The Princess-in-Training Manual / Divas Don't Fake It

The Princess-in-Training Manual / Divas Don't Fake It

by Princess Jacqueline de Soignee, Erica Orloff




The Princess-In-Training Manual by Princess Jacqueline de Soignee\Erica Orloff released on Oct 24, 2003 is available now for purchase.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780373250394
Publisher: Red Dress Ink
Publication date: 10/28/2003
Edition description: Original
Pages: 288
Product dimensions: 4.88(w) x 8.26(h) x 0.77(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Princess-in-Training Manual

On Sense of Self

A Princess loves herself and loves being who she is.


As your princessly mentor, I realize that the best way to teach you how to be a princess is to let you see how a real princess lives. Like anyone else, a princess must work. Although I work for charity and not for subsistence, it amounts to the same thing. Contrary to popular belief, a princess is not meant to sit on her throne, arcing her scepter and looking beautiful all day. A princess must be productive, and use her skills and talents to the utmost. Luckily, my work at the Foundation allows me to do both -- and that is where I'm headed right now.

Yesterday, I thought nothing could ever be more exciting than becoming a film celebrity, but writing a book is a marvelous experience.

By the way, in case you're wondering, yes, I touch-type. Being a princess doesn't mean thinking that any jobs are beneath you or that you're better than other people. My best friend, Clarice, who also happens to be my assistant at the Foundation, taught me how to type, and I taught her how to shop. Clarice taught me to type because I hated bugging her to do my typing all the time -- it's not as if she doesn't have nine zillion other things to do every day -- and I taught her how to shop because she asked me to. (Now she can spot a Prada at a hundred yards in deep fog. I'm so proud of her!)

Nine chances out of ten, you probably know how to type and maybe you're a Prada-spotter, too. Don't worry if you can't or if you're not, though. If it's important to you to learn how to type or how to spot labels, go for it. If neither one is important to you, that's fine, too. The point is to remember that you can do whatever you set your mind to, and once you really start loving yourself, you'll believe that. And then you will start to see yourself as a princess and carry yourself like a princess, and pretty soon everyone win treat you like a princess. You have to just trust me on this.

By the way, in case you're wondering, yes, my penthouse is fabulous. I live right off Central Park, and am close to everything. Not that it really matters; if it's that far, I just hop in the Lamborghini and off I go. (I have a chauffeur, James, but I like to be on my own, so he naps and watches ESPN more than he drives me. My father insists on my having a chauffeur, though. "Every princess has to have a chauffeur, Jacqueline," he says. It's usually his idea for me to show up at whatever affair we're going to in a tiara that gives me a headache. Sigh. As I mentioned already, royal dads can be . . . um . . . challenging.)

Truthfully, though, I like to walk whenever I can. I love being out and about, and getting to know people in my neighborhood. Just the other day, I was waiting to see a scarf at Hermès. The woman ahead of me, who happens to live in a building on my street and whom I've gotten to know because we both in-line skate in the park, offered to let the sales associate help me first.

"Please, Your Highness," she said. "I couldn't possibly let you wait."

"Absolutely not," I told her, insisting that she take her rightful turn. "And it's Jacquie, remember?" I reminded her. (Everyone calls me Jacqueline -- Jacquie if we really get along well -- so you can call me Jacquie, but remember, it's with a "qu" not a "k".) I know I'm a princess. All that fanfare isn't necessary, all that royal-court stuff. Yawn! Better than Sominex, believe me.

Anyway, my in-line skating friend gave me the hugest smile, as if I'd done something unbelievably wonderful.

I hadn't really done anything at all. It was her rightful turn. I never consider myself entitled to more than other people. I think that people find it a chore to be kind and gracious when they have a poor self-image. When you know how to honor and love yourself, honoring and loving everyone else just flows effortlessly. When you need other people to prove your worth to yourself, you will always feel lacking.

A true princess knows exactly who she is, and is proud of it.

