Fancy Finds Her Egg

And hello again from the airport lounge. Why, oh why, did the idiots designing JFK and Newark not put the lounges on the other side of security? Just saying.

Anyhoo, it’s been a very productive trip. Partly thanks to the 2.5 hours of marital Fancy therapy H endured (more to come on that very necessary exercise) and partly thanks to American Express.

Amex, I love you. Xoxo FF.

Oh, back to my story. Sorry.

So as we were getting ready to leave last week, the Minis already out the door for some music/glue/glitter/motorized vehicle adventure du jour, Fancy PA upstairs, matching my jewelry to my outfits, H and I went to the luggage closet.

“I’ll take this,” he declared, pulling down his Little Tumi.

“Get me that and that,” I said, pointing to Big Tumi and Bigger Tumi.

Blank stare.

Directed at me.

“We’re going for 3 days,” he said in a calm and measured voice.

“Yes, and I’m shopping,” I replied, as matter-of-factly as I could.

There was a moment of silence.

“Look, we can put your suitcase inside one of mine on the way there and then we don’t look so stupid,” was my very gracious offer. “But I’ve got a list. And it involves Mr. Choo. Jimmy, if you will. And I’m bringing home that Sesame Street Playhouse, come hell or high water. Santa’s coming. Don’t even try to stand in my way on this one. I had one when I was 3 and so will my children. Not my fault the Brits don’t respect the Grouch the way I do.”

Every so slightly I widened my stance and crossed my arms, anticipating an argument.

Surprisingly he just nodded and waved me toward the stairs.

I wasn’t really sure where my husband had gone. Had aliens sucked out his brain? But so long as he was agreeing, why stop there?

“Oh, and tomorrow, Fancy Therapist has blocked out the entire morning for us. Since he never gets to see you and all.”

“Okay,” he replied, to my utter and total shock.

“And I spent a thousand on our tickets to Book of Mormon. Saturday afternoon,” I kept going, in a state of complete disbelief. Who was this man I was standing next to?

“Alright. But can we go to Sushi Gari while we are there?” he asked, in the most agreeable tone I’ve heard in years.

Holy shit. The man I married was still in there. Fatter. Richer. But still a good egg.

It’s nice to be loved. Lounge behaviour and all. 

Fancy Lounges

We have a problem with H. He’s beginning to take things for granted. I guess it is to be expected, the way he lives. When you say “Jump” and a room full of people say, “How high? Is this high enough? Should we run out and get a trampoline?”  well, I guess you get used to it pretty quickly.

The worrying thing is that it will rub off on the Minis. In fact, it’s already happened. Last month when we were visiting my family, my mother dryly noted that TC screams, “Taxi!” and lifts her arm every time she sees a car.

Yes, it’s a different sort of life we lead.

But this morning I decided he’s really gone off his rocker. We’re off for a 3-day trip without the girls (who are in the very capable hands of their “people”) and the airport limo took forever to get to the airport. Seriously, who drives down Shaftsbury Avenue?

Anyhoo, by the time we got to the airport, I was nearly chomping at the bit. As we stood there, waiting for the agent to get our boarding passes, Fancy here was moving left and right, rocking on her heels, pale and sweaty with anxiety.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” H asked. “We’ve got plenty of time. We’re not going to miss the flight.”

“Nooooo,” I whined. “I want to get to the lounge. I’m barely going to have any time in the lounge!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You have to get over this lounge thing. It’s stupid,” he chastised.

Really? Really? He wants me to “get over” my excitement about spending an hour or two in the lounge, drinking champagne at a time normally reserved for Cheerios, stuffing my pockets full of the complimentary candy and biscuits, nibbling from a plate of three different kinds of smoked salmon, shoving free copies of the Daily Mail and Heat into my bag?

I think we can all agree that if he thinks about it, the last thing he would ever want is to see me the day the lounge is no longer a fun treat. I’m sure that day is coming, but for now I would think he’d be grateful that his wife is not yet that Fancy.

Grateful. And probably embarrassed to be seen with me. My behaviour in airport lounges is sort of ridiculous. But can you blame me? 

Fancy Flies Again!

My name is Fancy. And I’m a recovering Absentee Blogger.

