Waiting for My Real Life to Begin

The life and times of a girl named Swishy.

Friday, August 31, 2007

You might have already seen this ...

... but it makes me laugh every time. (It's only 17 seconds.) Happy Friday!

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Menace to society

That would be yours truly. Would you believe that I got pulled over AGAIN? Well, believe it, because I did.

(OK, I'm going to interrupt myself for a sec. I forgot to blog about the last time I got pulled over, which was a couple of months ago during one of those random ... what are those called? Checkpoints! I got pulled over at a checkpoint, and the officer was freaking PISSED at me because I was on the phone and my friend kept saying funny things to get me to lose it and I COULD NOT STOP LAUGHING. And then I couldn't find my insurance card again, which made me laugh even harder. And finally the officer was like, "Get off the phone NOW!" and I was all scared straight and found my insurance. And THEN he made me show I could pull in and out of a parking spot, which I did flawlessly if I do say so myself, keeping me from being tossed in jail after all. So anyway. This makes the third time in eight or nine months that I've been pulled over, which is more than I've been pulled over in my entire life previously. I believe I'm on what they call a roll. Or something.)

Anyway! Back to the story. I'm driving home the other night and I'm literally, like, a mile from home when I see those lovely red-and-blue lights I've come to know so well. This time, though, I am CONFIDENT I did nothing wrong, so I give the officer my brightest, cheeriest, sweetest smile as he strolls up to my window.

Me: Hi!
Him: How much have you had to drink tonight?
Me (indignant, but in a cute way): Nothing!
Him: Are you aware that your right brake light is out?
Me (wondering what drinking or not drinking has to do with my brake light): Oh, really? I'm sorry. I had no idea. Which one did you say it was? The right one?
Him: Yes. The right one.
Me: OK, I'll fix it this weekend.
Him: Can I see your license and insurance?
Me: Sure, no problem.

(Having learned my lesson the previous TWO times, I produce my license and insurance in mere seconds.)

He disappears. I'm feeling pretty good about life, because, I mean, how can I get in trouble for something that I didn't know I was doing? If that doesn't say "warning" all over it, I don't know what does. Plus, I mean, I'm a nice girl. I can be flirty. I can be charming.

Well. Apparently our friend the police officer is immune to the Swishy charm. (I know, I couldn't believe it either.) He hands me a ticket, a ticket for 65 FREAKING DOLLARS. Which is the stupidest thing I have ever heard of. There IS a silver lining, though: If I get my brake light fixed within five days and take it to the popo station, I get a pass on the ticket. Goody. Because there is nothing else I'd rather do than fix my brake light.

OK. If this post were a two-parter, this would be the part titled, "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar." I went to the auto parts place hoping maybe they would take pity on my cluelessness and pop the bulb in for me. Nope. I could have made some guy do it for me. I could have taken it somewhere and paid someone to do it. I could have done any of those things. But no! I am a competent, intelligent, professional woman! I can fix a brake light!

So I pull into an empty parking lot and roll up my figurative sleeves. And then I get a guy on speaker phone, you know, just in case. And then I change my brake light. I will boil this part of the story down to bullet points:

* Yes, it took me several minutes to find the little turn-y things.
* Yes, I tried yanking off the light cover even though the screws weren't all the way undone. (In my defense, my friend told me it would just "pop off" once I started turning the screws. It DID NOT pop off, at ANY point.)
* Yes, I eventually had a friend help me. (She called while I was doing it! She was nearby!)
* And, yes, I got my hands dirty. See?





Are you impressed? You should be impressed.

All right. So I go to the police station to show them my brake light and I get this sort of scary-looking, older cop.

Him: Press on the brakes.

I push on the brakes.

Him: Uh, I said press on the brakes.
Me (to myself): I am! Wait ... does the car need to be on? I don't think the car needs to be on, but maybe it DOES need to be on. OK, I'll turn it on ... OK.

I turn on the engine and push on the brakes again.

Him: Are you going to press on your brakes?
Me: I am! I really am!
Him: Can you just do a turn signal or something?
Me: OK.

I do right, then left.

Him: Fine.

And then he starts to walk away.

Me: So ... I'm good? It's all good now?
Him: After I sign it.
Me: And you're gonna sign it, right?
Him: When I go inside, I will.
Me: Um ... OK. Great. Thank you!

I really wanted to ask him if I could take a picture of him giving me the thumbs-up, but he didn't seem like he was in the mood to pose, so I did the next best thing: I took a picture of him walking away.



Hee hee.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

I'm a big kid now

Weeks since I got my ears re-pierced: six.
Pairs of earrings I've bought in the meantime: five.
Pairs of earrings I've worn since Saturday: five.
Minutes it took me to get the original earrings out: TOO MANY to count. OK, that seriously was traumatizing. I could not get them out. Could NOT. I couldn't get a good grip, and I was scared I was going to hurt myself, and ... yes, I am a big baby.
Times I couldn't get the earrings back in: Once. Do you understand how that happens when you've JUST BARELY taken an earring out? Yeah, me neither. I had to push it through extra hard, and I was such a wimp about it because it felt weird and kinda hurt and made my hole start bleeding a little, and then I decided I wasn't going to change my earrings again for two days to give my little babies a break.

