Fancy Failures Part 1

H is a complete disaster. He’s exhausted. He needs a haircut. He needs to sleep in a bed and not in a fully reclined business class seat. And never mind his physical self. Lordy. When we met he’d recently shaved off some 20kg thanks to some nasty tart who had dumped him for a younger model. Oh well, her loss, my gain. Anyhoo. So he looked pretty good when we hooked up. But between his work schedule and the stress and the airplane food and his absolute love of pork belly, his weight has slowly crept up. And now it’s at a level where is seriously unhealthy. But that’s not the worst of it. No. The worst of it is what had Fancy here lying on the kitchen floor weeping while Nanny #1 and my Fancy PA just looked at each other.

It all started about 2 weeks ago. Fancy PA picked up a pair of H’s trousers and looked at me through the fabric. “What is this?” she cried in horror. “Why is he wearing clothes that are literally falling apart at the seams?”

“He refuses to go shopping or have anything custom made until he loses weight. He says he has a Plan. It’s been about 6 years now and I’m still waiting to see The Plan. But he says he has one,” I replied, with a sort of laughing sadness. “Maybe we could start just cleaning out the items that are really, really bad?” I asked, as she began muttering and cursing while running her fingers through his closet.

“Oh this has to go! And this! And this! No! No! No!” she cried, tossing shirts left and right. (I did mention that she’s also our new stylist, right?)

Then I turned to Fancy Therapist for help. “He dresses like a homeless bum. Seriously, his clothes are literally falling apart. His shirts are all frayed and nothing really fits and it’s sort of bumming me out. I mean, on one hand I feel really bad for him. Not looking good doesn’t help your self-esteem. And on the other, how can he walk into a meeting and convince anyone to give him a billion dollars if he looks like he just left a homeless shelter?”

“Buy him some clothes. Send your assistant out with a credit card and just buy it. Return what doesn’t fit. But don’t let him wiggle out of it,” he said, pulling the cap off his pen to make a note on H’s file. “He’s too successful to walk around looking this way. Don’t give him any choices. Just hang it in his closet. Drop some cash and fix it. Simple.”

A light bulb went off in my Fancy head. Mr. Porter! Of course! I could just order tons of clothes, let him try it all on and send back what doesn’t fit. Perfect. Fancy brilliance at work.

I hit their website and went to town. They seemed to have a really big selection in his size. I couldn’t believe it. And some £4000 later, and after a call to my credit card to confirm that it was indeed me, Fancy, ordering suits and shirts for her Fancy Husband, the packages were on their way.

I must interject here and mention that it seems a major job requirement for the Mr. Porter delivery boys men man-children is that they are hot. Unbelievably good looking. Better than those Abercrombie dorks. Seriously. Anyway, back to my story.

H came home that night and I could barely contain my excitement. I was so anxious for him to walk through the door, to see the beautiful bags with “For Mr. Fancy” written across them in Fancy script. I had visions in my head of him trying everything on and standing in front of the mirror, actually buttoning a suit jacket and seeing himself for the handsome and successful man that he is. I wanted to make him smile with pride and walk into his next meeting standing just a little bit taller. And maybe this little boost would also light a fire under his butt to get on with “The Plan” I’d been waiting on. Just maybe.

But Fancy fucked it up.

Did you know that men’s suit sizes in the UK are the US size PLUS 10? Did you?

He looked at the first suit with a mixture of surprise and interest. “That looks nice. Really nice. Okay, I’ll try. You win.”

Seconds later, as he contorted his body in a futile attempt to squeeze his other arm into a jacket that would go no higher than his elbows, his face fell. “These clothes, these shoppes, they just aren’t a part of my life. That’s just a fact,” he said, throwing himself back onto the sofa.

Fancy’s heart was broken. I tried to do something kind and good and in the process hurt someone’s feelings. That sucks. 

And it explains why the next morning I was sitting on my kitchen floor weeping with virtually no provocation. A quick Internet search revealed that H’s “UK size” is almost impossible to find “off the rack.” It’s not like he’s so fat that people are screaming, “back away from the bacon, dude!” but he’s very tall to begin with. There just isn’t much room to move on what is available in the shoppes.

