Waiting for My Real Life to Begin

The life and times of a girl named Swishy.

Monday, July 31, 2006

Swishy's a freaking insomniac

Seriously. And as someone who loves her sleep, it's pissing me OFF!

I'm a big-time night owl. I'm usually up until 1 most nights. All of last week, though, I just could not get to sleep, so I was up until at least 2.

So of course by the time the weekend hit, I was dying. DY-ING. Sooo tired. I came home last night from work and usually it takes me a little bit to unwind, but I was passed out on the couch by 12:30 (like, a half hour after I got home). I do that sometimes when I don't have to work the next morning, fall asleep on the couch, and I always wake up a few hours later, stumble into bed and go back to sleep.

So at 5:13, I wake up. I get some water, I go into bed, I curl up with the pillows and ... nothing. NOTHING! I CANNOT FREAKING GET BACK TO SLEEP! And it's now 6:36. I realize that many people are starting their days at 6:36 a.m., but I am NOT one of those people! It's like I am biologically incapable of sleeping more than five hours anymore.

It's so annoying.

So I'm watching VH1. The great thing about watching VH1 between, oh, about 2 and 8 a.m. is that they actually play videos. The bad thing is that they think no one on the planet is actually WATCHING, so they play the same videos over and over. In the space of an hour, I've seen the new Five for Fighting video twice. Christina Aguilera just came on for the second time. And I saw Justin Timberlake's new video twice, but technically I cheated--I switched over to MTV during commercial.

Speaking of Justin: No, you are NOT bringing the sexy back, Justin. The sexy did not take a hiatus while you were busy recording your new album. Good video. Bad song. This is no "Cry Me a River." I'll listen to that whiny Nick Lachey song in the car before I listen to this song.

The Fray's on for the second time now. I like this song a lot--"Over My Head"--but I like "How to Save a Life" better, I think. They played it on Grey's Anatomy. And I think we all know how I feel about Grey's Anatomy.

Rihanna. Well, at least we have a new video. Did you know that SOS means someone help me? That's what she's telling me. I have no strong feelings one way or the other on Rihanna. She's catering to a demographic wayyyy younger than me. Basically, she's a cheap Beyonce knockoff.

Ooooohh, goody! Snow Patrol! This is the song that played during the last scene of the Grey's Anatomy finale and the one they use in all the promos at the end of the repeat episodes. The part where McDreamy's all, "Meredith?" and Finn's all, "Meredith?" and she looks all glassy-eyed at both of them. I read last night that McDreamy and Meredith might get back together by the third episode of the new season. I don't really believe it. They might have sex again by then, though. Hopefully in a bed this time.

No, no, no. It's Jewel. I can't do Jewel and her messed-up teeth and her nasally voice. This looks like the gayest video ever, too. (And yes, I can say that. Details magazine--the gayest "straight" magazine ever--says I can say something is gay if it really is gay. Like, "That pink polo shirt is sooo gay." So this video? This video is gay.)

But yeah. Jewel? Jewel I can't do.

I'm going back to sleep. Maybe.

The battle lines have been drawn

So, we recently got new TVs at work. Two flat-screens, one of which is, like, RIGHT NEXT to my desk.

Now, no one worships at the altar of the cathode ray tube like I do, but I HATE having the TV next to my desk. I'm never the one who turns it on, and if someone turns it up I promptly hit mute as soon as they walk away. Because what happens is, these random people walk over, sort of lean on my desk, look up at the TV and start talking to me to justify their presence. I am a friendly girl. I really am. Once, twice, three times, I can handle. But when we're hitting the double-digit mark, I want to pull that flat-screen off the wall and bash someone over the head with it.

Anyway, I work normal hours most of the week, but I do have to work Sunday nights. Tonight suckity sucked. I was doing something very monotonous, and I kept giving the guy next to me updates: "Dude, it's only 7 o'clock." "Oh, my gosh, I'm going to die, I can't believe it's only 8:12." After about the 869th update, I'm like, "I'm totally going to put on Grey's Anatomy when it comes on." I'm kidding, but he's like, "You should!" (There was an Angels-Red Sox game on at the time ... did I mention the TV's ALWAYS on ESPN?) I was like, "People will freak out if I turn it. Seriously." But the other TV had the game on, plus he and I, really, are the only ones next to the TV who can see it THAT well, so he's like, "Do it, do it, do it." (To shut me up for an hour, I'm sure.)

