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:
- I've kissed them
- They've failed to transform into princes
- Both A and B
- 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 7th 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 2nd 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 4th 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
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