Fairytale Ending!

Now that my life has become more than merely a series of horrendously bad first, second, and third dates, I've been spending my free time doing all the normal stuff that people in relationships do . . . watching DVDs, eating pizza, hanging out, talking, and all that jazz. And let me be clear. I've never been happier in my life. However, there appears to be a negative correlation between my ability to write humorous blog entries and my increased happiness. And for that, dear readers, I apologize.

If you're just catching up on the antics of our heroine, I'll bring you up to speed. In August, I kissed a frog who magically transformed into a prince. Of course, being skeptical and somewhat of a connoisseur in the frogs gone wrong category, I was hesitant to cue the celebratory parade right away. But I'm not going to lie to you – your princess has finally met her match, so last night, when the prince handed a big sparkly (and yes, princess cut!) diamond ring to me, I said yes and promptly went into shock.

Even while in shock, I knew there were a few phone calls I had to make – to my parents and a few other "bffs" out there. And that, dear readers, is where things get entertaining. Indulge me for a moment while I replay some of the highlights for you.

Highlight #1: Call to my mom & dad

Me: "Hi, sorry to call so late. But I wanted to tell you I just got a diamond ring from the man!"

Mom: "That's nice. What does that mean?"

Me, in exasperated tone of voice: "Isn't it obvious? He quit his day job and is moving to Africa to harvest blood diamonds!"

Mom: "Ha ha ha. Congratulations!" Muffled sounds of my dad talking over me in the background. "Hold on a second, honey . . . Dad, Princess is engaged!"

Dad: "To who?" Followed by muffled sounds between Mom and Dad. Unsure of the nature of this dialogue.

Me: "Is it any wonder I have spent the GDP of a small country in therapy bills?"

Mom: "Well, this is just wonderful. When's the big day?"

Me: "Mom, I've had the ring on for all of 35 seconds. I haven't planned the blessed event yet. But I promise, you'll be invited."

Mom: "Ha, ha. I just woke up. Be nice."

 

Highlight #2: Call FROM my mom & dad, approximately five minutes after hanging up from the first call

Me: "Hello?"

Mom: "Your dad . . ."

Me: "Huh?"

Mom: "Your dad had a premonition this would happen."

Me: "Really? Then why did he ask 'to who' earlier?"

Mom: "You know he thinks he's funny. How cute is this premonition?"

 

Highlight #3: Call from The Snake

Me: "Snake, I'm engaged!"

Snake: "Will you be showing for the wedding? And also, make sure you get a prenup."

Me: "What is the matter with you?"

Snake: "I'm kidding! Congratulations! But seriously . . . are you pregnant or something? And when's the big day?"

    

Highlight #4: Overheard during call to the Man's parents

Man: "Well, I did it!"

Man's Dad: "So . . . did she accept?"

Man: "Why else would I be calling you?"

Man's Dad: "So – when's the big day?"

 

Highlight #5: Call to one of my BFF's

Me: "Did you see the text I sent you?"

BFF: "I sure did. Beautiful. But the heat is out at my house. Can you guys come fix it?"

Me: "On the way."

[20 minutes later when we arrive . . . ]

BFF: "Oh, snap! This means you're engaged! I just thought you had a new ring!"

 

I am confident that this is just the beginning of a series of entertaining and awkward discussions, and I look forward to all of them. My fairytale is coming true! Does this mean I'll stop blogging? Sorry, folks – but the blog shall continue, however, it may require a new name since I'm officially resigning as Princess of Frog Kissing. I am soliciting recommendations for a new blog name to celebrate this new chapter. And in other news . . . HOLY SHIT! My fairytale is coming true!

© 2011 Princess D

Irony . . . or How I Found a Prince Lurking in a Basement

Dear readers . . . I have some news. You may want to sit down for this. Take a deep breath, folks. I have some news.

This princess is done kissing frogs.

I haven’t followed through with my threats to join a convent or become a lesbian nun, and I haven’t thrown in the towel, choosing to become a crazy cat lady instead of facing yet another date from hell. In an ironic twist of fate (FYI God – your warped sense of humor isn’t lost on me), the very minute I became comfortable and secure with my singleton status . . . Prince Charming showed up.

I never expected to meet my prince hanging out in one of my best friend’s basements. When my domestic projects were completed with the installation of the infamous dishwasher by what I lovingly referred to as some eye-candy on New Year’s Eve, I didn’t realize that the plumber crack I was admiring might belong to the man of my dreams. A month later, when I stumbled out of my best friend’s bedroom sporting a helluva hangover, wild woman of Borneo hair, and old lady jammies only to have an awkward early morning bathroom encounter with a hottie, I never once thought, “I bet we’ll go on a date one day.” But that’s what transpired.

I met a dandy, handy man last fall – and we became friends, first on Facebook and then in real life. The first time I met him, he thought I was your run-of-the-mill desperate tramp who’d been lured into his roommate, The Snake’s lair, and he therefore spoke to me in a rude and patronizing tone. I gave him a quick once over and decided that although he was pretty hot, he was immune to my feminine wiles. Since he also insulted both me and my intelligence within five minutes of meeting me, I wrote him off as gay – because as we all know, the only men who don’t fall prey to my charms are gay. Or vampires.

This is hardly the stuff of fairy tales, I know. My handy prince was in a serious relationship with someone and as you know, I was revenge dating both at and below my level. Fast forward to two months ago, when Handy broke up with his serious gal pal and I jokingly said, “Great – now you can take me out on a date.” Instead of viewing this opportunity as the grand prize it is, he laughed and said, “I don’t think so. You are WAY too tall for me.” Seriously?!? I retorted, and I quote, “You can try to resist me, but I will grow on you like a fungus. Just wait and see.” And it was on like Donkey Kong from that point forward.

