Confessions of an Elf-Dependent Princess

I pay the Elf-Therapist a $35 co-pay in exchange for 90 minutes of contentious interaction, peppered with loud cursing and uncontrollable weeping (mine) and periodic impertinent and indignant snorts (his). Whether or not these little visits are actually helpful or not remains to be seen, but one thing is clear . . . I've developed a little elf dependency problem.

Now, I do recognize that the Elf is on my payroll, and therefore, required to feign interest in me and my well-being in exchange for the $205 price-tag for his valuable time and deep thoughts. I know it's common for patients to develop strange and obsessive attachments to their therapists, and I hate to be just another statistic, but I'm telling you, there are days when I feel like the elf is the only person on earth who really "gets" me. Can I cope with daily life without my magical elf? Of course I can. I'm not clinically insane, for Pete's sakes. I find, however, that I don't want to make major decisions without Elf approval, and when I achieve major life milestones, I can't wait to share my triumphs with the Elf, who will no doubt high-five me and put a note in my permanent file.

Since I'm a little . . . uh . . . attached to the Elf, imagine my separation anxiety as he embarks on professional development and exotic vacations. His latest sabbatical has him out of the office for almost four weeks, and true to form, I've chosen this precise moment to develop a co-dependency problem. Cue the soap opera music, please!

So, here's the dilemma. The Elf thought it would be a good idea for me to get out there and start kissing frogs - not in an effort to find a prince but rather, because he knows how remedial my interpersonal skills are and he recognized that I was going to need a lot more practice than someone with actual, functional relationship skills. He has been my constant cheerleader in this journey and he gets as excited as I do about each new date. (He won't, however, indulge me in discussions about how to fix my hair - straighten it or curl it? - or about what to wear. Apparently, that would cross some kind of professional boundary. It's totally okay for him to mock me, call me names, and make me wipe my snot in his substandard "Target brand" facial tissues, but to offer advice on something meaningful like, "does this eyeshadow make me look slutty" crosses the line. Noodle on that for a while and let me know if it makes any sense to you.)

Neither one of us ever expected me to have a second date. Or, god forbid, a third one. In fact, one of the skills I am supposed to be developing through all these first dates is the ability to set boundaries, like ending the date if it sucks (yeah, I haven't mastered that one yet. Please see Frogs #2, #4, and #5 as examples) or telling Frogs "thanks for a lovely time but I don't think this is going to work out." Suffice to say, since we've devoted the majority of our time and attention to the first date, we've failed to work on developing my skills and abilities beyond that.

How are grown adults supposed to behave when they're dating? And how do they know this? I keep wondering if there is some secret instruction manual out there that everyone but me has read - and as a control freak and a closet perfectionist, I want to get this right. Should I wear a t-shirt declaring that I'm special needs? I just realized I've never dated as an adult, and my only frames of reference come from "chick lit" and "chick flicks". When you're using Bridget Jones Diary and Sex and the City as a benchmark of what's normal, believe me - you're heading straight for an anxiety attack. You'll have to start smoking, for one thing, and you're definitely going to be one hell of a weird date.

Do I need to solve this puzzle immediately? Probably not. Any frog who makes it past the second date and who has an IQ above 30 can clearly see that I'm a basket case and will probably receive community service credit for additional time spent with the special needs princess. But I can't help but wonder what the Elf would say about all this . . . . (And by the way, he is a dead-ringer for Hermey the elf, DDS from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.)

© 2010 Princess D

BUSTED! An explanation of my rantings

I started writing stories about my quest for true love in the 21st century for one reason alone - I wanted to feel better. Since the departure of Mr. Wrong, I've felt pretty lousy a lot of the time. In fact, I've felt so lousy so often that in the past nine months, I've tried a lot of things under the guise of, "well, it probably can't make me feel any worse!" This list includes but is not limited to: exercise, gentle; exercise, vigorous; mindfulness meditation; cognitive behavioral therapy; tap dancing; mass consumption of wine; a subscription to Frogs.com; the dates you've already read about; the all Klondike bar diet; and of course, journaling.

