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.

UPDATE: Red Sea Hair Part Girl Strikes Again!

If you remember the post about the woman I saw on the train that had her hair parted all the way down to her neck, then you'll appreciate this.

I saw her again, and what's even better is her hair petting boyfriend works in the same office building as me.

I tried taking a photo of her hair because it was doing the same same weird parting thing, but she wouldn't turn her head in the right direction, thus not allowing me to get a clean photo.

Damn.

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!

Dr. Pepper Tastes Like Aqua Net: Why I like not having too much responsibility (originally posted March 27, 2006)

This morning, I woke up hung over. And not only that, I woke up late. I jumped out of bed at the cusp of sleeping in and oversleeping. It was 7:15 a.m., and I needed to be uptown by 8:30. I brushed my teeth as the shower heated up, and I frantically ran around my apartment trying to get things in order. All the while, I felt as if I was going to throw up. The room was spinning and I was freaking out. I didn't want to be late when I had only been at my new job for a week.

After setting the new world record for vomitting AND shampooing my hair at the same time, I clocked the rest of my morning ritual in under 15 minutes flat. I typically don't like to rush, so I was amazed at just how slow I must be in the morning if I typically wake up at 6:15 a.m. and don't leave my apartment until 7:45 a.m. Apparently I can stretch the task of eating a small container of yogurt into a 15 minute ordeal.

After cleaning up what was left of the half eaten bagel and goat cheese I ate the night before in a drunken haze, I headed out the door, telling myself that once I got some fresh air, I'd feel better. I learned an important truth this morning: I am, in fact, retarded. To think that New York City air is going to make you feel better is something that only lends itself to the mentally challenged, and I, my friends, am apparently running on half a brain most of the time.

Getting on the F train was the closest thing to nailing my own coffin that I've ever experienced. People crowded around me, and all the while I thought "Oh god. I hope that man doesn't like his suit too much because I can give no guarantees about my ability to projectile vomit" and "please little kid step away from me. I don't want to yack on your head. I imagine bile and goat's cheese is impossible to get out of corn rows."

The V train was a bit better, as I was able to get a seat, and the train was relatively empty. The V train has this magic ability to always remain half empty despite the fact that it runs a very central route through the city. My seat was right by the door, so I was lucky enough to get a nice breeze every time the doors opened. Also, a man who resembled Superman sat across from me, and I believe that the 20 minutes of incessant staring at his chest to see if I could see his trademark costume did a fine job of creeping him out. His chest was also acting as a point of reference as to stop the spinning in my head. And oddly enough, I think being on the subway whilst experiencing the hung over spins is the closest thing to LSD I'll ever experience. If only Led Zeppelin had been playing in the background, the scene would have been complete.

Luckily, the train was moving fast, so I made it to work with time to spare. I immediately raided the pantry and learned that Doritos and doughnuts with pink frosting and sprinkles cure any sort of beer-induced headache. Also, Dr. Pepper tastes like Aqua Net if you drink it with Doritos. But the most important part is that I'm getting paid to do all this. My boss asked me if I was feeling okay, and of course I lied and said "Never been better." She replied with "I'm so hungover right now. God, I envy your job. No responsibility except to answer the phone and look cute." And she's right. I look like a fucking angel while eating a pink donut, and the FedEx guy told me I had a cute white girl giggle. Then he winked at me, so I'm guessing that was a compliment. The mailman even said that he liked my hair, and that he reminded him of the girlfriend he had when he was 22, because apparently I look "mod." I've noted this and plan on wearing shift dressed and big earrings for the forseeable future.

Envious? Well, you shouldn't be. Anyone can achieve this level of fame. All it takes is a severe lack of direction, fear of adult responsibility, an office that occasionally buys donuts and stocks their pantries with good snacks. Also, if you can look adorable while hungover, you're on the fast track for success.

Sips: "I bet it tastes like compromise."; Me: "I don't find that very funny." (originally posted March 29, 2006)

The title of this entry really has nothing to do with the entry itself. That small exerpt is from a conversation I was having about Snapple. Apparently, the British are not schooled on the most Jewish drink in the world, so I was giving a lesson plan. Don't worry Sips, you'll get to try it properly upon your arrival.

So onto the rest of it:

I always considered myself an observant person. Actually, that is only half true. I discovered that human resource hiring managers love to hear a potential job candidate say that, so I would always toss that little gem out during my job interviews, with the end result being H.R. smiling enthusiastically and offering me the job at some point down the road. However, I learned two days ago that I am somewhat observant, but only when it comes to noticing extremely gross things about strangers and people I know.