Worse than that was seeing his face when he asked when Mr. Porter would be bringing the bigger sizes. What was I supposed to say? Mr. Porter suddenly went out of business? I felt wretched. 

No, money can’t solve everything. It can’t make him healthy and thin. But it can fix a lot. So I made a call to my personal shopper in NY. He’s shipping over some clothes that will fit from the great US of A. And Fancy PA called a few of her stylist friends and found some designers that cut up to his size. That will tide us over until I can get the Saville Row guys over here to custom tailor.

And yesterday H got up and went to the gym. Baby steps kids. I'll keep you posted. 

Fancy's CyberMummy Adventure

“Well, what else? I mean, you were gone for like 3 hours. You must have something to say.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is proof that while H pretends to think “blogging” is a slightly silly and (for us) a dangerous game, he’s really quite curious. And when I snuck off to CyberMummy for the last of the speakers and a few drinkies, he watched me go with a mix of fear and interest. Okay that is a lie. He was taking a nap. I helped Nanny #2 get the Minis bathed and fed and then walked out the door. But he knew where I was going. And he knew I was going as myself, no wig, no big glasses. And that was risky.

It was actually Fancy Therapist’s idea for me to start this blog: “Stop stop! I can’t take it! You have got to write this shit down! It’s unbelievable. People would eat this up. I mean, seriously, you can’t make crap like this up.”

So I brought it up to H. He said no. No. “Too risky. People find out who we are and it’s a disaster. And your career would be over. No one would listen to anything you have to say. Don’t do it.”

But as usual, Fancy here doesn’t listen. So I created a blog and posted for a week. Then I told H. And he was amused. (Whew!) I’d changed just enough, hidden just enough details to keep The Fancies behind a veil. And if people enjoyed it, and it made me happy, then it was okay.

Then he started getting a little too into it. “Psst, write this down! ‘root rot.’ That’s an awesome blog idea.”

What? Fortunately for you lot, I continue to ignore him.

Anyway, I took a chance this weekend and am so glad I did. No I didn’t wear a nametag and I certainly didn’t advertise my presence. I stalked the edges of the room, searching for the few ladies I was desperate to say hi to, to thank for all the support and love I’ve gotten in this comical world of virtual blogships.  No, I didn’t find everyone I was looking for, but I still call it a success.

I’m not sure what Notes thought at first as I walked up to her, grabbed her nametag and pulled her towards me, whispering, “Fancy a drink?” into her ear but the screech and hug was worth the odd approach.

Emma from Mummymummymum had tweeted me her outfit and I stood by the back door, scanning all the outfits, probably looking like a complete fashion snob but actually just waiting for a red shirt and flowery skirt and I found her! Mission accomplished!

Of course, Kate Takes 5 and I had great plans to meet up but I am apparently colour blind. “That shirt is not yellow. That is peach. Or gold. Or something else, but certainly not yellow,” she admonished me, when I finally tracked her down at the Netmums drinkies. Fine. Okay. Got it. Not yellow. But still, how awesome was it to finally talk to her? Not to mention MidThirtiesLife who is actually that pretty. Yes, she is. 

Then there are those that I really wanted to see but missed. Gemma tweeted me last night that she was also at All Bar One but couldn’t be bothered to see hi. Apparently the fact that Fancy here is a living, breathing person and not make-believe was too much for her. Seriously bummed here, Gemma.

And Lou. I looked everywhere for a lady with farm boots and a chicken. I asked everyone. I scoured that room, eyes peeled for a stray feather or a bit of mud. Nothing. Next time. I promise.

Afterwards I met H for a bit of dinner. And as he picked through my bag of swag he wanted to hear what happened.

“So you know what? I know you said that I can never actually be friends with any of these women, but I’m not sure you are right. It didn’t seem like a great conspiracy to bring down the Fancies. They were just really curious and happy to see me. And I was thrilled to see them. Yes, I know I have to be careful. But maybe, just maybe?”

He shrugged. "Maybe so." 

So thanks to those of you who made such an effort to find me! And to those I didn't get to see, we'll get there. Possibly next year I’ll actually get to hear all of the speakers? That would be nice. A girl can dream, can’t she?

