Mom please don't have a heart attack

After having one of the more eventful weekends of my life, I figured a blog post about the series of unfortunate events could be appropriate. What is pain without 200 of your closest friends to share it with you?

Story 1:
Title- Death
Location- Fortitude Valley aka where the trash of Brisbane gathers for drinks
Time Frame- Thursday night 9pm- Friday Morning 6am.

Back story- I had met a cool girl in one of my classes the day before who invited me out with her and her Australian friends. We had had a real bonding experience after both showing up to our lecture an hour early by accident and walking in on an engineering class.  We knew something was wrong upon entry because we looked around to see a mass of males staring back at us. When you are a PR major- this just doesn't happen. After looking very dumb for blatantly being in the wrong place as there are as many female engineers as there are male PR students, we walked out and ended up agreeing that we really should have sat in on the class and found husbands instead of skirting out. That's when we knew we'd get along, and so here the story begins.

My housemates and I were excited to be going out with some real Auzzies, and we hadn't been out on a Thursday night yet so it was even better. On top of this, the place we were going had three dollar drinks and two dollar shots... finally a night out where we wouldn't wake up the next morning reaffirming how the American minimum wage had yet again screwed us over.
 
Looking back, I can now truly appreciate the phone call my uncle set up before my departure with his casual friend- Brisbane's ex-head of police. The first thing the man told me was "you think you party, and you think you can drink. But my one word of advice- do NOT try and keep up with the Australians because you simply will not be able to." Had I kept this in mind and warned those around me, my weekend probably would have gone much more smoothly. 

Upon our arrival to the bar, we met up with the Auzzie girls who promptly marched us over to get drinks as my friend Jessie asked the bar tender for "eight wet pussies please." My jaw dropped in disbelief as I turned to Jessie and asked her to repeat what she had just said. She looked at me confused- "I ordered wet pussies- what about it, don't you want one?" I nodded my head as she clearly did not understand why I was so astounded.  A "wet pussy," in case you were wondering, actually ended up tasting like a strawberry daiquiri so needless to say... 10 drinks later we were doing it Auzzie style and having a great night.

Wet Pussies should be prohibited. Also, meet my friend Jessie

I will spare you all with the long winded details about what happened before EMS brought a wheelchair into the bar to get my friend, but one passed out girl later who was deadweight to the point where the bouncers couldn't even figure out how transport her out of the bar, and there I was getting to go on my first ever ambulance ride. 

I must say, it really wasn't as exciting as I had hoped for. I'm sure it had something to do with me being racked with concern for my friend while simultaneously trying to be composed after the 10 wet pussies in my system, but she turned out to be fine after getting some fluids into her.

Meanwhile, Jessie had come with us and was avidly hitting on the EMS driver in the front announcing to him that she loved doctors. At this point I may or may not have been begging for an extra IV in the back because I have this weird affinity for IVs cemented in my firm belief that they fix everything, but unfortunately they had none to spare. Additionally, my friend had the same EMS doctor that I had when I got my appendix taken out, so I had a great 6am conversation with him about when I could start up my ab workouts again (next week!!).

All in all, my friend is alive and well, and we have now learned our lesson about truly immersing ourselves into the Australian culture: Do not even try because you will die.

...And Dr. Gupta said he had no interest in seeing me for a third time this month (oopsies), so we will attempt to be slightly more responsible from here on out.

Story 2:
Title- Sassy to a fault
Location- Fridays aka a classy club in Brisbane
Time frame- irrelevant

So there I was sitting at Friday's. As usual, I had let my friends do the talking for me after they had boldly walked up to a group of guys. For those of you who know me well, you will not be shocked to hear that I have still found myself incapable of approaching people- it is not my style, and I generally freeze up due to being shy anyways, so the best option has been to let people approach me specifically or just let my friends do the talking. My mom has yelled at me over Skype approximately 5 times now about being assertive and getting over being shy- she has also added in that we no longer live in the 1800s and that women can talk to men, however not all of us can be Liz who hit on her college professor enough to the point where he finally just married her.

This being said, after a billionth Saturday night in a row of talking to random guys who we quite frankly had no interest in, when a group of attractive guys hovering awkwardly in a corner yelled out to Shand and I, instead of walking right by them like we usually would, we actually stopped, walked up to them, and introduced ourselves.

