Sex with the ex

A friend of mine recently came out of a long term relationship.

"It's over, it's definitely over," she lamented at our latest girls night, knocking back gin like a sailor on shore leave.

We had gathered together for that time-old ritual of dissecting the break up.

"Good for you!" I said encouragingly. "A clean break is exactly what you need!"

"Errr....yes," she agreed tentatively. "I guess so. Except..."

Except.

Despite the fact that they are surely, definitely Over, they're still sleeping together.

As it turns out, this girlfriend is not alone. An extremely unscientific poll of the women I know concluded that almost all of them, at some stage, had sex with an ex.

"Every relationship has a mourning period," explained one friend. "And as you go through the stages from grief to acceptance, sex helps you get closure."

"It's just hard to go cold turkey," added a recently broken-up girlfriend. "Doing it slowly helps you accept that it's really over."

One of the girls had a totally different take. "It was the best sex I've ever had," she gushed. "Even better than when we were together. It's sort of illicit and exciting, so it's like a passionate one-night stand with someone who knows what turns you on."

Yet when I asked all of them how sex with the ex turned out, the universal answer was 'Badly.'

It's easy to get closure if there's a clear reason for the break-up. Like if he's abusive. Or there's someone else. But sometimes, the end is a long time coming and the cumulative effect of many small things. There is no one reason why it ended, no reason to walk away except a belief that it isn't going to work.

And regardless of how it ends, rarely do we simply, abruptly stop loving someone. So as we wean ourselves off love, we also have to wean ourselves off our lovers.

However, when women orgasm, their bodies release a hormone called oxytocin (also known as the 'cuddle chemical') that makes them believe that that man they just shagged is their perfect mate. Naturally, the more sex, the more oxytocin, the more deluded you become.

Men also release it, but in far, far smaller doses. Which is why they are able to separate the sex from the relationship you once shared.

I guess this means that hard as it is, perhaps going cold turkey is better than being the turkey getting stuffed.

So ladies, the lesson here is that if it's closure you want, it's definitely best to start with your legs.

Dating isn't that different from parenting

A friend of mine recently pointed me Jezebel, where a dad called Drew Margary attended a Parent Encouragement Program (AKA Shitty Parents Anonymous) and wrote about it. The article offers several 'rules' for parenting, and it got me thinking that maybe being a Good Parent is not so different from dating a guy. In fact, these tips work for a man as much as for a child.

• Never repeat yourself

Kids just ignore you if you do this a lot. You're supposed to take them by the hand and guide them to the task.


As you get older, repeating yourself over and over gets you labelled a nag. As for taking him by the hand and guiding him to the task...I'm used to that one. God knows I have to do it in bed often enough.

• No drive-by parenting

Apparently you have to ask them to do stuff face-to-face, not yell from the bottom of the stairs. Or in my case, leave notes inside Call of Duty asking for the garbage to be taken out.


So these days, I wait until he's started playing, and then I stand in front of the TV and say, "I see you have some free time. The garbage needs to be taken out."

• Talk to your kids as if they're normal human beings

This means no baby talk. You have to treat them like mature adults. (I almost typed that with a straight face.)

It's no secret that guys and gals communicate differently. Guys use talking to make a point. Girls using talking as a means of intimacy. So, in a guy's world, talking like a normal human being involves a series of grunts and a Guitar Hero showdown.

In my world, it involves me repeating myself twice, then going batshit crazy and ensuring that Guitar Hero is never, ever again used to ignore me.

(I'll try to work on that, babe.)

• Accept that your children are going to do annoying shit

Self explanatory. But sometimes, when I'm not in an accepting mood, I like to accidentally spill red wine on the sheets, announce that I too 'missed and hit the sheets babe' and that it too 'will dry, just sleep around it.'


Works a charm to get the sheets changed.

• Never do for a kid what a kid can do for him or herself

They fall into bad habits and don't learn to do things for themselves. So I guess ironing shirts, making beds and giving hand jobs are all out these days.

• Never chase a kid

Kids think it's a game when you chase them. Turns out guys do too. 

