The Fredösphere

An upset stomach has me spending a day at home with the kids.  The Maharincess is deep into a princess phase right now (and here, let me just observe that, although preschoolers are particularly famous for their impractical career aspirations, I believe the Maharincess' ambition to become a princess takes the cake) so she watched the Rogers & Hammerstein musical version of Cinderella, starring Julie Andrews.  My goodness, but I'm amazed by its finely calibrated ability to annoy.  The thing puts me into a violent mood.  Which do I hate most?  Perhaps it's the philosophical pseudoprofundities ...

Do I love you because you're beautiful?
Or are you beautiful because I love you?

Or maybe the general atmosphere of smugness in the ballroom scenes.  And exactly what time and place serves as the setting?  It's as though, one day, all Victorians in the world simultaneously bumped their heads and forgot five centuries of technological development, forcing them to abandon gaslight, gunpowder, and steam engines.  Do I hate it because it's infantile?  Or is it infantile because I hate it?