ThePeach enjoys LittleBird's bluntness; pain

“ThePeach, do you enjoy pain?”

My friend LittleBird asked me this over a drink at the corner bar. I looked at her blankly.

“Seriously. Do you enjoy pain?”

She took a sip of her beer.

Why would she ask me that?

Is it because I’m planning on spending my Christmas holidays in UniversityTown, living across the street from FauxHawk, allowing him to cat-sit, and having platonic semi-romantic dinners with him?

Is it because I’m currently playing online scrabble with FauxHawk’s mother, because she won’t stop facebook stalking me, and she decided she wants to tutor me in the ways of the triple word score?

Or is it because I’m debating adopting my ex-ex-boyfriend’s cat, because he’s a stoner and neglects the cat we adopted as a kitten in the weeks before I left him for FauxHawk, and I can’t bear to see the cat suffer so why not add to my baggage and vet bills and live in a constant state of kitten wars as Milo and Potter duke it out for king of the litter mountain?

“Do you enjoy pain?”

I enjoy drinking. And gravy on top of anything. And lesbian sitcoms. And loose-fitting pants.

Pain? Feck.

ThePeach

MortalCombat is dedicated; hysterical

As usual, most people in my class are suicidal this week.

MC, however, has managed to maintain some semblance of sanity in a time of end-of-term assignments, no sleep, and crying over soya sauce bottles that just won’t open. She is a beacon of strength and productivity. She gave me a box of KD and the will to live this afternoon.

I spent today lying on the couch, wallowing in the dark and twisty parts of my mind, and also watching “The L Word.” MC spent the day trying to come up with an idea for her participant-observation story for our writing class. She sent a few ideas to our prof, who would then immediately write back snippy answers about how uncreative MC’s ideas were.

After the prof vetoed another one of MCs idea, MC texted me tonight to ask if she could borrow some bus tickets. I told her to come upstairs and grab some. I paused the lesbian porn.

Enter MC. And the crazy eyes.

“I’m going to Syracuse tomorrow.”

She stared at me intently.

I’m sorry. You’re doing WHAT and WHY?

“I’m going to Syracuse tomorrow.”

I looked into her crazy eyes, open wide and bulging with intensity. I realized she was not joking.

“I’m going to Syracuse at 8am. I just bought a bus ticket. I’m doing my participant-observation piece on Canadians who go to the US to shop on Black Friday.”

Oh. Kay.

“Have you run this idea past our prof?”

Her eyes flashed with madness. I took a step backwards,

“NO. NO. BUT IT’S TOO LATE, I ALREADY BOUGHT MY TICKET. SHE HAS TO LIKE THIS IDEA. SHE HAS TO!!!!”

Oh. Kay.

“So, let me get this straight. In the 15 minutes since our prof vetoed your last idea, you booked a bus ticket to Syracuse and are now going to the US tomorrow morning at 8am?”

“Yes.”

And then the hysterical laughter started. I was hunched over clutching my ribs and gasping for air, I was laughing so hard. MC was shaking and gripping her knees, her long hair draping the floor. We laughed for about 10 minutes straight.

Then I looked up and MC was crying like a crazy lady.

“Why doesn’t she like me?? Why is our prof so mean to me?? I don’t know what I did wrong!! I go to every class! I even do the fucking reeeeeeadings!! And now I have to go to Syyyyyracuuuuuse!!!”

I ran up to her and hugged her. She sobbed into my shoulder.

“At least you’ll get to go shopping?”

“I don’t even have any American money!”

This brought on another 10 minutes of bladder-clutching laughter. I told MC she had better text me the next morning so I knew she was still alive.

“I’ll text you from the bus! It’s 3 hours each way!”

Then her eyes welled up with tears again.

Journalism school: don’t do it.

ThePeach

ThePeach is defeated by Soya Sauce; life

I’ve hit new levels of pathetic.

Tonight I had a big seminar presentation based on two long articles. One of them was easy, one of them was dense. I stayed up until 3am trying to understand the dense one and making conversation points to bring up with the class. Today, 30 seconds into my seminar, my professor informed me that I was presenting on the wrong article, and one of them was not actually part of my assignment: the dense one.

So, that sucked.

But I shook it off. Forged ahead with the other article, cheeks blazing with shame. During my class break I sprinted to the coffee shop to get an anti-suicide cookie. They were out of cookies.

That also sucked.

When class finally ended I slunk home and decided to make my first meal of the day. It was 9:30 pm.

No big deal.

I sautéed my vegetables. Boiled my noodles. Got out the Soya sauce to douse the veggies in salt.

The lid wouldn’t come off.

I tried turning it both ways. Running it under hot water. Using a cloth. I even took a knife to the fucker and almost lost a finger. I grunted like a caveman trying to figure out how to make fire. I left it alone for a few minutes, hoping I was just imagining that it wouldn’t open. I started talking out loud.