So I did. And not 0.3 seconds later, this guy (OK, we'll call him "Guy") darts over.

"What are you watching?"
Me: "What does it look like?"
"I don't know."
Me: "Guess."
"Medical ... medical ..."
Me: "It's Grey's Anatomy, Guy. And you're NOT turning it!"
(I should interject here to say the volume was down on the TV and I WAS busy working. It was more the principle of having something on the screen other than the baseball players who had been on it for the previous six hours.)
"I was watching the game, you know."
Me: "Guy, you can't even SEE the TV from where you sit! You have to WALK over here to see it."
"I can kinda see it."
Me: "No, you can't."
"Yes, I can."
Me: "You cannot. Besides, I have ownership of the TV, since I'm closest."
(Indignant) "You do not!"
Me: "Do too. Besides, it's only for the next 43 minutes, and then you can put on whatever you want."

(I'm so bratty, right?)

So Guy walks away, muttering.

I turn back to my monotonous work like the good little worker bee that I am when I sense ... something. I snap my head up and Guy has freaking CHANGED the CHANNEL! He went to the other TV (which, by the way, is, like, 10 feet away anyway), took the remote, snuck around the corner and CHANGED the CHANNEL.

Me: "GUY!"
Guy throws the remote on the bookshelf and runs away.
Me, calling after him: "I'm turning it back, you know!"

It was SO on. For the next half-hour, he kept sneaking around the corner trying to hijack the remote, and I kept snapping my head up in time to catch him. I'd be like, "If you NEED stuff to do, I'd be more than happy to share!!" and then he'd dart away.

It was so worth it, though. Because I got to look up and periodically see stuff like this:

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Kill some time with me, won't you?

I get an email every day from Daily Candy, and I also frequently check out Pop Candy on USAToday.com, and in the past week or so BOTH have featured the website MyHeritage.com. You can upload a picture of yourself to this site. Then they scan your photo using some sort of fancy face recognition software and give you a list of celebrities you most look like! It takes, like, two seconds and it is WAY addictive and WAY fun.

So first, of course, I did myself, and the three celebrities I most look like are: Rita Hayworth (72 percent), Reese Witherspoon (70 percent) and Alicia Silverstone (70 percent). I don't know what to make of Rita Hayworth, as she is DEAD (hopefully I resemble the 50-years-ago version), but Reese? Reese makes me happy, even if really, it's a leap. (The Alicia and Rita pics? Will. Not. Post. I tried. Like 100 times.)

(Um, yeah, kids--Swishy's blonde. Poof. There goes all the mystery.)

Then I did my BFF Manic Mom, and she looks like Sigourney Weaver, Hilary Swank, Melissa Gilbert and Joss Stone (all in the 66 percent range). And THEN I did my friend Allee (who I'd link to, but I can't quite yet ... but I will soon!) and SHE looks like Kirsten Dunst, Leslie Caron (WTF?) and Carrie Fisher.

You have no idea how fun this is, no matter how completely unscientific it may be.

Speaking of my BFF Manic Mom, she got her buzz on last night and IMed me after she posted her blog. It was CLASSIC. One day, she and I are going to live blog and it will be the funniest thing ever. I just thought of it right this very second. I'm not entirely sure what that means, I may be making it up, but we're doing it. So get ready! Get VERY ready!

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Float like a butterfly ...

I don't walk. I glide. I don't run. I coast. I don't jump. I soar. I move with the grace of a ballerina.

If that ballerina has cement blocks for feet.

OK, seriously. This is getting pathetic. There's a set of stairs that leads to the parking lot where I live. There's a light out there, but there's a shadow over the last step so it's REALLY hard to see at night. The very first night I moved in, I was coming down the stairs, missed the last step and completely bit it. (I was in a royal huff at the time, and not alone--let me tell you, it's kind of hard to throw a temper tantrum when you're doing a somersault down the steps.)