• Never ask "OK?" at the end of a request

Rather than saying, 'Take the garbage out, OK?', which just makes you sound like a snarky bitch, try 'Take the fucking garbage out, it's been three weeks, and the cat climbed in and DIED there.' It makes you sound more authoritative when you make it a statement rather than a question.

• Never get locked into a power struggle

Don't give ultimatums like 'Eat your dinner or you're grounded' or 'Take the rubbish out or Annual Blow Job Day is cancelled.' Because then you're both in a Mexican standoff that no-one can back down from or else one of you is a pussy.

I prefer the tradeoff to the standoff. So things like, 'Oh honey, sorry I couldn't make you dinner, but the smell of dead cat in the kitchen was gagging me,' is much better than 'Take out the garbage or I won't make dinner.' Another effective one is, 'My mouth is so tired from repeatedly asking you to take out the garbage I just don't think it can manage a blow job.'

• The only person you really have any control over is yourself

Oh yes, very Buddha. It guess this means you can't really change anyone. Margary, when talking about the kids, says 'it's best to praise them when they do what you want, instead of berating them for the times when they fail to act.'

I'm familiar with this one. If he takes out the garbage, you're supposed to say, 'Honey, thanks sooo much for taking out the garbage, you're amazing,' instead of 'It's the least you could do, you lazy shit, after I cooked dinner AND cleaned up and P.S. are you going to clean the maggot nest that formed after the cat died in there?'

So I'm going to implement these changes and see how it goes. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to open some wine. The sheets need changing and I did it last time.

When did 'refugee' become a dirty word?

We moved to Australia in the early 1990s. It was a very different place then—the White Australia policy had only been lifted 20 years ago, ‘multiculturalism’ was a foreign concept, and Eddie Mabo was demanding land rights for Aborigines. We were the only ethnic family in our upper middle-class suburb on Sydney’s North Shore, and people openly referred to us as ‘foreign’, ‘darkies’ or more politely, ‘that dark-skinned migrant family’.

Mum and Dad left India—a country they loved, filled with people they knew and customs they understood—because they felt they could give their children a better life here. They arrived with two children under the age of ten, one suitcase between four, and USD$200 in a bum bag strapped to Dad’s waist. It was our life savings—all the money our family had.

With a recession underway, my father, who had a degree from a prestigious Delhi university, managed a KFC on the other side of town for $28,000 a year. With my mother’s part-time salary, it was just enough to pay the rent on our one bedroom apartment and put food on the table. Mum bought my school uniform several sizes too big and took the hems up. Each year, she’d lower them a bit, and so my two tunics lasted me all four years of primary school.

We didn’t love it here immediately. The kids at school laughed at my accent and the fact that I didn’t know the capital of Australia. I quickly learnt to imitate the accent and brushed up on my geography. Kids are malleable like that. It was harder for Mum, who’d lost her network of family and friends. At age 9, I was already babysitting my younger brother because my parents had to work. I remember refusing to eat the lunch she’d packed because the other kids would make fun of our rice and curry, calling us ‘smelly’ and making gagging noises when I opened my lunchbox.

So different from today—when I open my lunchbox at work and all my colleagues are dying for a taste!

Yes, a lot has changed in Australia, and despite the fact that I have deep-seated Indian roots, I consider myself profoundly Australian. Not because I can eat meat pie and understand Aussie Rules. Not because I have an Australian accent or an Australian passport. I feel Australian because I wept with pride when Kevin Rudd, the PM I elected, apologised to the Aborigines. I wept because, as an Aussie, the Stolen Generation was my shame too. I feel Australian because I walked across the Harbour Bridge in protest when John Howard announced our march into Afghanistan. I feel Australian because I can remember when Rainbow Paddlepops were 50c. I feel Australian because everyone I love and grew up with lives here. I am not suggesting these are the hallmarks of a typical Australian—just that these are the moments when I knew that this country was my country.

And I feel lucky to have had the upbringing I had, considering my father grew up in the ghettos of Delhi, in post-Partition India. What a difference a generation makes. Today, my parents live in a lovely, four-bedroom home in the same suburb I grew up in. So many ethnic families have moved there, there is even a local Indian spice shop, packed with people from all parts of the world who just happen to want some traditional garam masala. 