I wore him down, as I knew I would. I also promised to wear flats on our first date. Don’t worry, though – Handy meets all of Princess D's Nine Commandments. (He’s less than an inch shorter than me, but to listen to him talk, I’m some kind of mutant freak.) Several glasses of iced tea and a pizza later, and I’d changed his mind about tall gals. Told you I’d grow on him like a fungus!

A month ago, I kissed a frog in the front seat of an Audi . . . and before my very eyes, the “ribbiting” stopped and a prince appeared. (Interestingly enough, his “castle” borders a moat-like swamp and there is a preponderance of frogs lurking around at all times. Did you need further proof of God’s ironic sense of humor?)

Has your princess found her prince? How many ways can she dream up to screw this up? How much weight will she gain eating pizza and not going to the gym now that she’s no longer revenge dating? Will she ever tell the truth about her age?

Watch this space for the answer to these burning questions! And to my prince . . . the best is yet to come.

© 2011 Princess D

Unanswered Prayers

It might be the back-to-back episodes of Behind the Music I’ve been watching. It could be a side effect of purchasing and listening to that 1980’s Power Ballads CD. (And okay – I may have listened to it repeatedly while singing alone to Cinderella at the top of my tone deaf lungs.) Maybe it’s because I am flirting with middle age, but I would like to suggest that the most likely cause of my current nostalgia is my upcoming 20 year high school reunion.

20 years ago, I was an awkward teenager with a bad spiral perm, way too many pairs of acid-washed jeans, and an interesting collection of tobacco-company sponsored free t-shirts. Was I dating Joe Camel or something? Was my nickname Virginia Slim? (Doubtful given my plus-size at that juncture.) I assure you that the answer to these burning questions is no and no, yet I somehow managed to be photographed in an exclusive collection of casual-wear that advertised smoking. No wonder I’m no fashionista, even today.

At 17, I didn’t have a drivers’ license but I had a job where I earned minimum wage and ate my body weight in Reese’s Peanut Butter cups at the local convenience store. I got good grades without doing much heavy lifting, and aside from a foul mouth and messy bedroom, I’d like to think I was a good kid. (In fact, let’s go with that unless we hear otherwise from my parents, eh?) Although I’m more than a little horrified by the hair and makeup choices of my misspent youth, through the miracles of Facebook, I’m forced to confront these images on a daily basis as mean-spirited middle aged folks with scanners tag images of 17 year old me.

As I look into the red-eyes of my 17 year old self, I can remember how uncomfortable I was in my own skin back then. I like to joke that I didn’t go through puberty until I was 24, but in many ways, that’s no exaggeration. At 17, all I wanted to do was fit in, blend in, and get by – all of which were hard to do at nearly six feet tall and clumsy. Being smart and goal-oriented didn’t help too much either, since I had more in common with the parents of the kids my age than my own peer group. What I remember most, though, is what it felt like to be a 17 year old with a massive crush on a boy who couldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t feel the same way about me.

Neither frog nor snake nor tadpole, his name was Pete, and he was the prototype of the all-around American good guy in every John Hughes movie. He wasn’t just captain of the wrestling team, honor roll student, choir star, and homecoming king, but he was also the president of our church youth group. He did volunteer work, attended bible study, and . . . . he was nice to me. A sucker for chick lit and crappy Molly Ringwald movies even then, I fell head over heels for this poor boy. I can still remember his phone number and his birthday.

I’d love to tell you that Pete took pity on me and took me out on a date to put me out of my misery, but instead, he dated the girl who tormented me all through elementary school and beat me up on the playground in 5th grade. Not only did he date her, but he committed sinful acts with her that resulted in an unplanned pregnancy during our senior year! 20 years later, they’re happily married with five kids, a dog, and a house in the suburbs.

Pete broke my heart a million times . . . and I could not be more relieved. I assure you – I would be a lousy mom and there is absolutely no way I would withstand five (!) pregnancies, labors, and child-births without a hostage situation or casualties. While Pete and Mrs. Pete are clipping coupons, coaching youth soccer, and tooling around town in their minivan, I have sole ownership of the remote control and a healthy bank account. I’m sure it wasn’t easy starting a family and a marriage at 18 years old – and it was certainly not a proud moment for our church youth group when our president’s premarital sex was on display for all to see – but Pete persevered. And also managed to lose all his hair! Since he is both highly fertile and completely bald, it’s pretty easy to breathe a sigh of relief and, in the words of the great Garth Brooks, thank God for unanswered prayers.

Since Pete was immune to my feminine wiles, I pined away for him, perfecting the art of stalking while keeping my Friday nights and weekends free in case he changed his mind. And that, dear readers, is how I wound up attending college, getting a useless liberal arts degree, falling in love with a boy from my high school, having my heart broken for real, meeting Mr. Wrong, attending therapy, and becoming a princess. (In my own mind) . 17 year old me used to sign “Mr. & Mrs. Pete” all over my Trapper Keeper, cut pages out of Modern Bride as I planned our imaginary wedding, and incessantly called him from our house phone, complete with cord, hanging up at the sound of his voice. This was before caller-id, kids. (Note to all frogs and potential princes: although I perfected the art of stalking, I am not an actual stalker. Really. This is not grounds for rejection.)

