The Best Impromptu Weekend Away in The World

After struggling to find an impromptu place to jaunt away to on our Every-Second-Weekend-Off-Together that wasn't going to cost the equivalent of a Tesla down-payment, an old and dear friend mentioned she was looking for a house-and-dog-sitter for the weekend.   And she lives in Papamoa Beach.

A friend who is so dear I haven't seen her in person for about ten years but at our age that just proves it's stable relationship.  

As awful as it sounded spending a weekend at the beach, I thought I'd still offer and ask, because Weberley's New Man (WNM) is a little fond of dogs.

So fond that I risked being a third-wheel the entire weekend.

Bearing in mind that Claire has known me since I was 13, I was pleasantly surprised and somewhat shocked when she didn't snort and pretend she suddenly wasn't going away any more.  And then block me on Facebook.

After I checked with WNM's farm manager that there was no chance he'd suddenly be required to work until 9pm on the Friday night, I messaged him and told him that I'd pick him up on Friday after work, and he needed to have togs and a toothbrush packed.  And possibly some Berocca.

I don't want to cast any aspersions to his character, but there were perhaps a few times during the week where quite possibly information was attempted to be gleaned from me by means of distraction and bribery.  It looked like a pretty expensive Mankini he was sporting.

After working at warp speed on Friday so I could sneak in an Early Knock Off (don't tell my new boss, I'm still trying to fool him that I'm valuable) I loaded up Bozzie's food dishes with 9 days worth of food, told him I loved him very dearly, cried a little, then drove to Hunterville to park at the servo down the road waiting for the "I'm ready!" message.

I knew if I drove straight to his house we'd get immediately distracted by a game of Sequence, and ain't nobody got time for that.  We had a long drive ahead of us.

He started walking rather than waiting in his house or driveway for me, and because he was wearing jeans and I'd never seen him wear jeans, I almost didn't recognise him and felt like the lady from Heart's song.  I literally picked a man up from the side of the road and whisked him away in my car on a rainy night.  And it was definitely All I Wanted To Do.

After driving through torrential downpours, two hours of "babe - I'm so excited! We're going to Turangi right?!" followed 30 minutes later by "babe - I'm so excited! We're going to Taupo right?!" followed 60 minutes later by "babe - I'm so excited! We're going to Rotorua right?!" I began to wonder if a dog and a beach might not be that exciting after all.

Turns out I was shouldn't have panicked. Except for the split second when he thought we might be going to Whakatane, right?

At least the view of Mt Ruapehu was primo.

I was also pleasantly relieved to discover that driving the Desert Road in the dark is way less scary when there's someone beside you who can assure you that the big pylons are not going to come to life and start marching through the traffic like something from a Pink Floyd video. 

We stopped at Turangi for some BK, and our trip would have been slightly quicker if his meal had taken the same 2 minutes to be made that mine did, instead of the actual 12 minutes that it did take.  It's the first time in our relationship that I've finished at least half my meal before he's devoured his and started eyeing up mine.  And my food.

There were some heated discussions during the long drive around some of the important elements of a healthy relationship; and the merits of delayed gratification of such elements vs distracting the driver in thunderstorms on a pitch black night.

After finally arriving in Papamoa Beach, working out how to get in the gate without letting Charlie out, working out how to get in the house without letting Charlie out, greeting Charlie, assuring Charlie we weren't there to rob the pantry (I will retract this statement soon), getting knocked over by Charlie and falling backwards into a breakfast bar, and working out which room we were staying in (which was just an excuse to check out Claire's massive house) we crashed out without even a sideways glance at a wine glass.

Well, there were definitely sideways glances at her awesome glass collection, but none of them were filled with sweet nectar that night.

Early morning wake-up was expected to be to thunderstorms that had been forecast all week, and I'd anticipated a weekend of Sequence in front of the fireplace.  However it turned out to be a stunning day and I woke to the dulcet tones of WNM sitting outside having a full-on conversation with Charlie.  Including questions that it sounded like he expected answers to.

The sounds of that plus birds chirping got me motivated to get out of bed and hit the ground running. I briefly thought of messaging C to see if there were any Nanny Cams in her house as WNM sauntered around naked looking for - well, honestly, it could have been anything from his vape to his half-eaten chocolate biscuit - but that question could sound nothing but dodgy so I ran with the risk of no cameras to cause emotional trauma for life.

After a hearty breakfast at Robert Harris surrounded by early-morning diners with a median age of 87, we were off to tackle the Mount followed by a soak in the hot pools. Private pool even... I'd slipped him a sneaky Berocca and quite fancied a bit of Sequence. 

The pensioner couple we ran into at the beginning of the Mount track were reading the map and they looked a little concerned when I mentioned I was super unfit.  They suggested that a walk around the perimeter was just as nice as an attempt to the summit. 

I sucked in my Eggs Bene, sneaked a peek at my super-fit and gorgeous WNM, and decided that the risk of heart attack and not being able to walk for a week was worth the attempt to impress him. 

He is quite capable of moving my legs for me if that attempt failed and I need to find other ways to impress.

Halfway up the Mount, after stopping once or twice purely to look at the scenery and not to pop my hip back into it's joint, we came to an intersection and pondered which path to take when another old lady asked if we needed advice.

"Yep - I'm super unfit lol [adjusting my denim shorts while eyeing her lycra and fitbit] so, which path do you think we should we take?"

"This one is short and very sharp, so I'd take the other one if I were you!"

Short and sharp it is then, Lycra Lady.

30 seconds into the short and sharp route, after yelling at WNM to "stop stopping in FRONT of me, you're interrupting my flow!" about sixteen times when I stopped to check that I was still alive, he respected me by complying and off he literally skipped up the 175 degrees steep cliff side.

I shoulda slipped myself a Berocca as well.

