tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63955363389105011162024-02-22T11:24:45.265+00:00I'm So FancyI'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.comBlogger144125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-88519937047516581202018-04-30T14:59:00.001+01:002018-04-30T14:59:15.163+01:00Fancy is back!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwW1vanofaRjQygh8vA0p3ByQXBjolNuOXQhwpioNk5j6EHd-r2PDlKbBspX3vlUr-GrZCkpSk_JXkbSO4AsUBjYIv09pBC0E8YNkg-_eh31m6jmKigPId_TJwdJsC0kfOhdXiSDeChb4/s1600/images.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="158" data-original-width="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwW1vanofaRjQygh8vA0p3ByQXBjolNuOXQhwpioNk5j6EHd-r2PDlKbBspX3vlUr-GrZCkpSk_JXkbSO4AsUBjYIv09pBC0E8YNkg-_eh31m6jmKigPId_TJwdJsC0kfOhdXiSDeChb4/s1600/images.png" /></a></div>
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“We recently had to fire the dog nanny.”</div>
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Those were the words that pulled me from my self-imposed
retirement. From here. From you. It all got a bit complicated, as you can
probably understand. I was writing about things that—while quite outlandish—were
in fact true stories about the people I love. A few individuals knew my true
identity. I feared a final reveal.</div>
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Plus I was tired. There are all these Minis—got 3 now!--and
Mr. Fancy to take care of. Not to mention running the HR department of my own
home. Plus work. Then trying to log on everyday and catch up with everyone
else’s blogs and find time to write my own. You get the idea. So apologies for
just taking off like that. I hope you can forgive me. But I just gotta come
back. There is too much material out here for me to work with.</div>
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So back to the sad tale of the dog nanny. We were invited to
a dinner at a Fancy Restaurant with a bunch of stars. The Michelin kind. In France. So Mr. Fancy
and I parked the Minis with their people and popped over to grab us some
supper. The organization that invited us to said dinner caters directly to
Fancy People. We thought it would be fun and maybe we would meet some nice
folks just like us.</div>
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Holy Sweet Jesus.</div>
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I was sandwiched between H (Mr. Fancy, you may remember. Also known as Husband) and an elderly
Englishman. Next to <i>him</i> sat his American-trans-European wife who looked exactly
like every other wealthy woman her age who has had “alterations” if you know
what I’m saying. Long blond hair and eyebrows that were just a little too
lifted for the skin on her bejeweled hands. Next to her was a company
representative. Then a couple we were introduced to during the champagne
reception. They are a sporty couple, competing together in horse and carriage
races. She drives and he counter-balances the carriage. Um. Okay. Then next to
them was a octogenarian in permanently tinted glasses and highly attended to
hair. And her husband, who just kept staring at people and occasionally lifting
his glass in a toast. Then another company representative and back to Mr.
Fancy. </div>
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They were not a lot like us.</div>
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Anyhoo, turns out the very nice gentleman (you can so
totally be very nice and also <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">completely
fucking out of touch</i>) told me that their dog nanny was an alcoholic.
Unfortunately, she got so drunk that Coco and Chanel (two of the pups) attacked
and ate Versace (another poor mutt). To top it all off, the dog nanny was not
only negligent in her doggy duties, but she got <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> drunk with the chef on Easter Eve that he could not even cook
Easter lunch. So they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both</i> had to be
fired. </div>
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Gosh, what a mess. </div>
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Anyway, that is the story that brings me back to you, dear
readers. And I’ll leave you with one final thought: that’s just one of the many
reasons why the Fancy Family doesn’t have any pets. </div>
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I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-3026448173820660292012-06-12T20:19:00.000+01:002012-06-12T20:19:10.615+01:00Fancy Argues Her Case<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiep8Aj9hHOR9pBe9zjtdOwTdQO4uxejbA4EjlJNgv9w-Dk0NTUqlfwFnWDKnfUuhPgGASDhSkFwuaCSEFOgPw2faxxQQx7e9r5FjLG95rNvYYMbsU0zG_EIxFbAvt50l1-AXynLfou7ns/s1600/681x454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiep8Aj9hHOR9pBe9zjtdOwTdQO4uxejbA4EjlJNgv9w-Dk0NTUqlfwFnWDKnfUuhPgGASDhSkFwuaCSEFOgPw2faxxQQx7e9r5FjLG95rNvYYMbsU0zG_EIxFbAvt50l1-AXynLfou7ns/s320/681x454.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Turns out
Fancy here sucks at being Fancy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I know you
thought I was going to say I suck at blogging. But we all know that. Nothing
new there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Um,
because I’m inherently cheap?” I offered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It was
another conversation about Fancy Holidays Gone Wrong. In case you don’t
remember last summer, <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.co.uk/2011/08/fancy-flies-home.html">click here</a>. That was technically H being cheap, but you
get the theme.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">My most
recent Fancy Foible?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We were in
a rented condo somewhere on the West Coast last month for a family “event.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Yes, I paid
for the booze. The bride and groom said, “Thank you!” and Fancy here said,
“Thank <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you!</i>”. Lord knows what kind of
swill those two would have had on tap. Anyhoo. Back to my story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We were
having such a lovely time that Fancy here proposed changing all our tickets and
staying another day. H agreed. Nanny </span>#1 thought it was a great idea. The
Minis ran naked around the yard screeching. What could go wrong?</div>
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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. </div>
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“You must be out by 10,” the <strike>unapologetic tart</strike> nice lady at
the desk squeaked. </div>
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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. </div>
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Of note, by “whirling dervish,” I mean me. Fancy. </div>
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Nanny #1 is excused: she was policing the naked Minis.</div>
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H spent the entire hour lying on his back, in his undies,
playing on the iPad and occasionally looking at me and snorting. </div>
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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.</div>
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“Well, that was a half a day wasted,” he snorted, resuming
his supine position atop the king size bed.</div>
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“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?”</div>
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“Because H likes to stay in a rental home. He thinks it is
cozier,” I lamented.</div>
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“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.”</div>
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“He won’t like it,” I complained. “It’s too expensive.”</div>
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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.”</div>
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So that’s where we stand. Any takers on which way our next
holiday goes?</div>
<!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-82615011371882729662012-05-04T17:52:00.000+01:002012-05-04T17:52:32.704+01:00Fancy Prevails!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWfUBQ0yeEg7sQsWVVsjWZ9PHAvC0a9n5nVJ9EKFAdbPl74yJfFyj9hAGGXACuV9DLPM5ZsInVxgdvnFptEjjSrc_hUOcB-H5hOHea3e1-NhvQTuPCARGXa4ZHEG4DEr0JzYhIvT4GxVs/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWfUBQ0yeEg7sQsWVVsjWZ9PHAvC0a9n5nVJ9EKFAdbPl74yJfFyj9hAGGXACuV9DLPM5ZsInVxgdvnFptEjjSrc_hUOcB-H5hOHea3e1-NhvQTuPCARGXa4ZHEG4DEr0JzYhIvT4GxVs/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Good news!
Nanny </span>#2 v3 is installed and appears to be functioning smoothly. Which
means I now have time to focus on other things. Like booze. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<strike><br /></strike></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On my “to do”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>list was a wine fridge. H wanted something that would make access to our
collection easier (instead of searching our house for a case stashed under a
bed or behind the water heater). I liked the idea of somehow justifying my love
of the drink by making it look like I am a true oenophile. Like I’m actually
going to refuse wine it’s not the exact right temperature. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Snort. It’s wine, ain’t it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got a mouth, don’t I?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyhoo, to satisfy both our needs, I pinned H down on
exactly what make and model would suit the poor darling. The result: 6
temperature zones, 173 bottle capacity. Can you guess which feature appealed to
which Fancy? Oh, I digress. Back to my story. Because there is one here, I
promise.</div>
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Said wine fridge was scheduled to be delivered between 8 and
4 while Fancy PA was here at the house. At 4:30 there was still nothing. Fancy
PA made a call and the company claimed it was sitting outside the Fancy Home
for 20 minutes ringing the bell at 9am. Well that is odd, given that Nanny #1,
Fancy PA and Frau Fancy herself were all sitting inside. Don’t you think?</div>
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Wait, it gets better.</div>
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While trying to arrange redelivery (and making sure they
knew we meant London, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">England</i>) it
came to our attention that this particular delivery company does not allow its
employees to actually carry a wine fridge up one flight of stairs. They use a
special “stair-climbing machine.” Which currently sits at their other location.