But here it is, my grown-up pierced ear:



OK, on a completely, COMPLETELY, unrelated note, can you believe the news about Owen Wilson? Isn't that unbelievable?

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Why Swishy is an idiot

(Installment No. 23,457)



I follow the same exact routine before I go to bed every night: wash face, take out contacts, look at my eyebrows to see if anything needs plucking, stare at my teeth, stare at my skin, brush my teeth (sometimes), floss my teeth (sometimes), swipe baby oil over my eyes if there's still makeup, put on eye stuff, put on moisturizer, clean ears with rubbing alcohol, put on regular lotion. Oh, and sometimes Carmex. But only if my lips are dry or I think I'm going to be making out with a cute boy.

So my sister calls me crying the other night at, like, 1 a.m. because she and the boyfriend no one likes have (for now) broken up. I'm listening to her like the good big sister that I am, but it IS after 1 a.m and I DO have to work in the morning, so after a while I put her on speaker phone while I listen to the blow-by-blow of their fight and get ready for bed. The contacts are out, the face is washed, and I reach for the cotton balls and rubbing alcohol. I get the cotton ball nice and soaked, reach up to clean my earrings ... AND START USING IT TO TAKE OFF MY MASCARA.

Yeah. I'll give that to you again: I rubbed a cotton ball SOAKED WITH ALCOHOL all over MY EYE.

It was funny, because way, way back in my brain, a little red light started flashing and a little siren started going off--like when I smelled the alcohol--but it just did not register. At ALL. Until, that is, my freaking eye caught on fire. I'm standing there, horrified, as my eye melts into my skin, and all I can think is, "Holy shit, I'm going blind and I can't even say anything because then my sister will know I wasn't paying 110 percent attention to her domestic drama and ... HOLY SHIT, THIS HURTS!!!! I DON'T WANT TO GO BLIND! HOW WILL I KNOW IF I HAVE STUFF ON MY FACE? HOW WILL I MATCH MY OUTFITS? HOW WILL BE ABLE TO TELL IF A GUY'S CUTE? AND WILL IT BURN MY SKIN AND LEAVE ME HORRIBLY DISFIGURED, TOO???"

And I'm literally, like, half-crying on the tile, thinking about how at least I'll have my vision in my right eye, and I can handle that, because when I broke my cheekbone in high school I only wore one contact for months, when it occurs to me to flush my eye out with water. Because, clearly, being quick on the uptake is one of my many strengths.

So I turn on the faucet and start scooping water into my poor red, trembling, oozing eye. And, several minutes later, I can finally open it again. And I'm not blind. I am, however, a moron.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Terrence Howard is a freak

What the hell is up with celebrities and their obsession with toilet paper? Seriously. Let me tell you, if I were a celebrity, toilet paper would not be No. 1 on my list of concerns. My list of concerns would go something like this:

1. Hiring a personal masseuse
2. Going on an exotic vacation
3. Meeting a hot cabana boy on said vacation
4. Seducing hot cabana boy
5. Flying hot cabana boy to million-dollar mansion in L.A. whenever I'm in the mood for hot cabana action.

...

139,985: Toilet paper (namely, making sure my assistant picked some up at Walgreen's after dropping off my Vera Wang gown at the cleaners)

I am not sure how I missed this when it first came out, but Elle has an interview with Terrence Howard (Crash, Hustle and Flow) in its latest issue. Apparently, Terrence has an issue with women who use toilet paper. Ohhh, yes, you heard me right. APPARENTLY, Terrence thinks women who use toilet paper are dirty, nasty skanks. If Terrence dated a girl who had toilet paper in her bathroom, he'd drop her like a poopie in the bowl unless she switched to baby wipes PRONTO!

I wonder, do you think he uses baby wipes on Little Terrence? Do you think he regularly freshens up Little Terrence's "neighbors" on especially hot, sweaty days? You silly kids, of COURSE he doesn't! He's like a human field of daffodils! It's WOMEN who are dirty, not fresh-as-a-daisy Terrence!

OK, one other thing. A little FYI if you're looking to be Terrence's lady of lust: He wants someone who looks just like him, because "the most beautiful thing in nature is your own reflection."

In the interest of full disclosure, I have made the comment before that I look so hot today I want to date myself, but I was a) having a very rare awesome hair day and b) kidding. I read Terrence's words of wisdom, and I thought to myself, would I want to date someone who looks exactly like me? And, after much contemplation, I decided I must have an even bigger ego than Terrence, because there is only room for one 5-7 blonde girl in my relationships.

