When I was a kid, we didn't get our news from MSNBC or from CNN. We watched the 6 PM news and we relied heavily on this thing that rich people had delivered to their front door called . . . the newspaper. You may have heard of these. Many of you may use them today to start fires or line rodent cages, if you are a pyromaniac or laboratory scientist or some kind of crazed freak.
While I'm sure this will shock many of you, I was not exactly a cool kid. Somewhere between the feminist mother, the growth spurt that put me at nearly 6 feet tall before 4th grade, the buck teeth (and later, the braces), the scoliosis, the jeans that were never long enough (and let's not discuss the legwarmer phase) and an intense sense of shame at my own existence made for an interesting childhood. Let's just say, I am the only person I know who had sixteen imaginary friends - each with their own unique name and back-story.
As a socially challenged child, I spent a lot of time reading. I read everything from food labels to the personal ads. Remember those? In the aforementioned newspaper? The personal ads were a place where lonely people advertised for love. At least, that's how my mom explained it to me. Since the advent of Craigslist.org, I am starting to wonder if the personal ads weren't really where lonely, horny people trolled for random sex - but at the age of 10, I was relatively uncorrupted by such vile thoughts. Reading the personal ads was one of my favorite hobbies as a kid. I would read them in any and every newspaper I could get my hands on, and one of my most vivid childhood memories is this: God, please save me from having to place an ad in order to find a husband.
I would like to take this opportunity to say thanks for nothing, God. Where the heck were you when I was selling my soul to Frogs.com in exchange for ridicule and rejection from faceless frogs across the globe? I don't care how many people you meet who happen to "know" someone who met their future spouse on Frogs.com or any similar website. While I'm sure that these sites occasionally get lucky - it is a numbers game, after all - my inner ten year old recognizes that Frogs.com is nothing more than advertising for a husband in the 2000's. She's glad I didn't resort to advertising on City Pages. We celebrate the small victories over here.
So, after being totally humiliated by Frogs.com, this stubborn princess was in it for the long haul. Plus, I weaseled a free month of service from them for making me question my overall attractiveness as a human being.
The first thing I did after receiving my "free month" from Frogs.com was follow their excellent advice and alter the truth in my profile. Instead of being 5'11" with an MBA and a high profile corporate job with a nice paycheck, I became a shorter college dropout with a mediocre job. And suddenly, it was frog mating season! Frogs from all over planet earth were suddenly "matched" with me.
Now, I'm going to assume that you are more successful in love than I am and that you've never subjected yourself to the humility of Frogs.com. As a subscriber, Frogs.com uses their weirdo computer algorithms to find people they think you would be compatible with. In my case, this seems to consist of a disproportionate number of Asians and Pacific Islanders, men in their 50's, and Iowa pig farmers.
Of course, just because you are deemed to be compatible, the nice people at Frogs.com need to cover their legal behinds. They aren't going to introduce you to any and every compatible match. No, no, no. That would allow you to preserve some sense of dignity and self-esteem. Instead, if you see a match that you're interested in, you are required to jump through a number of hoops, and both you and said match have the option to run away screaming at various stage-gates.
In step one, you and the Frog exchange five multiple choice questions with one another. These are usually quite moronic and I have rarely rejected a Frog at stage one. To give you an idea of how effective these selection criteria are, I'll share a couple of actual Frogs.com questions with you:
1. On a Saturday night, would you rather go to:
A) Ballet/Symphony
B) A professional sporting event
C) A popular new movie
D) Dance club
2. If you could take a dream getaway, where would you most likely choose to spend a week?
A) Hawaii
B) Paris
C) Hiking in the mountains
D) Cottage by the sea
3. Would you rather date someone who is:
A) Very busy with a somewhat chaotic schedule who books time with you in advance
B) Busy with a structured schedule, you know what days the person will be available for fun
C) Not busy at all
D) Available at your back and call
You get the idea. I'm not sure I would be boasting about how I'm matching people based on 67 dimensions of compatibility based on these shallow multiple choice questions, Frogs.com - but then again, even I fell into their clever marketing scheme. Anyway, you go back and forth with multiple choice questions for a while, you exchange a list of "must-have's" and "can't-stands" for your future mate, and if you don't poke out your own eye at this stage, eventually, you graduate to open-ended questions. You exchange answers to deep questions such as, "Why did you join Frogs.com?" and "Describe your highest and lowest point in the last week." And in the event that your ADHD hasn't distracted you yet, if you pass this stage, you and the Frog are finally allowed direct, un-facilitated contact.
This, my friends, is how I met the Unibrow Frog. After being rejected by over 300 internet frogs in a two week timespan, I was fragile. I would have met the Unibomber for coffee at that point had he reached out.
The Elf-Therapist was proud. "Oh, goody! Another practice date for Princess!" (Okay, he doesn't talk like that. For some reason, I feel compelled to satirize everything he does because I hate that he knows me better than I know myself, and furthermore, I hate that he is right all the time.) He gave me some excellent pointers on how to approach the practice date, and I was ready.
