Waiting for My Real Life to Begin

The life and times of a girl named Swishy.

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Summer project

I'm in decent shape. I work out more days than I don't, that kind of thing. But I basically work out to support my emotional eating habit, not because I have any illusions of whipping my body into Jennifer Garner pre-baby shape. Kind of like the way people get part-time jobs to support their compulsive shopping habit or, you know, the way hookers turn tricks to earn coke money. It's a means to an end, or at least some guilt-free chocolate-covered Oreos and a large order of McD's fries. (My kryptonite! YUMMY!)

Anyway, I've been doing essentially the same workout for years. And while it was very effective for a long time, I've been thinking for a while that it was time to switch it up, which I've done in little ways, but nothing huge. Then I read about this Couch to 5K program in People magazine a couple weeks ago (the one with the people who all lost, like, 100 pounds) and a few days later on the lovely Monnik's blog. And then I found out some friends of mine are looking for people to run a 5K in September. It was like the universe was coming together and saying, "Swishy! Run a 5K! You have all the tools! Now use them!"

So I'm running a 5K.

This is a very interesting goal to have because I hate running. I loathe it. (I usually do the elliptical, or walk fast uphill.) It's just really not that fun to me. I see people running down the sidewalk and it all looks very nice and healthy and for a half-second I think, "I should be one of those people!" And then the half-second passes and I go home and eat some ice cream. My high school softball coach made us run a mile before every practice (AND suicides after!) and no one bitched about it more than me. ("Whatever. I'm so sure we need ENDURANCE to run from HOME to FIRST," I'd say, since I felt a responsibility to speak for the people. Unfortunately, "the people" weren't ordered to run an extra lap for being smartassy. Just me.)

Anyway, so my summer project is to run a 5K. My first order of business was getting new shoes. I love my old sneakers. LOVE THEM. I got them for 25 bucks at a sidewalk sale and they were the best little shoes ever. But I'd had them for five (FIVE!) years, and I'd stepped on glass once that cut really deep in the sole, so that when it rained, my sock got wet, and they basically had no support left. They had definitely seen better days.



So I finally bit the bullet and got new shoes on Monday. I could NOT make up my mind. I wanted the new version of my old shoes, but apparently there was a reason they were 25 bucks at a sidewalk sale. Like, they don't MAKE THEM ANYMORE. So I went back to the store like three times and, after much, much debate (high ankle? low ankle? soft cushioning? medium cushioning?) I finally picked these.



I think they're pretty.

Next, I downloaded the podcasts (you can also find them free on iTunes) for the program. These are AWESOME, because there are very short intervals in the beginning, and they tell you when to walk and when to run so you can concentrate on the Lindsay Lohan rehab story in People instead of obsessively watching the clock.

The deal with doing the program is that you do it three times a week, and it builds you up slowly. Supposedly within two months you can do three miles. I can definitely run a mile now, probably more if you held a gun to my head, but I'm sticking to the program because they SWEAR that even if you hate running, you'll at least be OK with it by the end, the thinking being that most people burn themselves out too fast when they first start. Yesterday I did the first workout, and it was good! It was hard enough that I felt OK about the workout, but easy enough that I didn't want to kill anyone when I was done. No killing = good thing.

Now, here's my proposal. I will send an awesome major award to anyone else who gives this a shot this summer and finishes by, say, Labor Day. If I can try it, you can. And then it'll be one of those things you can say you did!

So ... you in?

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Lesson of the day

If you show the man at Jiffy Lube some cleavage, you will get $10 off your oil change.

Friday, May 25, 2007

Pet peeve

Riddle me this: Why, oh WHY, do people go through the self-checkout lane when they don't know how to use the self-checkout?

I stopped by Walmart for contact solution on my way home from the gym tonight. Contact solution. That's it. There were, like, two checkout lines open and then the self-checkout line. I got in the self-checkout line. BIG MISTAKE. You know those people who always look like they're using the ATM for the first time? Like, carefully reading over the screen, as if it's somehow going to change from the previous 1,285 times they used it? That's what this was like. IT'S NOT THAT HARD. You swipe your stuff, you throw it in the bag, you run your card through the reader, you're done.

