The One Where I Confront the Lowlife Ho

swimming-pool-and-the-club-house

Today was the day of my glorious confrontation with the fanny-face who stole my husband.

I had it all planned out to the last destructive detail. I would find her, loudly tell her that I know all the sordid deets in the company of anyone present at her condo pool, and then show her on my laptop how I was going to ruin her life. Given that the assembled crowd would no doubt support me, they would most certainly volunteer to restrain her as I pressed “Public” to make the Liz-shaming website go live, and then proclaimed her adultery on every expat wives’ FB group on the island. I would be sure to get plenty of photos of her well-deserved distress, and also some selfies of her and moi, with very different expressions on our faces. Mine gleeful and triumphant. Hers, not so much. Possibly some belfies too, though because of my background in criminal law, I would stop short at actual assault. Only if the opportunity presented itself.

Thanks to my friendship with the helpful gentleman concierge at Liz’s condo, he texted me to confirm that she was indeed where she would normally be at 11 o’clock on a Thursday morning, sunning her vile self by the pool. I arrived at precisely 11.13 and the lovely chap showed me to a parking spot, before pointing me in the direction of the pool. Hers is one of those resort-like condos, with several large pools feeding into each other, flowing to a dramatic waterfall at the farthest end, and culminating in a secluded spa pool.

I sauntered surreptitiously across the pool area dotted with sun beds, many of which were occupied by the General Expaterati. Having located my target, I walked slowly and calmly towards her. My distinctive flaming locks hidden under a black balaclava, I was like a panther in the wild, preparing to take down my unsuspecting prey. I was only halfway to her when I realised that perhaps a balaclava in Singapore was not the most discreet choice because, as I reached inside my bag for the laptop, a woman shouted, “OMG, she’s got a gun!!”

People screamed. Everyone – and I mean everyone – turned to look at me. Fearing for my own life in that moment, I decided to cut my losses, jettison the element of surprise and proceed, as best I could, according to plan.

“Argh! LOL!!,” I said, projecting my voice throughout the condo and taking off the ill thought-out balaclava, “No, it’s cool! It’s not a gun. Just a laptop. And it’s only me under here… Little ole me!…”

Some looked back at their phones and iPads, but others continued to stare (I did look hot).

“I’m just… ummmmm… I’m just surprising a friend… for her birthday. Who doesn’t love birthday surprises?!”, I went on for good measure, then held my index finger up to my lips, “So please, babeses… Shhhhhhhhhhhh! Don’t want to ruin the surprise now, do we?”

It was too late though. Liz had seen me and began gathering her things to leave. In true Terminator fashion, I sprinted towards her then, with inhuman speed and fluid robotic movements. With the buildings behind me, she had nowhere to go for sanctuary. She dropped her stuff and made a dash for the pool, diving in and swimming away. Sheesh that woman can swim! I didn’t know quite what to do. I had to confront her with the laptop about my person, but how could I risk getting my beloved MacBook Air wet?! I lost quite a bit of time obtaining a dry sack from the on-lookers (I may have said that I was with the FBI and I needed to commandeer a dry sack… I don’t recall), but once I had, I waded into the pool fully dressed, and doggie-paddled (swimming not my thing – plays havoc with the hairdo so have never bothered with it) after the adulterous abscondee.

For several minutes there ensued a water chase of Hollywood proportions. I had garnered some support among the crowd (ah yes, I remember now that I did say I was with the FBI), so they helped me by preventing her from getting out of the pool when she reached one end. She then swan on, back the other way, and I pursued her. It was shallower near the waterfall side so I could run, my arms a-flail and my complex brain wishing I had paid more attention to my mother when she went on about aqua aerobics. Liz got to the waterfall. In a vicious and calculated move, she dived through it to the spa pool beyond. She must’ve known that I wouldn’t forsake my hair! Damn her, that wily ho!!

So there we were. Her, stuck in a walled jacuzzi and me, facing her through the waterfall.

“Listen, EJ!”, she shouted above the tumbling water, “I know why you’re here. But I haven’t seen Don for weeks. He’s been away, hasn’t he? He’s not answering my mails. So whatever you want to say, let’s just get out of the pool, tell these people you’re not with the FBI, have a chat, and then we can both go home, ok?”

What now, now??? I didn’t believe her, but I was very worried about the spray from the waterfall onto my hair and quite exhausted from my amphibian exertions.

“Alright”, I said, “Alright then. But one foul move and I’ll… I’ll…”

I couldn’t think of what to threaten, so I gave her my most evil stare and doggie-paddled back to the sun beds.

Once there I announced to the crowd, “People. The Bureau thanks you for your cooperation today. You will be rewarded in heaven, if not before. I now need to ask that you go about your business, and pay no heed to further developments.”

Mostly, people did as I asked. I should think about working for the FBI for real. I’m obviously pretty good at it.

Liz started speaking.

“Honestly, I swear to you, it’s over. The last time I saw him was July 7th. And that’s when he freaked out on me. He said it was all getting too serious, too much… Not to me it wasn’t, it was just one of those things. Why would I want anything serious with someone else’s husband? I’ve already got that with my own. Sorry, but I’m just trying to be honest…”

“Oh”, I said, “You’ve already got that! So you take my husband and do all that grotesque swinging business, but you’ve already got it!!”

“Well yes, exactly! I’ve already got all the serious stuff, so for Don to start thinking what we had was serious… No no nooooo! I didn’t know what he was talking about at first. He told me he couldn’t ‘go there again’. He said he’d been in touch with an old friend who knows him better than anyone else and she had made him realise that he was just repeating the past… trying to get back what he’d had with her, but now he knows that’s not possible. He seemed really shaken up. Not his usual self. Then he left, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

As you can imagine, dear readers, I was #baffed. I couldn’t see why this cornered woman would lie to me so late in the game, but how could I believe anything that came out of her mouth? Super annoying because it really messed with my plans.

“EJ”, she continued, “I know you don’t trust me. And I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t trust me either. But I promise you I’m telling the truth. And it’s probably not my place to say this, but he really does love you. He must’ve realised, as our relationship got out of control for him, that what he has with you is far more important… More meaningful… And I guess he doesn’t want to lose that. Truly, what happened between Don and I – it wasn’t about you. Just another journey, you know? We all have our journeys. We can only go where they take us.”

I thought about opening the laptop and revealing my plans for her social demise that I’ve worked v hard on, but I felt so confused that I froze.

“If you tell Don that I have been here today, I will make your life a LIVING HELL“, I hissed, convincingly hiding my confusion and turning to go.

“Oh EJ”, she called out and I swung around to see that she was sneering at me, “There is one other possibility of course. I could be wrong that he loves you. Maybe it’s just that he’s met someone else.”

With that, I made my way back to the car park. Somewhat bedraggled, but still exceedingly glamorous.

 

 

 

 

Birthday shout-out to my P-Dubs Expaterati Girlie whose actual birthday it actually is!! See you at the Ed Festie 2016! I could do with some laughter right about now…

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Rest & Relaxation from Revenge & Relocation

The world was my oyster, not so long ago...

The world was my oyster, not so long ago…

Last night I went to find some respite from the incrediblé stresses of revenge and relocation. Some R & R from R & R, har-dee-har. Lots of my Expaterati girlies were there, except the ones who’ve abandoned ship for the summer. It was Ladies’ Night at the Oyster Bar, Collyer Quay, with an ocean of free-flowing bubbly. A word to the wise though: if you want to eat like a expat wife as well as drink like an expat wife, bring your own greens to this joint. It totes ticks the high-protein box, but for vegetables to compensate for the drink-age, I suggest you BYO. Or order rocket (for the love of god, make sure they put the dressing on the side!).

Super fun times were had by all, and everyone, particularly yours truly, looked serioso hot. It’s impressive that I can maintain such high levels of hotness, despite the trying circumstances under which I currently labour.

I had hoped Liz might be there so that I could put laxatives in her drink, but no such luck. Instead I decided to just have an awesome time, and not let bitter thoughts enter my beautiful complex brain.

As the hours wore on though, I was chatting to Flo, and I found myself thinking about what’s happening in my life. The fatigue of a long day must’ve loosened my tongue because I told her about Don’s affair and how shocked I was to discover the emails between him and Clara.

“I just can’t believe it, Flo!”, I sobbed, my emotions getting the better of me, “How could he do this to me? And with that woman? What’s she got that I haven’t??”

I expected Flo, as one of my closest expat BFFs, to offer some support. I was sorely mistaken.

“Don’t be so naive, Eeeej! Everyone’s at it!! Come on, even you! I do read your blog sometimes you know, and I recall a not entirely innocent thang you had going with Michelle’s husband last year… Then there’s Seth of course, with his ridiculous hair! What’s that about?? You’ve decided to go back to the same yoga class as him, I notice…”

“What?! Seth is just a friend. A very nice man who has very nice hair, I’ll have you know. The photo just doesn’t do it justice… Anyway… What do you mean, everyone’s at it?! No they aren’t!”

“Oh please! Look around!!”, she said, pointing at women in the assembled crowd, “See her over there? At it. And see her? At it. And then there’s her, of course. At it, but it’s pretty obvious from that outfit. And her. And her. And her.”

“No, Flo, no, Flo, NO! I don’t believe you.”

“Believe it, sweets. We have our own Facebook group. You won’t be able to find it because it’s secret, but I’ll add you if you want.”

WE?? You mean you too?!”

Flo seemed exasperated.

“EJ. How long have you been an expat for? Yet you act like you’re fresh off the boat! Of course me too. You’ve met him tons of times. My personal trainer. I got lucky there. Not gay and not married, so none of those annoying complications. A rare combination on these shores.”

