Mali’boooooooo

It’s time for me to vent. Sticky Baby is snoozing, Papadada is at work, I’m cradling a glass of chilled sangria in my hand - I’m ready.

So Papadada and I have been in France for 3 years now. There are lo-hoads of other aussies here and most of the expats are set up in a holiday resort called Malibu Village. Cheesy, so very cheesy. Sounds a little Melrose Place’ish, minus confused, ambivalent Billy and psycho-chops Amanda.

When we first arrived, the thought of ‘community living’ gave us the heebie-jeebies. Could we deal with living next door to Papadada’s work colleagues? Together, 24/7. Mi casa, su casa. Can I borrow a cup of sugar? How about a cup of ‘please piss off’..Can you see where I’m going with this? We were scared. So, we chose to find our own place, content with the decision to live away from the masses, while still being social butterflies when we chose to. It’s a fab house - big, bright, right in the thick of things, a 40 metre walk to the mediterranean. Who could ask for more?

I’ll tell you who. Me! I could ask for more!

You see, since the birth of Sticky Baby, I’v realised that perhaps living at Malibu Village wouldn’t be so bad after all. My mum-friends and their kidlets all live there. There are play dates going on all.the.time. Obscene amounts of tea-drinking, open-door policies, communal-pj-wearing at 2pm. It’s my sort of place. 3 years ago it wasn’t. Now....it is. I need that sisterhood, that comraderie that would be available to Sticky Baby and I all the time.

Dear Malibu Village,

I take back all the nasty shiz I said about you. So what if you’re slightly on the dodgy side and your name makes me throw up a little in my mouth. The truth is, I secretly have a crush on you. You and your 4 pools that make Sticky Baby flap his arms with joy. You and your 2 restaurants. You and your 80’s themed bar that is open for the summer. Sweet jesus, a bar in my backyard? Where have you been all my life, Malibu! I want you, Malibu. I love you, Malibu. Take me, I am yours.

Ok, so that about depicts my level of desperation at wanting to move into a villa at Malibu. Guys, I had even started packing. 4 boxes. 3 suitcases. Taped up and ready to go.

Yesterday. Phone rings. Malibu calling.

"The Villa we told you would be yours on Sept 1 is now NOT YOURS. We suggest a 2 bedroom ground floor apartment instead. Perhaps you would like to see if that would work for you and your family?"

Boo. Hiss. Sob. Villa-mourning. Papadada and I contemplate apartment living and figure maybe we could do it, seeing it would only be for 1 more year?

Ok, Malibu, you’re on like Donkey Kong! Let’s see this 2 bedroom ground-floor apartment you speak of. It’s a date.

Today. Phone rings. Malibu calling.

"The 2 bedroom ground floor apartment we were trying to ram down your throat as a consolation prize for the villa? Sorry, NOT YOURS either. We no longer rent any form of accommodation year-round. New policy as of 3 seconds ago. Only holiday rentals now. Au revoir, suckerzzzz........"

3 bottles of Sangria later.......

So Malibu have nixed us. Karma. I just know it is. We bad-mouthed them in the early days and now it’s pay-back, Malibu style. Half of friggin’ Australia lives in Malibu Village, except US!

Malibu is now Mali’boo.

Dear Mali’boo,

I hate you just as much as I hate Martha Stewart’s way of talking. I will keep going to your 4 beautiful pools, but from now on I will be removing Sticky Baby’s swimmer nappy. Good luck to you, bitchezzz.

Result of the drama of the past few days? We are staying put in our house. No community living for us. No walking across the street at 8am, with bed hair and eye crust, for play dates and coffee. That dream is dead. I will have to continue making the 5 minute drive from my house to spend time with my Mali’boo-dwelling-friends.

I’m the Mali’boo-outsider.

SO ALONE. SO ISOLATED. SO FAR AWAY FROM MY PEEPS. 5 minutes away is FOREVER....

And damn it! Now I have to unpack.......