Waiting for My Real Life to Begin

The life and times of a girl named Swishy.

Friday, December 28, 2007

Holiday hangover

I am tired. Which is a pretty impressive feat considering I took a nap every day over the weekend and mustered up the energy to shower, oh, twice? Three times? Apparently eating massive quantities of pretzel-less Turtle Chex Mix is even more taxing than I thought!

Before I drop dead of sleepiness, a few things ...

* So remember this? I have a new one to add to the list. Do you know what happens when you talk about Project Runway all the time? You get a sewing machine for Christmas is what happens. Ha! Need I remind you that I got a D in sewing in junior high? That I barely mastered the art of making scrunchies in the '80s before hitting a massive sewing plateau? I DO, however, watch Project Runway on a continuous loop late at night, and that trumps all ineptitude, damning as the evidence may be.

In related news, I will soon be holding a sock giveaway on my blog. Or maybe pot holders. Ha.

* In other gift news, my sisters gave me a karaoke machine. Once again, a case of my big mouth getting me in trouble. I talk all the time about how it would be SO fun to do karaoke. Do I ever do it? Of course not.

Until now! Oh, my goodness, if you could have been in my parents' living room the other night ... let's just say the scene of my mother shimmying up and down and singing about how she's a genie in a bottle and you've got to rub her the right way ... oh, man. I could have lived the rest of my life very happily without that visual (and her subsequent, "Whaaaaat? Women my age still need to be rubbed the right way!" AHHHH. My ears, my ears.) Your friend Swishy classed up the joint with a booty-shaking "Oops, I Did it Again" and my most Cher-tastic rendition of "Believe." I am fairly certain my brother has it all on YouTube by now.

* So I'm flying home and a college basketball player ends up folding his 6-6 (actually, wait, I just looked at the roster: 6-7) self into the middle seat next to me. I feel bad for him because I'm a foot shorter and even I feel squished in those seats, so I don't get too mad when he totally starts encroaching on my personal space. But then ... then he falls asleep. On my shoulder. And THEN--here's the kicker--HE STARTS RUBBING MY LEG IN HIS SLEEP! Like, seriously, rubbing my leg. I sat there and took it because, I mean, what am I going to do? Pick his hand up and put it back on his lap? Nudge his head off my shoulder? He might wake up! And how mortifying would THAT be?

I went from the airport into work and told them about it, and all the guys just looked at me, like, seriously, you cannot possibly be that naive. I was like, what? He was asleep! And they're all, oh, Swish, Swish, Swish, he was definitely not asleep.


* Oh, yeah, one more thing: So I had to check the sewing machine as luggage, you know, but smart girl that I am, I packed an empty duffle bag that I could carry on just in case. So I pack up my real suitcase the night before I leave, and I figure I'll just toss everything that doesn't fit into the duffle bag. Which is exactly what I do.

Well. After waiting through a long-ass line to check my bags and then another long-ass line to get through security, I get pulled off to the side. "There is no way you're getting on a plane with this bag," says the security guard. I'm trying to think, OK, what illegal contraband did I accidentally pack this time ... turns out it was like EVERYTHING IN THE BAG. I do not know HOW I forgot the 3-ounce rule, but I did. My shower gel was in there, my hairspray, my lotion, a six-pack of Dr Pepper ... OK, just kidding. But a lot of stuff, all the stuff I use to get ready in the morning. So I had to go back to the counter, check that bag, and wait in the security line AGAIN to get through.

Ever since then my phone has been dropping, which it hardly EVER does. I am almost positive that I have been put on a government watch list after boldly trying to smuggle Pantene hairspray onto the plane, and the dropped calls are really George Bush listening to my conversations. Either he's entertained beyond belief or bored out of his mind. Tough call.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays ...

(She says with the oh, so slightest trace of irony in her tone ... ha)

So I have been all Slacky McSlackerson this week. This week has been a complete blur. Blurry, blurry, blurry. And now that I have time to write, my brain is COMPLETE mush. I mean, for real. What day is it? Who are all of you? What's my name again?

So I guess we'll have to do it up, random style ...

