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

Royal Words of Wisdom

It was just over a year ago that I declared myself a princess and began kissing frogs in the earnest hope that I’d find a prince and live happily ever after. After a few false starts, some pretty big disappointments, and some questionable decisions, I began a relationship with Suitor #1 and discovered maybe I’m not really ready for my fairy tale ending after all. Or am I?

Although 2010 didn’t have an auspicious start, it was most certainly the “Summer of Princess”. I found myself in a new city, surrounded by new people, and pursuing a new career. I felt as if I’d finally been set free from the shackles of my past and not only was I excited about the future but I was truly happy in the present. In fact, so great was my optimism that I let a friend convince me to seek the counsel of a spiritual healer. For the low cost of $150, I could commune with my guardian angels and spirits, let go of the crap that bogged me down, and maybe get some help making decisions about my future. At least, that was the plan . . .

And like the best laid plans, it didn’t quite go the way I expected. First off, I managed to wreck a rental car to the tune of $4,000 smackeroos on my way back to the office after my “healing” – a fact whose irony is not lost on me since one might think that one’s spirit friends might help a sister out and perhaps warn her of the impending doom. (One would be wrong, clearly.)

The healing itself was interesting. It began with a lot of hoo-doo, voodoo involving incense, aromatherapy, smudging, and hand waving over my so-called third eye and girly parts for reasons unbeknownst to me. The healer conferred with her spirit friends and then asked me a variety of questions ranging from “Do you suffer from PMS?” to “Are you missing someone whose name starts with an N?”

In retrospect, I’m not sure her questions were super-insightful or guided by voices from the great beyond, but in the moment, laying on a table with a Kleenex over my third eye, it all seemed very profound. How did she know about my PMS? Who told her about my friend, Nate? Upon further reflection, I realize that she actually went through most of the letters prior to “N” in alphabetical order before she hit the nail on the head, but again, that’s hindsight talking.

The healer and I did have a most interesting discussion, however, about a man whose acquaintance I’d recently made. I’m not sure whether to call him frog or friend, so I’ll just call him “that one”. Although I only met That One in the flesh in August, his reputation preceded him and I’d actually known of him for many years as we shared a mutual and very dear friend (whose name started with N) who departed for the great beyond ten years ago.

That One and I made an immediate connection. We celebrated the life of our dear friend, swapped stories, and wiped each others’ tears. And then we realized that we had so much more in common than just shared grief, and we began a wonderfully fulfilling relationship. We laughed, we cried, we saw Jackass 3D.

And, okay, I’m not going to lie to you. I let That One into my heart and he stole it. A Saturday night Target run with That One rivals any date I’ve ever been on for both fun and romance factor, believe it or not. Everyone warned me to be careful with That One. “Remember, Princess . . . you loved his friend. Don’t transfer your feelings for Departed N to That One.” I monitored my feelings vigilantly and denied them even to myself.

One day, That One and I were for a friendly dinner when he dropped a bomb on me. He was worried I was falling for him. This signaled the beginning of the end, and sadly, I lost not only a good friend but also a connection to my past – and my newfound hopes for a happily ever after. I blame the stupid healer. She and her dumb-ass spirit guides convinced me that That One was actually “The One” – and that the great and powerful N wanted nothing more than for us to make a go of it.

Much like Frog #6, I convinced myself that the otherwise very heterosexual That One was actually gay, because all members of the opposite sex immune to my princess wiles are clearly married, gay or priests. I nursed my bruised heart and decided to take a little break from frog kissing in lieu of a little more fun.

Did I sit home every night? Absolutely not. Instead, I dated all kinds of interesting characters from recovering drug addicts to convicted felons to wanna-be underwear models. (In my defense, I didn’t know they were felons or drug addicts until afterwards But the underwear models were deliberately chosen for their good looks and chiseled abs.) I threw myself into work and spent time hanging out with some of my guy friends I’d been neglecting, and I got a glimpse behind enemy lines as the boys let me into their dating lives. Thus began a social experiment that’s already provided enough fodder for my first novel. As we close the books on 2010, I thought I’d share some of the wisdom I gained in the last quarter of the year . . .

