Sleep Training: Fancy Style

We’re weaning off the Night Nanny. It’s been over a year that I’ve had someone here with the girls almost every night. Initially the plan was just until we could get some kind of schedule. But The Princess needed feeding every 2 hours due to low birth weight and took over an hour to drink an ounce.  H was back to work and my family was gone after the first two weeks. I was alone, except for the baby nurse, and without her I wouldn’t have survived. I like my bed. Love my daughters. But need my bed. Like an idiot, I thought we would only need the baby nurse weekdays, since H would be with us weekends and we’re both competent adults. Oh how stupid was I? H loves his wife and his daughters but really, really loves his bed. The first weekend I let the nanny off, H insisted that we go out to dinner, infant in tow. (I’ve got pictures of a 6-pound infant sitting at a sushi bar. Very cute.) And when we got home, he said, “Good Night,” and trotted off to our (his) room. When he arose the next morning at 5 am for a conference call, he walked into the living room and said, “What are you doing?” I looked up with a tear-stained face and wrapped the decorative throw tightly around my quivering shoulders. “She fell asleep at 3.” “That sucks,” H chuckled and walked back to his office. Needless to say, the new rule was: Grandma or a Night Nanny.

Then came Tough Cookie. She arrived just as Princess was settling into a decent sleep pattern. And she destroyed us. Screamed every evening for 5 hours. I persisted in my idiotic attempt to “be the Mom,” and tried dealing with them myself for the two evening hours between nannies. H came home one night early and watched me run between rooms, turning on a swing or adjusting a swaddle and then using those brief seconds between screams to tend to a 4-month old who was trying to learn to self-soothe. 45 minutes that man sat on the sofa and watched me, until the night shift arrived. He grabbed the wine bottle and our dinner (yes I had managed to cook during all of this) and ran to our bedroom, threw himself on the floor in hysterics and said, “What the hell was that?” Needless to say, the new rule was: no break between nannies until TC gets over her colic. We ate out every night that month but three.

Then came our summer holiday. Yes, we had grandparents during the day and evening, but nighttime was a proper family affair. With two cots in our hotel room, the plan was to assign each of us to one child. That plan quickly ended when H loudly whispered, “Help me! I can’t find her face!” while trying to put her dummy back in the dark. When the sun finally rose, H looked at me and said, “Don’t get rid of the Night Nanny. Just don’t.” Occasionally he looked at the bank statements and sighed but that weekend left a serious impression.

And that is how I found myself this weekend with my first Saturday night without a sitter since The Princess was born. Seriously. She walks and talks. And sleeps all night. As does Tough Cookie. But we love Nanny #2 and she wanted the money and I loved the convenience so we’ve just kept it going on the weekends. (I took over weeknights about 2 months ago.) But this Saturday she had plans. So I decided to not call the backup sitters and invite the neighbours over for dinner Chez Fancy. It all went fine right until they left around midnight. The closing of the front door woke one of the girls. There was no consoling her. I didn’t want her waking her sister and I’d had just enough wine to make me feel all lovey and kind. So upstairs she came, violating every single rule about sleep training, to watch telly with her Mum. Of course I didn’t stop there, in my reckless road toward undoing a years’ worth of Night Nannying. Oh no! I took her to bed with me! She had no interest in going back to her cot. So we lay down on the guest bed together. Around 2 am I put her back in her own space. Two hours later her sister awoke and she came to bed with me. The night went on like this until morning, when Nanny #3 arrived and I handed both children off and stumbled upstairs to my own room.

They say it takes about three days to make or break a habit when it comes to babies. Saturday night was the first. Last night Princess fell asleep on the couch and about 3 in the morning both girls were awake and crying, out of their cots and in my arms. So if I continue in this self-destructive manner, after tonight I will have successfully destroyed their sleep habits and we’ll be hiring Sleep Trainers to come in and fix it all again. H has been really happy with the slowing of the Night Nanny cash haemmorhage. But I’m sure he’ll be okay with hiring someone to repair the damage. See I bought a baby monitor and put the receiver in our room even though I’m downstairs with the girls. So that he can hear every single snort and cry and sob. From all three of us. I’m not dumb.

Recap: A Fancy Thanksgiving

It’s the morning after and the kitchen is almost back to normal (thank you Friday housekeeper), the children are out at the park (thank you Nanny #1), H is sitting on the sofa in his Y-pants (I’ve no one to thank for that, nor do I want to) and I’m having sweet potatoes for breakfast. At 10 am. I shipped the kids off after breakfast and crawled back into my bed. It was very, very necessary that I return to a horizontal position for at least an hour this morning.