There was a crashing sound from a distant table, glasses shattering. Young bankers, no doubt. So absorbed with swiping right on Tinder that they’ve lost all other hand-eye coordination.

I looked out towards the bay. Such an orderly view of exciting bright lights.

Revenge Phase Three: Don (Need your help with this…)

Since my twofold betrayal, I have come to realise that I have few truly trusted confidantes other than you, dear readers. Because you are so precious to me, and I value your opinions, I would like your input for Revenge Phase Three: Don.

I have therefore thusly come up with a list of possible ways in which to proceed. Do feel free to add your own ideas. I need a few more, but I’m so busy with all this revenge and relocation business that it’s hard to focus on anything properly. At least tonight I’m taking some time out to hang with my girlies. Oyster Bar Ladies’ Night, yeehaaaaaa!! Hope to see some of you there, babeses!

 

Revenge Phase Two: Liz

Babeses. With cases of marital betrayal, like the one in which I am currently embroiled, it is patently clear that the underlying cause is the Other Woman. Men, as we know, are simple creatures. Easily led. Easily hunted down, and captured by these determined sluts. They can’t help themselves. It’s as if one whiff of slut juice, and they’re hooked, like toothless crackheads desperately seeking out their next disgusting fix.

The fact with these women is that it is them are the problem. Women, as the fairer sex, are supposed to be better than this. Knowing that men are ultimately vulnerable beings – as they know particularly well in some countries where women conceal their overly-tempting attributes such as elbows – we women have a duty to protect men from their own stupidity. Yet these Other Women, so selfish and so foolish, forget their duties as females. In doing so, what they fail to realise is that the quicker their juices have ensnared the fool, all the more quickly will he find another pestilent goblet from whence to sup.

For the next part of my revenge campaign, I am focussing most intensely upon Liz. This is mainly her fault, after all, not Don’s. The attack will be two-pronged, as follows.

 

Online:
I have set up a site providing detailed information about her, including photos (all of which I took from social media, and her LinkedIn profile), and about her exploits with my husband. I am also using the photos from Don’s iCloud that I found in February, but I will do some blurring as I do not wish to taint any innocent eyes which may accidentally fall upon the site due to my excellent SEO skills. I have taken a teensy bit of artistic license with the written content, and used my amazebobs Photoshop skills to further enhance her awfulness.

The site is all ready to go. All I need to do, at a time of my choosing, is change the visibility settings from private to public, and watch the hits roll in.

I will initiate a hashtag on Twitter and Instagram (maybe Pinterest too), to further spread the word. Name suggestions for this hashtag are currently being considered, should you wish to contribute your ideas, dear readers, such as #pestilentfannyLiz, and so on. Please submit your contributions via the comments on this page. ThanQ.

In addition to this project, I will post the following message and a nice clear photo of Liz on all the expat wives’ FB groups in Singapore, instantly accessing many thousands of women – some of whom are in possession of great vitriole, in need of an object.

This woman, Elizabeth Genoir, is an adulteress. I know this because she is screwing my husband, and has very probably screwed yours too. Expat wives of Singapore, I urge you to do your worst.

I will include a link to the Liz-shaming site. Thereby thusly, I shall whip up an army of enraged piranhas who will chew her to pieces within a matter of hours.

 

At her abode:
I have had words with the concierge at her condo (cash may have changed hands, but I can neither confirm nor deny this). He has assured me that he feels my pain, is very much empathically aligned with my wronged position, and will do everything he can to make her home life as miserable as possible. Things will mysteriously begin going wrong for her, transforming her into a haggard shadow of her former self.

The helpful gentleman is also tracking her movements, so that he can let me know at what times I am most likely to find her. This is because part B of Phase Two is confronting her at the condo, during a moment when there are as many people around as possible to witness her disgrace. I’m thinking by the pool perhaps. I will then tell her about my upcoming online activities, in preparation for the launch.

 

So they were all business trips, huh Don?

So they were all business trips, huh Don?

 


 

So that’s Phase Two. Do tell me if my plans aren’t brutal enough. I do have rather a lot on my plate at the mo. As if taking revenge wasn’t sufficiently burdensome, I am also having to deal with the minutiae of the upcoming relocation. At least it’s forcing me to look through our stuff and sell anything of value. Max didn’t need such an expensive bike anyway, and I’ve said it was stolen though that’s impossibly unbelievable in Singapore. Don believed me, but only because he wan’t really listening – he’s even more preoccupied than ever right now.

My step-sister Angel is also preparing for departure, to go back to her mother in Australia. Chantelle appears to have sorted herself out, with the help of a bizarre-sounding cult, and accepted that my father doesn’t give a sh** about her and never did, even before the dementia kicked in. The irritants will miss Angel, but it doesn’t matter because children are so resilient and forgetful. I won’t’ miss the waif at all. She was so unforgivably rude to me at Max’s birthday party. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

No news from Clara yet as to the ruination of her beloved career. I’m in no hurry though. As I have previously said, revenge is a dish best served cold.

 

 

Revenge Phase One: Clara

Apart from all the bad stuff (of which I can’t even think of offhand right now, so it can’t be that bad), the Internet is by far the bestest thing to have happened to humanity everrrrrr. One of the things I totes <3 about it is how easy it is to find people. Isn’t it great? People put everything online! We just throw ourselves up there, which is a wonderful illustration of mankind’s generosity of spirit. What’s awesome as well is that, if someone has a really distinctive name, it’s even easier to find them, without needing to know anything about their life.

Take, for example, the name Chilly Mallone. That’s a very unusual name, right? Right, babeses. It’s the sort of name that one can remember, over the rolling waves of years. I have remembered that name.

One Friday evening in June, about 12 years ago, I hooked up with Clara for drinks after work. We met in the City because that was the most convenient for me and Clara knows how I feel about taking the tube for more than a few stops, especially in the summer when it’s sweltering down there (why can’t the tube be more like Singapore’s MRT? Can it be so very difficult to just scrap the whole thing and start again??), and quite extraordinarily odiferous. She arrived uncharacteristically late and flustered, so I was already on my third wine. Not sure what I was doing… These days I’d be ploughing through the Facebook newsfeed, but then… Who knows?! Sudoku maybe? Wtf did we do with our time back then??

She plonked a bundle of files onto the table just as I was lifting my glass, and therefore thusly a collision was caused wherein my drink toppled over, and wine poured hither and thither. In an effort to save her bundle from wetness, she clumsily grabbed the files, sending pages cascading onto the floor. She didn’t apologise for spilling my drink, nor did she thank me for helping her to pick up her stuff. Looking back, I should have seen her true nature then. The trouble is my own caring, positive qualities – always preferring to see the good in others. As I gave her what I had collected from the floor, I happened to see a page of case notes, with the header “Chilly Mallone, Age 7”.

“Golly”, I said, “What an unusual name! Is that one of your patients?”

“Emma-Jane, please just give me that. You know I don’t disclose information about my work”, came Clara’s reply. She has always been so very precious about Her Work.

“Yeah sure cool, chillax babe. I know you don’t. All’s I was saying is that Chilly Mallone is like a pretty funny name. But you must see some pretty funny kids, I guess, at that clinic. I don’t know why you never tell me anything. I might be able to help with some ideas. I’m awesome at keeping secrets.”

“Funny? Funny?! Is that what you think?! There is absolutely nothing funny about children with emotional and behavioural difficulties caused by horrendously traumatic experiences that you can’t even begin to imagine.”

I must’ve looked very hurt indeed by this insult to my powers of imagination because Clara softened, saying, “Look, it’s been a long, stressful week, and I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. There was a bit of an emergency. But I’m here now, so let’s just have a chat… talk about something other than work. How are your wedding plans coming along? Did you get the venue you wanted?”

I had managed to book the fabulous exclusive venue that very day, for 13 months’ time, and as she was clearly so interested, we spent the rest of the evening talking about my wedding, my dress, the eight bridesmaids’ dresses, the honeymoon, and of course, my hen night. Clara was agog. Which, with hindsight, was a bit strange. Why would she have spent hours listening to me when I was preparing to marry the man she had so recently given up? Bizarro. It’s completely confounding that anyone would dedicate that much time listening to another person – even a person as fascinating as me – with no gain whatsoever to themselves.

So last week, while I was getting over the terrible shock of Email Gate, that evening in the City came back to me, bringing with it the name Chilly Mallone. It resounded in my beautiful brain, over and over, as if my subconsciosity was trying to send me a message. Then I realised what it was telling me. I hopped online to Google Chilly, and voila, there he was. Very easy for someone as resourceful as me. I contacted him to present him with a proposal. Offering him a large sum of money (I have started selling my valuables and am doing rather well), I suggested that he make allegations about Clara and a number of “inappropriate acts” with him when he was her patient. Chilly was a little reluctant at first (a little chilly in fact, mega-LOLs), so I offered him a larger sum and that resolved his ambivalence in my favour.

Now it’s just a matter of time before Clara gets suspended pending investigation. Where kids are involved, the UK authorities are normally pretty swift, and a witch hunt against a child psychotherapist is a cause that captures the proles’ hearts and minds, no doubt, even one with Clara’s untainted reputation. Moreso, in fact!

So that’s done. Next to Liz. I spent most of the weekend pondering Phase Two. I think I am nearly there.

Medea. There's a chick who knew what to do about betrayal.

Medea. There’s a chick who knew what to do about betrayal.

Expat Divorces Suck Too

broken-heart002
Having decided what to do about Clara (deets to follow, but suffice it to say for now that I’m going to take away the one thing she cares about: her work), I feel much calmer. My chi is returning to a more balanced state.