I really dislike journaling, probably because I don’t want a record of all the crazy thoughts and ideas and self-pity that emanate from me on a regular basis. I know it’s supposed to be therapeutic to “write it out” but once you commit your thoughts to paper, they’re really out there. This might not be a problem for some people, but for a person like me, I don’t need further proof of my wholly imperfect being. I’ve spent the better part of my life cataloging my many shortcomings, and journaling feels like evidence of my failures. And do we really need to accumulate evidence? I think not.

However, Elf-Therapist decided to take his hard-earned money (which, in some sense, is mine, too) and take an exotic vacation, which left me with few options:
A. Sit with my thoughts until he returned and then talk really, really fast during my next session so as not to leave anything out
B. Torment my two friends with my lamentations
C. Try this whole “writing it out” thing because it’s preferable to the alternatives

I diligently sat down and tried to write about what and how I was feeling. Of course, yours truly is the only human being on earth who got writers block trying to keep a journal, mostly because I couldn't tell my story if I wasn't writing it for an audience. Right around this time I also realized that one of my greatest strengths is my ability to find the humor in just about anything and to laugh at myself.

One day, I sat down to journal and instead of writing about how sad, lonely, and depressed a decidedly unprincess-like woman with a deep fear of dying alone was feeling, I wondered what it would be like to tell my story from a different point of view. What if I told my story from the perspective of a princess who simply wanted to find love and companionship? (I mean, a prince would be nice but none of us are getting any younger or better looking over here, so we're keeping it real.)

I wrote a little story about Princess D and why she is kissing frogs. When I re-read it, I thought, "Hey, this is kind of cute!" and I shared it with a couple of friends, who got a little chortle out of it and who suggested that I tell more stories. Maybe start a blog. I laughed it off but realized that writing that first story actually did make me feel better. By taking the events of my life and making them into a comedy, I could stop taking myself so seriously, laugh a little, and gain some perspective.

I started this blog because I figured it wouldn't make me feel any worse, and in many ways, it's helped me to feel better. It never really occurred to me that anyone would be interested in reading it. I figured I'd write it until I stop feeling so lousy all the time and then like most of the crap on the internet, it would just wither away in obsolescence.

A couple of things have happened lately to challenge my thinking. First, the Elf-Therapist (who is more than just an elf and a therapist - he is also a reluctant blog reader) called me out last week. The exchange went something like this:

Elf: Princess, we need to talk about this frog blog. I don't like it.
Princess: I knew you were pissed off that I likened you to an elf. Why didn't you just admit it when I asked you about it earlier?

Elf: You are a moron, you know that? It's not the elf thing. I think elves are cool. They have magical powers.
Princess: Well, then I don't know what the hell you're whining about.

Elf: If you'd shut up, I could explain it to you. What are you going to do when you meet a guy you actually like? Are you going to put all your business right out there on Front Street for anyone with internet access to see? What guy is going to sign up to date you knowing that the end result is that he is going to be maligned, humiliated, and turned into a frog on your blog?

Score is Elf: 1, Princess 0. I hadn’t considered that the frog blog, this thing that is actually helping me come back into my own, might not be my most appealing quality as a potential date. I’ve got to do some serious thinking on this topic.

The second thing that happened is that one of my ill-fated frogs read my blog, and based on his response, it’s safe to say he didn’t particularly care for the way I portrayed our short-lived and doomed relationship. BUSTED!

Contrary to what this frog thinks of me and is probably subsequently posting on his own blog, I’m not a heartless bitch. I never intended to hurt any frog’s feelings and I do feel bad that he had such a strong response. I considered removing the post in question but ultimately decided that this blog isn’t for the frogs – it’s for me. I’m not suffering from any delusions. I’m no more a princess than these guys are actual frogs. These frog blog stories represent real dates I’ve been on with allegedly human being males but for the record . . . any resemblance to real life frogs is purely coincidental and no harm was meant to any frogs therein. Any resulting injuries may they be physical, mental, or emotional – including wounded pride – are purely accidental. And if you think you might be a frog, I would suggest that you point your browser to a different website or proceed with caution.


© 2010 Princess D

Frog #5 - Frog who slipped past the goalie

What can I say? Underneath my crusty exterior is the heart and soul of an eternal optimist. I'll pause while those of you who know me have a good guffaw. Let me know when you've composed yourselves. Laugh if you must, but there are only a few good explanations for how Frog #5 - the frog who slipped past the goalie - entered my life. I was optimistic, desperate, or delusional. The truth is it was probably all of the above.