What? No, I’m not hungover. I wish! Hanging over would mean that I sat around last night, boozing it up, chatting with friends and being silly. Instead, I’m more in a state of mental and physical exhaustion. Last night was not only about giving thanks, but about my personal ongoing learning. Last night’s lesson? Dinner parties with children.

Originally when I hatched this idea of inviting everyone over, midgets included, I planned to have Nanny #1 downstairs, movies playing, babies supervised and entertained, older kids with games and puzzles. Yeah. That didn’t happen. Instead, I had several older children dismantling my sofa and jumping on the furniture while Pixar films blared in the background. Two infants clung to my legs screaming as I tried to finish my 3-course meal I’d spent all day preparing. Somewhere in the chaos I realized that dinner wouldn’t be ready early enough to suit the younger generation and found myself whipping up a last-minute pasta dish with what I could find in the cupboard. (Note to self: other people’s children don’t like whole-wheat pasta. Or biscotti. Buy white, processed food next year. At least no one complained about the “black dots” in the organic whole vanilla ice cream or they would have been wearing it.)

There were no baths for the girls. I do believe they got clean diapers at some point. I made several half-hearted attempts to put them down. Eventually they just disappeared, carted off to their cots by their father as he discovered them in various states of droopiness amid the masses. At about this point, I managed to drink as much champagne as I could find, which included any glasses that didn’t belong to me but were within reach. Sorry, girls, but you know where the full bottles are and how to open them.

Finally dinner was served. The appropriate amount of praise and adulation came my way. I actually got a few bites into my mouth when not running for salt/butter/serving spoon/corkscrew. As the clock approached midnight, the masses began to disperse, leftovers in hand, thanks and well wishes passed around. H and I plopped ourselves onto the sofa, watched an episode of Modern Family and then I crawled off to bed. (Thank you babies, for sleeping until 7:30. Mommy loves you.)

All in all it was a wonderful holiday. We’ve so much to be thankful for this year. But what did I learn? First off, when I host a dinner party, there will be someone to help with the girls, unless there are no other children present. I’m sorry, Nanny #1. The next time you promise to stay late, then you stay. You don’t announce the day before that you’ve decided to go to a concert with friends. Lesson #2: 3 square meters per child. The next time we have 7 children in our living room, we’ll be living in a bigger house with a playroom. Lesson #3: White pasta. Children don’t care about their glycemic index.

Christmas? Bring it on. 

A Fancy Thanksgiving

Happy Turkey Day to my fellow Americans! However, it is quite likely that the only people reading this (optimistically speaking, someone will be reading this) aren't American at all. The Americans are in the kitchen, slaving away over a turkey that will likely be dry (not mine though!), cranberry sauce that no one will eat (again, except for mine) and a pumpkin pie that will top the day's calories right over the 4000 mark. But just in case you are feeling pilgrimish today, I wanted to put down in writing my thanks this year.

Today I was straightening the downstairs (because there hasn't been a housekeeper here since Tuesday and she doesn't come back until tomorrow! The shame!) and lined up two little pairs of size 2 shoes, gold in color with little tiny bows. They are standing under two pink winter coats with little ears, size 12-18 months.

I went upstairs and straightened up my room since there is likely to be at least one person at our dinner party tonight who wants a tour of the house. (If I don't offer, they'll probably sneak around my Fancy house anyway between courses.) I stacked up all the incredibly dorky chess strategy books that my husband keeps in the bathroom and next to his bed. And noticed that he hung up his towel and picked up his clothes today. I asked him to do his part today before going to the office and he clearly took notice. That may not seem like much to you, but to me nothing says I love you like picking up after yourself.

And now I am sitting in my living room, looking out at my beautiful terrace and all the dishes I've placed on the garden table to keep cold until I can get them into the oven or on the table. And I'm reading emails from my family, who are all together back home and whom I miss very much.

And now I've got to put this computer down and get myself looking at least a little bit Fancy because a group of dear friends, both old and new will be joining us this evening. H bought some fine red wine in magnums, so it will either be a drunken brawl in my living room or just a lot of fun and laughter.

And for all this, I am so very, very thankful.

