Corona Princess Diaries Day 15
Hello, everybody! I hope you’re all still staying safe and healthy!
Entries from Princess Mia Thermopolis of Genovia’s diary* have fallen into my hands, and as the princess’s royal biographer, it’s my duty to share them with you!
*Please keep in mind that as with any diary, the princess is only recording her thoughts at the given moment, and has had no copy editing. Also, both the princess and I are aware that this is a serious and increasingly complicated crisis.
I would like to thank health care workers, first responders, and everyone else out there working to keep us healthy, safe, and fed right now. If you’d like to help people who are in need during this pandemic, I suggest supporting your local food bank. Find one here.
And if you like to read, please support your local indie bookstore (many will deliver books to your home) by ordering them here at BookStoreLink.
I hope you enjoy this fifteenth FREE installment of The Princess Diaries – Quarantine Edition.
– Royal Bedroom –
All I wanted was twenty-four hours. Just twenty-four hours alone with my husband without the country I rule falling apart. Was that too much to ask?
Apparently it was.
Because despite my best efforts (and those of the prime minister. I can’t take full credit for the amazing job Genovia has done thus far, keeping our cases at a minimum), today we had protestors—protestors!—at the palace gates.
I was so angry when I found out—especially since I had just had my only time off in weeks from dealing with this pandemic: the loveliest twenty-four hours ever, enjoying the company of my husband, who’d been locked in self-isolation for two weeks. For two weeks, I’d not been able to hold or be held by Michael Moscovitz!
Then finally he’d been declared Covid-free by the royal physician, and we rushed into each other’s arms (well, all right – we rushed into our bed, where we spent a very pleasant day and night. Thank God for Mom and Olivia agreeing to watch the twins, since the nanny quit).
And what do I emerge from my lovely time off with my royal consort to find?
People screaming and yelling outside the palace gates—not even wearing masks, let alone socially distancing from one another—holding the most annoying signs, with slogans that said, among other things:
We Demand Haircuts
Let My People Golf
Don’t Cancel My Yachting Season!
Be Like Lichtenstein
We Have The Right To Play Baccarat
We Want Wine
What is wrong with my citizens? We’ve had one—one case of the virus!—thanks to my restrictions.
And this is how they show their thanks?
And neither I nor the Prime Minister has ever deprived anyone of wine. As if! The people of Genovia can get all the wine they want! Wine shops are considered an essential business, and are all open.
Everyone simply has to stay home to drink their wine. Is that so much to ask of anyone?
Same with haircuts and baccarat. People can get all the haircuts and play all the baccarat they want—at home.
And honestly, what does it even matter anymore how anyone’s hair looks? I went on national television with my gray roots showing and split ends everywhere. Nobody cared (with the possible exception of Paolo).
THIS IS A DEADLY PANDEMIC. GET OVER YOUR HAIR.
And I never forbade yachting. People can yacht to their heart’s delight. They simply have to keep their yachts fifty feet apart from other people’s yachts while at sea—no lashing yachts together and having giant yacht parties. And they can’t dock in a Genovian marina unless they can prove Genovian citizenship.
What is so unreasonable about that?
And don’t even get me started on the golf thing. Obviously everyone will be able to play golf again when the golf course figures out how to fix the little cup hole thingies so people don’t need to stick their entire hands in there to retrieve their balls and infect one another. That’s on the golf course, NOT ME.
And Lichtenstein? Lichtenstein? Please don’t act like Lichtenstein is any better than we are. They have at least 50 more cases than we do!
And fine, so Lichtenstein didn’t close its borders, and has less restrictions. Do you know what Lichtenstein also doesn’t have?
BEACHES. Lichtenstein is a LAND LOCKED COUNTRY. Lichtenstein doesn’t have pure white sand beaches, turquoise waters, and an extremely low rate of virus (only one case so far here in Genovia, remember, and no fatalities), making everyone in all of Europe want to go there, unlike GENOVIA!
But I’m sorry, our hospital is extremely small, so if everyone DID come here, and then got sick (which is going to happen if we re-open), we wouldn’t have enough ICU beds or ventilators for them, let alone enough PPE, face masks, or hand sanitizer for our health care workers!
I did the absolute right thing by closing our borders! THE RIGHT THING!
OMG, if they like Lichtenstein so much, WHY DON’T THEY JUST MOVE THERE?????
At first I was completely furious (and a little bit hurt) that my people were turning against me. So much so that Lars, my bodyguard, noticed, and was moved to say, “The Royal Genovian Guard just received a large shipment of Kalashnikovs, Your Highness, in case a neighboring country decides to invade us and steal our toilet paper. Do you want us to use them instead on that riff-raff out there?”
“God, Lars, no!” I was horrified. “I don’t want you to strafe my citizens with automatic rifle fire. They have a constitutionally protected right to protest.”
Lars looked disappointed.
