La Dulce Vida - Da Soul Hip Blog Queen

"If you're nice to them, they give you extra time", and it was only when I was typing a message to the Prisoner Locating Service (no information can be given over the phone) wondering whether I should sound aggressive on Babyfather's behalf, that I realised that Dani meant the people at the internet cafe - not the prison guardians.

Now I have to wait ten working days to know whether Babyfather will give his consent or not. If he's locked up, that is. I may be wrong - my logic has failed me before, but I think I'll get some answers regardless, because either

- he will consent and I get to see him.
- he will not consent and no information will be given to me. At least I'll know where he is.
- they have no record of Babyfather and I will have to rule out my favourite theory.

Distance makes heart grow fonder, but so does a court sentence, I think. Right now I'm missing Babyfather so much that if he only comes back, I'm willing to play the 1950s and answer to his "I'm home, honey!" in high heels, with a freshly baked cake and slippers that I've warmed for him between my manicured hands. If he only came back.

Updating this journal is becoming increasingly difficult now that it is more of an effort to find a computer with Broadband connection than to think of something to write. So, maybe I should do like 50Cent and withdraw with my dignity in place...
Hopefully Dani, Malaika and I find a house soon with big enough a garden to keep a couple of cows, and then I can sort out an internet connection and give this diary the attention it deserves.

Meanwhile, I have now finished and handed in my dissertation, which means that the levels of self-destruction are back to normal, and it's time to refer to the list of priorities again:



I got a temporary job as a secretary at a hospital, which I'm very pleased about, because now I don't need to start queueing at the Job Centre and have Tracy Towerhouse as my nextdoor neighbour. Shrimp must be very proud of her Mummy, who's so good at sorting things out.
Another good thing about the job is the location - in the case that I was too late with my priority number 3, and don't get any ante-natal training. Although it is in the Social Work department... but that may become handy, too.

And that reminds me that I need to find Babyfather, because I've now lost contact with Cuz T as well. My last message was undelivered and Dani said I should probably just accept that I won't hear from him again.
Which meant I started my Detective Project this morning. I phoned the police, where a lady told me that he probably doesn't want to be in contact with me and that these things happen and that I should get used to it. I started crying, because these things happen as well, so she referred me to the Custody Department. Unlike you, the officer there was less interested in my life story than in Babyfather's personal details, and I was happy I had his real name (things you probably took for granted) and that I remembered his birthday because we're both Capricorns and the baby will be too. As it turned out, Babyfather has been taken into police custody in July.

A-HA!

*frantically looks around to find anyone that could be 'told-you-so'ed.*

And then there is the Data Information Act and all that rubbish, so the officer told me to contact prisons to find out if they're accommodating my 'boyfriend', which is why I'm here at the university probably for the last time this year (but not ever, if I get accepted to do my PhD); printing out contact information for all prisons in the Midlands, because I'm assuming he's not been sent to Guantanamo.

The descriptions on the prison websites make me laugh (which probably makes me a very nihilistic and bad person, who should be in prison herself):

"Type of Accommocation: Cells".

I do hope that Babyfather is taking full advantage of the special features that the prisons offer; in particular the accredited "Coping with Dyslexia" skills course.

Best Friend says I am very, very mean.

The expected date of Dulce's resurrection: Monday the 24th (the dissertation deadline).


And the winner of this year's 'The Biggest Tummy' competion was...

"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

On Tuesday Dani bet five pounds that it’s a boy. I wish I had made a bet with everyone who swore by the Y chromosome, because I would be rich!!!



I was as happy as I could be without appearing like I wouldn’t have been happy had it been a boy and between now and Tuesday I’ve been staring at her picture. What a gorgeous thing there, growing inside me, which, if you really think about it, is quite a sick idea (I have two hearts inside of my body! Ewww…) She’s got big lips and pokey nose, and at least the latter is thanks to Babyfather. I’m wondering whether that will remain his only contribution.

Then, against my earlier decision, I tried to phone him – or his cousin – to tell him about the nose and the girl thing, and predictably, he didn’t pick up and even more predictably, I got upset.

Dani and Mel tried to cheer me up, but we’ve run out of theories explaining his disappearance and absence.