Ten minutes later, and a few well-intentioned comments from people on the return journey down looking at me alarmed and saying "hey, you're NEARLY there!!"  we finally made it to the top and holy shit the view was worth it.

Unfortunately, the fact that the views were so great also meant there were a) a lot of other tourists up there as well and b) not a lot of private hideaways, so regretfully I had to decline WNM's suggestions of a sneaky game of Sequence in the bushes once I got my breath back.

Traversing the cliff back down was surprisingly almost as hard as getting up - although apparently that happens to lots of couples - mainly because I was so keen to hurry and hit the private hot pool totally wearing all our togs that I almost fell about 18 times.  That and if I was old I'd say my knee joints were hurting but I'm not so they weren't.

There was a lifesaver halfway down, but someone my age wouldn't even need to think about this kind of thing and I barely noticed it was there.

We met the original old couple near the bottom who were quick to ask us, sounding somewhat cynical "oh, so did you make it to the top?!" and I have to admit it's the first time in my life I've considered pensionacide.  They can go out like Noah and Allie.  Except over a cliff, not in a hospital bed.

When we finally reached the bottom, and WNM mentioned that I looked slightly sexy with a wee glow on my face, I was more determined than ever to hit the hot pools and work up a real sweat, but he mentioned ice creams and thereby killed any chance of my coming first in Sequence.

With the sexy-glow comment still at the forefront of my mind, I found a Real Fruit Ice Cream place but slyly navigated us there via a secluded beachfront.  We parked up the car, I told him to pack the backpack with a blanket and a towel (it's the beach - I intended to get wet) and off we set on another little hike.

Turns out the secluded beachfront only consisted of sand; and the dunes and weeds that afforded privacy were on the other side of a (possibly electric) fence that clearly indicated Private Property.  And also had several high rise houses looking down into them.

Feeling somewhat defeated before even playing one hand of Sequence, I guided my driver to the Real Fruit Ice Cream shop instead.

I'm not saying that size matters, but after the disappointment of the non-secluded beach front, this was just a slap in the face.

0/5 Stars.  Would not recommend.

We were booked for dinner at a restaurant recommended by C.  When I checked their website they had a Happy Hour from 4-6pm, so of course I booked us in at 4.  We had around two hours to get back home, chill with Charlie, down a couple of Spicy Rum & Cokes, and get in to town to down a couple of Spicy Anythings.

We got home with a couple of hours to spare, WNM chilled with Charlie, I downed a couple of Spicy Rums, and we headed into town.  

When we arrived, the waitress commented that we were having a very early dinner.

"Oh yeah lol.... cos we've come for Happy Hour!"

"Oh.  Oh, no, we don't have Happy Hour any more."

"Oh.  Oh, no.  So we wouldn't be here for dinner at 4pm if it weren't for the Happy Hour.... you might want to take that off your website...."

*crickets chirping*

"Oh well.  Looks like we're having a quick bite to eat and finding another Happy Hour."

Which we did.  Actually we found a couple.  

The first one had some awesome vintage chairs, Victorian Style, so we asked a lady at the next table if she'd mind taking a couple of photos of us just for the sake of it.

She was more than happy to, and took several, clicking away while my cheeks got sore from smiling.

We moved to an outside seat once we got our drinks, and had a look through the photos she took. Or, as it turns out, didn't take.

It's not that they were bad photos.  It's that they were invisible photos.

There was also not one single bubble in WNM's Black Russian. After taking a few sips each, just to be sure, we returned it to the bar to ask if perhaps the post-mix gas had run out.  After making us a fresh one, which wasn't much better, we decided to move on and look for better bubbles.

I found a couple of places that looked promising on our travels, but they were vetoed.  By me.

Then we found Latitude.  With a blackboard that read 'Happy Hour 5-8pm'.

"I got this babe."

"Hey, how's it going?!  We're parents away for the weekend without children [not a lie] and on a budget [we blew our drinking budget on undersized Real Fruit Ice Creams], please tell me what drinks are part of your Happy Hour?"

"Hey guys, welcome!  We have $6 wines, ciders and beers - what would you like?"

After almost Sequencing right there at the bar, we ordered our first drinks before he finished the word "six".

And so set the scene for the rest of our Party Night. 

We found a seat in the outside bar which was booked out for Hen's Night minus a table for two up on the deck.  We had to give each other a very stern talking-to - several times - that we would NOT involve ourselves in the party;  we did NOT know the bride;  she would NOT want wedding night advice from me;  and WNM could definitely NOT be the impromptu stripper.

Fortunately for the Bride to Be, we both vape, and both our vapes going flat coincided with the end of Happy Hour simultaneously with the depletion of our next-month's drinking budget - so we decided it was time to depart gracefully.

"Gracefully" meant on Lime Scooters.  Intoxicated.  For a 9.8km trip.

After demonstrating to me no less than seven times how I had to push-off for the scooter to start moving, and working out myself that I couldn't pull the brakes on full from travelling at 78km an hour, we were off for our adventure.

 

Then apparently WNM had to tell me several times that the beach was a Red Zone, and that even if scooters DID happen to work on the sand, they wouldn't work in the Red Zone.

Then also apparently he had to tell me several times that the way I insisted was the correct direction to go was in fact the complete opposite direction to which we needed to go and I only believed him because he had GoogleMaps loaded on his phone and could somehow both scooter and read the screen. 

Then also also apparently at some point on the way home I decided that I needed to empty my bladder, and even though I remember discreetly ducking into a beach access way and hiding behind a bush, it seems I was actually quite vocal about my biological needs and we had a bunch of men on a balcony several houses down encouraging me to "pop a squat".

Somehow - and I have NO idea how - WNM managed to stay on his scooter the entire trip home, even while navigating several main roads, traffic lights and small children - while I fell sideways in to a car, then in to a flax bush.

On the upside, not one Wheelie Bin was harmed in the making of this adventure.