The Fancy Help Take Charge

Fancy here is a control freak. Which means the Fancy Help has to literally wrench responsibility from my freakishly tight fists. And right now it’s very necessary. There is a lot going on at the Fancy home. So much so that they have actually started bossing me around.

“I’m coming back tomorrow. There is just too much here for you to do. I just need to make a few calls and I’ll see you in the morning,” said My Wife.

“Oh, goodness, good morning! No you get ready for work, I’ll get the Minis their breakfast. Go go!” said Nanny #1 when she walked in to find me blearily staring at the toaster, half drunk coffee in hand. “And I’m buying you one of those sleep training clocks. Don’t worry. It will work. I’ll teach the girls not to yell until the bunny’s ears pop up! And at the very least the sun will soon start rising a bit later.” (Fucking 4am sunrise)  “By the way, how was last night’s dinner party? Good?” she asked.

“No, you won’t go to the shoppe. I will go to the shoppe. It’s my job,” said my wife. “And by the way, I’ve blocked your calendar out next week for a few hours. We really need to go through your closet. I mean a real gutting.”

Fancy here is a big believer in treating her employees with kindness and respect. I’d like to think that is why they have taken charge in my hour of need. And not just because they actually pity me. Either way, I’ve been overcome with gratitude.

My emotions finally broke yesterday when TC handed me my iPhone and said, “Grandma?” in her sweetest little voice. “She wants to call her Grandma, that’s so sweet,” I wept. My Wife and Nanny #1 just looked at me as I pulled myself off the floor. “I have to go the gym now. Fancy Trainer booked me for a double session today.”

“Really?” snorted Nanny #1. “Do you really think that is a good idea? I was thinking maybe an hour in a flotation tank would be a better one.”

I could sense them rolling their eyes at each other. Seriously. I’m thinking that when your Nanny tells you to go to the spa, it might be a sign that you’ve got too much on your plate. When your new Wife is mouthing words to the Nanny behind your back it is possibly another clue that your control freakish ways are counterproductive. Then there is the self-destructive bit about hosting dinner parties when your children are waking up before the fucking roosters.

Whatever it all means, whatever their motivation, I can’t say how blessed I am to have found these ladies. It truly takes a village to raise a Fancy Family. I smell a half-year bonus coming on. We’ll take it out of the Fancy Therapy fund. Guy had the nerve to go on summer holiday. Can you believe it? And more importantly, even with Fancy Help like this, will I survive 3 weeks without him?

Fancy Gets Around

I forgot to tell you! I was In The Powder Room yesterday. Here's my link.

FrauFancy

Yes, I actually sat down in the shoppe and wept openly until I found myself sitting in a taxi with a full dinner service. And okay, so they got some items wrong and I wound up with a bright red coffee mug holder rather than a salt and pepper shaker but, hey.

Fancy Waterworks. They are highly effective.

Fancy Facts

I’ve been trying to come up with a list of 7 Fancy Facts you don’t know about me. But it’s not so easy. First Moomser awarded me the Versatile Blogger, which demands these 7 fascinating insights into my Fancy Self. Then Team O’Toole tagged me with The Lovely Blogger. And I’m seriously scratching my head. Because you guys already see well beyond the Fancy Front that most of my friends, family and colleagues. I already share practically everything with you. Like pouring urine on my kitchen floor, finding oranges in my hoover closet and practically all my Fancy Therapy sessions. But if I must dig deep…

