Lessons from a Pseudo Prince

After my recent discovery that single does not actually equal certain death and despair, I pondered the age old question that every singleton over 30 wrestles with. The question has a couple of variations but the soundtrack in my own head goes a little something like this:

• Do I want to be alone forever?
• If not, why not? I mean, as a single gal, I do have the luxury of sole remote control ownership and I can wear giant granny panties to my heart’s content without fear of judgment. (Stop judging me. Seriously. You know you’d wear them if you could.)
• How will I ever meet someone?
• I hate meeting new people. I loathe first dates. What the hell am I thinking?

Lather, rinse, repeat and you get the idea.

If you’ve been keeping up with my recent antics, you know full well that I threw my hat back into the internet dating ring. My rationale is fairly convoluted but I think it has something to do with the combination of my admittedly limited social skills, boredom, and an excellent marketing campaign on the part of PseudacrisBrachyphona.com. (Remember – that’s the scientific name for the mountain chorus frog. I’m not lying. Google it if you don’t believe me.)

My previous experience with Frogs.com left me cautiously skeptical (translation: carrying a shitload of baggage) about the odds of finding my prince online, but since you can find pretty much anything else online, why not true love? And you know my motto. If it can’t make me feel any worse, why not give it a whirl? Of course, that assumes that whatever I’m about to embark on can’t actually make me feel worse, which is often a flawed assumption as we’ll soon discover.

I began half-heartedly corresponding with a few potential frogs that were specially chosen for me by the magical internet Cupid. I rejected three times as many frogs as I considered, using Princess D's Nine Commandments as my guide. I kept my new internet dating status under wraps and shared my dirty secret with only a handful of close friends. And then something interesting happened.

I have this friend. He is most certainly not a frog by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, 9 out of 10 women would agree that he is 100% prince. He is attractive, attentive, fun-loving, kind, smart, employed (!), and responsible. He’s not gay, visually impaired or a convicted felon. Like I said, 9 out of 10 women would give their eye-teeth for a date with this guy. Woman #10, however? She goes by the name Princess D and she and the Pseudo-Prince have a complicated relationship. Frankly, the details are available only on a need-to-know basis, and you so don’t need to know. What I will tell you is that while the Pseudo-Prince and I are thick as thieves, I love him like the older brother I never had. There’s no “When Harry Met Sally” thing going on here. There’s no sexual tension, no underlying desire to ravish each other, although it would not be unheard of for us to start slapping the crap out of each other. We’re like a pair of adolescent boys when we’re together.

So picture it. Dateline: a recent Saturday night. Princess D has already procured dog food and is ready for a night on the town, when the Pseudo-Prince calls. Always popular with the ladies, the Pseudo-Prince just ended a pretty serious relationship and is between girlfriends for a rare interval that will likely last less than 30 days if history is any indicator. He needs a low-key evening with someone who “gets” him and whose tragic comedy of a life will undoubtedly provide him with a much needed mood-boost, so he invited me over for dinner.

Since I would accept an invitation from Osama Bin Laden if a home-cooked meal was involved, I was pretty excited about the prospect of getting out of the house, spending time with the Pseudo-Prince, and getting fed. As a major bonus, since there was no chance of any funny business, I didn’t feel compelled to fix my hair, put on makeup, or remove any unwanted body hair. I may have even been rocking some granny panties. But that’s for me to know.

The Pseudo-Prince and I had a great time. We laughed, we drank wine, we cooked and ate a delicious meal. (Shut up. I really did participate in meal preparation. And no, my involvement did not include pushing buttons on the microwave.) It was comfortable, it was fun, and boys and girls . . . it was another one of those signs. Sitting in the Pseudo-Prince’s living room, trying not to fall asleep on his couch, I had an epiphany. This is what I miss most about being part of a couple. I don’t miss anniversaries or expensive date nights. What I miss most is those ordinary moments where you’re completely relaxed and 100% authentically you with someone else.

Revelation time. I rationally knew that I needed to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince but my heart wasn’t in the game. The Pseudo-Prince opened my eyes and I realized that I was going to need to get my royal ass off the couch and get back to frog-kissing ASAP. I logged back on to PseudacrisBrachyphona.com and gamely began reviewing my potential suitors. And that is how I wound up meeting Frog #7, also known as Perfect-for-Someone-But-Not-Me Frog.

