For the past several months, the Critter and I have been wading through a series of fairy books by an author with the unlikely name of Daisy Meadows. (A quick internet search tells me that this is actually the pseudonym for a collection of four collaborative authors. My google-fu is strong).
Every night we read a couple of chapters from whichever Fairy we're on (we just finished Ella the Rose Fairy, and now we're working on Holly, the Christmas Fairy), and then I put the Fairy bookmark into the Fariy book, straighten her Fairy pajamas, and tuck her in with her Fairy duvet, underneath the Fairy hanging from the bed-tent top. You get the Fairy picture?
Yesterday, I found this.
As far as she's concerned, "princess" is just what the creepy old ladies who get in her face at the grocery store call her. I just don't understand why the only fairies they sell also have to be princesses. Is not enough just to be a fucking fairy? You've already got effervescent butterfly wings and a magic wand and pointy shoes and a toadstool couch and two little tiny ponies to pull you around the forest in a wee cart. On top of all that, you need to be a member of some faerie aristocracy? With a fairy castle with little pixie maidservants and a whole fiefdom of lesser fairies to tax in order to sustain your royal extravagances? Why is it perfectly acceptable to celebrate this lifestyle of excess permitted only to those lucky enough to be yanked out of most royal of fairy vaginas?
Now that I think about it, the thing I like about these Rainbow Fairy books we're reading is that each book centers around a "working Fairy" (which is different than a "Working Girl", if you know what I mean) - they are in charge of a certain type of flowers or spreading colors, or blowing air into souffle's or whatever it is that Fairies do.
But that struck so close to home that I nearly wet Fairy man-briefs in laughter.