Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Meet TheHussy

So I went over to watch a movie with TheNurse and her friend, TheHussy. Here are some of the things that TheHussy randomly said, being completely serious, during the evening:

"I'm glad I lived in a girl's residence. I don't want to take a deuce with a guy in the next stall."

"Cricket is truly a gentleman's sport."

"Whatever happened to UNICEF?"

"Brown guys are hot. I'd marry one, but I want to be able to work outside the home and not get beaten".

"He's a *voice changes to a whisper* homo".

"I got drunk and called her a bitch. And then, when I looked into her eyes, it was like looking at bambi after his mother was shot."

"My ex is really Canadian looking. He looks like he should be in a steak commercial".

I heart TheHussy.

ThePeach

The Peach is a Nice Person

Just in case you think I'm a total bitch after reading my last post, here are some nice things I have done in my lifetime:

1. I used to babysit a neighbour's kid with downs syndrome - for free!*
2. I once raised $350 for a local hospital.**
3. I taught TigerCat how to read.***
4. I volunteer at a local hospital, where I visit old people.****

* The child was mute and sat frozen in front of the tv for hours on end. A monkey could have babysat.
**Solely for the purpose of renewing my community-service based scholarship.
***By writing her stories to read aloud about how she wasn't actually related and how we really found her under a rock in the hudson river. They were illustrated!
****I stopped going in December and haven't told anyone yet.

Save me a spot in hell!

ThePeach

Merry Fucking Christmas!

If you’ve read my entire blog, you know all about TheBitches. They’re the 3 crazy-ass ho-bags that TheNurse and I lived with for 3 unfortunate years. I don’t even know how to begin to describe how crazy those douches were, but you can always read “The Pros and Cons of Living Alone” to get an idea. As it stands, TheNurse and I have not seen or spoken to one of them since the god-graceful day that we moved out. If I see one of them on the street, I just keep walking. The last time I communicated with them, it was to fight my ass off to get one of them to send me a cheque for $7.00 that they owed me. Then I waited 6 months, until Xmas eve, to cash it. I’m a treat that way.

They are blocked from our msn lists but not our memories. And one of my favourite memories that exemplifies just how ridiculous they were is a warming holiday tale. It takes place mid-December, 2004. The setting: a dilapidated TheShanty in the middle of the ghetto.

At the time, things in TheShanty were already bad. They had begun a steady decline after about the first month of living together, and by this time TheBitches mainly communicated with TheNurse and I through passive-aggressive notes left on the white-board in the hall. TheNurse actually had to physically stop me from tearing down the board and smashing it over my knee more than once. Here is an example of a note that might be left for TheNurse and me:

“Can we PLEASE remember to do our chores this week????!!! The amount of dirt on the floor is DISGUSTING. It is RIDICULOUS. We don’t seem to be remembering to follow the counter-clockwise motion of the chore-wheel and finishing the chores by 3pm on Wednesday. It is now 3:30 and the floors STILL have not been swept!! This is UNACCEPTABLE!! Also, can we PLEASE remember to shut the door quietly?? We don’t seem to realize that when we aren’t careful, we can hear the door being shut. This disturbs those of us who are sleeping or studying. This is UNACCEPTABLE!! Thanks, TheBitches.”

Note the royal “we” and the use of capital letters for emphasis. And the 'thanks' thrown in at the end to make them feel better about themselves. Also note that we would be sitting in the next room as one of TheBitches wrote this note. It wasn’t that we weren’t home; the white-board was just their preferred mode of communication. Because direct confrontation would be too mature of a concept.

Some other background information that you might find helpful is that, at this time, TheNurse and I both had fairly serious boyfriends (me with FauxHawk, and her with her ex who I shall name TheTool) and all of TheBitches were single. This angered them, and I am sure that they spent many long nights knitting and discussing how unfair that was while TheNurse and I were off having sex.

So, it was almost Christmas, TheBitches were lonely, the only form of communication between us took place on a white-board, and the floors were not acceptably clean. This was a bad time for TheBitches, who were obsessed with cleanliness. TheNurse and I could tell that they were planning something. They seemed to be huddling more often than usual, and conversations stopped when we entered rooms that they were in. Well, that usually happened anyway, but this time we could feel the nervous tension in the air. Ah yes, something was a-buzz. But what?

I think the saddest thing in the world, aside from Hillary Duff’s new veneers, is when people make plans specifically aimed to make someone feel left out – and then they realize that the person could care less, has better things to do, and that, basically, they are lame-ass suckers. Poor TheBitches.

TheNurse and I were out drinking with our boyfriends one night, and we stopped home quickly to change. When we entered the house we saw xmas decorations, heard xmas music, and, best of all, saw TheBitches in the living room, whine-holes stuffed with gingerbread, with a sad little gingerbread house spread out in front of them and smug looks on their faces. YES! ThePeach and TheNurse caught us excluding them from our little pj-clad xmas party on a Saturday night! They must be so jealous! And angry!

We laughed our asses off. Later, they hid the gingerbread house in one of their rooms so we wouldn’t eat any. Oh no! No gingerbread for us! I guess we’ll have to get our satisfaction from all the sex we’re having and from the joy of having real friends and lives! And souls!

The next day, all of their msn names were statements like “Christmas came to TheShanty!”, “Merry Christmas, TheShanty!”, and “Santa visited TheShanty!”. They had each hung stockings on the outside of their doors and put little presents in them. And they kept talking in loud voices right outside our rooms (note: my room was on a different level from the rest of theirs…they actually came downstairs and gathered outside my door) about how great their presents were and how much fun they were having. Again, we laughed our asses off. This was just getting sad. Did they really think we cared?

In a final attempted insult, the clean-freak OCD windex-nazis left *gasp* gingerbread crumbs in the living room. Not only in the living room, but on *gasp* my couch. THEY BURN!!! THE CRUMBS – THEY BURN MY SOUL!!! No wait – I don’t fucking care. I gave it one more night before one of them crept downstairs at 2am, sobbing, and vacuumed the shit out of the couch. And then, rocking on her heels, scrubbed her skin off in the shower to get rid of the germs. That, or one of the giant mice that occupied the shanty would take care of it.

But, because I liked to egg them on, I left a passive-aggressive note on the white-board:

“Hello TheBitches! Can we PLEASE make sure to clean up our mess left on my couch? Thanks! The Peach.”

The squeak of the dry-erase pen perked the ears of TheBitches, and one of them came tumbling down the stairs as soon as I was done, gingerbread house remnant in paw. The remnant was transferred to the whine-hole, and the squeak of the dry-erase pen grated on my soul:

“Dear ThePeach, I’m SO sorry that we didn’t clean OUR crumbs from OUR gingerbread from OUR party off YOUR couch. Can we PLEASE try to be a little more mature about this situation????!!! Don’t be bitchy just because you’re jealous that you weren’t invited!! TheBitches.”