Frog #3 and I met on a Saturday afternoon at a mutually convenient Caribou. In an unfortunate and ironic twist of fate, I'd forgotten that I scheduled an eyebrow wax for the same day (I also suffer from the unibrow). The thing is, that after an eyebrow wax, my face gets all red and puffy and nasty looking - so I wasn't exactly rocking out the super-model look as a first impression. But at least I had two eyebrows.
I got to the Caribou, ordered a mocha, and found Frog #3. Unlike a lesson I would later learn the hard way, he looked just like his photo - unibrow and all. We sat down and chatted, and let me tell you . . . it was PAINFUL. Ever tried to have a conversation at a Caribou? It can be kind of loud in there, and Frog #3? Mumbler. Also - not the most interesting person I've ever met. I tried hard to participate in the conversation but wound up talking about food obsessively. It was the only common ground we had - we both eat - and I took it and ran with it. I made polite conversation as long as I could, which felt like two hours.
The Elf-Therapist gave me some pointers on how to wrap up a practice date, since I have a bad habit of letting people suck me into their dull and/or dramatic lives for days at a time. When we ran out of things to talk about, I politely advised the Frog that I was going to the gym, told him it was nice to meet him, and said, "keep in touch." And I high-tailed it out of there.
Then I checked my watch and realized that I had just been on a 37 minute date, which included ordering and drinking a large mocha. So, imagine my surprise when Frog #3 emailed me a few days later asking me out for dinner! His email started with, "Hi, Princess! I know how much you like to eat . . . " Yes, I am a sparkling conversationalist. Make a note of it.
Technically, I've only shaken hands with this frog - there was no kissing so I'm not sure it really qualifies. But I am seriously considering having dinner with him. After all, a princess has to eat!
© 2010 Princess D
Friday, January 22, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Frogs.com - an endangered species?
A couple of months ago, I found myself sitting in the Elf-Therapist's office, trying to host my own pity party when I became aware of an impatiently tapping foot wearing a large, bulky shoe. After checking to make sure it wasn't my own foot (the size and shape were all off, and that shoe really wasn't my taste), I realized the foot in question belonged to the Elf-Therapist. And he was bored.
There is no worse feeling than realizing that your own therapist - a man who literally high-fives himself when he brings me to tears and a man who is paid to listen to me whine - is bored. I mean, there I was, sitting on his couch, pouring out my heart, weeping politely, and he's yawning and tapping his foot! I got a little snippy.
Princess: "Pardon me, Elf. Is my mental illness keeping you awake? Why don't we switch spots and you can stretch out on this couch and take a little nap?"
Elf: "Princess, do I look stupid to you? Because I know exactly what you're doing, and you're right. It's so lame that it's exhausting."
Princess: "I'll assume your first question is rhetorical, Elf. But honestly, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Elf: "You're wasting half our session time talking about the same stuff we've already been over so there won't be time to talk about the stuff that really matters. Like why you're afraid to date. But, I cleared my scheduled tonight. And I am willing to stay here until we make some progress on this."
What can I say? He's good. He's busted me on just about every therapy scam I've tried to pull. In this case, I didn't even know I was playing him until he called me out. Needless to say, it was a marathon therapy session. Many Kleenexes died in noble sacrifice as we discovered that I am afraid of abandonment, and we agreed that I am not ready to start dating.
The next day, I was commiserating with another single friend who was also wrestling with the whole "Am I ready to date?" question. And we did what any desperate single woman of a certain age does next. We decided to try internet dating on Frogs.com.
Now, by we, I mean, I pushed my friend into doing it first. After all, I wasn't sure I was ready. We popped over to our local Caribou, where I commandeered her laptop and we spent almost two hours completing surveys and quizzes designed to find compatible frogs. When we finally finished, I hit a button and voila! There were 30 frogs, some of them very normal looking, identified as potential matches for my friend. Fun! Interesting! Good for the self-esteem!
I was intrigued, so I thought, why not? And the next day, I signed up. Of course, unlike my friend, after investing two hours of my time and energy, I was matched with . . . . no one. Millions of desperate people are trying internet dating, and there is not a single heterosexual male human on earth that I'm compatible with. Which, if my math is correct, is about right.
After laughing uproariously at my bad luck, I reviewed the FAQ on the internet site and actually spoke to someone at Frogs.com. They encouraged me to lower my standards (I don't know how much lower you can get than "I will accept a male human", but okay). They also indicated that there were a few changes I might want to make to my own profile to make myself more attractive. These included:
1. Lie about my height. Apparently, men don't like tall women. What the rep actually said was, "Now, are you sure you're 5'11? Is that, like, when you're wearing heels? Because I bet you're really closer to 5'8."
2. Don't disclose my education. The conversation went like this, "Wow, Princess! You are really smart. Your I.Q. and education level are probably very intimidating. Maybe you want to let men know about that as you get to know them - not upfront." Or, put another way, dumb it down, Princess.
3. Pretend to be poorer and less successful than I actually am. My income and career success? Also not attractive.
What I learned from this experience is that basically, who I am as a person? Not attractive to the opposite sex. Even the losers who live in their parents' basements, playing Dungeons & Dragons, and downloading internet porn. I mean, I thought beggars weren't supposed to be choosers, but apparently, all bets are off in the land of virtual dating.