Back in 1991, Pete’s rejection stung a little bit – but today, I couldn’t be happier at the way my life has turned out. Of course, there is a little part of me that is pretty sure that Pete is gay (because as we know, I possess the universally appealing trifecta of big boobs, small waist, big paycheck). Had Pete not been gay – or in love with a very, very, very mean girl who wasn’t me – I might not have gone to college; met my soul mate and spent beautiful time with him before he passed away; or bought a home. I probably wouldn’t be in therapy, either, but then again – if I had five kids, all bets are off.

The great thing about being 30-something is that I’m not 17. What’s that old saying? Youth is wasted on the young. I may have wrinkles, gray hair, a therapist, and a vast array of creams and ointments designed to counteract the aging process, but I’m pretty secure about who I am today. Your princess works hard; loves fiercely; believes that everyone deserves a second (or third) chance; is educated; is blessed with health and wealth beyond her wildest dreams; is tall enough to reach stuff on the top shelf and confident enough to wear high heels anyway. I’m not the shy, nervous nerd I was back in 1991 – and just the other day, my personal trainer told me that I’m “pretty hot for an old lady”. In fact, in the words of my four best friends, John, Paul, George & Ringo . . . “it’s getting better all the time!”

© 2011 Princess D

My Grass Ain't Green - But it IS Real

As an aspiring writer and self-proclaimed princess, I often apply the principles of creativity to the facts. I don’t really consider my creative interpretation of the truth problematic but rather, I find that it makes for far more interesting storytelling. Anyone who’s had the misfortune of spending more than about 90 seconds in my presence is all too familiar with my slight penchant for the melodramatic – and although I suspect it may be a tad bit irritating to a lot of folks, I’m not particularly motivated to make any changes to my personality at this point in my middle-age.

If you’ve been keeping up with my antics, you likely recognize that, like all vain women of a certain height, weight, and age, I lie about all of the afore-mentioned. All the time. In fact, the only way you’ll get a truthful answer from me on any of these topics is if I’m under oath; under the influence of truth serum; and simultaneously tied to a scale holding my birth certificate in my teeth.

My height and weight are less of an issue these days. Once you’ve been deemed too tall for online dating and dumped via text for being “too big” (thanks a lot, Frog #11), you merely chuckle, write a big fat check to your personal trainer, and persevere. What’s causing me to stress eat these days isn’t my weight, but rather, my birthday which is less than three weeks away and my 20 year high school reunion which follows shortly thereafter.

Why all the talk about honesty and creative math? Well . . . I’m about to be real. In all honesty and sincerity, I neither feel nor act my age. Most of the time, I look around and I think, “Damn, girl! You are one lucky biotch.” (Side note: no idea why I talk to myself in that tone of voice. Believe me – the Elf Therapist and I are working on it, okay?) I’m gainfully employed in a job that allows me to own a home, drive a cute hybrid car, and travel to exotic places like Switzerland just because I feel like it. I have the world’s cutest and naughtiest felonious dog sharing my living quarters. I have a good family, amazing friends, and shit . . . I’m a princess! Seriously – why are the paparazzi stalking famous people when I am flaunting royal awesomeness right out there in the open? Feel free to snap a picture, folks.

So, if my existence is so flipping wonderful, why am I chewing my cuticles and dreading these upcoming milestones? (Or is it milepost? Does it matter? You know what I’m talking about, right?) Before I explain why I’m filled with fear, let me tell you who I blame for all this. Yup, boys and girls – I blame women’s magazines, Brother Edward (the celibate Christian brother who taught us about the birds and the bees), Carrie Bradshaw, and the Lifetime Movie Network.

Here’s the problem. In spite of my feminist mom’s best efforts – and I did enjoy all those field trips to the Tonka Truck Factory – Catholic school, television, fairy tales, Barbie and all kinds of other evil forces conspired against her. Somewhere, I got the crazy-ass idea that the only way to live happily ever after was to get married (preferably in the Church so you could receive the sacrament); procreate within the confines of marriage as Jesus intended to the tune of 2.5 offspring; and why not bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan, too?

How I got the idea that becoming a Stepford soccer mom was the key to lifelong happiness is a mystery to me. Sure, they have a lovely family to come home to and built-in entertainment in the form of t-ball games and parent-teacher conferences, but when’s the last time they were able to eat a brick of cheese for dinner and wash it down with Grainbelt Premium? When was the last time they laid around on the couch in their underwear, just because they could? And don’t even get me started on the benefits of sole remote control proprietorship.

Like I said, I don’t normally give a frog’s fat behind about the fact that I’m not living the dreams I had for myself when I was a little girl. I had questionable taste back then as evidenced by the preponderance of velour and tube socks in the family photo albums. Left to my own devices, I’m just fine with my lot in life. It’s these “Princess and Guest” invitations that are killing me.

Whether it’s some wedding, reception, or yes – even a reunion, when you’re a single (as opposed to a couple), you’ve got some difficult choices to make. Do you show up alone, sidle up to all the smug couples and flaunt your solo status, complete with full remote control privileges? It’s definitely an option, if you don’t mind being interrogated on the many, many things that make you a freak of nature. You’ll be asked embarrassing questions by virtual strangers who want nothing more than for you to be a divorcee with a few kids at home. Your “never married” status makes everyone uncomfortable. What on earth is wrong with you that no man has ever tried to make an honest woman out of you? At your age, shouldn’t you be in a rush to wed and reproduce? Or are you some kind of kid-hater? You’ll endure a lot of pitying glances and you’ll be left no choice but to drink away your sorrows, which will lead to a whole new theory about your singledom – alcoholism. You leave with the distinct feeling that folks would prefer that you couple up with any frog/slug/creep you can find just so you’ll fit in. Never mind that you’re a fabulous princess . . . could you just stop making everyone else feel awkward?

