McDreamy indeed

My friend had a baby on Friday, so I've been at the hospital a lot this weekend. Her baby is the sweetest, most mellow little thing ever. He is SO GOOD. He barely, barely cries, and when he does, he stops as soon as you pick him up. It's amazing how much of your personality is already there when you're born. Your environment probably determines which parts are brought out most.

Anyway, so I've been at the hospital a lot, which means one thing: Every time I see someone in scrubs, I want to ask them if they watch Grey's Anatomy. It also means, between that and seeing the "WAR ON THE SET!" Grey's Anatomy headlines on the cover of every magazine this week, I must have Grey's on the brain, because I had the CRAZIEST DREAM last night.

(I'm going to preface this by saying that I have the most vivid dreams EVER. I'm not kidding. They are filled with unbelievable detail. I'll wake up furious at someone I fought with in a dream, or unsettled because of something someone said. They are way, way vivid.)

So anyway, it starts off as this whole dream about work people. Then this one girl interrupts and says, "Swishy, Bailey's totally on the warpath." (Which, by the way, Cristina's said about 100 times on that show.) So then it morphs into Grey's Anatomy, and I'm Meredith. There's a wedding taking place (which, by the way, is supposed to happen on the show at some point according to Shonda Rhimes--see how my brain works?) and everyone from the show is there, in character.

This is all boring, isn't it? Let me get to the point, which is: I TOTALLY MADE OUT WITH MCDREAMY IN MY DREAM. He grabs my hand and we run from room to room, trying to find someplace dark and empty, and finally he's like, "I can't take it anymore!" and throws me up against a wall in front of a bunch of people (including Alex and Addison) and totally starts making out with me. And I remember EVERYTHING! Like, his teeth knocked against mine one time. I reached up and touched his face and he had probably exactly two days worth of stubble going. And then at one point, I reached into his back pocket and I could feel his butt, and I remember thinking, "Oh, yeah, wardrobe cut out the pockets so they wouldn't show lines on camera" because I'd done that once with a pair of MY pants. And THEN I was like, "WOW, McDreamy's going commando!" Now do you see what I mean about detail?!?

Just in case you're wondering, McDreamy is a great kisser, but a little hard. I attribute the slight roughness to the fact that he couldn't get enough of me fast enough. Ha ha ha.

The Orange Purse Man and other updates

I've been totally remiss, I know. How can I give a play-by-play of the whole Orange Man Purse saga and then not follow up?

I'll tell you why: because I'm LAME! Here's what happened. He came back that day after he'd left, and said, "You know what? I think you should give me your number, too." I NEVER know what to do in those situations--fake number? real number? home? cell? what?--so I scribbled down my cell and off he went. Two days later he called and asked me out for sushi. Besides the fact I think I'd rather die than eat sushi (I have the culinary sophistication of a 4-year-old), I already had plans for that night. A few days after that, he called and left a message. I was in the middle of a crappy week, so I didn't call back. Yesterday he called again and left a message: "Swishy, it's Todd. Call me." I haven't called back yet ... why? I HAVE NO GOOD REASON WHY.

See? I told you I was lame. Commence the stone-throwing.

* My friend told me what a loser I was for not sharing a very good bad date story last week when I asked you for yours. So I'll throw out a couple. When I was a junior in high school, this guy (J.) from another school asked me to his senior prom. I didn't really like him like that, but my friend (Girl) was going with his friend (Boy)--also platonically--and where I'm from (New Jersey) proms are a HUGE deal, so I was like, yeah, I'll go.

We get to the prom (at a hotel ... how convenient), and the very first thing I see when I walk in--the VERY first thing, before I can take in the decorations, the crowd, the music, the anything--is a girl wearing the exact same dress. The EXACT same dress. I didn't really care, but she was PISSED that some bitch from another school showed up in her dress. The entire night, she kept talking trash about me and walking by and giving me dirty looks. And I swear she bumped me on purpose once when she walked past me on the dance floor. After a while, the four of us (me, Boy, Girl, J.) ended up hanging out by the hotel bar, and J. started getting handsy, handsy, handsy. I'm trying to be nice about it, because it IS his prom night after all, but I mean, I DON'T LIKE HIM LIKE THAT!