Once we arrived home, and I managed to work out how to log out of our scooters so we were no longer responsible for any damage they might cause, we lay down on C's massive corner-couch with our heads touching discussing the finer points of love and life.  Until I passed out (he says.... I prefer "fell asleep"), he picked me up and carried me to bed, then continued to enjoy the night with Charlie.

At which point she started barking.

Why? 

Upon investigation it seemed the neighbourhood kids had discovered the Lime Scooters left on the front lawn, and were hooning around the neighbourhood on them.  I'm still waiting for the additional debit card charge.

The next morning we woke at something-batshit-crazy-am.  I grunted and rolled over, and WNM got up and made me a coffee (like he does most mornings - he knows all about personal safety and hazards in the relationship) which I completely ignored and fell back to sleep. It transpires that the chocolate biscuits and sausage rolls and icecream in the house were completely violated while I slept but I woke at the more respectable time of 9.30am none the wiser.

Until I remembered we had breakfast pre-booked for 11.30am and someone mentioned why they might not be that hungry at this particular moment.

Fortunately for my hungry belly, WNM while checking out C's food supply had also tidied up and packed all our gear so after a shower to catalogue all my new bruises, we were ready to pack the car and go.

Except that the car was still sitting outside the first pub in Mt Maunganui, and we had no way to go.

Whilst the Drunken-Scooter-Prix was fun, the idea of $50 to scooter 9.8km with full bags was not.

Uber to the rescue.

This was the first time a stranger has been witness to our intimate conversations as a couple, so the dude got a five star rating along with a recommended list of local mental health counsellors.  And a copy of the Urban Dictionary.

We were an hour early for our breakfast booking but we decided to wander down anyway and ask if we could move to an earlier timeslot.  They were outside setting up chairs as we arrived so we approached them to ask if...

"Sorry, we don't open until 11.00am."

"Righto.  I guess we'll see you then?

We wandered the streets of the Mount, dodging all the tourists from the first P&O Cruise Ship to hit town since the Big C.  I'm not sure we gave them an entirely accurate impression of the average Kiwi, but at least they'll have lasting memories of us being an affectionate bunch.

When we arrived back at 11.00am on the dot, we barely needed to look at the menu as we'd already decided well in advance what we were having.  Fish Tacos for him, Southern Fried Chicken burger for me.

I mean, breakfast IS the most important meal of the day right?  Why piss around with bananas and some oaty shit?  Plus we had a long journey ahead of us and didn't know when we'd next get to stop for sustenance.

The Cafe (Social Club) had a wonderful quirky - retro? - vibe, and the mismatched eclectic furniture appealed to both of us. So did the lack of other diners when we moved to sit together on the bench seat and lament our missed Private Pool date.

We'd booked our breaky through "Book Me" and had vouchers for 50% off our bill, and when Rich went to pay, I headed outside to watch all the tourists wander past.  On the way out I saw a table of three dudes and without wanting to racially profile, I guessed they were from the cruise ship. One of them was taking a photo of the other two, so I offered to take a photo of all three of them.

They didn't understand a word I was saying, so I mimed "camera", "smile" and "not a phone thief" and watched these three cool dudes turn into 13 year old girls when I told them to say 'cheese'.

After five minutes of tourist-watching, with no WNM in sight, I began to worry that the vouchers were a scam and he was inside washing dishes.

Five more minutes later, as I was about to call the Police, he came outside and said a sentence that contained the words "punch", "fight", "voucher didn't work" and "thought you were going to have to run for it".

Fortunately for my Mt-Everest-Ascent damaged hips, it was eventually sorted and I didn't need to Dine and Dash.

We wandered slowly back to the car complaining about how full we were, feeling pretty uncomfortable, and looking forward to sitting in a car for hours not having to move much.

"Oooh babe, look!  An Asian supermarket!  Lets just go have a wee look!"

$45 later we wandered slowly back to the car complaining about how full we were.

We needed fuel, so I searched my Caltex App and was absolutely mystified to discover that the closest Caltex was in Rotorua.

"That can't be right, what the actual fuck?"

Searched again, same result.

"That still can't be right, what the actual fuck?"

I looked on Google maps and there were heaps of Caltex between us and Rotorua.

Back to the app, I decided to check my settings.  Filtered to Caltex stations that offered Jesters Pies and Brushless Car Washes.

Let's not cast aspersions to my chosen lifestyle.

After lamenting the horrendous price of fuel, we fantasised about what we would have spent the $24million on had we won it.

"Oh babe, imagine!  I could get me a nice big ute, and you could get a brand new little Prius or something!"

"The FUCK?  A PRIUS???  Piss off!  If we win $24 million I'm getting an RX-7!"

At which point he nearly drove into a bollard.

"What did you say?"

"I'm getting an RX-7."

"An RX-7?"

"Yes babe.  An RX-7.  I freaking love them.  Why??"

"Are you sure you mean an RX-7?"

"Of course I mean an RX-7, why are you looking at me like that?"

"That has been my favourite car my entire life.  My FAVOURITE."

*starts looking at wedding ring catalogues*

The remainder of the trip home was less eventful due to full bellies and the fact that the seduction-instigator on the trip up there was now driving, so found it harder to attempt to molest me on the isolated main highways.

After confirming with each other several times that we were still full and definitely didn't need to stop for lunch, I remembered that there was an amazing bakery in Rotorua that does incredible Cronuts, so messaged the installer that had kindly previously surprised me with deliveries from said bakery.

"Hey Kev, what's the bakery in Rotorua that does those amazing cronuts?!"

"Hey just had a look and they're closed today.  But you guys should try 'Baked With Love' in Taupo!"

After confirming we could wait another hour for a top-up because we were still full, we popped it in Google Maps and set off JUST for a quick look.  Imagine our disappointment when we arrived to see this.

Figuring it would have been a frivolous waste of petrol to drive the extra 35 metres off our planned track and not get sustained, we bought three large items and ate two of them on the spot.