A princess knows her regalness is an obvious fact requiring no overt behavior to prove it. It's important to recognize that sense of self is a permanent state, not a mood or emotion that changes with time or circumstance. You can have a bad day or have a dark mood or a cloud of negative emotions pass over you for a time without letting it impact your sense of self. Finding yourself in a dark mood is feeling irritable as a result of some situation or other, but not taking out your irritation on yourself.

Oh my God! Look at the time! I always try to be at the office by ten, and it's already past ten-thirty. Oh, well. Clarice will have everything under control. She always does. She is the absolute best. Come to think of it, yesterday she mentioned something that I was supposed to do this morning, but I was dashing out the door on my way to my dinner at Nobu. Needless to say, I wasn't paying rapt attention. Okay, I didn't hear a word she said. I'll explain when I get there, and she'll understand. After all, how often am I on my way to a film shoot?

Uh-oh. Clarice is standing in the doorway of my uptown office, looking none too happy. She's a true redhead, with very fair skin that is now quite flushed, and she's tapping her foot. Really nice Kate Spade pumps. I helped her pick them out.

"Hi," I chirp when I reach my doorway.

"Hi," she says, about as far from a chirp as she could get.

"Something wrong, sweetie?"

"Only that you're late for the board meeting."

"The board meeting is tomorrow at eleven." I say, remembering scanning my calendar for the rest of the week yesterday morning.

"No," Clarice says patiently." It was scheduled for then, but when you were leaving yesterday, I told you I had to move the meeting to today at ten."

Oops. So that was what I was supposed to remember. Funny, compared to filming, the meeting seemed so inconsequential. But that's no excuse, and I detest being late for anything. It is most indubitably NON-princessly to behave as if your time is more valuable than other people's.

"Well . . . I . . . "

"You didn't hear a word I said when you were leaving yesterday, did you?"

I shake my head. "I'm truly sorry, Clar."

She shoots me an exasperated look. I realize now is not the moment to tell her how fabulous the filming actually was, or to let her know I'm soon to be a TV personality and acclaimed author as well. After the meeting.

I open the boardroom door and enter the room with a cheerful, "Good morning, everyone!" Breezing past the board members seated around the oval table to my seat at the head, I say," I apologize for being late, but it was unavoidable. Let me briefly explain why, and I'm sure you'll not only understand, but be thrilled by the good news it portends for the literacy program."

They all perk up, smiling expectantly. All except Hortense Cranston, that is. Hortense is my least-favorite board member. The snob. I once heard Bill Wanamaker, another board member, say, "You'd think Hortense was the princess!" (That bad-rap stuff again. But don't you worry: Once my book hits the stores, there will be no more of that!)

"Last night I filmed a cameo spot at Nobu in my dear friend Jean-Paul Fameux's new film -- "

"Is it subtitled?" asks Hortense, her mouth pursed as if she's sucking the world's sourest lemon.

"No, it's an American film. It's about an unorthodox street cop who exposes city corruption, thanks to his snitch -- " I repeat verbatim the description Fameux gave me.

"I was assuming it was subtitled since you prefaced your little monologue by telling us how your endeavors will be so invaluable to the literacy program," Hortense says. "People have to read subtitles, Jacqueline." She smirks, and a few of the other board members cough in a thinly veiled attempt to cover their snickers. Snickers! I am horrified. How can they snicker at me? On the very morning that begins my new life as a film celebrity, TV personality and acclaimed author, no less. I am not about to stand for this. Especially not when Hortense Cranston is leading the charge.

"If you would have permitted me to finish -- afforded me the same courtesy I afford everyone seated around this table all the time -- the connection would have been apparent to everyone. Even you, Hortense " I finish with an icy smile. "Certainly you cannot assume that a Vassar graduate would not be aware that subtitles are read." It really bothers Hortense that I went to Vassar, because Vassar rejected her, so she had to go to Sarah Lawrence instead. She never got over it, even though she graduated from college before I was born. I notice even more board members are suppressing smiles and snickers now.