I planned a date with Frog #7 – “Don’t call me until after 5 PM” frog – and riding the high of my fake couple time with the Pseudo Prince, I was looking forward to a great date. Maybe an internet search engine does know me well enough to pick out a mate!

Then again, maybe not. Remember those signs I’m so fond of? Not ten minutes after I agreed to go on a date with Frog #7, I got one of those tantalizing marketing emails from the fine folks at PseudacrisBrachyphona.com. You see, they found another potential mate for me and they didn’t want me to waste another minute as a desolate single woman. The subject line of the email read, “Princess, meet Mr. Wrong! We chose him just for you!”

I don’t know what the odds are that both my ex-live-in-boyfriend of 14 years who stole my lawn mower and broke my heart and I would both sign up for the same stupid internet dating service. But I’m not going to lie to you. When I realized that PseudacrisBrachyphona.com was trying to introduce me to Mr. Wrong, the frog who got away with my blue-ray player and gas grill, a couple of things happened. First, I laughed so hard that I peed in my pants while proclaiming, “My life is a sitcom”. I laughed until I cried (and peed) and then I cleaned myself up, lowered my expectations, and thought, “Here goes nothing!”

I promise to share the sordid details of my date with Frog #7 (although I’m not sure I can count him as a frog since I assure you there was no kissing of any kind) as soon as I find the humor in it. In the meantime, where did I leave the remote control?

© 2010 Princess D

Happy Anniversary, Princess!

If you started reading this thinking, “Ah, the tragic comedy of this weirdo princess and her wacky harem of misguided suitors will provide me with a good chuckle and a potential self-esteem boost,” you should probably step away from your monitor right now. Although there may be a lot of fish in the sea (or frogs in the pond, if you prefer not to mix metaphors), this princess is experiencing what meteorologists and lonely middle-aged women like to call “a drought”. Hence, today’s fairy tale won’t be a funny story about my total rejection from frogs.com; a recounting of a date gone awry; or an angry diatribe about fictional heroines. And that means, my 16 loyal friends, that if you’re still reading this, you qualify for an Ambien prescription and possibly, an all-expenses paid phone call to your local employee assistance program. Congratulations!

You see, I recently reached a pretty significant personal milestone. A year ago, I had a lawn-mower, a blue-ray player, a gas grill, and a boyfriend I’d been living with for 14+ years. You may know him better as Mr. Wrong. When Mr. Wrong and some of my favorite possessions disappeared without a trace in the middle of the week, to say I fell apart would be an understatement. I didn’t know if I was capable of taking care of myself, my dog, and my house on my own. I didn’t know if I would ever date again. Or even if I wanted to. So I did what any insured American with no friends does. I went on an all-Klondike bar and wine diet, stayed in my filthy pajamas for days, and watched a lot of Lifetime movies starring Tori Spelling. (Strangely enough, “Co-Ed Call Girl” was a real mood booster for me in those dark times.) When that stopped working, I called up the Elf-Therapist and an infamous mutual admiration society was formed.

The Elf-Therapist and I recently agreed to a trial separation. Or, as I like to say, we’re on a break. I’m not proclaiming to be self-actualized or 100% trouble-free by any stretch of the imagination, but since I’m no longer suffering bouts of tear-related dehydration and hating my entire life, it would appear that I’ve accomplished my therapy goals. (For now.) We celebrated my success, high-fived, and I promised to check in with him in a few months or when my next crisis occurs, whichever comes first. In the absence of the Elf-Therapist’s couch and warm, nurturing office, I’ve been more focused on my present and my future than my past. The one year anniversary of my singledom came and went without any fanfare. In fact, I only recognized the significance of the date because I was writing about Frog #6 and I thought, “I’ve dated more frogs than I can count on one hand now. How long have I been ‘out there’ anyway?”

Happy anniversary to me! Since you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince, I quickly recognized that I’d taken my eye off the prize. Even a person with my remedial math skills knows that six does not equal “a lot”, no matter how you add it up. If I’m serious about finding a prince before I find menopause, I can’t waste time. That’s right, boys and girls. Reluctantly, I’m back in the dating game.

