Happy Anniversary, Princess!

If you started reading this thinking, “Ah, the tragic comedy of this weirdo princess and her wacky harem of misguided suitors will provide me with a good chuckle and a potential self-esteem boost,” you should probably step away from your monitor right now. Although there may be a lot of fish in the sea (or frogs in the pond, if you prefer not to mix metaphors), this princess is experiencing what meteorologists and lonely middle-aged women like to call “a drought”. Hence, today’s fairy tale won’t be a funny story about my total rejection from frogs.com; a recounting of a date gone awry; or an angry diatribe about fictional heroines. And that means, my 16 loyal friends, that if you’re still reading this, you qualify for an Ambien prescription and possibly, an all-expenses paid phone call to your local employee assistance program. Congratulations!

You see, I recently reached a pretty significant personal milestone. A year ago, I had a lawn-mower, a blue-ray player, a gas grill, and a boyfriend I’d been living with for 14+ years. You may know him better as Mr. Wrong. When Mr. Wrong and some of my favorite possessions disappeared without a trace in the middle of the week, to say I fell apart would be an understatement. I didn’t know if I was capable of taking care of myself, my dog, and my house on my own. I didn’t know if I would ever date again. Or even if I wanted to. So I did what any insured American with no friends does. I went on an all-Klondike bar and wine diet, stayed in my filthy pajamas for days, and watched a lot of Lifetime movies starring Tori Spelling. (Strangely enough, “Co-Ed Call Girl” was a real mood booster for me in those dark times.) When that stopped working, I called up the Elf-Therapist and an infamous mutual admiration society was formed.

The Elf-Therapist and I recently agreed to a trial separation. Or, as I like to say, we’re on a break. I’m not proclaiming to be self-actualized or 100% trouble-free by any stretch of the imagination, but since I’m no longer suffering bouts of tear-related dehydration and hating my entire life, it would appear that I’ve accomplished my therapy goals. (For now.) We celebrated my success, high-fived, and I promised to check in with him in a few months or when my next crisis occurs, whichever comes first. In the absence of the Elf-Therapist’s couch and warm, nurturing office, I’ve been more focused on my present and my future than my past. The one year anniversary of my singledom came and went without any fanfare. In fact, I only recognized the significance of the date because I was writing about Frog #6 and I thought, “I’ve dated more frogs than I can count on one hand now. How long have I been ‘out there’ anyway?”

Happy anniversary to me! Since you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince, I quickly recognized that I’d taken my eye off the prize. Even a person with my remedial math skills knows that six does not equal “a lot”, no matter how you add it up. If I’m serious about finding a prince before I find menopause, I can’t waste time. That’s right, boys and girls. Reluctantly, I’m back in the dating game.

I still haven’t figured out how to meet suitable potential suitors, and I’ve exhausted the ones I know. My friends refuse to fix me up because of their healthy sense of self-preservation, and since I am an introvert with the social skills of your average shut-in, I’m not making friends and influencing people of any gender in real life. Angry terrorists couldn’t convince me to reactivate my Frogs.com (also known as LiesIToldMenToMakeMyselfAttractive.com) account, but lack of TiVo in my hotel room has me watching commercials again, and I fell prey to a clever marketing campaign by a Frogs.com competitor. There’s no shame in the online dating game, right? I mean, a commercial told me that one in five relationships starts online now, and 20% of the population can’t be wrong, can they?

Picture it. I’m bored, I’m lonely, I’m watching commercials (travesty!), and I’ve been flying solo for over a year. My birthday is in 10 weeks and I know I’m not getting any younger, cuter, or more marketable. PseudacrisBrachyphona.com, thanks for welcoming me as your newest sucker. I mean, member. (Look it up. It’s the scientific name for the mountain chorus frog.)

Unlike Frogs.com, whose registration process took over an hour to complete and where I learned I was too tall, too educated, and possibly, too financially secure to attract a mate, PseudacrisBrachyphona.com’s registration process took me less than 30 minutes to complete. It would have been faster but I couldn’t find my Visa card to pay. Like Frogs.com, the site pretends that it’s matching you with potential suitors based on some patented, proven, and profound scientific method. A brief personality assessment that the site describes as “fun” and “engaging” claim to provide me with an in-depth look at who I am and what I want in a relationship. What I learned is that I am a “negotiator” which means I am allegedly nurturing, empathetic, and imaginative. Only one of those words has ever been used in conjunction with my name. Ever. Famous negotiators include Bill Clinton and Leo Tolstoy. Yeah.

There isn’t much to tell me what to do with this information, and from what I can see, there isn’t any science to the matches, as I’ve been “noticed” by frogs of all personality persuasions. Interestingly enough, many of them fail to meet my minimum qualifications for the role but I guess this website thinks it knows my wants and needs better than even I do. Thus far, I’ve been “noticed” by 30 frogs in a week, 27 of whom I rejected. I only feel bad about one of them, whom I rejected on the basis of his headline which read, “I like beauty, humor, and brains” which immediately conjured up the image of a zombie and I could not in good conscience date the undead. Hello, I’m Catholic!

I’ve exchanged emails with three frogs. One of them sent me a four line email that consisted of the longest run-on sentence I’ve ever seen. It also lacked punctuation, grammar, and correct spelling. Here’s an idea, internet dating site gurus! What about an IQ test? Because spelling counts! Also, when your personal email address contains the name of a popular candy bar combined with the phrase “the brat”, you are either currently incarcerated or likely to be soon. Another frog wants to meet me and asked me to call him, but felt compelled to instruct me to call him after 5 PM. I wasn’t planning on a wake-up call, Dude! And you’re not the only one with a busy job. The third guy has a strange name and has canceled his PseudacrisBrachyphona.com membership, so we communicate now via text. He texts me strange random questions without any context. Today’s thought-provoking question involved asking my opinion about a country musician I’ve never heard of with a follow-up question inquiring as to whether said musician’s current single is good or not. I would rather listen to cats fornicating than be forced to listen to another second of this Frog’s musical selection, so I’m pretty sure he’s not going to transform into a prince either.

I’m back in the game and giving it the royal try, but I’m not so desperate to find a prince that I’ll settle for any mountain chorus frog who hops my way. A recent revelation confirmed what it is I’m really looking for. But that’s a story for another day . . . The moral of this story is simple. Beware, single heterosexual males between the ages of 30-45 trolling the internet for love. I’m back out there, and I’m looking forward to putting on a dress and having a nice dinner. Hell, I might even shave my legs. You’ve been warned!

© 2010 Princess D