Ohhhh, but were these people having a hard time. It was making me CRAZY! I had to physically restrain myself from going up and just taking over. A few helpful tips: The bar code's usually on the bottom. You don't have to drag it across the thing 10 times; in fact, you don't have to touch the thing at ALL, you just have to wave it in front of the little red line. Also, if you want everyone else in line to begin plotting your murder, take a wad of crumpled cash out of your pocket and try to smooth it out a billion times before slowwwwwwly feeding the bills, one by one, into the slot. (One was a teenage girl, so I guess I give her a pass. Everyone else? DEBIT CARDS ARE YOUR FRIEND!)

So I'm stuck in line FOREVER. Truly, forever. Meanwhile, this guy starts edging in on me. Every time I take a step forward, he wedges his cart in front of me another couple of inches. When I'm three people away, the person at the checkout takes her receipt, and he makes his move, bolting to the VERY FRONT OF THE LINE!

OK, seriously, who does that? Really? I mean, REALLY. I was going to say something to him, but I was like, whatever, I don't even care, and besides, karma will take care of him when someone runs him over in the parking lot with their cart. Or, fine, dings his car. Whatever.

I DID, however, get all passive-aggressive and start talking about him so he could hear me. I was on the phone with my sister, and I was like, "This guy totally just cut in line. Apparently he's too important to wait like the rest of us ..." and blah blah blah. The lady in front of me, who'd traded incredulous looks with me when he did it, started giggling. He ignored me, which made her giggle harder.

For the record, once I finally got up there, I checked out in like 30 seconds. Maybe even 29.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

No snake charmers here ... HELL no

The saga continues. Holy crap.

So. I come home from work, and what do I see?



That, my friends, is the face of a snake. THE snake. And if it wasn't enough for this snake to terrorize Swishyville on his own, this snake also has ... a friend. Yeah. A LADY FRIEND. A lady friend with whom he begins engaging in SNAKE SEX! In the bushes! Outside my apartment!

Oh, yes. There are TWO snakes now. I'm on the phone with my friend, who's all, "Swish! Call the police station! Not 911 (ha ... he knows me too well), but the police station. They can get animal control out there."

I get off the phone and watch the snake sex for a minute, because I'm a pervert and also because I'm completely freaking out and trying not to make any sudden movements that will scare them. I'm kind of weighing whether I should call, and then I think: HOLY CRAP, WHAT IF THEY'RE MAKING SNAKE BABIES????? So I run to the trunk of my car where, yes, I keep a phone book, because that's just the kind of prepared girl I am, and I call the police station.

I explain the deal. The dispatcher's all, OK, animal control's closed, but I'll send someone over. I hang up, feeling like a very responsible citizen, and start holding vigil over the snakes. The one snake, the girl snake (don't ask me how I know, I just do) disappeared while I was opening the trunk, so I stare down the boy.

OK, seriously. He does not, not, NOT like me looking at him. He starts flicking out his tongue and darting his head back and forth and it's all very scary and I'm like, please, please, please someone GET HERE NOW! But, of course, since it's not an "emergency" (just wait until I'm lying DEAD on the PAVEMENT! It'll be an emergency THEN, now won't it?!) I'm waiting forever. And then ... the snake starts to make his escape.

This is seriously the creepiest, freakiest part of all. Because you know how I said the snake was, like, two feet long? And probably some of you thought, "Oh, Swishy, you little exaggerator"? (As if I would EVER exaggerate!) Well. Well, well, well. Turns out the snake is more like, oh, FOUR feet. I am NOT kidding! Just LOOK:



That's him slithering down the wall. And now him, in all his nasty, reptilian glory, sliding across the pavement:



YOU GUYS! I don't live in the country! I mean, granted, I don't live in Manhattan either, but HELLO! THERE SHOULD NOT BE A FOUR-FOOT-LONG SNAKE IN MY PARKING LOT! Let alone TWO of them! OK, really, forget being bitten. These babies are long enough that one could drop down from the bushes and wrap itself around my neck and mouth, and the other one could wrap itself around my ankles so I fall down and can't run for help, and then I'm DEAD. I've SEEN the scary movies! I KNOW what they're capable of!

At this point, I'm sufficiently freaked out and run inside.

OK, so you know the first thing I did was run to the computer to upload all my photos so I could look at how creepy they are. A little while later, there's a knock on the door, and it's my friend Mr. Police Officer, looking oh-so-thrilled that he got called to someone's house because of a snake sighting.

