expat wife

Just the Usual Expat Hol in Paradise

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 8 Comments
A spot of beach art, where the other half (3/4? 7/8?) lives.

A spot of beach art, where the other half (3/4? 7/8?) lives.

Following my completes crappola Chrimbo (who would have thought it would’ve sucked so badly that morning when I was making my Expat Exmas Message, like Her Maj?), we are now on our fabulous holiday in Boracay. Boragrad, if you must know, babeses, LOL.

Another top-notch hotelee por supesto, to wind away all the stresses and strains of my equally fabulous life. That said, even with the kids’ club, I’m rather wishing we’d brought the help along. I had forgotten the full horror of the tedium that bath and bedtime can be with Max and Mills. I am having to do it myself!! And I don’t mean supervising! So, after a full day of lounging in the sun, and attending to my rigorous health and beauty regime at the gym and spa, I then get myself all worked up on the few evenings we don’t hire a sitter, thanks to the irritants. Well happy bleeping holidays to me! Don, as always, said that bringing the helper was “unconscionable”, and that holidays should be just the family. Hmmmmm. This means that I don’t really have a holiday!! Which leads me to conclude that:

Paradise – Help = Almost Hell

Gandhi said something very similar when he observed that, “Interdependence is and ought to be as much the ideal of man as”… I’ve lost the rest of the quote, but the skinny is that it’s totes ideal for me to depend on my helper because she depends on us for her livelihood; and it’s totes reasonable for me to have a bit of a sh** hol without her.

As if things weren’t bad enough, guess, dear readers, who is here. One of my all-time least favourite members of the Singapore Expaterati: Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey. Ugh-amundo. I know you feel my pain.

On our very first day here, I noticed Mills in the pool, playing with another little girl who looked vaguely familiar. Returning my attention to my iPad edition of Vogue, I heard a kerfuffle from the pool, as an adult waded in – yes, D & G Wifey – telling Milly to stop pulling the other girl’s hair. Oh Lordy, Mills! Being the responsible parent that I am, I had no choice but to put down my iPad, and dive elegantly into the pool, to pretend to reprimand Milly. Poor kid. The other little girl, Janine, has obviously inherited her mother’s dour looks and tote lack of humour, so I’m sure she got nothing more than she deserved, but what else could I do??

Once I’d forced Mills into a half-arsed apology, I then had to make polite conversation with D & G: how lovely to bump into you, what a coincidence (yeah, right), how’s your hol, are you having a good time, ra ra ra.

She was apparently gagging for someone to talk to, because she launched straight into her standard doom and gloom diatribe. I noted from her lack of woven resort bag (only available to the upper echelons) that she must not be staying in one of the villas. Probably in the main cell block. In the timeless words of Beyoncé, “Sucks to be you right nooooow”. Wise woman, that Queen Bee.

“Oh, I suppose I’m having a good time…” she began, her dull preamble warning of so much worseness ahead.

“I wanted to go home for Christmas, or maybe skiing, but Fred’s PA couldn’t take much time off, so Fred decided we’d better not go too far away. And they’re flying back before me and the kids anyway.”

“But, babes”, I told her, “Skiing is just so wet and cold, and accidenty. And England is totes miz right now, with the yucky climate, and all that economy stuff… still… I think… Here we’ve got the beautiful relaxing beach, and the lovely weather… Um, apart from the whole tropical storm thang, but that’ll pass”.

“Yeah, I know….,” she said, and for a moment I thought she might shut up, so that I could dash back to my sun bed. Alas, alack, and mega-bummer, I was profoundly mistaken. She went on.

“It’s just that we’ve been on so many of these trips: Bali, Langkawi, Krabi, Koh Samui, Yogyakarta, Hoi An…”, she continued, as I switched off and admired how smooth my freshly waxed Brazilian was looking.

“Bla bla bla, fa ba na noo fa bla, and at this point, the whole of Southeast Asia has just merged into one big blur of white sand, palm trees, and resorts. When I look back over the years, I can barely distinguish one holiday from the next. How sad is that?!”

I re-engaged with her bla when I noticed that the gel nail on my thumb was lifting, and much as I loathe nail-biting, I found myself gnawing at it.

