From Princess to Missus: The End of the Frog Blog

In 13 days, I will walk down the aisle, pucker up, and never have to kiss another frog again. It's a monumental achievement for this lazy blogger and princess-in-her-own mind. As I obsess about things like centerpieces, sand ceremonies, and whether or not my bustle makes my butt look big, I find myself sleeping very little and instead, spending time replaying Princess D's greatest hits (and misses) in my head.

The beauty of wedding planning is that it is all-consuming. Even if you outsource the details to a professional like I did, you'll still find yourself neck-deep in decisions. Selecting plates and flatware was a task on par with taking the GMAT; a fact whose irony isn't lost on me since I currently possess approximately 194 forks, none of which match. If you swing by my palace for a meal, you won't find matching dishes or cloth napkins. Let's be clear: until recently, you also wouldn't have found a table at which to eat. Wedding planning also introduces you to all sorts of interesting new concepts and lingo, which begs the question, "Am I truly a rube?" Why wasn't this covered at my useless liberal arts college? Between making life-altering decisions about music selection and linens, sweating to the oldies with my personal trainer so my dress will fit, and trying not to get fired from my day job, I haven't had a lot of time to consider anything beyond the wedding . . . like the fact that I am getting married. For better or worse; in sickness and health; 'til death do us part.

It's a little ironic and a whole lot sadder that we pour so much time, money, and energy into creating the perfect wedding instead of focusing on what really matters, which is creating a marriage. It's really not all that hard to clean yourself up, put on a big dress, keep your elbows off the table, dance around a little, and throw a good party. Frankly, that's the easy part. What's not to love when you're showered, made-up, and looking radiant in a tiara? But is any of us really so lovely or loveable when we're rotting on the couch in mismatched sweats, a baseball cap, and we can't quite remember the last time we spritzed our pits? Or when one of us keeps the other one awake by snoring like a pack of wild sows (not guilty – but I can point fingers a dog and a dude who are both guilty as charged) at 3 AM? Or when someone's (guilty) incessant shedding hair causes the vacuum cleaner to spontaneously combust?

What right do I have to march down the aisle? I've screwed up every relationship I've ever been in. I'm stubborn; I'm selfish; and I am universally messy. I am perfectly content to live in my own filth; to eat nothing but Lean Cuisines and cheese; and to waste an entire day in front of the TV watching Lifetime movies. I'm moody; I'm chemically imbalanced; I'm sensitive even though I pretend I'm not; I cry at Subaru commercials. My senior prom date turned out to be gay. I spent 14 years in a relationship with Mr. Wrong because I was too afraid to walk away – and I tricked myself into thinking it was completely okay to treat him as terribly as I did. Ever the optimist, I figured there was life after Mr. Wrong and I began dating again. Because I couldn't handle the rejection and the truth, I turned my dates into caricatures, called them frogs, and mocked them publicly in a blog that may or may not actually be read by anyone beyond my immediate circle of friends. I radiated loneliness and almost ruined perfectly good friendships with male non-frogs because we let mutual loneliness and red wine trick us into leaving the friend zone. And because I'm kind of an asshole, I blogged about that too.

Long after the party is over, it's the marriage – the love and commitment we have for each other that really matters. In spite of the snoring and the shedding and all the things we do that drive each other nuts, we're committed. Even though I don't say it as often as I should and I probably don't show it as much as I should, I really did kiss a frog and watch him transform into a prince. One of the very best things about my prince is that he doesn't want me to be anyone other than exactly who I am. I don't have to apologize for all the mistakes I made before we met or put on an act. I can just be me – no matter who or how that happens to show up – and I know that I have a partner who will support me no matter what. Worth waiting almost 40 years for? I think so.

We're smart enough to know that our wedding – which is taking place in a castle and which may or may not involve a horse and carriage and which will be a lovely, amazing celebration of our love – isn't happily ever after. It is, in the words of Robert Fulghum or maybe Dr. Seuss, the recognition that "we're all a little weird and life is weird. When we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and full into mutually satisfying weirdness and call it love – true love." There is absolutely no weirdo I would rather be with from this day forward, for better or worse (but hopefully better), for richer or poorer (but hopefully richer) in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, and to be weird with, until death do us part. That, my friends, is the best reason I can think of to throw one hell of a big party.