But other than my pride, no major injuries. So, OK, good to know. Keep an eye out for the last step. Which worked for, oh, a week. And then I tripped again.

Tonight, I was walking down the stairs and literally, LITERALLY, made a mental note: DO NOT FORGET ABOUT THE LAST STEP. Not 1.2 seconds later, I was sprawled across the sidewalk. Do I use my cat-like reflexes to catch myself before I fall flat on my ass? Do I use, oh, I don't know, the RAILING for balance? Of course not. Instead, I walk around like a sorority girl after her 10th shot of tequila.

Look at this! You would not think it would be so hard to walk down these stairs. I swear that last step moves. Seriously. It must.

Monday, July 24, 2006

I'm too sexy for this post

So I wrote this long-ass post this morning that was quite entertaining and thought-provoking if I do say so myself, and then, just as I literally was pushing the "publish" button--BOOM. Computer switches off. Apparently I was SO immersed in said post that I'd run out of battery juice and, instead of hibernating like it's SUPPOSED to, the damn thing shut off and then rebooted.

OK, so maybe it wasn't THAT entertaining and thought-provoking. But it was a little! And now it's gone!


Oh, well. I'll recreate it. Someday. Just not now.

Anyway, on to new things. I've mentioned before that I'm a magazine whore--I read them all. And I save way more of them than I should admit. I tossed a bunch when I moved, but when I started getting to the point in the move where things needed to just get OUT instead of being examined and neatly recycled, I dumped a bunch of the mags into boxes and decided to deal with them later.

Which is a long-winded way of saying that I'm finding some pretty funny stuff as I reach the end of the unpacking. Like a People magazine from February 2003. Bennifer Part I was in full swing, a childless Britney Spears had just had a little fling with Colin Farrell, and Mandy Moore was still dating Andy Roddick. Like my own little time capsule!

I also flipped through an October 2005 issue of In Style and found a photo feature of celebrities sharing their definitions of beauty. Of course, you had your "Oh, beauty comes from the inside and not from the $90 eye cream currently slathered on my face" platitudes, and some inane "it inspires a childlike amazement in people" quote from Scarlett Johanssen, but there were a couple of genuinely good ones. My favorite was Renee Zellweger's, which said, in part: "The most memorable, beautiful women I have encountered embrace themselves and seek out and celebrate what is beautiful in others."

I can get on board with that. So what's your definition of beauty? When do you feel the most beautiful?

Me? When I'm listening to music and dancing (badly!) around my bedroom in my towel in the morning (I swear, it's the only thing that wakes me up). When I'm around people I love. And occasionally after I work out. There's an excellent chance, upwards of 90 percent, that I look like hell after a workout. But sometimes I slide in the car and look up into the rearview mirror and my eyes are bright and my cheeks are flushed and I think, "Damn, Swishy, you look cute!"

And no matter what, no matter how crappy you might look or feel otherwise, everyone looks great when they smile. So come on, smile. Therrrrre. Now, don't you look cute!

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Oh, to be a teenager again

Girl who works in the coffee shop I go to, to her coworker:

"My dad just called me and we seriously got into the biggest fight ever. He was like, 'Since when are you dating Adam?' And I was like, 'Whatever, you knew I was dating Adam ... plus, it's, like, MY business.' And then he was all, 'Blah, blah, blah ... if you're such an adult, why don't you move out on your own?' And I was like, 'Seriously? SERIOUSLY?' I feel like I'm having a dream when I talk to him, because those conversations can't possibly be real. They're so totally ridiculous."

Saturday, July 22, 2006

The breakdown of civilization

The past couple of days have been weird. We had a huge power outage where I live, which happened to coincide with a run of 100 zillion-degree days. I was very, very lucky--my cable went out for a while, but that's it--but few of my friends STILL don't have power, after almost four days. (Which makes me shut up REALLY quick when I bitch about the travesty of having to look at static on my TV, in my nice, 70-degree apartment, for 23 hours.)

