Princess on Holiday

11:30 PM, Friday, December 26, Royal Genovian Bedchamber.

Okay, I have finally decided that this whole princess thing is definitely NOT for me.  First, on Monday, I get the Genovian pledge of allegiance wrong--in front of my future subjects, mind you, THEN my refusal to participate in the Christmas Tree lighting ceremony (of which, by the way, I was forced to participate anyway) angers my father to the point where he feels the need to take my modem away, THEN I accidentally spill my wine all over Princess Caroline at the stupid dinner with the royals of Monaco, and finally the horrible speech fiasco two days ago.  There is only so much a girl like myself can take.

Add to all of this the fact that I have no friends here and that the friends I do have are in Florida, presumably having a great time.  This palace is absolutely huge and very cold and drafty.  Can you believe, one of the footmen tried to scare me with some story about one of my ancestors being murdered in the room I'm staying in, and that the ancestor haunts this room to this very day?  It's bad enough I am in this giant drafty room alone, now I have ghosts to worry about.

My father says I haven't done so badly, but trust me, I HAVE done badly--very, very badly, and I can tell you Grandmère thinks so too.  She practically had an embolism when I spilled my wine on Princess Caroline--you should've seen her face.  Actually, it was kind of funny, the way she gasped, and the way she glared at me with those creepy drawn-on eyebrows and tattooed eyeliner.  Made me think of the Bride of Frankenstein.

I am supposed to meet the good princess's children tomorrow.  Grandmère thinks that her son would make a fine consort, but I reminded her that if Prince Albert does not marry and sire offspring, Andrea, Caroline's son, would have to be the next prince of Monaco, and therefore cannot be my consort, because he would be too busy running his own principality.  Grandmère sniffed at that and said that she hardly thought that possible, because woman could possibly resist a prince, and that Albert will indeed marry someday because it is his duty.  It hardly made any sense to me, but that's Grandmère.

Well, I cannot face them or anyone else anymore.  I just have to get out.  I miss Lilly, Michael (especially Michael, and his amazing lips and amazing chest and gorgeous hair...I'm getting a bit carried away, but he is my boyfriend after all), Tina, Shameeka, Ling Su, and even Boris.  And maybe Kenny.

WHY did Tina drag me off like that without even giving me a chance to explain myself to Kenny?  I mean, first he thinks I love Boris and now he knows I'm with Michael.  He must be totally confused.  I don't love him the way I love Michael, but he deserves an explanation.  He is really a nice guy.  Really.

Oh god.  I don't even want to think about school, of which starts the day after New Year's.  Which means I have at least another work week of this hell.  Oh my god, I can't believe I said that!  I am supposed to govern this nation someday, and I am calling it hell!  I don't really mean Genovia, I mean this horrible royal life.  These engagements are so dull, and I always do something wrong.  Well, not all the time because the Genovian Olive Growers' Society were really impressed with me.  They said I was well-mannered, sweet, and polite.

I have just gone over to the far window to see what all that racket was.  At first I thought it was the ghost, but it was fireworks instead.  I guess some people are still celebrating Christmas.  I mean, hello, it's almost midnight.  Can't someone get some sleep around here?

Midnight, Saturday, December 27, Royal Genovian Bedchamber.

Okay, why me?  My lady in waiting comes in here and gives me this huge stack of papers detailing my itinerary for the remainder of my stay.  Turns out I don't get to go home tomorrow (or rather, today) as originally planned, so I could spend a week with my mother.  Oh no, my father totally disrespects my mother and Mr. G. by making me stay until Sunday night.  I am supposed to leave Genovia Sunday night so I can be back in New York on Monday, New Year's Eve.  Which destroys my entire Christmas vacation.

In addition to embarrassing myself in front of the Grimaldi's of Monaco, I get to embarrass myself in front of the Bernadotte's of Sweden.  Lovely.  You'd think they'd spend the New Year's at home, but oh no, they want to see the royal embarrassment that is me.  They want to look at me and go, 'Thank god she's not one of us.  What a boorish oaf.' 

Not only did she give me my extended itinerary, she gave me sleeping pills to help me sleep.  She said I will need them if I am going to spend the night writing in this book.  I took them and it's taking a while for them to take effect.

Looks like my future subjects are partying the night away.  Oh my god, I just had this flash of brilliance.  Remember that Audrey Hepburn movie Roman Holiday, where she gets so sick of her punishing schedule she breaks out of the palace?  Unfortunately for her, she had been injected with some medicine to calm her down and help her sleep.  This medicine makes her drowsy and she falls asleep on a park bench and an American journalist finds her and takes her to his apartment, where she sleeps, and while the palace staff are going insane over her disappearance, she's having a great time seeing the sights of Rome with the journalist and his partner the photographer.  While on their holiday, the photographer secretly takes pictures of her for an exclusive that will save the journalist's job, and at the end, when the princess goes back, they give a press conference the next day and the journalist does the honorable thing by telling her the truth and handing over the pictures.

