Okay, okay, I know I haven’t updated this blog in a long time . . . but I’m busy! I’m a college student. I have papers due, and finals.
And though it pains me to say this, I’m a princess, you know? I have to help my dad rule our small European country sometimes (that many people frequently mistake for the movie versions. Check it, peeps: pears are NOT what Genovia is best known for. It is OLIVE OIL. Though I appreciate what the movie versions based on my life have done for the Genovian tourist industry. I only wish I could look as hot as the star who played me … only of course, not as skinny as she is in her new movie* since she is supposed to be starving to death in it, even though it is a musical, not that I will ever see it since according to Tina Hakim Baba, she dies at the end of it – SPOILER ALERT – and I hate movies where people die),
(*Also, I never listen to stylists who urge me not to wear panties at public functions such as premieres, because I know how difficult it can be to get out of limos without flashing my lady bit to the press. If only I’d imparted this bit of crucial information to the actress who’d play me in the movies of my life! Oh, well, too late now, I suppose.)
(Oh, Tina Hakim Baba just told me to tell you that if you are going to see Anna Karenina, a major character dies at the end of that movie, too, so SPOILER ALERT. Just doing some princess charity for you!)
Speaking of which, I have to perform acts of charity ALL THE TIME as a princess (such as helpfully handing out spoilers to movies that might upset people at the holiday season, and advising young actresses to wear panties, only sometimes I forget that one), so that’s another reason this blog is so sadly neglected.
These acts of charity include keeping my insane grandmother from killing Lindsay Lohan in nightclubs (I know it will surprise you to hear this, but Lindsay’s actually not so bad. You know who is a nightmare? My grandma’s psychic. Also, RHIANNA. But you didn’t hear that from me).
(Oh, no, you just did. Well, pretend you didn’t.)
And—it doesn’t pain me as much to say this as it did the princess thing. OK, it doesn’t pain me at all—I have a boyfriend. Whatever time off I get from school and princess work, I try to spend with him. And also with my friends. And with my cat, who is getting pretty old. Oh, and with my family, of course!
(I’m not forgetting them. They’re important to me. It’s just still gross to see my mom making out with my teacher.)
Though I do realize I’m very lucky to have all of you as my fans, it’s hard to keep up with a blog and social media networking TOO, in addition to all of the above. Plus the death threats and the occasional plots to overthrow the throne, not to mention the creepy marriage proposals from Saudi Arabian princes, ew, I wish I could tell Tina Hakim Baba about them but she would think they were romantic because she likes romances starring Saudi Arabian princes, but that is because she only reads about them, she has never lived one. Not that I have either, one (future) husband is enough for me, thanks.
But I swear I will be back to update this blog just as soon as finals are over. Maybe. If there’s not another international scandal involving my grandmother and Lindsay Lohan that I have to handle (don’t even get me started on Rhianna. What is with her and Chris Brown? I mean . . . well, like I said, don’t get me started).
Or if Michael doesn’t whisk me off to some tropical island for Christmas for some well needed R & R (ha, I wish. My dad wouldn’t go TOO ballistic over that).
(Not that my dad would ever find out.)
(Oh, wait, he would because I just wrote it. STUPID INTERNET. This is why I need to go back to keeping diaries which are PRIVATE.)
(But probably Lars my bodyguard will tell my dad if Michael whisks me off to a romantic tropical island getaway anyway regardless if I write about it online.)
(You know what? For Christmas all I want is A NEW DIARY WITH A LOCK ON IT.)
Well, Merry Christmas if I don’t talk to you before then anyway.
Wishing you all the best this holiday season, and a very happy New Year!
I haven’t had a single chance to post about the royal wedding, thanks to the fact that the minute I got home from England, it was time to start studying for finals (how can I be getting a D in Women’s Studies? I’m a woman! Why won’t that teaching assistant cut me some slack? I swear it’s anti-royalism), not to mention that it was my birthday on May 1.
And if any of you were around a television on May 1, I’m sure you noticed what happened on May 1.
I’m pleased that justice has been served, and all of that.
It’s just that it’s a bit jarring to be enjoying your birthday and suddenly, everyone is jumping around excited about someone being shot in the head, even if he deserved to be. Plus, my suitemate Carla was quite wrong that it meant we would not have to turn in any papers the next day. Because we still had to.
And that is why my D in Women’s Studies is now more like a D minus.
But I digress.
Back to what my grandmother is now referring to as the biggest debacle in the history of time, or "I certainly hope when you get married, Amelia, your hair will have grown out as nicely as the new Duchess of Cambridge’s. But how dare they!"
Never mind that everyone else in the entire world is referring to the royal wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton, aka the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (their new titles), as the classiest and most lovely royal wedding ever.
Of course, the only reason it was as lovely as it ended up being is because Grandmére ended up being kept far away from it (due to a "migraine"), which you probably already know if you’ve read anything about it.
Although really it was thanks to her hijinks at the Mandarin Oriental the night before (why did they let her drink so much in the first place? You would think by now everyone would know how she gets around too many good looking Arab sheiks after a half dozen Sidecars).
The Royal Genovian Publicity Office did their best to keep everything about Grandmére and her insanity whilst we were in London out of the press. Good thing about the Syrian ambassador, because most people were concentrating on that (and Princess Beatrice’s hat. No one in my family had anything to do with that, at least. In fact, Paolo tried to warn her, but Bea wouldn’t listen. Lilly says she thinks Bea was trying to make an ironic statement of protest since her mother wasn’t on the guest list. In which case, she succeeded handily).
Thank goodness Michael was the one I finally chose to be my "plus one" (that’s what they call the person you, the invited guest, bring along as your date).
It was a very difficult choice for me because of course Tina Hakim Baba wanted so badly to come.
But so did everyone else I know, even Lilly.
But honestly, even before Grandmére’s bad behavior at the Mandarin, I knew I’d need someone who could remain calm in a sea of chaos (Michael); upon whom I could lean for both emotional and physical support in a time of crisis (Michael); and who also had a lot of pockets in case I needed to smuggle in lip balm or Kleenex in case of an emergency (Michael) because they wouldn’t allow any of the female guests to bring purses (for security reasons) into the wedding ceremony.
Only Queen Elizabeth gets to carry a purse. I have found out what she keeps in it, too: Mars bars. Really. She showed me. She says she needs them for protein when her spirits flag.
This is genius. I will be keeping Mars bars in my purse when I am regent as well.
And even though I knew the last thing Michael wanted to do last week was fly to London on the Royal Genovian Jet with my dad and grandma and go to a royal wedding, he very kindly never gave so much as a hint as to how incredibly bored he was. I only caught him playing Halo with my bodyguard Lars twice.
And he didn’t say a word about the food (which really was very bad, but then, it’s hard to cater to that many people, especially when they have such diverse dietary restrictions. I mean, the Dalai Lama alone . . . what were they supposed to do? No wonder QE keeps the Mars bars around).