"Now then," I continue, smoothing the papers in front of me and taking a sip of water from the glass Clarice left at my seat, "my friend Jean-Paul is going to be getting me a spot on Oprah in the very near future, where I will discuss the literacy program with her." I pause again for effect and to gauge the board's excitement. They seem impressed, but in a quiet sort of way. "And I'm writing a self-esteem book, the proceeds of which will go to the literacy program."

"That all sounds grand, Jacqueline," says Bill Wanamaker, but in that tut-tut tone, as if I were a little girl excited about something that grown-ups would never consider important. Well, I guess I know what he really thinks of me.

"Oprah Winfrey is a bastion of the literacy campaign . . . " I begin, indignant, but keeping my cool.

"Oprah canceled her Book Club," snaps Hortense.

"I'm aware of that, Hortense. She is nevertheless one of the foremost advocates for literacy in this country. Let's just move along. I'll keep everyone apprised as things move forward," I say crisply.

I force myself not to focus on how disappointed I am by the board's underwhelmed reaction to my news about Oprah. I have no intention of letting anyone ruin my happiness about all my new adventures -- my walk-on, Oprah, my book.

"Do let us know when the film will premiere."

I'm about to tell Hortense that I will, just so she won't show up in her vintage Chanel (it isn't cool retro vintage, it's just been hanging in her closet since the year zero, and she's worn it everywhere, every year since), but I think better of it. The Hortense Cranstons of the world don't deserve the attention the rest of us often pay them out of sheer frustration and irritation. A princess knows when to just let things go. I launch into the agenda, and the meeting proceeds smoothly and quickly.

When we adjourn, I thank all the board members for their time and participation, then head directly back to my office, closing the door behind me. Who cares that they all were so blasé! I'm not going to let anyone rain on my parade.

"Jacquie, can I come in?" Clarice's voice floats over the intercom.

"Please," I say.

She comes in, carrying a large mug that wafts the aroma of mocha java.

Before she can even ask, I spill the whole story.

"Who cares what they think? I think it's fantastic," Clarice says loyally.

"I do, too." I'm glad Clarice shares my enthusiasm. This is the way a princess behaves: self-assured, strong, steady. I must be the princess that I am, inside and out. And so must you.

I smile at Clarice, and we both laugh.

"By the way, Clar, excellent response for a Princess-in-Training Graduate." (Once upon a time, darling, she was in training, just as you are now. I'm sure you'll do every bit as marvelously as she did.)

"Thanks," she calls over her shoulder on her way out of my office. I get the distinct impression that she might not think I have much practical advice to offer, but I tell myself I must be wrong. After all, Clarice loves me and is my stellar graduate, so how could she possibly think that?

Divas Don't Fake It

I was born to be a diva. From a long line of passionate Russians, it was inevitable that I learn how to throw plates and hurl knives at boyfriends -- and ex-husbands -- who displeased me. These men never complained -- not even the time when a Waterford vase was aimed like a SCUD missile at one lover's head. When you're in love with a high-maintenance diva, you have to accept all the passion that comes with it -- both in and out of the bedroom.

So what's so great about being a diva . . . and what place does "divadom" have in the postfeminist millennium?

Let me tell you, people think twice about messing with a diva. And though feminism brought with it certain perks and certain milestones, a true diva doesn't care about any of that. Why not? She is far too concerned about herself.

Selfish? Self-centered? No . . . a diva is merely totally aware at all times that she needs to be -- indeed, was born to be -- the center of attention. It helps if she's an Aries. And she makes no apologies to anyone -- not for her temper, not for her attitude. Not for being a bitch. You don't want to mess with her; you don't want to cross her. You do want to be her friend, however, for though she may be a tad eccentric, she will kill -- perhaps literally -- anyone who messes with her friends.

Can a diva ever find true happiness? Yes! Divas marry and have children. They find peace and happiness. But most of all, they remain ever certain of their status as a diva. Divas don't wait in line. They don't have self-esteem problems. They are not, most definitely not, women who love too much. They don't need anything but their lipstick and eyeliner and a suitcase full of attitude.