A Fancy Education

The Fancies have to enroll their Fancy children in school. This is a process that I find ridiculous. They are infants. How do I know if they will do well in single-sex school or not? They’ll be in the same year but should they be in the same class or separated? And do I really want them going to school with other Fancy people? Or, even worse, Very Fancy People? But H has convinced me that we must play the game to give our kids “options and opportunities.” So I’ve been running around town with my open chequebook, putting them on waiting lists and admissions queues and hoping that somehow dumb luck will get us into some decent school that we all love.

Many of these institutions won’t allow a parent to visit until a child has been accepted, unless it is Open Day. I suppose this is to keep hundreds of eager Mums from crowding the school hallways, staring into classrooms and dreaming about their own child one day joining the elite. Then again, there are schools that welcome visits from prospective families in groups. It’s probably an opportunity to watch the mothers interact and attempt to out perform each other. Because, after all, isn’t that much of what this school acceptance game is about? Making sure the parents are successful people who will bring the right amount of sophistication (and cash) to Parent’s Night?

I had my first school visit today and I was nervous. Princess and TC didn’t really understand that their entire future hinged on what kind of performance their mother would bring. I took extra time dressing, trying to find the right balance of classy and casual. I read and reread the prospectus while in the taxi, making sure I had a list of intelligent and insightful questions ready. I got there early, but waited until just 2 minutes before my appointment to ring the bell, lest I appear over eager. Then it was showtime.

And? Did I bring the right combination of funny and smart, warm yet reserved, eager but not too? Was it clear to them that I’m both Fancy enough to afford the tuition and invested enough in my children’s future to know that the right nursery school will make all the difference in 20 years’ time?

Um. I don’t know. I got nervous. And then I got chatty. And before I knew it, the ladies in the office were taking notes on how to cook a perfect Thanksgiving turkey. (Because I have had a lot of practice, taken a lot of risks, and now believe that I am in possession of the secret to good, no, great turkey.)

So there you go. My girls’ futures are riding on roasted fowl. If a group of English families have an unexpectedly fantastic meal this holiday season, then I suppose we’ll be shopping for uniforms in two years. But if something goes terribly wrong, if the breast is dry or the skin doesn’t crisp, then we’d probably just get you some Tesco uniforms now, girls, because that is clearly where you’ll be headed without the benefit of ballet lessons and French class when you’re 3. Mom promises to work on her act.  

Coming Home

I used to think that going home (as in America, the land of giant portions, radical religious movements and Cool Whip) took a minimum of 11 hours, by the time you add the trip to Heathrow, security, flight time, passport control and luggage collection. Okay, maybe 9 if you go through First Class check in and Fast Track security. But 20 minutes? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t done it yesterday. How did I manage such a feat? No, not private jet. Taxi. To Westfield Mall.

H decided yesterday that he wanted to do a “family outing.” Right there I was suspicious. He loves his family, but loves lying down even more. If he’s not at the office, he’s usually somewhere in the house, taking up space, creating litter and not moving much. But surfing the internet led to an interesting discovery: somewhere in town there is a Lego store and an Apple store, within 100 yards of each other! This, he had to see. So seconds later, I had the kids in the pram and a taxi at the door.

20 minutes later, we were in an elevator. And seconds later the lift doors opened. If you had asked me right then and there where I was, I would have said, “Minneapolis.” My jaw had dropped. Miles of indoor shopping, everything I could want. Food Courts. Tiffany’s. Hugo Boss. Boots! No rain soaked days fighting my way down Oxford Street. No pushing past tourists ogling the lights on Regent Street and blocking the sidewalk. This was a mall. American style. Proper, clean, bright, warm, noisy, and wonderful, complete with large toilet stalls. I couldn’t have been any more at home.

Even the people could have been from the Midwest: make-up a little too thick, hair a little severe, uneducated accents dancing in my ears. Okay, maybe the overhead announcements had a touch of private school to them. And perhaps we had lunch at Eat and not Annie’s Pretzels, but this is as close as I’m going to get living on this side of the pond. The Westfield touch is amazing, right down to the idiot maintenance crew they hired. “Excuse me, but where is Waitrose?” H asked. “Whatcha mean?” replied the average-looking but clearly uncomprehending kid with the cleaning trolley. Ah, home sweet home. 