Me: OK, look, I know you're probably thinking this is stupid, but TRUST ME. I took pictures of it. Do you want to look at them? Because I will show them to you. And seriously, you will die when you see how big this snake is.
Officer: Well, I mean, that's oh--
Me: Look, here, I have them up right now. (I go to move the mouse around, and my computer freezes.) Oops. Crap. OK, well, I'll go get my shoes, and then you can look. (I get my shoes. Computer's still frozen.) OK, forget it. I'll just show you.

We go outside. In my head, I start freaking out because I put on flip-flops, which means easier access for the snake, but I try to play it cool.

I show him all the snake's favorite places, because, you know, the snake and I are well-acquainted by now, but the snake is long gone. Him AND his lady friend. Of course.

Me: Look, I'm serious, they're huge snakes.
Officer: I believe you.
Me: No, REALLY.
Officer: Well ... I mean, even if I saw it, I can't really shoot it or anything.
(Me, in my head: WELL, WHY NOT? What ELSE do they give you the gun for?)
Me, out loud: Ha ha. Yeah. You know, just so you know, I DID try animal control, but she said they were closed.
Officer: Well, animal control probably won't do anything, anyway.
Me: WHAT? WHY?
Officer (shrugs): You can call them tomorrow if you're really worried.
Me: Okayyyyy. Well, thank you for stopping by.
Officer, with an evil cackle: Good luck sleeping tonight.

NOT FUNNY!

So ... yeah. Two enormous snakes, on the loose in and around my parking lot. And it's getting dark. And I still have to go work out. This is not good.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Get it BACK on the PLANE!

I'm coming home from work. I pull up, put the car in park and go to grab my stuff off the passenger seat. I glance out through the windshield as I lean over and I see ... a SNAKE! An honest-to-goodness, two-foot-long SNAKE. It's winding through the bushes and disappearing into the drainage pipe right in front of my car. THIS drainage pipe:



OK, the last time I'd seen a snake was at summer camp in New Jersey when I was 12. A tiny little water snake darted out in front of me, and I got so scared I sprinted for seriously like 20 miles and then hid in a latrine for an hour. I do NOT like snakes.

So I start freaking out. Inexplicably, I become obsessed with seeing it again, just so I can prove I really saw it. So, verrrry slowly, I get out of the car, stand a safe distance away, and start chucking rocks at the drainage pipe. (Yes, people walked by. Yes, they looked slightly disturbed. No, I didn't care.) The snake's staying put. I grab my stuff and run inside.

But then, THEN, I come back outside a few minutes later and WHAT DO I SEE? The big-ass, scary-ass snake, slithering around inside the pipe. THIS SNAKE.



OK, do you SEE HIM? No? LET ME ZOOM IN FOR YOU.



Can I tell you the most disturbing part? Can I? I WALK UP THE STAIRS MERE INCHES FROM THIS PIPE. And the light next to the stairs isn't working! So, theoretically, I could be staggering home from a long day and BE ATTACKED BY THE SNAKE IN THE DARK!

I didn't leave the house after dark tonight just in case. I'm serious. If sometime, in the upcoming weeks, you don't hear from me for a few days, it's very likely because I got murdered by a killer snake.

It's been really nice knowing all of you.

Monday, May 21, 2007

I don't even know who I am anymore

Me, on the phone with my music-loving friend:

Me: So I was driving home last night, and I hear this song on the radio.
Her: Yeah?
Me: I hear it all the time, and I like it ... but I NEVER REALIZED WHO SINGS IT until last night!
Her: What song?
Me: It's, like, embarrassing. I've liked it forever and I did NOT realize who sang it. I CANNOT believe I like a song by this band. I cannot, cannot, CANNOT. I feel like the world is about to fall off its axis or something.
Her: WHAT BAND?
Me: Guess. Think TOTALLY embarrassing.
Her: Hmmm ... Nickelback?
Me (I hate Nickelback): Ooh! Yeah, that would be a good one. But, no, that's not it. OK, it's, like, a 93.3 band (the alternative station where I live). You wouldn't hear it on any of the top 40 stations.
Her: WHO? WHO?
Me (deep breath, then I say it really fast): 30 Seconds to Mars.
Her (processing): Wait ... 30 Seconds to Mars?
Me: I KNOW!!!!
(Cue ensuing freakout on my part.)

