You've Got to Kiss a LOTTA Frogs

Week 3: Fat Lorenzo’s

2013-07-28T09:30:00.001-07:00

As much as I enjoy my new status as a "real housewife of Golden Valley", even real housewives leave their suburban zip codes in search of cosmetic surgery, dermal fillers, and copious amounts of wine. Since I can't help but notice the absence of a camera crew and paparazzi, it was an easy decision to head to South Minneapolis for a pizza data with my beloved. Week 3 brought us to Fat Lorenzo's on the shores of Lake Nokomis in South Minneapolis. For those of you "in the know", this is also the location of the original Fat Lorenzo's – they proudly boast a second location known as "Fat Lorezno's 2" located inside the Everett McClay VFW in Bloomington, MN.

Since I am a notoriously lousy driver and even worse at parking the car without inflicting damages and raising my insurance rates (although I would like to use this opportunity to give a little shout-out to AmEx Property Casualty Auto Insurance. If you are looking for a good rate on your auto insurance from a company who doesn't use reptiles to market to you, give them a call at 1-800-535-2001 for a no-obligation quote.), the hubby decided to drive. It's important to know that he believes in something he's branded "offensive driving", which means that I typically arrive at our destination a little green around the gills, clutching my chest, and muttering the rosary under my breath. I secretly believe that the goal of his so-called offensive driving is actually to offend me, but he claims otherwise.

It had been a busy Saturday for us both with mixed results. Neither of us was feeling on top of the world when we departed for pizza night, but no one was actively campaigning for mayor of Crankytown either. An unscientific pre-pizza poll reported the following.

Pre-pizza mood Ratings:

Princess D: 5

Hubby: 6

Parking Situation: Employing offensive driving skills, we arrived at Fat Lorenzo's in record time and assessed the parking situation. There is a miniscule parking lot adjacent to the building. I, a known terrible parker, should never, ever be allowed to enter that parking lot. It's rife with opportunity to smash things, including a dumpster. The lot can fit maybe six cars, and at the time of our visit, it was full, which meant that we were left to navigate the joys of on-street parking in a busy, populated area. The eagle-eyed offensive driver spotted a prime spot near the door and parallel parked his expensive German automobile with ease, while I rocked back and forth in the passenger seat. The only way I can return to Fat Lorenzo's to eat is if someone else drives me or if they employ valet parking.

Exterior Appearance: This place is adorable! Fat Lorenzo's will definitely catch your eye as you speed up and down scenic Cedar Avenue. If you're out getting your cardio on at Lake Nokomis, you'll spot the restaurant patrons dining al Fresco and you'll wonder why you're wearing stupid spandex shorts instead of sitting outside with friends, eating pizza and expanding your waistline. The sidewalk tables maximize the proximity to the lake and give the joint a decidedly Italian feel. As a side note, the sidewalk tables also take up most of the available sidewalk real estate, so if you're innocently trying to navigate the maze of tables, be careful not to step into the street. Overall, high marks for the exterior appearance. It's inviting, whimsical, and fun.

Entrance/Welcome: This place does a booming business with both dine-in, take-out, and delivery options. When you enter Fat Lorenzo's, you'll walk right into the restaurant's hub. You'll see pizza ovens in action, you'll hear orders being taken by phone, and you can scan their impressive gelato offerings. A sign on the wall tells you to write your name on the chalkboard to get into the queue for a table and it's all very clear and civilized in spite of the fast pace. On a Saturday night, we waited just under ten minutes for a table.

Interior Appearance: This place is just about the cutest thing I've ever seen. We were seated in a very roomy booth. In fact, this booth was so roomy that I had a hard time reaching the table from my seat – but had I been in my third trimester of pregnancy with triplets, I definitely would have room to spare in this booth. The tables and booths are modeled after old school Catholic churches, and you know that part of the reason Catholics are moving around so much during mass is because those wooden pews hurt your backside. My left butt cheek has not been the same since eating at Fat Lorenzo's. A piece of butcher paper was placed on the top of our table cloth and some crayon stubs were provided on the table, so I decided to mark my territory.

Clientele & Overall Vibe: This is a busy place, and the clientele is a great mix of locals, families, and people who are trying it out for the first time. We had a great time people-watching and inventing creative plot lines and dialogue for our fellow patrons. While it was busy, Fat Lorenzo's is true to their Nokomis roots and the place isn't infested with hipster doofuses, which I appreciated. This is a place that's appropriate for a pizza date; a family dinner; or a place for friends to get together and catch up.

Waitstaff: Since I eat so much pizza, I also spend more time than I'd like at a cut-rate fitness facility whose unofficial motto is, "You bring your own towel and maybe we'll fix this broken equipment some day." This means that I have the dubious privilege of seeing a lot of people's fitness fashion choices, which I in turn, judge silently while either mocking them or fantasizing about pinning them to the ground and forcing a stick of butter down their throats. This is relevant only because our server, whose name I never quite caught, clearly started her shift directly after completing her cardio-kickboxing class. She was still dressed in yoga pants and running shoes and jogged by us – probably still doing her cool-down, I assume – periodically. In my experience, this is the kind of place where you might need to wrestle someone to the ground to get your water glass refilled.

Menu Selection: Fat Lorenzo's is not branded as a mere pizzeria. It is, rather, "Italian in a big way" and their menu boasts pizza, pasta, hoagies, and gelato and a nice selection of appetizers and salads. While I am always in the mood for a good hoagie, I had to remind myself that I was eating for research for my pizza-themed blog and kept my eyes focused on the pizza section of the menu. Fat Lorezno's sells pizza by the slice or whole pies in 10, 14, 16, and 18 inch sizes. We opted for a 14 inch "Fat's", which features Italian sausage, pepperoni, onions, green peppers, and olives of the green and black variety. And of course, you're welcome to make your own.

Fat Lorenzo's also serves a full range of popular and craft beer by the bottle and wine by the glass. For those who prefer non-alcoholic drinks, the only bottomless glass available here is water. Soda is sold by the can, which was unpopular with my dining companion. He drank two cans of soda while I opted for Minneapolis' finest tap water for my beverage of choice.

Food Wait Time: Total time elapsed between placing our order and our server jogging by with a hot pizza? 20 minutes – and the pizza was H-O-T. It was so hot, in fact, that steam was rising from the toppings, and those of us who were unable to patiently wait for our food to cool to an edible temperature may have scalded the roof of our mouths. Hypothetically, of course.

