Earlier today, while trying to shelter ourselves from the rain, Claudz pointed out the brown leaves on the ground and when I said that it was crazy since autumn was still so far away, she replied "It'll be autumn in a month"

Eww. Seriously, where did summer go? To everyone who said we were having the most disgusting summer in years, I always replied with something along the lines of "Not to worry, we still have heaps of sumertime to look forward to. It'll pick up." and now trees are going bare! Well I guess I shouldn't feel that surprised when I see ads for David Jones' autumn/winter collection... I feel a little bit betrayed, though, since I kept bitching about the weather in Berlin and after being on a plane for about 17 years, I find out it's grim as shit even in Australia. And, oh the humidity! The only place I like humid is a steam-room, thank you very much. No wonder I've been celibate for three months, I'm in a permanent perspirational state (sounds lush, huh?) and all I feel like doing in bed of late is nap. Or eat, but that's pretty much whenever wherever.

Anyway, enough with the small talk about the weather, it's Sunday. As in the day after Saturday night. Usually, this would mean Why-am-I-waking-up-on-a-shower-mat Day but last night was relatively non-alcoholic for two reasons: 

a. I had a pretty hardcore headache and, paranoid as I get, I'm afraid that, if I mix Panadol and alcohol, I will die --needless to say I still didn't choose Panadol.

b. I try not to make a drunken fool of myself if the last time the guests of a party saw me was when I last made a drunken fool of myself. I'm a classy lady.

So I only had four drinks, one of which I gave to someone because it tasted like vom. That's what happens when the cheap-ass sparkly wine you bring to a party was given to you by one of your guests at your own party. Again, I'm a classy lady. I still have that post-partyum feeling because, although I quit smoking on a daily basis altogether in early January, I still suck on a ciggie (or ten...) at social events and, succumbing to peer pressure, I probz ruined my throat for the next three days. It was a really fun party, though, because people went all kinds of cray-cray. We were celebrating a friend's birthday and the theme was "wizards" --I know it sounds limited but I like a challenge-- so the first thing Claudz and I saw when we came in was our birthday boy dressed as Gandalf --which, if you take off the hat and the beard, is pretty much a Jesus costume, what with the stick and all. Believe me, it's quite funny when Gandalf tells you: "I want to read your birthday card but I'm too fucking drunk" and his girlfriend comes in and she's Dobby from Harry Potter. All I kept thinking all night was how fugly their babies would look if that were fo' real, not fo' play-play. Eww.

Claudz was dressed as Bellatrix Lestrange (who, by the by, is totes the Amy Winehouse of the Harry Potter world) and I was wearing a Sorcerer's Apprentice costume from Disney's Fantasia (and I looked like I was wearing a giant condom with stars on my head) After a while, it started raining --again with the lovely Australian weather-- so some of us headed inside and that's when it all went bananas. Dobby was passing out on the couch while Gandalf-turned-Jesus was busting a move with a giant lobster --I guess someone doesn't know what a wizard is-- and about six Harry Potters. I totes would have gone as Harry Potter too, were it not for the fact that this is pretty much a non-costume for me. All I need to do is put on my glasses and a tie. And scarve a lightning-bolt-shaped scar on my forehead. But yeah, people were pretty smashed and it was fun because, for once, I wasn't.

But for all the off-their-face-ness Australians demonstrate at social gatherings, there is one thing I really enjoy about their social skills beside the fact that, unlike Parisians, they don't solely rely on passive-aggressivity: people talk to you at parties. Not in a "let's all kiss each other fiteen hundred times on the cheek and then stay with our clique all night" kind of way (read: à la French), they actually introduce themselves and start a conversation. This time, it ranged from "How the porn industry was responsible for the fall of HDVD" to "I'm a dude and I love my J-Lo booty" (this person shall remain nameless but true dat)

Morz of the storz: Aussies literally have 1.000 Facebook friends each because they bond with one another instead of bitching about other guests in a corner. Which, I'll admit, still remains one of my ultimate party faves. I guess I'm still that French.

Love, or what you will.

L.

PS: You know Australian chicks are hot when they still look lush dressed as a dirty-pillow-case wearing elf.