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
no one around to open the bag for him.
But the loft looks so great!!!!!!!! Mr. Gianini did a lot to it while I was gone. He got rid of the Christmas tree - the first time
in the history of the Thermopolis household that the Christmas tree was out of the loft by Easter - and had the place wired
for DSL. So now you can email or go on the Internet anytime you want, without tying up the phone.
It is like a Christmas miracle.
And that's not all. Mr. G also fully redid the darkroom, leftover from when my mom was going through her Ansel Adams
stage. He pulled the boards off the windows and got rid of all the noxious chemicals that have been sitting around since
forever because my mom and I were too afraid to touch them. Now the darkroom is going to be the baby's room! It is so sunny and nice in there. Or at least it was until my mom started painting the walls with scenes of important historical