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Lunch with Genovian minister of tourism
Will no one acknowledge that my parking-meter idea has merit? Furthermore, all the foot traffic from the day-trippers coming off the cruise ships that dock out in the Genovian harbor is destroying some of our most historically important bridges, such as the Pont des Vierges (Bridge of the Virgins), so named after my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Agnes, who threw herself off it rather than become a nun like her father wanted her to be (she was all right: the royal navy fished her out and she ended up eloping with the ship’s captain, much to the consternation of the house of Renaldo). I don’t care how much of Genovia’s gross national product is dependent on cruise ship daytrippers. They are ruining EVERYTHING!
2:30 p.m.–4:30 p.m.
Attend father’s address to local media on importance of Genovia as a global player in today’s international economy
Whatever. Could I be more bored? Michael! Oh, Michael! Where art thou, Michael?
5 p.m.–6 p.m.
Tea with Grandmère and fellow members of Genovian Ladies Aid Society
Spilled tea on new satin shoes that had been dyed to match tea gown.
Now they match tea.
7 p.m.–11 p.m.
Formal dinner with very famous former Soviet leader and his wife
René AWOL through most of dinner. Was found after dessert cavorting in palace garden fountain with prima ballerina from Royal Genovian ballet. Dad v. upset. Tried to soothe his frazzled nerves by making small talk with his date, Miss Czech Republic, so she would feel welcome to the family, should the occasion arise.
16 DSLSM
If this goes on much longer, I will probably develop aphasia like that girl in Firestarter , and start thinking my dad is a hat.
Tuesday, January 6,
Royal Quarters of the Dowager Princess
HE CALLED ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Except that I wasn’t here (as usual). I was at the Royal Genovian Opera House, watching stupidLa Boheme , which I was enjoying until all the characters I liked DIED.
He left a message with the palace operators. The message said,Hi.
Hi! Michael said HI!
I tried to call him back, of course, the minute I got to a phone, but the Moscovitzes were all at Le Crabbe Shacque enjoying the Senior Citizen early bird discount… all except Dr. Moscovitz (Mrs.) who had to stay back at the condo due to one of her patient’s needing emergency counseling (a shopaholic who was having a relapse due to all the post-holiday sales).
Dr. Moscovitz said she would be sure to give Michael the message that I’d called him back. The message was: Hi.
Well, I wanted to say something more romantic, but it is really hard to say the word love to your boyfriend’s mother, it turns out.
Oh, my God, Grandmère is yelling at me again. She has been lecturing me all day about this stupid ball that’s coming up—my farewell-for-now ball, the one they’re holding the night before I leave to go back to America… and to my love.
The thing is, Prince William is going to be at the ball, because he’s going to be in Genovia anyway for the charity polo match my dad and René are playing in, and Grandmère is all worried I am going to make the same kind of social gaffe in front of Prince Wills that I made during my televised introduction to the Genovian people.
Like I am really going to stand there and talk about parking meters with Prince William. But whatever.
“I swear I do not know what is wrong with you,” Grandmère is saying. “Your head has been in the clouds ever since we left New York. Even more so than usual.” She is narrowing her eyes at me—always a very scary thing, because Grandmère had black kohl tattooed all around her lids so that she could spend her mornings shaving off her eyebrows and drawing new ones on rather than messing around with mascara and eyeliner. “You are not thinking about that boy , are you?”
That boy is what Grandmère has started calling Michael, ever since I announced that he was my reason for living. Well, except for my cat, Fat Louie, of course.
“If you are speaking of Michael Moscovitz,” I just replied to her, in my most regal voice, “I most certainly am. He is never far from my thoughts, because he is my heart’s breath.”
Grandmère’s response to this is a snort.