The next two hours were a bit of blur, mainly because I was in a food coma and the driver found some music that had better lyrics than any kind of sexy-talk I could muster at that point.

As an aside, Nicki Minaj needs counselling.  And I apparently need to be a bit more adventurous.

We had to stop in Hunterville again to pick up a second car, because one of us had to start at 5am the next morning and the other one of us was definitely not getting up to drive them there.

After l leading the way for most of the journey, I was overtaken on a passing lane whereby the driver of said overtaking car leant out the window and pretended to be rowing the car.   In hindsight, as tired as I was, and now in control of heavy machinery (according to my medicine bottle) it was not his wisest move to make me laugh uncontrollably, but I do reckon the farmer will be able to rebuild his fence for quite cheap and a couple of cows escaping is not really that big a deal when our country has another four million or so of them.

We finally arrived home to The Boz greeting us like he hadn't been fed for about four weeks, so I fed him like he hadn't been fed for about four weeks;  found interesting things that suddenly needed checking like my houseplants and the occupancy level of my wine rack while WNM emptied everything out of the car, then suddenly realised how tired I was.

"Babe, should we jump straight into bed?"

"Yeah baby, you feel like that game of Sequence?!!"

"No baby.  But let me introduce you to this cool game I've heard of called 'Solitaire'."

Tinderella

In a world dominated by the internet, where everything from shopping to working to putting on makeup is done online, it seemed only logical that it was also the best place to find love.

I'd seen the all the reality shows on TV.  If I could avoid making babies with a sibling, or inviting into my house a serial killer that liked covering himself in womens' skin, I had a real shot at romance.

I was waiting in the highest room of the tallest tower, for my true love, and true love's first kiss.

I was also sick of sweeping out the dust and cobwebs from my basement.

I wasn't green, per se.  I'd been down this road many times before.  The most recent had been the M2 to Melbourne Airport to fly back to NZ with a two cats, a suitcase, and an empty bank account trailing behind me.

I also didn't have long hair to throw out the window and wait to see who climbed up.  

Not on my head, anyway.  I was sporting a moonboot and on crutches, so quite possibly had let the shaving slip.

Not one to rest on my laurels, the first thing I did when I got back to NZ was contact an old friend.  The type of friend that comes with benefits.  I'd heard that when you fall off a horse you need to get right back on, so saddle and whip in hand, I put my feet in the stirrups and mounted the steed.

Satisfied that I hadn't lost any equestrian skills, although I did accidentally knock a pole or two, my next move was to act like an adult and get a job.  Plenty of time for romance later.

After registering with WINZ, buying a wardrobe that didn't consist of jandals (or thongs, as I'd become accustomed to hearing them called), g-strings (or thongs, as I'd become accustomed to hearing them called) and singlets, I went off and got myself a job. 

Working with helicopters.  And as it turns out, loads of men that work with helicopters.

When I visited my WINZ Case Manager to advise I was no longer in need of the financial aide they'd offered me, I was told I needed to ring a bell.  

"Uh, what?"

"Everyone on the Job Seekers that gets a job has to ring a bell to let everyone in the building know they've been successful!"

"I'm not ringing that bell."

"You are."

Looking at the 4,000 people currently in the office, I stood my ground.

"Um, nope, I'm not."

"Karo.  You're ringing the bell."

Never being one to do as I'm told, or conform to social norms, I swore under my breath as I stood up and rang the bell.

4,000 people burst into applause and I burst into tears.

After successfully adulting for three weeks, and finding out the hard way that the concept of hooking up in a helicopter with a work colleague is not quite as romantic as the reality of hooking up in a helicopter with a work colleague, it was apparent I needed to Adult Version 2 and be a bit more responsible about meeting my future husband.

The helicopter HAD been equipped with red webbing and tie downs, somewhat similar to The Red Room Of Pain, but sadly that movie had at that point not been released, so I was unaware of the lost potential.

Being a new Tinderella, I wasn't really sure what parameters to set.  

"Single" and "Looking for Male" seemed pretty clear-cut to me, but turns out "Single" is objective, as is the definition of "Male".

After fending off 136 men who all assured me their wives were very understanding of their higher needs, and another 13 who asked how I felt about sharing my underwear, I was confident I'd whittled it down and fine-tuned my list.

The first successful candidate had a helicopter as his profile picture.  Nothing else.  Going against my rules of swiping right without a photo of the actual stallion, I swiped right and simultaneously insulted his choice of helicopter.

Turns out, this particular stallion not only liked helicopters, but also had a failed marriage, teenage kids, swore a lot, had an absent mother much like mine, and had a broken foot.

Match made in heaven! 

If you believe in heaven.  Which I didn't, but wavered because I'm pretty sure I saw the pearly gates a few times.

After three weeks I started to believe that Lucifer might just exist.  Which, had I known in two year's time would be a semi-naked Tom Ellis, I would have been a lot happier.

After posting approximately 1,076 memes about heartbreak and not being good enough for anyone but my cats, I dusted off my Tiara and downloaded the Meat Market app again.

After weeding out the weirdos, I struck gold.  This piece of beef lived local, had experience with kids (raising them, not sexually), owned a car and was still in possession of all of his teeth.  Didn't hurt that he looked like a bit like Rob Lowe.

A lunch date was promptly organised, along with insistence to my workmates that I really did not need them to sit at a nearby table and pretend to be my children if it all went south.

Ten minutes into the coffee date, he asked if I liked helicopters or just took the job because it was the only one I could get.

"Um, yeah.  I'm kinda keen on aviation, have been for quite some time."

"You should go for a fly with a pilot one day.  You'd be pretty impressed."

"Oh, yeah, maybe I might give it a go!"

*fake laughing as I wonder which direction this is going to take*

"Yeah.  My cousin's friend's neighbour's dog walker is a pilot.  You've gotta be pretty switched on.  Need to multi task a lot of stuff."