Thus concludes the story of how this princess kissed a whole lotta frogs until she found her prince.

 

To my faithful readers . . .The "frog blog" helped me maintain some semblance of sanity in what was brewing to be one ugly midlife crisis – and as I prepare to write a new chapter in my own story, it's time to close this one by retiring the frog blog. Thank you for cheering me on during this journey, and most of all, for making sure that I never took myself too seriously. With love and always with a tiara, Princess D.

 

© 2013 Princess D

 

 

 

 

 

Princess? No. Queen of the Bridezillas.

I took all the precautionary steps to avoid becoming a Bridezilla. I never intended to tear out clumps of my own hair, shriek in tones that only dogs can hear, or throw a temper tantrum that would give the average two year old a run for his money. I found a wedding planner who offered a package called "Just Show Up" – a modest goal I felt I could achieve. Show up for the wedding? Yes, I can do that. Mind you, a more appropriate name for said wedding package would be, "Just Show Up and Write a Lot of Big Fat Checks" but that doesn't fit nicely on the marketing collateral. Since preparation is the key to success, according to no small number of dead philosophers and large-toothed current day motivational speakers, I was confident that I would sidestep the bridal angst and just show up and be happily married. Imagine my surprise and profound disappointment when, a couple of weeks ago, I found myself curled in the fetal position, shrieking all manner of wild and insane statements, and losing no small amount of water weight (win!) as I sobbed as if my pet goldfish died.

Much like 90% of projects in the business world, my wedding has its very own Gantt chart and budget, including color-coded pie charts that chastise me for overspending and make me want to stress-eat an entire Bakers Square pie. Or, actually, the entire display case of pies. Unlike the projects I see at work, my wedding is on schedule to happen on the pre-planned and agreed-upon date. That's a plus since I've put deposits on things such as a venue, a caterer, a photographer, a florist, a horse and carriage, etc. for that date. Being off-schedule would throw a real wrench into things as a result. So, from a scheduling standpoint, I feel pretty good. Look at me, finding the silver lining! Would a crazy person be so optimistic and cheerful? I am the epitome of a positive, together, calm bride, right? Wrong. Let's talk budget. And let me frame this up as if this wasn't, you know, my big day and a hugely important milestone in my life, but rather, a simple mathematical equation. At this point, if I had any mathematical abilities, I would insert a clever X and Y type algebraic equation to show you how smart I am and to illustrate my point. Since I am not qualified to do so, let me just put it this way. The wedding is currently running 50% over budget. If this was work, I would fire myself for being an impractical, impulsive, irresponsible spending nutcase. If I didn't fire myself, at the very least, I would discipline myself severely and I would not allow me to make any decisions involving money for the foreseeable future. My prince is unable to demonstrate any empathy and instead, wanders around saying versions of "I told you so" when looking at the budget. While I'm sure he enjoys being right, and for those keeping score, I will give him the point on this one, let me also point out that the running commentary is not exactly helping me keep my cool.

I have developed middle-aged onset perfectionism. I cannot possible live with the chairs at our reception venue. They are ugly! The caterers' standard plates? Revolting. They look like prison cafeteria plates. I obviously require four thousand yards of expensive fabric in the reception venue or I will not be able to go on with my life. Why? I have absolutely no idea. Mind you, I don't get invited to a lot of events due to my unpleasant demeanor and general distaste for humanity, but I can assure you that even a social hermit such as me has attended a fair number of weddings in her day. I can honestly say that I cannot recall what anyone's chairs, plates, invites or programs looked like. Nor, as a guest, did I actually care. It never occurred to me that the bride may have developed a nervous tic obsessing over the texture of the napkins or selecting the centerpieces. In fact, there are only two weddings I've ever attended that stand out in my mind. One took place on St. Patrick's Day and, if memory serves me correctly, the bridal party all wore mint green ensembles. The second took place in a very small historic mansion that wasn't equipped to hold the large number of guests and I was wedged against the wall, next to the boom-box that served as the sound system for the event. A member of the wedding party shoved me aside in order to press play on the Luther Vandross CD that would provide the soundtrack for the blessed union. Perhaps it was the bruise on my ribcage that made the event so memorable? On the plus side, I do seem to recall that the Luther Vandross event featured some of the best onion rings and chicken wings I've ever sampled as appetizer fare.

