Zach

Eight Types of Expat Husband & Further Scientificated Subdivisions

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 6 Comments

One of the 839 blogs I follow is called Wine and Cheese Doodles, by an amazebobs babe called Dina Honour, and I, like everyone else, totes loved her post Nine Expats You’ll Meet Abroad. As a tribute to her for her birthday – which must be some time this year – (and no, I am so NOT going to say “in Honour of”), I decided to write a post on the types of expat husband roaming around out there.

As we all know, men aren’t consistent in their personalities like we ladies are. On the whole, they’re way more neurotic than us, which is why they’re always calling us neurotic (it’s a projection, babeses). So to accommodate the mahusiv chasm that exists between their inner and outer selves, I have created a highly scientificated systemisation of subdivision for each type: how they are “On Road”, as they say in certain parts of London (that means in public, peeps), versus how they are at home.

For extra depth, I’m adding another subsection of geographical metaphoricality: if he was a place, what place would he be? (I know, coolest idea of all time. Mine, por supuesto.)

Awesomely, I’ve already mentioned a bunch of guys I can use as examples, starting with my darling husband, Don.

Don the Extremely Successful Family Man 

(Who didn’t have to become an expat to be successful because we were quite well off already, thank you very much indeedy.)

On Road: Socially impeccable. Men want to be him, and women want to be with him. The ladies love him, but they know he has an amazebobs wife who they can’t possibly compete with. Ferget it, Ladeees!

At Home: Well, rarely. He’s just so busy. Understandable. When he is home, he’s the daddy of the goddamn decade though, if you know what I’m talking about. Always being the fun parent (just to piss me off), and bearing gifts for the children and the help.

If he was a place he’d be: Singapore, Manhattan, London. On rotation.

 

Will the Player

On Road: Charming initially, but then really boring and a bit nasty when you get to know him. He left his small town for the “big time” (big according to him) so long ago that he has no clue who he is and is sorely in need of a reality check. Despite being married, he seeks out other women to make himself feel like he isn’t just an irrelevant ageing piece of sh**, and tends to succumb to intense bouts of yellow fever. (And no, I’m totes not saying that because I’m angry or bitter. Nothing ever happened, so don’t even go there or you’re ridic.)

At Home: Kinda depends on who you ask. If you ask him, he’ll say he’s a great father and a long-suffering husband. Hmmmm. Ask his wife over a few glasses of wine, and she’ll tell you he’s a narcissistic, arrogant, aloof piece of what I already said. I haven’t seen her for a while though. I heard she has stopped drinking. Can’t last.

If he was a place he’d be: Las Vegas, or possibly Tijuana.

 

Matt the Outdoorsy, Everything is AWESOME Enthusiast

On Road: He’s super excited to be an expat, and is constantly going to hawker markets or to Malaysia, or Myanmar or whatevs. He only does all that stuff because he has a boring job, and he isn’t as successful as the other chaps in our Expaterati crew. If it wasn’t for his wife, Liz, adding a touch of glamour, he’d be a completes expat nobody.

At Home: I imagine Matt is a pussy cat at home. He’s so annoyingly enthusiastic that he mainly wants to go hiking at the weekends, and do all those trips to “real” Asia type places. He wouldn’t be seen dead in one of my divine Orchard Road malls, which explains why he dresses so badly.

If he was a place he’d be: Ummm, Luxembourg? In his head, Nepal.

 

Zach the Needs-to-Grow-a-Pair Trailing Spouse

On Road: Because of his combination of emasculation and techy-ness, men love him. He’s totes non-threatening, and he knows all kinds of fascinating (yawnicus!!) stuff about what’s happening in Silicone Valley. Women, other than me, think he’s SO cute and “suuuuuch an amazing dad” because he’s the stay-at-home spouse. He goes to PTA meetings and Baby Mozart BS. He gets a ton of kudos for what we ladies (by which I mean our helpers, of course, so it’s vicarious, but that still totes counts) do anyway, but really everyone knows he’s just whupped.

At Home: I don’t know them that well, but I have it on excellent authority from my friend Flo that Zach is a mega-diva behind closed doors. Apparently he properly throws his toys out of the pram at Sarah when they’re on their own. He obvioso knows deep down what a big loser he is.

If he was a place he’d be: Surrey, or San Fran in the rain.

