Asked To Be Godmother Quotes

I think, at a child's birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift would be curiosity.

I'm Min's fairy godmother, Charm Boy,' Liza said, frowning down at him. 'And if you don't give her a happily ever after, I'm going to come back and beat you to death with a snow globe.' What happened to "bibbity bobbity boo"?' Cal asked Min. That was Disney, honey,' Min said. 'It wasn't a documentary.

Da. This is going very well already." Thomas barked out a laugh. "There are seven of us against the Red King and his thirteen most powerful nobles, and it's going well?" Mouse sneezed. "Eight," Thomas corrected himself. He rolled his eyes and said, "And the psycho death faerie makes it nine." "It is like movie," Sanya said, nodding. "Dibs on Legolas." "Are you kidding?" Thomas said. "I'm obviously Legolas. You're . . ." He squinted thoughtfully at Sanya and then at Martin. "Well. He's Boromir and you're clearly Aragorn." "Martin is so dour, he is more like Gimli." Sanya pointed at Susan. "Her sword is much more like Aragorn's." "Aragorn wishes he looked that good," countered Thomas. "What about Karrin?" Sanya asked. "What--for Gimli?" Thomas mused. "She is fairly--" "Finish that sentence, Raith, and we throw down," said Murphy in a calm, level voice. "Tough," Thomas said, his expression aggrieved. "I was going to say 'tough.' " As the discussion went on--with Molly's sponsorship, Mouse was lobbying to claim Gimli on the basis of being the shortest, the stoutest, and the hairiest-- "Sanya," I said. "Who did I get cast as?" "Sam," Sanya said. I blinked at him. "Not . . . Oh, for crying out loud, it was perfectly obvious who I should have been." Sanya shrugged. "It was no contest. They gave Gandalf to your godmother. You got Sam.

Shut up!" Henry says, "You're going to wake up Jerry Rice." "Jerry Rice?" Carter says, covering his mouth with a hand. I don't think I've ever seen Carter laugh so hard. "Carter, would you like to be the godfather?" Henry asks. "You know, in case anything happens to me and Woods this week?" "Charming," Carter says. "I''d be honored. Does JJ get to be godmother?" "Obviously," I say. "Can I hold Jerry Rice?" JJ asks. "He''s so cute." "No way, man," I reply. "I don't want to wake that thing up before practice. We'll be late if we have to feed it." "What does it eat?" Carter asks. "I have to breast-feed, cause I'm the mom," Henry says, continuing to push the stroller toward the locker room. "Actually," I say, "It eats a metal rod, made out of, like, lead. So basically, we're learning how to poison babies." "Radical," JJ says as we approach the gym,

This reminds me, Godmother, to ask you a serious question. You are as wise as wise can be (having been brought up by the fairies), and you can tell me this: Is it better to have had a good thing and lost it, or never to have had it?

Guys can smell desperation. It triggers an instinct in them to run far and fast so they aren't around when a woman starts peeling apart her heart. They know she'll ask for help in putting it back together the right way - intact and beating correctly - and they dread the thought of puzzling over layers that they can't understand, let alone rebuild. They'd rather just not get blood on their hands. But sharks are different. They smell the blood of desperation and circle in. They whisper into a girl's ear, "I'll make it better. I'll make you forget all about your pain." Sharks do this by eating your heart, but they never mention this beforehand. That is the thing about sharks.

Are you all right?" asked Fenris. "Horrible puppet," she said, "demon chicken, fairy godmother." "And it's a fool's errand and we're all going to die," said Fenris. He patted her shoulder. "Still, I have to admit I didn't see the chicken or the puppet coming.

Imagine this: Instead of waiting in her tower, Rapunzel slices off her long, golden hair with a carving knife, and then uses it to climb down to freedom. Just as she’s about to take the poison apple, Snow White sees the familiar wicked glow in the old lady’s eyes, and slashes the evil queen’s throat with a pair of sewing scissors. Cinderella refuses everything but the glass slippers from her fairy godmother, crushes her stepmother’s windpipe under her heel, and the Prince falls madly in love with the mysterious girl who dons rags and blood-stained slippers. Imagine this: Persephone goes adventuring with weapons hidden under her dress. Persephone climbs into the gaping chasm. Or, Persephone uses her hands to carve a hole down to hell. In none of these versions is Persephone’s body violated unless she asks Hades to hold her down with his horse-whips. Not once does she hold out on eating the pomegranate, instead biting into it eagerly and relishing the juice running down her chin, staining it red. In some of the stories, Hades never appears and Persephone rules the underworld with a crown of her own making. In all of them, it is widely known that the name Persephone means Bringer of Destruction. Imagine this: Red Riding Hood marches from her grandmother’s house with a bloody wolf pelt. Medusa rights the wrongs that have been done to her. Eurydice breaks every muscle in her arms climbing out of the land of the dead. Imagine this: Girls are allowed to think dark thoughts, and be dark things. Imagine this: Instead of the dragon, it’s the princess with claws and fiery breath who smashes her way from the confines of her castle and swallows men whole.