I still haven’t figured out how to meet suitable potential suitors, and I’ve exhausted the ones I know. My friends refuse to fix me up because of their healthy sense of self-preservation, and since I am an introvert with the social skills of your average shut-in, I’m not making friends and influencing people of any gender in real life. Angry terrorists couldn’t convince me to reactivate my Frogs.com (also known as LiesIToldMenToMakeMyselfAttractive.com) account, but lack of TiVo in my hotel room has me watching commercials again, and I fell prey to a clever marketing campaign by a Frogs.com competitor. There’s no shame in the online dating game, right? I mean, a commercial told me that one in five relationships starts online now, and 20% of the population can’t be wrong, can they?

Picture it. I’m bored, I’m lonely, I’m watching commercials (travesty!), and I’ve been flying solo for over a year. My birthday is in 10 weeks and I know I’m not getting any younger, cuter, or more marketable. PseudacrisBrachyphona.com, thanks for welcoming me as your newest sucker. I mean, member. (Look it up. It’s the scientific name for the mountain chorus frog.)

Unlike Frogs.com, whose registration process took over an hour to complete and where I learned I was too tall, too educated, and possibly, too financially secure to attract a mate, PseudacrisBrachyphona.com’s registration process took me less than 30 minutes to complete. It would have been faster but I couldn’t find my Visa card to pay. Like Frogs.com, the site pretends that it’s matching you with potential suitors based on some patented, proven, and profound scientific method. A brief personality assessment that the site describes as “fun” and “engaging” claim to provide me with an in-depth look at who I am and what I want in a relationship. What I learned is that I am a “negotiator” which means I am allegedly nurturing, empathetic, and imaginative. Only one of those words has ever been used in conjunction with my name. Ever. Famous negotiators include Bill Clinton and Leo Tolstoy. Yeah.

There isn’t much to tell me what to do with this information, and from what I can see, there isn’t any science to the matches, as I’ve been “noticed” by frogs of all personality persuasions. Interestingly enough, many of them fail to meet my minimum qualifications for the role but I guess this website thinks it knows my wants and needs better than even I do. Thus far, I’ve been “noticed” by 30 frogs in a week, 27 of whom I rejected. I only feel bad about one of them, whom I rejected on the basis of his headline which read, “I like beauty, humor, and brains” which immediately conjured up the image of a zombie and I could not in good conscience date the undead. Hello, I’m Catholic!

I’ve exchanged emails with three frogs. One of them sent me a four line email that consisted of the longest run-on sentence I’ve ever seen. It also lacked punctuation, grammar, and correct spelling. Here’s an idea, internet dating site gurus! What about an IQ test? Because spelling counts! Also, when your personal email address contains the name of a popular candy bar combined with the phrase “the brat”, you are either currently incarcerated or likely to be soon. Another frog wants to meet me and asked me to call him, but felt compelled to instruct me to call him after 5 PM. I wasn’t planning on a wake-up call, Dude! And you’re not the only one with a busy job. The third guy has a strange name and has canceled his PseudacrisBrachyphona.com membership, so we communicate now via text. He texts me strange random questions without any context. Today’s thought-provoking question involved asking my opinion about a country musician I’ve never heard of with a follow-up question inquiring as to whether said musician’s current single is good or not. I would rather listen to cats fornicating than be forced to listen to another second of this Frog’s musical selection, so I’m pretty sure he’s not going to transform into a prince either.

I’m back in the game and giving it the royal try, but I’m not so desperate to find a prince that I’ll settle for any mountain chorus frog who hops my way. A recent revelation confirmed what it is I’m really looking for. But that’s a story for another day . . . The moral of this story is simple. Beware, single heterosexual males between the ages of 30-45 trolling the internet for love. I’m back out there, and I’m looking forward to putting on a dress and having a nice dinner. Hell, I might even shave my legs. You’ve been warned!

© 2010 Princess D

Frog #6: He's Just Not that Into Me

One of my struggles (and yes, I have many – thanks for noticing) is that the art of subtlety is totally and completed wasted on me. I am as subtle as a charging bull in the streets of Pamplona. With extreme self-restraint, I can almost pass as normal but when I hear those dreaded words, “Thank you for your candor,” I know that once again, I’ve failed the field subtlety test.

Now that I’m facing the eighth anniversary of my 29th birthday, I no longer lament my lost subtlety gene and instead, have come to embrace the strengths of my genetic disability. Even when I’m making every attempt to be the polite Minnesota girl my parents raised, my giant billboard forehead broadcasts my true feelings at all times. If I think you suck, you’ll know it. If I like you, you’ll know it. And if I am thinking about biting off your finger for some reason, well, you’ll know that too.

