Royal Words of Wisdom

It was just over a year ago that I declared myself a princess and began kissing frogs in the earnest hope that I’d find a prince and live happily ever after. After a few false starts, some pretty big disappointments, and some questionable decisions, I began a relationship with Suitor #1 and discovered maybe I’m not really ready for my fairy tale ending after all. Or am I?

Although 2010 didn’t have an auspicious start, it was most certainly the “Summer of Princess”. I found myself in a new city, surrounded by new people, and pursuing a new career. I felt as if I’d finally been set free from the shackles of my past and not only was I excited about the future but I was truly happy in the present. In fact, so great was my optimism that I let a friend convince me to seek the counsel of a spiritual healer. For the low cost of $150, I could commune with my guardian angels and spirits, let go of the crap that bogged me down, and maybe get some help making decisions about my future. At least, that was the plan . . .

And like the best laid plans, it didn’t quite go the way I expected. First off, I managed to wreck a rental car to the tune of $4,000 smackeroos on my way back to the office after my “healing” – a fact whose irony is not lost on me since one might think that one’s spirit friends might help a sister out and perhaps warn her of the impending doom. (One would be wrong, clearly.)

The healing itself was interesting. It began with a lot of hoo-doo, voodoo involving incense, aromatherapy, smudging, and hand waving over my so-called third eye and girly parts for reasons unbeknownst to me. The healer conferred with her spirit friends and then asked me a variety of questions ranging from “Do you suffer from PMS?” to “Are you missing someone whose name starts with an N?”

In retrospect, I’m not sure her questions were super-insightful or guided by voices from the great beyond, but in the moment, laying on a table with a Kleenex over my third eye, it all seemed very profound. How did she know about my PMS? Who told her about my friend, Nate? Upon further reflection, I realize that she actually went through most of the letters prior to “N” in alphabetical order before she hit the nail on the head, but again, that’s hindsight talking.

The healer and I did have a most interesting discussion, however, about a man whose acquaintance I’d recently made. I’m not sure whether to call him frog or friend, so I’ll just call him “that one”. Although I only met That One in the flesh in August, his reputation preceded him and I’d actually known of him for many years as we shared a mutual and very dear friend (whose name started with N) who departed for the great beyond ten years ago.

That One and I made an immediate connection. We celebrated the life of our dear friend, swapped stories, and wiped each others’ tears. And then we realized that we had so much more in common than just shared grief, and we began a wonderfully fulfilling relationship. We laughed, we cried, we saw Jackass 3D.

And, okay, I’m not going to lie to you. I let That One into my heart and he stole it. A Saturday night Target run with That One rivals any date I’ve ever been on for both fun and romance factor, believe it or not. Everyone warned me to be careful with That One. “Remember, Princess . . . you loved his friend. Don’t transfer your feelings for Departed N to That One.” I monitored my feelings vigilantly and denied them even to myself.

One day, That One and I were for a friendly dinner when he dropped a bomb on me. He was worried I was falling for him. This signaled the beginning of the end, and sadly, I lost not only a good friend but also a connection to my past – and my newfound hopes for a happily ever after. I blame the stupid healer. She and her dumb-ass spirit guides convinced me that That One was actually “The One” – and that the great and powerful N wanted nothing more than for us to make a go of it.

Much like Frog #6, I convinced myself that the otherwise very heterosexual That One was actually gay, because all members of the opposite sex immune to my princess wiles are clearly married, gay or priests. I nursed my bruised heart and decided to take a little break from frog kissing in lieu of a little more fun.

Did I sit home every night? Absolutely not. Instead, I dated all kinds of interesting characters from recovering drug addicts to convicted felons to wanna-be underwear models. (In my defense, I didn’t know they were felons or drug addicts until afterwards But the underwear models were deliberately chosen for their good looks and chiseled abs.) I threw myself into work and spent time hanging out with some of my guy friends I’d been neglecting, and I got a glimpse behind enemy lines as the boys let me into their dating lives. Thus began a social experiment that’s already provided enough fodder for my first novel. As we close the books on 2010, I thought I’d share some of the wisdom I gained in the last quarter of the year . . .

A few key learnings:

1. When a male asks a female, “Would you like to watch a movie”, what he really means is, “How’d you like to get to know me in the Biblical sense?”
2. Most males who claim to be looking for the real thing are looking for something entirely different. Rather, they just want to watch as many movies as possible with as many females as possible, but apparently, that type of honesty is repulsive to the opposite sex.
3. 90% of men operate on a different measurement system than women do. Any man who tells you he is 5’10” tall is somewhere between Oompla Loompa height and 5’7”.
4. Cell phone technology, while making us more efficient and connected, allows people to send all kinds of vulgar things to each other with the touch of a button. And apparently, I’m the only one who sees this as a problem.

That’s all the news that’s fit to print for 2010, folks. Happy New Year.

© 2010 Princess D

From Kissing Frogs to Snuggling with Dogs

A trip to my local Target store to pick up toilet paper and deodorant turned into a one-way ticket on the expressway to the holidays.  It was nothing but reindeer, blinking lights, gift wrap, bows, and wreaths as far as the eye could see.  Navigating the aisles was a combat sport, and I made a point to stockpile toilet paper to save myself the horror of an encore performance.  I am now the proud owner of 96 jumbo rolls of Charmin.  I should be safe until President's Day. 

After grinching my way through the store, physically unscathed but emotionally rattled, I loaded up the Honda and decided to soothe my nerves with the dulcet tones of easy listening on my local adult soft rock station. I was ill-prepared for the auditory assault that ensued. Instead of Rick Springfield coveting his friend Jessie's girl, I got a rousing rendition of "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree," followed by Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. At a commercial break, the D.J. broke the news to me. Apparently, my adult contemporary hits station has gone all Christmas music, all the time until Boxing Day. Thank heavens I was armed with a collection of CDs, because the only cure for all this festivity was 80's hair band music. Yeah, I said it. And I do own my very own copy of Monsters of Rock, which I sang along to the entire way home from the North Pole . . . er . . . I mean, Target.

I do own a calendar so it's not like the holidays snuck up on me per se. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that if it's the middle of November, Thanksgiving is around the corner and Christmas is next on the list. This year has just been so unusual in so many ways that I seem to have all track of time. I seem to have missed spring and summer entirely – probably due to the fact that I was on an airplane or shacked up at a Holiday Inn the majority of the time, and when I did come up for air, I was too tired to do anything but take a nap.

While singing along to Ratt's greatest hit, "Round and Round," I had a metaphorical visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past. You see, I actually love Christmas. I love the movies, the caroling, the decorations, and picking out that perfect gift for the people I care about. I even love the snow (briefly). There is something really special about driving around on a snowy night, looking at Christmas lights and believing in Santa Claus. I love all the rituals and routines and I wouldn't trade any of it. But when you're suddenly single, the routines change.

The entire holiday season was bizarre last year. I was single for the first time in 14 years and wondering if I'd ever date again. In fact, I had my very first single gal date over Thanksgiving weekend last year with Frog #1, Blind Date Frog. While it wasn't a love connection, getting out there gave me the confidence to give dating the old college try, and in the period between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, I was introduced to Frogs 1-3 and had several awkward encounters with a couple of faux frogs to boot.

Last Christmas was especially weird. It snowed, which isn't particularly shocking in this climate at this time of year, but it snowed a lot, and for reasons that make no sense, the city decided to give the plow guys the week off and my car was stuck. My mom cancelled Christmas because she didn't want me out driving – which would have been impossible anyway, since my car was buried under three feet of snow. Can you imagine anything more depressing than sitting at home eating a Lean Cuisine and drinking a Bud Light on Christmas Eve? Me either. That's probably why I wound up spending Christmas Eve with Mr. Wrong last year after all. And I spent Christmas Day on a date with the ill-fated Frog #4.

Fast forward to the present, and there is nary a frog in sight. (Side note: that's not entirely true. There is one potential candidate for frogdom, but he is currently playing frog DUMB. That's a topic for a whole different blog, I'm afraid.) I've retired from Frogs.com and all other forms of internet humiliation . . . I mean, dating. Most of the time – like right now, when I'm sitting in my grubby pj's without any makeup on – I feel pretty good about flying solo.

I don't know what it is, but there is something about the holidays that makes me feel a little awkward about being alone. Maybe it's all the jewelry store commercials, depicting happy couples and diamond-centric gifts or something. I like sparkly things, too! Maybe it has something to do with being the odd number at the dinner table. Or maybe it's just that it would be nice to have a warm somebody to snuggle up with on a cold night.

