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. 

Fancy's Pain

Fancy here has just about had it with the Nanny #2 replacement search. Yes sirree, I have.

What? Oh you thought we’d found one? Ha. That would have been too easy.

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.

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.

May I present: Fancy’s Potential Nanny Requirements

• 1.     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.  And Fancy hates sand.
• 2.     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.
• 3.     No “attachment parenting types.” Seriously? Seriously? Her livelihood actually depends 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.
• 4.     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.
• 5.     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 must be smaller than the one on my daughter’s.

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.

And for something this big, there’s just no excuse for a giant pink bow. 

Don't you agree?

Fancy Innocence Lost

It’s sunny in London! And it’s sunny in the Fancy Home! We may have found a new weekend Nanny! Celebrate good times!

Yes, it’s a fabulous development. And right after meeting her I went for a long jog

along the Thames, soaking up the sunshine and doing my best not to run smack into throngs of tourists.  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!

What? Oh, that’s right. Nanny #2, who you all considered Nanny #2 v1.0 was actually a replacement model. The real 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?

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.

We were wrong. Very wrong. We've since learned this lesson well.

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.

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.”

But you can’t fire someone because they squeak, can you?

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.

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.

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 really matter. So long as the Minis’ language skills are reinforced and they continue to chatter away in two languages.

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 love their weekends.

Then again, there had to be somebody out there who would be a good match for us, right? I remained hopeful and it appears that we may have found her.

Keep your fingers crossed. 

Fancy Shoots

There is frankly nothing more annoying than a bad massage.

Okay, that’s a lie.

Having to fire your weekend Nanny and then spend Saturday and Sunday cleaning and doing laundry and parenting your own children. That is annoying.

And because Nanny #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, and still get back to do Nanny #2’s—ahem, I mean my—job.

Which is how I found myself last week being slapped around with a bamboo shoot.

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.

Now, I’ve had great 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 man 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.

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 rub the fuck out my aching body. No, don’t make me go there.

But this one, well this was just bizarre. Neither good nor bad, but odd.

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 was adamant. 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.

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.

Tap, tap, short roll, short roll, loooonnnnnggggg roll, turn.

Right.

So here I am. Back at home. The weekend was both pleasant and painful. Lots 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. 

And only the memory of a woman beating me with a stick to sustain me.

Clearly the solution is another massage. Possibly in the South Pacific or East Asia.

Either that or hiring a new Nanny. One or the other. And soon.  

Fancy Fires Away

Firing a Nanny sucks.

Am I alone in this? Is there anyone out there who enjoys 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 searching for a replacement that really brings me to my knees.

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.

Actually, I even overlooked that she then reportedly cooked the fucking pasta and fed it to my children. 

So all in all, I think I’m a pretty tolerant employer. Which means things had really gotten bad.

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.

It was a classic case of Fancy here not managing her help effectively.

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.”

And therein lay the final straw.

Don’t fuck with the Fancy’s Saturday night. Not without a very good reason.

Family emergency? Okay. The flu? It happens.

Thinking? No.

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.

On the other hand, maybe I’ll no longer be finding the Minis’ socks in my drawer and my silk DVF wrap dresses in the washing machine. This could be a good thing. 

Fancy Phone Lines

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.

Which was good. Because the Minis apparently went around telling every single play group, music class, swim teacher and art instructor that Mommy had run off to Tokyo. Without them.

Thanks girls. You make me look so good.

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.

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.

Have you ever seen Japanese porn? It's weird. Even to Fancy folk. Wearing $800 boots. 

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.

Because even Fancy Couples have to work at marriage. It's a living, breathing creature that has to be nurtured and looked after.

Which is a point I reminded British Telecom of this week. The ringing phone interrupted my work.

"Hello, Frau Fancy? This is BT calling. Unsolicited, yes, but we just want to see if you are happy with your current phone carrier. We know you used to have a BT account and want to discuss The Fancies returning to our warm embrace."

"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.

And do you know what? The man on the other end also respects the sanctity of marriage. He actually began to laugh.

"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."

"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."

And then, to my disbelief, the nice man on the other end wished me a good day and disconnected the line.

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.

Fancy Mysteries

Konichi wa!

Guess where the Fancies are having a long weekend?

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.

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.

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 who almost made us miss our flight. What? Oh, let me explain.

"Car's here in 5 minutes, dude," I screamed up the staircase. "Need my lounge time. Chop chop!"

"Good, I need 6 minutes. Just need to find my bag of cables so I can work on the plane."

Yes, you know what happens when a man tries to "find something," don't you?

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.

"When did you last have them?" I asked, as calmly as I could.

"On my trip last week. They were in my suitcase."

"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.

"Uh, I guess it was Nanny #2," was H's answer.

Fancy PA called her immediately. She did not, I repeat, did not unpack a suitcase last week.

