Waiting for My Real Life to Begin

The life and times of a girl named Swishy.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

What's hot?

I'm too tired to pack! I'm too tired to clean! But because it's biologically impossible for me to go to bed anytime before, like, 11, I'm laying around on the couch flipping channels and mentally doing all the things I should really be physically doing. Good plan.

ANYWAY, the point is, I'm half-watching this Maxim Top 100 special on VH1. It's a rerun--I've seen bits of it before and I know the issue came out awhile back--but I'm half-watching it anyway. It's basically a special counting down the 100 hottest famous chicks in the the world.

We talk a lot about hot girls at my work, and if I've learned anything from those highly intellectual conversations, it's that men and women have VERY different ideas about what's attractive when it comes to females. For example, today we talked about this one scantily clad woman who hosts a shall-remain-nameless cable show:

Me: She's OK. She's not UGLY. But she looks a little mannish.
Work Guy: Mannish? She's not mannish. Jennifer Garner's mannish.
Me: Jennifer Garner is NOT mannish! She is totally cute.
Work Guy: Whatever. Mannish.
Me: No, you want mannish, THIS chick is mannish.
Work Guy: You don't think any girls are attractive.
Me: That is SO NOT TRUE! I say all the time when I think girls are cute.
Work Guy: Oh, yeah? Like who?
Me: I just said two seconds ago that I think Mariska Hargitay is totally beautiful.
Work Guy: A woman not in her 40s. You don't say that anyone in her 20s is hot.
Me: Uh, YEAH, I do. What about Keira Knightley?
Work Guy: Whatever.
Me: Reese Witherspoon.
Work Guy (rolls eyes)
Me: What? She's totally pretty!

Et cetera.

So I'm watching this special, and it totally makes me think of how differently I'm watching this than the guys I know would. Case in point: Jamie Lynn Sigler, who's on right now (No. 19). I see her, I see Heidi Fleiss. Guy at work sees her, he sees the most skankalicious Mafia princess ever to grace a Jersey boardwalk. I see Vanessa Minnillo (No. 15, who, by the way, I HAVE seen in person), and I think, eh, she's OK, but there's something off with her face. Guy at work: "She has a face?"

Meanwhile, Katherine Heigl? Rachel Bilson? Rachel McAdams? (Nos. 12, 14 and 17.) SO CUTE. But I guarantee my little arbiters of beauty would be utterly unimpressed.

As a matter of fact, I can't think of ANYONE that men and women generally would agree on. Angelina Jolie? Nah. Jessica Simpson? Maybe. Heidi Klum--but only post-Project Runway, because now women know she has a cute personality.

I suppose it all boils down to this: Men like women who look like they'd be hot in bed. Women like women who look like they'd be nice. Or at least fun to go shopping with.

Monday, June 26, 2006

When it's time to chaaaange ...

My last day off before the move, by the numbers:

One horrible migraine, which I basically woke up with. It forced me to the couch, with a cushion over my face, for the rest of the morning. It was exceptionally awesome timing.
One smashed glass candle lamp shade thing (which, miraculously, I managed to avoid cutting myself with. Yay!)
One severely bruised toe, thanks to a REALLY HEAVY box.
Two trips to Wal-Mart. (Don't bother telling me it's the store of Satan. I don't care. It's the easiest and fastest way to get garbage bags and rubbermaid-y plastic storage containers and Wrigley gum and issues of In Style to keep me sane, all at once.)
Three trips out to the dumpster (FULLY CLOTHED, thank you!).
Four trips out to the car to get more boxes.
Thirty-seven times I said to myself, "Since WHEN do I own THIS?"

And on it goes. Fun!

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Just call me QB for short

No, no, not quarterback. (Although I did play intramural flag football in college. Quite well, I'd like to add. But that's not the QB I'm talking about.)

Nope, QB stands for Queen Bitch, a title I wore with pride, dignity and passion this week/weekend. My friend's 30th birthday was this weekend, and I planned a surprise party for her Friday night. I was absolutely determined that it a) be fun, and b) a surprise. This was me:

"Seriously, if you let it slip, I will kill you. KILL YOU. You think I'm kidding? I'm not kidding. Or--how about this. I won't kill you. I'll torture you instead. I'll tie you in a chair and force you to listen to a rotation of Ashlee Simpson, Britney Spears, Hillary Duff and classic boy band hits. And then when you beg for mercy, I'll make you watch a marathon of that MTV show 'My Super Sweet 16.' And that's just the beginning. Seriously. Just try me."

"You're going to be WHAT? LATE? Are you TRYING to ruin the surprise? I mean, fine, you do what you gotta do, but it really sucks that you're OK with RUINING the SURPRISE since, you know, you only turn 30 ONCE. I mean, that's great. Really."

