Fancy is back!!

“We recently had to fire the dog nanny.”

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.

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.

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.

Holy Sweet Jesus.

I was sandwiched between H (Mr. Fancy, you may remember. Also known as Husband) and an elderly Englishman. Next to him 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.

They were not a lot like us.

Anyhoo, turns out the very nice gentleman (you can so totally be very nice and also completely fucking out of touch) 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 so drunk with the chef on Easter Eve that he could not even cook Easter lunch. So they both had to be fired.

Gosh, what a mess.

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.

Fancy Argues Her Case

Turns out Fancy here sucks at being Fancy.

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

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

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

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

My most recent Fancy Foible?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fancy Prevails!

Good news! Nanny #2 v3 is installed and appears to be functioning smoothly. Which means I now have time to focus on other things. Like booze.

On my “to do”  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.

Snort. It’s wine, ain’t it?  I got a mouth, don’t I?

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.

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?

Wait, it gets better.

While trying to arrange redelivery (and making sure they knew we meant London, England) 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.

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.

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 wait that long?” We finally came to an agreement. They would deliver my Liebherr the following morning.

And leave it on my doorstep.

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?”

They cap iced.

And now Fancy here has a beautiful shiny new stainless steel fridge for her magnums of Veuve and half bottles of Margot.

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.

And that is why the UK needs Eastern Europe. Let’s just remember that.