Tuesday, 12 June 2012

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?

Friday, 4 May 2012

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. 

Wednesday, 18 April 2012

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?