Option B isn’t a much better plan, although it does allow for plot and character development, since it’s based on a series of lies. In Option B, you bribe one of your best-looking manpanions to pretend that he is madly in love with you for the duration of said event. Since the pretty ones aren’t usually too bright, you may need to script and rehearse the event. It’s also important to establish ground rules, such as:

1. It is not okay to leer at other women or ask for their phone numbers while you are pretending we’re in love.


2. Stay in character at all times! Do not disclose that it’s all an act. This will merely incite more princess pity.


3. Let me do the talking. Just nod and look at me adoringly.


4. Feel free to flash your awesome abs anytime you want. A lot. And then tell me you love me.
   

But it's reality check time. I have a lot of friends who’ve been through painful, nasty divorces. They’ve had their hearts broken. They’re fighting their baby-daddies (or mommies) for child support payments while raising their families on their own. They’re struggling to keep the lights on and put food on the table. They’ve been lied to, betrayed, cheated on . . . and they’re trying to figure out how to keep on keeping on.

I’m not foolish enough to believe that the grass is greener on the other side. I can see over the fence and my neighbor’s lawn looks just as bad as mine. I can see the dog pee stains, the crab grass, and the ants. The difference is this. I put my rotten lawn out on display and let the whole world know it’s not perfect, but this is what a princess’ lawn looks like. Meanwhile, my neighbors are outside with their weed killer and sod, working their fingers to the bone to prove to the world that the lawn they’ve created is the ideal.

If the key to happily ever after lies in a well-manicured lawn, I’m in trouble. I don’t want to spend every waking hour on high alert for weed infestation. I don’t want to be in love with my mulcher. In fact, that might be a great opening line at my 20 year high school reunion. While everyone else whips out pictures of their families, I’ll proudly show off pictures of my dog taking a crap on my lawn . . . because that is how a princess rolls.

© 2011 Princess D

Frog #11: The Big, Fat Mistake

Perhaps you’re wondering if the princess has:

A: Fallen in love

B: Fallen off the face of the earth

C: Fallen under a large heavy object, thereby preventing her from blogging

Alas, dear readers (all 26 of you!), the answer is D: None of the above. What happened instead is that I strained a muscle in my arm trying to high-five myself for dating at my own level. After a liberal application of Bengay and a few more dates with the ill-fated Frog #11, I re-strained the same muscle when I beat the living crap out of myself for thinking that this wart-covered creep even existed in the same ecosystem as me. Sorry, Mark . . . I clearly need further instruction on dating at my own level.

Using the benefit of my superhero hindsight, I can see there were amphibious warning signs. I mean, he didn’t come right out and “ribbit” or anything, but let’s be clear. I couldn’t figure out if the guy was interesting or a massive tool. His respectable job and willingness to pick up the check on occasion distracted me. You see, he was no run-of-the-mill frog but rather, a unique type of highly evolved frog with strange chameleon capabilities. At least, that’s the story I’m telling myself because the alternative is that I’ve been out with some real flippin’ losers if all it takes is a free sandwich to turn my head.

Frog #11 and I casually dated for about two months. This means – gasp! – he wasn’t the only frog on my lily pad (that sounds dirty but I assure you . . . it’s not. Really, Mom.) . We exchanged text messages, we went for walks, and we’d meet for a beer every now and again. He had some very disturbing hang-ups about food, so going out for a meal was out of the question. This frog regularly went 12+ hours without a meal and encouraged me to “unfriend food”. Blasphemy! Food, drink, and fingernail biting are the only vices I have left to enjoy. And then . . . I took a two week European vacation.

I was lukewarm on Frog #11 when I left on vacation. I was still trying to solve the “asshole or interesting” dilemma, but I agreed to keep in touch via email while exploring the Alps. We exchanged several messages – all very sweet – and made plans to connect upon my triumphant return to the US.

Now, if you’ve ever spent two weeks in Europe – particularly if the Energizer Bunny is your travel companion – you know that jetlag is no joke. Upon returning home, I found it impossible to remain awake and in the upright position beyond 8 PM. Conversely, I was suddenly a serious morning person. As in, “it is 4 AM . . . let’s go!” I was tired, not thrilled to return to the daily grind, and frankly, bored with Frog #11. I was planning to give him the “I’m just not that into you” speech when that jackass beat me to the punch.

You don’t have to love me. You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to think I’m cute. You don’t have to laugh at my jokes. (You should do all of the above, but there’s no accounting for some people’s taste.) But for the love of all that’s holy, you most certainly do not dump me via text message, telling me that “I’m just not really feeling it. You’re a cool chick and all, but frankly, you’re just too big.”

There were many witty and shrewd retorts on both my fingertips and the tip of my tongue, but I decided to play the classy card. I responded and said, “Thanks. Good luck,” and promptly signed up for three months of personal training sessions.

A few of you have heard this story already, and the response is always the same. There is a sharp gasp, followed by some version of, “He did not mean you’re FAT. He probably just meant you’re too tall.” Allow me to say this. There’s a reason they call the plus size store “Big and Tall”. They sell clothes for people who are both BIG (translation: fat) and tall. Furthermore, Frog #11 is no slouch. He stands a good 4-5 inches taller than me, even in heels, so unless he has some kind of Oompa Loompa fetish, he was referring to my weight, not my height.

