Waiting for My Real Life to Begin

The life and times of a girl named Swishy.

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Kiddie voyeurs and other random stuff

So, I go to the mall today to exchange a shirt. (My sister got it for me, and it didn't quite fit right, and I've been meaning to go forever to exchange it and ... this isn't relevant, is it?) ANYWAY. I grab a couple different replacements and go into the fitting room to try them on. I peel off my shirt, go to take one of the contenders off the hanger and ... a head appears under the fitting room door. The head of a little boy, say, maybe 4.

The little boy looks up at me in my bra and jeans. And looks. And looks. I grab the shirt and hold it up against my chest. "Um, hi," I say, loud enough for anyone who might be responsible for him to hear.

"You're not my mom's friend," he says.

"No," I say, "no, I am not."

You'd think he would slide his little head back under the door, out of my fitting room and back to his mommy. No. He lies there and looks at me some more.

"OK," I say more loudly, still holding the shirt to my chest, "nice to meet you."

Finally, FINALLY, I hear the kid's mom. "Joey! Is there someone in there? Get out from under there."

Joey disappears. I hear Joey's mom tell her friend how adorable it is that her pervy little child just ogled a strange lady in her bra for five minutes.

Back in the fitting room, I try on the shirt, decide I don't like it, and then take it off. No kidding, the second--the SECOND--I take off the shirt, Joey's little head reappears.

"Hi," he says.

Children can be gifted in many ways. This one, apparently, is gifted with a radar that tells him when boobs are about to be exposed. "HEL-LO," I say, wayyyy loud so Joey's mom can hear. Nothing. Meanwhile, the kid's lying there, grinning like a freaking Cheshire cat.

"You need to get out," I hiss.

He grins.

"I'm serious. Go find your mommy."

He continues to grin.

"GO AWAY!" I'm trying to use my scariest "I'm an adult, respect my authority" tone, but it's sort of hard to do when I'm trying to whisper. Not to mention standing in my bra in front of a 4-year-old. Either way, it's clearly not having much of an effect.

At long last, I hear footsteps: "Joey! What did I tell you?" Then, a giggle: "Sorrrrrrry!"

Yeah, we'll see how sorry you are when your son gets arrested in 15 years for being a peeping Tom.

* In other news, I went to yoga this morning. I hadn't been to a yoga class in, like, I don't know, a year? Two? Maybe two. Anyway, I did a handstand. BY MYSELF! If you're wondering whether you should be impressed, the answer is a resounding YES. I also almost did a split, if almost means I was six inches off the ground. Which is almost as impressive.

* I ran into the store today to get something and I saw a display with THIS:

I haven't had one of these since I was, like, five. I had NO IDEA they still made them. And they were on sale! For 78 cents! So you know I had to buy one. Part of me thinks it's way too disgusting to eat; the other part is like, yummmmmmy! Chocolate pudding encased in a sugary, glazed shell! I wonder which part will win.

Actually, I don't wonder at all. Ha ha. If it makes me puke, I'll let you know.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Karaoke, Swishy style

So yesterday, I took a little road trip for work. I like to keep myself entertained in the car, especially when I'm the only one IN the car. This often includes talking to other drivers, singing and dancing to random songs such as, say, the Electric Slide, and, on particularly long road trips, pretending I'm on Oprah and she's asking me for my life story. (Look, it sounds weird, but it's very therapeutic and it makes the ride go VERY quickly, I'll have you know. One late night at work, I made the mistake of mentioning that and YEARS LATER, to this day, I still get asked how my conversation with Oprah was when I get back from road trips.)

Anyway. Along with my camera, dental floss and three-year-old mascara, I also happen to carry a tape recorder in my purse. I was driving along, singing to the same old songs, when I got struck with the BEST BRAINSTORM EVER! I was going to sing along into the tape recorder, so that it picked up the music AND my voice, just like real karaoke, and then listen to what I sounded like! Genius!

First up was an Avril Lavigne song, which I belted out with the requisite angst and gusto. I hit rewind, play, and ...


It was the worst, most awful singing I have ever heard in my entire life. Look, I do not profess to be a good singer. I do not profess to be good at ANYTHING musical, except at appreciating it. But I DO NOT sound THAT bad. I don't! Clearly, CLEARLY, I was not trying as hard as I should have been. Or I picked the wrong song. Don't they say all the time on American Idol that song choice is everything? Why yes, they do. It was just the wrong song.