"Oh, right, really?"

*knowing now which direction this is going to take*

"Yeah.  The most important thing is with planes is making sure the engine doesn't stall."

"The engine?  Um, yeah, I'm pretty sure that's not how it works?  I know you can have an engine failure, but if the plane stalls, it's the wings that do that, not the engine."

"Nope, it's not.  The engine can stall if you don't fly it properly, and that's a really dangerous situation."

*looks over at nearby tables hoping like hell my workmates ignored my advice*

I deftly changed the subject.

"So, ah, you have kids?  How old are they?"

"Yeah, one of my kids has ADHD.  She's a bit of a handful."

"Oh, wow, really?  So does one of mine.  So do I actually.  Do you or her mother have it?"

"No, what do you mean?"

"Well, ADHD is inherently genetic.  I was diagnosed as a child, my mother most definitely is, and my daughter was diagnosed at quite a young age."

"Oh, yeah nah.  It's not real anyway.  It's just an excuse to be lazy."

"Uh, what?"

"ADHD.  It's just a load of doctor rubbish used by parents to excuse lazy parenting and naughty kids."

As I skull the remnants of my coffee, and stuff the last half of my cake in my mouth (I mean, it was $7.... I ain't gonna leave it)  I stood up and grabbed my jacket.

"So, I have to get going now.  Need to get back to work.  This was..... nice.  Thank you."

I rushed out to my car without glancing back.  As I opened the door and threw my handbag on the passenger seat, I felt the presence of fuckwit behind me, and turned around.

Standing closer to my vagina than my baby was while crowning, I was face-to-face with Rob Lowe.

Which, I might add, was not at all like the actual Rob Lowe.

Not just face-to-face, vagina-to-beer-belly, but trapped with my back again my door and car frame.

"So, call me later.  We can organise our next date."

*gags*

"Oh yeah, for sure, I really gotta get going, I'm late for work."

Horror ensued as it dawned on me that he wasn't moving - and I was stuck - until he got what he came for.

I was too close to knee him in the groin, so as he leaned his face in towards mine, I leaned in also, ducked under his arm and threw myself into the car.

My workmates, quite reasonably, were simultaneously amused and horrified at my recount of the coffee date.  And were much more so when I got a text 15 minutes later asking if I wanted to go to the movies that night.

"Hey, thanks for the offer, but I have to be honest.  I'm really not interested in taking this any further."

"OK, so you wanna just come to my house then?  I've got no kids home for the afternoon so you don't have to be quiet."

Next cab in the rank, a few days later, seemed like much more of a gentleman.

"If you'd like to come to mine - and I completely understand if you don't want to - I could cook us a nice meal and we could watch a movie?"

After using my Private Investigator skills [I may not have mentioned that I studied this in Melbourne and am qualified] to stalk him, he seemed to legitimately be a nice guy, so I bit the bullet.

And he was.

Except, he may not have had time to change after work as a labourer.  Because when I turned up, he was wearing stained trackies and a ripped t-shirt. 

Framing that was a massive ZZ Top beard that somehow did not make an appearance in any of his profile photos.

Putting aside my inbuilt first-impressions-bias, and my lifelong dislike of beards, I sat down and enjoyed a nice wine and entertaining conversation with him.

After about 30 minutes he asked if I'd like to watch a movie, so he chose something, I picked a single seat recliner chair, he parked in another, and put the movie on.

Five minutes later, he was fast asleep and snoring.

I had to plan my escape route carefully.  The front door was right beside Santa, and I didn't want to risk waking him as I closed it behind me.  So, back door it was.  

As I quietly pulled the door closed behind me, I looked around the back yard only to discover it was surrounded by high fences. 

Fences, and a high gate.  That stood between me and my car.

Deliberating between having to knock on the door that I'd locked behind me and needing to explain what I was doing in his back yard, and risking another long-term intimate relationship with my moon boot, I chose the latter.

As I scaled over the gate, trying to make as little noise as possible, I briefly wondered if there were dogs in the back yard that had until this point gone unnoticed.

After the panic-induced leap that would hold me in good stead for a future Police Fitness Test, I leapt in my car and threw the keys in the ignition.

Then realised that my car was parked right beside the door that was right beside Santa.

So I did what any sane person would do in this situation.

I put my car in neutral and pushed it backwards down the driveway.

Next attempt at matrimony was a handsome younger guy called Jack.  

Not ready or able to perform more parkour, I willingly agreed to meet him at a local cafe.  Upon arrival, I discovered two things.

One, he hadn't arrived yet.  Two, this was a super-flash part of Auckland and I was being judged the second I walked in alone.

After 30 minutes of playing with the salt shaker, pretending to read the menu six times, and warding off glances from potential customers that wanted my table, I realised I'd been stood up.

After 60 minutes, I walked out with my head held high - so that I didn't meet the eye of any seated diners - and drove home.

30 minutes later Jack called and after letting it ring twice, I begrudgingly answered and listened to his very apologetic story.  

"My god, I'm so so sorry!  I had an emergency with a flatmate and this is the first chance I've had to get to my phone.  I'm so very sorry - can you give me another chance?"

We agreed to meet on the following Friday and all was right in the world.

Until he called on Thursday to tell me that his friends had invited him away for the weekend, and that he really felt that he needed to join them.

Deciding I clearly needed to be a bit more fussy, and most definitely needed to take things a little slower, I agreed to go to Raglan and camp for the night with someone after chatting for two days.

I arrived at his house in Hamilton, where I left my car, and we headed to Raglan in his.

Ten minutes into the trip I was feeling optimistic about this match. I furiously rehearsed my best moves in my head, while also trying to remember if I'd packed either my PJs or my dignity.