A few key learnings:

1. When a male asks a female, “Would you like to watch a movie”, what he really means is, “How’d you like to get to know me in the Biblical sense?”
2. Most males who claim to be looking for the real thing are looking for something entirely different. Rather, they just want to watch as many movies as possible with as many females as possible, but apparently, that type of honesty is repulsive to the opposite sex.
3. 90% of men operate on a different measurement system than women do. Any man who tells you he is 5’10” tall is somewhere between Oompla Loompa height and 5’7”.
4. Cell phone technology, while making us more efficient and connected, allows people to send all kinds of vulgar things to each other with the touch of a button. And apparently, I’m the only one who sees this as a problem.

That’s all the news that’s fit to print for 2010, folks. Happy New Year.

© 2010 Princess D

From Kissing Frogs to Snuggling with Dogs

A trip to my local Target store to pick up toilet paper and deodorant turned into a one-way ticket on the expressway to the holidays.  It was nothing but reindeer, blinking lights, gift wrap, bows, and wreaths as far as the eye could see.  Navigating the aisles was a combat sport, and I made a point to stockpile toilet paper to save myself the horror of an encore performance.  I am now the proud owner of 96 jumbo rolls of Charmin.  I should be safe until President's Day. 

After grinching my way through the store, physically unscathed but emotionally rattled, I loaded up the Honda and decided to soothe my nerves with the dulcet tones of easy listening on my local adult soft rock station. I was ill-prepared for the auditory assault that ensued. Instead of Rick Springfield coveting his friend Jessie's girl, I got a rousing rendition of "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree," followed by Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. At a commercial break, the D.J. broke the news to me. Apparently, my adult contemporary hits station has gone all Christmas music, all the time until Boxing Day. Thank heavens I was armed with a collection of CDs, because the only cure for all this festivity was 80's hair band music. Yeah, I said it. And I do own my very own copy of Monsters of Rock, which I sang along to the entire way home from the North Pole . . . er . . . I mean, Target.

I do own a calendar so it's not like the holidays snuck up on me per se. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that if it's the middle of November, Thanksgiving is around the corner and Christmas is next on the list. This year has just been so unusual in so many ways that I seem to have all track of time. I seem to have missed spring and summer entirely – probably due to the fact that I was on an airplane or shacked up at a Holiday Inn the majority of the time, and when I did come up for air, I was too tired to do anything but take a nap.

While singing along to Ratt's greatest hit, "Round and Round," I had a metaphorical visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past. You see, I actually love Christmas. I love the movies, the caroling, the decorations, and picking out that perfect gift for the people I care about. I even love the snow (briefly). There is something really special about driving around on a snowy night, looking at Christmas lights and believing in Santa Claus. I love all the rituals and routines and I wouldn't trade any of it. But when you're suddenly single, the routines change.

The entire holiday season was bizarre last year. I was single for the first time in 14 years and wondering if I'd ever date again. In fact, I had my very first single gal date over Thanksgiving weekend last year with Frog #1, Blind Date Frog. While it wasn't a love connection, getting out there gave me the confidence to give dating the old college try, and in the period between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, I was introduced to Frogs 1-3 and had several awkward encounters with a couple of faux frogs to boot.

Last Christmas was especially weird. It snowed, which isn't particularly shocking in this climate at this time of year, but it snowed a lot, and for reasons that make no sense, the city decided to give the plow guys the week off and my car was stuck. My mom cancelled Christmas because she didn't want me out driving – which would have been impossible anyway, since my car was buried under three feet of snow. Can you imagine anything more depressing than sitting at home eating a Lean Cuisine and drinking a Bud Light on Christmas Eve? Me either. That's probably why I wound up spending Christmas Eve with Mr. Wrong last year after all. And I spent Christmas Day on a date with the ill-fated Frog #4.