All I can say is this: thank God I have a dog. He is handsome, loyal, loving, and snuggly to boot. He probably won't pick up my Christmas gift at Jared, The Galleria of Jewelry, but he loves me unconditionally and asks for little more than food, water, a daily walk, and the occasional toy. In fact, I may invite him to Thanksgiving!

I am thankful for more than just my dog, although he is at the top of the list. I am filled with so much gratitude for all the blessings in my life, including my family, my friends, my job, my home, and of course, my therapist. I am one lucky princess. Happy Thanksgiving!

© 2010 Princess D

 

 

 

Selective Memory . . .

While I have kissed many, many frogs and in fact, shacked up with more than one Mr. Wrong in the course of my journey, I have not yet come clean with you, dear 23 readers.

There was one prince among frogs. Unlike Jake Ryan, he didn't show up with a Porsche - he actually had a Schwinn and a metro transit card - but he was and is wonderful and lovable nonetheless. And he is getting more than a little pissed off that he has gotten no props from this princess for his very important role in my life. Since I primarily malign members of the opposite sex here in the blog, I failed to give Serious College Boyfriend the recognition he so richly deserves. Not only did he spend two years dating this pain in the ass masquerading as a princess, but he taught me everything I know about love. And a few other tips and tricks, too.

Was I protecting his privacy? Giving in to my Catholic guilt? Secretly pining for the one who got away? I'll never tell. I will tell you this. Not only is this guy a prince among men, he is an amazing husband to his beautiful wife, a darned good dad to his kid, and normally a fairly tolerant friend. My only real complaint is that I've never been able to convince him that I'm a princess - probably because he knows better - and he therefore feels compelled to call bullshit.

So, Serious College Boyfriend, here is your public recognition. Thank you for your awesomeness in every way. Now, for the love of all that's holy, can you just admit that I'm a princess?

A New Chapter . . . and Still a Royal Pain

Boys and girls, your princess has let you down. Not only have I failed to keep you abreast of the latest and greatest antics in my royally screwed up life (but the team of experts who help me with mundane things like hair, skin, and various waxing endeavors that we won’t mention here assure me that they’ve enjoyed previewing the first-run edition of these tales of woe), I’ve stopped kissing frogs entirely.

Now, just because I’m on a semi-permanent frog-kissing hiatus doesn’t mean I’m renouncing my crown. I am still very much a princess in my own mind . . . and I won’t object if you address me as princess, provided you remove any trace of snideness from your tone. Don’t make me bust out my tiara and teach you a lesson, okay?

The greater frog community is safe for now. I’m not joining a convent or retreating from civilization, although actually, that might be safer for all parties involved. (Note to self: explore convent and hermit options.) But I’ve been on quite the metaphorical roller-coaster ride this fall, and before I lose my lunch, I’ve got a few things to figure out.

Although I was born tall, I’ve been a late bloomer in every other sense – which was probably a blessing in disguise because had I discovered boys while in high school, I likely would have wound up with 3 kids before graduation day. As a kid, I was the human equivalent of Kix cereal. I did my homework, had a job, participated in school activities, and attended church regularly, even though I came from a family of heathens. I was polite, respectful, and goal-oriented. At age 14, I knew exactly where I’d go to college, what my major would be, and I had a plan for the rest of my life. (Side note: the best laid plans of mice, men, and princesses occasionally go astray.)

I finished college in record time, anxious to start my grown-up life. I followed all the rules, made my parents proud and largely stayed out of trouble. (At least, that’s how we’re going to document it for the history books, okay? Those of you who know better are invited to stuff it, but in the most loving way possible.) To complete my grown-up life, I jumped into a relationship and began cohabitating, with the goal of registering at Target, wearing a white dress, and living happily ever after.

I think we all know how that story ends. But what you don’t know is that I appear to be having a delayed adolescence. As an actual adolescent, I spent more time watching John Hughes movies and hoping that my own Jake Ryan would show up and whisk me away in his Porsche. Instead of Jake Ryan, I dated a few guys who later came out of the closet and then I jumped into playing house with Mr. Wrong.

Fast forward a few years when I’m a suddenly single 30-something, and kissing frogs as if it’s a blood sport. Because I’ve always done what’s expected of me, followed the rules, and been responsible, I’m fixated on the idea of the church wedding and living happily ever after in a modest house with a dog. (Kids optional). But I’m worried. Am I dateable? I try my hand at internet dating; a go on a blind date; and I even promote a few friends to frogs . . . and not only do I develop a repertoire of amusing anecdotes to share with the 23 people bored enough to read my blog, I also learn a few important lessons about myself.

If you’re in a committed, monogamous relationship, listen up. I admire you. Dating is relatively easy. You put on a cleavage-baring top, slap on some lipstick, and act charming for a set period of time. As long as your table manners don’t suck and provided you have the social skills of a trained monkey, you’ll be just fine. When the date is over, you return home, throw on some grubby sweats, and recommence belching, farting, and scratching yourself. (Hypothetically).

Relationships, on the other hand, are what happen when the date ends. Relationships aren’t about being charming – they are about being present, caring about someone else and their needs as much as (or more than) your own, and they are about what happens when you are more than just me but rather, part of a “we”. And that, my friends, is hard work.

I’ve met a lot of frogs lo these last 18 months. While there are a few frogs whom I’d like to never see again, many of these frogs are near and dear to my heart. In fact, I count some of them among my closest friends. But there hasn’t been a single frog for whom I’m willing to make the kind of compromises required for a relationship to work. I don’t want to meet your parents, watch football, or eat sushi. What I want is to laugh, to have a good time, and to go home alone, throw on my grubbiest clothes, and be myself.

And so, my friends, I’ve had to rethink the entire premise of this blog. I’m no longer searching for a prince. Instead, I’m trying to figure out how to be the best princess I can be, bar none. I’m not sure I want that white dress and big to-do anymore. Instead, I think I’ll just play dress-up and hit the town with my gal pals. I’m no longer in pursuit of happily ever after . . . but I’ll gladly accept content right now.

Does this mean you’ll never have to read this drivel again? Hell, no. You’re not that lucky. I’ll continue to document the days of my life for your viewing pleasure . . . but we’re entering a new chapter which means that our plot has changed a little bit. Personally, I think the story is just starting to get interesting, so I hope you’ll hang in there with me to see how this one ends.

Later, frogs! Muah!

© 2010 Princess D

This Just In . . . I was WRONG.

Up until recently, I believed that happiness was kissing a frog and watching him magically transform into a prince. Happiness was getting to finally wear a pretty white dress and a tiara (hey, I am a princess, after all!), registering for everything my little heart desires at my local Super Target, and sharing what's left of my life with someone else. Well, folks, I have some late, breaking news for you. This just in: I may have been wrong.

In my defense, this was one of those lessons that clearly had to be learned the hard way. I've been a cliché for 16 months now, and I've been kissing frogs for almost 10. One of them even turned into a prince. And guess what? I still couldn't figure out how to write my fairy tale ending. This is more than just the story of the ill-fated Suitor #1 – a kind, caring, good-looking man who looked at me and saw a princess – and how I broke his heart when I ran screaming in the other direction. It's also the story of how I got everything I thought I wanted . . . and realized that I spent all this time wishing on someone else's star.

I thought I wanted that partner, the constant companion. You know, someone to go grocery shopping with, someone to go to church with, someone to take long walks with, and someone to just be with. Suitor #1 fit the bill perfectly. He was attentive and interested. Maybe too attentive and interested, to be honest, since he was calling and emailing and texting me non-stop, a characteristic that I initially found endearing. His attentiveness lost some of its charm when I failed to respond to an email within a two-hour period of time (I was busy working) and he went into crisis mode. Literally, the poor guy thought I was dead or something. Suddenly, communicating with him became a chore instead of a joy. I felt pressured to respond quickly, lest he panic, and I resented the interruption to my day. On the plus side, he never cringed when I asked him to walk the dog with me and he was always ready to drop everything and run to Target with me.

Suitor #1 wanted to spend every possible moment with me. In the beginning, this was charming and delightful. As a woman who travels extensively for her job and who is only at home three days a week, I have to cram a lot into a compressed period of time. Not only do I have a family who occasionally likes to see my shining face, but even princesses have to visit the dentist, the doctor, and the hair salon. And, after losing nearly every friend I had while shacking up with Mr. Wrong, I rebuilt a small circle of amazing friends and I wanted to be able to spend time with them, too. Suitor #1 didn't understand why I needed alone time. He wanted to pick me up from the airport on Thursday nights and not let me out of his sight again until Monday mornings. While it's possible that this level of devotion is sweet and endearing (please see previous paragraph on calling, excessive) – and let's be clear, as a princess, I wanted undying devotion – I can't lie to you. It felt a little smothery. It is no coincidence that "Prisoner of Love" is the title of several different hit songs, folks.

