Aussie Aussie Aussie! Ow! Ow! Ow!

Only a couple of weeks ago, my colleague and friend Dallas attended her citizenship ceremony, and was proud to now be able to call herself an Aussie.
If only it were that simple.
What Dallas didn't know, is that it is not the citizenship test, nor the ceremony that makes you an Aussie, but the passing of several initiation tests with ones mates that does it.
Let me explain about Dallas. She is smart. Wicked smart. She was born and raised in Sri Lanka and given a good British education. Her grasp on the English language is far tighter than many of us Aussies, and we are often asking her to help us construct speeches or carefully worded emails at work. So, when we can stump her, we feel quite victorious!
Sometimes it's just plain funny. Especially when she innocently uses a word which she thinks has a particular meaning, and we have to educate her on the Aussie translation (read: rubber=condom, dinger=condom, muff=...well you should all know that one!)
Then there are the sayings we have taught her. The particular favourite we instructed her to say to DIAC when sitting her test: "Hey mate, can I have a glass of water? I'm as dry as a dead dingo's donger!".
However, it was only last week that she passed the last initiation with her mates (I'm so sorry I wasn't there to witness it!). After attending a friends party, it was time to call a taxi to go home. "No need!" says her friend Ryan. "I have my bike - I'll give you a dink!"
"A what??" says Dallas.
"If you don't know what a dink is, then you are not an Aussie yet" jibed her friends.
Never one to decline a challenge, Dallas held her head high and said "sure, you can give me a dink".
Being quite a sensible lass, she did - to her credit - almost concede defeat when she found out that the said dink, wasn't a comfortable, nor ideal situation. Still, with a few voddy's in her already, she summoned the 'Aussie within' and perched herself on Ryan's handlebars.
They started the rough journey home, and within only a few minutes they hit a bump, and Dallas was thrown over the handlebars. Not to worry, she brushed herself off and jumped back on, thinking she now knew what to look out for.
If only it were that simple.
The next bump saw her legs flail, her shoes come off, and her toe caught in the spokes of the front wheel of Ryan's bike, before flipping over the handlebars.
Ouch.
So, it was with a heavily bandaged, thong wearing foot, that Dallas came to work on Monday and declared - "If I tell you this story, then you can't call me a FOB (Fresh Of the Boat) anymore. I've been drunk, I've accepted a dare off a mate, I've been dinked, I've been injured, and I've put away my pride by sharing the story with you - I've more than earned my Aussie citizenship now."
And so she has!

Cookie Vs Cake

So, those of you that regularly follow Miss Diarist's antics, should by now have a good idea of the concept of cake. However, I would like to further the conversation and perhaps even invite further comments.

As MD recently blogged, we did need to have the discussion of "if cake is sex, what is kissing?" And we decided that a cookie would be the appropriate euphemism. This in turn made my "Pash Pal" the "The Cookie Monster".
However, the conversation didn't stop there.
What MD didn't know, is that later that night, when Dallas and I were reunited with the interstate work colleagues for dinner, we systematically observed each dessert that was ordered, and interrogated it's orderer:

"Mark, is that a tart you ordered? Can you tell me, is it a sweet tart, or is it a tart tart?"

"Johnno, I do believe they are profiteroles - was there a reason in ordering such extravagance? And do you prefer fresh, or whipped cream?"

We thought we were hilarious! Our colleagues perhaps thought we were a little strange (or drunk)...

The evening progressed, and with a few more wines consumed, The Cookie Monster proposed to take me back to his hotel room. Deciding that I was full on cookies, and that cake was not in my best interests, I snuck in one last lingering kiss and left him adjusting his crotch on the corner of Flinders and King St's.

The next day at training I was receiving the look of death from The Cookie Monster. Needless to say, there was no more childish kissing to be had, and he left at the end of the day to spend his last night in Melbourne with his sister. Feeling a little guilty that perhaps I had lead him on, and we weren't on the same page, I thought an explanatory text message was in order:

"Sorry I didn't want cake, I was quite content with cookies. I guess your appetite is bigger than mine right now...."

To which he replied: "WTF are you talking about?!?"

So anyway, this use of euphemisms got me thinking: Could we invent a new language that coded words in baked goods alone? Or would we need to introduce fruit and vegetables or other produce to complete the picture?

I only really thought about this because I was later questioning my decision not to take the cake. I decided that it was because what I really wanted, was my favourite spongecake that was recently discontinued at my local bakery......and I could surely talk about his buns and cookie dough 'till the cows come home....

To finish up, you will be pleased to know that I did have quite a raunchy dream about The Cookie Monster the following week. Unfortunately, work etiquette made me feel it not such a good idea to divulge such intimate information to him over the work email, so all I mentioned to him was "a dream with you in it". He demanded more information:

"Let's just say, I had my cake, and ate it too".

Apparently I am now officially a tease. And, I think he has now figured out what cake is.