Fast forward to the present, and there is nary a frog in sight. (Side note: that's not entirely true. There is one potential candidate for frogdom, but he is currently playing frog DUMB. That's a topic for a whole different blog, I'm afraid.) I've retired from Frogs.com and all other forms of internet humiliation . . . I mean, dating. Most of the time – like right now, when I'm sitting in my grubby pj's without any makeup on – I feel pretty good about flying solo.

I don't know what it is, but there is something about the holidays that makes me feel a little awkward about being alone. Maybe it's all the jewelry store commercials, depicting happy couples and diamond-centric gifts or something. I like sparkly things, too! Maybe it has something to do with being the odd number at the dinner table. Or maybe it's just that it would be nice to have a warm somebody to snuggle up with on a cold night.

All I can say is this: thank God I have a dog. He is handsome, loyal, loving, and snuggly to boot. He probably won't pick up my Christmas gift at Jared, The Galleria of Jewelry, but he loves me unconditionally and asks for little more than food, water, a daily walk, and the occasional toy. In fact, I may invite him to Thanksgiving!

I am thankful for more than just my dog, although he is at the top of the list. I am filled with so much gratitude for all the blessings in my life, including my family, my friends, my job, my home, and of course, my therapist. I am one lucky princess. Happy Thanksgiving!

© 2010 Princess D

 

 

 

Selective Memory . . .

While I have kissed many, many frogs and in fact, shacked up with more than one Mr. Wrong in the course of my journey, I have not yet come clean with you, dear 23 readers.

There was one prince among frogs. Unlike Jake Ryan, he didn't show up with a Porsche - he actually had a Schwinn and a metro transit card - but he was and is wonderful and lovable nonetheless. And he is getting more than a little pissed off that he has gotten no props from this princess for his very important role in my life. Since I primarily malign members of the opposite sex here in the blog, I failed to give Serious College Boyfriend the recognition he so richly deserves. Not only did he spend two years dating this pain in the ass masquerading as a princess, but he taught me everything I know about love. And a few other tips and tricks, too.

Was I protecting his privacy? Giving in to my Catholic guilt? Secretly pining for the one who got away? I'll never tell. I will tell you this. Not only is this guy a prince among men, he is an amazing husband to his beautiful wife, a darned good dad to his kid, and normally a fairly tolerant friend. My only real complaint is that I've never been able to convince him that I'm a princess - probably because he knows better - and he therefore feels compelled to call bullshit.

So, Serious College Boyfriend, here is your public recognition. Thank you for your awesomeness in every way. Now, for the love of all that's holy, can you just admit that I'm a princess?

A New Chapter . . . and Still a Royal Pain

Boys and girls, your princess has let you down. Not only have I failed to keep you abreast of the latest and greatest antics in my royally screwed up life (but the team of experts who help me with mundane things like hair, skin, and various waxing endeavors that we won’t mention here assure me that they’ve enjoyed previewing the first-run edition of these tales of woe), I’ve stopped kissing frogs entirely.

Now, just because I’m on a semi-permanent frog-kissing hiatus doesn’t mean I’m renouncing my crown. I am still very much a princess in my own mind . . . and I won’t object if you address me as princess, provided you remove any trace of snideness from your tone. Don’t make me bust out my tiara and teach you a lesson, okay?

The greater frog community is safe for now. I’m not joining a convent or retreating from civilization, although actually, that might be safer for all parties involved. (Note to self: explore convent and hermit options.) But I’ve been on quite the metaphorical roller-coaster ride this fall, and before I lose my lunch, I’ve got a few things to figure out.

Although I was born tall, I’ve been a late bloomer in every other sense – which was probably a blessing in disguise because had I discovered boys while in high school, I likely would have wound up with 3 kids before graduation day. As a kid, I was the human equivalent of Kix cereal. I did my homework, had a job, participated in school activities, and attended church regularly, even though I came from a family of heathens. I was polite, respectful, and goal-oriented. At age 14, I knew exactly where I’d go to college, what my major would be, and I had a plan for the rest of my life. (Side note: the best laid plans of mice, men, and princesses occasionally go astray.)