Beautiful. Now they were all riled up. I could hear her scrambling back upstairs to tell the rest of them what I’d done. And also probably to stuff her gob with more gingerbread. That’s right, eat your feelings. And then wonder why you didn’t make cheerleading this year.

TheNurse came out of hiding in her room, went to look at the white-board, came back to my room, and we laughed our asses off. Then we went out with our friends. TheBitches stayed in, plotting new ways to piss us off, pre-writing new notes for the white-board, and calling their moms to cry.

Merry Fucking Christmas!

This is why I now live alone.

ThePeach

Monday, January 30, 2006

A Typical Peachy Weekend

Well, here I am, back at work bright and early on Monday morning (really, I snuck into the office at 11am because I hit snooze for an extra hour and a half), and ready to share my typical weekend’s happenings with you. Here are the most interesting things that happened to me this weekend, in order of occurrence – not preference:

1. On my way to the gym on Saturday morning (re: 2pm, but to me that is morning), I noticed a man sitting in his car, right outside my house, reading a paper. I didn’t think much of it. There are all kinds of crazies on my street. 2 hours later (I’m going on vacation in a week and need to work off the can of icing) on my way back, I noticed that the man was still in his car and still reading the paper. Please remember this in case I ever go missing or am found dead and one of you needs to generate a list of suspects.

2. On Saturday night I went to see Brokeback Mountain with TheHippie. I know that it is a deep and meaningful movie and all, but all I could think the entire time was: “Jake Gyllenhall, you’re so hot that I want to bite your face have your babies” and “is Heath Ledger playing a character named Anus?” (note: I later discovered that his name was Ennis). I was never really turned-on at the thought of guy-on-guy in the same way that guys will shit their pants over watching 2 chicks make out…until this movie. What can I say? For the better part of the movie they’re either topless or riding horses…or each other. Yeehaw!

3. On Sunday TheHippie and I went bikini shopping at old navy. As if this isn’t disturbing enough, I needed a second opinion on one of them and roped poor TheHippie into coming into the change-room to decide whether or not the suit accentuated my ass and tits in a good way. TheHippie and I may be hetero same-sex life partners, but I think that made us both a little uncomfortable. After that, I stuck to asking her opinion on sunglasses only. If we were to ever become a lesbian couple, we’d be one of those who respect each other too much to have chick sex. And we'd probably wear matching sailor suits. For the hell of it.

4. On Sunday night my mother came to Universitytown to take me out for dinner. When she got to my house I made a terrifying, soul-shaking, throw-up in your mouth a little discovery: we were wearing the exact same outfit. The exact same printed sweater from Mexx and dark jeans. I don’t know if my mom is getting cooler or I am getting lamer, but I don’t fucking care. I need to go shopping. Now!

5. My mom and I went out to a sushi restaurant for dinner. Thanks to FauxHawk, who is not Japanese but is very cool (and possibly a little metro), I have good sushi etiquette. I know how to use chopsticks without taking out someone’s eye, I know cool stuff to order, and I know how to fold my chopstick cover into a clever little boat to hold said chopsticks. My mother…is not cool. First, she talked to the waiters as if today was their first day in Canada: loudly, slowly, and possibly with the hint of some sort of asian accent. I tried to explain to her that the waiters were probably from Toronto and not some fishing village in the orient, but she just doesn’t get it. Also, she tried to order a knife to “cut the sushi”. No, mom. No.

6. After my mother left, I went over to TheNurse’s apartment to watch some Sunday night tv and drink wine. Because I don’t want to live in a world where I can’t fall asleep at least a little drunk each night. We watched Grey’s Anatomy, which stars my tv-boyfriend George, whose face I would also like to bite. We also discussed how drunken FauxHawk and I plan to be while on vacation, and how I’m a little concerned that I’m going to black-out and wake up in the morning with a sore anus…and questions (just kidding. FauxHawk is a gentleman. He knows he can shake me awake and do whatever he wants).


And that was my weekend. It was pretty standard.

The Peach

Saturday, January 28, 2006

Why Living in the 'Real World' Can Really Blow Ass

As I’ve mentioned, I’m no longer a student and I actually work for a living. This has some definite perks, such as having a semi-normal sleep schedule (no more nocturnalism for me!), having time to go to the gym (no more needing to lie down after climbing a flight of stairs for me!), having time to cook and eat (you mean there’s more to life than no-name minute rice?), and growing back most of the hair that fell out from stress in my last year of university.

But then, some days, it really blows.

Days when you realize that all of your friends are still in school and need to study on a weekend or that your friends who aren’t in school (re: TheNurse) are working nights, and are too busy cleaning up feces and looking at old-woman vag (she likes some kinky-ass shit…just kidding, she works on the gyne floor) to entertain you. Or days when your boyfriend, who can usually be counted on to be neither studying nor working (med school is so hard), is out of town.

Or days like yesterday when all of those things were true at once, and I spent my night eating icing out of the can (it’s almost gone, and then I shall never purchase canned icing again), lounging around in my skivvies since the heat in my apartment is set at a constant 30 degrees (the landlord controls it...I bet you there's a hidden camera in here somewhere), and alternating between staring at my msn list to see who I could sucker into talking to me (no one – even my mom was offline) and trying to download sex tetris off the internet, to no success. 4 episodes of sex and the city, 2 pulled muscles from naked yoga, and 1 bowl of buttered popcorn later it was finally a reasonable time to go to bed and sleep as long as possible so as to not have to try to entertain myself the next day.

God bless TheHippie, who is seeing a movie with me tonight, because otherwise I would be stuck trying to entertain myself again. And I’m afraid I’ll turn into Bridget Jones circa. the drinking vodka alone, picking yesterday’s underwear off the back of your legs, and crying in the bath-tub phase.

Not that there's anything wrong with drinking alone.

The Peach

Friday, January 27, 2006

Another Important Meeting with The Boss

My boss just called me and asked me to come up to his office right away because he had something important to show me on his computer. I figured that either I made a mistake in my data analysis (wouldn't be the first time) or he somehow found my blog and intended to fire me.

Nope. He had to show me an email that contained a video of a monkey drinking its own urine.

I can't believe this is my job/life.

The Peach

The Boss on Homosexuality

I just had a nice, long morning meeting with The Boss. It was almost 2 hours long and mainly consisted of my sleeping with my eyes open. But it also, unfortunately, consisted of the following conversation:

The Boss: So, I was at a conference this weekend and some buddies and I were making fun of gay guys *giggle*.
The Peach: Oh?
The Boss: Ya, now we have this inside joke where we call gay guys "broke-back guys", you know, from that movie BrokeBack Mountain.
The Peach: I really want to see that movie, actually.
The Boss: I've heard it's a nice love story, although the guy-on-guy is a little tough to swallow.
The Peach: *waits for it*...
The Boss: No pun intended! *giggle*
The Peach: (theeere it is) *nervous laughter*
The Boss: Oh man, you are bad!

And all this before my morning caffeine intake.

The Peach

Thursday, January 26, 2006

The Driving Follies

So, I've been taking driving lessons in an attempt to get my license. I am aware that I am 23. I am aware that this is sad. Shut up.

