The 8th Time’s the Charm . . .

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

Gas Can Blues – Greatest Hit #1:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Locked Out Lullaby – Greatest Hit #2

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

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

Go West, Young Woman – Greatest Hit #3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2010 Princess D

 

Kissing Practice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2010 Princess D

Independence Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2010 Princess D

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Princess D.

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