Royal Genovian Limo on the Way to State Dinner in Neighbouring Monaco

To Do Before Leaving Genovia:



1. Find a safe place to put Michael's present where it will NOT be found by grandmother or nosy ladies-in-waiting

    while packing my stuff (inside toe of combat boot? Inside panties I'll be wearing on plane?)

2. Say goodbye to kitchen staff, and thank them for all the vegetarian entrees.

3. Make sure harbourmaster has hung pair of scissors off every buoy in bay for use of yachting tourists who didn't

    bring along their own set to snip six-pack holders.

4. Take funny nose and glasses off the statue of Grandmere in the Portrait Hall before she notices.

5. Give Rommel's mink sweater back.

6. Break Francois' record of eleven feet, seven inches sock-sliding down Crystal Hallway.

7. Let all the doves in the Palace dovecote go (if they want to come back, that is fine, but they should have the option

    to be free).

8. Let Tante Jean Marie know that this is the twenty-first century and that she no longer has to live with the stigma of

    feminine facial hair, and leave her my Jolene.

9. Go to the beach, just once, and walk barefoot through that famous white sand I haven't gotten within ten yards of

    the entire time I've been here. Also, establish Sea-Turtle Nest Patrol so that eggs will be protected.

10. Get crown fixed (combs keep spearing me in the head).










Saturday, January 16, 11 p.m.

Royal Genovian Bedchamber





Grandmere so needs to get a life.

Tonight was the royal ball - you know, to celebrate the end of my first official trip to Genovia in my capacity as heir to the throne.

Anyway, Grandmere's been going on about this ball all week, like this is going to be my big chance to redeem myself for

the whole snip-your-plastic-six-pack-holder thing I pulled during my first televised address to the populace.

So she makes this big deal out of my dress (a Sebastiano design - my dad finally forgave Sebastiano for putting those

pictures of me wearing his designs in the New York Times Sunday supplement. My dad even forgave Grandmere for letting Sebastiano do it without clearing it through him first. Though things are still a little strained between the two of them - I heard him tell her to 'lay off' the other day when she was giving him grief about his latest girlfriend, one of those bendy trapeze girls from the Cirque du Soleil. I don't know what happened to the bareback rider.

And she makes this big deal out of my hair (growing out and so becoming triangle-shaped again, but who cares, boys are supposed to like girls with long hair better than girls with short hair - I read that in French Cosmo). And she makes this big

deal out of my fingernails (OK, so in spite of the whole New Year's resolution thing, I still keep biting them. So sue me.

I can't help that I am orally fixated, the man is keeping me down).

Then, after all this big-deal making, we finally get to the stupid ball. And it turns out that all that fuss was just so that

Grandmere could shove me at Prince Rene, of all people, and the two of us could dance in front of this Newsweek

reporter who is in Genovia to do a story on our country's transition to the Euro!

Afterwards I was all, 'Grandmere, I am willing to cool it with the calling Michael stuff, but that does not mean I am going to start going out with Prince Rene,' who, by the way, asked me if I wanted to step outside on to the terrazzo and have a smoke.

I, of course, told him I do not smoke and that he shouldn't either as tobacco is responsible for half a million deaths a year

in the United States alone, but he only laughed at me all James Spader from Pretty in Pink-ishly.

So then I told him not to get any big ideas, that I already have a boyfriend and that maybe he didn't see the movie of my life,

but I fully know how to handle guys who are only after me for my crown jewels.

So then Prince Rene said I was adorable, and I said please don't patronize me as I am not a child, and then my dad came up and asked me if I had seen the Prime Minister of Greece and I said, 'Dad, Grandmere is trying to fix me upr with Rene,' and then my dad got all tight-lipped and took Grandmere aside and had A Word with her while Prince Rene slunk off to go

make out with one of the Hilton sisters.

Afterwards, Grandmere came up and told me not to be so ridiculous, that she merely wanted Prince Rene and I to dance together because it was a nice photo op for Newsweek and that maybe if they ran a story on us, it would attract more tourists.

To which I replied that in light of our crumbling infrastructure more tourists is exactly what this country doesn't need.

I suppose if my palace had been bought out from under me by some shoe designer, I would be pretty desperate, too,

but I wouldn't hit on a girl who has the weight of an entire populace on her shoulders, and already has a boyfriend, besides.

On the bright side, if Newsweek does run the photo, maybe Michael will get all jealous of Rene the way Mr. Rochester

did of that St. John guy, and he'll boss me around some more!!!

Two days, fourteen hours, and twelve minutes until I see Michael again.





I CAN'T WAIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!







Monday, January 18, 3 p.m., Genovian Time,

Royal Genovian Jet, 20,000 Feet in the Air





I cannot believe that:

a. my dad is staying in Genovia in order to resolve the parking crisis rather than coming back to New York with me

b. he actually believed Grandmere when she said that my princess lessons need to continue

c. she (not to mention Rommel) is coming back to New York with me



IT IS NOT FAIR. I held up my part of the agreement. I went to every single princess lesson Grandmere gave last fall.

I passed Algebra. I gave my stupid address to the Genovian people.

Grandmere says that in spite of what I might think, I still have a lot to learn about governance. Except that she is so wrong.