Seven Fancy Things You Didn’t Know About Frau Fancy

• Fancy once flew across an ocean for sex. That sounds really dirty, but we were on a Clomid cycle and it had to be done. It wasn’t really very dirty. More perfunctory. Dinner after was really more of a highlight.
• I know you already know this, but for those who don’t: Fancy loves Donny Osmond. He’s just one of the most talented entertainers ever born. Like a white Michael Jackson who didn’t become crazy. And with a voice like an angel.
• Fancy here can recite—off the top of her head—the numbers to 3 credit cards, including expiration and security code. Comes in handy both when paying for something over the phone/on the Internet or when H steals my wallet (for what purpose I ask?!) and doesn’t put it back, leaving us in an awkward position when the bill comes.
• I hate Winnie the Pooh. Because when Fancy was 4, she was invited to go see Donny and Marie and her parents said no. As a consolation prize my father took me to the movies and guess what was playing? And ever since then I can’t help but think of Winnie as the big dumb yellow bear who robbed me of my first face-to-face with The Donster. Thank goodness I grew up and can now afford to fly wherever whenever to catch a concert.
• I’ve broken 4 bones in my lifetime (thus far anyway): foot, elbow, shoulder blade and rib. That is an odd combination of fractures and none of them occurred at the same time. The most exciting tale involved a staircase in South America. The most boring happened when I just lost my balance and fell over. Literally just fell down. So UnFancy.
• Domestic Diva recently posted an awesome story about her exploding bra. Fancy here once spotted the insert to her Wonderbra on the dance floor of a bar. Oops. But I’m guessing that everyone mistook my breast reshaping for just another Fancy dance move. Because I’m that good.
• Fancy here apparently has “two of the most challenging” eyebrows on Planet Earth. If I don’t forewarn the beautician it’s almost a guarantee that 5 minutes into the shaping I hear a soft breath and then a quiet “Oh.” So I have to be careful about who gets near my face with tweezers/wax/thread. Otherwise I look sort of sad yet surprised. It’s just my curse.

Thank you for your interest and for my lovely awards. And somehow this week a little milestone was reached. I'm now officially a blog with over a hundred followers. Wow. Wow. 

Wow.  

Fancy in Crisis

We have a new Fancy Family Crisis. It involves Nanny #2. It’s a serious problem.

Nanny #2 is obsessed with laundry. Seriously. The woman can’t stop washing. And that would be fine if she actually understood what the fuck she was doing.

When she first started with us, I was a bit surprised to find that she’d used an entire box of Persil in one weekend. Until I opened the little soap tray and realized she was filling the entire 3 pots with detergent. Yes, that would be about 1 ½ cups of laundry detergent per load. So we had a conversation.  About soap dosing.

Then I discovered a silk blouse on its way into a load and rescued it seconds before it was sucked away into soap and water hell. We had another conversation. About checking labels and not washing the fucking silk.

Three pairs of trousers were put through the dryer, making Fancy here look like she actually intends to wear leggings everyday. I don’t. So we had another conversation. And I bought her a giant drying rack. Which I then had to help her assemble. And which now sits out on our terrace, making our home look like a barrio flat and not the Fancy Home that it really is. Sigh.

Two dry clean only but very wet shirts found hanging on the drying rack. Another talking to.

Three brand spanking new white tshirts that are now tinged blue brings us to our next crisis: “Where are my jeans?! Why are they always in the wash?! I just got them stretched out to where I can button them! What’s a little dirt? No I do NOT need a bigger size. Stop her from washing my jeans!!! Wah!!!” That was H. And Nanny #2 and I had another chat: only wash what is in the laundry basket. And please separate the whites from the new denim. At least do that for me. (I did point out to him that if leaving his clothes on the floor is practically inviting someone to launder them but that argument is apparently lost on him.)

But this weekend hit a new low. I actually snapped at Nanny #2. I became visibly upset. What pushed me over the edge?

The Minis and I were up early on Saturday and I decided to get them dressed before Nanny #2 arrived. In brand new outfits my mother had just sent. A half hour later, Nanny #2 arrived. Fancy here went back to bed. And when I got up an hour later, TC and the Princess were wearing something entirely different.

“Where are their new outfits? “ I asked gently.

“Oh. In the laundry. I decided they needed long pants. It’s very cold,” she replied.

I swallowed and bit my lip for a moment. “I literally cut the tags off those outfits 90 minutes ago. They weren’t dirty,” I wailed. (And it’s not that cold. You’re just too damn skinny. Eat something. Vegans. Crikey.)

I marched upstairs to get control over myself. “I just bit Nanny #2’s head off, “ I confessed to H. “She’s no longer to wash a single item of clothing without checking with me first,” I declared.

“Well, I hope you didn’t really bite her head off. It’s only laundry,” he replied, snickering. “She’s really obsessed. She has a wash-obsession. We should get her some help. Go sort my dirty clothes,” he cackled.

