Bad MuthaBlogger

Bunny and I have settled down into our new holiday digs. This is the picture from our lanai:

Not a construction worker in sight. No power tools. No trucks. No gigantic fork lifts. Just palm trees, golden sands and brilliant blue seas. Ahhhh. I feel like we’re on holiday at long last. We can FINALLY relax into the Aloha spirit. It took a few days of holiday hell, but we made it with a full refund in hand, and a much better place to stay.

We’ve only been here 2 days, and we’ve already seen tons of whales spouting, slapping their fins and jumping out of the water for sheer joy. I’ve lost count of how many whales we’ve seen. It’s absurd. The waters here are TEEMING with whales. There’s some going past the balcony right now.

Turns out Bunny is a good little whale watcher, and he LOVES the sea.

Yesterday we saw a pod of spinner dolphins, leaping about in the surf, a stone’s throw from our balcony. Early this morning we went swimming in the ocean, and a big sea turtle popped up next to us. Later we went snorkeling and saw puffer fish, yellow tang, trumpet fish, red pencil urchins, angel fish, humuhumunukunukuapua-a, and oh so much more! The waters here are crystal clear. You can see for miles.

Here’s what we had for din-dins last night:

The bunny wasn’t too keen on it, but I thought it was da bugga.

We like it here. We could live here. Maybe we’ll stay. Find ourselves a bronzed surfer dude to hang out with, and eat papaya and pineapple for the rest of our days.

I know, I know. I promised a few photos of me and bun-buns soaking up the sun and sea on our hols in Maui. But I have to get a few things off my chest first. 

You would not BELIEVE the bullshit I’ve had to go through over the last few days. I forked out a lot of dosh to experience this:

 and instead I got this:

And this

The road coming in was full of things like this:

and also this:

The view from the back bedroom lanai, where me and bunny were supposed to “sleep” looked like this:

And the lanai on the front, with the “sea view” looked like this:

That guy there on the right is using a tile cutter. The one on the left is using a circular saw. The noise in our villa was unfuckingbelievable. Coming from all directions.

As you can imagine, I was a little bit miffed. In fact, I’m still hopping mad, spittin’ pins and am too wound up to write more, other than to say K(r)apalua Villas and (Un)Pleasant Holidays are bastards. I’m not even going to give them a link, otherwise you too might be fooled by their marketing lies.

We’ve moved on now, and when I’ve calmed down I’ll write more. GRRRRR!!!!

I did something crazy this weekend, and booked a trip to Hawaii. We’re leaving in 2 days. Kinda spontaneous, a touch of last-minute madness, I know. But I am desperately in need of a holiday. A place where me and Bunny can swim with sea turtles. A place where I can wear a bikini and sarong, and feel salty and sexy. A place where I can watch an ocean sunset from my balcony, while Bunny sleeps beside me. A place where I can eat pineapple and papaya, and get a monster plate of sushi for only $20.

It sounds good, doesn’t it? I can’t quite believe we’re actually going to paradise.

I can almost feel that hot, tropical breeze on my skin. I love the lushness of Hawaii. I love the way my hair goes all fluffy, and my skin plumps up with all that moisture. Here in California  it’s so dry, I’m starting to look like a raisin. My hair breaks off every morning in great brittle clumps, and I pound through barrels of extra-strength moisturiser like nobody’s business. California climate ain’t good for us older women…  

I feel a little twinge of guilt about leaving… carbon footprint… economic recession…

But mostly I feel over the MOON! WE”RE GOING ON HOLIDAY!! TO HAWAII!!! HURRAH!!!

The universe wants us to go. I keep getting signs from the islands. Last week at the mother’s group, someone gave me and Bunny a plastic lei for the stroller. And then I got this junk mail catalog in the post, all about Hawaii. It says the word Hawaii is a combination of ”Ha” (the breath of life) “Wai” (fresh or living waters) and “I” (the divine in each of us). A place to go to renew your spirit and vitality. Sounds just the place for me. I am in sore need of renewal.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I went on holiday. Like a proper holiday. Trips to see my family don’t count. I’m talking about a sun, sea and surf holiday (note I missed out the sex). A “do-nothing-but-bum-on-the-beach” holiday. I think it’s been about 10 years. Maybe longer.