Don got back yesterday evening, so I decided to have an early night, thereby thusly avoiding the necessity of seeing him. I slept deeply, for the first time since this hell emerged on Sunday.

Awaking clear-headed today, I set about finding myself some support. The wise women of the Real Singapore Expat Wives FB group pointed me in the direction of a network for trailing spouses going through this awful awfulness, and so this morning I attended a meeting offering practical and emotional guidance. OMG there are a lot of us!! The room was full. I thought it was just my torment concluding that expat marriages suck, but it turns out that I am spot on.

The facilitator was very nice. She’s a therapist – but not a patronising hypocritical Clara-type therapist, I hasten to add – who has been in Singapore for yonks. She went through a messy expat divorce herself, so she (unlike Clara!) really knows her onions.

“Welcome, ladies… and gentlemen. Good to see you again and I see some new faces. I’m sorry to see you in a way, because it means you’re embarking on what’s likely to be a difficult journey… But I’m also glad that you made it here today, that you’ve reached out. So I’ll do my best to share with you what I’ve learned from my own difficult journey, and we are all here to support one another.Part of what makes this so hard at the beginning, I think, is the shock, and the torturing self-questioning, “How did this happen? How did I get here?”… We are rarely objective about intimate relationships, including marriage, so if things unravel, there can be a deep sense of shock and denial.Even in a good enough marriage, there may be days when we look at other people’s relationships, seeing theirs as better, and ours as lacking something by comparison. But the breakdowns and adultery that have brought us all together today can happen to anyone. We can’t control the people we love. And the point is, in a loving adult relationship, we don’t want to. We certainly don’t want to have to feel that we need to.”

She said that there’s a mounting body of evidence* to show that expat life plays havoc with existing marital problems and also creates new ones because of the strains put on the relationship.

She talked about an article in the WSJ Expat blog, quoting it to say how some people approach the decision to move abroad when their marriage is facing problems: “To have a totally new experience in a totally different culture – maybe this will turn us around and change the situation.”

Then when it goes wrong, also from that article, “If you live abroad and your relationship breaks apart, you lose much more than just the partner. It’s everything – because you went that far for him.”

How truesome!! We all agreed with that, and my heart totes went out to the other women (and the two guys, but less so). I thought my life was a mess, but some of these women are going through even worse stuff. Husbands telling them to leave the country even though it’s their home; or preventing them from leaving and imposing that everything, including what happens with the kids, is going to be on his terms; or that they won’t support the wife despite her having been out of the job market for years raising the children, and not being able to get a work permit here. Argh, the list goes on and on.

My head was spinning by the end of the session. It was a welcome relief when the facilitator told us her own story of how she made it through her divorce. She mentioned a writer called Martha Beck, and read out a section from a piece on recovering from heartbreak. I’m not really there yet, I guess, because I’m still figuring it all out. Like I said, I know what to do about Clara, but next on my list is Liz, the woman who has stolen my husband. Then, of course, there’s Don himself. That’s the hardest part.

Plus at the same time, I have to get my head around what I want to do. And what I actually can do. Hmmmmmm. Maybe that’s the hardest part.

Resources For Expat Trailing Spouses Facing Marital Breakdown

Groups:

Counsellors and Psychotherapists:

Legal Advice: 

Recommended Reading: 

Kennedy Chamorro, A. 2013, Own Your Financial Freedom: Money, Women, Marriage and DivorceMarshall Cavendish International (Asia) Pte Ltd, Singapore.


* Yvonne McNulty, associate faculty member at SIM University in Singapore, (2015) “Till stress do us part: the causes and consequences of expatriate divorce”, Journal of Global Mobility, Vol. 3 Iss: 2, pp.106 – 136
Found at: http://www.emeraldinsight.com/doi/pdfplus/10.1108/JGM-06-2014-0023

From the abstract: “Findings demonstrate that expatriate marriages end in divorce for two main reasons: first, a core issue in the marriage that exists before going abroad (e.g. alcoholism, mental health problems) and which continues while abroad; and second, when one or both spouses is negatively influenced by an expatriate culture to such an extent that a form of “group think” results in polarizing behavior that is counter to how they might behave “back home” (e.g. infidelity, sexual misconduct). The consequences of divorce for expatriates are immense and include bankruptcy, destitution, homelessness, depression, psychophysiological illness, alienation from children, and suicide.”

A Dish Best Served Cold

I woke up this morning feeling somewhat the worse for wear. To be precise, I woke up first at 3AM on a sun lounger on the roof terrace, clutching a bottle of Click and feeling like death; but once I re-awoke in bed a few hours later, I was merely the worse for wear. I think it’s the haze. Environmental pollutants do tend to affect my highly sensitive internal ecosystem. Most probably because of my elevated empathy quotient.

The stress I have been under these past few days seems to be taking its toll. I haven’t even been able to have a pedi – you should see my poor neglected toenails. I am having to wear Chanel espadrilles every day (sometimes last season’s for the sake of variation which is downright humiliating), despite the searing heat, to hide the woeful mayhem that lies beneath.

Because I can’t wear flip flops, and it takes that much more time and effort to put on actual shoes, I was a bit too late to see Max and Mills off on the bus to summer camp today. I therefore thusly deemed it a foregone conclusion to stay in bed, though I did make it to the window, opening the lovely Peranakan shutters almost in time to wave them off. They wouldn’t have noticed anyway, but at least I know that I did all I could to be an excellent mother under the present arduous circumstances.

I felt so down at the mouth and frownful (argh, must pull myself sufficiently together to book a Botox sesh ASAP) that I had to cancel Eva. I just couldn’t handle being yelled at in that trans-pan-Atlantic-continental-European accent she has. Some people love that sort of thing (I’m aware of that from a Japanese film studies course I once did), but for me right now, not so much. Thank Dios she let me off with just a text, and didn’t phone me back to shout motivational quotes at me like, “Do zumzing today zat your future zelf vill zank you for!”

I closed the shutters and tried to go back to sleep, in the hope that I might dream of the lovely flaming crown I encountered yesterday at yoga. Instead, my wakeful tormented mind offered up thread upon thread of emails between Don and Clara (my cousin who he apparently almost married!! Wtf?!), and Don and Liz (the lowdown husband-stealing C word he’s apparently leaving me for), each one more disgusting and daemonic than the last.

Around midday I gave up on sleep perchance to dream, babeses, and went downstairs for a lemon water and a green smoothie. Whilst perfecting the latter with a shot of something or other (which is fine because all the good stuff far outweighs the bad stuff cancer-wise, and that’s totes scientificated because I read about it on the Internet and why would anyone lie on the Internet?), I had the help run a bath, liberally tossing in essential oils of lavender, bergamot and lemongrass. Sending her back to her quarters, I sank my hot self into the fragrant bath, working hard to ignore the hell of my toenails which emerged all too often into view, and drank the green smoothie.

The next thing I knew, my phone was making that Skype ringtone sound. So distinctive, that tone! Well done them for making it so darn unique!! These tech companies are truly awesome. Fumbling for the phone, I observed that I was now in bed, wearing some of my most prized Agent Provocateur. I clicked to accept the call, and realised that the departing image my consciousness was replacing with reality was of Seth; his afro gleaming and his smile beaming.

Seth

Seth

“Hullo?”, I said, as elegantly as I could muster.

“EJ hi, it’s me, Clara.”

Upon hearing her voice, I felt organic kale, spinach, strawberries, red dragon fruit, chia seeds and other stuff rising up from my stomach, as if I was about to spew forth the bile of my rage. I paused though, thinking about Eva’s annoying quote.

“Oh hi, Clara babes, how nice to hear from you. What’s up? To what, precisely, do I owe the pleasure??”

(If I can’t mince my words now, when, dear readers, can I?!)

“How are you, love?”, came the vile traitor’s reply. Little does she know that her head will soon be metaphorically speared on a spike at the Tower, as far as I’m concerned.

“I’m great, sweets. You know, just doing my thang. Hanging with my girlies, racing around Singas in my soft-top. Brunching. Lunching. Shopping. Working out. Looking hot. And I’ve written another amazebobs rap to follow on from the first one. Expat rap is seriously scaleable, I’m told.”

“That’s good, love, I’m glad you’re doing fine”, the traitorous C replied. (When did she start calling me “love”?? Oh right, just now, silly moi.)

On she went: “I’ve been thinking that it might be helpful for you to consider how things will be if you’re coming back to England. There’s a very good chance of that, right? So I’m wondering how you can start the transition process now, for your sake, but also for the kids. I loved your post on having a rehab for expats, and actually I think you might need a bit of a rehabilitative intervention when… I mean if… you do come back.”

“Yes lah, honey, you’re SO right. As you always are, izn’t it??”

Clara of course didn’t appreciate my fabulous Singlish, but you know what: F her.

“If you mean schools and stuff, lah, it’s all gravy”, I said.

“My remote assistant in the Philippines has sorted that sh** out. Asian Tigers and the company relo peeps will fix everything else, so it’ll just happen like clockwork. Oh but wait… Hmmmm… Maybe you’re talking about my emotional transition. Yeah, I bet that’s what you mean. You just luuuuuurv talking about that stuff!”

“Yes, Emma-Jane”, replied the C, “That is what I’m talking about. You seem to be quite settled in Singapore, and I feel anxious about your readjustment when, I mean if, you come home. So I want to help, if I can. It may be a difficult time for you and the children. But I’m here for you. I want you to know that.”

“Yes, hon, it probably will be a difficult time”, I humoured her further, “Which is why I’m sooooo happy to know that you’ve got my back. Where would I be without you, huh?! Look, sweets, I gotta go. Stuff to do, peeps to see…”

“Of course, love, I’ll let you go. I know things must be hard for you right now, but this too will pass. You’re a strong person. You’ll find a way through this, whatever happens.”