Drumroll, please . . . the pizza itself: Before I give you my official review, I'm going to confess something. This was not my first trip to Fat Lorenzo's. I used to live in the 'hood and I had fond memories of the ghosts of pizzas past. When you mention Fat Lorenzo's to pretty much anyone in the Twin Cities, you'll bear witness to a walk down memory lane and the nostalgia of enjoying pizza at an adorable local joint. Maybe it's the nostalgia factor or maybe it's the sugar high from gelato consumption, but I can't lie to you. This place was so much better in my memories than it was in my reality, and I'm sorry if that means we're in a fight because this is your favorite place of all time. I wanted to love Fat Lorenzo's. I really did.

Now, don't get me wrong – this was certainly superior to a Domino's delivery. Our pizza looked amazing – a deeper dish, piping hot, fresh ingredients, and a thick handle of crust. It looked amazing, and we were able to control ourselves long enough to snap a photo before we attacked our dinner like savages.

Unfortunately, it didn't taste as amazing as it looked. While we appreciated the noticeable lack of grease (side note: I have never seen such a non-greasy pizza. It was something of an anomaly) and generous toppings, I was disappointed in the sauce distribution. Some bites were virtually sauce less while other bites were saucier, as if the sauce wasn't spread evenly in preparation. Me, I like some sauce on my pizza so I found the sauce situation wanting. The crust had a unique buttery flavor and was crisp at the ends but limp and damp in the middle, as if the weight of the toppings caused it to simply give up and cave in. I ate two pieces and immediately felt compelled to unbutton my jeans because this is the kind of pizza that fills a gal up. You aren't going to leave here hungry. The hubby managed to eat three and we still had leftovers to box up and take home. We agreed that the pizza itself was strangely salty and thirst-causing; a fact that irritated the hubby because his soda can ran dry. I also caught him picking olives off the pizza because he felt the olive to other topping ratio was out of whack.

Many of you fondly recommended Fat Lorenzo's, and I can feel your indignant rage seeping through my computer screen. It's not personal. I wanted to love it. I wanted to be younger and thinner and relive pizzas of my misspent youth. It just didn't happen last Saturday night. Maybe a few adult beverages would have improved my experience. Maybe I should have topped off the meal with gelato. Or maybe – just maybe – Fat Lorenzo's is so amazing not because of the food but because of the experience.

Price & Value: For under $25, two people can enjoy pizza tonight and have enough to enjoy it for lunch (or a midnight snack) tomorrow. Fat Lorenzo's is a great next-day pizza. It reheats really well and I actually enjoyed it more for lunch the next day than when it was fresh. The formerly limp and damp crust parts firmed up or something and it was a perfect Sunday lunch.

Waiting for the Check: There's no waiting around here. Our Energizer Bunny / Cardio-Kickboxing server sprinted by, threw a box down for us, and deposited the check with lightening speed. In fact, it took me longer to sign the bill than for the entire transaction to complete.

Post-Pizza Mood: Have I mentioned that we were stuffed to the gills? We were definitely not hungry and we had a good time at Fat Lorenzo's. Our post-pizza moods came in at a solid 7.5 for each of us.

Bottom Line: I don't know that I'll make a special trip to Nokomis just to taste this pizza again. It wasn't the worst pizza I've ever had by a long shot, but it also wasn't the best. I would, however, make the trip to meet good friends, enjoy the sidewalk seating and watch the world go by. And next time, I'm going to have the damn gelato.

Week 2: Latuff’s Pizzeria – Plymouth, MN

2013-07-19T16:17:00.001-07:00

Prior to departing on our second consecutive Saturday evening pizza data, the hubby and I spent some quality time outlining our official pizza rating criteria. Developing a consistent rubric for pizza grading is imperative if we want to be able to conduct a true "apples to apples" (or in this case, slide to slice) comparison.

We didn't venture far from home and instead, found ourselves at Latuff's Pizzeria which is located a mere 3.9 miles from our front door - a fact which begs the question, "Why, then, was this our first visit?" I suspect my own reticence to dine there previously was largely due to my inability to pronounce the name combined with the generally poor aesthetic appeal of the building's exterior. After an actual visit to Latuff's (whose name I am still unclear on how to pronounce), I must admit that it's actually not the building itself that's ugly. It's just the sign. And that is one damn ugly sign.

The actual building itself isn't quite so ugly and appears to have a nice outdoor patio, although it was both hot, muggy, and about to thunderstorm the day we visited, so I admired the patio while hustling into the drier, less humid, air.

It's important that you understand that I was actively campaigning for the title of Mayor of Crankytown on pizza day. I was exhausted, I had a migraine, and I was not in the mood to be around people, places or things. My better half, however, was jovial and in good spirits, so we were quite a force to be reckoned with. It was this obvious difference in our dispositions that introduced the first rating criteria; pre-pizza mood. We used a ten point rating scale, with one being "Mayor of Crankytown" and ten being "beyond awesome". It is entirely possible that the pre-pizza mood may impact our ability to impartially rate the actual pizza experience, so in the spirit of transparency, here's how we were feeling as we pulled into Latuff's parking lot.

Pre-pizza mood Ratings:

Princess D: 3

Hubby: 8

Speaking of parking lots, we also agreed that we needed to evaluate the parking situation. As I may have shared previously, I am a terrible driver and an even worse parker, if that's possible. Every accident I've ever been in involves my car and an inanimate object, such as a fence; garage; snow bank; pillar; or expensive Jaguar at the Calhoun Beach Club parking ramp. Parking ramps make me break out into hives, which presents a unique challenge Monday through Friday when I have to park in a ramp in order to go to work. I am so parking phobic that there are establishments I will not frequent because the parking situation is not to my liking. (Trader Joe's in St. Louis Park . . . I'm talking to you.) But I digress. To rate the parking situation, I asked myself, "Self," I asked, "Would I, a known terrible driver, be able to handle this parking situation on my own?" And the answer for Latuff's is a resounding yes.

Parking Situation:

Excellent. Paved lot, wide parking spots, minimal hazards that I might smash into and a short walk from lot to pizza.

