A/N Hey! This is my first fan fic, ever, so reviews are loved =) The
characters (with the occasional exception along the way) are Meg Cabot's
creations, not mine.p
***
Sunday, January 1st, Flying home
I cannot believe it. I'm stepping onto this plane a different person. Well, sort of. It just sounds so much more dramatic that way. Even though it's kind of true. The saying "she saw, she came, she conquered" might apply. Although I think I should add "she tripped" in there, somewhere. Anyways, here's basically what happened:
Day 1, December 21- 2PM, Genovian time: I arrive in Genovia, and am shocked to discover that Grandmere was right (for once) and it is beautiful. I'm also shocked to discover that instead of shaking hands like normal people, Genovians tend to be very friendly when it comes to greeting. My cheeks are still sore from being kissed so much, if that's possible. We get something that looks suspiciously like pieces of you-know-what on a platter for lunch, and eat them only to find out they were olives avec les escargots secs, or dried snails with olives, a Genovian specialty. Ew. But Grandmere seemed to enjoy them. So did Rommel, come to think of it.
4PM: After an hour of driving (which is odd, considering Genovia is so small), we finally pull up to the Royal mansion. All I can say is, wow. Buckingham palace has nothing on us. You could seriously get lost in this place, it's THAT huge. It's on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and let me tell you, MTV cribs would have a field day if they were in it. 200 rooms total (and that's excluding bathrooms with just one toilet), including a movie theater, a sauna, AND a really big tennis court. You know how many rooms the loft has? 6, and that's counting the closet in my room. Dad is in heaven. The only downside is that they DON'T HAVE LIFETIME. How could they not have Lifetime?? Television for Women??? They manage to have INDIVIDUAL BATHROOMS for 20 people, each equipped with a tub resembling a small Olympic swimming pool, but NO LIFETIME? I mean, come on.
5PM: Grandmere announces I need to start getting ready for my formal introduction to Genovia tonight. She brings in Franco, who is practically Paolo's Genovian clone. Seriously, I couldn't tell them apart, except for the accent. After an hour, Grandmere comes in and scoffs at my makeup. She says it makes me look like a poulet or hooker, in French. It also means chicken, but I don't think she knows this. At least, she never uses it in the chicken context. 5 coats of mascara, blow-drying, and a Sebastiano- original later, I'm ready to be presented as the next heir to the Genovian throne.
8PM: I stumble nervously up the stairs to the podium, thousands of eager faces at my feet. I feel like Evita, kind of. That's until Grandmere whispers "don't mess up" in my ear in this vicious, demonic sort of voice. She actually sounds possessed. Like this is some sort of life and death situation. I guess I didn't notice the loose electric cord in front of me, because I couldn't help what happened next. I, Princess Amelia Migononette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo, in front of thousands of people (more, if you count the local news who no doubt contacted CNN immediately), fell flat on my face. Which was hardly princess-like, if you ask me. You want to know what's weird though? While I was lying there, in what was undoubtedly the most embarrassing moment of my life, with thousands of citizens eyes watching me experience it, I wasn't thinking about the seizure I was probably causing Grandmere, or the fact that back home, cozy in her loft, my own mother was probably watching this (and laughing), or even the fact that I'd still have to get up in a few seconds and address an entire nation.
Well, if you can call it a nation, with its future leader tripping over electric cords.
The really weird part was that all I could think about was Michael. And I know how sappy and gross this sounds, but I missed him so much, right then. I wanted him to help me up, to look me in the eyes and kiss me, like in Titanic (although without the whole cheesy "I'm flying!" part...I mean, what WAS that?)
So there I am, waiting for my own personal Leonardo DiCaprio to come sweep me off my feet, but instead, what do I get? A big, hairy, Nordic arm reaches down and lifts me up to the podium. Thanks, Lars.