Naturally I couldn’t live blog the event like I promised, because they wouldn’t allow us to have any sort of electronic devices in the actual abbey or at any of the parties afterwards, again for security reasons, which I quite understood, because it would have been extremely demoralizing to the public if someone had put an explosive device under a manhole or something, and then set it off just as one of those shuttle buses carrying all us royals rolled over it, and we were blown to smithereens in front of nearly three billion viewers.
(Though Dad said M6, which is England’s version of the Secret Service, did a topnotch job of scouring the rooftops and sewer systems with bomb sniffing dogs for exactly this sort of thing, and also that I read too many Swedish police procedurals.)
And before the wedding, at the hotel, we were in lockdown mode, due to all the press gathered outside, trying to snap pics of us, and get me to tell them what Kate’s dress(es) looked like.
(As if I knew! I had never even met Kate until the night before the wedding. She is so smart and mature. When she did talk to me, it was to ask, "Is your grandmother all right? I believe she is choking her dog." I said, "No, she’s fine, Rommel likes being held that way." Oh! I hope someday I’ll be as refined as she is.)
(I thought both dresses were gorgeous. But I could never have gotten away with either, as Grandmére later pointed out, because I slump too much. You have to have excellent posture to look good in gowns like these.)
The press was relentless from the moment we got off the Royal Genovian Jet! Everyone wanted me to "comment" on how Kate must have been feeling right before the big event. How was I supposed to know how Kate was feeling? I’ve never gotten married in front of three billion people! Or any people at all.
If I were Kate, I’d have been throwing up in a toilet somewhere from all the stress, and my mom would have to have been holding my hair back (if I had Kate’s hair, not my own hair, which is still shaped a yield sign and only chin length, so no one would have to hold it back if I were throwing up).
But Kate was perfectly poised and seemed totally relaxed every time I saw her, even when Grandmére said that thing she did about how it was unfair of them not to have invited "Moo Moo" (her pet name for the ex-leader of a Middle Eastern country I won’t mention here but with whom she’s been having an on-again off-again romance for some time. It is currently off-again thanks to the fact that all his assets have been frozen and he is living on his yacht in the middle of the Red Sea.)
The Royal Genovian Publicity Office tried to tell the press I’d already made two statements (wrongly attributed to Meg Cabot, as usual, but then, what else is new), but they wouldn’t listen. They even gave them URLs (I thought this one, to Parade Magazine, basically the most widely read news magazine in America, was the most thoughtful and lovely, because it’s true Princess Diana was really the first royal to publicly touch someone with AIDS, at a time when NO ONE else would do so).
And this statement–Tips To Kate– was just for fun (especially since there’s an opportunity to win free books if you submit your own tips), but I did mean every word of what I said. Kate should NOT Google herself, some people are just so mean, and really needlessly so. It’s like you can never be good enough for some people, no matter how hard you try, even if all you’re trying to do is give people happiness and joy in their lives. Some people just seem to thrive on negativity and are just never going to have anything nice to say, so why waste one minute of your time on them at all?
Unless of course that person happens to be your grandmother. Then you can’t avoid her, unfortunately.
Where was I? Oh, yes:
I thought the best part was when Kate and William drove off in the car he borrowed from his dad:
Of course, they didn’t really go anywhere (just drove back round to the party where we were all waiting).
But that was Michael’s favorite part of the whole thing. He sounded quite wistful when he said, "That’s how I’d like to get married."
He didn’t mean the rest of the ceremony. He meant the car.
And I’m still not sure what that means. He’d like to get married in a car that he borrowed from his dad? The Drs. Moscovitz own a PT Cruiser that they only use to go to Costco on the weekends to buy giant rolls of toilet paper in New Jersey because it’s hard to find those in Manhattan. I don’t think
a) PT Cruisers are as fun as tiny convertibles that run on biodegradable fuel, and
b) that is very romantic.
And I certainly hope Michael isn’t getting any ideas about eloping because with the whole Women’s Studies thing (HOW? HOW CAN I BE GETTING A D? I understand about the missed paper, but how can I get be getting such a bad grade in a subject on which I should be an expert? I am a feminist and so are all my friends and my mom. I am sure this has something to do with my being a princess. But I can’t help this. I was born this way. What am I supposed to do, reject the throne? But I want to use my throne to HELP WOMEN. ARGH!!!), this whole wanted-criminals-getting-shot-on-my- birthday thing, and my grandmother being uninvited to royal weddings along with the ambassador to Syria, I don’t know how much more stress I can take.
But it was lovely, wasn’t it? I can only dream that one day, I will have a wedding half as nice, even if it is an elopment in Michael’s parents PT Cruiser (oh, dear GOD, no) . . . .
I know it’s been ages since I’ve blogged but that’s because there’s just been so much going on, I haven’t had a minute to myself. It all started when this came in the mail:
Obviously this isn’t the original. Rice Krispies and milk got spilled all over the original when my suitemate Gina screamed so loudly when she saw me pulling it out of the thick envelope it came in and my other suitemate Carla happened to be walking by with her breakfast.
Because of course the envelope was addressed to Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo and guest.
And every single person I know wants to be my guest at Prince William and Kate’s wedding . . . . with the exception of course of the one person I’d actually like to bring with me.
Not that Michael says he doesn’t want to go, or is boycotting the occasion on ethical grounds or anything annoying like that (as his sister might have done in the past).
He just gets uncomfortable when he has to dress up in a tux (although in this case, the dress code is "morning suit"), and stand around in some cathedral where there are cameras pointing at him, especially in high def.
(Although Michael is getting more used to these kinds of things since he has been going out with me for so long, and has also had to give so many press conferences himself in his capacity as CEO of his own robotic surgical arm company, Pavlov Industries, which he named after his dog.)
Still, I can sort of understand why, whenever the subject of Prince William and Kate’s royal wedding comes up, the corner of his right eye starts twitching.
Because Grandmére and my dad got their own invitations and will also be attending (I did not ask who they are bringing as their guests because I have enough to worry about), and not only will we all have to sit together at the wedding ceremony itself, but we’ll also be forced to attend the queen’s reception together later that afternoon for drinks and canepés (and cake, of course), but then we’re invited to the "knee’s up" evening reception hosted by Prince Charles, at which there will be dancing, possibly of the disco variety.
That is a lot of togetherness with Grandmére (not to mention whatever nightmare of an escort she decides to bring with her. Please dear God do not let it be Charlie Sheen).
I’m not sure even I will be able to take it. So how can I ask poor Michael to do it?
Especially since Grandmére has taken to phoning me nine million times a day to point out all the things I need to be sure NOT to do when I get married, things that Prince William and Kate are doing, such as inviting their ex-boyfriends and girlfriends to the ceremony (which I think is gracious of them, although no way am I inviting either Josh Richter OR JP to my wedding. I wish both of them would stop poking me on Facebook. I am never going to like them back so they just need to get over it), or ask guests to make donations to my favorite charities in lieu of gifts.