But I digress. My point – and there is one, I assure you – is that my cognitive mind understands that as long as I provide a meal and an open bar, my guests are unlikely to care about much else. As long as no one chokes, gets food poisoning, or hurts themselves, I should be in good shape. Unfortunately, my lizard brain has been supplanted by something even more primitive and dangerous – the bride brain. The bride brain is unreasonable, irrational, and frankly, a bitch. It's a real thing, folks. You can go online and take a 10-question quiz to determine whether or not you're at risk of becoming a bridezilla. Signs that resonated for me personally include spending yourself into the poorhouse; anger and rage; total inflexibility; and alienation of family and friends. I'll also admit to being single-minded and boring as hell. I used to read books, see movies, have opinions and think/talk about a wide variety of topics. Now, unless you want to talk about cake or invitations or possible venues for the rehearsal dinner, I am incapable of engaging with you. The other irritating feature of Bridezilladom is the paranoia/victim mentality that accompanies it. There are days when I swear everyone is conspiring to make me nuts.

On the topic of crazy-making, let me give you a few recent examples and you tell me if I'm paranoid. Let's start with the invitation list. Ever since my prince had an invitation-induced nightmare 10 months ago, "the list" has been a hot topic in our household. I mistakenly believed that we would invite a list of people we wanted to have attend our nuptials. Due to venue size and budget constraints, we determined that 100 – 120 guests would be an appropriate celebration, and we each began crafting our lists. I created my list using the following criteria:

1. Am I related to this person?
   

   If so, have I seen, spoken to, or interacted with this person in the past ten years?
   

   If not, no invitation
   

2. Is this a person I want to share this experience with me?
   

   If so, will they view attending my wedding as a form of torture?
   

   If yes, no invitation
   

While I felt secure in my logic and while I created a small list of invitees, I also was proud of myself. As someone who was forced to attend any number of weddings against my will (guilt is a powerful motivator), I made a conscious effort not to invite people who would feel obligated to attend while secretly wishing they were at home with an SVU marathon and a pizza. If that's your idea of an awesome Friday night (and who could fault you? That sounds pretty kick-ass to me!), then please – have a slice for me. Stay home. In fact, I was feeling pretty smug until I was schooled on the error of my ways by my parents. As it turns out, they had a whole different set of criteria for invitations. I failed to realize that, in 2013, I could bring shame onto the family by not inviting a cousin whom I haven't seen or spoken to in more than a decade and who I am confident I wouldn't recognize if I saw him on the street. I actually think these obscure cousins will be irritated to be invited to my wedding and not putting them on the hook is perhaps the greatest gift I could give. And I would be so very, very, very wrong. This course of action would bring disgrace and shame to the family name and would create sibling wars among the AARP set that would rival the Hatfield and McCoy feud.

Once learning the error of my ways and begging forgiveness for my flawed logic in the first place, we began the first of many, many, many edits to the invitation list. This in turn, led to the first of many conversations about being over-budget since our budget was built on 100 guests, not the 150 we were currently planning on. Thus, we began negotiations. Guests were cut. The first cuts were our friends, which was painful but necessary. The second cuts were some relatives who behaved badly recently – to which my own family responded with some impolite behavior of our own. And then I started cutting deeper. I am so annoyed with the invitation list that I have failed to select invitations because frankly, the thought of invitations and the mail and the list causes my blood pressure to surge and I'm starting to develop hives. And no. The list still isn't done. My parents had some late-breaking edits as recently as 24 hours ago, and even though I took a blood pressure tablet in front of them in the middle of the discussion and also laid my head down on the counter while rocking back and forth and muttering, I'm not confident that we're done. Maybe that's an incentive to get these invitations picked out and in the mail, actually. Once they're in the mail, we're done.

Other crazy-making topics include but are not limited to:

1. Cakes. When I went to the cake store, there was a dead fruit fly smashed in the frosting of a cake in the display case. When I pointed this out to the bakery-gal, she apologized to me but left the bug there. This has put me off cake shopping.
   
2. Tuxedos / groomsmen wear. Thank GOD my prince selected his ensemble and the groomsmen's' outfits on his own. He did a great job, too. He wisely asked me to preview the ensembles and pre-approve before any ordering took place. His tux was dapper as hell – he cleans up nicely! – but when he showed me the groomsmen' outfits, I almost passed out cold. Don't get me wrong – they looked amazing, except I couldn't figure out why they featured an iridescent eggplant purple vest and tie, since the bridal party will be in amethyst. Problem solved and we're back on track.
   