And so on. Seriously, I was totally obnoxious. But I was absolutely determined. I don't know if the party was fun--I THINK it was, although I was too busy running around making demands to know for sure--but it definitely was a surprise. So, big sigh. Mission (at least partially) accomplished. Even if people now have little voodoo dolls adorned with my face.

With the party behind me, the biggest thing on the agenda for Saturday was to pack for the big move I'm still somewhat in denial about. The alarm went off at, I don't know, 9:30 or something. SMACK. Snooze. Alarm goes off again. SMACK. Snooze. And again. And again. I knew if I got out of bed, I would have no choice but to start filling boxes, and I COULD NOT DO IT.

Finally, my bladder made the decision for me. I got up, peed and buried my face in the couch. Then when I couldn't breathe anymore, I rolled on my back and finished reading this book. And THEN, at oh, 1 or something, I started packing.

Packing makes me verrrrry, verrry cranky. Especially when it makes the palatial, normally immaculate (ha) Swishy residence look like a dumpster:

(This is where there's supposed to be a picture, but the freaking thing WON'T WORK. You'll have to just pretend.)

So, anyway, I was an entirely different kind of QB later tonight. I was an "I've spent all day--well, a couple hours anyway--packing, and I hate packing, and I don't even know if I want to move right now, and how nice for you that you actually got to enjoy the first nice day in weeks while I waded through boxes, and I'm going to be irrationally pissed off at everyone all night because crankiness loves company" kind of QB. I was verrrry sulky.

I'm so charming, am I not?

I snapped out of it eventually and got into a VERY interesting discussion with some friends, one that I'm sure I'll reiterate here at some point, but NOT now, as it is getting very late and I don't want to play QB again tomorrow because I didn't get any sleep.

So I'm going to bed now. Maybe. Or to pack another box. Maybe. Or to wrap up in my blanket and watch videos on VH1. More likely.

Friday, June 23, 2006

I think I've got your number

So, I'm at lunch with a couple of guys from work. This one guy, I'll call him Co-worker A, ends up driving a lot because he has the cleanest car. He also has great music. He's very nice, and sometimes he lets me pick out which songs we listen to.

So we're coming back from lunch and I've got the iPod in hand, scrolling through his '80s mix. I don't have anything in particular in mind, but then I see it: "Gloria," by the late, great Laura Branigan. I LOVE "Gloria." I just do, OK? So I put it on.

Co-worker A: Turn it!
Co-worker B (from the backseat): Turn it!
Me: Noooooo!
Co-worker A: Seriously! Turn it! NOW!
Me: Seriously! Let me just hear the chorus first, and then I will.
Co-worker A flips it to the radio.
Me (flipping it back): What are you DOING? Let me just hear the chorus.
Co-worker A: I'm seriously going to throw the adapter out the window.
Me: Ha ha. Just hang on a sec, will you?
Co-worker A, in a flash, grabs the adapter out of the tape deck and THROWS IT OUT THE WINDOW.
Co-worker B laughs.
Co-worker A: Finally.
Me: Are you freaking INSANE? Did you SERIOUSLY just THROW that out the WINDOW?
Co-worker A: I told you I was going to.
Me: You're crazy. You're totally crazy.
Co-worker A: Are you going to buy me a new adapter?
Me: Hey, I didn't MAKE you do ANYTHING.
Co-worker A: Yes, you did.
Co-worker B: Yes, you did.
Me (shaking head, incredulous): You're seriously crazy. I'm going to tell everyone you did that, and they're going be like, "Oh my gosh, that's CRAZY!"
Co-worker A: No, they won't. They'll be like, "What song was it?" and you'll say, "Gloria," and then they'll totally understand.
Me: Gloria hates you, you know.
Co-worker A: Well, Gloria had 24 years. It's someone else's turn.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Oh, just admit it--you care, too

I was very, very pleased with People magazine when it managed to get the Brad and Angelina baby pics (the most absolutely gorgeous pictures EVER, by the way) to my mailbox the same day they hit newsstands. Shocked and pleased. Yay, People! But that fuzzy feeling is disappearing fast. WHERE THE HELL IS MY MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELORS ISSUE?!?! It has been on newsstands for FOUR DAYS! FOUR FREAKING DAYS! Yes, Taylor Hicks is INEXPLICABLY the cover boy, but there are lots of eligible bachelors in there that NEED and DESERVE to be ogled by me! NOW!!

If I find out my crack ho neighbor stole it, I will be irate. Absolutely irate. Especially given that, in addition to being a crack ho, she is asexual and therefore has no need for hot, eligible bachelors.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

I'm baaaack

I am the biggest blogger slacker in the world. Last week was craaaaazy!

