Princess MoMo

Lest we forget, at the end of the day, this is my blog.  While I permit other’s perspectives, I would be remiss not to directly comment on the rendition.  So, because this is princessmomo.com and not mrredcoat.com, I’m going to go Kanye West on his post.  I’ma let you finish, but…my comments on his content are in bold below.

Mr Redcoat and the Princess

The ‘Princess’ has been kind enough to afford me the opportunity to post a response to her scathing post about me entitled ‘The Easter Bunny’.

Ladies and Gentleman this begrudging homework assignment is brought to you by none other than.. Mr Redcoat himself. [It’s unclear why he deems it a “begrudging homework assignment.” When he read my “scathing post,” he stated that he must “issue a rebuttal.”]

Firstly let me preface by saying that despite the fact that the ‘Princess’ paints me as some sort of major arsehole in her piece, she is in fact quite taken with me of late. This leads me to conclude either that I am an arsehole and she likes it or that I’m not an arsehole and she’s just lashing out because I didn’t bend to her will.

[There’s a third option. I’ll call it the “flies to shit” theory. Why are flies attracted to shit? It’s because, instinctively, the fly knows that in a pile of defecation, it will find some nutrients.  It may not be an ideal meal, but it does have its appeal.  To be clear, I’m not calling Mr. Redcoat a heap of dung; I’m just saying that nature is a bitch that sometimes causes us to gravitate towards questionable people/things.  Perhaps a more apt analogy would be to a bad drug.  The user knows it’s bad, but pursues the high anyway.]

After all, she did write a lovely little ditty about me in ‘Mr Redcoat: ‘Twas 13 Nights Before Christmas’.  [As you can assess from his post, Mr. Redcoat’s command of the English language is noteworthy.  So, yes, admittedly, my inner grammar nazi was smitten.]

I did indeed think that the ‘Princess’ looked like a stuck up bitch when I first saw her, though I did drool a little when making the observation. I pride myself on honesty and so told her as much. What’s more it seemed to be effective in disarming her as I’m fairly certain most men are obsequious, slavish and downright fawning when they meet our ‘Princess’. Now there is a distinct difference between being honest and being pugnacious/ hurtful, I believe I was the former. [It didn’t really matter whether he disarmed me or not.  We were left talking by default because our friends were politic-ing.  At some point, his “too cool for school” attitude annoyed me and I told him to stop talking to me.  He was overdoing the “play it cool” bit.  But, then he managed to dial it back to a tolerable level.]

My friend the so called cheater was busy [seducing] the Princess’s friend so I was stuck talking to the poodle. [Interesting word choice: “stuck.”  Poor guy.  He observed a female he found attractive walk in and then had her served to him on a festive pink and red platter and he characterizes that as “stuck.”  Bullshit alert.]  As the night wore on however, I was surprised to learn that my conversation partner was not only brilliantly clever (despite what the outfit suggested) but also emotionally deep. [My outfit was relatively tame compared to our surroundings.  It was Santacon.  I was garbed in red pants and a pink shirt.  Considering my wardrobe, that was subtle.]  We shared stories of our respective pasts, regaling troubling times as if old friends. A connection was made. A lasting impression. Totally unexpected.  [Let’s not forget to thank our moderator for that night: Grey Goose.  Without the Goose, said connection would not have been possible.  Or maybe we should blame it on the Goose.]

Over the subsequent days, as you all know I met the ‘Princess’ a few times and confirmed that she was a special find, worth pursuing and not the Kleenex poodle I initially thought. [I already explained this at length in a prior post, but it bears brief repetition.  His “poodle” assessment is baseless.  I didn’t do anything poodle-esque when he had branded me with that label.  I merely existed.  He literally saw me walk into a room and immediately decided I was a “poodle.”  Thus, it is clear that the label has less, if anything, to do with me and more to do with his defense mechanism.  “Oh, pretty girl? Must be a bitch.  I won’t bother.”] I then suffered a personal tragedy and the ‘Princess’ was there for me when I needed to talk on the phone or video chat. I didn’t much care for any sort of personal relationship at the time, indeed I wasn’t even sure I would be in New York much longer but something about her kindness really touched me. [I sometimes find his thought process to be disconnected from his actions.  Perhaps that may qualify as lack of self awareness.  He states he didn’t care for a personal relationship at the time, but he was driving the communication between us in terms of frequency and intensity.  And, his driving certainly did not indicate that he was interested in casual ongoings — particularly considering the deeply personal information he was sharing with Princess Poodle.] I barely knew this girl and here she was trying her best to console me. [Mistake on my part.  I’ve detailed why in my Easter Bunny post.]  I felt instant remorse for my initial assessment of her. One should never judge books by their shiny pink heels.  [Wrong.  One should absolutely judge books by their shiny pink heels and they should judge them as fabulous because only a fabulous book would be rockin’ shiny pink heels.]