1. The Jail Theory (my favourite) – he may have got two or three months, and he’s trying to get away with not having me know, because a) he’s trying to stay in my good books, because he thinks he still is b) he believes I work for the police. He’s communicating with me through his cousin.
2. On the Run Theory (Mel’s theory) – he’s on the run (duh), maybe with his cousin, to avoid an inevitable court case. He’s trying to get away with not having me know, because a) he’s trying to stay in my good books, because he thinks he still is b) he believes I work for the police. He’s communicating with me through his cousin.
3. ‘He Needs Some Time to Get Used to the Idea’ Theory (a few of my older ‘been there, done that’ friends believe I should just ignore him) – by having his cousin communicate with me, he ensures I’m not going to ditch him out of my life completely, while he’s making his lonely, long journey towards enlightenment.
4. The Other Baby Mother Theory – pretty self-explanatory. Would explain the mystery woman who called me one night to find out who I was without bothering to introduce herself.
5. Gone on a Holiday Theory – and the Earth is flat.
6. Gone Away to Work – as above.


None of the above completely satisfy me, and now, losing contact with his cousin as well… “It’s just not like the guy I met”, Dani said, and Best Friend can confirm that he was one of the most zealous, over-keen, adoring men I’ve introduced to them, and also, he was ecstatic about becoming a father (well, for the second time, but anyway…)

They advised to text him (or his cousin) that I had the second scan and something was terribly wrong and that I need to talk to Babyfather. The idea of him in agony made me laugh like Ursula in the Little Mermaid, but the prospect that he might still not bother to text me back was a bigger factor than my guilty conscience, which finally stopped me from doing something so mean.

Instead I sent a pretty truthful text, where I enquire about his plans and whether they, in the long run, involve me and the baby at all, and if they don’t, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I moved away from Brum to Mexico with my Mum (works every time), and that the baby is a girl and has got his nose.

Almost immediately I got a reply from his cousin:

“He does really like u and he is so happy about the baby he would love u and the baby 2 be close as 4 the future no1 knows but he will give it a go its got 2 be worth a go.”

Imagine, having a cousin, like Cuz T, who knows exactly what you think and can put your feelings into words (and misspell them just like you would) and just basically talk on your behalf! Where do you get cousins like that…? Unless you make up one, or what you think, Babyfather???

I can’t believe Babyfather outsmarted me!

I still don’t know what’s going on, but I’m going to leave it to that: he’s still in love with me and he will adore his gorgeous little daughter, which is all I really need to know – in my state.

PS. I’m in Finland for my (step)Dad’s wedding.

I spent a few days in Bristol catching up with my social network in the South West. GBF invited me for a Sunday lunch and he'd prepared some curry goat. Big up GBF - the celebrity master chef!! While enjoying the peppery Jamaican dish, we were having a light-hearted Sunday conversation. GBF and his equally smokeaholic boyfriend told me about life after July the first (note to non-UK smokers and non-smokers: a smoking ban in public places). The boyfriend said that it's disgusting really, because unlike in the past, when you couldn't even breath - let alone smell anything - now you go to a club and you can smell people!If the general standard of hygiene correlates negatively with the level of intimacy in a rammed night club - I can see where they're coming from, even if I'm a militant non-smoker.

Anyway, I decided to try curry goat at home, which if I had done a few years earlier, I might still be going out with LOL and not be pregnant with that Pot Head Baby Father. Dani and I went to this halal meat shop in Cape Hill to get some goat, and I have now marinaded it and everything. Dani, however, thinks that it may not be goat as such, but lamb. The reason for her doubt is that when I asked for goat the halal butcher said:
"No goat. That is lamb."
"Oh. I don't want lamb. Have you got any goat?"
"No. Yes. Everything we got. This, this and this."
"So is that goat?"
"Yes, yes."
"I thought you just said it was lamb."
"No lamb. That is goat."
"Oh right. Can I have three pounds, please?"
"Yes, yes. I give you good price, pretty girl. Good goat."

I'd send you a picture of the end result, but my camera is busted. Again. How long is it until Christmas now?

It seems like my chances for a tower house living are evaporating.

People – my Midwife Sue, for example – have warned me that it can take quite a while before you get a place from the council. But confidently I comforted Dani and told her that we must be the top priority of Birmingham City Council, given our situation.