Anyway, the whole thing has put approximately 2,347,986 people in the FOULEST mood EVER at the SAME TIME. Seriously, you want to see someone snap, get them all hot and sweaty and then take away their ability to take a decent shower and use a blow dryer. Best social experiment ever. I went to Target the other night (ITS power was out, too--they were using generators to run the registers) and I seriously thought people were going to start pulling out guns and firing at will if someone so much as breathed on them, let alone tried to fight them for the last 12-pack of bottled water.

Whenever I'm dating someone, one of my rules is that only one of us is allowed to be cranky at a time, so the other one can be the patient, rational, coddling presence who diffuses the other person's attempts at picking a fight. I've come to realize that is a VERY GOOD RULE. The past couple of days, EVERYONE has been cranky. I didn't start out that way, but I mean, you try being the happy little cruise ship director when everyone around you wants to slit someone's throat. It wears you down! By last night, I was like, "So where do you find bomb-building instructions again? Because I'm going to build a bomb. A big one. And then I'm going to blow something up. Just to make me feel better."

(Or eat copious amounts of chocolate-covered Oreos. Which I did instead. But bomb-building was next!)

Like I have anything to complain about. Well, I do a little, but so does everyone else. At least I have electricity and Project Runway reruns, right?

Thursday, July 20, 2006

'The nightmare of my life'

Reason No. 389 I love Project Runway: A 49-year-old man can say the above sentence without one shred of irony after spending a day and a half working with a difficult partner on a design. He couldn't be more serious if he were staring down the barrel of a gun. When he says working with this woman was the nightmare of his life, you better believe he means it to the very core of his being.

I mean, really. It doesn't get any better than that.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Pedicures and perverts

So I worked tonight until, oh, 7:30, giving me exactly an hour to run to Office Max and Target, get home and scarf down my leftover Subway before I had to be at the gym. I was sooo tired, and sooo tempted to skip, but I couldn't, because I'm on this new workout plan that requires me to, like, work out. It's a sucky plan.

So I get myself to Office Max, I start to pull into a spot, and then I say ... screw it! I'm getting a pedicure instead! YEAH!!!

I haul my calloused little feet across the shopping plaza to the nail place I go to sometimes. A nail place which, by the way, technically closes at 8. Which is in approximately 20 minutes.

That, my friends, is the beauty of this nail place. The girl who works at night totally keeps it open late for me! It always goes the same way: I burst in, all flushed and wild-eyed, 20 or 30 minutes before they close. She asks me what I'm there for, I say a pedicure ... "but I can seriously come back tomorrow if there's not time! Really!" And she gives me a little "pshaw" and says, "It's no problem. Pick out a color."

And then? The best part of all? I always try to leave with wet nails so they can close on time, and she always makes me stay until they're dry. And then she sits down and watches TV with me so I don't feel bad. One time we watched the Stanley Cup playoffs, which I don't think either of us cared about, but we watched anyway. Another time we watched American Idol. But the best time, the absolute best time, was when we watched one of those Dateline: To Catch a Predator things. If there's anything more awkward than watching some skeezy guy say dirty things to a 14-year-old, it's watching a skeezy guy say dirty things to a 14-year-old while sitting next to someone you don't know. It's like, you kinda want to laugh at the guy, especially when they throw his ass to the ground and he starts to pee his pants at the prospect of sharing a cell with a 400-pound dude named Chuck, but is that inappropriate? Tacky? Insensitive?

I digress. Anyway, my feet were tired and sore and generally nasty, so I totally blew off my errands to get a pedicure, thereby making me an empowered (albeit minorly irresponsible) woman. But I'm a Pisces, and we NEED our feet to feel good. I'm serious. No one believes me when I say this, but Google "Pisces" and "feet." JUST DO IT! You'll see. I am not, like, WAY into astrology. I read my horoscope and believe it when it tells me I'm hot that day and don't believe it when it tells me I'm going to have a crappy day and that's about it. But this? This I buy into. Supposedly every sign has a corresponding body part, and mine is feet. Which means they need to be FREE (I wear flip-flops until, like, November) and FEEL-GOODY. (Need more proof? My friend is proud to be a champion pooper. When he doesn't poop, it throws him off. What's his body part? The INTESTINES! See? Told you.)

Yes, I could have a new bill sorter right now. But I have happy feet instead, which makes for a much happier Swishy. (AND I made my workout!)