I'm Clearly Not in Charge

Sometimes I feel like I’ve lost control of my own home. Between the chaos of two little girls, a husband who thinks dining room furniture’s sole purpose is for hanging garments, two different housekeepers and a parade of nannies and babysitters, I sometimes think I’ve lost my mind. Like when I opened the cupboard where my vacuums live and found a bag of oranges. They didn’t belong to me. I couldn’t imagine why they’d be there. But sometimes the best thing is simply to close the door and walk away. (They were the property of my regular nanny, who was trying to keep them with her purse, which she put with the vacuums to keep safe. Okay, sure. Perfectly clear.)

Anyway, there is sort of this perpetual scavenger hunt going on in our home. Attempting to guess where a “helpful” soul put something I need can be frustrating at best. I really try and remember that they mean well but seriously. Leave things where they are. If you find porn and a rubber dress in my underwear drawer, just leave it. Don’t fold the rubber in plastic and set the shine spray on top. That embarrasses both of us. Just leave it where you find it.

Today I needed duct tape. The single most useful invention ever, right up there with tampons and lemon zesters. I keep my duct tape in my underwear drawer. (Yes, right on top of the rubber dress. Hush it.) Because that is where it belongs. Sometimes my breasts need a flexible adhesive to lift them into an appropriate position for a dress that doesn’t allow for a proper bra. Duct tape does the trick. So that is where the roll lives.  But today I needed to insulate my watering system (another story for another day involving a dead £750 plant) and I needed my tape. And it wasn’t in my drawer.

What ensued was a tortured hunt through my home, complete with four-letter words held just under y breath. Why can't people just leave well enough alone? I finally found it, 20 minutes later. In the basket with the screwdrivers and hammers. And packing tape. Honestly. Who would think to stick it there?

Yes, I’m real and I’m Fancy

I’m a member of the British Mummy Bloggers! I feel completely validated. I’m a joiner. Always wanted to be in the cool group in high school but always sat just on the edge. I was on the Science Olympiad team, not the Homecoming Court. Sigh. Now that I’m a Fancy adult with degrees and titles and accomplishments to my name, I’m less bothered by what others think of me but it’s still nice to be invited into “The Club.”

Joining this group wasn’t so easy, however. I registered for membership and then waited. And waited. And then I got a phone call. I have only one friend who knows that I’m behind this blog and if she blows my cover, I blow hers, so I’m not worried about that. But she is a Super Blogger in the world of blogging and “in the know” with the blogging community. She called this week in hysterics. BMB wanted to know if she knew me and if I was a real person. Apparently there are a lot of people who think blogging is akin to creative writing and just make stuff up. But I can assure you that I am 1) very real, 2) very Fancy, and 3) could NEVER make this stuff up.

Example?

Went to a wine tasting recently in a rather upscale restaurant in central London. Between tasting and eating we were ushered out into the reception area for champagne and nibblies.

As I’m standing there, one hand clutching a lobster canapé, the other a glass of bubbles, I look around the room and realize I’m standing next to a giant (we’re talking 5 foot tall) gold gorilla skull. And if that weren’t frightening enough, he had a full mouth of rhinestone encrusted teeth. Who would create something like that? The bigger question may be who would buy it? And the even bigger question is, “Why was I the only person staring at this monstrosity with horror?” Well I know the answer to that: all the other Fancy people at the event were too busy being Fancy to notice a 5-foot gold gorilla with a grill. (Gold Gorilla with a Grill. I like that. I'm gonna start a band.)

So yes there really is a restaurant with a giant shiny simian noggin in its bar. And yes, I really do have to search my home for my own things because other people pick up after me. Yes, I take photos of my children in the First Class lounges at airports. And yes, my nannies hang out together and probably talk about me.

And no, you CANNOT make this stuff up. Because no one would believe it. 

Keeping Fancy Real

The release of Rachel and Paul Chandler (from their horrible, dumb, idiotic Somali pirate captors. Seriously. What do you people think you are going to accomplish? World domination? Give me a break.) is a miracle, to say the least. And as I watched the news playing out at the gym today I thought about what their lives will be like from here on out. I highly doubt that they will ever take anything for granted ever again.
It's a lesson we all need reminding of: that "things" are fleeting and what is really important in life is family, love, friends, relationships, kindness towards others and all that other Sunday School stuff. H and I didn't grown up with oodles of money and we talk constantly about how to teach our girls to have good values when they are surrounded by such privilege. I'm deathly afraid I'll have a child who refuses to go on a date because the restaurant isn't Fancy or he drives a used car. (Although if that keeps them virgins, I'll take it.)
That said, it's probably just as important that we focus on our own perspectives and the girls' will follow. I actively work to keep my feet firmly planted in reality. It's not easy. Here's an actual conversation at our dinner table a few weeks back:

Guest: My wife and I are on the waiting list for a stuffed peacock. It costs about $50,000. We've always wanted a stuffed peacock.

