Koalas.

They stink.

Why I will not be humming the Folger's Coffee theme song "The best part of waking up..."

...is not Folger's in my cup. To begin with, I've accidentally given up coffee. I don't have a coffee maker at home, and I found that I developed an unhealthy penchant for Starbucks. I know. I'm ashamed too. However, after running late to work for about four days in a row, I didn't have time to run into Starbucks on my way into the office, so I sort of broke the habit. But I still like saying Starbucks. Starbucks.

Starbucks.

My dwindling coffee habit aside, I am now confronted with two distinct smells in the morning. And they sure as hell ain't coffee aroma.

The first usually hits my nostrils around 8:15 a.m. while I'm walking through Hyde Park. It's a fine blend of homeless man's urine and cow poop. I'm guessing the cow poop can be attributed to the fertilizer they are using in the flower beds of the park, but the homeless man urine smell most definitely belongs to a homeless man who I see every morning asleep on a park bench. I've nicknamed him Hobo Joe, the Pee Pee Man. Even when there is no wind to speak of, Hobo Joe's body odor miraculously makes it the good ten feet between me and his spot on the bench. Let me tell you - that smell will wake you up a hell of a lot faster than coffee as the speed you begin to walk to get away from the stench causes you to walk faster, faster heart rate, etc.

The second smell comes about five minutes after I get off the train in North Sydney. Right outside the train station is a fish market. Well, it's not so much a market as it is one seafood joint selling the raw goods. About half way into the shopping center where this fish stall resides, the smell of various different raw fish attacks my senses like a group of ants at a picnic. I can't run away as I'm surrounded by dozens of other train passengers. And inevitably, I get behind either a handicapped old lady who looks like each step she takes is bringing her closer to death (and at a snail's pace, mind you) or a group of teenagers/youths who are too busy gabbing and yakking to walk faster. I'd push either out of the way if wasn't for the divine fear of either being struck down by the hand of a supreme power because I mowed over a grandma or the fear of getting my ass kicked by a group of teenage girls. I think when it comes to the teenagers, I could probably take at least one of them. But if you've got a group of three or more, I imagine it would be like fighting a group of hyenas. I'm not willing to take the risk.

This story has a happy ending though. I discovered that if I overcompensate on perfume in the mornings and wear my black scarf, I can tuck my face down into said scarf (imagine a turtle retracting into its shell if you can't get a good mental picture of what this might look like) and just breathe in my delicious own scent instead of the invading odors I have been faced with the past few weeks. Because let me tell you something - I smell DAMN good. The baby Jesus is envious of my smell. True story. Starbucks.

When the kangaroo punches back.

Since I moved to Australia, I have been waiting patiently to see some wild animals. I mean, isn’t the general perception of Australia that everyone commutes to work in a kangaroo pouch, and instead of dogs, everyone has a koala? Don’t dingoes eat babies EVERY DAY and the drink of choice is Fosters? And I have yet to see the headquarters of the restaurant chain Outback Steakhouse because seriously folks, that is obviously an Australian company.

Moving on, I finally got my chance to see some wild animals in their natural habitat (zoos are for the weak animals). While visiting Kangaroo Island this past weekend, I saw loads of beasts – koalas, echidnas, New Zealand fur seals, Australian seals, loads of birds, and of course, kangaroos. It was an amazing trip and I'm happy that I got to see such an amazing place.

The next day, I signed up for a wine tasting tour that took me to the Barossa Valley. After visiting the area, I still prefer the Napa Valley, but the Barossa is still very nice, as is Adelaide and I had quite a good time. However, while stopping for lunch, I made the fatal mistake of ordering kangaroo. I can honestly say that I had qualms about eating something I also wanted to cuddle, but I thought it was a chance to try something new, so I went for it. In retrospect, I should have gone with my gut feeling of “You like to cuddle puppies. Therefore you would never EAT a puppy. You don’t like to cuddle chickens because they will peck your eyes out. You can eat chickens.” Just after the first bite, the kangaroo meat in question lodged itself in my throat. At first I thought, “This is a bit embarrassing. Hmm…let me drink some water and maybe that will help. Well looky there…the water won’t go down. I’m choking.” At this point, the other diners noticed what was happening. A woman grabbed me from behind and started the Heimlich maneuver while another woman shouted at her that she was doing it wrong. One would think that I would be scared at this point. Perhaps it was the shame of not being able to swallow food properly at the age of 26 or maybe it was because I couldn’t stop thinking about what an awesome blog this incident was going to make, but I really wasn’t freaked out. Finally, someone hit me on the back as hard as one could imagine, the kangaroo meat dislodged and flew across the table, eventually landing on the floor. Oddly enough, the wadded up piece of meat kind of looked like a fetal kangaroo, which I believed is called a “joey.”