I wish I could say that I laughed the whole thing off and moved on, but I am a stubborn princess. I was pissed off at Frogs.com and frankly, the entire frog population as a whole. You slimy creatures, who are you to tell me I'm too tall, too smart, and too goal-oriented to be attractive? It was game on with Frogs.com.
I altered my profile, cast a wider net, and suddenly . . . I had a net full of virtual frogs. Frogs, everywhere! In the beginning, it was exciting to check Frogs.com to see what new creatures they found for me. But then I realized that this wasn't a game. It was real and I was going to have to do something with it.
If you've never suffered the humiliation of using Frogs.com or similar, let me explain how it works. The website identifies a match for you. You and the Frog are notified and you can check out each others' bio. If you like what you see, you can move to the next step. There are approximately ten million steps you take before you can actually contact the Frog directly, so there are many, many options to opt out. But, if you don't like the way that Frog looks or his bio, you can reject him right out of the gate. That part, I like. What I don't care for is being rejected by frogs I haven't met yet based on a dumb-ass bio and a photo.
Every day, when I log on to Frogs.com, I have been rejected by a minimum of 15 frogs since the previous day. And I'm not going to lie to you. A 50 year old frog with 3 kids, baby mama drama, a bald head, and a fat ass has rejected me. On multiple occasions. Not fun! Not good for the self-esteem! Not interesting! In fact, it kind of sucks. Who are these guys to reject me? I'm Princess!
After weeks of faceless rejection, I caught a live one. I was so excited that a frog existed that didn't hate the sight of me that I took the next step, even though he had a visible unibrow in his photo. And that is how I came to go on a date with Frog #3, "The internet said we should date" Frog.
There is no worse feeling than realizing that your own therapist - a man who literally high-fives himself when he brings me to tears and a man who is paid to listen to me whine - is bored. I mean, there I was, sitting on his couch, pouring out my heart, weeping politely, and he's yawning and tapping his foot! I got a little snippy.
Princess: "Pardon me, Elf. Is my mental illness keeping you awake? Why don't we switch spots and you can stretch out on this couch and take a little nap?"
Elf: "Princess, do I look stupid to you? Because I know exactly what you're doing, and you're right. It's so lame that it's exhausting."
Princess: "I'll assume your first question is rhetorical, Elf. But honestly, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Elf: "You're wasting half our session time talking about the same stuff we've already been over so there won't be time to talk about the stuff that really matters. Like why you're afraid to date. But, I cleared my scheduled tonight. And I am willing to stay here until we make some progress on this."
What can I say? He's good. He's busted me on just about every therapy scam I've tried to pull. In this case, I didn't even know I was playing him until he called me out. Needless to say, it was a marathon therapy session. Many Kleenexes died in noble sacrifice as we discovered that I am afraid of abandonment, and we agreed that I am not ready to start dating.
The next day, I was commiserating with another single friend who was also wrestling with the whole "Am I ready to date?" question. And we did what any desperate single woman of a certain age does next. We decided to try internet dating on Frogs.com.
Now, by we, I mean, I pushed my friend into doing it first. After all, I wasn't sure I was ready. We popped over to our local Caribou, where I commandeered her laptop and we spent almost two hours completing surveys and quizzes designed to find compatible frogs. When we finally finished, I hit a button and voila! There were 30 frogs, some of them very normal looking, identified as potential matches for my friend. Fun! Interesting! Good for the self-esteem!
I was intrigued, so I thought, why not? And the next day, I signed up. Of course, unlike my friend, after investing two hours of my time and energy, I was matched with . . . . no one. Millions of desperate people are trying internet dating, and there is not a single heterosexual male human on earth that I'm compatible with. Which, if my math is correct, is about right.
After laughing uproariously at my bad luck, I reviewed the FAQ on the internet site and actually spoke to someone at Frogs.com. They encouraged me to lower my standards (I don't know how much lower you can get than "I will accept a male human", but okay). They also indicated that there were a few changes I might want to make to my own profile to make myself more attractive. These included:
1. Lie about my height. Apparently, men don't like tall women. What the rep actually said was, "Now, are you sure you're 5'11? Is that, like, when you're wearing heels? Because I bet you're really closer to 5'8."
2. Don't disclose my education. The conversation went like this, "Wow, Princess! You are really smart. Your I.Q. and education level are probably very intimidating. Maybe you want to let men know about that as you get to know them - not upfront." Or, put another way, dumb it down, Princess.
3. Pretend to be poorer and less successful than I actually am. My income and career success? Also not attractive.
What I learned from this experience is that basically, who I am as a person? Not attractive to the opposite sex. Even the losers who live in their parents' basements, playing Dungeons & Dragons, and downloading internet porn. I mean, I thought beggars weren't supposed to be choosers, but apparently, all bets are off in the land of virtual dating.
I wish I could say that I laughed the whole thing off and moved on, but I am a stubborn princess. I was pissed off at Frogs.com and frankly, the entire frog population as a whole. You slimy creatures, who are you to tell me I'm too tall, too smart, and too goal-oriented to be attractive? It was game on with Frogs.com.
