Well, Spa Day has come and gone. I’m rather ambivalent about the experience. I mean, on one hand it’s nice to sit in a darkened room listening to rainforest sounds while somebody massages warm goo into you. On the other hand, my face looks exactly the same and my new manicure is ruined already. It was nice to be the Princess for 90 minutes though.

I know that the boys all love Kylie… but – God help me – I just can’t stop listening to Sophie Ellis Bextor‘s “Murder on the Dancefloor”. I need help. It was the video that sucked me in. I saw it at the gym. Does anyone else think she looks like Shannen Doherty’s skinnier, even bitchier younger sister?

Hmmm. I feel bad about the bragging now. As a peace offering to my sister, here’s a picture that ought to make her laugh for six months straight. You see, she thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world that I have freakishly small hands. (“Carnies… circus people… small hands, smell like cabbage…”) And somehow she’s managed to convince everyone I know that it’s really funny too. So recently I bought some rubber gloves at the grocery store (to cut off the fingertips to use as makeshift quilting thimbles) and I was amused to see that there was a “sizing guide” on the back of the package. I couldn’t resist lining my palm up to see where I landed. As you can clearly see (if you look at the larger version, anyway), my hand is about a centimeter smaller than the smallest size. Har har. Happy?

Since my sister is always accusing me of bragging about my life on here, let me indulge myself. Today, you see, I will be having a “one-hour facial, mini-manicure, and back massage” at the beauty parlor around the corner where I get my eyebrows done. They sent me some card for my birthday offering me the special at half off, and I’m nothing if not thrifty. (Actually I’m not, but I never let that get in the way of a good impulse buy.) I’m wondering, though, what the hell they do to my face for an hour. I’m not sure I touch my face myself for an hour a day. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Speaking of Six Feet Under, can I just tell you how it’s my new favorite show ever? And how Peter Krause is the hottest guy in the history of the world? I’m sorry, Max; I gave Alias a fair shot but that Will guy creeps me out. (He kinda reminds me of my friend BJ.) I gave it up.

I am continually amazed by how liberal television standards are everywhere outside America. Tonight, after the Snook and I finished watching Six Feet Under, we saw a “local” ad promoting “Maxine’s All Nude, All Rude, Pussy Extravaganza.” And lest you think it’s some sort of naturist cat convention, the commercial’s visual accompaniment left little to the imagination. Of course, we still don’t know what the actual event is, but they definitely got our attention.

Sydney is apparently the fourth most desirable city to live in. That’s out of the whole world, folks. Granted, it’s the air pollution that’s keeping it down (we have to wash icky black stuff off our balcony chairs before sitting in them), but there’s a million other things that make up for it. And considering that London is way down at #41 (and falling), I definitely feel like we’ve traded up.

I haven’t been in a very bloggy mood lately. I say that knowing that I’ll probably end up posting fourteen times tonight.

They don’t call Chicago the “Windy City” for nothin’. Ouch.

Friday Five:

1. What makes you homesick?
Hearing about family get-togethers. Corn on the cob. Mountain Dew. Seeing pictures of my new brother. Re-runs of cheesy American TV shows, like “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air”. Being sick. Pictures of Chicago. Any mention of Indiana. Quite a lot, really. I’ve just gotten good at repressing.

2. Where is “home” for you?
I guess I’d just say “Indiana.” There’s no particular house; my entire family is scattered to the winds.

3. What makes it home for you? People? Things?
It’s odd. It’s not really for either of those reasons. It’s mostly just because that’s the only place I really know. Although when I am in Indiana, I always refer to my place outside it as “home”. I guess “home” is basically wherever I’m not. It’s always a state of longing.

4. Where is the furthest you’ve been from home, miles-wise?
I think I’m gonna win this contest hands-down. 9,348 miles. Beat that, any of you. (Interestingly, according to that site I’m not three times as far from home as I was when I lived in London. Wow.)

5. What are your plans for this weekend?
Basically just work on my quilt, work out at the gym, and clean up this place. Oh, and Sunday we’re having a leaving-do for my friend Carrot, who’s off on a world tour soon.