Fast forward past the awkwardness to after the prom. We're going somewhere the next day, but for the night we're all crashing at Boy's house. No one else is home. I'm supposed to be sharing a room with Girl, because, you know, NEITHER OF US LIKES THE GUYS LIKE THAT. But first we decide to watch a movie, so I get in my jammies and get settled on the couch, she's settled on the floor, the guys are settled near us, and it's all good. I doze off. Next thing you know, I wake up to hear Boy and Girl humping on the floor next to me, and J. is lying next to me on the couch LICKING my LIPS with his TONGUE. I was seriously freaked out. I had NO idea how long he'd been licking my face like an ice cream cone, I didn't know if I'd been making any weird noises in my sleep, and, most important, I didn't know if I'd been doing anything BACK in my sleep. Plus, HELLO! BOY AND GIRL ARE HUMPING ON THE FLOOR NEXT TO ME. SINCE WHEN DO THEY LIKE EACH OTHER?!? I almost died, I really did. I was pretending to still be asleep and I was like, what do I do, what do I do, what do I do ... J. got up to go to the bathroom--THANK GOODNESS--and I rolled over so my face was smashed against the couch and pretended to be asleep. He tried rolling me over and spooning me from behind for like a half an hour before he finally gave up. The next day, after yelling at Girl for HUMPING ON THE FLOOR NEXT TO ME, I told her about J. What does she do? She tells Boy, who tells J. Who took that as a sign to try to make another move. It was an excruciatingly awkward weekend. Making matters worse is that my mom kept trying to push J. on me for MONTHS after the prom. She seriously sat me down once and lectured me for not going out with him, because he was SUCH A NICE GUY. I was like, oh my gosh, you have got to be kidding me.

Another one was in college. I was on one of many "breaks" with my then-boyfriend, and I let myself get set up on a date with a hot guy who played on the lacrosse team. He WAS hot. AND smart. And happened to have the SAME NAME as my very newly ex-boyfriend, which completely freaked me out. If that wasn't bad enough, he took me to this gorgeous, very romantic canyon for a bonfire ... which my old boyfriend and I did ALL the time. Which is also where, ironically enough, we'd BROKEN UP the weekend before. It was the most miserable date ever. Did I mention that my ex-boyfriend had called me literally as the other guy was ringing my doorbell? Yeah. He had "accidentally" dialed my number instead of his brother's, although I think it was more like he wanted to know if Swishy was home crying in her ice cream on a Saturday night or out with a hot lacrosse player. I was so pissed, because this guy was hot and nice and smart and athletic and I completely blew it because I was so obsessed with thinking stuff like: "Omigosh, we sat on this exact rock" and "Omigosh, I can't believe he called me right as I was leaving! I wonder if he knew?!?" and "Omigosh, I wonder what he's doing tonight" and "Omigosh, what are the odds that lacrosse man would have the SAME NAME and take me to the SAME PLACE as him?" and blah blah blah. Dumb, Swishy, dumb. We got back together two weeks later and broke up for the 80th time (there were several more breakups to come) a month after that. Again--dumb, Swishy, dumb.

* In other updates, remember when I told you about my big, ambitious workout plan? Well, it was a little TOO ambitious. So I scaled it back, and tried to be a good little eater for at least MOST of the week, and I've lost six pounds. I'm three pounds away from my goal, but I'm (at long last) going to start back up with the weights and resistance stuff next week, so that'll probably tack a couple pounds back on.

Last night I was going to skip working out because I didn't get home from work until 8:30 and I was sooo tired, but then I flopped on the couch and flipped on the TV, and it was the Biggest Freaking Loser. How are you supposed to skip a workout when The Biggest Loser's on? You can't. You just can't. So I hauled myself over to the gym for a whopping 25 minutes so I wouldn't feel guilty. The Biggest Loser should be on TV every night. I'd be guilted into being in good shape for the rest of my life.

* Finally, my shoes are officially broken in. Yay! Now I just need to find a cute pair of black shoes for the winter and start the process all over.

Tag, I'm it!

