Both Hands

Sushi is good for you. And good for cuts.

My friend Adriane gave me sushi bandaids recently.

We have a sushi theme, as we always made sure we ate sushi together when we hung out.

I gave her these sushi candles last year:

I'm debating between the sushi clock and the sushi candy for my next gift.

Oscars 2005

Watched the Oscars last night. Wasn't too impressed. "Disappointing" was really the word that came to mind. Observations:

-Chris Rock was OK. Why did he get a standing ovation when he walked out on stage? He echoed my thoughts when he yelled, "Sit your asses down!" at the audience.

-Bad hair. Good dress.

-Why is Usher, whenver I see him, wearing a giraffe on his arm?

-Ew. Too skinny, too much dark hair.

-The songs all blew. And as much as Frinklin loves The Counting Crows, what the hell has happened to Adams Duritz's head? Aside from the giant spiky mushroom, why does he only put on weight in his face? No. More. Beyonce. Please. No more. Especially in duets with Josh Groban.

-Bad hair.

-Bad hair II.

-Sean Penn needs to deflate his head. A lot. If he spontateously combusted tomorrow I would not shed a tear. I'm tired of hearing him speak.

-Clint Eastwood has class.

-Hilary Swank does not. But she's young. And shows good judgement when choosing roles, except for that whole "The Next Karate Kid" thing. Annette Benning does not deserve to lose to you twice. And Chad Lowe is creepy.

-Love the dark hair with the dark dress.

-Robbed.

-Kate Winslett, I love you. Anyone who plays a "bookslave" wins my heart immediately.

-Jeremy Irons actually is funny.

-Cate Blanchett, sweet, a little funny, and so great. Well done.

-Getting your Oscar off-stage sucks. If you win, you get to walk the stage. That's the rule.

-Along those same lines, put the people in their seats. Don't stand a bunch of random white guys on stage pushing and shoving. Give them a chair for God's sake!

-Dustin Hoffman, you're better than that. Stop it. I'm watching the Oscars, not some shitty Ben Stiller movie.

Tornado Watch

Right now! In San Diego!

If I wanted this kinda shit I would live in Oklahoma.

Dear Washington State,

You can have your rain back.

We're so done with it.

Ensie

The Crown confirms It's Me

Wearing my ill-timed shirt

Create your own at the Southpark Studio.

It's a toy shop. Y'know? For toys.

While breakfasting this morning I wore my "Toys in Babeland-Seattle" shirt that I had purchased while visiting Seattle over the holidays. Most people have no idea what the shirt means, they assume it's a band or a perfectly average sort of store. I don't correct their assumptions. If someone is in the know I usually get a wink and a smirk. This system has worked perfectly well for me thus far.

Until today.

At lunch with my soon-to-be-remarried in-laws, Frinklin's dad looked at my shirt and said, "So, you went to 'Toys in Babeland' while in Seattle, huh?"

"I did." I said, beginning to turn beet red and Frinklin began to gasp for air.

"So, what did you think? Did you know what it was?" asked my father-in-law.

"Oh yes. I knew it was there. We sought it out."

Frinklin's dad laughed and smiled that knowing smile. I thought we were home-free until my Frinklin's mom demanded to know what we were laughing at.

Frinklin's dad tried to explain, "It's a toy shop. Y'know? For toys." Thank God she picked up on the emphasis and figured it out before any further explaination was needed, although Frinklin's dad wasn't about to let me off that easy.

"Those ladies there run a fine shop. It's very tasteful."

My prayers were answered a moment later when the waiter appeared to take our order. The subject turned to omletts and my face returned to it's normal color.

I kept wondering later which was weirder, the fact that he called me on my shirt, or the fact that he knew all about it and had obviously been there? Frinklin told me sweetly to please never, ever mention the conversation again, and to never, ever wear the shirt around his parents again.

My life, the sitcom

I spent the weekend in San Clemente with Frinklin, as his mother was moving back to the Seattle area after living in Southern California for several years. On hand to assit with the move was Frinklin's dad, divorced from Frinklin's mom for many years. We helped the movers by sitting on the furniture they were trying to drag down a flight of stairs and by sleeping in while the in-laws dragged our vaccuum cleaner around the empty apartment. In all, a relatively normal, no frills sort of moving experience.

Except for one thing.

Five minutes after our arrival on Saturday morning, Frinklin's mother showed us a flashy diamond on her left ring finger. Frinklin and I looked at the ring, and then at eachother. My mother-in-law momentarily left the room to answer a phone call.

"Is that an engagement ring?" I whispered quickly.

"I don't know!" whispered back Frinklin.

Moments later, we were informed that after 17 years of marriage and 18 years of divorce, Frinklin's mother and father will be remarried this August on what would have been their 35th wedding anniversary.