Ten minutes before arriving in Raglan, I was updated on the occupation status my date had listed on Tinder, which turned out was actually his occupation prior to being fired for turning up to work stoned.

As we started erecting the tent, I cracked a can of 7% Vodka Cruiser and thanked my economic prowess for buying a 24 pack instead of a 12 pack.
 

An hour, several cans of Cruisers, and a few disagreements about correct erection procedures later, we headed to the river to watch the sunset.

Three hours and several more cans of Cruisers later, I figured it was a shame to waste an opportunity to keep current so we headed back to the tent, where at some point I made a mental note that warm-up stretches were probably wise at my age.

The next morning, the horror of the situation slowly dawned on me as I realised that a)  I was now sober and b) I didn't have my car.  

I got up, retrieved my clothes from the BBQ table and chilli bin, and started pulling down the tent.

Not until the roof fell on him did he wake and and question my haste.

"Oh, yeah, I just got text from my landlord and we're interviewing a new flatmate at 12.  I need to get back."

Driving back to Hamilton was somewhat more pleasant.  For him because he thought he now had poon-tang on tap;  for me because every minute we drove we got closer to my car, freedom, and a shower.

As we pulled into his driveway, I opened the door and rolled out like a stuntwoman on steroids.

"So, you wanna come inside for another session before you head back?"

"Uh, no sorry, I have to get back for my meeting."

"Oh well.  I guess I'll just have to go and wank instead."

Next lottery winner was a nice South African man who also lived nearby, so we arranged to meet at the local for a wine after work.

Wanting so desperately to erase the tent-erection from my memory, I knew I had watch the alcohol intake so as not to do anything spontaneous or rash.

So when I walked in and he had flowers for me, the two wines that followed butted in and asked if he wanted to come back to mine for a movie night with the flatmates. 

He looked shocked, then like the kid that got the Nintendo for Xmas, then I think might have said a little prayer before following me home.

Unfortunately there was more wine at home and I didn't need to drive anywhere.

After telling me that he'd found my Facebook page, then found my blog, then read all 17 of my blogs in one night, then told me that I was the funniest person he'd ever met, another three glasses had been consumed.

After sitting through a movie with him whispering - like a toddler whispers - in my ear how beautiful I was, and maybe once more, how funny I was, and thanking me profusely for meeting him, and me glaring at my flatmates who were stifling giggles - like a toddler stifles giggles - I had decided that this was definitely not the one.

There was no possibility that I would ever be attracted to his personality,  and I knew I had to be honest with him.  So after spending an hour in my bedroom once again discussing the finer merits of erection techniques, I farewelled him with promises of texting him the next day.

Which I did, right before his 17 responses and slightly more before blocking him.

Despairing ever finding someone who was funny, intelligent and not built like Mr Creosite, I'd all but given up until I got a message along the lines of "Well I had a pretty productive day, but my kids are being little shits.  How about you?"

Sudden memory loss of all previous horror stories saw me driving an hour to his house for drinks on a school night, but I'd definitely retained enough presence of mind to be prepared.

I took my toothbrush and a change of undies.

Within 10 minutes, I was absolutely smitten.  This guy was pretty damn good looking, fit, intelligent, and an incredibly funny story teller.

Well past the point of no return in the alcohol consumption <-> driving matrix, I needed to go to the bathroom.  So far the evening had been spent outside on his deck and I'd not ventured inside.  I'd heard about the building of his house which was a work in progress, and had been pretty impressed with all that he managed on his own.

What I'd not heard about was his cleanliness standards.

"So, I'm just warning you..... my bathroom is probably not quite as clean as you're used to.  It's not military standards, that's for sure."

"All good, I'm sure it can't be that bad!  You smell nice and seem clean.... and you have a daughter living here."

"Yeah, no..... it's pretty bad.  In fact, it might be the first thing that makes you scream tonight."

Still laughing as I made my way through the house, I noticed the kitchen was a little messy, but nothing worse than a busy father-of-four might be expected to have.

Then I stepped into the bathroom.

Stifling a scream, I stared in terror at the squallor in front of me.

Not only was the shower nearly black and covered in hair, the towels laying all over the floor were damp and putrid, and the basin was covered in something my mind refused to recognise.

There was still a small amount of urine left inside my body, so I slowly turned with dread towards where the toilet should be.

If I'd had my own supply of pencillin to administer after the fact, I probably would have passed out on the floor amongst the razor blades and empty toilet rolls.

In what I can only describe as crack-house decor laced with landfill waste, there stood the piece of household equipment that I was supposed to hover my vagina over.

A partially full bladder married with incoordination bought on by a bottle of wine; and I gagged and cried simultaneously while resigning myself to the inevitable squat over the bowl.

Walking back outside, I was greeted with "I told you, right?!"

Realising he was the most honest date I'd found on Tinder so far, I sat back down and poured another drink.  Peeing behind a bush in his back yard was a sacrifice I was willing to make in the name of love.

And by love, I mean the chance of having sex before gapping it the next morning.

After another couple of drinks, we maturely acknowledged that it was a school night and we really needed to get to bed.

Erection technique discussions were unnecessary at this point, although he did mention a few times, somewhat wonderingly, "wow, this is quite romantic sex isn't it?"

Cursing the fact that he was absolutely right, I briefly wondered if the Chernobyl in the bathroom was a small price to pay.  After wondering a few more times,  I got a in a couple of hours sleep before getting up for work.

In the light of day, while getting dressed without putting any pressure on my bladder, I noticed that his bedroom had been used by a cat as a litter tray.  More than once.

As I drove away at the speed of sound, searching for a suitable bush to duck behind, I cursed the untraversable abyss separating my hygiene standards from my libido.

I decided to give it one last shot.  One.  That's it.

Last Shot lived in a very affluent area of Auckland. A quick look at Google Street View affirmed his Tinder status as "financially secure" and a quick look at Facebook affirmed his Tinder status as "fit and healthy".