3. Bridesmaids. Half of my bridal party optimistically ordered dresses 1-2 sizes smaller than their measurements dictated, thinking this would motivate them to lose weight and get into shape. Thus far, it hasn't and the dresses will be here in three weeks. I may have suggested that they wire their jaws shut or develop an eating disorder. Your princess would never be so mean. She embraces practicality and prays for a good tailor to let the dresses out. Bridezilla, on the other hand, had no problem suggesting rib removal as a method of fitting into dresses.
   
4. Wedding planner. She is great and everything is as on track as it can be given the aforementioned budget issues. The problem is that she is great only when I pin her down and force her to meet with me face-to-face. She doesn't respond to emails and it's hard to pin her down, which can stress me out. Of course, there is nothing off track so I should just simmer down, but Bridezilla? Simmers for no one!
   

And the list goes on. I now understand why everyone looks at me knowingly and says, "You should just elope." In the meantime, I have 114 days to pull my head out of my ass, put Bridezilla back in her cage, and return to my normal, regal, princessly state. Here's hoping.

©2013 Princess D

 

Vain Vs. Lazy – A Princess Gets Less Fat

There are some people in this world who claim that a good old-fashioned workout, complete with grunting, moving heavy objects, jumping, and running around is fun. These are the same people who've created a market for iPod armbands; gym bags; yoga mats; and energy drinks. They roll around in muddy pits and do things with the word "tough" or "iron" in the title as a pastime. These people are not like me in the least little bit, and as the reigning princess in these here parts, I hereby declare them physically fit freaks.

I don't start my day with an incredible, edible egg – a wonderful source of protein. The very smell of an egg cooking activates my gag reflex. I don't leap out of bed, slap on my sneakers, and jog around the neighborhood. Instead, I hit the snooze somewhere between three and 30 times; drag myself out of bed (usually bumping a shin, knee, or elbow into some inanimate household object in the process); and begin injecting myself with caffeine in order to face the prospect of being upright and alert for the next 14 hours.

Thankfully, I'm slightly more vain than I am lazy (although it's a close call), which means that although I generally eschew healthy living, I really don't want to become Jabba the Hut's body double. However, because I am quite lazy and frankly, I don't like to participate in any activity that will cause me to pant, sweat, stink, look silly or mess up my hair, I've avoided morbid obesity through a variety of women's magazine endorsed short-cuts for most of my life.

I'm no small princess – I stand at about 5'11 inches tall, a height and fact that almost caused my prince to opt out of our first date. While it can be difficult to buy pants with a 34 inch inseam, I'm awfully glad for the extra real estate, because it means that my weight can fluctuate by about 20 pounds before it's really noticeable to the general public. At 16 years old, I wore a size 14 jean and extra large shirts – and thus began my eternal battle between lazy and vain.

In the 16 or so years since then (I'm a princess, not a mathematician – and furthermore, I just told you I'm vain as hell, so if you honestly think I'm going to shout out my true age, you should pour yourself another gin and tonic!), I've been as small as a size 6 and as large as a size 16, and every single size in between. I've done Weight Watchers (both before and after the introduction of Points), I've cleansed, detoxed, joined Slim for Life (now Slimgenics); banned carbs; embraced carbs; gone vegetarian; and the list goes on and on and on. If you wonder why the diet industry is such a money-maker, I assure you, I've been doing my part to keep it afloat.

And until recently, my size wasn't a problem. When I met my prince, I was a happy size 10. I exercised a little and life was good. When we got serious, my body convened a top secret meeting where it agreed that it really wanted to be a size 12. (Or larger). Love, pizza, and buffalo wings expanded my waistline – and none of my previous get-thin-quick schemes were working anymore. In fact, with each new technique I tried, I seemed to get bigger and puffier.

To be clear – big and puffy may be desirable qualities in a wedding gown, but they are not desirable qualities in a would-be bride. When the Weight Watchers, the detox, and the fish oil all failed me, I knew I had no other choice. I was going to have to do this the hard way.