Exterior Appearance:

I don't care what my mother (or yours) told you . . . . books do get judged by their covers. And pizza places get judged by their exterior appearances. Latuff's . . . eh. At the risk of repeating myself, there's a reason I live less than four miles away and I never stopped here. We know it's not the parking lot. This place doesn't look like much on the outside.

Entrance/Welcome:

Last week, when we dined at Parkway Pizza, it was not abundantly clear what I was supposed to do upon entering the restaurant. Should I sit? Wait to be seated? Go away? Prior to my dining at Parkway, it never occurred to me to rate a restaurant's entrance/welcome, but after my own confusion and observing other equally befuddled Parkway patrons last weekend, it became clear that this is an important part of the pizza experience.

When you walk into Latuff's, you'll see both a host/hostess station where someone will greet you and seat you as well as an area where guests can pick up pizzas for takeout. Hence, there is a lot of activity in the lobby of Latuff's but minimal confusion. We were seated within seconds of walking through the door, so I give them high marks for the welcome.

Interior Appearance:

I'm not going to lie to you. Latuff's is not winning any awards for interior decorating, unless there is an award for best Cracker Barrel impersonation. There is a strong rooster motif, combined with very dim lighting. If you're really into fowl, you'll feel right at home. While the decor didn't do much to enhance my own pizza experience, the dining room is clean and tidy, so I won't deduct points for their obvious rooster love.

Clientele and Overall Vibe:

The clientele was a good mix of people who obviously eat a lot of pizza and probably enjoy some all-you-can-eat buffets as well and young families. It was clearly a local crowd, and the place was hopping at 6:30 PM on a Saturday night. There were a few empty tables when we arrived but the place started to fill up by the time we left, and there was a steady stream of takeaway customers. If you're a swinging single, I highly doubt that you'll meet your future life partner at Latuff's, but if you have small children or want to have a nice pizza dinner with your parents, I think you'll fit in just fine.

Waitstaff:

Our server, Heather, was great. (Side note: under normal circumstances, I never like girls named Heather. I have a long-standing tradition of making girls named Heather my arch-enemy. Way to be the exception to prove the rule, Heather from Latuff's!) She was extremely attentive, she made a personal connection with us, but she wasn't overbearing nor did she force me to talk to her through a mouthful of food. The hubby's iced tea glass remained full, and she was quick to offer to get me a second Blue Moon.

Menu Selection:

Although branded as a pizzeria, Latuff's boasts a wide and diverse array of menu selections that includes pizza, pasta, burgers, sandwiches, soups, and salads. I can't comment on their non-pizza menu items although I have it on fairly good authority (my friend Susan) that the lasagna is excellent and my dad fondly remembers the sausage and peppers meal he had at Latuff's not long ago. And if this was a blog about sausage or lasagna, that would be relevant and interesting. Moving on.

There is a good selection of specialty pizzas available and of course, you can make your own. In the spirit of, "when in Rome", we figured, "when at Latuff''s" We ordered a 14" Latuff's special, a thin crust pizza topped with sausage, pepperoni, green olives, black olives, onions, mushrooms, and green peppers. We may or may not have enjoyed a greasy plate of onion rings prior to the pizza.

Food Wait Time:

We are not patient people. In fact, we are so impatient that we are borderline hostile - and there is nothing we hate waiting for more than a meal. Because we are also fat and hungry. All the time. It took 24 minutes from the time we ordered our pizza until it arrived, piping hot and ready to enjoy.

Drumroll, please . . . the pizza itself:

Latuff's, I owe you an apology. You are the pizza I never knew I could find within a 4 mile radius of my own front door. Your thin crust is delectable and crispy. Your sauce is tart and has just the right amount of tomato and bite. Your toppings are fresh and plentiful and I, for one, appreciate that you did not over-cheese the pizza. While I love cheese, I do not love excessive amounts of melted cheese that has the potential to coagulate into something designed to strangle me in my throat. Your pizza is not dripping with grease, it's cut into fun to eat squares, and it goes great with a glass of Blue Moon, as pictured below.

Price & Value:

Latuff's wasn't a cheap date. Our large specialty pizza - which was more than enough to feed two fatties with big appetites - was $23.95. We ate 2/3 of it there and brought the rest home. I'd love to tell you how the leftovers tasted, but the hubby ate the remaining pizza as a 3 AM snack while I slumbered. I didn't hear any complaints, though.

Waiting for the Check:

I've explained how we're impatient. We also loathe waiting around for the bill. Our bill arrived promptly - we didn't feel like we were being kicked out but we also didn't have to beg for it - and we were able to make a speedy exit. I needed to get home to change into elastic-waist pants after all that food.

Post-Pizza Mood

Although my mood was altered by beer (positively), both the hubby and I agreed that we felt like perfect 10's after dining here. We also felt ten pounds heavier but we didn't let that bring us down.

Bottom Line:

The next time I'm hankering for a thin crust pizza, I'll consider making the trip to Latuff's, although I will probably opt for takeout. Easy to find, easy to park, tasty pizza. If you live or work within 5 miles of Latuff's, there is no excuse not to eat pizza here. For the rest of you . . . would I make a special trip? Probably not. But if you are visiting beautiful Plymouth, MN with $30 burning a hole in your pocket and craving some pizza, you could do a whole lot worse than Latuff's. Trust me.

For Better and For Worse

2013-06-17T13:54:00.001-07:00

When you're having the big Cinderella wedding, standing in your puffy white dress in front of God, your family, and your friends, you're amazed that it's finally happened. You've found love. You're making a lifelong commitment. This is it! So, you stand there and proclaim your vows, talking about for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, yadda yadda yadda. What I didn't realize as I pledged my undying love to my prince is this – according to an Ohio State University study of 10,000 men and women, there's going to be a lot more of me to love. The average new wife gains over 20 pounds in the first year of marriage alone! Here's the best part – major weight gain is pretty much inevitable for women who marry after age 30. If you're not a Buckeyes fan, simply Google ""women getting fat after marriage" and watch as over 133 MILLION results come back in under 0.22 seconds. There is an entire cottage industry dedicated to "post-wedding pudge" removal.