* It's funny the things I get all Zen about. I was totally in airports much, much longer than I was actually on an airplane yesterday, but I was all, la la la, I love sitting on a thinly carpeted floor surrounded by hundreds of cranky people, it's the bestest ever! It seriously didn't bother me at all. There wasn't tons of great people-watching, but I did get to spend an hour of quality baggage claim time with the entire Oregon men's basketball team. Random!

* I got in very, very late last night, and so it's like 2 a.m. and my sister and brother and mom and I are sitting around the kitchen table, when ...

Mom: It's half the size as the other one.
Me (without even thinking): That's what she said.
(Brother and sister, both watchers of The Office, start cracking up.)
Mom: WHAT is so funny. WHAT. You guys always do this. It's like, as soon as you get in ...
Me: That's what she said.

And on and on it went. My sister was literally crying, tears streaming down her face, and my mom was totally getting pissed because she thought we were laughing at her, even though we kept trying to explain it. So now we have to go rent The Office and make her watch a couple episodes so she gets it, although to be honest, if you need someone to explain why it's funny to say "that's what she said" after you get done making a comment about how much you love dark meat ... I'm just saying.

* Random observation: Nicole Ritchie's pregnancy has got to be the longest gestation in the history of the world. I cannot believe she hasn't had that kid yet. It's like she was so tiny, it needs 17 months to grow instead of nine or something. I'm sorry, I know that's random, but I think it every time I see US Weekly or listen to that Good Charlotte song I Don't Wanna be in Love, which is SO one of my guilty pleasures right now.

* I went bowling today and I seriously got a 70 the first game. I blame a) the crappy ball and b) the guy in the lane next to mine who totally felt the need to make a comment to me every time I got up there. After I managed to knock down, like, two pins after three straight gutterballs, he was all, Wow! You're on a roll! I think you should bowl for me! and tries to hand me his ball. I was like, OK, crazy train, although I did get a 115 my second game, so perhaps he had a point.

* Turtle Chex Mix is the best ever, although I don't eat the pretzels.

* We just got done watching that VH1 top 100 songs of the '90s special. Fun! I am such a sucker for those shows. The '90s, though: most random decade of music ever. In the top 10, you have Sinead O'Connor, Britney Spears, Pearl Jam, Backstreet Boys, REM, Nirvana, U2, Madonna, Mariah Carey, my personal favorite, Sir Mix-a-Lot (ha) ... love it. (What I love even more? That I can't remember my damn name and yet I can rattle off the top 10 artists in a VH1 special I just watched without even thinking twice. I need help.)

* Someone has a dimple picture and that someone just might be meeeee! Here's a little glimpse:

Told you!

Tuesday, December 18, 2007


You'll never believe who I hung out with this weekend. Remember him? The guy who thinks I'm a stalker? Turns out being a stalker WORKS! Who knew?

(Just kidding. I'm not really a stalker. Just stalkerazzi. Yes, there's a difference!)

Anyway. Hung out with Mr. Thinks I'm a Stalker and a bunch of his friends all weekend. A few things I learned:

1. GPS doesn't just come in cars.
2. Technology is an awesome thing.
3. Certain kinds of dimples are known to have hypnotic powers.
4. It can take five hours to watch a two-hour movie.
5. It's possible to go 24 hours without drinking a single thing.
6. Security for NFL teams is hard-freaking-core, even for cute blonde girls. Perhaps especially.
7. Cab drivers can be shaaaaady!
8. Guys don't like to play UNO.

So Friday night we're figuring out where to go, and we find out a couple of guys are already at this place called Cans. "Cans?" I say. "That sounds like a STRIP CLUB!" Is it a strip club? we ask. Noooo, says the driver.

Well. No, it was not a strip club, but believe me, there were some aspiring strippers in the mix. But first, a couple things about this place: Youngest crowd EVER! (A girl walked by and one of the guys was like, "So ... fake ID?" and she totally flipped him off. Ha.) And SO MANY MORE GUYS than girls! Seriously, if you're a girl looking to hook up, let me know, and I'll tell you how to get to this place. It's like a 3-to-1 ratio.