 

My Father – Serial Expat and All-Round Wuzgunna Guy

On Road: Throughout his expatness, he was a lot like Don in that the men looked up to him, and the women were all over him. He has been everywhere, done everything, and is always up for a round of golf. Unlike Don, though, my father has a majorly roving eye. So I suppose he’s a bit of a Will too.

At Home: I’ve already gone into that. Even now that he’s retired, he acts like he’s lord of the bloody manor, living out some latter-day colonial fantasy.

If he was a place he’d be: Noosa, Kensington, Hong Kong, and Mumbai (all rolled into one).

 

Fred the Closet Gay But Otherwise BEST Husband EVERRRR

On Road: This chappie has an amazebobs social set, and is, on every level, the ideal husband on road and at home. He goes to tons of great parties, and knows the coolest people on the island, all thanks to his gentleman PA of whom he is extremely fond. I think I should add another item to my New Year’s Resolutions: to be-friend this dude so that I can run around with his crowd.

At Home: Considering what a moh-foh nightmare his wife is, she is blessed beyond reason to have landed such a great catch. Fred is super nice, super good-looking (in that eyelashey gay way), and super generous. He encourages her to buy designer handbags twice a season (!), and he books massages and spa treatments for her, on his own initiative. And he travels a lot! Yet the wife is still miserable!! Wtf, woman? What more could you want in a man?? Spoilt much?!

If he was a place he’d be: Florence, Brighton, Melbourne, and a juicy hot chunk of Bangkok.

 

OK, so now I’ve run out of guys I’ve mentioned before, but there are two more mega-important types of expat husband that I can’t leave out:

Mr I’m So Much Richer Than You (“I’m here for tax reasons”)

On Road: This guy is a major charm factory, similar to the player type. Women lurv him (another chap with no immunity to yellow fever). Men pretend to like him because he’s such a BSD (msg me if you don’t know what that is), but really they only want to beat him at squash to reassure themselves that money isn’t everything. LOL, yeah right.

At Home: His wife hates him because he chose money over what they left behind. (Ladies, stop with the hating! Nothing wrong with that!!) So he, too, is rarely home due the haters who live there, ie the wifey and their four embittered teenage kids.

If he was a place he’d be: Well, Singapore, I suppose… Or Monaco if he’s the real deal.

 

Mr WHOOP-WHOOP, I’M GOING TO MAKE PILES OF CASH!

On Road: This is the bloke who tops up his housing and car allowance with his own money (or even savings! ARGH!!) because he is labouring under the misapprehension that he is suddenly loaded. He is noticeably extravagant, and overly generous, which makes him a popular party guy. Quite annoying after a while though, because his underlying sense of inferiority causes him to compete over the teensiest things; way sillier than what we wives compete about.

At Home: He watches a lot of TV, particularly property shows (because he’s so chuffed about the idea of his negative equity house back home earning some rental income), and keeps himself and his family constantly entertained. This is because, if he allowed himself a single moment of reflection, he would realise that he is spending a shedload more money indulging his wealth fantasies than he is earning. Yes, that old chestnut! He also can’t let his wife think too much because then she’d be bashed in the face by the revelation that they’re going to be expats forever, whether they like it or not.

If he was a place he’d be: Any places from Disney movies, or Dubai. But really Detroit.

If you think there are any other types of expat hus then I can assure you that, based on my astute intuitive knowledge and perigrin-like observational skills, you are wrong. BUT because I am totes mega-ly open-minded, I welcome your (wrong) comments. For your sake, dear wifely readers, I am wishing you a combination of Don and Fred – without the gayness if you prefer.

On a final note, I can only apologise for not including a section on expat husbands in same sex marriages. I’m afraid that I haven’t met any married gay male couples among the Expaterati, and the only gay husbands I know personally are Elton and Dave. They don’t count as expats in my book, so it’s really a grey area for moi. If anyone knows about this stuff, babeses, please get in touch and write a guest post for me. You can even have a profit-share of the vast income I earn from my work as a celebrité blogger.

Another Smart Move, Singapore!