I got tagged today by not one, but TWO people: Trish Ryan and Alyssa Goodnight, which means now I REALLY can't slack! That also means you get to read five "interesting" things about me, stuff you can't tell about me by looking at my little feet up there. Here goes:

1. I can't swim. Actually, I can KINDA swim, but I absolutely cannot tread water. I've tried to do the "pretend you're on a bike" thing, and the "pretend you're smashing grapes with your feet" thing, and no dice. I sink like a rock, and apparently that makes me very fun at pool parties. Because, you know, it's SO HILARIOUS to throw Swishy in the deep end and watch her flail and choke until someone dives in to get her. (My siblings--who all can swim--are the worst ones. A few years ago we were in Florida, and my brother tossed me in the pool and then jumped in and PUSHED ME UNDER while the other ones took pictures. Ha FREAKING ha.) I can't ice skate or rollerblade, either. I'm lucky I can walk in a straight line.

2. Speaking of siblings ... I'm the oldest of six kids. I'm a very stereotypical oldest child. Bossy, opinionated, independent, little bit of an overachieving streak, the one who calls all the others to remind them when it's someone's birthday. I think my birth order very much contributed to shaping my personality and identity--does everyone else feel like that, too?

3. I skipped kindergarten. I know, doesn't that sound obnoxious? The school psychologist pulled me out on the second day when I tested (allegedly--this is according to my mother, so take it with a grain of salt) at a sixth-grade level in reading and a third-grade level in math. So instead of kindergarten that year, I went to first grade in the morning and second grade (for reading) in the afternoon. (My mom said no to full-time second grade because she was worried about the age difference.) The next year, I did second grade in the morning and fourth grade in the afternoon. The year after that, I got put in some gifted program and stopped the whole back-and-forth thing. However, I assure you that if I ever had freakish intellectual potential, it disappeared by age 8.

4. I have to have noise. I have a very hard time with total silence. It makes me crazy--I can't think. If it gets too quiet at work, I have to throw on headphones so I can concentrate. At home, I usually have music or TV on in the background. The only time that's not true is when I'm reading. But one of the things I'm proudest of about myself is that I can be alone, too. I didn't know a single soul when I moved here (I didn't know anyone within, like, 500 miles!), and I've lived alone for more than six years. I've never felt like I had to stay in a relationship because I was scared to be on my own. And one of my favorite things in the world is to go to some coffee shop by myself with my laptop or a book. I'm pretty outgoing, so I think it surprises people when they realize that about me. I loooove my Swishy time--probably another byproduct (along with needing noise) of growing up in a house full of people!

5. I've tried out for three reality shows. One of them was on a dare, one of them was for my job, and one of them was because I want to be a millionaire and have hot, virile young men fanning me and serving me pina coladas on a beach somewhere. I wasn't crazy enough for the first; I got to the second round of the second. The third? I got far enough for a screen test, and I SUPPOSE it's still possible I'll be on, though I highly doubt it. You're invited to the party if I'm wrong!

OK, my turn to tag five people. I tag ... let's see. How about: Beth, Golightly, Two Roads, Trish and, of course, my BBFF Manic. Everyone make sure you go read their answers (and Trish Ryan's and Alyssa's, too, if you haven't yet)!

(And, oh yeah--for whoever asked questions, I'll answer them later this week!)

Happy Monday

OK, I have two absolutely unimportant things to say first: One, I'm watching Six Feet Under reruns on Bravo, and hello, Peter Krause is hot. Two, I hate blow drying my hair, absolutely loathe it, but I have to do it and now I have a fantastic step-by-step guide to help me along, thanks to Ken Paves' tips on page 372 of the current In Style. He's the stylist who's practically an appendage on Jessica Simpson's body--he seriously never leaves her side. Check it out and we can pretend to have hot hair together.

All right, now that that's out of the way, on to the other stuff. The other day, I was talking to one of the very, very few people who know me as both Swishy and the girl I am in real life. I won't go into the whole conversation, other than to say it prompted this: What do you want to know about me? It's quite possible the answer is nothing, or rather, nothing ELSE. But if there's anything you're curious about, go ahead and ask. I won't answer EVERYTHING, but some stuff I will. Maybe.

Here's one thing: My favorite TV show is Grey's Anatomy. I don't think many people know that about me. Ha ha.