I do remember the last time I was in Hawaii, because I got married on Maui. Which is exactly where I’m going this time, but I won’t be visiting any of the old nuptial haunts. I’ll stick to the other side of the island. A trip down marriage memory lane isn’t exactly what I need in my life right now. Too depressing. I want to have fun in the water with Bunny, soaking up the tropical island vibes, and breathing in some of that Aloha spirit.

I probably won’t be blogging much for the next 2 weeks (yes, I’m actually going away for 2 whole whopping weeks).  I might upload a few photos here and there, if I can find time in between swimming with dolphins and watching whales.

My only worry now (apart from packing) is how to keep a 1 year old entertained on my lap for a 5 hour flight.  Hopefully it won’t be anything like as bad as that flight we took with South West when Bunny was just a squirming baby, nor that nightmare flight back from London. But I’m sensing that having an active toddler on board is going to be a whole new learning experience. I’ll have a fresh set of toddler traveling tips for you, along with a suntan, when I get back to the mainland. In the meantime, aloha oukou!

Today the Bugaboo Chameleon broke. Yep, the Rolls Royce of Strollers came a cropper.

The chassis collapsed as I was coming out of Nordstroms in the rain, negotiating some slippery stairs. It was fine until we reached the top of the steps, and then suddenly it sort of wobbled, and fell to pieces. Bunny went flying forwards, but luckily I managed to catch him before he hit the pavement.

Shame he didn’t get a black eye or knock a tooth out or something, as I could probably sue for damages and get a big stash of cash.

But seriously, peeps, WTF?! This is the SECOND time the Bugaboo chassis has broken in the SAME PLACE. This is some serious bullshit, and I am going to make MAJOR complaints to whoever’s in charge, as soon as they open their customer service department on Monday.

I’m sure they’ll send me a new one right away, but the question is, do I want it? I’ve already got one broken chassis in the garage, now I’ll have two. Plus each time I take the new stroller out, I’ll be nervously waiting for the effing thing to effing break again. Only this time, I might not be so lucky with the Bunny. Is it worth the risk?

I could go out and buy another stroller, but who’s to say that won’t fall apart aswell?

Have you noticed how everything these days is designed for the dump? How products keep getting more and more rubbish? How we have to keep going out and buying more and more crap to replace the very same crap we bought last year?  It’s a throwaway society, peeps, a disposable culture. Another reminder that the whole world has gone to the dogs.

If you haven’t seen it, and you’ve got 20 minutes to spare, check out The Story of Stuff . It gives you the low down. Puts consumerism into a nutshell.  Here’s a short clip to tickle your fancy.

I wish I could video Bunny’s bedtime show. I thought he was going to grow out of this stuff, but instead he’s refining the whole performance into The Art of Fighting Sleep. Peeps, trust me, you would PAY to watch this show. It’s worth a bob or two, I’m telling you. Much better than the telly.

It really is ridiculous. You would not BELIEVE the antics I have to put up with each and every night. It’s the same old bedtime battle, only now it’s getting bizarre. He’s a one man band: part acrobat, part clown and part monkey, all rolled into one.

Roll up! roll up! The circus is in town!

Come see the Bunny as he flies across the bed with the greatest of ease, swinging from boob to boob, stuffing  first one nipple into his mouth and then the other! Watch him tumble and roll, flip-flop and fly! It’s the acrobatic rubber man pulling mama’s breasts into unnatural shapes for his pleasure!

After Bunny’s finished with my jugs, I’m going to enter them into the freak show. We can be the side attraction.

He bites, he scratches, he squawks.  He gets up on his hind legs and roars like a lion, and then collapses into a ball and falls about giggling. He flips from one end of the bed to the other, leaping and jiggling like a jumping bean, and then suddenly he falls down dead and feigns sleep. Just when I’m creeping out the door, worn out and exhausted, at the end of my tether, he leaps up over the pillows with great glee  - SURPRISE!! I’m really AWAKE mum!! Come back to the bed and PLAY!!