Also, drunkest crowd ever, which leads us to ... our aspiring strippers! Or stripper. We go downstairs where it's a little less crowded, and all of a sudden this girl pulls a stool out from the bar to the middle of the floor and starts dancing and grinding like she's on an audition for the Pussycat Dolls. Or Showgirls: Back on the Pole. Whatever. "She's doing her stripper internship here!" I hiss. UNBELIEVABLE car wreck ... which means, naturally, I couldn't turn away. After a minute or two, a guy sidles up next to me. "So," he says, "do you think you could dance better than that?"

Yes. He really did ask me that.

"Uh," I say, "no."

So the place closes and five of us pile in a cab. We're only going ... oh, 10 minutes away? 15? OK, seriously, this cab ride was like 50 MINUTES LONG!

Guy 1: "Dude, I'm FROM here. I KNOW you're going the wrong way. Quit trying to SCREW us. You are the WORST frigging cab driver EVER. We are SO not paying you for this."
Guy 2, yelling out the window at a guy following a girl down the street: "You're not getting any tonight, dude, so just give it up now." (Among many other funny, yet probably unprintable, things that I can't remember right now.)

Guy 3 starts chugging a bottle of Gatorade and throws the empty bottle out the window when he's done. We're like, dude, where did you get Gatorade?

Yup. It was the cab driver's. Ohhhhh, what a cab ride.

The next night, Mr. Thinks I'm a Stalker and I are eating dinner and the waitress decides she really likes him. I mean, REALLY likes him. She's all tossing her hair and giving him the screw me eyes, and I'm all, hellllllooooooo, can I get some mustard please?

So get this. You'll die, I mean, for real, die. She comes back to the table with some mustard and is like, so, you want to see a picture this girl I work with drew of me? And she busts out this piece of paper, kind of like a glorified stick figure, with two little marks in the middle. "See that?" she says, eyes batting a mile a minute. "Those are my nipples." And then she points down at her shirt. "My bra has this wire thing in the middle, and she's like, it looks like you have nipples in the middle! And then there's two other wire things, so it looks like I have eight nipples!"

Ohhhhhhhhhhh, yes, she did.

For real. She did.

I know. I know!

He still left with me, you'll all be glad to know. I know. I was surprised, too. After all, I only have two.

So ... I'm leaving out a ton, but I am sleeeeeepy! There was not a lot of sleep going on, plus I braved the snow to work almost 12 hours on Sunday. But it was fun and crazy and Mr. I Need to Think of a Better Nickname than Thinks I'm Not a Stalker did a great job of keeping me entertained.

Although would you believe that ONCE AGAIN I failed to take my usual load of stalkerazzi photos? I'm slipping, ohhhh, I'm slipping.

Monday, December 17, 2007

I am not dead

Just dead tired. More later, promise, promise! I hope you all had a great weekend!

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

How you know they care

Text message from my sister:

"LOL they were on my car ... ha ha"

With this picture:

Three thoughts:

1. How did my sister NOTICE that?
2. I didn't know bugs DID that!
3. Aww ... she saw that and thought of me! How sweet!

Or something.

Monday, December 10, 2007

A weekend of random dreams

Dream No. 1: I went skydiving and someone took video of it and put it on YouTube. I've never really had much of a desire to go skydiving or bungee jumping or anything like that because I don't, you know, WANT TO DIE. If I'm going to be in People magazine someday, I'd rather it be for reasons other than my tragic, untimely death from a defective parachute.

So as any good Internet addict would do after having a random dream, I Google it when I wake up. Google tells me that dreaming about skydiving means I have high ideals. And I do! This dream interpretation stuff is awesome! It's like reading my horoscope! Or a fortune cookie!

Dream No. 2: I was sitting around Judd Apatow's kitchen table, hanging out with him and Leslie Mann. (Seth Rogen was there, but he had to leave.) OK, I will concede to having weird dreams about Hollywood types (see here and here and, oh, what the hell, here). But this? This is SUPER random, because I mean ... JUDD APATOW! Who dreams about Judd Apatow? Other than Judd Apatow? I bet some of you don't know who he is, let alone what he looks like. But get this, he looked EXACTLY in my dream like he does in real life. And I hadn't so much as seen a picture of him since Rolling Stone did a story on him back in June.