Unlike most normal people, I never got my license when I was 16. This might seem bizarre to you until you remember that it is me. Nothing in my life even closely resembles normal. Do you have an ex-step father who got secretly remarried to his drunken girlfriend in Cuba and you only found out when he sent you pictures of his honeymoon over msn but still didn't tell you and you only realized it because they had on wedding rings and before you could confront him he went offline and you haven't heard from him in 10 months? No? Then you can't judge me, bitches!!

Angst issues aside, I am now attempting to get my license, mainly under the pressure of FauxHawk's constant scorn of my lack of license. I managed to get my G1, and am now taking driving lessons with an old man named Frank. I would give him a funny fake name, but really, what name is funnier than Frank?

So, we learned emergency highway maneuvers today. This involved me driving faster than I'm comfortable with (I'm comfortable with 30km/hr. When there's no traffic) and practicing pulling onto the shoulder. Also, how to react when I get distracted and veer into another lane. Here is the scenario Frank gave me to help me visualize this:

Frank: Ok, Peach. Imagine you're driving along and up ahead there's a big billboard with an attractive young fellow on it. That fellow is advertising Jockeys.
Peach: Right.
Frank: So, you stare at the attractive fellow in his jockeys and you veer towards the right.
Peach: Right.
Frank: To simulate this, I will grab the wheel and pull you towards the right when you hit 80km/hr.
Peach: *getting nervous* Right.
Frank: But don't worry, I'll keep my pants on.
Peach: Ri-what??
Frank: I won't strip down to my jockeys to distract you. Maybe if it was 30 years ago and I weren't married, but not now. I used to play sports. I also used to wear speedos, but now that I'm an old man I had to switch to those boxer-type bathing suits with the extra space for the paunch. Yep, I used to play sports. Ok, let's go! Hit the gas! And stay focused!
Peach: Oh sweet mother of all that is holy and good.
Frank: *cranes head* what's that you said?
Peach: I said buckle up.

Why can't anything in my life be non-hilarious? I just want to learn to drive, damnit!

The Peach

An Immoral Conversation with The Boss

I just got back from a lunch date with my boss. Here is an excerpt from our conversation:

Boss: Amputees make me laugh.
ThePeach: (debating whether or not to agree...Amputees freak me out, but I don't want to egg him on...time to decide on a non-commital answer) Yes. (damn!).
Boss: *Laughs* Like this one time I was in a lecture and the guy only had one shrivelled hand, I almost died!
ThePeach: I had a friend who was dating a guy who only had one hooked finger on his left hand. It was weird.
Boss: *hysterical laughter* Oh man, you're killing me! Did she dump him?
ThePeach: Well, yes, but only because he hooked up with another girl. He broke her heart.
Boss: *rolling on the floor laughing* He literally 'hooked' that other girl!
ThePeach: She didn't get out of bed for 2 weeks. She was really upset.
Boss: *screaming with laughter* I had no idea you were so funny! stop, I'm dying!
ThePeach: ...ok...
Boss: Would you hook up with a guy who had no hands?
ThePeach: Look at the time! Time to get back to work!
Boss: You're too funny, oh man i'm going to miss you next year!

You can't make this stuff up.

The Peach

Another typical (msn) conversation with TheHippie

TheHippie: I've hit a new low.
ThePeach: What are you talking about?
TheHippie: I'm eating chocolate icing on an english muffin. It's really not good.
ThePeach: Jesus Christ! I mean...no judgment.
TheHippie: I craved cake and thought this might taste like it, but it just tastes like whole-wheat english muffin with icing.
ThePeach: If it makes you feel better, I'm currently eating icing straight from the can myself!
TheHippie: I really should have just done that.
ThePeach: Probably. Just go buy a brownie. I already had one today.
TheHippie: Ok, I'll get one on my way back from the gym. Actually fuck no, I'll just go get a brownie in lieu of going to the gym.
ThePeach: That's what I did. Fucking PMS.
TheHippie: Indeed.

This was 3 days ago. To prove that we are not total ass, we went to Power Yoga last night. And then back home to our respective cans of icing.

Fucking PMS.

The Peach.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Why I Don't Like Mini-Putt

Anyone who has ever gone mini-putting with me knows I get a little…competitive…when I play. I also cheat. A lot. Although I don’t think getting re-do’s because I’m dainty counts as cheating, but take that up with FauxHawk. I also think there’s nothing wrong with telling the 9 year old I’m playing with that sucking ass won’t get her very far, but again, you should take that up with FauxHawk…and his niece.

I just like to win. It’s not my fault. It comes from years of intense competition with TigerCat throughout my childhood and most of my adolescence. Now I hate mini-putt, yet have an intense desire to play it anytime I feel the need to kick some ass. Let me explain…

Ever since I was 5 or so my Dad had custody of TigerCat and I every second weekend. During the winter, my sister and I would spend these days parked in front of the tv with buckets of lego at our feet while my dad slept in his room - probably dreaming of a better life. But during the spring/summer/fall, my dad could only think of one other activity with which to entertain us: Mini-putt. We probably visited every damn mini-putt course in the city. And every week it was the same thing: I was good, TigerCat sucked, I would cheat anyway because I’m a bitch, and TigerCat would throw some sort of massive tantrum that would either have hilarious results or get us kicked out. And my Dad would be in charge of stopping TigerCat from clubbing me in my obnoxious skull with her wee little putt-putt club.

Here are a few of the hilarious results that stick out in my mind:

I was probably 8, which would make TigerCat 5. I had just kicked her ass at the game, again, and she lost it. She started chasing me around the course at full 5-year-old speed, with her club raised over head, screaming at the top of her lungs: “YOU BITZ!!! YOU GOD-DAMN BITZ!!!” If you haven’t figured it out yet, that’s “bitch” with her child-lisp. Seriously, that child could swear like a sailor on leave. We probably circled the course 3 or 4 times before my dad managed to grab her, restrain her flailing arms, distract her with a blue slushie, and lock her in the car. The other families were still staring in shock as we drove away.

Fast-forward about 10 years, and we’re still, unbelievably, playing mini-putt on a Saturday with my father. I got my ball in the hole (haha, epiphany: maybe this is why I keep playing the game) in 2 shots. TigerCat, on her 4th shot, still couldn’t get her ball past the giant aluminum polar bear (this course had an animal theme). So she screams “FUCK!!!”, winds up, and hits the ball as hard as she can. In a scene of majestic beauty that only happens when everything in the universe is lined up perfectly, the ball rams the bear in the torso at full-speed, ricochets back, and clocks her on the side of the head. Oh my god, I pissed my pants laughing so hard. TigerCat cried, yet even through her tears and possible neurological damage she could see the hilarity of the situation and also practically pissed herself. This is why she is my soul-twin.

My dad passed her a blue slushie and shook his head – probably dreaming of a better life.

In conclusion, if you ever have the unfortunate chance to play mini-putt with me then be prepared to lose the game, your dignity, and your ability to love me.