I've read enough women's magazines to know that at my . . . uh . . . middle age, I was cursed with slowing metabolism and muscle loss. Since I never found any muscle to speak of in the first place, this seemed like a problem. (I am, after all, the girl who phoned her brother in tears because I couldn't pick up a bag of dog chow at Petco.) I was doomed. I was going to have to do strength training.

Since I am morally opposed to looking foolish in public (unless I'm drunk, but that's another story) and because I really, really hate lifting heavy objects, I employed my famous outsourcing strategy. When in doubt, hire a professional. If I could have outsourced the actual strength training to someone else, I would have but fears of being a fat bride motivated me to keep my initial appointment with my local LA Fitness. It was there that I met Trainer Dan and it was there that I learned that 1/3 of my body is comprised of fat.

For two months, I saw more of Trainer Dan than my own prince – and he also had the dubious pleasure of listening to me pant, moan, and on a couple of occasions, burst forth with some awfully dirty talk for a princess. And in two months and over 20 workouts, I lost an inch off my neck. And that's it. Since neck fat was hardly my primary concern (although after losing an inch of it, I began to wonder if my neck actually as fatter than I realized, inviting a whole new set of neuroses to the party), you can imagine my disgust and disappointment.

Even so, I kept going. Actually, I kept going because I was locked into a personal training contract and they were going to charge me whether I went or not, and I am nearly as frugal as I am vain and lazy. Trainer Dan left me suddenly, making me even angrier, and I had to break in a whole new trainer.

That was in June. Fast forward to September and I still hate exercising. It's hard, it hurts, and it pisses me off that I am so damn uncoordinated. There are weeks when I feel like all I do is work and workout. There are days when a 7.5 pound weight feels like lifting a Volkswagen above my head and when I watch the clock slowly tick by every second of my 60 minute torture session.

And there have been a few small victories along the way, too. I've lost 13 pounds. (Thank you, Trainer Eric!) I'm still a size 12 (not a victory) which leads me to believe that most of the weight I've lost has been in my fingers, neck, and earlobes but at some point, the fat has to come off the core, right? I started and finished a 5k without dropping dead, and even managed to jog about 2/3 of it, in spite of the fact that there was clearly marked shortcut available!
And I bought a wedding dress that I love, complete with a tiara.

I may be sweaty, I may be clumsy, and I may be bigger than I'd like . . . but whether I'm in workout gear or wedding gear, I will always be a princess.

 

Copyright © 2012 Princess D. All Rights Reserved.

To Nate, With Love

Just because I'm a princess with a fairly charmed life doesn't guarantee me immunity from things like bad hair days, hypertension, foot odor (why???), and mood swings. Everyone is entitled to an off day every now and again, but as a princess, I struggle with the bad hair days. The voice inside my head – who, by the way, sounds awfully similar to the voice of one K.W. who tormented me in grade school and ultimately married my high school crush – criticizes me. She says things like, "Oh – would you look at the weepy princess crying because her tiara is on crooked! You realize there are people out there without tiaras who are actually struggling, right? Why don't you shut up your stupid ugly face?"

Let me be clear. I hate that voice inside my head. She's loud, incessant, mean and nasty. And she has an incredibly foul mouth for an imaginary frenemy. She is the voice that says, "I told you not to eat that second piece of pizza, fatso!" when I struggle to fasten the button on my pants in the morning. When I lay my weary bones on the couch to catch up on current events on TV (translation: checking out the latest cat-fights on whatever season of The Real Housewives is on), her judgmental eye surveys the house and suggests that I get my lazy tail up off the couch and run a vacuum or wash a dish. She criticizes my clothes, hair, makeup, lifestyle choices, how I drive, and my inability to clip coupons. No matter how hard I work, no matter how successful I might become, it is never enough for this insufferable bitch.

Here's the problem. That bitch? Well, she's me. And the fact that I've resorted to name-calling and "adult-language" is just further proof that we are one in the same. For those of you asking if there's a point in here somewhere, there is. When I look in the mirror, I don't always see a princess. When I look around my house or plan for my weekend getaway with my handsome prince, I don't always take time to appreciate all my good fortune. I have been known to see the glass as . . . gasp . . . half-empty. And then proceed to get really angry about it. I watch Lifetime movies and cry – not at the crappy over-acting but at the misfortunes endured by the characters. I come straight home from work, put on my jammies, and eat carbs as if I'm preparing to run a marathon when we all know that the furthest I'm going is from the couch to the fridge to grab another beer.