I finished college in record time, anxious to start my grown-up life. I followed all the rules, made my parents proud and largely stayed out of trouble. (At least, that’s how we’re going to document it for the history books, okay? Those of you who know better are invited to stuff it, but in the most loving way possible.) To complete my grown-up life, I jumped into a relationship and began cohabitating, with the goal of registering at Target, wearing a white dress, and living happily ever after.

I think we all know how that story ends. But what you don’t know is that I appear to be having a delayed adolescence. As an actual adolescent, I spent more time watching John Hughes movies and hoping that my own Jake Ryan would show up and whisk me away in his Porsche. Instead of Jake Ryan, I dated a few guys who later came out of the closet and then I jumped into playing house with Mr. Wrong.

Fast forward a few years when I’m a suddenly single 30-something, and kissing frogs as if it’s a blood sport. Because I’ve always done what’s expected of me, followed the rules, and been responsible, I’m fixated on the idea of the church wedding and living happily ever after in a modest house with a dog. (Kids optional). But I’m worried. Am I dateable? I try my hand at internet dating; a go on a blind date; and I even promote a few friends to frogs . . . and not only do I develop a repertoire of amusing anecdotes to share with the 23 people bored enough to read my blog, I also learn a few important lessons about myself.

If you’re in a committed, monogamous relationship, listen up. I admire you. Dating is relatively easy. You put on a cleavage-baring top, slap on some lipstick, and act charming for a set period of time. As long as your table manners don’t suck and provided you have the social skills of a trained monkey, you’ll be just fine. When the date is over, you return home, throw on some grubby sweats, and recommence belching, farting, and scratching yourself. (Hypothetically).

Relationships, on the other hand, are what happen when the date ends. Relationships aren’t about being charming – they are about being present, caring about someone else and their needs as much as (or more than) your own, and they are about what happens when you are more than just me but rather, part of a “we”. And that, my friends, is hard work.

I’ve met a lot of frogs lo these last 18 months. While there are a few frogs whom I’d like to never see again, many of these frogs are near and dear to my heart. In fact, I count some of them among my closest friends. But there hasn’t been a single frog for whom I’m willing to make the kind of compromises required for a relationship to work. I don’t want to meet your parents, watch football, or eat sushi. What I want is to laugh, to have a good time, and to go home alone, throw on my grubbiest clothes, and be myself.

And so, my friends, I’ve had to rethink the entire premise of this blog. I’m no longer searching for a prince. Instead, I’m trying to figure out how to be the best princess I can be, bar none. I’m not sure I want that white dress and big to-do anymore. Instead, I think I’ll just play dress-up and hit the town with my gal pals. I’m no longer in pursuit of happily ever after . . . but I’ll gladly accept content right now.

Does this mean you’ll never have to read this drivel again? Hell, no. You’re not that lucky. I’ll continue to document the days of my life for your viewing pleasure . . . but we’re entering a new chapter which means that our plot has changed a little bit. Personally, I think the story is just starting to get interesting, so I hope you’ll hang in there with me to see how this one ends.

Later, frogs! Muah!

© 2010 Princess D

This Just In . . . I was WRONG.

Up until recently, I believed that happiness was kissing a frog and watching him magically transform into a prince. Happiness was getting to finally wear a pretty white dress and a tiara (hey, I am a princess, after all!), registering for everything my little heart desires at my local Super Target, and sharing what's left of my life with someone else. Well, folks, I have some late, breaking news for you. This just in: I may have been wrong.

In my defense, this was one of those lessons that clearly had to be learned the hard way. I've been a cliché for 16 months now, and I've been kissing frogs for almost 10. One of them even turned into a prince. And guess what? I still couldn't figure out how to write my fairy tale ending. This is more than just the story of the ill-fated Suitor #1 – a kind, caring, good-looking man who looked at me and saw a princess – and how I broke his heart when I ran screaming in the other direction. It's also the story of how I got everything I thought I wanted . . . and realized that I spent all this time wishing on someone else's star.