The why and how of Frog #5, who will also be known as "Baby Daddy Frog" isn’t the usual humorous tome you've come to know and love. Rather, it has the stench of a bad Lifetime movie combined with the smell of blatant hopelessness. I've been trying to find a witty way to tell the tale of Frog #5 and have come to appreciate that this story just ain't all that funny. But I'll let you be the judge.

After the grave disappointment that was Frog #4, I'd made up my mind that Frogs.com probably wouldn't be the answer to my lovelorn state. I didn't log on, automatically deleted all of their provocative, "We've found the frog of your dreams" emails, and I was spending my free time plotting other frog meeting strategies. And seriously contemplating nunhood. But then, the insomnia hit.

Now, let me explain something. I am practically an Olympic sleeper. I'm really good at it and I have devoted a significant amount of time to perfecting my sleep technique. I don't deprive myself, and I can sleep anytime, anywhere. No problem. But about a month ago, I suddenly could not sleep. I would lay my little head down on my pillow and instead of a one-way ticket to dreamville, my heart would race, my brain would kick into high gear and suddenly, I understood why people take Ambien.

So, I couldn't sleep, didn't have anything to read, nothing on TV to watch, and it's 3 AM. I did what any reasonable insomniac does. I logged on to my computer. But pretty soon, I'd surfed the entire internet, still wasn't remotely tired, and so I thought, "Let's see what's transpiring over at Frogs.com!" That, my friends, is how I met Frog #5.

Frog #5 and I began the usual Frogs.com dance of guided communication, sending inane questions and answers back and forth. I checked out his photos and while he is no Matt Damon, he wasn't totally heinous. Nice smile, straight teeth. We quickly completed the nineteen steps of guided communication and we were allowed unfettered email contact.

Folks, there were some warning signs. Somehow, I missed the fact that Frog #5 had not one but TWO small children. My standard operating procedure included weeding out any reproducing frogs early on, so I was a little startled to learn that Frog #5 was the proud parent of two tiny tadpoles, aged 6 and 4. Additionally, this frog was "between jobs" and seemed to have some baby mama drama. I told myself, "It's a numbers game" and agreed to meet him for lunch. Suffice to say, this frog slipped past the goalie.

Our lunch "date" was interesting. He was charming, interesting, and witty. He was also, frankly, a little shorter, a little fatter, and a little balder than my ideal prince profile, but overall, he was pleasant and I enjoyed chatting with him. Until . . .

A couple hours after our lunch date, he sent me a link to his blog. In said blog, there was a 1500 word essay about meeting me, where he introduced me by name and profession and where he devoted at least 750 words to cataloging all of the ways in which I am wonderful. He couldn't wait to introduce me to his tadpoles. Now, I'm not going to lie to you. It's nice when someone likes you. It feels good to know that another human being appreciates who you are and what you have to offer. But . . . it's not nice when a virtual stranger writes something that is borderline obsessive about you and publishes it for anyone with an internet connection and a mouse to read. I might be a great catch - but how the hell does any frog know that after spending 53 minutes with me?

Because he was "between jobs" (translation: unemployed - and yes, we've violated 3 commandments here if you're keeping count), Frog #5's schedule wasn't exactly demanding. From what I could tell, he spent his days playing Mafia Wars and annoying the living shit out of me via email, instant message, text, and voicemail. Every time I turned around, he was calling. Texting. Emailing. Instant messaging. It wasn't just the frequency of his communication (or the variety of tactics) that I found so irritating. He was a little . . . intense. After knowing him for all of ten minutes, I knew that his ex-wife has bipolar disorder, that his mother is an alcoholic, and a lot of other REALLY personal stuff. And he never SHUT UP.

What was most annoying was that he kept trying to give me his approval. For example, "It's okay with me that you're so tall." Well, thanks be to God for that, Baby Daddy Frog! I can't tell you the sleepless nights I've spent wondering if I should CUT OFF PART OF MY LEG so that my height will be more acceptable to your royal highness. Or, "It's okay that you were in a long-term relationship before." Uh, Frog? Newsflash. Whether it's okay with you or not, it's a fact. You get the idea.