I'm so entertained by entertainment

I feel bad I haven't posted in a few days. I've started to a bunch of times, but I didn't quite know what to say. It was a weird week--couldn't sleep, on edge, that kind of thing. It happens every few weeks or so, and this week was particularly crazy. Anyway, it's all good now, but yeah--crazy couple days.

OK, so not only has it been a crazy week in Swishyville, it's also been a very busy week in the world of pop culture. You KNOW how I love my pop culture, so here we go.

First up, the Project Runway finale. Would you believe I got teary during the runway shows? I totally did. I know--crazy, right? But, I mean, this was their DREAM--something they'd worked so hard for--and it was finally happening. Their friends and family were there and were so happy for them, and the whole thing just gave me goosebumps. It made me think about what it might feel like if some of the things I hope for happen someday.

Anyway, I liked Uli's collection the best, but I pretty much knew Jeffrey would win after I saw some of the pictures and reviews from Fashion Week. Oh, well. Michael is still my overall favorite. I had the reruns on while I was getting ready today, and he's talking about his dress, and he's all, "I even made a white girl look like she had some ass. That's DAMN sexy!" I have to love a guy who appreciates a curvy ass! LOVE HIM. Hated his collection, but love him.

**********

OK, so T.R. Knight came (or was pushed, depending on who's telling the story) out of the closet this week. I swear this was the highlight of my week, not because he's gay, but because it sheds more light on the whole Grey's Anatomy fight I'm so obsessed with. If the guy who plays Burke REALLY called him the f-word like people are saying he did, that is 10 kinds of shady. Like, BE NICE! That is not nice! He's an idiot, because that's probably the best job he's ever had, and now I would not be surprised one bit if he got written out of the show after spreading his homophobic cheer and going gangsta on McDreamy's pretty little neck. SEE YA, Burke. Don't let the door hit you on your ass on the way out.

**********

On another Grey's note: Derek, you freaking asshat. She broke up with Finn! And you say "Oh." OH! I mean, just LOOK at it: Oh. oh. oh. oh. oh. It's, like, not even a word. It's barely even a sound. Way to jump on an opportunity there, Mr. Genius Brain Surgeon. Gahhh, he kills me.

**********

Saw The Departed this weekend. Definitely, definitely not for everyone--lots of language and violence--but very good and a definite Oscar contender. The best movie I've seen this year, along with Little Miss Sunshine. I thought Leonardo DiCaprio was great. I always forget what a good actor he is. He absolutely killed Matt Damon when they were on screen together.

Seeing the movie also brought about the biggest "What is wrong with this picture?" moment of the weekend (so far):

Me: I never really thought Leonardo DiCaprio was THAT great-looking, but wow, he looked good in this movie. Better than Matt Damon, even.
Very heterosexual guy I saw it with: You didn't? He's, like, one of the prettiest men in Hollywood! He's totally good-looking! I've always thought he looked great.

Yeah. Think about that for a minute.

Antsy, schmantsy

I've been totally antsy the past couple of days. Antsy, antsy, antsy. The past two nights, I've been up until 3 a.m. THREE! That would be fine if I were a lady of luxury and could lounge in my 300-thread-count sheets until noon. Not so fine, however, when I have to traipse into work in the morning. I'm actually not that tired, because I'm too freaking ANTSY to be tired, but, I mean, going to sleep at 3 a.m. seems a bit overboard. I'm pretty sure I know what's causing it. It's one of those things I have no control over, which is probably why I get antsy; I just have to ride it out. And try to sleep in on the weekend!

So last night I really did try hard to go to sleep. I laid in bed from like 12:30 to 1:30, but my head was just too busy. So I turned on the TV and watched the 1:30 a.m repeat of Oprah. It was a road trip one, so it was totally funny, but the most notable part was that Oprah actually told everyone how much she weighed! She told, like, 10 million people around the world that she'd reached her goal weight of 154 pounds. TEN MILLION PEOPLE! I think one person in the entire world knows how much I weigh, and that's only because he guessed right and I'm completely transparent, so I couldn't deny it. That same guy doesn't believe Oprah was telling the truth, but I believe it. I mean, why say the number in the first place otherwise? (I've been to her show, and I'm pretty sure she's about 5-7, just for those keeping score at home.)

