Monthly Archives: May 2006


It’s a sad fact, I guess, that I’ve never really felt that Perth is “home” for me.  I get intense surges of that “I wanna go hooooome” feeling that one gets when one is far from one’s proper home, and does not feel comfortable in one’s own skin.  Reading Jessica’s recaps of her recent brief trip to Ireland has made feel me incredibly homesick.

From my very first visit to (the Republic of) Ireland I felt totally at home, happy in my skin for the very first time in my life; believe me, you notice when it happens at the age of 29. At that point I knew nobody in Eire; I was travelling on my own and absorbing it all through every pore.  I had gone on a Kontiki tour – a whistle stop tour of around eight days, after that I had another week on my own which I spent in Galway and some more time wandering around Dublin.

I loved the ROI, especially the West – Galway etc. And strolling around Dublin; Trinity College, Grafton Street, Dame Street with it’s fantastic pubs, Temple Bar, McConnell Street and Henry Street … Travelling around, and going into pubs on my own and feeling totally at ease – not something that I’d experienced as a single young woman in Perth where you have to be on guard and ready to repel unwelcome attention. Chatting to complete strangers was a new one too; first, I was and had always been horrifically shy and introverted, not one to ease into a conversation, yet here I was chatting animatedly to men (young attractive and old boozers), women, bar-staff with no hint of self-consciousness.  I can’t put it all down to holiday spirit either, people in Ireland are genuinely easier to talk to , friendlier, more relaxed, entertaining, quick to by-pass small-talk and get right into “real” conversation.

Also, to my very great surprise, the men in Ireland found me attractive and made this known. I wasn’t exactly in huge demand in Perth (to be totally objective; I’m not a troll but not beautiful; fairly cute is as far as I’d go) and I wasn’t most men’s type – being short and intense in nature; not tall, blonde, superficial, bubbly with guinea-pig IQ. I am not a belt-notcher but that first trip to Ireland, over two weeks in total, I hooked up with six, well seven, guys, for one-night to three-night stands.  Not bad going.  All really nice, attractive, fun guys who I’d probably have fallen for given more time.  The young ‘un with the 14 inch penis was very sweet but not the best of the lot – the fella from Galway took the honours there (I never saw any of these boys again, even on subsequent trips – ships that pass, etcetera).

My next trip was a year later – I couldn’t stay away.  This time around I knew a few people, mostly via chat-rooms on IRC admittedly but some of them became good friends. Some of them were total nut-jobs but we won’t go there … And of course I met Tuxedo, but at the time I had no inkling of how important he would become.  I was too busy falling totally head over heels with Ireland – I loved Dublin; the West and South coasts had me in thrall.

Moving over there in 2001 was very, very different. I moved to Northern Ireland, for a start – not the Republic.  Belfast deserves a post all it’s own – and will get one, someday – but basically it is one fucked up place.  It was something else – same island, maybe, but a totally different country from the Republic. The people are different, there is a totally different feel … I was your typical rabbit-in-headlights with culture shock. Only love kept me there so long.

I didn’t hate it totally and without exception.  I was enchanted by so much of the North; the breathtaking beauty of County Antrim and parts of Belfast, City Hall, the Crown Saloon and many other fabulous pubs, great shopping, the simple life-changing experience of living overseas and in Europe.  I had a lot of fun, I met some really wonderful people, not least my truly amazing, delightful, lovely in-laws – so accepting and so much fun.  And living together, sharing and building a life together with my fella was sheer heaven.

We came back to Australia for a variety of reasons, not just because I chucked a hissyfit; mainly to try to get my health back on track as well as finances and other boring shite.  It’s taken a while but we’re all good now, and as for the health thing, well it doesn’t matter where I live – although weather change does have an impact, different geographic location doesn’t equate to a miracle cure or even a major improvement (as we had hoped).  So basically I may as well be in Ireland as Australia.

But Perth isn’t home.  Sure, my family is here but that’s not really a bonus.  I know I sound horrible and harsh, but I’ve arrived at the conclusion that I’m better off having those 15,000 kms separating us, given the stress levels, lack of acceptance, even rejection, and massive judgemental attitudes all round.  There’s no easy solution, there’s too much baggage and history, but the heart of the matter is it’s not a healthy, supportive environment, after all.