Look, I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye. We’ve had our share of disagreements, we often annoy each other to pieces, and we’ve each tried to kill the other at one point or another—but the truth, whether I want to admit it or not, is that you’re my best friend, Red. Would you do me the honor of being Hero’s godmother?” Red gasped and happy tears filled her eyes. “Yes, of course I will!” “Terrific,” Goldilocks said. “Because I just asked Porridge and she turned me down.” Red was so moved by the request, it didn’t even bother her that Goldilocks had asked a horse first.

If I were a heroine in a fairy tale, I often thought, and a fairy godmother offered to grant me wishes, I would ask for peaches-and-cream skin, eyes like deep blue pools, hair like spun gold instead of blackest ink. I knew I would be worthy of it all. There was nothing I wouldn’t trade for that kind of magic, that kind of beauty. If you were pretty, if you were normal, if you were white, then the good things everyone saw on the outside would match the goodness you knew existed on the inside. And wouldn’t it be wonderful to go to sleep one night and wake up an entirely different person, one who would be loved and welcomed everywhere? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to look at your face in the mirror and know you would always belong?

None of the neighbouring ladies would stand as godmother, for they were secretly dubious as to the children's origin; so he had asked good Mrs. Spaniel to act in that capacity. She, a simple kindly creature, was much flattered, though certainly she can have understood very little of the symbolical rite. Gissing, filling out the form that Mr. Poodle had given him, had put down the names of an entirely imaginary brother and sister-in-law of his, "deceased," whom he asserted as the parents.

if i had a fairy godmother i’d ask her to make me less judgmental

Marriage isn't a fairy godmother waving a wand to change a pumpkin into a carriage. It doesn't instantly transform people into better versions of themselves; instead, it brings couples together and asks them to use love as a reason to become better.

It reminds me of the story that my American godmother used to tell me years and years ago about two frogs who fell into a pail of milk. One said: ‘Ooh, I’m drowning, I’m drowning!’ The other frog said, ‘I‘m not going to drown.’ ‘How can you stop drowning?’ asked the other frog. ‘Why, I’m going to hustle around, and hustle around, and hustle around like mad,’ said the second frog. Next morning the first frog had given up and drowned, and the second frog, having hustled around all night, was sitting there in the pail, right on top of a pat of butter.   Everyone,

Hans?” the Fairy Godmother said. “Can you remember what made you happy when you were a young boy?” It didn’t take him long to remember. “Places like this promenade,” he said. “Why?” she asked. “It’s a place of unlimited possibility,” he said. “At any moment, anyone or anything could appear. A parade could march through the field, a flock of birds from a tropical land could fly across the skies, or a king from a distant country could sail through the waters on a massive ship. I suppose any child is happiest wherever his imagination is stimulated.” “Interesting,” she said.

What is wrong with women?” Elizabeth demanded. “Why do they buy into these cultural stereotypes? Worse, why do they perpetuate them? Are they not aware of the dominant female role in the hidden tribes of the Amazon? Is Margaret Mead out of print?” She only stopped when Harriet stood up, indicating she did not wish to be subjected to another unabridged word. — “Harriet. Harriet,” Madeline repeated. “Are you listening? Harriet, what happened to her? Did she die, too?” “Did who die?” Harriet asked distractedly, thinking about how she’d never read Margaret Mead. Was she the one who wrote Gone with the Wind? “The godmother.” “Oh, her,” she said. “I have no idea. And anyway, she—or he—wasn’t technically a godmother.” “But you said—” “It was a fairy

Leave?” their grandmother said, and she made a funny face at them. “Who said anything about leaving?” “Aren’t you dying?” Conner asked her softly. “Isn’t that why you wouldn’t get out of bed?” The Fairy Godmother put her hands on her grandchildren’s faces. “Yes, children, I am dying,” she said. “But what the other fairies didn’t explain is that a fairy never really dies. When a fairy’s time is up, his or her soul simply returns to magic.