Yes, I am aware of how strangely my mind works.

So back to my dream. We were sitting around, talking about writing stuff. This could mean many things. I could be knocked up. I could be a freak. Or a geek. So I Google again, and ... are you kidding me? Ideals? Still? Judd, apparently, represents the idealized version of someone I know in my life, someone I'd like to act more like him.

Personally, I'd rather him represent the fact that I'm going to be a super-wealthy, super-popular, super-every-I-touch-turns-to-gold It Girl, but whatever.

Friday, December 07, 2007

What a way to make a living

Apparently it's one of THOSE weeks in the office, because I already have another installment of workplace shenanigans. But first, a few administrative details:

* Grey's Anatomy is pretty much dead to me right now.

* My poor baby Kiefer is in jail right now. It's his birthday in two weeks! And Christmas the week after! Fortunately, he is allowed two 15-minute visits a day. Two very SPECIAL 15-minute visits a day, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

* My love affair with Jimmy Eat World has been kicked up a notch or 10 ever since the concert so it's all I listen to at work. My favorite song is Kill, my second favorite is 23, but right now I am SO loving this part of Polaris and I play just these lines over and over: "Get down on your knees, whisper what I need, something pretty/I feel that when I'm old, I'll look at you and know the world was beautiful."


OK, worky work.


We have a major issue in our office right now, a crisis which required a solid 15 minutes of discussion in our big staff meeting yesterday. Are you ready? We're losing our vending machines. Apparently we're not spending enough money on them, so unless we pick it up, we're going to have to walk the 10 steps downstairs to the machines on the second floor to get our Diet Coke fixes, and OH, THE OUTRAGE!

Person 1: "Well, look, I'll just start selling soda out of my office. 45 cents a can. Total discount. I'll keep them in the fridge across the hall."

(We have another, unused, lunch room across the hall. One guy, Person 2, works over there. That's it.)

Person 2, getting all twitchy: "You can't use that fridge. That's MY fridge! No one else is supposed to use that fridge."
Me, whispering to the person next to me: "What, is he hiding body parts in there or something?"

(Later on, I sneak over and check. There's an inordinate amount of Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi in the fridge ... and something that looks like a stuffed tube sock in a Ziploc bag in the freezer. And no, I did not look inside to see what it was. I ran away, thank you very much.)


Someone was out sick yesterday. What was wrong with him? "I got sick from walking my dogs outside in my underwear."

Which somehow--don't ask me how, because I really, REALLY did not want to delve deeper into this one--leads to this admission from another person: "I've never done that, but I DID go trick-or-treating in my underwear once."

(And not when he was, like, five, either, by the way.)


Co-worker I: "OK, so on my flight back, there was this man in front of me with the most amazing ear hair I have ever seen. I mean, it was INCREDIBLE. How do you not notice that? It was like the spoiler on a car."


A guy comes over and says he'll get rid of this MONSTROUS something or other that someone left by my desk. (Side note: Everyone ALWAYS dumps their shit on me. I have no idea why. I have a broken Magic 8 ball, Silly String, a broken bobblehead, postcards of half-naked men, a green clown wig, foot cream, golf tees ... and yet I can't throw any of it away.)

Anyway, so he comes over and says he'll get rid of it for me because it's too heavy for me to carry and everyone keeps tripping on it.

Me: "You are totally like my hero right now."
Him (picks it up and yelps): "I'm your hero who almost just SLICED HIS FINGER OFF!"
Me: "You know, if you really did slice it off, I would take your severed finger and save it in milk until they could reattach it."
Him: "You'd ... what?"
Me: "You know, milk. Until they could--oh, WAIT! I'M THINKING OF TEETH! You're supposed to put TEETH in milk, not severed appendages! OK, never mind. I'd just put it in a baggie instead."

And then later: "Hey, do you think John Bobbitt used a glass of milk?"


They're painting the elevator and the fumes are WAY strong.