In other news, I read this story today. Summary: A couple of high school girls in Ohio snuck onto the property of the town's eccentric, and Mr. Eccentric pulled out a rifle and shot one of them. (You know, just your good, old-fashioned feel-good story.) I think the girls were probably a little mean, and the guy was probably a little psycho, but that's not really why I'm telling you this. If you scroll down and read the whole story, it goes into the Eccentric Family's history with the police:

Example A: The family lived with the dead body of the guy's grandmother for two days in the '80s "for fear the woman might wake up and be scared."

Example B: The guy's mother "had once reported that a space alien sexually molested her after entering the house through the duct work."

It's days like today that make me feel TOTALLY normal.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Feeling random today

* So I'm at my coffee shop, and there's this guy here who looks like Mat Kearney. How do I know what Mat Kearney looks like, you might ask? Because I watch VH1 at 3 in the morning, that's why! And he does. Look like Mat Kearney, I mean. On a somewhat related note, I like that song Undeniable.

* I've decided I'm sick of all my clothes. That happens every few months or so, around the time the seasons change (or around the time I WANT the seasons to change). But this time I'm taking action! I got the brilliant idea to sell some of my old clothes on eBay so I don't feel guilty about buying new clothes, but mostly so I can make room in my closet. I put two things up there last night as a test. Unfortunately, one of them is a green polo shirt, and there are 68 other green polo shirts up there right now, so I'm not sure I like my chances. Also, I was getting impatient with eBay, so I'm not even entirely sure I did everything right. But that's why it's a TEST, right?

* I have a new favorite song of the week: I Still Remember by Bloc Party.

* T-minus SIX DAYS until I can wear real earrings! Yay, yay, yay. I might cheat and put in a new pair on Saturday instead of Sunday, because that's the kind of wild and crazy girl I am. I keep yanking on my ears trying to test if they hurt--you know, if they're really ready for the responsibility of new earrings. (And I wonder why they got infected the first time around.) But so far, so good.

* I am so happy The Hills is on tonight. I am also SO, so happy it's almost TV season again. FINALLY!

* I'm a little concerned about the news that Ryan Seacrest is hosting the Emmys. Not because I'm sick of Ryan, or because I'm worried about Ryan overexerting himself, but because, as you may know, I am a loyal Emmys live-blogger and I'm worried about the red carpet. Of course he's not doing the red carpet if he hosts, right? So who WILL be doing the red carpet? Debbie Matenopoulos? SAL MASEKELA? (Please, no.) Love Ryan or hate him, but he holds shit together on the red carpet. I'm really worried about this. Unless they bring back Kathy Griffin. I liked her. Or the boob-grabbing Isaac Mizrahi.

WAIT. Something else occurred to me. Ryan's going to have to do an opening monologue! But he's not a comedian!

Maybe there will be good live-blogging after all.

Friday, August 17, 2007

Fun fact of the day

Because you know we're all about the fun facts around here: It's the CD's 25th birthday today!

So, naturally, when I read that on Thursday, I started asking everyone at work if they remembered the first CD they ever bought and what their favorite CD of all time was. This led to all kinds of revelations, such as the fact that one guy I work with has actually NEVER bought a CD and the fact that apparently I am the only person on the planet who doesn't think Joshua Tree is the best U2 CD.

I definitely remember the first CD I got: Boyz II Men, Cooleyhighharmony. (It was all Bangles and Debbie Gibson cassette tapes up 'til then.) The last CD I bought? The Garden State soundtrack ... THREE YEARS ago!

My favorite CD ... I very, VERY rarely like entire CDs unless they're soundtracks, but I have a big soft spot for August and Everything After by the Counting Crows. Every time I started to get a little sick of it, I'd find another song on there I decided I loved. I'm not sure what my favorite song on there is ... Sullivan Street? Either Sullivan Street or A Murder of One, probably.

(Other random fun fact: I was reading somewhere else today, totally unrelated, that the Counting Crows are rereleasing that album next month, in a two-disc set that features an undoubtedly smashed Adam Duritz and the boys in concert in Paris.)

So ... what's your favorite/first CD?

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

It's getting hot in herrre

It's only 9:43 a.m. It's already 90 degrees outside. And ... the air conditioning's broken at my work.

Fun times!

The following thoughts keep running through my head:

"Why did I shower this morning?"
"I am SO glad I put on extra deodorant this morning."
"I am SO glad I wore a light shirt that won't show sweat marks."
"How much trouble would I get into if I worked naked?"
"If I DID work naked, would I at least get sent home? TO MY AIR-CONDITIONED APARTMENT?"

I seriously think this falls under the umbrella of "cruel and unusual punishment." It's very, VERY hot in here right now. Naturally, everyone's getting pissy. (Overheard in our morning staff meeting: "Don't ASK me about the air conditioning! Just because I rode up in the elevator with the guy doesn't mean I KNOW anything!!" "WELL. Now we all know who gets bitchy when it's over 90 degrees." Someone else, under their breath: "Try under 90, too.")