I thought I wanted that partner, the constant companion. You know, someone to go grocery shopping with, someone to go to church with, someone to take long walks with, and someone to just be with. Suitor #1 fit the bill perfectly. He was attentive and interested. Maybe too attentive and interested, to be honest, since he was calling and emailing and texting me non-stop, a characteristic that I initially found endearing. His attentiveness lost some of its charm when I failed to respond to an email within a two-hour period of time (I was busy working) and he went into crisis mode. Literally, the poor guy thought I was dead or something. Suddenly, communicating with him became a chore instead of a joy. I felt pressured to respond quickly, lest he panic, and I resented the interruption to my day. On the plus side, he never cringed when I asked him to walk the dog with me and he was always ready to drop everything and run to Target with me.

Suitor #1 wanted to spend every possible moment with me. In the beginning, this was charming and delightful. As a woman who travels extensively for her job and who is only at home three days a week, I have to cram a lot into a compressed period of time. Not only do I have a family who occasionally likes to see my shining face, but even princesses have to visit the dentist, the doctor, and the hair salon. And, after losing nearly every friend I had while shacking up with Mr. Wrong, I rebuilt a small circle of amazing friends and I wanted to be able to spend time with them, too. Suitor #1 didn't understand why I needed alone time. He wanted to pick me up from the airport on Thursday nights and not let me out of his sight again until Monday mornings. While it's possible that this level of devotion is sweet and endearing (please see previous paragraph on calling, excessive) – and let's be clear, as a princess, I wanted undying devotion – I can't lie to you. It felt a little smothery. It is no coincidence that "Prisoner of Love" is the title of several different hit songs, folks.

Suitor #1 was a man in love. He did all the right stuff. He took an interest in my life. He invited me into his life. I met his tadpoles . . . er, children! Repeatedly. Suddenly, Friday nights consisted of takeout pizza and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. We got pancakes at Perkins. We took the kids to the zoo, mini-golfing, to the park . . . And we had grown-up dates, too. Suitor #1 is tall, dark, handsome, and good at fixing things. (This is important because I can't figure out how to set the clock inside my car. I am frequently puzzled by things like furnace filters, double-sided tape, and light bulbs.) He is kind, and caring, and he has a good sense of humor. His main flaw? He has lousy taste in women, as it turns out. Because he picked me, did all the right stuff, and I still high-tailed it out of there as fast as humanly possible.

As it turns out, after years of suffering from subterranean self-esteem and recoiling at the thought of being alone, I've developed a fondness for "Independent Princess". In fact, I owe poor Frog #6 an apology. Although he did make me question my wit, charm, and cuteness levels – since I thought he was just not that into me, or, conversely, gay – I have to admit . . . Frog #6 was almost the perfect match for me in every way. He had his own life (and, if you believe the bullshit I'm making up in my head, he may have also had his own alternative lifestyle!), and therefore, he was not interested in constant companionship. He would, however, reserve the occasional weekend night for us eat, drink, and be merry. Since these are my three very favorite activities on earth, you rarely have to twist my arm to get me to RSVP with a great big yes. Frog #6 wasn't secretly planning our wedding or anything of the sort. He called or texted or emailed just often enough - not daily but more frequently than quarterly – and I always had a good time with him. He was just a good-looking amphibian, looking for a "friends with benefits" situation, and for two well-educated, articulate people, we somehow never managed to get around to having that conversation. So, I used my royal powers of mind control to turn him gay and then found myself on the opposite end of the smothery spectrum with Suitor #1. So, Frog #6, for the record . . . sorry for making you gay. And thanks for being my friend anyway.

Let's take a moment to recap, shall we? I found Mr. Wonderful and I bolted. Frog #6 is starting to look like the frog of my dreams – not because we are well-matched, but because his ambivalence means that it is virtually impossible for him to kill independent princess. And, yes, folks – I am exaggerating here. I'm not suggesting that Frog #6 and I take a little hop down memory lane or anything. I'm merely comparing and contrasting so that you get the full picture of just how wrong I was. Am. Whatever.