Why aspire to be a diva? Well, ladies, divas don't get their hearts broken -- they break them. They look out for number one, and enjoy the fawning attention of men who like being with the most exciting woman in the room. They know how to make an entrance, and they know when it's time to make an exit -- even if that means making a scene. They do it all with confidence.

So if you've ever been mistreated, not loved enough, dumped by a man, cheated on . . . not invited to the most dazzling parties, this is for you. But beware: Once you invoke the power of the diva, there's no going back. Once you taste all life has to offer the woman who knows her own power, you wouldn't want to, anyway. So set aside a few plates you want to hurl, and read on.

Your inner diva has been waiting to make a scene.


A Diva Knows How to Reinvent Herself

"I knew you were going to wear that. It's your gay male-whore uniform." I eye my best friend, Scott, as he sits down in his get-over-a-heartbreak outfit of black muscle T-shirt and tight black jeans.

"First of all . . . gay male and whore are redundant." He rolls his eyes. "Second, you're one to talk."

"Well, you look positively sluttish tonight."


"But you love me."

"Yes, I do! Air kisses, darling." He motions with his lips in the general direction of my cheek.

I air-kiss back, careful not to smear my own Elizabeth Arden-encased lips (Shade? Sparkling Ruby).

"I'm channeling my inner diva," he says with a toss of his hand. "I'm doing some major scoping of the scenery.

For instance, do you see that guy over there on the dance floor. The one who looks like Moby's ugly twin brother?"


"Well . . . like, does he not have a mirror anywhere in his apartment? What was he thinking?"

"Not everyone has your keen fashion sense, Scott."

"Please. It's in The Gay Handbook. Must have keen sense of fashion and color."

"Well . . . someone better give him a copy of The Handbook then."

Scott turns to better check out another corner of the room. "And that one." He less than discreetly nods. "It's also in The Handbook that you have to be able to dance. And that move . . . " He shudders.

"White men can't dance."

"No, white straight men can't dance. That rule doesn't apply to gay boys."

I gasp in mock horror.


"Do you think straight men are infiltrating your ranks?"

"Honey, I don't know what to think, but he seriously cannot dance. If I was the bouncer I'd throw him out." Scott covers his eyes with his hands. "It's unsightly. He's giving queers a bad name."

"You'd have him thrown out for having no rhythm?"

"Uh-huh. Hell, I've been thrown out of clubs for less."

Having someone for the three D's -- drinking, dancing and dishing -- is one of the many blessings of having a best friend who is a queen. Not as in Queen of England, or even Queen of Some-Lesser-European-Nation-So-Obscure-that-You-Can't-Even-Remember-Its-Place-on-the-Map-from-High-School-Geography, but queen as in . . . well, queen. And even occasionally drag!

Scott St. James is my oldest and dearest friend and most fearless defender -- as well as the hottest dancer in any club on any night. By day, Scott is a laid-off dot-com Web geek now working in a buttoned-up corporation as a temp three days a week and as the file clerk for my PR firm the other two days when he can make it into the office by noon. By night, Scott is whoever he feels he is that particular week. Scott, though a man, is a diva. And all divas and aspiring divas can learn from him.

A Gay Dream waiter in a matching gay male-whore redundant muscle shirt and tight black jeans comes over to our table to take our order. His "package" is so big, I swear he has stuffed socks down the front of his pants. Either that or he has a serious moonlighting gig as a porn star.

"Ladies?" he asks.

"Two sour-apple martinis, please," Scott purrs.

"Oh no," I beg. "Not another new drink of the week."

"What's the point of reinventions doll, if you don't change it all?"

I roll my eyes but nod at Gay Dream with Big Package.

"Fine. Two sour-apple martinis."

When they arrive, I can't even drink mine without scrunching up my face into a puckered scowl.

"God, this is awful." I squint.

"I just love them!" Scott claps his hands together.

"Last week you loved some Chambord drink that I found mildly tolerable. But this is sickening."