"How do they expect to have enough matching salad plates for the royal family of Saudi Arabia when they come to visit?" Grandmére keeps wanting to know.
She can’t understand anything that’s modern or reasonable, such as the fact that Prince William and Kate say they don’t intend to have maids or a cook in the house where they will be living together after they are husband and wife.
Grandmére says they might as well just do all their own washing on a rock by the side of the river and grind their own wheat while they’re at it.
I tried to explain to Grandmére that these are not the same as not having a maid or cook but she doesn’t believe me.
I was over at Michael’s during one of these calls from her, and after I’d hung up he looked at me all twitchy-eyed and said with a sigh, "I suppose eloping would be out of the question."
I said, "Oh, no, it’s much too late for that. Matt Lauer and everyone from The Today Show have already booked their flights to London. Think how angry they’d be."
He gave me sort of a funny look when I said this, but I thought it was just because he usually watches Morning Joe and all of those boring financial news shows in the morning, so he isn’t that familiar with Matt and The Today Show gang.
But then later when I told all this to Tina Hakim Baba, she said, "Oh my God, Mia! Michael wasn’t talking about William and Kate. He was talking about you guys!"
Then Tina got into a pre-engagement delusional lather, going on about how "that was practically a wedding proposal!" and wanting me to get out my iPad so we could go on www.tiffany.com to pick out potential engagement rings, and did I want her to drop Michael a subtle hint about my ring size and diamond shape preference?
And now Tina wants to be the guest I bring with me to the royal wedding so she can take notes because she wants to be my wedding planner (in between studying for her pre-med finals at NYU, because of course she hasn’t given up her dream of being a doctor, although now she wants to be a gynecologist because she’s worried there are too many women in the world who don’t receive proper gynecological and obstetric care).
But I can’t plan my wedding right now because:
a) I am still in college. I can’t get married until I have a degree and have gone out into the world and worked, like Kate Middleton!
(Although technically being a princess is a job. Also, I am a published writer. But I mean like a job where I have to go to an office and have a mean boss yell at me. Besides my grandmother, who had no choice in hiring me, and would clearly not have, given a choice between me and someone else. She would have chosen Emma Watson).
b) Tina seems to be forgetting that Michael didn’t propose. What he actually said was, "I suppose eloping would be out of the question."
I know Michael and I are getting married. That’s obvious. We’ve talked about our future often (even what would be good names for kids. Such as Indiana and Merlin).
But when we do get engaged, a proper proposal would be nice, not something groaned out because of how much he doesn’t want to go to Prince William and Kate’s wedding. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
So there will be no planning of anything until all of the above things happen (college graduation, proper job, proper romantic proposal).
Meanwhile, there are lots of other people besides Tina who’ve dropped not-so-subtle hints that they wouldn’t mind being asked to be my guest at Prince William and Kate’s wedding, including but not limited to:
1) My mom (she thinks Kate’s a "lovely girl" with such "nice manners and hair." Like I don’t know it! Paolo is after me to grow out my hair. But it still won’t grow past the yield sign stage. Possibly I need more vitamin D?)
2) My little brother, Rocky (who said if I took him he would give me his entire toy dump truck collection, but I see through his ruse. He only wants to go because Grandmeré is going, and he’s in love with her. Why??? WHY DOES HE LIKE HER SO MUCH????)
3) My hair stylist, Paolo. Obviously. He wants to ambush Kate and ask her what vitamins she takes to make her hair so nice.
4) All of my suitemates here at college, who are of course after Harry, except for Gina, who is after Princess Beatrice, even though I TOLD her I don’t think Beatrice is same-sex oriented.
4) Lana Weinberger. She thinks she has a chance at getting Prince Harry to fall madly in love with her and marry her, and that then somehow Queen Elizabeth, Prince Charles, and Prince William will all miraculously expire at once (probably of poison put in their food by Lana), and then she’ll become queen (Lana has a lot in common with Wallis Simpson, now that I think about it. Except that Lana is not a Nazi sympathizer). Lana says: "When I’m queen, I’ll outrank you, Mia, because queens are higher than princesses. Ha! Put that in your candy hole!"
5) And even Lilly, who said, "Purely from a sociological standpoint, I think it would be beneficial for me to study the behavior of all these royals. You don’t count, Mia, because you weren’t raised in that kind of environment. I’d like to have the opportunity to observe true blue bloods on their own turf. Besides, I understand the Dalai Lama is going to be there. I have a few questions I’d like to ask him about ascending to the spiritual plane."
She’s such a liar. The real reason Lilly wants to go is that Kanye West is going to be there! She wants to ask him to follow her back on Twitter.
Oh well. I still have a week or so to figure it out.
Maybe I’ll just take Lars. He said he wants to go, too. All the bodyguards from all the royal families are going to be there, so it will be like a reunion for him. They like to have impromptu games of touch football in the parking lots at events like this, using a ball stuffed with live ammo to make it more exciting.
Plus, he really wants David Beckham’s autograph.
I promise to keep you posted.
Oh my God, you guys, it’s not my fault it’s been forever since I updated. You don’t even know what’s been going on here. Since school got out for the summer, I’ve been stuck in Genovia with Grandmere.
Why, do you ask, would a talented, hard-working college student like myself (who also happens to be a princess, with a stunningly hot longtime boyfriend who owns a multi-million dollar corporation) be living with her horribly boring grandmother for the summer, instead of doing something cool, like volunteering in the Gulf with my friends to help clean the oil-soaked birds?
Oh, that’s easy. Because Grandmere got a facelift.
IT’S NOT EVEN HER FIRST. It’s like her seventh, or something. And this time, there were "complications."
And apparently MY summer plans are not important to this family. Because SOME people wanted to go to the World Cup. With his girlfriend.
And no one else is bossy enough to keep Grandmere from ordering Shake Weights for the entire populace with her platinum card every time she sees the ad on TV (she gets a little loopy on her pain meds, especially when she mixes them with her nightly Sidecar, which she still insists on having).
That’s fine. Whatever. I’m perfectly happy here in Genovia, watching for skin discoloration, sensitivity or swelling; facial nerve injury weakness; and dead fatty tissue. I always have had secret medical aspirations (like Dr. Quinn, Medical Woman. Only she never treated anything as STUPID AS THIS).
Grandmere is going to be fine, of course. Apparently one day the swelling will go down, and she’ll actually stop looking like Darth Vader with his helmet off.
And the good part is, she went for the full package, so they also gave her Botox in her lips, and they’re so swollen, she can’t even talk. YAY!