We now come to the issue of the ‘eggs in one basket’. There I was, realizing that I’d found a jewel in that shithole bar in the city, surrounded by Santa costume donning buffoons. Realizing that I was very keen to see where things went with this beautiful, intelligent and outspoken rose. [He should have included a comma after ‘that’ in the prior sentence because without it, it sounds like a sentence fragment.  I’ve noticed in reading his post that he’s scant in his comma usage.  Interestingly, he’s British but doesn’t use the Oxford comma.]  Then I recalled her blog. Her facebook. Her Instagram. Her laundry list of gentleman she always saw fit to reference ad nauseam in my presence. Guys that would send her pictures. Videos. Offer to marry her. Buy her things. It was all fine and dandy when I thought I was just entertaining her while my friend seduced her friend. It was fine when I met her for lunch. Then we met for just one hour before I caught my flight for Christmas. The clock slowed down and it hit me hard, I realized I liked this self aggrandizing Princess but I’m never going to be able to hold onto her. Not long enough for me to have a fighting chance. I was one among many and I knew I didn’t fit her criteria. So I asked that she stop seeing other guys. Part of me was being selfish and possessive because I didn’t know exactly where things were going. Part of me feared the old rule of ‘out of sight, out of mind would ring true’. Part of me just wanted to test her. I was still pissed that she had been to see this ‘Ken Doll’ and given me gory details on her visit when we went to lunch. [Factually inaccurate. I hadn’t met with Ken Doll prior to our lunch date.  Thus, it is an impossibility that I shared the details during that meeting, unless quantum physics does, indeed, prove the plausibility of time travel.]  Mr Redcoat does not share. [One doesn’t go to the grocery store, see a delicious container of Double Dunker Ice cream (if you haven’t tried that ice cream, do yourself a favor and grace your mouth with the flavor), hesitate in securing the ice cream, and then get mad when another shopper scoops it up.  Likewise, it’s unreasonable to speak of “sharing” with respect to something or someone over which one has no claim.] I think that after just 3 times meeting in person, several phone calls and the odds stacked against us, it was reasonable to ask for a moratorium on ‘specimen slaying’ from someone I wanted to explore a future with. Labels were premature.  [You see, when I walked into the bar where we met, I was not infomercial-ing.  In other words, I wasn’t a 30 day money-back guarantee offer, which is precisely what he seemed to want.  Essentially, he wanted to put down a deposit to put the asset on hold while he continued to shop around.]

The shit really hit the fan when it came to light I had been talking to my ex girlfriend. OK so I downplayed her title a little but we hadn’t been serious for months. We talked when I was London dealing with the tragic loss of my mother. Not about her pussy. Not making plans to meet up. Not telling her I love her. Talking to her about my mum and how crushed I was. The ‘Princess’ thought she would cleverly investigate me and confronted me for my transgression. I didn’t lie and fessed up. No big deal right? Someone I’ve known for a year wants to be a shoulder for me to cry on, why is that a problem? Maybe the ‘Princess’ was looking for a way out of her perceived Faustian bargain and so made a mountain of a molehill. Maybe SHE was insecure. That was nearly the end for the ‘Princess’ and myself but I convinced her it was not worth axing our agreement over since I hadn’t physically been with my ex nor did I plan to be.

[Or, maybe, or more likely definitely, Mr. Redcoat’s omitting critical facts.  For instance, it was not the fact that he was seeking a shoulder to cry on that infuriated the Princess.  Rather, it was the failure to disclose that a significant factor on which the Princess had predicated her decision to commit to the “Faustian bargain” had now changed.  When he presented his moratorium proposal, I asked if he was still talking to the ex.  He said, “She’s gone.”  I later asked whether he explicitly discontinued contact or whether it was just a matter of putting it on the back burner.  He said it was explicit.  Interestingly, he had already resumed contact with her at that point.  He’d be grasping for straws in saying that it was an omission as opposed to a blatant lie.  I would argue that blatantly misleading someone in the face of questioning by that person qualifies as lying. Moreover, once my investigations revealed Mr. Redcoat’s bullshit, he explained that the ex flipped out when he told her that he had met someone else etc.  So, him conveying his reinstated relationship with this ex as strictly a matter of platonic consolation is disingenuous, at best, because what would irk her about his new found relations if their relations were strictly platonic?  In any event, his decision to withhold this information from me is indicative that he felt as though he gained something from hiding it. And, yes, that’s a big deal.] 