I pride myself on being able to be as cliché as the next gal, so you know that I busted a move to look my best in my wedding dress. In the 10 months leading up to my nuptials, I engaged the professional help of Trainers Dan; Jared; and Eric, not to mention that adorable supermodel at the YMCA who gave private TRX lessons to Mom, Dad, and me. In fact, I spent most of the 10 months prior to my wedding applying heat to various body parts, mainlining ibuprofen, and complaining about various aches and pains from my shoulders to my calves to my ass. I lost about 15 pounds and became slightly less weak, although no more graceful and significantly whinier as a result. I subjected myself to monthly weigh-ins and evaluations, which led to monthly lectures about my diet and nutrition, which I promptly discounted and ignored. Had I employed even the smallest bit of willpower, I wouldn't have had to work nearly so hard to get into my wedding dress.

In my seven blissful weeks of wedded bliss, I've been on a cruise ship with all-you-can-eat everything available around the clock. I've written out a zillion thank you cards. I returned to work after a two-plus week hiatus to find that I was buried under a pile of electronic mail and to-do's . . . and I have embraced carbs. Especially cake. The numbers on the scale would be jumping up if I had the nerve to step on it to assess the damage. I've made it to the gym for a total of three workouts since my wedding, and I would be lying to all of us if I said my heart was in it. Like Stella, I seem to have lost my groove. She managed to get hers back, though, so I'm maintaining optimism.

I can't help but wonder if my struggles are a signal from the universe. My first workout as a Mrs didn't go so well. I dragged myself to the gym, overcoming a very strong urge to skip the exit and drive to the nearest all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. I started bargaining with myself – out loud – in the car. "It's just a 25 minute session with your trainer. Get through that and you can go home. You can skip the cardio. It's ok." After talking myself out of egg rolls, I pulled in to the parking lot at my cut-rate, bargain (You bring your own towels here, folks. If you don't bring your own, you'll be drying yourself with toilet paper.) gym, I noticed right away that something was amiss. Specifically, 2/3 of the parking lot was missing. Since I hit the gym after work, I'm there with all the gym dolls, muscle heads, and other lazy fatties trying to work off their caloric sins, and parking is at a premium all the time. Suffice to say, the recent deconstruction of the parking lot to make way for a Goodwill store (yes, really) threw me for a loop as I couldn't find any place to park and wound up parking illegally at the Target store across the street and hoofing my big, fat, wedded ass to the gym. Strike one. I changed clothes, greeted my trainer, and started my torture session . . . er . . . workout. About five minutes into our session, my trainer informed me that he would no longer offer evening sessions but he'd be glad to continue our work together at 5:30 AM. Strike two.

Since I was finding the gym so torturous and the whole parking situation was irritating me, I decided maybe I needed to try something new, and I convinced a friend and my cousin to sign up for a barre class with me. Because the class was scheduled for Wednesday evenings, I rearranged my entire fitness schedule to accommodate this new foray into physical fitness, only to find out the day before the class was supposed to start that it was canceled due to low attendance. Strike three. I rescheduled myself for a MONDAY barre class, which in turn, has screwed up my entire summer personal training schedule and frankly, has me reaching for the chips and salsa. I would call it strike four but that's overkill, even for me.

Do I want to gain 21 pounds between now and April 26, 2014? Not particularly – because that will require me to buy new pants, and there are very few things on earth that I find more loathsome than shopping for pants. I also don't particularly want to audition personal training candidates, nor do I maintain a high degree of confidence that barre fitness won't kill me dead. I don't want to change my eating habits either, but let's face it. I'm not getting any younger and if I'm merely average, I'm doomed to gain 20 pounds in the next year. As an overachiever, I assure you – I will do more than just the average. If the average woman gains 20 pounds, I'll pack on 40 – and the fear of 40 additional pounds of me to love is the only thing getting me off the couch and out of the fridge. As we say in the exciting world of change management, I have reached a point where the pain of maintaining the status quo is greater than the ongoing pain I will feel in my muscles and joints as I work to beat the odds.

I managed to get married without being a total Bridezilla, so the last thing I want to do is become a body double for Godzilla in year one of marriage. I hope that's enough motivation to help me recommit to an exercise program. And – since I have definitely piled on some post-wedding pudge in the last seven weeks, I'm going to watch my diet and whittle my waistline so I don't need to go buy all new pants. In the next eight weeks, I am going to work with Trainers Aaron and Jared at the gym with a Goodwill building where the parking lot should be. I'm going to try barre fitness class with my brave and way more graceful and fit cousin, Jhanel. And I am going to use My Fitness Pal to log every calorie that passes my lips. My poor prince. It's going to be a long summer.

From Princess to Missus: The End of the Frog Blog

2013-04-13T10:33:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Princess? No. Queen of the Bridezillas.

2013-01-02T08:55:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Am I related to this person?
If so, have I seen, spoken to, or interacted with this person in the past ten years?
If not, no invitation
Is this a person I want to share this experience with me?
If so, will they view attending my wedding as a form of torture?
If yes, no invitation

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

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

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

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

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

Vain Vs. Lazy – A Princess Gets Less Fat

2012-09-23T15:28:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Nate, With Love

2012-05-23T18:13:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

White Girl Problems: A Fairy Tale

2012-04-19T15:30:00.002-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2012 Princess D

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

2012-01-23T13:57:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fairytale Ending!

2011-12-24T05:51:00.001-08:00

Now that my life has become more than merely a series of horrendously bad first, second, and third dates, I've been spending my free time doing all the normal stuff that people in relationships do . . . watching DVDs, eating pizza, hanging out, talking, and all that jazz. And let me be clear. I've never been happier in my life. However, there appears to be a negative correlation between my ability to write humorous blog entries and my increased happiness. And for that, dear readers, I apologize.

If you're just catching up on the antics of our heroine, I'll bring you up to speed. In August, I kissed a frog who magically transformed into a prince. Of course, being skeptical and somewhat of a connoisseur in the frogs gone wrong category, I was hesitant to cue the celebratory parade right away. But I'm not going to lie to you – your princess has finally met her match, so last night, when the prince handed a big sparkly (and yes, princess cut!) diamond ring to me, I said yes and promptly went into shock.

Even while in shock, I knew there were a few phone calls I had to make – to my parents and a few other "bffs" out there. And that, dear readers, is where things get entertaining. Indulge me for a moment while I replay some of the highlights for you.

Highlight #1: Call to my mom & dad

Me: "Hi, sorry to call so late. But I wanted to tell you I just got a diamond ring from the man!"

Mom: "That's nice. What does that mean?"

