My dreams are reverting to Tiger Beat territory.

I had a dream last night that I was dating one of the Jonas Brothers. I'm not sure which one of the three it was because frankly, they all look the same to me.

If the Jonas Brothers come to town, I'm going to arm a small group of my friends with tranquilizer guns and this warning: shoot me down like an elephant if I mention purchasing tickets to their show. I'm waaaaaaay too old to be supporting a group that makes the front page of Bop! Magazine.

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.

Michael Buble is about two steps away from becoming my archnemesis.

Two of my roommates are going to see Michael Buble in concert in a few weeks, and I realized only this evening that I can't say his last name without laughing. Immature? Well, of course. Completely appropriate? Sort of.

This guy is the hottest ticket in town for the over sixty crowd (with the exception of my two roommates). And before I go on any further, I want to say right now that I have seen my roommates' iPods and I know that they have pretty good music taste - except for the Buble. I can't get behind this guys. I'm sorry.

So exactly who is the Buble? In short, the Buble rips off Frank Sinatra. The Buble appears in Starbucks commercials. The Buble is adored by millions of grandmas the world over. The Buble has the worst last name ever imagined. If the Buble was from Florida, he would be my archnemesis. Your Canadian birth saved you my friend. Otherwise, you would have been on the list, right behind General Electric.

And as I wrap up this post, I would like to end with a message to the Buble himself: I'm watching you Buble. You might be buttering up the grandparents of the world, but I've got my eyes on you. When the geriatrics rise up and attempt to take over with their slow walking, canes and prescription medicines, I'll still have my eyes on you. Nobody tries to sell me Starbucks via the television without raising my suspicions. NOBODY!

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.

El masturbation es malo. (originally posted January 11, 2007)

My new Brooklyn apartment is home to many things. Obviously, it's home to me. It's my place of refuge, blue bedroom walls and all. If I'm not clambering about the city or the neighborhood, I'm probably napping or reading in my room. It might be small, but it's got character.

When I moved into my new place, I painted my bedroom walls blue, with the exception of the brick wall. The color reminded me of a tapestry I saw in a house in Hempstead Heath outside of London, something that involved ornate flowers. It also reminded me of some kick ass eye shadow I bought in the ninth grade, and this is probably what actually compelled me to buy. Tapestries are for pussies. At this point, the walls have been decorated with an antique map of the London underground and two framed record albums: A limited edition Madonna Japanese import album and a Blondie record. There are also some various photos that have been framed, along with one of my diplomas. The journalism diploma is shoved somewhere amongst my book collection, still in the envelope the university registrar mailed it in. How appropriate.

The lighting in my room is perfect. It makes anyone look like have clear skin, which is something that I appreciate. It's as if the light fixture was installed just for me. Thanks unintentional mood lighting!

However, the best part of the room is the sound effects. Mind you, they aren't coming from inside my room, but instead filtering in from the apartments around me. Every Saturday and Sunday, I can hear one neighbor practicing his songwriting and guitar playing skills, and I have to say, he's quite good. He also has good taste in music, as he too has identified the one good Del Amitri song ever recorded.

The other neighbor starts every morning off by blaring various Mexican radio stations. I think it may be a radio alarm clock, as I can hear him slamming down on something and then the music/chatter suddenly stops. Also, this event occurs every day at the same time: 7:40 a.m.

The upstairs neighbor is, by far, the most entertaining/disturbing. An elderly man, he's most likely been smoking since the 19330s when he was born. His hacking is the most outrageous thing I've ever heard, both in pitch and length. It's actually quite amazing.

Today, however, the cough was not what I heard. Instead, I was awoke with the following:
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!

AAAAAAAAAHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhAAAAAHHHHHHhhhhhh....

Yes my friends, the elderly Mexican man was spanking it. Jerking off. Mas-tur-ba-ting. Due to the fact that it woke me up, my reaction was slow. At first I thought, "What radio station is that?" Then "I hope he isn't dying." And then finally "Whoa, maybe he just saw Jesus...OHMYGODHEWASWHACKINGIT!"

Have you ever experienced a moment when you couldn't move? Your body was completely frozen in time. I imagine this happens to victims of crime, or witnesses to an accident. But I too have borne witness. And the auditory hell I was forced to endure of an elderly Mexican man waxing his pole is enough to put one into a comatose like state. I feel like for a short time, I knew what it felt like to be Terri Schiavo...minus the real coma and the bloodthirsty husband.

My roommate shared that the previous occupant of my room had heard the same thing. She too, had been disgusted, as I believe anyone would be. But to be fair, if he can keep up this sort of schedule, it would be nice to have a back up alarm clock in the mornings...