Am I fat? Hell, no. I’m 5’11 inches and I currently weight 149 lbs, which gives me a BMI of 20.8, which squarely qualifies me as normal. I’ve weighed a lot less, and I’ve weighed a lot more, and I’m damn glad to be tall, because it means that plus or minus 10 pounds isn’t obvious on my frame.

Although I know that Frog #11 is just a jerk with bad break-up tendencies, he got into my head a little bit. My pants started to feel a little snug. My shirts started to ride up, showing off what started to look disturbingly like a muffin top. Those cute Capri pants I bought last summer . . . wouldn’t zip. So even though I’m still convinced of my hotness and of the blindness and/or gayness of anyone who can’t recognize my brilliance and good looks, I realized I was no longer feeling like president of my own fan club.

After crying into my beers (okay, and the wine, too), I decided to put up or shut up, and I joined a gym. I started working out with a trainer, lifting heavy objects in repetitive fashion while alternately squatting and/or lunging in a lurching, wobbly and unattractive manner. Do I enjoy it? Absolutely not. But I’ve embarked on a healthy lifestyle in an effort to get re-elected to my own fan club – and to get those darned Capri pants on before the snow falls. Besides, my trainer is both single and awfully easy on the eyes!

© 2011 Princess D

Dating at Your Own Level - At Your Own Risk

I’d like to dedicate this blog entry to my dear friend Mark and to the Snake. Without your well-intentioned counsel (Mark) and your total disregard for my feelings (Snake), I would most certainly have failed to make the acquaintance of Frog #11. I’m not sure if I should thank you or say, “I told you so!”

There is a small subset of the kingdom who believes that this princess dates beneath her level. I’ve pointed out that as a nearly six foot tall women with a penchant for high heels, pretty much everyone winds up being beneath me, but apparently, I was being too literal. My friend Mark has appointed himself the spokesmodel for the “date at your own level” campaign and I can hear him cringe when I relay tales of the various garbage collectors, maintenance dudes, gutter cleaners and house painters I accompany to high-falluting joints like the VFW, American Legion, and any bowling alley with a ½ off coupon. (Side note: I seem to have a very patriotic fan base. Is that so wrong?)

Mark recently staged a verbal intervention/come to Jesus meeting with me. The topic was, of course, dating at my own level, and the suggested action plan was . . . uh . . . try it. This of course, assumes that I am purposely and deliberately not choosing available men who are at my level and who meet the nine commandments. To find a man with hair, teeth, a job, the correct waist-to-inseam ratio without a bunch of tadpoles is like finding a needle in a haystack, folks. Regardless, Mark’s well-intentioned advice stuck with me and I realized that I would probably not live happily ever after with a vacuum cleaner salesman.

It was this helpful advice that led me back to the lazy person’s dating vehicle, also known as www.plentyoffrogs.com. I lack the self-confidence, makeup and wardrobe required to meet men in real life. Aside from a mentally ill homeless man who followed me twelve blocks through the downtown area (and who also yelled at me, but that’s another story), I’m not the kind of gal that gets hit on or picked up. Ever. Could I try harder? Of course. But it’s easier to sit in my pj’s, drink a beer, and cruise the internet for frogs.

I made the acquaintance of Frog #11 online, and since he met the minimum qualifications (hair, teeth, job, and currently living in the US), I agreed to a meet and greet. As we planned our first encounter, we discovered that we live less than a mile from each other, so we met in the ‘hood for a drink.

My first impressions were as follows:
1. Nice hair and teeth
2. Hmmm. He is apparently “pro-cuss”. I like it.
3. Wow. He has a real job. JUST LIKE ME.
4. Holy shit – did he just pick up the check?!?!

We went our separate ways with a vague and loose plan to maybe get together again, which neither of us followed up on, and he very nearly escaped becoming Frog #11. Enter the Snake to explain what happened next.

Now, to say that Snake and I have a complicated relationship is like saying that math is hard. In other words, it’s the understatement of the century. I spend more time with Snake than any other human being I know; we talk, we laugh, and we have a good time. Our relationship confuses a lot of folks who wonder if we’re dating (no); why we’re not dating (bad idea); and if we’re lying when we answer questions one and two (maybe).

Here’s the thing. I really do love Snake. He is one of my favorite people to hang out with. I know that if I need him, he’ll show up for me. And in his own way, Snake loves me too. At the end of the day, though, Snake is . . . a snake. His favorite activity is to prey on unsuspecting women and trap them in his lair. He tells the ladies anything they want to hear, and he is firm believer in recycling. If a line works, he will use it over and over until it is no longer effective. Listening to him tell woman after woman that they would have adorable babies together; that he can really see a future with them; and that they are beautiful inside and out has jaded me.

So, I love me some Snake but he is a playa. The Elf-Therapist has made it very clear that I need to reduce the Snake factor in order to increase the likelihood of a frog becoming a prince. Yeah – it’s a complicated metaphor AND biological phenomenon. So, the combination of Mark’s invention and a concentrated Snake reduction plan led me to consider an encore performance with Frog #11. To be honest, it was when Snake took a call from a girl and “shushed” me so he could charm her – while we were having dinner together - that I texted Frog #11 and asked him to meet me for a drink.

