Frog #11: The Big, Fat Mistake

Perhaps you’re wondering if the princess has:

A: Fallen in love

B: Fallen off the face of the earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2011 Princess D

Dating at Your Own Level - At Your Own Risk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2011 Princess D

Love the Way I Lie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2011 Princess D

Snakes, Liars . . . And Frog #10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2011 Princess D

You Get What You Pay For . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2011 Princess D

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