Again utilising my intelligence and intuition to their limits, I agreed to meet him at his house for a wine.

Upon arrival, it took me ten minutes to work out how to fit my wee Mitsi Mirage between the Audis and Mercs parked on the street and another ten minutes to work out how to get inside his gate.

Once inside, I was pleasantly surprised to find that he wasn't a balding 60 year old going through a mid-life crisis.

Over a glass of very expensive and very delicious read wine, we swapped life stories.  And by "swapped" I mean, he talked and I listened.

Mainly because after three minutes I found out he was friends with Simon Dallow.

Shockingly, the same Simon Dallow that I'd had a girl-crush on since he first appeared on our screens as a newsreader quite some years ago.  Not some other Simon Dallow that also happened to live in Auckland.

He shared stories about their travels and adventures together and it cemented my opinion that he was most definitely not just the straight-laced newsman that the majority of the population saw.

I made a quick trip to the bathroom, for a dual purpose:  to see if it had rats running around, and to splash my face with cold water after all the talk about Simon.

When I returned having satisfied both agendas, he talked about one of his hobbies, which was flying. I joined the conversation at this point, and it was pleasant and entertaining.

Then he mentioned that he wanted to buy his flying instructor a penis.

Thinking that I'd misinterpreted his talk about flaps and drag, I asked him to elaborate.  

Turns out his flying instructor was trans-gender but couldn't afford the final surgery - so he wanted to pay for it.  That cemented my initial conceptions that this was a decent honest guy.

In the next sentence, he asked me if I could still have children.

Downing my expensive wine, I looked around for the hiding place that Neil was going to jump out from yelling "Surprise!  Told you you were worthless without your uterus!"

When I looked back at Penis Purchaser, he said he needed to elaborate.

"I'm a successful man.  I have money and security.  Now what I want is children.  So, I'm looking for a woman that can have children for me and stay home to raise them."

I topped up my wine before I gave him the status update of my reproductive system.  I needed to get my petrol money's worth.

"Well, the thing is.... I can't have any more children.  I don't own the necessary equipment unfortunately."

"Well, that is a shame.  You seem like you'd be fun."

I top up my wine again.

"So, would you like to stay the night anyway?"

I looked around at the wine rack and the view, and did a quick mental check of my morals.  I mean, it was a lot warmer than a tent..... and he wasn't yelling platitudes in my ear about my beauty.

"You know what?  As tempting as it is - and I'm sure it would be a lot of fun..... I think I'm going to go home."

"Are you sure?  I'm going into the bedroom now.  You can choose to join me or not.  I can promise you it will be worth it and you won't have any regrets."

As appealing as the modest talk was, I stood my ground.  I finished my wine, checked if I could fit the bottle in my pocket while he was looking the other way, and got up to leave.

"Well, this was nice.  Really.   And I wish you well with your breeding prospects."

As I arrived at my car, I thought back to all I'd been through in the last few months.

Was this it?  Was I destined to a life alone because my standards were too high?  Had I been so hurt that I thought I wasn't worthy and I was therefore ignoring opportunities that were right in front of me?  Was I debasing myself and giving away too much too soon?  Was I misinformed about how clean a toilet should be?

The answer came to me in a flash.

He was right.  

I walked back to his door and rehearsed my speech nervously.

"You were right.  I regret leaving as hastily as I did and I don't know what I was thinking."

*big breath, you got this*

"Can I please have Simon's number before I go?"

LIfe Without Parents

Although I don't consider myself old, I've noticed lately more people of my generation losing their parents; or if not physically losing them... losing them to dementia or other similar cruel afflictions that rob us of the people we know and love.

I see their heartache, their grief, their loss for words, and their desperate desire to have one more day with their precious one.  To say goodbye, to tell them they love them, to reminisce about times, or merely just to be with them.

I don't know that.  And I never will.

I didn't have a dad, and I barely had a mum.

I had a father, and I've met my father once.  Well, once that really counts. 

And it was for a week, so I guess one could argue I've met him seven times.  Every time I woke up.

My mother left him when I was 18 months old, then moved away when I was around 4.  From Christchurch to Napier.  Not far, in this day and age, but back in 1976, it may as well have been to the moon.

Now that I have grandchildren, I realise she didn't just leave my father.  She also left my Grandad and my Nana.  I was the same age as Little K and Little N are now... they must have been absolutely heartbroken.  Not because I'm anything spectacular, but because I was THEIR Little K.

I saw my Dad once or twice, I believe, when I was young, before he moved to Aussie.  I know I saw him at least once, because he took me to see Star Wars and then took me to get my ears pierced.  I realise now that the piercing was probably a big "FUCK YOU!" to my mother, and for that I applaud him.  I kinda wish he'd taken me for a tattoo at the same time - like the one he has of my name on his arm.

He didn't get to see my first day at kindy, or my first day at school.  He didn't get to see me ride my bike without training wheels, or do my first back flip on the monkey bars.  He didn't get to see me go to my first school ball, or walk me down the aisle. 

And I never got to use the word "Dad". 

I was 24 when I met him for "real".  Pregnant with Madison, about to become a parent myself.  All illusions of my mother being the righteous and ill-treated victim long gone.  I'd been treated no different, in the end, to my father. 

Something to show off to friends, something to pass the time while bored, and something to discard at the end of the day when it all became too boring.

I have four brother and sisters to my father.  Four wonderful, happy, cherished and gorgeous brothers and sisters.  That I never fought with.  That I never stole clothes from.  That I never said "piss off out of my ROOM or I'm going to TELL ON YOU!" with.

I also have another brother and sister - from my mother - that I missed just as much.  I didn't know about my brother until I was 24, but I knew about my sister from the day my mother started showing.  I was six when she was born and adopted out...   I didn't even get to show her my Wombles doll that I'd been saving for her.

