I am so tired of all these little bluebirds landing on my shoulders every time I set foot outside. Chirp, chirp, chirp. Wanting me to sing that sappy song about Prince Charming again! It’s my only hobby really, singing as a human perch. I need a girl’s night out for sure.
Living with seven (count ‘em, seven!) little guys is a nightmare, though of course I was originally so grateful they took me in when that Evil Stepwitch tried to have me murdered. However, now I’m a domestic prisoner: seven bowls of porridge, seven bowls of everything, three times a day! And after a day in the diamond mine (and have I yet to get one of their pretty rocks?) these tiny dudes eat like a basketball team. Plus the laundry! What I wouldn’t do for a washer and dryer. The whole time I’m out there in the backyard with that half barrel of water I’ve had to boil, up to my shoulders in suds, those damn birds nestled all over my hair chirping happily like winged morons, I’m thinking, “Why me?”
It’s a cute little cottage if you like a fireplace for cooking, drafty rooms without ac or heat, and no electricity. A dishwasher is out until I can get these boys on the grid! Or I could get out of here.
Which may happen someday if Prince Charming makes up his blessed tiny mind. He spends more than half of his time, I’m sure, hacking with his long sword at those thorny vines at the palace of the opioid princess, Sleeping Beauty. What kind of nickname is that? Sounds like a horse. Oh, she has a real name: Aurora, lovely and golden like a fair dawn! Gimme a break. She should be called Princess Pillpopper. That blondie can sleep for all eternity unless she wants to come help me with Sneezy, Sleazy, Crabby, Grabby, Bossy, Klutzy, and Jerk. She lies around all day in her semi-coma, hair growing longer and more golden each day, I’m sure, skin smooth and satiny from deep rest, while I’m stuck here in a hovel playing Suzy Homemaker.
At least Goldilocks breaks the monotony. She’s a bit of a talker, but living with three grunting bears would make me conversation-starved too. She has her problems over there, though her three forage a lot so she doesn’t cook much, and they don’t have clothes to wash and mend. She’s got it easy. Three bowls of grits, dust the chairs, make the beds, and she’s done for the day. I don’t want to rag on her though. She’s all I’ve got.
I guess this whole thing with Sleeping Ugly bugs me more than I want to admit. She has a palace where she lies in state; I have this dump to sweep and seven maws to fill! And I put up with their incessant singing and clog dancing. Bad as the birds! I swear that cheery little concertina is going in the fire one of these days.
PLUS, when P.C. does drop by full of half-truths and promises while he strings S.B. and me both along, all he wants to do is kiss. Listen to me sing about him with the birds and then kiss. Hey, guy, I’m awake! You don’t need to do that. Take me out of here. Make your choice!
You know, he’s not such a hot catch either and he may not be the last bus out of town. Those tights! Those actually too-boyish good looks! That little crownish thing he always wears, probably to bed! Goldilocks thinks I ought to forget all about P.C. and try to hook up with the Huntsman who didn’t kill me. There was obviously chemistry there. While I still have my raven tresses, ruby-red lips, teeth like pearls, and complexion like fresh cream! To hell with the breakfast dishes, I’m going out and see if I can’t catch me a tall, dashing Huntsman. The wee ones can have Lucky Charms for lunch.
Eva Meckna is, as her husband always said, an English major gone horribly wrong. Her work has appeared on Funny-ish and Little Old Lady Comedy.