She’s such a lovely and well-meaning soul. I felt a little bad for losing it over something so little in the giant scheme of things. But seriously. It’s laundry. I’m not asking her to do our taxes or bake a soufflé. Am I expecting too much?  Do we need to hire a laundry specialist too? Or is there hope? Can Nanny #2 be helped? I remain positive. I will persevere. She will, come hell or high water, learn to do my laundry. 

p.s. THANK YOU to Kate for introducing me to Disqus. It works. And Moomser, Team O'Toole, I'm working on those 7 Fancy Facts. Thank you for my award. But I've been busy. Rescuing fine fabrics. I'll get to it. x

Fancy Finds A Wife!

Fancy has a wife. Yes, it’s true. I waded through resumes and held interviews and it came down to two finalists. One is also a personal stylist and the other frankly scared the beejesus out of me. I think both would be find “household managers” but which do you think I chose? Yes, Fancy also now has a stylist. Sigh. Life is good.

Anyhoo, H seems to finally be on board with the whole thing. His initial reaction wasn’t so positive.

“I’m hiring a PA. Fancy Therapist said I need more help.”

“Bullshit. You just need to get organized. We’re not rich enough to have this many employees.”

But “bullshit” is his standard answer to most things I say: “The Internet is down.” “No one is hiding your keys from you.” “Do you think your shoes could be, oh I don’t know, in your closet?” “My feet need rubbing.”

“Bullshit.”

So I ignored him. And damn good thing I did! Fancy’s Wife is a whirling dervish or efficiency. My office looks like I might actually be able to get some work done. Our NannyTax is totally up to date. H’s shoes all have new soles. And for the first time in 3 years—hold onto your hats—we can shut our bathroom door when one of us is on the toilet! It’s unbelievable.

And to be quite honest, I’m not sure how I kept the house from just burning down the last couple years. Burning right to the ground. The woman is actually working, needing every hour, to get shit done. How did I manage the house, the help, take care of H, the Minis and find time to keep my career from going completely belly up? I have no idea. I realize I wasn’t doing all of as well I wanted to, but golly gee.

And H has now admitted defeat. It was the bathroom door that sealed the deal. The fact that bills are paid, files are sorted and there is always Diet Coke in the house is just icing on the cake. “It’s good. She’s good,” he finally admitted.

And in case anyone out there still doesn’t believe that Fancy was hanging by a thread, may I draw your attention to what happened last evening? What is worse than having a Fancy Husband who is never home to help with dinner/bath/bedtime? It’s one who calls at the worst possible moment. Every single friggin time. Seriously, what does he think I'm doing at 7pm?

Ring ring. “Yeah? Hello?”

“Hi whatcha doin? Hey, can you tell me what dates would be good to have the Alsofancies over for dinner?”

“Um, well, the girls are kind of insane right now. And I just spilled some urine on the kitchen floor…TC! Princess! Nooooo! No splashing!”

The fact that my reply didn’t even phase him just really underscores how things have been around here, don’t you think? Thank God for FT. 

Fancy Destinations

I think Fancy here has some work to do. If anyone can tell me how, in Blogger, to allow myself to comment on your comments, that would be lovely. I could then hire someone to fix that right up for me. But until then:

Moomser! 10 days is what we’re taking. Then we’re coming home and H and I are off for another vacation without children. Yes. Or at least Fancy here is taking another vacation without children. Whether H makes the trip, well that remains to be seen. The problem with going away for any longer is that it upsets my carefully balanced Fancy Life. The Minis have to miss art class, music class, Gymboree, group picnics and whatever other awesome shit Nanny #1 has planned. H would have a Heart Attack if I travelled with more than one Nanny, so guess who is working weekend and nights when we’re off on holiday? Yes, that is right. Fancy is. And what about my Fancy Trainer or my Fancy Colourist? They’d be neglected. And then there is FT! Can’t rely on hotel Internet when it comes to Fancy Therapy Videochats!

