Waiting for My Real Life to Begin

The life and times of a girl named Swishy.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Gossip girls

So I get home the other day, go to get my mail and ... FUN!!! A package from Beth!



Fun fact: Beth was one of the very first people to read my blog, which was an especially big deal because I didn't really tell anyone I knew that I had a blog. I seriously thought it was the coolest thing ever that she randomly found it one day and then kept coming back. It's been two years now, and I just adore her.

Anyway, I was super excited to get her fun bag in the mail. She made it herself and it's adorable, in colors that I love, with a cute little pocket on the inside. And she even included a Star magazine! But not just any Star magazine, ohhhhh no. I got into bed, opened it up ... and found that Beth had left me little notes inside! So it was almost like we were sitting and gossiping together! Oh, my gosh, I laughed so hard I almost woke up the entire neighborhood.

So let's gossip a little, shall we?



OK, on Jake Gyllenhaal she writes, "LOOK AT HIS PECS! Is he for real? Do you think he's gay?"

I have no idea. What I DO know is that he needs to cut that hair NOW. I am definitely not a fan of the long-haired look on him. I am a fan of the pecs, however, I have to say.

And then we have Michael Phelps ("Freakishly long body! But he has a cute little lisp.") and Chace Crawford ("Gay!!!"), which allows me to bust out my little "degrees of separation" fact of the day: Apparently, Michael Phelps (who, allegedly, is the biggest manwhore who ever whored ... I guess that's what eight golds gets you) is going on a date with Carrie Underwood, former girlfriend of (ta-da!) Chace Crawford.

And speaking of Carrie Underwood, who also formerly dated Tony Romo, we have Tony's CURRENT girlfriend, Jessica Simpson:



My People magazine is late this week, but apparently this week's cover story is Jessica gushing about how Tony Romo is the love of her life and how (this part kills me) she doesn't "really ever say that to anybody." Really, Jessica? Your boyfriend is the only one you call the love of your life? I'm stunned. I mean, there's the mailman, the FedEx guy, the guy who walks the neighbor's dog, the dude who plays the banjo on the street corner ...

That reminds me of another headline I saw recently on People.com, something like, "Vanessa Minnillo: Nick said 'I love you' first." I was like, really? REALLY? THAT'S A HEADLINE??? Yes, my friends, even I have standards. Which perhaps is not the greatest segue to our next photo, but ...



OK, I COMPLETELY AGREE. I thought the same exact thing when I saw the commercial for Meg's new movie. She looks 10 years younger than she did five years ago. Maybe she has a hot younger boyfriend. I hear that has a similar effect.



Of Britney, she writes: "She's looking good but she needs to stay away from men!" FOR. REAL. Any time something happens with Britney, I don't blame K-Fed, I don't blame Jason "Don't call me Constanza" Alexander. I blame Justin Timberlake. The second they broke up, it was like someone broke the lever on her happy little carousel of life and it's been spinning like crazy ever since.

She is looking good, though. And I do like her VMA commercial.



"Beth's future baby daddy." NOT IF I GET HIM FIRST! Oh, but wait ...



"I think he dumped Jen so he's free for Swishy! Will I see you in the Star next week?"

Page 39. I am just saying.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Things that make me go hmmm

So I was looking around while I was waiting in line at Target today because, I mean, what else are you going to do while you wait in line at Target? The guy in front of me opens his wallet, and I notice the entire thing is lined with photos ... OF HIMSELF. With numerous expressions and poses. With no one in them but him.

OK, in fairness, I am less of a "wallet" girl and more of a "change purse" girl, so the whole concept of carrying around photos isn't really high on my radar. But is that normal? Photos of yourself? Of JUST yourself? Yes, he's decent-looking, and yes, they are decent photos, but still. That isn't normal. Is it?

I decide that it's not. So, naturally, I have to take a picture RIGHT THIS SECOND before he closes his wallet and takes his receipt and walks his photo-loving self out of my life forever.

What follows is the most daring, smoothly executed shot of my paparazzo/secret agent/stalker career. (MUCH more seamless, for example, than this time or this time.) I reach into my purse, turn on my camera, hit the right button twice to turn off the flash, and evvvvvvver so subtly lift the camera out of my purse just long enough to take the picture.

And she gets off the shot! Undetected! In a line at Target!



Yes, I am a rock star. Of course, you can't really see the Wall(et) of Photos, so some cropping is in order.



OK, so you can still only see one of the pictures. But TRUST ME. There are like three more right next to it.