In spite of how annoying I was finding this frog, due to sleep deprivation, excessive loneliness, undying optimism and some really horseshit advice from the Elf-Therapist, I tricked myself into thinking that his behavior was endearing - and I agreed to go out on a "real" date with Baby Daddy Frog. I convinced myself that I should be grateful that a frog found me so attractive and desirable, which then led me to convince myself that his delusional behavior was actually sweet. Is it any wonder I'm in therapy??

Prior to our actual date, Baby Daddy Frog pulled out his weirdest move yet. He sent me a lengthy email that detailed what our life together would be like. It was a well-choreographed script that detailed moment by moment, day by day, what a week in our lives together would be like. Believe me when I say that Frog #5 is a little bit of an optimist himself, since this script called for uh . . . intimacy . . . 5 times in said week. While the script itself was certainly disturbing on a number of levels, it was becoming abundantly clear that this frog had no interest in really knowing me as a person. Instead, he wanted me to fill a giant void in his life, to become the woman of his dreams, and to provide regular sex.

Date night rolled around and I put on a happy face and met Baby Daddy Frog for Indian food. And I either was suffering from some Princess PMS or I woke up on the bitchy side of the bed because everything Frog #5 did irritated me. Seriously, even his breathing got on my nerves. We met for dinner at 6 PM like all respectable old people do. There were a number of families with small children sitting around us and the restaurant was pretty quiet. Baby Daddy Frog took no notice of this and began cataloging a list of his sexual needs and preferences. I hummed a song inside my head and ate naan bread while he talked. And talked. And talked. Loudly. I have never been that uncomfortable outside of my dentist's office.

After we finished eating, I couldn't take it anymore. I went to the restroom where I made S.O.S. calls to just about everyone in my phone book, and when someone finally picked up, I did the unthinkable. I begged my friend to call me in 5 minutes with an emergency. Then I washed my hands and returned to the dinner table.

While I was in the toilet, Baby Daddy Frog picked up the check, which was very sweet. In this case, I would have preferred to pay for my own meal since he was A) unemployed and B) hopefully never going to see or speak to me again. It would have been sweeter had he not felt compelled to make a big production out of it, which was . . . yup, you guessed it. ANNOYING. And twelve long minutes later, my friend called with the faux emergency and I got out of dodge.

I thanked Baby Daddy Frog for the meal, gave him a half-assed hug and said, "It was nice getting to know you," before speeding off into the night, hoping that this was the end of our "relationship". So imagine my chagrin when I arrived home to find that he'd texted, emailed, and written another blog entry about our wonderful date where he speculated that I might be suffering from depression or some other mental illness based on my mood that night. But not to worry because he still loved me and would pray for me.

I mixed a whiskey & diet Coke and decided to defer breaking Frog #5's heart until the following day in favor of getting drunk as hell. About midway through drink #2, I collapsed into tears and may have been shouting things like, "Is that what you want, God? For me to become a lesbian nun?" to no one in particular.

When I woke up the next day, I had a mild hangover and a dirty job to do. But Baby Daddy had been busy. After deconstructing our entire date, minute by minute, in his blog, some of his female friends caught on to my sneaky escape move and apprised him that my "emergency" was in fact, likely fabricated. The blog entry that followed was significantly less flattering but just as obsessive. And finally, this frog pushed Princess too far.

I believe in meeting people (and frogs) where they are. Therefore, I used a multi-media communication campaign to send the cease and desist message to Frog #5. He got the message loudly, clearly, and via phone, email, instant message, and text.

Each frog - even the really slimy ones - teaches me something about myself, and as an imperfect princess committed to reaching her potential and being a better princess each day of her life, I am grateful for the lessons. Frog #5 taught me to stay true to the 9 commandments and more importantly, reinforced the importance of getting to know someone on an intellectual and emotional level. He also helped me look in the mirror and recognize that I can be just as annoying as he is - a lesson I am putting into practice now and one that I hope all current and future frogs will appreciate.

Now, I know you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince. I never kissed the frog who slipped past the goalie, a fact I'm very proud of. Sometimes, you don't need to kiss a frog to know that he's nothing more than a slimy, hopping amphibian.