Yeah, hashtag whatevs to you too, cousin Clara. Always pretending to give a crap when, behind it all, you’ve betrayed me as much as Don has. More, perhaps.

So you can cry me a river, you sad effing nut job pathetic excuse for a cousin.

Since the call, I haven’t had time to start looking for a lawyer. I’ve been way too busy thinking about what to do to Clara.

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No more Mister Nice Guy

Expat Marriages Suck, Part Three

or Phoenix From The Flame

In my confusion, this evening I at least managed to drag myself to yoga, the class that Seth goes to. (I think it might fit in with my schedule after all.) Whilst doing the Warrior Pose, I started thinking about all the horror and my arms began to shake and sink towards the floor. But then I felt strength, like a bolt of lightening, rising up from my feet, up through my shapely legs, and hips, and into my arms, until my whole body was glowing from the inside out. Vikram looked briefly alarmed, and asked if I was ok. Seth noticed too, of course, giving me a tiny gentle nod.

When the rest of the class moved on to the next pose, I said to Vikram that I’d like to stay in Warrior a while longer. By this point, the glow had risen to my head as well, and there it was: I found my missing thinking cap. And it was no meagre, flimsy thing. It was a crown of shimmering flames, calcinating my pain into ashes of realisation.

I knew then that I have to find a lawyer. I will ask the wise ladies on the Real Singapore Expat Wives Facebook group, and the Flying Solo group. The problem is the money as it’s not easy for me to get large sums under the radar from our joint account, but my crown offered immediate reassurance, telling me to sell whatever I can. That dampened my mood a little. It’ll be horrendous to say goodbye to my handbags and watches. Needs must, though. Needs must.

I got home tonight and am having some Veuve Click on the roof terrace. I’m fighting off the desire to Whatsapp Clara, but fight, I must. Given her obvious nefarious intent and shameful betrayal of my trust, she would of course tell Don that I know. I can’t let that happen before I have a plan in place. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of being an accessory to my assassination.

 
 

You are my cloak against the elements, dear babeses

You are my cloak against the elements, dear babeses

Expat Marriages Suck, Part Two

Frida would totes feel my pain

Frida would totes feel my pain

Since the nightmarish revelations of the weekend, that my husband is planning to leave me and the children for another woman, and that he and my ex-trusted cousin were an item back in the day, I am finding it difficult to proceed as per usuo with my glamorous life. Despite my amazing resilience and general upbeat attitude, I am feeling profoundly at a loss.

I have had numerous offerings of support and advice from you, dear readers, for which I am eternally grateful. One common thread seems to be that I should take Don to the cleaners and, rest assured, once I’ve got my thinking cap properly installed, I will do precisely that. He won’t know what’s hit him. Said thinking cap though seems not to be currently in my hat cupboard, or if it is, it’s hidden behind a bunch of other stuff where I can’t find it (damn the help! Surely it’s her job, not mine, to keep my storage systems arranged in an orderly fashion).

At least while I am looking for it, I have the element of surprise firmly on my side. As long as Don doesn’t know that I know, I have the upper hand. He left for HK on business yesterday morning (oh really? Are all these trips really business??), so it’s not that difficult to keep my thoughts from him.

The harder part is not contacting Clara to ask her wtf she has been playing at all these years – pretending to be such a supportive, holier-than-thou cousin. And her a psychotherapist!! Ha! So much for all her spewings on transparency and trust in relationships. Bloody hypocrite.

I shall endeavour to keep you updated with events as they unfold. Thank goodness for you, babeses, and thank goodness for WordPress and all things blogging.

Expat Marriages Suck

As is my wont, I had a pretty fabulous weekend. On Friday night we went with our Expaterati gang, boyses and girlses, to Potato Head to catch some awesome reggae grooves on their roof terrace. Afterwards the more staminatic among us, moi included of course (but not Don and a few others), dashed to Zouk for further party-age.

Saturday, I had a lovely long chillax at home, followed by a massage and some detox reflexology. Then Eva kicked my butt into shape before my hair appointment, and later I hit the town again, starting at the Tippling Club for a gorgeous meal with my girlies. (Don had work to do, so he stayed at home.)

Yesterday we had a repeat of an average Sunday avo hanging with my Expaterati crew at the Tanjong Beach Club. I returned home early evening, tired but happy, to find Don staring into his laptop, his face lit up by the glow of the screen in the dark living room. He didn’t see me.

Just as I was heading to the kitchen to make a green smoothie with vodka, there was a blood-curdling scream from the top of the house, and I watched Don running upstairs in nothing short of panic. “Max”, I thought, “But Don’s on it.”

Meandering past Don’s laptop, I happened to see Clara’s name on the screen in the form of an email. You will be shocked, dear readers, by what else I saw. Using my quick wits, I forwarded the email thread to myself, deleting the forward from Don’s sent box (I think).

So here is said thread, if you can bear to read it. I’ve switched the screenshots round for clarity, starting with Don’s mail. Sorry the text is a bit small – you may need to click on the images to get the full horror of it.

Don email

And this was Clara’s reply…

Clara email

 


 

After such a divine weekend, as I’m sure you will sympathise, this was not at all the Sunday evening I had hoped for. I didn’t mention anything to Don. I don’t know what to do. And as for that beep Clara, my cousin and trusted confidante all these years… She introduced Don and I, but both failed to mention that he was sloppy seconds.

Oh, and Max is fine. Just a little charred. Not even first degree burns really, despite what they said at Mount Elizabeth Hospital.

 

Happiest day of my life?! #whatevs & it's not like I've let myself go since then! But see how I am repaid for my hotness...

Happiest day of my life?! #whatevs
& it’s not like I’ve let myself go since then! But see how I am repaid for my hotness…


 

Expat Ex-Wife Flying Solo

1408995526zolbvDespite being the incredibly resilient woman that I am, I’m really feeling quite miserablé about the prospect of returning to the UK. There is a triumvirate (thanks again to M in India for that awesome word!) of reasonation for my woes.

Firstly, the weather. London, of course, has its own micro-climate which makes it that much nicer than the rest of the country, but it is still quite crappy compared to Singas. I can’t get my head around not just chucking on Chanel flip-flops every day as I sashay out the front door, dodging clamouring fans and tourists who want in on my glamorous life. (The lack of clamouring is also not so appealing, which makes me think we should move to a house with one of those lovely blue plaques from English Heritage. I suppose we could just get the plaque made ourselves. I’d quite like one that says Charles Dickens. That would be way cool.)

Secondly, but related to the weather, is the issue of snot-ridden children. As dear readers will know from previous posts , I cannot abide by snot, and like I have said before, Crouch End is positively awash with the stuff. If Max and Milly become one of those children, I don’t know how I am going to cope. I’m all for unconditional love of our irritants, but vile effluvia raises a v real obstacle to that IMO.

Thirdly, and this the the most worrying part of my dire situation: no live-in help! Never mind my ongoing quest for a second helper, at home they have these awful laws about minimum wage and how many hours a person can work which prevent us from having even one live-in. ARGH!! And yet I have two children to look after! It’s terribly unfair because it means that either I do literally nothing else besides irritant and home-related tasks, or I squeeze in other things such as a rewarding job, a social life (which would be a fraction of what it is here), and my gruelling health and beauty regime, in which case I will be perpetually exhausted. I certainly won’t have the time to continue sharing my glamorous life with you, beloved babeses, as I will barely find the time to have a glamorous life : (

I was thinking these thoughts today at the hairdressers, and before I knew what was up-ski, I felt a big sad tear running down my cheek. I must have looked truly tragic because the expat ladeee seated next to me took pity on me, handed me a tissue and asked if I was ok. She was super sweet and reminded me of Angelina Jolie, smiling beatifically as she goes about her charitable missions. It made me think that maybe I should abandon my Kate Middleton smile and channel Angelina instead. Because Angelina is also hot and has a hot hus, so perhaps that would be a good transition for me as part of the repatriation process. I could even switch to her hairdo. Make a fresh start. Become a new repat EJ through being Angelina-ish. Ya think??

The woman told me her name was Katie (LOL #weirdness!!), and said she’d be at the salon for a while, in case I needed someone to talk to. I guess I must have because I started telling her about my life as an expat, my marriage, and my dreadfully difficult predicament of now having to return home against my wishes. The words just tumbled out of me. I even told her about when I thought Don was having an affair, and that now I think he probably surely isn’t, but actually I only probably surely think that because he said I was being ridic.

Katie listened and smiled sadly, saying, “Something quite similar happened to me actually, with my ex-husband. He met another woman here, and said I should go home with the children. I was lucky though, much luckier than some, because my business was going well, and I had just managed to get my own Employment Pass. If I had still been on a Dependent Pass, I would have had no choice but to leave. Tim didn’t want the kids cramping his style with his new relationship, so he did everything he could to persuade me not to stay. It was hard. And hopefully your husband isn’t doing that, but it sounds like what you’re going through is very difficult.”

“It so is, babe!”, I said, “And I really appreciate that you get where I’m coming from. It’s just so hard to talk to my actual friends because, you know, we’re all mainly having an awesome time all the time. And if Don is having an affair, well, that’s just… that’s just… humiliating!! What does it say about me?? Where does it leave me..? What if this whole repat thing is about sending me and the kids home, and he’s secretly planning to do a u-turn and say we’re leaving, but he’s staying?…”

When I started crying again, Katie got up from the chair, her head full of foils, and gave me a hug.

“How did you do it? How did you cope with being so massively humiliated and so horribly dumped… cast aside, like a disgusting old piece of rubbish??”, I asked, sobbing elegantly into her neck.