Friend: "You could totally get stoned if you stayed in here long enough."
Me: "I KNOW! For real."
Friend (after a pause): "I'm going to have to drag you out of here, aren't I?"


I'm talking to one of the girls I work with when our boss walks out of the kitchen munching on some Famous Amos cookies (doing his part for Operation Save the Machines, no doubt). Apropos of nothing, he stops, waves a cookie in the air and says: "You two are a bad influence on my ..." (long pause) "... LIFE!"

It was a weird day.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

A midweek game

Suppose you could give a questionnaire to potential lovahhhhhs. You could ask them anything you want--funny, serious, tough, easy--and you could score their answers. And if they got, say, 76.2 percent of the answers right, they would pass.

What would you ask?

Monday, December 03, 2007

Scenes from the office

I have been a bit of a naughty blogger the past few days, but I have a good reason. A few good reasons. Such as:

1. I've been up until like 5 a.m. the past three nights.
2. I've been up until like 5 a.m. the past three nights.
3. I've been up until ...

OK, fine. One good reason. But it IS a good reason, a good reason that would probably make a good and even great blog post, but I'm sleep-deprived and delirious and I don't know where to start. And knowing where to start is important, because it's kind of a good story. So we'll have to come back to that. Instead ... scenes from work. Which is not nearly as exciting, but in the interim that's what we've got.


Since we work long, crappy days on Sundays, they bring us food sometimes. Tonight we got sub sandwiches. We all get done eating, and then ...

Co-worker 1: Did the sandwiches taste like Windex to you?
Me: Did the ... what? No. Why?
Co-worker 1: Me neither, but those guys said they tasted Windex.
(Co-worker 2 walks by.)
Me: Did the sandwiches taste like Windex to you?
Co-worker 2: Yeah! YEAH! They totally tasted weird!
Me: OK, but Windex? Really? How do you even know what Windex tastes like?
Co-worker 2: Oh, I KNOW. Trust me. (Pauses.) I didn't really care, though, I just kept eating it.
(Walks away, and a few minutes later I get this instant message:)

And no, this kind of thing isn't really out of the ordinary.


My friend comes up to me and tosses a postcard on my desk: "Here you go, pervert." It's a photo of a muscle man hanging from a trapeze wearing nothing but a pair of pink and white briefs.

Again, not remotely out of the ordinary.


We have a flat screen that hangs right next to my desk, and this other girl and I can see it. We'll turn it on and then we'll forget about it. And then all of a sudden we'll hear a strange noise and look up to see someone getting the crap beat out of them on Cops, or Homer Simpson chugging beer, or tonight, an infomercial. An infomercial for a machine that cranks out chicken nuggets. Very, VERY creepy-looking chicken nuggets.

And yes, that's the whole story. THAT'S how creepy this machine was.


I've brought in Rolos to put in the candy dish on my desk.

Co-worker 1: I know someone who calls Rolos Rollas.
Me: Did you ever see that movie Spellbound? There was a kid on there from a place called Rolla.
Co-worker 2: I SAW THAT MOVIE! Wasn't that the kid who, like, looked like he was about to go on the roof any second with a gun and start firing away at people?
Me: Um ... yeah.
Co-worker 2: I bet he was home-schooled. All the kids like that are home-schooled.
Co-worker 3 (yelling from over the cubicle): Hey! I was home-schooled!


I call someone a few cubicles away to tell them they did a good job on something. I ask who else worked on it, and then say I'm going to call him next.

Guy: He can already hear you.
Me: No, he cannot.
Guy: Yes, he can. Everyone can hear everything.
Me: That is not true. You can hear me laughing, but not talking. He can't hear me.
Guy: Yes, he can.
Me: No, he can't.
A chorus of people from the other side of the cubicle wall (including the guy I'm talking about): YES, HE CAN!


Something hits me in the back. It's a Rolo. This happens again, oh, a half-dozen more times the rest of the night. Apparently Rolos, in addition to their chocolately shell and creamy caramel filling, are quite fun to throw.

Note to employers: This is what happens when your employees are working a 12-hour day.