Despite the fact that my lunch had fought back, I finished the meal. Hey, I was starving and not much I could do about it. However, I chewed each piece until it could have been sucked through a straw if I had wanted. So what is the lesson to learn from all this? Don’t eat anything you want to photograph (seriously, who wants to photograph a cow?) and chew your food until it’s liquid. Also, for all the militant vegetarians reading this blog and thought that I would renounce my meat-eating ways, I guess you feel pretty gypped to know that I finished the meal. And I’m laughing my ass off about this.

100% Guarantee I'll befriend some wild animals.

Hello reader -

As of 4 p.m. Sydney time today, I will be on vacation in the southwest of Australia, specifically Adelaide and Kangaroo Island. Apparently Kangaroo Island is ripe with wild animals, so it is very likely that I will (at least attempt to)domesticate some of them and bring them back with me. I think it's the only way I'll have any friends in this city - if I train some kangaroos, wombats, koalas and seals to hang out with me.

Some of you will be getting postcards. And for the rest, expect some exciting blog posts upon my return. I'm sure the airport will be full of weirdos and one can only hope that I sit next to a fat guy on the plane journey - that ALWAYS give me material to write about.

Ciao!

Parting of the Red Sea version 2.0

A few weeks ago during my usually non-exciting work commute to North Sydney, I had a genuinely unique experience…well, unique to some people, primarily the types that can be described as “extremely bored.” Typically, I wander off into my own thoughts, listen to my iPod and watch the world go by, specifically the traffic on the Harbor Bridge, but that day, something else caught my attention. The man next to me was petting the hair of the woman sitting in front of us. Of course, I gawked, open-mouthed and completely amused by what I was seeing. My thoughts ranged from “Why is -?” and “What in the he-?” I was too confused and/or excited to complete a sentence.

A few moments later, I noticed that the woman being petted was having a bad, if not unusual hair, day, and that the man petting her head was in fact, her boyfriend. I only figured out the boyfriend part of the equation because he moved to the seat in front of me to six next to her once the train emptied out.

But back to her hair. I would say it was mostly unusual, not bad per se. It was as if she had parted her hair all the way down the length of her head. As a result, she had a perfectly formed part starting from the crown of her scalp all the way to her where her hair line ended. I should have taken a photo, but I was too mesmerized with out ridiculously perfect her part was. I was also amused as she kept running her hand through her hair, but only to have it fall perfectly back into place with the awkward part.

About five minutes after I noticed this lady's hair debacle, her boyfriend told her why he had been molesting the back of her head. He was noticeably embarrassed by her hair’s decision to be an asshole and not follow its regular routine of…well…just hanging there. He kept trying to fix the problem and she sat motionless, letting him pull and tug and try his hardest to get rid of the part. It took everything in my being to not pipe up with “Stop it! This is just like Moses parting the Red Sea! Look how PERFECT that part is! And it goes all the way back! And may I say, you have a lovely scalp – what products do you use?”

Now I will say that this scary hair issue by no means trumps other events/terrifying displays of humanity (such as the thong) I’ve seen on public transportation systems (at the end of the day, this lady just had a shit hair day, plain and simple). The New York MTA is still the reigning champ of holding my amusement, and I honestly miss all the weirdos and freaks riding on the subway every day, such as the Hispanic woman who defied convention and plucked her chin on a crowded Downtown F train, or the British businessman who fervently picked his nose for half the island of Manhattan on a Downtown 6 train.

Also, please take note of the photo I have included: Was Moses really of African-descent? Let's discuss!

Something to think about.

I learned today that in Australia, people still pay money to see the band Matchbox 20. Yes, that Matchbox 20. I know, who would have thought?

I thought the band went to hell once the rumors started about Tom Cruise having an affair with the lead singer, Rob Thomas.

"Toilet," the most unflattering description/noun in the Northern AND Southern Hemisphere.

When I first visited the U.K. in the summer of 2003, one of the first things I noticed was that the Brits call the bathroom "the toilet. Ever since this realization, I have cringed every time I hearsomeone say "I'm going to the toilet" or when I would read a sign that says, well..."Toilets."

For me, "toilets" sets too much of a mental image. You do things involving your bowels in the toilet. You poop in the toilet. You pee in the toilet. Some people do much nastier things while IN THE TOILET. "Bathroom" sounds so much more pleasant. When you say "I'm going to the bathroom," I don't really think about what your plans are once you get in there. Wash your hands? Great! Take a nice bath? Wonderful! Steamy shower? Even better! For some reason, I just don't equate "bathroom" with excretions; it's equated with the idea of "cleanliness". But if you say "I'm going to the toilet," well...thanks pal. I now have a mental image of you sitting there with your pants down around your ankles committing a sinful act (at least to the Catholics. Everybody knows shitting is a sin against God if you're Catholic).