This leaves me free to control the remote (HA! No, Grandmere, we’re not watching your new boyfriend, Rush Limbaugh), so we’ve been watching everything the Genovian satellite TV package has to offer—all the new shows, like Huge (about weight loss camp for teens! Romance! Drama! I love it) and Royal Pains (concierge doctors in the Hamptons. I always diagnose the diseases before they do, sometimes even correctly) and Boston Med (new diseases! And traumas).
And Grandmere can’t protest! In that way, life is good.
I’ve been keeping myself occupied in other ways, as well. Like reading. Am I the only person who read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and was like, "What’s the deal with all the sandwiches?"
This is not to say I didn’t enjoy the book, because of course I did. But the heroine, Lisbeth Salander, eats six sandwiches in a single sitting. Herring, pate, salmon . . . I lost track after a while. It’s a long book, but there were still a lot of sandwiches (including bagels stuffed with roast beef, which I have personally never heard of, and I live in New York City, the bagel capital of the world).
Even after Salander saves the hero from being garroted to death, what does she do? She gives him a sandwich. He doesn’t feel much like eating a sandwich, but she forces him to anyway. He manages to choke it down (ha, get it? Choke? Never mind).
At one point, I’m pretty sure someone eats a herring sandwich. Or at least herring in some form.
But when I was in Sweden for the wedding of Crown Princess Victoria, my hosts— who couldn’t have been kinder—laughed gently when I wondered why there was never any herring on any the menus, even at of any of the restaurants they took me to (at one of which was also dining a member of Abba. Naturally).
You can’t see me. But Michael and I are standing off to the left.
Seeing a member of Abba was fabulous, of course. But I really wanted some herring. I was in Sweden! Herring to Sweden is what bagels are to New York!
But no one, I was informed, actually eats herring anymore in Sweden, especially in restaurants. Well, maybe people’s grandparents, in the North, someone said.
This wasn’t just me, either! When I asked some of the other royals (who were also there for the wedding, and also just finished the book, and saw the movie, too) if they got any herring, they said no—the same thing happened to them, too! They asked for herring, and the Stockholmers said, looking shocked, "Oh, no. No one in Sweden eats herring anymore."
If The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo teaches us anything, besides the fact that it’s important to carb up after a choking, it’s that it isn’t true Swedes don’t eat herring. They eat it. Often in the form of sandwiches.
If you liked The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (which I thoroughly enjoyed, in spite of the slight excess of sandwiches, which I’m told were open-face, and so six was not such an excessive number), I highly recommend you sample the rest of Sweden’s amazing crime writers. Maj Sjowall and her husband, Per Wahloo, who also have the distinction of being dead, like Stieg Larsson, are my personal favorites.
(The hero, Martin Beck, consumes lots of sandwiches as well, especially in the later books, when he meets his girlfriend).
But really, I’ve yet to read one that hasn’t been pure fun, so no matter which author you pick, you can’t go wrong.
Other books I’m enjoying this summer while making sure Grandmere doesn’t die of a blood clot include:
AND THEN I FOUND OUT THE TRUTH
By Jennifer Sturman
July 2010 YA Fiction
Booklist says this book has quirky characters, Gossip Girl"“worthy label dropping, a dreamy love interest, and a mystery that ties up with happy surprises (it’s part of a series, so you might want to check out the first book).
It’s a bit shocking to see a YA where no one is in a coma or a boarding school for vampires. But I’m trying to manage my expectations.
I saw an excerpt from this book in Teen Vogue and I ran out and bought it and I’m SO GLAD I DID. It’s taught me so much Grandmere NEVER did about being a lady in today’s society.
For instance, DON’T say bad things about people on message boards or listservs (even ones you think are private) and especially on Facebook and blogs. Though you may not believe it now, one day you might find yourself needing a favor from the very person you just had such a good time badmouthing online.
Take it from me . . . someone forwarded her what you said about her (I say this because I get forwarded the bad things people have said about me ALL THE TIME). I, of course, am too much of a princess ever to admit that I know what you said to your face.
But it’s because of what you said about me online that one time (that thing you thought I’d never see) that I’m never going to do that favor for you.
This just ONE of this book’s many excellent tips. This is a book every modern girl needs!
(Grandmere doesn’t even know what a blog is. But let me tell you, she’s on a lot of them!)
GETTING THE PRETTY BACK
By Molly Ringwald
April 2010 Nonfiction
It! Books/HarperCollins Publishers
She kissed Andrew McCarthy. Anthony Michael Hall fondled her panties. And those were just her teen years!
THE LOST SUMMER OF LOUISA MAY ALCOTT
By Kelly O’Connor McNees
April 2010 Fiction
Amy Einhorn Books/G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Before she wrote Little Woman, Louisa May wrote steamy romances under another name (like someone else I know). Now we get the dirt on her own (alleged) steamy romance!
CONFESSIONS OF A PRAIRIE BITCH
By Alison Arngrim
July 2010 Nonfiction
It! Books/HarperCollins Publishers
She played mean Nellie on LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE. What else do I need to say. And the title? Genius. I pre-ordered this with Grandmere’s platinum card the minute I heard about it.
Oh, man. I have to go. Grandmere’s bandages need to be changed.
Let this be a lesson to all of you. Do not take cosmetic surgery lightly: When they say there can be side effects, don’t think, "Oh, sure, for some people." The SOME people could be YOU. Or your grandma.
As for me, I’ll be fine. Another thing I did with Grandmere’s platinum card is Adopt A Fisherman. Since it seems as if BP is paying more for ads on the TVs and in the local newspapers in many areas affected by the spill than they are to help support the people actually suffering from it, I think this is an excellent charity! BP has taken out a full page ad in the Key West paper every day for weeks (rumor has it this costs $3,000 per day), saying how sorry they are for the leak.
Meanwhile, captains who own charter boats find that their business is down 75%. That $3,000 per day could really help them.
(Or so I’ve heard.)
I also used Grandmere’s card to buy some new headphones, and some music, too, so I won’t be able to hear her complaining when Grandmere gets her facial mobility back. Katy Perry’s song California Gurls should be about right.
As for the rest of you, stay cool—and classy—this summer!
Today is my birthday.
Despite Grandmere insisting I spend it with her (and two hundred and fifty of her closest friends, all of whom she’s invited over to the Plaza ballroom tonight to help her celebrate. She’s been sending sample birthday cakes to the dorm all week, trying to force me to choose one I liked best, to the delight of my roommates, who were only too eager to help me sample them), and my own friends all saying, "Let’s have a party!" (you’d think they’d know better by now. Parties never turn out well for me), I opted to do what I really wanted.
That’s the difference between Me now and the Me that I used to be. I still care about making other people happy.
But I realize making myself happy is the most important thing sometimes.
And so since what I really wanted to do was come home from the dorm and sleep in my OWN room, with my head on my OWN pillow, in my OWN pajamas, with my OWN cat purring next to me, in my OWN loft, with my OWN mother next door (even if she IS in bed with my old teacher), and my OWN pigeons cooing on the fire escape outside the window, that’s exactly what I did.