I found myself more interested in the blonde guy to my right, so when the dorky looking guy with glasses, Chaz, kept asking me questions about my major, I gave a few short answers but overall just dismissed them. When it came time for Chaz to tell us which university he went to, he got awkwardly quiet and didn't say anything, thus affirming in my head his status as a weirdo- he couldn't even answer a simple question coolly.

One of his friends promptly changed the subject and asked us why Americans didn't have Instagram. I informed them that Americans obviously had Instagram because look at me- I have 350 followers. A guy, who apparently was feeling equally as obnoxious as I was, one upped me informing everyone he had 400 followers, however, his friend quickly put him in his place saying that the only reason he had any followers at all was because of Chaz.

Shand, as confused as I was by that statement, asked them what that had to do with anything. The guys all smiled at one another as they informed us that Chaz was a famous actor, and Chaz just sat there as if they had announced to us he went to the grocery earlier that morning. Shand and I looked at each other before bursting out laughing. There was quite literally a zero percent chance that this guy was famous in my mind, and I made sure to inform them that just because we were American didn't mean we were complete idiots. Sassy and slightly intoxicated me made sure they knew I was not one of those dumb American girls that would believe every ridiculous statement they made. 

Chaz smiled, and proceeded to show us his Instagram, which had a mere 52,000 followers. But even then, I was absolutely convinced that this guy was full of it- I mean what a creep for hacking onto some person's Instagram and pretending to be famous just to try and get some girls at a bar. I was also offended because his story was so cliche. He could have at least come up with an alias a little more original then "famous actor." So I accused him of being a complete weirdo for hacking onto someone's Instagram to which he stared in disbelief, and Shand and I ended up walking away.

The next morning, for good measure and some peace of mind, I looked up the actor that the guy from the night before had been pretending to be just to confirm that he was a fraud. Unfortunately the very first picture that came up was of him and his friends from the night before, and as I scrolled down on the Instagram page and compared the pictures to the famous Charles Cottier on the hit TV series Home and Away here.... it was a direct match to the guy I had met the night before.

The photo that confirmed my idiocy

Well, at least I'll be remembered as the crazy American girl who accused a famous actor of being a pro Instagram hacker... yes I am kicking myself right now.

All in all, this weekend was far from dull. Monday hasn't been devoid of excitement either as I am currently editing my fellow classmates' poetry and this came up... I am trying to figure out a way to politely tell this person that their poetry sucks. Also, yes this was handed into a professor.

So until next time.

-F

Calling all free spirits

 If you look into my room, you will see neat piles on the desk, a color coordinated closet, a perfectly made bed, and an immaculately swept floor. I have a journal with to do list after to do list, an agenda with my next 3 months planned out, and an email account that is divided into 5 different folders giving every incoming email I receive either a place to go or it must be deleted.

My opening paragraph is how I am choosing to openly confess to all of you that I am an absolute control freak. Society looks at people like me, and they roll their eyes and get annoyed. They don't understand the fact that when I look at a dirty kitchen, I actually feel a slight tick as my breathing gets more panicked and the nerves build. Or how if someone with dirty shoes walks into my room, my throat constricts as I do everything in my power not to beat them out with my broom.

You laugh, but living like this for 20 years has been maybe the most stressful and annoying thing in the world. I thought being a control freak was hard, but then I got to Australia where it turns out that being a control freak is not only hard, it is impossible.

I should have realized what I was in for when, after my 13 hour flight into the country, I proceeded to be kept waiting at the airport for an additional 4 hours as my ride casually headed over. When you land at 6 am off a red eye and proceed to get to your house that is 15 minutes away at 11, the "sorry girls I was just running a tad behind," just isn't the type of apology that makes you feel better.

In Australia, rushing is somewhat of a foreign concept and working seems to be something they make time for on the side. As is displayed by the surgeon's postponement of my surgery from a Sunday evening to Monday, even emergencies aren't dire enough to impose upon someone's weekend.

Coming from the US where we are defined by our jobs above all else, you sit and stare in awe as your teacher does not apologize for not answering your email, but instead sits there and tells you the story about how he blew off work to go to the beach thus legitimizing why he never emailed you back.

The other day I had a conversation with a transplanted American who is now raising her kids here. What stuck out to me the most was when she mentioned that it was in no way abnormal for a kid coming out of Australia's top prep school to choose to be a waiter and surf for 10 years over going to college. The parents of these kids will casually mention at a dinner party that Johnny is just hanging out post high school with no shame or second thought. In America, Johnny's mom would be going into a long-winded explanation about how Johnny is going through a rough patch in life but that the break from school will actually lead him to success that your kids may never have because he'll go back into everything with a fresh start. Meanwhile, she would be pouring her fifth glass of wine as the mere thought of her son straying from the norm would internally be ripping her to shreds. The race to the top, which exists even among friends in America, just is not a thing here. These people are truly just hanging out.