* OK, seriously: If this ends up on some foot fetish site, I will totally freak out. Not that I would ever know. Not that my feet are necessarily fetish-worthy in the first place. But IF!

Monday, July 17, 2006


So, I'm hanging out at my favorite coffee shop, doing a little emailing, a little people-watching and a little revision procrastinating. I take a swig of Dr Pepper, look around, and--OH MY GOSH, THAT GUY TOTALLY LOOKS LIKE ALEX KAREV!

You know. Alex. From Grey's Anatomy. Now, I KNOW this isn't really Alex Karev, but seriously? He looks JUST LIKE HIM.

I just happen to carry my digital camera with me almost everywhere. Because you never know when you might see a guy who looks like Alex Karev! So I decide to take a picture of him, just to prove it.

Only problem? He's sitting behind me. And the coffee shop isn't exactly crowded. So I have to be creative. I flip the camera around, hold it sorta over my shoulder, positioned at a level I think might work, and press the button.

Oops. Too high. I try again.

Ummm ... yeah. I'm the worst fake celebrity stalker EVER! And that second career as a private investigator? Over before it started. I decide to give it one last try.

Oh, baby, I am SO money! It's not the greatest picture ever, but you can tell, right? Right???

OK, so you can't. But I tried!

I keep turning around and staring at him. He is getting SO freaked out.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

The day the Swishy (almost) died

One of the perks of the new place is my halfway-decently sized balcony. Unfortunately, about 1.3 seconds after I moved in, I realized said perk also came along with a nest full of lots of little bees.

For two weeks, the bees and I managed to coexist. I'd throw some empty boxes onto the balcony and shut the door before they could fly inside. But I want to USE my balcony! For something more than box storage! And since I'm the one who pays the rent, I win.

So I began to form my plan of attack. Someone told me to spray the bees and run. Someone else told me to knock down the nest and (you guessed it) run. No one wanted anything else to do with it.

Yesterday afternoon, I decided to get brave.

Cue scene.

I grab my mop handle, open the sliding glass door and commence a 10-minute two-steps-forward, two-steps-back dance that culminates in me deciding that I am MUCH too much of a wuss to knock the nest down with the mop handle. It is a hot day, and the bees look PISSED about it. They are SWARMING. (Oh, and did I mention that I'm allergic to bee stings? Yeah. I'm allergic to bee stings.)

I move on to Plan B, which involves me rummaging around my apartment for something heavy enough (but unbreakable) to throw. I settle on a Downy ball. Approximately 18 heaves later, my downstairs neighbor begins investigating the thumping and rattling coming from above. (FYI: A bouncing Downy ball is a LOUD THING.) I switch to Plan B 1/2, a lotion bottle. It only takes two or three tosses for me to realize it ain't gonna happen.

I dart out to recover my weapons of bee destruction and that's when I see it: ANOTHER bees' nest in the opposite corner! There are two! These bees are totally mocking me! If I give in now, how long before they're hanging out on the couch and stealing the remote? I was going to give up, but now I can't. I won't.

I retrieve the mop handle and hover by the door. I'm going for the second nest first--it's just a few steps away. I take a step forward, then back, forward, then back. My neighbor across the courtyard has come out on his balcony and has become mesmerized by the scene unfolding before him. He doesn't know what, exactly, is going on, but he knows it involves a deranged girl waving around a metal mop handle. Ha ha, very funny. Wait until the deranged girl's slumped over, grotesquely swollen, gasping for her last breath. That'll be HILARIOUS!

In a burst of self-pride, I poke the nest and throw myself inside. It's a direct hit! The nest is going down! Victory is mine! Whooooooooo!

I can't handle anymore right now. I put away the mop handle and get myself a reward cookie.

Fast-forward nine hours. It's 2:30 a.m. I've just gotten home and I decide to check on the other nest. All appears quiet. This could be the perfect opportunity! But it's dark, and I'm tired, and that's no way to go into battle. I go to bed.