When you combine my inability to appreciate and/or recognize subtle signs without corrective lenses with my belief in signs (as in, signs from the universe, not stop signs. Those are more of a universal truth.), you begin to understand how I allowed Frog #6 to hop all over my self-esteem.

Now, before you go getting all Elf-Therapist on me, let me say this for the record. I like Frog #6. It’s not his fault that he’s not that into me. While I can’t imagine why any straight man wouldn’t want to hook up with a princess like me, it is possible that I’m not everyone’s taste. I can accept that. There must be some reason I’m still single, after all. Frog #6 is a decent frog who has shoved me into the friend zone – and that’s okay, too. In fact, to be really honest with you, this posting isn’t even about Frog #6. He could be any nice, attractive guy who thought he was into me and then realized, “Oh, hell. She is crazy. Abort! Abort!”

What bugs me, ladies and gentleman, is how Frog #6 has transformed me from princess to Dumb-Ass. Complete with capital letters. This frog hopped onto my radar screen some time ago, and I initially diagnosed him as a faux frog and wrote him off completely. Did I enjoy his company? Sure. Did I want to kiss him to see if he’d turn into a prince? Not so much. Unfortunately, this frog is a known quantity in my tiny social circle and I made the fatal mistake of listening to my equally dumb-ass friends who are clearly on Frog #6’s public relations payroll. As my dubious, sketchy friends sang the praises of how kind, attentive, witty, charming, loving, attractive and wonderful Frog #6 is – how he was “real boyfriend material” - I gave in to peer pressure and decided to give it a whirl.

Frog #6 and I have spent a lot of time together. I wanted to know him emotionally and intellectually before any frog-kissing ensued, which wasn’t difficult since he never, ever made any attempt to put any kind of move on me. While I appreciated having time to get to know him on deep, meaningful levels, I have never felt less attractive and more insecure about myself. Outings with Frog #6 would often end with me driving home, shouting, “Am I not cute???” at top volume while beating the steering wheel.

Unlike other frogs who haven’t been that into me, this Frog does a lot of the right stuff. He calls. He texts. He takes an interest in my life. He’s not embarrassed to be seen in public with me, and we’ve been out. Together. Sometimes even on Saturday nights.

And, yeah. I kissed this frog. My optimism knows no bounds. And if I believe my own hype, it’s a numbers game so what choice do I have but to pucker up and smooch as many frogs as I can? From my perspective, the kissing didn’t suck, but you’re only getting half the story. (I suspect that Frog #6 might disagree.) Kissing this frog wasn’t my fatal mistake – it was everything after that point.

Several national holidays of varying importance and the vernal equinox have come and gone since I kissed Frog #6. Keep in mind that I waited a LONG time for him to make any move at all (please see previous paragraph regarding self-esteem issues and possible lack of cuteness) because I don’t believe that the princess should be the one who makes the first move. Frog #6 and I haven’t had an encore performance, in spite of our semi-regular get-togethers in the subsequent weeks and months.

In spite of my total lack of subtlety, for reasons even I don’t understand – probably politeness, or maybe Catholicism – I haven’t been able to bring myself to ask Frog #6 the million dollar question; “Are we dating or what?” (Or even the ten dollar question of “Don’t you find me attractive?”) I can make a lot of excuses about why I haven’t had “the talk” with Frog #6 and some of them are even pretty believable, but at the end of the day, it’s fair to say that I just haven’t been in the mood for another helping of humiliation and rejection, thank you very much. And the longer one dawdles and puts off this kind of crucial conversation, the more likely it is that the situation will take care of itself. You see, procrastination often pays off.

I haven’t been pining away over Frog #6 or anything. I have a full and interesting life which has become even more full and interesting lately with my new job and travel schedule. In short, I have a lot going on and there is no way I am going to let a man or a frog derail progress towards my goals . . . again. See, Mr. Wrong? You did teach me something!

I do, however, enjoy Frog #6. He has a lot of good qualities that I won’t catalog here. But lately, I’ve started to wonder what the hell the situation is between this princess and that frog. And then the universe started lobbing bricks at my head.

