So, I had the chance to review this book and I jumped on it. My tween daughter hates to read so I have been pulling out my tricks to suck her into a book. We recently started reading The Princess Diaries series because she loves the movies. I read a lot of teen/YA books because that is the age I teach. I just normally don't review for our page.
For Princess Mia, the past five years since college graduation have been a whirlwind of activity, what with living in New York City, running her new teen community center, being madly in love, and attending royal engagements. And speaking of engagements. Mia’s gorgeous longtime boyfriend Michael managed to clear both their schedules just long enough for an exotic (and very private) Caribbean island interlude where he popped the question! Of course Mia didn’t need to consult her diary to know that her answer was a royal oui.
But now Mia has a scandal of majestic proportions to contend with: Her grandmother’s leaked “fake” wedding plans to the press that could cause even normally calm Michael to become a runaway groom. Worse, a scheming politico is trying to force Mia’s father from the throne, all because of a royal secret that could leave Genovia without a monarch. Can Mia prove to everyone—especially herself—that she’s not only ready to wed, but ready to rule as well?
Ashley's 4 Star Review
If you have a tween in your house, or are a lover of YA books, this is one you need to pick up. The authors writing is more mature than past books in the series.
This book has a lot of funny antics and everything you would expect from Mia. A few twists and surprises are included, so yes this review is vague. However, if you have enjoyed this series thus far you will enjoy this final installment in Mia's diary.
2:37PM, Tuesday, April 28
Third Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
New York City
I don’t know what’s happening to me. I lie when I should
tell the truth, and tell the truth when I should lie.
Like half an hour ago, when Dr. Goldberg, the newly appointed
“royal physician,” was here, and asked if I’ve been under any
“unusual” stress lately.
I laughed and said, “Gosh, no, Doctor, none that I can’t
think of.”
You would think Dr. Goldberg might have noticed the hordes of
paparazzi gathered outside the consulate doors when he came in.
But no.
Instead, he said I shouldn’t be concerned about the fact that
my left eyelid has been twitching pretty much nonstop for the past
week, which is why I asked for an appointment in the first place.
According to Dr. Goldberg, this sort of thing “happens all the time,
and is not at all indicative of a brain tumor or stroke.”
Then he suggested I stop putting my symptoms into iTriage, and
instead get “plenty of sleep and exercise.” Oh, and I might try
eating healthier.
Sleep? Exercise? Who has time to sleep or exercise? And
how am I supposed to eat healthier when I’m literally trapped by
the press inside the Genovian consulate and can only order food
from places that deliver near the United Nations (which are
basically steak houses, Chinese, or gyros)?
It wasn’t until he was packing up his medical equipment that I
realized Dr. Goldberg was immune to sarcasm and really intended
to leave without writing me a prescription.
So I said, “The truth is, Doctor, I have been feeling a little stressed.
You might have heard about my recent family difficulties which
have led to . . .”
I pointed meaningfully out the window to the throng of paparazzi
waiting below. Dominique, the director of Royal Genovian Press
Relations and Marketing, says if we don’t encourage them they
will go away—like stray cats are supposed to, if you don’t feed
them—but this isn’t true. I’ve never fed the press, and they still
won’t go away.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” Dr. Goldberg said, seeming to realize
things were a little out of the ordinary—like the fact that he was
visiting me in the consulate instead of seeing him in his office
hadn’t given it away. “Of course! But your father is doing very
well, isn’t he? All the reports I’ve heard say that he’ll most likely
be given a slap on the wrist, and then he’ll be able to return to
Genovia. The press seem to find his little mishap with the law
quite amusing.”
Little mishap with the law! Thanks to my father’s decision to take
a midnight jaunt down the West Side Highway in his brand new
racecar, Count Ivan Renaldo, Dad’s opponent for prime minister, is
ahead five points in the polls. If the count wins, Genovia will be
transformed from a charming medieval-walled microstate on the
French Riviera to something that looks more like Main Street USA
in Disneyland, with everyone strolling around in T-shirts that say,
Who Farted?, eating giant turkey legs.
“Oh, Dad’s doing great!” I made the huge mistake of lying
(I realize now). This is what we’re supposed to tell the extended
family and the media. It is not the truth. Royals are never
supposed to tell the truth. It isn’t done.