Me, in exasperated tone of voice: "Isn't it obvious? He quit his day job and is moving to Africa to harvest blood diamonds!"

Mom: "Ha ha ha. Congratulations!" Muffled sounds of my dad talking over me in the background. "Hold on a second, honey . . . Dad, Princess is engaged!"

Dad: "To who?" Followed by muffled sounds between Mom and Dad. Unsure of the nature of this dialogue.

Me: "Is it any wonder I have spent the GDP of a small country in therapy bills?"

Mom: "Well, this is just wonderful. When's the big day?"

Me: "Mom, I've had the ring on for all of 35 seconds. I haven't planned the blessed event yet. But I promise, you'll be invited."

Mom: "Ha, ha. I just woke up. Be nice."

Highlight #2: Call FROM my mom & dad, approximately five minutes after hanging up from the first call

Me: "Hello?"

Mom: "Your dad . . ."

Me: "Huh?"

Mom: "Your dad had a premonition this would happen."

Me: "Really? Then why did he ask 'to who' earlier?"

Mom: "You know he thinks he's funny. How cute is this premonition?"

Highlight #3: Call from The Snake

Me: "Snake, I'm engaged!"

Snake: "Will you be showing for the wedding? And also, make sure you get a prenup."

Me: "What is the matter with you?"

Snake: "I'm kidding! Congratulations! But seriously . . . are you pregnant or something? And when's the big day?"

Highlight #4: Overheard during call to the Man's parents

Man: "Well, I did it!"

Man's Dad: "So . . . did she accept?"

Man: "Why else would I be calling you?"

Man's Dad: "So – when's the big day?"

Highlight #5: Call to one of my BFF's

Me: "Did you see the text I sent you?"

BFF: "I sure did. Beautiful. But the heat is out at my house. Can you guys come fix it?"

Me: "On the way."

[20 minutes later when we arrive . . . ]

BFF: "Oh, snap! This means you're engaged! I just thought you had a new ring!"

I am confident that this is just the beginning of a series of entertaining and awkward discussions, and I look forward to all of them. My fairytale is coming true! Does this mean I'll stop blogging? Sorry, folks – but the blog shall continue, however, it may require a new name since I'm officially resigning as Princess of Frog Kissing. I am soliciting recommendations for a new blog name to celebrate this new chapter. And in other news . . . HOLY SHIT! My fairytale is coming true!

Irony . . . or How I Found a Prince Lurking in a Basement

2011-09-05T16:52:00.000-07:00

Dear readers . . . I have some news. You may want to sit down for this. Take a deep breath, folks. I have some news.

This princess is done kissing frogs.

I haven’t followed through with my threats to join a convent or become a lesbian nun, and I haven’t thrown in the towel, choosing to become a crazy cat lady instead of facing yet another date from hell. In an ironic twist of fate (FYI God – your warped sense of humor isn’t lost on me), the very minute I became comfortable and secure with my singleton status . . . Prince Charming showed up.

I never expected to meet my prince hanging out in one of my best friend’s basements. When my domestic projects were completed with the installation of the infamous dishwasher by what I lovingly referred to as some eye-candy on New Year’s Eve, I didn’t realize that the plumber crack I was admiring might belong to the man of my dreams. A month later, when I stumbled out of my best friend’s bedroom sporting a helluva hangover, wild woman of Borneo hair, and old lady jammies only to have an awkward early morning bathroom encounter with a hottie, I never once thought, “I bet we’ll go on a date one day.” But that’s what transpired.

I met a dandy, handy man last fall – and we became friends, first on Facebook and then in real life. The first time I met him, he thought I was your run-of-the-mill desperate tramp who’d been lured into his roommate, The Snake’s lair, and he therefore spoke to me in a rude and patronizing tone. I gave him a quick once over and decided that although he was pretty hot, he was immune to my feminine wiles. Since he also insulted both me and my intelligence within five minutes of meeting me, I wrote him off as gay – because as we all know, the only men who don’t fall prey to my charms are gay. Or vampires.

This is hardly the stuff of fairy tales, I know. My handy prince was in a serious relationship with someone and as you know, I was revenge dating both at and below my level. Fast forward to two months ago, when Handy broke up with his serious gal pal and I jokingly said, “Great – now you can take me out on a date.” Instead of viewing this opportunity as the grand prize it is, he laughed and said, “I don’t think so. You are WAY too tall for me.” Seriously?!? I retorted, and I quote, “You can try to resist me, but I will grow on you like a fungus. Just wait and see.” And it was on like Donkey Kong from that point forward.

I wore him down, as I knew I would. I also promised to wear flats on our first date. Don’t worry, though – Handy meets all of Princess D's Nine Commandments. (He’s less than an inch shorter than me, but to listen to him talk, I’m some kind of mutant freak.) Several glasses of iced tea and a pizza later, and I’d changed his mind about tall gals. Told you I’d grow on him like a fungus!

A month ago, I kissed a frog in the front seat of an Audi . . . and before my very eyes, the “ribbiting” stopped and a prince appeared. (Interestingly enough, his “castle” borders a moat-like swamp and there is a preponderance of frogs lurking around at all times. Did you need further proof of God’s ironic sense of humor?)

Has your princess found her prince? How many ways can she dream up to screw this up? How much weight will she gain eating pizza and not going to the gym now that she’s no longer revenge dating? Will she ever tell the truth about her age?

Watch this space for the answer to these burning questions! And to my prince . . . the best is yet to come.

Unanswered Prayers

2011-08-04T14:59:00.000-07:00

It might be the back-to-back episodes of Behind the Music I’ve been watching. It could be a side effect of purchasing and listening to that 1980’s Power Ballads CD. (And okay – I may have listened to it repeatedly while singing alone to Cinderella at the top of my tone deaf lungs.) Maybe it’s because I am flirting with middle age, but I would like to suggest that the most likely cause of my current nostalgia is my upcoming 20 year high school reunion.

20 years ago, I was an awkward teenager with a bad spiral perm, way too many pairs of acid-washed jeans, and an interesting collection of tobacco-company sponsored free t-shirts. Was I dating Joe Camel or something? Was my nickname Virginia Slim? (Doubtful given my plus-size at that juncture.) I assure you that the answer to these burning questions is no and no, yet I somehow managed to be photographed in an exclusive collection of casual-wear that advertised smoking. No wonder I’m no fashionista, even today.

