But, hello, how can you NOT talk about that show?
But maybe that’s all part of the government’s strategy to keep us from noticing what they’re up to with the clear-cutting of the national forests and the passing of laws that keep teens from being able to seek reproductive health care without their parents’ consent….
Besides, sometimes I think Michael won’t ever stop talking about the shows he likes, like 24 and, lately, 60 Minutes.
Anyway, I did my best to make it up to Michael about the whole not-inviting-him-over-to-the-hotel thing. I put my hand on his and gazed deeply into his eyes and said, “Michael, I really am sorry. Not just about that, either. But the whole…well, everything.”
But instead of saying he forgave me or anything like that, Michael just went, “Fine. The question is, when ARE you going to be ready?”
And I was like, “Ready for what?”
And he said, “It.”
It took me a minute to figure out what he meant.
And then, when it finally dawned on me, I turned bright red.
“Um,” I said.
Then I thought fast.
“How about after the prom,” I said, “on a king-sized bed with white satin sheets in a deluxe suite with Central Park views at the Four Seasons, with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries upon arrival, and an aromatherapy bath for after, then waffles for two in bed the next morning?”
To which Michael replied, very calmly, “One, I’m never going to the prom again and you know it, and two, I can’t afford the Four Seasons—which you also know. So, why don’t you give that answer another try?”
Damn! Tina is so LUCKY to have a boyfriend she can push around. WHY isn’t Michael as malleable as BORIS?
“Look,” I said, desperately trying to think of some way to get out of the whole situation. Because it wasn’t going AT ALL the way I’d planned it in my head. In my head, I told Michael I wasn’t ready to Do It and he said okay and we played some Boggle and that was the end of it.
Too bad things never work out the way they do inside my head.
“Do I have to decide this right NOW?” I asked, deciding DELAY was the best strategy at this point. “I have a lot on my mind. I mean, it’s possible that at this very moment, my mom could be exposing Rocky to some very harmful stimuli, such as clog dancing, or even funnel cakes. And I have this debate thing on Monday…Did I mention that Grandmère and Lilly are working on it together? I mean, it’s like Darth Vader joining forces with Ann Coulter, only leftist. I’m telling you, I’m a wreck. Can I take a rain check on this whole thing?”
“Absolutely,” Michael said, with a smile that was so sweet, it made me want to lean over to kiss him….
Until he added, “But just so you know, Mia, I’m not going to wait around forever.”
This caused me to pause just as my lips were on the way to his.
Because he didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to wait around forever for my answer. Oh, no. He meant he wasn’t going to wait around forever to Do It.
He didn’t say it like it was a threat, or anything. He said it kind of lightly, even jokingly.
But I could tell it wasn’t really a joke. Because boys really do expect you to Do It. Someday.
I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I don’t think I could have spoken after that if I’d tried. Fortunately, I didn’t have to, because there was a knock on the door, and Lars’s voice called, “The game is over. It’s after midnight. Time to go, Princess,” which of course caused Michael and me to spring to separate sides of the room.
(I just asked Lars how he has such an uncanny knack for picking the wrong—or right, as the case may be—moment to interrupt me when I’m alone with Michael, and he went, “As long as I hear voices, I’m not worried. It’s when things get quiet I start to wonder what’s going on. Because—no offense, Your Highness—but you talk a lot.”)
Anyway. So that’s it.
Lana was right.
All boys want to Do It.
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.”