I am sure now – in my heart and mind, at my most sentimental and most ruthlessly pragmatic – that Ireland, the Republic, is my home and where Tux and I belong.  We will move back in a couple of years; probably not Dublin although that is where it’s all happening, maybe Cork or Galway.  We’re not sure what/how we’ll do until then. Moving interstate is a definite option (Perth being a tiny one-horse town), but the kinds of things we should be thinking of – eg, buying a house – well, I shy away from putting down those kinds of roots in a place that isn’t home. But that is the sensible thing to do.

Or maybe I’ll never find a place that feels like home.  Maybe it is where the heart is, where I lay my hat, whatever, which means wherever Tuxedo is.  And that could mean taking Perth and forcing it to be home.  Or maybe it means returning to Ireland.  Just not Belfast.




As part of my Girly Day last week – clothes and cosmetics, wheee! – I also got a hair cut. I was way overdue – I could get it back in a ponytail!

I used to have very long hair – in Belfast it grew to waist length, and was naturally glossy, wavy, full, lush … a bountiful mane worthy of a hair commercial of which I was naturally very proud. When I moved back to Perth all that changed; my best feature got dry and ratty and started falling out in huge handfuls. I was going bald!!! The only solution was to get it all cut off, I nearly cried. (Confession: I did cry. Do you have any idea what care and love goes into growing a full mane like that? I felt like Samson … losing my powers and prowess *sob*)

I hadn’t had short hair since I was a kid, as in about 12 years old. I grew my hair specifically because it was some way of indicating I was, despite my skinny runt flat-chested no-hipped form, in fact female. I didn’t need a bra until I was seventeen, okay? I kinda made up for it by going from Bonds singlets to a 10D bra overnight. So … short hair. Hmmmm. The unknown, the uncharted territory. The terrors of the deep … Continue reading


Last Wednesday (10 May) we went out to dinner at one of our favourite restaurants, the excuse being to celebrate our engagement anniversary although that fell, in fact, the following day.  What the hell.

Our favourite restaurant has the added bonus of being a short walk from our apartment, so we don’t need to worry about transportation to/from and level of intoxication.  So long as we can manage a stagger in a more-or-less forwardly direction homewards, we’re good.

It’s a gorgeous Italian restaurant, classy and totally focussed on simple but stunning flavours.  The antipasto starter, for instance, is a selection of little items prepared that day by the chef (mine was specially put together just for me so no bread-y or crumbed items but there were still a dozen or so tastes); artichokes grilled with olive oil and a touch of lemon, artichokes stewed with herbs, the most amazing peperonata I’ve ever experienced and I’m not a peperonata fan, a mini caprese salad (bocconicini, tomato, basil leaves, fresh sliced prosciutto), char grilled baby octopus, cabbage rolls filled with a sensational meatball and parmesan filling, melanzane (eggplant) rolled around herbs dressed with olive oil … the entire plate dotted with little explosions of an amazingly fresh tomato sauce ie, made from fresh pressed tomatoes, and dabs of greeny-gold olive oil … it was heaven. I was making uninhibited orgasmic moans by the third bite.

Tuxedo had a plate of Vitello Tonnato for his starter; a dish I’ve always avoided, never enjoyed, never seen done well. Oh JAYSIS.  He gave me a couple of curls of veal in exchange for an meatball or eggplant roll or two; I’ve never tasted such amazingly, beautifully cooked meat, such a luscious subtle sauce (vitello tonnato is veal with tuna mayonnaise; sounds weird ja?).

I was wishing I’d chosen that, or any of the other starters, if that was anything to go by – although I was totally in lust with my antipasto misto.  Rough cooking this was not; simple yes in the lack of complexity and number of ingredients, but unbelievable attention to detail, the best ingredients, care and fucking tenderness, man. 

For mains Tux had the salmon tortolloni in a saffron cream sauce; out for me obviously, couldn’t even have a teensy taste but I could tell, just by looking, that the pasta was silky and sweet, the sauce creamy and rich but not overwhelming.  Tuxedo’s eyes were rolling back in his head, I swear.

I’d gone for the char-grilled salmon fillet with paprika and it was the best piece of fish I’d ever had. The skin side was just this side of burnt; crispy and almost caramelised, the flavouring again subtle but bringing out the best.  Simplistic, very very simplistic, the only garnish a few cubes of sauté potatoes (divine) and some salad leaves but it needed nothing else. We did share a rocket and parmesan salad which was incredible; just rocket, translucent slices of red onion, shaved parmesan, more of that green extra virgin olive oil and a little balsamic, roughly cracked black peppercorns … ummmmmmm.