After a long and trying day at the office, I returned to my hotel room, popped open a bag of Cheetos and a Diet Coke, and flipped on HBO. As I flopped down onto my too-short queen-sized bed, I got sucked into a movie that may be based on my own life; He’s Just Not That Into You. If you haven’t seen it, lovely and successful women like Jennifer Anniston, Drew Barrymore, and Scarlett Johansson spend the entire movie learning the hard way that various guys? Just aren’t that into them. Of course, because Hollywood made this film, it ends up being a love story with a happy ending, but I couldn’t help but notice a striking similarity to my own Frog #6 dilemma and this movie plot.

This movie resonated with me and I began to wonder, “Is it possible that Frog #6 really isn’t into me?” as I washed the Cheeto-orange off my fingers.

The next day, I stopped off at SuperTarget on the way home to pick up a few provisions. As I trolled the store trying not to spend $100 on a bunch of shit I don’t need, I wound up in the books/magazines section where the New York Times bestseller, He’s Just Not That Into You was marked down 75%. I felt it was a sign so I put it in my cart and checked out.

Like any good self-help book, this tome contains several checklists and quizzes so the reader can assess her progress. And here is what I learned, in no particular order:
• Men are not afraid of “ruining the friendship” and if they tell me they are, they are politely rejecting me.
• If he likes me, he WILL ask me out.
• Men don’t forget how much they like me.
• “Busy is another word for ‘asshole.’ Asshole is another word for the guy you’re dating.” (p. 34).
• There’s a guy out there who wants to tell everyone he’s my boyfriend. I should stop wasting time and go find him.
• “Your lost self-esteem may take longer to find than a new boyfriend so prioritize accordingly.” (p. 57).
• There’s a guy out there that wants to marry me

I could go on but I won’t. All cinematic and book-related signs point to this: Frog #6 just ain’t into me. I don’t know how that’s possible since I am not only a princess but a princess in one heckuva nice looking package, but hell – maybe he’s gay. Or vision-impaired.

Will I see Frog #6 again? Maybe. But let me be crystal clear about one thing: I’m not shaving my legs for him ever again. Welcome to the friend-zone, #6. Try not to choke on your own regrets.

Winds of change . . .

My 16 loyal fans have noticed that it's been a while since I've had anything to say about princesses, frogs, and kissing. In fact, the entire month of April has come and gone with nary a posting from our heroine. My last update is an ode to Old Dutch potato chips and my 12 year old couch. And I'm not going to lie to you. I've received some feedback from some of you, urging me to get back out there and extract my revenge on the frog community by puckering up and smooching any and every hopping amphibian I encounter. While I know some of you genuinely want me to write my fairytale ending, I'm smart enough to know that the key motivator for most of you is that you're looking for a good laugh . . . and who am I to disappoint?

So . . . it's true confession time. I've been a little preoccupied. My life became what I can only describe as a confluence of crazy. It all started with my first good date with a high potential frog. It was fun, it was awkward, it was ridiculous - and I thought to myself, "Self," I thought, "another date with this frog surely wouldn't suck!"

In true Princess form, I immediately ran to the Elf-Therapist to share my good news. While he was pleased that I managed to follow most of the dating ground rules we'd agreed to, his overall response lacked the levels of enthusiasm I felt the occasion demanded. In fact, he said very little and instead, handed me a book about relationships for dummies and suggested I put it at the top of my reading list. His actual comment was, "A little less Bridget Jones and a little more remedial relationships 101 are clearly in order."

I had some choice words for the Elf-Therapist and I promptly threw his book into the backseat of my car, where it sat collecting dog hair and dust for several weeks, until I had a doctor's appointment. Prior experience has taught me that the scheduled appointment time means very little in the health care community. God forbid I show up late, but the clinic has no qualms about leaving me waiting for 90 minutes without even a nine year old People magazine in sight. When I parked my car at the clinic, I panicked, realizing I'd forgotten to bring any suitable reading material, which prompted a frantic search of the car for magazines, books, work memo's or anything to keep my mind occupied. I found "Relationships for Morons" under the passenger seat and brought it in with me.