In case you don't know, 30 Seconds to Mars is the band fronted by the guyliner-wearing actor formerly known as Jordan Catalano. I've mentioned before how I feel about Jared Leto's music career. I know that song From Yesterday (the freaky video they have on an endless loop after 2 a.m. on VH1). That, along with the fact that Jared Leto tries to use the whole "I'm a disaffected rock star" thing to get in 19-year-old starlets' thongs, is all I care to know. Which is my excuse for not knowing that the song The Kill, which was released, like, a freaking year or more ago and got all these awards and stuff, was by them. Because I automatically tune out everything 30 Seconds to Mars.

OK, but back to the song. Seriously, I could not HANDLE this piece of information. When I see Jared Leto with his monochromatic outfits and artfully smudged eyeliner and shellacked bangs, I want to hurl. So I went to listen to the song again today, just to prove to myself that I didn't REALLY like it. Because I could not POSSIBLY like a song written and/or sung by Jared Leto. I was really sure once I heard it again, I would be like, blechh, and need to immediately cleanse my musical palate with another guyliner-wearing dude, like Brandon Flowers or something.

I was wrong. As a matter of fact, I love it, or at least parts of it. Like, the part where he sings, "You say you wanted more/What are you waiting for/I'm not running from you"? That part? I would maybe make out with him if he sang that in front of me, just because I love it so much and he kinda sounds hot singing it.

GAHHHHH. I can't believe I seriously just said that. I need to change the subject now.

* OK, speaking of music, this is a totally horrible story that I haven't even told Manic yet. So my lovely BBFF Manic sent me TWO CDs in the mail, and I was so super excited, and I loved them and listened to them all the time. Well, I was listening to the one while I was getting ready, and then I was like, I want to listen to it some more in the car. So I carry my crapload of crap out to the car and put my CD on the roof while I get everything else situated on the passenger seat.

You can guess the rest, can't you? Of course you can. But just in case: I DROVE OFF WITH THE CD ON THE ROOF! I have never, ever, EVER done anything like that before. I'm so pissed off about it! I looked for it when I got home, but it was dark. I'm hoping for a Manic Miracle, that I'll walk out and just magically see it unharmed. Some punkass kid BETTER not be listening to my Manic mix right now. For real.

* And finally, speaking of cars. Do you ever see shoes just sort of lying randomly on the side of the road, and think, how'd that shoe get there? And why is there only one? I think that ALL the TIME. I used to count the shoes on the way to my old office, and I swear there would be like a half-dozen and it was only a five-mile drive. And then I'd make up sick stories about how they got there. (Yes, I realize my need to be entertained in the car is an issue.)

Anyway. So the other day, I'm leaving my coffee shop. I'm waiting at the stop sign to get onto the main road, and this SUV drives by with this adorable little blonde girl in the backseat. She's maybe 2. They're stopped for a second in traffic right in front of me, and all of a sudden, the little girl gets this wicked, wicked grin on her face. She reaches down, pulls off her little pink Croc and CHUCKS IT OUT THE WINDOW INTO THE ROAD! I was laughing so hard. Her mom was COMPLETELY oblivious. I could just imagine them getting home, and her mom going nuts, wondering where the HELL the other pink shoe was.

I guess if I were a really nice person, I would have jumped out of the car and risked my life to rescue and deliver the shoe. Instead, I just took a picture:



Now I know why there are shoes on the side of the road.

Friday, May 18, 2007

It's gonna be a long summer

Well. THAT was depressing. (Grey's finale. Of course.) SO depressing! I have lots of thoughts, so many thoughts, but bottom line, Meredith and Cristina need to forget the men and just move in with each other. For real.

All right. As promised, the winners of the Swishy Grey's Anatomy mix are ...

Jenster
Monnik
Beth

Yay! Email me your addresses and I'll send them out!

And the winner of the grand prize, the MAJOR AWARD is ...

Patti!

Dude! Her family FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY! How Sixteen Candles is that? So, Patti, happy belated 10th birthday. You can celebrate it with a creepy T-shirt.

Have a good weekend, everyone. I'll be busy compiling Friday Night Lights music, since I have a feeling my next birthday blog CD will be from that CONSISTENTLY HIGH-QUALITY show instead.