Suitor #1 was a man in love. He did all the right stuff. He took an interest in my life. He invited me into his life. I met his tadpoles . . . er, children! Repeatedly. Suddenly, Friday nights consisted of takeout pizza and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. We got pancakes at Perkins. We took the kids to the zoo, mini-golfing, to the park . . . And we had grown-up dates, too. Suitor #1 is tall, dark, handsome, and good at fixing things. (This is important because I can't figure out how to set the clock inside my car. I am frequently puzzled by things like furnace filters, double-sided tape, and light bulbs.) He is kind, and caring, and he has a good sense of humor. His main flaw? He has lousy taste in women, as it turns out. Because he picked me, did all the right stuff, and I still high-tailed it out of there as fast as humanly possible.

As it turns out, after years of suffering from subterranean self-esteem and recoiling at the thought of being alone, I've developed a fondness for "Independent Princess". In fact, I owe poor Frog #6 an apology. Although he did make me question my wit, charm, and cuteness levels – since I thought he was just not that into me, or, conversely, gay – I have to admit . . . Frog #6 was almost the perfect match for me in every way. He had his own life (and, if you believe the bullshit I'm making up in my head, he may have also had his own alternative lifestyle!), and therefore, he was not interested in constant companionship. He would, however, reserve the occasional weekend night for us eat, drink, and be merry. Since these are my three very favorite activities on earth, you rarely have to twist my arm to get me to RSVP with a great big yes. Frog #6 wasn't secretly planning our wedding or anything of the sort. He called or texted or emailed just often enough - not daily but more frequently than quarterly – and I always had a good time with him. He was just a good-looking amphibian, looking for a "friends with benefits" situation, and for two well-educated, articulate people, we somehow never managed to get around to having that conversation. So, I used my royal powers of mind control to turn him gay and then found myself on the opposite end of the smothery spectrum with Suitor #1. So, Frog #6, for the record . . . sorry for making you gay. And thanks for being my friend anyway.

Let's take a moment to recap, shall we? I found Mr. Wonderful and I bolted. Frog #6 is starting to look like the frog of my dreams – not because we are well-matched, but because his ambivalence means that it is virtually impossible for him to kill independent princess. And, yes, folks – I am exaggerating here. I'm not suggesting that Frog #6 and I take a little hop down memory lane or anything. I'm merely comparing and contrasting so that you get the full picture of just how wrong I was. Am. Whatever.

Before breaking it off with Suitor #1, I consulted my oracle, the elf-therapist, for counsel. At first, he wanted to engage in a lengthy dialogue about my feelings and all that yackety-schmackety. I let him blather on for nearly ten minutes, realized that I pay him by the hour, and when he came up for air, I rudely demanded that he stop asking questions and just tell me what to do, damn it! Under normal circumstances, the Elf refuses to tell me what to do under the guise of trying to help me grow as a person or something like that. In this particular instance, he was all too happy to tell me what to do and furthermore, when, where, and how to do it. Bottom line . . . he suggested a split. And since I do whatever the Elf says, I complied.

It was a difficult conversation with Suitor #1. There were tears (his) and firm boundaries (mine). While breaking the news of the break-up was hard to do, when I was done, I felt strangely free. Would I miss Suitor #1? Maybe. But as it turns out, I missed me even more.

Normal people celebrate Independence Day once a year. For those of you who are keeping score, this escapade marks my 2^nd
personal declaration of independence this year alone. And it's only September! It's been just about a month since this princess rejoined the ranks of single women everywhere. And for the very first time in my entire adult life, I'm not lamenting my lack of husband and 2.5 kids. You know what? As it turns out, I'm awfully danged loveable! I don't have to settle for the first prince who rides up in a battered minivan. Instead, I'm celebrating my singledom with a vengeance. Do I still long for the prince and the pretty dress? Maybe. But as it turns out, you don't need a prince – or even an excuse – to get dolled up in a nice dress for a night on the town. Watch this space for more . . . there is an independent princess on the loose!

© 2010 Princess D

Be Careful What You Wish For . . .

If I had a nickel for all the down-home wisdom imparted to me by my parents and grandmother over the years, I'd never have to work another day in my life. Of course, I suspect that the nice folks at Bank of America Home Mortgage and the utility companies might balk at receiving their monthly dues one nickel at a time, so perhaps it is best that my family merely proffered advice instead of currency. Beyond the standard warnings about stranger danger, not giving away the milk for free (side note: is it any wonder that so many young women suffer from eating disorders? Our parents literally compared us to cattle in an effort to keep us chaste!), and the lifelong fear that my face might freeze that way, my family offered up another ominous piece of wisdom, couched in the form of a surgeon general's warning label. "Be careful what you wish for, Princess. You just might get it!"

For many, many years, how I wished that were true! I wished for a puppy. I got a baby brother (and yes, he blogs, too. Please note that I am the funny one, he is the smart one.) Not quite what I wished for but ultimately, a much better deal. I wished I could be beautiful. I got acne, braces, and a scoliosis diagnosis. For the record, curvature of the spine = not beautiful. I wished for Peter O. to fall madly in love with me. Instead, he impregnated his high school girlfriend during our senior year and married her. (And I hear they lived happily ever, defying the odds. Crazy!) I wished I could be a ballerina like Coco from Fame and begged for dance lessons. In a private conference with my parents, the proprietor of the dance school I attended told my parents not to waste any more money on dance lessons for their clumsy daughter. I could go on but I think you get the idea. I spent 30+ years being careful about what I wished for, and let me be clear . . . it didn't make a lick of difference.

I have always been a superstitious kind of gal. Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight . . . I've wished on you! Wishing wells? Yup. Trevai Fountain? Absofrickinglutely. Loose eyelashes, birthday candles, fortune cookies. . affirmative. As a kid, it was a special treat to go out for a family meal at Perkins Restaurant – not because of the excellent silver dollar pancakes accompanied by a delicious smorgasbord of syrups – but because they had a wishing well. The Perkins wishing well never disappointed, either. Every time I made a wish, I reached inside that well and fished out some useless plastic trinket, made in China or some other "emerging" nation, and played with it until it inevitably broke, requiring another family meal to Perkins.

About a year ago, this princess made another wish. I wished for a prince. I wasn't looking for a white horse, a palace, or glass slippers. (For the record, I would accept any and all of these, but they certainly aren't prerequisites.) I wanted a partner – someone to share my thoughts, feelings, and dreams with; someone to cuddle with on the couch after a long day; someone to help me lift heavy objects; someone who I could share not only a meal with but also share my life with. And under the close supervision of an elf-therapist, I began kissing frogs in my quest to find Prince Charming.

I knew I'd have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince. This fact was confirmed by the elf-therapist. While some puritans might consider seven frogs a lot, my theory is that until I run out of fingers to count on, we're doing okay. So, I kissed seven frogs and then I met Suitor #1. Sure, he violated many of my dating commandments, but at the end of the day, he was tall, dark, handsome, and in possession of a full set of teeth, a job, and a full head of hair, so I overlooked some of the pre-existing conditions that normally would have been knockout factors. We went on a couple of dates. We laughed. We ate. We kissed. And . . . lo and behold . . . neither of us projectile vomited or ran screaming from the room. So we kissed some more.

Fast forward and suddenly, we've been together for 11 weeks. He says the "l" word and calls me his girlfriend. I've met the tadpoles. He's seen me without makeup on. I've seen him throw up. He's met my brother and some of my friends. But boys and girls . . . suddenly, the honeymoon is over and our true colors are coming out. He's disappointed in my undomesticated nature. While I am housetrained (barely), I refuse to cook, my standards of cleanliness are dubious at best, and he has wondered aloud if I have any other shirts. (This musing occurred after I wore the same t-shirt two days in a row. It didn't stink so I didn't see a problem with it.) We've shared all our witty "get to know you" stories and now our conversations revolve around, "So, how was your day?" In a nutshell, we're gone from infatuation and intrigue to something else.