So, on to the next one: Midnight Train to Georgia. I put my whole heart into it this time. I was soulful. I was sassy. I did the "whoo-hoos" for the train and the "leavin'!" echoes in the background. This was, like, demo-worthy, I was sure of it.

Um ... yeah. Let's just put it this way: After I hit play, I was so completely mortified, BY MYSELF in the car, that I couldn't even get through the first line before throwing the recorder in the back seat and trying my hardest to pretend the whole sordid incident had never happened. I almost tossed it out the window and ran over it at 75 mph just to destroy the evidence, I swear. It was the kind of thing that sends small children screaming into their mother's arms and into years of the most intensive therapy money can buy.

That Cameron Diaz karaoke scene in My Best Friend's Wedding, where it's like, ha-ha, she's so terrible? Not even close.

The other significant moment of the trip: Some college boy walked up to me and asked me to give him a blow job. And they say romance is dead.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Sheryl Crow doesn't poop

I almost feel bad for celebrities sometimes. I almost do. Yes, they have millions of dollars and copious amounts of free time and people who'd pay hard-earned cash to eat their leftover French fries (not that they eat French fries, those skinny bitches). But some of the things that come out of their mouths ... it's like watching a girl at the beach who doesn't know her bikini top's fallen off. You just have to cringe a little at the complete lack of unawareness.

So anyway. You've heard about how some people don't think their shit stinks; well, apparently, Sheryl Crow doesn't shit at all. From her blog, otherwise known as How Sheryl Crow Will Save the World, One Square at a Time.

I propose a limitation be put on how many sqares of toilet paper can be used in any one sitting. Now, I don't want to rob any law-abiding American of his or her God-given rights, but I think we are an industrious enough people that we can make it work with only one square per restroom visit.

I can promise you that I have never walked into my bathroom and used fewer than three squares, and that includes the toilet paper I use to blot my lipstick in the morning. Perhaps Sheryl has magic poop that slides off her fingers into the bowl? Or maybe she likes to smear her poopies on the wall, a la your favorite 1-year-old, as interpretive art?

There's really nothing else to add here. I can't even make fun of her for spelling "squares" wrong.

In other celebrity news, Shanna Moakler (if you don't know her name, don't worry, you shouldn't) posted Paris Hilton's and Lindsay Lohan's personal email addresses on MySpace over the weekend. Because nothing says "Take that, bitches!" like having a bunch of Middle American teenagers email Paris and ask her about her sex tape.

Shanna also posted Paris's phone number (310-801-0148 ... shh!) online. This is a loose reenactment of an IM conversation I had with my BBFF Manic this afternoon:

Manic: I'm picking my feet.
Me: You always pick your feet.
Manic: Must be a stress thing. Are Paris and K-Fed dating?
Me: I don't think so ... did you see they posted Paris's number online? I called it. Mailbox full.
Manic: No! Seriously, for real?
Me: 310-801-0148.
Manic: OK, I'm calling ... HOLY SHIT, SHE ANSWERED! What do I say? Quick!!! HOLY, HOLY, HOLY SHIT, I am talking to her! I just told her I'm a reporter from OK! (Swishy side note: A reporter from OKLAHOMA? WTF?!?)
Manic: YES! Asking about K-Fed ...
Me: You are such a liar.
Manic: NO!
Me: Are you serious?
Manic: Hang on ...
Me: Make sure you say that Swishy gave you the number! HA HA.
Manic: Who's her ex-boyfriend?
Me: Stavros ... Greek guy.
Manic: OK, gonna ask about that. What else?
Me: Brandon Davis. He called Lindsay Lo firecrotch. They're friends, Paris was with him.
Manic: Ohhhhhh ... OK, hang on ... holy shit!!
Me: I am laughing sooooooooo hard.
Manic: Fuck. She figured out I was a fake and just said goodbye.
Me: No way.
Manic: Cuz I started asking her about that TV show and I forgot what it was called. Me: The Simple Life!
Manic: That's RIGHT! Simple Life! Hey, they should do a tv show ...
Manic: .... called
Manic: ... PUNK'D!
Me: I KNEW IT!!!
Manic: No, you did not!!!
Me: I TOTALLY knew it!
Manic: You did NOT! Ha ha ha ha ha ... I'm hilarious.

