Rules of Engagement

Over dinner last weekend with PSD and some of his delightful friends, we began discussing "fuck buddies". There are people who really don't like this particular term, although none amongst us could think of an apt alternative. But no matter what you should term it, some of us have certain "friends" that we call upon when needs are to be met.

I began regaling the qualities that I believe a good fuck buddy (FB) should have. They should be someone that you trust. They should also be someone you like, but definitely not someone that you want to have a relationship with. And of course, there has to be some sort of mutual physical and sexual attraction. There were nods of agreement all round the table.

Of course, I spouted all this, whilst forgetting that one of the lovely gentlemen present was a former "buddy" of PSD. And the "buddy" was there with his new love. Woops.

But, stepping around this rather sticky social situation, I have been thinking about a couple of the no-no's of the fuck buddy dynamic. So, here is my very incomplete list;
(i) Allowed words used by FB's: Fuck, Slut, Dirty, Fantastic, Sexy. Banned words for FB's: Make Love, Gorgeous, Sweetheart.
(ii) FB's are allowed, and certainly encouraged, to make some idle chit-chat. But don't expect a full emotional exploration.
(iii) FB's shouldn't stay overnight. There is no obligatory post-coital cuddle time.
(iv) Although women can often have difficulty separating sexual encounters from emotional attachments - this is of paramount importance. If you can't separate the two: DO NOT ENGAGE A FB!
(v) Preparation is appreciated: at the very least - take a shower first!
(vi) Don't try and set your fuck buddy up with a friend for a date. You lose a FB, and gain a potentially awkward social situation.

Additions to the list?

Distance makes the wallet fatter

It seems the days of being bothered by the Bangle-Hating Nazi are soon to be behind me. I am to be spending part of my working week in beautiful Ballarat and the other half in Footscray. Ironically, I hate commuting for work, and have actively sought my home to be relatively close to my work location for the past several years. Now, I am to be commuting 110km to Ballarat every week for however long I decide that this job is for me. There is of course, financial incentive for this change in location, which soothes the pain.

So that has been the big news for the week.

Oh, that and the Opera Singer called. We dined, laughed and shagged like minks. And yes, he does have a fiancee. But as Miss T points out, yes, she is beautiful, but can she tap dance?

So what gave you a "happy" today?

I finished yet another self-help book recently, after another bout of self-doubt and some feelings of inadequacy. This book took a slightly different perspective on the search for happiness in your life. The author suggested instead of endlessly yearning for that "one thing" that you think will make you happy, find small things everyday that give you some joy and make you feel good for that moment in time. Eventually, those small moments can help you feel good most of the time - and that is the key to his whole theory.

So, on the basis of that, I have now approached each day trying to find something that makes me feel good. These things can be, and generally are, relatively minor parts of one's day.

So, what has made me feel good of late? The colour of the leaves falling from the trees. The crisp texture of fresh sheets on my bed. The soothing feel of a warm tea on a cold day. Listening to the Mozart Requiem's Lacrimosa. Days when the Bangle Bitch is NOT at work.

But last night I experienced another moment in life that gave me true joy. I came home from tap seeking a snack. I decided on Vegemite on toast, and picked up the new jar of Vegemite that I had acquired on my most recent shopping adventure. There is something about opening a new jar of Vegemite. The "pour" of the spread in to the jar, has to be just right to achieve the delicate dollop at the top of the jar. If conditions are not right, the smooth dark surface, becomes pock-marked rather in the fashion of the lunar surface. And this is certainly nothing attractive to behold. But last night, I unscrewed the jar, breaking the seal, and cautiously lifted the lid to see what awaited me. And there, was the perfect Vegemite top! A smooth glistening surface, and in the centre, a delicate swirl indicating the end of the pour!

I smiled to myself, and then dug my knife in deep.

I would be impolite to talk with my mouth full

I realised something last night.

Going to the dentist and giving a blow-job are amazingly similar. Both involve having your mouth full, while people insist on having a conversation with you at the same time.

Very frustrating.

Devil is in the details

Over the past day or so I have been discussing the very fine virtues of "Bangers and Mash". Surely none can argue against the great virtues of this meal. It screams comfort food. Overloaded with carbohydrates and questionable sources of meat, one can oft reflect on happy days of youth and folly, where the simple meals were often the best.

But then the details start to come forth.

How do you prefer your mash? Super smooth with loads of cream? Slightly lumpy with extra salt and butter? What type of sausages? Thick or thin? Pork or beef? And then the clincher of them all..... onion gravy or tomato sauce?

Indeed, the simple meal begins to take on a whole new level of perplexity. And one simple meal has many different connotations for each person. Years of childhood memories are wrapped up in simple meals such as this. The first time I encountered this problem was many years ago, and the offending object was a rissole.

My betrothed and I were dining at his parents place for a lunchtime barbeque. Meals at their place involved a certain protocol; three courses were ALWAYS offered, more than one dead animal would be proffered and we weren't allowed to leave until coffee and port was served. So the barbeque began, and so began the courses of meat. There were fish "bites", chicken wings, pork spare ribs and all manner of meat preparation that was to be assembled in one location.

But then came the rissoles.

I LOVE my mother's rissoles. Even now as an adult, I request that she makes them for me when she visits. My mother came from a large and impoverished family, therefore, meat, being a relative luxury was rationed. Hence, rissoles in her family, and thus, in mine, were a combination of mince and rice, with other flavours (can't tell you, otherwise I would have to kill you!), doused in breadcrumbs and then fried. Even just describing it makes my mouth crave their succulent flavours!

So it was with glee that I leapt upon the rissoles, expecting the meat/rice goodness that made me a happy child, but only to find that these rissoles were composed of beef mince and grated carrot - and that was all! My first reaction was to spit the offending morsel out onto my plate, and gasp my horror to my fianceé. Only to find him looking at me, face aglow, happy eating the exact same piece of food that I had just so recently expelled violently.

So, I found that he and I were at a cross-roads. Whose rissoles would he prefer in our connubial life together? Would he remain faithful to his dear mother, or pledge allegiance to his chosen one true love? Actually, neither. He would eat whatever was in front of him.

But it does serve as a warning. Do not take for granted the simplest of meals - these are where you can completely come undone.