I could do that.  It's not like I'll run into some journalist, but I could sneak out and take a breather from all this.  It would be absolute heaven, and I can see what Genovia is really like.

Hell, I'm gonna go for it.  I will take this book with me, to record all my memories.  I got a new one, by the way, because I ran out of space on the one Mom gave me.  Ironic, isn't it, when I didn't want to have one in the first place?  This one has a leather-bound cover, and has a pen holder in it.  Brilliant, and it will come in handy on this holiday.

1:30 AM, Saturday, December 27, At the pier on a bench.

I am getting really, really sleepy.  The sea smells wonderful, and this section of the pier is remarkably clean.  I guess someone was paying attention to what I was saying in my speech.  Those damn pills are finally taking hold of me.  Oh well, perhaps I can take a small nap on the bench if I get too tired.

I cannot believe I managed to get past the security.  I didn't get a room on ground level, so I had to open my door slowly, tiptoe past the guard, go down the staircase and through the lobby to the dining room, and then the kitchen, which, thankfully, was empty.  Then I went out the door to the back, past the dumpsters and out onto the streets.  After a while I ended up at the pier.

Okay, now I realize that coming out so late was a really stupid thing to do.  I mean, if this were New York, god only knows what would happen to me.  But, this isn't.  This is Genovia, which models it's security after Monaco's.  That means that there's security cameras everywhere I walk.  I am surprised they haven't caught me yet.  It is rather dark, even with all the street lights.  I am sitting right underneath one, and that is how I can see what I write. 

I did do something intelligent.  I packed some of my Christmas money, and I have quite a lot.  Enough to get me by for one day.  I fully intend to go back this evening.  No, really, I do.  I can't abandon my duties completely, you know.

9:27 AM, Saturday, December 27, In some strange house.

Oh my god, my life is mimicking Roman Holiday to a T.  I don't even remember what happened when I fell asleep on that stupid bench.  It is almost nine-thirty and I am in some stranger's house.

I realize how utterly stupid I really am.  I should've stayed at the palace and put up with all of it.  I mean, I could be in some crazy person's house.  Goodness knows what they've been doing to me while I slept.  They might be holding me for ransom right now.

Why do I make such horrible decisions?  WHY?  I am wearing this really old, really ugly-looking nightgown.  It's a wonder it's long enough, given my gigantism.  I see the chest area is too big.  As usual.

My clothes are nowhere to be found, which makes me EXTREMELY suspicious.  I don't even want to think about it.  I really don't.  I feel fine, but that means nothing.  Nothing at all.

9:35 AM, Saturday, December 27, Strange house.

I don't know what to call it, really.  Okay, so I am at some family's house, and only one person speaks English.  This couple were walking their baby in a stroller, because the baby couldn't sleep.  Odd.  So they see me and they decide to take me home, because a girl like me shouldn't be lying around on a bench--awful things can happen to a girl like me, even in Genovia, the safest principality of them all.

Awful things like being kidnapped, held for ransom, and lied to, I suppose.  Anyway, the wife, who doesn't speak English, came into the room with some breakfast, and it's still sitting here because it could be poisoned.  She told me the whole story as she set it out.  I asked her if the baby was fine, and she said yes, their baby daughter was just fine.  They named her Amelia, after their new princess.  How...charming.

Oh, she just came in.  Their surname is Bertrand, and they're both teachers.  Or so they say.  She has taken time off from teaching third-year students to take care of baby Amelia, who is just darling and is probably better looking than I ever was.  So she's a housewife while her husband teaches at the university. 

I just embarrassed myself--AGAIN.  I asked her if they were holding me for ransom, and she said no, only it was in French.  She just told me I have nothing to worry about.  Okay.

Who thinks it's a little suspicious that a couple and their baby are wandering around the pier past midnight?  It is way too convenient.  Way too convenient.  Perhaps they are from the palace and found out about my running away?  Or they could be terrorist kidnappers holding me for ransom.

Madame Bertrand is talking about something in a loud voice.  I can hear her all the way in here.  Oh, she's talking about some celebrity watching web site she owns.  She thinks it would be nice to go to the press conference at the palace and take pictures of Genovia's new princess.  The day before New Year's Eve I am supposed to give a press conference to explain all my screw-ups and tell the populace what I plan to do for the new year.  Oh, lovely.  Unfortunately today is only the twenty-seventh, so if I plan on going back to the palace tonight, I will still have to give the press conference.

Anyway, the good Madame is discussing her web site, and all the celebs she profiles on it.  Goodness, she's met everybody.  Madonna, Britney Spears, Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, Michael Jordan (and Jackson), and she's speaking so fast I can't catch them all.  She wants to add royals to her site, though.

God, I hope she doesn't figure out who I am, or else she'll have the biggest scoop in the world.  And then where will that leave me?  I'll tell you what--the front door of the palace, totally Christmas vacation-less, that's what.

Okay, I have a solution.  I will tell her that I am from an American tour group, and that I am on vacation from my job as a celebrity impersonator.  If I can get her to let me use her computer, I can look up names of impersonator companies I can pretend to be with.  I am such an accomplished liar, I doubt she'll figure me out.