Me: Oh that's really lovely. We'd love to come see your peacock one day. How very interesting.

Fast forward 12 hours.

Me: H! Holy Christ. Tell me we're never going to own a stuffed peacock, talk about owning a stuffed peacock or hang out with people who collect stuffed peacocks. What the F*&#? How much money do they have?

Do you see what I mean?

Love letters to my nannies

I have been reading Mummy's Little Monkey blog and find her random Dear So and So letters pretty funny. Funny enough that they've been playing in my head and I started writing my own little letters. Fancy Style. I bring you: Love letters to my nannies.

Dear Nanny #1 (The Weekdays)

            Thank you so much for your dedication and enthusiasm. I know we don’t live in a terribly swanky neighbourhood and it’s hard to find other nannies to hang out with. I’m sure that one day that will change. But for now, thank you for taking to heart my suggestion that you find activities with other children in our neighbourhood so that my children can socialize. But honestly, breastfeeding class is probably not the best choice. You can skip that one next week. But good try!

Dear Nanny #2 (The Nights)

            Thank you for being so normal and intelligent. That is a rare thing when it comes to hired help, especially when it comes to baby nurses and night nannies. Not having any kind of personal life can make a person behave oddly, so thanks. And thank you for standing quietly in the doorframe that night, saying nothing while I attempted to sleep train my screaming children. And thank you even more for still saying nothing when I said I couldn’t take this shit any more, needed some booze and left them in your care. Thank you.

Dear Nanny #3 (The Weekends)

            Thank you for folding my shirts into tiny little squares and color organizing my closet. And I’m so glad that there is someone in the world who honestly believes it is beautiful to watch my children throw cotton balls at each other for an hour and then want to spend another hour telling me about this beautiful event. I’m not that person, but I’m glad my girls have someone in their lives who is. You are wonderfully caring and kind. And pretty soon I’ll have you knowing the difference between my clothes and my husbands. I'm not remotely offended. I know you'll get it. Hang in there.

How Fancies Go To Work

I am off on a business trip today! Yes, still clinging to those last little bits of life I see in my career, despite its agonal respirations and gray pallor. Normal people would leave their children in the care of their spouse, or possibly their mother when they travel for work (or pleasure, for that matter). Not Fancy People. No, Fancy People don’t have husbands who say, “Sure, Hon! I’d love to watch the kids while you pursue outside interests!” Ha. That would be funny. H announced that he was off to some banking town on The Continent just as I was packing. That’s not very helpful, is it? Fortunately, Fancy Wives have back-up plans. Or, actually, if I think about it, the girls’ father is the back-up plan. Plan A doesn’t take him into account at all.

So here’s how I plan for a 3-day trip out of town: Nanny A is here from 8 to 6 during the day. Nanny B arrives at 6pm to do baths and bedtime and sleeps downstairs until Nanny A returns in the morning. Babysitter 1 is covering the next night because Nanny B has school in the morning. (At least I have educated nannies!) Nanny A returns Friday, Nanny B that night and Nanny C comes in on Saturday to take over. Babysitter 2 is on call in case of disaster. Fancy Me comes home Saturday night. A list of phone numbers is on the fridge (paediatrician, neighbour, plumber—important people).

No, I know it’s not perfect. There is no one who loves and cares for your children like your spouse or your family. But my family is in the US. H’s live across the Channel. If I want to continue to cling to the bits and pieces of my career that I still have, this is how I do it. At least I know H will be home the rest of the week and weekend. His best friend is showing up Thursday and the two of them will probably sit upstairs gorging on steaks, drinking fine wines and gossiping like a couple of old women. Men are all the same, Fancy or not.

Meet the Fancies

I suppose I should introduce my family, shouldn’t I? After all, they are the reason I get up in the morning and face my fabulous, fancy life. And it starts with “H,” which stands for “Husband.” Or “Heart Attack,” because that’s where he’s headed unless he starts sleeping more, eating better, and working less. Oh and stop being a “gym sponsor” and actually use your membership, Big Boy. H is a wonderful man and the most loving father you’ll ever meet, but he’s also a driven workaholic if there ever was one. It’s all well and good to say, “Oh, well he should just work less and not be so fixated on money and then he’d be happier/healthier/home more.” But the reality is that H loves his work. And his work is an “all or nothing” kind of deal. It is what it is. And it’s 26 hours a day, 8 days a week, 382 days a year. It’s not about money or power. Although that does help to soften the blow when you miss your daughter’s first birthday or have to call your wife and tell her to put dinner in the fridge. Again.