Now, I understand the distinction - a toilet is just that: a toilet. The kind you flush. A bathroom contains a bath, sometimes a shower, and even a toilet. So you wouldn't very well find a bathroom, by the previous definition, in a bar or restaurant. But c'mon folks - do us all a favor and sugar coat it - say you're going to the bathroom - humor us.

I'm facing this issue of the word "toilet" once again since moving to Australia. For me, the toilet is a thing, a noun, not an actual place to visit. But because I doubt the entire country of Australia will start calling the toilet the bathroom, I'm going to exclude the word toilet from my vernacular. I'll play their game. Instead of "I'm going to the toilet," I'm going to take it up a notch. Expect lots of "I'm going to take a bowel movement because I had a cup of coffee this morning. And man, it's run right through me" or "Jesus Christ, I've had a lot of water. I'm going to take a pee so I'll let you know how it ranks on the urine color chart" (see previous post). How do you like that Britain and the Commonwealth?! Ain't so pretty when someone doesn't play by the rules. BATHROOM! NOT TOILET! BATHROOM.

Amen.

Small beaches, crappy Nicole Kidman movies and French take over.

Things have finally slowed down here in Sydney. This weekend was the first weekend I didn't have plans in a while, so I took the two days to just relax and pal around. However, since I last wrote alot has transpired, so here it all is, in brief:

I discovered a beach called Watson's Bay, with the help of my German friend, and I have to say it might be one of my new favorite places here in Sydney. It's towards the northern part of the harbor, hidden on a tiny peninsula. Unlike the beaches at Bondi, Bronte and Coogee, you can actually swim without being knocked on your ass by massive waves, and you don't have to worry about any Italians smoking next to you. Although I find Europeans greased up with tanning oil while smoking utterly hilarious, it can be a bit bothersome when they talk a decibel louder than every one else. At Watson's Bay, it's quiet enough to actually hear the ocean, and if you're so inclined, you can easily listen in on any conversation around you. Hey, when I get bored I like to snoop. So sue me.

I've also moved into my new apartment. Although it's not in New York, it'll due for now. The location is quite awesome, if I do say so myself, and I really enjoy the neighborhood I'm in. There are a number of movie theaters, good bookstores, cool little restaurants and bars - all in all, a good place to land. My only real complaint, and this isn't special to my hood or anything, but the bats in Sydney are terryifying. Up until I moved to Sydney, I had only seen a bat once: 1988, summer camp in Branson, Missourri. It was horrible, and I was happy with the idea of never seeing a flying rodent again. Wellllllllllllll...Sydney is filled with bats. I actually saw one fly underneath a street lamp while walking to a taxi from the art gallery last Wednesday night. Imagine a rodent the size of a pug with wings. Now imagine me covering my head and running, quietly muttering under my mouth in a frantic tone "Don't bit me, don't bite me, don't bite me." On the plus side, animals in Australia don't have rabies. On the negative side, I would forever be known as "the girl that was bitten by a bat." At least I could pretend to foam at the mouth every so often and no one would REALLY know if I was kidding or not.

I've also learned that French culture is pretty prevalent in Australia. Next week I'm attending the Alliance Française French Film Festival, which just happens to be taking place in my neighborhood, Paddington. Also, I just bought tickets to see the band Air play at the Sydney Opera House - for those of you not familiar with Air, they are an iconic French band who have been making music FOREVER. I'm pretty stoked about my new francophile status, if you can't tell.

Lastly, I saw the Nicole Kidman movie "Margot at the Wedding" last night at one of the movie theaters near my house. Other than the fact that the guy working the concession stand was pretty foxy, the movie was one of the most retarded films I've ever seen. I typically enjoy films where at the end, I have some sort of attachment to the protagonist. But at the end of this film, I wanted to strangle Kidman's character. Thanks Nicole Kidman - you officially pooped on the last few hours of my weekend.

"Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

First off, I by no means think my plight of trying to find a home in the bullshit Sydney rental market is anywhere near as important as equal rights for African-Americans (if you didn't recognize the quote I used in the title of this post, go back to elementary school and read up on your history). But on that same note, you don't know shit about how difficult it was to find an apartment in a decent part of Sydney, so you can go to hell. I'll be judged by no one!

