Have you met Peter Pan?

 There is a new breed of man on the dating scene. Have you met a Peter Pan yet? They are the lost boys who refuse to grow up. You will find them bopping away at the bar on a Saturday night well into their 40s, still wearing Converse and jeans to work and driving around in their mid-life-crisis convertibles.

A fondness for the Xbox and a habit of using the word dude in every sentence is not the problem with these juvenile delinquents. It's much worse: the eligible 30 to 40- year-old bachelors in this town date the 20-something handbags.

 A close friend of mine is a 30-something gal on the hunt for a man. As you all know, at her age the competition is rampant and her eggs are soon to be on ice. She is a cougar battling the kittens in a real-life Ashton Kutcher/Demi Moore Age of Love. For her, no longer does the role of attractive arm candy cut it.

 By 30 you have got to have substance to combat the crow's feet and personality to offset the sagging of your once-pert breasts. Even then you will struggle. The men don't want the liability of an ageing womb. Unfair, but true.

 Furiously my friend has asked me time and again - why would men bother with young girls who couldn't possibly match them on an emotional level? Sure their butts are higher, their skin smoother - but that isn't enough to satisfy, is it? Do they need an ego boost or is it childhood-lost complex? What my friends don't want to admit is that the 20-year-olds offer something a 30-year-old can't.

 Aside from perky assets, they have time on their side. Every man knows that if he meets a 35-year-old stunner, she has a few good years before she is going to want to have children. And if there is one thing we have learnt about this kidult generation of men, it's that there is no room for two babies in the relationship.

 There are 60-year-olds still scampering about in short pants in this town who think they can pull girls my age. It's this arrogance that annoys me the most. One such bachelor said dating 20-somethings was easier. They laugh at lame jokes, they are happy to go to Maccas drive-through for dinner and they think downing shots is totally awesome.

 They are complication free. This guy is 38 and single. But he is not panicked. Not desperate just yet. He knows he has at least 10 years to take a wife and in the meantime he is going to party as if it's 1999. Us women are just expected to wait on the shelf and hope we don't spoil before we are chosen. If the tables were turned and it was the men who bore children, things would be very different.

 They could be the ones sobbing into a box of tissues while we femmes took our sweet time to settle down. That sense of urgency that makes these Peters fly away would suddenly make sense to them. It is much tougher being a mature woman looking for love than it is for a man.

 But you can't live in Never Never Land forever, boys.

I absolutely refuse to starve myself in the name of becoming a size zero.

One of my friend’s New Year’s resolutions is to lose a few kilos this year (and she’s as skinny as a rake!), so at the moment she’s dieting, and I’m not sure our friendship will survive it. When we caught up for a meal recently, I noticed my fondness for her starting to decline – and I’m not sure if it was her hunger pangs or my frustration that should take the blame for my lack of enthusiasm.   Just to clear here, I’ve told her I think she is perfect the way she is, and wouldn’t be any more beautiful if she were a few kilos lighter. But telling a determined dieter they don’t need to lose weight is like telling a rapidly approaching freight train to take a right hand turn for a spot of leisurely sightseeing.
  I have a very healthy dislike for dieting. I’m not a fan of starving myself in the name of vanity. It was one thing for Ghandi to embark on a hunger strike to protest the British rule of India, but people who limit their food intake to diet shakes in the name of size-zero jeans probably can’t afford to restrict the amount of nutrients reaching their brain. And my friend has quite an impressive brain, which is why it’s such a shame she’s obsessed with all this dieting mumbo-jumbo.
  Like a religious zealot, or a pyramid-selling fanatic, she’s constantly lectured me on the benefits of cutting certain foods from my life. While this very tiresome conversation isn’t enough to push me away (I can easily deal with her ranting and raving by eavesdropping on couples at the next table), she’s recently taken her obsession one step too far.
 When she told me she was living in a carb-free zone, I presumed that was just isolated to her daily food regimen, but it seems I’m now required to be carb-free too. At lunch the other day, she pleaded with me not to order a bowl of fries because they’d be too much of a temptation for her. She also frowned when I said I was eyeing off the tortellini, because it would remind her that she hadn’t had pasta for weeks.
  Don’t get me wrong; I want to be a supportive friend, but why should I be forced to diet in her company? It’s unfortunate she’s friends with the ultimate enemy of the late Dr Atkins – who’d probably turn in his grave if he saw the enormous amount of carbs I eat every day. Besides, I’m Italian – carbs are our life!
 At our last catch up, out of respect for her I held back from eating chips and even left my complimentary bread roll untouched. As I begrudgingly ate my salad, I couldn’t stop staring at the plates of mash and toasted focaccias whirling by my head en route to other diners. I felt those pangs of denial every dieter knows so well – and I wasn’t even dieting!
 My friend sat opposite me glowing with pride, knowing her willpower had made it through another meal without succumbing to carbs. Yet I was left feeling unsatisfied and hungry, questioning the future of our dining relationship. I love my pal, but my relationship with bread and potatoes is so strong, I won’t have anyone come between us. In the same way King Edward VIII walked away from his throne for the love of Wallis Simpson, I might have to walk away from any friend who tries to deny me wheat.

You know you're Australian if....