So, you see, my life is just too Fancy for a 3 week holiday. Too many people depend on me for their incomes. It’s a big responsibility. Can’t just dash off to the beach for a month…

But if I could! Well, now, Kate Takes 5 is asking us where in the world we’d like to go.  So for Fancy’s turn at this week’s Listography, I bring you Five Fancy Fantasy Travels. Yes, I can afford to go anywhere, which means this list is really, really a Fancy Fantasy.

• Antarctica. I would love to go all the way to the South Pole. But it will never happen. Our friends went and apparently you have to get on a boat and spend several days wrapped in waterproof Eskimo gear, pitching to and fro as the ship captain—to whom you have entrusted your life—attempts to avoid icebergs and whales and giant storms. H saw their holiday photos and just snorted. No. That’s definitely not in my future.

• The Bronx. I lived in New York for years. But we were the sort of people who left Manhattan by jet plane. (Which technically means I had to get to Queens.) Once a year we were obligated to visit friends in Brooklyn. I visited Harlem once by accident when I got on the wrong subway. But The Bronx, never got there. I’d just like to see it once. 

• Camping. Anywhere. Like with a tent. Bathing in a creek. Drinking beer and cooking over an open flame. Just for a couple days. It would bring back so many childhood memories. I brought it up once and H replied, “Are you shitting me? Sleep in the dirt? If I leave my shoes outside the tent will some wild animal make sure they are spit shined for me by morning? No way. No.”

• African Safari. Maybe someday. But for now I’m to be content with DisneyWorld’s Animal Kingdom where, apparently, monkeys won’t “sneak into our tent and steal our wallets.”

• And finally, Sesame Street. I want to meet fabulous celebrities while my children are entertained by Elmo. For real. Not just in my living room every evening, like we do now. I mean, I feel so close to Beyonce and Ricky and Norah now, having them in my home twice a day, every day, day in and day out…

So there you have it. Places you probably won’t be seeing Frau Fancy. Although a girl can always dream….

Fancy Beliefs

Belief: the psychological state in which an individual holds a proposition or premise to be true.

“I really think he was upset. I mean, I think he feels left out,” I recently said to Fancy Therapist.

The Fancies have a problem. Back before The Minis, we could book all our travel last minute because we had the freedom and flexibility to do so. And that was good, because H’s schedule changes moment to moment and “holidays” are subject to last minute cancellations. Of course, this means that Fancy here has been forced to exercise some true last minute feats of organization and packing:

“Oh? Really? We are going to South America this week? Oh? Tomorrow? Okay. No problem.” 

But with toddlers, that doesn’t so much work anymore. If they are staying behind, the Nanny rota with back up needs to be cemented. If they come along, well, you know what kind of planning that requires. Especially if you are bringing a Nanny.

So FT and I had decided that rather than get upset, I just make our plans. If H can join us, that’s fabulous. If he can’t, or can only make part of the trip, well then that’s just one of the stinky parts of his job.

We’re going away this summer for a week. A little resort time, a little Grandma and Grandpa time. I bought our plane tickets a few weeks ago. And by “our” I mean me, the Minis and Nanny #1. I assumed H would just figure out some meeting that would get him close to us on either end and we could join up somewhere on the Continent.

And then last week he saw our itinerary.

“Wait! Where’s my ticket? Why isn’t my name on here? Didn’t you book me on your flight?”

“Well, frankly, no. I just assumed you’d meet us there. Or you could take our flight if it worked out. If there were still seats. I mean, we’ve done this before. And how many times have you cancelled on me? So Nanny #1 and I are going together and you can make your plans last minute. As you always do,” I said, confused as to why I was stating the obvious.

“But, but, wait, but I want a ticket too. I want to be on your flight. I mean, it’s a cheap enough ticket. I can always not use it. But I at least want the option…” he whined, looking at me with big sad eyes.

Fancy Therapist and I talked it over. “He is left out. That’s the nature of his job. He’s sold his soul to the devil and the price is that he’s not available—or even included-- to his family when he wants to be. It’s really quite sad,” FT said, twisting his pen in deep thought. “But maybe the solution is to buy him the ticket. Just always book him on your flights. You know he’ll cancel. He knows he’ll cancel. I know he’ll cancel. But it will give him the illusion of family intimacy. He won’t feel so left out. This could be really good for you guys,” he concluded.