It’s for this reason that I think I’m losing my grip on my
sanity and can no longer tell the difference anymore between
what’s real and what’s a façade for the sake of the media (iTriage
says this is called disassociation and is generally used as a coping
mechanism to manage stress).
“Wonderful!” Dr. Goldberg cried. “And things are going
well between you and—what is the young man’s name?”
I swear Dr. Goldberg must be the only person in the entire
Western Hemisphere who doesn’t know Michael’s name.
Is Michael Moscovitz the world’s greatest lover? ‘YES!’
says sex-mad Princess Mia, declares the cover of this week’s
InTouch.
Michael’s dad thought this was so hilarious, he bought
dozens of copies to give to his friends and even his patients.
Michael has asked him to stop, but his dad won’t listen.
“You really expect me not to buy this?” Dr. Moscovitz
asked. “My son is the world’s greatest lover! It says so right
here. Of course I’m going to buy this!”
This could be the reason for my twitch.
“Michael,” I said to Dr. Goldberg. “Michael
Moscovitz. And yes, everything’s fine between us.”
Except of course since I’m being held a prisoner in
my current home by the paps—I had to move out of my old
apartment last year on account of my stalker, who calls himself
RoyalRabbleRouser and likes to say he’s going to “destroy” me.
The consulate is the only building in Manhattan guarded 24/7 by
military police specially trained in the protection of a
royal—Michael and I hardly ever get to see one another.
And then when we do, we mostly just lay around and watch
movies on Netflix, because leaving the consulate is such a pain,
unless I want to hear all sorts of horrible questions hurled at me on
my way to the car:
“Mia, is that a baby bump or did you just have too much of
that falafel we saw delivered an hour ago?”
“Mia, how does it feel to know Kate Middleton wore it
better?”
“Mia, did you tell your dad not to bend over in the
showers?”
“Mia, why hasn’t Michael put a ring on it?”
I tried to show Michael my twitch earlier on Facetime, but
he said my eye looked perfectly normal to him.
“If you’re twitchy, though, Mia, it’s probably in nervous
anticipation at the prospect of going out with me, the world’s
greatest lover.”
“I thought we agreed we weren’t going to read our own
press,” I reminded him.
“How can I help it?” he asked. “Especially since my erotic
powers seemingly extend all the way to the Upper East Side, where
they’ve rendered you sex mad.”
“Ha, ha, ha. You probably planted that story yourself.”
“You’ve grown so jaded and cynical since I last saw you.
But really, Mia,” he said, finally getting serious. “I think you’re
just stressing too much about all of this. I’m not saying things
aren’t bad—they are. But maybe all you need is to get away for a
day or two.”
“Away? How am I possibly going to get away? And where
am I going to go that the press can’t follow me and ask about my
alleged baby bump or how my dad looks in his orange jumpsuit?”
“Good question. Let me work on it.”
I know he’s just trying to help, but really, the idea of
getting away with Dad in so much trouble and the country in such
an uproar and the election so close and Mom being a new widow
and Grandmère—oh, Grandmère!—as crazy as ever?
Plus my boyfriend having rendered me sex mad, of course.
No. Just no.
But of course I couldn’t tell Dr. Goldberg any of this. It’s
like my lips have been frozen into a permanent smile by all my
media training (and compartmentalizing of my feelings).
“Well, that’s fine then,” the doctor said, beaming.
Fine? It’s so not fine. Was it really so wrong of me to think
that maybe, possibly, the palace physician might give me a little
something to keep my eyelid from jumping around like a
Chihuahua at dinnertime, or at least help me not lie awake all
night?
And then when I do manage to fall asleep I have
nightmares, like the one I had last night that I was married to Bruce
Willis, and whenever Bruce would get out of the shower, he would
dry off his penis while singing the song “Chitty Chitty Bang
Bang.”
I can’t even tell Michael this. How do you explain
it to the kindly old physician they found who is still willing to do
house calls?
You cannot.
“I’ll make sure the lab gets the blood and urine samples
you insisted, Your Highness,” Dr. Goldberg said. “I should have
the results in about a week. But I have to say that medically, I
doubt they’ll find anything wrong. Your pulse is strong, your skin
tone looks even, your weight within the normal range for your
height. Despite this twitch you say you have—which frankly I
can’t see—and your fingernails, which I see that you bite, you
seem to be glowing with health.”