I spend the weekend trying to help Frinklin cope with seeing something he gave up on at age 15--his parents back together. About every 2 hours he would turn to me and exclaim, "My parents are getting married again!" and then, "To eachother!"

She's Here, She's Queer.

Next time a character comes out, can we please avoid the Homer making out with Homer scene? Thanks.

PS--In the following episode, All's Fair in Oven War, I find myself jealous of a cartoon kitchen.

A cartoon kitchen.

Behold!

My Valentine's Day gift:

Because I'm nerdy like that. And now I can copy, scan, print, and fax all in one!

Wheeee! The power...I can feel it coursing through me!

Apparently moving is going to cost a lot more than just the price of a house

I found out this weekend that renting a 24' U-Haul to drive from Southern California to Seattle with the car tow cost $5,300!!

Five-three-zero-zero.

Dollars.

Everyone is moving out of California and this has created a shortage of moving vehicles in California.

Not that I have any idea when we might be moving because I'm STILL waiting to hear back about my third interview.

Being a Grown Up Totally Sucks

Great. Now I'm all weepy after reading this post and commenting. This is one of those awful realities that I try not to think about.

The Stress of Not Knowing

This past two weeks has been a lesson in patience for me. Every time I feel as though I've got some sort of idea of what the next 6 months will hold for the husband and I, something new comes along and tosses that plan out the window.

We had finally settled on waiting for 6 months to a year to move to Tacoma. Then a possible job opportunity appeared for me, so I applied. I’ve had two interviews and am waiting to schedule the third. I've been waiting two weeks. I've inquired with the Human Resources Department about the delay and was told that interviewing is taking longer than expected and that I will be notified of my status ASAP.

Two weeks and no idea where I stand.

We're getting pressure from our families to shit or get off the pot when it comes to making moving plans. Since we're relying on their assistance to purchase a house I can't tell my Dad to leave me alone. There is no easy way to say, "Butt out and give me $15,000!" It just doesn't come across well.

This week Frinklin and I argued over spaghetti. A good half hour fight that is too stupid to repeat here. There were tears and yelling and dogs freaking out that their parents might separate over having spaghetti for dinner or not. We’re still together, and the spaghetti issue was resolved, but I can’t take much more of this.

10,000!

10,000 hits last night. I have no idea who referred that special hit, it's listed as "unknown" on SiteMeter. Oh well. 10,000 hits! Yay!

Happy Birthday to You!

Happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday dear Violet!
Happy birthday to youuuuuu!!!

Breakfast in Bed

When barking doesn't work, The Jeffery grabs his bowl and heads to his bed, pretending to be the best dog ever.

"Look," he says, "I'm so well behaved. I'm just sitting here in my crate, waiting patiently for you to feed me. Can't you see I'm starving?" What an act.

Driving Home from the OC

San Clemente Island view from Interstate 5 at the rest stop near Camp Pendleton, just north of Oceanside.

This is the same island that you can see 5 minutes from my house (which is 45 minutes from the beach). San Clemente Island is 68 miles off the coast of San Diego.

I WANT TO PARTY NAKED!

A true life adventure from a friend of mine:

Once upon a time Bob and his partner, Chris, had a wonderful home in the hills of San Diego. Bob was a classically trained pianist, and Chris was a nudist. Chris enjoyed entertaining his naked friends in their home in the nude, while Bob played piano fully clothed.

One afternoon during a naked party the phone rang. Bob answered and was greeted by a California Relay Operator (for the deaf). Relay operators are not allowed to involve themselves in any way in their phone conversation, and must relay (hence the name) the information from one party to the other with no editing.

Bob accepted the call and was greeted with the following, "I need a ride to the party. I am deaf and in a wheelchair and I need a ride." Bob tried to explain that there was no one available to drive the deaf, wheelchair bound person to the naked party.

The operatorator suddenly interupted and began screaming, "I WANT TO PARTY NAKED! I WANT TO PARTY NAKED! I WANT TO PARTY NAKED!"

Unfortunately, this only freaked Bob out, and they never met the deaf parapalegic who wanted to party naked.

100%, honest to God, true.

Please, make it stop

After the worst halftime show ever (and that is seriously saying something), Ashlee Simpson must be stopped.

Join me.

My new favorite

How genius! An area within a site dedicated to finding out what the hell the name of that damn song is. Y'know-- that one that catches your ear while playing during any movie trailer.

Click here to check it out, or to post if you have some mystery song stuck in your brain.

This could have made my life a lot easier when I was searching out The Blower's Daughter.

Last night I finally found what I was currently looking for; Franz Ferdinand's 40 ft.