(Yes, Manic, I'll still send you one. You too, Jill. If anyone else is truly dying for one, e-mail me. I might make you jump through a hoop or two, though, like you might have to make me laugh or something. You know, to be fair.)

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Bad juju

There's been a lot of it floating around Swishyville the past several days, so I need an influx of good stuff. I want everyone to tell me what your best quality is. I want you to sit there for a second, think about what's really great and special and unique about you, and then brag about it. And I want it to make you feel good! Because it's great and special and unique!

I don't know what mine is yet. I know I've got one, but I might need to read some of yours first.

In other news, I know, I know, I know, I haven't announced the Swishy Blog Birthday winners yet. Maybe being a slacker is my best quality? But I want to do it right, with the little pieces of paper and everything, so I'll do it tomorrow during commercial of the Grey's Anatomy season finale and post them tomorrow night. So, see, it's kinda like it's planned ... right? 'Cause, you know, Grey's mix, Grey's finale ... ha. OK, never mind.

All right, kiddies ... gimme some good stuff!

Monday, May 14, 2007

WTF moment of the day

I'm sitting in my coffee shop. Two women are sitting behind me, having a business meeting. I'm not really paying attention, but then I hear:

"I'm not interested in selling body hair to people. I just don't have the time or the passion to do that."

And before you ask, no, I did not hear her wrong.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

No, I'm not an emotional eater at all



The important thing is that I went for the Diet Dr Pepper instead of the regular stuff. Because, you know, calories count.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Blog birthday

My little blog is having a birthday today! Thank you so much for visiting my little corner of cyberspace. I really can't say that enough. Your funny, kind and thoughtful comments have been the highlight of many days for me over the past year. When I feel like I'm not very fun or interesting, you help me feel like I am, or at least that I will be again soon. So, thank you.

It wouldn't be a birthday without presents, so I'm giving some out. Yay! Chances are, if you've read this blog over the past year, you know that a) I love me some good TV and b) Especially if it's Grey's Anatomy. And, of course, I love music.

So here's what we're gonna do: I'm going to put the names of all the people who comment on this post in a hat and pull out three winners, each of whom will get a special edition copy of the exclusive Swishy Grey's Anatomy Mix! (Yes, it exists, and yes, I listen to it ALL. THE. FREAKING. TIME, including when I blog, so it's quite appropriate on many levels.) I know some people don't like to comment, so if you send me an email between now and when I post next, that can count, too. (And, no, you don't have to like Grey's--or even watch it--to like the music! I promise!)

That's the little prize. There's also a big prize up for grabs. To qualify for this major, highly coveted award, you have to give me your best birthday story. Funny, poignant, embarrassing, whatever. (In the interest of fairness, I'll have an esteemed panel of non-blogging friends determine the winner.)

What is this completely awesome prize, you ask? Why ... none other than a Here, Kitty Kitty t-shirt!



I might even put it on before I send it. A Here, Kitty Kitty t-shirt! Game-worn (so to speak) by Swishy!

Now, that's a party.

Monday, May 07, 2007

Gym issues

I'm a friendly girl. I mean, I'm not going to ask the lady in line next to me at the grocery store for her life story or anything, but I'll say hello or smile at people when I walk by. If someone strikes up a conversation while I'm waiting somewhere, I'll play along. I'll ask people questions about themselves. That kind of thing.

But when I go to the gym, I don't want to have a conversation. I just don't. I'm there with a purpose, and that purpose is getting in and out as quickly as possible. "Hello"--that's conversation enough for me. Other examples of acceptable conversation include:

"I'm finished reading this magazine. Would you like it?"
"Are you done with those weights?"
"Do you mind if we change the channel to the Jazz-Warriors game?"
"You have the shiniest, sparkliest eyes I've ever seen!" (Someone really said that to me. Hello, random, right? But it was very nice. Any compliments, no matter how random, are acceptable.)

All other conversations, I could do without. I understand that going to the gym is a very social thing for many people. However, I am not one of those people. I seriously look like crap when I work out. Not like those girls who say that but in reality look all, I don't know, girly. I really do. I wear crappy old T-shirts with holes in them and no makeup and my hair's everywhere. I don't want to win friends and influence people. All I want to do is read my People magazine, listen to my music and try to burn off the chocolate-covered Oreos I just ate.

