I understand if you don't want to be friends anymore, and yes, this post has to do with the band ABBA.

Contrary to the super cool persona this blog resonates (stop rolling your eyes!), I'm not as cool as the cat's pajamas, which should be evident by the fact that I just used the phrase "the cat's pajamas." Well, here's another reason to think I'm not awesome. It's almost 10 p.m. on a Saturday night here in Sydney, and I'm at home waching a documentary on ABBA visiting Australia sometime in the 1970s. And to make things worse, I've just realized that I'm a fan of the song "S.O.S." Don't believe me? Well, I've found a video of the song and have posted it below (and I've already watched it five times). I understand if you can't be friends with me. This might be too much for some of you to handle.

Is this a bad time for me to go on about how much I like IKEA as well? I used to think that IKEA was run by a bunch of communists because let's get serious folks - who sells furniture called Leksvik, Kviby, and/or Malm? I'll tell you who - the Commies. But, after realizing that IKEA has one of the most delicious cafeterias in the entire world (try the carrot cake!), I decided that the Reds couldn't be behind this greatness (I'm referencing the carrot cake).

For me, Heaven is a Saturday afternoon at IKEA with ABBA blaring over their store loud speaker.

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.

Krispy Kreme mania…or glaze-induced epidemic? YOU BE THE JUDGE! MWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

On a flight to Adelaide, a total of six different passengers boarded a flight carrying boxes containing a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I’ve never seen such a consolidated group of people so enthusiastic about Krispy Kreme doughnuts…well…outside of the groups of Krispy Kreme customers I’ve seen inside the actual Krispy Kreme stores. There were enough people on the plane carrying Krispy Kremes that even one of the flight attendants mentioned so over the intercom system after demonstrating the safety procedures on the plane.

So as a result, I ask you, the reader, would you use one of your carry-on allowances to transport Krispy Kreme doughnuts from another state (in this case from New South Wales to South Australia)? As for me, I will admit that I had never thought of transporting large amounts of doughnuts across state lines, but after being on a flight in close quarters with such a wonderful snack food without the option to eat a doughnut myself (What self-respecting person would ask a complete stranger on an airplane if they could have one of their doughnuts when it’s obviously a prized possession that they are willing to carry across state lines?), I began to have a hankering for some glazed goodness. Who am I to say “no” to a doughnut? And that my friends, is why I was a fat kid.

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!

I need a butler.

With so many people asking me about my dinner last night at Tetsuyas, the 9th best restaurant in the world, I feel that I should fully disclose something.

After eating at that establishment, I have grown a monocle and a pair of white gloves. The photo accompanying this blog post was taken of me this morning.

SPATCH-COCK!

Last night, I ate at Tetsuyas, the ninth best restaurant in the world according to S. Pellegrino, the folks that make the scary, bourgeois water.

The food was good, but my god...the meal lasted for FIVE HOURS. I lost count of the courses after plate number 6 but holy christ almighty reel it in folks. Just put all the plates in front of me and let me go at it. If this was the process last night, I would have been in and out in an hour. I wold have plowed through that cold saffron soup and spatch-cock and had the check by 8 p.m.

And that my friends is why I'm high class.

Also, why researching whether spatch cock was one word or two, I came across these alternative meanings of the otherwise delicious game bird (Thank you Urban Dictionary):

1. SPATCH-COCK

A serail drunark who continuously gets smashed, hits on women well above his league, tries anxiously to phone his on/off girlfriend and repeatedly crashes out due to exuberant use of a glass of beer. Welcome to the world of the spatch-cock.

1 beer: Marc says "hows life guys?"
2 beers: Marc says "fuck off ya bawbag"
3 beers: Marc says "Your a chamsie shatner"
4 beers: Marc says " They all want it, every last one of them!"
several beers later: After picking 3 fights with his own pals, Marc decides to wander aimlessly through the night club, hiccupping on his journey, trying to find the nicest girl to get slapped from. "Marc, you alright?"
"Im fine ya cunt"
"gie that burd peace, shes not interested!"
"they all want me, hiccup"
"Marc, were going hame, come on"
"aye wait up, I hate yous, I hate yous aw"
"Aye, very good Marc, ya spatch-cock"

2. spatch cock

Slap your cock so hard the spatch cocked almost pass out with pain

"anyway last night i spatch cocked her and then i had to take her to the hospital...she had 10 stitches"

3. spatchcock

Reddening of the penis after beating off with a spatula

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.

The Poppy Odyssey: My ongoing, non-vocal battle with my neighbor

I always knew Poppy was an asshole. You know those types: snotty for the sake of it, think they are better than everyone else, like to hear their voice over everyone else's. Of course I'm speaking of Poppy, my neighbor's dog. Once again, what an asshole.