If you ever wonder if my life is as exciting as it sounds, this is proof positive that yes, yes, it is.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

I believe!

I died laughing when I saw this. It's totally real--this church is, like, a couple blocks away from where I work out. They make a good point, no?

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

I'm feeling very opinionated today

I'm going to start off with serious and work my way to completely, utterly frivolous, so if you've had enough serious, just skip down a couple ...

The Virginia Tech shooting. I mentioned a few weeks ago that I was reading Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult, which is about a school shooting (and is quite good). It's actually very, very eerie, because as details unfold about the VT shooting, they mirror a lot of stuff from the book. The shooter in the book sits down and eats a few bites of cereal before resuming shooting; the VT shooter mailed a package and went to his dorm room before resuming shooting. The shooter in the book says, "They started it"; the VT shooter said, "You made me do this."

The most interesting part of the book is the way it humanizes the shooter and his family, and that's what I keep thinking about. He was a person, a person who had good parts and bad parts, like we all do. That boy did a horrible, unthinkable thing. I mean ... there are no words. I can't begin to fathom how anyone, no matter how disturbed or cruel or broken inside, can be capable of something like that.

But I'm also having a big problem with the way he's being discussed in the media. This is what one of his teachers said to CNN: "I know we're talking about a troubled youngster and crap like that, but troubled youngsters get drunk and jump off buildings; troubled youngsters drink and drive ..."

I can hardly even read that quote: "A troubled youngster and crap like that." Hello, that's PART OF THE PROBLEM. It's SO trivializing. This "troubled youngster" loaded a gun and killed 32 people. It's not a joke. He certainly is responsible for his actions, but I also very much believe that a number of people failed him over a number of years and responsibility lies there, too. There are other quotes, quotes about how mean he could be, how weird he was, how annoying he was when he IMed a girl he liked. I wonder how much of that he heard when he was alive? It's a lot easier to call someone a freak and roll your eyes at them than it is to try to understand someone, or for hell's sake, SHOW THEM A LITTLE KINDNESS.

There was also this quote: "He was so quiet, he was just like a shadow." No one pays much attention to a shadow, and I wonder if that wasn't a big part of the problem, too. There's something seriously wrong with a society in which you can't go about your everyday activities and be safe. But there's also something seriously wrong with a society that turns its back on someone who's so clearly crying for help.


I've been reading about the Mary Winkler trial this week. I don't know what happened there, but I do know I feel a lot of compassion for her and I hope she can have an OK life. I think I can feel that without condoning what she did, you know? Anyway, I read today that the prosecution put her 9-year-old daughter on the stand. I was HORRIFIED. Absolutely appalled. I really don't see how that's necessary. Her dad's dead, her mom's on trial for his murder and you're going to make her testify in court? I think that's sick, I really do. As if this girl isn't going to have enough problems.


OK, I hope this isn't too jarring of a transition, but that concludes the serious, "Believe it or not, Swishy reads more than the Life section of USA Today" section of this post. Now for the frivolous portion, beginning with ...

John Edwards' $400 haircuts!

(Um ... yeah. Pretty much a non sequitur. But at least I warned you!)

OK, seriously. Seriously! John Edwards pays four hundred bucks to get his hair cut by some Beverly Hills hairdresser. Four hundred dollars for a GUY'S haircut! Now, granted, it's a very nice cut, and it makes him look boyish and charming and blah blah blah, but FOUR HUNDRED BUCKS?!? For ONE haircut? I feel like I spend a hell of a lot of money on my hair, and I barely hit that in a year. And I don't use campaign donations to pay for it, either. I'm amazed.


So you know how I feel about red carpets and awards shows (like the Emmys). Kind of the same way people feel about puppies and rainbows. I lovethemlovethemLOVETHEM! Which is why I am CRUSHED by the news that Lisa Rinna is bumping Joan and Melissa Rivers off the TV Guide Channel's red carpet. Watching Joan Rivers is like watching your crazy great-uncle Leroy at Thanksgiving dinner. It's the proverbial 10-car wreck, only better because no one gets hurt. You mean I'll never again get to hear Joan ask Kiefer Sutherland why he wears the same clothes on every episode of 24? Or congratulate Patrick Dempsey on the success of House? Noooooooo!