On Monday, I was sitting on the V train on my way home. I had gotten on at 53rd and Madison, so my journey had just begun. At 47th Street, a very attractive gentleman entered my train car, and I was immediately drawn to his excellent choice of suit and tie combo. But within seconds, I noticed something odd. He kept scratching his nose.

Now I'm not talking about the type of scratching you get from a tiny itch or the type of incessant nose knocking you get with a coke addict. I'm talking about the type of scratching you see when someone sticks their entire index finger up their nostril and proceeds to move said finger around. At first I thought I must be hallucinating. No man wearing that suit and that particular tie could possibly be displaying this horrible habit in such a public place. I looked around at other passengers hoping to match a set of eyes that saw what I was seeing, but alas, everyone was oblivious.

This man kept his finger in his nose all the way from West 47th Street to West 4th Street, and I shit you not, not one person took notice except for me. At some point, my mouth must have been hanging open out of the sheer ridiculousness of the whole scene, so for all I know, I was the weirdo on the train, as far as the other passengers were concerned.

I'm still baffled by the events, obviously since this happened on Monday and it is now Wednesday and I'm still thinking about it. This man was well dressed: nice camel colored wool coat, tailored pin stripe suit, silk tie, very proper and VERY British. His hair was slightly messy, but in that way that only British men can perfect. And then he had to ruin the whole image by sticking his fucking finger up his nose. I'd like to write him off as a sociopath, but frankly, I think he either knew that no one but me was noticing and was willing to take the risk, or he simply just really enjoys picking his nose. I've also batted around the idea of it being part of some hidden camera show, so if any of my friends abroad see me on BBC 1, BBC 2, or Channel 4 looking like a typical New York asshole, my apologies.

It was after this train ride that I realized what a dirty city New York can be. The train itself covered in spit and loogies, coffee cups and unidentified liquid, and now there is a good chance that some of you might find boogers hastily stuck on the seats and handle bars of the 2nd Avenue-bound V train.

Happy riding.

Portrait of the New York City Subway System: A Snapshot in Time (originally posted April 28, 2006)

Scene:
Friday, April 28th, 2006
8:24 a.m.
Typical New York City Spring morning: sunny, but breezy

Location:
New York City
Lower East Side (Essex and Delancey)
F Train Subway Station
Stairwell of the Uptown (Queens Bound) Platform

Cast:
Mary Ann: Typical 24 year old Lower East Side resident; Self-described pseudo-hipster; long brown hair, brown eyes; dressed for work wearing pin striped pants, fitted cashmere sweater, jean jacket with a black zip up hoodie (typical Lower East Side scenester gear); also wearing oversized sunglasses and carrying oversized purse; iPod in pocket.
Hispanic Lady: Mid-thirties; short black hair; carrying Key Food grocery bag; wearing jeans, Reeboks, and a GAP sweatshirt.
Chinese Lady: Somewhere between the ages of 85 and 152; carrying small handbag and Chinese newspaper; wearing grey pants, purple jacket with green shirt underneath; grey hair; very wrinkly.
Japanese Mother: Late twenties; black pants; expensive high heeled shoes; jean jacket; stylish; knockoff Louis Vuitton purse (most likely bought off of Canal and Mulberry); accompanying two little boys.
2 Japanase boys: Between the ages of 4 and 6 years old; obviously on way to school; short, dark, hair; both wearing jeans, Nikes, and both are carrying matching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle backpacks; mother is accompanying them.

And now to the action...

As Mary Ann fumbled with her iPod while searching for the pocket she kept her Metro Card in, while at the same time attempting to jog down a flight of stairs to catch the approaching F train, something caught her eye.

Everyone on the stairwell had stopped.

There on the fourth step from the bottom, lay a thong. A bright red thong. And this was no ordinary abandoned bright red thong.

This thong was covered in human shit, most likely diarrhea.

All six of the commuters stared blankly. Were they actually seeing this disgusting, poop encrusted discared undergarment?

Yes. Yes they were.

The Japanese mother scurried her two boys away, along with the 1,000 year old Chinese woman, all four of them most likely wondering why the hell they ever immigrated to this god forsaken country known as the United States.

Mary Ann and the Hispanic woman looked on at the disgusting spectacle before them. Then, ever so slowly, the Hispanic woman looked at Mary Ann and said, "Fucking city. I'm moving to Brooklyn where them fuckers are civilized."

And then Mary Ann realized how proud she was to be a New Yorker, to live in a city where people feel free enough to crap themselves on public transportation systems, then disgard their shitty underwear in a public forum. How liberated these people must feel as they walk up the stairwell and onto to Delancey and Essex Street, wet poop drying on their butt crack.

