The Princess

We don't have the family whom you'd think would produce the necessary girl for princess status.  Her dad is an outdoors-man and hard-headed, truth-telling businessman; Mom Maggie is the pragmatist in the family: I get so tangled up in life that I may or may be aware of what, exactly, I'm wearing.  I have been known to wear four or five mismatched pieces of clothing.  Your teeth can hurt looking at me.  But we have one: a certified, rarified princess.

She was born that way.  Maybe it was  all those majorly cute clothes her doting aunts and uncles bought her when when she was a baby. Maybe it was her long-golden hair her dad braided or pony-tailed every morning.  Maurice of Boise, he called himself in those days.  Certainly, it was the multitudes of Barbi dolls that sprang up like dandelions around  her house. We'd thought that no daughter of ours would ever have Barbi dolls, but we were wrong about that. And how.

These days she's very successfully navigating the atolls of young adulthood.  She has a job she likes.  She's planning, thinking about graduate school.  She has an apartment.  She wants a kitty, one of the very cute variety.  She's smart enough to be a writer and a philosopher both.  

Still has her princess status intact:  This was on her Facebook Feed.  From Christian Louboutin's collection.