As it turns out, there is a very fine line between interesting and asshole. Further exposure to Frog #11 has made this abundantly clear. He might be very smart and educated, or he might be a massive, opinionated tool. The more time I spend with him, the less sure I am. For example, what kind of person refuses to help others and then brags about it? Is this the kind of first impression you want to make? Frog #11 votes yes. Ditto for what kind of parent refuses to buy Girl Scout cookies from their 10 year old daughter. And apparently, I’ve lucked out and met a self-appointed expert on everything.

I think my favorite Frog #11 story is the serial killer story. We were having dinner and he was spinning a yarn about something and referenced the serial killer, Ed Bundy. I politely asked if he meant Ted Bundy, and he vehemently argued that I was wrong. For the better part of an hour. You decide.

On the one hand, dating at my level is interesting and he is a good kisser. On the other hand, I spend way more time fantasizing about hitting him with a brick than anything else. Perhaps this is what normal looks like . . . Are you happy now, Mark?

© 2011 Princess D

Love the Way I Lie

When you enter the cesspool otherwise known as internet dating, it can jade you. Even the most self-confident, awesome of princesses suddenly becomes insecure about things like her height, weight, income, procreation preferences, and yes . . . her age.

I’m 37 years old, and believe me – I don’t think there’s a darned thing wrong with that. Because I’m 37 and not, say, 25, I am financially secure, semi-educated, and somewhat interesting. Since I also possess the sense of humor and maturity level of your average 12 year old boy, one might describe me as “young at heart”.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a middle-aged person. I see a princess – even when my tiara is in the shop. Do I color my hair to cover up the errant grays? Duh! But for the record, I’ve been dying my hair for 20 years – not because I need to but because I can. And yes, I moisturize and wear an SPF 45 sunscreen year-round, but that’s just fear of cancer talking. So whether I’m 37 or 57 or 17, I feel like a princess and I think I look damn fine, no matter how young I may or may not be.

Do I lie about my age? You bet I do – but only to online suitors and only to get past the age filters they’ve cleverly enabled to skew their demographic younger. It’s a little shocking that a follicle-challenged, overweight, underemployed 40 year old man who’s never been married would be holding out for a 25-32 year old partner, but as I say, dare to dream, boys. Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones holding out for younger babes. The attractive and employed ones are, too.

I don’t think fibbing about one’s age in an online profile is any different than lying about your weight on your drivers’ license (Guilty as charged. I actually weigh a tad more than 125 but appreciate that the fine folks at the DMV never question me). And for the record, guys lie all the time. Don’t even get me started on the male measurement system. Every man who’s ever claimed to be 6 feet tall is at least three inches shorter, a fact that I now account for in my choice of first date footwear.

I recently discussed my web of lies with my family, who were all appalled by my dishonesty. Smug married people with their mutual respect and honesty don’t remember what it’s like to be swimming in the singles shark tank. It’s survival of the fittest out there, and a web of lies can often turn into a safety net. One well-intentioned family member wanted to know, “Aren’t you setting yourself up for a day of reckoning?”

While I appreciate the sentiment, it’s not like I’m standing in a church and lying right in Jesus’ face. Rather, I’ve created an online profile using creative accounting. In some cultures, I’d be named president of the company and rewarded with stock options for this. But the question stuck in my craw and got me thinking . . . am I setting myself up for failure?

I know what the future lawyer thinks, but the rest of the jury is still out on this one. The clever suitors are quick to figure out that there is no way I’m as young as I pretend to be online. My love of Barry Manilow, inability to use an iphone, and general knowledge of 1970’s trivia gives me away. And I give myself away on the first date if the guy passes Princess D's 9 Commandments and appears to be semi-literate. Since I have no intention of dating a moron, why bother coming clean with the stupid ones?

The topic of age is top of mind these days since I’m facing a 20 year high school reunion this summer. My first response upon receiving the invitation was, “Who are these people and why do they think we’re the same age?!?!” My second response was, “I am WAY hotter than anyone would have guessed I’d be 20 years ago. Whose face can I rub that in?” And my third response was, “In a graduating class of 81, how many good-looking single guys will be at this event?” Note that the third question was asked in a facetious tone, since I went to Catholic school. I expect there to be one single guy there and he’ll probably be a priest.

Will I attend the reunion? I’m not sure. The miracles of technology like Facebook have allowed me to keep tabs on people I never intended to speak to again, rendering things like in-person reunions unnecessary. Unless I wind up married to Joe Mauer before August, I might sit this one out. Will I keep lying about my age? Well . . . Eminem said it best; “I love the way you lie.”

© 2011 Princess D

Snakes, Liars . . . And Frog #10

Maybe it was insane optimism. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was low self-esteem. Regardless, I recently found myself on another internet-procured date, courtesy of www.plentyoffrogs.com.

When your primary dating vehicle is a free website that uses diligent screening questions such as, “Do you own a car,” you quickly learn to keep your expectations low. Or, if you’re me, you drink a $30 Coors Light in the company of an ass-slapping frog before you wake up and smell the distinct odor of swamp.

Mind you, the only reason I even re-entered the toxic waste heap of internet dating can be blamed on a couple of factors. First, I suffer from delusional arrogance and second, I possess a killer competitive instinct – a personality characteristic I prefer to keep out of the limelight. And, okay . . . you caught me. I’m a little hard up for blog fodder and bored, too.

You may be wondering what in the heck my competitive streak has to do with dating, which is a fair question. Allow me to explain. I’m a bit of a princess, as you know. I recently (drunkenly) declared myself a “real catch”, citing my universally and empirically attractive big boobs, small waist, and big paycheck as evidence to substantiate my claim. As both a real catch and a princess, I cannot fathom the notion that there are straight men on earth who wouldn’t want to date me. Just ask poor, poor Frog #6 about that. Rather than accept that he just might not be that into me, I made him gay. In writing.