God has stamped “lifegiver” on all women, regardless of the role we play. Women who have no biological children may choose to ask God for the privilege of being a spiritual mother, a godmother, or a substitute mother. If we want to be women of contentment, we must choose to accept our portion, our assigned roles from God. We must make the choice to dwell on the positive aspects of our role in life. If we don’t, we’ll be discontent, always wanting something different from what we’ve been given.

Do you think we’re cursed?” I ask, and he stills the rag, mulling over my question before running it down the center of my back. “I think we’re our own worst enemies at times, and we’ve allowed too many outside forces to rip us apart. Me especially.” “Star-crossed,” I whisper. “I don’t disagree.” “What about the other outside forces? Where the hell were our fairy godmothers when we needed them?” He grunts in agreement. “They did a terrible job.” “Cupid?” I ask. “He shot one too many arrows into you.” “Well, he’s fucking fired too. Did no one show up for us?” “Non.” “The saints?

But now that I'm older, I realize that August wasn't my fairy godmother after all. Because fairy godmothers can't swoop in and change the story. Fairy godmothers only help you to be you. More you. I wasn't there when Agatha looked in the mirror and realised she was beautiful. I wasn't there when Cinderella danced with her prince. But each of them knew what to do at the time. Because I taught them the same lesson I'm teaching you now. When the real test comes, no one will be there to save you. No fairy godmother will hand you the answers. No fairy godmother will pull you from the fire. But you have something stronger than a fairy godmother inside of you. A power greater than Good or Evil. A power bigger than life and death. A power that already knows the answers, even when you've lost all hope...There is no name for this power...It is the force that makes the sun rise. The force that makes the Storian write. The force that brings each of us into this world. The force that is bigger than all of us. It will be there to help you when the time is right. It will give you the answers only when you need it and not before. And whenever you lose it or doubt its existence, like I have again and again, all you have to do it look inside yourself and ask..."What makes my heart beat?"...That is who your real fairy godmother is. That is what will help you when you need it most.

Using the sword as an extension of my arm, I gestured with a flick of the wrist, signaling for the swine standing between me and freedom to move aside and clear the exit. He failed to comply. “Where will you go?” he asked, allowing no time for an answer. “Anywhere but here is unsafe. There’s no other sanctuary in which you can hide. My mother will sense the awakening of her gemstone. She will seek it out the moment you exit these walls. And if she and her loyal gargoyles are not threat enough, then consider your cruel fairy godmother—the sorceress responsible for the violence that left you unconscious in a pool of your own blood. She will no doubt come after you again if you leave these shielding walls.

If I were a heroine in a fairy tale, I often thought, and a fairy godmother offered to grant me wishes, I would ask for peaches-and-cream skin, eyes like deep blue pools, hair like spun gold instead of blackest ink. I knew that I would be worthy of it all. There was nothing I wouldn't trade for that kind of magic, that kind of beauty. If you were pretty, if you were normal, if you were white, then the good things everyone saw on the outside would match the goodness you kenw existed on the inside. And wouldn't it be wonderful to go to sleep one night and wake up an entirely different person, one who would be loved and welcomed everywhere? Wouldn't it be wonderful to look at your face in the mirror and know you would always belong?

Jay took them and stepped in front of the TV. His biceps bulged as he swung the weapon. Carlos watched him, laughing and whooping as Jay fought off the animated attackers. “Guys!” said Mal. “Do I have to remind you what we’re all here for?” “Fairy Godmother, blah, blah, blah,” said Jay as he swung. “Magic wand, blah, blah, blah.” Evie laughed at him. “This is our one chance to prove ourselves to our parents,” said Mal. Evie stopped laughing and faced Mal. “To prove that we are evil and vicious and ruthless and cruel,” said Mal. Jay and Carlos stared at her, too. She had their attention. “Yeah?” Mal asked them. Her friends nodded solemnly. “Evie, mirror me,” said Mal. Mal and Evie sat at the table as Jay and Carlos gathered around them. Evie lifted her mirror. “Mirror, mirror, on the…in my hand. Where is Fairy Godmother’s wand”—she searched for a rhyming word—“stand?” In the mirror, there was an extreme close-up of the sparkling wand. “There it is!” said Evie. “Zoom out,” said Carlos. “Magic Mirror, not so close,” Evie whispered into it.

