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