Before breaking it off with Suitor #1, I consulted my oracle, the elf-therapist, for counsel. At first, he wanted to engage in a lengthy dialogue about my feelings and all that yackety-schmackety. I let him blather on for nearly ten minutes, realized that I pay him by the hour, and when he came up for air, I rudely demanded that he stop asking questions and just tell me what to do, damn it! Under normal circumstances, the Elf refuses to tell me what to do under the guise of trying to help me grow as a person or something like that. In this particular instance, he was all too happy to tell me what to do and furthermore, when, where, and how to do it. Bottom line . . . he suggested a split. And since I do whatever the Elf says, I complied.

It was a difficult conversation with Suitor #1. There were tears (his) and firm boundaries (mine). While breaking the news of the break-up was hard to do, when I was done, I felt strangely free. Would I miss Suitor #1? Maybe. But as it turns out, I missed me even more.

Normal people celebrate Independence Day once a year. For those of you who are keeping score, this escapade marks my 2^nd
personal declaration of independence this year alone. And it's only September! It's been just about a month since this princess rejoined the ranks of single women everywhere. And for the very first time in my entire adult life, I'm not lamenting my lack of husband and 2.5 kids. You know what? As it turns out, I'm awfully danged loveable! I don't have to settle for the first prince who rides up in a battered minivan. Instead, I'm celebrating my singledom with a vengeance. Do I still long for the prince and the pretty dress? Maybe. But as it turns out, you don't need a prince – or even an excuse – to get dolled up in a nice dress for a night on the town. Watch this space for more . . . there is an independent princess on the loose!

© 2010 Princess D

Be Careful What You Wish For . . .

If I had a nickel for all the down-home wisdom imparted to me by my parents and grandmother over the years, I'd never have to work another day in my life. Of course, I suspect that the nice folks at Bank of America Home Mortgage and the utility companies might balk at receiving their monthly dues one nickel at a time, so perhaps it is best that my family merely proffered advice instead of currency. Beyond the standard warnings about stranger danger, not giving away the milk for free (side note: is it any wonder that so many young women suffer from eating disorders? Our parents literally compared us to cattle in an effort to keep us chaste!), and the lifelong fear that my face might freeze that way, my family offered up another ominous piece of wisdom, couched in the form of a surgeon general's warning label. "Be careful what you wish for, Princess. You just might get it!"

For many, many years, how I wished that were true! I wished for a puppy. I got a baby brother (and yes, he blogs, too. Please note that I am the funny one, he is the smart one.) Not quite what I wished for but ultimately, a much better deal. I wished I could be beautiful. I got acne, braces, and a scoliosis diagnosis. For the record, curvature of the spine = not beautiful. I wished for Peter O. to fall madly in love with me. Instead, he impregnated his high school girlfriend during our senior year and married her. (And I hear they lived happily ever, defying the odds. Crazy!) I wished I could be a ballerina like Coco from Fame and begged for dance lessons. In a private conference with my parents, the proprietor of the dance school I attended told my parents not to waste any more money on dance lessons for their clumsy daughter. I could go on but I think you get the idea. I spent 30+ years being careful about what I wished for, and let me be clear . . . it didn't make a lick of difference.

I have always been a superstitious kind of gal. Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight . . . I've wished on you! Wishing wells? Yup. Trevai Fountain? Absofrickinglutely. Loose eyelashes, birthday candles, fortune cookies. . affirmative. As a kid, it was a special treat to go out for a family meal at Perkins Restaurant – not because of the excellent silver dollar pancakes accompanied by a delicious smorgasbord of syrups – but because they had a wishing well. The Perkins wishing well never disappointed, either. Every time I made a wish, I reached inside that well and fished out some useless plastic trinket, made in China or some other "emerging" nation, and played with it until it inevitably broke, requiring another family meal to Perkins.