I always found it odd that my classes here are composed of just as many 40-year-olds as there are 20-year-olds. Instead of appreciating the fact that my older classmates have probably lived a life full of adventure and excitement, I choose to stress about how in the world they could be paying their bills on top of loans? And how could a healthy marriage be established when they clearly didn't have a stable income yet? And on top of that, if they are just going through college now- are they going to have time to have kids? You can't prioritize a career when you have kids- and they were clearly running out of time to have the kids as women have an expiration date, so what will they choose?! These type of questions among many others swim through my head constantly as I observe daily life here, but if I am going to make it out of this country a sane person, I have to let go of all of the preconceived notions America has instilled in me.

All of this being said, when you are used to planning and plotting every minute detail of your life and everyone around you is running off to go be free and live, the internal struggle really heightens as you try and spontaneously ditch life for the beach, but then find yourself tanning and still making the two million to-do lists in your head and not your notebook.

Noosa Heads- Australia's Version of the Hamptons for a last-minute weekend trip. Life could be worse

 Learning how to relax, although challenging, is starting to become easier the more I realize that I am actually an outcast for being so uptight. In America I am exceptionally motivated. Here I'm told to "chill mate because all will work itself out." And they're right. 

In fact, school was completely cancelled on Wednesday for a public holiday so that everyone could go to a horse race.

Yes, my hat is larger than I am.

All in all, I really can't complain about the life I'm living down under at the moment. Having to learn to loosen up and have more fun is a pretty great problem to have.

Stay tuned for the next series of adventures

-F

A Eulogy In Honor of John's Retirement Money

It's been a slow start, but the 3 day hospital stint is over and I'm back on my feet. Now that the morphine has left my system and I'm seemingly clear-headed, I've been able to start experiencing the trials and tribulations most abroad students face when trying to navigate a completely new life in the foreign country you now call home.

Now I realize what some of you are thinking- "Australia is hardly a foreign experience. They speak English and the only real difference between us is their cool accents and affinity for crocodile hunting."

But you are wrong. There are an excess of adversities I will be facing when living in this country, so I will cite some examples to help you understand.

1. They have no dryers. First world problems, I know. But when you have to hang dry your delicates in front of your three male roommates, it gets awkward.

2. There are seemingly more Asians in Brisbane than white people- I'd like to see you try and communicate with someone who has a half Asian/half Australian accent. It's like I went to Russia- I don't know what anyone is saying.

3.  A kangaroo tried to eat my jacket yesterday. I really like that jacket.

4. The largest Latte I can find on campus is the size of a tall. Is this a joke. I need caffeine people

5. There is WiFi nowhere, and the places that do have it only have limited amounts. Example: The purchase of one Starbucks drink gets you a voucher for 30 minutes of free WiFi. To continue using it after the 30 minutes, you must purchase a new drink. I'm sorry but this just goes against everything I feel Starbucks stands for.

6. Final point which will lead to the heart of this blog post- Ice cream is 4 dollars a scoop. A venti caramel macchiato is $7.50 (compare to $4.50) and a normal caesar salad is $15. WHO CAN AFFORD TO LIVE LIKE THIS?!

My measley savings sure can't, and John's (aka dad's) bank account certainly isn't happy either. Things here are expensive to a whole new level. 

Over the past week I kept a list of everything I have bought to give my parents an example of what the cost of living is like here.  I will highlight some of those items below:

$7.50 - spiral notebook for class
$60 - 18 + card (they will not accept my American license at bars, so I had to buy this to prove I am indeed above 18 years old and able to drink. The woes of looking like a 12 year old)
$10 - Croissant and Latte
$4 - gatorade
$5 - slice of pizza
$10 - 6 inch turkey subway
$35 - fifth of Burnett's

While this might not seem completely outrageous to you- the fact that you can't leave McDonalds here without spending at least 10 dollars is seriously a problem for those of us who earned an 8 dollar minimum wage in the US compared to their 16 dollar minimum wage here. On a two week vacation, this kind of spending would be fine. But paying prices like this for 6 months puts John and I on the fast track to being broke.