“Why?” I asked the bottle. “Why?”

I jabbed it with a spoon. I tried another cloth. I twisted so hard I almost snapped my wrist.

“Why?” I whimpered. “Whyyyy?”

The veggies started going limp. The noodles were over cooked. I rammed the bottle on the side of the counter, hoping to loosen something. I turned it both ways. I screamed.

“WHY??” I sobbed. “WHYYYY???”

I turned off the frying pan. I turned off the pot full of soggy, bloated noodles. I lay on the couch and weeped for 35 minutes.

Spaz called.

Spaz: I called because I thought you might be feeling sad. It’s easy to get sad after night class.
ThePeach: AHHHEEEESOOOOOYSAUUUUCE *hysterical sobbing*
Spaz: …so you *are* sad, then?
ThePeach: *hysterical sobbing, muffled by pillow*
Spaz: Are you lonely? What’s wrong?
ThePeach: *hysterical sobbing* I…I…I…*hysterical sobbing* I CAN’T OPEN THE SOYA SAUCE!!!! *weeps*
Spaz:…
ThePeach: *weeps* I think it’s a metaphor for my stupid pathetic life.
Spaz: How long have you been crying?
ThePeach: *weeps* I’ve been on the couch for 35 minutes.
Spaz: Jesus. How many ex boyfriends did you text during those 35 minutes?
ThePeach: *sobs* TWO!
Spaz: Jesus.
ThePeach: *hysterical sobbing* Now I can’t eat dinner.
Spaz: Wait. You never got the lid off?
ThePeach: *sobs* no-o-o-o!
Spaz…HAHAHAHAHAHA
ThePeach:…*sniffle* It’s not funny! I’m staying on this couch until I die.
Spaz: Want to come upstairs and eat cake?
ThePeach: I’ll be upstairs in 30 seconds.

And then I spent another 35 minutes on a couch. But this time I had cake, and Spaz, and no MOTHERFUCKING SOYA SAUCE laughing at me from the kitchen.

It’s been a bad few days. School sucks, life sucks, money sucks, work sucks, and the cat bit my face this morning.

But it took a bottle of Soya Sauce to break me.

Fuck the condiments.

ThePeach

Good morning to you, too.

Cats. They are vengeful little bastards.

I spent the weekend away and, when I got back, Milo was extra loving because he had been so lonely. He head-butted me with affection all night, curled up in a little ball on top of my stomach while I lay in bed, and purred like a monster while I slept. Wittle rat.

But I wasn’t fooled. I knew what was coming once the happiness of having me home again wore off.

Welcome to my Monday morning:

5:45am: Cat wakes up, drags stuffed mouse into the bed, starts pouncing on it on top of my stomach.
6:00am: Grows tired of mouse, but not of jumping on top of my body. Moves to my head. Gallops in place on my face.
6:15am: OH MY GOD A TOY MOUSE. JUMP JUMP JUMP WHIP IT IN THEPEACH’S FACE!!!!
6:30am: Howl. Howl. Howl. Howl. HOOOOOOOOOWL PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
6:45am: Resumes jumping on my face.
7:00am: Licks my face with raspy, smelly little cat tongue until I push him onto the floor. Immediately flies back onto the bed with agility of a furry eagle, as if his feet didn’t even hit the floor. Now he’s angry. Resumes howling. Adds biting.
7:15am: OH MY GOD A TOY MOUSE. ATTACK IT ON THEPEACH’S BLADDER!!!
7:30am: Bite. Bite. Bite. BITE. Gnaw.
7:45am: New tactic. Stands in place on my face, paws on eyelids, until I gasp from sensation of eyes being pushed backward into brain and flail about in bed trying to get him off me.
7:46am: I get up. Put on coffee. Cat gallops in circles around my feet.
7:47am: Open door to get newspaper. Cat sprints out the door, side-checking me on the way with such force that I almost fall over. Turns around once to glare at me, and then gallops like a demon stead through the hallways.
7:48am: GALLOP. ThePeach chases.
7:50am: GALLOP. ThePeach chases.
7:52am: GALLOP. ThePeach chases.
7:53am: Cat sprints back into apartment, hitting head on apartment door on the way in. Seems unfazed. Sits down by empty food dish and resumes howling. I feed him.
7:54am: Scarfs food like he just spent 2 years licking dirt in Ethiopia.
7:55am: Jumps into windowsill. Tries to hunt the cars driving by on the street below.
7:56am: Projectile vomits into windowsill.
7:58am: Curls up in a little ball on top of a cloth shopping bag on the kitchen table. Sleeps like angel.
8:00am: I call the vet to make appointment to have Milo put down before lunch.
8:02am: Chip cat vomit out of window tracks using a spoon.

Happy Monday!

