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.