I love that she gave the actual number (I'm like, hmmm ... I'M 5-7, and I weigh THIS, so ...), but I would never reveal my weight on national TV. EVER! I thought about that tonight when I was at the gym, because I even cover up the display when I enter my weight on the elliptical. I TOTALLY cover it up. If someone's looking over, I will wait until they look away and STILL cover it up. (That doesn't mean I'm not one of those nosy people, though. If you get on the machine next to me, I will absolutely try to see how old you are and how much you weigh. I will also periodically glance over to see if you're going faster than me or if you've burned more calories, because in addition to being nosy I'm also competitive.)

You know what's weird? I actually enter a little bit higher number than what I actually weigh (seven pounds, to be exact). That's the weight I started out at, and I don't know why I keep entering it in. I guess I get a little more credit for calories burned, but I think it has more to do with habit than anything. I am SUCH a habit girl.

Anyway. You think Project Runway cures ants in the pants? I'm about to find out. (Of course Michael won't win. But I'm gonna cheer for him anyway!)

I need some inspiration

I'm in the mood to hear about bad dates. It doesn't matter if it happened to you, or to your best friend, or to some woman you overheard in the bathroom at Burger King. I want to hear about 'em!

I'm trying to think of what my worst one would be. All of my best stories are about the guys I WOULDN'T go out with! My worst dates are actually really lame stories, because the worst thing to me is to be bored. At least with the crazy guys, you want to pay attention to every last detail so that you can do the story justice later. But the boring ones ... all you can do with the boring ones is look around the restaurant and make up stories about everyone else in your head to keep yourself entertained. That, and hope the night goes fast.

Here's the worst guy I kissed, how's that. I went out with this guy (who was a friend of my COUSIN's, no less) who spent the entire night trying to make sex bets with me. Like, "If I finish my dinner before you do, you have to blah blah blah for dessert." Um ... no. Thanks. I said I didn't feel well and had to go home; he tried to cure my mystery sore throat by ramming his tongue down it. And I do mean ramming. I swear I almost threw up. Special, huh?

OK, your turn. Story time!

It's hard work being a grown-up

We got a new dress code at work this week. And by "new dress code" I mean "first dress code ever." It used to be that as long as you were wearing SOMETHING, you were good. One guy who used to work there literally wore his freaking pajamas to work every day. Seriously: T-shirt, pajama pants, socks and sandals. In the winter he'd throw on a hoodie over it. The rest of us didn't quite get THAT comfortable with the lack of a dress code, but you'd see lots of flip-flops, shorts in the summer, that kind of thing.

The new dress code isn't super, duper strict--we can still get away with jeans, for example. But there are no T-shirts allowed, and guys have to wear socks and shoes--no sandals. (Girls can still wear sandals. Yay!) You wouldn't think it would be a huuuuge deal. But OH, MY GOODNESS was it a huge deal today. Today was the first day it was really enforced, and it was CLASSIC.

**********

My phone rings. "Guess what."
Me: "What?"
"I got in trouble for not having a collar on my shirt, so they made me put on this other guy's shirt (this other guy is a few sizes smaller than the guy talking) over the one I'm wearing."
Me: "Nuh-UH!"
"Yeah. It's unbelievable."
Me: "I'm coming over right now. I've got to see this."

(The shirt is oversized, so it could have been worse, but it still does look ridiculous. As we're talking, another guy wearing a very similar shirt to the one "in violation" walks by.)

"What?!? How come HE gets to wear that? What the HELL?"
Guy walking by: "Don't even get me involved."
"What-EVER! That's BULLSHIT!"

(Guy wearing two shirts then decides to make a point by driving 45 minutes home and back in the middle of the workday to change his shirt.)

**********

The number of people sent home to change is confirmed so far at two, with whispers of more. There's also a rumor floating around that one guy went to Goodwill and bought himself an "appropriate" outfit for five bucks.

**********

Another guy: "I don't even understand what we're allowed to wear."
Me: "I mean, I don't know. Just look decent, I guess, and it should be fine."
Another guy: "This whole thing is ridiculous."
Me: "It's like a sitcom."
Another guy: "A really BAD one." Pauses. "So what about those tuxedo T-shirts? Do you think they'd say something about those?"