And then we go through the whole routine again, so Bunny can get it right. He’s a perfectionist, like his mama.

Sometimes, I manage to get him in a headlock. Clamp him on the boob, and then hook my elbow around his neck, and scrunch him hard into my chest so he can’t move. But it doesn’t always work out that well. He can kick and squirm like a devil’s fiend, and usually I feel like a bad mother, slump, and let him go again.

I swear he’s going to be in the circus when he grows up, if I don’t sell him off there first.

I went out on another date last night. Date #4, or is it Date #5?  I honestly can’t remember. They’ve all blurred into one long string of time-wasting hopelessness. This guy was OK, I suppose. Let’s just say he was the best of a bad lot.

He was old, in his 50s, a bit pudgy around the edges. Look, I know I’m an older woman, but I only just turned 40 and I look 35, or so everyone tells me. I am FED UP  with dating old men. I know I can dress up and (without the baby clinging to my neck) catch the eye of a younger man, someone close to my own age. My knees don’t sag like Demi Moore’s, I can snag a toy boy or two. For fuck’s sake (no pun intended) I want a young buck, with a 6-pack stomach and a tight butt. I think I deserve that. I look after my body, so gimme a guy who looks after his. Fair’s fair.

My date wore JEANS, casual style, which as you know, ain’t my style. At least he had a jacket on and a white shirt. He’d obviously made an effort of some sort. Not much by my standards, but there you go. 

We went to an Italian of his choice, which was crap because I don’t eat dairy, meat or wheat, so that more or less ruled out the entire menu. He ordered squid to share, and they arrived looking exactly like little baby octopus. How can anyone eat something so intelligent and cool? It just ain’t right.

He was much less interesting in person than he was on the phone. On the phone he sounded dark, handsome, sultry and sexy. He sounded intelligent and eco-conscious. I had him billed as an eccentric, wealthy doctor with highly creative tendencies, and a wry sense of humour to match my own. He had intense penetrating eyes, and he cut a sharp figure in an Armani suit. 

It’s funny how you can build up a picture of someone from their voice, and how WRONG that picture can be.

Despite the initial visual shock, I soon got over it. I’m not so superficial as to judge a book by it’s cover. I’m willing to dig deeper beneath the surface of a character, and see if there’s a gem or two inside.

But there wasn’t. Only a few nuggets of fool’s gold to be found.

He talked A LOT about himself. Surprise, surprise. I don’t want to seem sexist, but is there a glut of guys out there that do all the talking, and not enough listening? He was so wrapped up in his own conversation that he didn’t notice that I was struggling to stay awake.

After we (or should I say, he) ate, he wanted to go and have dessert somewhere else. Somewhere less noisy, where we could talk quietly. Unfortunately, I’m far too English to speak my mind in these sort of situations. Although what I really wanted to say was: “Nah, mate. I’m done in. Let’s call it a night, shall we?” Instead, I demurred gracefully and said: that would be lovely. Inside I prayed that everywhere would be closed. But alas, the gelato shop was open late.

I was forced to listen to my date for another entire hour, during which time he demonstrated to me the 1000s of applications he had installed on his iPhone. Things that I never knew existed. This was the most interesting part of the evening. Did you know that your iPhone can be turned into a flute, where you blow into the microphone and tap holes on the screen? You can also tap on the globe icon, and both listen to and see other iPhone flute players from around the world.

Straight up. This is what people are doing while Rome burns. Never mind climate change, or declining biodiversity, this is a SOCIAL APPLICATION peeps. Get with the program. It’s building community. It’s COOL.

Finally, after I learned how to turn my iPhone into a light saber (technically known as a phone saber), I blurted out a yawn and said I needed to get back home or I was going to turn into a pumpkin, pronto. He seemed taken aback, but I’d reached my limits, and frankly I’d rather be blogging than wasting my time with yet another stale date.