Communication between us was stilted and has dwindled significantly upon my return to beautiful New York in the new year. I was confused. I didn’t like being browbeaten in my fragile state and what’s more I didn’t need the stress of dating a private investigator with a memory akin to an elephant on Ritalin. I had to get my life back on track.  [Simple solution: Don’t be a fucking liar.]

In spite of this I recalled how supportive and sweet the ‘Princess’ had been to me and how much I liked her before I left for London so I travelled to the far and distant land she calls home only to be met with the same behaviour I had resigned myself to avoiding. After hearing the umpteenth story about the Princesses’ legions of specimens chasing her and watching in slow motion as she crooned at the adoration she received on social media from would be suitors, I’d had enough. Rather childishly I decided to give her a taste of her medicine and told her about a girl I knew a few years ago sending me pictures. Boom. The double standard explosion ensued; this was unacceptable to ‘Princess Hypocrite’. I incurred her wrath and was promptly sent on my way, in the middle of the night. Thank fucking Christ I thought at the time but no, the ‘Princess’ decided to put a pin in this transgression and we continued the night. We had a pleasant evening and I was lulled into a false sense of security until the next day, she brought up the incident again! I was being chastised a second time for the same thing, which was totally inconsequential (the girl in question who messaged me lives on the opposite side of the country). I was done. A few days later I ended my association with the ‘Princess’. I wanted a simple life and I told her I didn’t like drama from Day 1. I blamed myself for letting it get so far.  [Ladies and gentlemen, here we have an example of unsubstantiated rationalization in its highest form.  He wants to flip it, but it ain’t reciprocal.  Despite my repeated and factually supported explanations to Mr. Redcoat that my dismay with the texts he described was not based on the sender sending the pictures, but rather Mr. Redcoat’s response to them, he continues to act as though my rage was prompted by his receipt of the content.  There is a meaningful distinction.  If my agitation were prompted by his receipt of the pictures, then yes, I would willingly accept the crown as Princess Hypocrite.  But, that is not the case — so he can keep that crown on his hypocrite head and take a seat on his toilet throne of lies.  He cannot necessarily control the influx of questionable material sent to him; however, he can control his response or lack thereof — though, he claims that responding to a text is a “reflex.”  Come on, son.  It’s not my first day with a cell phone.  The fact that the sender lives across the country is a red herring he injects in an effort to make me appear irrational.  Yet, the location of the sender is of no import.  Whether she’s his neighbor or a resident of Zimbabwe, there was no need for him to respond.  My temper flared not so much because the of the substance of the argument, but because of his failure to acknowledge the proper premises of the argument.]

A month passed and I had been thinking about the ‘Princess’ a lot. I’d felt short changed. There had been potential but it was too explosive, too soon after my return to the US. Had I messed up? No sense pondering that, best get on with life. Until I received a text from the ‘Princess’. [The text wasn’t completely random.  He had opened the door for this contact by sending me a connection request on social media a few days prior.]  She was in the city. Unfortunately I was travelling but I asked her to let me know the next time she was visiting. She did. We met. We picked up where we left off the first night we met. Everything that happened in between sort of fizzled away, it was as if all was forgiven and we both felt sheepish. [I didn’t feel sheepish. I felt dumb about my decision to see him again, but in rare submission to my irrational side, I went along with it anyway.  Perhaps part of me thought that if I saw him again, I’d immediately realize what a jackass he is and I’d gain more power over the infrequent spurts of irrationality.  No such luck, though.  Unfortunately, I actually enjoyed seeing him.]  Now given the fervour with which the ‘Princess’ and myself depicted events this may seem strange. However, as abruptly as I am about to end this post, we both realized that there is no substitute for true chemistry and everything else is just bullshit.  [Our second run lasted a grand total of three weeks.  Finale post to follow]