I altered my profile, cast a wider net, and suddenly . . . I had a net full of virtual frogs. Frogs, everywhere! In the beginning, it was exciting to check Frogs.com to see what new creatures they found for me. But then I realized that this wasn't a game. It was real and I was going to have to do something with it.
If you've never suffered the humiliation of using Frogs.com or similar, let me explain how it works. The website identifies a match for you. You and the Frog are notified and you can check out each others' bio. If you like what you see, you can move to the next step. There are approximately ten million steps you take before you can actually contact the Frog directly, so there are many, many options to opt out. But, if you don't like the way that Frog looks or his bio, you can reject him right out of the gate. That part, I like. What I don't care for is being rejected by frogs I haven't met yet based on a dumb-ass bio and a photo.
Every day, when I log on to Frogs.com, I have been rejected by a minimum of 15 frogs since the previous day. And I'm not going to lie to you. A 50 year old frog with 3 kids, baby mama drama, a bald head, and a fat ass has rejected me. On multiple occasions. Not fun! Not good for the self-esteem! Not interesting! In fact, it kind of sucks. Who are these guys to reject me? I'm Princess!
After weeks of faceless rejection, I caught a live one. I was so excited that a frog existed that didn't hate the sight of me that I took the next step, even though he had a visible unibrow in his photo. And that is how I came to go on a date with Frog #3, "The internet said we should date" Frog.
© 2010 Princess D
Monday, January 18, 2010
Faux Frogs - Wolves in Frog's Clothing
I am something of an enigma. To truly know me is to shake your head and say, "Huh?" a lot. And to actually be inside my head is like being dropped headfirst into a horror movie - the kind where scary clowns show up for no reason. Unlike in the comic books, where enigmas get awesome super powers, the only unexplained phenomenon happening to me is a preponderance of faux frogs.
Allow me to explain. Apparently, I'm something of an intellectual. My whole life, I've been described by other people as smart. (And also tall, but that's not really relevant here). Now, I've actually had my I.Q. tested and I can confirm that I'm really not as smart as everyone thinks I am - but there are a lot of morons out there, and when you stack me up against them, let's face it. I look like a genius. To perpetuate the myth of my giant brain, I attend graduate school, I read non-stop, and if you saw me in action at work, you'd see me put on my "smart, career woman" costume. You'd probably be fooled into thinking that I am, in fact, a smart and competent human being. Don't worry. You're not alone. I've come a long way in my career since graduating with a useless teaching degree from a liberal arts college. I've achieved unbelievable career success in business, thanks in no small part to my smart, career woman costume and ability to trick others into thinking I know what I'm doing.
The Cliffs' Notes for the previous paragraph are this: professionally, I am confident, smart (!), and successful. Take me out of the office, though, and you'll find a completely different kettle of fish. Or a fish out of water. Pick your awkward metaphor. At work, I solve problems, intuit things, and am regarded as an expert. In real life, I frequently find that I lack the basic skills necessary for survival. My greatest fear is that Darwinism really works and will take me out one of these days.
I don't know how to change the battery in the smoke detector. I saw a mouse in the garage four months ago and haven't parked there since. I rely on the kindness of friends I haven't met yet when my car gets stuck in the snow. If a button falls off my shirt, I consider that God's way of telling me the shirt is broken and should be replaced. I don't know what a whisk is or what you would use it for. I haven't turned my oven on in eight months. And let's be clear. I have no clue about men, women, and dating.
Have I mentioned the voices in my head? Probably not, since voices in your head are a sure sign of severe mental illness and although there are many things wrong with me, I don't think I'm ready for the padded room yet. The voice inside my head talks to me all day long. She never shuts up. I'm not going to lie to you. I wish she would stifle it. She has a terrible potty mouth and she is super-critical. She loves it when I screw up because she can go on for hours in her special way, telling me how fat, lazy, dumb, and ugly I am. (Side note: Yes, I have been discussing this with the Elf-Therapist. He loves this shit. More on that later.)
Let's recap. We have a tall, smart, successful career woman who hasn't dated since the 1990's with really lousy self-esteem on our hands. What on earth does this have to do with frogs?
A lot, as it turns out. I frequently forget that other people don't know what a disaster I am under the surface. To be fair, it's not that I forget - it's that I have been so self-absorbed that I needed the Elf-Therapist to point that out. So we may need to rethink that whole smart label, too. Other people don't see inside my head, they see what I let them see, which is the exterior version of me and which is apparently, some version of normal. (You might take notes, voice in my head.)
So, here I am, a recently single woman with few friends. I want to be social and do things and I'm interested in other people. Since Mr. Wrong left, I've been pushing myself to try new things and to be more extroverted. I have reconnected with lots of nice and interesting people I've met over the years, and I've met new people. And I have been on more unintentional dates than anyone I know.
