My wife is a Princess too

It’s common knowledge that I refer to my daughter as Princess over here in the blogosphere.  Mainly because she is one.  My Princess.   (I’m hoping infidels are taking notes.)  If you were blissfully unaware of this Princess-reality, then I have only one thing to say to you:

Where the f*ck have you been for the last three years? Or rather…

Welcome to my blog, you wonderful person, you. I sincerely appreciate the time you are spending reading this thought provoking blog, where the troubles and struggles of parenting teens, being the best husband and coping with daily life are all hidden between gems of joy and laughter, sprinkled with attempts at humour.  Now if only you can press that little follow button in the panel on the right that would be super-dooper-sweet-sugar-coating-with-a-cherry-on-top-special!

Here’s the story of how I ended up with two Princesses in my house.


Once upon a time in a land far, far away there lived a princess.  It was an animated world and like most Princesses she was an orphan because she lived on her own.  In a frigging forest!  And she didn’t know any better because she only had herself to talk too.  She eventually developed a serious disillusion and believed herself to be able to converse with animals whilst in reality it was probably just the voices in her head.  She also fell madly in love with the first dick (synonym for infidel) she saw.  Not that she actually saw a dick, well maybe she did, but after their encounter they were too be married the next day.  Until a villainous mother-in-law hijacked her fairy tale and pushed her into some weird magic-dimension-travelling-porthole thingy.  She ended up smack bang in the middle of New York with  the biggest wedding dress you’ve ever seen.  And that’s how you know…that’s how you know…it’s a fairy tale.

But then the shit got real.

Long story short, after the Princess got shoved, ignored, pushed and robbed by a homeless man, in the rain, she ended up on a billboard.  And not in a kinky way, in a wet-dog-unhappy-puppy kind of way.  Then she managed to weasel her way into the heart of a little girl and into the arms of a very, attractive, totally random stranger.  She even managed to sleep in his flat without having to pay for the bed.  It seems common for an annoyingly handsome, engaged man to allow a gorgeous stranger, with obvious mental issues, to shack up in their flat. And she’s not even a prostitute because this is a fairy tale and not real life.

Princess woke up wearing the same explosion of a wedding dress because this is a fairy tale and in fairy tales princesses can sleep in humongous dresses without smudging their makeup. Giselle, because princesses are not named Sue,  looked around at the domestic disaster that was the flat she slept in.  In real life one might expect a woman waking up to the ruins of the third-world-war, saying something logical like “WTF? Did we have sex?” but this is a fairy tale. The princess simply woke up, stretched elaborately and shook her near-perfect head of hair before she said: “This won’t do!”

Another give-away of it being a fairy tale is that in real life child services would never allow a father to keep his children, if his apartment looked like a meth laboratory  or the place where you collect (or lose) your recently purchased kidney/s.

Giselle simply gets off the couch, smiles and pops open the window breathing in the smog of New York, before she abuses her superpower of summoning wild animals to come and do her dirty work.  Unfortunately for her, the only critters heading her call for hard labour were flies, pigeons, rats and cockroaches.  The squirrels, rabbits, red foxes, salamanders, raccoons, ducks, swans and other “nice” animals who live in Manhattan refused to be associated with vermin.  They were all picketing at the zoo wearing ear plugs, chanting: “Too cute too work! Too cute too work!”

I’m so glad New York wasn’t stereotyped in this movie.

Just when it couldn’t get any better, we realise her superpower of summoning animals is through song.


And when the vermin arrived and sat in anticipation in the lounge, some licking their balls, she hid her disgust by saying:”It’s always nice to make new friends.” This is something I still use very effectively whenever I meet people I don’t like.

The vermin commenced their “cleaning” of the apartment in ways one cannot unsee.  I will never bath again…

So if I’m so cynical, why would I call the Wife a princess? Does she clean the house? Yes. Does she keep child welfare away our kids? Yes.  Did she weasel her way into my heart? Yes. Does she pay for her bed? No. Do I sleep on the sofa? Depends.

But those are not the reasons why the Wife turned into a Disney Princess.

Last week she had a moment when she bumped her elbow against the dresser whilst drying her hair.  And instead of using the obvious real life exclamation normal people would use in a situation where they feel pain or frustration, that is  “Shit!”, she opted for the Disney version of crying out in pain.  She sung the EXACT same melody as Giselle “AUAUA AUAUA!”.  And that is something only real princesses can do when they hurt themselves or require assistance from someone in the room.  It’s like sleeping on a thousand mattresses and feeling the pea.

After I stopped laughing, which was a nice change, I quickly lifted my feet onto our unmade bed.  I wasn’t sure if the cute animals of Africa would also abdicate their responsibility like most of the politicians ruling our country.  I wasn’t convinced that the cute-animal-strike was over.

And I’ve seen a few cockroaches crawling around our house before…

I actually liked the movie and therefore  decided to post the full cleaning scene because I’m a man married to a Princess and I’m thinking some of her awesomeness has finally rubbed off on me…

Besides I won’t share the trauma alone.

16 thoughts on “My wife is a Princess too

I won't bite, I promise...

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