I much prefer this approach: After the meeting, I went to get a spoon for my morning chocolate raspberry mousse yogurt. Another guy I work with was in the kitchen.

Him: How's it going?
Me: I'm HOT!
Him: Yeah, we know. You don't have to brag about it.

Ha.

* * * * *

Update: The air is back on (yay!). They brought us ice cream. And I'm no longer hot.

Monday, August 13, 2007

You can take the girl out of Jersey ...

(... but you can't take the Jersey out of the girl. As you're about to find out.)

(OK, I'm sticking in a preface. I read this again, and if I sound like I was a complete bitch, I PROMISE I wasn't! I swear. I was only a little one. I didn't raise my voice or gesture wildly with my hands or anything like that. In fact, I'm normally very non-confrontational about these kinds of things. But I was very tired, it was a very ridiculous situation, and ... I'm going to stop now.

Anyway. Back to our regularly scheduled post.)

You guys! I'm back. And you know how I had a crazy time GOING on the trip? I had just as crazy a time getting BACK. I swear. Sometimes I seriously feel like I'm on a candid camera show.

So this is what happened. Before I left, I dropped my car off at the shop because it had been spazzing out whenever I accelerated. I called the shop the day before I came back because I hadn't gotten a call with an estimate yet and I wanted to make sure it was going to be fixed and ready for me to pick up. I was informed that I had gotten a tune-up and that it was going to cost $200-something. I was pretty ticked that they hadn't called BEFORE doing stuff to my car, but fine. It didn't cost that much, and if it was fixed, fine. "I can come pick it up when I get back in town, right?" I asked. Oh, yeah, they told me. The shop itself would be closed, but there would be a woman there who could take my payment and give me my key. I've done that like seriously a half-dozen times there, and it's never been a problem. So ... good.

So my friend picks me up at the airport and we go to the shop to get my car. I pay my $241.86 and wait for the woman to give me my key. And wait. And wait.

Her: I can't find your key. Do you have it?
Me: Ummm ... NO.
Her: You might have to come back tomorrow.
Me: Are you serious?

My friend goes to check my car. He comes back with this "please don't shoot the messenger" look on his face.

Friend: Uh ... your key's in the ignition. And the doors are all locked. And (deep breath) ... the radio's on.

(This is where I go from pleasantly mellow to cranky and tired and pissed off.)

Me: What? WHAT?!?!?! You've GOT to be kidding me. (Turn to back to woman.) What are you going to do about that?
Her: I can't do anything about it.
Me: Well, I'm not the one who locked my keys in the car with the radio on.
Her: Well, neither am I.
Me: OK. I understand that YOU, YOURSELF did not lock my keys in the car. But SOMEONE here did, and seeing that you WORK here, I want to know what you're going to do to help me.
Her: I told you, you're going to have to come back tomorrow.
Me: OK, do you not understand that my car is also ON? I am not leaving my car here, ON, all night.
Friend, under his breath: We can call Triple-A.
Me (eyes, no doubt, blazing): SHE can call Triple-A. And besides, why should I call ANOTHER garage to come open my car when I'm already AT a garage? The garage that DID IT in the first place? (Turn back to woman.) You're going to have to call someone.
Her: I'm telling you, if you just come back tomorrow ...
Me: You know, I really wish you would stop saying that.
Her: I know how you feel, but ...
Me: Oh, do you? Really? Are your keys locked in the car right now? Is your battery going to be dead from the radio being on for who knows how long? The battery you bought here a mere six months ago?
Her: Well, no.
Me: Look. I'm sorry, but this is seriously unacceptable. And I really wish you would stop trivializing it and start trying to fix it.
Her: FINE. I'll call the manager.
Me: THANK YOU.

She picks up the phone and starts dialing.

Friend: Do you want something to drink?
Me: Do I want ... no! I don't want anything to drink! I want my keys out of my car!

She hangs up.

Her: He's not home.
Me: So call someone else.
Her (makes indignant sound): But, if you just come back ... (pauses when I shoot her my Swishy death glare) FINE.

She dials.

Me, hissing to Friend: I see you've got the whole "strong and silent" thing down pat.
Friend: You think I'm getting in your way right now? Nooooo way.
I laugh. Just a little.

She hangs up.

Her: He's not there either. There's no one else to call.
Me: Really? REALLY? You only have two people who work in that whole garage?
Her: Yes.
Me: REALLY. Two whole people on staff, huh? That's interesting, because when I dropped it off, there were at least four people working. And that was at 6 o'clock.
Her: I've done everything I can. I'm sorry. You can come back in the morning.
Me: Fine. Give me the numbers. I'll call.
Her: I can't do that.
Me: Then I want names, including yours.
Her: FINE. I'll call someone else.
Me: THANK YOU.

She dials.

Friend (whispering): I wish a policeman would come by. They always know how to get into locked cars.
Me (whispering back): I wish a policeman would come by, too, to stop me from diving over the counter and throttling her.