At 17, I didn’t have a drivers’ license but I had a job where I earned minimum wage and ate my body weight in Reese’s Peanut Butter cups at the local convenience store. I got good grades without doing much heavy lifting, and aside from a foul mouth and messy bedroom, I’d like to think I was a good kid. (In fact, let’s go with that unless we hear otherwise from my parents, eh?) Although I’m more than a little horrified by the hair and makeup choices of my misspent youth, through the miracles of Facebook, I’m forced to confront these images on a daily basis as mean-spirited middle aged folks with scanners tag images of 17 year old me.

As I look into the red-eyes of my 17 year old self, I can remember how uncomfortable I was in my own skin back then. I like to joke that I didn’t go through puberty until I was 24, but in many ways, that’s no exaggeration. At 17, all I wanted to do was fit in, blend in, and get by – all of which were hard to do at nearly six feet tall and clumsy. Being smart and goal-oriented didn’t help too much either, since I had more in common with the parents of the kids my age than my own peer group. What I remember most, though, is what it felt like to be a 17 year old with a massive crush on a boy who couldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t feel the same way about me.

Neither frog nor snake nor tadpole, his name was Pete, and he was the prototype of the all-around American good guy in every John Hughes movie. He wasn’t just captain of the wrestling team, honor roll student, choir star, and homecoming king, but he was also the president of our church youth group. He did volunteer work, attended bible study, and . . . . he was nice to me. A sucker for chick lit and crappy Molly Ringwald movies even then, I fell head over heels for this poor boy. I can still remember his phone number and his birthday.

I’d love to tell you that Pete took pity on me and took me out on a date to put me out of my misery, but instead, he dated the girl who tormented me all through elementary school and beat me up on the playground in 5th grade. Not only did he date her, but he committed sinful acts with her that resulted in an unplanned pregnancy during our senior year! 20 years later, they’re happily married with five kids, a dog, and a house in the suburbs.

Pete broke my heart a million times . . . and I could not be more relieved. I assure you – I would be a lousy mom and there is absolutely no way I would withstand five (!) pregnancies, labors, and child-births without a hostage situation or casualties. While Pete and Mrs. Pete are clipping coupons, coaching youth soccer, and tooling around town in their minivan, I have sole ownership of the remote control and a healthy bank account. I’m sure it wasn’t easy starting a family and a marriage at 18 years old – and it was certainly not a proud moment for our church youth group when our president’s premarital sex was on display for all to see – but Pete persevered. And also managed to lose all his hair! Since he is both highly fertile and completely bald, it’s pretty easy to breathe a sigh of relief and, in the words of the great Garth Brooks, thank God for unanswered prayers.

Since Pete was immune to my feminine wiles, I pined away for him, perfecting the art of stalking while keeping my Friday nights and weekends free in case he changed his mind. And that, dear readers, is how I wound up attending college, getting a useless liberal arts degree, falling in love with a boy from my high school, having my heart broken for real, meeting Mr. Wrong, attending therapy, and becoming a princess. (In my own mind) . 17 year old me used to sign “Mr. & Mrs. Pete” all over my Trapper Keeper, cut pages out of Modern Bride as I planned our imaginary wedding, and incessantly called him from our house phone, complete with cord, hanging up at the sound of his voice. This was before caller-id, kids. (Note to all frogs and potential princes: although I perfected the art of stalking, I am not an actual stalker. Really. This is not grounds for rejection.)

Back in 1991, Pete’s rejection stung a little bit – but today, I couldn’t be happier at the way my life has turned out. Of course, there is a little part of me that is pretty sure that Pete is gay (because as we know, I possess the universally appealing trifecta of big boobs, small waist, big paycheck). Had Pete not been gay – or in love with a very, very, very mean girl who wasn’t me – I might not have gone to college; met my soul mate and spent beautiful time with him before he passed away; or bought a home. I probably wouldn’t be in therapy, either, but then again – if I had five kids, all bets are off.

The great thing about being 30-something is that I’m not 17. What’s that old saying? Youth is wasted on the young. I may have wrinkles, gray hair, a therapist, and a vast array of creams and ointments designed to counteract the aging process, but I’m pretty secure about who I am today. Your princess works hard; loves fiercely; believes that everyone deserves a second (or third) chance; is educated; is blessed with health and wealth beyond her wildest dreams; is tall enough to reach stuff on the top shelf and confident enough to wear high heels anyway. I’m not the shy, nervous nerd I was back in 1991 – and just the other day, my personal trainer told me that I’m “pretty hot for an old lady”. In fact, in the words of my four best friends, John, Paul, George & Ringo . . . “it’s getting better all the time!”

© 2011 Princess D

My Grass Ain't Green - But it IS Real

2011-07-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

As an aspiring writer and self-proclaimed princess, I often apply the principles of creativity to the facts. I don’t really consider my creative interpretation of the truth problematic but rather, I find that it makes for far more interesting storytelling. Anyone who’s had the misfortune of spending more than about 90 seconds in my presence is all too familiar with my slight penchant for the melodramatic – and although I suspect it may be a tad bit irritating to a lot of folks, I’m not particularly motivated to make any changes to my personality at this point in my middle-age.

If you’ve been keeping up with my antics, you likely recognize that, like all vain women of a certain height, weight, and age, I lie about all of the afore-mentioned. All the time. In fact, the only way you’ll get a truthful answer from me on any of these topics is if I’m under oath; under the influence of truth serum; and simultaneously tied to a scale holding my birth certificate in my teeth.

My height and weight are less of an issue these days. Once you’ve been deemed too tall for online dating and dumped via text for being “too big” (thanks a lot, Frog #11), you merely chuckle, write a big fat check to your personal trainer, and persevere. What’s causing me to stress eat these days isn’t my weight, but rather, my birthday which is less than three weeks away and my 20 year high school reunion which follows shortly thereafter.

Why all the talk about honesty and creative math? Well . . . I’m about to be real. In all honesty and sincerity, I neither feel nor act my age. Most of the time, I look around and I think, “Damn, girl! You are one lucky biotch.” (Side note: no idea why I talk to myself in that tone of voice. Believe me – the Elf Therapist and I are working on it, okay?) I’m gainfully employed in a job that allows me to own a home, drive a cute hybrid car, and travel to exotic places like Switzerland just because I feel like it. I have the world’s cutest and naughtiest felonious dog sharing my living quarters. I have a good family, amazing friends, and shit . . . I’m a princess! Seriously – why are the paparazzi stalking famous people when I am flaunting royal awesomeness right out there in the open? Feel free to snap a picture, folks.