Well, all in all, I think after that, I did pretty well addressing the Genovian public. Excluding the part where I forgot the Duchess' name and accidentally called her Rommel instead. Hey, what can I say? She did resemble him a bit. I don't get why Grandmere wouldn't talk to me after that. After all, she should take pride in her nation, and that includes her dog, no matter how hairless and ugly that dog may be. But when I told her this, she just raised her nose and made some sort of snorting sound. She is really weird sometimes.
I think we're taking off, because Lars is getting his barf bag ready. Who knew a guy whose neck is thicker than my waist could get airsick? More later.
Later, still on board
Sebastiano has done it again. Just when I thought he couldn't pull something more heinous than the supplement fiasco, he does. Well, it's not really his fault. It was Grandmere's idea.
We were just in the middle of our flight - me, messing with the buttons to see how I could get the chair to vibrate, Dad, on the phone with his flavor- of-the week fling, and Sebastiano, deep in conversation with Grandmere. All of a sudden, she turns to me (her tattooed eyes all wide and bug-like and evil, which is how they normally look when she gets excited) and goes "Amelia, you should do a fashion show." And of course, there's me, sitting there, totally captivated about the fact that there's 30 settings of intensity on this chair (30! Come on now. How could you not be impressed?) looking up and just going, "What?" I was totally going to object, but as soon as she mentioned it, it was like a light switched on in Sebastiano's mascara-rimmed eyes.
"Mia, you coul!," He yelled at me passionately "You ski like mod! Dress look per!" Sebastiano, of course, could not be bothered to speak fluent English like any normal Genovian-turned-American would, so I'm assuming he meant I was skinny like a model and his dress would look perfect. Or I was cold and could ski like a model.
Which doesn't make any sense, but I prefer to think that's what he meant.
It's less horrifying than the idea of 'strutting my stuff", or "stru my stu" as Sebastiano so blatantly puts it, in front of ten million people - more, if some random news network happens to pick it up, which they probably will - on national television.
I mean, it's bad enough that:
A) I've grown an inch since I measured myself last. Yes, I'm now a gigantious 5'10.
B) I may be able to grow an inch up, but there's no sign of me EVER gaining an inch in a certain area on my body (hint: it rhymes with REST, but add a B in front and an A after the E. Haha. I know, I'm being so secretive about SOMETHING SO TERRIBLY OBVIOUS.)
C) Apparently, the latest hair color in hair is a "sunny, enlightening" blonde..only when Franco tried it before we left; it looked more trashy, brassy Jerry-Springer-style orange than enlightening. Which Michael hasn't seen yet, and I hope he doesn't run from the room screaming 'Why, God, WHY?" at the sight of.
So here I am, more of a walking Q-tip than ever, with hair the color of orange juice, feet the size of yardsticks and still absolutely NO sign of mammary growth. Honestly, how am I going to be able to feed my kid? I'm going to have to buy some sort of synthetic rubber breast and fill it with milk, like they do on the Discovery channel with orphaned baby apes.
Not that I plan on having one. A baby, that is.
At least, not anytime soon.I mean, hanging around a pregnant woman all day makes you seriously rethink your options.
Not that I mind "the miracle of birth", and how wondrous giving life is (I'm getting sentimental here, aren't I?), I just don't think there is anything miraculous about waking up to find green and brown puke splattered all over the kitchen floor. Poor mom. Mr. G has been totally there for her and all, but I just don't think he knows what he's gotten himself into. Seriously.
I am so not doing a fashion show. Even if it is for Greenpeace. It's totally sexist, not to mention, demeaning to women. Anyways, I'd probably end up tripping over Heidi Klum on the runway, with my luck.
LIST OF POSSIBLE NAMES FOR CHILDREN (with Michael, of course. Or maybe Angel from Buffy. Haha.)
Girls:
Audrey (very classy sounding. Right? RIGHT??)
Maleah (ok, it's unique. But doesn't Maleah Moscovitz just sound so good together?)
Britney (ok, so I'm not too fond of this one...but hopefully, with this name, she'll be blessed enough to NOT inherit my breast-less genes)
To be added onto with Lilly's guidance. Although, I think she may find it a bit gross to help pick out names for her best friend and brother's future child.