Well how could we say no to dessert? We were already very very happy with the food and very very drunk (having started with champagne – proper champagne too; Moet et Chandon, no less, and a Kooyong Estate Pinot Noir – bliss – we’d brought these along ourselves but the restaurant has an excellent wine list with some sensational Italian wines).  We both went for the vanilla panna cotta with honey – how fucking simple can you get? How fucking ballsy does the chef have to be to serve that up and have customers moaning with delight? The texture and tingle on my tongue … ah me.

(I’m wondering if I should try my hand at writing porno novels?  I am usually very practical/pragmatic about my food; I analyse it, appreciate the hell out of it, yes, but to get all sexed up over it? And it wasn’t just the booze, either, shut up you.)

What a meal.  Simplicity as an art form.  And incredibly good value; not much more per starter/main than the casual brasserie-ish place next door.  And the experience; well, my taste-buds were saying “oh god oh god yes yes YES fuck me YES” all night.  What more can one ask from a dining experience?

Osteria dei Sapori
151 Broadway

Nedlands, Western Australia 6009
+61 8 9386 4243


Girly shopping

Among the shopping I’ve been doing lately have been a fair whack of unrepentantly girly items. Cosmetics, and clothes.

Clothes first. Jeans are my most most hated item of clothing for which to shop, way more vile an experience than bathing suits or cleaning products for incontinent cats. It seems I can never ever find a pair of jeans that fits, perfectly. I’m not a troll or anything, either; I am an unusual shape as far as the manufacturers are concerned. I’m short – 5’1” or 156 cm, and I’m slender with a teensy waist yet curvy; I’ve got T&A in other words. Thus, I am obviously not the 175 cm stick person Messrs Levi, Lauren et al have in mind. I have two pairs of jeans; one pair of Levis which fit perfectly in the leg, thighs/butt AND waist but which were purchased in Belfast six years ago and are no longer made, and a pair of others that could kindly be described as “relaxed fit” ie they do nothing for my small but womanly bod.

I wasn’t up to going jeans shopping alone and unsupported – my morale and self esteem (and possibly alcohol content) were going to require boosting under those harsh unforgiving change-room lights. I took Tuxedo, who is surprisingly excellent at shopping in comparison with the average hetero male. He even ran around the store finding different brands and different sizes in a brand that might fit. This is another difficulty; even when a pair of jeans says it’s a size 27 (referring to waist, inches), one brand will fall offa you and another will cut off circulation at the knees. Continue reading

Side effects

This post is intended to balance out the recent prevalence of mushy I heart Tuxedo posts.

The pain patch is doing a pretty good job; having a constant level of narcotics soaking into my system has helped smooth out the troughs I’d experience between doses, when the last dose was wearing off but before I could take another (eg, when I was asleep; night-times and morning wakings were baaaaad). I haven’t reduced the dosage of my usual meds, but there has been a slight but noticeable reduction in the screaming writhing pain levels, so I’ve been able to get out a bit more, have a bit more fun. This may be due in part to the weather being very pleasant, and to Tuxedo being home and keeping my mind off boring shite like pain, and keeping my endorphin levels up … oops, broke my own rule already. Sorry. Anyways, so far the pain patch is looking like a good proposition (the other therapies discussed previously are also extremely helpful and enjoyable … ohhh baby).

The thing I really really REALLY hate about the pain patch is the side effects. Not the crazed itching, on site and all over, I’m used to that (standard issue with morphine/opioids). Not the mood swings and depressive effect, I’m used to that too (ditto). Nausea, yawn. But the goddamn constipation, Jesus Tittyfucking Christ!!! I should be used to that, too, as morphine is renowned as a binder-upper of epic proportions. Even relatively small one-off doses given to post-op patients, for example, can have a severe effect requiring suppositories (eeeeeek!!!). Given the dosage I’m on, and the inevitable cumulative effect, I’m often a tad blocked, but given a good diet and lots of water I manage to keep the gut and contents doing the right thing.

