There's that girl everyone sees, the pretty one with that face that should be wrapped in an up-sweep with some dangling diamond earrings on the side instead of a bright bandana. At least that is what everyone says. A girl like that needs to go to the ball, put on something fancy that isn't old jeans and a camp t-shirt. She should be dancing away the night with the prince. He needs a nice girl like that.

But instead she's at home, armed with a Starfiber mop, a bucket of pine cleaner, and an old CD player jamming out country and classic rock, maybe a little bit of bubble-gum pop. She sings a long to them, dancing with that mop instead of the prince. It's sad. This is the kind of time when the fairy godmother is supposed to pop out of nowhere and blast out a few spells.

She seems happy enough, that girl. That is what's surprising. There isn't any wicked stepmother or stepsisters. At least not in that house, though sometimes they might stop by to have a Coke and a good laugh with Cinderella. Don't see where the wicked comes in.

The prince is at the ball, dancing with every girl no more than once. If he saw her, he would dance with her until midnight.

She's barefoot. There are no glass slippers. She doesn't like shoes unless she really needs them, and flip flops can get her pretty far outside. Unless she's hiking or something–she's not stupid.

In fact, she's going to college, during the day. She thinks she wants to teach high school biology, or something. She has a student loan for the little extra that the dental receptionist gig doesn't cover. Part-time. It is quite fun, actually. Heck, maybe she'll end up in dental school. She enjoys that kind of thing.

Sort of like mopping. Maybe she's a freak, but she has always liked cleaning. So call her a domestic goddess– she doesn't consider herself one, just a girl that was raised right and could keep a house in good order. She can dust, she can vacuum, do laundry. She isn't afraid to scrub a toilet. And she can cook. Call it slavery, but a girl that can cook her own healthy dinner shows a lot more independence than the CEO feminist that's forced to pick up fast-food at midnight.

Not that she doesn't enjoy something choking with grease now and then.

Maybe the fairy godmother did show up, and maybe she was sent away with a "no, thank-you." Cinderella didn't buy a dress for the ball, and she has a buddy coming over for pizza and a DVD. She's sort of hoping that buddy might become something more. Maybe he is hoping for the same. That's what a mutual friend said.

So the clock will strike midnight, and the prince will dance with whoever. Maybe he'll find the right girl.

As for Cinderella, she's happy.