As I sat waiting for the doctor to prescribe something to ease my high blood pressure woes, I read the book's introduction and first chapter, "The Smart Single". Sadly, I only met the latter half of the criteria (single) and failed to demonstrate any signs of intelligent life (smarts). I know this because the chapter concludes with a quiz called, "Are you ready for a relationship?" that consists of 16 yes/no questions that go a little something like this:

Q1: You're getting on with your own life. It would be nice if you met someone, but in the meantime, it's not stopping you from moving forward.
Princess's Answer 1: Can you repeat the question? How do I know if I'm moving forward? What are the metrics? Oh, hell. Let's just say yes.

Q2: You've got lots of friends- both male and female.
Princess's Answer 2: I assume that "lots" means that I need more than one hand to count them. In which case, uh . . . no.

Q3: You're happy at work (or at least making plans to get to the point where you will be).
Princess's Answer 3: I don't want to talk about it. At all. I plead the 5th.

Q4: You've accepted responsibility for your own happiness.
Princess's Answer 4: Although my favorite saying is, "It's not my fault", I guess I can answer this one in the affirmative. Yeah. Why not?

Q5: You've set financial, emotional, and intellectual goals.
Princess's Answer 5: What the hell does this have to do with the price of tea in China? No, maybe, and yes. In that order.

Q6: You're pretty happy with who you are.
Princess' Answer 6: As compared to what? What's the rating scale? Because I might like to be Cindy Crawford for a couple of days.

Q7: Your self-esteem is in pretty good shape.
Princess's Answer 7: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.

Q8: You're not afraid to take risks, make decisions and live with the consequences.
Princess's Answer 8: I have an irrational fear of birds and my own basement. Do you really think I'm running around embracing risk?

Q9: You're well and truly over your exes. You've left the emotional baggage behind.
Princess's Answer 9: Thank God. I got this one right. Yes!

Q10: You feel in charge of your life.
Princess's Answer 10: See answer #7 and repeat.

Q11: You listen to the advice others give you but ultimately make up your own mind.
Princess's Answer 11: Is there a way to stop the unsolicited advice? I know my singledom is like a form of social leprosy, but seriously. What do I need to do to get you people to shut up? Not you, Elf-Therapist. I listen to everything you say.

Q12: You've discovered lots of positive things about being single.
Princess's Answer 12: It's pretty nice to have sole control of the remote. And not have someone snoring and farting in my bed at night. Is that what you were driving at?

Q13: You aren't in any great hurry to find Mr. Right. A relationship isn't the goal of your life but an added bonus.
Princess's Answer 13: Read my blog and then you tell me.

Q14: You don't just want a partner. You want the right partner for the real you.
Princess's Answer 14: Is this a trick question? Who the heck wants the wrong partner?

Q15: You don't just want them to love you, you want them to love you for who you really are.
Princess's Answer 15: Didn't you just ask me this question?

Q16: You're confident enough to be yourself. If being you doesn't appeal to someone, you're intelligent enough to know it wouldn't have worked anyway.
Princess's Answer 16: My personal theory is that anyone who doesn't find me appealing must not like girls. Is that wrong?

By the time the doctor showed up in the exam room, I was 30 pages into this book and hyperventilating. I've been a straight-A student for most of my life but I failed the relationship quiz with fervor. And I suddenly understood what that sneaky elf bastard was trying to prove.

In spite of the thousands of dollars spent on my own mental health in the prior 10 months, my journey wasn't over yet. I hadn't really earned my tiara - I still had a lot of work to do on myself before I could emerge as the princess I want to be.

The universe gives us signs every day. Some are very subtle. If you miss the subtle signs, sometimes the universe gets impatient and lobs a brick at your head. That's what happened to me. When I recovered from the concussion, I realized that all signs were pointing towards making some big changes. And that, my friends, is what I've been up to. Watch this space for more!


© 2010 Princess D

Couch Potato Princess

Have I given up the search for a prince? It's been a while since I've kissed any frogs, after all, and if my theory is true, I've got a lot of puckering up to do before one of these adorable little amphibians transforms into the prince of my dreams.

The short answer is no - my optimism knows no bounds and hope is alive and well here in Princess-ville. I most certainly believe that falling madly in love is possible. But I'm not going to lie to you. I'm awfully lazy - and the relentless pursuit of frogs is mentally, spiritually, and physically exhausting. Unless I can find a shortcut, I might spend the next inning sitting on the bench.