Because when it’s your birthday, shouldn’t you get to do what you want?
And what I wanted was to just laze around, with no class schedule or royal agenda or bodyguards or publicists or party planners or dowager princesses or anyone to worry about pleasing for a change. Just myself!
It was utter bliss.
I had a great morning eating homemade waffles with Mom and Mr. G and Rocky (who is really very verbal now. Perhaps a little TOO verbal. Maybe Mom and Mr. G should think about establishing a time-out corner for him, in fact. Everything is "MINE." Particularly when it came to the maple syrup. Poor Fat Louie. But I suppose he’ll get it all licked off eventually).
Then I took a long hot bath (I added bubbles so it was just like Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door Spa, where Grandmere wanted to take me this morning, except that Mom fought her off. And Fat Louie was sitting there, licking the maple syrup off. My bathroom, which locks, is the only place he’s safe from Rocky), while I read through all my old diaries.
My goodness, but I used to write about my breasts a lot. Why did I care? Certain parties find them quite delightful exactly as they are. I must admit, so do I. What was I so worried about it? Girls can be weird.
I’m supposed to go meet Tina and Lily and those guys for lunch at Barolo (May 1 is the first day they open their back garden for Spring al fresco dining), and then Michael later on for a romantic dinner he’s preparing just for me at his place. Michael makes the BEST pasta.
I have no idea what Michael’s getting me for my birthday, but I really hope it isn’t an iPad. Mom and Mr. G and Dad and Grandmere (because her new boyfriend is Steven Jobs) all gave me iPads as gifts already and honestly, I can’t say I find them all that useful. I mean, yes, they’re nice (and I know they’ll make lovely party favors for the girls at lunch today), but I can’t figure out how to get to Word to work on them so I can start my new novel.
Lars said, "It doesn’t have Word, it’s a reader, not a word processor. You’re supposed to play on it, not work," which makes no sense to me.
I don’t want to read books on a computer. I want to read books in a bathtub, like a normal person, and turn the page without have to worry about getting electrocuted.
So I’m not sure an iPad works for me.
I doubt Michael will give me an iPad, he knows I’m not an early adopter. I still only have two apps on my iPhone and one of them I can’t even figure out how to work. I think he’s getting me something more romantic than iPad. Something like—
Oh, my iPhone is ringing. At least answering it is one of the apps I understand . . . .
Lana just called to explain why she isn’t going to be able to make it to my birthday lunch (not that we’ll really miss her. Well, I will. She’s always amusing to have around when she starts in about how many guys she’s dumped at Duke so far.)
"It’s because I’m filming my own reality series," Lana said. There was a lot of noise in the background of wherever she was calling from.
"Excuse me?" I asked. I have to admit, even though it was Lana, I was surprised. A reality show?
"Yeah," she said. "It’s such a pain. This film crew is following me around everywhere. And anyway, right now I’m in a recording studio, because I’m about to cut a single."
This was even more surprising. I didn’t know Lana could sing. "You are?"
"Well, yeah, why not? I mean, if all those dumb housewives can do it, so can I. Only my song’s actually going to be good." Lana snapped her gum. "We’re going to release it as a dance mix in Europe first this summer, so you’ll probably hear it in over Genovia when school let’s out. It won’t drop in the US until the fall."
"Uh," I said. "I can’t wait. What’s your song called?"
"Put It In My Candy Hole," Lana said, matter-of-factly.
I nearly dropped my phone.
"Lana," I said. "You can’t call a song that."
"Why not?" Lana asked. "It’s a brilliant hook. About a girl who likes candy? Hello. What could be better?"
"Lana," I said. "I don’t think that’s—"
"Don’t be jealous, Mia. I told you to call your book that, but you wouldn’t use it. It could have been a huge bestseller, but no. You snooze, you lose. Here, I’ll give you an exclusive sneak preview. Listen. Guys. GUYS! Hit it. From the top."
Then Lana’s band started playing. And Lana began to sing her soon-to-be number one hit single. Boy, was I ever shocked.
I like candy, I’m a candy kind of girl
If you’ve got candy, wanna give me a whirl
I like candy, I eat it when I can
If you’ve got candy, wanna be my candy man?
Oh candy man, candy man,
won’t you be my candy man?
Put it in my candy hole, candy hole
Put it in my candy hole, candy hole
Then you’ll be my candy man
If you can’t do it, there’s lots of boys who can
"Uh, Lana," I tried to say. But there was too much electronic synthesizer for her to hear me.
I like candy, I eat it every day
From Easter Island to Hershey P.A.
But your candy
is something I’ve been missing
Like your lips,
I shoulda been kissing
Just put them in my candy hole, candy hole
And I’ll spin that candy into gold
Oh candy man, candy man won’t you be my candy man?
Put it in my candy hole, candy hole
Put it in my candy hole, candy hole
Then you’ll be my candy man
If you can’t do it, there’s lots of boys who can
"Listen, Lana," I said. "I really think you might want to—"
But Lana was revving up for the big finale.
If you like candy then you’ll like me
And candyland is where you’ll be
I’ll zoom on up in my car made of licorice
But you know its you who’ll soon be feelin’ ticklish
We’ll drive away into a sunset made of cocoa
And there’s just one thing that you and I will know know
And that’s that you’ll be putting it
in my candy hole, candy hole
Put it in my candy hole, candy hole
Put it in my candy hole, candy hole
And forever be my candy man, candy man
If you can’t do it, No one can
"Wow," I said, when the last note had died away. Really, I didn’t know what else to say.
"I know," Lana said, coughing modestly. "Don’t worry, I don’t intend to forget the little people when I win my Grammy for Best Album of the Year."
"No," I said. "I mean, wow, there is no way that song is going to air on American radio. It’s way too dirty."
"No, it isn’t," Lana said. "It’s about candy! I mean, have you ever listened to some of the stuff Ke$ha is out there singing? It’s about getting drunk."
"Yeah, but," I said, "she isn’t telling guys to put it in her candy hole."
"Do you even know what a candy hole is, Mia?" Lana asked, skeptically.
"Um," I said. "No. But I have a pretty good idea."
"Mia," Lana said. "Now you’re just being gross. A candyhole is what kids cut out of the box when they dress as a robot for Halloween. It’s for parents to put the candy through, because the kids’ arms are stuck inside the box and they can’t hold out their trick-or-treating bag. The candy hole is where you stuff all the candy."
I blinked at her. "Really?"
"Of course!" Lana was laughing. "What did you think it was?"
"Um," I said. "Something else."
"Well, you have a dirty mind," Lana said. "My song is about candy. And holes. God, dirty girl."
"Oh," I said. "Okay. Sorry. Well, can you tell me what channel this series is going to be on?" I wanted to be sure not to miss it. It sounded like it was going to be way better than The Hills.