“And what really gets me is”, she droned on, “I’m getting so tired of being the well-off Westerner, surrounded by locals calling me Ma’am, who bow and scrape in the name of good customer service. I can’t relax when I know that the people around me are so much worse off. It’s the inequality of it all! What does it teach our children?”

[OH GOD, kill me!! JUST KILL ME NOW!!!, I thought prettily.]

“And Thailand! Just awful. We were there last year for Christmas, and I heard such incredibly devastating stories about the tsunami. Whole families, wiped out. Babies, children. I thought, how can I sit on this idyllic beach, knowing what happened right here, just a few years ago? Horrendous.”

I tasted thick saltiness, and looked down at my thumb to find that it was bleeding. The woman was boring me so much that I had actually started to bite off my own hand. Enough was enough.

“Darling sweetie babes”, I managed to say, following a quick check-in with my higher power, “The fact is that without us well-off whities coming and spending our spondooli, these nice people wouldn’t even have jobs. We’re doing them a favour! The least we can do is have a good time, honey. Don’t we owe them that much?!”

I hoped that my impassioned words might turn the situation around, but she got her mouth straight back in there: “That’s a ridiculous argument! The fact is that our spondooli, as you call it, is because of disproportionate salaries, earned through the exploitation of people just like the ones working in this hotel, borne out of their disadvantage and our good fortune. We did nothing to deserve this, any more than they deserve the poverty they come from!”

O
EM
GEE

I found, then, that I was sucking my (half-eaten, bloody) thumb – something I haven’t done since childhood. Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey woman, I shouted silently in my head, it’s only Day One, and you have RUINED my holiday.

Gott sei dank, D & G’s helper suddenly appeared from nowhere, saying, “Ma’am, I am the one to take Janine for her nap?”

D & G nodded, “Yes please, Reyann”.

“Well, that’s lovely anyway!”, I chipped in, determined now to either lift this bleeping woman’s mood or get the bejesus away from her.

“At least you have the help with you!! Lucky old you, babes! Don never wants to do that, and frankly it’s a nightmare come truesome!”

“You say that”, (oh ffs, despite my awesome adorableness of niceness, she was finding a way to persist), “but the thing is that I knew she would have a better Christmas here with us than lonely in Singapore, while all her friends are working, or if we sent her home to her family. When she goes home, she comes back a stone lighter, and completely exhausted. Do you know what she does when she has a holiday at home?”

It was patently clear that I didn’t give a rat’s bottom, but evidently the woman has none of my empathic or intuitive skills when it comes to observing the responses of others. Instead of noticing that I was desperate to get back to Vogue, she…

Kept.

On.

Talking.

“She works on the family farm! For fifteen hours a day, every day! Can you believe that?! And not only that -”

While she was talking, her husband’s PA sauntered over, a vision in white linen.

“Mrs Davis,” he murmured – golly, such a treacle voice for a man! how divine!!, “Mr Davis asked me to tell you that he and I unfortunately have work to do, and will be gone for some time. He’s so sorry. He booked you a few treatments at the spa, and I’m awfully sorry I didn’t let you know earlier, because the first appointment is in five minutes. There’s a buggy waiting for you at the lobby. You should probably hurry. Have a great time!”

And with that, the delightful cloud of a man floated away on the honeyed gusts of his own voice.

What a charming chappie, I thought, and how fortuitous that:

A. D & G’s sweet husband had booked her a pile of fab treatments,

and

2.) She was gone, and I wouldn’t have to listen to her hideous whining any longer.

 

I got back to my Vogue, but promptly fell asleep. I must have been plain plum tuckered by that woman’s chi. Assaulted, I would say. I have had to do a veritable sh**load of chanting since then to cleanse myself.

Singapore Expat Hottie Wins TV Show

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 3 Comments

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Last night I was watching this awesomeness show on Starworld that I’ve been following avidly from the treadmill every week. Starworld is the only channel I watch since finding out that it delivers “the best entertainment solution to trend setters and story seekers of Asia”. (Until I start vlogging, babeses!!!) When I read that, I thought, LOLs yeah whatevs peeps; but then I started watching it and OMG, it’s totes truesome!