The Peach

TheNurse on Safety

Last night I went out with some friends to a local student hang-out in Universitytown. It was my friend, WeeOne’s, Birthday, and TheNurse, TheHippie, TheHubby, my friend Cleavage (who always gets served first at the bar with those melons of hers) and myself gathered to celebrate.

TheNurse and I are no longer students, and last night we were very aware of how out of place we are at student-only hangouts. We were told to meet at the bar at 10pm. As TheNurse and I no longer live in the ‘ghetto’, we walked together from the other side of Universitytown – the side with the Mental Hospital, Meth Clinics, and Detox Centres. Since I know my friends are always late, we left at 10:15. We still ended up waiting for half an hour in the student bar. This is how we know we’re old:

- we complained about how crowded the bar was
- we complained that we couldn’t get seats
- we complained that the service was too slow
- we complained about how young everyone looked


I’d like to point out that we are only 23 and 22, but in a town like universitytown that is considered practically geriatric. Fucking universitytown.

Anyway, we made up a rule so as to not embarrass ourselves further while we waited: always assume that nobody knows who you are. ALWAYS ASSUME! Like when some girl waved in our direction and TheNurse waved back, only to realize that the girl was waving at a stick-insect pre-teen behind us. Always assume. And when some guy yelled my name, and I naturally turned towards him with an eager ‘someone remembers me!’ smile, only to realize that he was shouting to some stick-insect pre-teen. ALWAYS ASSUME!

Anyway, the rest of my posse arrived, we got WeeOne sloshed, and us old folks headed out early so that we could get our required 12 hours of sleep/night. On the way home, as we walked through the dark and deserted streets behind the mental hospital, TheNurse and I had the following conversation:

ThePeach: This has to be the most fucking dangerous street in universitytown.
TheNurse: For sure. Not only is it pitch black, but the only people who ever roam it are schizos off their meds.
ThePeach: Yep, we could get attacked and no one would ever know.
TheNurse: I have an attack whistle. Can you imagine if I ever actually blew it??! My rapist would probably piss his pants laughing and then just keep on raping me.

It’s so true.

The Peach

Monday, January 23, 2006

The Peach has a Polygamous Platonic Marriage

Shit, I forgot my second husband. I AM my mother (zing!)!

I received this email today, from my other platonic husband:

"I love your blog...I want to marry it. I was ... up at 130 in the morning, and spent the next hour reading it and laughing. I think the lady that lives upstairs thought she was being robbed by a manic depressive burglar who'd skipped his ritalin. One question tho...who the hell is your other platonic husband?! Because I sure as hell don't remember a platonic divorce...and I'm sure as hell not paying platonic alimony!"

Some background:

This email is from my good friend, ThePilot, who I married platonically in high school when we realized our shared love of TNG (geeks unite!) and making fun of everything that breathed. We decided that we were far too bitter and cynical to ever procreate with one another, for fear of creating demon-children who could kill you with sarcasm, yet we also realized that there was a good chance that no one else would ever put up with our shit, and thus decided on a platonic marriage. After high school, we each moved to our respective university-towns but maintained a long-distance platonic marriage that consisted mainly of bitter emails and msn conversations about people we hated. This would continue for years.

And then, in my 3rd year of University, another bitter, sarcastic soul found me. You may remember me mentioning TheHubby. We also married platonically and bonded over our plot to steal babies and sell them for blow in Mexico.

I love both my husbands - platonically, of course.

But I have to apologize to ThePilot. You are my first and oldest marriage, and no other platonic husband can replace you. Ever! How can I make it up to you?

I know. Tonight on msn I'll show you my rack. Platonically, of course.

The Peach

The Peach has Father Issues

In a time where divorce is at an all-time high, there are many girls out there who are being raised without a good, solid father-figure in their lives. When they reach adolescence, chances are that these girls will begin their life-time pattern of clinging to men in the kind of emotional dependence that makes testicles shrink and therapists rich.

I do not have these kinds of issues.

My mother has had 2 divorces. I have a loving, overly-concerned Italian father (“let me cut your meat; you cut your pieces too big and you’ll choke to death…I don’t care if the waiter is laughing”), a loving, boisterous grandfather who has always lived less than 20 minutes away and who considers himself to be my “replacement” father (“oh, you’re seeing your father this weekend? You mean he’s not too busy consuming alcoholic beverages at the local drinking establishment? Maybe I better come pick you up”), an over-bearing ex-stepfather who thinks that only he can save me from my “crazy-ass mother” (“I know we haven’t talked in 10 months, and the last time we did my girlfriend got drunk and called you and TigerCat crazy hos, but we built a guest-bedroom for you in our new house, and if you decided to come live with us there’s nothing your mother could do about it”), and a loving...um…what do you call your mother’s common-law live-in boyfriend? There’s no hallmark category for that, let me tell you!

Anyway, I have too many solid father-figures in my life, and at times it’s out of control. They all fight over who gets to spend the most time with me and TigerCat, and god help us if any of them should ever be in the same room together. I believe the last time that happened, at TigerCat’s high school graduation 3 years ago, my grandfather sucker-punched my dad in the gut, the live-in common-law boyfriend hid in the car, and my ex-stepfather ran like hell shortly there-after. I don’t think these things happen to other people. If they do, then please contact me or TigerCat and you can come spoon with us when we get together and stay up all night wondering if these things happen to other people. We’ll have pie!

TigerCat and I have had some pretty serious conversations when we share beds at holidays (my mom sold the house to go live with the live-in common-law bf in a 2 bedroom apartment, we’re not THOSE kinds of sisters):

TigerCat: Peach? Are you asleep?
Peach: No, I’m too busy picturing what life will be like when I become Mom. *shudder*
TigerCat: Do you think that the muffin man is actually a man? Like, a man made of muffin?
Peach:…I think the muffin man sells muffins.
TigerCat: Really? I’m pretty sure he’s actually a muffin.
Peach: No, he definitely just sells muffins.
TigerCat: But the gingerbread man is made of gingerbread!
Peach:…touché…

Of equal importance, TigerCat and I have spent many, many long nights picturing our weddings. Not the usual typical girl crap like flowers and dresses. But how in the name of gentle jesus we’ll be able to get all of our family (families?) together in one room without the world actually ending. We really do believe that Armageddon may in fact occur precisely when the families of our 4 father-figures culminate under one roof. Even God doesn’t want to live in a world where things like that are allowed to happen.

Even more distressing is deciding who will walk us down the aisle. I’m pretty sure each of the 4 father-figures thinks he has a claim on it (well, except the live-in common-law bf, but he’s so nice and I just feel bad leaving him out of it!) and is willing to fight to the death for the job. Thus, my sister and I have come up with the perfect solution. We have it all mapped out, much like a football play.

On the right: Biological Father
On the left: Ex-step-father
Holding the train: Live-in common-law bf
Walking in front, arms folded, with the glare of judgment in the eyes: Grandfather.