When I was single, all I wanted was to find a prince, couple up, and live happily ever after. Now that I'm coupled up, I miss the independence of my single life. I'm not used to checking in with someone and reporting on my comings and goings. It's weird to talk on the phone to the same person every single night. I'm running out of things to say! I'm not used to having to consider someone else's feelings and insecurities and idiosyncrasies anymore. In my single life, if I wanted to stay out all night, I could. If a friend came over and drank too much, it was no problem to have him crash on the couch. If I wanted some quiet time, I just stopped answering the phone. I didn't have to apologize for being too slow to respond to a text or an email or a voicemail. I did my thing, tried to be a good friend, good sister, good dog-owner, good daughter, good employee . . . and although sometimes I was lonely, life was good. For the first time in my 30+ (and we don't need to count any higher than that, thank you very much) odd years of life, I finally felt comfortable, secure, and good with just plain being me.

Now that I'm coupled up, I can't help but wonder . . . should I have been careful what I wished for? As I try to be a good girlfriend and good partner, whatever that means, I worry that I've gotten into the Delorean time machine and regressed to pre-therapy princess. I notice similarities between Suitor #1 and the infamous Mr. Wrong. I notice the differences, too – but there are enough similarities that it makes me nervous. I catch myself breaking promises I've made – to my friends, to my family, and to myself, just to avoid arguing with Suitor #1. He's planning our future together and all I can think about is Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride. Can I be happy with someone who doesn't read books? Who doesn't have cable TV? On the flip side, how can I not want everything that Suitor #1 is offering? He loves me – just the way that I am. Do I make him crazy? Hell, yes. But in spite of that, he wants to share my life. He doesn't complain if I want to watch a chick flick – and then fall asleep 10 minutes into the movie. He is happy to come with me to pick up groceries or dog food. I drooled on him (by accident) and he didn't freak out and make me have his couch cleaned. And he's even willing to come to church with me – something I've wanted in a partner for as long as I can remember.

Maybe I'm less of a princess and more of a screw-up than the elf-therapist and I originally thought . . . Time – and several more $35 copayments – will tell. Stay tuned for more.

© 2010 Princess D

 

Keeping a Suitor: Harder than Kissing a Frog

A clever gal with a witty sense of humor and excellent fashion sense recently told me that ending the frog blog now would be - and I quote - "like Melrose Place stopping mid-season".  While I appreciated the sentiment enough to get off my rear end and update my 21 fans on what's up, for the record, I sincerely hope that the drama quotient here in the Powderhorn Park neighborhood is significantly less than the havoc wreaked by Amanda, Michael, Sydney et al.  Once again, if you don't know who or what I'm talking about, you are too young to be reading this and your parents should be ashamed of themselves for not more diligently monitoring your internet usage.  (You know who you are.) 

Suitor #1 and I have been dating each other - and only each other - for nearly two months.  Kissing frogs, while frequently degrading, humiliating, and always entertaining, is actually a hell of a lot easier than being in a relationship with one.  Who knew? When you're merely kissing frogs, you wear a push-up bra, put on some extra eye-liner, and you smile sweetly until your face hurts.  But eventually, you wind up back home, alone, where you can safely wear the same sweatpants you've owned since college, a mustard-stained GeekSquad t-shirt you scored free, and the ugliest, grayest pair of giant granny panties known to mankind.  You can drown your sorrows in a glass (botttle) of Pinot Grigio, you can fill the emptiness inside you with Skinny Cow ice cream treats, and you can write ridiculous blog entries about your latest disaster while laughing at your own jokes.

When you are trying to relate to someone else, it’s a whole different story. You walk the tightrope between wanting to put your best face forward and opening up completely to someone else. You wonder, “Will he still like me when he finds out what my breath smells like in the morning?” You diligently avoid eating anything with onions or that might lead to excessive intestinal gas. God forbid he finds out that you . . fart. Or poop. Or anything else remotely human.

Part of the charm of Suitor #1 is that he is just as clueless as I am about what to do, and he’s just as afraid of screwing up as I am. We spend a lot of time dancing around landmines as a result. It’s no secret that I’m not all that thrilled about his ex-wife and tadpoles. I know it’s irrational and ridiculous at my age, but I resent being someone’s second or third choice. I’m a princess, for God’s sakes, not a consolation prize. Thanks to the brainwashing of Disney, Sweet Valley High, and countless chick flicks, I’ve come to believe that nirvana is walking down the aisle in a cute dress and a tiara. I want to believe that Mr. Right has been sitting on the sidelines (maybe in a chastity belt?) just waiting for me to show up all these years.  Insane? Uh . . . yes. As Suitor #1 aptly pointed out, it’s not like I was just sitting on my big ass waiting for Mr. Right to swoop by on a white horse all these years myself. And yet, to me, there is a significant difference between me shacking up with Mr. Wrong for 14 years and him standing in front of God and everyone else and saying, “I do . . . for better and for worse.”

Since I met this guy, I’ve been looking for reasons to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction – and for every reason I want to flee for the hills, he gives me two more reasons to stay put and follow my heart. Let me catalogue the evidence for you.

Exhibit A: The birthday party.
I threw a little soiree for myself this year in honor of the 10th anniversary of my 27th birthday. I really wanted to see the people I care about most on my birthday and I didn’t know any other way to do it beyond throwing a little party. Just add alcohol and look at that! We can all get along. I purposely threw this party on a day when I knew Suitor #1 would be preoccupied with his tadpoles because I didn’t want him to feel obligated to make an appearance. It’s stressful meeting the friends! Not only did he secure a babysitter, he showed up and in spite of the fact that I know he would have preferred a root canal without Novocain; he hung in there and met my friends. Why is this such a big deal, you ask? I’ll tell you why.

Some of you have known me a long time – and many of you never laid eyes on Mr. Wrong in all those years. In fact, several people wondered if he was a figment of my imagination since he rarely ventured out in public with me. I learned early on that Mr. Wrong only did what he wanted when he wanted. He would never submit to a night with my friends where he wasn’t the center of attention. Consequently, I hardly saw my friends for 14 years, and I went a lot of places alone. Or with my girlfriends, leading several to wonder if I’d adopted a lesbian lifestyle. (While I’ve threatened it many times, as it turns out, I like dudes. It’s my cross to bear.)

Exhibit B: Attention to Detail
I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, but for some reason, I get a lot of flowers. When they come from my amazing friends, I cherish them and wonder how I got so lucky to have the world’s greatest friends. I often get red roses, however, from misguided frogs in an attempt to weasel their way into my Grinch-like heart. My motto is this. Save your money! Please. While flowers are beautiful, the way to this Princess’s heart is through quality time and service. Mow my lawn and I’ll love you forever. (Yes, Dave – this means you.) Cook me dinner and you’ll have a hard time getting me to leave your kitchen, or any other room of your house. (Frog #6 – I apologize for this. It’s just that you are a helluva cook. And there was CAKE, too.) Fix my refrigerator and I will make sure my legs are shaved every single time I see you.

Suitor #1 was asking some weird questions pre-birthday, along the lines of “what’s your favorite flower” and “if I wanted to send you something, where would I send it?” This led to awkward conversation #324 where I explained that he did not need to spend his hard-earned money on flowers for me, and in fact, if he was smart, he would invest it in the tadpoles’ college fund. I don’t want to be the reason these kids I haven’t met yet end up working at Red Robin. He kept pushing though, so I let it slip that sunflowers are my absolute favorite and you can save your roses for your prom date, thank you very much. It is also possible that I threatened to neuter him if he sent me flowers at work, but there are no witnesses so let’s not pursue that line of questioning any further, shall we?

I spent my birthday away from home but Suitor #1 didn’t forget my special day. He fed-exed me a birthday card at the office to make sure that I knew he was thinking of me on my day. I can’t think of anything sweeter than that! (I was also appalled that he spent $18 to mail a $3 card. We’re going to have to discuss this at some point.)

And, when I got home from work this week, I met a flower delivery guy who handed me the most beautiful bouquet of sunflowers I have ever seen. No stupid roses from this guy!

Is he tall, dark, and handsome? Yeah, he is. Since I was looking for red-haired and skinny, that’s not a ringing endorsement. (And that’s also not a lie, by the way.) Suitor #1 is everything I never knew I wanted and more than I ever imagined I could find.

Is it perfect? Of course not. This is life, not a fairy tale. He’s a little overprotective and a little insecure, and I’m a lot stubborn, have a big mouth, and I am independent as hell. What I think of as an innocent remark will keep him up all night wondering, “Is she harboring a crush on a dead guy?” or “What if she moves to Colorado?” What he considers helpful support can sometimes feel like smothering to me. What’s different is that we talk about it . . . all of it. And what makes him imperfect feels like the stuff I like the most.