But people insist on making conversation anyway. First, the borderline annoying kind. Most of the people at the front desk are very nice, like this one lady who totally noticed when I wasn't there for a few days and asked me where I'd been and if everything was OK. Which made me feel a little guilty for not going, but was nice.

But this other woman? She wears stickers on her face, like clown stickers and crap. For real. Which isn't really relevant except to give you a mental image. Anyway, whenever she's there, she either says: "You're late tonight" or "You're early tonight." (Curiously, I'm never "on time.") So then I feel like I have to explain myself. Like, "Yeah, I got home, ate dinner and then got sucked into this America's Next Top Model marathon on VH1. Have you ever seen that show? Every season they have an episode where they do crazy shit to all the girls' hair, like chop it all off or dye it a totally random color or something, and someone cries, and it's, like, high drama. So, yeah, I totally got sucked into it, because I had to see this one girl's meltdown after they hacked off her hair, but then they went to commercial, and by the time it came back, I was all comfy on my couch anyway, and then the phone rang and ..." I don't want to get into all that! I also feel like it's a passive-aggressive dig at the fact that I often show up exactly 45 minutes before close. It all feels very judgmental.

Slightly more annoying: The guy who comes up next to the treadmill or elliptical and asks me about random stuff like auto racing. While I'm running. With headphones on. So then I have to take off the headphones, slow down my pace, and pretend that I care. Like trying to run on the treadmill isn't hard enough.

But then there's the most annoying of all: middle-aged men, in particular, one middle-aged man, who apparently has altered his workout schedule to better fit mine. It's the most maddening thing ever. Every night, he comes up to me and launches into a monologue about one of the following things: baseball, his bitch of an ex-wife, his dog, his boat, his kid or the fact that he irons his T-shirts before he works out in them (seriously). Oh, yeah, and that he plans to go tanning when he's done working out. Every Friday and/or Saturday we have the same conversation:

Him: So what are you doing tonight?
Me: Umm ... you know. Hanging out.
Him: My friends are in this band. It's a cover band. They play everything, you name it. They're really good. I'm gonna go watch them play.
Me: That's good. Have fun!
Him: You should come.
Me: Yeah ... well, you know, I'm sure you'll have a great time, but I kinda have plans.
Him: I'm serious. You should stop by. They're really good.
Me: Yeah ... you know, I don't think I'll be able to.
Him: I'll even buy you a drink.
Me: Um ...
Him (leering grin): We could have a really good time.
Me: Yeah ... thanks, but I just don't think I'll be able to.
Him: I mean it. You really need to come. I'll have a drink waiting for you just in case.

Every time, same exact conversation.

The problem is, I don't know how to get away from him. I won't go back to the weights while he's there because he tries to play personal trainer and "show" me (kind of like how a guy "shows" a girl how to swing a golf club) how to do it better. If I'm on the elliptical or whatever, he'll come up and stand by the machine. Last week, he cornered me in the parking lot. And once he gets me trapped, HE WON'T SHUT UP. A response from me is not required. He just goes on and on and ON and I can't get away and it makes me want to bash his skull in with a 30-pound weight.

So, as if I needed an excuse not to go to the gym, I'm finding myself absolutely dreading going lately just because I DON'T WANT TO HAVE A CONVERSATION! If it's not the tan, creepy dude, it's the front-desk girl. Or whatever. I wear headphones! I stare intently at the pictures of Gwen Stefani and Kingston in US Weekly! I don't know what else to do.

The funny thing is, people usually can't get me to shut up. I suppose that's what they call irony.

Friday, May 04, 2007

All about Grey's

OK, I'm sorry if this is boring to you, but I haven't talked about Grey's Anatomy for a long time and I have a LOT to say about tonight's (special! two hour! Seattle Grace could change forever!) episode.

(***STOP NOW IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED YET BUT PLAN TO.***)

All right. So, the Addison spinoff. I love Addison. I could watch an entire episode of her just sitting there so I could look at her pretty red hair. (I LOVE her hair. I SO wish I had the nerve to dye my hair that color.) And she's sexy and confident and smart and funny and just all-around awesome. So lots of Addison = good thing.