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 2 Comments

I didn’t get much out of Liz on Friday night, but what she did say is that maybe I should learn more about history and politics and stuff, particularly about Singapore. While she, Don and Will (what’s up with him, readers?? Gimme a bone, here!) were bantering, they were going on about some story in the Economist this week. To get involved in the banter, and not just be the silly ignorant wife – because that is so not me – I made a hilario (but totes true) jokee that I never find the time to read the Economist because I have to stay abreast of the goings-on on the Singapore Expat Wives Facebook group, the REAL Singapore Expat Wives Facebook group, the Nice Singapore Expat Wives Facebook group, and seven other groups. That’s a lot of reading! Super time-consuming, but it has to be done or you become a big expat nobody. You fall out of the Expaterati, and once you’re out, it’s mega-tough to bob back up again.

So, I thought it was totes sweet of Liz to show her concern for my intellect and my career as a writer by saying that I might benefit from broadening my reading horizons. She would be a good mentor, I feel. She must be somewhat into her 40’s, so she’s old enough for a mentoring situation to arise. I should get her to come out with me for a ladies’ night one Wednesday, and further seek her counsel. Maybe the one at the W in Sentosa. That’s meant to be aweso-funski.

She asked me how much I really know about Singapore, and I said quite a lot because I spend most of my time on Orchard Road. I am thus therefore well up on the ins and outs. I know all of the malls like the back of my hand. If a new shop is about to open, I am among the first to know. Which makes me v much In the Know. But you know that already, dear readers : ) XOX

Then she started talking about an interesting piece of local history, which I thought was another v smart move by Singapore. Apparently, there was this thing that happened here called NEWater. Singapore used to rely on Malaysia for its supply of clean water. But those naughty Malaysians went power-mad, and upped the price of the water. So, Singas did something super clever. They decided to grow their own water, and by the late 90’s, early noughties, they had made fabulous desalination and stuff plants, and now they have the cleanest water in the world. Amaze-bobs, right?

The coolest thing though is that now they sell their NEWater to Malaysia!! Haha, coolio or what?? Luv it! Go, Xīnjiāpō!!!

So, I thought yeah, that is an interesting story, Liz babes. And I totes want to hear more about Singapore. I could become like a renowned local expat political historian or something, if I have time. I’ll defo see what other bits and pieces I can find out from Liz over a few glasses of Veuve Clicky at the W.

After she told that story, emasculated Zachy-boy pipes up (he’s the trailing spouse in his marriage – what now, now?!), and starts talking about his Big Theory. I spose that, as the stay-at-home spouse, who obviously doesn’t spend much (any??) of his time at the gym, he has plenty of opportunities to come up with big theories. Ha! I’ve said “grow a pair” before, but I’ll say it again for good measure.

So, Zach obviously has a chip on his shoulder about Facebook. He used to work for them or whatevs, pre-emasculation. He went on about this guy, Jaron Lanier, who is some techy bore. Yawnicus, Zach honeee.

Then he said that he has a theory about Facebook and privacy, which he thinks is metaphorically similar to Singapore’s NEWater. Zach reckons (get this, LOL) that FB, and thusly all of the apps it owns, has a plan to slowly, but surely reduce its users’ privacy. And that because we all totes luv FB – which we totes do!! <3 it greatly, babeses, right? HELLS TO THE YES! – we’ll just agree to a creeping loss of privacy, handing over our data, and photos of our hols and kids. Well, um ya! Duh, Zach, how else am I going to show my 1,328 Facebook friends how much fun I’m having, and what a great parent I am? I’m not going to email each and every one of them, now am I?? That would take forevs, and anyway, we all know that email isn’t secure.

His Big Theory is that once we’re all thoroughly hooked on FB (which I so am not, and could come off it at any moment if I so desired which I totes do not for the afore-mentioned reasonings), they will introduce premium features we have to pay for, to buy our privacy back.

So, he reckons that, like Malaysia buying water off Singas, we will have to buy back the rights to our own privacy. Not just that, he thinks that in the not too distant future, only the wealthy will have any privacy at all because they (we, LOLs, mega-mahusiv-sorries to expats who aren’t on packages, cashing in from properties back home, violin time!) are the only ones who will be able to afford it.

Then he showed his true Commie colours, and waffled away about “the disease of inequality”, saying that less well-off people are just going to accept that they have, and therefore deserve, no privacy. “It’ll become a default response”, according to Mr Grow a Pair.

I’m sorry, but what a load of old bleeping bleep!! Zach, sweets, get a job!! Women are clearly more suited to the trailing spouse role, and it is obviously melting his mind into a paranoid puddle of delusion.