"Oh," Lana said, snapping her gum. "We haven’t been picked up yet. But it’s only a matter of time. If Sarah Palin can get a reality series sold, I can. I mean, her series is set in Alaska, and she’s like, old. I’m a college co-ed and recording an album and am totally hot."
"Right," I said. "Well, keep me posted."
"I totally will," Lana said. "And anyway, happy birthday!"
"Oh," I said. "Thanks."
"And keep your candy hole covered if you don’t want anyone shoving candysticks through it!" Lana cackled and hung up.
I hung up too, reflecting that it didn’t really matter what Michael gave me for my birthday tonight.
Lana had already given me the greatest gift I could ever receive:
A glimpse into her sheer, utter genius. Which she was soon about to shed upon the world. I had no doubt she’d be successful, and that the world would be a better place for it.
Honestly, if she can’t do it, no one can.
Grandmere just barged in here and said she read in a magazine her latest spa appointment that Tweeter and MyFace are among the best ways to reach out to the common populace.
I assured her she meant Twitter and Facebook and she said, "You needn’t be so condescending, Amelia. We must update your frog!"
Apparently Grandmere has some things she wants to say about the Oscar fashions, even though that’s old news now (kind of like Grandmere).
I knew this was too good an opportunity to miss so I threw a pillow at Lily who was crashed under a pile of laundry on my guest bed (her roommate kicked her out for the weekend because her parents are visiting. Lily’s recently taken up Wicca in an effort to freak out their religious RA).
Then I sent the limo for Tina, because I knew we needed her the way the Obama health care bill needs Dr. Oz.
Here’s the transcript, in case you’re interested:
Mia, Tina, Lily and Grandmere Critique the Oscar Fashions
Grandmere: Amelia, this is exactly what I was warning you about the other day. Always check to make sure your dress isn’t the same color as your flesh. It’s rule number one of fashion.
Mia: Got it, Grandmere.
Tina: Oooh, I love it! Look at all the ruffles!
Lily: That reminds me. Mia, stop hogging all the chips and salsa.
Grandmere: You see? Just because something is designer doesn’t mean it’s flattering to your figure.
Mia: But she was good in Inglorious Basterds.
Tina: It’s nice from the waist up, though.
Lily: Really, Tina. Don’t you ever have anything bad to say about anything? Is this because Boris bones you every night?
Tina: Oh, my goodness.
Grandmere: A hard man is good to find. I remember when I was in college—
Mia: You were never in college, Grandmere. Next photo please.
George Clooney and friend
Grandmere: Back to what I was saying about a hard man being good to find—
Mia: Michael looks just like that in a tux. Without the grey.
Lily: Uh, my brother looks NOTHING like this.
Tina: Her dress is so pretty!
Grandmere: Amelia, I’m going to have Paolo make something like this for you for Prince William’s wedding, so he can see what he missed.
Mia: Yes, please.
Tina: Can I have one, too?
Lily: She looks like that Barbie you used to have, Mia. The one I threw on the roof.
Grandmere: Disappointing lack of jewels. I highly disapprove. Where is her tiara?
Mia: Jewels would have distracted from the beautiful cut of the gown.
Tina: She’s a classic beauty. She didn’t need any other adornment.
Lily: Why did she scratch herself so much while she was presenting, though? Fleas from her werewolf boyfriend? HA HA HA.
Mia: You’re so stupid sometimes, Lily.
Jeff Bridges and wife
Grandmere: A marriage that has spanned decades, just like his career.
Mia: You might want to consider a dress like the one she’s got on, Grandmere, instead of those sleeveless numbers you always wear. Just a suggestion.
Grandmere: But then how I will show off how toned my arms have become from all the plastic surgery I’ve had?
Mia: Oh, ugh, did we really need to know that?
Tina: They look so sweet together!
Lily: Crazy Heart was just a family friendly The Wrestler.
Grandmere: So am I to understand anyone may call herself a queen in America, and we’re all supposed to just o along with it? What is she queen of, precisely?
Mia: Grandmere! She’s amazing. She can call herself queen anytime she wants.
Tina: I think she’s queen of that dress.
Lily: Mia, I swear to God, if you don’t quit hogging the chips I’m going to steal Lars’s gun and shoot you in the back of the head with it.
Grandmere: Who, precisely, is this? Wonder Woman? Is that her special insignia on her belt, to signify her superpower?
Mia: Grandmere! That’s Molly Ringwald! She was in Pretty in Pink! She looks great!
Tina: I love her hair.
Lily: I wonder if she made that dress herself, like in the movie.
Mia: Oooh, good point.
Grandmere: This is precisely what I wanted to warn you about, Amelia. This is what’s known as—
Mia: I know. Group think. Everyone tells you it’s great, you don’t get enough fresh opinions, and you go out looking like a stripper on prom night.
Grandmere: That is not what I was going to say at all. I was going to say, "This is what’s known as a shocking lack of jewelry."
Tina: I think it’s pretty.
Lily: Tina. This would be pretty for the porn awards. But that’s not what she was wearing this to.
Grandmere: Tasteful yet makes a statement. I predict this girl will go a long way. She, too, needs a great deal more jewelry. I don’t know what all these young girls are thinking.
Tina: Her dress has tons of diamonds on it, Your Majesty.
Grandmere: Highness. I am only a Dowager Princess, Miss Hakim Baba. That makes me Your Highness to you.
Tina: I’m so sorry, Your Highness.
Lily: Precious made me want to put a bullet in my own head. Though Gabby was good in it.
Mia: I know, right? And so was Mariah. And M’Onique.
Grandmere: That lipstick is atrocious. No wonder her husband strayed.
Mia: Grandmere! We’re talking about dresses here! Not people’s love lives. Besides, what about you? You’ve had plenty of guys call the tabloids and say that you two have—
Grandmere: Being a royal is so difficult in this day and age. Everyone wants to take advantage. And Mario was such an excellent masseuse. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. And that tattoo didn’t stand for White Pride, it stood for—
Tina: Cough. Sandra looks amazing. I wish her all the best.
Lily: This is a classic example of "If you visualize it, it will come." She dressed as an Oscar, and look what happened?
Mia: Right. She’ll come out on top, because she’s strong and funny, and she won’t let anyone take advantage of her.
Mia: I have to say . . . Grandmere is right, for once.
Tina: I hope I look like her at her age. I wish I looked like her NOW.
Lily: Oh, my God, Mia, how long has this cheese been in your fridge? Don’t you have a maid or something to clean this thing out?
Grandmere: This is, of course, completely, inappropriate.
Mia: I think it looks good from the top, but then your gaze strays downward, and you think—
Grandmere: Exactly. Where is her NECKLACE?
Mia: Okay, moving along.
Tina: Oh, my God, LILY! Don’t wave that in my face!
Lily: I don’t think it IS cheese.
Grandmere: Prints are never appropriate at a formal event.
