That is, it usually means those things. But when you're Princess Mia, nothing happens the way it's supposed to. For one thing, Grandmere seems determined to prove that boy (or Michael, as he is commonly known) isn't the right one for the crown princess of Genovia. And Mia isn't having much luck proving otherwise, since Michael has a history of being decidedly against any kind of exploitative commercialization (Valentine's Day, as it is commonly known).
Boris can declare his love openly to Lilly, and even Kenny comes through with a paltry Whitman's Sampler. So why can't Michael give in to Cupid and tell Mia he loves her--preferably with something wrapped in red or pink and accompanied by roses--in time to prove he's Mia's true prince?
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November 30, 2006
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Excerpt from Valentine Princess: A Princess Diaries Book by Meg Cabot
Tuesday, February 11, 6 p.m.,
The limo on the way home from princess lessons
Today when I walked into my princess lessons with Grandmere after school, there was this totally creepy-looking guy occupying the pink brocade settee where I normally sit (because it's nearest the bowl of sugared almonds that I sneak whenever Grandmere isn't looking, even though they aren't actually that good, like not candy- or chocolate- coated or anything, but beggars can't be choosers, and why do old people always have such sucky candy, anyway?), and I was all, "Who are you?" because this dude had on one of those monochromatic tie-and-shirt thingies, like a TV talk show host or mafioso might wear, and that is not the kind of person you'd expect to see sitting in a dowager princess's living room suite at the Plaza. I mean, not to be pejorative. But it's true.
Then Grandmere came out in a blue feather-trimmed wrap, like she was the Queen Mum and not the princess's grandmum, and was all, "Oh, good, Amelia, I'm so glad you're here. Meet Dr. Steve," and I was like, "Whaty who?" and she was all, "How dare you speak that way to my astrologist???"
So yeah. Grandmere has an astrologist.
I will admit, I'm pretty worried because, of course, I thought of Rasputin-you know, that guy who was, like, "spiritual advisor" (aka mystic oracle) to the Russian royal family, before they all ended up getting shot by their angry populace. Not necessarily because of Rasputin, but the czar's subjects did kind of lose respect for him because he and his wife were listening to the advice of a dude who collected hair from virgins as a hobby.
Obviously, this didn't happen with Nancy Reagan, who was getting advice from astrologist Jeane Dixon, but that's just because Jeane Dixon's hobby was playing golf.
Anyway, I guess Dr. Steve isn't like Rasputin. I mean, he doesn't have a beard--in fact, he barely had any hair at all, being mostly bald. And he was wearing a suit, not monk's robes.
Still, I didn't like it much when he pointed at me and went, "Don't tell me! Let me guess! This is Her Royal Highness, Princess Amelia!"
Which made Grandmere clap her hands and do a jig, practically.
"Yes!" she cried. "You're right! He's amazing! Isn't he amazing, Amelia?"
I don't see what's so amazing about it, since he'd heard Grandmere say my name when I walked in.
Plus, it's not like a picture of my face isn't plastered all over the cover of Teen People every month. But whatever.
"Tell us what you've learned about Amelia, Doctor," Grandmere said, plopping herself down on one of the matching pink brocade chairs and snapping her fingers at me in her time-honored signal for Fix me a Sidecar. Now. "I gave him your birth date and time yesterday, Amelia, and Dr. Steve promised to read the results this afternoon, when you could be here to hear them."