I hear her talking on the phone: "She's really upset. I mean, I understand, but you know, what I am supposed to do? She refused to leave until I called someone, even though it's not really reasonable to expect ..."

Friend: You'd think she would lower her voice if she's going to talk about you.
Me: You'd think.

She hangs up.

Her: He'll be right here.
Me: Thank you VERY much.

The guy shows up, bless his heart, with two pajama-clad kids in the backseat and has my car open in about two seconds.

Me: Thank you so, so much. I really appreciate it.
Him: No problem. I'm just sorry about the inconvenience.
Me: Out of curiosity, does this kind of thing happen a lot?
Him: Often enough that I went out and bought a tool for it.

Niiiiiiiiice.

(Thankfully, my battery still had juice, but the car had been on long enough that it had used an entire quarter tank of gas. Other side note: Yes, I do have a spare key, but it was at my office, 20 minutes away, and there was a principle at work here. The principle being: IT SHOULD NOT BE MY PROBLEM THAT YOU LOCKED MY KEYS IN THE CAR! And one final thing: I did feel bad later about giving her a hard time, so I was going to call her and thank her again for helping and my friend WOULD NOT LET ME! He confiscated my phone.)

OK, the trip! The trip itself it was fun. I saw my brother and sister and everyone played nice for the most part. And I got to eat my pizza! This is one of my favorite places in the world:



And this ... this is heaven on a platter, my friends:



Trust me.

Friday, August 10, 2007

The Terminal

Well. Well, well, well. I am sitting in the airport right now on hour two of The Great Delay. I have read USA Today from front to back. I have leisurely eaten a cup of chocolate frozen yogurt. I have people-watched, text-messaged, phone-called ... and now I'm going out of my freaking mind.

Why? I'll tell you why. First, you should know that flight delays rarely bother me. It's not like you can control them, and you have all the magazines and overpriced food you could ever want at your fingertips, so the way I figure it is, I get a guilt-free hour of sitting and reading and eating stuff like frozen yogurt. Sounds good to me. So the delay, in itself, doesn't bother me at all.

What bothers me are the two freaking obnoxious kids in front of me. They're probably five or six, and it's like WWfreakingE right now. Total Wrestlemania. They're rolling around on the ground, shrieking, throwing punches, taking running head starts and tackling each other from behind ... and the worst part is their dad thinks it is the CUTEST THING HE HAS EVER SEEN. He's standing there, half-giggling, with this "Aw, shucks, you crazy kids" look on his face. It's the most annoying thing ever. I am about 2.2 seconds from pummeling HIM and seeing how cute HE thinks it is.

Oh, gee. One kid got hurt and now he's bawling. BIG FREAKING SHOCKER.

OK. Update. We've already been delayed an hour and a half, and now they just got on the loudspeaker and told us we'll be delayed ANOTHER hour and a half. Get comfy, kids, we're gonna be here awhile.

All right. This guy just got up and left and I hustled over to his seat so I could have an outlet for my computer. There's a guy behind me, a very docile-looking gray-haired man with a mustache, who is reading ... wait for it ... In Touch. HA! He looks super enthralled, too. I love it. Who else is sitting by me ... lots of people on laptops. Let's see what they're doing, shall we? OK, this one dude in a suit's looking at a spreadsheet. BORING. Someone else is on MySpace. Eh. The kid next to me ...

HOLY SHIT. Holy, holy, holy shit. Do you want to know what he's looking at? What he's looking at in a very crowded airport, with a very nosy girl with a blog sitting one seat away? VIBRATORS, that's what. Glow-in-the-dark ones, neon pink ones, ones with 16 different heads and swivel things coming off the top. Vibrators, EVERYWHERE. I swear to you, I am not making this up. It's not a website--they're, like, individual pictures that he's pulling up one by one.

Wow. WOW. I cannot stop staring. Meanwhile, he's so entranced I don't even think he realizes I'm staring.

OK. I think he finally noticed, because he just switched over to some very generic-looking Word document. Now he's getting up ... he's coming up behind me ... I don't want to hide the window because I don't want to look obvious, but I also don't want him to see I'm writing about him ... shit, shit, SHIT! OK, he was plugging in his phone. Phew.

The Wrestlemania kids just got on a flight to Cleveland. THANK you. And Cleveland? I'm sorry. So very sorry.

I hear a man talking off to the side. "I say, if you can pass an air marshal test, carry all the guns you want on the plane. The more the merrier, that's what I say. Good guys versus bad guys. Might as well put 15 or 20 holes in the bad guys instead of one or two."

He has a very large black bag. I'm just saying.

Yay! We get to board! Four hours after arrival!

* * * * * * * * * *

So I get on the plane. Everyone's holding up pretty well under the circumstances, which is to say no one has started pulling hair or scratching each other over aisle seats yet. A tall guy in a Phish t-shirt and a pinstriped blazer sits in my row. Another guy who looks like Justin Long from the Mac/PC commercials sits directly in front of me.