She gave me another tissue and sat back down, pulling her chair and the head-heater thingie closer to me.

“You will be ok, whatever happens, and you just have to believe that. If he is seeing this other woman – Liz, did you say? – then it’s really not about you as a person, it’s about him. It’s about whatever has changed inside him, not about who you are. And you will get through this. If I did it, anyone can.”

“Ok”, I faltered, unconvinced, “What did you do?”

“I moved to a smaller place with our kids, switched them to local schools, and I worked 70 or even 80 hours a week, for a long long time. Thankfully I was able to keep our wonderful helper. She is like the co-parent for me. Tim has a baby now with the other woman, and he sees our kids every few weeks, but only because I’ve insisted on it. He has only ever contributed the bare minimum, so I really didn’t have much choice. The choice was between going back to a place I hadn’t lived for years, taking the children away from the only home they knew, and seeing their father maybe once a year, as well as me losing the business I had worked so hard on, or doing what I have done. But now it’s a few years down the line, and I’ve been able to hire some people, so work has eased off. I get to spend much more time with the children. And I can even get my hair done once in a while!”

She grinned as she said that, and I wondered what my hair would look like if I could only get it done “once in a while”. As well as what I would feel like if I lived in a tiny flat, and worked for 70 hours a week. Seven zero!! That seems rather a lot.

I was deep in reflection when Katie began speaking again: “But you know, I have learned things about myself through this experience that I wouldn’t have known otherwise. There were days when I thought I couldn’t go on, when I wondered if it was really worth it… when I had a hard time believing that it would all be ok. And I wondered if I had made the right decision, or if I should’ve left. But now I see that it was the right decision, not because it was the easy one, but because it was my decision. No one else’s. I made sacrifices, but they were worth it. For me and for the children. I look at my three little girls, not so little anymore, they’re teenagers ha!… I can’t believe it!!… I look at them and I see three strong, independent-minded, thoughtful young women. And that makes everything we went through worthwhile. So you’ll be ok. Just believe that.”

My hair was finished and my mani-pedi was dry. I wanted to stay and talk to Katie some more, but she said apologetically that she had a conference call, and I thought I had better not cancel my girlies’ date for high tea at Raffles. My hair looked frankly stunning, and thankfully my bullet-proof mascara had not suffered unduly from the emotional journey I had endured with the lovely Angelina doppelgänger.

Expat Parenting Musings on Bintan

We’re having an amazing time on Bintan. Don and I aren’t really speaking to each other, but we’re still having an amazing time. The irritants are loving the kids’ club, and Angel has found some teen buddies via Yik Yak (what now, now??), so it’s all awesome. The pedis here are just incrediblé. You’d think a pedi is just a pedi… But come here (I won’t mention the name of the hotel spa because I refuse to ho myself), and you will find that Pedicure takes on a whole new meaning. Not just a meaning… an unending promise of a divine lifestyle via feets. All that, captured in a rapturous hour and a half of bliss, experienced as a wave of unforgettable communion with one’s soul and true self. Yes, babeses. Yes.

Apart from that, in my free time, I’ve been thinking about how annoying children are.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m totes in heart with Max and Mills. But I was reclining hotly in the sun today, tossing ground-breaking ideas around my powerful brain, as I often do, and I found myself scrolling forward a hundred years from now. I thought about how women are already not that into staying at home to look after the little people. We carry them for nine months (almost ten in my case: Max was like, “No way I’m going out there”), have our bodies naturally ripped to shreds or unnaturally sliced to pieces, and then choose to breast-feed or not, co-sleep or not, baby-led wean or not, with a bunch of people telling us that what we’re doing is SOOOOO the wrong thing, regardamento-less of what we actually decide to do.

And I am starting to think that some time soon, when parents stop lying about how hard this parenting lark is, having children will become a job. Like it always has been for the default parent. I’m lucky enough to have full-time help, so there is no default parent in my case, thank eff. It sounds awful!

You may well doubt my words, but I predict that by the time our babies are fully grown, privileged peeps will start to realise the full extent of the major hell of having children. There will be the stalwarts who elect voluntationally to reproduce – they will be the exception – but beyond that, parenting will be a career which few will choose, and not everyone will be entitled to sign up for. And truesome, not everyone should be entitled to sign up for this job. Despite being an amazebobs mother myself, if I’d been tested for my commitment to child-rearing in advance, I am not totes certain that I would’ve passed. Even me!! Which is cool because some days I just want to board a plane for Vegas and have nothing else to worry about. I dunno, babeses. Maybe it’s just me.

It can’t just be me though because there’s some weird stuff going on with kids, parenting, and prevarication.

No one tells a first-time pregnant woman what it’s really going to be like, am I right? We all just smile, congratulate, and talk about the gooey stuff.

And once the kids are here on Earth, no one would ever ever EVER think they wish their kid hadn’t been born – let alonio say it ffs – except in We Need to Talk About Kevin, and that’s like one million % fiction. So no, that thought would never occur to ANY parent, no matter how delirious they are from their infant’s non-sleepage, or how tortured they feel by their teenager’s general demeanor.

So, of course, we wouldn’t wish the irritants gone once they’re here. I just wonder if there might be a huge vault of private struggle around raising kids that was never talked about in our parents’ generation (I have a vague recollection of hearing my mother blaming my father for me “being born at all”, but surely it was a dream); which those in my more open-minded peer group are now discussing. Well, I say discussing. I mean Googling. It’s all being written about on the Huff, so there’s really no need to enter into potentially embarrassing conversations about parenting in person, particularly with close friends. Best not to jeopardise close friendships by revealing too much about our children’s humiliating failures.

It’s all of this that leads me to the de facto conclusion that, pretty soon, young adults will just want to get on with their lives on Instagram or YouNow or Vine, or whatevs those things have evolved into; and they’ll be so busy with that stuff that they won’t want to have kids unless they’re paid for it. No point otherwise! Like how the increased availability of porn (not a good thing!) has resulted in a drastic reduction in teenage pregnancy (a good thing!). You and I, dear readers, are very young and in-the-now ourselves, but the mindset of these web-fluenced floozies we are raising is a separate quagmirification from whence we emerged.

I for one am not going to roll over and play dead. I’ll be hiring a team of teenage girls and boys as my social media informants when Milly hits 12. She’s four now, so in the meantime I’ll get on with my gruelling self-maintenance schedulepartying with my crew, and doing exactly what the hell I want to do, whenever I want to do it. Selfies and all other manifestations of what cousin Clara the psychologist calls “narcissism” are only stupid when kids do them. Just ask Frida Kahlo, Clara says. (No idea what she means.)

Bisous from Bintan XXX

A place to let the mind wander NAMASTE

A place to let the mind wander
NAMASTE

Expat Marital Misunderstandios

Today I decided that enough was enough. I believe in open, clear, authentic communication, so while Don was up in his home office and I was having a Brazilian down the street, I emailed him to ask what in the name of all that’s holy is going on with Liz. If he thinks that just changing the subject to say that we’re moving thousands of miles away is a get-out, well I’m sorry, but it’s totes not. I serioso doubt that we’re really leaving.

Here are the mails:

My mail to Don

Don's mail to moi

 

ARGH!! I seem to have gotten the v much wrong end of the stick here… Oopsy, silly moi! I felt so yuck-ster then that I realised the only possible course of action would be to go for a photoshoot. I think you’ll agree, dear readers, that I am hot therefore I am, and nothing else really matters.

I know: I’m awesome at keeping things in perspective : )

 

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Five Top Tips for Becoming an Expat Wife in Singapore

Moving country can be a difficult gig, but Singapore is one of the easiest places on the planet to move to as an expat wife. Here are my amazebobs tips, based on my expert expertise, and that of my genius Expaterati girlies:

1. Join the social networking groups as soon as you know you’re coming here

The Singapore Expat Wives group, or SEW, is the stuffier group, but it has a gazillion members. So as long as you’re asking for mundane advice (and please use the search button first to avoid roastage), you’re good to go.

The Real Singapore Expat Wives group is a bit grittier. It also has a gazillion members, and you can #anonymouspost about anything intimate or awkz.

Be warned though, sweet innocents, if you post something controversial on either page, you may be inviting upon yourself a sh** storm of biblical proportions. You won’t even necessarily know it’s controversial until it’s too late.

There are many many other awesome FB groups and pages, such as Woman Abroad in Singapore (interesting and quirky content that you won’t find elsewhere), Stork’s Nest (supportive and informative espacio for mothers), and Singapore Expat Women and Business (for um, women in business). Tons of fabulous FB stuff out there. Where oh where would we be without the book of the faces?

2. Forget everything you think you know about pricing

This is particularly true of cheese and alcohol. If you allow yourself to recall prices of such items in Europe, Oz or the US, you will find that guilt obstructs enjoyment, and that is simply unacceptable.

You must wipe from your brain all knowledge of non-Singaporean pricing. Should you agonise over ways around this problem, you will only be inviting more wrinkleage upon yourself. And Botox, ladees, is pretty damn pricey here too. So cut out the middle-woman. Practice pricing acceptance as part of your daily meditation regime.

If all else fails to justify freedom of expenditure, glut thy sorrows on the Seoul expat wife. Cheese is even more expensive there. Like f crazy expensive. Manchego?? Wave b’bye to the soft-top Maserati if manchego is your staple in South Korea.

3. The helper issue

It is not uncommon to arrive on these shores convinced that one will not engage live-in help; only to find oneself, some months later, engaging live-in help. If I had a Sing $ for every time that happened, I’d be even more fabulously wealthy than I already am. At least two Louis Vuits per season richer, and as dear readers will know, I am not one to embroider factualisation.