**********

Guy 3: "I wore sandals yesterday, and I totally got a dirty look. Today, they came over just to check my feet. I can't stand this crap."
Me: "Well, you know, it's been proven that wearing shoes instead of sandals makes you a better worker."
Guy 3: "Ha ha. If they say anything to me, I'm coming into work wearing a kilt."
Me: "NO, YOU WOULD NOT."
Guy: "I would, too."
Me: "I dare you."
Guy: "You don't have to dare me. I'll do it."
Me: "If you do that, seriously, I will buy you lunch every day for a week."
Guy: "I'm going to start looking for one this weekend."

**********

I walk out into the hall and there are four guys dressed IDENTICALLY in solid colored shirts, brown belts and khakis. They're huddled together, talking in the kind of intent whispers that you usually only hear at recess after some mean girl spits in another mean girl's lunch.

Me: "Let me guess--dress code."
They all shoot me the same "I want to punch someone in the throat" look.
I start cracking up. One pipes up: "It's not that funny."
Me: "You're right. It's not funny, it's HILARIOUS."

Just a few slices of random

Because my life is, oh, so exciting. (Strange men with orange man purses notwithstanding!)

* My feet hurt. Like, BAD. You know about my whole "I'm a Pisces, I have sensitive feet" thing. There is nothing I hate more than wearing real shoes, unless it's breaking in real shoes. Which I tried to do with a brand new pair today. Not only are they new and un-broken in, but they also have a decent heel on them, so I'm also trying to teach myself how to walk all over again. Try being late for a meeting and running up three flights of stairs in brand new, un-broken-in, tall heels. I'm just happy nothing's broken.

My favorite pair of shoes made my feet bleed the first five times I wore them. For real. But I sacked up and toughed it out, and now they're so comfortable I could sleep in them. So I KNOW I just have to be patient. But ohh, do I hate it. I swear, my TOENAILS hurt. And yet I'm going to wear them again tomorrow. Why? Because I'm a masochist, that's why.

* Best news story, hands down, of the week: the pissing match on the Grey's Anatomy set. Every time I saw an update of this story today, it just got better. McDreamy really told Burke to "pick on someone his own size" (you mean that's not just a line used in cheesy '80s movies)? George--GEORGE--really had to keep Burke from uglying up McDreamy's pretty little face? And best of all, Burke REALLY called George a "bitch" before storming off in a hissy fit?! I FREAKING LOVE IT. Just get out the rulers and measure, boys--it's a lot faster. Usually you hear about the catfights between women (cough, Desperate Housewives) so it delights me to no end to hear about a couple guys (OK, one guy) throwing ego tantrums. The girls on that set must be laughing their asses off.

* I'm turning into a complete product whore. Crest Whitestrips? Love them. They did make my teeth sensitive after a couple days, but I just do them once a day now instead of twice. So, of course, since now I have gleaming white teeth, I had to buy new lipstick so I could show them off. And then I decided my hair looked like crap, and it was all due to my cheapo blow dryer. So I got a new blow dryer, and shockingly, it WORKED! It only cost, like, 18 bucks at Walmart but is the best thing EVER. It takes five fewer minutes to dry my hair and it looks 10 times better. I'm sure no one but me notices, but L'Oreal tells me I'm worth it, so dammit, it counts. And THEN, since I was spending all this time skulking around the beauty department, I somehow managed to end up with a Revlon 12-hour eyeliner, which is only the SECOND-BEST THING EVER, behind the blow dryer. It really lasts all day. Which is a miracle.

I'm really not as superficial as I sound. Really. Really!

Oh, fine. I am.

Scenes from a coffee shop

As I'm sure many of you know, electrical outlets are hot commodities at coffee shops. I want one. I can't have one. There are only two outlets, and both are being used. I walk behind one of the laptop users to get a straw, and naturally, I glance at her screen to see exactly what she's doing that is so important it's depriving me of an electrical outlet. Solitaire, that's what. I'm serious. She's playing SOLITAIRE. And LOSING.

**********

There's a guy sitting diagonally from me. Within the space of five minutes, he got up, went to the bathroom, sat back down at his table, put headphones on, and is now sleeping. SLEEPING. Not just sleeping, but sleeping sitting up. And not just sleeping sitting up, either, but snoring. LOUDLY.