I did learn one other interesting fact: he hadn’t paid any fees to join the dating agency, but his best friend’s brother’s daughter worked there, and had got him a free membership. Apparently the agency is “low on men” and so they are looking at other ways to recruit. So I paid thousands of dollars to join an elite,  first-class, top-notch agency, and they send me some dweeb who hasn’t paid a penny.  

I don’t think I need to tell you how much that pisses me off.

In a nutshell, I’m done. Dating has gone to the dogs. A girl’s got limits. I’m not going to do this anymore. I’m taking a time out. Indefinitely. Back to blogging about Flopsy, poop and sleep deprivation.

They say it gets easier after a year. What I want to know is exactly WHEN does that happen, because here we are 2 weeks after Bunny’s 1st birthday, and I swear things aren’t getting any easier. As a matter of fact, things seem to be going in the opposite direction.

Take for instance the house, which looks like a pigsty. For the first time in my life I am paying cleaners to come into my home every week and give it a good scrub and polish. Since having a baby, I can’t seem to find the time or energy to do it myself. Trust me when I say that if I didn’t pay the cleaners to come in and take control, I would be living under mounds of filth and scum.  We would all be dying of the plague or something, because of the great rats nesting in piles of laundry.

They came 3 days ago (the cleaners) and the house looked clean as a new pin for about 10 seconds, until the bun-buns (a.k.a the grub monster) got his paws into everything and now it looks like an East End squat.

The cat peed on my bedroom floor. So now it smells like an East End squat aswell.

A week ago I took apart the Skip Hop mat, and meticulously cleaned under each and every interlocking foam piece (it was FILTHY down there) and then very carefully tried to put it back together, and somehow managed to fuck it all up and put 3 matching chocolate squares together, all with yellow centres, which looks really stupid but I can’t be bothered to try and make it all even stevens. Anyway, I just peeked under a square, and it’s just as filthy with dirt, crumbs and sand as it ever was. So all-in-all a pointless exercise, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to clean it ever again.

In between the cleaners, I do my best to keep on top of the mess. I sweep the kitchen floor 3 times a day, after each meal that Bunny has carefully thrown down on the floor, instead of down his throat. And despite my best efforts, I still manage to smush pieces of banana and split peas under my slippers and tread them around the rest of the home.

The laundry is a mountain that WILL NOT be conquered. The cleaners don’t do the laundry, but OMG I wish they would. As Bunny gets older, there is MORE laundry, not less. Let’s get this straight, as Bunny gets older, there is MORE MESS, not less. Period.

Keeping on top of the mess is the tip of the iceberg. That’s just the superficial surface stuff. Underneath there’s the DEEP stuff, that I absolutely will never get to sort out, until Bunny has grown up into an adult and left home. My wardrobe of clothes, for example. The kitchen cabinets. The cupboard-under-the-stairs-that-is-really-a-room-full-of-stuff.

But forget about the mess. That’s small potatoes. The hardest part in all of this single parenting trip, is entertaining the bun-buns, and making sure he doesn’t come a cropper by falling head-over-heels down the stairs, or electrocute himself by chewing through one of my computer cables. He scampers about the place like a baby baboon on speed, and he STILL won’t sleep nor will he eat anything of substance, and well…. you can kind of start to get a picture of what my life looks like.

It was SOOOO much easier when the bun-buns was a mewling, wriggly worm that squawked on the floor, or flounced in his bouncy chair. I could have, would have, should have got SOOOOO much done when he was a babe-in-arms. It’s hopeless now. My getting-my-shit-together time is over.

I can see the future, and it ain’t paved with roses. I’m the fish swimming upstream. It’s a LONG way to go ’til we get to the lake. By which time I’ll be in my 60s.

Bunny didn’t sleep last night. He usually doesn’t sleep much, but last night he really didn’t sleep much at all. He thrashed around like a jumping bean for hours, moaning and groaning, while I tried to ignore him, desperate to get some shut-eye, pleading under my breath for him to fall asleep. He’s teething, I said to myself. Nothing to worry about, just a few more pegs coming through the poor lad’s gums. Every now and then I shoved a boob in his mouth to comfort him and keep him quiet. Shhh… go to sleep, bunny, I whispered in between boobs.