Then there is The Princess. Oh, my. Don’t put a pea under this girl’s mattress. The Princess is our eldest daughter and is the most social, charming and adorable child there is. At Gymboree she’s not sitting in any circle, no thank you. She’s in the middle of that parachute, waving to the other mothers and their kids, as if to say, “Hello! Welcome to my Gymboree, have a good time!” And she cries when Gymbo sings “Bye bye,” because she’s a sensitive soul.

And then there’s Tough Cookie. TC is a few months younger than the Princess and is determined not to be left behind. So she crawled at 6 months and was cruising at 7. But TC doesn’t yet appreciate that her body hasn’t caught up with her mind and as a result is constantly falling into things. A couple weeks back she pulled my French Laundry cookbook off the shelf and landed on her face, giving her a fantastic purple cheek. Followed  the next day by a slamming into the baby gate, resulting in a lovely blue line down her face. But TC can take it. And she loves her sister, even when the Princess is slapping her in the head with a toy. TC thinks that is very funny.

So that’s my family. The Fancies.  

How Fancy People Acquire Children

When you are wealthy, people assume you have no problems. Or that if you have problems, they are the kind of problems that others envy. Like "it's costing me so much to fuel my private jet that I can't afford my own pilot" problems. Well, actually, if that is your problem, then I also think you have no problems. (Seriously. Get some perspective.) 

However, let me assure you that Fancy People have problems too. And not just the kind of problems that aren't really problems, such as how do I get my nannies to vacuum the pram every evening? (Although, yes that is one of my current issues.) But real, painful, heart-breaking problems. Like an inhospitable uterus.

My husband and I began immediately trying to get pregnant after our wedding. Well, not immediately. We honeymooned in the South Pacific and ate so much ceviche the first day that we both had explosive diarrhea for a month. So right after that. But anyway, I digress. 

Fast forward to the infertility game. No explanation. My embryos are Grade A. My uterine lining in gorgeous, or so I’m told. But babies don’t like it in there. I tried not to take it personally. And I took my pain and anger and threw money at it.

And what was the end result? Two gorgeous girls, born within a few months of each other. That's how Fancy People do it. They purchase kids. I wouldn’t change our experience for anything (because then my girls wouldn’t be my girls) but believe me, it didn’t tickle. Money just meant that my only obstacle to parenthood was determination. Eye on the prize, baby. 

Tales from a Rich Asshole

How many nannies make you a rich asshole? At my peak, I believe I had four of them, plus a housekeeper. I think that qualifies me, don't you? Who am I? I guess I'm still trying to figure that out. I know I'm definitely not an asshole, although you might think I am once you count my nannies. I'm still struggling to "manage my help appropriately," according to my therapist. I've got the rich part down. It's "asshole" that I'm finding difficult. Although I'm pretty sure I never want to be an asshole, all I know is what I am today. As of right now I AM:

• an educated professional with more years of higher education than my husband
• an overachiever (never met anyone who did more rounds of IVF unsuccessfully than I, no sirree!)
• a woman who made the difficult choice to put her own career partly on the back burner to become an oh-so-glamorous "Corporate Wife." 
• Mother to two beautiful little girls, born within 4 months of each other. Because I'm an aspiring Rich Asshole and could afford to slap infertility in the face with my chequebook
• married to another aspiring Rich Asshole. Actually, he's the reason we're both becoming Rich Assholes.
• living in London, although I call New York home. But that could make me anyone.
• Not the biggest Rich Asshole I know. At least I have that. 

I'm also not "anonymous" in my real life, with a public persona that would be in jeopardy if I went public with the tales I plan to share here. This blog is meant to be a window on my life, where I can (hopefully!) maintain some perspective on what it's like to suddenly find yourself living in a foreign country, with a household of "staff," a husband who works 26 hours a day, 372 days a year, two children who are the most glorious creatures on the planet but still sometimes seriously irritate me, and the knowledge that even your best friends and closest family can't really relate to my "problems." Which are usually the problems of people who don't have problems. Then again, if you cut me, I don't bleed cash. I'm still the same red-blooded upper middle-class girl I always was. Or at least I'm trying to stay that way.