Many hours later, I roll out of bed with renewed conviction. Those bitches are MINE! I don't get dressed. I don't brush my teeth. Instead, I head straight for the mop handle. I slide open the door and, ohhhh boy, there's just one single little bee minding the nest. I can handle one bee, right? RIGHT? I tell myself yes, and before I can change my mind, I lunge out, jab the nest and stumble back inside, screaming the whole time (something like: "Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!")

The bee zips around, but it's too late. The nest is DOWN! I feel a tiny bit bad for it (all the other bees will be like, "We leave you alone for FIVE MINUTES to watch the place, and THIS is what happens?"), but I'm more euphoric than anything. Who's your queen bee NOW?!?!?

Next: world domination.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Just another day at the office

This week, I helped to coordinate a little morale-boosting "treat week" in our office. Today was baked goods day (following popsicle day, breakfast day and munchie day). My co-coordinator sent out an email giving everyone a heads up about what time to pile in the lunch room for brownies and cookies and cake. She finished with this:

"There's a whole lot of sugary goodness to be had, so make sure you eat something decent for lunch. Nobody wants to break out puke sprinkles to close out Treat Week."

HA! You remember those, right? The sawdust-y stuff they used to sprinkle when someone barfed in elementary school? Every few months, someone brings up the puke sprinkles, which leads to a solid hour of vomit stories. And yet we still need treats to boost morale. Go figure.


I'm at lunch with a couple guys, and one asks about the Counting Crows concert: "Did they play Mr. Jones?"
Me: No! I was kind of surprised.
"You know that song's about his penis, right?"
Me, eyes wide in horror: NUH-UH!
Me: Seriously? (I think about it.) Mr. Jones and me, tell each other fairy tales ...
"Stare at the beautiful women ..."
Me: She's looking at you--no, she's got to be looking at me. ... Wow. I mean, MAYBE.

We go back to the office and do a little Internet research. This link debunks the theory, but I can guarantee I will never listen to that song again without at least considering the possibility.


Overheard in the lunch room during the grand finale of treat week: "Has anyone seen the fake poop? I want to put it on the soap dispenser in the bathroom."


I work with a guy (let's call him ... Guy) who likes to stand around and say nonsensical things. There's a TV by my desk, and he came over to watch for a minute.

Guy: That guy's butt is big.
Me: Do you like big butts?
Guy looks at me quizzically.
Me: And you cannot lie?
(A couple snickers over the cubicle wall.)
Guy: I like some butts.
Me: Let me ask you this: When a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing, and it's in your face, do you get sprung?
Guy: OK, what are you talking about?
Me: GUY! Come on. You know that song.
Guy: What song?
Me: Baby Got Back! Sir Mix-A-Lot! Come ON!
Guy: Nope. Never heard it.
Me: And you call yourself an American.

That Sexity Show

What do you get when you put Ashton Kutcher

in a room with Manic Mom?

This is what you get.

Listen. I stayed in a hotel room for two days with Manic Mom. She is WAY hotter than Demi Moore. Trust me!

And no, I have not fooled around with my big brother Ashton. That would be GROSS. Unless by fooling around you mean ...

Just kidding, just kidding. Now, go read this!


A random sampling of the deep thoughts in Swishy's brain:

* Why is it that whenever I look cute, NO ONE IS AROUND TO SEE IT? I couldn't haul my ass out of bed this morning, and as a result spent the subsequent 14 hours looking like total crap. But then I get home, I wash my face, I twist up my hair, I throw on a white tank top and, I swear, it's the best I've looked all week. Which perhaps is not saying much. But seriously, that happens to me all the time--I finally have a good couple of hair hours, and the only person who sees it is the cashier at Target.

* So I'm flipping channels, and American Pie is on FX. This is notable because Katie Holmes' former fiance is in this movie, and I JUST READ a story about Katie and Tom's invisible baby. It's like an odd little almost-full circle. I grew up loving Tom Cruise, just LOVING him, and I still think I'd lock myself in a closet with him if I had the chance. But I'm also firmly in the camp that thinks the baby a) is the result of sperm donated by Tom's lover (I won't say GAY lover because I don't want to be sued!) or b) doesn't exist.

* I finally got the latest issues of People, Entertainment Weekly and Glamour forwarded in the mail. I swear, it was the first time I TRULY FELT AT HOME in the new place. I was like, "Ahhhh. Finally settled." Pathetic but true. I'm such a magazine whore.