So I bought him the ticket. Do I think he’ll use it? No. But it’s what we now do. The “illusion of intimacy” is what we’re calling it. Just believe...

Fancy Decisions

Well this isn’t a very difficult Listography this week, is it? The best decisions Fancy has made in her life? Gosh, where do I begin? Choosing the 3 instead of the 4 inch black Manolos? Wearing my retainers religiously well into adulthood? Ignoring the purple mascara trend? Those were all positive moments in Fancy’s life. My teeth, for instance, are perfect. I think I’m going to have more trouble when Kate finally gets around to what we all know is coming: regrets. But until then, cakewalk!

• Buying Having my kids. H and I often say that adoption was one of the best things we did. Better than we ever could ever imagine. And then there is the one who has our genes. We love her to pieces too, cellulite, buckteeth and all. They were both worth every penny and then some.

• Choosing to leave my fulltime career to branch out sideways, upways and down. I realize that is cryptic but let’s just say that there aren’t too many of my classmates who have taken this road less travelled. But Fancy did. It was scary but now look who’s laughing. (I am. Fancy is laughing. Just to be clear.)

• Accepting that Fancy needs help. Help with the kids. Hell, help getting the kids. Help with the house. Help with the yard, the lightbulbs, the gutters. Don’t laugh. Fancy here has been known to wield a power tool and attempt a little DIY. She’s tried to deep clean the upholstery while cooking a 3-course dinner and feeding and bathing the Minis. It doesn’t work. It can be hard to let go. Fancy is a control freak. But it had to be done.  

• Which brings us to Fancy Therapist. Yes, it’s asking for help but it’s something more than that. It’s listening. Deciding to ignore your emotionally driven insanity and listen to reason, even criticism, can be hard. But I’d paid him so much I decided to give it a try and, well, you all know how it’s working out. First class plane tickets? A personal assistant? A happy home? Well done, Fancy!

• And that leads to the last point on our list. Fancy here had to put it all together: fighting infertility, becoming a parent, finding a creative way to keep my career afloat, accepting that I can’t do it alone and that I can be, on occasion, an irrational looney. And H has stood by me through it all, meaning he must have been a pretty okay decision too. Even if it means that FT has his work more than cut out for him, helping me manage tie throwing tantrums and the like. I hope FT names his yacht for us. Since we certainly paid for it. Anyhoo.

Alrighty. Now to the kitchen. More decisions. Fillet or lobster for dinner? Probably doesn’t really matter. Fancy’s clearly on a roll. 

Fancy Gets Awarded

I love praise. I really don’t think I get enough. Why doesn’t H ever walk in the door and say, “Wow! Honey! The house looks fabulous. You must really be doing a good job managing the help! And a gourmet meal to boot! Holy heck!”

Or the kids. Where’s my “Oh Mommy! Thank you thank you for our gorgeous highchairs. They are so cool. And for our own seats on the airplane! Even though we technically could sit on your lap, cramming M&M’s into your pockets and kicking your drink! We feel like such big girls!”

My trainer? "It's so amazing you find time for yourself amidst the madness!" My pedicurist? "Thank goodness you have the good sense to get in here a least twice a month!" My credit card company? "Frau Fancy! We just love you! Direct debit and everything!" 

No. It's just a parade of "you gained a kilo?!" "would you like me to use the super callus remover?" and "sorry, you can't have a balance increase. Because technically it's not your income." (That last one really gets my goat if you know what I mean.)

There is the note I got from Nanny #2 this weekend, thanking me for being such a nice boss. “Don’t listen to TC. You’re not terrible!” (As if I believe my toddler’s reaction when I confiscated the remotes.) Then again, I do pay her.

So you can imagine my delight when Lou bestowed upon me The Liebster award. Seriously? I’m one of her favorite blogs with less than a 100 followers? Wow. I love popping over to Lou’s The Archers at the Larches and seeing how people with outdoor space and poultry live. And to find out that she loves me too?  Overwhelming. I’m a little choked up.