"But that's the fun of it, Xandra."

I look down at my martini glass. "Can't you like . . . oh, I don't know . . . a cosmopolitan this week?"

"So last year."

Of course, it's been pointed out to me that I can order my own drink, but it's sort of a tradition with Scott that we switch drinks each week, so I usually go with it. He feels the need to change with his moods. And he has more moods than a PMS-suffering woman denied Midol.

I sip and screw, as in screwing up my face.

"This is the most revolting thing to have ever passed my lips."

"And that's saying a lot."

"Your mind is always in the gutter."

"Of course it is. That's rule number 9,673 in The Handbook."

"I forgot."

He pouts. "I'm insulted you didn't comment on my haircut."

Fawning is a diva national pastime. You must notice everything about a diva, down to the little details.

"What was I thinking? Sorry, honey. And are those a hint of blond tips?"

"Like them?"

"Whorish . . . They work, though."

"Drink up. I need to get you drunk so you stop picking on me.

I drink down the martini, but I know he secretly loves my barbs. They show I care in some perverse diva way.

I was born a diva. As a child, I was the little girl who couldn't wait to belt out tunes for my parents' dinner guests. I was a miniature Liza, complete with tap-dancing lessons, a dress-up box with feather boas and a Cabaret-esque haircut. Other girls wanted little pink sunglasses to wear to the beach. I wanted leopard-spotted frames large enough for Jackie Onassis. Later, I longed to be like Bette Midler, shaking my tits and telling bawdy jokes to anyone who'd listen.

For my sixteenth birthday, my father offered to buy me a car. I held my ground until I got a convertible. Then I needed a Hermes scarf to cover my hair as I tooled around Miami Beach. High school . . . I was the girl who dumped her lunch tray on her boyfriend when she caught him flirting with any diva's public enemy number one -- the Antichrist -- a cheerleader.

When I packed my bags for NYU, Dad wanted me to major in something practical. Business or accounting. I did a paper on "The Velvet Rope: Getting Past the Bouncer 101." I majored in club hopping, and racked up an average of 1.1 boyfriends per month for each year I was in school. My GPA was only a little higher.

Through marriages one and two, I believed in grand passion; I've also broken most of the china in the patterns from wedding-registry number one (a rose pattern, if I recall correctly, Wedgwood) and number two (Egyptian-themed). Husband Number Two found all his belongings out on the fire escape and the locks changed. He still begs me to take him back.

Yes . . . it is destiny that I am a diva.

But Scott was another story. He didn't have the genetic marker of a diva. And by the time he hit his teens, he was closeted and unhappy. When I met him in college, he was the wittiest guy I knew. Still is. But certainly no Gay Dream. For God's sake, he'd only had two sexual experiences, and one of them was with a woman. Me.

Throughout our friendship, I kept trying to lure him to the light. But the dark side -- the dreary doormat world -- kept reeling him back to the place where people say, "Oh never mind, it wasn't that important . . . don't mind me." Then one night, post-college, in our putting-the-rent-on-our-credit-cards years (and paying rent on places with palmetto bugs -- Miami cockroaches -- so big you could saddle them up and take 'em to the rodeo), we were out at a club on South Beach. He was on the sidelines, watching women in thongs and shirtless men dancing to some club mix, when he looked over at the bar and who should be standing on top of it, grinding with the hottest bartender in the place? A certain diva, of course. And Scott had a "Diva Moment." An epiphany. Fuck what anyone thinks. He should have been grinding with the bartender (who, it turned out, was indeed gay). So the next week, when I arrived at his stunningly tiny studio apartment at the time, ready for a night on South Beach, Scott was an imitation of the chick with the beehive in the B-52s. A frighteningly bad limitation. But we went with it.

And the week after that, with a new wardrobe (on his overextended credit card -- which by then was suffering from credit-card-iac arrest) and new attitude, he was the one bumping and grinding with the hot bartender, in a tight black muscle shirt and jeans -- not unlike tonight.