* Oh, yeah, speaking of the new place, the shower curtain I'm so proud of:

Yes, it's a little wrinkled. Just ... trust me. It's cute.

* Flipped channels again to the World Series of Pop Culture on VH1. Neither team knew the Butterscotch Stallion is Owen Wilson! HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW THE BUTTERSCOTCH STALLION IS OWEN WILSON?

* I'm finally, finally starting revisions on the first 75 pages of the thing this weekend. (Yes, I call it "the thing.") You know what that means--lots of procrastinating-slash-blogging! Fun!

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Maybe this drink will be better than the last

A couple months ago, my very nice and endlessly patient friend Allee was driving around with me when we saw a sign for a Counting Crows/Goo Goo Dolls concert. Ten minutes later, we were at the box office buying tickets for ourselves and three of our friends, because that's just the kind of crazy, spontaneous people we are.

So the other day was the concert. One of our friends got sick, so there were four of us: me, Allee, Aggie and Elaine.

Me: I wonder if the Goo Goo Dolls are going to play "Naked."
Elaine: Do they usually?
Me: I don't know. I've never seen them in concert before. I want them to, though.
Elaine: Really?
Me: Yeah. Don't you?
Elaine shrugs.

Fifteen minutes later.

Me: They're not going to do it, are they?
Elaine: What? Play "Naked"?
Me: Yeah. Oh, well. Everything else was good. I was just kind of hoping they would.

Five minutes later, set's done.

Elaine: Why did you want them to play "Naked"?
Me: I like it! It was one of their first big songs, so I figured they might.
Elaine (who, I should mention, knows more about music than absolutely anyone): Wait ... I thought you meant literally PLAY NAKED.
Me: Like, with tube socks? Like the Red Hot Chili Peppers?
Elaine: Yes! And I was like, "Is she crazy? Johnny Reznick's not even that hot."
Me (dying laughing): NO! The song! You know (start singing), "You're naked inside your fear ..."
Elaine: Ohhhhhhhh.

Five-second pause. Allee: "The Red Hot Chili Peppers really play naked?" That coincided with a sighting of a girl who wasn't wearing underwear, so you can imagine the conversation that followed. (For example, did you know that guys in the rodeo don't wear underwear? Can someone please explain that to me? Because, HELLO! What better place to try to protect what you've got? I don't get it.)

The Counting Crows played the final set, which gave our friend Adam Duritz plenty of time to get absolutely loaded before he stepped on stage. He walked out carrying a beer bottle and a very tall glass of something or other, which he sipped from liberally after every song. He was SMASHED and it was HILARIOUS. Some snippets:

"I'm only playing pretty songs tonight. Is it OK if we only do pretty songs? Because I know what you're thinking, you're thinking this is kind of a weird set list, but I really only want to sing pretty songs. So I hope that's OK."

(I'm thinking, "NICE! Pretty songs! Maybe he'll do Sullivan Street." Noooo.)

"So I think this is a really pretty song. It's a song about how we can hurt the ones we love. Because I did that. I f---d up this girl really bad. And it made me feel really horrible, and that's what this song is about--doing damage to the most fragile people on the planet ... the people who choose to love us."

Every time he would start rambling, or toss his Sideshow Bob hair through the air, I'd turn to my friends. "That, THAT, is a guy who slept with both Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox." I mean ... seriously.

A couple songs later, he launches into, oh, his 63rd discourse of the night on how important it is to vote, and to support battered women, and to use a condom so we don't get HIV, and above all, to MAKE a CONNECTION with other human beings. "I have a hard time making connections with people," he said. "That's why I write songs. That's my way of making a connection. So now, here is my connection to you."

A girl from work went to the concert, too, and she was like, "I kept thinking, 'Awww, Adam totally needs a hug.' " Adam did need a hug, bless his heart. I would have hugged him, even with that horrible hair. But he was sooo funny, and such a fantastic diversion from the two 18-year-old couples dry humping in front of us, that it was all good.

