So Fancy here is finally gearing up for her real summer holiday. As in sans-Minis. I love my little darlings to death but I think a couple of flights on Cheap Ass Air with toddlers followed by a week without a Nanny earns one a weekend away, don't you?
However, I have a little problem. See Fancy PA did my packing for my last little trip to the place where the hairy-lipped live. And when I opened my suitcase, well I've never felt so attended to.
But she's only here a couple of days a week and the night before this trip isn't one of them. So I've done what any self-respecting Fancy gal would do and simply offered her an extra day of work this week. To pack our suitcases. Which will be a very welcome change from the usual last-minute, wrinkled clothing, forgot my jewelry, "oh for God's sake, we'll just get hotel laundry to deal with that" morning of departure that I am oh so used to.
"Fancy PA is coming in extra this week to pack for us. Anything specific you want me to tell her?"
"What? Why is she coming in to pack for us. Isn't that a tad excessive? I don't think you should be getting dependent on other people for things like this," said the man who demanded we hire someone to change our lightbulbs.
"Darling, can you tell me when was the last time you were home for dinner?" I asked, the Fancy wife who spends most evenings drinking wine and watching iTunes while her spouse flies around the world/stays in the office until 3 am/attends working dinners.
He looked at me for a moment. "I have no fucking idea," he finally admitted.
"Okay, so then if I need to have my underwear wrapped in little sheets of tissue paper to make me feel loved, if finding a polaroid of my jewelry grouped with various items of clothing makes me feel truly cared for, then I think you need to accept that this is just something I have to do."
Okay so I pay for my lovin', which can get you arrested in some circumstances, but in this one just makes me feel good. And that's important, don't you think?