Somewhere in Scotland. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I waved Fancy PA off and picked up the phone myself at this
point. (Prior to this moment I’d just been working on my computer and listening
to Fancy PA’s voice getting more and more shrill.) There was some back and
forth. They offered to bring the machine down to London. In a month. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some additional words were exchanged. Mostly to the tune of,
“do you really think someone who spends a few thousand quid on a special device
to support her social alcoholism can really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wait</i>
that long?” We finally came to an agreement. They would deliver my Liebherr the
following morning. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And leave it on my doorstep. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this is where being Fancy comes in handy. Next call was
to a moving company. “I don’t care whether you charge me for 15 minutes or for
15 hours, but I need this thing in my kitchen by 5pm tomorrow. Capice?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They cap iced. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now Fancy here has a beautiful shiny new stainless steel
fridge for her magnums of Veuve and half bottles of Margot. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, wait. I almost forgot the best part of the story. When
the moving company showed up, it was a young woman and a little boy about half
my size and a third of my age. They looked at the box, at each other and then
at me. I nodded. They shrugged, picked it up and carried it effortlessly up the
stairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that is why the UK <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needs</i>
Eastern Europe. Let’s just remember that. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-65593999323412387102012-04-18T16:01:00.000+01:002012-04-18T16:01:45.451+01:00Fancy's Pain<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNJqy9RXzpLPjYUOQPn2pO7dY3aP7ESGcV3_5lTI4lhoDwhls6un3WHWWq1a6jK6qqkSfsE5iZpcuOBXuHBJES484Fj-yykY0yLMIj98W58W2nOq-lVU_bsjgZ5KF23dvHkggKwfkFSc/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNJqy9RXzpLPjYUOQPn2pO7dY3aP7ESGcV3_5lTI4lhoDwhls6un3WHWWq1a6jK6qqkSfsE5iZpcuOBXuHBJES484Fj-yykY0yLMIj98W58W2nOq-lVU_bsjgZ5KF23dvHkggKwfkFSc/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Fancy here has just about had it with the Nanny </span><span lang="EN-US">#2 replacement search. Yes sirree, I have. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">What? Oh you thought we’d found one? Ha. That would have been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">too</i> easy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’ll spare you the tragic details about why she didn’t score this awesome weekend post folding my super Fancy underwear and taking my darling Minis to the park. As desperate as I am, you know it had to be too big to overlook. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Anyhoo, the search has been both painful and enlightening. Turns out Fancy here has needs she didn’t know she had. Yes, it appears that I’m pickier than I’d thought. And with that in mind, I’ve complied a list of necessary Nanny traits that may be helpful to you, should you decide—through necessity or by choice—to bring a new Nanny home to your family. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">May I present: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fancy’s Potential Nanny Requirements<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"></div><ul><li><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN-US">No artists. One glance at the craft materials in the Minis’ closet and she’s practically foaming at the mouth. Fancy here suddenly has a vision of paint and sand dripping from the walls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Fancy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hates</i> sand.</span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">No vegans. I already knew this one but it’s worth repeating. The Fancy Family eats meat. She might open the fridge and see and entire pig one day. She needs to be A-okay with that.</span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">No “attachment parenting types.” Seriously? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seriously?</i> Her livelihood actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">depends</i> on me being exactly the opposite of that. So counselling me on her beliefs about co-sleeping and “gentle discipline?” Not really what I’m looking for.</span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">No models. This is one job where beauty does you no favours. H is too lazy. But God forbid one of his friends spotted her. It just wouldn’t be safe.</span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And finally and possibly most importantly. When dressing for an interview, she must pay close attention to certain rules. Let me be clear. The bow on her head <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must</i> be smaller than the one on my daughter’s.</span></li>
</ul><!--[if !supportLists]--><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It’s a very important thing, you know, choosing a new Nanny. It’s not just about a clean CRB and a love of children. You’re asking someone to come into your home and become a major part of your and your children’s lives. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">And for something this big, there’s just no excuse for a giant pink bow. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Don't you agree?</div><!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-70525167288052125032012-03-24T15:43:00.000+00:002012-03-24T15:43:06.022+00:00Fancy Innocence Lost<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6ewC2Rl_suB5OcCvarXIJkB6-f9V5nJ0pqQbiA383rTwhd4mC2RA8DjrB9jHdvHDsyMUSeN5XU3DGBqpSIrDu6QaxiUSPGCYxL1F_OIY5pMZDrcPuyM2qD8ZCCcX27J2L3V_-IRHdKI/s1600/Snow-White.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6ewC2Rl_suB5OcCvarXIJkB6-f9V5nJ0pqQbiA383rTwhd4mC2RA8DjrB9jHdvHDsyMUSeN5XU3DGBqpSIrDu6QaxiUSPGCYxL1F_OIY5pMZDrcPuyM2qD8ZCCcX27J2L3V_-IRHdKI/s320/Snow-White.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s sunny in London! And it’s sunny in the Fancy Home! We may have found a new weekend Nanny! Celebrate good times!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, it’s a fabulous development. And right after meeting her I went for a long jog</div><div class="MsoNormal">along the Thames, soaking up the sunshine and doing my best not to run smack into throngs of tourists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I realized that I had completely forgotten to keep you, my fabulous Fancy Readers, up to date on our Nanny #2 v3.0 progress. I’m so sorry!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What? Oh, that’s right. Nanny #2, who you all considered Nanny #2 v1.0 was actually a replacement model. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> original weekend Nanny #2 was gone long before Frau Fancy found her voice. It’s the reason we were so willing to overlook so much of Nanny #2 v2.0’s, um, shall we say, lapses in judgment?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, H and I were once Fancy Innocents. We used to believe that most Nannies were good people who would know what to do with small children and blend seamlessly into a busy Fancy home. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were wrong. Very wrong. We've since learned this lesson well. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shortly after the original Nanny #2 came to work for us, H and I were eating lunch and listening to her talk to the Minis downstairs. Actually “talk” is a very strong word for the sounds she was making. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">H looked at me, fork stopped in mid-air. “Is she human or do we actually have Snow Fucking White down there? I feel like I’m living in a Disney Cartoon. Early Walt, not this Pixar stuff. Nemo would be fine. But that shit, that’s fucking annoying.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But you can’t fire someone because they squeak, can you? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, it was the fact that when she wasn’t physically in charge of the Minis, she lay on the floor and watched TV. Apparently she’d never heard of a dishwasher. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyhoo, that’s why we were happy to find Nanny #2 v2.0. She filled her days with a myriad of tasks, some of them childcare related, others caring for our home. And it was in near silence that she continually ruined my silk shirts. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But now she’s gone. And the search for v3.0 has been slow. Our one requirement (other than being a normal human with a brain) is that she speaks some variation of the German language. Swiss. Austrian. It doesn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> matter. So long as the Minis’ language skills are reinforced and they continue to chatter away in two languages. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But fucking hell, I was almost to the point of considering Afrikaans a viable option. Fancy PA and I were working every agency in London and coming up with little to show for it. Apparently the German’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love</i> their weekends. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then again, there had to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">somebody</i> out there who would be a good match for us, right? I remained hopeful and it appears that we may have found her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Keep your fingers crossed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-13551064604861951242012-03-12T09:34:00.000+00:002012-03-12T09:34:56.104+00:00Fancy Shoots<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwAuKyZOeG6jcnxxf-L73_eiZJwWmhC84-PFIM-BtLK9DpKyaMVE9IlgP57CMiwNsw-W4gvBdG0eA6QyemXsoe-cwbVdr0mCzeWyyHVNWvYOwlv8okQtluoXurbEQa5khcJf_hGtHFIJI/s1600/16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwAuKyZOeG6jcnxxf-L73_eiZJwWmhC84-PFIM-BtLK9DpKyaMVE9IlgP57CMiwNsw-W4gvBdG0eA6QyemXsoe-cwbVdr0mCzeWyyHVNWvYOwlv8okQtluoXurbEQa5khcJf_hGtHFIJI/s1600/16.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">There is frankly nothing more annoying than a bad massage. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Okay, that’s a lie. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Having to fire your weekend Nanny and then spend Saturday and Sunday cleaning and doing laundry and parenting your own children.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> That</i> is annoying. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And because Nanny </span>#2’s departure has left me irritable, I decided to take Babysitter #1 and Nanny #1 up on their offer: go to dinner with H. On the Continent. Where he was working. That way I could take full advantage of the childcare that remains firmly in place, spend time with my husband, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> still get back to do Nanny #2’s—ahem, I mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>—job. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Which is how I found myself last week being slapped around with a bamboo shoot. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know. Even now I’m not quite sure how this story evolved. Well, that’s a lie. I told Fancy PA to book me a massage at the hotel. After all, H was going to be in meetings all day and without the Minis pulling on my luxury hotel robe it wouldn’t take me long to get through the more urgent of my emails. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, I’ve had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">great</i> massages in my life. And I’ve had shitty ones. And I have had quite a few that fall somewhere in between. The best? That little Japanese woman looked tiny but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">man</i> was she powerful. The time out on the beach in Mexico is memorable. And then there was the bizarre cage in Tahiti where the therapist hung from a bar and used her feet to dig into my back. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The bad ones, well, there’s no reason to make me relive those, is there? I mean lying on a bed, clenching my teeth, feeling my blood pressure rise in response to some well-meaning vegan’s desire to “sweep away the bad energy” rather than doing what I want her to, which is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rub the fuck out my aching body</i>. No, don’t make me go there. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But this one, well this was just bizarre. Neither good nor bad, but odd. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It started with the therapist insisting that I put on the paper underwear. Now I understand many women don’t feel comfortable lying naked on a massage table but I’m not one of them. So I tried to explain that I wouldn’t need them. But she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was adamant</i>. And as my legs were each thrown over a bamboo stick and twirled in big circles around the room, the reason for her insistence grew sparkling clear. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then came the “massage” part of the process. This is when the therapist climbed on the bed and began using the dried trees to literally roll me out like a pie crust. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tap, tap, short roll, short roll, loooonnnnnggggg roll, turn. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Right. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So here I am. Back at home. The weekend was both pleasant and painful. <i>Lots</i> of quality time with my kids. But no one to unpack my suitcase. No one to clean up the dinner dishes. No one to give me a lie in on Sunday mornings. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And only the memory of a woman beating me with a stick to sustain me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Clearly the solution is another massage. Possibly in the South Pacific or East Asia. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Either that or hiring a new Nanny. One or the other. And soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-60400965878651333462012-03-05T13:19:00.000+00:002012-03-05T13:19:47.968+00:00Fancy Fires Away<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO84tBWDjEN4GM-CwNQyZhmUCCZ4_gwDcWNqTRpWuzaibAuFLC8bmEB4Kk3BCNaIgnzM-OIGvH3Z8GcexJxHp8M9Lqqu2tluwwiOO6cEJ_T6H_Q3B5ThISS9CmgIuLd_L1-XylP1VZWJM/s1600/donald-trump-youre-fired.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO84tBWDjEN4GM-CwNQyZhmUCCZ4_gwDcWNqTRpWuzaibAuFLC8bmEB4Kk3BCNaIgnzM-OIGvH3Z8GcexJxHp8M9Lqqu2tluwwiOO6cEJ_T6H_Q3B5ThISS9CmgIuLd_L1-XylP1VZWJM/s320/donald-trump-youre-fired.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Firing a Nanny sucks. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Am I alone in this? Is there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone</i> out there who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">enjoys</i> firing their domestic help? I mean, never mind the quivering lips and the watery eyes (all mine by the way), it’s the thought of <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/02/fancy-interviews.html">searching for a replacement </a>that really brings me to my knees.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">It was Nanny #2. I was okay with the Veganism, the gospel television on a Saturday evening, the fact that she allowed them to first dump dry pasta all over my floor and play with it a la Montessori style. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Actually, I even overlooked that she then reportedly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cooked the fucking pasta and fed it to my children. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">So all in all, I think I’m a pretty tolerant employer. Which means things had really gotten bad. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We had a chat a couple of weeks ago about the fact that I seemed to be picking up after her, instead of the other way around. And that she was spending the entire day folding the same basket of laundry while watching reality TV. While I was upstairs trying to wrangle the Minis into their clothes and scrub oatmeal off my floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">It was a classic case of Fancy here not managing her help effectively. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">So we had a talk. I really tried to be supportive and gentle. But apparently Nanny #2 can’t accept any feedback that is not glowing. And retaliated by not showing up this weekend because she needed to “gather her thoughts.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">And therein lay the final straw.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Don’t fuck with the Fancy’s Saturday night. Not without a very good reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Family emergency? Okay. The flu? It happens. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Thinking? No. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">There was surprisingly little argument. I feel good about that. What I don’t feel good about is explaining to the Minis that she’s not coming back. Or about the stack of resumes I’m about to begin wading through. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">On the other hand, maybe I’ll no longer be finding the Minis’ socks in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>drawer and my silk DVF wrap <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/06/fancy-in-crisis.html">dresses in the washing machine</a>. This could be a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good</i> thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-21397645604291078502012-02-22T17:15:00.000+00:002012-02-22T17:15:18.034+00:00Fancy Phone Lines<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDv2TKvBF0sj9ttHcXhY3DKB8140M2c4DNUEaSu96RP4jwb4C3zCcI2THkt-Roa80kLV0Rrd1B9NlMCG3s1ZmGDKEbuhyJujxWucySDY5LZ94RLueKPghb6rGdVeDuU7nzeJSU_D5pnM/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDv2TKvBF0sj9ttHcXhY3DKB8140M2c4DNUEaSu96RP4jwb4C3zCcI2THkt-Roa80kLV0Rrd1B9NlMCG3s1ZmGDKEbuhyJujxWucySDY5LZ94RLueKPghb6rGdVeDuU7nzeJSU_D5pnM/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
Hello from London! I've been back from what I know call, "The Most Civilized Place On Earth," for a week but I'm only now catching my breath. Whew. That was a whirlwind. The Fancies slept in 4-hour blocks, ate, drank, and slept some more. The beauty of our plan was that by never fully changing time zones, we hit the ground running back home.<br />
<br />
Which was good. Because the Minis apparently went around telling every single play group, music class, swim teacher and art instructor that Mommy had <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2012/02/fancy-mysteries.html">run off to Tokyo</a>. Without them.<br />
<br />
Thanks girls. You make me look <i>so </i>good.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, it was a fantastic trip. Except for the one email I received letting us know that some very old and dear friends are splitting up. Sort of like a "Dear John" for the 3rd parties. Ugh.<br />
<br />
Which meant H and I spent that evening discussing the frailty of marriage. In between mouthfuls of raw fish and gulps of sake. And right before dashing back to our Fancy hotel room to prove we still got it.<br />
<br />
Have you ever <i>seen </i>Japanese porn? It's <i>weird</i>. Even to Fancy folk. <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/12/fancys-bootstraps.html">Wearing $800 boots. </a><br />
<br />
Anyhoo. I digress. The point is, we both felt a deep gratitude that our Fancy marriage, while not perfect, is pretty okay. At least we both agree that divorce would be highly annoying. So we've every intention to stick it out. The two of us. And Fancy Therapist.<br />
<br />
Because even Fancy Couples have to <i>work</i> at marriage. It's a living, breathing creature that has to be nurtured and looked after.<br />
<br />
Which is a point I reminded British Telecom of this week. The ringing phone interrupted my work.<br />
<br />
"Hello, Frau Fancy? This is BT calling. Unsolicited, yes, but we just want to see if you are <i>happy</i> with your current phone carrier. We know you <i>used</i> to have a BT account and want to discuss The Fancies returning to our warm embrace."<br />
<br />
"Whoa, hold on there, stop right there," I interrupted. "Over my cold dead body will we go back to BT. Sorry to be blunt, but you people nearly ended my marriage. I mean seriously, our relationship devolved into mutual blame, screaming and general unhappiness. Until we got our own representative in the Chairman's office to sort you people and your disaster of a service out for us. So no, there is no way you will suck me back in. Save your breath." I said it as nicely as I could, but still. I needed to be firm.<br />
<br />
And do you know what? The man on the other end also <i>respects</i> the sanctity of marriage. He actually began to laugh.<br />
<br />
"Well, Frau, then I'm just going to stop. On behalf of BT, I'd like to apologize for any difficulties you may have had. And personally, I'm going to tell you that I want no part in destroying your home. After all, you sound like a very happy person now."<br />
<br />
"Well, yes, I am. My relationships with both my husband and my current phone provider are solid and I've no intention of jeopardizing either."<br />