Despite the doubt you might arrive with that it cannot be virtually impossible to cost-effectively hire part or full-time help who live out, I’m afraid that it is indeed virtually impossible. The cost of a decently-salaried live-in equates to approx 15 hours per week part-time (wow, so many dashes in one sentence! I am rocking those dashes!!). Even if you’re thoroughly rolling in cash and bathing in Veuve Click, I think you’ll find that you might want to bite the bullet.

4. Get yourself an Expaterati gang

Living so far away from our family and old-school friendses, each and every one of us needs a gang. Several gangs is even better. We need babeses who are there for us in our moments of need, and lots of expat ladees are awesome at this. All you have to do is reach out, and before you know it, there will be babeses needing you right back.

Your gang will hook you up with other gangs (if they don’t, this is not a good gang), and raise new possibilities for you to spread your wings. Kite-surfing, gaming, knitting, pole-dancing, volunteering, kick-boxing, wine-tasting, writing, swinging, chess, yoga-zumba-lates, getting trolleyed with your girlies just because it’s Wednesday… An endless stream of undiscovered potential awaits your embrace.

You also need your gang(s) because you must not put all your eggs in the husband basket. This WSJ article just proves what I’ve said time and time again, that expat marriages are a tricky biz. Should your marital investments start to go offshore, identify one or two truly trusted sistas (not the whole gang) to confide in.

5. Work, don’t work, be a SAHM, or be a M who doesn’t SAH much

The choice is yours, and yours alone. Don’t let anyone tell you which path is the right one, or make you feel less of a humanoid hottie for what you decide to do with your time. But FFS, do what makes you happy (yes, I should be a life coach, but I don’t have time right now).

If you choose to brunch, lunch, pedi, and sun yourself by the pool, do it with gusto, not guilt. Particularly as mammasitas, guilt is a killer, so while you’re doing your utmost to be a good enough mum/ mom to your irritants, get out there and be a good enough sista to yourself. Own it!! Irritants grow up, you know, and when they do, we must not have become dried up anxious old prunes with no other passions. In the timeless words of Voltaire, tend to your garden, babeses. That applies to belowdecks too. Tend to those gardens. Vigorously.


As a brief précis, that about covers the essential points. There are 64 others in my full draft version, but the ones above will pack neatly into your ludicrously expensive carry-on Rimowa, and serve you well while you’re figuring out the rest. Good luck, stay in touch, and viva la Expaterati!!

Join the Expaterati

Ass IF Don Would Do That!

If you recall, some weeks ago I asked Will to follow Don at a convenient time. Not in a nasty way, and of course I totes trust my husband, but I felt a tad disconcerted to find naked pics of Liz on his iCloud. The convenient time was last night, and this is what Will just messaged me (ignore the first bit – that’s from when he started ignoring me after my amazebobs feminist mission):

image1

Knowing the dangers of the screenshot, not trusting Will, and fearing that anything I type could one day be used against me in a court of law, I had no choice but to connect by actual speakage on the phone.

Will told me that it was a swinging party – what now, now??? – and added the gruesome detail that he witnessed this unutterably unspeakable act occurring.

At that, I had heard enough. I thanked him for his assistance in the matter, re-confirming that absolutely no blackmail had taken place on my part. Threatening to tell his wife about his cheating ways does not count as blackmail because he is totes in the wrong anyway.

Despite my shocked and delirious state, I somehow found my way to the wine fridge and then to the roof terrace, where I lay in the pool, drinking Veuve Click from the bottle with a tremendously long straw (only alcoholics shouldn’t drink in the morning). Immersing my hot self in the cool waters, and staring up at a care-free sky, my mind tried its bestest to find a way out of this emotional quagmire.

It’s Don’s birthday today, and the party is tomorrow. Liz will be there. Her loser husband will be there. What, precisely, is the decorum in this situation, I asked myself, and I ask you now, dear readers. For I know not, and I grow weary a-wondering. My chi is very much in a bad place this day : (

Ass if Friday the 13th hadn’t already taken its toll, while I wondered lonely as a cloud on the roof terrace, an iCal alert pinged on my phone: “Angel arriving 1pm”. Argh!! With so much happening in my life, not to mention this fresh hell, I totes forgot that my Australian teenage stepsister is coming to live with us because her ridic mother can’t cope… Today!! It so crept up on me! I can’t bear it! Why didn’t I try harder to be less nice, and back out of the arrangement??? WHYYYYYY?!!

While I ran, arms flailing, to the rear-wing room I was supposed to make into a bedroom for Angel weeks ago, I questioned for the gazillionth time how on earth, in a six-bedroom, six-bathroom house one could possibly accommodate another human being. There’s no way I’m giving the help the helper’s room, ie the storage space off the laundry room. No way! If I did that, it would utterly scupper my online campaign for a second helper* because Don would say there isn’t enough space in the space. So she has to keep one of the real rooms, to share with potential Help Number Two.

I got to the room ear-marked for Angel, and miracle of miracles, it had been transformed into… A totes appropes bedroom for a teenager! Posters of One Direction and airbrushed celebs up on the walls and everything. The help must’ve done it. I put it in the house diary some time ago, but who knew she’d go all out like this?

I’ve must dash now, to make myself AHAP (as hot as possible) for stupid annoying irritating p-in-the-a Angel’s arrival. Gotta show the teenagers where hot is at!! iCal also told me that she’s joining us for dinner tonight, to celebrate Don’s stupid annoying irritating p-in-the-a birthday. Mega-hotness therefore required from moi.

Thanks to my extraordinary strategies of resilience, I will get through this day. I will say nothing to Don, and continue to be an awesome expat wife until I have all the facts.

I will now apply a Korean pig-placenta mask (not tested on animals, maybe), meditate for a full twenty minutes in the presence of my Buddha water feature, accompanied by a nice burn of Nag Champa, drink 500ml of green smoothie; and then, all will be well with the world. Will is obviously a liar, angry at my snubbage, and jealous of my marital bliss.

(As if people actually do that!! How ridic.)


* Not looking so good : (
I need 1,000 likes on my FB post, and I’m not even at 100. Babeses, HELP MEEEEEEEEEE!!!! First world problems are totes still problems. Click on the pic and share like your life depends on it!!

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Expat Friendses & Not So Much Friendses

I got back to Singapore today, with two cases full of fabulous London fashion, hot off the racks. Ok so I was somewhat stung on import tax, but as long as I don’t tell Don, it basically didn’t happen. Am I right, Ladeez? Yes, I am right.

It was lovely to see Max, Mills, and Don after my week away, but even lovelier to wave them off to their respective daytime occupations, and then slink elegantly back to bed. Jet lag can be such a killer. It could take me days to return to a normal sleeping routine – possibly even weeks! I have only my lucky stars to thank that I felt sufficiently together to rise in time for a high tea with my Expaterati girlies.

What I did not expect about said tea was that both Liz and Michelle were there. But you betrayed us and got a job, Michelle ma belle, so what the hell are you doing at a high tea?! You don’t even drink Veuve Click anymore, babes, due to the whole being a “recovering” alcoholic thing (can’t last). Very bizarro.

I found myself sitting opposite Liz, with Michelle to my right, and gorgeous (actual friend) Flo to my left. Liz would not stop talking about how clever she is, trying to discuss some bit of whatevs she’d read in the NYT. Something to do with women being made to feel bad about their bodies, so that people can make money out of fixing the source of badness. What now, now? I wasn’t aware that we feel bad about our bodies. What’s to feel bad about, as long as you dedicate every waking hour to looking super hot until you draw your last breathe?? Mystery to me.

Liz, though, totes agreed with the story, and went on and on, quoting verbatio: “Show me a body part, I’ll show you someone who’s making money by telling women that theirs looks wrong and they need to fix it”. Could she not just send us all the link and be done with it, rather than bore everyone ridic?? God, she thinks she’s all that. She annoyed me so much that I got my iPhone 6 out of the beautiful McQueen Heroine tote I that bought last week, and, cupping the phone discreetly, I showed Flo the photos I have of Liz and her enormous snatch. Hilariously, bless her, Flo gasped and tried (failed) to raise her eyebrows, but kept right on listening to Liz’s NYT monologue, as if nothing had happened.

Next Michelle piped up, having apparently also read the article. (Don’t these people have LIVES??) She said that even though she’s in the business of pubic beautification, i.e. vajazzling, her work is “very much a celebration of femininity… a centuries-old adornment practice by women, for women”, yada yada yada. I switched off at that point because it occurred to me that I’m over-due for a Brazilian.

“So although I agree that the media and the increasing need to up the stakes, as it were, in the face of images that were only recently considered to be pornographic becoming mainstream… I still believe that there is a difference between internalised misogyny and a woman’s own desire to celebrate her body”, continued Michelle.

Having put an alert in my phone to schedule a wax, I started listening to that last bit and thought, “Oh yeah, sweets, well you’re so bloody knowledgeable about internalised misogyny and all that, but how much exacto do you know about your husband?!”

It’s all very well getting the full digital subscription to global news publications to make yourself look like a smarty-hottie-pants, but if you don’t even know what’s going on under your nose job, then HELLOOOO!!! Can I drop you a bone here?!

So that’s when it came to me. A stroke of pure honeyed genius. Manuka, babeses. Sweet, sweet Manuka.

As I thought about how profoundly irritating both Liz and Michelle are in the depthses of their beingses, I realised that I hold important news items about both of them. News that is not available via subscription. I know that Liz is a psycho husband-stalker with an acute case of vagenitical cunticulitis, because I have photographic evidence. And I know that Michelle’s husband Will is a serial player, because last year I experienced first-hand an attempt by him to assault my marital dignity.