Which means that we have no idea who unpacked Mr. Fancy after his last trip. All we know is that someone did.

And this means that either we have so many people working in the Fancy Home that I've actually lost count, or one of us has lost our minds.

Ah well, either way, we made the flight. They sell that shit at the airport you know.

Fancy Demands

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 still doesn’t have blinds of any kind—oh hello neighbours!), and trying to get some work done. The Minis are at playgroup. Or music. Or swimming. Anyway, they’re somewhere cool. And I’m trying to be productive.

Even as my cleaning lady fluffs the pillows around me.

She’s a new one and I admire the way she’s fit right in, getting things done despite 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.)

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: ALIVE.

Yes. That was pretty much my whole list.

I was desperate, you see. Remember back to the whole “No Nanny, 4 senior citizens Holiday Adventure?” 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.

Without a Nanny, which was bad enough. But wait, it was actually worse than you could imagine.

My cleaning lady was in the hospital in critical care.

Which was terrible, I mean terrible, on so very many levels. For her. For her family. For her children at Christmas time.

And for me. 

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?)

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. First I had Fancy PA send enough food to fill their fridge for the holidays. Then I fired her.

I mean, seriously, what was I supposed to do? Give her a bucket big enough for an oxygen tank and window cleaner?

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.

I’m not asking too much, am I?

Insufficiently Fancy

Turns out I suck as a blogger. Which I’m okay with. Because it also turns out I suck at being Fancy.

Yes, I was made painfully aware of that fact this week. By a single email and a short video. That’s all it took.

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.

Um, that’s not how we 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. 

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^nd birthday.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It’s just a shame the Minis will be the ones to suffer until I get it right. 

Happy New Year!

Greetings from the other side.

No, not that other side, although I’m sure some of you were wondering. I mean this other side. The one at the end of the holidays.

“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.”

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.

Then jump up and down, high five and skip all the way to the restaurant after their ride has turned the corner.

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 paid help. Not even our housekeeper. It was all rather tragic.

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?”

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.

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.

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 all wearing glazed expressions by sometime last week. Not that there weren’t some great moments of excitement.

For example, I taught my mother-in-law how to turn on a stove. (Yes, I didn’t realize it was that different of a system from one European country to another.) On the other hand, H got to teach my 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 my 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.

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.

“You know, there is such a thing as a Holiday 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.

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.”

“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,  get maybe, two apartments? One for the grandparents and one for us, the Holiday Nanny and the girls. And we could sleep in and I might be able to stay awake past 7:30. What do you think?” I pushed.

“Now that is starting to sound like a plan,” he answered, sucking the meat from the steamed leg of once living crustacean.

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.

Happy New Year!

Fancy's Letterbox

I do believe H and I travel too much.

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.

Was it when my friend was over last week and asked me if I was wearing airplane socks? No, not that either.

It was when I opened the mailbox today. And guess who sent me a Christmas card?

Personalized.

And in the attached first class mailer was a copy of Richard Branson's latest book.

Yes, a 372 page novel.

That I'm actually looking forward to reading once these bloody holidays are over and the Nannies come back to work. Oops, I digress.

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?

Fancy System Glitch

Hi Y'all. Gonna red up that there room and then brush my tooth.

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?

Red Christmas socks. Above those are cropped terry cloth black "leisure" bottoms. Yes, that is 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?

Okay, now I know you are all wondering. Has Fancy lost her mind? Is she ill? Has there been a death in the family?

No. Relax. It's worse.

The cleaning lady is sick.

I have company coming over this evening.

It's not pretty. Thank God Nanny #1 has the Minis out for the day and Fancy PA is upstairs addressing Christmas cards.

It's the holidays. No one should be allowed to vomit.

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.

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.

Okay, back to work. What exactly is the difference between bathroom Cif and kitchen Cif?

Fancy's Bootstraps

So back to my story. 2.5 hours of therapy. 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.

I really don’t know why he fights it. He always comes out such a nicer husband.

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?

Apparently Fancy here should be wearing black stiletto boots at all times.

Yes. It’s true. At least when my husband is in the room.

I really had no idea. And what is worse is that ever since the Fancy Clean Out, 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.

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.

Thank God we went for that appointment and I learned how distraught H was. I know. It breaks my heart.

So, like a good wife, I’ve been hard at work. I’m now up one pair of Jimmy Choos  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.

Oh, it’s hard to be a good Fancy wife.

Fancy Finds Her Egg

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

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

Amex, I love you. Xoxo FF.

Oh, back to my story. Sorry.

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

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

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

Blank stare.

Directed at me.

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

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

There was a moment of silence.

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

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

Surprisingly he just nodded and waved me toward the stairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fancy Lounges

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fancy Flies Again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Dial tone.

You can teach an old dog, it turns out.

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

The man could not look me in the eye.    

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

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

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

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

Fancy Time Management

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

I suck.

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

And 43 days went by.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, why not?

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

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