I'm not sure what breed category (besides douche bag) Poppy falls into. He's a lap dog, that's for sure. He's white with long hair and if you can imagine a dog that every old lady in the entire world would like, well...that's Poppy. I've thought about asking my neighbor what type of dog he is, but I don't think I can start the conversation off with "What kind of dog is that little asshole?"

Poppy and I did not get started on the right foot. My first encounter with him was a day after I moved into my new house. Poppy was on the look out next door, and as I often do with animals*, I said "hello dog." Instead of providing a heartwarming confusd stare like Sir Scrapsalot, the neighborhood cat**, Poppy proceeded to bark and snarl. I wasn't scared - he was locked behind a screen door. It was more obnoxious than anything. Here I am trying my best to be nice and make friends and this asshole pulls attitude. For those of you that know me, you know that I've had about enough of that since moving. At his point, I didn't know Poppy's name. I simply called him "the asshole dog next door."

My feud with Poppy reached a whole new level when he began barking at everything I did. Now I don't know if he can see through walls, but that damn dog would bark if I turned a page in a magazine. Brushing my teeth? Hell yeah Poppy, bark! Plucking my eyebrows? Oh, Poppy knew. The clincher was every time I opened my window at night to let in a breeze, Poppy would bark. And bark. And bark.

A few weeks after the first window barking incident, my roommate asked "Don't you just hate that dog next door? He barks at the drop of a hat! His name is Poppy." My enemy now had a name.

The other night, our hatred reached a fever pitch. After opening my window, Poppy began his usual protest. I had reached my breaking point and could not control the emotions that boiled over.

"POPPY! WE GO THROUGH THE SAME DAMN THING EVERY NIGHT! I OPEN THE WINDOW! YOU BARK! I'M JUST OPENING A WINDOW! DEAL WITH IT YOU SONOFABITCH!" I screamed.

Shortly after, I heard Poppy's owner shuffling him into the house, whispering something softly, most likely "Watch your back Poppy. She might be into animal sacrifice."

I haven't heard Poppy in the past several nights. Ideally, he's been neutered and is suffering from the death of his testicles and has implemented a silent protest against the act of making dogs "non-breeders." In reality, he's most likely being kept inside due to the foul weather we've been experiencing in Sydney. All I know is this: I'm saving up my money to put a squirt nozzle and hose to attach to the bathroom sink. The second that dog pipes up, it's water fun time. If I don't blow a non-deadly adoption of acceptance regarding minimal noise making into that dog, I'm going to open up the lines for you reader: How should I silence Poppy (and don't say kill him - I might hate him, but I can't kill an animal (excluding rodents)).

* I only speak to animals when no one else is around, such as Sir Scrapsalot. I'm not talking full-blown conversations, but more along the lines of "Hi Sir Scrapsalot. Did you get any dinner tonight? No? That's a shame because I'm not going to feed you either. Better luck next time."

** Sir Scrapsalot follows me down the street now, due to our friendly relationship. I've explained to him that although I appreciate his company, I am allergic. He respects the boundaries and stays at least five feet away at all times.

What's more disturbing - YOU BE THE JUDGE!

Yesterday, while walking to the train station for my commute to work, I saw a girl that was dressed like she either:

A.) Was partaking in a "walk of shame" after a long night of NOT sleeping at her own house and still had on the clothes from the night before.

B.) Has really flexible judgement on what constitutes "work appropriate" attire.

Either way, the outfit was crap. Imagine if Wonder Woman and Ally McBeal morphed into one - yeah, that's what I said. Has your brain exploded yet?

"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.

BREAKING NEWS: Old people are slow, regardless of region

In an earlier post entitled "A few observations since I left America," I made the comment that old people in Sydney are marginally quicker (as in speed of walking) than old people in America. Well, shoot that theory in the foot because I was dead wrong.

I did a bit of research yesterday. I noticed that my earlier hypothesis of old people being a bit more sprite here might have been premature as I had begun to notice A LOT of old people moving VERY slowly. How could this be? I had just seen the oldest man alive pedaling a bike uphill at a relatively fast speed only weeks ago! I had several ideas, so I did a mini survey while I walked across the bridge at Darling Harbor on my way home.

Some of you might find it weird to go up and ask people for directions even when you know exactly where you're going, but I had a plan. Maybe these slow geriatrics are tourists. Maybe AUSTRALIAN old people are still quick and lively. Well, after polling about 15 different couples, I learned that my initial forecast was wrong: Old people are slow the world over. The Italians in particular are a slow group, but I'm thinking that's because they prefer to stroll. It's the Bulgarians we need to watch out for: Those people can't walk fast even when they TRY. My god, can you imagine getting behind a Bulgarian grandmother in traffic? For Christ sake...you'd be there for days!

And for those of you that are thinking that I'm mean for judging old people, you're probably also right when you secretly hope I'll be a slow old person. I'll tell you right now that the minute I turn 70, shuffling will be my only means of transport. In a hurry? Tough shit. Just try to get around me and my walker.

"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!

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)