<br />
And then, to my disbelief, the nice man on the other end wished me a good day and disconnected the line.<br />
<br />
Amazing. I wish everyone agreed that a strong marriage is nothing to fiddle around with. He's probably not going to last long at that company. Different philosophies and all.I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-46878665352044880572012-02-13T10:49:00.000+00:002012-02-13T10:49:44.414+00:00Fancy Mysteries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOA8B3Yx9MMdYZQJ5bhOtEZqi6WG0Zgf_ZvpAsURYxcK9smZYmOqK2hDI730antcweH9R7BG08ctkOCfIvdypBZBR5Df8bPlnQp-isdlNDnJLYgUe17EsLF09yRs7VIYffsqYOmpWJp3I/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOA8B3Yx9MMdYZQJ5bhOtEZqi6WG0Zgf_ZvpAsURYxcK9smZYmOqK2hDI730antcweH9R7BG08ctkOCfIvdypBZBR5Df8bPlnQp-isdlNDnJLYgUe17EsLF09yRs7VIYffsqYOmpWJp3I/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
Konichi wa!<br />
<br />
Guess where the Fancies are having a long weekend?<br />
<br />
I have to say, this has been an amazing trip. I wish we could stay longer than a few days but the Minis are back in London with their Nannies and grandparents. I always hesitate to leave the continent unless their is family somewhere nearby. Of course I still have 24-7 childcare in place, because Lord knows my Minis could kill an old person, but at least they are getting completely spoiled while their Fancy mother shovels raw fish and udon into her mouth.<br />
<br />
God Bless Nanny #1. She actually asked me as I was packing my bags whether there were any special care instructions for the grandparents. She's a good one, that Nanny.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, we almost didn't make the trip, which would have been a terrible shame. And it would have been all H's fault. Or someone's fault. Not mine. Actually, that's the problem. We don't know <i>who</i> almost made us miss our flight. What? Oh, let me explain.<br />
<br />
"Car's here in 5 minutes, dude," I screamed up the staircase. "Need my lounge time. Chop chop!"<br />
<br />
"Good, I need 6 minutes. Just need to find my bag of cables so I can work on the plane."<br />
<br />
Yes, you know what happens when a man tries to "find something," don't you?<br />
<br />
What ensued next was not pretty. I'll spare you the gritty details. Suffice it to say that within minutes, Fancy PA (who'd arrived early to help us pack) and myself were tearing the Fancy Home apart.<br />
<br />
"When did you last have them?" I asked, as calmly as I could.<br />
<br />
"On my trip last week. They were in my suitcase."<br />
<br />
"And who unpacked your suitcase?" I continued, trying to retrace the steps of the critical wiring. "Was it you?" I asked Fancy P, who shook her head vehemently.<br />
<br />
"Uh, I guess it was Nanny #2," was H's answer.<br />
<br />
Fancy PA called her immediately. She did not, I repeat, did <i>not</i> unpack a suitcase last week.<br />
<br />
Which means that we have no idea <i>who</i> unpacked Mr. Fancy after his last trip. All we know is that <i>someone</i> did.<br />
<br />
And this means that either we have so many people working in the Fancy Home that I've actually lost count, <i>or</i> one of us has lost our minds.<br />
<br />
Ah well, either way, we made the flight. They sell that shit at the airport you know.I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-67872215978284377262012-02-03T12:04:00.001+00:002012-02-03T16:05:03.969+00:00Fancy Demands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjld9VMozcgZ9nplzEWvbqjtmp64X0fCfDhUyH0L88ckNvqdhkS_JDtDm1fQEQ2ZXW3GY_GzP8Bn9ZThvO4KnWr9aOFTeBIolPpLdbiceLO5s9j9j-OaXkJRtSyjc44ZQPhFcVKt0Z4Ek/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjld9VMozcgZ9nplzEWvbqjtmp64X0fCfDhUyH0L88ckNvqdhkS_JDtDm1fQEQ2ZXW3GY_GzP8Bn9ZThvO4KnWr9aOFTeBIolPpLdbiceLO5s9j9j-OaXkJRtSyjc44ZQPhFcVKt0Z4Ek/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Greeting from the Fancy Sofa, where I’m sitting in my work uniform (First Class Fancy Airline Sweatshirt and old jeans), occasionally staring out my window (which <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/10/fancy-confusion.html">still doesn’t have blinds of any kind</a>—oh hello neighbours!), and trying to get some work done. The Minis are at playgroup. Or music. Or swimming. Anyway, they’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">somewhere </i>cool. And I’m trying to be productive. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even as my cleaning lady fluffs the pillows <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">around</i> me. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She’s a new one and I admire the way she’s fit right in, getting things done <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">despite</i> my presence. It’s always tricky, hiring someone to scrub your floors. She’s got to be trustworthy, industrious and know the difference between Cif Bathroom Cleaner and Cif Kitchen Cleaner. (One comes in a yellow bottle and one is white. Fancy here did not actually know this until recently when one of the Nannies asked why I use bathroom cleaner on my kitchen counters. Anyhoo.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, Fancy has a long list of requirements if you want to come scrub my toilets. However, this time we really lucked out. Because on this search for a new Hoover Master, I had one basic criteria: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ALIVE</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes. That was pretty much my whole list. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was desperate, you see. Remember back to the whole “<a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2012/01/happy-new-year.html">No Nanny, 4 senior citizens Holiday Adventure</a>?” Well, I only mentioned there was no housekeeper. I didn’t tell you the whole story. As in for the first week, we had the whole bunch of them at the Fancy Home. Where I was expected to cook and clean and entertain the masses.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Without a Nanny, which was bad enough. But wait, it was actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">worse than you could imagine.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">My cleaning lady was in the hospital in critical care. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Which was terrible, I mean terrible, on so very many levels. For her. For her family. For her children at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Christmas time</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And for me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh woe was me. I became intimately acquainted with the Cif bottles. Only I wasn’t sure where the mop was, which is why I went through the house everyday on my hands and knees pushing Flash Wipes around my hardwoods. (Is that okay? Did I do that right?)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyhoo, I then had to do what any Fancy lady would do in this circumstance. I had to fire my cleaning lady. Oh, don’t look at me like that. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">First</i> I had Fancy PA send enough food to fill their fridge for the holidays. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Then</i> I fired her. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I mean, seriously, what was I supposed to do? Give her a bucket big enough for an oxygen tank <i>and</i> window cleaner?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So that brings us to our new Fancy Cleaner. I really like her. So far she’s doing a great job. The kitchen is sparkling, she irons like a mad woman. Oh, and her kidneys seem to function just fine.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not asking too much, am I?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-73759774911344871232012-01-25T08:54:00.000+00:002012-01-25T08:54:22.970+00:00Insufficiently Fancy<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEeYVbYNPxLXR1fa9rhAa2_EX_MekymbkEmflcmzqdXsKmeMmV1ZTDK_sl6VqrTQrVooPobtD9sSBXJmN0a6W3JJIOBWEAR-4Grb_UYjveORZNK_3tpu3CIDnKXEx5ewD-1bQyCwyA8Q/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEeYVbYNPxLXR1fa9rhAa2_EX_MekymbkEmflcmzqdXsKmeMmV1ZTDK_sl6VqrTQrVooPobtD9sSBXJmN0a6W3JJIOBWEAR-4Grb_UYjveORZNK_3tpu3CIDnKXEx5ewD-1bQyCwyA8Q/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Turns out I suck as a blogger. Which I’m okay with. Because it also turns out I suck at being Fancy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Yes, I was made painfully aware of that fact this week. By a single email and a short video. That’s all it took.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Some dear friends of ours have twins who turned one this month. The video was of their birthday party. There was a DJ. And cakes with fountains of fire. They’d rented out a room somewhere and guests were shown lounging on sofas, nibbling from canapes, sipping champagne. The boys were dressed in suits, wearing little birthday hats, paraded around by their very proud parents. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Um, that’s not how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we</i> did it. I think there was a blueberry muffin involved for one of them. Oh and a bottle or three of wine. I just sort of figured any party was more about me than them, so I didn't make too much of a fuss. Oops. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And to make it even more clear, just in case I still wasn’t sure how Fancy Folk do kids’ birthdays, I got the email right after we spent the weekend celebrating TC’s 2<sup>nd</sup> birthday. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She got a homemade cake. Then we took her to the Rainforest Café, where the Princess wept bitterly every time the elephants moved and screamed when Cha Cha the Frog came to visit. TC thought it was great, even if she refused her dinner. Not that I could blame her. What the fuck is a chicken goujon anyway? Is that like a McNugget? Not that she knows what that is anyway. The kid had a veal and parmesan burger the night before. I can hardly blame her for refusing the children’s menu in a place with robotic monkeys. But I digress.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So there you have it. I’ve now seen 4 of the Minis’ birthdays come and go and nary a one featured a fountain of fire. In fact, this birthday I didn’t even buy anything. I mean, for God’s sake we just finished Christmas. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Of course, she still had gifts to open. Fancy PA, the Nannies and the Babysitters all showed up with little wrapped presents. Which made me feel all the crappier about my Fancy Mothering skills. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So there you have it. I am clearly not good at Fancy. At least when it comes to birthday parties. Then again, their only 2, so I’ve got some time to work on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s just a shame the Minis will be the ones to suffer until I get it right. </span></div><!