© 2010 Princess D

Princess D's Nine Commandments for Kissing Frogs

When I re-entered the dating game just over three months ago, my single biggest fear was, "How will I find anyone who wants to date me?" After three months of questionable first dates with frogs from all across the land, I've learned that contrary to popular belief, there is not a worldwide frog shortage. Finding frogs to date isn't the problem. But if you are a princess secretly harboring a romantic notion that true love is out there waiting to be found . . . well . . . I've learned that it helps to have a few simple rules in place. Thus, allow me to share Princess D's Nine Commandments for Kissing Frogs:

1. Thou shalt not kiss unemployed frogs. However, kissing an unemployed frog is a forgivable sin if the frog is between jobs or really good looking. If the frog needs to borrow rent money, run for your life.
2. What thou shalt never, ever, ever, ever do is kiss frogs at work. I'll acknowledge that this commandment doesn't apply to everyone. Some people who are normal can smooch frogs they work with and still behave like professionals. I am not one of these people. If I kiss a frog who I happen to work with, I will act like a jackass at work from that day forward. Even if that frog transforms into a prince and we live happily ever after, our working relationship is pretty much doomed.
3. Thou shalt not date frogs who don't meet the minimum height requirements. I know there may be a perfectly delightful, petite soul mate out there just waiting for me. Unfortunately, I will never meet this frog, because I have enough problems with my own self-esteem and size without towering over some little munchkin-frog. Frogs who are less than 68 inches tall need not apply. Frogs who are 71 inches or taller will receive preferred processing. Also, as a best practice, there should not be a differential of greater than 5 inches between a frog's waist size and inseam.
4. Thou shalt keep an open mind. Obviously, some of us are not expert frog-pickers, or we wouldn't be in our mid-30's, single, and kissing a bunch of frogs, would we? That bit of wisdom has been brought to you by the Elf-Therapist, who has encouraged me to "consider dating a numbers game". This commandment means that I don't automatically reject any frog right out of the gate - even if my gut is sending strong signals to the contrary - and what you'll soon learn is that this commandment is the cause my most recent trouble. Also known as Frog #5.
5. Thou shalt be polite, unless seriously provoked. Dating is hard - no matter if you're a princess or a frog. While I may satirize my dates, this is therapeutic for me. When I can make something ridiculous, I can laugh at it, and some days, laughter is the only thing keeping me in the game. But I do believe in being polite and kind to any and all frogs I meet, and this guiding principle is one that is non-negotiable. But if a frog does me wrong, well . . . all bets are off. This commandment used to read, "thou shalt be polite under any and all circumstances" but then I met Frog #5 and found the exception to prove the rule.
6. Frogs who cannot fit their emotional baggage into the overhead compartment are automatically disqualified. At my age, unless I start dating high school boys - which is a felony, I believe - it's a given that every frog comes with a history. I have my history and both God and the Elf-Therapist know that I have my share of baggage. In fact, I probably have enough baggage for a family of four, so it's a little unfair that I'm holding the frogs to a different standard, but it's a simple geometry problem. There is only so much room and my baggage is taking up most of it. Sorry, frogs. But if you show up with a video gaming addiction, chemical dependency problems, baby-mama drama, financial woes, and a conspiracy theory . . . just hop on outta here. Please.
7. Tadpoles are strictly forbidden. It's not that I don't like children. But I don't like them enough to desire any of my own (shudder, shudder). I will not date any frogs who have children under 18 years of age, and I will not date any frogs who have a strong desire to go forth and multiply.
8. Sense of humor required. It's not that I am a one-woman comedy show in need of an audience. But frogs need to be able to laugh and they need to be able to make me laugh. Because the choices here are laughter or tears. Yeah, I picked laughter, too.
9. Thou shalt not tolerate frogs who can't accept us as we are. I am a princess but I am a work in progress. I need a patient frog. After 14 years of dating Mr. Wrong, I have developed some bad habits and I have some weird ideas about stuff that all needs to be "unlearned". With my own hard work and the support of the Elf-Therapist, I am really proud of all the progress I've made already and I am excited to be on this journey of self-improvement. But I need a frog who can appreciate me for who and where I am today and who can be excited about watching me try to reach my potential. And by the way, I'll return the favor.

My frog-kissing commandments aren't written in stone, and most of them are the result of learning a life lesson the hard way. And like any good commandment, I am confident that I'll break at least one of them at least one more time.