So the logical next step in this situation was to look for a job. Given my lack of experience really doing any sort of job because soccer consumed my life up until a year ago, the job search turned out to be quite a challenge. I handed out applications to 20 different stores, to then hear from none of them. So when I applied online to be a "door person" at a new club, I thought it would lead me to the same empty inbox that the other job applications had.

But alas, I finally got a reply! They emailed me back asking what the best time would be for me to come in and interview. Within five minutes I had replied with the date and time I would be coming in. This was definitely over eager, but I was so excited to have finally gotten a reply that I couldn't help myself.

When looking back over the email from the club, I noticed that they needed me to verify that I was above 18 years old and a female when I came to the interview, which struck me as odd because never in the initial job posting did they specify that the applicant needed to be a female. It just said "door person" which I took to be a sexually ambiguous term for hostess. Most places hire only pretty girls, so I applauded this one on their attempt to at least act like they would consider males to seat people. How progressive of them.

I was discussing how excited I was for my interview with my roommates that night, as we are all struggling to find a job, when one of them burst out laughing. He asked me if I had actually looked on the club's website to see what the place was like, which I realized dumbly that I hadn't.

I took that as my cue to check it out, so when 8 nude girls and the words "Brisbane's Largest Strip Club" popped up, I stared at the screen stunned. JJ had many rude remarks to add in about women's rights and how the strip club could be the place for me. I promptly cancelled my interview, but as the strip club has been the only job interview I have gotten to date, my self worth is dwindling a bit.

Given the failed job search, it is looking like John won't be able to retire for a while, if at all. Maybe in the next couple of weeks things will turn around, but for now, me and my dignity are going to carry on without a set source of income.

So until next time.

-F

PS- Here's a picture of an emu

Hello Australia, Goodbye Appendix

 Tangents 
     
 In case you were wondering, I have been alive for approximately 7400 days.

 I have spent 7000 of those days in my little bubble of heaven back in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, where life is easy and my biggest cause of stress is whether I am going to get an A or a B on my next exam.

Of the 400 remaining days I have been alive, 363 of those were spent in the US, 34 of them were spent somewhere in Europe or South America, and only 3 had been spent in Australia.

If you then take these numbers I am throwing out at you and do a proportion, you will find that I have spent exactly .04 percent of my life in Australia.

Who cares?

I am telling you all of this because I would like to statistically back up the claim that my luck is in fact the worst, and this is because my appendix conveniently chose this .04 percent of my life to burst.

The Story

It was a normal Saturday. My roomates and I went into the city in search of a Super Target like any normal homesick American would, but as the day progressed, I became nauseous which then turned into a far worse stomachache more resembling cramps. As we passed a Starbucks and I proclaimed I didn't want anything, that's when I knew something was seriously wrong.

By the time early evening had rolled around, I was so miserable that I called it quits and went to bed at 7 pm hoping it was a 24 hour virus where I would wake up the next day feeling better.

4 am rolled around and not only was I awake, but I was on the phone with my mom trying to figure out what I possibly could have that would hurt this badly? A doctor came to see me around 10 am and he informed me that I should just rest and drink a lot of water for the diagnoses he gave me of "a tummy ache" (said in half Australian half Indian accent). After I stared down at my 200 dollar bill I demanded 4 Tylenol, which he bregrudgingly handed over, before departing 10 minutes after he had arrived.

 The day dragged on and by three o'clock in the afternoon I could no longer walk and any slight movement caused me to burst into tears. The logical next step would be to find a way to the emergency room, but because I am staunchly against being a drama queen, I held out and sat statue still in my room waiting for the pain to magically disappear.

Finally, after googling 13 different MD sites listing the symptoms of appendicitis (most of which I matched), I legitimized a trip to the hospital. I would deal with the drama queen accusations once I had hospital confirmation that my appendix was not going to burst overnight and lead me to my untimely death.

Unfortunately, I never got this confirmation. After about 15 minutes they told me I had appendicitis and many asked why I hadn't taken the ambulance in. One would think that since ambulances were suggested, I would have had immediate surgery, but they instead chose to delay it until the morning because they didn't feel like making the surgeon drive in on a Sunday night.

What I got to do Sunday night instead of clubbing. Photo cred to Shand

 I ended up staying at the hospital for 2 days, and may or may not be known as the girl who started screaming at the nurses for a diet coke fresh out of surgery, but I reserve the right to be a demanding you know what after coming out of a procedure that has permanently ruined my bikini bod.

