Twisted Fairytale (Revised)

“Bibbity, bobbity, boo!” Ever since I signed on with the fairy godmother and her travelling sales show, those three words have become the bane of my existence. You see, I’m a shoe. A pair of glass slippers to be exact, not that being made of glass makes being a shoe any more pleasant.

Anyway, in those days there wasn’t a lot of work for two small glass shoes, so I did the only thing that I could do. I signed on with The Fairy Godmother’s Travelling Magical Services (and Affordable Magical Products), which ended up being one of the biggest mistakes I’d ever make. The fairy godmother would pack up her wagon with her magical products every Friday night, and head out looking for a beautiful princess or wretched maiden to cater her magical services to.

As soon as she found one (which wasn’t usually too difficult, they all seemed to end up sobbing in the same place), she would smack the lever on the side of the wagon. Up from the wagon flew streamers and fireworks, just in case you missed the fluorescent lettering that blared “The Fairy Godmother’s Travelling Magical Services (and Affordable Magical Products).” Then she’d bound up onto the auctioneer’s stand that popped out of the wagon’s floor (not an easy feat when taking into account the large stature of the fairy godmother), her muumuu flapping wildly in the breeze. She would then begin to yell out to the poor maid who would sit frozen in confusion.

“Hello, folks!” she would yell. “And welcome to the greatest deal of your life. Today we’re having a special on beautiful ball gowns, two for one; and you’ll also get a free pair of glass slippers, courtesy of . . .” She’d pause for exactly two seconds and then whisper in a thoughtful voice, “. . . your fairy godmother.” Then she’d launch into a speech of dizzying speed: “We also have mice that turn to horses, mice that turn to coachmen, pumpkins that turn to carriages, poison apples, sedative spinning needles, broomsticks in the latest styles, magical mirrors, and . . .” She’d stop for a quick gasp, “and . . . a monkey named Abu!”

After a few more minutes of relentless sales-pitching, the poor young maid would be so confused that she’d stumble up to the wagon, the fairy godmother would swindle her into buying some bogus magical product, and then we’d be on our way to the next town before that maid could say fat fairy godmothers. It was always of utmost importance that we get out of town before midnight.

You see, that was the great scam of the fairy godmother. She’d swindle you into purchasing her products for ridiculous amounts, and then at the last stroke of midnight, they’d all turn back into what they really were: beautiful ball gown to shabby rags, refined coachmen to mice, carriages to pumpkins (this can get messy). She is still considered the greatest con-artist of the middle ages.

Now this was just perfect for the fairy godmother, but every time she made a deal, we ended up with the dirty work. And by dirty work, I mean it literally. You see, the godmother seemed to have a knack for finding maidens with . . . shall we say . . . odiferous feet. Usually at the end of the long, grueling, and stinky day, it was all I could do to stumble back in and find my place among the other glass slippers (the fairy godmother bought most of her supplies in bulk from Costco).

By this time, I was sure that I had become pro at “stinky.” That was until that fateful night. It started out like the rest: we embarked in the fairy godmother’s sales wagon and headed to the sobbing maiden hot spot. Sure enough, we heard the sounds of a maiden sobbing (go figure). The fairy godmother drove silently into the clearing, taking extra precautions so as not to run over any small dwarves (that’s another story). She then silenced the horse’s stride, and slammed down the lever.

As the maiden gave a startled shriek, the godmother went through her standard sales spiel, and, as usual, the maiden confusedly stumbled up with a bewildered look on her face. She then was swindled into buying some things, which unfortunately included me. As I was placed into the hands of the fair maid, I braced myself for what was to come. As I realized later, nothing could have prepared me.

I held my breath apprehensively as I was lifted towards her foot. As I was placed on her foot, a sickening sludge smeared my glass, preventing me from seeing. I gasped as the horrendous slime encased my interior. As I gasped, a nauseating stench filled my nostrils (or lack thereof). It smelled as though this fair maid had bathed her feet in a tub of limburger and then, just for an added touch, marinated them in garlic. As if this wasn’t enough, she had a large bunion on each big toe. This was not in the contract.

I frantically swiped at my smudged glass just in time to watch the godmother’s wagon disappear into the wooded night. Now I was stuck with this smelly-footed sister for the night. Fortunately, she had also ordered one of the pumpkin carriages. At least she wouldn’t be working up any more of a sweat from walking anywhere. Unfortunately, this didn’t aid the stinky situation at hand. Then it got worse. When we reached her destination, I saw that it was a ballroom. Just thinking about that maiden dancing around all night in a sweltering room worked me into a sweat (which didn’t help the situation any).