Faux frogs don't realize that they are wolves in frog's clothing. They are innocently asking me out for lunch, dinner, breakfast, brunch or drinks. I'm food motivated and friendly, so I show up. We talk, we laugh, we eat . . . and then something awkward happens. I catch the frog looking down my shirt. The frog comments on my appearance. The frog invites me to be his date to a wedding for people I've never met. When the check comes and I try to split the bill, the frog smoothly responds, "I'll get it this time. You can get the next one." (All true stories, by the way)
And then I realize. Shit. This isn't a friendly snack. This is a wolf in frog's clothing and I'm on an unintentional date. I dig into the vault for one of the rejection phrases that the Elf-Therapist taught me for situations just like this. I utter the cheesy stupid words and I see steely determination appear in the faux frog's eyes. He is more than a faux frog. He's a used car salesman. And he is not giving up. Why? Why didn't I see this coming? How did I allow myself to get into this mess? Oh, mean voice inside my head - did you have something to say about this? Please - feel free to verbally kick me while I'm down. I'm sure you're just trying to help.
These faux frogs are nice guys, really. They're typically older men, and they either struggle with their weight or used to. (I've been on a diet since 1986, so we have a lot in common there). They know me from work, so they don't know that I'm a basket case. They are best known for their tenaciousness, and no amount of rejection short of totally ignoring them will cause them to give up hope. They call, they text, they email - and I think they would send snail mail if any of them knew where I lived. And they cause me a lot of angst.
Take note, faux frogs. I didn't understand that you had an ulterior motive. I thought you were just hungry when you asked me out for lunch. You're nice guys and I'd like to be your friend. That's it. I'm sorry I don't want to kiss you to see if you'll become a prince. I wish I did. I don't know why you think I'm all that. I'm not. Really. But, Faux Frog, when I tell you that I'm getting out of a long-term serious relationship and I'm not ready to date yet, that's not a sign for you to dig your heels in and wait until I am ready to date. It's my way of telling you that I'm not ready to date you. Not now. Not ever. Show me the courtesy and respect I deserve. Stop staring at my breasts and move on!
© 2010 Princess D
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Frog #2 - Friend turned wanna-be Frog
If I'm being honest, this really isn't Frog #2. It's more like Frog #1, Frog #3, Frog #6, etc. Or, put another way, this frog exists at the intersection of low self-esteem and too much wine.
Friend turned "Wanna-Be" Frog is a guy I've known for 12 years. In fact, I used to be his boss. Let's hop in the DeLorean time machine and I'll tell you a little story . . . The year was 1995. I've been out of college for three years with a useless teaching degree from a liberal arts college and the country is in a recession. The only paying jobs I can find are in retail, fast food, or
I've just met Mr. Wrong and we're madly in love. We move in together. We eat a lot of ramen noodles, we smoke cigarettes like lung cancer doesn't apply to us, and we are mainlining coffee to stay awake. I'm supporting both of us while Mr. Wrong tries to "find" himself after leaving the military, and I'm working two jobs to do it. I look like shit, I feel like shit, and I'm not going to make it.
Summer comes and I'm trying to figure out how to land a teaching gig for the next school year, when something strange happens. My night job offers me a huge promotion. I'm the only person working 2nd shift with a college degree, so I'm something of an anomaly. "They" are impressed. They offer me a job in management at a salary that will pay 25% more than I'm making at both of my jobs combined right now. Where do I sign?
I sell out and I become a collections manager. Mr. Wrong? Still unemployed. I have no idea what the hell I'm doing but suddenly, I'm managing a team of 30 people. I figure it out as I go along. One of my employees is Frog #2. He's a college student at a school about an hour away from where we work, and he's just moved to the United States from a small Indian sub-continent. His English is both atrocious and adorable, and I'm amused that he's been hired for a phone job based on his interesting communication style.
As it turns out, Wanna-Be Frog is my best employee. He is never absent or tardy, he exceeds expectations and works hard. I'm interested in his education and we talk about school. As it turns out, he is actually the same age as me but only halfway through his bachelor's degree because he's just arrived in the U.S. We remain friendly even after I leave the company in 1998, and I help him apply to graduate schools. Thanks to the wonder that is the internet, we are able to stay in touch using that newfangled technology, email.
Of course, life happens and I lose track of Wanna-Be Frog. Mr. Wrong takes up almost all of my time and attention and any male friends on my part cause stress in our relationship, so I stop having them altogether. But the Wanna-Be Frog is persistent. He seeks me out using tricky internet tools like LinkedIn and right after the demise of my relationship with Mr. Wrong, Wanna-Be Frog and I reconnected.
He's lost weight in the 12 years since I last saw him. He's also lost his hair. All of it. Unlike your average white guy, he looks okay without hair. His English has really improved. We get together for a drink and it's fun. So we decide to do it again.
I quickly learn that Wanna-Be Frog is recently divorced and that there is nothing he likes more than a good time. He parties like a rock-star, and if I'm honest, I wonder if he might not have a chemical dependency problem. But he's a lot of fun and he's always up for a good time, so we start spending more and more time together. And then, one night after a lot of wine, Wanna Be Frog is kissing me and it's not horrible. I am horribly lonely, I feel like a leper, and the fact that any man might find me kissable is frankly, shocking to me. And let's be clear. My judgment isn't exactly top-notch. I'm drunk. He's telling me that he loves me - he has for years, apparently. He thinks I'm too thin (okay, marry me, please?) and he tells me I am the most beautiful woman he's ever met. And then he says the words I have been waiting to hear from any man my entire life. "You are the kindest person I know."