New York Motherfucking City.

P.S. I'd like to dedicate this thread to tubgirl, where ever you are, whatever you're doing (most liking snorting cocaine and crapping yourself), this one is for you.

Red toe nail polish does not mean I want you touch my feet during the morning commute. (originally posted on June 6, 2006)

This morning was one of those mornings when you think "Why did I get out of bed? Why don't I live in a city where owning a car is normal?" This pissy attitude was stemming from the fact that the V train subway line was under construction, but the MTA didn't bother to tell anyone. After being informed by a homeless man, who had obviously been drinking since around 1984, shouted "You motherfucking stupid honkies! The motherfucking train ain't runnin'! Give me a motherfucking fucking quarter! Fuckers..."

So yes, I was informed in the most eloquent language that my favorite train in all of New York City was not running. Luckily, I have a Plan B for such situations. I can take the Uptown F train up two stops and catch the Uptown E train. dThe Uptown morning E train is my second favorite train in the city because it, like the V train, always has empty seats.

After catching the next available Uptown F train at 2nd Avenue, the site of the failed V train, I made my way up to West 4th Street where I transferred to the Uptown E. True to fashion, the E train provided plenty of empty seats, as well as some majorly attractive French tourists. That is another reason I adore the E and V trains: Both typically have extremely attractive men on them. I'm not one to talk to strangers, but I am one to stare at strangers.

As the E train made its way Uptown, it became increasingly full of passengers. This is an obvious observance since generally every train after 14th street is generally packed on the morning and evening commute. However, one man standing in front of me stood out in an odd way. Unfortunately, he wasn't a foxy frenchman. Instead he was Mr. Non-descript guy. You know the type: Khakis (most likely Dockers brand), light blue button up shirt, brown shoes, brown belt. He had light brown hair and I'm sure his eyes were probably brown too. He wasn't unattractive per se, just not memorable.

By the time we hit 34th Street/Penn Station, the train was mobbed with commuters. Mr. Non-descript inched closer into my personal space (a concept that oddly enough, still exsists even in New York). I noticed he was spending an obscene amount of time staring at my feet. I started to squirm uncomfortably in my seat. What the hell was he looking at me for?

I don't if this is a result of poor self-esteem, or a result of simply being a woman, but my first thoughts were kind of demeaning: "Does he think my feet are gross?", "What's wrong with my feet?", "Are they too big?", "Do I have a gross callus that I haven't noticed yet?", "Did my pedicure from this past weekend already lose its appeal?" I began staring at him too, in hopes of working out what the deal was. He must have felt my persistent gaze because he looked up, only to make awkward eye contact with me. Then he continued to stare at my feet.

By this point, the E train was fast approaching my stop at 53rd Street and Madison Ave. I stood up from my seat and made my way to the door, once again making eye contact with Mr. Non-descript. I gave him one of those "I'm raising my eyebrows and giving you a half ass smile as to say I know you were staring at my feet" looks just as the train screached to a halt.

As the doors opened and I stepped onto the platform, he spoke.

Below is a break down of the conversation:

Mr. Non-descript: "Your red toe nail polish makes me want to touch your feet."

Me: "Thanks?"

(Doors shut. Train departs)

Yes ladies and gentlemen, I had my very first encounter with a foot fetish man. You hear stories about woman having their feet and shoes grabbed on the subway by stilleto-induced crazed perverts, but my foot fetish man was quite pleasant, although a bit of a starer. Wherever you are Mr. Non-descript, and to whatever pair of shoes you jerk off to this evening, you hold a special place in my heart. Right next to the homeless guy who wears a dress and curses at the George Washington statue in Union Square.

*Special thanks go out to the Asian ladies at Shin Modern Nails for the excellent pedicure on Sunday.

Ever feel gypped because no one has ever dry humped you on the subway? Me too. (originally posted on June 23, 2006)

On most mornings, I have the same routine. The routine is as follows:

1. Get out of bed and either put on or carry my slippers to the bathroom.

2. Pee.

3. Weigh myself.

4. Look in the mirror and stare, thinking about what I have to do that day.

5. Turn on the shower.

6. Turn on the curling iron.

7. Shower.

8. Dry off and apply moisturizer.

9. Fix breakfast while wearing a towel on my head and towel around the rest of my body.

This morning was no different. I followed my morning routine as usual, and at around 7:30 a.m., I sat down on my couch to enjoy my granola with skim milk.