This lady dropped her stuff on the way out and he stopped to help her, so I don't THINK he's a self-absorbed narcissist. Is he a gigolo? Is his number printed on the other side, like a business card? Is he a model/actor/waiter, and those are all mini-head shots? Did he used to be missing, and those are the photos from the milk carton? Did he get a set of playing cards made with his face on the back? WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?

Thursday, August 21, 2008

The day my brain fell out of my head

So I realize I haven't talked a ton about the whole "life reboot" thing. I will soon, I promise. Right now, though, I am flying to a fairly big interview, which, if the getting-there is any indication, should be a spectacular success ... I mean, disaster. (Background: I had a bad morning. I was not at my finest, there were tears, it all apparently resulted in me going about the rest of my day behaving as if someone suctioned every last particle of brain matter out of my ears.)

So I go to the airport. I walk in and go straight to the self-service kiosk at the United counter. I throw my suitcase up on the scale, type in my confirmation number with one hand and pull out my driver's license with the other hand like the skilled, experienced traveler that I am. Nothing. I type in the confirmation number again. Nothing. I exit out of the system and try swiping my credit card. Nope. Finally, several tries later, I stop being stubborn and hit the "Ask for assistance" button. It tells me to pick up the phone next to the screen (because, clearly, asking the person standing behind the counter, waiting to give me my luggage claim ticket, makes too much sense). I give the person who answers the phone my flight number and departure city and ...

Did I say I was at the United counter? Apparently I'm flying US Airways.

I run away before a live and in-the-flesh person can see what an idiot I am and head over to the US Airways counter. I pull up my reservation and am informed by the computer that I must now swipe my credit card to pay a $15 fee for my SINGLE CHECKED BAG. I had heard this filthy, nasty rumor, this scary little urban legend, and now it is staring me smack-dab in the face. I'm sorry, I'm a girl. There is no possible way on God's green earth I can pack a single carry-on bag for a 48-hour trip. I use hair products! I like to smell good! And just because an outfit looks good today doesn't mean it will look good tomorrow! I need backups! Like six of them!

I want to put my hand on my hip and give US Airways a piece of my mind, but somehow I get the impression the computer screen will remain unfazed. "Does this mean you won't LOSE MY BAG?" I want to ask. "Does this extra 15 dollars mean my lotion isn't going to wind up all over the inside of my suitcase after some overzealous security officer forgets to close it after rifling through my underwear looking for a bomb?"

I seriously think at the very least I shouldn't have to wheel it over to the X-ray machine myself, but of course that is not the case.

I buy a USA Today and sit down at my gate. Good, I think, the flight's not going to be too crowded. Maybe I'll even get my own row! I call my friend while I open the paper and ...

Me: What the HELL! No Life section?!
Friend: What?
Me: I just got a freaking USA Today and there's no freaking Life section. What, I'm supposed to read the Money section? This day SUCKS. I HATE this day.
Friend: Actually, the Life section's IN the Money section this week. Because of the Olympics.
Me: It's ... (page through Money section until I see the pretty purple "Life" bar). Oh.
Friend: So when are you leaving?
Me: I don't know, soon. I think it boards in like 15 minutes or something.

I hang up. I spread out my Life section and start reading about Gossip Girl fashion when ...

"Paging passenger Swishy (garbled, can't hear it, blah blah blah), paging passenger Swishy ..."

Shit, I think. Did my wallet fall out of my bag? I check, and it's there. My phone? No ... still holding it. Did someone DIE?! I wonder. I get up and go to the counter: "Hi ... I think I just got paged and I'm not sure why."

The two girls start cracking up. "You were just sitting over there?"
"Um ... yeah ..."
"Everyone boarded already. Like, awhile ago." The girl giggles. "You are so funny!"

Oh, yes. I am soooo hilarious. That's what I always tell myself when I act like a complete moron in public. I throw my boarding pass at them and race down the jetway. It's a small plane, so I have to literally, like, go down the narrow little steps and walk over to the plane. I'm all flustered and trying to hurry so, naturally, I walk over to the wrong side and almost crash into the nose of the plane before being steered in the right direction by one of those orange-stick-waving guys.

And then I get on the plane (I promise, there was very nearly applause), reach up to turn off the air and totally tear off a nail. Not as in "I broke a nail." More like a "I think someone just cut off my finger and HOLY SHIT THIS HURTS, I'M GOING TO BE MAIMED FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE, PLEASE SOMEONE JUST HIT ME OVER THE HEAD AND PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY BECAUSE SUCKING ON MY FINGER LIKE AMY WINEHOUSE ON A CRACK PIPE ISN'T WORKING" kind of thing.