But the pain patch, oh dear oh dear oh dear. One more medication with constipation as a side effect = major problem. A few nights ago, after three quarters of an hour spent cramped, sweating, ghost-white and whimpering, about ready to pass out, colonic irrigation started looking like a damn good idea. I was truly full of bricks, but unfortunately not shitting the bastards. Imagine if you went in for a colonoscopy, and the gastroenterologist turned out to be a vindictive ex and filled the tube with quick drying cement. Yeah, like that.

I’ve started hitting the laxatives, and have made myself several gallons of dried fruit compote (a selection of dried pears, apples, apricots, figs and PRUNES for fuck’s sake, simmered in about a quarter cup of water for about five minutes, chilled and to be served with natural Greek-style yoghurt, for those friendly bacteria and extra calcium) so hopefully this dark matter (reference to Futurama – just call me Nibbler) in my gut will get shifting soon. My patience and the skin around the area involved is wearing thin.

Like I needed anymore problems, I mean really. Bad enough having severe chronic disabling pain not responsive to non-narcotic medication; add in a spasming concrete gut and the fun is just beginning. If anyone has some practical suggestions/remedies, please comment or email me. Please.


R & R

Tuxedo has had the past week off from work, and has next week off too. The poor guy really needs and deserves the break; his company (he’s an IT Engineer/Project Manager) works him incredibly hard, long hours, plus he’s often on call 24/7. That’s the life of an IT guy (whether male or female), but it still sucks.

We’ve been having lots and lots of fun. Apart from me having a couple of bad nights and days to slow us down a bit, we’ve been very busy being lazy and relaxing, generally engaging in quality R&R.

  1. Sleeping in until 10 am, but not necessarily getting out of bed until, say, 3 pm, and being very energetic about it.
  2. Shopping – real, proper shopping, with real money, for real things! Note the previously mentioned new BBQ, Santoku and other sexy chef-y items; several new books and girly cosmetic items for me; new clothes for Tuxedo including a couple pairs of jeans to replace the pairs with large revealing holes; other items yet to be bought include a new desk for Tux, and a bed-tray/table thingie for me on which to place the laptop* so I can have it in bed with me, a new mattress, and some jeans et al for me too. (*I nicknamed the laptop “The Phat-top” when we bought it – it’s a super-size Dell Latitude 600, with all bells and whistles, very powerful and very pretty. The nickname’s really caught on, spawning descriptions for other machines such as craptop and slacktop.)
  3. An extra special present for Tuxedo who is not only an IT-geek but a cycling-geek too; a brand new incredibly gorgeous tri-bike – a Trek Equinox 11 to be exact, carbon fibre, black and very slender and sleek – the frame is kind of blade-like in profile as opposed to the usual tubular format. He’s in love, no question, and pretty much goes from bed to bike (nicknamed Blade) and back again. He was fit and in grrrrreat shape before, but the tri-bike uses different muscle groups and is a much better ride than his ex-bike. I could be jealous, but the amount of love and affection, and physical expression of same that I’m getting gives me no reason for complaint.
  4. Eating out a bit – old faves and a couple new finds, going to the pub, to the movies. We saw A History of Violence the other night which was amazing; I’ll try to post a review but not sure I can do it justice. Really, really amazing movie (and of course, Viggo Mortensen’s presence does no harm). Plans for next week so far involve the additional shopping, catching a showing of V For Vendetta, taking a picnic or two down the river and/or King’s Park, going to the zoo. Couple-y, tourist-y things. We did consider going down south but figured we had enough to occupy ourselves here.
  5. Some boring shite eg, major housework (autumn-cleaning?), and some furniture-moving. We currently have our bed in the larger of the two bedrooms, the miniscule bedroom #2 being my study and general junk-room. The living area not only has the dining table and chairs, sofa, walls of bookshelves and other expected items, but Tuxedo’s control centre (his computers, LCD screens, servers, routers, speaker systems etc), plus my rowing machine and weights, and Tuxedo’s Trek. So we plan to move the bed into bedroom #2 (if it fits) and have that room just for sleeping, and move my desk, the rowing machine and bike stuff into bedroom #1. With luck this will result in more space, or at least the appearance of same, the living room not being so cluttered. We also need to do a bit of work in the genre of “storage solutions” (fucking hate that term but it must suffice) eg, storage bins, vacuum packing spare duvets, clearing wardrobe space, tidying and storing cables and other IT-related ephemera. Gack.
  6. Just hanging out and enjoying each other’s company. Well, we always enjoy each other’s company but having it 24/7 is extra-nice. The way we’re acting, you wouldn’t think we were married (see Item #1 above). Good times.