Thank you for your kind words. It’s only now that I realize many of you have actually been sitting by your computer, brows furrowed, palms sweating, wondering if, could it be possible, had Frau Fancy actually been done in by a set of yellow curtains?

No, no I’ll fill you all in on what’s going on there—oh hello neighbours, nice to see you, do you like my bra choice today?-- but first let me tell you about the birthday party we raced off to, a mere 21 hours after returning from a transatlantic flight with toddlers. Because that’s they way my Fancy self lives. Actually, the party can come later. It’s the transportation that I’m focused on. In other words, has H learned his lesson from our summer of Cheap Ass Air?

He called me from work. “I booked your tickets for OldFriend’s birthday party. You arrive at noon and can go right to the hotel.”

“I want to fly up front,” I answered. “Upgrade me. If you didn’t already.” I told him. “You have 1 million miles. Don’t be an ass.”

“One million and five, if we are to be precise,” he countered. “But don’t’ be a princess. It’s only an hour flight.”

 “Um, excuse me, 2 hours if you count boarding and deplaning.” Fancy here corrected. “And is there any chance that you’ll be on either my outbound or return flight?” I inquired. Since we all know where he will be sitting. And the secret to a happy Fancy marriage is to never, ever have a couple separated by a curtain on an airplane.

Silence. Dial tone.

You can teach an old dog, it turns out.

And that is why on our return home I was driven across the tarmac to the plane in a limo. “Just try to keep a straight face and tell me how much this sucks for you,” I said, as he struggled in vain to avoid eye contact. I wiped the crumbs from his crème brulee crust off his shirt. “I mean I realize it’s not always fun to spend night after night on a plane. But being escorted through passport control and directly to your jet way, well that is a little cool, ain’t it?”

The man could not look me in the eye.    

“And just so you know, these little perks, like waiting in the First Class lounge, drinking fine wines and nibbling on sushi, well, they go a long, long way to forgiving your little indiscretions.”

“What?! What indiscretions,” he cried, smile almost wiped from his smug face.

“Like the fact that you’ve invited your parents to stay all next week and yet you are leaving for a Very Important Meeting tomorrow and won’t be home before they leave. Spending 50,000 miles to make your wife feel attended to, well that goes a long way, dude.”

It’s a major improvement, don’t you agree?

Fancy Time Management

Hi. My name is Frau Fancy. And it has been 44 days since my last blog entry.

I suck.

I was busy okay? And then I kept thinking, oh tomorrow I'll go see what's happening out there in Bloggy Land. But then tomorrow would come and it was 4pm before I saw a computer and Fancy here thought, oh jeez, tomorrow for sure.

And 43 days went by.

What could possibly have taken so long? Well, I'll tell you.

Firstly, I decided to take the Minis for 3 weeks to visit family in the States. What? No, don’t be ridiculous. We did not fly Cheap Ass Anything. In fact, the best line from that trip was something like:

“Fancy, may I call you Fancy? The Minis seem to be snoring quietly in Economy Plus while your Nanny is watching a movie. Can I get you another glass of champagne?”

Yes, I was that mother on this trip. But c’mon. I had 2 free upgrades. They were only for Economy Plus. And I need to keep my tier points. Anyhoo.

Once we got home, I let Nanny #1 do the time change thing while I caught up with old friends. Once the kids were sorted, I flew her back to London for 10 days because frankly, I didn’t need any of that Grandma-Nanny drama. Don’t you agree?

Of course that meant I had no Nanny. And we all know how much better hired help is than the volunteer kind. Hence my silence.

Finally, we enjoyed a quiet trip back, pram safely tucked into the First Class closet, Fancy here watching a movie while the Minis slept the whole way home. Next to Nanny #1. Because we flew her back to the States to pick us up.

Yes, Fancy here is nothing if not well-prepared.

Once we touched down, I let Nanny #1 stuff us into a taxi before heading home for a day of well-deserved rest. Babysitter #1 met us at the door, beside herself with excitement about seeing the girls. And then I spent the day unpacking. That’s a lie. I caught up on household bills and mail while Fancy PA unpacked me. And the repacked me. Because 21 hours later I was flying to the Continent. For a birthday party.

Hey, why not?

And so ends my month of “no time to blog.” 

I, Fancy, will try to manage my time better. Apologies. Perhaps I should hire a Fancy Blog Prodder?