I have a love/hate relationship with morning t.v. I feel as if every single morning news program has its faults. I can't stand the tourists from Salt Lake City, Omaha, Phoenix, Orlando, and various other places I'm glad I don't live in waving their poster board signs outside the Today Show. I don't even know what channel Good Morning America is on, and New York one is a snooze fest, with only one man doing sports, weather, news, etc. He actually reads from the daily newspapers when talking about current events. Good Day New York is even worse. Mike Jerrick deserves to be dragged out into the street and shot. The shows only saving grace is Jodi Applegate, who despite what some people might say, is generally hilarious. I think she's one of the few NYU alumuni that don't drive me to homicidal thoughts.

However, Good Day New York has its fair share of the peppy morning schmooze factor. What I don't understand is that in my entire life, which has almost spanned a quarter of a century, I have never met anyone who actually enjoyed waking up in the morning. And the last thing anyone wants is some hyperactive individual barking at them in the early morning hours about where to get swimming lessons or how to bake the best pizza crust in the city.

Good Day New York used to have some lady named Penny who would host the general interest portion of the news. She was this 60 washed up news anchor, who like Mike Jerrick, deserved to be put down like a sick dog. Her lame sexual innuendos to her sad attempts at humor were a constant pitfall in my morning routine, and I was glad when I noticed one day that Penny had disappeared. I'm sure she's rotting in a home somewhere (*Author is enthusiastically pumping fist in air).

However, Penny has been replaced with Anne. Her segment is called "Anne About Town" and it's pretty simple to describe. Basically, the producers of Fox 5 dream up these ridiculous, however never life threatening stunts for Anne to perform. I've seen her take sailing lessons, walk on a tight rope, drink Vitamin Water made specifically for dogs, and numerous other activities that are just slightly too upbeat for 7:30 a.m. And it's not even so much WHAT she's doing. It's the fact that it's HER doing it. I'm hoping that one day I'll be a producer for Fox, and my brainstorming sessions would go something like this: "I've got an idea for Anne's segment: Lets set her on fire and have her wrestle a hungry bear! Seriously! We can accept bets and donate the money to charity!" And by charity I mean the foundation I'm setting up to have Michael Rappaport banend from doing anything on television and only allowing him to write stories about how bat shit crazy Natasha Lyonne is.

This morning, Anne was officially put on my list of people to run over with a bus if I ever become liscened to drive a bus. Because of her overly perky attitude, I almost changed channels to Saved By the Bell: The College Years, which would have resulted in two things: I would have become certifiably retarded from watching Mario Lopez at 7:40 a.m. (Seriously foks, I think the FDA passed a law saying no Screeh or Mario Lopez that early in the morning. Their third rate acting ability has been known to cause spontaneous/permanent blindness, infertility, and deafness). The second event that would have occurred is this: I would have missed the announcement of the successsful completion of "Operation Exposure."

Admittedly, up until 7:42 a.m. this morning, I had never heard of "Operation Exposure." But as Lucy Noland explained in the "Today's Big Story" segment, I learned that the New York City Police Department had been running a sting operation to catch perverts on the New York City subways. I can't remember the exact number of people arrested, but apparently there are quite a few dry humpers and testicle displayers on the subway. Admittedly, I felt a little jipped. I ride the subway at least twice a day, and I've never been dry humped or witnessed a pair of nuts. A girl grabbed my boob once, but only because she fell into me when the train jerked. I would try to rationalize that maybe that "girl" was actually a dude, but she was definitely a girl. Man, what a rip off.

Ed. note: After investigating, I believe I have found why my hatred for Anne Craig goes so deep:

She shares the same last name of someone I have emotional isues with.

And more importantly...

She got her start in Orlando, Florida. If it wasn't for those dumb asses in that state, I wouldn't be suffering through her shitty skits every morning.

Note to Florida: You're on my list.

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)

Truf: The international music section in every record shop smells like farts AND why I love strangers who openly admit to me that they farted

It is a universal truth that every international music section in every music store you have ever visited in the entire world smells like farts. Don't ask me why, but it's true. I visited Barnes & Noble today trying to find a copy of a very old school 1980s movie on DVD and decided to swing through the music section. This truth was very evident, might I say.

Also, this morning on the L train into work, a man openly admitted to me and the crowd around the two of us that he had farted. I'm pretty certain everyone noticed the smell, but honestly - who would say anything? But apparently this man does not live by this rule. Very plainly, he said "That was me. Sorry, my wife made chili last night." Everyone kind of giggled, except for me. I shook the man's hand and introduced myself. I just met my new hero. And his name is Garry Cartledge of Brooklyn, New York.