The show is called Fit for Fashion, and the final had me on the edge of my seat. It was about a bunch of peeps around Asia getting their fit on over four months, and having their looks and attitudes transformed to become hotties, inside and out. And they so did that! The final three contestants, Kristina, Matty and Citira (the expat wife, yay us!!) were not only hotties by the end, but they were mega-athletic, like serioso hard-core! They had to do a race where they ran around and did super difficult stuff, turning a mahusiv tyre over and over again, and running across a rickety floating bridge, carrying buckets of water.

I thought Citira was a-goner when she fell off the bridge, but she kept going, telling herself: “Brush it off”, “Kick it into gear”, and “Like a ninja, like a ninja, like a ninja”. She would probably be almost as good at life coaching as I would, with catch phrases like that. I should get my peeps to call her peeps to discuss teaming up.

So, she made it to the final challenge, the catwalk at KL Fashion Week. “I’m gonna own that runway!”, she said, and she totes did. In her words, she looked “amazeballs” (she even talks a bit like me!! Luv ya, babes!).

Photo credit: Fitness First

Photo credit: Fitness First

I was so happy for her, and not at all jealous of her fabbo biceps, or the fact she got to hang out with Dame Zandra Rhodes. I’m her biggest fan. She’s my hairoine!! (Except her hair colour is clearly fake, whereas mine is more natural-looking.)

Photo credit: Fitness First

Photo credit: Fitness First

What was so mucho moving was when Citira said how far she has come, and that a year ago, she was a normal mum, and “it wasn’t about me anymore”. Tell me about it, expat sista! I feel your pain!!

She said she had lost her dreams and her self-esteem, but now she had “got it all back”. I could so relate! I’m defo going to be on Season Two next year. I could win that thing! I’d look “amazeballs” on the catwalk too!!

While I’m waiting to be asked to take part, I’m going to do the free Fitness First trial. So sweet of those nice gym peeps to do that. Maybe when the celebrity trainer and Fitness First big guy, Mitch Chilson, finds out about me, he’ll be my personal trainer. These people know how important it is to nurture new talent.

Bikini Party, Babeses!

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 9 Comments

Hotness

O
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GEE, peeps!
I had the MOST amazebobs Thursday, when I went to this seminaked competition at a totes coolio groovalicious clothes shop on Orchard Road. Guess who won, babeses… Yes, moi!!! YAY!!!!!!!!

99 other people also won, but given that there are 5.47 million bods in Singapore who are perfectly capable of wearing bikinis, I think I can safely say: NAILED IT!!!

Hells-ya, I did!!

It wasn’t that easy, actually. I had to get up at ridic o’clock to arrive by 7 AM (I’m only a five minute walk away, but I had to straighten and pouffe my hair.) I chatted to lovelies in the queue, made some new besties (super fun buff gay guys, and finally, more local friendsies!!), and suddenly it was time for the shop doors to open. Then we had to run round in our tinies, choosing clothes. The choosing bit was almost as tricky as getting up before 9 AM! Their clothes are so me, and I looked incrediblé hot in literally everything I tried on. Literally. Totes literalmenté.

New local gal pal

New local gal pal

Anyhoo, I eventually chose something fab, and fought my way through the paps clamouring for my attention (maybe I should become a celebrity instead of a child psychologist, writer, historian and life coach), to the exit. One of my new gay BFFs, CJ, was standing outside looking awesome, and he said, “Like, let’s grab some lunch, bitch!”, and I said, “Like, totes let’s, bitch!”

So, like, we did! And his besties came too. We went to PS Café Ann Siang Hill which is my new fave hangout. CJ is hilarious! I had the best time, just chatting, chilling, and drinking rosé and berries sangria. Then I checked my ludicrously expensive watch – I was just admiring how it glints so nicely in certain light, not looking at the time – and saw it was 6 PM. OOOPSY. I had told the help I’d be home by midday.

While I was having sucho mucho fun times, Mummy’s flight landed. I think around 9.30. Annoying timing, Mutha! I did tell her to change it because Singapore Air is never late, but she said she didn’t want to “go to all that bother”. (Selfish.)

It wasn’t a major inconvenience though because the helper got the bus to Changi, with a sweet sign the children made: “GLAMMY GAMMY” in big letters, so that Mummy would recognise her.