Finally at 4am he started crying hard, almost screaming, and I sat up with a jolt of adrenalin realizing that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him. What kind of a mother was I, ignoring my baby’s moans for hours?! As soon as I picked him up he started vomiting. All over the bed. All over me. All over himself. 

I tried to carry him to the bathroom, I’m not really sure why. That’s where I usually go to be sick, so I guess I was thinking it was a good place to take the bun-buns. On the way, he helpfully puked all over the carpet. All over the walls. All over the bathroom. It’s amazing how much vomit a little baby can produce, isn’t it? It was just like the airplane trip from hell, but without the diarrhea.

Once he puked his little guts up, he started smiling weakly and we trundled downstairs together so I could have a cup of tea, and gather my wits about me. To my horror, I spyed some dude through the glass door in my front garden. WTF?! It was like 7am or something, way too early for visitors. He smiled and waved, and shouted through the door, I’ve come to spray the tree!

My blood went cold. What?! You’ve come to do what?? I said as I opened the door, thinking there must be some kind of mistake. I had on my vomit-soaked PJs and slippers.

I didn’t ask for a tree sprayer, I said suspiciously. Who asked you to come over?

Turns out my landlady did. He said he sprays here every year. I marched outside after him to his truck, and said, I don’t want you to spray the tree. I don’t believe in spraying perfectly good trees for no good reason.

I asked what he was spraying for, and he said bark beetle.

But there isn’t any bark beetle on that tree! I protested.

That’s because we spray it every year, he said. Duh.

Look, I have a baby here. Is that spray toxic?

Oh, yes ma’am. It’s toxic alright. But don’t worry, I’m only going to spray the tree by the front door. You’re lucky, a couple of years ago we’d cloud the whole yard. Now we just do the one tree. I’ll hose the surrounding bushes down with water afterwards. You might not want to come out here for a couple of hours.

With that, he pulled on his thick protective gloves, white overalls and gas mask, and proceeded to get his chemical pack out of the back of his truck. For a minute I felt like I was in a bad movie. The one where everyone gets wiped out by the holocaust.

But what about my baby? I pleaded, freaked out and powerless.

I got the name of the chemical and looked it up on the internet. Dragnet, active ingredient Permethrin. The EPA classifies it as a carcinogen, and also links it to respiratory illness. I was fuming with rage, and called my landlady to complain. She should have told me this guy was coming over to spray. Not only was my baby sick, but now I had to deal with this spray shit aswell. I would rather move out than let some guy spray a “possible” carcinogen right outside my front door.

Oh, I’m so sorry, she said. He shouldn’t have knocked on the door. He was supposed to spray and leave before you woke up.

That pissed me off even more. Yesterday, me and Bunny were outside tracing patterns in the tree bark with our fingers. He was pulling leaves off the  nearby shrubs and putting his fingers in his mouth, like babies do. What if we did that today, right after the tree had been sprayed, only we didn’t know it had been sprayed? What then??

Don’t worry it’s not toxic, she said. It’s made from chrysanthemums. It’s perfectly safe for people and wildlife.

What a bunch of fucking bullshit. It’s a synthetic chemical, lady. It’s a broad-spectrum pesticide. IT KILLS EVERYTHING! It even kills cats and fish. And if it’s so safe, why did the spray dude have on full protective gear and tell me to stay indoors for a few hours, and not touch anything near the tree for a couple of weeks?!

To add insult to injury, my landlady then had the chemical spray company call me up to tell me how safe their product is. WTF?! As if I’m supposed to believe them, when they are the guys selling the stuff! For godsake, woman, what kind of idiot do you take me for?

I’d like to point out that permethrin has been banned in the UK and the EU for several years now. Sometimes I wonder if I made the best decision for my baby in moving to this country.

If I wasn’t so bloody tired, I’d pull together a radical anti-pesticide poem in protest. Instead, here’s one I found on the internet.