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-9198261460418862902012-01-03T15:32:00.000+00:002012-01-03T15:32:19.354+00:00Happy New Year!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdGKoQ8ZjQZE096bieu_xWDOOpvOf1_5-iFx-ykF6KtkSP7Yt9NrWIp0YVlAQVTH3U4n90cf40AitoutoFelRv51cSO9pbnKcwNU5WftsKwAU-yMKViKm96i2-Ri7x3pc7DzeE9TXEPs/s1600/heaven-jesus-father-holy-spirit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdGKoQ8ZjQZE096bieu_xWDOOpvOf1_5-iFx-ykF6KtkSP7Yt9NrWIp0YVlAQVTH3U4n90cf40AitoutoFelRv51cSO9pbnKcwNU5WftsKwAU-yMKViKm96i2-Ri7x3pc7DzeE9TXEPs/s320/heaven-jesus-father-holy-spirit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Greetings from the other side. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">No, not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> other side, although I’m sure some of you were wondering. I mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> other side. The one at the end of the holidays. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“We have to rethink this,” said H as we sat blissfully alone in a bustling café on the Continent, shoving food and drink into our faces. “We need a new plan.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Fancy here had just had, and I quote, “The Greatest Idea Since We Arrived.” Turns out it’s not that hard to look like a genius. Just walk over to the tourist office and buy 4 senior citizen and 2 child tickets for an afternoon-long tour bus of Some City. Then hand the bunch a sack full of sandwiches and a few bottles of water and wave wildly, plastering a mixture of second thoughts and regret on your face. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Then</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> jump up and down, high five and skip all the way to the restaurant after their ride has turned the corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s not that we don’t love our families. But since Nanny #1 wanted to go see her family and Nanny #2 was hosting some kind of bikram flax seed festival with friends from various Buddhist nations, we were on our own the last two weeks. Okay, that’s a lie. Technically we had our parents. But I mean we were without <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">paid </i>help. Not even our housekeeper. It was all rather tragic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Instead of sparkly high heels and a gorgeous red dress Fancy here was much more, “Can you take the girls. I need to brush my teeth before I serve dinner. Do you think anyone will notice if I just keep my pajamas on?” and “What the fuck are you doing dropping crumbs on that floor? Did you not just see me crawling around here with fucking Flash wipes on my hands and knees?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And after a week at the Fancy Home, we shoved everyone on an aeroplane and headed off for a week somewhere in a sort-of-warm European location. Because we don’t know when to say when. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Anyhoo, turns out travelling with 4 old people and two toddlers is a bit like a cross between a senior care home, a mental institution and an unstructured Gymboree play hour. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It wasn’t enough that I was dealing with the Minis. I had 4 other children. Well, 3 other children and one old man. We were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> wearing glazed expressions by sometime last week. Not that there weren’t some great moments of excitement. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For example, I taught my mother-in-law how to turn on a stove. (Yes, I didn’t realize it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> different of a system from one European country to another.) On the other hand, H got to teach <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>mother how to—hold on—open a window. My father-in-law took to walking out the door in search of something vital (like stamps at 10pm for postcards he hadn’t yet written) without a phone or even the address of our apartment. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>dad, God bless him, just laid in the corner with his eyes shut and occasionally one of us would hand him a glass of water. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And finally after over a week and a half of H and I interacting only enough to stare daggers at each other, I put them all on a bus. For 3 well-deserved hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You know, there is such a thing as a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Holiday </i>Nanny. You can just hire them for the two weeks to come with us, sleep in the Minis room, get up at the crack of UnGodly o’clock with them and babysit in the evening so we can go out every night,” I offered, between gulps of my wine. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Slamming down his beer glass (yes, that’s how far gone we were. Beer. Not Champagne. Beer.), H looked at me. “Well, now that’s an idea.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Yes, and we could try having the holiday catered, as much as I love to cook it was all a bit overwhelming. Also when we travel, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>get maybe, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two </i>apartments? One for the grandparents and one for us, the Holiday Nanny and the girls. And we could sleep in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> I might be able to stay awake past 7:30. What do you think?” I pushed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Now that is starting to sound like a plan,” he answered, sucking the meat from the steamed leg of once living crustacean. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And so here we are. You know how some people start planning the holidays 6 months in advance? Well, Fancy here has a full year to get her act together. Christmas, 2012. That’s the one I want to remember. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Happy New Year!<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-47250073359430781642011-12-19T16:02:00.000+00:002011-12-19T16:02:40.813+00:00Fancy's Letterbox<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCmPIK_dG6JGsr_abfcziXbM6Vrv4agvSZPvlIgiKQFGec3Wx2L8GfonMwtIjIm8vpvo3VJR5TVZSASa7eqTJqZIFkpFTSe5wicLO962OOfS9WgGtjcI4s8nwML8sk8TCBoAGiD9o-J3Q/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCmPIK_dG6JGsr_abfcziXbM6Vrv4agvSZPvlIgiKQFGec3Wx2L8GfonMwtIjIm8vpvo3VJR5TVZSASa7eqTJqZIFkpFTSe5wicLO962OOfS9WgGtjcI4s8nwML8sk8TCBoAGiD9o-J3Q/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
I do believe H and I travel too much.<br />
<br />
Now, how did I come to this realization? Was it something the Minis said? Well, no, although they do scream, "Daddy" when they see a suitcase.<br />
<br />
Was it when my friend was over last week and asked me if I was wearing airplane socks? No, not that either.<br />
<br />
It was when I opened the mailbox today. And guess who sent me a Christmas card?<br />
<br />
Personalized.<br />
<br />
And in the attached first class mailer was a copy of Richard Branson's latest book.<br />
<br />
Yes, a 372 page novel.<br />
<br />
That I'm actually looking forward to reading once these bloody holidays are over and the Nannies come back to work. Oops, I digress.<br />
<br />
Back to the book. I think it's a sign. Whether that sign is good or bad, well that remains to be seen. Upgrades, anyone?I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-77070300160986062272011-12-13T12:18:00.000+00:002011-12-13T12:18:55.845+00:00Fancy System Glitch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixDEhXDAgf6UDe-STpjmrMwhbmIXwhJIyqjzmiAGddw9GwKRO0AjXtZo9ZTBDLzCBDfhghTaCRVYHNKwh3WUxjzx72e3SYUGK5el3pnfmbAJYlJ-Ur32DQpByVyQJwDd1bVseQ_NJzEeY/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixDEhXDAgf6UDe-STpjmrMwhbmIXwhJIyqjzmiAGddw9GwKRO0AjXtZo9ZTBDLzCBDfhghTaCRVYHNKwh3WUxjzx72e3SYUGK5el3pnfmbAJYlJ-Ur32DQpByVyQJwDd1bVseQ_NJzEeY/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
Hi Y'all. Gonna red up that there room and then brush my tooth.<br />
<br />
Yes it's really me, Fancy Pants here. Just thought I would alter my diction to match my appearance. Would you like to know what I'm wearing right now? Yes, I thought you would. Shall we start at the bottom?<br />
<br />
Red Christmas socks. Above those are cropped terry cloth black "leisure" bottoms. Yes, that <i>is</i> a brown sweatshirt from the now defunct Pop Tart shoppe in New York. Oh, correct. No bra. But do you like my designer eyeglasses? Do they go nicely with last night's makeup and my as-yet-uncombed hair?<br />
<br />
Okay, now I know you are all wondering. Has Fancy lost her mind? Is she ill? Has there been a death in the family?<br />
<br />
No. Relax. It's worse.<br />
<br />
The cleaning lady is sick.<br />
<br />
I have company coming over this evening.<br />
<br />
It's not pretty. Thank God Nanny #1 has the Minis out for the day and Fancy PA is upstairs addressing Christmas cards.<br />
<br />
It's the holidays. No one should be allowed to vomit.<br />
<br />
This is all particularly painful because H just finished complaining to Fancy Therapist about my "comfortable" clothes I wear to bed. And apparently to scrub toilets. Good thing he's out of town this week and can't see what's going on here.<br />
<br />
Of course, he dresses more "Elmo had 4 ducks" than "Zegna." But still. Being Fancy all the time is simply impossible. And I guarantee his idea of a "maid" costume and the one I'm currently wearing are very, very different.<br />
<br />