Once I realised how late it was, I gave my new GBFF lots of air kisses and dashed off home. I tried to think of a good excuse for my absence, but then I thought WHAT?? I’m not a kid anymore! Just because Mummy flew 5,000 miles to see me, it doesn’t mean I need to curtail my sosh activities from a prior engagement. Plus CJ knows TV people, so that’s my career we’re talking about.

Besides she’s really coming to see the kids, and they were home before I was, so no prob.

I walked into the house, expecting to find jet-lagged Mummy reclining on a chaise longue in the downstairs front living room, but instead I was greeted by the sound of raucous laughter from the upstairs rear living room. From Mummy, and, get this, the help!! What now, now?!

So, there was my mother with her G & T and chamomile tea chaser, Max playing Minecraft, and Mills asleep on the Froofster (who looked too traumatised to move), while the helper laughed uncontrollably at whatever stupid thing Mummy had just said. Thankfully, I was so overjoyed to see Mummy after such a long time that I was able to ignore the gigantic boundary transgression which was happening under my own roof. I thought she understood about not fraternising with the help!! She had thousands of staff in her expat days.

The helper disappeared as soon as I arrived, looking embarrassed, and off she went to wash the car and clean the shoes. Too right!

I had a lovely catch-up with Mummy, hearing about her aqua aerobics gang and her online scrabble shenanigans. Mega-LOLs. While we were trying to talk, Max and Milly kept interrupting, showing her their artwork and their Mandarin homework. Egotistical little irritants!!

I’m just happy that I’ve signed them up for an awesome speech and drama holiday camp during part of the break, so that they won’t completely monopolise Mummy’s limited time here. My Harvard friend who is some know-it-all about childhood development and stuff recommended it. She says it’s the best way for kids to learn, and this place is fab. Whatevs, sweets. If they’ll take the irrits off my hands for a few days, let’s do this thang, babeses.

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P.S. (not the café lol) As you know, I’m never one to blow my own trumpet. I just wanted to let you know that I made the national paper here. I’m a page three girl! Go me!!!

From yesterday's The New Paper : )

From yesterday’s The New Paper : )

More hotness

More hotness

Wuzgunna Men

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 5 Comments

So, Don is not a perfect husband (especially with this new-found stinginess, and the mysterious lube incident), but I would like to tell you a little about an important boxee he ticked when it came to not marrying a man like my father.

I had a Wuzgunna father. Everything he never did for me was what he wuzgunna do.

He wuzgunna take me to the zoo.
He wuzgunna buy me an ice cream.
He wuzgunna help me with my maths homework.
He wuzgunna invite my first boyfriend round to vet him.
He wuzgunna ask his old boys network if I could do a mini-pupillage at any of their law firms (which didn’t happen, so I decided not to go down the barrister route).
He wuzgunna not be away for my birthdays. Every year he wuzgunna do that, until I boarded, and then he still wuzgunna, but had a better excuse not-ta.

He wuzgunna be there when Mummy started her cancer treatment, and when my sister had the twins.

Their whole marriage, he wuzgunna be on time. But was he ever, Mummy?

He was, however, on time for all their appointments with the divorce lawyer, and on the day of his second wedding.

My “step mother” (oh please) is six years younger than me. Yes, six. She’s a retired professional gymnast, and an ex-Miss Australia (vom). When my father exchanged work for golf, they moved to Australia. Mummy went back to England, after 40 years as an expat.

My father and Chantelle (or Chantilly, as he calls her, pronounced Shont-i-lee double vom vom) live in Noosa now, which I’ve heard is quite nice. They have invited us to come and stay, and I wuzgunna, but then I realised something: I totes don’t wanna.

So this, dear reader, is why I married Don. Don is a man of his word. If he says he’ll be home at 7 o’clock, he walks through the door at 6.55.

The fact remains though that Don is still a man. And Ladies, all men will, in the end, let you down. The higher your expectations, the further you will tumble. You can’t pin your hopes and dreams on these people, you know. Even the ones who aren’t Wuzgunnas eventually ain’t gunna. Trust me. The trick is not to care too much. (I should also think about becoming a couples counsellor. I could really help people work on their marriages because I understand the male psyche so well.)