Picture it like a diamond-shape. Or maybe more like a bullet. A giant bullet of dysfunction, resentment, and red-flags shooting down the aisle.

God help the man who waits at the altar. But really, odds are TigerCat and I will scare off all men and still share a bed at 75, talking about what good catches we are and living with our combined 100 cats (“Boots is actually very intelligent! She comes whenever I call her! Boots! BOOTS!! YOU FUCKING CAT!! Well, she’s just getting over a cold…wait, don’t go! Come back, mail-man! TigerCat just made her famous sandwich fingers! Damnit, TigerCat, you scared away another one, you whore.").

So this entire entry is moot.

The Peach

Saturday, January 21, 2006

The Peach likes lesbians

I wanted to apologize if I insulted any lesbians in my last post. I love lesbians. Frankly, after all the crapola I've been through with men, I'm surprised that I'm not one. And I don't think that just because you prefer the side-ways smile means that you're after mine. I know that I'm far too high-maintenance and princessy to attract any real lesbians. I've been told this many times, by people both straight and gay. The possible-lesbians I referred to in my last post were probably confused, and only attracted to me because I wore a bathing cap and had big shoulders at the time.

I just did it again, didn't I? Fuck it, nothing I say will ever be PC.

The Peach

Things You May Not Know, Or Want to Know, About Me

I write this entry in memory of my favourite evil-bird, who is not dead, but just lives in another city and I don’t talk to her as much as I should.

I used to be a competitive synchronized swimmer. If you laugh, or say that synchro isn’t a sport, then I’ll wrap my massive ex-swimmer thighs around your neck and snap you like a twig!

Synchro is a sport, fo shizzle. But I’m not sure why. It does take a huge physical capacity, but it’s also both fucked-up and hilarious. It starts out as hilarious because most kids who do recreational synchro are fat, unpopular, or too klutzy for sports and too un-graceful for dance. The mothers of these rejects of the earth place their children in synchro thinking that their beautiful babies will find their niche, at last!

I was one of these rejects. I wasn’t fat or unpopular, but I was a klutz with the grace of a tourettes on roller skates. I was afraid of balls, so most sports didn’t pan out for me. I had one dance lesson the day before my class skiing trip. During the class skiing trip, I broke my leg in 3 places when I rammed into another kid in my class. That ruled out dance and any winter sports. I liked running, but then in grade 6 some kid told another kid that I ran “just like OJ Simpson” in gym class. I never got over that insult, whatever the shit it meant.

So there I was, 11 years old, and a reject of the athletic world. So obviously my mom put me in synchro. I only wish she had done it 5 years earlier. I took to it right away, and was the best in my class of 6 year olds! I can still remember my first show – me and the seven 6-year olds in my class waddling like penguins to “rockin’ robin” (which really makes no sense at all when you think about it – who the shit choreographed that thing??), splashing in the water, and turning somersaults both backwards and forwards. Jesus Christ, I hated my mom. I think the other moms hated her, too. Because when you’re videotaping your adorable 6-year old's first swimming show, do you really want a tall, gangly, akward, yet strangely graceful-in-water 11 year old grinning at the camera with her big 11-year-old buck teeth? And her mother weeping in the background and muttering things like “such grace, such beauty – it’s like she IS the robin!”.

Luckily, I survived rec., moved up to my age group, and, eventually, into a competitive league. No fatties to be found! Only socially awkward teenagers who may or may not be in the sport exclusively to touch other girls’ bodies or get cozy with the water jets and hardcore nazi synchro-moms yelling at the coaches and bringing their daughters bottles of Gatorade any time they look ‘winded’. And, of course, EvilBird. The toughest biatch in the sport who had no qualms with telling the coach to fuck off or the possible-dykes to fuck themselves. Obviously we were best synchro-pals. Bitches stick together. It’s evolutionary.

We swam about 9 hours/week usually and usually more when we had a meet. Funny things happened at these practices.

Like the time we tried a human pyramid on the deck. Just guess who the fuck was on the top and who the fuck fell onto the deck torso-first when the fucking pyramid collapsed under its own weight. If my left tit is slightly smaller than my right, that’s why.

Or that one time we tried this boost (aka pushing the anorexic ones out of the water by using the weight of those who consumed food to propel them) with EvilBird on the bottom, but my coach thought we should try it upside-down (go figure…she’s French) and EvilBird was propelled by the weight of all of the eaters head-first onto the pool floor. Ah, the swearing I heard that day took me back to my mom’s wedding! Note that this incident was probably not funny for EvilBird, and probably caused her some permanent damage.

The practices were a real treat and may have caused me some physical pain, but it was the competitions that gave me permanent emotional complexes. You’ve heard of models having fake tits, celebrities having fake smiles, and so forth? Well, at competitions, I had fake bun. That’s right. I needed hair enhancements. My hair was too thin and my wee little nubbin-sized bun didn’t match the full, meaty buns of my team-mates. So I had to stuff it. Do you know the humiliation that is wrapping nylons around your bun to make it “plumper”? I am willing to bet that I am the only person who can say that she does. I told you this was a fucked up sport.

And then there were my nippons. These were a cause of great alarm to my coaches, and probably to my several possibly-dyke team-mates. I don’t know what was wrong with the other girls on my team, but hours in cold water + titties…you do the math. Except it was only me. Of course. And it’s not synchro if we don’t all match! As if stuffing my bun wasn’t humiliating enough. So, every time we went to any swim meet my coach had to make sure to pack nylons and nipple-sized bandaids for me, the limp-haired reject with the nippons.

Here is a typical last-minute conversation between my coach and the team:

Coach: Does everyone have their nose-clips?
Team: Yes.
Coach: And you’ll remember to turn into your leg and boost extra high when the time changes in the 2nd number?
Team: Yes.
Coach: And did Peach put on her bandaids?
Peach: Yes.
Coach: Well, I can still see your nipples.
Peach: But I’m already wearing 2 on each! It’s all I have! And we’re up in 5 minutes!
Coach: Go ask that young, hot lifeguard who you go to highschool with for more bandaids.
Peach: I’m fucking cold! We’ve been in the water for 2 hours! Our bathing suits are lavender! LAVENDER! I’m sick of this futile fight with nature!!
Coach: Go ask the lifeguard for more bandaids, put them on, and then swim 10 laps to warm up.
Dyke Team-mate: I’ll help her.
Peach: Fuck you.

In conclusion, Synchro is a real sport mainly because it has lesbians, as most sports do, EvilBird is wicked-awesome, and to this day I use volumizing hair products and wear nice, thick bras.

The Peach

Friday, January 20, 2006

The Peach is Ghetto-Poor

So, you know when you're waiting in line at the grocery store and you look into other people's baskets to guess what they're making for dinner? Like when the woman in front of you has ground beef and tomato sauce, and you think "that ho is making spaghetti" ? No? Just me?

Well anyway, can you guess what I'm making for dinner from what I just bought at the discount grocery store? I just purchased the following hearty items:

1 loaf bread
1 jar no-name peanut butter (on sale!)