Okay, back to work. What exactly is the difference between bathroom Cif and kitchen Cif?I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-73474072424337105482011-12-05T13:51:00.000+00:002011-12-05T13:51:53.330+00:00Fancy's Bootstraps<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHD8PfgdTR0WhmX1CcXuOlZKNtatJy0Zq1XF1v4Y64OM00BOjYrm6-0cYpffjacnH2VRc_6dPNqPmowcRHsqV7feML5xIep2rj-uWaO4amitOvYgngvbVd9_tUle6rT8WLxGaprJpodfk/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHD8PfgdTR0WhmX1CcXuOlZKNtatJy0Zq1XF1v4Y64OM00BOjYrm6-0cYpffjacnH2VRc_6dPNqPmowcRHsqV7feML5xIep2rj-uWaO4amitOvYgngvbVd9_tUle6rT8WLxGaprJpodfk/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So back to my story. <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/11/fancy-finds-her-egg.html">2.5 hours of therapy.</a> That’s right, Fancy Therapist actually cleared his calendar for the morning. That’s what kind of attention H gets when we can actually drag him, kicking and screaming, into FT’s office. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I really don’t know why he fights it. He always comes out such a nicer husband. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, I have to tell you, I learned a lot in those two and a half hours. Yes, and now I’d like to share with you what I feel was the most important lesson gleaned from half a day on a leather sofa. Are you ready?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Apparently Fancy here should be wearing black stiletto boots at all times. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes. It’s true. At least when my husband is in the room. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I really had no idea. And what is worse is that ever since the <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/07/fancy-cleanout.html">Fancy Clean Out</a>, H has been suffering in silence. I guess when I threw out my old pleather boots and failed to replace them, I did horrible damage to our marriage. Never mind that they were terribly uncomfortable. Or that I was just waiting for the Fall sales to replace them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, it seems that standing or walking isn’t the priority. And as FT aptly pointed out, I’m in a very fortunate position to be able to buy myself as many pairs of black boots as I possibly can stuff into my new closet. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thank God we went for that appointment and I learned how distraught H was. I know. It breaks my heart. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, like a good wife, I’ve been hard at work. I’m now up one pair of Jimmy Choos<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and some gorgeous Alexander McQueens. Oh, and I grabbed a pair of Kenneth Cole while I was in the States. Lest I need to go muck out a barn or something. Would hate to get cow shit on real leather.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, it’s hard to be a good Fancy wife. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-9970117795259368692011-11-20T23:01:00.000+00:002011-11-20T23:01:29.423+00:00Fancy Finds Her Egg<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_H5xlKW_kJ5ZFnWeX9ue1LtOPuMil3ggNJwAvbChFfZFS4eKVHyJcTWhWSZTwRNVxtWvK24iEqhABf5FWinQA5zkSUvXudvr0qXcNzxOEU3oRxWSUcW5ZJcnbIzShKO3LMWwHhB_xRM/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_H5xlKW_kJ5ZFnWeX9ue1LtOPuMil3ggNJwAvbChFfZFS4eKVHyJcTWhWSZTwRNVxtWvK24iEqhABf5FWinQA5zkSUvXudvr0qXcNzxOEU3oRxWSUcW5ZJcnbIzShKO3LMWwHhB_xRM/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And hello again from the airport lounge. Why, oh why, did the idiots designing JFK and Newark not put the lounges on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">other</i> side of security? Just saying. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Amex, I love you. Xoxo FF. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, back to my story. Sorry. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’ll take this,” he declared, pulling down his Little Tumi. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Get me that and that,” I said, pointing to Big Tumi and Bigger Tumi. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Blank stare. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Directed at me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We’re going for 3 days,” he said in a calm and measured voice.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, and I’m shopping,” I replied, as matter-of-factly as I could.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was a moment of silence.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“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.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Every so slightly I widened my stance and crossed my arms, anticipating an argument. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Surprisingly he just nodded and waved me toward the stairs. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, and tomorrow, Fancy Therapist has blocked out the entire morning for us. Since he never gets to see you and all.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Okay,” he replied, to my utter and total shock.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“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?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Alright. But can we go to Sushi Gari while we are there?” he asked, in the most agreeable tone I’ve heard in years. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Holy shit. The man I married was still in there. Fatter. Richer. But still a good egg. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s nice to be loved. <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/11/fancy-lounges.html">Lounge behaviour</a> and all. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-65239721019677584982011-11-17T22:39:00.000+00:002011-11-17T22:39:28.642+00:00Fancy Lounges<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG2mNrnQN3PvtvkfvOxJ9UbXRpv5DwpO7To2BZwcS3Tta-kZOZey4XSi9MKtybhH2g98muhHRecDNCU5cq6DnLD1PlWO-i_jVsEzPwe74i5OKHQGj1Uk-Z3wrNlzUumJhSvLiEP2IO9I/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG2mNrnQN3PvtvkfvOxJ9UbXRpv5DwpO7To2BZwcS3Tta-kZOZey4XSi9MKtybhH2g98muhHRecDNCU5cq6DnLD1PlWO-i_jVsEzPwe74i5OKHQGj1Uk-Z3wrNlzUumJhSvLiEP2IO9I/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>well, I guess you get used to it pretty quickly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, it’s a different sort of life we lead. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">forever</i> to get to the airport. Seriously, who drives down Shaftsbury Avenue? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What the hell is wrong with you?” H asked. “We’ve got plenty of time. We’re not going to miss the flight.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nooooo,” I whined. “I want to get to the lounge. I’m barely going to have any time in the lounge!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You have to get over this lounge thing. It’s stupid,” he chastised. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Really? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Really?</i> 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?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think we can all agree that if he thinks about it, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">last</i> 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>Fancy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Grateful. And probably embarrassed to be seen with me. My behaviour in airport lounges is sort of ridiculous. But can you blame me? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-53159477242141252802011-11-09T13:54:00.000+00:002011-11-09T13:54:58.133+00:00Fancy Flies Again!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">My name is Fancy. And I’m a recovering Absentee Blogger.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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 <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/09/fancy-goes-blinds.html">set of yellow curtai</a>ns? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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<a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/11/fancy-time-management.html"> mere 21 hours </a>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 <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/08/fancy-flies-home.html">Cheap Ass Air</a>?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“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.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“One million and five, if we are to be precise,” he countered. “But don’t’ be a princess. It’s only an hour flight.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Um, excuse me, 2 hours if you count boarding and deplaning.” Fancy here corrected. “And is there any chance that you’ll be on <i>either</i> my outbound <i>or</i> return flight?” I inquired. Since we all know where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i> will be sitting. And the secret to a happy Fancy marriage is to never, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> have a couple separated by a curtain on an airplane.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Silence. Dial tone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can </i>teach an old dog, it turns out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fun </i>to spend night after night on a plane. But being escorted through passport control and directly to your jet way, well that is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">little cool</i>, ain’t it?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The man could <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> look me in the eye. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">“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.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What?! What indiscretions,” he cried, smile almost wiped from his smug face. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“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.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s a major improvement, don’t you agree?</div><!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-88772041351596485142011-11-06T08:36:00.000+00:002011-11-06T09:36:01.297+00:00Fancy Time Management<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKg_IuYFBSrLV15EaigsZDnudh1P5yjrwuFGVTEpaicZlsvuBAQXf2BgwajaGPJlgEiJ77fnDdt8LaxZlhUwCOn2cHeVPZSZBv3FQHsqyFhC3IDGGUhRk6fXnbCMIQm5kLp-GEqlW-ciY/s1600/time_management.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKg_IuYFBSrLV15EaigsZDnudh1P5yjrwuFGVTEpaicZlsvuBAQXf2BgwajaGPJlgEiJ77fnDdt8LaxZlhUwCOn2cHeVPZSZBv3FQHsqyFhC3IDGGUhRk6fXnbCMIQm5kLp-GEqlW-ciY/s1600/time_management.gif" /></a></div><br />
Hi. My name is Frau Fancy. And it has been 44 days since my last blog entry.<br />
<br />
I suck.<br />
<br />
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, <i>tomorrow</i> for sure.<br />
<br />
And 43 days went by.<br />
<br />
What could possibly have taken so long? Well, I'll tell you.<br />
<br />
<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Firstly, I decided to take the Minis for 3 weeks to visit family in the States. What? No, don’t be ridiculous. We did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/08/fancy-calculations.html">fly Cheap Ass</a> Anything. In fact, the best line from that trip was something like:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“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?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> that mother on this trip. But c’mon. I had 2 free upgrades. They were only for Economy Plus. And I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> to keep my tier points. Anyhoo.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course that meant I had no Nanny. And we all know how much better <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hired</i> help is than the volunteer kind. Hence my silence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">back</i> to the States to pick us up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, Fancy here is nothing if not well-prepared. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hey, why not?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And so ends my month of “no time to blog.” </span><!--EndFragment--> <br />