I’m a smart princess and I know all about infatuation and lust and oxytocin. I know there is no such thing as “The One” and that none of us really live happily ever after, except really rich people who can afford to hire someone else to clean their toilets. (And even they don’t seem all that happy, to be honest.) But you know what? For once in my life, I’m not worried about happily ever after. I’m happy right now, in this moment. And that is enough.

© 2010 Princess D

The 8th Time’s the Charm . . .

For many years, I've been laboring under the misapprehension that I possess a superior intellect. In my defense, I've received a lot of feedback in the "you sure are smart" vein which has merely served to reinforce my delusions. Recent events have caused me to wonder why I'm not under constant supervision and monitoring – or at the very least, wearing a helmet. Humor me for a moment while I recap some of my recent greatest hits.

Gas Can Blues – Greatest Hit #1:

Princess D: "Hey! I need to borrow your gas can. Please. And hi, how are you?"

Brother-with-patience-of-saint: "Are you sure you should be handling flammable materials? And why do you need a gas can?"

Princess D: "Well, I hired these guys to power wash my garage and they told me I need one. Right away."

Brother: "Why don't they have one?"

Princess D: "Really? That's the conversation I should have had with them? Are you going to help a sister out or not?"

Brother: "I don't have a gas can. I sold it at a garage sale."

Princess D: "So does that mean I have to go buy one?"

Brother: "Unless you were planning to use your magical powers to make one appear, you probably will need to venture out and procure said gas can. With cash money."

Princess D: "Fine. I'll buy a gas can. Do you think I can buy one at the gas station?"

Brother: After a long pause . . . "Are you seriously asking me this question right now? Can you hear yourself?"

Princess D: "What? I don't get it."

 

Locked Out Lullaby – Greatest Hit #2

My home-away-from-home is the Holiday Inn. I spend three nights a week enjoying their hospitality, and to keep things interesting, I stay in a different room every week. For reasons even I don't understand, I am almost always on the 6^th floor. Like pretty much every major hotel chain on earth, the Holiday Inn uses key cards for your hotel room door. Last week, I returned home after washing down my dinner with a nice tall beer, and I'm not going to lie. I had to tinkle pretty bad. I swiped the key card as per its instructions and they way I have done every week for the past 11 weeks. The green light lit up, indicating that the door was unlocked, but when I went to push it open, nothing happened.

I repeated this little exercise, accompanied by a frantic, "I have to go pee-pee" dance, for the better part of 15 minutes before I managed to enter the room. I'm still not sure why the door wouldn't open.

Go West, Young Woman – Greatest Hit #3

Every Monday morning, I leave my house for the Minneapolis-St. Paul International airport. I park my car at a dubious yet economical off-site parking lot in St. Paul, hop on the shuttle, and head for the main terminal. I reverse the sequence on Thursday nights and ultimately, wind up at my other home – the one I pay Bank of America to live in, not the Holiday Inn.

Two weeks ago, I got hopelessly lost trying to go home from the airport. I literally circled the airport four times before I realized that I do not, in fact, live east of the airport but rather, west. And by continuing to travel east, I was getting further and further away from my home.

This is just a sampling of the entire greatest hits album. But I assure you – the evidence is starting to pile up in the "you might just be a dumb-ass" category.

This is a long prelude to explain that although I've been preaching about the virtues of kissing "a lotta" frogs and while I held on to the dream of finding a prince, I'm not sure I really believed that it was possible to meet someone and really connect. I figured I'd just keep kissing frogs, writing amusing anecdotes, and maybe one day, get discovered, get published, make a movie where Anne Hathaway plays my role, get rich, and buy a castle.

I certainly never believed that the internet would introduce me to someone special. And based on my own interesting hang-ups and rules, I never thought that a guy with two tadpoles and an ex-wife, 4 years my junior would be anything more than an interesting dinner companion. But something strange is afoot.

This isn't a story about Frog #8. It's a story about Suitor #1 – a guy who despite all the reasons why I've tried to disqualify him, somehow becomes even more likeable every single day. I've been on four dates with Suitor thus far. We went out for pizza; we went out for dinner and looked at sharks; we went hiking; and we had dinner again. What can I say? You know I like to eat. I look forward to our 5^th date. And our 6^th. When I am with Suitor, I feel like I can show up as me. I can be as weird or as silly or as dumb or as serious as I want – and he doesn't care. He meets me where I am. I'm not left wondering, "Does he like me?" and I'm not trying to be someone I'm not. He is willing to open himself up and be vulnerable and in exchange, I want to do the same for him.

Now, I know that four dates is hardly a world-record. And there are so many reasons to run as far away as I can as fast as I can, not the least of which are his nine year old daughter and ten year old son. But I'm not running. I like this one. A lot. And now I'm faced with a whole new set of fears. Not only do I not know how to date, I don't know how to relate. How much do you share? When? And how do you keep yourself from hurting someone else – or getting hurt yourself?

Although Mr. Wrong and I were together for a long, long time, and although I loved him, he wasn't my one true love. I gave my heart to another man long before I ever met Mr. Wrong, and I loved Other Man truly, madly and deeply until the day he died; March 13, 2001. When Other Man died, so did a big part of my heart. I never dreamed I would feel those same feelings for another person. Imagine my surprise when I realized that, "Oh, my GOD. I remember these feelings!"

I'm exhilarated and ecstatic and scared shitless simultaneously. Everything I believed, everything I thought I knew has been tossed on its ear – and you know what? That's okay. Because maybe, just maybe, I didn't really have all the answers in the first place.

Will I keep updating the Frog Blog? Of course I will. But whatever this thing is with Suitor #1, it's pretty special and very precious to me, and there are some details that are best left unshared. Besides, I'm a lot less amusing when I'm walking around on cloud nine and gushing – even I know that.

How many frogs do you have to kiss before one shows princely potential? In my experience, the answer is lucky #7. Watch this space for more.

© 2010 Princess D

 

Kissing Practice

I've kissed a few frogs in the past seven months and in an effort to stay out of the psychiatric ward, I've catalogued every humiliating detail here for your viewing pleasure. If my misfortune can bring joy to others, I've not dated in vain, right? (Now would be a good time for you to say something to validate me.) Here in the royal palace, your princess has developed a loose standard operating procedure for frog reporting. I don't typically introduce frogs to my fans until:

1. I've kissed them
   
2. They've failed to transform into princes
   
3. Both A and B
   
4. Neither A nor B but their frog nature is indisputable
   

Put another way, you don't get to hear my sordid tales of dates gone wrong until something actually goes wrong. Once things go awry, I usually need a few days to regain my strength and find the humor. Once I figure out the "ha-ha" angle, I sit down and begin to tell my story, and from what I gather, somewhere between 2 and 17 of you are bored enough to read it. (Thanks, guys!)

I'm about to break my own rule. In a weak moment, fueled by boredom, loneliness, and lack of human contact, I resumed online dating – not on Frogs.com, but via their competition, PseudacrisBrachyphona.com. (Again, that is the scientific name for the mountain chorus frog, and my lame attempt at humor.) In similar weak moments, I've invoked the Princess outsourcing strategy and I've found that for the low price of $75, I can pay a nice lady to give me a backrub, talk to me in low, soothing tones, and improve my self esteem. No, I'm not talking about hookers, you dirty pervert. I'm talking about plain old ordinary massage. It's a great way to fulfill my need for human contact without the humiliation of dating – and giant granny panties are socially acceptable for the former not the latter. Unfortunately, since the great career change of 2010, I've been sans paycheck for the last two and a half months, and as a result, only mission-critical routine princess maintenance is in the budget. (This includes but is not limited to hair color, moisturizer, conditioner, lotion, and makeup. Facials, massage, cosmetic surgery (wishful thinking!) car washes, teeth whitening, and anything from Victoria's Secret are all unbudgeted and therefore unapproved expenses.)

After the grave disappointment that was Frog #7 (also known as the garbage collector), followed by the internet's revelation that Mr. Wrong and I would make the ideal match, my outlook on internet dating was optimistically wary at best. I began exchanging emails with Potential Suitor #1, a 33 year old divorcé with two tadpoles. (For the record, the only context in which it is acceptable to refer to me as a cougar is when the term is used as a proper noun to describe my undergraduate university's mascot. Any other use of the term cougar will result in disciplinary action, up to and including dismemberment of your bowels. Don't say I didn't warn you.) Since I live part-time in another state and my free time is limited, I was happy to "de-risk" Potential Suitor #1 via email, which I did slowly over the course of several weeks. Many of you know that in spite of my own lousy typing and refusal to use spell-check on a regular basis, I require others to maintain a higher standard of correct spelling and grammar. Bonus points are awarded for an extensive vocabulary. Potential Suitor's spelling and grammar were borderline, but he occasionally threw in a word like "disavow" and used it correctly. His ability to express himself via email was enough to keep my interest piqued.