It's not that I don't enjoy the company of frogs. I do. But given the choice between hanging out with a frog or laying like a beached whale on my couch, inhaling potato chips and watching reality TV, nine times out of ten I'm picking the potato chips. Why? It's pretty easy to explain. The couch doesn't care if I'm having a bad hair day. I don't have to wear makeup or shave my legs to sit on the couch. The couch doesn't care if I'm wearing giant granny panties, a food-stained t-shirt, and mismatched socks. I don't have to be witty or charming or polite to the couch. If I've had a shitty day at work, I can lie on the couch and feel sorry for myself without worrying about how unattractive my behavior is. I don't have to feign interest in the couch's life. I don't have to laugh at the couch's jokes. And I don't have to wonder if the couch finds me attractive. I don't have to wonder, "Is the couch going to kiss me?" or "Why won't the couch kiss me? What's wrong with me?"

Simply put, the couch accepts me just the way I am. Our relationship is simple and it's well-defined. We know our roles. There's no confusion with the couch. I'm never left wondering, "Is this a date? Or are we just friends?" where the couch is concerned. I never wonder where I stand with the couch. Because let's face it. Where the couch is concerned, I'm not standing.

If the frog community showed up for me the way the couch does, I might still be in the game. The couch has never let me down the way frogs have - but at the same time, it's a pretty one-sided relationship. Frogs do have a slight advantage over the couch in that respect. But damn, frogs - you are complicated! I don't know what you're thinking, what you're feeling, what you want. I actually think frogs should come with an instruction manual. I'd read it, and then I'd adjust my behavior and expectations accordingly.

For example, a frog instruction manual might read something like this: This frog's divorce was just finalized. He thinks he's over it. He's not. He is SO not ready to date yet, but he won't admit that. He thinks you're cute and smart but he is going to FREAK OUT the second you kiss him. You will never know where you stand with this frog because frankly, he doesn't know either. He has a lot of great qualities and you'll enjoy spending time with him. But for the love of God, keep your expectations low. He won't transform into a prince but he is a fun companion. Eventually, you and this frog will evolve into "just friends" but for now, if you can tolerate the ambiguity, this frog will show you a good time. Personally, I think this type of instruction manual would be extremely helpful. It would save me a lot of obsessing, and I would always know exactly how to behave. Why hasn't anyone invented this yet?

For now, this Princess is laying low and spending most of her time showering the couch with love, affection, and potato chip crumbs. Am I on sabbatical from dating? Absolutely not. I'm just not relentlessly pursuing Prince Charming right now. Should he show up, I'll change clothes, get my fat ass off the couch, apply Chapstick, and pucker up ASAP.

© 2010 Princess D

Anger Management: A Cinderella Story

My first thought upon waking up this morning wasn't, "Must. Sleep. More." or "Time to make the donuts" or anything remotely normal. No, no. When I hopped out of bed this morning, I thought to myself, "Self," I thought, "I'd like to kick Cinderella's ass!"

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it's not just Cinderella who needs an ass-whooping. Her smug friends Snow White and Sleeping Beauty are on notice, too. Why am I so irrationally angry at fictional characters, you may wonder? (Translation: is Princess off her meds?) It's pretty damn simple. My whole life, I've been waiting for the fairy tale ending. Hell, I've been waiting for the fairy tale beginning! But here's what I can tell you about Cinderella that's changed my mind as of late . . .

She's a lousy role model for a little girl, first of all. Mind you, I was never what you'd describe as "little". My mother claims I came out of the womb over 5 feet tall, but my family has a penchant for the melodramatic. (Shocking, I know.) My entire life, I have been waiting for little woodland creatures to spring to life and make over my wardrobe. The closest I've come is when I accidentally washed a bat with my whites. Every time I scrub the toilet, I wonder where my fairy godmother is and when she's going to free me from the domestic purgatory that is my own filth. And don't even get me started on the number of humiliating dances I attended in the vain hopes that my Prince Charming would show up and sweep me off my two left feet.

So, Cinderella goes to the ball in her fancy glass slippers and meets a prince. Unlike in real life, her prince doesn't appear to have an angry ex-wife, an Oedipus complex, or a receding hairline. He's not conflicted about his sexuality and just waiting for the right moment to come out. He's gainfully employed and he even has his own horse! Of course, it's love at first sight. He dances with her without stomping on her feet and breaking her glass slipper - and apparently, he does so without complaining about how he'd rather be watching hockey. He takes an interest in her. He genuinely wants to know her as a person and he is heartbroken when she pulls a runner at midnight, leaving only a sweaty shoe in her wake.