I get paid at the end of the month. I'm poor. Shut up.

The Peach

Tales from Work part II

Here is an e-mail conversation I once had with my boss.

*note: he is white. and in his 40s.

To: Boss
From: The Peach
Subject: Data

Dear Boss,

Here is that data you asked for. It should be fully updated now.

The Peach

To: The Peach
From: Boss
Subject: re: Data

Peach,

YOU DA BOMB, GIRL!!!

Boss

Tales from Work

Yesterday, my (strange) boss came into my office, and the following conversation took place:

Boss: *whispering* Hey Peach, how’s the work coming?
Peach: …fine…
Boss: *whispering* That’s good, we have a lot to get done. Any new calls on the project?
Peach:…no…um, Boss, why are you whispering?
Boss: *whispering* You know, just to be different. Shaking things up with the old boss-man!!
Peach: oh, ok. *frightened laughter*
Boss: *whispers* shit, I forgot to pick up my daughter again.

Every day at work is exciting.

The Peach

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

FauxHawk vs. Vodka: The Night the Romance Died.

You know how relationships can be. In the beginning, it’s all fireworks and sexiness and romance. Eventually, things start to progress into a more comfortable zone (a.k.a. I’m not gonna shave if you’re not, and pass the remote, you ho), and then before you know it it’s a Friday night and you’re both un-showered, wearing underwear with holes in them, and eating Chinese food out of the tins they came in and you’re left wondering when exactly the romance died. This didn’t happen with me and FauxHawk. I didn’t have to wonder. The romance died December 12th, 2004, at approximately 4pm. We had been dating 3 months.

The night before, FauxHawk wrote his last exam and was out partying with his other Med School friends. I was studying for my GRE, which was the next morning, when I got my first clue that FauxHawk was having an exceptionally royal night. At 11pm, he called me to say he just drank a 40 of vodka and ghfkskforodja;asdlfk ok byeshexy! Or at least, that’s what I heard. I couldn’t put much thought into it- GREs ahoy!

That next morning, I had just gotten back from the 4 hour exhausting exam and was crawling into bed for the first sleep in 2 days when my housemate told me that I’d better pick up the phone. It was FauxHawk. It’s still hard to say, but I think he was crying.

FauxHawk: *deep breath* Peach?
Peach: Are you ok?
FH: Can you, um, come overz?
Peach: Ya, I just need to nap for a few hours and then eat something and shower and –
FH: No, I mean can yoush come overz right now? *retch*
Peach: But I’m sleeping.
FH: I think I need to go to za hospital *sob*
Peach:…just let me put my pants back on.

After a quick refresher course in first-aid from TheNurse and a speedy cab ride, I arrived to FauxHawk’s apartment and was greeted by the smell of vomit, sweat, and fear.

FauxHawk: Peach? I’m in za bedroom. MOOOOAAAAAN.

I entered and found my sexy med-school boyfriend naked, spooning a garbage can half-full of vomit, smelling like a vodka factory. He was at the still vomiting every 2 minutes but out of stomach contents phase. It’s a bad phase. I started by trying to force-feed him some water. That solved the no stomach content with which to vomit problem. I rubbed his back. He vomited. I stroked his hair. More vomit. I decided to stop touching him.

FauxHawk: I need to go to za hospital *shudder*.
Peach: Are you sure you’re not just very hungover?
FH: Call me an ambulance!!! I know thish, I’m in med school.
Peach: You sure are. You suuure are. Let’s get you dressed.

Let me point out that I had to fight tooth and nail to convince him that he didn’t need an ambulance, but would in fact probably live long enough to take a cab the 6 blocks to the hospital. Also, have you ever tried to put boxer-briefs on a half-dead body twice your weight? Needless to say he went commando that day, and without socks, in the loosest clothes I could locate.

I literally had to drag him to the elevator, where he passed out on the floor, and into the cab, where he passed out spooning the child-seat, and then into the ER, where he passed out in the middle of the waiting-room floor. We were seen immediately.

He was put in observation but it would take hours before he saw a Doctor. In the mean time, the following hilarious events took place:

FauxHawk had to pee. The nurse told me how to hold his pee-cup for him. I told her we’d only been dating 3 months. He held his own pee cup. But I had to give it back to the nurse. Make a note – THAT was officially when the romance died.

I had to pee. I told FauxHawk I would be right back. Another nurse told him “don’t worry, you’re sister or girlfriend or whatever she is will be right back”. I got excited at this point. You see, FauxHawk and I hadn’t fully defined our relationship yet, and I was constantly wondering if I was his girlfriend or not. Would this, finally, be the answer I was hoping for?

FauxHawk: She’s not my sister.

What a fucker.

Finally, he saw a doctor. The head of the Ontario Medical Association, to be exact. He made FauxHawk write his own orders and quizzed him about what his test results meant before he would give him any gravol. By the way, he didn’t have alcohol poisoning or anything. He just drank himself comatose. FauxHawk looked so pathetic, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Poor drunken fool.

2 hours later, the gravol had worked, FauxHawk felt like a new man (“where are my underwear?”), and I took him home. I felt (and looked) sicker than he did at this point, since I hadn't eaten, slept, or groomed in any way in 2 days.

We went drinking the next night.

The Peach.

Med School is SO Hard

No, wait…dating someone in Med school is. And I know this because my boyfriend, FauxHawk, is almost done his last year of Med school and about to become a gynecologist. I’ll dedicate an entire other entry to THAT little doozy.

When I first met FauxHawk I have to admit that his being in med school and practically a *girly sigh* doctor was a major turn-on. It definitely was a major factor in my decision to introduce him to some Jungle Love, Peach-style, after a night of debauch at a rowdy bar. Although the many, MANY drinks he bought me (which would turn out to be triples) may have played a teeny role. This would not be the last time he would drug me to get what he wanted, although now he just slips me gravols to make me pass out when I’m drunk and obnoxious and he has to work the next day.

That’s not immoral, right??

Anyway, here is what I’ve learned about Med school through a year and a half of careful observation: Getting in is hard. Once you’re in, you’d have to murder a baby, set the hospital on fire, and sleep with the Dean’s virginal daughter to get kicked out. And even then they’d probably give you a second chance. You know, because you were probably having an off day.

To be fair, FauxHawk works very hard. He studies until 10pm some nights.

Ok, I have to stop before I get slipped more than a gravol next time!

Here is why dating a med student isn’t as glamorous or exciting as we’d been led to believe:

1. Getting kicked out of bed at 6am every day in the dead of winter.
2. Sex in the call rooms? Doesn’t happen. Masturbation? Perhaps, but I wouldn’t know. Or want to.
3. If you dress up in a nurse’s uniform to try to be sexy in the bedroom, all that happens is you get yelled at a whole lot, they forget your name, blame you for someone’s death, and then buy you a donut to stop your crying.
4. That girl you just got introduced to at a party? She did your pap smear last week. And she remembers.
5. That hot girl eyeing your boyfriend at the party? He did her pap smear last week. And he remembers.