The great Australian BBQ

We bought a BBQ!!!! We are now true blue Australians!!! And the very Irish Tuxedo has passed the Ultimate Australian Citizenship Test; piecing together all components of a 7-burner BBQ (including wok burner) and its trolley into full working order, installing gas cylinder and preparing aforementioned BBQ for it’s inaugural dead-animal-flesh-charring … with the aid of a manual for a completely different brand and style of barbecue.

Our Rinnai Gourmet Grand Monaco/Crossfire had it’s first outing tonight. It is one sensational machine; something Cape Canaveral could be proud of (and with all burners set to High, quite likely to send the above apartments into orbit … hate the upstairs neighbour anyway, she moves furniture and sweeps the skirting boards very loudly at 3 am twice a week). Item; one reversible griddle plate (sooth one side, slightly ridged the other), one grid for char-grilling and immediate contact with flame, one cooking pan for roasts etc, and one intensely powerful side wok burner. (insert orgasmic moan here.)

I had had my eye on Rinnai BBQs for years, I wasn’t going to settle for less. We couldn’t afford one in the height of summer, but the grand thing about buying BBQs off-season is that they are cheaper. In this case, approximately $1,500.00 cheaper. Not baaaaad, matey. Rinnai aren’t cheap, being beautifully crafted stainless steel objets d’art that make most gourmet kitchens look pathetic and sad in comparison (certainly puts our miniscule 1.5 metre square excuse to shame).

The First Meal comprised meltingly tender sweet baby lamb chops, perfectly cooked courtesy of Tuxedo (another round of applause, please – Tuxedo has minimal culinary aptitude; he can cook scrambled eggs … and now holds the title for best burner of meat in an outdoor setting), served with cold beers and a very very small token salad. Future plans include 5 cm thick scotch fillet steaks, my super duper 500 g burgers, spicy red curry chicken kebabs, and a garlic and rosemary lamb roast. Not to mention a side of stir fried garlic prawns with mange tout peas, grilled tuna steaks with wanker-esque criss-cross char pattern, buttered corn in foil, maybe the very American hobo packs. Hell, I might even make soup on the thing. Not that I’ve been putting any thought into this, or anything.

The great thing about Perth is that you can BBQ throughout the year, it’s not by necessity a summer thing. Our verandah/balcony is under cover but with excellent ventilation, and keeping warm will not be a problem given the heat the thing gives off. So c’mon over.


Book blurb: The Tenth Circle – Jodi Picoult

I’ve been on a bit of a Jodi Picoult jag recently.  I find her work impossible to categorise – not chick lit, not women’s/family lit even, not thriller or courtroom dramas, although they are all key elements.  Her books might make it onto Oprah, but they’re well-written and stylish, never clichéd although they could easily become so, given the issues.  Her strength is taking a highly emotive subject and showing the effects on the dynamics of a relationship, family or community, how it can split people apart, and how there are no easy answers or solutions, no black and white.

Her most recently published book, The Tenth Circle, revolves around a teenage girl, Trixie.  Her father, Daniel, is a comic book artist, having undergone a total personality do-over from violent drifter to soccer dad so as to be a part of his child’s and wife’s lives. Laura has pursued a career as an English professor specialising in Dante’s Inferno while Daniel has been the stay-at-home dad, putting his own career on hold.

When Trixie is raped, Daniel has to fight his own reflex to morph back into his former self to do what it takes to protect his child and take revenge.  But what are the facts? The accused is Trixie’s ex-boyfriend who broke her heart when he dumped her, and who she swore to get back no matter what – which kind of complicates matters; he is then murdered.  Whoduunit? What is Trixie’s role? Who is to blame?

The most fascinating and innovative part of the novel is that it is multimedia; author Picoult has interspersed chapters of the novel with chapters from Daniel’s own graphic novel, featuring his character/anti-superhero Wildclaw (somewhat Wolverine-esque) pencilled by one real-life Dustin Weaver who works for Marvel, I think. The artwork and story within a story is brilliant as it not only mirrors Daniel’s character but the “outer” story and the descent of Daniel, Laura and Trixie through the nine circles of hell as envisioned by Dante (the Tenth Circle is where Daniel/Wildclaw must face his own demon, himself).