Let me recap: This guy is actually snoring in the middle of a crowded coffee shop. And not in one of those plush, comfy chairs, either. In one of those little steel-backed, dinette-type chairs at a round table.

He must be really tired. If I were him, I'd at least go sleep in the car.

**********

There is a man who sounds just like Sean Connery, minus the accent. I know that sounds weird, but he really does. That's how I noticed him in the first place--I was like, "Oh my gosh, that sounds like Sean Connery doing an American accent!" He's probably 70 or so, and is on what appears to be a first date. It's so funny to hear old people on dates, because they have absolutely no patience for bullshit. They've been to the circus and they've seen the tricks. There's no time for that when the clock of life is ticking and there's a stash of Viagra at home. If they see something they like, and that something likes them back, they're grabbing on tight and never letting go. It must be a nice way to live.

***********

Solitaire Girl has left! The electrical outlet is MINE!

***********

The snoring man woke up and got himself a Coke and some pretzels. He moved tables and asked if he could share the outlet with me. (Solitaire Girl was using both plugs.) Tee hee.

**********

OK, so a guy just walked in carrying an orange man purse. Not a shoulder bag or a knapsack, but a man purse. And he TOTALLY caught me looking at him (actually, looking at the man purse) and smiled. He met up with another guy and they're looking at pictures together on the one guy's computer. I am DYING to casually walk behind them and see what they're looking at (gay porn?), but since he already caught me looking once, I'm scared I'm going to get busted.

I know. I KNOW! You're like, "Swishy! You have to go do it!" I know, otherwise we'll all die of curiosity. I'm being a wuss. Just ... hang on. I will. I have to come up with a good strategy first.

Ahhhhh! He just looked at me again! Either he knows I'm totally writing about him, or he thinks I like him because I keep looking over, which OF COURSE I don't because he's carrying a freaking MAN PURSE!

OK, I'm going. I'm going to pretend to make a phone call.

HAHAHAHAHA. I'm back. OK, the first thing is, if you're going to pretend to be taking a call, it's good to, oh, TALK. I remembered, like, 25 seconds in that I was supposed to at least be "uh-huh-ing."

So guess what they were looking at. JUST GUESS. OK, I'll tell you: trees. They were looking at pictures of trees. I swear. You know, sometimes the mystery really is better than the reality.

**********

Holy crap--MAN PURSE JUST CAME OVER TO TALK TO ME! HA HA HA HA HA. OK, this is how it went down:

Man Purse: So how come your shirt says "Seriously"?
Me: Um, I really like this show Grey's Anatomy, and they say "seriously" all the time on it. My friend got it for me for my birthday.
Man Purse: Oh, OK. I thought it was because you are SERIOUSLY HOT. (I swear on my life he said that. This is the point where I lose it.)
Me: Ha ha ha ha ha. Uh, no.
Man Purse: You have the greatest laugh! People must compliment you on it all the time.
Me: Ha ha ha ha ha. Thanks.
Man Purse: So do you live around here?
Me: Ha ha ha ha ha. Um, kinda.
Man Purse: I'm Todd.
Me: Ha ha ha ha ha. Swishy.
Man Purse: Nice to meet you, Swishy.
Me. Ha ha ha ha ha.

Basically, that whole conversation consisted of me cracking up and praying to God he wasn't going to look at my computer and see "man purse" anywhere.

I'm seriously confused. I could have sworn he was gay. Not to mention, I haven't showered today, I'm wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday, and I'm not wearing a bit of makeup.

Ohhhhh shit! Here he comes again!

Man Purse: I think you should have lunch or dinner with me sometime really soon.
Me: (I'll spare you the "ha's" but needless to say I'm still laughing.) Oh, you do, huh?
Man Purse: Yes. SOON.
Me: OK, give me your number. (Before you yell at me, this is A THOUSAND times better than giving him mine, plus it saves us both the embarrassment of a public "Um ... I'll pass.")

So I scribble down his number, and too late, I realize I wrote it on the same paper that says "My Master To-Do list" on the top. I guess he'll have to be the one thing on the list I don't do.