Sometimes the bad hair days are worse than others. These are the days I can barely get out of bed; the days where even the idea of getting dressed and leaving the house feel akin to climbing Mount Everest. These are the days when I look at my life and instead of celebrating all the amazing gifts I've been given and all the opportunities I still have to look forward to, I throw a giant pity party and curse myself for not running a marathon, learning to cook, having a baby, learning Japanese, growing my own organic vegetables, composting, volunteering more in the community, and you can fill in the blanks with pretty much any and everything else.

That, my friends, is known as a form of depression. The nagging voice inside my head that yells at me; the desire to curl up in the fetal position, cry, and eat chocolate until I burst; the fatigue that is so great that even my eyelashes hurt . . . these are all symptoms of depression, which is not a state of mind but an illness. The only differences between depression and the common cold are the stigma and the amount of snot. If you ignore the common cold, you'll infect everyone around you with your filthy germs and you're probably going to have to wipe your nose on your sleeve since you won't be armed with Puffs Plus. When you have a cold, you drink orange juice, you take Nyquil, you sniffle a lot, and you do whatever it takes to feel better. When you have depression, you should take care of yourself just like you do when you've got the sniffles. If you're feeling really lousy for any extended period of time, you're not just having a bad hair day. Everyone gets the blues every once in a while – but when blue is the color du jour and you can't remember the last time you saw the world with rose colored glasses, it's time to take action.

Much like that annoying cold that gets passed around the office or daycare, where one person gets a cough, someone else has a sore throat, and you get both plus a side of inflamed sinuses, depression symptoms are different in everyone and can change over time.

Bottom line? I am a princess, darn it – and I have an amazing life thanks to the grace of God, the support of my family and friends, and no small amount of hard work. You know what else I have? I have a form of clinical depression and I have some nice blue pills and a standing appointment with an elfintherapist to ensure that I continue to get out of bed and fight the good fight every day.

This post is dedicated to all those who are managing depression; struggling with it; or fighting it. This post is especially dedicated to Nathan Corbett, who battled bipolar disorder and depression but lost his fight at the age of 27. He would have turned 39 years old this Saturday.

 

©2012 Princess D

 

White Girl Problems: A Fairy Tale

As a self-proclaimed princess, my attitude is more "I'd rather not be bothered lifting a finger and exerting any of my royal energy on stuff that you commoners do yourselves" than do-it-myself. I've embraced a very strengths-based lifestyle that involves a lot of outsourcing of tasks that, frankly, I lack the knowledge, skills, ability and/or raw talent to perform myself. And yes, I even outsource some tasks I most certainly could perform on my own but would prefer not to. This includes but is not limited to the domestic arts such as cleaning and food preparation. I like to think that my attitude is good not only for my wellbeing, but also good for the economy and the general health of those who are forced to interact with me.

When you're a princess in a kingdom of one, you get to call all the shots. Beer and popcorn for dinner? Sure! Own 45 pairs of underwear to reduce the amount of time spent doing laundry? You betcha. (Side note: I am clearly the princess of some Fargo-based kingdom based on my lexicon.) Now that my kingdom has expanded to include a prince, life has changed a little. I try not to leave my bras hanging on various doorknobs, for example, and instead of leaving a thick layer of multihued hair on the bathroom counter, I wipe up after myself. I unplug my curling iron instead of leaving it on all day in case of a hair emergency. I don't eat Klondike bars for dinner anymore. I no longer purchase fat-free cottage cheese. Life is full of compromises.

Since becoming engaged three months ago, the prince and I started wedding planning and I quickly realized that the actual planning fell into the category of things I would prefer to outsource, and I took steps to hire an expert ASAP. I accidentally forgot to include the prince in this decision making process and had to quickly put on the brakes when I realized that (drumroll, please), we had a difference of opinion. The prince – in addition to his many fine qualities – is extremely cautious with money. Now, I'm not setting fire to dollar bills or anything, but he is so frugal that I look like a spendthrift by comparison.

After much cajoling and some threats, the prince grudgingly agreed to talk to a wedding planner, and I continued interviewing professionals until I found one whom I clicked with. It helped that she read my entire blog and told me she "had a vision" for my special day. And, okay, it also helped that she marketed the package she eventually sold me with the pithy tag line, "Just Show Up." The prince met her, we negotiated a little, and then he wrote a big fat check. (Sorry. My money is tied up in real estate. Because I am both princess and slumlord, but that's a whole other blog.)