Blah blah blah. Anyway. So the wax? TOTALLY PAINFUL. My skin was raw for, like, three days. I go in, I'm mildly freaking out, literally throwing the contents of my purse everywhere looking for Manic Mom's number so she can talk me down before I go in. (I couldn't find it. Of course.) Just before I bolt, this little woman comes out: "Sweeeeeeshy? Follow me."

I was describing the experience later to my friend, and I was all, "She had an ACCENT!" And he's like, "Are you kidding me? Did you seriously just say, 'She had an accent?'" OK, but YOU GUYS know what I mean. She had an accent like she could torture people in her sleep. An accent like she could cause pain with one flick of her fingernail. An accent of a well-trained mistress of pain. THAT kind of accent.

So I follow her into the room. I'm like, "Listen, I'm kind of a baby. I'm just warning you."

Her eyes positively gleam. "OK, you big baby. Get up on the table."

I lay on my back and, once again, lock my eyes on the ceiling. One of those nature CDs is playing--LOUDLY--and it's freaking me out, so I start talking: "Has anyone ever cried in here before?"

She shoots me a death glare. "NO. Are you going to cry?"

"Uh ... no?"

"Good." End of conversation.

I survive the 10 minutes of hell, and then she gives me my final instructions: "You should be exfoliating your skin more. You should go home and exfoliate right away, and keep doing it at least twice a week."

OK, whatever. I exfoliate my face, I exfoliate my elbows and chest and feet and sometimes even my legs. I'll exfoliate if that's what will get me out of here.

So I go home and get out my little body scrub and start rubbing it in. One second. Two seconds. And then ... RED-HOT PAIN.

Lesson of the day, kids: Never, I mean EVER, should you exfoliate a half hour after having hot wax poured on and then ripped from your body. Not if you like having skin.

And yes, I know I'm a freaking idiot.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Bring on the pain

About six weeks ago, I was deflowered as a waxing virgin. There were laughs, there were tears, there were morning-after "Did I really do that?" flashbacks.

And now ... I'm going back for more.

That's right, tomorrow afternoon at 3:30, I once again will be on my back in a room filled with the sounds of deceptively soothing music, watching a virtual stranger load up her spatula with hot wax and head toward me. Only, this time, there will be no one to guide me through it. Just me, my mistress of pain and her cloth strips.

SCARY!

This is funny, though. So I call to make the appointment, right? I dial the numbers, I'm fiddling with my nails, and I hear someone pick up.

"Hi, this is a great day at Starbucks. This is Katie. How may I help you?"
Me: "Yeah, I like to make an appointment for a bi--wait, who is this?"
"This is Katie."
Me: "At ... where? Starbucks?"
"Yes, this is Starbucks. How can I help you?"
Me: "Umm ... I think I have the wrong number. Sorry!"

I totally almost asked the girl at Starbucks to give me a bikini wax. I mean, seriously. I ALMOST ASKED THE GIRL AT STARBUCKS TO GIVE ME A BIKINI WAX!

I am so not cut out for this.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

How not to win me over

Call me before 8 a.m. on a Saturday, unless you're standing outside:

a) and my house is on fire
b) ready to whisk me off to the Carribean
c) with, at the very least, breakfast and massage oils on hand.

Being an early riser and assuming everyone else is too is not a reason. Not being able to go another second without talking to me is not a reason. (Unless I feel the same way, in which case you can assume that you wouldn't HAVE to call me at obscene hours of the day to talk to me.)

I understand that for many people, 7:49 a.m. is not THAT early. I get it. I'm up (or, at least, PRACTICALLY up) by 7:49 on a weekday. Saturday, however, is not a weekday. I was out late last night. I went to bed at 3:30. The LAST thing I want is my phone ringing in my ear four hours later. Chances are, I won't hear it anyway. And if I DO hear it, chances are even better that I will pick up my phone, look at the caller ID to rule out any life-threatening emergencies, and then throw it across the room and go back to sleep.

As I did this morning.

You want to win me over? Wait until 9 on a Saturday. Or even, like, 8:03. I'd take 8:03.

Friday, June 09, 2006

Hot in herrre

It's another night at the fiery inferno also known as the Swishy residence. This pretty much says it all:



That was four degrees ago. It's THAT MUCH CLOSER to 90 now, which has necessitated another trip to the Swishy Nearly Nudist Colony. But there will be no public exhibitionism tonight. I don't think the masses can handle two nights in a row; besides which, I like to save the T-shirt, heels and trash bag look for special occasions. Do it too often and you cheapen it, you know what I'm saying?

So ... yeah. Good times. Apparently they needed to order a part for the A/C, and SUPPOSEDLY it will be fixed tomorrow. In the interim, both my garbage disposal and my kitchen light have mysteriously stopped working.

Did I mention I need to move? I need to move.

In other news, Mavs won. Yay!