By following my own commandments for frog-kissing, I just might find that prince after all. And when I do, I plan to stop kissing any frogs from that point forward while I dedicate my energies to kissing my prince as much as possible. And this princess? Well, she isn't going to kiss and tell where her prince is concerned.

© 2010 Princess D

Bye, Bye, Bye!

Internet dating may be the way of the future - but it isn't my way to find my prince. In spite of my unique introduction to Frogs.com and the subsequent lies I published on my profile in an effort to become more attractive to members of the opposite sex - which should have been a pretty clear warning sign that things would end poorly - I gave Frogs.com a chance to show me that one could find a suitable match online. And what the learning experience it was!

In my 75 days as a Frogs.com subscriber, I was rejected by 634 frogs, based on nothing more than my photo and a few bullet points about me. I rejected 312 frogs myself using a similarly shallow selection process. I communicated with four frogs and I went out on dates with three of them. Two of them even made it past the first date. While you might think I'm holding out for the fairy tale ending, I'm pretty realistic. I never expected an internet frog to sweep me off my feet - but I did hope to find someone I could laugh with, be comfortable around, and have some fun with. No dice.

The combination of an ugly confrontation with Mr. Wrong and the naked obsession of Frog #5 led me to reconsider my dating strategy. Actually, if I'm honest, this combination actually led me to consider joining a convent once and for all. And, if I do become "Sister Princess", I obviously won't need to find a prince, so while the convent remains an option, I decided to say, "Sayonara" to Frogs.com.

The sneaky sales & marketing folks at Frogs.com don't want you to cancel your membership. It took me nearly 30 minutes to figure out how to divorce myself from Frogs.com permanently. And before I was allowed to regain my dignity and move on with my life, the wise folks at Frogs.com wanted to share the following with me:
"If you are closing your account because you've met a special person to share your life, on Frogs.com or elsewhere, congratulations. If you haven't yet made that connection, I'd like you to consider the following points:

* Research shows only 1 in 4 American marriages are actually happy.
* Choosing the right mate is the KEY to creating a compatible, loving relationship
* Finding a soul mate on your own and knowing if you're really compatible has never been more confusing or difficult
* Frogs.com's proven method of selecting compatible matches has helped create thousands of happy, successful relationships."


Now, let me ask you this. What exactly is the point of telling me that 3 of 4 American marriages are miserable? Should I be considering adultery as a dating strategy by targeting the unhappy marrieds and luring them into dates? Should I renounce my citizenship and become Canadian? Are their stats any better? If the whole premise of a site like Frogs.com is to help me find a mate, why share this disturbing statistic? Because what I'm seeing now is that by continuing to subscribe to Frogs.com, the best I can hope for is to find a mate so that we can spend the rest of our lives making each other unhappy. And the worst I can hope for is to become some kind of homewrecker. I choose . . . none of the above.

Chalk it up to a learning experience and file away under "what doesn't kill me makes me stronger." This princess is taking a little break from kissing frogs . . . for now. That way, when Valentine's Day comes and goes with nary a flower, card, or hunk of chocolate from a handsome frog admirer, I can pretend that it's no big deal. After all, I chose this. And so, in the infamous and catchy words of those adorable boy-band members from NSync, "Bye, bye, bye" Frogs.com!

© 2010 Princess D

Frog #4 - Frog may be larger than he appears online

After the blind date, the preponderance of faux frogs, the non-stop rejection from frogs I hadn't met yet on Frogs.com, and the infamous 37 minute coffee date, I realized that dating? Well, it pretty much sucks when you're not ready for it. (It might suck when you are ready for it. I wouldn't know. I'll have to get back to you on that one.)

On the advice of the Elf-Therapist and the loud voice inside my head named "Common Sense", I decided to jump ship. I'd barely puckered up and kissed a single frog, but I was exhausted. After Mr. Wrong left, my biggest fear was, "How will I ever find someone again?" Now, my biggest fear wasn't finding someone - there seemed to be no shortage of frogs out there - it was finding someone suitable. Or, as I told the Elf . . . "My problem, Elf, is that I'm looking for Matt Damon and I keep getting Jack Black."