So while the women were playing Who’s the Cleverest?, I came up with a divine win-win plan. I <3 win-wins. I decided to message Will asap with a polite request to tail Liz at times of my choosing, in order to find out wtf she’s up to. If she is sending these naked photos to Don, she may well be doing the same with other husbands, whose wives are probably less emotionally robust than me. I am all about the giving and the rescuing, so I cannot – nay will not – stand idly by while this woman attempts to wreak her nasty havoc on otherwise blissful expat marriages.

As part of my polite request, I’ll tell Will that, should he fail to comply, I can happily forward to Michelle screenshots of his flirtatious communications with me*. I might also inform her that I saw him last year with a petite Asian girlie, whom I realise now was most definitely not his half-sister.

Good plan, babeses and dear readers? Yes, lah. Amazebobs plan : )

I’d better go now because I only have a tiny slot of me time between the high tea and my evening date with a brand new BFF I met on the flight. You won’t believe what happened!! I can scarcely believe it myself. On the flight back from London, I was sitting next to a Russian chick. Yes, of course, I had spotted her from a mile off when we were both at the Terminal Two branch of Gucci, but the totes crazy thing is that we got chatting on the pihengi (that’s the phonetic pronunciation of airplane in Korean, spelt like this: 비행기, and you’d be wise to learn some Korean, babeses, don’t ask why, just trust me! They’re taking over the world, these Koreans!!), and…

I LOVE this Rrrrra-shon girlie!!!

Who’d have thought that I could fall in friend luv with someone so #bogan #newmoney #marriedtoabillionaire #yellowjeans #bling?!! I know, right??! But when we got talking, we just had so much in common! To the extent of spooky!!

Just like moi, she lives a glamorous life in Singapore, on the same iconic street as me (where has she been hiding?!), her kids are the same age as mine, her husband smokes Siglo VI Cohibas at the same cigar bar as Don, and we are both life-long dedicated yogis with an intense fondness for the tree pose. AND her d.o.b. is the first of April 1976, too! Unbelievable spookinesco.

So I’m meeting up with her in an hour to test out our unlikely friendship. Her name is Anastasia Jovakova. I think it’s a great testimony to my cultural objectivity that I am opening my friendship doors to a blingy Rrrrrra-shon. Don’t you agree? That’s what’s so awesome about expats: we totes connect with people who we might otherwise have seen as trash. Go, us! Viva La Expaterati!!!

 

* From last November. Pretty flirtatious, wouldn’t you say?…

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Expat Marital Bliss & How To Achieve It

Marriage

As I have previously mentioned, marriage among the Expaterati is a notoriously tricky business.

My explanation for this phenomenonamo is that most expat men are a bit crap, but Cousin Clara the psychologist thinks it’s because, “for the nomadic couple, a tremendous strain is exerted upon the marital bond”. We were Skyping in the course of my research for this post, and she said that, “throughout the upheavals and transitions, the joys and the losses, the only other adult who remains a constant is the spouse. So it is that one person who is consistently present to mirror back aspects of the other’s self, while both individuals’ identities go through intense periods of flux… not dissimilar to the challenging transitional phases experienced during adolescence. As such, the relationship – or the third presence in the couple, as I like to look at it – has to hold the difficult process of two separate personalities simultaneously undergoing extreme environmental and emotional changes”.

Now I have no idea what she was on about, but I also read a bizarre story by a ditched expat wifey, and that basically supports my theory. That said, Clara is supposedly the one with all the professional qualifications and experience, so I am willing to humour her (although we all know that my more direct beingness in the Expaterati trenches, backed up by my six-month counselling training, is way more valuable). So it remains a matter of conjecture, why exactly it’s harder to stay married as an expat than as a not-expat, but the fact is that is just effing is. Trust me.

I am therefore going to impart my expert knowledge on how to achieve expat marital bliss, by addressing seven key issues.

1. The spouse travelling a lot
For many corporate roles, frequent travel and spousal absence is a given. The best way to deal with this, in pursuance of marital bliss, is to see it as a great gift from heaven. When your hub is away, ladies, this is an ideal opportunity to be that young woman you once were at university, but now you have tons of cash to really get out there (which I did at uni anyway, but not everyone did, I am told). Your life is your own once more, especially if you don’t work and you have full-time help. You can knit, if you so choose, or you can go out dancing all day and night with your crew. Whatever you want!

2. If you have a job too
Should you find the time to have a job, you fall into a special category, in that I’m afraid you will be required to work triple-hard at expat marital bliss. You will, of course, have two helpers (lucky you!! I want a second helper so badly!!), but you will also need an executive assistant to book date nights, buy gifts for your husband, order your new season lingerie from Agent Provocateur, and so on. Unfortunately not all EAs in the workplace are amenable to taking on personal chores. I would therefore suggest that you get yourself on oDesk – other online freelance platforms are available – and hire a remote assistant located in the Philippines or India. They’re an absolute steal!

Once you’ve got that covered, you will have more time to address the other, more important issues, such as items 5 and 7 below.

3. The spouse being at home
Far worse than the hus being away is when he comes home. During these trying times, the wife needs to adapt to having another child in the house. Some husbands expect to eat dinner with their wives and families when they’re in town, so it is best to find endurance strategies, rather than wallow in resentment. Wallowing will only cost you more in Botox, and will irreparably damage your chi. So my advice is that when he is home, exploit your daytime freedom as much as you can, and, should you be called upon for wifely duties, use the following mantra:

This is only for today. He will be gone again soon. 

Additional chanting, meditation, yoga, and wine are also very helpful to counter the stresses of spousal presence.

4. Going on holiday
Holidays can be a highly anxiety-provoking time for the expat wife, and therefore constitute a major obstacle in achieving marital bliss. My counsel to you is, if at all possible, take the helper with you. Borrow someone else’s too. Take as many helpers as you can.

Unfortunately, Don believes that “family holidays are for the family”, so I’m a little screwed on that front. If you share my horrific predicament, I have three words for you: kids’ club, and babysitting. Go there, babeses. Find hotels with lots of kiddie services. Child-friendly cruises are also an excellent option. If you don’t, you will be overwhelmed with 24/7 irritant-duty, and thusly, the “third presence in the couple”, ie the relationship, will inevitably go down the scheister. Not only will you have an awful holiday, but you may well be metaphorically signing your Decree Absolute.

No helper and no kids’ club? Wave b’bye to your marriage right now, or don’t go on hol. Unless you have no kids, in which case, go you! Have a fantastic trip!!

5. Looking hot
To subsist – nay, thrive – as a member of the Expaterati, it is important to maintain a high standard of self-care (you can check out my complete guide to expat wife beauty and wellbeing here), and this has a dramatic impact on marital bliss. As a wifey, other expat husbands need to be looking at you and thinking, “DAMN, she’s hot!”. If nothing else, you owe that to your husband. You took the vows, baby! So you have to put your a** where your mouth was. Do everything in your power to look as hot as humanely permissible. If you can dream it, you can be it, Ladies!! (I know, I should be a life coach. I just don’t have time! There is way too much pressure these days on women to do it all!)

6. Intimacy and stuff like that
There is an abundance of threat to the sexual relationship of expat couples. Most men have not been vaccinated against yellow fever, and when they encounter – day in, day out – these predatory petite Asian girlies telling them how handsome they are, they really start to believe their own press. As a wifey, there is very little that we can do to change the behaviour of these women, but what we can do is keep our husbands grounded, and withhold sex when necessary. They’ll thank us in the long-run. So remind your hus that he is not all that and a bag of chips. Let him know that you’re there for him despite his rapid physical decline, except when you’re out having fun, or busy reading all the posts on the Real Singapore Expat Wives FB group.

7. Follow your own bliss
As men frequently tell each other, “Happy wife, happy life”. I have heard various interpretations of this phrase, but the one I choose to adopt is that, as wifeys, our main priority is to be happy. We have made the ultimate sacrifice in travelling a bajillion miles away from our friends, families, and often our careers (albeit to awesome places with awesome weather and cheap staff!!), so we thereby earn a free pass to focus on Number One.

So, Ladies, see this time as a beautiful lull between youth and the menopause (and beyond, if there is a beyond), when you can fully self-actualise. Have nail art mani-pedis whenever the urge takes you. Stay on top of the fashion news, and shop accordingly. Do some delightful charity work with the needy. Or get a job. Some of my Expaterati girlies have got themselves jobs recently, and I’m starting to wonder if I should get one myself. I could buy an awesome Hermés briefcase.


There you have it, dear readers: my ground-breaking study on how to achieve expat marital bliss. Follow this advice, and I guarantee that you too will remain a happy, fulfilled expat Mrs for many years to come.

No need to thank me, babeses, but be a love and click one of the share buttons below. All my share counts reset to zero when I upgraded my site, so I’m in need of some bliss myself on that front. I know, right?! Poor moi! First world problems are totes still problems.

Hot Sexy Pics, Anyone?!

I am interrupting my Shocking Expat Unfoldments three-part series to tell you about something v smart I’m doing for my marriage this week, which you should definitely do too. Given the state of perpetual marital bliss in which I find myself, I have been preparing a ground-breaking piece, entitled Expat Marital Bliss and How to Achieve It, and today I would like to give you one sneak-preview piece of advice.

Marriage among the Expaterati, as even a half-baked expat will know, is a tricky business. Certainly here in Singers, you don’t have to be here long to hear first-hand tales of marital woe. There are a number of fascinating explanations for this, and I am thinking of doing some investigatory journalism on the subject, and then making it into weekly serialised podcasts. Contact me to take part in an interview on the subject of “Expat Marriages Gone Bad”.