But then Lilly, peering out the windows of the Great Hall, said, “It’s not actually all that many people, Mia. One of them has a megaphone. It’s so quiet around here, with the lockdown, even a few people sounds like a lot.”
Derek, my grandmother’s nineteen-year-old fiancé (Lord, please give me strength) said, “If you’d like, Mia, I can turn on the palace sound system and play something really loud to drown them out. Harry Styles has that new song out – Watermelon Sugar. It’s really great. Want me to play that?”
“No, Derek,” I said from between gritted teeth. “I do not want the protesters blasted in any way, either by bullets or with Watermelon Sugar by Harry Styles. Besides, that would be rewarding them.” Am I the only sane person in my family?
Then Michael, who’d immediately gone online to do some fact checking, said, “Mia, those protestors are being paid.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “What do you mean, paid? Paid by who?”
“Whom,” Grandmere swanned in to say. “And of course they are. You don’t honestly think Genovians would stand outside their palace for hours on end holding signs when they could be inside, drinking homemade pear schnapps and watching re-runs of the Genovian Grand Prix?”
“The protesters are being paid by your cousin Ivan, Mia,” Michael said.
Then he showed me his phone, on which he’d pulled up a tweet from an account belonging to Crazy Ivan’s, the bar and restaurant chain belonging to my cousin, Count Ivan Renaldo.
Count Ivan Renaldo is arranging a protest for tomorrow morning in front of the palace gates to demand that Princess Mia and the Prime Minister take down the road blocks into Genovia and allow bars, restaurants, beaches, and hotels to open back up. We need our tourists!
The count will provide pre-made protest signs and free beer to every person who shows up. RSVP below if you’re coming so we can make sure to have a sign for you, and also enough beer.
Please wear facemasks and maintain good social distancing at all times during this protest. This virus is deadly.
“Oh my God!” I cried. “So Ivan knows how contagious this virus is. He just doesn’t care, and wants me to open the borders anyway!”
“Right, because it’s going to help him make more money, so he can buy another yacht.” Michael took his phone from me and began scrolling through the comments beneath the post. “Looks like only about twenty people signed up. They seem very excited about the free beer.”
“The Genovian government is paying everyone more than enough in unemployment and Covid-stimulus money to buy all the beer they want,” I cried.
“I hate to say it,” Grandmere began.
“But I’m sure you’re going to say it anyway,” I muttered. I was right:
“But none of this would be happening if Derek and I were having the royal wedding I suggested to you the other day, Amelia. The hospitality workers would all be too busy preparing for my big day to protest our closed beaches and lack of tourism. And of course Genovian citizens would definitely prefer free champagne and wedding cake to free beer. And a wedding is such a glorious thing! It offers people something to hope for! It represents romance and a dream for the future!”
“Yeah, no,” I snapped. “That is not going to happen. We are not having a royal wedding during a pandemic, and particularly not the royal wedding of the ninety-something dowager princess of Genovia to a nineteen year old student from the University of Florida.”
“Do you see?” Grandmere asked Michael. “Do you see how hardened and bitter your wife has become? I was hoping she might sweeten up a little once you got out of quarantine, Michael, but apparently this is her personality now.”
Michael gave Grandmere a deadly stare, which I felt looked all the more devastating since he now has a beard and mustache, along with quite unreasonably large sideburns, and resembles some of the sixteenth century Genovian princes from the paintings in the Hall of Portraits.
“My wife is doing fine,” he said. “She has almost single-handedly saved this country from a deadly pandemic. So I suggest you speak to her with a little more respect, Clarisse.”
OMG! He’s even sexier now than he was before he went into quarantine!
And Grandmere did seem suitably cowed—at least for her. She waved at him dismissively with her left hand – but probably only so we’d all notice her engagement ring (Derek had purchased a tastefully small diamond for her, which was all he could afford on a student budget and was perfectly fine, but Grandmere immediately sold some of her Van Cleef and Arpels and upgraded for a gigantic one that made her look like Thanos from the Avengers movie) and flounced from the room.
“Well,” she said. “I can see where I’m not wanted! Come along, Derek, let’s go see who won the Grand Prix from 1957! I appear to have forgotten.”
Derek frowned and said, “Sorry, bro,” to Michael, and left with Grandmere.
“He really isn’t that bad,” Michael said after they were gone, “except for his inexplicable attraction to your grandmother.”
“Are you serious?” I felt as if my head was splitting in two from all the cries of Be Like Lichtenstein coming from the gates. “They’re both the worst!”
But of course Derek isn’t really the worst. And he and Grandmere are the least of my problems now.
What am I going to do about Ivan and his beer-swilling cronies?
UGH remember when life was normal and the only thing I had to worry about was what I was going to wear to this or that charity ball?
Stay tuned for more entries from Mia’s Corona Princess Diaries, COMING SOON