Princess in Training (The Princess Diaries 6)

Including Michael.

My life is over.

The end.

Note to self: Call Mom and remind her that she is still breast-feeding and that even though she might FEEL like drinking a lot of gin and tonics, seeing as how she’s around her mother, this could be very dangerous to Rocky’s cognitive development at this point.

Sunday, September 13, noon, my room, the Plaza

Why can’t my life be like the lives of the kids on The N? None of them are princesses. None of them created eco-disasters in their native lands by pouring ten thousand snails into the local bay. None of them have boyfriends who expect them to Do It someday. Well, actually, some of them do.

But still. It’s different when you’re on TV.

Sunday, September 13, 1 p.m., my room, the Plaza

Why won’t everyone leave me alone? If I want to wallow in my own grief, that should be my prerogative. After all, I AM a princess.

Sunday, September 13, 2 p.m., my room, the Plaza

I so wish I could talk to Michael right now. He called earlier, but I didn’t pick up. He left a message with the hotel operator that said, “Hey, it’s me. Are you still there, or have you gone home yet? I’ll try you there, too. Anyway, if you get this message, call me.”

Yeah. Call him. So he can break up with me for my reluctance to Do It with him. So not giving him the satisfaction.

I tried calling Lilly, but she’s not home. Dr. Moscovitz said she has no idea where her daughter is, but that if I hear from her, I should let her know that Pavlov needs walking.

I hope Lilly isn’t trying to secretly film through the windows of the Sacred Heart Convent again. I know she’s convinced those nuns are running an illegal methamphetamine lab in there, but it was kind of embarrassing the last time, when she sent the video footage to the Sixth Precinct and all it turned out to have on it was shots of the nuns playing bingo.

Oooooh, a Sailor Moon marathon…

Sailor Moon is so lucky to be a cartoon character. If I were a cartoon character, I’m sure I would have none of the problems I am having right now.

And even if I did, they would all be solved by the end of the episode.

Sunday, September 13, 3 p.m., my room, the Plaza

Okay, this is just a violation of my personal rights. I mean, if I want to wallow in bed all day, I should be allowed to. If that’s what SHE felt like doing, and I went barreling into HER private room and told her to stop feeling sorry for herself and sat down and started yammering away at her, you can bet SHE never would have gone along with it. She’d just have thrown a Sidecar at me, or whatever.

But somehow it’s all right for HER to do that to me. Come barreling into my room, I mean, and tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself.

Now she’s dangling this gold necklace in front of me. It’s got a pendant almost as big as Fat Louie’s head swinging from it. There are jewels all over the pendant. It looks like something 50 Cent might wear on his night off, while he’s working out or just hanging with his homies, or something.

“Do you know what you are looking at here, Amelia?” Grandmère is asking me.

“If you’re trying to hypnotize me into not biting my nails anymore, Grandmère,” I said, “it won’t work. Dr. Moscovitz already tried.”

Grandmère ignored that.

“What you are looking at here, Amelia, is a priceless artifact of Genovian history. It belonged to your namesake, St. Amelie, the beloved patron saint of Genovia.”

“Um, sorry, Grandmère,” I said. “But I was named after Amelia Earhart, the brave aviatrix.”

Grandmère snorted. “You most certainly were not,” she said. “You were named after St. Amelie, and no one else.”

“Um, excuse me, Grandmère,” I said. “But my mom very definitely told me—”

“I don’t care what that mother of yours told you,” Grandmère said. “You were named after the patron saint of Genovia, pure and simple. St. Amelie was born in the year 1070, a simple peasant girl whose greatest love was tending to her family’s flock of Genovian goats. As she tended her father’s herd, she often sang traditional Genovian folk songs to herself, in a voice that was rumored to be one of the loveliest, most melodic of all time, much nicer than that horrible Christina Aguilera person you seem to like so much.”

Um, hello. How does Grandmère even know this? Was she alive in the year 1070? Besides, Christina has, like, a seven-octave range. Or something like that.