In regards to my bikini bod- I had three incisions on my stomach, so me, Shand, and our other housemate Honour are going shopping for some trendy one pieces before I start getting asked on the beaches if I've had a Cesearian Section and why I left the baby at home. Kill me now. The one piece will also be necessary as I am on a month long ban from running while I heal. Looks like I either kick my ice cream habit or face the consequence of resembling a whale. I'm still deciding which lifestyle I will choose, although I am obviously eating ice cream in the meantime because I firmly believe it contributes to a healthy peace of mind, which I'll need while making this decision.

While I would not say that there is a bright side to this situation really- as only someone with extremely awful luck could be in it to begin with- I will say my people have come to my side and shown their support.

My roomates visited me in the hospital and brought me a cosmo and a card signed by random people in a food court as well as themselves seeing as we have been here for less than a week and have no friends.
 

I received endless awkward questions from doctors who thought they showed up at the wrong bed because they were there to treat a girl with appendicitis 

And Ross was awesome and overnight shipped me flowers. They definitely improved my day by a long shot, so you're the best.

Housemate JJ trying to steal my flowers while grieving that no boys have sent him flowers. 

So all in all, my start to Australia could have been better,  but given the odds of me getting my appendix out three days after I stepped off my flight from Australia, I'm convinced that I am destined to win the lottery because if I have defied all reasonable odds once, who is to say I can't do it again.

Until next time

-F

Here we go

I’m one of those people that real writers always make fun of.

I consider myself decently talented when it comes to the art of writing, however, so far I seem to start something new every 6 months, be really absorbed in the work for about oh, 3 weeks, then move onto my next bright story line. All while completing 0 out of the 5 projects I have started.

This is not only sad for the average person who considers themselves an above-average writer, but as a creative writing minor, the fact that I have had the drive to finish zero works that I have started is verging on pathetic.

So this time, ladies and gentleman, I’m going to try and stick with it in the form of a blog during my 6 months in Australia.  Ambitious goal, I know, but if I can’t stick with it for 6 months then I should probably just give it up altogether.

Maybe my lack of motivation before can be attributed to the lack of decent material when it comes to writing about personal things. “And this weekend, just like the last one, and probably the next one, I took shots at the thrill, things got weird, then I went home.”

Being in Australia though, I think I can find some pretty good material to work with. Not only that but I plan on using this blog as an excuse to put myself in as many ridiculous situations as possible. Lets hope I don’t end up in the Auzzie jail or anything, but if I do, I’ll be sure to inform the jail attendant that they don’t really need to punish me for trying to sneak into the Australian Version of the Grammys because  “I was just doing it for my blog… and besides, I needed somewhere to wear this great dress and jail is not the place I had envisioned for its debut.”

Anyways, I am now sitting in the Washington DC airport, not on my way to Australia yet, but on my way home from Colorado where I had an internship for a month. What was originally a travel day from hell got even worse when on the last leg of my trip, I got off the plane in DC to find out that the monsoons had pushed back my flight home by four hours.  I was excited to get back to a sunny humid NC where my tan could be perfected. But instead of getting tan during my 5 days back in CH I now get to work on my canoing skills as that is the only way to get to the flooded Starbucks. Not getting my coffee in the morning clearly isn’t an option.

While I understand that delays are to be expected when flying, they just are not acceptable when you have been up since FOUR AM and have only 5 precious days left in CH before you leave for six months. I tried to impress this upon the American Airlines service desk as I cried and stomped my foot a time or two, but they stared at me blankly, probably internally noting my need for a shower and some makeup instead of listening to anything that I was actually saying.

So now I am sitting here at a table staring at the stick figure models on Pinterest with an Aunt Anne’s Pretzel booth in front of me, a Dunkin’ Donuts to my left, and an ice cream shop to my right. If this and the four-hour layer isn’t torture, I don’t know what is.

Meanwhile, I am recovering from my last week in Colorado, which included a house/dog-sitting gig where the dog died on day two. Zero for one on pet sitting successes, but I guess in a way it worked out because I was allergic to the dog and my face was so swollen my mother informed me that “everyone would be sure I was being beaten by my boyfriend (not that you manage to keep those for long honey).“ While it is slightly evil to say that the dog’s passing worked out for both of us, it really was the poor dog’s time (he was 15), and I think he is happy in dog heaven now. Or that’s what I tell myself to feel better about the mishap.

Anyway, while this first blog post is a page and a half of tangents, it is getting posted. So that is already a step in the right direction. Soon enough, I’ll be off to Australia.

So until next time- stay ratchet my friends. I look forward to my last 5 days in CH.