Now we're getting ready to take off. (By the way, complete non-sequitur, but it costs two bucks now to get a drink? Of WATER, even? I don't even get a drink half the time because I firmly refuse to use airplane bathrooms, but it's the PRINCIPLE. I can go to 7-11 and get a Big Gulp for 99 cents but I can't get WATER on an AIRPLANE? What kind of country are we LIVING in?)

Anyway. So, yes, I'm on the plane. The guy in front of me is IMing a girl named Laura on his BlackBerry. Laura works with a total bitch who is completely threatened by everyone around her. I get the sense the bitch in question is her boss. Behind me, there is a little love affair blooming. He works in banking. She's worked at the Animal Kingdom at Disney World for 25 years. If anyone can make it work, I think, it's these two crazy kids. As long as they survive the stupid, silly girl sitting in front of them, that is.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Music, schmusic

My (very) guilty pleasure summer songs:

Shake it, Metro Station. I basically have a seizure whenever this song comes on. I turn it up super, super loud and start "dancing" in random, jerky movements all over the place while "singing" it at the top of my lungs. The other drivers I pass on the street love it, as do my downstairs neighbors, I have no doubt.

(Please, if you click on that link, do yourself a favor: minimize the video immediately and just listen to the song. They're singing about how they'll take you home if you don't leave them at the front door, and seriously, I know they're TECHNICALLY of age, but they don't look a day over 12. Also, they're wearing, like, tight red pants, which is almost as creepy. Also, the video is completely stupid. And now I've completely talked myself out of liking the song. Not really.)

One Step at a Time, Jordin Sparks. I blame Chris Brown and No Air for this one. I love that song, which opened the door just enough for Miss Jordin to stick in her green-heeled foot and snare me with her peppy message of girl power.

Leavin', Jesse McCartney. I'm officially mortified. I'm also, by the looks of this list, an 11-year-old girl who watches Hannah Montana. I think it's time to move on to ...

Not-so-guilty pleasure summer songs:

Ten Dead Dogs, Wild Sweet Orange. This isn't quite a summer song, but I like it right now, and right now it's summer, so it counts, right?

Free Fallin', John Mayer. Here's the thing about John Mayer, and I promise this is the last thing I am going to say about him. I NEVER had a thing for him, and I'm not even sure I do now (all evidence to the contrary). But that dream I had? It's sort of like the scene in a movie where two people know each other, but there's never anything going on between them ... until the one night at a party where they get a little tipsy, maybe, look at each other a little differently, maybe, and then all of a sudden they're leaning in and kissing and they're not really sure what to do with it, but it's also verrrry intriguing. That's what the whole John Mayer thing is and why I can't shut up about it.

That said, I adore his cover of this song. It's amazing to me how it sounds like such a completely different song. The Tom Petty version (which I also like) sounds upbeat and empowering, a song about breaking away. This one is bittersweet and melancholy, a song about loss. I like it a lot, even if it makes me a little sad.

(Wait, I lied. THIS is the last thing I am going to say about him. I am JUST saying!)

Summer songs I completely hate (that will NOT be linked!):

I Kissed a Girl, Katy Perry. I literally have a visceral reaction when I turn on the radio and hear this song. It's like there's a wild cat being dragged across a linoleum floor right next to me and I'm all, MAAAAAAAKE IT STOPPPPP!

Viva la Vida, Coldplay. It puts me to sleep. Which is fine, I guess, if I am sitting at home at midnight, but not so fine if I am operating a piece of heavy machinery. Like a car.

What about you?

Monday, August 11, 2008

This is getting ridiculous

(And, no, I am not talking about the fact that my car battery has become as temperamental as a sugared-up, nap-deprived 2-year-old, or the fact that comments on my last post apparently are showing up on a delay or not at all. Although I COULD be. Definitely. Especially considering that the car battery also chose to act up--read: die three times--on the day I got a flat tire. Buuuut ... we're not talking about that.)

I have always been a big dreamer, and I don't mean in a theoretical, "reach for the stars" way. I mean literally. You know those people who say they don't dream, or don't remember very many details of their dreams? Not me.