That, my friends, is the last time I laid eyes on the wedding planner – a woman whom I grew very fond of in a very short period of time. She did have a vision for our special day and she thoughtfully suggested three potential locations for the big event. A princess needs a castle, folks. We set up site visits, the prince and I rearranged our schedules, and off we went. Alone. Because the professional had a fever.

Fast forward two weeks. We fell in love with the very first site we saw. We want to sign a contract. But the planner is out of commission. She's in the hospital. With pneumonia. For the record, I think this is a terrible turn of events and I'm concerned for her health. My family and my groom, however, think I've been swindled. They were all skeptical of the wedding planning business from the get-go, and my inability to perform simple tasks like set a date and identify a location for the wedding are worrisome to these already naturally anxious people.

I've dreamed about a wedding for as long as I can remember – but as a little girl, I never imagined disappearing wedding planners, day-long debates about the invitee list that would result in midday drinking to dull the pain, or the horrors of buying a plus-sized wedding gown. In my little girl daydreams, it was all tiaras, cake, and glass slippers, which leads me to wonder . . . did Cinderella have to plan her own damn wedding?

© 2012 Princess D

No one in the Fairy Tales Belongs to a Gym. Hmmmmm.

I'd always suspected that the epilogue to all these fairy tales might, in fact, feature some of mundane ups and downs that the rest of us mere mortals go through on a daily basis. Of course, I also optimistically hoped that, after finding my prince, I would somehow be exempt from bad days going forward. Kind of like time off for good behavior, if you know what I mean.

Well, Princess . . . while I admire your optimism, that's just plain wishful thinking. Sure, you've found your prince – and he even put a ring on it! Finding true love doesn't provide a magic wand wherein your rude boss becomes polite; your lazy colleagues become motivated; slow people with piles of coupons don't smash into you with their carts at SuperTarget and inevitably get in line in front of you; and you won't suddenly be immune to seasickness, headaches, or learn to swim. (Trust me on this one. Some of these lessons were learned the hard way.)

What true love does guarantee is that you'll have someone by your side when you're having a crappy day. There will be someone whom you can cling to and ultimately try to drown when you're flopping around like a half-dead crappie in the water (true story) who won't have you arrested for attempted murder. And suddenly, there is someone not covered in fur whose opinion counts when you are facing big life decisions.

We've been engaged for a whole month, and the whole thing feels a little surreal. I am thrilled to be spending the rest of my life with a true prince of a man, and I am excited about playing dress up and finding a socially acceptable opportunity to sport a tiara. But I'm not going to lie to you. I think it might be easier to climb Mt. Everest than to plan and pay for a wedding without losing my mind. Wedding planners, hats off to you. Brides who are planning their nuptials without the help of a professional . . . you're killing me. Yes, you are. Because I am comparing myself to you and wondering why I can't summon up the energy, courage, or whatever it takes to call a damn wedding planner and you're practicing calligraphy; taking ballroom dance lessons; and shaming me via newfangled social media forums like www.pinterest.com. How are you so sure about where to have the wedding, what kind of dress you want, how many people to invite, whether to have chicken or beef? Darn you, perfect brides . . . I want your secrets. And I want them now.

In the meantime, I've discovered that true love, combined with a shared love of food (especially pizza, buffalo wings, and nachos) has reintroduced me to the clothes in the back of my closet, also known as "double-digit sizes". So, before I call a wedding planner, select a dress style, pick a date, or anything else, I've decided to focus my attention on what's really important . . . getting back into my skinny jeans.

While I hate to disappoint, there will be no wedding updates, no tales of "Princess turned Bridezilla", until I banish these XXL sweatpants to the back of the closet or give them to the Salvation Army. You can, however, watch this space for updates on my "Pedal off the Pounds" progress. This shall include but will not be limited to things like whining about my weight; complaining about lack of motivation; cataloging my middle-aged aches and pains; and even some exciting details about how much water I've consumed and how many veggies I ate. And there will likely be an ode to wine forthcoming, since I have sworn off the grape until zipping my pants is no longer the cornerstone of my strength training.

Now, if I can just stop thinking about cake, we might be on to something.

 

© 2012 Princess D

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