By Tiber
My sister, Iris Nell, does everything she can to live full-time in her own fantasy world, so I guess this was inevitable.
“Who knows, Tiber?” she sighed moonily yesterday. “Your blog could be read all over the world! Even a prince could read it and decide he wants to marry me!”
What is it with women and the “marrying a prince” thing? They see that tiara and it mesmerizes them. As far as I can tell, it would be a horrible life.
First of all, you could never top his parents in the holiday gift-giving. You buy him skis, they buy him the mountain. You give him a casserole, they give him a castle.
Plus, once you marry a prince, your days are never your own again. You’re constantly booked, attending events like the unveiling of a new speed bump where they force you to shake 2000 strangers’ hands before they‘ll even give you lunch.
And forget just the two of you having a TV and pizza evening at home. No, no, you both have to attend the special performance of the Pickle Guild Theatrical Club, where, in your honor, they’re performing their new version of “Cats.” (“This time we’re ‘Dogs!’”)
And yet the mystique of the prince goes on.
I’ve explained the reality to women before and they always nod pensively, saying, “…Hmmm. You may have a point.”
I’m not kidding myself, though, I know very well that if I was standing there with my best smile on, and a prince, any prince, came up behind me, that smile would be instantly crisscrossed with Jimmy Choo puncture wounds, as every girl in the vicinity raced over my entire head in her mad rush to get to him.
