out that:
1. My dad is the Prince of Genovia, and that I am his heir.
2. My grandmother is the Dowager Princess of Genovia, and that it is her duty to train me for the day I will ascend
the throne.
3. My mom is having my Algebra teacher's baby (but unlike me, my new brother or sister will not bear the stigma
of illegitimacy, since Mom and Mr. Gianini are married).
4. My best friend Lilly's brother, whom I have loved since the day I met him, when I was in the first grade and he
was in fourth and he came over in the playground to give Lilly her social studies project which she had forgotten
(an exact replica of the Parthenon, in red Play Doh), actually loves me back, and now we are going out.
Or at least we will when I get done with my first official visit to Genovia since discovering I am the sole heir to its throne,
and am allowed to return to my normal life as a ninth-grader in New York City.
I am telling you, a lesser person would have had to check herself into Bellevue. These are extremely startling, almost earth-shattering discoveries. It is only due to the fact that so many excruciatingly horrible things have happened to me throughout my life - excessively large feet; lack of notable mammary growth; general difficulty in asserting myself in front of peers, resulting in unpopularity; owning an overweight pet cat; inability to comprehend multiplication of fractions — that I
have been able to cope at all. I mean, I am way used to affliction by now.
Not that the part about Michael is an affliction. The knowledge that my love for him is not unrequited, like Wolverine's for
Jean Grey in X-MEN, is the only bright spot in my otherwise hideous existence.
Oh, and the baby brother or sister thing. That's pretty cool, too. Though I'd prefer it if my mom would let the doctor tell her what it is she's having, so I don't have to keep writing brother or sister all the time. Mom says she doesn't want to know,
since if it's a boy she won't push, due to not wanting to bring another Y-chromosomed oppressor into the world (Mr G says that is just the hormones talking, but I'm not so sure. My mom can be pretty anti-Y chromosome when she puts her mind to it).
I can't help wondering, as I sit here, listening to some dude whose title I don't know — although in his purple and gold sash
he looks a little like Mayor McCheese - go on about the cost of parking-garage time clocks, not to mention parking-garage attendants, what lies in store for me in the coming year. I mean, last year I got:
a. a crown
b. a new stepdad
c. a potential baby brother or sister, and
d. a handsome, smart, funny boyfriend . . . my heart's one desire.
Sunday, January 3,
Royal Genovian Rose Garden
Poem for M. M.
Across the deep-blue shining sea,
is Michael, far away from me.
But he doesn't seem so far away -
though I haven't seen him for sixteen days -
because in my heart Michael stays
and there he'll beat forever always.
OK, that poem sucks. I can see I am going to have to work harder if I am to come up with a fitting tribute to my love.
What could possibly happen next?
Tuesday, January 5,
Royal Quarters of the Dowager Princess
Grandmere is yelling at me again.
As if I don't totally get why everybody is so mad about the whole speech thing. I mean, I have already resolved that
I will never again veer from the prepared script while addressing the Genovian populace.
But why am I the only one in this country who thinks pollution is an important issue? If people are going to dock their yachts
(at least cruisers are banned) in the Genovian harbour, they really ought to pay attention to what they are throwing overboard.
I mean, dolphins and sea turtles get their noses stuck in those plastic six-pack holders all the time, and then they starve to
death because they can't open their mouths to eat. All people have to do is snip the loops before they throw the holders out, and everything would be fine.
Well, all right, not everything., since you shouldn't be throwing trash overboard in the first place. That is why my dad fully
had all those Grecian-urn-shaped trash receptacles placed at convenient intervals all along the pier. You would think people would consider actually using them. I mean, the sea is not their garbage can.
I cannot stand idly by while helpless sea creatures are being abused by trendy Bain de Soleil-addicts in search of that
perfect St. Tropez tan.
Besides, if I am to be the ruler of Genovia someday, people need to realize I am not going to be merely a figurehead -
unlike some royals I could mention. I intend to tackle serious issues during my reign, such as the tossing of plastic six-pack holders in the bay. And the fact that all the foot traffic from the day-trippers coming off the yachts that dock in the
Genovian harbour 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 Genovian royal navy fished her out and she ended
up eloping with the ship's captain, much to the consternation of the house of Renaldo).
You would think people - OK, Grandmere and my dad - would recognize that it is important for me to establish my voice
as heir to the throne now. Mr Gianini once told me that it is better to start off mean and get nicer as the semester goes by
than start nice and have everybody think they can walk all over you.
Whatever. I wish I could call Michael, or even Lilly, but I can't because they are spending Winter Break at their grandmother's in Florida and I don't even know the number. They are not getting back until the day before I do! How I have survived this long, without my boyfriend and best friend to talk to, is a mystery wrapped in an enigma.
I am fully starting to hate it here. Everybody at school was all, 'Oh you are so lucky, you get to spend Christmas in a castle being waited on hand and foot. . .'
Well, believe me, there is nothing so great about living in a castle. First of all, everything in it is really old. And yeah, it's not