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