As of February 21st, I will be the newest resident of Paddington. Yes, Paddington. Just like the bear. I think that automatically makes my new neighborhood bad ass. Also, it's pretty much the gayest place in the world, and I mean that literally. Picture this: liquor stores naming themselves Lick Her, shop after shop of leather gear and as many rainbow flags as your little heart desires. I'm not gay myself, but I can appreciate what I've now deemed "Homo-Villle Ground Zero".

As soon as I move in, I will post photos of me moving furniture and finally unpacking my suitcases. The entire inside of the flat is painted a salmon color, so I'll probably be making lots of fish-themed jokes in the future. Expect the word "tuna" to play pretty heavily into my vernacular.

So, when you go to bed this evening say a little prayer that something doesn't fall through and I end up homeless!

The most rejection I've faced since high school...

About thirty seconds ago, I just received my sixth formal rejection from potential roommates. There have been numerous people who just didn't call me back so we'll leave those ones out of the final count.

Seriously. I've never had this hard of a time making friends/finding roommates in my entire life. I'm not going to be nice anymore. Faking enthusiasm just got tired and boring. If these people want to stereotype me, oh, you better believe I'll give them a stereotype to work with. Everyone can go fuck themselves (that last sentence was the beginning of the transformation, in case you were wondering...).

And to anyone that I've ever met that claims that Americans are judgemental of other cultures, it's amazing when the shoe is on the other foot people. For Christ Sake, I'm not a bad person just because I come from a super power country.

Sheesh.

McDonald's Corporation, please forgive me.

As I now see myself in the middle of housing/financial crisis, I must issue an apology to the McDonald's Corporation. I realize this blog is a piss poor apology, so I will craft a suitable letter to mail (and I will also post it here). To sum it up, you might not have a place to live, you might be contemplating kayaking across half the globe, but you can always count on McDonald's to offer up cheap food. It might kill me in the long run, but nothing says "feel better lil' Mary" like McDonald's french fries and soft serve ice cream cone. Bring on the elastic waist pants!

You need to sit down for this.

I think if you ask any of my friends the following question, they would laugh in your face and say "Are you insane? Lord no!"

That question is "Would Mary Ann ever go hiking?"

Well folks, you are going to want to sit down for what I'm about to tell you. Are you sitting? Good. Okay, here it goes: I went hiking on Saturday. I'll let the initial shock waves past before I go on.

On Saturday, I did the Spit to Manly walk which took over three hours. And portions of it were uphill. That's right. Uphill. And I didn't complain once. Well, complain out loud. I probably mentally bitched more than I have ever bitched in my entire life, but as long as no one else hears it it doesn't really count.

As a result, I still have shin splints three days later, but I feel "healthy." Will I ever hike again? Probably not. But I'm breaking down barriers people. Granted, I'm rebuilding same barriers three days later, but still. Did I say part of the hike was uphill? Did I mention that already?

I know I keep promising photos, and I swear they are coming. I just need to get Internet access on my laptop at home. Soon.

Alfred Hitchock - You can burn in hell!

I was chased home by a giant bird tonight. When I say giant, I mean slightly bigger than a pigeon but not as big as say, a dinosaur. Folks, I actually ran. That's how scared I was. Luckily no one was around to see this happen. This bird had hell fire in its eyes, and I can't be sure, but for a split second I thought I saw blood-stained fangs. Some of you may say that birds don't have teeth, much less fangs, but this is what I say to you people: I don't like you and you don't know shit. This is all I have to say on the topic.

I like Scotch (not the drink, but the brand of tape and the dudes)

Last night, I was lucky enough to score a free seat at one of the last productions (at least in Sydney) of "Black Watch." The show is part of the Sydney Festival and was showcased at Carriageworks, which is a renovated train warehouse in Redfern, which is a suburb of Sydney. I've been told that Redfern is also the ghetto, so of course you know I was excited to be there.

The production was based on recent interviews of Scottish soldiers returning from the war in Iraq. It features an all-male cast (holla!) who are stationed in "Dogwood". I don't want to say too much about it in case any of you get a chance to see it, but basically, it's amazing. How's that for a review? I have to say my favorite part was when the point was made that it took three hundred years for Scotland to establish a well-respected and admired army, but it only took two years in a war that shouldn't even be going on to destroy it. That's about as political as I get, so if you are more politically-inclined when it comes to the war in Iraq, prepare to walk away from this production with some strong opinions, especially if you're American. I have to say, it was eye opening to see (once again) how the rest of the world perceives us.