"If it wasn't for you, I'd never have discovered just how fucking hot my ass can look in Versace jeans he says, pulling me back to the present time.

"True enough. But your inner diva was just waiting to come out of the closet."

"Speaking of which, I better get a new job soon so I can move out of my apartment to one with bigger closets. My wardrobe is sort of taking over. Last night I wrestled with my favorite faux mink thong, thinking I had sat down on a rat."

Divas need a lot of closet space. And if they share their home with a boyfriend, they'll take most of his space, too.

"What do I tell you are the three most important things to look for when apartment shopping." I sigh in mock frustration.

"Closet space." He holds up one finger. "Closet space." He holds up two. "And closet space." The third finger goes up.

"And a close fourth?"

"Someone deliciously fuckable living across the hall."


"So I have failed miserably in closet space, but there is David across the hall."

"And he's straight -- which means he's not for you, sweetie. So when are you going to have a cocktail party and invite the two of us?"

"I cannot in good conscience do that to him." He makes a sign of the cross.

"Do what?"

"Do what, she asks. Do what? Hello? Are we even having this conversation? The last time I set you up with someone, the poor man needed therapy to get over the experience. I would be willing to bet he needed shock therapy to get over it."

"I'm not that bad."

"You are. But you're worth it." (The diva motto: I'm worth it! L'Oréal, are you listening?)

"Of course I'm worth it."

"But I need to seriously investigate whether he's man enough for you, honey . . . So few men are, I'm sorry to say."

"If you don't hurry, I'll just take matters into my own hands."

"Oh God, that means showing up on his doorstep with a bottle of champagne and a push-up bra. And little else. Lesser men have been known to pass out from the shock. Let me see what I can do."

"And while you're thinking, do me a favor and throw out that faux mink thong. It's ludicrous."

"Bob liked it."

"I thought we weren't going to mention his name."

"No . . . I said you couldn't mention his name. It's okay if I bring him up."

"No, it's not. Bring him up again, and I'm castrating you."

"Ouch . . . you just made my cock shrivel."

"Well, look over at that guy on the dance floor. Your cock'll make a comeback."

We sit and continue ogling the men in the bar. The more we drink, the more brazen we become -- okay in my case, it's an exercise in futility, because it's a bar where none of the men are interested in me, trust me.

Later, I catch myself looking at Scott's profile. He really is beautiful, and I know one day he will meet Mr. Right. For now, he'll have to settle for a little temporary distraction. Scott has sandy-blond hair that does a perfect just-rolled-out-of-bed sexy unmade look with no effort. He has a single earring in his right ear, a small gold hoop and skin that is fake-tanned to movie-star perfect -- he won't risk future wrinkles. His eyes are killer, a deep blue, with lashes so long and thick I'm envious, and he uses those lashes to bat away at every Tom, Dick and Harry in the place. I love that Scott now gets it -- the whole concept of reinvention. If you don't like who you are one week, change. If you feel stifled and hear a little voice inside saying "go for it," you have no choice but to listen to that little voice -- which in Scott's case says go be a male whore dancing on the bar.

Divas reinvent themselves.

Reinvention. Hair, clothes, makeup. Doing something out of character just because you want to. It's about fearlessly entering another relationship even if the last one crashed and burned. Divas dare to go where angels and mere mortals fear to tread.

Change it all. Go out for a night as a seductive siren. Try a new persona on for size. Scott is like a chocaholic faced with a giant box of Godiva. He can bite into each one and taste the fantasy. Caramel? Truffle? Almond? Coconut. Forget Forrest Gump. These chocolates are about sex and adventure. A world brimming with possibilities. Who does he want to be? Each weekend, each club we hit, Scott is his own heart's delight.

Scott's now dancing on the bar, lost in the music. I stand up and go over to the bar, climb up and grind against him for all it's worth. Then I kiss him full on the mouth, stepping back to wipe off my lipstick.

"What was that for?"

"Because I just think you are so fucking fantastic."

"You want me to set you up with David."

"That, too. But if you don't, I know just what I'm going to do."

