Royal Wedding (The Princess Diaries 11)

3:35 p.m., Tuesday, May 5

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Rate the Royals Rating: 1

Just spent a half hour on the phone arguing with Dominique over my itinerary. She says it’s “too late” to change anything on it, and “after all, Princesse, you do want to get married this summer, non? Well, then, we must get started, and that’s going to require traveling to Genovia. I’m sure your little brother won’t mind your missing ’is birthday.”

Uh, she is evidently not very well acquainted with many nine-soon-to-be-ten-year-old boys. I love Rocky very much, but he is challenging. Most of our conversations revolve around farts (his favorite subject) and dinosaurs (his second favorite subject).

“How much did the dinosaurs fart when the giant asteroid that destroyed their habitat struck the earth?” is one of Rocky’s favorite questions.

He guesses quite a lot, but I usually say probably not so much because they were so frightened.

Mom worries Rocky might be held back because of his obsession with flatulence, but Michael says it’s

quite normal for nine-year-old boys.

For his birthday, Rocky wants a dinosaur-themed cake, preferably one with “a giant asteroid splatting in the middle.” When my mother questioned Rocky as to whether or not this request was serious, he farted in response, and was sent to his room to “think about what he’d done.”

I think it might be quite nice to have a female sibling to talk to. Not that girls don’t enjoy discussing flatulence and dinosaurs as well, but Olivia Grace looks adorable.

I could take her to the American Girl store and have tea. That is, if she likes dolls. The problem is, she’s twelve. Twelve is too old for dolls, isn’t it?

I didn’t want to admit it in front of Michael, but I have no idea what twelve-year-old girls like to do these days. The ones I meet at the center are all pretty focused on their homework, their families, fingernail polish (obviously, I’m out), video games involving helping puppies find homes and reality stars pick out what to wear, and several boy bands and skimpily clad female singers I’ve never heard of who are popular, but they don’t seem to me to be as talented as either Adele, Taylor, or of course my sweet, sad Britney.

• Note to self: Ask Tina what her younger siblings enjoy, and why.

I have no memory of what I liked at age twelve. I’m spending this afternoon combing through my old journals, looking for a hint as to the existence of Elizabeth Harrison, but so far I haven’t found a trace, and unfortunately I only started keeping my diaries at the age of fourteen.

Of course, the thing about diaries is that they’re always about you, not other people. It’s even worse if they’re the diary of an adolescent. It’s dreadful rereading them, because they seem so . . . egomaniacal. How could one person drone on so much about herself? Was I blind? The only thing I ever wrote about was:

1. My grades.

2. My boobs (or lack thereof).

3. Grandmère.

4. Lilly being incredibly annoying.

5. Josh Richter (ACKKKKK).

6. My then arch nemesis, Lana Weinberger.

7. Michael.

My dad possibly conducting a secret love affair across the river is never mentioned anywhere.

Ugh! I am so depressed now.

And even though Marie Rose stocked my kitchen while I was gone, so my refrigerator is full of delicious things to eat—such as a tarragon chicken salad; wild-caught Alaskan salmon poached in a court bouillon with a cumin dill sauce; crisp prosciutto, rocket, and mozzarella paninis; black truffle macaroni and cheese; lobster-claw kebabs; meringue; and Genovian orange crème brûlée—all I feel like eating is the second Butterfinger I bought at the bodega. I am not following Dr. Delgado’s advice at all!

But I have to admit, the Butterfinger is helping, as is the fact that there’s an I Found the Gown marathon on TLC.

It would be so much simpler if I could just drive to a discount store like the girls on that show do and find the perfect gown (for $400)!

But I have a sneaking suspicion that after all the Butterfingers I’ve just eaten, there’s no gown in existence (especially for only $400) cleverly enough designed to hide the food baby I’ve developed and the press seems to feel compelled to comment on.