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)

Broken arms are like having a socially appropriate limp dick joke at the ready.

Last Thursday, I broke my arm. I wish I had an eyebrow raising story on how this happened, but the reality is that my tale is more of a mix of every first draft of a Woody Allen movie script ever written and hanging out with your grandma. This is how it happened:

I'm somewhat merrily leaving my annual optometrist appointment, learning that I don't need to change my eye glasses prescription (side note: why I was excited about this, I'm not too certain. Perhaps I'm either more easily excitable than I thought or possibly I have been suffering from a lack of excitement in my life.). It should be noted that my eyes were still slightly fuzzy from the eye drops my optometrist used during the exam, so the fact that I thought there was only one stair when in fact there were four stairs was not a huge mistake on my part. Also, the lobby was dimly lit, so there is a huge portion of society (mainly the over 70 or cataract-stricken crowd) that would have made the same faux pas. But alas, I went airborn and the next thing I know my chin is hitting the marble floor below and I'm somewhat dazed, but not dazed enough to where I couldn't manage to drop the f bomb a couple of times and roll over on my back. Besides the fact that my knees were already bruised and my wrist and chin hurt like hell, I wrote myself off as klutz and headed for the subway.

I noticed that the slightest nudge to my arm sent shockwaves into my body as my fellow passengers swayed with the flow of the moving subway car. But still, I thought, nothing is seriously hurt. By the time I got back to Williamsburg, I had decided that something was actually wrong with my arm, but at worst, it was a sprain. Then I tried to take my coat off. Now what can only be described as the most incredible pain you've ever felt but marginally better than what I imagine child birth to be like, I finally realized that my arm was seriously broken after trying to take my coat off. After successfully getting said coat off and realizing I could not properly extend my arm, I put said coat of painful death BACK on, called my roommate as I had no clue where a hospital was and after receiving his advice, headed back into the city to visit the Beth Israel Emergency Room on 1st Avenue and 16th Street. To make a long story short, I broke my arm at the radial head, which is just a fancy doctoral way of saying "Hey dumbass, you completely fucked your elbow."

For the past five days, I've had a splint and sling attached to my body. The sympathy was fun at first, but after you realize that going to the bathroom involves a 15 minute operation of knowing ahead of time that you have to pee so you have enough time to try to unbutton your jeans with only one hand AND THEN pull down your pants with only one hand, all the while trying not to jar your weak limb, you begin to think that the broken arm is the worst thing that has ever happened to you and must be punishment for calling that 10 year old girl on the show "Kid Nation" a cunt (She really IS a nasty bitch of a 10 year old! Watch the show once and you'll know what I mean!).

Yesterday, I had my first orthopedist appointment at Dr. Arscht's office in Union Square. One thing the receptionist doesn't tell you is that when you visit the office and are sitting in the waiting area, you have voluntarily entered the fourth circle of hell. Now I want you to imagine this: Think of every time you have ever gotten stuck behind an old person in line. It doesn't matter where - the movies, a fast food restaurant, a bank, where ever. Now think about how every action that is required of them takes at least 5 more minutes than it does anyone else on the planet. Also, I need you to envision how they ask questions about everything, even after being told for the hundredth time that yes, they can have a soda, but no, they have to fill up their cup themselves with the self-serve soda machine DIRECTLY behind them, and no, the soda machine is not over there it's OVER THERE, JUST TURN AROUND!. Now imagine taking those old people and giving them an injury that in some geriatric fantasy land means they can talk at a decibel normally reserved for sportscasters about how their bowel movements have never been the same since they broke X, Y, and Z. Now, I didn't go to medical school nor do I claim to be an expert in the field of human science, but I'm pretty confident when I say that a broken leg, elbow, hip, etc. DOES NOT effect your bowels and or their "movements." On the upside, I feel alot closer to Gloria of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn after over hearing the exact details of her bathroom habits for the past six months.

Lucklily for me, my diagnosis is better than Gloria's. To breeze over the subject, my bathroom habits remain unchanged (bonus!), and in even better news, I don't need cast. Now don't get me wrong, my arm is in a sad state of affairs but because the break involves the elbow, I must start physical therapy immediately to prevent a permanent loss of movement in my elbow. If you can see my sad, pathetically limp arm in person, you'll agree that you have seen better flexibility in your life. But hopefully, my crack team of physical therapists led by Esther will be able to get me in tip top shape again, or at least enough to where I can bend my arm without wincing. Also, expect a posting about me being hit by a bus in the coming weeks since I just dedicated an entire paragraph to ragging on old people.