You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that,” Ezmia said. “Perhaps this will humble you.” Ezmia placed the glass jar she had been carrying on a small table close to Charlotte’s cage. Charlotte was horrifed to see a miniature ghostly version of the Fairy Godmother trapped inside. “That’s my… my… grandmother!” Charlotte said, almost forgetting she was still pretending to be her own daughter. “What have you done to her?” A smile appeared on Ezmia’s face, matching the satisfaction in her eyes. “I captured her soul,” she said. The thought almost made Charlotte sick. She’d had no idea such a thing was possible, even in the fairy-tale world. “What do you want with her soul?” Charlotte asked. “It’s a bit of a hobby of mine, actually,” Ezmia said and walked to her fireplace. Displayed proudly on the mantel were five other turquoise jars, each containing a ghostly substance. “You’re a soul collector?” Charlotte asked. “Is it to make up for being soulless?” “What a clever play on words,” Ezmia said mockingly. “You know that phrase forgive and forget? Well, I always disagreed with it—I found it impossible, actually. People would do me wrong and then forget about me, as if their actions didn’t matter—because I didn’t matter. How was I supposed to forgive people like that?” “So you imprisoned their souls instead of forgiving?” Charlotte said. “Precisely,” Ezmia said. “I found taking away their life force to be much more appealing than simply forgiving. To forgive would be to allow them to continue living their lives, free of consequence. But by taking their souls and preventing them from all future happiness, I could heal and find peace.” Charlotte couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Do you honestly expect anyone to sympathize with that?” Charlotte asked her. Ezmia stared into the fire at the burning skulls, almost in a trance. “I don’t want the world to understand; I want it to grovel,” she said. The confession made Charlotte’s heart heavier. She wondered if she would ever escape the clutches of a person who thought like this. But thinking about her children, Bob, and the life she had been stolen from gave Charlotte the strength to survive the Enchantress’s imprisonment. “I find it hard to believe that the Fairy Godmother, who is known for her generosity, would harm you in any way,” Charlotte said. “Sometimes help can be just as destructive as harm,” Ezmia said. “But I imagine someone who helps for a

On cue, Sarah Palin’s voice pops into my head. She’s always doing this, showing up when my spirits are lowest. It’s like I have a fairy godmother who hates me. “So,” she asks, “how’s that whole hopey, changey thing workin’ out for ya?” It’s a line she started using in 2010, when President Obama’s approval ratings were plummeting and the Tea Party was on the rise. And here’s the thing: if you ignore her mocking tone and that annoying dropped G, it’s a good question. I spent the lion’s share of my twenties in Obamaworld. Career-wise, it went well. But more broadly? Like so many people who fell in love with a candidate and then a president, the last eight years have been an emotional roller coaster. Groundbreaking elections marred by midterm shellackings. The exhilaration of passing a health care law followed by the exhaustion of defending it. Our first black president made our union more perfect simply by entering the White House, but a year from now he’ll vacate it for Donald Trump, America’s imperfections personified. The motorcade keeps skidding and sliding. For twenty miles we veer left and right, one close call after another, until we finally reach the South Lawn. Here, too, I have a routine: get out of the van, walk through the West Wing, head to my office across the street. It’s a trip I’ve made countless times before. It’s also one I will never make again. And as I walk past the Rose Garden, the flagstones of the colonnade pressing against the soles of my leather shoes, Sarah Palin’s question lingers in the January air. How has it all worked out?

The blue fairy godmother opened the door, and asked her if she'd had a good time, and she said Yes, and No, and It was very interesting to see all the fancy clothes and the fancy plates with fancy cakes and the fancy mirrors and the fancy lights. And then she said, It was even more interesting to see lizards become footwomen and mice become horses.

asked him why. His knee-jerk response was that, throughout history, religion was to blame for the greatest number of wars and deaths.” Mother Pascalina stared to laugh, “Ja, I’ve heard the same thing all my life. I heard it from the time I was a little girl.” “I asked this young man if he knew anything about twentieth century history, his own century. Then I gave him a few very conservative facts and figures: Hitler: 17 million victims; Stalin: 23 —though some have it at 40 million; Tito: 5 million; Mao: 79 million; Pol Pot: 1.5 million; Castro: 75,000, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. When I asked him what all of these progressivist dictators had in common, he just sat there looking at me. ‘They were all atheists, I said, ‘not a believer among them’.

Is it over?” asked Marra. The air seemed very still and the room somehow smaller. “Is he gone?” “Gone, no,” said the dust-wife. “People like that hang about for ages. I pried his fingers loose from the world for a bit, though, and that should be enough for the godmother to slip her bonds.” “Just like that?” asked Marra wonderingly. “That’s all it took?” “That’s all,” said the dust-wife, striding confidently forward, and promptly crashed to the floor in a semiconscious heap.