I sober up and wonder what I've done. I feel horrible. I love Wanna-Be Frog! But this just isn't right. We're friends. That's all. This was a mistake.
Now, re-read the last two paragraphs and repeat this same encounter over and over and over. Until Wanna-Be Frog does the unthinkable. He proposes marriage, on Christmas Day, right before he gets on an airplane to return to his home country for the first time in ten years.
Is it sweet and lovely? Of course. But it makes me feel like the wicked witch of the west. Why does he love me so much? And why can't I feel the same way? How am I going to tell him no?
So, this princess smiles sweetly, gives her Wanna-Be Frog a hug and a kiss, and says, "Have a safe trip home. We'll talk about this when you get back." And then this princess? She gets into her car and has to sit in the airport parking ramp for an hour until she's done crying her eyes out.
This story? It's not over yet. The Wanna-Be Frog is due back from the homeland this week, and our princess is trying to figure out how to break his heart without losing one of her only playmates.
© 2010 Princess D
Frog #1 - "Blind Date" Frog
One of my most unique talents is my ability to make other people really, really uncomfortable by sharing too much information. I'd like to say it's not my fault, but the reality is that my face is like a giant real-time billboard that broadcasts my thoughts and feelings without permission from our sponsors. You need to know this because it explains a lot about how Frog #1 and I were introduced.
I have a somewhat important job. What I do isn't important and is, frankly, the topic for a whole other blog some day. In my somewhat important job, I get to make decisions about vendor selection, and as a result, I have a lot of sales people offering to buy me lunch. Since the recession hit, I'm getting more free coffee than free lunch, but you get the idea. Some of the sales people trying to sell me stuff are people I did business with at my former employer. And that is how I wound up meeting Vendor Guy for happy hour in early November.
Due to poor time management skills and unexpected traffic, I was nearly 45 minutes late for happy hour, and Vendor Guy had put back at least two vodka tonics waiting for me. This was somewhat of a relief, since he is also a little uptight and socially awkward and talking to him is sometimes painful for me.
I rolled into the bar, ordered a beer and sat down with Vendor Guy. We talked business for a while - his, mine, what might become "ours" - and then ordered a snack. (Side note: I am extremely food motivated. I will do just about anything for a free meal - and if it's a free, home cooked meal, all bets are off.) We were making small talk at this point, which, due to Vendor Guy's previously noted social awkwardness, entailed me asking a lot of questions, police interrogation style. You know the routine - how's your family, are you ready for the holidays, really, you're getting a dog, what kind?
Somehow, Vendor Guy started telling me about this group of guys he's kept in touch with since kindergarten. Now, I'm no mathematician, but I'm pretty sure that this means that Vendor Guy has had the same group of "BFF's" for 35 years. And I'm impressed. I can't even remember the name of my college roommate. Vendor Guy is going into a lot of detail about each member of his man-posse and I'm not paying a lot of attention until he starts to tell me about this poor, sad bastard whose wife left him. Because at this point, all jilted people are like kindred spirits to me.
We eat our snacks and at some point, Vendor Guy realizes that he should take an interest in my life, too. Unfortunately, he's had a lot to drink and he's not real smooth even when he's sober, so his questions are insanely personal and I do what I do best. I lose my shit and I make this poor guy feel like a complete jerk by saying, and I quote, "Well, Vendor Guy, thanks for asking. As it turns out, my partner of 14 years decided he could do better, so I'm an unloveable 36 year old woman living alone in a falling-down ghettotastic house with a dog who hates me. Obviously, I will die alone."
Poor Vendor Guy. He's in over his head. He just wants to sell me some business but now I'm on the verge of tears and I might be crying in his calamari. So, he does what any guy does when faced with the prospect of a woman in tears in public. He goes into problem solving mode. This entails asking me a lot of personal questions such as my stance on swearing (I am pro-cuss), whether I would date a guy with 3 kids (the truth is, I'd prefer not to but there is no way in hell you want to be that woman on the record), and what I'm doing Thanksgiving weekend.
Suddenly, I'm introduced to Sad Bastard. Let me tell you a little bit more about him. On the plus side, he's not a local - meaning, he lives in a completely different state - and he's really, really tall and has a full head of hair. On the minus side, he is unemployed, has a bunch of kids, and is really pretty screwed up from the break-up of his marriage. (His wife allegedly joined a gym and proceeded to leave him and their 3 kids because she suddenly found him "too fat" to be with.)
So, Sad Bastard and I start emailing. He seems to have a good sense of humor and I am actually kind of looking forward to our blind date. I'm not foolish enough to think he is going to be my future prince, but I'm looking forward to spending time with a man who actually wants to be in my company.