So, if my existence is so flipping wonderful, why am I chewing my cuticles and dreading these upcoming milestones? (Or is it milepost? Does it matter? You know what I’m talking about, right?) Before I explain why I’m filled with fear, let me tell you who I blame for all this. Yup, boys and girls – I blame women’s magazines, Brother Edward (the celibate Christian brother who taught us about the birds and the bees), Carrie Bradshaw, and the Lifetime Movie Network.

Here’s the problem. In spite of my feminist mom’s best efforts – and I did enjoy all those field trips to the Tonka Truck Factory – Catholic school, television, fairy tales, Barbie and all kinds of other evil forces conspired against her. Somewhere, I got the crazy-ass idea that the only way to live happily ever after was to get married (preferably in the Church so you could receive the sacrament); procreate within the confines of marriage as Jesus intended to the tune of 2.5 offspring; and why not bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan, too?

How I got the idea that becoming a Stepford soccer mom was the key to lifelong happiness is a mystery to me. Sure, they have a lovely family to come home to and built-in entertainment in the form of t-ball games and parent-teacher conferences, but when’s the last time they were able to eat a brick of cheese for dinner and wash it down with Grainbelt Premium? When was the last time they laid around on the couch in their underwear, just because they could? And don’t even get me started on the benefits of sole remote control proprietorship.

Like I said, I don’t normally give a frog’s fat behind about the fact that I’m not living the dreams I had for myself when I was a little girl. I had questionable taste back then as evidenced by the preponderance of velour and tube socks in the family photo albums. Left to my own devices, I’m just fine with my lot in life. It’s these “Princess and Guest” invitations that are killing me.

Whether it’s some wedding, reception, or yes – even a reunion, when you’re a single (as opposed to a couple), you’ve got some difficult choices to make. Do you show up alone, sidle up to all the smug couples and flaunt your solo status, complete with full remote control privileges? It’s definitely an option, if you don’t mind being interrogated on the many, many things that make you a freak of nature. You’ll be asked embarrassing questions by virtual strangers who want nothing more than for you to be a divorcee with a few kids at home. Your “never married” status makes everyone uncomfortable. What on earth is wrong with you that no man has ever tried to make an honest woman out of you? At your age, shouldn’t you be in a rush to wed and reproduce? Or are you some kind of kid-hater? You’ll endure a lot of pitying glances and you’ll be left no choice but to drink away your sorrows, which will lead to a whole new theory about your singledom – alcoholism. You leave with the distinct feeling that folks would prefer that you couple up with any frog/slug/creep you can find just so you’ll fit in. Never mind that you’re a fabulous princess . . . could you just stop making everyone else feel awkward?

Option B isn’t a much better plan, although it does allow for plot and character development, since it’s based on a series of lies. In Option B, you bribe one of your best-looking manpanions to pretend that he is madly in love with you for the duration of said event. Since the pretty ones aren’t usually too bright, you may need to script and rehearse the event. It’s also important to establish ground rules, such as:

It is not okay to leer at other women or ask for their phone numbers while you are pretending we’re in love.

Stay in character at all times! Do not disclose that it’s all an act. This will merely incite more princess pity.

Let me do the talking. Just nod and look at me adoringly.

Feel free to flash your awesome abs anytime you want. A lot. And then tell me you love me.

But it's reality check time. I have a lot of friends who’ve been through painful, nasty divorces. They’ve had their hearts broken. They’re fighting their baby-daddies (or mommies) for child support payments while raising their families on their own. They’re struggling to keep the lights on and put food on the table. They’ve been lied to, betrayed, cheated on . . . and they’re trying to figure out how to keep on keeping on.

I’m not foolish enough to believe that the grass is greener on the other side. I can see over the fence and my neighbor’s lawn looks just as bad as mine. I can see the dog pee stains, the crab grass, and the ants. The difference is this. I put my rotten lawn out on display and let the whole world know it’s not perfect, but this is what a princess’ lawn looks like. Meanwhile, my neighbors are outside with their weed killer and sod, working their fingers to the bone to prove to the world that the lawn they’ve created is the ideal.

If the key to happily ever after lies in a well-manicured lawn, I’m in trouble. I don’t want to spend every waking hour on high alert for weed infestation. I don’t want to be in love with my mulcher. In fact, that might be a great opening line at my 20 year high school reunion. While everyone else whips out pictures of their families, I’ll proudly show off pictures of my dog taking a crap on my lawn . . . because that is how a princess rolls.

Frog #11: The Big, Fat Mistake

2011-06-24T18:49:00.000-07:00

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!

Dating at Your Own Level - At Your Own Risk

2011-05-05T15:53:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-26T20:25:00.000-07:00

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.”

Snakes, Liars . . . And Frog #10

2011-02-25T09:17:00.000-08:00

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 . . .

2011-01-30T14:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Royal Words of Wisdom

2010-12-31T18:47:00.000-08:00

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:

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?”
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.
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”.
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.

From Kissing Frogs to Snuggling with Dogs

2010-11-21T04:41:00.001-08:00

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!

Selective Memory . . .

2010-11-04T19:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-11-04T09:16:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-09-27T14:59:00.001-07:00

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!

Be Careful What You Wish For . . .

2010-08-30T12:56:00.001-07:00

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.

Keeping a Suitor: Harder than Kissing a Frog

2010-08-01T19:57:00.000-07:00

A clever gal with a witty sense of humor and excellent fashion sense recently told me that ending the frog blog now would be - and I quote - "like Melrose Place stopping mid-season". While I appreciated the sentiment enough to get off my rear end and update my 21 fans on what's up, for the record, I sincerely hope that the drama quotient here in the Powderhorn Park neighborhood is significantly less than the havoc wreaked by Amanda, Michael, Sydney et al. Once again, if you don't know who or what I'm talking about, you are too young to be reading this and your parents should be ashamed of themselves for not more diligently monitoring your internet usage. (You know who you are.)