The other room had two narrow beds with a small table and basin between them and a shuttered window. Marra collapsed onto one with a groan and put her head in her hands. “Are you all right?” asked Fenris. “Horrible puppet,” she said, “demon chicken, fairy godmother.” “And it’s a fool’s errand and we’re all going to die,” said Fenris. “Still, I have to admit I didn’t see the chicken or the puppet coming.” “Nothing is ever easy,” said Marra, too tired to yell at him for taking her fatalism to heart.

They say that godmothers are there to ensure that true love always reigns over the kingdom,” said Hans, his hand leaving his sword to tug at his jacket. “They help deserving princes and princesses but also deserving woodcutters and the like.” He threw an apologetic glance at Ava. “Ah, yes.” The godmother nodded. “I see that someone was listening.” She turned back to Ava. “And I’m afraid that a princess you may be, young lady, but deserving you are not.” Ava gasped in outrage and straightened as tall as she could go. “And who decides who is and is not deserving?” she spat at the godmother. “You?” “Of course not!” The godmother seemed genuinely surprised at Ava’s response. “We serve the High King. He is the one who determines who receives our help.” “The High King?” Ava and Hans exchanged equally bewildered looks. “Who’s he?” “Who is the High King!?! Only the ruler over the Four Kingdoms, and the lands beyond. Who indeed!” Hans and Ava continued to look confused, and the godmother shook her head darkly. “Degenerate times we live in, degenerate times.” Ava shook herself out of her stupefaction. “And where does the ‘High King’ live?” She asked skeptically. “In the Palace of Light, of course.

She’s a very wicked godmother, isn’t she?” asked Marra. “Evil magic could flow through her like a river in full flood. Fortunately for the rest of us, there’s a lot of Agnes in the way. Whether that makes her wicked, I’ll leave to philosophers. This turning here, I think.

What can I wish for?” I asked. Crissy pulled a sparklerlike wand from her handbag. “That’s what I like about today’s teenagers. They’re all business. None of that ‘Oh, thank you, Fair Godmother, for rescuing me from my pathetic life.’ Or ‘I’m unworthy of having such gifts bestowed on me.’ Or even ‘Tell me from whence thou came, Fair Godmother.’ It’s all ‘What will you give me?’” “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “I’m not ungrateful. I’m just not sure what to wish for.

How could I forget? I’m her godmother.’ Sasha knew Claire so well, knew she needed a moment now, some space to think, so she didn’t press. But she was far from finished with the problem. ‘Have you spoken with our little musical genius yet?’ she asked.

Well,’said Ernest, ‘by some strange coincidence I know this story.’ Boddichek was not good at irony. ‘I knew that there was that possibility,’ he said, ‘but we have a great new way to treat it, and I thought you might want to reread it before taking a meeting.’ ‘Reread it?’ said Mayday. ‘We are talking about Cinderella, and the wicked stepmother and the Ugly Sisters and Buttons the page and the Fairy Godmother, "Cinders, you shall go to the ball but be sure you're home by midnight or you'll turn into pumpkin"?’ ‘Hey, you know it pretty well,’ said young Casey with admiration in his voice. ‘But I've found a new directionality for this story.’ ‘Do you mean direction?’ asked Mayday. ‘I guess I do.’ ‘Then’, snapped Mayday, ‘why don't you fucking say so?

Are they always so mean?” I asked. “It’s the oldest story in the book— the bullied become the bullies.

If I were a heroine in a fairy tale, I often thought, and a fairy godmother offered to Grant me wishes, I would ask for peaches-and-cream skin, eyes like deep blue pools, hair like spun gold instead of blackest ink. I knew I would be worthy of it all. There was nothing I wouldn't trade for that kind of magic, that kind of beauty. If you were pretty, if you were normal, if you were white, then the good things everyone saw on the outside would match the goodness you knew existed on the inside. And wouldn't it be wonderful to go to sleep one night and wake up an entirely different person, one who would be loved and welcomed everywhere? Wouldn't it be wonderful to look at your face in the morning and know you would always belong?

Eleanor Roosevelt would have said curiosity. As she declared in 1934, “I think, at a child’s birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift would be curiosity.”45 Indeed, recent research has linked curiosity to happiness, satisfying relationships, increased personal growth, increased meaning in life, and increased creativity

The other room had two narrow beds with a small table and basin between them and a shuttered window. Marra collapsed onto one with a groan and put her head in her hands. “Are you all right?” asked Fenris. “Horrible puppet,” she said, “demon chicken, fairy godmother.

Karma Road: Your Jewish Fairy Godmother's first commandment is: Ask for what you want. But the hidden one is commandment zero, Figure out what you want so you can ask for it. This can be used for Jews too.