But mostly, I just feel lucky when I realise that if my parents had chosen to come to Australia today, it would not be possible. They wouldn’t pass half the criteria, with my mother’s lack of hard skills, our limited funds at the time, and the scarcity of visas available today. And I feel a sense of gratitude and admiration for my parents that I cannot quite put into words. I remember the fear with which I boarded the plane to England for my GAP year when I was 18. I had a job to go to, ample funds, only myself to look after, and the knowledge that if anything went wrong, I could just call home. And still, I remember, amongst the excitement, being afraid of what would happen when I got to the other side of the world. The courage it took my parents to leave, the struggle they experienced—not just financially but emotionally—I shall always respect those who decide to embrace the experience of the perpetual outsider for the sake of their family.

So when I see people arriving here on boats, my heart goes out to them. And when I read the vitriol surrounding these so-called ‘boat people’, my heart breaks. I am proudly, and fiercely Australian, but today, as the fourth riot in three days breaks out on Christmas Island, as we ready the first ‘shipment’ of people to be sent to Malaysia, as we ‘process’ more and more asylum seekers, I feel ashamed to be Australian. It is rare to feel shame for this country—we have so much to be proud of.

But as a nation, and such a privileged one as that, I fear that we will return to the attitudes I thought we had left behind with the White Australia policy. Because naïve as this sounds, I hold my beloved nation, the one we refer to as The Lucky Country, to a higher standard than that. I understand that refugees are a loaded subject, with no easy solution. But in some way, all of us have experienced the migrant experience—the feeling of being an outsider, the frustration of not being understood, or worse, not understanding. And as both a migrant and an Australian, I want to my raise my children in a nation where ‘refugee’ is not a dirty word, the way ‘migrant’ was only twenty years ago.

Renovation Theory

A friend of mine recently bought a house. As we discussed all the renovations she was going to make to her new home, it got me thinking that perhaps purchasing a property was not so different from dating.


For starters, there is a shortage of both houses and men in Sydney. Finding the perfect one can require hours of hunting, many lost weekends, and a little imagination, because what looks fabulous in pictures on the internet doesn't always live up to expectations in real life. It's amazing what the right light can do.


Both require a background check in order to make sure the foundations are healthy, because what seems glossy and wonderful on the surface can be riddled with termites or disease as soon as you start stripping it. And trust me, if that central supporting beam is diseased, you want to know sooner rather than later.


When it comes to committing to that final purchase, I have a tehory that it's best to go for a 'fixer-upper' rather than one that's already renovated.


Now, I’m not talking about turning a dud into a stud. I have no desire for my dating life to reflect an episode of Extreme Makeover. Instead, I’m talking about the guys that are almost there—good foundations, right post code but just requiring a lick of paint/upgrade on bowl-haircut. They have everything a girl could require, but just need a little customization.

Like houses, guys that are already ‘done up’ have an overinflated sense of their own worth, and thus sell for a premium that requires you to stretch your budget. You have to sacrifice far more that you were originally willing in order to have them. Sure they look great and you can have your friends over straight away, but very rarely is it to yourtaste--you may wish the kitchen was a different color, or that they didn’t wear their hipster jeans quite so tight.

Yes, fixer-uppers are the perfect antidote to the Man Drought, as long as you remember the golden rules of renovation: Measure everything first, and be sure you nail it properly.

In A Threesome With Facebook?

A friend of mine recently ended a relationship.

“The hardest part wasn’t actually breaking up,” she told us when discussing the aftermath. “It was changing my Facebook relationship status.”

“I know what you mean,” chipped in another girlfriend. “When I had to change my status, I waited for midnight on a Friday, when I thought most people wouldn’t be online, in order to minimise the damage.”

Apparently there are plenty of people trapped in an inadvertent threesome with Facebook. According to the site, approximately 60% of users have listed their relationship status, with the two most popular choices being ‘single’ and ‘married’.’ So what’s the big deal with your FB relationship status?