I’ve started conducting the interviews for my dissertation, which is the fun part of the research. For a month I’ve been stopping random women with mixed kids on the street. Yesterday I did second interview and visited a woman on the other side of the motorway. She’s 38 and has five children. Because my first interview went really well, I had a good feeling when I knocked on her door. That was soon gone; “I’m not posh and I’m not trampy, you know what I mean” she described herself class status. I found it a bit saddening, really: poverty worse than that I have only really encountered in Cuba. How could I tell? They had a crap telly. The thing is, no working class or black people have a shitty TV; most of the time their plasma screens are bigger than the box that they call home. That’s how. She lived in a two bedroom flat with three of her children, the oldest being 6 and the youngest 3 months old. I got the impression she was being evicted. The council had told her to move into a refuge, but she refused.
“How long have you been waiting for a council flat?” I asked out of personal interest.
“For years, man.”
“Really? I thought someone like you would be their priority…”
“Are you having a laugh? It’s a pain in the arse, it is.”

I knew I’d have something to tell Dani when I’d get home.

Her 3-year-old boy was so beautiful, though, I thought he was a girl. You couldn’t really tell where his looks came from, but I put it down to the rough life that his parents had lead. She was a former prostitute. When I was leaving, the little boy wanted to walk me to the door and took my hand.
“His name is Kanye,” his mother told me. Kanye is a beautiful name. I’m really struggling coming up with names for boys. I have a royal list of names for girls, but not any for a boy (any ideas? Feel free to comment.). I like Kanye. But then again. It won’t go, because then everyone would think I named him after a rap artist, and I can’t really think anything cheesier than revealing to the public that you really watch too much MTV.
“He was named after Kanye West, you see.”
“Oh. Nice. How sweet. And, erm, what’s her name?”
“Ciara.”

So, if you hear someone on the crying that Missy Elliot should not put that thing on her mouth, that’s me and my kid.

I don’t care if it’s a boy.

The 25 Worst Rapper Names of All Time

Shrimp really isn't a very troublesome lodger. Doesn't cause me any feelings of sickness, actual sickness, cravings, heartburn, bleeding gums or anything else that I've read about in the dozen or so booklets I've collected from the hospital, Boots and Dani's bookshelf.

We are a fairly functional team, really. Don't think I'll be running the marathon this year, though, but jogging around leafy Edgbaston is fine, although I look and feel like I have a beer belly.

Except that there's one little inconvenience and it involves frequent trips to the nearest wash room. I don't know what Shrimp is drinking, but it's testing the endurance of my bladder. It usually gets worse when I'm out, somewhere very far from any public toilets. When I'm running - that's when the fun begins. The first 20 minutes are fine, but the last 20 minutes become 10 minutes as I'm racing back home, as I’m not entirely comfortable about making number twos in a bush, even in leafy Edgbaston.

So yesterday, when I was running up the hill spending more energy trying to keep our dinner inside me than actually progressing anywhere, a slim young woman passed me running, looking so light she was ready to take off any minute, I started singing:


I used to be like you
Now I need to poo
Whenever I run
You think it's fun
It's such a shame
Shrimp is to blame


Do not worry. I'm fairly confident that my research skills are better than my lyrical talent.


PS. I made it.
PPS. On time.
PPPS. What a relief!

I haven't heard from my memory stick nor Babyfather, but, anyway. Sunday was the hottest day; which was even more miraculous, since it was the Handsworth Carnival. For the first time I didn't see Asians in Birmingham; as Jamaicans took over the streets (I got my little flag) and it was the closest thing to Barbados I've experienced since I got back. It was a brilliant opportunity to find interviewees for my research on white chicks with mixed race kids. We got back home before 8 o'clock, well before rude boys would come out. (Best Friend: "Funny how things have changed.")

Today, I got an e-mail from Pig and under the Freedom of Information act, here you go:

"hey congratulations, i didn't bother opening your email for a while cause i thought you'd want something, but thats some great news. You deffinately get more free shit if niglet gets raised in finnland, but you won't be the only poor big bellied mulatto if you move to cuba. whatever you do don't bring him up in england he'll think he's a gangsta but talk like harry potter and the queen. Having a kid should distract you from dating scumbags for a while your gonna end up with a people carrier driving cracker jack motha fucka. Pam doesn't talk to me so tell her i hope she's happy about making me sad. Should be in england in september second week but only if ther's good flights. Me and the pigs have been uglying up the beaches on days off so i could use some clouds and rain for a change. I already have a spare bedroom waiting for me in brum but seeing your fat ass will be fun too.

pig"


With my personal trainer.

I couldn't possibly be any more unproductive today, which is the main motive behind this miserable blog post.