I used to feel horribly upset and worried about Don running off with some bit of fluff, but now I have realised that, if that’s the foolish choice he makes, it would by no means be the end of me.

Anyway. I’ve decided to see Will tomorrow. The timing is perfect because Don leaves in the morning for Sydney. Not that there’s anything dodgy about meeting a friend for a drink, just because that friend happens to be a guy.

He got in touch last Saturday:

 

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So, he wants to drill me for WordPress tips because he has started writing a blog about fishing. Yawnicus! I’m happy to share my expertise with him though. (Wish I understood this “SEO” thing! Blogger-luvvies, what’s all that about?? HELP!!) Hopefully he just wants to know my expertise about the basics.

I also agreed to see him because I want some support with my project this Friday. I could do with a man’s input on my important feminist mission. Since missing the deadline to apply for Mrs Expat Singapore, I realised that this kind of objectification of women is simply unacceptable. I cannot, will not, stand idly by while women, be they members of the expaterati or otherwise, are ritually humiliated and commodified like this.

On a final note, I am totes luvvin the furore about Kim Kardashian’s humongous oily bits. Ridic!! You go, girlie! Personally I wouldn’t want to have such an unfeasibly large bottom because I would be afraid of toppling over, but if she likes it, and can stay upright unassisted, then well done her. More power to you, Mrs KWest! Luv ya, babes. When are you coming to visit us in Singapore??

I am not one to stand in judgement over others – that’s not my modus operandi – but anyone who disagrees with my perspective on KK is v silly, v insecure, and just mega bigtime wrong.

Friday Night De-Briefed

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 11 Comments

I’m still tired today, but I dragged myself out of bed to go to the new Lulu Lemon shop that has just opened at the Ion. So much yay!! I was gutted that I missed the big launch last Saturday, so I had to make sure to pay my respects asap.

But back to the Halloween Ebola fundraiser because I promised you I’d fill you in on that.

So, Michelle was drunk from the beginning. Honestly, it looked like she had vom’d all down her front, but that was actually part of her costume. It was v unfortunate because she was on meet and greet. Not a good look for a meeter or a greeter : (

Will, get this, came as… A hot Ebola doctor. Coincidence!! He wore a doctors jacket, but underneath all he had on was these haha:

IMG_1040

He pulled them off though (LOLs! NPI haha!!) because he’s a squash-player. Fabbo buns. Even if the right cheek is rather larger and more chiselled than the left.

He was really sweet because he could see I was under pressure, and not getting much support from my useless team of hags. He helped me out with the raffle, confidently wielding the mic to announce the winners. I’m not good at public speaking. I would like to work on it though because I’m hoping to start vlogging soon, so that I can go viral. Just writing doesn’t seem to be doing the trick; I don’t know why.

Once the party was winding up, I could finally relax, and pat myself on the back for a job well done. Michelle had passed out and their driver had to carry her to the car (not for the first time, I’m guessing!), so Will grabbed a bottle of Krug and two glasses from the bar, and we snuck up to the roof terrace. I didn’t even know that place had a terrace. We talked for a while about what a great success the party had been (btw, he had changed into a suit by that point haha), and then we got talking about our marriages. He and M have been married a lot longer than Don and I, and it was interesting – but quite sad – to hear how badly she treats him. By the sounds of it, he has given her everything a woman could want (they live in a black and white!), but he said that the more he has given her, the more distant and unpleasant she has become. I’ve never really thought about how hard it must be for a man to have a disappointing wife. You usually hear horror stories about the other way around: aloof/ philandering/ crappy husbands.

I told him a bit about Don, and how he’s really not interested in anything I have to say. He listened v attentively, and was super sympathetic. He didn’t diss Don though, which I thought was cool. He really seemed to get where I was coming from, and it was totes lovely to feel heard like that. He’s quite the conundrum because you’d think that someone in his line of work would be a bit of a C-word. Not at all though.

So we were getting along amazingly well (I’m pretty certain our souls know each other from a previous existence), and then his phone rang. It was Michelle. I could hear her ranting down the phone, telling him to “get your ass back home”. Classy, Michelle. Real classy. He said he had better go, “before she does something stupid” (what?), and told me his driver could drop me home en route.