After several innocuous emails, I took longer than normal to respond to a note due to my travel schedule. (I self-diagnosed chronic fatigue syndrome, but since I barely passed 7^th grade life science class, I wouldn't take that to the bank.) Potential Suitor sent a very cute email telling me how much he missed hearing from me first thing in the morning and then suggested that we take our relationship to the next level . . . the in-person meeting.

Our first date was Father's Day – the irony of which is no small source of yuk-yuk laughs for me. Or, as I said to a friend, "What better way to celebrate Father's Day than taking some baby daddy out for pizza?" I've got no shortage of emotional baggage, mind you, but let me be clear: this princess does not have any daddy issues. Whew. We picked Sunday night for our first date not because it was mutually convenient but because he couldn't find a babysitter. (Side note: I cannot think of a worse time for a date than Sunday nights. Not only do I typically go to 7 PM mass, but I also have to pack for the week and say goodbye to the dog. Like Rainman, I don't like to have my routine messed with. You do not want to get in between me and my Wapner, for example. And if you are too young to know what I'm talking about, you are too young to be reading this. You know who you are.)

I almost stood him up. There was nothing I wanted to do less than meet a stranger, engage in awkward "get-to-know-you" small talk, and try to be cute, witty, and engaging for more than about 13 seconds. Potential Suitor and I neglected to exchange phone numbers, though, so I had no way to reschedule or cancel, and after calling a friend for a pep talk, I went through with the date.

I arrived at the agreed upon meeting place on time, but I managed to beat Potential Suitor. I sat down and proceeded to wait. I hoped I'd be able to recognize him in the flesh, since Frogs.com taught me an important lesson; namely, that some frogs are larger than they appear online. (Also, some frogs have significantly less hair, more wrinkles, and are half a foot shorter than they claim to be. But I digress.) When he walked in, I recognized him right away – because he looked like his photo. Only, actually, taller. And cuter. He recognized me right away and we got through the awkwardness of first date chat with some beer and some pizza. He failed to keep up his end of the conversation and at one point, I realized I was talking just to fill the silence. (When I start discussing my antiperspirant, the verbal diarrhea has struck and the only cure is to shove some taffy between my teeth or run for your life.)

Thankfully, the initial awkwardness wore off, and I ended up having a decent time. Not great, not horrible. He was attentive and sweet, picked up the check, and even told me that he thought I was pretty. (Flattery will get you everywhere, for the record. This princess cannot hear enough nice things about herself.) He walked me to my car, gave me a hug, and then . . . moved in for the kiss. After eating pizza and drinking beer with a virtual stranger, I wasn't quite ready to kiss this frog yet, so I ducked and said goodbye. I drove away not sure if I'd see him again.

Since I didn't have a terrible time, I took the advice of my friendly neighborhood Elf-Therapist and accepted a second date. Besides, I wanted to see what kind of date he would plan for us left to his own devices, since date #1 was heavily influenced by me and my appetite. The Elf's exact counsel went like this:

Elf: "Since you're half-assing this at best, he's not going to magically turn into a prince. You do get that right? You're not totally delusional?"

Princess: "Your point is . . . . . ?"

Elf: "You could use the practice. Your dating skills are still woefully remedial. Take the 2^nd date. Just keep your expectations realistic."

Princess: "You are awfully bossy for such a tiny little wee man."

You get the idea. I accepted the date. We agreed to out on a Friday night, and I put the ball in Potential Suitor's court to plan the blessed event. As promised, he phoned me during his lunch break on Friday to firm up the details. His initial suggestion – Dave & Busters – was met with silence. I've never been to a Dave & Busters, but from what I understand, it is Chuck E. Cheese for big people. Since I'm closer to menopause than adolescence, the very idea that he thought I was that kind of girl stunned me silent. Poor guy immediately realized his faux pas and quickly recovered with plan B. Which is how I ended up meeting him at the Mall of America on a Friday night for dinner, drinks, and a walk through Underwater World.

Maybe it was all the beer I drank, but he looked good, he smelled good, and I was having a good time. Under the watchful eye of more than 5,000 sea creatures, including a very smug looking shark, Potential Suitor moved in for a kiss and I let him. He didn't turn into a prince, but on the other hand, he didn't start croaking and hop off into the night, so I agreed to a third date. What can I say? He's a good kisser.

This fairy tale isn't over yet. Date #3 was even more fun than dates #1-2, and a 4^th date is in the works. Don't rush out and buy a wedding gift yet, mind you - I don't even know how to pronounce his last name yet, for heavens' sakes – but do watch this space for more. And hey – maybe this means I'll have a date for my birthday this year after all.

© 2010 Princess D

Independence Day

Normal people celebrate Independence Day on July 4^th. . . but I've never proclaimed to be normal. I love my country and I’ve never turned down an opportunity to eat cake, so I’ll be singing happy birthday and licking frosting off my fingers with my fellow Americans tomorrow, but as it turns out, Independence Day came twice for Princess D this year.

If you’ve been paying attention, you know that 14 months ago, my long-term relationship of 14 years went kaput. What you might not know is this: Mr. Wrong and I were pretty amicable until just about six months ago. Now, I know that some of you might be wondering what the heck amicable means. Before you go right to the bad place, let me just say this – “amicable” in this scenario means that we hung out; ate pizza; drank beer; exchanged Christmas gifts, toasted champagne as we rang in the new year together, and even took a vacation together. (Yes, Mom, you’re right. I did lie to you about that. I went to confession already, though, and since the Catholic Church has forgiven me, I know you can get over it.) We exchanged text messages, talked on the phone, and spent most of our non-work time together. In fact, had we not been living in separate houses and sleeping in our own beds – separately – our relationship hadn’t really changed all that much.

We had a little falling out back in January . . . right around the time I started this blog, as a matter of fact. While my blogging has occasionally put me into awkward positions with a variety of friends, foes, and frogs, I assure you that the blog is entirely innocent in our altercation. Here’s the Cliff Notes version of what went down: On a cold winters’ night, I had dinner with a friend. On my way home from dinner, about a block from my house, I lost control of my car on an icy, poorly plowed city street and crashed into a snow bank. It was pretty late at night and out of habit, my first response was to call Mr. Wrong for help. Unfortunately, I woke him up and when his slumber is disturbed, Mr. Wrong is a real dick. I was pretty shaken up by the whole crashing the car thing, and what I needed was help and support. What I got was unleashed fury and a verbal attack that sucked just as much as the car accident.

The whole thing left me pretty shell-shocked, and also more than a little pissed. It’s one thing to call someone names – it’s another to fling around synonyms for prostitute at someone you’re supposed to care about. And when I calmed down, I realized that Mr. Wrong was no friend of mine. That was the last time I spoke to him . . . until PseudacrisBrachyphona.com decided that we should date.

After a six month vow of silence and several forays into the dating world with Frogs #4 – 6, the internet suggested that Mr. Wrong and I would be perfect for one another. Because the only thing larger than my mouth is my ego, I couldn’t let it go. The very idea of Mr. Wrong getting an email from PseudacrisBrachyphona.com about me – and worse, knowing that I couldn’t find a man in real life and was resorting to internet dating like some desperate loser – well, it was too much for my fragile ego and battered self-esteem to bear. I could just picture him, sitting at his laptop, laughing at my expense and I knew that I couldn’t allow him to win. So . . . I decided the preventative strike was my best defense, and I emailed him.

I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t give two shits about what Mr. Wrong thinks about me. He decided that he was too good for our life together – he didn’t want to live in the ‘hood in our modest home with our loveable mutt anymore. He took my toys and his Lexus and moved to a 4 bedroom, 4 bathroom McMansion. Alone. Even as a therapy graduate, I sometimes do stupid things and that’s my best explanation for the email I sent.

We exchanged a few emails back and forth. And then a couple of days ago, Mr. Wrong sent me a text message. Yesterday, I met him for breakfast. It was the first time I’ve laid eyes on him in over six months. Did he fall on his knees and beg me for forgiveness? No. Did he proclaim his undying love for me? No. Did I beg him to reconsider and take me back? No. I did eat a cinnamon roll, made some small talk and realized once and for all that I have moved on. All in all, it was an uneventful meeting until we got up to leave and he moved in for a hug that I wasn’t prepared for and didn’t really want. (It was so awkward that he actually apologized afterward.)