I got so worked up last night waiting for my date to arrive. All for nothing. I don’t know why I get myself into such a state. All that adrenalin and anxiety has got to be bad for my heart.

He turned up in a sporty Porsche. Flash Harry, I thought. Nice. But when I stepped inside, it stank of dog and was filthy with dirt and grime. He apologized about the mess in the back seat, which I hadn’t even noticed. He got lost on the way here, and when he called for directions (again) I asked him why he didn’t use the GPS. He replied that the car was new, and he hadn’t figured out the GPS yet.

Red flag #1. He has a brand new Porsche and it looks and smells worse than a dirty dog kennel. I don’t know about you, but if I had a brand new Porsche, I’d probably keep it pretty spiffy. Especially if I was going to pick up a $100,000 date. Which, by the way, is the exorbitant fee he paid to the agency for the privilege of going out with classy women like me. Hahaha. I wonder if he thought I was worth it. I get the feeling he’s got more money than sense, so maybe he doesn’t even care.

Red flag #2. When he called for directions the 2nd time, he said he wasn’t going to dress up, he was going to dress casually, since he was a casual kind of guy. OK, I thought. Whatever. I’m going to dress up anyway, because this is a dinner date and I’m a dress up kind of gal. He turned up in faded jeans, sneakers, an old faded turquoise sweater with a scrumpled stripe shirt underneath. Make an effort, mate. You can still be casual but look smart.

Red flag #3. He told me all about his alcoholic, psycho ex-wife, and his previous dates who were all “whacked”. Fascinating, but kind of inappropriate.

Red flag #4. He talked A LOT. About himself. He asked me a couple of questions, but somehow turned it all around back to him again. He didn’t really listen. It was all about him. I hate it when guys do that. It’s my #1 turn-off.

That’s probably enough red flags.  Although I’d like to mention that he also didn’t want a starter, but wanted to split mine. He didn’t ask, he just assumed that this would be OK. And he didn’t want any Creme Brulee or Chocolate Tart, or coffee or tea afterwards. He wolfed down his salmon plate, whilst talking up a storm, and in between he coughed like a smoker. Before you think it was the wine talking, he didn’t drink.

The last straw was when I went to the bathroom and did a quick bottom check. I suddenly noticed that my derriere was covered in white stuff, which on closer inspection turned out to be millions of white dog hairs congealed into my beautiful dark brown, and very expensive mohair cardigan. It took me ages to pick them all out.

This dating malarkey is a nightmare. I’m over it. I know I’ve only been on 3 dates, but I’m jaded and burnt out already. What I want to know is how many frogs do you have to kiss in this pond to find a prince?

I’m waiting for date #3 to pick me up. This waiting for a date is a fool’s game. Why in godsname am I going out on a date at all? I don’t want to go. I look like mutton dressed as lamb. I look like the dog’s dinner. My stomach is too pudgy for this dress, and I have too many wrinkles to be dating. My decolletage looks like a builder’s bum. I’m too old and too tired to be doing this shit.

I wish I could stay snuggled up in bed with Bunny, all toasty and warm under the quilt. He doesn’t care if I look and smell like a hag. I don’t feel like going out tonight. I’d rather be staying in and watching a DVD, having a cup of cocoa and a choccie biccie.

I can’t be bothered to make small talk and try to be nice. I don’t want to feign interest in someone else’s life. I don’t want to tell another stranger all about my life. Not again. What’s the point? It’s too much effort, I tell you. It ain’t worth the trouble. I’m done with dating, really and truly I am.

Fuck. He’ll be here in a minute. Maybe I can pull a sickie at the last minute and bottle out? God, I wish I’d had my nails done. I wish I had something different to wear. Too late to go upstairs and start futzing about in my wardrobe for the umpteenth time. I’ll have to settle with what I’ve got on and make the most of it. He probably won’t even notice what I’m wearing anyway. At least I can dazzle him with my new teeth.

I think I hear a car outside. Gulp. Wish me luck. I swear I’m not going to put myself through this again. Not on your nelly.