Now, I've never run off on a prince at the stroke of midnight, so I'm speculating a little bit here. But I've got to tell you, I think it's a little unrealistic to think that a guy who doesn't know your name, who met you for three hours at a ball, and who you ran off on is going to drop everything to return your shoe. Most of the time, I can't get a frog to return a text message, much less personal property. I know that Cinderella wasn't purposely playing hard to get, but the message I got from this story is that if you show up places looking cute and wearing good shoes, handsome and successful frogs who may or may not have their own horses will fall madly in love with you.

I don't begrudge Cinderella her fairy tale. What bugs me, though, is the idea that she lived happily ever after. Really? She never woke up on the fat side of the bed? Her skin never broke out? She never felt sad or lonely or irrationally angry even though she lived in a castle and had no reason to complain? The prince never came home late? Never forgot an anniversary? Never hogged the remote or farted in bed? She never had a cavity or high blood pressure or needed to color her hair? She never worried about how to pay the mortgage or about her parents getting older or about the meaning of life? And I'm sure she never had to see a therapist.

Hey, Cinderella. I don't live in a fairy tale. I live in a 100 year old house in the city with my dog. I worry about everything. I see a therapist. A lot. I have bad hair days and acne and tooth decay. I want my life to mean something but I can't figure out what that something is. Even though I know your story is bullshit, I'm still holding out hope that I can have my own fairy tale ending. And that, my dear, is why you are going down.

© 2010 Princess D

Helmet & Kneepads Required

The Elf's inconveniently-timed extended spring break 2010 actually turned out to be a blessing in disguise. While I may have gotten on my two friends' last damn nerve pining away for my one true love, the Elf-Therapist, his absence forced me to remove the training wheels, pedal like mad, and learn to ride the big-girl bike.

When you're learning to ride a bike, you typically stick close to home. You don't show up at, say, Lake Calhoun on a sunny July Saturday and get on the bike path, unless you are either a delusional optimist or actively trying to piss off as many people as possible. You don't suddenly start riding your bike in downtown traffic, either, unless you have a death wish on top of everything else. Unless, of course, the bike in question is a metaphor and your name is Princess D.

I may very well be one of the most boring people I know. My life is just not that exciting - which is fine by me. A typical day in the life of the princess consists of things like getting out of bed, working out, showering, walking the dog, going to work, doing school work, eating, peeing, and occasionally watching TV or reading a book. A five star day for me is when I can find a suitable dining companion to enjoy a meal with. If said suitable dining companion will indulge in wine and dessert, even better. And if said suitable dining companion can whomp up a home-cooked meal, well - that's pretty much my idea of nirvana. (Sidebar: apparently, I find food very exciting. In every way.)

Due to the aforementioned "boring" classification, I didn't expect excitement to ensue the second the Elf-Therapist printed his e-ticket, but that's exactly what happened. Let's just say I had plenty of opportunities to practice my bike riding skills. I reconnected with two old and dear friends after years and years of being out of touch. I made peace with my past and decided that the best place for it is behind me. Permanently. I promoted an acquaintance to friend (A competitive benefits package is also available - although that has led to no small amount of awkwardness, anxiety and near-nail biting for the princess. Until I realized, without any elf-help, that sometimes, it's okay not to know all the answers and to just roll with it in the moment.) I invited my parents over for dinner - and cooked a meal that didn't food poison anyone. I broke a frog's heart when I told him I wouldn't be his bride. I finally said I'm sorry for things I should have apologized for years ago. I faced a crossroads in my career and at my job, and I made good decisions about my future. I failed a class. I made a friend cry when I meant to help. I completed a detox/cleanse. And I stared a scary anniversary date straight in the eye and finally realized the meaning of "a misty morning does not necessarily signify a cloudy day."

Waking up in the morning and realizing that no matter what, everything is going to be okay doesn't sound like a big deal to most people. It was a huge deal to me. It's been so long since I've felt just plain okay that I almost didn't recognize it. And that's when I realized it was time to take the training wheels off the bike. Of course, you know me. While it may or may not be safe for me to ride without training wheels, I think we all know that a helmet and knee pads are still required to ensure my own safety and the safety of those around me.

© 2010 Princess D