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Garbage update

OK, look, I know this is really fascinating, but just listen. So, seriously, the garbage DID need to go out. I'd cleaned some stuff out of the fridge earlier and I didn't want it sitting in the heat and making my apartment all stank and smelly. So I summoned the strength to put a T-shirt on over my underwear, slid my feet into the heeled sandals I'd worn to work today (because heaven forbid I go get my flip-flops or sneakers out of the closet) and took off for the dumpster at the end of the parking lot.

OK, seriously. Picture this. I'm wearing a T-shirt, underwear and black heeled sandals that make a loud clickety-clack when I walk. That's it. But, I mean, it's 11:45 on a weeknight. Quick trip. Who's gonna be out there?

So I clickety-clack my way to the end of the parking lot, heave the bag into the dumpster (I have to stand, like, six feet away because this raccoon goes in there to snack at night and FREAKS me the HELL out, so the fact I made it in on the first try was totally awesome) and turn around to walk back to my apartment. I get about halfway and am feeling pretty good about things when ...

Yeah. You can fill in the rest. Dude totally hanging out by his car, eyeballing me the whole way.

With nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, I did what any other barely clad girl in ridiculous shoes would do: I tossed my shoulders back, pulled the shirt down and sashayed my ass inside as fast as I could.

It doesn't get any hotter than that, does it?

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

I'm melllllllting

So, good girl that I am, I got home, ate dinner, tore myself away from The Hills and went to work out. I put in almost 45 minutes on the elliptical, got all nice and sweaty and came home to my nice, cool apartment to do some crunches and maybe take a rewarding bubble bath.

Nice, huh? Except that, instead of coming home to crunches and baths, I came home to a broken air conditioner. AOL tells me it's 87 degrees outside. It's approximately 137 degrees in my apartment. I have done exactly nothing in the hour I've been home and am now sitting in my underwear in the living room trying to get some air from the ceiling fan in the kitchen (which, by the way, looks like it's going to fall off the ceiling, it's rotating so fast). I need to take out the trash, but that would require putting on clothing, which would require more energy than it's taking to type, which is impossible given the fact that the broken air conditioner has sucked the life, if not the soul, right out of me.

I freaking hate my apartment. This is the second time already this year the air's been broken. I sooo need to move.

BUT ... it could be worse. My friend calls me on my way home from the gym: "How was your day?"
I sigh. "I don't know. Fine. How was yours?"
"Fine," she says, "except that I'm raising a sociopath."

I died. I absolutely died. I swear I didn't stop laughing for, like, 20 minutes. If you knew her 4-year-old, you'd be laughing, too.

"Good, you laugh," she says. "I'll be out counting the cats in the neighborhood, just in case."

Monday, June 05, 2006

Sweet Home Tennessee

A few things I saw/experienced/learned on my little jaunt to Nashville (yes, Nashville!) this weekend:

Abraham Lincoln. For REAL! Just, like, randomly saw this guy. My friend grabbed my camera and used her sneaky surveillance skills to get a picture of him. Look at this dude.



I told you!!!

I saw this girl play an acoustic set, and she is SO GOOD! Check out the song "Nervous"--that was my favorite (you can listen to it on that link). It's even better live!

On a related note, if you stick a guitar in someone's hands and throw them up on stage, it does wonders for their hot factor. I'm just saying. I might have to look into it.

I drove through Elizabethtown! Perhaps more exciting, I managed to take a couple of pictures of the Elizabethtown sign without crashing the car. Anyway, the movie Elizabethtown was, like, whatever. Had some decent parts, had some dumb parts and had one REALLY GOOD part. The guy and the girl have this chance meeting, they go their separate ways and then they get on the phone and end up talking all night long. She's doing her nails and taking a bubble bath and they're chatting up a storm, telling each other stuff they don't tell anyone else and trying to find out everything about each other. And then they're laying in bed, and they keep saying 10 more minutes and we'll go to sleep, and finally they decide to be crazy and spontaneous and jump in the car and drive to each other. They talk in the car the whole way (I would kill for that kind of life on my phone battery!), meet in the middle and watch the sun rise. And then collapse because they're so tired. And it's ALL KINDS of cute. Anyway, the roads around this sign are the ones they filmed on during this part of the movie, so I was like, awwwww.



I've been informed that no straight guy would spend all night on the phone with a girl, but OF COURSE that's wrong ... right?!?

Nashville is very, very pretty. It's one of the prettiest areas I've seen. The people are unbelievably nice and I totally dig the accents. But, holy crap, does it feel like another country. If there's anything I learned, it's that I may be a suburban mall rat, but I'm still way too much of a "Yankee" (yes, I was called one) to survive more than a few weeks too far south of the Mason-Dixon line.

Finally, I looked for Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban, but didn't see them. I was totally going to go National Enquirer on them and then ask to be the flower girl in their wedding in exchange for my paparazzi shots, but alas, it wasn't to be.