"Hi," says aisle guy in my row. "I'm Chad."

"Hi," says the guy in front of me. "I'm Jason."

"Hi," I reply. "I'm Swishy."

We shake hands. We are now total BFFs for the rest of the flight.

Chad: "I think we all need alcohol NOW." He flags down a flight attendant. "OK, my friends and I need a drink."

Flight attendant: "I'm sorry, we only have a liquor license for the air, so you'll have to wait until we take off."

Chad (to us): "Don't worry, I'll take care of this."

He gets up and walks over to another flight attendant. We watch as he gestures, cajoles, pleads, and then finally walks back to his seat with a dejected look on his face.

Me: "Don't even come back here right now. I don't let losers sit in my row."

Jason giggles.

Chad: "You know, my dad was a pilot for American Airlines for 31 years and HE let people drink on his flights. It's called keeping your revenue passengers happy." He pauses. "Oh, well. How about Xanax? Does anyone have any Xanax?"

Just then, we hear an announcement from the flight attendant up front. There is some sort of ground restriction something or other. Translation: We will be sitting on the plane for an additional hour and seven minutes before we take off. The seven minutes, that's my favorite part. That's huge.

Flight attendant: "Don't worry, everyone, we'll start bringing around waters right away!"

Chad: "Water? WATER?" We get our water. "Is there any vodka in this? Tell me there's vodka in this."

Flight attendant: "There's vodka in this?"

Chad: "That's not funny."

Chad and Jason and I talk about our jobs and where we live and Barry Bonds homering and a whole array of topics. I feel a poke through the seats. I turn, and it's the old woman behind me. "You three aren't together?" she asks. I shake my head. "I thought you all knew each other already!" she says. This, somehow, solidifies our BFFness to everyone on the plane.

Jason has cards, so we hatch a plan to play Texas Hold 'Em once we take off. Steve, a guy in the row across from us, is gonna play too. One of the flight attendants overhears our plan and, because she is simply the most awesome person ever, comes over with a massive plastic bag full of peanuts, pretzels and Ritz crackers. "To use as poker chips," she says.

Is that not THE coolest thing you have ever heard?

We finally take off. The minute the wheels leave the runway, Jason and Chad have their drink orders in. (Me: Dr. Pepper. Because I am boring.) The flight attendant comes back with bottles and glasses. I feel a poke behind me again. It's the old lady. "Everyone on this plane is going to be LOADED by the time we land!" she hisses, which somehow is the funniest thing I have ever heard.

Jason, who also tipped back several Jack and Cokes during the delay, passes out in about two seconds. That leaves me and Chad to chit-chat, which we do, for the duration of the flight. (It actually was pretty funny, but I can't remember it all right now. Plus we talked a lot about politics, because he's a political consultant and I'm, believe it or not, strangely captivated by the presidential primaries. So I won't go into it other than to say it was a lovely conversation, the first time I've ever talked to someone on a plane and not minded, plus he let me play with his iPhone, which was pretty fun. And no, that is not a double entendre. It was NOT that kind of flight!)

We begin our descent (I know! We didn't even use our poker chips! But we did eat some of them!), and everyone talks about how nice the flight attendants are and how nice the airline is.

The old lady: "They even give you free drinks at Christmas!"
Chad: "That's not because they're nice. That's because they love Jesus."

Aaaaaaand ... that concludes our flight.

OK, after all that, get this: It took me TWO HOURS to get my bag! I'm not going to talk about that, though, because it involves a lot of swear words and empty threats and my dead cell phone. I'd much rather focus on the positive. Like the poker chips in my bag.

Thursday, August 09, 2007

I am so boring

I mean, seriously. I am. But I feel like I should blog, so I dug up an old tag and I'll do that.

But, first, two things: I am little pissed off, because Brad and Angelina are in Manic's neck of the woods right now and we BARELY missed them! I TOTALLY would not be above stalking Brad and Angelina. I'm sorry, I wouldn't, and you know what? I haven't discussed this with Manic, but I'm betting she wouldn't be above it, either.

OK, actually, this reminds me of something. Did I ever tell you I had a dream once that Brad and Angelina asked me to co-parent with them? They SO did. I was playing with Maddox and they were like, Swish! You are so great with kids! So they asked me to co-parent with them, and then they were going to set me up with a really hot actor friend of theirs, but I woke up before I found out who it was. Sad. So sad.

Second: So I'm going on a speedy quick trip this weekend, and seriously, all I can think about is the food I'll be eating. Literally, LITERALLY, my mouth is watering right now. I'm going to this little pizza place in my old neighborhood in New Jersey and HOLY CRAP, it is the best pizza ever. So don't you worry, you have plenty of pizza pictures to look forward to on Sunday night. If that's not exciting, I don't know what is.

OK ... tag time!