***
Sunday, January 1st, Flying home
I cannot believe it. I'm stepping onto this plane a different person. Well, sort of. It just sounds so much more dramatic that way. Even though it's kind of true. The saying "she saw, she came, she conquered" might apply. Although I think I should add "she tripped" in there, somewhere. Anyways, here's basically what happened:
Day 1, December 21- 2PM, Genovian time: I arrive in Genovia, and am shocked to discover that Grandmere was right (for once) and it is beautiful. I'm also shocked to discover that instead of shaking hands like normal people, Genovians tend to be very friendly when it comes to greeting. My cheeks are still sore from being kissed so much, if that's possible. We get something that looks suspiciously like pieces of you-know-what on a platter for lunch, and eat them only to find out they were olives avec les escargots secs, or dried snails with olives, a Genovian specialty. Ew. But Grandmere seemed to enjoy them. So did Rommel, come to think of it.
4PM: After an hour of driving (which is odd, considering Genovia is so small), we finally pull up to the Royal mansion. All I can say is, wow. Buckingham palace has nothing on us. You could seriously get lost in this place, it's THAT huge. It's on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and let me tell you, MTV cribs would have a field day if they were in it. 200 rooms total (and that's excluding bathrooms with just one toilet), including a movie theater, a sauna, AND a really big tennis court. You know how many rooms the loft has? 6, and that's counting the closet in my room. Dad is in heaven. The only downside is that they DON'T HAVE LIFETIME. How could they not have Lifetime?? Television for Women??? They manage to have INDIVIDUAL BATHROOMS for 20 people, each equipped with a tub resembling a small Olympic swimming pool, but NO LIFETIME? I mean, come on.
5PM: Grandmere announces I need to start getting ready for my formal introduction to Genovia tonight. She brings in Franco, who is practically Paolo's Genovian clone. Seriously, I couldn't tell them apart, except for the accent. After an hour, Grandmere comes in and scoffs at my makeup. She says it makes me look like a poulet or hooker, in French. It also means chicken, but I don't think she knows this. At least, she never uses it in the chicken context. 5 coats of mascara, blow-drying, and a Sebastiano- original later, I'm ready to be presented as the next heir to the Genovian throne.
8PM: I stumble nervously up the stairs to the podium, thousands of eager faces at my feet. I feel like Evita, kind of. That's until Grandmere whispers "don't mess up" in my ear in this vicious, demonic sort of voice. She actually sounds possessed. Like this is some sort of life and death situation. I guess I didn't notice the loose electric cord in front of me, because I couldn't help what happened next. I, Princess Amelia Migononette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo, in front of thousands of people (more, if you count the local news who no doubt contacted CNN immediately), fell flat on my face. Which was hardly princess-like, if you ask me. You want to know what's weird though? While I was lying there, in what was undoubtedly the most embarrassing moment of my life, with thousands of citizens eyes watching me experience it, I wasn't thinking about the seizure I was probably causing Grandmere, or the fact that back home, cozy in her loft, my own mother was probably watching this (and laughing), or even the fact that I'd still have to get up in a few seconds and address an entire nation.
Well, if you can call it a nation, with its future leader tripping over electric cords.
The really weird part was that all I could think about was Michael. And I know how sappy and gross this sounds, but I missed him so much, right then. I wanted him to help me up, to look me in the eyes and kiss me, like in Titanic (although without the whole cheesy "I'm flying!" part...I mean, what WAS that?)
So there I am, waiting for my own personal Leonardo DiCaprio to come sweep me off my feet, but instead, what do I get? A big, hairy, Nordic arm reaches down and lifts me up to the podium. Thanks, Lars.
Well, all in all, I think after that, I did pretty well addressing the Genovian public. Excluding the part where I forgot the Duchess' name and accidentally called her Rommel instead. Hey, what can I say? She did resemble him a bit. I don't get why Grandmere wouldn't talk to me after that. After all, she should take pride in her nation, and that includes her dog, no matter how hairless and ugly that dog may be. But when I told her this, she just raised her nose and made some sort of snorting sound. She is really weird sometimes.