In the meantime, I will offer you one key explanation, as follows: the majority of men who are expats are really not up to scratch. Yes, ladies, that probably doesn’t include your delightful hus, but you will note that I have documented a scientificated study of the eight types of expat husband, and therein lies ample evidence of the point I am hereby unequivocally demonstrating.

Putting this issue aside, I want to return to what I am doing this week in pursuance of wifely amazingness. I have booked an exclusive Valentine’s photo shoot with a renowned photographer here in Xīnjiāpō who makes women super look hot. I will be presenting Don with these awesome photos as a gift on the 14th of Feb over a few glasses of Veuve Click, and hey presto, marital bliss achieved. Nailed it for another year! That, girlies, is how it’s done. You’re welcome.

 

If you're lucky you might be able to book her on a different date too (not helper's day off LOL)

If you’re lucky you might be able to book her on a different date too (not helper’s day off LOL)

 

Is the Helper Selling my Designer Toilet Brushes Online?

Photo: http://www.shopdecor.com/designer/selab-design/wc-royale.html

Photo: http://www.shopdecor.com/designer/selab-design/wc-royale.html

A majorly odd thing has happened in our beautiful exclusive home this week: the luxury toilet brushes that I ordered from Italy have disappeared.

I noticed our en-suite looked different on Monday morning, while I was lying in the bath, contemplating the lovely day I had ahead of me at Flo’s Australia Day lunch. Well, I didn’t exactly notice. I saw a space next to the loo, felt weird, and thought, “Hmmmmm, that’s not a very nice space… It’s like… just an empty space… with nothing going on there.”

That thought made my mood plummet like you wouldn’t believe, dear readers. Emptiness is all good and cool when I’m meditating, but otherwise, I don’t like it. I’m not having it, I tell you.

So I got out of the bath and tweeted about this strange empty space to Kim Kardy, Chris Lilley, Mindy Kaling, and a few others. Within seconds, my tweet had been favourited multiple times, and I’d had a ton of reassuring replies. That made me feel much better, and off I went to the salon for a blowout, totes forgetting the dreadful void.

After the amazebobs party with an awesome group of Expaterati girlies, I got home and, super silently but gracefully (Don was asleep), I went for a shower. Despite my super silent creeping aroundness, a bunch of stuff fell off the bathroom shelf (how, I do not know; that keeps happening to me late at night), making a bit of a crashing noise on the marble floor. Don burst through the door, asking me very rudely what the hell was going on, adding, “You do know it’s one o’clock in the morning, don’t you?? And you do know I have a flight to catch at five?!”

Such an effing drama queen.

I told him it’s way not my fault that we have such slippery shelving. That’s the landlord’s responsibility, not mine.

Don then proceeded to relieve himself in my presence – quite unsuitable, I feel, even after 12 years of marital bliss. When he was finished, instead of apologising for making a scene and having a pee right there in front of me, he pointed at the floor next to the loo and grunted, “Didn’t there used to be something there, in that empty space?”

“Whatevs, babes, go back to bed. How am I supposed to know?!”

Just by pointing it out, he single-handedly destroyed my chi and ruined my entire fabulous day that I had worked so hard to have. Ugh, marriage is such a difficult thing. Alain de Botton was absolutely right with all that guff he wrote about how marriage is basically promising to disappoint each other. “Big time”, I’d have added, had I been his editor. (Which I could’ve been, but I think he didn’t return my calls because he realised I’m so hot that I’d be a threat to his own marriage, should we work closely together.)

The empty space issue stressed me out so much that since then I’ve been making a gargantuan effort to ignore it, with the help of chanting, sexily doing the frog pose (yoga, babeses, if there’s anyone left in the world who doesn’t partake), and intensely studying every post on the Real Singapore Expat Wives’ Facebook group, as well as their fab Classifieds off-shoot. None of that helped : (. It made it worse, in fact, because today, on the Classifieds I saw…

My goddamn loo brushes!!!!!!!

All six of them!! You can imagine how distressed I felt at that point, as I ran screaming from bathroom to bathroom to bathroom to bathroom to bathroom to bathroom. I felt for sure I was losing it! How could this be?? All six!!

I immediately rang cousin Clara the psychologist (it must’ve been 4 AM in the UK, but she gets up early), and she calmed me down. She told me to try to put it in perspective, that they’re “only things”, and why didn’t I go for a really time-consuming nail art manicure, or something else that would get me out of the house and stop me looking at my phone.

Most of what she said made zero sense, but the manicure idea was a great one (which I could’ve come up with if I’d spent a gazillion years and a bajillion £s training to be a therapist). So I did that, and it totes mega helped!

Then I met up with my one friend who isn’t on Facebook – so bizarre – and I haven’t told her yet about the awful events because I don’t want to raise the spectre into the now. I’m typing this while I’m with her, but she doesn’t mind. She just chats away, bless her.

I’ll get to the bottom of this nightmare though, if it’s the last thing I ever do. I’ve texted the helper to tell her to buy a substitute brush in the meantime. Just the one, mind you. No point wasting money on non-designer household items.

(It couldn’t be the helper who’s behind all of this, could it?…)

Reasons for Being an Expat

So yer thinking

My booty’s so RETRO

Making the decision to become an expat was eezy breezy for me because I always knew that when I grew up I wanted to be an expat wife.

I have heard, though, that for many people considering joining the Expaterati, the decision can be a challenging one. Because I am all about giving generously and paying it forward and stuff, I wanted to share my expertise in this area, for anyone currently wrestling with the matter.

So here is a complete in-depth exploration of the awesome and non-awesome reasons for being an expat.

To save your marriage
As long as you go to a place where childcare and other staff are subsidised by your employer or just crazy cheap, you will find that you have a great deal of time to work on your marriage. This can take the form of spending more time together (to do unmentionable things like swinging or ballroom dancing), or less time together in order to simultaneously enhance your inherent mutual hotness via engagement with new activities. Either way, leaving your friends, family, and everyone who knows you can have a hugely beneficial impact on healing a flailing marriage, particularly if you have children. Ok, maybe not always the case in Singapore, where the number of expat divorces is frankly astounding, but I intuitively know that it is definitely a smart decision to become an expat if you’re having marital issues. I just know, ok?? Trust me.

Because you’ve been one forever anyway
If you are nomadic by nature, it’s sensible to remain a fully paid-up member of the Expaterati until you shuffle off this mortal coilio. The only caveat is that, if/ when you retire (although I’m not convinced that expats really get “old” – we just get more tanned and more interesting), you will reach a point when you can no longer physically board planes. When that day comes, you will be stuck. STUCK, I tell you! (The word alone strikes fear into the souls of all expats, like garlic to vampires.) Sorry to break it to you, but eventually the flitting must cease. The good news is that, because you have been everywhere and you know all there is to know (about taxes and healthcare in particular), you are in the fortunate position of being able to locate the best places in which to be STUCK. So, hallelujah, as a Forever Expat, you are totes on to a winner!!

To get a good education for your kids
If, unlike moi, you’re in the position where you can’t afford private schools at home or you have to pretend to be religious to get your kid into a decent school, becoming an expat can be a wise move, providing your package covers schooling. If it’s covered, that’s amazebobs, but if you’re not on a package and you can’t afford private schools, babeses, you’re kind of onto a loser with this reason.

To take your kids on trips to far-flung places that you wouldn’t be able to otherwise
Absolutely, but when you or they stop being expats, make sure they know not to go on and on about Mount Kilimanjaro and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon if they’re hoping to make any new friends. Also tell them that it’s best not to use the words “holiday” or “vacation” as verbs (and god forbid, the word “brunch”), should they ever find themselves in non-Expaterati company.

To be a big fish in a smaller pond
This is one of the best reasons everrrrr for becoming an expat, and one that many people espouse to advance their careers. At home you might be a nobody, but over here, you’re Somebody, baby! Go, you!!

To meet interesting and diverse people
If, where you come from, interesting people are thin on the ground, then this is a fabulous reason to leave. That said, interesting people only want to be friends with other interesting people, so you had better make damn sure that you up your game if you want to run with the cool Expaterati. Otherwise you will find yourself in the Dull Crowd, surrounded by all the boring peeps who, like you, left to get away from their boring peeps.

To run away from something or everything
This is where expathood really comes into its own. Like saving a marriage, if you had some bad stuff goin’ down back home – bad friends, bad habits, bad situations – moving thousands of miles away will just evaporate all of that, like it never even happened. So in my role as expert expat, I can categorically tell you that if you choose to up sticks and relocate far far away from your problems, those problems will be magically fixed. Like going to Dr Seuss’ Solla Sollew, “where they never have troubles, at least very few”.

So those are the awesome reasons. If you can think of any other ones, please let me know in the comments, or post on Expat EJ’s Awesome Facebook Page. Now to the non-awesome reason. From my vast, unrivaled knowledge, there is only one of these:

To learn a new language
If your first language is English, it is a scientifically proven fact that for 98.3% of your time as an expat, you will only hang out with English speakers. So you’re just as likely to learn a new language at home. Not doing it at home? Well then… BUT, if you are thinking about your kids learning new languages, expathood is totes the way ahead because, in Asia anyway, they will have Mandarin drilled into them from the moment they emerge from the womb. And that. Is. Awesome.

 


 

Well, I must fly because I’m off out tonight with my girlies, and I’m been running late all day. I had to spend an age explaining to the help how to delete videos from Max’s iPad. It’s synced with Don’s iCloud account, so I found Max watching Break Bad this morning before school. ARGH! We can’t have him aspiring to be a chemist. Not when he has to become a hedge fund manager.