On the way to his car, he said he had had a “wonderful evening”, and enjoyed spending time with such an “open, thoughtful, and beautiful lady”. Awwwwww : ) Then he said that all evening he had wanted to kiss me, but he didn’t want to make me feel uncomfortable. So I had to ask if he does this kind of thing all the time. He said no, never. Then his driver appeared.

And that, dear readers, was that. Don rang from Cape Town the next day. He didn’t even ask about how the party went. So why should I tell him??

I had better get ready for yoga now. It’ll take me a good half an hour to decide which of my new Lulu pieces to wear.

Awesome Fun-ness

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 1 Comment

I can’t write as much as I want to today because I am virtually on my knees from the mad social whirl of it all. This is such a busy time of year for the expaterati. It’s this period between Autumn (that’s Fall, Americans) break and Christmas when people aren’t travelling, and the “Social” section of my iCal is just bursting at the seams.

Hence my exhaustion and hurry! I went to an amazO brunch yesterday which lasted for 13 hours!! So I’m rather the worse for wear now, and have to dash off shortly to a pool party with Max and Milly. (OMG I haven’t told you that I resolved my stressful pool towel issue!! I ordered some from Orla Kiely in the UK. Awesomeness! More original and quirky than Lacoste, but still identifiable as premium designer goods by those in the know.)

Well, I say people aren’t travelling, but Don is, of course. Cape Town. So he missed my fabulous Halloween party. Which I KNOW you’re dying to hear about!! And I’m dying to tell you! But I’ve totes got to run, so I’ll give more deets mañana. Just a quickie highlights summary now.

So: I can quite comfortably say that the party was a ma-husive, unmitigated, rip-roaring success. Everyone said I did an amazing job. I got a ton of glowing feedback, and every time someone told me I was great, I did my really pretty Kate Middleton smile for them, and said that it was all down to my team. Bullshit of course. Those post-menopausal do-gooding hags were utterly f’ing useless. Especially Michelle.

The money we raised with the raffle surpassed my wildest fantasies. We had some lovely prizes which my team had extorted from their husbands. Canadian Cathy got us two nights in one of the Four Seasons at the Maldives worth $25,000 (flights and breakfast not included); American Amy donated a whole street of properties in Detroit, Michigan; and half-Lebanese Lana wangled first class flights with Emirates to Abu Dhabi. The ones with the onboard child-care! Whoop-whoop : )

After the raffle, we had this super interesting live interview with a guy in Sierra Leone who runs an Ebola call centre. I was able to tell him how much money we raised, and to reassure him that a vaccine is well on its way, thanks to me.

The best part of the night though was spending time with Will. More on that later, chaps!!

I <3 Feminism

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 5 Comments

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You may or may not be aware that I am a feminist. I have long been an active supporter of women’s causes across the globe, as well as a member of the Fawcett Society, on a rolling annual direct debit. That means I am definitely a feminist, fyi, should there be any unlikely doubt.

I think it’s awful that feminists are so often viewed as moustachioed man-haters, as this is not at all the case. I know some v beautiful feminists, many of whom opt for Brazilian waxing, and that’s ok, right? Of course it is! No one likes being hirsute down below.

I fully support a woman’s right not to have children (god knows, some days I wish I hadn’t!), as well as to choose when the best moment is, or is not. Let’s face it, there are far too many dangerous and stupid people born on this planet every day, and if it is women who ultimately control that, then we must do what we can to take a stand.

I also think that we sistas must not rely on men to take care of us. We must not let them steal our autonomy, and leave us for younger fools when we become post-menopausal angry old prunes. No!

The only reason I am not currently working is that I have to make sure the helper is looking after the children properly, while maintaining my figure and my spirit (for me) via a rigorous and time-consuming schedule of physical training, chanting, meditation, and socialising. Also, with Don’s job and the whole glass ceiling thing, he earns more than 99.99% of women in a similar role, and certainly more than I have ever made. So, you know, what’s the point??

Because of not currently working, I am hoping to join an amazing organisation here called AWARE. A friend of mine (who went to Harvard! Clever girl, you!! And gorgeous too, grrrrrrrr! So unfair!) says they do some v awesome work with women, and that there’s tons of interesting volunteer stuff going on with them (ok, I’m paraphrasing, but she went on and on about how great it is while I was trying to think of fun things to post on Twitter; I really need to raise my profile there).