Four Jobs You've Had in Your Life:
1. Makeup girl at the mall. I'm still not entirely sure how that happened.
2. Summer recreation counselor
3. Founder of my very own babysitters club (you KNOW I read the books!)
4. Soon-to-be job: Co-parent of Maddox, Zahara, Pax and Shiloh

Four Movies You Could Watch Over and Over:
1. Top Gun
2. Garden State
3. Jerry Maguire
4. Love Actually

Four Places You've Lived:
1. THE Garden State
2. Next door to the biggest crack whore who ever smoked crack and whored
3. An apartment with five other girls, one of whom used to leave raw fish on the counter for days at a time and then EAT it. After FLIES had been on it. Even though it smelled DISGUSTING.
4. For a (very) brief period, my friend's couch

Four Websites You Visit Daily:
1. People
2. TV Guide
3. USA Today
4. Various blogs

Four TV Shows You Love To Watch:
1. Grey's Anatomy
2. 24
3. The Office
4. Friday Night Lights

Four of Your Favorite Foods:
1. Chocolate
2. Chocolate with stuff in it
3. Chicken nachos from QDoba
4. McDonald's french fries
(I have excellent eating habits, can you tell?)

Four Albums You Can't Live Without:
All of my favorite CDs I've burned myself! (Complete with oh-so-creative titles)
1. Monday Night Mix (key songs: "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers; "23" by Jimmy Eat World; "A Murder of One" by Counting Crows)
2. Driving and Bored ("Different" by Acceptance; "Existentialism on Prom Night" by Straylight Run; "Dance Inside" by All-American Rejects)
3. Treadmill ("Make Damn Sure" by Taking Back Sunday; "Rooftops" by Lostprophets; "The Kill" by--cringe--30 Seconds to Mars)
4. Songs from TV shows ("Chocolate" by Snow Patrol; "Follow Through" by Hotel Lights; "Take Me Away" (acoustic) by Lifehouse)
(And, of course, my personal little Grey's mix. That's probably my absolute favorite. But that's a given, right?)

Four Places You'd Rather Be:
1. Reading a book on the beach
2. In a bubble bath
3. My favorite little coffee shop
4. In a hot man's pants! Ha ha. Just kidding. Mostly.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

It's like this and like that and like this and uh

I lose all semblance of an attention span when it's hotter than 95 degrees outside, so in no particular order ...

* I am so in love with the new 100-calorie Hostess cupcakes. I guess I'm not really supposed to eat three packages in one sitting (not that, uh, I've done that or anything), but I mean ... they ARE only 100 calories each, right? I don't eat the yellow ones or carrot cake ones, though. Just chocolate.

* All right, I know, I know, I'm totally obsessed with the asstastic Scott Baio. But the last episode, when his girlfriend's daughter's trying to ask him a serious question and he can't bother to look up from his texting for two seconds to answer? That kind of thing DRIVES ME CRAZY! Massive, MASSIVE pet peeve of mine. At least he proved what an awesome guy he is by BUYING HER A TOASTER OVEN FROM COSTCO. Blechh.

* In other VH1 reality news, Man Band is on right now. My very fast thoughts: Jeff Timmons is a whiny little girl, although I will confess to owning 98 Degrees' first CD and LOVING that video with Nick Lachey in the boxing ring (The Hardest Thing ... right?) The guy from Color Me Badd does not look good OR sound good. Chris Kirkpatrick, blah. Rich Cronin is coming off the best, although I'm pretty sure I could have gone the rest of my life without being reminded of that "I like girls who wear Abercrombie and Fitch" song and been--wait, wait, WAIT a second! They're holding a Native American ritual to cleanse themselves of their boy band pasts? SERIOUSLY??? Ohhhhhh, my.

* My favoritest issue of Glamour came in the mail the other day. I have a favorite issue of every magazine. Like, for People, it's the Most Beautiful People issue, and for Entertainment Weekly it's the photo issue and the "It List" or "Must List" or whatever they decide to call it that year. For Glamour, it's the "Look Sexy at Any Age" issue. I know it sounds stupid, but I'm serious, I love that issue. There's always a section dedicated to how to get different celebrities' nails or updo or whatever ... and this is relevant how, you might ask? Well, I'll tell you: Because I am now wearing Reese Witherspoon's makeup. Not the EXACT makeup, but the gist of it. Specifically, her eyeshadow, and let me tell you, I feel different already. I also plan to have Julia Stiles' blowout once I can find monster-sized Velcro rollers.

* I can HEAR you laughing at me right now! Go ahead, laugh it up, but check THIS out while you're giggling at me and my eyeshadow. This is part of what my horoscope said today:

"You feel great, and look terrific to others, so take a chance with that crush of yours."

HA! Ha ha ha. I love my horoscope. Who WOULDN'T love a horoscope that says that? ESPECIALLY on a day they wear new eyeshadow? I get it emailed to me every day, and I highly recommend that you sign up to get yours, too. But only if you like being told you look hot. Otherwise, I guess you should pass.