There is yet another layer; within the frames of the graphic novel sections are  hidden letters, which put together make up a quote and the author of that quote, encapsulating the main theme of the novel.  Cool shit (and took me a while – some letters are really obvious, some you have to hunt hard, the result satisfying).

Like most of Picoult’s other work The Tenth Circle is very much character-driven and the themes which at first seem sharply defined blur, and although the subject is highly emotive Picoult keeps tight hold and refrains from descending into melodrama.   She does an immense amount of research for each of her books – in The Tenth Circle it’s forensics, law, the Alaskan wilderness, graphic art and comic books – which really grounds the action and drama and gives credibility and added interest.

Previous books by Jodi Picoult include Vanishing Acts, My Sister’s Keeper, Second Glance, Perfect Match, Plain Truth, Salem Falls, The Pact and several others.  She also has the next two underway already even though she is still touring for The Tenth Circle.  Prolific – so if you like her work there’s plenty to catch up on.

Not just soppy women’s book club lit (although her novels are book club favourites one shouldn’t be snobby about such things; I’m the first person to reject a book on the grounds it carries an Oprah sticker and was horrified when Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible got one – aaaarrrrgh!!!!! My point is, give it a chance.  The graphic novel component is reason enough; I adored it and it’s different kind of superhero, and it has sparked a new craving – must add Neil Gaiman to personal library – any other recommendations?).

Now is the month of May-ing

May is a significant month for Tuxedo and me. Apart from our wedding anniversary (02-02-02, cool eh), pretty much all other relationship anniversaries fall in May.

We met on 26 May 2000, in Belfast, Northern Ireland, while I was on holiday.

On 06 May 2001, after innumerable IM conversations, emails, letters, care packages, presents, and thousands of dollars and/or pounds of phone bills, Tuxedo came out to Perth to visit me, and meet my family.

On 06 May 2001 we had our first kiss, as well as …. well the other stuff.

On 11 May 2001, we got engaged (complete with specially designed and absolutely spectacular ring) (and absolute shock and surprise from my parents and siblings who had absolutely no idea any of this was going to happen – I prefer the fait accompli). We then started filling out the first of many, many, many enormous vile bureaucratic documents.

(Our moving-in-together anniversary is 01 August 2001, which breaks the mould; never mind.)

Yes we did have an unconventional kind of courtship, why do you ask? Certainly very old fashioned and textual rather than sexual, almost Austen-esque but with advanced telecommunications (also more laughs and ruder jokes). I must be the only irreligious, feminist, modern, experienced (read: not exactly a shrinking violet) woman in the 21st Century to agree to marry a fella not only before we’d slept together but before we’d even kissed!

For heaven’s sake! How did this happen?

Pre-Tuxedo I thought all that stuff about soul-mates and the-one-and-only was total delusional hippie hey-nonny-tra-la-la-sing-cuckoo shite (and I used to sing madrigals and John Dowland stuff so I know what I’m talking about). I was totally convinced when I turned 30 that I would never, ever, ever meet a man who not only liked me a hell of a lot, but would get my sense of humour and slightly twisted life philosophy, someone who I could let past my concrete-and-lead defences, be totally truthful with vis a vis my health conditions and restrictions and have him accept me and love me anyway.

Unknown to me I was looking for someone like Tuxedo – well, not just someone like Tuxedo, but Tuxedo himself; someone who would put the time into getting to know me, pulling down defences, offering love and a safe haven. Never mind being 15,000 kms apart (time differences can be a bloody nuisance, though). Months of open, honest communication with no bullshit or games, no taboo topics, developing friendship and trust and love, coupled with an intensely practical yet romantic outlook; well it did the trick. Unconventional, indeed, but it worked exceedingly well for us.

Turns out all that soul-mate stuff was pretty much spot on, but I/we had to be in the right place at the right time and beat the relatively steep odds – different hemispheres, the fluke of meeting in the first place, connecting as we did, working through the practical difficulties and stresses of a LDR (Long Distance Relationship) …

Six Mays on from our first meeting, our relationship has grown and developed into something I never could have imagined. Intimacy, most-desired company, best friends, laughs, support, trust, unconditional love, all of which gets better and better (let’s not forget the most incredible mind-blowing sex).

Sometimes the hippie hey-nonny-nonny shit is right on.