And then Santa Claus started coming to town and all bets were off. In case you were wondering, the first solo Christmas after your 14 year relationship ends is brutal. If the Grinch needed a personality stand-in, I was ready, willing and able. Termites in my smile? Greasy black banana peel heart? Yes and yes. Perfect time of year for feeling sorry for yourself, which I think is the secret value proposition at Frogs.com. "We prey on those with low self-esteem and match them with others who also feel crappy about themselves. Because two wrongs CAN be a love connection!"

With the benefit of hindsight and therapy, I assure you that I recognize the error of my ways. But like a dumb-ass, I logged back in to Frogs.com and that's where I met Frog #4 - "Jabba the Hut". He reached out to me, we exchanged a few emails, and my initial impression was favorable. 40 years old, employed, owned a home, similar hobbies, great sense of humor, smart. His online profile indicates that he is TALL. Like, giant tall. He is 6'7. I've never dated anyone taller than me before, so this is all very interesting, shiny, and new. I check out his photos and he's kind of handsome. What could go wrong?

A lot, as it turns out. I don't know when those photos were taken, but Frog #4 had packed an extra 80-100 pounds on his frame since his last photo shoot. He looked like a cross between Andre the Giant and Jabba the Hut. Okay, that's mean. But I will say this - had he not recognized me at the bar, I couldn't have picked that fat bastard out of a police lineup.

He might not have looked like Matt Damon, but I am not a shallow princess and as long as we were at the bar, I decided to have a glass of wine and give this Frog a chance to shine. We had a great first date and in spite of my concerns around being squashed to my untimely death by this man, I agreed to see him again.

Frog #4 and I went out a total of six times. At first, I thought there was potential. I mean, one night he even COOKED ME A MEAL. Then I realized . . . Frog #4 and I were spending a lot of time sitting on the couch and eating. After our third date, he stopped making any real effort, but he kept inviting me over to watch TV. And like a dumb-ass (recurring theme here) with nothing better to do, I kept showing up.

The Elf asked me how things were going and I mentioned that Frog #4 and I spent a lot of time at his place, to which he responded, "Jesus, Princess. Have you been living in a cave? When two people are dating, they usually go out. In public. Tell this frog he needs to take you out of his house and show you a good time."

Since history has shown that the Elf is right 99.7% of the time, I decided not to fight it and took his advice. Frog #4 and I made plans for an excellent sounding Saturday date. He would pick me up in the afternoon, we'd go to the Como Conservatory, and then afterwards, we'd have dinner and drinks at a German bar in St. Paul.

Let's fast-forward to date night, shall we? Frog #4 is running late. Really late. In fact, he is so late that there is no way we can go to the Conservatory before they close. He does show up at my house eventually - empty-handed, mind you - and we enjoy a drink before we leave for dinner. In the spirit of honesty, he enjoyed three of my beers, wandered around my house nosing about, and availed himself of my toilet before we managed to leave.

Things only got worse from there. First, he drives about 19 miles an hour and clearly has no idea where he's going, which is annoying on several levels. Second, when we get to the German place, all he wants to eat is a giant platter of salty, cured German meats. Served with Ritz crackers. This? Is not dinner. I'm not touching that weird meat so I proceed to drink two very large beers on an empty stomach, and then I'm looking around for a cot or similar so I can rest my weary bones. He eventually polishes off the entire platter (designed to serve a party of 4, by the way), has more to drink, and finally gets the clue that I'm ready to be done. And that's when things got interesting.

The check came. The waiter set it on the table, equidistant between us. And there it sat. And sat. And sat. Until I realized. Frog #4 wasn't leaving this joint until I threw down some cash. Now, I'm a modern woman and I'm happy to pay for my own beer. But when a guy asks you out on a date, the expectation is set that you might not have to pay for your own beer. And when that guy shows up late, drinks YOUR beer, takes a leak in YOUR toilet, and then expects you to split the bill for a giant meat platter that you didn't partake of? Well . . . that makes this the worst date ever.

Needless to say, the date didn't end well. I was tired and now cranky, since I just paid for this morbidly obese heart-attack waiting to happen to ingest the RDA of meat for a small country. He took me home, came in, and I think he was hoping to kiss the princess, but she had other ideas. He eventually got the hint and left . . . and that is the last time I laid eyes on Frog #4.

What did our heroine learn from this? That some internet Frogs may be larger in real life than they initially appear. Proceed with caution. And always have enough cash to cover your half of the bill and cab fare home.

© 2010 Princess D