As I drove away feeling strangely ambivalent, I realized that Independence Day came a couple of days early for Princess D. When Mr. Wrong left, I was a wreck. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to take care of myself, my house, and my dog on my own. I’d be lying if I said I passed the living on my own test with flying colors (and my brother would be the first one to bust me on that, since he gets most of the frantic phone calls) but I’ve also learned a lot. Six months ago, I didn’t know how to check my car tire pressure or refill the windshield washer fluid . . . or even open the hood if we’re being really honest here. Now I can do all those things. I know how to replace the batteries in my smoke detector and thermostat. I figured out how to lift up the heavy bags of dog chow. I bought a AAA membership so I don’t have to wake my brother or friends up every time my car won’t start. And some wonderful, generous friends took pity on a princess in distress and are helping me with my yard work. I no longer need Mr. Wrong – or any man – to take care of me. Independence feels pretty damn good.

Will Mr. Wrong and I eventually become friends? I don’t think so. We might be friendly, but we’ve treated each other so poorly in the nearly 15 years we’ve known each other that friendship is probably out of the question. I wouldn’t treat my worst enemy (whose first name starts with B, by the way) the way I treated Mr. Wrong, and while I forgive him for what transpired, I can’t forget how easy it was for him to turn his back on me when I needed him most. I do, however, appreciate the Independence Day gift I received from Mr. Wrong today.

I got the lawn mower back. Now I have to learn how to use it.

“Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing. Let the whole world know that today is a day of reckoning. Let the weak be strong, let the right be wrong. Roll the stone away, let the guilty pay. It’s Independence Day,” – Martina McBride

Cue the fireworks. There’s an independent princess on the loose.

© 2010 Princess D

I will Survive! (Or, how I’m half-a$$ing it)

Just over a week ago, I met a potential PseudacrisBrachyphona.com suitor for our first date. I can't yet call him Frog #8 because the jury is still out on his princely potential. While he violates one of Princess D's Nine Commandments for dating (Tadpole alert! Tadpole Alert!), he is gainfully employed, in possession of a full head of hair, and all critical teeth were present and accounted for. He exceeded the minimum height requirement, did not record his weight in cubic tons, and did not engage me in any conversation about politics or garbage, so by all accounts, this date was a winner. Bonus points were awarded when he picked up the check, enjoyed pizza and beer as much as I do, and paid me a compliment. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this guy. And yet I am not jumping up and down to go on a second date with him. But today's story isn't about Frog #8 or even "Possible Prince #1". Humor me while we detour from the pond for a minute and talk about life, the universe, and everything else.

In less than 30 days, I'll be 37 years old, and for the first time in my life, I am content with exactly where I am. (Hey, I never said I was in the advanced class!) For those of you joining the party late, let's recap what it took to get me to content, shall we?

• My partner of 14 years, Mr. Wrong, left me high and dry, taking the lawn mower (I really miss that mower, I'm sorry!), the blue-ray player, and the gas grill with him. He literally came home from a business trip, looked right at me and said, "This isn't working for me. I'm moving out" and the next day, he took his fancy car and moved into his McMansion. Meanwhile, back in the 'hood . . .
  
• I lost my mind. I really thought Mr. Wrong & I would be together forever, the fact that we cohabitated for 14 years without making it to the altar notwithstanding. Somewhere, in the deep, dark recesses of my mind, I knew we weren't going to make it. Stubborn as I am, I was willing to make us both miserable for the rest of our lives versus showing some courage and making the tough call. In many ways, I admire Mr. Wrong for having the guts to call bullshit. But I still want my lawn mower back.
  
• I stopped washing myself and spent an inordinate amount of time weeping and watching Lifetime movies. I was curiously cheered by Tori Spelling's performance in the Lifetime Movie Network original, Co-Ed Call Girl. It's a classic – check it out!
  
• When my body odor became so foul that I was in danger of losing both my one friend and my job, I called a professional. No, not a professional elephant washer but rather, a therapist.
  
• My therapist of choice bears an uncanny resemblance to Hermey the elf of Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer fame in size, stature, and overall disposition. But he's awfully good, and I saw him on a weekly basis for nearly ten months before he declared me "sane enough" to become a therapy graduate.
  
• I convinced myself that the only way I wouldn't die alone was to become a lesbian nun. But before fully committing to the lifestyle change, I tried my hand at dating human males. Depending on your point of view, much hilarity (your perspective) and/or total disaster (mine) ensued as a result.
  
• Two of my "member of the opposite sex" friends were promoted, thereby becoming eligible for a comprehensive "friends with benefits" package. Only one of these friends is still speaking to me, and to be honest, even he's not speaking to me all that often since I turned him into a frog. (And possibly a gay frog at that.)
  
• I realized that dating is time-consuming, difficult, and exhausting. And I took a break.
  
• I fell a tiny bit in love with a pseudo prince and became motivated to get back out there.
  
• Upon waking one morning, decided to wage war against Cinderella and Snow White. The day got progressively worse from there, and before it was over, I decided to quit my job.
  
• I kissed the corporate world goodbye to become a self-employed princess. Unfortunately, the bulk of my work is 693 frequent flier miles to the west of my home address, so I now live part-time at the Holiday Inn.
  

18 months ago, my life looked perfect on paper. I was a 30-something successful professional with a career, a graduate degree, and a 30 year mortgage on a house I could afford. I was in a committed, long-term relationship with a human male, I took frequent exotic vacations, and I earned a nice living. Yet something was missing. For 12 years, I set goals and achieved them and then set some more. With each accomplishment, I expected to finally feel as if I'd arrived but instead, I continued to feel like an imposter in my own life. I woke up every day and went through the motions – smiled, nodded, said the right things, put money in my 401(k) but on the inside, I desperately wondered, "Is this all there is?" I was a lousy partner, a rotten friend, and a fairly unhappy human being who was doing a damn good job of faking it.

Fast forward to today. I'm self-employed, have no idea where my paycheck is going to come from after August, am one of the million Americans without health insurance, and I spent the last 12 months in therapy. I live alone, date occasionally (and we all know how well that's working out), and I'm wondering if I'll ever be able to wear a pretty dress and a tiara to stand before God and all my family and friends to declare my love for my prince. I'm closer to 40 than to 30; have depleted my savings account; and until three days ago, had no idea how to perform simple tasks such as putting air in my car tire. You know what? I am finally content. I am happier today, without a corporate career, without a partner, without health insurance, and without basic life skills than I've ever been before. I've learned a lot in the last year, but the most important lesson was this: I will survive. The second most important lesson? I don't suck as much as I think I do.

What does this have to do with half-a$$ing it, you ask? A lot, as it turns out. You see, I've been pretty busy changing my life lo these last few months. And I'm not going to lie to you. Having all these non-stop epiphanies and staring fear in the face repeatedly is exhausting. I just don't have a lot of time and energy to invest in meeting new people, making a good impression, and learning to love. Given the choice, I'd rather put on a baseball cap, forgo makeup, and take my dog for a long walk. Or meet my best friend for coffee. Or read a good book. The very thought of fixing my hair, trying to find cute "date" clothes (side note: apparently, I dress like a cross between a 400 pound woman and an Amish person) is enough to return me to the endless cycle of watching the Lifetime Movie Network and wallowing in my own filth.

In spite of my chronic fatigue syndrome, the little optimist that sits on my shoulder keeps whispering, "You've got to kiss a lot of frogs, Princess. That prince is out there waiting for you." Therein lies my struggle, friends. I'm too tired to clean myself up to even find a frog, much less kiss one but I'm too goal-oriented to take a sabbatical from frog kissing. This is how I continue to find myself online dating, for example. Do I really believe the internet is going to introduce me to my true love? Maybe. But let's be clear, internet. Your track record isn't exactly stellar, and I may be holding a grudge since you chose Mr. Wrong just for me.

Internet dating lends itself nicely to half-a$$edness, as it turns out. I log on when I feel like it, and I decide whether or not I want to engage with any of the winners the internet has chosen for me. Since 90% of the online suitors fail to meet my minimum requirements, there is no action required, thereby rewarding my laziness. If I find a frog that looks interesting, I can choose to email him when it's convenient for me. And there is no rule that says I ever have to tell these online frogs things like my last name, my email address, or my phone number. If a frog bores me, I can politely reject him with the push of a button. Frankly, I think the reason so many relationships start online is because internet dating allows you to be anonymous. While you might think you're putting yourself out there, you're in full control of how "out there" you put yourself at any point in time. Getting rejected by someone you've never laid eyes on doesn't shatter your self-esteem the way getting rejected by a real flesh and blood human being does. There are no awkward "I'm just not that into you" conversations online. Could you meet someone nice online? Sure. But it's not all that different from searching for a needle in a haystack.