OK. The problem with the spinoff, though, is that it's Grey's 2.0. Grey's: The College Years, so to speak. Tough bad boy with a soft, gooey inside (Alex Karev/Tim Daly)? Check. Pretty boy narcissist coming off a divorce (Derek Shepherd/Taye Diggs)? Check. Lovable loser who can't get the girl (George O'Malley/That Cooper guy)? Check. The male-female BFFs who maybe hook up down the road (Izzie/George; Judging Amy/Cooper guy)? Check. The elevator where people make out? Check.

That exchange between Addison and Tim Daly? Hot, until you realize that the 1.0 version (Alex) gave ALMOST THE SAME SPEECH in season two of Grey's!

Tim Daly: I'm going to kiss you. I'm going to kiss you with tongue. I'm going to kiss you so you feel it.
Alex: I kissed you, with tongue, and I plan to do it again and again. Get used to it.

Basically, Grey's is about interns in their 20s starting out. The Addison Show is about divorced doctors in their 30s starting over. Grey's 2.0.

My other Grey's thoughts:

* I will watch The Addison Show (I REFUSE to call it Private Practice, I think that is such a lame show name) for at least a little while because I like Addison. Also because Tim Daly is hot, and I would totally let him kiss me with tongue in the stairwell as often as he wanted. But the other characters need some personality NOW. I don't even know any of their names, that's how bland they were, which is why I keep referring to them in my head as Tim Daly, Francie and Judging Amy.

* If Piz from Veronica Mars is supposed to be the eye candy man receptionist, he needs to get a haircut. Badly.

* Tim Daly is super hot, as I mentioned, and I would totally let him make out with me, as I mentioned, but he was totally wearing girl clothes in that scene with the smashed-up car. He was wearing a tucked-in t-shirt with a star and a gray sweat jacket thing that looked like a cardigan from far away. In other words, girl clothes.

* I still haven't figured out who that Cooper guy is supposed to be. By far, the most annoying character.

* I knew Taye Diggs was short, but seeing him walk next to Tim Daly? He's REALLY short. Also, he doesn't look nearly as good in clothes as he does shirtless. Just saying.

* I thought they were trying way too hard to be sexy. Don't TELL me how sexy everything is, SHOW me. Duh.

OK, that's all about the spinoff. About Grey's itself, I have several things to say, but I'll leave it at just one: Meredith, PLEASE break up with Derek. I love Derek, I really, really do, but Derek needs some Derek time to figure some stuff out. Like, how not to be an ass. And Meredith needs to go out with her friends and drink tequila and maybe have a nice guy like Finn be NICE to her and not trot out bullshit lines like, "I don't know if I want to keep breathing for you" whenever things aren't perfect and rosy in Derek World. (Is that "how this works," Derek? Really?) They've done such a crappy job of writing his character this season. I bet even the perma-erection dude would have gone after her after that random Thatcher slap.

(I realize that unless you really, really watch the show, the above paragraph makes no sense. Sorry. I just had to get that off my chest.)

But really, I still love Grey's even though it's been a so-so season, and I got two hours instead of one, so I can't complain too much. PLUS I ate a yummy chocolate Oreo Blizzard during it AND my hair inexplicably looks awesome after looking very average all day at work. Of course, it would be better if someone other than me could see it, but hello, am I gonna pass up an awesome hair night? I most definitely am not.

(One final P.S. that probably no one cares about but me: Since when are Snoop Dogg, Woody Harrelson, Jessica Alba, Kate Hudson and Owen Wilson Warriors fans? I've got a nice, comfy seat on the bandwagon, too, but give me a break. What a coincidence that the day after the Lakers get bounced, all their fans end up in front of TNT's cameras in Oakland. Whatevvvv.)

Thursday, May 03, 2007

An awesome way to end the evening

I was totally going to write a proper post, but I'm getting a migraine, so I can't. (Remember the last time I got a migraine? Ha ha.) As soon as I sat down in front of the computer, my vision got all kinds of blurry. I can literally barely see what's on the screen right now--all the letters are just kinda swimming together. Even though the head-pounding hasn't kicked in yet (I predict that'll happen in, like, 15 minutes), it's driving me FREAKING INSANE to try to look at a blurry screen.

Do you want to know why I get migraines sometimes? I'll tell you really quick. When I was, like, four or five or whatever, I got chicken pox. (Side note: My mom WANTED me to get chicken pox, because I hadn't gotten it yet. So when Ricky McCall across the street got it, she had him come over all day and play and even TAKE A BATH with me so I'd get it. I remember having some sort of vague notion of what she was doing and being so pissed about it that I barricaded myself in my bedroom and left poor Ricky scratching himself in the living room until my mom pried me out.)