But I digress. The real issue is that I have this friend. He might be a Faux Frog, but in all actuality, he’s just a slightly stupider, much vainer, way more attractive male version of me. Honestly, folks, he looks like a Calvin Klein underwear model, which is the only reason he can get away with being a serial womanizer. He’s neither frog nor prince, so we’ll call him Snake. Snake and I spend a lot of time together, but since he is absolutely not serious boyfriend material, it’s just a lot of laughs. We go to the movies, we drink cheap beer, we burp and fart . . . it’s kind of like we’re frat brothers, except that one of us thinks she’s a princess.

I’m fascinated by Snake’s antics. He sees a different girl every night of the week – and some nights, he has them scheduled in shifts. Because he is all about variety, Snake doesn’t encourage encore performances. One or two dates are enough. As a result, he needs a bottomless source of available women, preferably with loose morals. It was Snake, in fact, who introduced me to www.plentyoffrogs.com, since it is his primary sourcing tool, and it was Snake who encouraged me to stretch the truth on things like my age, height, and weight.

On an average day, Snake meets 15+ “ladies” who meet his strict qualifications online. I, on the other hand, found myself having much worse luck. While I was generating online interest, less than 1% of my internet suitors complied with Princess D's Nine Dating Commandments. And I’m not going to lie to you. This really bugged me. How dare Snake be able to date at will while a real catch like me generated enthusiasm only from bald, fat, unemployed guys who live with their parents?
Imagine my surprise, then, when I stumbled onto a relatively normal frog online. His photos indicated hair, teeth, and a suitable inseam-to-waist ratio. He asked me out for a drink and I figured, “Why not?” I mean, it’s not like the Snake was free to hang out, right?

We make plans to meet for a drink after work on a Friday night. I take extra care with my appearance so as to play up my aforementioned assets. We arrive at the bar at just about the same time, and I’m pleasantly surprised to discover that he both looks and smells good. We get a table and order a drink . . . .and that’s when things went south.

I thought I was out on a date with a 39 year old finance guy. The waitress discovered otherwise when she decided to card the awkward pair of middle-aged losers out on a first date. I handed her my drivers license in exchange for an Amstel Light order, and although she scrutinized it like there was going to be an exam later, she thankfully refrained from any commentary. My date wasn’t quite so lucky. As she studied his identification, the waitress commented on my date’s upcoming birthday . . . which, as she astutely pointed out by reading his drivers license, was the big 4-3.

Cue the humiliation and shame! Yes, folks, Frog #10 lied about his age and got called out by a chain-restaurant waitress. His embarrassment was obvious and since I didn’t know what else to do, I tried to cheer him up by admitting that I, too, lied about my age in my internet dating profile. Note to self: two wrongs don’t make a right. While he appreciated not being the only liar at the table, he was less than impressed with my creative math, and although we salvaged the rest of the evening, I never heard from Frog #10 again.

It figures. The ass-slappers won’t stop calling. The good-looking, employed ones get a little embarrassed and disappear. By the way, Frog #10 . . . I should get points not only for honesty but for compassion. I didn’t have to tell you the truth. I could have let you marinate in your lying stew. Since he failed to notice what an excellent catch I am, one thing is abundantly clear. He’s obviously gay. What other explanation could there be?

© 2011 Princess D

You Get What You Pay For . . .

New Year’s Eve was a big day for this princess. On the domestic front, it marked the day that all of 2010’s home improvement projects were completed, including the pièce de résistance, the dishwasher. After a mere 13 trips between the house and my local hardware store, the dishwasher was installed and my life was changed forever. My kitchen has never been cleaner and this princess is enjoying every cent of the $225 investment in her domicile. (Thank you, Randy, for installing it and not letting you-know-who burn my house down. You are my hero.) And did I mention the eye-candy I lured into my house to install said appliance? Like I said – it was a life-changing day.

Project Dishwasher started early in the morning on New Year’s Eve day. At that point, I’d planned to ring in the new year quietly, at home, with a glass of wine and a nice Lean Cuisine. (Side note: I really like the butternut squash ravioli). I was in no mood to whoop it up, or frankly, even wash myself. The very idea of dressing myself and going out on the town was simply more than I could handle. Besides, if I went out, how would I enjoy running the dishwasher just because I can?

Unfortunately, the unskilled half of the eye-candy had other ideas and wanted to hit the town. Knowing him as I do, I firmly explained that I had no intention of showering, putting on cute clothes, and exposing myself to arctic weather conditions if he was going to ignore me and pick up random girls all night long. Who said my human resources experience isn’t helpful in real life? HR rule #1: past performance is the best indicator of future behavior. Which is precisely why I felt compelled to extract (extort?) a promise that I wouldn’t spend New Year’s Eve at the VFW, drinking flat beer in a plastic cup while my eye-candy/so-called friend shared the love with any and every female within a 50 mile radius.

Fast forward a few hours, and you’ll find me dressed to the nines and looking pretty hot, even if I do say so myself, sitting alone at the bar at the VFW drinking flat beer out of a plastic glass. Watch out, Dionne Warwick and psychic friends - I clearly have the power to predict the future. As I sat alone at the bar, fuming and looking adorable, I did a little mental inventory and realized that sitting alone at the bar while my “companion” hit on everything that moved was becoming par for the course. Did I want to spend what’s left of my 30’s sitting in the world’s shittiest bars and playing designated driver to a 40 year old man-child? Or do I want some thing more?