Really, it was a fun time. It was a gorgeous, gorgeous night. Adam's new BFFs Augustana opened, and they did an awesome job of singing "Boston" live. The Goo Goo Dolls were much better live than I thought they'd be--"Black Balloon" and "Iris" were the best--and the Counting Crows were fantastic. They sang almost all old songs (except, strangely, not "Mr. Jones"--it must not have been pretty enough), which made me happy.

My only regret? We passed on the free condoms they were handing out inside the entrance. I know--what was I thinking?

Monday, July 10, 2006


So I work in this corporate park. There's a stop sign going into our parking lot, and I often run this stop sign when there aren't any cars around. I also sometimes park in the visitor spot up front when I'm running late, so I don't have to do the 100-yard dash across the parking lot. I realize that these things might go against some people's moral codes, but, honestly, I'm really OK with it. (For the record, I DO move out of the visitor spot once I'm done with whatever meeting I'm late for. Most of the time.)

Anyway, so I work in this corporate park with the stop sign. I work Sunday nights along with, like, 30 other people, and generally we are the ONLY people within miles of this corporate park. I'm going to work, I approach the stop sign. There isn't a soul in sight except for some dude inexplicably jogging on the far side of the lot, so I cruise through the stop sign and park. I grab all my stuff, open the car door, and BOOM! Angry jogger man, who apparently had SPRINTED across the parking lot, all up in my grill.

Angry jogger man, leaning into my car, making a circle with his hands: DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS? THIS IS A F---ING STOP SIGN! WHEN YOU SEE A F---ING STOP SIGN, YOU F---ING STOP!
Me: mouth hanging open, like, "You've got to be kidding me."
Me: "Um ... thanks for the lesson."
Angry jogger man runs away.

It totally warms my heart that there are such concerned citizens in the world. Such concerned citizens that are TOTALLY GOING TO BLOW UP A BUILDING ANY FREAKING SECOND.

Friday, July 07, 2006

Rough week

I haven't posted in forever, and I swear I'm trying to think of something funny or clever or at least non-depressing to write about, but I got nothing. It's been a not-so-hot week. I ... I don't know. I can't really do anything right. I was going to say, well, I can at least brush my teeth right, but since I've had cavities, I guess I can't really do that right, either.

I don't even think I can talk about how sad I am right, because it sounds like I'm throwing myself a pity party when all it really is is me trying to describe why I feel sad. The point is, I feel really, really sad this week, the kind of sad where you're driving along and all of a sudden start crying at a stoplight and the guy in the car next to you looks at you like you're crazy, and I don't know how to fix things. Because the more I try, the more I screw it up.

I'm going to stop talking about it now.

So ... what else. I moved. It sucked. I still have boxes EVERYWHERE! I have just enough unpacked to move around and be able to function, but I need to get settled. It's good, though. It's, like, twice as much room as I had in the old place, with the added bonus of no crack ho neighbor! I also got a new shower curtain that I am absurdly in love with. I ran to Target, like, 10 minutes before it closed because I HAD to take a shower (I had shower doors in the old place), and I grabbed one and was like, I'll just put it in the bathroom that I never use if I hate it. But I LOVE it!

It's the little things, you know. Don't think I'm not posting a picture, too, because I totally am as soon as I unearth my little cable thing from a box.

I've also been obsessed with this song for the past two weeks: Chocolate by Snow Patrol. It's a Snow Patrol summer for Swishy. They played Snow Patrol songs in the last two episodes of the bestest show ever, Grey's Anatomy, which of course made me love them, and then I've been watching the teaser trailer for Zach Braff's new movie incessantly, and Chocolate is the song that plays over it.

As a side note, I really love Zach Braff. I think he would get me. Is that weird? I know it is. But he would.

Other random stuff so you don't leave on a total downer:

--Emmy nominations today! I'm a big awards show girl. I have been known to take vacation days to watch the Emmys. I was super happy that 24 and Grey's Anatomy were the two most-nominated shows. I can't understand how more Grey's people weren't nominated, though (like Patrick Dempsey and his LOOKS!).
--Kathy Griffin is on TV right now making her cake soup. Chocolate cake in a mixer with a pint of vanilla ice cream. It looks kinda good.
--And ... I think I'm going to bed now.