<div><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I, Fancy, will try to manage my time better. Apologies. Perhaps I should hire a Fancy Blog Prodder?</span></div>I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-58397156420602697632011-10-03T12:09:00.000+01:002011-10-03T12:09:44.295+01:00Fancy Confusion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPe8yvIIIKA5q7DAIiEfykWT9TGa_wpDQLoPMpBYq5d_oHPyRwdcbHPdYVmg6qbJmbig1xA7T15cMXaqBsAahjCiE6Xhhez3Z65GjuLdVcPifFSQOtc4R2fwa7I8bUQDxjuEScvg3Ro3c/s1600/images-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPe8yvIIIKA5q7DAIiEfykWT9TGa_wpDQLoPMpBYq5d_oHPyRwdcbHPdYVmg6qbJmbig1xA7T15cMXaqBsAahjCiE6Xhhez3Z65GjuLdVcPifFSQOtc4R2fwa7I8bUQDxjuEScvg3Ro3c/s1600/images-3.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
Sometimes I wonder, is it me or is it them? I mean, am I the one off my rocker or is it me against the world? Or at least me against the world of home decorating.<br />
<br />
Remember <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/09/fancy-goes-blinds.html">my curtain</a>s? The ones that were wrong in every way possible? Well, much to my surprise, even though they were almost immediately ripped from the ceiling and returned to the factory, my decorator actually expects <i>me to pay for them</i>.<br />
<br />
Yes, something like <i>four thousand pounds and change</i> for what amounts to holes in my walls and extreme intimacy with my neighbours.<br />
<br />
Seriously? I am supposed to pay for curtains that no longer exist?<br />
<br />
Apparently it's not her fault that they were yellow. No, that was the sunlight. She couldn't have predicted this.<br />
<br />
"But I saw them in the evening, after the sun had gone down," was my answer.<br />
<br />
"Well, then it is the way artificial light hits them," she reasoned.<br />
<br />
"Um, could it be, I don't know, if they are yellow in the sunlight and they are yellow in artificial light, well, could it be that they <i>are actually fucking yellow</i>?"<br />
<br />
So, what do you think? Is it me?I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-10852287203359873772011-09-23T08:55:00.000+01:002011-09-23T08:55:39.381+01:00Fancy Lights Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6fXnGpkUYKZB-S7Y1YMbcu-pSlitfc1797495rR_E3ZNELjQwnQqtVZncAJhBJ31ECrtvkOGGCnknsPh3Jm7V8GX1YaXGTfXm6gyXb8CPqB48ATnpnzOXH7vMVfUzgQSz0QqMXcdwWI/s1600/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6fXnGpkUYKZB-S7Y1YMbcu-pSlitfc1797495rR_E3ZNELjQwnQqtVZncAJhBJ31ECrtvkOGGCnknsPh3Jm7V8GX1YaXGTfXm6gyXb8CPqB48ATnpnzOXH7vMVfUzgQSz0QqMXcdwWI/s1600/images-2.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
No, no, let's be clear here. Fancy is not a smoker. That would make me stinky and wrinkly. I paid a lot for these sparkly teeth and I plan on keeping them. What I mean is that I am currently at the total and absolute mercy of the man who means the difference between getting any work done, putting on my make up or letting the Minis have their Elmo hour versus moving to a Fancy Hotel. Yes, that's right. My electrician is here.<br />
<br />
And he has me by my Fancy balls.<br />
<br />
"So, Frau Fancy, as you can see the Whackashocker is a low voltage Slipashooter. That means this here wire--which is much longer but I bravely sliced through it with your kitchen shears, with no thought to my own health and safety seeing as how important I know this is to you---has become as brittle as your mother-in-law's overbleached hair."<br />
<br />
"Okay. Um, sure. And?"<br />
<br />
"Without a limber and flexible new Transformerroboticaeroplane you will live for ever in darkness."<br />
<br />
Why can't they speak English? Even British English. I might understand <i>something</i>. I feel like he's just showing off now.<br />
<br />
"So," he continued, "the process here now is that I have to go look in the truck. Maybe I have a replacement or even a Ohmfusionater to use."<br />
<br />
"And if you don't?"<br />
<br />
"Well then I'll have to run to the shoppe and get one."<br />
<br />
"Okay." Like what else am I going to say here? Oh wait, I think I've got one of those in my jewelry box?<br />
<br />
"Uh, well, I'll have to charge you. For the time and all that."<br />
<br />
"Okay." As if I have any other options here.<br />
<br />
"And congestion charge. But that doesn't have VAT."<br />
<br />
What exactly does he expect me to say? That £10 is going to keep me from saying yes to a project that is clearly already cleared £200? I would think it a safe assumption that if I have already agreed to an emergency site visit from a company offering same day service that I am desperate. I need light. I need make up. We <i>need </i>Elmo.<br />
<br />
Home ownership. The process by which many skilled labourers enter my home, stick a vise on my proverbial balls and then pull wads of cash out of my nose. At least this one takes a credit card.<br />
<br />
Let there be light.I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-36599346971331742612011-09-20T11:33:00.000+01:002011-09-20T11:33:54.543+01:00Mr. Fancy Forgets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_mKLc6t6QyRVGhrDB0pm8n7Hg1biT-egTP-daka91Gvx1tjMkSYT3-owXvi8nePeo6uvOY3or1UdZPMrFqvuLzN6Cy1N43wp7AmXgSQWs2uc346OUocHKmCOMwHAjp5DHFpwFja4bHQ/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_mKLc6t6QyRVGhrDB0pm8n7Hg1biT-egTP-daka91Gvx1tjMkSYT3-owXvi8nePeo6uvOY3or1UdZPMrFqvuLzN6Cy1N43wp7AmXgSQWs2uc346OUocHKmCOMwHAjp5DHFpwFja4bHQ/s200/images-1.jpeg" width="133" /></a></div><div><br />
</div>We all know that H works too hard. He goes weeks without sleeping in a proper bed, instead changing into First Class Airline Pajamas every night and getting tucked in by a very gay man with a tight uniform and a thick accent. When he is home, he sets his alarm for midnight to take calls with colleagues in other time zones. He reads exciting novels like "Negotiating With Rich Assholes" for pleasure. Fancy here is constantly putting clean underwear in a taxi and sending it his office.<div><br />
</div><div>In other words, he's sort of pushed to the limit. </div><div><br />
</div><div>And if you needed further proof, here's last night's Fancy Home Ridiculousness. I had my book group last night and even though I couldn't actually choke my way through the entire train wreck of a novel that it was, I was very excited to see the ladies. Right on time, Babysitter #2 walked in. Seeing H sitting there playing with the girls she stopped.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"I <i>am</i> here this evening, right?" she asked, as the Minis took turns whacking their father with a wooden mallet. (Kids toys are something, eh?)</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Oh yes! He doesn't count," I laughed, setting the TV to her favourite channel. </div><div><br />
</div><div>As if on cue, H stood up and started walking out of the room. "I have a call," he muttered. "Be upstairs."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"You know the drill," I said, picking up my bag. "Either he sends you home or I will. See ya." </div><div><br />
</div><div>Four hours later I returned. Babysitter #2 was contently sitting on the sofa watching a movie. She grabbed her bag and took off, calling, "See you Friday! They were little angels!"</div><div><br />
</div><div>I found H upstairs playing on his computer. </div><div><br />
</div><div>"You didn't want to send Babysitter #2 home?"</div><div><br />
</div><div>His jaw fell open. "I forgot." </div><div><br />
</div><div>Yes, he actually <i>forgot that his children were sleeping in the house and there was a middle-aged woman sitting in our living room watching telly.</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>Time to rethink this Fancy job, don't you agree?</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>Then again, feeding my children donkey meat doesn't put me in the best light. Go check out <a href="http://www.inthepowderroom.com/read/home-time/the-day-i-fed-horse-meat-to-my-children.html">In The Powder Room</a> this week!</div><div><br />
</div><div> </div>I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-5661473109830217252011-09-13T17:05:00.000+01:002011-09-13T17:05:20.690+01:00Fancy Goes Blinds<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjheOJTsOly6F7dZhFncLcl5w57ms2Ye2KZcgWmLJV7MXowJC9Ha2DWf_7h7p9R2plbLSAYXFsVRWculKcXWbrbvqwz__Qe30fKOivD5vWrRmooB34zqqm8nOORDv_9DXSItugKzfBb0i4/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjheOJTsOly6F7dZhFncLcl5w57ms2Ye2KZcgWmLJV7MXowJC9Ha2DWf_7h7p9R2plbLSAYXFsVRWculKcXWbrbvqwz__Qe30fKOivD5vWrRmooB34zqqm8nOORDv_9DXSItugKzfBb0i4/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fancy here apologizes for her recent silence. There has been a lot going on here at the Fancy home and even with 2 Nannies, a Fancy PA and Amazon, I’ve spent much of the last couple alternating between tears and tears of laughter. Sort of like a deranged mental patient. It’s been so crazy that I called a time out today and spent 4 hours at the spa getting rubbed and scrubbed and oiled and pounded. I feel well enough to speak now.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So what was it that finally threw me over the edge? Curtains. It all comes down to curtains. We've been doing a bit of home decorating. The floorboard skirting, the electrical wiring, the micromanaging, well, that can all be handled with a combination of Fancy authority and booze. But curtains? I’ve come to a new understand.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Curtains versus blinds. That’s always the question, isn’t it? And I now firmly believe that the affinity for one over the other is burned into our souls. It’s like Coke v Pepsi. Crest v Colgate. The colour orange v anything else. You feel one way or the other. No discussion.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And Fancy here is a Blinds person. Hands down.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I’m also easily persuaded, especially when it comes to things like decorating. I mean, come on, I hired a woman to lay my clothes out before dinner. What makes you think I know the first thing about accent rugs? And they promised me it would be wonderful, that it was the only way to go, that I would be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thrilled</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thrilled</i> they said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So for the last couple months I’ve been envisioning walking into the living room and seeing light, airy, billowing curtains, practically smelling the sea air. Like walking into a suite at the Delano in South Beach. Every time I go into a room there, all white and light and fresh, I half expect to see God, or at least Morgan Freeman, sitting there waiting for me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The curtains arrived yesterday.