"Do I want to hear this?


I smile to myself. We get down when the song is over and order two more horrible sour-apple martinis, and I toast to Scott.

"To this week's diva, the queen of reinvention."

We drink, we dish, we laugh. A hunky guy whose name really is Richard, aka Dick, asks Scott to dance. Scott shakes his groove thing, bumps, grinds, and gets down and dirty with Dick. Then he asks if I'd mind if he left with his dancing queen.

"Divas are big girls, baby. Go on . . . I can fend for myself here."

"Are you sure?"

"Listen, I was going to tell you two to get a room soon, anyway. Some major chemistry's going on there."

"You're the best!"

They leave, and I'm a straight woman in a gay bar. It's not as though I didn't recognize this before, it's just that now I am without my "date." This can only mean one thing: more dancing. I move over to one of the bars -- there are four spaced at the four corners of the dance floor. Marcus, the bartender, knows me. I switch to a more palatable tall vodka and tonic, and before too long, I see some of Scott's friends and next thing I am dancing to Madonna -- the queen of the divas.

Dance is the ultimate reinvention. While they say white men can't dance, if drunk enough, even a rhythmless doughboy can, for a moment, be John Travolta, and an inhibited mouse can be transformed to a diva. The trick is to remember how you feel when the strobes are flashing all over your glistening body and your breasts are heaving and you feel the music pulsating like sex inside you, and take that feeling with you after you leave the club.

And if you don't like how it feels . . . .you can just reinvent yourself next weekend.

After dancing until 3:00 a.m., I grab a cab and head back to my apartment. No roommate. Divas are best living alone. I pull a cold Coke from the fridge and go out on my balcony to listen to the surf roll in.

Copyright © 2003 Princess Jacqueline de Soignée and Erica Orloff

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

The Princess-in-Training Manual / Divas Don't Fake It 3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
Deesirings on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The Princess-in-Training Manual, had it actually been written by a princess, might appropriately find itself in the self help section and, if marketed properly, be a trendy bestseller. As a novella, presumably penned by Orloff, it's amusing and, actually quite uplifting. I kept expecting the princess narrator to turn out to be a caricature embodying the opposite of the values she was purporting to espouse, but, no, in fact, she remained "princessly," believing in herself, being loyal to her friends and even laughing at herself when appropriate. As for Divas Don't Fake it, I kind of wonder why it wasn't just a little more elaborate so that it could be a stand alone novel. It worked well as written but some themes might have been foreshadowed more, like the diva's matchmaking skills and her (successful!) plans to fix up THREE couples for Valentine's Day! Like in the previous Orloff fiction I've read, the heroine is direct -- she likes to use vulgar words when appropriate and does not sugar coat her sexual life with euphemisms. Her long-standing best friend is a gay man whose been shunned by his father. She has character (in this case, she's a self-admitted diva). Oh, and this one loves to cause a scene and over dramatize! But she comes to her senses for a feel good, happy ending!Having now read three Orloff's, I have to wonder if they are all a type of alternate history of what her life could have been under slightly different circumstances. Her heroines are all pretty similar and she touches on recurring themes (gay bashing, death to cancer, absence of mother, friendship as strong or stronger than family ties, open sexuality...). I really like the brutal honesty of her novels.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I bought this for my 13 yr old daughter because that was who this was being marketed to in the bookstore where I purchased it, not to mention the reviews I had read about it - obviously someone wasn't thinking. I'm a pretty open-minded person but the contents are a bit more risque than it lead on. The book is funny but definately NOT for pre- to early teens. I just don't see the need for girls that age to know that men wear mink thongs.
Guest More than 1 year ago
in my opinion, this book is absolutely awful. the diva part of it was extremely offensive. altogether way too much sex. i found myself thinking, 'And this book sells?' I would summarize this book as self-centered and not good literature.
Guest More than 1 year ago
i think this book was so cool. it actaully, for someone lacking in self-esteem, helped me to get some guts. i would recommend this to all women who love to laugh and need some advice.