Ugh, it was all abso exhausting! I’m still so tired today. After writing this, I’d love to go back to bed, but it’s Sunday, Bloody Sunday. Helper’s Day off. I know now how U2 must have felt.

I was up with Max at crazy o’clock last night because he had a nightmare about all the villagers he had ever killed in Minecraft coming to get him. Cousin Clara, the Tavistock psychologist has advised me that, in those late-night situations, I should listen to Max’s concerns, try not to blame or belittle him for his fears, and stay with him until he is settled. She is clueless though about the kind of stresses and strains I am under, particularly the situation with Will, so I was defo in the right when I told Max to stop being so stupid and bloody well go back to sleep.

THEN – and you will sympathise no doubt, dear readers – I had just managed to block out the sound of Max crying and go back to sleep, and my phone rang!! What now, now!? Seriously, what fresh hell is this again?

It was that woman, Chantelle, my father’s ridic new child bride! She sounded frantic, saying that he had “disappeared”, and that, although it had happened before, he had always turned up.

“I’m so sorry, Emma-Jane, I didn’t know who else to call”, she said, “I really don’t know what to do. He has been gone for hours.”

Hmmmm, I thought, a taste of your own disgusto medicine at last. Not wanting her nastiness to affect my chi, I attempted to sound as give-a-crap as possible, while mainly wanting to go back to sleep. I suggested she phone the Noosa police chappies and see what they have to say about a missing person. Knowing what he did to Mummy, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he is off somewhere “golfing” with some other chickadee. And that would show you, Missy Chantilly. What comes around goes around, sweets.

So, I was up twice in the night, once with Max, and once with my “step mother” (ugh), and frankly, I am <3′ing this whole expat thing a little less this morning. 

I’ll take Milly to Petit Bateau at the Paragon, to get her some sweet dresses. Shopping is an evidence-based cure for all ills. Plus it would look good for me to spend some time with her, and get some nice mother-daughter selfies for FB. Not least because of all this business with kicking Froo Froo dog. Poor Froosfster. I do feel for her, despite the peeing on the chestnut Chesterfield. She didn’t choose to relocate.

My Worst Night EVERRR as an Expat

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / Leave a comment

Hmmmm, well dinner at Luke’s was most defo not a lovely evening. (Other than the food, of course, which was fabbo as always.)

A number of not good things happened, ranging across a spectrum of mega-odd to mega-crap.

Will did not try to sit opposite me, nor did he speak to me at all, or make eye contact at any point. He even talked about Mrs Expat Singapore with Don, and when I tried to join in with the boys’ banter, Will cut across my words and acted as if I was invisible. What now, now??

Then he finally did dart me a look, as he told Don about “some woman making a fool of herself, objecting to the commodification of expat women, taking her top and everything!!”.

That was the only time he looked at me all night.

Don laughed hysterically, like Will was the funniest person on earth. A-hole. He can be so sycophantic towards Americans. Why do people do that??

So that wasn’t nice at all. I decided that Will must have gone mad or something, and that, for the sake of my chi, I should concentrate on advancing my writing career with Liz, and my book on male trailing spouses.

Every time I started talking to Liz though (I didn’t manage to sit next to her, she was diagonally opposite, facing Don), she was laughing away with the boys’ banter, or staring into space, with a totes smug smile on her face, like the cat who’d got the cream. It was so strange that I remarked on it quietly to Don. He was struck by it also. So struck that his foot stomped down on the floor as he agreed that Liz’s expression was indeed v odd.

It got worse though, dear readers. As it turned out, Sarah, the pant-wearing wife was “Betty”, Mrs Competitive. I thought her name rang a bell. So there I was, sandwiched between drunk Michelle (full of anger about coming second at Mrs Expat Singapore), Sarah, who wanted to tell me repeatedly how much more of an Expaterati Somebody she is than everyone else, and her heart-stoppingly boring husband, Zach. For most of the night I ended up pushing macaroni cheese around my plate (no you carbs! still just NO!!,) and listening to Zach woffle on about how lovely it is being a stay-at-home dad, and how Facebook is stealing our privacy so that it can sell it back to us, and some whatnot whatevs about an app he’s working on in his spare time. Sweetie, I felt like telling him, you’re a kept man!!! It’s all spare time!! Grow a pair.

All in all, I can safely say that it was the worst night I have ever had since becoming an expat. Ever ever ever.