Damn! He would notice my fingernails. I must be the only
female left on the entire planet who doesn’t get manicures because
there’s nothing left of my fingernails to file, let alone paint.
“Maybe,” I said, trying to keep the eagerness out of my
voice so I wouldn’t sound like one of those crazed oxy-addicts on
the now sadly cancelled Intervention, “I should be written a
prescription for a very mild mood stabilizer.”
“Oh, no,” Dr. Goldberg said. “Nail-biting is a bad habit,
but very common, and hardly worth treating
psychopharmacologically. The worst that could happen from
compulsive nail-biting is that you might incur an infection, or pick
up a pin worm.”
Oh my God. I am never biting my nails again. At least not
before thoroughly washing them in antibacterial soap.
“What I suggest you try,” he added, as he packed up his
bag, “is journaling.”
“Journaling?” Was he joking?
He was not.
“Why yes, I see you’ve heard of it. Journaling has been shown to
reduces stress, and help with problem solving. My wife keeps
what she calls a gratitude journal. She writes down three things
every day for which she feels grateful, and keeps a dream journal,
as well. She says it’s helped tremendously, especially with her
mood swings. You should try it. Well, I’ll be in touch in about a
week about that blood work. Good day, Princess!”
And then he left.
Which leaves me here. Journaling.
Why couldn’t I have lied to make myself seem more pathetic so
he’d have written me a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication,
or at least a low dose sleeping pill? Even the veterinarian does this
for Fat Louis when I take him on the private jet back and forth to
Genovia, and Fat Louis is a cat. Why does a cat get tranquilizers
but the expensive concierge doctor we hired will not give them to
me?
Of course if Fat Louis doesn’t take them, he revenge poops on
everything, which is extremely problematic, especially when going
through security (not that we have to do this because when you fly
private they assume you aren’t going to blow up your own plane
and don’t X-ray you or your baggage, which makes no sense. You
would think by now that radical terror groups would have caught
on to this and bought their own Lear jets, but apparently not).
But sometimes they still spot check you, even if you’re royalty,
and it’s quite embarrassing to have the cat you’re holding firing
tiny brown missiles at the poor TSA workers as you’re going
through the body scanner.
But honestly, if a cat can have pills that turn him into a
sweet, mellow travel companion who doesn’t shit everywhere, why
can’t I?
Oh, dear, I just read that over. I’m not shitting everywhere,
obviously. I just wouldn’t mind feeling a bit more mellow and
getting some Bruce-Willis-free sleep once in a while.
I suppose it’s typical of my luck that we have the one
concierge doctor in all of Manhattan who refuses to prescribe anti-
anxiety medication. I’m sure every other celebrity (and royal) is
loaded up on them.
This would explain a lot about their behavior, actually.
But if “gratitude” and “dream” journaling really does help
with stress, I’m willing to give it a go.
At this point, I’ll try anything.
Let’s see. I already wrote down what I dreamed about.
Here are three things for which I feel grateful:
1 I don’t have a brain tumor.
2 My father didn’t die in that racecar incident. Though given how
reckless it was of him to have been in it in the first place, he
probably deserved to.
3 Michael, the most understanding, handsome, witty, and forgiving
boyfriend in the entire world (even if every once in a while
lately I’ve noticed there’s something going on with his eyes,
too. Not a twitch. More like something brewing in there. If
I still wrote historical romance novels—which I had to give
up, because I do not have the time for all that research what
with all my public speaking and running the center—I would
describe it as a “haunted shadow.”)
I know it’s selfish, but I hope to God if there’s anything off with
him, it’s because he’s passing another kidney stone, like the one he
had last May—even though he said it was the most painful thing
he’d ever experienced in his life—and not because he’s thinking
about breaking up with me. I’m sure he’d like to experience a
normal relationship with a girl who can casually leave work on a
Friday night to meet for drinks at a bar without first having to have
it checked for bombs or be escorted by bodyguards or followed by
a phalanx of photo-hungry press.
But I love Michael and I will seriously lose my shit if he dumps me.
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