Suitor #1 and I have been dating each other - and only each other - for nearly two months. Kissing frogs, while frequently degrading, humiliating, and always entertaining, is actually a hell of a lot easier than being in a relationship with one. Who knew? When you're merely kissing frogs, you wear a push-up bra, put on some extra eye-liner, and you smile sweetly until your face hurts. But eventually, you wind up back home, alone, where you can safely wear the same sweatpants you've owned since college, a mustard-stained GeekSquad t-shirt you scored free, and the ugliest, grayest pair of giant granny panties known to mankind. You can drown your sorrows in a glass (botttle) of Pinot Grigio, you can fill the emptiness inside you with Skinny Cow ice cream treats, and you can write ridiculous blog entries about your latest disaster while laughing at your own jokes.

When you are trying to relate to someone else, it’s a whole different story. You walk the tightrope between wanting to put your best face forward and opening up completely to someone else. You wonder, “Will he still like me when he finds out what my breath smells like in the morning?” You diligently avoid eating anything with onions or that might lead to excessive intestinal gas. God forbid he finds out that you . . fart. Or poop. Or anything else remotely human.

Part of the charm of Suitor #1 is that he is just as clueless as I am about what to do, and he’s just as afraid of screwing up as I am. We spend a lot of time dancing around landmines as a result. It’s no secret that I’m not all that thrilled about his ex-wife and tadpoles. I know it’s irrational and ridiculous at my age, but I resent being someone’s second or third choice. I’m a princess, for God’s sakes, not a consolation prize. Thanks to the brainwashing of Disney, Sweet Valley High, and countless chick flicks, I’ve come to believe that nirvana is walking down the aisle in a cute dress and a tiara. I want to believe that Mr. Right has been sitting on the sidelines (maybe in a chastity belt?) just waiting for me to show up all these years. Insane? Uh . . . yes. As Suitor #1 aptly pointed out, it’s not like I was just sitting on my big ass waiting for Mr. Right to swoop by on a white horse all these years myself. And yet, to me, there is a significant difference between me shacking up with Mr. Wrong for 14 years and him standing in front of God and everyone else and saying, “I do . . . for better and for worse.”

Since I met this guy, I’ve been looking for reasons to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction – and for every reason I want to flee for the hills, he gives me two more reasons to stay put and follow my heart. Let me catalogue the evidence for you.

Exhibit A: The birthday party.
I threw a little soiree for myself this year in honor of the 10th anniversary of my 27th birthday. I really wanted to see the people I care about most on my birthday and I didn’t know any other way to do it beyond throwing a little party. Just add alcohol and look at that! We can all get along. I purposely threw this party on a day when I knew Suitor #1 would be preoccupied with his tadpoles because I didn’t want him to feel obligated to make an appearance. It’s stressful meeting the friends! Not only did he secure a babysitter, he showed up and in spite of the fact that I know he would have preferred a root canal without Novocain; he hung in there and met my friends. Why is this such a big deal, you ask? I’ll tell you why.

Some of you have known me a long time – and many of you never laid eyes on Mr. Wrong in all those years. In fact, several people wondered if he was a figment of my imagination since he rarely ventured out in public with me. I learned early on that Mr. Wrong only did what he wanted when he wanted. He would never submit to a night with my friends where he wasn’t the center of attention. Consequently, I hardly saw my friends for 14 years, and I went a lot of places alone. Or with my girlfriends, leading several to wonder if I’d adopted a lesbian lifestyle. (While I’ve threatened it many times, as it turns out, I like dudes. It’s my cross to bear.)

Exhibit B: Attention to Detail
I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, but for some reason, I get a lot of flowers. When they come from my amazing friends, I cherish them and wonder how I got so lucky to have the world’s greatest friends. I often get red roses, however, from misguided frogs in an attempt to weasel their way into my Grinch-like heart. My motto is this. Save your money! Please. While flowers are beautiful, the way to this Princess’s heart is through quality time and service. Mow my lawn and I’ll love you forever. (Yes, Dave – this means you.) Cook me dinner and you’ll have a hard time getting me to leave your kitchen, or any other room of your house. (Frog #6 – I apologize for this. It’s just that you are a helluva cook. And there was CAKE, too.) Fix my refrigerator and I will make sure my legs are shaved every single time I see you.

Suitor #1 was asking some weird questions pre-birthday, along the lines of “what’s your favorite flower” and “if I wanted to send you something, where would I send it?” This led to awkward conversation #324 where I explained that he did not need to spend his hard-earned money on flowers for me, and in fact, if he was smart, he would invest it in the tadpoles’ college fund. I don’t want to be the reason these kids I haven’t met yet end up working at Red Robin. He kept pushing though, so I let it slip that sunflowers are my absolute favorite and you can save your roses for your prom date, thank you very much. It is also possible that I threatened to neuter him if he sent me flowers at work, but there are no witnesses so let’s not pursue that line of questioning any further, shall we?

I spent my birthday away from home but Suitor #1 didn’t forget my special day. He fed-exed me a birthday card at the office to make sure that I knew he was thinking of me on my day. I can’t think of anything sweeter than that! (I was also appalled that he spent $18 to mail a $3 card. We’re going to have to discuss this at some point.)

And, when I got home from work this week, I met a flower delivery guy who handed me the most beautiful bouquet of sunflowers I have ever seen. No stupid roses from this guy!

Is he tall, dark, and handsome? Yeah, he is. Since I was looking for red-haired and skinny, that’s not a ringing endorsement. (And that’s also not a lie, by the way.) Suitor #1 is everything I never knew I wanted and more than I ever imagined I could find.

Is it perfect? Of course not. This is life, not a fairy tale. He’s a little overprotective and a little insecure, and I’m a lot stubborn, have a big mouth, and I am independent as hell. What I think of as an innocent remark will keep him up all night wondering, “Is she harboring a crush on a dead guy?” or “What if she moves to Colorado?” What he considers helpful support can sometimes feel like smothering to me. What’s different is that we talk about it . . . all of it. And what makes him imperfect feels like the stuff I like the most.

I’m a smart princess and I know all about infatuation and lust and oxytocin. I know there is no such thing as “The One” and that none of us really live happily ever after, except really rich people who can afford to hire someone else to clean their toilets. (And even they don’t seem all that happy, to be honest.) But you know what? For once in my life, I’m not worried about happily ever after. I’m happy right now, in this moment. And that is enough.

© 2010 Princess D