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I did not see God. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Um, I’m sorry to have to say this, but they need to go. In fact the only workable solution is that they leave no later than tomorrow. I would rather the neighbours watch me cook dinner naked than spend one more minute in this room,” I said as politely as I could the minute our Fancy Designer picked up the line.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">You think I’m exaggerating. I thought white. They were yellow. I thought modern. They looked like something my Grandma had. I thought sleek, they were practically touching me from across the room. My house looked like the Sound of Fucking Music in reverse. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I called H. Told him to spend the night in a hotel. That under no circumstances was he to come home before this unmitigated home décor disaster had been resolved. He was confused, but seriously, it would be better this way. His heart is already under so much strain.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So today the windows are once again bare. I’m sitting naked in my living room, typing and waving at the neighbours. But at least I don’t have to worry about the curtain monsters eating me. Shudder.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyhoo, I'll keep you posted. At least I look well rested, sitting here waving at Central London.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </div><div class="MsoNormal">p.s. there is now an email link! Because you ask and Fancy delivers. </div><!--EndFragment--> <br />
<!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-47291547086053372612011-09-06T14:38:00.000+01:002011-09-06T14:38:08.917+01:00Fancy Remembers: Summer 2011<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6bm2jw6ITQ2DP1r2qASqD8av62xJxiV21B1gW8Sl241oTnQnE7z0Wk390n-ygh3d2kQciRpuHtlc2wndUyVjl1mtX1_RUN0l4WeQV92sKrSPc3DxqoukR51zdT1vjPFwgSjLC944AaHk/s1600/sunshine1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6bm2jw6ITQ2DP1r2qASqD8av62xJxiV21B1gW8Sl241oTnQnE7z0Wk390n-ygh3d2kQciRpuHtlc2wndUyVjl1mtX1_RUN0l4WeQV92sKrSPc3DxqoukR51zdT1vjPFwgSjLC944AaHk/s320/sunshine1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What the hell? The summer is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">over?</i> I’m sorry, I’m a little confused. I’m still waiting to wear all the cute summery outfits I bought. I haven’t made a dent in my sunscreen collection and that includes a weekend in the sun. What? Oh, sorry. I need to quickly explain something to my fellow Londoners. Hang on.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The “Sun” is a big yellow thing in the sky. It provides a gravitational force that makes the Earth spin around in a big circle. That much I’m sure you know. But just in case you didn’t realize it, the Sun also <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">provides</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">warmth</i>. Yes, it’s true. Even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sunshine</i>. I know, close your mouth. See in some parts of the world, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">summer</i> is actually when you can wake up everyday knowing that shorts and a tank top will suffice. There are even people who put their winter wardrobes away for 6 months. Totally crazy, right? Anyway, let’s go back and join the others. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, sorry for the interruption. Anyhoo, I’m a bit caught off guard this week. Kate Takes 5 has made <a href="http://katetakes5.blogspot.com/2011/09/listography-things-i-did-this-summer.html">“Things I Did This Summer” her Listography</a> for the week. And when I saw that, well I did a bit of a double take. I wasn’t aware that summer had ever arrived. But being plucky like I am, I’ll pull out my calendar and tell you what I did over the last 3 months, although I will continue to violently protest that I did not actually experience this phenomenon called “Summer.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li>Got married. Okay technically that is a lie. But I <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/06/fancys-search-for-spouse.html">found myself a wif</a>e, in the form of Fancy PA. Just as you can love all your children, I love both my husband <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> my wife. Truly. Deeply. I do.</li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li>Went to<a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/06/fancys-cybermummy-adventure.html"> CyberMummy</a>. And met some nice ladies. But I’m still looking for Lou the chicken lady. Anyone see a nice looking, albeit somewhat harried, woman covered in feathers calling for her rooster, you let me know.</li>
</ul><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li>Suffered <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/05/fancy-mothering.html">Bank Holiday Hell</a>. For those who don’t know, that’s an unbelievably popular British past time of watching women suffer while their Nannies enjoy a day off. I know, as disgusting as snacking on goat’s blood. </li>
</ul><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li>Taught the Minis to swear like sailors. Let’s be clear, this was not actually my intention. Blame all those bank holidays. But TC is now saying, <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/05/fancy-potty-mouth.html">“Fork” </a>a lot. It’s a satisfying word, isn’t it? The Princess has mastered, “Bucket,” and “Bap!” Unless I clean up my act, I’m expecting full sentences by Christmas. “Roly Sucking Bell!”</li>
</ul><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"></div><ul><li>Said a final farewell to my favourite airline. That’s right. You know the one. Excuse me while I get a tissue to wipe my eyes. I don't even need to link up here. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go back a few posts. Or just consider yourself lucky to have missed it. </li>
</ul><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And that’s it, apparently. Looking forward to even worse weather as we edge through Fall. At least I’ll have a <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/03/fancy-tantrums.html">new closet soon</a>. At least that's what they are telling me. And that’s definitely something to look forward to. </div><!--EndFragment-->I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6395536338910501116.post-50206123184743567892011-09-01T12:19:00.000+01:002011-09-01T12:19:52.953+01:00Fancy Returns!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif3_phBW0v0UUJUtHN3zWG43SwTR3JGw1hjrUVXglSwbBTuY4bm_B9eRmt5RKlMu_km-2Ezw7tEezLDPqw-jmkiocvex-P4BuRG6RZrCXxEDPqV7GxSBBR7Fy-lbD31E1miGep6tsbqSY/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif3_phBW0v0UUJUtHN3zWG43SwTR3JGw1hjrUVXglSwbBTuY4bm_B9eRmt5RKlMu_km-2Ezw7tEezLDPqw-jmkiocvex-P4BuRG6RZrCXxEDPqV7GxSBBR7Fy-lbD31E1miGep6tsbqSY/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fancy is back! Oh that was a lovely holiday. I missed those Minis. Yes I did. So much I was forced to drown my sorrows in mojito after mojito, sitting by the pool, reading actual books (as opposed to Where’s Elmo’s Blanket?). It was hard but somehow I did it. And my return, the squeals of happiness, the little arms wrapped about my neck, the children shoving aside my offerings of new toys in favour of the box of chocolate in my luggage, well that was also awesome.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I know you are all dying to hear how this round of air travel went. Relax, there was no <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/07/fancy-travels-planning-ahead.html">Cheap Ass Air </a>involved. Nope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never, I say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> again. However, it wasn’t all champagne wishes and caviar dreams. I had some work to do.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“<a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/08/fancy-lovin.html">Fancy PA packed for you</a>, all we need is your shaving stuff and cologne and toothbrush. Unpack your work overnight bag and give it to her,” I commanded, pulling on my resort wear and grabbing my sun hat. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, okay, but I’m pretty nervous about having my things already packed. Are you sure you have everything? And make sure she puts my liquids somewhere easy to reach when we get to security,” H grumbled.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ha ha!,” I cried. “Your bag is getting checked, babe! You can’t carry that on. One carry on, my friend. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One</i>.” I cackled, my anticipation of what was to come growing by the second.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Wait! What airline are we flying?” H cried, looking up at me in alarm.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Discount Doofus! They had the best times and fare. Don’t worry, you get up to 20kg of checked luggage. You aren’t even 2/3 of the way there!” I exclaimed, silently howling at the look on his face.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What? Why would you do that to me? Why?” he whinged.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Because, my darling, sometimes it is good for you. You need to remember that not everyone gets driven to the plane in a limo. You need a refresher on how the other half lives. Like me. When I’m flying with <a href="http://richasshole.blogspot.com/2011/08/fancy-flies-home.html">two toddlers and you stick me in cattle call on some dipshit airline</a>. So chop chop. We’re late. Need to get to the airport 3 hours before our flight. No first class check in you know,” I cackled, whistling my way to the door.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It had to be done, no? In the end he was a pretty good sport about it. Even if he did have a moment of shock and disappointment when he realized his tiny little seat didn’t recline. In fact, he was such a brave boy that I bought him a bottle of water. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m nice like that. What? Oh, yes. Me, I had some champagne. He made me carry his wallet you see. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment--> I'm So Fancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11186039627894811361noreply@blogger.com18