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.