The only prob is that I am SO busy, as I’ve already said. And a big part of that is educating Milly in feminist principles, so maybe I am already doing my bit for The Cause. Does charity start at home? I dunno, maybe. I am teaching her to stand up to Max and Don, like I do. Perhaps kicking Froo Froo Dog is a form of positive self-assertion practice. Mills certainly is v assertive, on that front.

The Froofster is still mumbling to herself in dark corners, but if it’s all for the good of developing Milly’s sense of autonomy, then the dog’s sanity is, I suppose, a small price to pay. I do feel sorry for her though. I just love that dog. Hard choices! This life is full of them : (

Argh, that feels like a bit of a disempowered downer note to end on, and that’s just not me. So, I want to add a new thought I have had before saying ciao-ciao (is it still cool to speak Italian?).

Alora:
Having discovered that I missed the deadline for Mrs Expat Singapore, I realised that I am entirely against this kind of grotesque objectification of women. I will not have it, dear reader. So, with The Cause firmly in heart and mind, I am planning a demonstration to protest against it. The time slot clashes with lovely Vikram’s yoga class at the Hyatt, but I will just have to make that sacrifice.

¡Hasta la semana proxima, Vikram! It’s always cool to speak Spanish : )

Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 5 Comments

This morning I was at the Forum getting my nails done, and I struck up a conversation with the woman next to me. Actually, she struck up a conversation with me, to ask if she could borrow my iphone charger, but anyway. (Ahem, who goes out without a charger?!)

As it turned out, this woman was all doom and gloom about being an expat. Excuse me?! She pretentiously called herself a “reluctant expat”, saying that it was her husband’s idea and she had only agreed to come as a short-term compromise. She was saying that she finds this life un-grounding (what does that even mean?! Who cares about feeling grounded when there are all these exciting new places to go and people to meet?), and not only that, but that she thinks it isn’t the healthiest way for children to grow up. Bizarre. Why would anyone not want their housing paid for, as well as the private schooling for the kids (which would cost an abso bomb at home), and to be able to dash off to Bali at the drop of a hat?? She said they’re not on that kind of package though, and that lots of people aren’t these days. Argh! What a miserable woman, I thought, and I was totes relieved when her nails were dry, her Havaianas back on, and she left.

After that, I had pilates, and then I met up with Michelle for lunch. I love her! She is a major LOLs lady. Champagne and oysters : ) Now there’s a woman who knows how to have fun (and without too many calories). Next we went to a friend’s photography exhibition, and for cocktails with some other ladies, and for dinner and drinks at Marina Bay. Thank goodness we have a helper to put the kids to bed! I can barely type, I’m so tired now. I think I might have to cancel my meditation session in the morning. I am extremely dedicated to my meditation practice (I’ve been doing it for years, and I’m also a committed yogi), but it does get kind of samey.

Some great tunes tonight at the bar in Marina Bay. I’m thinking of adding a new page to this blog: DJ EJ. Likee : ) You can really get to know a person from their musical preferences. Maybe I’ll do that tomoz instead of going to meditation. Just skip it this once.

What You Should Know From the Get-Go

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 3 Comments

I will have you know this: I have worked extremely hard to get where I am today.

I worked hard at school, at university, and then as a solicitor in London. I have learned eight languages, written countless books and articles on many subjects including law, green juicing, child psychology, anti-ageing products and procedures (advertisers, contact me! Freebies accepted under duress LOL), and travel, of course (I’m all over Trip Advisor reviews, but under a nom de plume); and I am an accomplished poet. My poetry has been compared to Rumi by my most literate friends.

Surprisingly (I am still surprised now, all these years later), I did not sashay my way through my Law degree as everyone said I would. It was actually quite difficult, and required my full attention; which I gave it, once I got to the final year. After my LPC I went into criminal law, and let me tell you, I have met some real characters.

So now, here I am, after all those years of blood, sweat and tears. I am finally where I always wanted to be. I have reached my zenith.

I, dear reader, am an Expat Wife.

I am an expat wife, like my mother before me, her mother before her, and her mother before her. Her mother before her, I am really not sure about, but I think she did very little with her life.