The Peach

I would do anything for love (but I won't do that)

I’ve mentioned that my family is hilarious in all its dysfunction. Here is a shining example.

When I was 12, my mom re-married. She’d been divorced since I was 3, dating the man I shall call CoorsLight since I was 4, and he had been successfully living with us, terrorizing my sister and I, and mooching off my grandparents money since. Not that CoorsLight was necessarily a bad man – he just drank too much, yelled at my mother, yelled at us and called us ‘children’, which I loathed, and had red hair. I don’t know, I just don’t trust red-headed men (sorry). Anyway, 8 years of that later, he finally agreed to make an honest woman out of my mom. The wedding that would follow would go down in history as the most fore-shadowed case of wedded disaster known to this day.

It all started to go down-hill when my mom and soon to be step-grandma started fighting over whether my mom was really allowed to wear white at her 2nd wedding. Except, in this case, my mom didn’t want to wear white and poor disillusioned CoorsLight-grandma wanted her to – to make it feel like a ‘real wedding’. Sign #1 that this marriage is a poor idea: Bride don’t wanna wear white.

We all should have known that this wasn’t meant to be when they picked their wedding song. And by ‘wedding song’, I mean the song my mom walked down the aisle to. They picked the always sentimental “I would do Anything for Love (But I won’t do that)” – by Meatloaf. Here are some of the lyrics:

Meatloaf: And some days I pray for Silence,And some days I pray for Soul, Some days I just pray to the God of Sex and Drums and Rock 'N' Roll.

Girl : Will you cater to every fantasy I've got?Will ya hose me down with holy water - if I get too hot? Will you take me to places that I've never known?

Meatloaf: I can do that. OH I can do that.

Ah yes, there were tears in the eyes of all who attended that day. Sign #2 that marriage is a poor idea: Incorporating Meatloaf in any way to your wedding day.

But let me back-track. I may have been slightly opposed to the marriage, but CoorsLight had been, if nothing else, a constant in my life for the past 8 years and I was willing to accept the blessed union. My sister, TigerCat, however, was ready to fight her little 9 year-old devil-fingers to the bone to prevent it from happening. Looking back, we should have listened to her bratty whine-hole. But then this story wouldn’t be nearly as funny.

Sign #3 that marriage is a bad idea: kid willing to do anything possible to ruin the day.

She had been protesting for about a year, but on the day of the wedding she kicked it up a few (hundred) notches. It started at the brunch my mom had that morning for the wedding party. It was very elegant, in a fancy hotel in a resort town in the states, with croissants and sparkling OJ and the likes. Oh, and my sister throwing a hissy fit that would put Lindsay Lohan to shame. We’re talking cutlery flying, screaming, tears, and the kind of curse-words that you just don’t expect to hear flying out of the mouth of a 9 year old. Maybe now you’re beginning to understand why I’ve named her TigerCat.

She was eventually sent to her hotel room to ‘cool down’. When I joined her later, it looked like Hurricane Katrina had made a 10-year premature stop in there. Lamps on the floor, sheets thrown everywhere. That girl had angst. But by then it was time to put on our hideous bridesmaid dresses.

Oh, the dresses. Obviously we matched, because my mom is cruel. White sundresses with blue ribbon topped with white sunhats adorned with, shocker, blue ribbon. Let me repeat that I was 12 – almost 13 – and I looked like something Anne of Green Gables might have thrown up. If I ever find pictures that my mom hasn’t burned, I’ll post them.

While my mom was getting ready, TigerCat and I were left to our own devices. A poor choice. We entertained ourselves by spitting off the balcony, and soon discovered that if we synchronized our spitaching (pronounced spit-AWCH-ing – fake Italian slang courtesy of my father), we could join each of our spits into one massive glob of disgusting child saliva. At the exact moment we perfected this, some rich old lady stepped out from under the awning on the ground floor. Oh, the timing was beautiful. We got her right in the fucking face. A huge mass of child-spit from 12 stories above. She threw a shit-storm, started screaming about ‘goddamn seagulls!’, and TigerCat and I cowered in our room, crying. We weren’t really bad at heart.

Sign #4 marriage is a bad idea: maid of honour and flower girl think they’re going to be arrested and look over their shoulders the entire ceremony.

And now, the wedding itself! I think this might be funnier if I skip the explanations and let you picture it for yourself:

Sign #5: In boat ride to island where ceremony takes place, several guests become sea-sick.
Sign #6: Ring-bearer shits his pants halfway down the aisle (I am 100% serious); cries rest of ceremony.
Sign #7: TigerCat refuses to sprinkle flowers, out of spite.
Sign #8: TigerCat walks too fast and leaves poor, young, shit-assed ring-bearer to wander the aisle on his own.
Sign #9: Piano player loses music and “I would do Anything for Love” sounds like fists being smashed on keyboard – sentimentality is all but lost.
Sign #10: TigerCat spends rest of ceremony picking ‘bugs’ out of Bride’s dress; has to be swatted away by aunt numerous times.
Sign #11: Out of defiance, TigerCat refuses to wear shoes.
Sign #12: In all wedding pictures, TigerCat has secretly stepped out of shoes and makes faces.
Sign #13: ThePeach uses disposable wedding cameras to take pictures exclusively of babies present at the ceremony. As a result, there are no candid reception photos (except of babies).


They divorced 4 years later.

The Peach.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Why I hate Universitytown

This is so typical of my town.

I was just at the gym where a lot of the students “work-out”, a.k.a. flit about in their new lululemons, finger-comb their hair as they walk on the treadmill, and leave as soon as they either produce a drop of sweat or get someone’s phone number.

Anyway, I overheard this conversation, verbatim, in the change-room:

TanBlondeHo#1: So, I’m going to move to Calgary when I graduate.
TanBlondeHo#2: What will you do there?
TBH#1: Buy property. Real estate is so hot there right now.
TBH#2: Can you afford that?
TBH#1: Well, I’m going to have to cut down on the Louis Vuitton hand bags!
Both: *pretentious laughter*.

And these are students! Students!! When I was a student I lived off of minute rice and the sweet teat of OSAP.

Bitches.

The Peach

ThePeach and TigerCat get Shot

2 summers ago, my sister TigerCat came to live with me for 4 months in Universitytown. It was the most fun 4 months of my life. What happens when soul-twins live together during the summer – the season of hedonism? We never found jobs, we slept all day, we sat around watching tv and convincing each other that we were ‘good catches’, we gained a good 10 pounds each, and we lay around in teeny tank tops to show off our massive, daily bacon-eating induced tits (and corresponding fat pants to hide our bacon-induced asses). All because of the pot.

You see, that summer I was dating TheTeen, a young, bright-eyed drug dealer and pot head. I never really liked pot, but universitytown is so boring during the summer that I didn’t seem to have a choice. And neither did TigerCat.