Finally, today is Suri Cruise's first birthday. You know how people remember what they were doing when certain landmark events occurred, like when man first walked on the moon? Well, I remember exactly what I was doing when I found out Suri was born. I realize it's a little pathetic, but in my defense, I remember LOTS of random things. Like, for example, I remember exactly what I was doing when Shiloh Jolie-Pitt was born, too.

OK, maybe that's a bad example.

Happy hump day

(No, not that, you pervs :) )

Stuff to say, but no time to say it! And Swishy needs her beauty sleep! So, in the meantime, take the fastest personality test ever and tell me what it says about you. Here's mine:

Your Personality Profile

You are dependable, popular, and observant.
Deep and thoughtful, you are prone to moodiness.
In fact, your emotions tend to influence everything you do.

You are unique, creative, and expressive.
You don't mind waving your freak flag every once in a while.
And lucky for you, most people find your weird ways charming!

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Girl talk

So we're having a girls night on Friday night. We're all sitting around eating and talking, and one friend, Elaine, mentions that the cable guys came by her house today.

Friend A: I had a guy come by the house the other day, too. He was so cute! He had such a nice face.
Friend B: OH! Well, *I* had a repair man come by, too, and you guys, he couldn't even button his jeans!

We all kind of look at each other, like, "Is she talking about what we think she's talking about?"

Friend B: I seriously had to keep reminding myself to look up. It came into the room before he did!

We start laughing. Someone asked if maybe he was using a pair of socks.

Friend B: SOCKS?!?! More like an entire boot! A BIG boot!

We're all wiping tears from our eyes. The idea of a repair guy packing a boot in his jeans is funny enough, but even funnier is the fact that this woman is perhaps THE most conservative person I've ever met. And she can't stop talking about it.

Friend B: Whatever. You're just jealous he didn't come to YOUR house.

Friday, April 13, 2007

This and that

Diving into a mess of random ...

* I am totally not a shoe person because, as you know, I need my feet to breathe. BUT ... I so needed summer shoes. (Of course, it's supposed to freaking SNOW this weekend, so I suppose "need" is a relative term, but still.) So I stopped by the store tonight after work and within 10 minutes, two little pairs of summer sandals had found a happy home.

The best part of all ...
Regular price: $140
Swishy price: $31.96

Thirty bucks. I spent THIRTY BUCKS on two pairs of shoes! YEAH!

* I did NOT want to work out tonight. Did not, did not, did NOT. But I went anyway and DAMN am I a superstar. I freaking loathe the treadmill, but I try to do it once or twice a week to mix things up, and tonight--even though I didn't even want to be there in the first place--I ran THREE TIMES longer than I did on Tuesday! I'm not telling you how many minutes because it's not that impressive, but it IS three times longer! Plus I did weights, which I also hate. I feel like I should never have to work out again after such a performance.

(OK, if you listen to the song Welcome to the Black Parade by My Chemical Romance, which I did approximately nine times during my workout, you can't HELP but run. It is the best treadmill song ever.)

* I came home today and, no kidding, the inside of my bedroom closet smells like paint. I keep walking in there to check, and every time, I'm like, yup, still smells like paint. RANDOM!

* If you are not watching Friday Night Lights, you MUST start! Unfortunately, the season ended last night (with yet another flawless episode) but you can watch every episode online for free at NBC.com. Seriously, the weather's crap--just stay in this weekend and have a Friday Night Lights marathon (because, trust me, after you watch a couple, you won't be able to stop). You will LOVE it! And then you can email me so we can talk about it all summer until the next season starts, or at least until Grey's Anatomy gets good again.

* I am completely addicted to the aspirin mask. It's just like Miss Jones said: a little bit of Cetaphil mixed with a bunch of crushed aspirin equals MAGIC!

* I got a new blow dryer and my hair hasn't fallen out since. Yayyy. It only took me three freaking months to figure it out. Tell me you're not impressed by my stunning intellect.

* Last but definitely not least, Manic Mom is having a birthday this weekend, so make sure you go over and wish her a happy birthday full of all the appletinis she can drink! Happy Birthday, my BBFF!

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

If loving this is wrong

I don't want to be right.