Not all that long ago, I wondered why I was so wholly unlovable and alone. Today, I realize that I am imminently loveable . . . and I'm alone because I haven't found Mr. Right yet and I'm not willing to settle for Mr. Right Now. I used to think my life didn't measure up because I didn't have a partner. While I might be flying solo, I am one of the lucky ones. I'm living the good life, and although I'm going to keep on kissing frogs, I'm content. You won't catch me complaining if one of those frogs turns into a prince. But even if I kiss nothing but frogs for the rest of my days, I will do more than survive. I will thrive.

With gratitude to the Elf-Therapist and all those special people I am lucky enough to call my friends and family,

Princess D.

Ps. I do have a second date scheduled with Potential Prince #1 / Frog #8. Watch this space for more!

Frog #7: Someone Else's Prince

There are days when I wonder if I am less of a princess and more of your garden variety bitch. This is not to say that I've resigned my position as president of my own royal fan club, but I can see where my greasy, black, banana peel of a heart might not be that little ray of sunshine that everyone seeks in their day.

For example, I am a sadistic laugher. Not familiar with the concept of sadistic laughing? Allow me to explain. Simply put, I love to watch people hurt themselves. Now, I'm not giddy with glee at the sight of, say, a multi-car pileup on 494 during rush hour, but I just might be the kind of person who follows a fire truck. One of my favorite sadistic laughs comes at the expense of my local fitness freaks. You know who I'm talking about. Picture it. You're working out at the gym, huffing and puffing and wondering why you drink so much when you catch a glimpse of the guy on the treadmill behind you. And he is fierce. He's running as if being pursued by wolves. (I usually double-check to make sure rabid wolves haven't snuck into the gym – because let's be clear. That guy is running fast enough not to be eaten. Me? Not so much.) He's running fast and furious and then, suddenly - he's airborne. Yes, boys and girls. He's been EJECTED from his treadmill. Since laughter is good for the soul, I see no problem with pausing for a five minute laugh break while I catch my breath and try not to pee my pants.

What the hell does this have to do with kissing frogs, you ask? A lot, as it turns out. Because I am not a nice person. This has never been more obvious to me than when I found myself out on a date with Frog #7, Nice Guy for Anyone But Me Frog.

Frog #7 and I were matched by that magical internet Cupid known as PseudacrisBrachyphona.com . (Have you Googled it yet?) A cursory exam proved that he passed all Princess D's Nine Commandments with ease. We did not, in fact, work together. There were no tadpoles. His inseam appeared greater than or equal to his waist size. We're the same age; he's human, employed, and heterosexual. As a bonus, photos indicated a full head of hair and all key teeth were present and accounted for. What could go wrong?

Boredom, desperation, and a desire to allow one of my best friends to live vicariously through me converged and I agreed to a date with Frog #7. Before I detail the many, many ways this date went wrong, let me give Frog #7 the props he deserves by cataloging what he did right:

1. He planned the date. While I am a big old bossy-pants under normal circumstances, I think it is so cool when the Frog takes charge and plans the date. I have to make decisions all day, every day to earn a paycheck, and I find I've become allergic to real-life decision making as a result. In addition, I'm always worried about everyone else's good time, and if I pick something that you think sucks, I'll stress out, have a lousy time and probably get a pimple.
   
2. Not only did he plan the date, he planned a pretty good one. Knowing little about me except my height, age, city, personality type, and that I love to eat, he suggested we meet at Lake Calhoun, grab dinner, and then either canoe or walk around the lake. Romantic? Check. Meeting my need to eat? Check. The way to my heart is through my stomach. Or, put another way, food whore? Yes, I am.
   
3. He called me the day of to reconfirm. This was important because most of the date details were arranged online, which always leaves margin for error (translation: high probability of being stood up).
   
4. He arrived early. Unfortunately, he was the only one of us who was punctual. I underestimated the Lake Calhoun traffic on the first nice summer Saturday afternoon of the year, and I spent an obscene amount of time trying to park. I did, however, call to inform him that I was not standing him up and provided an explanation and ETA.
   
5. He paid for my food. Please see Frog #4 for details on why this is a big deal. See also: Whore, Food.
   
6. He walked me to my car at the end of the date. In this particular case, I would have preferred to have been left alone, but I appreciate the gesture. Chivalry is not dead. (Believe me – I know and have in fact dated frogs that would have me walk crack-house lined streets dodging open gunfire by myself on my way to my car without a second thought. I thought it was sweet and annoying that he wanted to walk me to the car.)
   

Doesn't he sound like a nice guy? He really, really is. So why didn't I kiss Frog #7 and wait for the metamorphosis to Prince? Well . . . buckle your seatbelts and prepare to judge me.

The adjectives most frequently employed to describe me are smart, tall, witty, and psycho-bitch, depending on whom you're asking. I'm dubious about my own set of smarts, but eventually even princesses start to drink their own Kool-aid. Because I can spell, add, subtract and tie my own shoes, potential frogs are required to demonstrate correct grammar, punctuation, and spelling. In addition, I need someone who can keep up with me intellectually. When Frog #7's opening line was, "Well, then – you're a real tall one then, aren't ya," I got a little nervous. Could I overlook his Fargo accent and his firm grip on the obvious?

I chalked it up to nerves combined with being outed on exaggerating his own height. (Side note: do men use a different measurement system than the standard inches and feet? Is it like the metric system or something? I know what 5'10" looks like, and in my experience, every guy who says he's 5'10" is at least 3 inches shorter. ) Plus, it must have been intimidating to have me towering over him in some very cute but not low-heeled shoes.

Because nothing good was going to come from a conversation about measurement, I deftly changed the subject and learned that my date "drives truck" for a living. Not "a" truck, not "the" truck, just truck. I used to be a professional dishwasher, call center cubicle jockey, bill collector, and movie theater usher – I don't judge people based on their jobs. As long as you're able to pay your way, you do what you have to do to get by. No reason that a guy who "drives truck" can't be interesting, witty, charming, and fun, right?

Small talk continued, complete with long pauses. As it turns out, two socially awkward wrongs don't make a right. After a dead-end conversation about snowmobiling (no, I don't – my cousin was killed in a snowmobile accident and for some reason, it lost its appeal after the funeral), Frog #7 bust out with, "How do you feel about recycling?"

At this point, I knew that we were pretty much doomed. Do I recycle? Of course. In fact, I've been recycling since before it was cool. Someday, I'll tell you about the scholarship I received from Coca-Cola in recognition of my efforts to make my high school more eco-friendly. But aside from participating in the act of recycling, I don't have much to actually say on the topic.

I gamely sucked it up and tried to engage Frog #7 in conversation about current events, books, hobbies, etc, but as it turns out – aside from being human, single, and subscribing members of PseudacrisBrachyphona.com, we didn't have much in common. We strolled around Lake Calhoun, desperately trying to fill the awkward pauses in conversation. At one point, Frog #7 invited me to guess his weight.

Did he think he'd stumbled into the carnival and that he was eligible for a prize by asking me to guess his weight? Was he that nervous? Were his conversational skills that limited? God only knows. All you need to know is that I guessed wrong. If I had been a contestant on The Price Is Right, I would have lost the showcase showdown by overbidding. Since I not only towered over Frog #7 by a margin of four inches but also outweighed him by 15 pounds, I changed the topic quickly before he felt compelled to guess my weight, thereby forcing me to drown myself in the lake.

I didn't employ any sneaky, "get out of date free" moves this time. Frog #7 was just too nice. He walked me to my car and as a commercial driver, was concerned that I might not be able to get out of my parking space, so he helped me maneuver a tight squeeze and I escaped without incident. We exchanged a lame, grandma-type hug and as I sped away, I wondered if I knew any nice girls I could introduce to Frog #7. And then I let out a huge sigh of relief thinking, "I survived! It's over!"

I went out on a date with a petite, skinny, snowmobiling, recycling, professional garbage man – who just so happens to be very, very sweet. I am quite sure he is the prince someone is waiting for. Unfortunately, he's not the prince for me – a fact I'm going to have to share with him at some point since he's called me three times since our date and wants to see me again. Nice as he is, there isn't enough cake on earth to get me to sign up for an encore.

So, what have we learned from this? In no particular order:

• The internet may be trying to screw you. Buyer beware.
  
• I sure am a tall one, aren't I?
  
• You don't always need to kiss the frog to know that he's not the prince for you.
  

© 2010 Princess D