For all my friends in NYC, it looks like you just missed your chance to see the show as it's already passed through Brooklyn. However, if you check out this link you can see the rest of the upcoming dates:

http://www.nationaltheatrescotland.com/content/default.asp?page=home_showblackwatch

As mentioned, I like Scotch tape and I like Scotch dudes, which works out perfectly for me. I was invited to the cast part on Saturday night, so get ready for some awesome photos of me surrounded by multiple Scottish guys. Can you hear the swooning noise? It's pretty intense.

One last note...

I've been told for about the past six months how ghetto Redfern is (as mentioned, where the show was taking place). In pure sitcom fashion, my friend Karen and I got lost on our way to the theater, so we asked a passer-by for directions. He was kind enough to walk with us, so the three of us struck up a friendly conversation. And what did I learn? I learned that my newfound friend had just gotten out of prison that day after being hunted down by the police and brought back from the Gold Coast. He didn't say WHAT he was arrested for, but to say the least, I felt honored that during my first trip to the "hood" I met a real criminal. God Bless.

A few observations since I left America...

1. When you travel to Fiji, you actually time travel back to 1975. Everyone there is rocking an afro, and for some reason, orange, navy and brown polyester is HUGE. From what I can tell, when the mid 1970s hit, the people of Fiji collectively said "No more." And they've stayed there ever since.

2. Old people in Sydney are more active than old people in America. Yesterday while walking home from the train station, I saw a man that easily could have been 100 years old riding a bike. UPHILL! It blew my mind. I hope he didn't die after he reached the top.

3. There are no rats in the Sydney train station like in the New York City subways. This isn't really a good or a bad thing, but it's different. I kinda miss the furry bastards.

4. Now this might offend some people, but pizza in Sydney sucks. I'm sorry, but Australia will never conquer the beast that is New York pizza. We know how to make it. You don't. Deal with it.

5. People, in general, smell better on the train in Sydney. Maybe it's an affinity for men's body spray, but the odor I encounter every morning is nice. I feel like I now fully understand those Axe Body Spray commercials in the U.S. I always thought they were stupid before, but I've been tempted to dry hump some ugly dudes on the train lately TOTALLY based off of the way they smell.

6. The rental market in Sydney is the most competitive I've ever seen. However, you get more space for your money (most of the time). So it begs to be asked: Is it better in New York where you find a place quickly but it's about the size of a bread basket, or in Sydney where you can spend literally a bajillion (estimated) years looking for an apartment that can fit a dresser? It's a toughie.

7. It's semi-difficult to find tampons with applicators in Sydney. I went to three different stores before I found any. I'll be honest - if I hadn't found those applicator tampons, I would be on the first plane back to New York. For the past 14 years I've been using applicators, and I'll be DAMNED if I'm about to start sticking my finger up my hoo-haw O.B. style. No thanks. I'm not a religious person, but something about O.B. style tampons seems against Jesus. And my noony agrees - applicators for Christ!

8. People wear lots of pinstripes in Sydney. This is just something I've noticed, and may I say, agree with. Pinstripes for everyone! (Except fat people. Fat people, should not, under any circumstance, where pinstripes)

9. New York is about 90% more awesome than you think while living there. You only realize the full potential of the city until after you've left (see post above about missing the rats). As such, I will be living there again in the future. I love it too much to stay away forever.

10. There aren't a ton of bloggers in Sydney, so technically, I'm somewhat "cutting edge" just by writing this sentence and posting it online. Who knew? Probably a guy named Aaron (hi Aaron!).

11. When you move the farthest away from home that you could possibly get, as I have done, you start to gain clarity about what type of person you are. For instance, I always knew that I was a complainer. But I've learned how MUCH of a complainer I am. I love complaining. I relish complaining. I live for complaining. And I'm damn good at it. Also, I'm beginning to have some insight on to what I want to do with myself, besides complain. It's not so much a confidence issue, but more of a "Why has it taken me this long to actually do something about it?" issue.

12. Sydney is a diverse city, but I think New York still rules when it comes to diversity. It reminds me of when I moved to New York from Scotland, and while riding the subway from the airport to my best friend's apartment in the Lower East Side, I noticed something was different. And I tell you what was different - I hadn't seen anybody but mostly white people for 8 months. Suddnely, I was surrounded by African Americans, Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Guatemalans, Indians, Dominicans, etc. And thank god for that! I was tired of fish and chips - I prefer more of an international flavor to my cuisine.

13. They have the television program "The Biggest Loser" in Australia. Thank. Fucking. God.

I'm going to start posting more regularly again, now that I'm beginning to get a bit more settled down here. I'm still looking for an apartment, but hopefully that task will be completed soon. In the mean time, send me presents!

XOXO,
Mary Ann (How queer would it have been if I wrote "Gossip Girl" instead of my name? I can hear all of you cringing from 11,000 miles away)