As a very friendly American hero and veteran of a foreign war smiled at me with his 3 teeth and asked me to dance, I made my first New Year’s resolution, which was pretty simple. Get out there and date, darn it. My theory was simple – it would be good for my self-esteem to let someone buy me a sandwich.

Unlike good theories, like relativity, this one didn’t hold much water. But ever the optimist, I decided to get myself a date come hell or high water. While internet dating has been a complete and total bust for me thus far, I couldn’t help but notice that my male friends were having a lot of luck online, and their enthusiasm rubbed off on me. I kept my expectations low, my Visa card in my wallet, and signed up for one of those free sites. Let’s call it . . . www.plentyoffrogs.com, in keeping with our amphibious theme. Did I lie about my height, age, weight, and income? You bet I did. And it paid off as suddenly, lots of male humans wanted to get to know me.

What I didn’t know at the time is that www.plentyoffrogs.com would be more aptly titled, www.here’showyouobtainasexuallytrasmitteddisease.com Within moments of creating my profile, I received several photos I never requested a la Brett Favre. Newsflash, boys: just because you have a camera doesn’t mean you need to use it. Really. I’m going to assume all your anatomy is intact. I don’t need photographic evidence.

Beyond the photos, I also received lots of invitations to go over to strange men’s homes. Does this tactic work? Because I’ve been watching Dateline. How do I know you won’t chop me up into bits and sell my organs on e-bay? And what happened to the romance? Could I get a sandwich first?

Needless to say, what I discovered is that while there may be plenty of frogs, these aren’t the frogs I’m looking for. What I should have done is disabled my account and focused on cleaning my house, but the entertainment factor was just too compelling and I decided to push my social experiment to the next level.

I exchanged notes with a couple of guys who seemed literate, passed 2^nd grade spelling, and didn’t suggest getting to know one another in the biblical sense as their opening lines. (Side note: you really do get what you pay for. These free sites are loser magnets. I should have been tipped off by the “Do you have a car?” question in the intake profile.) And that, friends, is how I met Frog #9.

My Spidey senses had a feeling about Frog #9 long before the date even started, which is why I canceled our original date in favor of laying on the couch and eating microwave popcorn. Un-thwarted, Frog #9 merely suggested a do-over on Sunday.

Per his request, we met at a local sports bar inconveniently located in the part of the suburbs I never go to. Football was on – loudly – and it was happy hour. I was able to recognize him based on his photos and he was decent looking. He recognized me right away and we sat down and had a beer. Well, if I’m honest, I had one. He had five. This fact becomes important when you realize that we split the bill at the end of the date and understand that I drank a $30 Coors Light.

We made the requisite small talk, we had a snack, and I realized that I might actually hate him. His idea of small talk included a discussion of every woman he’d dated in the past 24 months, complete with a description of how super-model hot they all were (really?) and how bat-shit crazy they all were. All I’m going to say is that the common denominator here is you, Frog #9. He possessed a giant ego, a smug arrogance, and frankly, shitty conversational skills, so I was thrilled when it was time to wrap it up.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t merely pay the tab and leave, because we were in a suburban shopping mall. Novice tactical error on my part that I won’t make again, believe you me. After the world’s most expensive diet beer, I had to walk with this guy through the length of the mall in order to return to my car. As we traversed the mall, I noticed that he was sidling up awfully close to me and at one point; I felt his hand smacking my backside. Honey, no. No. No. Not only is that not remotely romantic, it’s creepy and gross. And you didn’t even buy my beer, cheap ass, so where on earth did you get the idea that your hand would be welcome in my territory?

I wisely moved my ass out of harm’s way and picked up the pace. Halfway through the mall, he asked if we could stop in this shop quickly. At this point, I would do anything to get him out of my life, so I foolishly say yes, and find myself standing in a jewelry store, where Frog #9 proceeds to inform the clerk and me that we’re engaged.

At this point, I am peering into the corners, convinced that Ashton and the gang are just waiting to inform me that I am, in fact, being punk'd. Because this is so not normal. But 30 minutes pass where Frog #9 inspects various gems and I can’t find any signs of Ashton and company, so I realize that I am actually on the worst date ever. And it’s time to escape.

I politely inform the frog that I have a prior commitment and we depart from the jewelry store. I am now focused on one thing only – my escape. But there is no real excuse, other than sheer naïveté, for what happens next.

In order to leave the mall and get to my sweet, sweet freedom, we needed to move from the 2^nd floor of the mall to the 1^st floor. Why I let this creep usher me into an elevator, I don’t know. (Please see prior paragraph comment on naïveté.) As soon as the elevator doors closed, Frog #9 transformed from frog to octopus, and I started to hop around like I had jumping beans in my pants. Thank God it was a short elevator ride. When those doors sprung open, I shot out of the elevator, ran to my car, and threw up a little bit in my mouth.

Now, when a woman runs from you – in heels, nonetheless – it’s a sign, gentleman. And that sign says, “Stop.” Frog #9 missed the sign and continues to call and text, asking for a 2^nd date. Let me be clear: I’d rather spend eternity sitting in shitty bars being ignored by whichever guy friend I’m playing designated driver for than subject myself to further ass slapping and bill-splitting.

There are two lessons here. One, you get what you pay for. Two, New Year’s resolutions are made to be broken.

© 2011 Princess D