Mia: I think I’m going to give you this one, Grandmere.
Tina: I think she—
Lily: We know. She looks pretty. But she also looks like she’s wearing the bedspread from a motel room.
Lily: Wait. Let me do this one: “Go back! Go back to Pandora!”
Grandmere: Well done, Miss Moscovitz!
Mia: I wish you would both leave now if you aren’t going to take this seriously.
Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick
Grandmere: Is Miss Parker with child? Is that a baby bump I see? If not, then why no waist line?
Tina: She can’t be pregnant. She just had twins with a surrogate! And it was horrible, the sheriff of this town, he tried to blackmail—
Mia: Tina. She’s being sarcastic. She doesn’t like the dress.
Tina: Oh. But I just can’t wait for Sex in the City 2 and I think she looks—
Lily: Don’t say it.
Grandmere: Good heavens.
Mia: It’s unfair to put writers on here. They aren’t professional movie stars.
Tina: And this is a very unflattering photo. She looked very nice in that dress in real life. At least on TV.
Grandmere: I only meant, where is her NECKLACE?
Lily: I’ll give you a necklace, you old biddy.
Grandmere: What was that, Miss Moscovitz?
Lily: Would you like a Red Bull, Your Highness?
Grandmere: I would not. I find that drink vulgar. Unless mixed with Grey Goose vodka.
Grandmere: Is this young lady supposed to be dressed as a sea anemone?
Mia: Stop! Just stop it!
Grandmere: Perhaps she’s a clam. I would welcome anything that looked like that on a sea food tower served to me at Maxim’s.
Mia: I loved her in Up in the Air!
Tina: I think it’s the camera angle.
Lily: I think this dress would rock as a project for my 3-D class.
Grandmere: This child needs to learn to stand up straight and stop smirking into the camera.
Mia: Grandmere, that’s Miley Cyrus. She’s like a bazillionaire.
Grandmere: Then she ought to know better than to wear what appears to be lingerie and a petticoat to an evening event.
Tina: Oh, dear.
Lily: This is awesome. This is like the best day I’ve had in weeks.
Grandmere: What in the name of God was this young woman thinking? Did she mistake the Oscars for a Luau?
Mia: Yeah. It maybe isn’t what I would have chosen.
Tina: She still looks really beautiful.
Lily: In a million years I never believed her character would fall for Jeff Bridges in Crazy Heart. She was way too pretty. And young. He was a drunk, and she left him with her young child after admitting she didn’t trust men? Unbelievable. Literally.
Grandmere: While this young woman isn’t wearing a necklace, her dress is dripping with enough jewels that it doesn’t matter. You see that, Amelia?
Mia: Those aren’t jewels, Grandmere. They’re tiny scissors and stuff.
Grandmere: Good heavens. I withdraw my approval.
Tina: I think she looks amazing!
Lily: I wish they were real chainsaws. And that they worked. And she’d mowed down all the reporters from E!
Grandmere: I don’t know who this young woman is, but she reminds me of someone. . . I can’t think who . . .
Mia: She was the star of Avatar and Star Trek. She looks gorgeous.
Grandmere: I didn’t see either of those films.
Tina: I love that dress. I wish it came in a size 14.
Lily: Good luck with that. Most fashion designers are totally sizeist.
Grandmere: I know! Rommel! She looks exactly like Rommel!
Mia: Your hairless miniature poodle???
Grandmere: Yes, of course, with the poofs on the end. It reminds me of Rommel’s tail, back when he used to have fur.
Mia: I don’t think so, Grandmere.
Grandmere: Classic and cool. So typical of Kate Hepburn.
Mia: Kate Winslet you mean, Grandmere.
Grandmere: That’s what I said.
Mia: That isn’t what you said.
Grandmere: I think I know what I said, Amelia.
Tina: I think everyone looks great!
Lily: Don’t you people have anything better to do than sit around and critique other people’s clothes? There are babies dying in Rwanda right now? Oh, is that Johnny Depp?
Grandmere: Is she planning on a round of archery later?
Mia: I do love this dress. But not the wrist cuff.
Tina: The wrist cuff is different. I like that she wants to be different.
Lily: When can we order in some pizza?
Grandmere: Now this is a dress!
Mia: Uh"¦I think there were some more flattering photos of her in this dress somewhere else—let me see if I can find them"¦.
Grandmere: Who is this woman? Royalty? She must be royalty. Look at her regal bearing! That carriage, so erect. Those hips, so ripe for child bearing! She must surely be the greatest star of all time!
Mia: Grandmere, that’s J Lo.
Tina: Jennifer Lopez, Your Highness. She’s a rock star. Er, I guess she’s been in some movies, too. Maid in Manhattan? Oh, and Enough. I love Enough.
Grandmere: She should be in every movie ever made. She is beauty.
Lily: Your grandmere is a mental case, Mia.
Mia: You’re only figuring that out now?
Grandmere: Shocking. Simply shocking. How they could let this woman out of the house dressed this way, I will never know.
Mia: Grandmere! She looks great! She looks way classier than you ever have!
Grandmere: But she has no necklace!
Mia: That’s it. I give up.
We had to break off after this to get pizza, as everyone was light-headed from stress and arguing.
(We recovered after an extra large with cheese and mushrooms.)
This concludes our critique of the Oscar fashions. I hope you enjoyed it.
Thanks for reading!
I’m more dismayed than I can say at missing a Valentine’s Day post on this blog!
Grandmére, who turns out to have been reading this blog all along, is the one who pointed that out.
She wasn’t too happy to hear that I even have a blog (or a flog, as she’s now calling it). But she says if I’m going to take on a commitment to my subjects, I had better do it right, the way a good princess should.
And so, duly chastened by Grandmére, I’m going to try to make it up to you, loyal readers, by posting clips from some of my—ow. OK, Lily is here visiting, and she says to add that they’re HERS, too—favorite romantic films of all time.
OK, as Lily says, enough talking, more posting:
1. The wet shirt scene in Pride and Prejudice (obviously):
Okay, so now Tina just called and asked what we were doing and I told her, and she said to be sure to add the clip below. And don’t tell Boris!
2. The Lay All Your Love on Me Scene from Mamma Mia:
Tina’s right, as always.
All the Mr. Darcy scenes in Bridget Jones are hot (Lily wanted me to put just the fight scenes between him and Daniel, but that’s silly, and besides, embedding is disabled. You can click on it here though if you want). But we couldn’t put them ALL.
3. So here are just a few of the Mr. Darcy scenes in Bridget Jones:
Oh, Mr. Darcy!
Some people criticized this version of Jane Eyre for being too hot. But how can there be such a thing? And how do we know Charlotte Bronte didn’t picture it this way in her head? Just because she didn’t write, "then he ate her face" doesn’t mean she didn’t intend for him to do so. Sensibilities were more delicate back then, and she probably didn’t want to offend anyone.
