Fancy Argues Her Case

Turns out Fancy here sucks at being Fancy.

I know you thought I was going to say I suck at blogging. But we all know that. Nothing new there.

“Why don’t you start living like a Fancy lady and stop all this bullshit?” Fancy Therapist asked me during this week’s video chat.

“Um, because I’m inherently cheap?” I offered.

It was another conversation about Fancy Holidays Gone Wrong. In case you don’t remember last summer, click here. That was technically H being cheap, but you get the theme.

My most recent Fancy Foible?

We were in a rented condo somewhere on the West Coast last month for a family “event.”

Yes, I paid for the booze. The bride and groom said, “Thank you!” and Fancy here said, “Thank you!”. Lord knows what kind of swill those two would have had on tap. Anyhoo. Back to my story.

We were having such a lovely time that Fancy here proposed changing all our tickets and staying another day. H agreed. Nanny #1 thought it was a great idea. The Minis ran naked around the yard screeching. What could go wrong?

Turns out the condo was already rented for that day. A little fact that we only discovered the following morning when the office finally opened at 9:30.

“You must be out by 10,” the unapologetic tart nice lady at the desk squeaked.

What then ensued can only be described by the words “whirling dervish.” In under an hour the Fancies were entirely packed, the refrigerator emptied, the contents sorted and split between myself (wine) and various family members (American cheese), our car packed up, two hotel rooms secured, the luggage transported two blocks away, unloaded, suitcases divided between rooms and H and I were unpacked.

Of note, by “whirling dervish,” I mean me. Fancy.

Nanny #1 is excused: she was policing the naked Minis.

H spent the entire hour lying on his back, in his undies, playing on the iPad and occasionally looking at me and snorting.

The final straw may have been when I finally returned and smiled sweetly at my darling husband, offering to escort him to his new hotel room.

“Well, that was a half a day wasted,” he snorted, resuming his supine position atop the king size bed.

“I completely understand your irritation,” Fancy Therapist concluded. “But you keep doing this to yourself. Why aren’t you staying in the Four fucking Seasons where a concierge would pack you up and move you. Or better yet, you’d know on Sunday whether your condo was available?”

“Because H likes to stay in a rental home. He thinks it is cozier,” I lamented.

“And it is. So fine. But you know what, the Four Seasons has residence apartments too. So do most hotels. And if that fails, you call one of those high-end travel agents and get yourself a luxury villa and a fucking butler to stand in the corner and be at your beck and call. Because frankly, these tales of you schlepping luggage around are just ridiculous. And frankly, the way H works, he shouldn't have to schlep either. Which means it is up to you to decide.”

“He won’t like it,” I complained. “It’s too expensive.”

Fancy Therapist laughed. “Then you give him an option. Option 1 costs X. If the toilet fucking explodes, you lie on your ass and wait for the concierge to physically move you and your family to a new abode. And then there is Option 2 which costs X divided by 10. However, should you choose this option, then you will share in the housekeeping, the luggage schlepping, the children wrangling, the packing and unplugging the toilet. His choice.”

So that’s where we stand. Any takers on which way our next holiday goes?