ThePeach

Professionalism FAIL, part 3794

I sometimes freelance for the lifestyle section of this national newspaper chain. It makes me happy in my heart, because they ask me to write about hard-hitting topics like senior citizen fitness, peanut allergies, and more senior citizen fitness. God I love old people!

Seriously. They're adorable.

My current assignment is to compile a parent's guide to the most popular toys this holiday season. I find this a little tricky, maybe because I'm at the bitter age in my life where the sight of children makes my ovaries dry out. I'm not sure when this happened.

My first choice is "Baby Ah-Choo." Not because I think little girls need dolls, not because the doll comes with kleenex, a thermometer, and what I believe is a tiny fake bottle of hand sanitizer, but because I want to put the fear of H1N1 in the little disease-spreading grade schoolers. I don't want to catch swine because some dirty child wants to wipe its hands on everything and lick door-knobs. So let's teach them proper sanitization.

With Baby Ah-Choo.

Anyway.

I had to make a conference call to the senior toy buyers at a major Canadian department store. While on the phone discussing nerf guns and dolls that crap themselves, one of them asked me a question.

Senior Buyer: You don't know the tv show Bakugan?
ThePeach: No, sir, I do not.
Senior Buyer: It's the most popular boy's cartoon out there!
ThePeach: I do not know of it.
Senior Buyer: You must not have any young boys, then.
ThePeach: No, sir, I do not.
Senior Buyer: Do you have any children?
ThePeach: NO. GOD, NO!!!
Senior Buyer:...let's discuss the Flutter-By-Fairy.

That one just slipped right out.

I'll have to watch that.

ThePeach

Relax

HotMess and I went to hot yoga yesterday. Or, at least, we thought we did. Obviously neither of us read the schedule, and we accidentally wound up in a 90 minute extreme stretch class.

Oh holy fuck.

Of course we still had no idea that we had entered this new, fresh hell. 45 minutes into the class and we both had been holding our ankles over our heads for 20 minutes using special yoga straps (weird, why are we so good at this pose?), there are 9 inch bricks under our tailbones to fold us inside out, and we're both still waiting for the actual yoga to start.

Another 45 minutes later and we've both been holding deep birthing-style squats for 15 minutes, stretching our hip flexors and birth canals to the point of paralysis, and it's finally occured to us that maybe we took the wrong class. The hysterical laughter started, which is frowned upon in extreme stretch class, so then we had to try to muffle it. While in extreme birthing squat. I might have actually birthed one of my ovaries.

We should have known that we had walked into the wrong class right from the get-go. Usually our class is filled with 20-something yuppies in perfect yoga-body shape, all glistening perfect lady sweat in the 100 degree yoga room. When we walked into yesterday's class and lay out our matts, I was slapped in the face with an overwhelming yet distinguishable scent.

ThePeach: *lifts hips into downward dog, whispers* Why does it smell like balls in here?
HotMess: *lowers hips into resting child pose, whispers* Because the room is full of balls.

Men. Men everywhere. Old, topless men.

Extreme stretch:

Bad choice.

ThePeach

Lies, lies, lies.

I went to the doctor on Thursday. Just the yearly check-up/weigh-in/speculum rape/syphilis swab.

As usual, the doctor and I nimbly circled around each other in the alcohol dance.

He asked me if I drank a lot.

I asked him what constituted “a lot.”

He asked me how much I drank in an average week.

I said I didn’t drink every week.

He asked me to guess.

I said maybe 10 drinks/week maximum, but that wasn’t every week.

He nodded like he believed me and then ordered a liver functioning test anyway.

Two nights later, I’m sitting alone on my couch, wondering how I just drank two-thirds of a bottle of red wine in under an hour.

See, I have this fiction piece I’m supposed to write for my writing class. I haven’t written fiction – real fiction, not a thinly veiled autobiography – in years. And even then, I wasn’t very good at it. Poetry, sure. Emo haikus, bring it. But real fiction? The thought makes my guts churn. I haven’t had an original idea in my entire life.

Add to the fact that we will be tearing through our final products next week in a group gang bang that our professor likes to call “workshopping.”

So, I thought a little wine might loosen me up and get the creative juices flowing. It worked for Ernest Hemingway. And Faulkner. And Thomas. Do not go gentle into that good night! Drink wine and write! I’m pretty sure that’s the point, anyway.

Instead I just drank all the wine and wrote nothing. I’d failed my drunken writing forefathers. And then I was drunk, alone, and in my pjs at 9pm on a Saturday night. So when the peer pressure text messages from my friends started coming in, I had no choice but to back out of my convictions that I would spend the night working, put on pants, and get thee to the bar.

So now, here I am. Sunday morning, I’ve still written nothing, and I have a massive red wine headache.

Being a writer is hard.

Those liver function tests should be back any day now.

ThePeach