On TigerCat’s last night in Universitytown, we decided we should do something special. Serious pondering later, we went to see TheTeen – we had by then broken up– for some good old-fashioned marijuana. The only thing was, he wanted us to smoke it with him. This soon led to him crying, TigerCat and I laughing (as the pot can do), him trying to make out with me, and TigerCat and I deciding to get the hell out of that drug-infested cry-hole.

High as kites, we set out for the 24-hour A&P for pies. Yes, plural pie. Now, I need to explain something. When TigerCat and I are high, the music finds us. The music of our hearts. Thus, we can no longer move normally, but are forced to dance. A lilting, graceful dance. So that is how we made our way to the A&P. gently.

That’s when we were shot.

Of all nights, of all people, those 4 teenage punks in daddy’ car had to pick us – the strung out pot heads – for their drive-by target.

I noticed a car coming quickly towards us. I opened my mouth to warn Tigercat, but just then something flew at us from the open car window. TigerCat was struck in the chest and we were both splattered with her blood. We fell down, we cried, we panicked. I started screaming ‘my baby sister has been shot! Shot right in the chest!’. We waited for her to bleed out and die. That’s when I noticed that her wound smelled delicious. We tasted it. Sweet and Sour sauce. Sweet and Sour sauce!! Joyous day, she was going to make it! That wasn’t a bullet lodged in her chest, but a McDick’s sweet and sour sauce packet!

We were covered head to toe in sauce, but we still ventured on to the A&P to buy pies and cookies – because damnit, we had to celebrate life! To life!

Now, imagine, if you can, 2 girls wandering the A&P at 2am, covered in some sort of sauce, one of them limping (TigerCat wasn’t completely convinced that she hadn’t been shot), with a cart full of pies, bloodshot eyes – and them both dancing. Gently. Fuck, I don’t know how we got away with it.

We woke up at 3pm the next day covered in pastry and sweet and sour sauce, our bloated stomachs spilling out of the fat pants, Moulin Rouge paused on my tv, several sad messages on my computer from TheTeen, and a huge purple bruise on my sister’s sternum. No wonder she limped.

She went home that night. I cried. Gently.

The Peach.

The Pros and Cons of Living Alone

This past May, I moved into my own apartment and am now living on my own for the first time. I spent the last 3 years living in a shanty at the ground-zero of the party zone of the "student ghetto" in Universitytown with 3 of the most heinous wenches you've ever met, plus my one awesome friend, TheNurse. I love TheNurse, but living with the other crazy ho's (let's call them TheBitches, for simplicity's sake) put me off living with other people - possibly forever. This might sound extreme to you, but you probably haven't lived in a war-like environment (unless you are reading this in Iraq, in which case I apologize) where 1 dirty dish left on the counter is enough to make TheBitches cry, scream, leave you passive-aggressive notes, put said dish on your bed, break your mirror, write you more notes, turn the heat off in your room, insult your boyfriend, and then go knit away their frustrations on a Friday night. And that's just one example.

Anyway, here are some pros of living alone:

As soon as I get in my door the pants come off.
Naps any time of the day.
Sex any time of the day.
Dishes left everywhere!!
Naked Yoga.
Talking on the phone without one of TheBitches Mom's calling every 30 seconds.
Getting out of bed without putting clothes on.
Basically anything involving nudity, really.

And now, the cons:

Tv has become my friend, mother, secret lover...
Dishes everywhere = mouse infestation, and no tricking TheBitches into emptying the traps.
A floorboard creaks and I'm up all night looking for ghosts.
When I run out of food, I have to go buy more instead of stealing from (rich and wasteful) TheBitches.
A fork falls over and I'm up all night with 9-1-1 on speed dial.
AND FINALLY...
Last night I heard banging sounds outside my window and was up all night, lights on, 9-1-1 on speed dial, waiting for one of the crazies (there's a mental health outpatient clinic on my street) to break in and stab me because he thinks I'm trying to kill him with my mind.

It's worth it for the dishes, though.

The Peach
My grandfather might be racist.

He says things like 'that oriental gentleman', but I think it's just because he's not very PC. Regardless, here is a classic example taken from a conversation at one of our monthly brunches:

ThePeach: So, your flight back from England was ok?
Grandpa: Oh yes, I had a very pleasant Negro girl as my stewardess.
ThePeach: *chokes on OJ* Sorry?
Grandpa: My mistake, I had a very pleasant Negro WOMAN as my stewardess.
ThePeach: Ah.
Why I don't like going to restaurants with my grandfather:

My grandfather drives down to universitytown about once a month to take me for brunch. He's 79, in good health, and I'm definitely grandpa's girl. But lately...he's been acting funny.

For instance, the last time he picked me up, I noticed a blinking sound in the car that I couldn't quite place. I ignored it.

He also has this apparatus on his giant old-man car that emits a beeping sound when he backs up (like on a tractor-trailer). As usual, people stared when we backed into the parking spot.

In the restaurant, this is what he said to the young, probably scarred waitress: "you have a small stain on your blouse, miss, right below your breast-line."

When we left the restaurant, I discovered what the blinking sound was: his 4 way flashers, which had been on the entire drive to university-town.
A typical (drunk) msn conversation with my platonic husband, TheHubby:

ThePeach: did yoush make it home ok,..u drunko?
TheHubby: ohhshhno.
ThePeach: what?zgtht
TheHubby: I spuked in the juices.
ThePeach: The juices? ohsno!
TheHubby: ya, the pjuices izn the A&P.
ThePeach: You sgot juices?
TheHubby: Nos, they had pukes on'em.
ThePeach: Hwen did zyou go A&P? I wuldve come troo.
ThePeach: HUBBY? YOU ANSWERE ME NOWS!
ThePeach: Fuck you.
TheHubby: I Loves yous!
ThePeach: I lpuked on my desk.

And people wonder why we never dated.

The Peach.
A typical conversation with my hetero life partner, TheHippie:

ThePeach: Did you buy cheese for your wine and cheese?
TheHippie: Ya, but now I want to eat it.
ThePeach: Tricky...but if you eat half, maybe no one will know. Arrange what's left on a plate.
TheHippie: And if I add no-name crackers to it, it will be an elegant plate!

I love my life partner. and cheese.

The Peach
Why I don't like visiting my 96 year-old great-grandmother in the nursing home.

A conversation I had with a man in the hall:

oldman: Hello!
ThePeach: Um, Hi (looking around furiously for g-g-m). How are you?
oldman: How am I? HOW AM I???! I DRINK MILK, I PUKE! I DRINK COKE, I PUKE!
ThePeach: I'm...sorry?
TigerCat: (to me) run.

Later, in the eating room, watching my great-grandmother gum away at a cookie:

random old lday with black eye: what are you doing?? Can't you see she's choking to death! Maybe that's what you want...
*note* my g-g-m could not possibly choke to death, especially since all she was managing to effectively do was drool on the cookie
ThePeach: why would I want that?
TigerCat: what's your problem?
old lady: *shuffles away*

I swear I'm not a bad person.

The Peach