You know you're Australian if:
* You believe that stubbies can be either drunk or worn. * You're liable to burst out laughing whenever you hear of Americans "rooting" for something. * You pronounce Melb...ourne as 'Mel-bin'. * You believe the 'L' in the word 'Australia' is optional. * You can translate: 'Dazza and Shazza played Acca Dacca on the way to Maccas.' * You believe it makes perfect sense for a nation to decorate its highways with large fibreglass bananas, prawns and sheep. * You call your best friend 'a total bastard' but someone you really, truly despise is just 'a bit of a bastard'. * You think 'Woolloomooloo' is a perfectly reasonable name for a place. * You're secretly proud of our killer wildlife. * You believe it makes sense for a country to have a $1 coin that's twice as big as its $2 coin. * You understand that 'Wagga Wagga' can be abbreviated to 'Wagga' but 'Woy Woy' can't be called 'Woy'. * You believe all famous Kiwis are actually Australian, until they stuff up, at which point they again become Kiwis. * All Kiwi's are sheep shaggers. No exceptions. * Beetroot with your Hamburger... Of course. * You know that certain words must, by law, be shouted out during any rendition of the Angels' song 'Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again' (NO WAY, GET FUCKED! FUCK OFF!) And "Living next door to Alice" (ALICE? WHO THE FUCK IS ALICE?!?!). * You believe that the confectionery known as the Wagon Wheel has become smaller with every passing year. * You believe that the more you shorten someone's name the more you like them. * You understand that 'excuse me' can sound rude, While 'scuse me' is always polite. * You know what it's like to swallow a fly, on occasion via your nose. * You know it's not summer until the steering wheel is too hot to handle and a seat belt buckle becomes a pretty good branding iron. * Your biggest family argument over the summer concerned the rules for beach cricket. * You shake your head in horror when companies try to market what they call 'Anzac Biscuits'. * You still think of Kylie as 'that girl off Neighbours'. * When working on a bar, you understand male customers will feel the need to offer an excuse whenever they order low-alcohol beer. * You know how to abbreviate every word, all of which usually end in -o: arvo, combo, garbo, kero, metho, milko, muso, rego, servo, smoko, speedo, righto, goodo etc. * You know that there is a universal place called "woop woop" located in the middle of nowhere...no matter where you actually are. * You know that none of us actually drink Fosters beer, because it tastes like shit. But we let the world think we do. Because we can. * You have some time in your life slept with Aeroguard on in the summer. Maybe even as perfume. * You've only ever used the words - tops, ripper, sick, mad, rad, sweet - to mean good. And then you place 'bloody' in front of it when you REALLY mean it. * You know that the barbecue is a political arena; the person holding the tongs is always the boss and usually a man. And the women make the Salad * You say 'no worries' quite often, whether you realise it or not. * You understand what no wucking furries means. * You've drank your tea/coffee/milo through a Tim Tam * You own a Bond's chesty. In several different colours. * You know that roo meat tastes pretty good, But not as good as barra. Or a meat pie with dead horse. * You know that some people pronounce Australia like "Straya" and that's ok. * And you will forward this list to other Australians, here and overseas, realizing that only they will understand... :-P

I am a proud Aussie, fair dinkum, no, seriously I am….

 Today we’re celebrating all things “Orstraylian” (Australian for you Yanks :-P) One of those things is the ability to take the piss out of ourselves. So I thought I’d make a list of the things I love about being an Aussie.
Eating sausages:
Where else in the world could you bundle up meat off-cuts, shove them inside intestines, and sell it as the national dish? I know, technically, that’s the meat pie. But the humble snag (sausage) crosses all socio-economic groups these days, with the pork and fennel variety for those wearing their fancy pants. The best thing is, if you block out what’s inside, they actually taste great.
The beach:
Sure, other countries have beaches. But none as good as ours. Those uncomfortable strips of red and black pebbles in the Greek Islands shouldn’t be allowed to call themselves beaches. They leave unsightly marks on your flesh. Frankly, I’ve got enough lumps and bumps already.
The ocean:
It takes more than the odd shark attack to keep us out of our jewelled sea. We love nothing better than surfing on it, diving in it, and gazing at it. And we’ll eat just about anything we can get out of it. Nothing says Australia Day like eating prawns on the barbie while reading a book by Tim Winton.
The barbie:
There are claims it was invented in Europe, America, even the West Indies. But none of them knew how to use it properly. Aussies have an inborn ability to chuck any old slab of dead animal on the hot plate and make it – at the very least – edible. Some of the more adventurous of us will even try vegetables.
G’day mate:
Undeniably, it’s losing popularity. But hearing this strange contraction of “good day friend” while travelling overseas brings a tear to the eye. Even if it comes from a loud-mouthed bogan. In which case, we pop a plum in our mouth and pretend we’re from the Old Dart. Pip pip, old chap!
Our national anthem:
A controversial entry. There are some who’d prefer God Save The Queen, Waltzing Matilda, or John Williamson’s True Blue. But I like being young and free, walking on golden soil, and being girt by sea – even if I have no idea what “girt” means. It paints a pretty picture.
Taking the piss:
This is what I love the most. We never take ourselves too seriously. The day we do, we become American. And there isn’t enough teeth whitener in the bathroom cupboard for that.

Happy Australia Day!