But this? THIS is getting absolutely, unbelievably ridiculous. The past few weeks, I have been having the craziest, most vivid dreams. Like EVERY night. You know about Mr. Mayer and his Wonder Lips. Well, the other night, I dreamed that I was going to die. I had until the end of the weekend, and I was writing cards to people, telling them goodbye, and I started to panic because I was running out of time. I walked out to where my mom was sitting and I just started to cry my eyes out, like, "I just need one more day. I want more time than that, but I have to have one more day."

Yeah. Fun dream. So, naturally, I woke up in the middle of the night completely freaked out.

I fell back to sleep a little while later and had a dream that I went to visit an old friend of mine who just had twins, someone I haven't seen since high school. I could remember her little girl's name, but not the boy's, so I got embarrassed and left ... to a box at the Super Bowl. There were a ton of people in there, and all of a sudden someone squeezes in and sits down next to me. I turn, and it's this guy I haven't spoken to since college. He asks me what I'm doing these days, and I can smell his cologne, and I'm not really sure where he's going with any of it, so I get up and walk into this other part of the box, where I see Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill.

This is the part where the record needle scratches, like, "Uhhhhherrrrrrrrhhhhh."
SETH ROGEN and JONAH HILL. Actually, Jonah Hill just walked past me, so he really wasn't in it, but SETH ROGEN. Why. WHY. WHO DREAMS ABOUT SETH ROGEN? I'm not even going to get into the rest of it other than to say apparently Seth Rogen and I are having lunch at noon on Tuesday (which, as I'm typing that, makes me think Sheryl Crow* must have been playing in the background). And, yes, John Mayer is a much, much better kisser and I can't believe I just said that but it had to be said.

And then the next night I had a dream I told Miley Cyrus she was a ho. I have no idea why.

Sadly, despite my best attempts, I have yet to dream about hot, broad-shouldered Olympic swimmers. I'll keep you posted.

(* From the song All I Wanna Do. Just because I don't think anyone else in the world will get that.)

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Dream lover

OK, first, some administrative details:

* My People magazine didn't come in the mail yesterday! At first I was like, I can wait until tomorrow, but I think you and I both know that would have been completely impossible, so I went out and bought a copy. (Do you ever wonder why People spent $14 million on those photos? Because of people like me, that's why.) It's hard to really tell anything with babies that little, although they do seem to look a little like Shiloh did, but the photos of Brad and Angie and the kids? TOTALLY LOVED THEM. I had a whole conversation with the lady at the checkout about them, and another conversation with a girl at the gym about them, and I will have a conversation with any of you about them, too. I love that Angelina looks exhausted and barely has any makeup on but still looks so, so beautiful and happy. I love that they seem so normal and natural. And that picture of Shiloh and Vivienne is SO GORGEOUS it just kills me. She really looks like a little doll.

* For those who are curious, I posted a comment detailing my computer neuroses on my last post.

* Finally, a completely random note: I would just like to announce that I lost my cell phone on Sunday (since recovered, thank GOODNESS) and then managed to run out of gas yesterday. I think I am having a contest with myself to see how stupid I can be. And I am winning.

And now ... let's talk about John Mayer. I am never quite sure where I stand on him. For a long time, I did not like him and I especially hated his hair, but on the flip side, I DID always love it when Clarity came on at my coffee shop. Then he did this interview with Cosmo where he talked all about how much he loved and respected women for their talent and intelligence, and I was like, YEAH, RIGHT, Mr. Body is a Wonderland ... but then I was like, you know, he DOES seem like a nice guy, MAYBE he means it. And then he did an awesome Grammy performance with Alicia Keys and an awesome cover of Free Fallin' AND he cut his hair ...

Which brings me to this: I TOTALLY HAD A DREAM I MADE OUT WITH JOHN MAYER THE OTHER NIGHT! The whole thing was very, very random. He was on some kind of break with Jennifer Aniston (who totally got mad anyway when she heard we made out ... JUST LIKE ON FRIENDS!). Anyway, we kissed for a while, and then he had to rush to a show, but he left me little presents and watched me open them while he was on stage. And you know what? I'm just going to say it: I have heard rumors about Mr. Mayer's various talents, and let me tell you, if my subconscious is any indication, they are ONE THOUSAND PERCENT true. He was a totally, TOTALLY good kisser in my dream. Like, REALLY good. Like, I opened up People magazine and his picture was in the front and I blushed a little, that's how good.

Yeah, I know. I'm not sure what to do with that either.