Today I lost 'it'. That last piece of my ripped and torn sanity, the edges of which I was clinging to is now lost possibly for ever. If you see it wandering around by itself, please let me know. (Also, if you see a fairly short man, who's light-skinned / mixed-race, in his mid twenties; left-handed and a Capricorn, drives a potentially stolen, definitely uninsured, Vauxhall and looks like is missing a Baby mother - please contact the author.)

I lost my keys last week, but there's nothing new there and besides Dani found them underneath the kitchen table.

I lost my optimism when I checked my bank balance, which I don't do very often for this very reason: I'm so depressed. I'm going to have to live on what I heard Dani's friend spent ten-fold at Mailbox last Saturday. Until the end of September, that is. And beyond.

I would get a job now (one that actually pays, rather than helps the community, for a change); but I'm determined to get my stupid dissertation done so that Shrimp doesn't have to spend the next twenty-five or so years hearing how I almost got an academic literary award for my research, but then morning sickness got on the way and...

But that would not happen, because I LOST MY BLOODY MEMORY STICK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Of course I took a back-up copy - about three weeks ago!

And that's when I became a very bad mother (see, it is possible to become a bad mother, before one becomes a mother). Until today, I haven't had a drop of alcohol (since I found out about Shrimp, not since I turned 18), I've exercised, I've been splashing expensive anti-stretch mark oil on my belly, I've got my five a day, my folic acid, stayed away from fizzy drinks, mayonnaise, sea food, caffeine, reflexologies, martial arts, cats (hate them anyway), insect repellent, soft cheese, goat milk, peanuts, and shot anyone who's lit a cigarette within a square mile, but today, today - I bought a can of sugar free Red Bull!

So there you go. A mother who never quite graduated and her hyper active child. The other option was to jump down from a Tower House. It's so hard to decide, sometimes.

A message from Babyfather.

"U o.k babez u need anythink let me know C is away 4 a bit.T."

No. A message from Cousin T from Babyfather's phone. So, he's gone away, has he? That explains why I haven't heard from him for two weeks. I thought he was still angry about the love bite.

I phoned Cuz T (on Babyfather's number). Not because I needed 'anythink' except some information. You see, Babyfather is not the kind of person who'd say "I need some time alone, I've enrolled with this Monastery in Southern France. I'll get back to you, when I've found myself."

"I don't know, babez. He's just gone." Flushed away with the floods?
"He got arrested?"
"No man. Maybe he's gone on a holiday, or somethink."

A holiday from what? Rolling spliffs all day? Besides, he probably doesn't even have a passport.

Cuz T said he'd let me know when he knows somethink. (As if.) All I'm really interested in, is the extent of the 'away 4 bit'. Is he going to be away when I have my second scan, when he would find out whether it's the boy he's hoping for? Or am I going to have to have Cuz T as my birth partner? Or will his son (?) be sending father's day cards he's made at school to the county jail? Or am I just being my own suspicious, mean self?

"Locked up," said Dani. Malaika burbed.

It's still kind of sweet that he's checking that everthink is ok with me. Almost romantic, don't you think? Like in '21 Questions', Best Friend reminded.

Dani, Malaika and I form a dormant household together, where our existence (punctuated by eating, sleeping and bath times) is rather biological. I am working hard on my literature review most of the time. 'Quiet' is too loud a word to describe life at the moment, but this is a nice change from the stressful pre-holiday weeks.

Of course they were not as peaceful as I then claimed, but I have promised myself that Shrimp (the one inside me) will never find out that the days when I found out about him/her didn't happen to be the most jovial time of my adult life, and that she/he can thank the weakness of my character for continuing his/her unfortunate life. Shrimp deserves his/her privacy - although I reserve the right to post his / her nude pictures here, at least as long as he/she inhabits my inner organs. In other words, no evidence (apart from Shrimp him/herself) will be given of the early weeks of June 2007.

Thanks for everyone wishing me good luck - I think this must be one of the few situations in life when people congratulate you for fucking up big time.

Now I need to find out about my council house options - I have never been this close to my wish to live in a tower being granted! Obviously it's great that I will have finished my Master's degree by January, but I can't help lamenting over the fact that my economic capital is as non-existent as my cultural capital is abundant.

All the latter is good for is making me bitter when someone called Tracy puffs a cigarette in front my (and her!) kid (kids!) but I can't even make a spiteful comment because I'm too busy observing the used needle on the floor and because I'm scared of pikeys, anyway. (This is my blog. I can write what I want.)