I spent a week in the thriving metropolis of Merinda, Queensland watching my father - they called him "dad" - be a loving, caring, funny, and sometimes awkward - parent to these four wonderful siblings.  And I loathed my mother for it.

Some might say that's unfair. 

I don't know what she went through.  I don't really know what he was like.  I don't know if he really truly did shotgun a joint into my mouth in front of his friends when I was two years old when he had me for a few hours one Sunday afternoon.

What I do know is that I never had a dad.  Although I did have plenty of men come and go.

The first man that left his wife and four children for my mother moved in without any notice.  And suddenly what I also knew was that, despite being petrified of the dark, he decided that I was old enough at 8 to sleep with my bedroom door closed .  I also knew that after he had a shower he like to put talcum powder on his penis because it made it feel soft and smooth.  I know this because he showed me, but he obviously never showed my mother, because she didn't believe me when I told her.

But they weren't all bad.   The second man that left his wife and children for my mother was a real decent bastard.  He'd already raised kids, so he knew what I needed.  Love and stability.

I spent many years of my childhood with my best friend Kylie.  She had a mum AND dad.  And a brother and sister.  And I stayed at her place for sleepovers as often as her mum would let me. 

And Kylie always had a packed lunch that was more than a marmite sandwich and an apple.  I know some kids have less than that even now - but to me, her family were RICH.  She even had corned beef mashed with tomato sauce sandwiches, on fresh white bread.  Whenever I had a bought lunch (which was always a mince pie) she would eat the filling, I'd eat the pastry, then I'd eat her sandwiches. 

She also had new clothes.  I never did, because there was never enough money.  There was always enough to buy cigarettes and beer, but I always had second-hand clothes.  

And I'm not knocking this as I bought second-hand clothes for my kids all the time - those kindy paints are a fucker to get out of new clothes - but it wasn't exclusive.  And it wasn't because I'd spent my money elsewhere.

They were RICH.  And I thought it was because they had a dad.

When I was about 12 my Grandad sent me some money for my birthday.  And a new clothes shop had opened at the Tamatea Shopping Centre.  I was able to buy a new pair of jeans - dark denim with white piping down the sides.  I wore those jeans until they fell off me.

I also bought a golden velvet track suit, but we'll ignore that minor detail for now.

The second man that left his wife and children for my mother ended up being cast aside for being an alcoholic.  Because he met his mates at the pub every night for a pint before going home.

It was pretty hard to reconcile this as a 15 year old.  I spent years as a seven, eight, nine and ten year old coming home from school to an empty house, and having to call my mother at the Onekawa Pub asking what time she was going to be home.

Fortunately for me, two other families played a large part in raising me, and I had two surrogate dads.

Firstly Doug and Kirsty's parents, who we met when my mother was pregnant with my sister.   They were the weekend parents when my mother was at the pub, or on a diving trip for a few days, or just disappearing out of town for reasons only known to herself.

Unfortunately they moved over to England, but we've kept in touch, and it was Kirsty's wedding I attended when doing the Big UK Trip of 2017 and completely missed the Tower of England.  Doug and his wife Tracy visited us over here about three months ago.  They're my baby brother and sister.

The second family was Susan and Roy, who started out as my babysitters and ended up my big brother and sister.  When they were too old for babysitting, their parents Rosemary and Derrick took over the duties of raising another person's child.  

They too were the weekend and dive trip parents, although this soon extended to week nights, and sometimes even school holidays.

Uncle Derrick walked me down the aisle at my first wedding.  It's a shame that one didn't count, right?! 

The third man that left his wife and children for my mother was the father of a student at my school.  A year younger, but that's not many degrees of separation.  And that wasn't much comfort to know that one my of peers then didn't have a dad either.

It didn't last, but he didn't end up getting his dad back.

Eventually, when I turned 17, my mother cast me aside like all the men in her life.  She moved away to marry a man she'd known for about 8 weeks, and I wasn't invited with her.

That was when I finally realised that not only did I not have a dad, I didn't have a mother either.

I had been told, from a young age, that I was "a mistake - but not an unwanted one."   Now it was apparent that the mistake had finally fun its course.

I tried.  When Madison was born, I tried.  When Briar was born, I tried.  When Tyra was born, I'd given up trying.

My Nana always said to me "you've only got one mother, you should give her one more chance!"

Then she always clarified it with "but I can totally understand why you don't."

My mother has not met Tyra.  My mother has not met any of my grandchildren.

As far as I'm concerned, I no longer have a mother. 

I will not feel their heartache, their grief, their loss for words, and their desperate desire to have one more day with their precious one.  I will not want to say goodbye, to tell her I love her, to reminisce about times, or merely just to be with her.

Why am I writing this?  I'm sitting here drinking a couple of quiet gins looking for cars to buy for two of my three daughters, and eventually - possibly as a hand-me-down - for my step-son.  My third daughter already has a mean set of wheels that I bought her when I got my wee beast... so she's set for now.

Do I do too much for them given their age and stage in life?  Maybe.

Do I yearn to make up for the relationship that I never had with my own mother, and try and give them the things that I never had growing up?  Probably.

Do I feel guilty about my marriage breakup and leaving them with their Dad as "day to day" carer, while I pursued an aviation career, and in essence acted no better than my mother?  Most definitely.

SHOULD I?  Most definitely not. 

And right now I'm saying a big "FUCK YOU" to anyone that judged me for doing so.  Anyone who has never walked a day in my shoes.  Anyone who has never felt the overwhelming suffocation of a marriage in which they entered as a carefree daredevil, risk taker, adrenalin junkie;  and then existed not allowed to be anyone but "Mum"..... just the bottle washer, the nappy folder and the meal maker. Yet didn't want to acknowledge that for fear of turning out like their mother.

Do I want my girls to know the heartache and grief of losing me when I eventually depart this world to meet my maker, and hopefully Ryan Gosling?  Most definitely so.