I seriously can't stop laughing. This is SO not the blog entry I started off writing.

How to tell you've had a long day

So picture this: I'm leaving work a little after 7, and there's, oh, I don't know, 10 cars left in the parking lot. Not 100--10. I usually park toward the back of the lot, so I start walking, scanning the lot, trying to remember where exactly I parked ... and I do NOT see my car. ANYWHERE. I walk a little farther, and seriously, there are like three cars left and none of them is mine.

"Shit," I think, "I bet I got towed." There are a handful of reserved spots up front, and once or twice I've parked in one of them because I was running super late. And then I remember that duh, I haven't parked in one of those spots in at least two months, and like they would have me towed anyway. I'd at least get a snotty, passive-aggressive note on my windshield first.

"Shit," I think, "someone stole my car!" Granted, it's six years old, and granted, it's missing a hubcap, and granted, it's got a crappy stereo, and granted, I work in about the most benign corporate park ever, but STILL. It had to be stolen, because it was NOWHERE TO BE FOUND.

I flip open my phone to call the last guy who left work. I want to ask him if my car was there when he left. You know, so I'm able to put a timeframe on the crime when the police arrive.

I look around the parking lot one last time, start dialing and then ... yeah. I see my car, parked at the absolute perfect can't-see-it-till-you're-right-on-top-of-it angle behind another car. OF COURSE I see it, because really. Who steals cars from office parking lots in the middle of the day?

The most pathetic part of this story is that I'm really not kidding. I really did think my car was gone. All I have to say in my defense is that I haven't gotten more than like four or five hours of sleep in forever. That, and at least I didn't flip my phone open to call the cops first. Can you imagine?

A peek into Swishy's in-box

All is well in Swishyville--there just aren't enough hours in the day, I swear! I went to bed last night at 3. THREE! And I'm supposed to be at work by 9. I'm definitely a night person, but 3 a.m. on a weeknight is a little crazy. I'm not tired yet, but just wait until I'm trying to field a line drive at 9:30 tonight during the second game of a softball doubleheader. Tomorrow's post: all about Swishy's black eye!

Anyway, back to the subject at hand. I write a little bit for my job, and get emails from all kinds of random people about the stuff I write. Most of it is totally nice, normal stuff. Some of it, though? Some of it is pretty funny. (Edited to take out all of the identifying details and because I can only stand so much crappy grammar before it makes me insane. Except for the middle one. That one I left.)

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Blondes are so easy, they give it up without my having to do anything really ... it's like they sit when I want them to sit and stand when I want them to stand. You are the typical gold-digging, sleep-with-the-bosses-to-get-promotions, brainless BLONDIE! Thank your lucky stars you have "other means" you can use to be successful. I feel sorry for you when you get old!

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Based on your picture, I'm guessing most men are lining up to ask you out. I know I would, were I not old enough to be your father!

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I respectfully disagree, mademoiselle crack smoker.

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i love reading your articles just to see that smile. You are f---g hot!!!! joey fatone does not know he was standing next to the hottest girl in that dump. if i was there not only would i have gotten your number but we would be dating now. you are doing a great job, i love your articles, and i know you look hot in a bikini. I work in Long Island New York in a hospital and if you ever need a x-ray look me up (i will make sure we run out of gowns that day!!!!!!!!)

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Hopefully I'm not crossing any boundaries here ... but I'd do ya.

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Cute article, but trying to get a hot celebrity to dump his girlfriend and date someone unknown and undistracting like you is just embarrassing. Keep those vibrator batteries charged.

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Hey Swish--why don't you stick to the kitchen and bake me up some cookies.

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Hi. Consider this email a renewal of my annual request for Swishy to marry me.

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Hello sweetheart! I enjoyed reading your article. I was compelled to write, though, because of your misconception regarding the ability of a man in his 40s to date women in their 20s. I am 44 and I have made love to more women in their early 20s since turning 40 than I had when I was in my 20s and 30s. They are attracted by the confidence (not arrogance) that comes from years of pleasuring women. It is my experience that younger women are VERY excited by an attractive, mature, sexually confident man. If you happen to meet one when you are old enough, don't pass on him, take him home and learn why! (BTW, your photo is really cute!)