About a year ago, this princess made another wish. I wished for a prince. I wasn't looking for a white horse, a palace, or glass slippers. (For the record, I would accept any and all of these, but they certainly aren't prerequisites.) I wanted a partner – someone to share my thoughts, feelings, and dreams with; someone to cuddle with on the couch after a long day; someone to help me lift heavy objects; someone who I could share not only a meal with but also share my life with. And under the close supervision of an elf-therapist, I began kissing frogs in my quest to find Prince Charming.

I knew I'd have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince. This fact was confirmed by the elf-therapist. While some puritans might consider seven frogs a lot, my theory is that until I run out of fingers to count on, we're doing okay. So, I kissed seven frogs and then I met Suitor #1. Sure, he violated many of my dating commandments, but at the end of the day, he was tall, dark, handsome, and in possession of a full set of teeth, a job, and a full head of hair, so I overlooked some of the pre-existing conditions that normally would have been knockout factors. We went on a couple of dates. We laughed. We ate. We kissed. And . . . lo and behold . . . neither of us projectile vomited or ran screaming from the room. So we kissed some more.

Fast forward and suddenly, we've been together for 11 weeks. He says the "l" word and calls me his girlfriend. I've met the tadpoles. He's seen me without makeup on. I've seen him throw up. He's met my brother and some of my friends. But boys and girls . . . suddenly, the honeymoon is over and our true colors are coming out. He's disappointed in my undomesticated nature. While I am housetrained (barely), I refuse to cook, my standards of cleanliness are dubious at best, and he has wondered aloud if I have any other shirts. (This musing occurred after I wore the same t-shirt two days in a row. It didn't stink so I didn't see a problem with it.) We've shared all our witty "get to know you" stories and now our conversations revolve around, "So, how was your day?" In a nutshell, we're gone from infatuation and intrigue to something else.

When I was single, all I wanted was to find a prince, couple up, and live happily ever after. Now that I'm coupled up, I miss the independence of my single life. I'm not used to checking in with someone and reporting on my comings and goings. It's weird to talk on the phone to the same person every single night. I'm running out of things to say! I'm not used to having to consider someone else's feelings and insecurities and idiosyncrasies anymore. In my single life, if I wanted to stay out all night, I could. If a friend came over and drank too much, it was no problem to have him crash on the couch. If I wanted some quiet time, I just stopped answering the phone. I didn't have to apologize for being too slow to respond to a text or an email or a voicemail. I did my thing, tried to be a good friend, good sister, good dog-owner, good daughter, good employee . . . and although sometimes I was lonely, life was good. For the first time in my 30+ (and we don't need to count any higher than that, thank you very much) odd years of life, I finally felt comfortable, secure, and good with just plain being me.

Now that I'm coupled up, I can't help but wonder . . . should I have been careful what I wished for? As I try to be a good girlfriend and good partner, whatever that means, I worry that I've gotten into the Delorean time machine and regressed to pre-therapy princess. I notice similarities between Suitor #1 and the infamous Mr. Wrong. I notice the differences, too – but there are enough similarities that it makes me nervous. I catch myself breaking promises I've made – to my friends, to my family, and to myself, just to avoid arguing with Suitor #1. He's planning our future together and all I can think about is Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride. Can I be happy with someone who doesn't read books? Who doesn't have cable TV? On the flip side, how can I not want everything that Suitor #1 is offering? He loves me – just the way that I am. Do I make him crazy? Hell, yes. But in spite of that, he wants to share my life. He doesn't complain if I want to watch a chick flick – and then fall asleep 10 minutes into the movie. He is happy to come with me to pick up groceries or dog food. I drooled on him (by accident) and he didn't freak out and make me have his couch cleaned. And he's even willing to come to church with me – something I've wanted in a partner for as long as I can remember.

Maybe I'm less of a princess and more of a screw-up than the elf-therapist and I originally thought . . . Time – and several more $35 copayments – will tell. Stay tuned for more.

© 2010 Princess D