* I know a lot of people probably don't care about this, but WHY WON'T BARRY BONDS JUST HOMER ALREADY??? I want to see him hit it, because it's history and all that, but I don't want to watch ESPN2 every night for the rest of my life waiting for it to happen.

* I can't think of what I was about to say. That has been happening ALL DAY! I seriously am losing my mind. Still can't remember ... still can't ...

OK, I give up.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

The emo made me do it

So I worked late again the other night. Everyone else was gone by about 6:30, so I took a sweep through the office to make sure no one was lurking behind a cubicle wall and then I turned on some music while I worked.

OK, I might have talked about this before, I don't remember, but every few weeks or so I find a song that I REALLY like that I totally latch on to for a while. I listen to it, over and over and over again, until basically the thought of listening to it one more time makes me want to slice my eardrums with the edge of a CD. The song this time was Hero/Heroine by Boys like Girls. (Which you can listen to here if you want, you know, the audio/visual.) I turned it up and every time it ended, I hit play again. And again. And again.

I'm going to interrupt myself here--do you ever have, like, a whole little movie in your head with certain songs? I do that ALL THE TIME. I have a total movie in my head for this song. It's all about this guy who's sort of cautious or whatever about relationships, and this girl manages to sneak past that when he's not paying attention and they fall for each other and it's all very cute and sweet. There's this line: "If you want to get inside, then you can get in line. But not this time. Because you caught me off guard ..." and that's basically the gist of the song.

So back to the story. The "you caught me off guard" parts are my favorite, so naturally, since the music's playing out loud and I'm by myself, I start singing. Loudly. (And, as we've established, badly.) But not the whole song--just that line, and maybe the few lines around it. So, say, every 43 seconds or so, I burst out in song.

This goes on for maybe, I don't know, a half hour. And then all of a sudden I hear something. I slide over and peek down the hallway and, yup, there's someone there. A someone I like to call The Boss of Everyone. Who has been sitting back in his corner office listening to me belt out "you caught me off guard" for 30 minutes.

Yeah, I'm SO on the fast track.

Thursday, August 02, 2007

The day I lost my faith in humanity

OK, so this week has been totally crazy at work. Crazy, I tell you! I left work at like 7:30 tonight and I was really, really tired. I was out late last night, I was busy all day, and on top of it, we had these mandatory computer training classes all morning. Computer classes IN THE DARK! I was sitting there for three hours, trying not to fall asleep. (I brought candy for everyone so it would be more fun and help keep us awake. It did help. For about three minutes.)

Tangent! The point is, I worked late and I was tired. So I get in my car, pull out of the parking lot and try to think of what I want to eat for dinner. OK, deciding what to eat for dinner is easily my second-least favorite part of the day (behind actually, you know, getting out of my comfy bed). I HATE it! I just want to eat--I don't want to think about it! I am way too decisioned out by that point. I will seriously call my friends sometimes and tell them to tell me what to eat, just so someone else has to decide. I am NOT a fan of making decisions after 6 p.m.

So I'm driving off, thinking, "What the hell should I eat ... I'm too tired to think of anything ... I hate deciding what to eat ... Maybe I just won't eat anything ... I should have eaten more at lunch ... Don't I have tortillas in the fridge? .... Whatever, I don't want to make anything ... I could go to the store ... Yeah, right. I don't want to go to the store ... I could pick something up ... Yeah, but WHAT? ... DAMMIT, I HATE deciding what to eat! ... Hey! I have leftovers in the fridge at work! And they're good ones! That will take like two minutes to heat up!"

It's a massive light bulb moment. And I pulled out of the parking lot less than a minute ago. So I turn around and go back to the office. I leave the car up front, race upstairs, throw open the fridge, and ...

You see where this is going, don't you? Well, a big gold star for you, because I sure didn't. I looked. And I looked. And I looked some more. I took everything out of the fridge and put it back in again. I even opened the freezer and checked in THERE.

My leftovers? Gone.

OK, there's a guy in the office who cleans out the fridge every Sunday. I put my stuff in the fridge yesterday. Yesterday was not Sunday. Yesterday was Tuesday. Which leaves the only logical assumption: SOMEONE STOLE MY FOOD!

Granted, I did not grab a little Sharpie off my desk and put "SWISHY" in big letters all over my box. I can see why initialing your food would be necessary if there are 20 identical brown paper bags in the fridge. (Which, by the way, there's not.) But my little white box was the ONLY little white box in the fridge. And most people would think--most REASONABLE people would think--that if it's not yours, whether your initials are on it or not, YOU DON'T EAT IT! I mean, right? If you didn't put it in the fridge, you shouldn't take it out. Right?!?

It was a rather soul-crushing moment, I'm not going to lie. They were GOOD LEFTOVERS!

So what did I eat for dinner? A bowl of watermelon and a bean burrito from Taco Bell. Minus the cheese and onions and red sauce.