My life is so f*****g interesting, especially because no one really knows me. I’m a good writer. I have very good handwriting.

Charly from BB on her plans to write an autobiography.

Anyway,
if the owners' ten cats don't put you off, I'd definitely recommend our lovely holiday apartment,


which was about fifteen minutes walk from this:


which we did every day,


even though the public transport was really impressive (not just by Cuban but by English standards). It was subsidised by helpful local drivers; a date invitation is usually included in the journey. Waiting for the reggae bus:


Every day...


All day...


OK, you got the point.


And that's my bump!


Which makes sure there will be no love interests in my life anymore. (You may still keep reading because my life is f***ing interesting I have good handwriting.)

Hi there,
back in town.
Here are some holiday pictures from a wet and dark place. My pictures will follow.

Continuing from the previous post... now the washing machine is busted as well. I can't rant about it too much, because we lost our Internet connection *cold turkey*. I got to get back to work (yes, the same unpaid one) - the next update may be posted from Barbados.

By the way, I find it funny - whenever I mention I'm going there, people go "oh, to see your family, is it?". I don't have any family in Barbados, as far as I know - unless you are referring to the big Exodus, movement of the people. Selassie!

Now I've handed in my notice - after I get back from the Caribbean, no more mouldy bathtimes! I put an advert up in Gumtree and had a couple of phone calls. One wanted to know whether the other housemates were black, white or Asian. Gee! I said in my most politically correct smart-ass tone that they are English (sorry, Brian - just remembered where Cardiff is!) - some people are so obsessed with this race thing!

Maybe it’s the rain, maybe it’s the hormones, but this sweetener is going sour!

If I remember right, it was about December when I e-mailed the landlord and told him that I have a feeling that the bathroom floor is leaking. (This is why a fitted carpet underneath a bath is so much better than, say, tiles.)




I hope the ceiling won’t tumble down before I graduate in September:



In January the loose oven door handle finally came off and a new one was (?) ordered. Probably from Cuba.



I haven’t gone hungry since my creative use of the kitchen knife. And the most important thing, anyway, is that our safety has been put first:

- I think my boobs have grown.
- Really? That's horrible!
- Yeah. I had to upgrade my cup size!
- Let me see... Ewww! You need to do something about that.
- What?
- Like go topless when you're in my house.
- Ha ha.
- Let me see again... Now, I need to see the ass.
- Are you using this as an excuse to perv at me?!
- I'm just examining that you're still proportanate. Jesus! You're being touchy! Are you on?

What I don't break I usually lose. The good thing is - I don't over-react.

I went to the Bull Hellring - which some people refer to as a shopping paradise - today to get some bits and pieces.

What was I thinking?!

Saturday is the busiest day in Babylon! The point of the Paradise was that there were only two people in there. That's why God is making sure that the Heaven won't be overcrowded.

I wanted to get a photo album for those 50 plus pictures I took yesterday at the hospital, and give it to Dani in her baby shower next week. I also got some little stickers and things I can decorate it with, but it seems that in England people are not as creative as in the Peripheria (I haven't found a Finnish blog that didn't have something to do with knitting. Trust me.); it took me forever to finally find some lame stuff at Selfridges.

As I passed the Bullring market place, I saw a little lingerie shop I didn't know existed. In the past five years I've been squeezing myself into too small underwear, which makes me part of the 90% of women who don't wear the right bra size. Well, never mind my brassieres - that guy from How to Look Good Naked would mutilate most of my knickers!

Student loan - here we go!


Well, at £1 each didn't exactly break the bank.

Can someone tell me why it is so difficult to find a bra that has no 'air' 'gel' or any other filling / padding / topping / cushions / whatever? I don't think these extras are absolutely necessary when the cup size is DD+. These ones were okay, though:



I can't really wear these with any of my tops, because with all that pattern they would shine through any fabric. So, they can only be worn when no other clothing is being worn. I.e. about five minutes at a time. And the point was...




And the point was...


(£5!)

At home I realised I had lost everything I had bought for the baby! Left it on the bus with a rude Polish driver who gave me the wrong ticket and just shrugged arrogantly when I complained! An hour later, after I stopped crying, cursing my existence, cursing the Bullring, cursing the Polish bus driver, banging my head on the wall, missing my mum, texting my friends, and crying on the floor, I blew my nose in some lace and wondered whether Malaika would appreciate some French underwear? DD+?