"I have a girlfriend, but you girls are so beautiful!"

...said our new best friend, Whatsisname, on the dance floor last night.
After Stella & I spent the day with our friend Jen drinking sangria and walking around Darlinghurst and Surrey Hill, we all went dancing at a local fav bar called Flinders.
So the drinking age is 18 in Australia which means it feels like all ages everywhere. And I discovered 18 looks SO MUCH YOUNGER than it used to.
Now, I've been hearing about the legendary Cute/Interested/Available guy to girl ratio since my friends arrived in Sydney over 2 months ago. I'm told making out with a CIA guy every night is a given- to which I say, oh yeah? Because my bizarro little brain takes that as a challenge. You tell me its a sure thing? I will PROVE to you YOU'RE WRONG because I'm an asshole.
And prove it, I did.
I won last night by not making out with any CIA guys, and to go one further, my cockblock juju worked on my friends as well. You're welcome.
SO glad that's out of my system. Now I can make out. I may be a contrairy brat, but I'm not the enemy of fun. Making out is fun, and now that I've proven you can't make me make-out, I'm ready to make out. So there. (But I don't kiss & tell, so you'll get to fill in the blanks. I'm thinking many blanks.)
Sunday, Stella and I went to Bondi Beach to work out with the stunt guys from her movie. I love working out, I love the beach, and I love stunties so I was prepared for a good day. Good was a pitiful understatement. It was pretty much the best day ever!
It was an incredibly beautiful morning, made even moreso by the underwear model that was part of our group. One thing I'll say for Sydney: I'VE NEVER SEEN HOTTER PEOPLE EVER.
I drool over man and woman alike here, and Bondi Beach is the perfect place to do it. From the moment I arrived in Sydney, I've been blown away by the general pretty of the majority of people here- but at Bondi? It's just stupid. Tan skin, beautiful athletic bodies, perfectly tousled commercial hair, and everyone I've spoken to is either kind, funny or usually both. And cares what you have to say. (LA take notes, please.)
I almost threw up twice during our work-out with the stunties, but I got to box which made up for the ass kicking they gave me. Like a nerd, I brought my own gloves. Boxing in the sand is effing hard and effing fantastic. After our work-out Stella and I joined the guys at their beach-front apartment for breakfast. We only said "HOLY SHIT!" 77 or 78 times. The apartment was the most incredible beach front I've ever seen. The place with big, modern, comfy, hip, etc, etc (with a spare bedroom that I IMMEDIATELY claimed. I'm shy about a lot of things but not about beachfront property. Stella and I move in next weekend.), but the kicker? The thing that make me straight up yell absolute nonsense and speak in tongues? The WALL BETWEEN THE KITCHEN AND THE DECK SLID AWAY AND DISAPPEARED MAKING IT ONE MASSIVE OPEN SPACE OF OH-MY-GOD-AWESOME...
I just passed out from excitement.
Stella and I took a ridiculous amount of pictures of ourselves and the view while the men cooked for us. I decided I don't need to live in America anymore, and that Australia will make a great new home.
(Stella's idea on the way to work out this morning: "You should have an Australian baby."
Me: "Why?"
Stella: "Because then you'd get to come back all the time to visit and you'd have a place to stay."
Me: "Nah."
I revisited Stella's idea later when I met the underwear model, another couple stunt men, and got eyeful after eyeful of rippling surfers and sunbathers-- its now not the dumbest idea I've ever heard.)
We spent the rest of the afternoon at a birthday party for one of the stunties at a beach bar, ogling more beautiful people. I know I'm going on and on, but I honestly can't help it. What I love about the beauty here is that doesn't make you feel less attractive because everyone around you looks like a model; you actually somehow feel more attractive. I'm not sure why, but maybe its because those same gorgeous bodies and faces are looking at you the same way you're looking at them: in appreciation, with interested enthusiasm, open and ready to strike up a conversation.
This place is heaven.


Fierce in love with everything about this

 

Looking out from my future kitchen...

Looking into my future kitchen



Yup. Good-bye America...





 

 

"I'm cranky!!!!"

...is what I whined to Stella this morning, prompted by absolutely nothing.
I have a beautiful relationship with sleep, better than a lot of people, I think. I can fall asleep anytime, anywhere, on a moment's notice- and I stay there as long as I need to. I'm spoiled rotten when it comes to sleep; therefore, when sleep doesn't come when I want it or I can't stay asleep, I am a whiney cranky nightmare. Which makes Stella a saint.
Saint's are patient and kind and so is Stella. If she is annoyed by me being annoying she's totally good at covering it up. Used to dealing with small children and babies, Stella handles me perfectly.
"I'm SO tired," I whine.
"Take a nap in my bed, its super comfy!" she answers.
"I don't wannaaa, " I whine.
"Let's work out!" she geniuses. We do.
"I'm COLD." I pout.
"If you put your towel in the dryer while you're in the shower, its super warm by the time you get out!" she enthuses.
"Oooooo!!!" I finally come around.
If you have the means, send her presents. She deserves them.
I discovered this morning that Australians are pragmatic monsters. Beautiful, lovely, generous souls with wonderful senses of humor, but also pragmatic monsters and this is how I discovered it:
I was running on the treadmill in the gym watching some reality TV crime show, a la Cops, without the sound. I'm half paying attention, until I see a beautiful dog in the middle of the highway.
Now, my run should be ending soon, but I keep going because I'm waiting for the happy ending. I'm American. I need a happy ending. I keep running- even as the cop picks up the rag doll body of this poor gorgeous animal. I keep running- even as I watch all the witnesses, one of whom has to be the owner, give pleasent silent testimonials. I wait for crying- nothing. In fact, most of the people are half smiling? The presumed owner shows off a tattoo of her dog on her forearm without looking the least bit upset. I run harder, getting pissed that no one is crying over this dead-looking dog, that I know can't really be dead because WHO PUTS THAT ON TV?
I'm still running- and hyperventilating now because I'm crying as I watch to the bitter end of the segment which DOES NOT INCLUDE ANYTHING RESEMBLING A HAPPY ENDING. Rather, the segment ends on a shot of the dead dog in a ditch and the cop shaking his head, because he actually has a heart and remorse unlike all his witnesses, the people who filmed and edited the segment, and the channel who aired the show.
I'm all for not coddling the children and telling them straight up what's what, but come on.
Okay, off to put my towel in the dryer and actually see some of Sydney for real so you guys don't have to keep reading about my impressions of the inside of Stella's hotel.