I think we're taking off, because Lars is getting his barf bag ready. Who knew a guy whose neck is thicker than my waist could get airsick? More later.
Later, still on board
Sebastiano has done it again. Just when I thought he couldn't pull something more heinous than the supplement fiasco, he does. Well, it's not really his fault. It was Grandmere's idea.
We were just in the middle of our flight - me, messing with the buttons to see how I could get the chair to vibrate, Dad, on the phone with his flavor- of-the week fling, and Sebastiano, deep in conversation with Grandmere. All of a sudden, she turns to me (her tattooed eyes all wide and bug-like and evil, which is how they normally look when she gets excited) and goes "Amelia, you should do a fashion show." And of course, there's me, sitting there, totally captivated about the fact that there's 30 settings of intensity on this chair (30! Come on now. How could you not be impressed?) looking up and just going, "What?" I was totally going to object, but as soon as she mentioned it, it was like a light switched on in Sebastiano's mascara-rimmed eyes.
"Mia, you coul!," He yelled at me passionately "You ski like mod! Dress look per!" Sebastiano, of course, could not be bothered to speak fluent English like any normal Genovian-turned-American would, so I'm assuming he meant I was skinny like a model and his dress would look perfect. Or I was cold and could ski like a model.
Which doesn't make any sense, but I prefer to think that's what he meant.
It's less horrifying than the idea of 'strutting my stuff", or "stru my stu" as Sebastiano so blatantly puts it, in front of ten million people - more, if some random news network happens to pick it up, which they probably will - on national television.
I mean, it's bad enough that:
A) I've grown an inch since I measured myself last. Yes, I'm now a gigantious 5'10.
B) I may be able to grow an inch up, but there's no sign of me EVER gaining an inch in a certain area on my body (hint: it rhymes with REST, but add a B in front and an A after the E. Haha. I know, I'm being so secretive about SOMETHING SO TERRIBLY OBVIOUS.)
C) Apparently, the latest hair color in hair is a "sunny, enlightening" blonde..only when Franco tried it before we left; it looked more trashy, brassy Jerry-Springer-style orange than enlightening. Which Michael hasn't seen yet, and I hope he doesn't run from the room screaming 'Why, God, WHY?" at the sight of.
So here I am, more of a walking Q-tip than ever, with hair the color of orange juice, feet the size of yardsticks and still absolutely NO sign of mammary growth. Honestly, how am I going to be able to feed my kid? I'm going to have to buy some sort of synthetic rubber breast and fill it with milk, like they do on the Discovery channel with orphaned baby apes.
Not that I plan on having one. A baby, that is.
At least, not anytime soon.I mean, hanging around a pregnant woman all day makes you seriously rethink your options.
Not that I mind "the miracle of birth", and how wondrous giving life is (I'm getting sentimental here, aren't I?), I just don't think there is anything miraculous about waking up to find green and brown puke splattered all over the kitchen floor. Poor mom. Mr. G has been totally there for her and all, but I just don't think he knows what he's gotten himself into. Seriously.
I am so not doing a fashion show. Even if it is for Greenpeace. It's totally sexist, not to mention, demeaning to women. Anyways, I'd probably end up tripping over Heidi Klum on the runway, with my luck.
LIST OF POSSIBLE NAMES FOR CHILDREN (with Michael, of course. Or maybe Angel from Buffy. Haha.)
Girls:
Audrey (very classy sounding. Right? RIGHT??)
Maleah (ok, it's unique. But doesn't Maleah Moscovitz just sound so good together?)
Britney (ok, so I'm not too fond of this one...but hopefully, with this name, she'll be blessed enough to NOT inherit my breast-less genes)
To be added onto with Lilly's guidance. Although, I think she may find it a bit gross to help pick out names for her best friend and brother's future child.