Putting stuff on Facebook is like getting in a pink stretch Hummer and parading around the streets with a megaphone. The streets of everyone you know. And for anyone that missed the megaphone, or for the hot guy you had a fling with back in your single days whom you’re pretty sure can’t read (one of many reasons it was just a fling), Facebook provides a shorthand—a little, crappy broken-heart symbol that appears in yours AND ALL 500 OF YOUR “FRIENDS” feeds. Facebook is many things, but discreet and subtle it is not.

And there are the stream of comments that ask ‘Are you OK?’ to which the correct answer is ‘Are you stupid? Did you not see the broken heart? That’s ‘cause it was STOMPED ON.’

One girlfriend told of the traumatic end to a long term relationship with her childhood sweetheart. “Five seconds after I’d changed my status, people were commenting on it. The first person to say something was a girl I hadn’t seen since high school. We hated each other and I only accepted her friend request because she’s fatter.”

I actually love following people that have just broken up on Facebook. They are just so determined to prove that they are having fun. The pretend parties, the extraordinarily slutty outfits, the status updates about ‘the best night ever xoxo’ just reminds me that there’s nothing wrong with sitting on your couch in your trackies eating Double Choc Chip for dinner, as long as Facebook doesn’t know about it. Because the thing is, despite the fact that you’ve broken up with each other, both of you continue to have a relationship with Facebook. Yes, truly men come and go but Facebook is for the long term.

In the past, when you’d have just got your girlfriends together to purge your "couple photos", you now have to painstakingly untag 1,583 of them by yourself. When you could have just given yourself time to recover, you can’t help obsessively stalking his page and drawing false conclusions from photos and wall comments.

Then there are those people who announce that ‘it’s complicated ‘ (Translation: I want him/her, they won’t accept my relationship request) or that they are ‘In An Open Relationship’ (Translation: No way is this a relationship but I like gettin’ some regularly until I find a REAL relationship). One can only image how many people these guys are poking or throwing sheep at.

As for me, my relationship status is going to remain blank. But in case you’re wondering, I’m looking for Friendship, Networking and Random Play.

Under-promise. Over-deliver?

A friend of mine recently embarked on a new relationship. Which means she has prepared more organic, home-cooked meals in the last three weeks than she has all year, her apartment is spectacularly clean, and her underwear, spectacularly slutty.

There is an old adage when dealing with clients that says, "Under-promise. Over deliver."

However, when it comes to relationships, it seems like the exact opposite is true. Almost every woman I know begins a new relationship trying to over-please, turning into some Martha Stewart/Lara Croft combination that makes wonderful home-cooked meals while simultaneously giving the impress ion that she can wield a whip as capably as a wooden spoon. We laugh at jokes that are only mildly funny. We wear lace underwear that resembles dental floss. We go back to having a first-name relationship with our Brazilian waxer. We wear strapless mini-dresses despite the snow outside because hey, it’s early days and the words ‘practical, comfortable or plausible’ have no place in those first few moments of a relationship.

Yes, first dates are like interviews, so naturally, we are all on our best behaviour. We want to get the job—the girlfriend job, the wife job or just a blow job. But are we setting ourselves up for disappointment?

The reality is that no-one can keep up that kind of perfection for very long. In fact one can age a relationship in the same way one can age a tree. Less rings around the eyes? More sleep and less sex. Bigger underwear? Yeah, that makes sense. After all, no-one’s seeing that underwear anyway. And if he is seeing it, he’s just so grateful for the sex that he’s not complaining. And everyone knows that you put on weight in a relationship. After all, when you have someone to love you unconditionally, what’s the point of saying no to that last piece of chocolate cake?

However, men never seem to over-promise. And I suspect it’s partly because they don’t have the accessories. The make-up to give you flawless skin. The bra to give you cleavage like Pamela Anderson despite the fact that you have little more than mosquito bites for a chest. The heels to give you height, the underwear to give suck in your dumpling-binge belly and the hair dye to disguise the fact that you haven’t been blonde since the late 80s.

Over delivering is hard work. But then again, client satisfaction is the key to any successful partnership and whoever said being on top is easy?