The Elf-therapist is thrilled. He encourages me to consider this as "practice" and lends me a book about being a good conversationalist. I take the hint and read it. I engage in witty email banter with Sad Bastard. I ask questions and am interested in his life. We plan to meet for a drink the Saturday after Thanksgiving, because he'll be in town visiting family.
Was it a terrible date? Not exactly. We met at a local bar, had a couple of beers and even had a meal together. We chatted and I think I followed my guidebook's rules for good conversation. When the plates were cleared, we were faced with the awkward question of, "What do we do now?"
Well, let me be clear. I felt like I'd put in my time, been a good sport, and I couldn't imagine what we would do as an encore. So I gave him the lamest excuse on record for ending a date: "I have to go home and walk my dog," and I left.
I haven't heard from Sad Bastard since then, but I believe that there is a happy ending to this story. We were two broken people, really screwed up from our past relationships, wondering if we could pretend to be normal long enough to interest anyone else. And the answer was yes. Sad Bastard, although not my prince (even though technically, there was no kissing, so I can't say for certain), helped me out. I'd like to think I helped him a little bit, too. We were each others' first post-break-up date, and we helped one another take that first step on the long journey to kiss as many frogs as it takes.
I have a somewhat important job. What I do isn't important and is, frankly, the topic for a whole other blog some day. In my somewhat important job, I get to make decisions about vendor selection, and as a result, I have a lot of sales people offering to buy me lunch. Since the recession hit, I'm getting more free coffee than free lunch, but you get the idea. Some of the sales people trying to sell me stuff are people I did business with at my former employer. And that is how I wound up meeting Vendor Guy for happy hour in early November.
Due to poor time management skills and unexpected traffic, I was nearly 45 minutes late for happy hour, and Vendor Guy had put back at least two vodka tonics waiting for me. This was somewhat of a relief, since he is also a little uptight and socially awkward and talking to him is sometimes painful for me.
I rolled into the bar, ordered a beer and sat down with Vendor Guy. We talked business for a while - his, mine, what might become "ours" - and then ordered a snack. (Side note: I am extremely food motivated. I will do just about anything for a free meal - and if it's a free, home cooked meal, all bets are off.) We were making small talk at this point, which, due to Vendor Guy's previously noted social awkwardness, entailed me asking a lot of questions, police interrogation style. You know the routine - how's your family, are you ready for the holidays, really, you're getting a dog, what kind?
Somehow, Vendor Guy started telling me about this group of guys he's kept in touch with since kindergarten. Now, I'm no mathematician, but I'm pretty sure that this means that Vendor Guy has had the same group of "BFF's" for 35 years. And I'm impressed. I can't even remember the name of my college roommate. Vendor Guy is going into a lot of detail about each member of his man-posse and I'm not paying a lot of attention until he starts to tell me about this poor, sad bastard whose wife left him. Because at this point, all jilted people are like kindred spirits to me.
We eat our snacks and at some point, Vendor Guy realizes that he should take an interest in my life, too. Unfortunately, he's had a lot to drink and he's not real smooth even when he's sober, so his questions are insanely personal and I do what I do best. I lose my shit and I make this poor guy feel like a complete jerk by saying, and I quote, "Well, Vendor Guy, thanks for asking. As it turns out, my partner of 14 years decided he could do better, so I'm an unloveable 36 year old woman living alone in a falling-down ghettotastic house with a dog who hates me. Obviously, I will die alone."
Poor Vendor Guy. He's in over his head. He just wants to sell me some business but now I'm on the verge of tears and I might be crying in his calamari. So, he does what any guy does when faced with the prospect of a woman in tears in public. He goes into problem solving mode. This entails asking me a lot of personal questions such as my stance on swearing (I am pro-cuss), whether I would date a guy with 3 kids (the truth is, I'd prefer not to but there is no way in hell you want to be that woman on the record), and what I'm doing Thanksgiving weekend.
Suddenly, I'm introduced to Sad Bastard. Let me tell you a little bit more about him. On the plus side, he's not a local - meaning, he lives in a completely different state - and he's really, really tall and has a full head of hair. On the minus side, he is unemployed, has a bunch of kids, and is really pretty screwed up from the break-up of his marriage. (His wife allegedly joined a gym and proceeded to leave him and their 3 kids because she suddenly found him "too fat" to be with.)
So, Sad Bastard and I start emailing. He seems to have a good sense of humor and I am actually kind of looking forward to our blind date. I'm not foolish enough to think he is going to be my future prince, but I'm looking forward to spending time with a man who actually wants to be in my company.
The Elf-therapist is thrilled. He encourages me to consider this as "practice" and lends me a book about being a good conversationalist. I take the hint and read it. I engage in witty email banter with Sad Bastard. I ask questions and am interested in his life. We plan to meet for a drink the Saturday after Thanksgiving, because he'll be in town visiting family.
Was it a terrible date? Not exactly. We met at a local bar, had a couple of beers and even had a meal together. We chatted and I think I followed my guidebook's rules for good conversation. When the plates were cleared, we were faced with the awkward question of, "What do we do now?"
Well, let me be clear. I felt like I'd put in my time, been a good sport, and I couldn't imagine what we would do as an encore. So I gave him the lamest excuse on record for ending a date: "I have to go home and walk my dog," and I left.