You know, if I had a dime for every lie I told, I could feed, clothe, and house all the poor nations of the world for an entire century...maybe even a millennium.

Oh, she's coming back.

10:04 AM, Saturday, December 27, Bertrand residence.

That is what I will call it.  The good Mrs. Bertrand just reassured me for the millionth time that she and her husband are not kidnappers holding me for ransom, and get this--she asked me if I was with a wealthy American family!  She doesn't know who I am!!!  I am such a dolt--by asking her if they were holding me hostage I gave away my identity!  Or nearly did.  She came in just now, asking me if I want to go sight-seeing, after I fed her the story about me being in a tour group and getting lost.

She says that a wealthy American family is in town and their daughter has gone missing.  I just heard on the radio that it was a false alarm, but the news is saying I am gravely ill and unable to attend any public functions or perform public duties until I am well.  This is getting creepy.  It is too much like the movies now--too much for comfort.

So anyway, in a few minutes we are going out sight-seeing--the pier, the palace (oh please no), the tomb of the unknown soldier, the queen's library, the theater, and the carnival on the west border.

It's been a few minutes, and I am at the computer right now, looking up celebrity look-alike companies.  Ever since Michael and I have started dating, I have been way into computers.  I am multi-tasking--checking my e-mail while searching for look-alike companies.

I got an e-mail from my mother--here's an excerpt:

Hi, honey, I am so sorry to hear that you are not coming home early as promised!  Your father and I discussed it and I think I can let you stay there a bit longer.  We had quite an argument, though.  I said you had your whole life to be in Genovia; he said you need to learn the strain of public life at a young age.

I think all this stress has made you sick.  How are you anyway?  Drink plenty of water (no sodas, though), eat some soup, and get some rest.  My goodness, they have you working overtime, don't they?

Well, I love you and I miss you so much.  Frank and I have decided not to know the sex of the baby--we want it to be a surprise.

Take care and remember that we love you, and that we miss you.  See you when you get back!

Love,

Mom

I got all teary-eyed at that.  Lilly e-mailed me with similar sentiments, but with an interesting factoid:

Kenny and Judith Gershner are going out now.  He's been happy as a clam, so you don't need to worry about that.  Michael can't stop talking about you.  All he keeps saying is how wonderfully you've conducted yourself in Genovia, and he defends you every chance he gets, especially with the whole wine incident.

But I still owe Kenny an explanation.  So it's official:  they are telling everyone I am sick.  Okay.  The good thing is that Michael is talking about me.  At first I thought he had just kissed me in a friendly way--I had my doubts.  But now there is no doubt--he LOVES me.  I cannot WAIT to get back to New York!

Michael sent me a nice message and a separate e-card.  The card had bears on it holding balloons that said 'Get Well Soon' and 'I Miss You'.  Where's the 'I Love You'?  Maybe he already knows I know he loves me.  Anyway, here is his message:

Hi, Mia, we all miss you!  Boca Raton is quite nice, but it's not the same without you.  The press can't ignore you--I've seen you on Fox News Network (even Bill O'Reilly mentioned you; he says you need to take etiquette lessons, and is glad you're not President Bush's daughter, because then you'd be formally representing America, and according to him, we have enough embarrassing people, but he's an out-of-touch fossil anyway), CNN, MSNBC, and even MTV.  They're desperate to have you on TRL and Justin Timberlake wants to marry you and produce your first album.

Then add just about every magazine and newspaper in print--they've all devoted space to your trip to Genovia.  Especially the speech, and the wine incident.  Everyone is teasing you about the wine incident, but I always tell them that accidents happen--even to a princess.

I am sorry to hear your are sick--I'm sure it's just the 24 hour flu.  The stress has finally taken it's toll, hasn't it?  Well, get some rest, drink plenty of fluids, and plenty of meds--don't overdose, though.

I cannot wait to see you again--you must tell me all about Genovia, and what it was like behind palace doors.  I will tell you about all the people I've met, and Lilly is anxious to show you her footage of all the people who walk around in their bathing suits.

I'll see you next year--take care and get well soon!

Love,

Michael.

Why me?  Michael is pining away for me in Boca Raton and I am HERE.  Plus, the mass media is making fun of me and Justin Timberlake thinks I'm going to pull a Princess Stephanie and become a 'rock star' or something.  I TOLD everyone that I cannot sing for the life of me.  Why doesn't anyone listen?

And don't even get me started on that fascist old fart O'Reilly.  That guy is a closet Republican--I just know it.  Oh, look, I'm turning into my mother.  'No Spin Zone' my ass.

I got about thirty spam messages (ever since I became a princess, I've noticed I get a LOT more spam mail), so I had to delete those. 

Everyone is having fun but me.  It is unfair.  Hell, at least I'm not hanging around Grandmère anymore.

Mme Bertrand has just informed me that she's ready to go.  Well, my vacation starts now:  It's time to meet my future subjects.