Friday, August 01, 2008

Drama central

So ... I opened the new computer. And I hate it. It sounds like I am kidding, but I am TOTALLY serious, and yes, I was/am completely stressed out about it. I was sitting on my living room floor at like 4:30 in the morning the other night, surrounded by styrofoam and boxes and bubble wrap, going holy shit, this is a complete disaster and I am the biggest freaking idiot on the planet.

I am literally shaking my head right now. It stressed me out so much I seriously can't even talk about it, other than to say THANK GOODNESS they're going to let me return it and then (goody) I'll start the whole thing all over again.

Ahhhh. OK, I'm changing the subject now. So they're repaving all the parking by my apartment, and they're doing it in four stages. They put up all these flyers that are like, "On Tuesday, we're doing Section 1. If you don't move your car from Section 1 by 7 a.m. that day, your car will get towed." Which immediately makes me paranoid because that would SO be the kind of thing that would happen to me (see: practically any blog post I've ever written).

So it was supposed to go Sections 1-4, Monday-Thursday, but they fell behind, so Section 1 got done on Tuesday and Section 2 got done on Thursday. I usually park in Section 3. They didn't put up any new, updated Section 3 flyers, but I thought, OK, I'll just park in a different section to be safe. Well, I got home around 10:30 last night, and there was NO parking ANYWHERE. I drove around and around and finally found a spot at the end of Section 3. I told myself a thousand times, "It's fine, there are no flyers, it's fine, they're not going to tow you, it's fine."

Well. I get into bed at like 2, turn off the lights and then pop back up, suddenly CONVINCED I'm parked in a bad spot, and even if I set my alarm for 6:30 so I can move my car, I won't wake up, and my car will get towed and then I'll just have to hurl myself off the golden arches of the McDonald's down the street because at that point it'll be official that I completely suck at life. So I throw on some flip-flops, grab my keys (and cell phone to dial 911 in case I trip over a serial killer lurking in the bushes) and go outside.

Once outside, I'm not entirely sure what I'm trying to accomplish. There are no more spots than there were three hours earlier; in fact, cars are lined up all along fire lanes and "do not park here" spots everywhere. So I basically just walk around, and can I just tell you, it was like the Secret Life of Apartment Living out there. First, the random guy unloading massive pieces of art out of the back of his SUV. At 2 a.m. On a weeknight. Inside the SUV, a splinted arm jutted in the air, connected to a lifeless body slumped in the passenger seat--my guess, someone who was shot and injured during the heist. "Do you know if they're repaving this part tomorrow?" I ask him. "No," he says, and starts grabbing the paintings faster. It's totally like The Thomas Crown Affair, only without Pierce Brosnan's charm and with Rene Russo, like, DEAD in the front seat. I clutch my keys so the pointy ends are facing out and start speedwalking away as fast as my flip-flops will let me.

A few minutes later, I bump into another guy. He doesn't know if they're repaving, either, but thinks I should be fine as long as I'm parked in a real spot (as opposed to the rebels in the fire lane spots). He tells me how he saw someone's car get towed that morning; I tell him about how my neighbor flew into a panic and raced outside at 8:30 just in time to move his. And then I remember it's the middle of the night and I'm standing outside in my pajamas with messy hair and no bra and I'm like, why I am even HAVING a conversation with another person right now.

But just then, there's a light. We turn, and it's a tow truck. A sneaky, stealthy, slowly-creeping-down-the-road tow truck, and we're like, WHAT is going on? The tow truck stops, and a guy jumps out with a super-high-powered flashlight and starts randomly PEEPING in some random, COMPLETELY LEGALLY PARKED PERSON's car!

My new friend: "I think that's a renegade tow truck."
Me: "Oh, my gosh, he's gonna STEAL something, isn't he?!?"

The guy jumps back into the tow truck and creeps along another few yards, and then starts peeking in someone ELSE'S car. And then someone ELSE'S! We watch as he goes all the way down to the end of the road, completely bypassing all of the questionably parked cars, and then turns around and drives back out.

NF: "That was really weird."
Me: "That WAS really weird." Pause. "I think I'm gonna go inside now."

And then I run inside. I am happy to report that I stumbled out in bare feet at 7:30 this morning to find my car still parked in its spot, next to a sign that said the paving will happen on Monday. Also, in completely unrelated news, my coffee shop gave me like free everything today and the Jolie-Pitt baby pictures are but a mere 48 hours away (supposedly 30 PAGES worth ... holy crap). So, you know. Computer debacle aside, there's that. Have a good weekend, everyone!