at my . . . uh . . . middle age, I was cursed with slowing metabolism and muscle loss. Since I never found any muscle to speak of in the first place, this seemed like a problem. (I am, after all, the girl who phoned her brother in tears because I couldn't pick up a bag of dog chow at Petco.) I was doomed. I was going to have to do strength training.

Since I am morally opposed to looking foolish in public (unless I'm drunk, but that's another story) and because I really, really hate lifting heavy objects, I employed my famous outsourcing strategy. When in doubt, hire a professional. If I could have outsourced the actual strength training to someone else, I would have but fears of being a fat bride motivated me to keep my initial appointment with my local LA Fitness. It was there that I met Trainer Dan and it was there that I learned that 1/3 of my body is comprised of fat.

For two months, I saw more of Trainer Dan than my own prince – and he also had the dubious pleasure of listening to me pant, moan, and on a couple of occasions, burst forth with some awfully dirty talk for a princess. And in two months and over 20 workouts, I lost an inch off my neck. And that's it. Since neck fat was hardly my primary concern (although after losing an inch of it, I began to wonder if my neck actually as fatter than I realized, inviting a whole new set of neuroses to the party), you can imagine my disgust and disappointment.

Even so, I kept going. Actually, I kept going because I was locked into a personal training contract and they were going to charge me whether I went or not, and I am nearly as frugal as I am vain and lazy. Trainer Dan left me suddenly, making me even angrier, and I had to break in a whole new trainer.

That was in June. Fast forward to September and I still hate exercising. It's hard, it hurts, and it pisses me off that I am so damn uncoordinated. There are weeks when I feel like all I do is work and workout. There are days when a 7.5 pound weight feels like lifting a Volkswagen above my head and when I watch the clock slowly tick by every second of my 60 minute torture session.

And there have been a few small victories along the way, too. I've lost 13 pounds. (Thank you, Trainer Eric!) I'm still a size 12 (not a victory) which leads me to believe that most of the weight I've lost has been in my fingers, neck, and earlobes but at some point, the fat has to come off the core, right? I started and finished a 5k without dropping dead, and even managed to jog about 2/3 of it, in spite of the fact that there was clearly marked shortcut available!
And I bought a wedding dress that I love, complete with a tiara.

I may be sweaty, I may be clumsy, and I may be bigger than I'd like . . . but whether I'm in workout gear or wedding gear, I will always be a princess.

 

Copyright © 2012 Princess D. All Rights Reserved.

To Nate, With Love

Just because I'm a princess with a fairly charmed life doesn't guarantee me immunity from things like bad hair days, hypertension, foot odor (why???), and mood swings. Everyone is entitled to an off day every now and again, but as a princess, I struggle with the bad hair days. The voice inside my head – who, by the way, sounds awfully similar to the voice of one K.W. who tormented me in grade school and ultimately married my high school crush – criticizes me. She says things like, "Oh – would you look at the weepy princess crying because her tiara is on crooked! You realize there are people out there without tiaras who are actually struggling, right? Why don't you shut up your stupid ugly face?"

Let me be clear. I hate that voice inside my head. She's loud, incessant, mean and nasty. And she has an incredibly foul mouth for an imaginary frenemy. She is the voice that says, "I told you not to eat that second piece of pizza, fatso!" when I struggle to fasten the button on my pants in the morning. When I lay my weary bones on the couch to catch up on current events on TV (translation: checking out the latest cat-fights on whatever season of The Real Housewives is on), her judgmental eye surveys the house and suggests that I get my lazy tail up off the couch and run a vacuum or wash a dish. She criticizes my clothes, hair, makeup, lifestyle choices, how I drive, and my inability to clip coupons. No matter how hard I work, no matter how successful I might become, it is never enough for this insufferable bitch.

Here's the problem. That bitch? Well, she's me. And the fact that I've resorted to name-calling and "adult-language" is just further proof that we are one in the same. For those of you asking if there's a point in here somewhere, there is. When I look in the mirror, I don't always see a princess. When I look around my house or plan for my weekend getaway with my handsome prince, I don't always take time to appreciate all my good fortune. I have been known to see the glass as . . . gasp . . . half-empty. And then proceed to get really angry about it. I watch Lifetime movies and cry – not at the crappy over-acting but at the misfortunes endured by the characters. I come straight home from work, put on my jammies, and eat carbs as if I'm preparing to run a marathon when we all know that the furthest I'm going is from the couch to the fridge to grab another beer.

Sometimes the bad hair days are worse than others. These are the days I can barely get out of bed; the days where even the idea of getting dressed and leaving the house feel akin to climbing Mount Everest. These are the days when I look at my life and instead of celebrating all the amazing gifts I've been given and all the opportunities I still have to look forward to, I throw a giant pity party and curse myself for not running a marathon, learning to cook, having a baby, learning Japanese, growing my own organic vegetables, composting, volunteering more in the community, and you can fill in the blanks with pretty much any and everything else.

That, my friends, is known as a form of depression. The nagging voice inside my head that yells at me; the desire to curl up in the fetal position, cry, and eat chocolate until I burst; the fatigue that is so great that even my eyelashes hurt . . . these are all symptoms of depression, which is not a state of mind but an illness. The only differences between depression and the common cold are the stigma and the amount of snot. If you ignore the common cold, you'll infect everyone around you with your filthy germs and you're probably going to have to wipe your nose on your sleeve since you won't be armed with Puffs Plus. When you have a cold, you drink orange juice, you take Nyquil, you sniffle a lot, and you do whatever it takes to feel better. When you have depression, you should take care of yourself just like you do when you've got the sniffles. If you're feeling really lousy for any extended period of time, you're not just having a bad hair day. Everyone gets the blues every once in a while – but when blue is the color du jour and you can't remember the last time you saw the world with rose colored glasses, it's time to take action.

Much like that annoying cold that gets passed around the office or daycare, where one person gets a cough, someone else has a sore throat, and you get both plus a side of inflamed sinuses, depression symptoms are different in everyone and can change over time.

Bottom line? I am a princess, darn it – and I have an amazing life thanks to the grace of God, the support of my family and friends, and no small amount of hard work. You know what else I have? I have a form of clinical depression and I have some nice blue pills and a standing appointment with an elfintherapist to ensure that I continue to get out of bed and fight the good fight every day.

This post is dedicated to all those who are managing depression; struggling with it; or fighting it. This post is especially dedicated to Nathan Corbett, who battled bipolar disorder and depression but lost his fight at the age of 27. He would have turned 39 years old this Saturday.

 

©2012 Princess D