I know she is only coming back to New York with me so she can go on torturing me. It is kind of like her hobby now.

It is so not fair.

And yes, before I left, my dad slipped me a hundred dollars and told me if I didn't make a fuss about Grandmere, he'd

make it up to me someday.

But there is nothing he can do to make this up to me. Nothing.

He says she is just a harmless old lady and that I should try to enjoy her while I can because someday she won't be with

us any more. I just looked at him like he was crazy. Even he couldn't keep a straight face. He went, 'OK, I'll donate two hundred bucks a day to Greenpeace if you keep her out of my hair.'

Which is funny because of course my dad hasn't got any. Hair, I mean.

I sincerely hope Greenpeace appreciates the supreme sacrifice I am making for its sake.

So she is coming back to New York with me, and dragging a cowering Rommel along with her. Just when his fur had

started to grow back, too. Poor thing.

I told my dad I'd put up with the whole princess lesson thing again this semester, but that he'd better get one thing straight

with Grandmere beforehand, and that is this: I have a serious boyfriend now. Grandmere had better not try to sabotage this,

or think she can be trying to fix me up with any more Prince Renes. I don't care how many royal titles the guy has, my heart belongs to Michael Moscovitz, Esquire.

My dad said he'd see what he could do. But I don't know how much he was actually paying attention, since Tapeka, the bareback rider, and Natasha, the trapeze artist, were kind of having a fight over him at the time in the royal palace lemon

grove.

Anyway, a little while ago I told Grandmere myself that she better watch it where Michael is concerned.

'I don't want to hear anything more about how I'm too young to be in love,' I said, over the lunch (poached salmon for Grandmere, three-bean salad for me) we were served by the royal Genovian flight attendants. 'I am old enough to know

my own heart, and that means I am old enough to give that heart away if I choose to.'

Grandmere said something about how then I should get ready for some heartache, but I ignored her. Just because her

romantic life since Grandpa died has been less than satisfactory is no reason for her to be so cynical about mine. I mean,

that is just what she gets for going out with media moguls and dictators and stuff.

Michael and I, on the other hand, are going to have a great love, just like Jane and Mr. Rochester.

Or Buffy and Angel. Or Brad and Jennifer.

Or at least, we will if we ever actually get to go out on a date.







Twenty-two hours until I see him again.










Monday, January 18, Martin Luther King Day,

National Holiday, the Loft, at Last





I am so happy I feel like I could burst, just like that eggplant I once dropped out of Lilly's sixteenth-floor bedroom window.

I'm home!!!!!!! I'm finally home!!!!!!

I cannot tell you how good it felt to look out the window of the plane and see the bright lights of Manhattan below me. It brought tears to my eyes, knowing I was once again in the air space over my beloved city. Below me, I knew, cab drivers

were running down litde old ladies (unfortunately not Grandmere); deli owners were short-changing their customers;

investment bankers were not cleaning up after their dogs; and people all over town were having their dreams of becoming

a singer, actress, musician, novelist, or dancer completely crushed by soulless producers, directors, agents, editors and choreographers.

Yes, I was back in my beautiful New York. I was back home at last.

I especially knew it when I stepped off the plane, and there was Lars, waiting for me, ready to take over body-guarding

duty from Francois, the guy who had looked after me in Genovia, and who had taught me all the French swear words. Lars looked especially menacing on account of being all darkly tanned from his month off. He had spent his Winter Break with

Tina Hakim Baba's bodyguard, Wahim, snorkelling and hunting wild boar in Belize. He gave me a piece of tusk as a

memento of his trip, even though of course I don't approve of killing animals recreationally, even wild boars, who really

can't help being so ugly and mean.

Then, sixty-five minutes later, thanks to a pile-up on the Long Island Expressway, I was home.

It was so good to see my mom!!!!! She is beginning to show now. I didn't want to say anything because even though my

mom says she does not believe in the Western standard of idealized beauty and thinks that there is nothing wrong with a

woman who is bigger than a size eight, I'm pretty sure that if I had said anything like, 'Mom, you're huge,' even in a complimentary fashion, she would start to cry. After all, she still has more than four months left to go.

So instead I just went, as I tried to hug her close even though her belly is starting to get in the way, That baby has to be

a boy. Or if it's not it's a girl who is going to be as tall as me.'

'Oh, I hope so,' my mom said, as she brushed tears of joy from her face — or maybe she was crying because Fat Louie

was biting her ankles so hard in his effort to get near me. 'I could use another you for when you aren't around. I missed

you so much! There was no one to berate me for ordering ' roast pork and wonton soup from Number One Noodle Son.'

'I tried,' Mr. Gianini assured me.

Mr. G looks great, too. He is growing a goatee beard. I pretended I liked it.

Then I bent down and picked up Fat Louie, who was yowling to get my attention, and gave him a great big hug. I may be wrong, but I think he lost weight while I was away. I do not want to accuse anyone of purposely starving him, but I noticed

his dry-food bowl was not completely full. In fact, it was perilously close to being only half full. I always keep Fat Louie's

bowl filled to the brim, because you never know when there might be a sudden plague, killing everyone in Manhattan but

cats. Fat Louie can't pour out his own food, having no thumbs, so he needs a little extra just in case we all die and there is