OW, Lily, stop hitting me! I’m posting it already!
4. Hot Mr. Rochester trying to talk Jane into staying with him in this version of Jane Eyre:
Long, but worth it!
Of course there are a lot more, but we don’t have time to put them all up here, because we’re college students and one of us is a princess, and both of us have boyfriends waiting to go out for pizza.
If you have clips you want us to add, write to us at firstname.lastname@example.org and we’ll try to put them in another post.
Edited to add later:
OK, Grandmére just read this (WHY IS SHE READING MY BLOG???) and she says that I am to humbly apologize to you, my royal subjects. I’m sorry. Of course I always have time for you.
And, no, Grandmére, I haven’t forgotten the most romantic movie of all time! Here it is:
5. Charade starring Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant: the shower scene
(I suppose that’s what Grandmére thinks Michael does when he comes to visit me here in the dorm: Shower with his clothes on. HA! HA HA!)
OK, I just need to remember to delete that last part before I post so Grandmére doesn’t read it!
I know what you’re thinking!
You’re wondering what happened with Miss Polly Lollykins.
Never fear: I made sure that she was returned (all parts fully in tact) to her rightful owner…
…after a small ransom was paid (in Grandma’s Cookies).
If you don’t know what Grandma’s Cookies are, they’re this type of cookie they sell in the student-run co-op where we go to buy all our snacks during study breaks.
I’d never heard of Grandma’s Cookies before I came here to school, either, but they’re just like Oreos, only better, because Grandma made them.
(Ha, no. She doesn’t, really. At least, not my Grandma)!
I like the peanut butter kind best. They’re just so…chemically.
You would think Pamela would have caught on that her SUITEMATES were the kidnappers since all we asked for in return of her doll was 10 packs of peanut butter-flavored Grandma’s Sandwich Cookies (our favorite flavor).
And then afterwards, we were always sitting around, eating peanut butter-flavored Grandma’s Cookies.
But maybe she just didn’t want to believe it. She preferred to go on thinking the kidnapper was Michael. He’s so sweet, he played along.
Yes, my boyfriend is willing to pretend to be a kidnapper for me!
So, now it’s holiday break time and finals are over, and I made it through thanks to having so many Grandma’s Cookies.
And, OK, I know it was wrong to steal Pamela’s doll and that I’m a princess and a role model and I should have told my suitemates to stop torturing Pamela.
But college is for acting crazy! I could be doing much worse things! And Pamela actually liked the attention.
And it turns out cookies taste much better when they’re a doll’s ransom!
Speaking of ransom….
OMG, you guys, Ransom My Heart is finally out in England!
You can walk into any bookstore there and buy it!
It actually makes a brilliant gift, because all the author proceeds go to Greenpeace, so you’re doing something good for the environment and tiny baby penguins and seals and stuff when you buy a copy.
And look how gorgeous the UK cover is:
So for the holidays I’m off to Genovia (of course), but I didn’t want to go without dropping you a line to say I’ll be thinking about you while Grandmere is torturing me! Have a very happy Hanukkah, a great Christmas, an amazing Kwanzaa, and of course, an incredible New Year!
I know! You’re all, "Mia, why haven’t you updated your blog in so long?"
But hey, I was busy all summer, running the Royal Genovian Health and Wellness Awareness Center!
Which was very good training for running a small European principality someday, if you ask me. I mean, if you take into account all of the staffing issues we had, given the number of therapists who kept threatening to quit because they didn’t want to be the one to give Grandmere her weekly colonic.
(I know, ew, right?)
Anyway, I’m just glad the Health and Wellness Center is such an unqualified success, and that things are finally back to normal now (if by normal you mean my proposed solution to overcome Genovia’s temporarily shaky economic situation was implemented successfully, I’m back in the USA, and finally have steady access to wi-fi).
School has started, and this year—as opposed to my freshman year—I’m doing things right. I’m not letting any advisor talk me into taking classes that start before eleven in the morning (especially not some stupid fitness classes. What was I thinking???).
That’s right! I get to sleep in (or, if I’m spending the night in the city for any reason, such as–cough-spending-the-night-at-Michael’s-cough—I don’t have to break my neck rushing to get the train back to campus to get to class on time).
And I’m not taking anything that involves math. No! Nothing! I swear this semester I’m going to get straight As.
And best of all"¦I got to pick my own suitemates!
So I actually know the people I’m living with, as opposed to walking in and finding myself surrounded by a bunch of freaks.
Oh, I guess that sounds kind of harsh"¦especially since it just so happens that the freaks I walked in to find myself surrounded by last year are some of my best friends now!
In fact, we all chose to live together again this year (they don’t mind Lars. Actually, I’m pretty sure Shawna asked him out, even though neither one of them will discuss this with me. And of course Lars said no. Lars better have said no!).
But that was just luck! I mean that I got randomly assigned such wonderful freaks as my suitemates.
My feelings about this year was, better a freak you know than a freak you don’t, right?
Oh, gotta go, Shawna’s kidnapped Pamela’s Cabbage Patch Doll, Miss Polly Lollykins, and we’re going to send P. a fake ransom note.
Miss Polly Lollykins
I’m in charge of cutting out the letters for the note from Olivia’s collection of Bust Magazines. Emily is in charge of slipping the note under Pamela’s door. Then we’re all going to run.
P.S. Ha. Farah from across the hall just caught us running past and said we’re "so juvenile" (she thinks she’s so much more mature than we are. Typical psych major).
But no one else pays any attention to Pamela at all because she’s so shy and boring. I personally think it’s quite nice of us to kidnap Miss Polly Lollykins.
P.P.S. Oh, dear. Well, since I wrote that last part everything’s gone horribly wrong: Pamela got the ransom note and she’s deliriously happy about the kidnapping.
But for all the wrong reasons: Pamela thinks MICHAEL is behind it.
I’m not sure why. He doesn’t even go here. I mean, he just stops by to visit sometimes.
Emily says she thinks Pamela has a little crush on Micheal!
I sort of suspected something of the sort.
But I just thought it was one of those harmless little things that would never go anywhere.
But now it has gone somewhere, and turned out not to be so harmless. Our little prank that was meant to make Pamela feel special has made her feel a little too special!
It’s made her think my boyfriend is into her!
This is not good.
She’s on the phone with her mom right now, bragging to her that the boyfriend of the Princess of Genovia has kidnapped her Cabbage Patch Doll.
Um, hello. I don’t know whether to feel sorry for her or go over there and punch her in the face.
Deep breath. I’m a princess.
Shawna says we can fix it by hanging Miss Polly Lollykins from a chain by her neck out the quad window.
But Olivia says that’s going too far. And I sort of agree. I mean, Miss Polly Lollykins is just an innocent victim in all of this.
I won’t let Shawna cut off one of Miss Polly’s fingers to send to Pamela as a warning, either.
Oh, dear. Why do these things always happen to me???