Anyway. I got chicken pox, and it was spectacular, as only chicken pox can be. Well, months later, I got massively sick. Turns out the chicken pox virus had stayed active in my body, traveled up my spine and INTO MY FREAKING BRAIN. I was way sick and the doctors said it was going to leave me brain damaged. Fortunately, they were wrong (although I suppose that's debatable sometimes), but I've gotten migraines ever since.

And that's the amazing story of why Swishy gets migraines. I'm going to go hide under my blankets now.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

We're changing lives here

So last week, EW.com asked readers to submit examples of how TV and movies had changed their lives. Good news, kids, there are crazier people than your friend Swishy! My favorites:

* I lived in Maine for a few years because of Murder She Wrote. Seriously.

* My first trip to Hawaii was inspired by an episode of Step by Step. I wish I was kidding.

At first I wasn't sure if this one was serious--and I'm still not positive it is--but Entertainment Weekly seems to think so, and maybe they have some sort of elaborate vetting system. Anyway, the best one of all was this:

* I once watched an episode of The Simpsons where Homer was a truck driver, and he needed to stay up all night, so he pooped a whole bottle of caffeine pills, then balanced it out with sleeping pills to reach equilibrium. I had to stay up to watch a marathon of X-files on TNT, and went out to the 7-11, bought caffeine pills, and swallowed 15. If it couldn't hurt Homer, how could it hurt me? Well, later that night, I told my bro that I probably needed to go to the doctor so they can pump my stomach. I ended up not being able to sleep for two days, and my hand has a hidden tremor.

Ha ha ha. So then, naturally, I started thinking about mine. Like ...

* After I saw this one wall hanging made out of test tubes and a tool holder thingy on Trading Spaces, I became obsessed with making one myself. OK, do you know how hard it is to find test tubes? Test tubes that fit into tool holder thingies? I'll tell you: HARD. It took months--MONTHS--of calling stores and searching online. By the time my very sweet boyfriend-at-the-time found some for me, I'd lost all my passion for the project. I currently have a bag of test tubes collecting dust in the hall closet.

* I bought an outfit almost exactly like the one Calista Flockhart wears on the cover of the Ally McBeal soundtrack, only that one's purple and mine was gray and black. I also started wearing shorter skirts and picturing people's heads getting big and exploding when they were mad.

* I'm pretty sure I also might have used a line from Ally McBeal once when I was breaking up with a boyfriend. We talked and whatever, and I got out of his car and shut the door. Then, I very dramatically flung the door open again and said something like, "If I was going to spend the last year of my life with someone, I'm glad it was you." And then dramatically shut the door again and dramatically walked inside.

* After seeing Sleepless in Seattle, my life's goal became getting Meg Ryan's hair in that movie. Ditto for Reese Witherspoon's hair after I saw Sweet Home Alabama. Also, Reese's makeup. (It was a little bit of a slow movie. I had lots of time to study it.)

* Project Runway made me want to learn how to sew. This, in spite of the fact that I got a D in sewing in eighth grade. It hasn't really gone past that point, though.

* I'm not positive, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I started trying to work self-important, four-syllable words into otherwise ordinary conversations after Dawson's Creek came on the air.

* I anointed myself the next Debbie Gibson after I saw the Making of the Video for Electric Youth. I taped the show and watched it over and over again until I had the dance moves down, then unveiled them at my best friend's birthday party (the focal point of which was a lip sync and dance contest). I won second place in the dance contest, which I took as a total sign I was on the right track. (And, by the way, I WOULD have won first place except the first-place girl did a SPLIT. Like I'm supposed to compete with a SPLIT.) The next step was writing my own songs, since Debbie did, so I spent many hours lying on my bed, staring longingly at my ceiling, stringing together lyrics about rain and rainbows and true love. Unfortunately, in addition to the fact that I can't sing, my plan was foiled when I discovered rather quickly that I was a terrible songwriter. (Although, in my defense, using lyrics like, "I get lost in your eyes/And I feel my spirits rise" as my model did me no favors.)

The sad part is that I thought of all of these in like two seconds, so undoubtedly, there are many, many, many more. What are yours?