I don't know what on earth made me think of this ... oh, wait, yes, I do. I was talking to my friend the other day about ... well, never mind, I guess you don't need the whole conversation. The point is, I was like, I haven't danced around my living room in FOREVER and, as you know, a life without living room dancing is a pretty sad one. So I put on some music and started shaking my thing around, and I thought of this video, which I used to put on and dance to all the time and quite possibly is my favorite video ever.

I KNOW! Ha ha ha ha. I don't KNOW why! (Although, if I had to guess, I would say it has something to do with that awesome blue shirt and the dancing in the fountain and ... oh, forget it.) All I know is that this video was responsible for me sneaking up to the front row of a Sugar Ray concert and offering to have Mark McGrath's love child. I actually stayed up late one night and watched TV until this video came on so I could tape it and watch it over and over again. (Such sad days before YouTube!!)

I would say this was an isolated incident, but of course it's not. My entire life is guilty pleasures. Everyone has one or two; I have, like, a hundred.

So what's yours?

(P.S. I would like to say for the record that Mark McGrath does nothing for me now, and has done nothing for me in at least six years. I don't even watch Extra. So he can't house his unborn children in my womb anymore. But I still love the video!)

(Well, maybe we could negotiate. MAYBE!)

Saturday, April 07, 2007

I'm a winner!

So my friend calls me last week and is like, "There's this adult Easter egg hunt next weekend. We should totally go!" OK, do you really think I'm going to turn down little plastic eggs full of sugary goodness? Is the sky blue? Does the sun come up every day? Is George Clooney the human equivalent of a six-foot, two-inch ice cream sundae?

Here's the setup: It's in this huge park after sunset. There are hundreds and hundreds of people there, all bundled up because it's freaking freezing outside, running around in the dark with flashlights looking for plastic eggs. Yes, it is totally as funny as it sounds.

The goal is to find a golden egg, because that's a big-time prize. About 10 minutes in, though, I'm like, please just let me find ANY egg. I am having NO LUCK. I'm also quickly developing a habit of shining my flashlight into people's faces when they walk by, which I realize must be incredibly annoying but I CANNOT STOP DOING IT. I'm trying, but I can't--I HAVE to see people's faces. I'm seconds away from getting my flashlight smashed by someone I've blinded when I stumble on it--a little nest of perfect, pastel-colored eggs. It's an Easter jackpot!

We collect the eggs and press forward, on the hunt for a golden egg. We pass a girl who is proclaiming her fear of porta-potties, a guy who's wearing a hat with lights jutting out on either side of his head (but, curiously, no light in the front), and a couple doing their own searching behind each other's tonsils, but no golden egg. We finally decide to head back and are greeted by this sign:

We go through our eggs (we're limited to 10), and hello ... Swishy has a 90!!!

I'm positively delirious with anticipation as I go to collect my MAJOR AWARD. Will it be some fancy chocolate? Or a gift certificate? Or a ...

Or, you know, a "Here, kitty kitty" T-shirt.

Um ... yeah.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Crystal ball

First order of business: Yay to Senor Beavis, winner of the first-ever Swishy Bracket Challenge. A $10 Amazon gift certificate is heading his way shortly!

Second: My remote is broken. I also saved the pieces of the mug to remind me what an idiot I am. So far they're doing a really good job of it. Maybe too good.

Third: Sometimes I think that I would give up five years of my life to be able to look at myself 10 years from now.

Would you?

Tuesday, April 03, 2007


Between yesterday and today, this week is off to a smashing start.

The scene at Swishy's place this morning:

Swishy first hauls a remote, then a lovely box on the coffee table, then a nice, heavy green coffee mug at the wall. The remote is probably irreparably smashed. The mug definitely is.

Swishy flings open the front door, leans over the balcony and throws the remaining half of the coffee mug down two floors to the sidewalk, screaming various obscenities while she's at it.

I apologize if you're one of my neighbors. The only thing I regret otherwise is that my set of four coffee mugs is now a trio, although I might amend that when I go to watch TV tonight and the remote doesn't work.

The only other thing I'd like to say is that my aim is impeccable when I want it to be, and I avoided all body parts, including people's heads, on purpose. I definitely think I get credit for that.

Monday, April 02, 2007


I know it's been a little schizophrenic around here, but I promise everything will be back to normal tomorrow.

Suffice it to say, today has been a shitty day.

(P.S.: Thank you.)