I haven't heard from Sad Bastard since then, but I believe that there is a happy ending to this story. We were two broken people, really screwed up from our past relationships, wondering if we could pretend to be normal long enough to interest anyone else. And the answer was yes. Sad Bastard, although not my prince (even though technically, there was no kissing, so I can't say for certain), helped me out. I'd like to think I helped him a little bit, too. We were each others' first post-break-up date, and we helped one another take that first step on the long journey to kiss as many frogs as it takes.
© 2010 Princess D
Where do you even FIND a frog these days?
The last time I was "in" the dating game, it was a completely different century. Let that sink in for a minute. The last time I "dated" anyone, I was 21 years old, dirt poor, living with my parents and a date meant heading to the local dive bar for pitcher night. If you were really lucky, there might be a movie involved.
To make a long story short, I lack the knowledge, skills and abilities to date as an adult. First of all, I don't really know any available, single, heterosexual males. This was my first objection to the elf-therapist's insistence that I "get out there". I mean, what the hell does that mean? Get out where? Date whom?
The Elf loves it when I resist his counsel, because provoking me is some kind of sport for him. As usual, he offered all kinds of suggestions to overcome my objections. He seems to forget that I am clever like a fox, and this time, I was prepared. The dialogue went something like this:
Elf: What about work? Surely there are single men at your office?
Princess: Uh, yeah. OLD guys, Elf. Not to mention it would be totally unprofessional and inappropriate for me to date anyone at work given my role. You know that. This is the stupidest idea you've had in a long time!
Elf: Um, okay. Well . . . what about church?
Princess: Nope. Haven't been there in a LONG time.
Elf: I see how this is going to go. Forget it. You're right. You're a total spinster. You'll die alone. In fact, this weekend, I'm going to go online and buy you one of those spinster hats.
Princess: Really, Elf? Reverse psychology? That's the best you've got? I'd like a refund for this session. You're not even trying, here.
Elf: Princess, you're not trying either. You're really being a pain in the ass. Do you want this or not?
Princess: Of course I do! I'm just telling you why it's hard!
Elf: Okay, okay. Let's try a different approach. What are you looking for in a man?
You get the idea. There was a lot more talking - about 50 minutes worth - where the Elf suggested that I check out random dudes in public who I found attractive. (Yes, I had objections to leering at strangers!) He also suggested that I ask my friends to set me up. (Whereas I pointed out that I don't really have enough friends for this to be a viable option).
Although I didn't like any of the Elf's suggestions, I had a problem on my hands. I needed to go out on a date, just to get the first one behind me. I needed to know that I was, in fact, "date-able" at all. So, I did what he said. No, not the leering at strange men. That's awkward. But I did publicize my singledom and mentioned that I was accepting applications for the position of date.
My friends, who are kind, caring, and smart enough to have a healthy sense of self-preservation, wisely abstained from setting me up on any blind dates. But . . . a former colleague fell into my trap and I was soon to meet Frog #1 - blind date frog.
© 2010 Princess D
Why I'm Kissing ANY Frogs
After 14 years of living in sin, my boyfriend and I realized that we needed to shit or get off the pot. I voted in favor of a high fiber diet and a wedding - and he decided to get off the pot as fast as humanly possible. And overnight, I became a single woman in her mid-thirties who hadn't dated since the 1990's. Or, as they say in France, a cliche.
After spending the requisite amount of time weeping, watching Lifetime movies starring Tori Spelling and/or Meredith Baxter-Birney, eating a Haagen-Daz-centric diet, and seriously considering joining a convent, my friends staged an intervention. Well, friends is an exaggeration, since apparently, you're supposed to check in with your friends more often than once every 14 years and it appeared that I lost most of mine while cohabiting with Mr. Wrong.
So, my one friend staged an intervention and politely suggested that if I was unable or unwilling to cease the waterworks, I might want to consider "talking to a professional" about my feelings. She later admitted that my 2 AM phone calls were causing sleep deprivation for her entire household and that all the sobbing was making her a little nervous.
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not anti-therapy. I'm all for therapy - for other people. I mean, there are a lot of crazies out there. I've been to Wal-mart. I've seen them up close.
My therapist is an elfin creature with a funny name. I've known him for a couple of years. During a rough patch, Mr. Wrong & I visited the Elf for couples counseling. Back then, I hated him. (The elf-therapist, not Mr. Wrong.) The only reason I contacted him this time was sheer laziness. I didn't want to expend the effort to find a new therapist and have to tell my whole darned story over again.
In the nine months since Mr. Wrong moved out, I've seen the Elf 40 times, and he's grown on me. I'll tell you that embarrassing story another time, though. A couple of months ago, the Elf told me that it was time to start dating again.
After weeks of fighting about whether or not that such a hot idea, the Elf dropped a bomb on me. "Princess," he said, "there are some people who are built for relationships. You're one of them. I want you to find the love that you're looking for and that you deserve. But you have to make an effort."
And that is the story of how this princess began kissing frogs.
© 2010 Princess D
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