That entire night was mostly a daze for me as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time the maiden took a step, that wonderful smell would again be forced into my nostrils, and both of those beautiful bunions would burrow into my sides. On and on she danced, with no perceivable end in sight. That was until the first stroke of midnight (saved by the bell!). Apparently twelve was her curfew, so she lit off through the dancing hall: squish squash squish. I had no idea up till that point that glass slippers could make a sound like that.

There was also someone in hot pursuit of her. “Wait, stop! I love you,” he exclaimed. (She could only pray that her shoes stayed on).

As she ran, those bunions which were causing me so much grief finally started to pain her as well. So off came the shoe and, just to throw her pursuer off track, she chucked it in his direction with a powerful throw and a perfect arc. I felt my left half rush through the air and land with a smack onto the poor guy’s temple. Fortunately for him, he was out cold, giving me the chance to air out before he could take a whiff.

My right half was still squishing painfully along in an uneven manner, and just when it seemed that I could stand it no longer, she made it home. She flew through the door just as the clock struck midnight, and there was her stepmother, facing the wall. “What am I going to do with you Cinderella,” she inquired in an exasperated tone, “First it was the mice, and now . . .” Just then she turned around and the full scent of the exposed foot smacked her in the face. “OH!” she exclaimed, continuing her speech with a hand clamped down on her nose. “Cinderella, go to your room this instant and please stay there.”

I have to wonder why people are so hard on the stepmother for being so short with Cinderella. Believe me, if you had smelled those feet you would have been too.

As soon as Cinderella had flown up to her room in a torrent of tears, flocks of mice came pouring out of the walls. She picked one up and set it delicately on her leg. “Oh mouse,” she began with a sigh. “Tell me the truth, do my feet . . . smell?” She daintily took me off (I cannot begin to explain the relief), and the mouse scampered onto her foot. Taking a deep whiff, the mouse responded “Oh, no, Cinderelli, just like a rose!” (I learned later that talking mice have no sense of smell whatsoever.) This answer seemed to content her, however, and she took off the ball gown (which had since turned back into rags) and fell deeply asleep.

Meanwhile, the prince had been discovered out cold on the floor, and the castle was in a state of chaos. He was taken back to his room, and was revived to a state of semi-consciousness. “Oh prince,” cried the steward. “Who did this to you?” From his clouded consciousness, the prince responded “The maid.” With that the guards took hold of the maidservant and began to drag her off. “Not that maid,” the prince said irritably, rubbing his temples tenderly.

So the maid was reinstated to her former position, and was given raise. I was given a thorough showering of Febreeze. The next morning the prince awoke, determined to find the beautiful maid (now you know which one) with the incredible throw. Mercifully, he had never had the opportunity to smell me, or his resolutions may have been somewhat different.

The prince set forth his proclamation, stating that whichever maiden’s foot fit the shoe, hers would be the hand which he would take in marriage. So the prince’s steward set off in search of the fitting foot (somehow, the thought of looking at all the maidens’ feet in the land didn’t seem too appetizing to the prince). He searched throughout that kingdom for the entire day looking at feet big and small, young and old, sweet-smelling and . . . otherwise. But no foot fit.

Finally he came to the house of Cinderella.

Now you’ve heard of Cinderella’s stepsisters; they, like her stepmother, have been judged unfairly. In addition to having to live with Cinderella’s lack of foot hygiene, they also had to deal with the title of the “ugly” stepsisters. Unfortunately, the godmother’s glass slippers have an automatic sizing feature, causing them to fit the original wearer’s (Cinderella) feet only. So the steward prepared to leave, empty-handed.

“Are there any other young maidens in this household?” he asked. Wanting to shield him from Cinderella’s unpleasant foot odor, and with only the best intentions, her stepmother responded: “Oh no!” Just then, Cinderella came rushing down the stairs (her mouse henchmen must have told her; they seemed to be everywhere). Her stepsisters shrieked in and ran from the room. Her stepmother tried to shield the young steward, but it was too late. The stench of her exposed feet smacked his unprotected nose, and he was out cold. But as we all know, the slipper was an exact fit, and she was taken back to the castle (although the coach driver requested that she place her feet out the window).

Well, as for Cinderella and the prince, it turns out that he had no sense of smell, so they were happily married (but for the sake of the castle staff, a top notch podiatrist was summoned). As for me, as soon as I could, I left the castle, and went immediately into retirement. I don’t know if there are maidens out there with feet worse off than Cinderella’s, but I’m not willing to find out.

As for the moral of the story, here it is: Beauty is only skin deep, but sniff before you leap.