Anyway, in return, I must send similar loves and hugs to 3 of my favorite “smallish followings” blogs. I assume they have fewer than 100 followers not because they suck, because they clearly don’t or Fancy here wouldn’t be a fan. It’s because they are all newish and haven’t hit the big time yet. And if Fancy here can help, well here I go.

I Thought Those Kids Were Gonna Make It: This blog cracks me up. Short, snippy and sarcastic, these posts keep me in touch with current public romances gone bust. Are you famous, notorious or just borderline well-known? If your romance hits the rocks I know where I’ll hear about it first. Where she gets this stuff, I don’t know. But I love it. Fancy just loves a train wreck.

Cinnamon and Truffle: Fancy likes food. All the Fancies like food. So thank you to these ladies. Sisters separated by an ocean, they spend their time making Fancy drool. What really kills me is that Truffle seems to have more of a finger on the pulse of London’s food scene than I do and that hurts a little. But it gives me something to work for. And her restaurant reviews send me running for the phone. Like when she reviewed Pollen Street Social and I immediately made a reservation. The fact that I got confused and reserved us a table across the street at 5 Pollen Street, well that is just more evidence that Fancy does, indeed, need a PA.

People Don’t Eat Enough Fudge: Sarah Mac describes herself as “scatty with a pinch of madness,” and yes, that is true. Sometimes I’m laughing, other times I’m downright confused, but even that makes me giggle. In the midst of a hilarious tale of her husband getting stuck in a cupboard on their honeymoon and her tendency break/snap/sprain body parts comes the fact that her plumber is a transvestite. That alone is worth a visit.

And with that, the love has been shared. Oh, yes, I will go into more detail about Fancy’s Restaurant Confusion. It’s a goodie. But another day kids. 

Fancy’s Search for a Spouse

Ha. Seems a lot of you were pretty excited about Fancy Therapist’s demands that Fancy here find herself some extra help. Time for an update, no? But first, let me answer some of your questions.

No a full time job is not a requirement for hiring a PA. Simply look incredibly busy, be incredibly frazzled, make sure your husband’s shirts aren’t returned from the dry cleaner’s on time and that you have enough disposable income in place.

And to answer Kate’s question, yes, FT does have children. But to give you an idea of how he thinks parenting works let me replay a conversation where he was chiding me for mismanaging my staff (yet again):

“What the fuck? Are you telling me that you’re not only buying special meals for your picky eater baby nurse but she sits in the back room watching soap operas and taking naps while you pick shit out of your kid’s armpits? “

“Well, I want to spend time with the baby. And I’d rather she not be around. Because frankly she drives me insane. And I want her to be comfortable. I mean, she does get up with the baby all night long and she’s no spring chicken.”

“Seriously. You did not hire her to make her life easier. She takes care of the baby. Minimum 6 months. Weekends too. You go in there and jiggle the kid around or whatever whenever you feel like it. If she starts talking to you, just walk away. One day she’ll hand you back a fully formed person who sleeps all night and you can get a day Nanny. But dirty diapers are not your job. You can do your mothering with a clean baby. And you take the naps.”

Does that clarify his position? So back to hiring Fancy some more help.

Lou actually applied for the position but I had to decline. I’m afraid her home life and chickens would suffer from her 3-hour commute. Not to mention I really didn’t want to feel pressured to buy her children’s tomato plants. So I called an agency.

“Good morning! Fancy Domestic Staff Agency. How can I help?”

“Hi. I need a wife.”

“Excuse me?”

“Actually. My husband needs a 2^nd wife. (Which would actually make her our 4th wife if you count the Nannies.) We collectively need a wife who will do all that wife crap that is keeping me from getting any work done. Like groceries and bills and getting his shoes resoled. Do you know what I mean?”

“Ah. I believe you mean a PA. Yes, ha ha. Let me just get some details….okay, part time, in your home, computer skills, all that’s fine. Do you need a driver?”

“A driver? No we’re not that Fancy. Not yet anyway. I just need a PA. Not a truckload of domestic staff. We have a car service…oh you mean does the PA need to have a drivers license? Ha ha. Got it. No, that’s fine. I mean, it’s not a terribly glamorous position but I really could use the help.”

Turns out they know exactly what I mean. And the interviews have begun…