Friday, March 31, 2006

ThePeach, Parks, and Poop.

I’m feeling reminiscent today, and the warm weather and sunshine that are mocking me from outside my dungeon-office take me back to some very specific and odd memories. Thus, I feel like sharing more heart-warming tales of childhood adventure that took place with TigerCat while under the supervision of my Dad. If you need a refresher, see

So, as you may recall, TigerCat and I spent every second weekend with my Dad for the majority of our childhood. And sometimes my dad was too damn cheap to take us to play mini-putt, or he was tired of acting as a human shield to protect me from a putter-wielding 4 year old TigerCat (“YOU DAMN BITZ!!!”), so he would take us to a park to let us run around like maniacs until we were tired enough to keep quiet long enough so that he could take a nap.

Ah, the joys of forced parenthood.

So, my dad would put us in our wind-breakers, ask TigerCat about 25 times if she needed to go to the bathroom (“NO, I DON’T!!”), double-knot our sneakers, and stuff us in the car to drive us to one of the various parks in his neighbourhood, invariably with a stop at a gas station along the way so that TigerCat could go to the bathroom (“DAD, I NEED TO PEE, DAMNIT!”). God, she was a treat as a child.

Then the fights would begin about which park we wanted to go to. TigerCat and I had named the parks in the area according to their most appealing feature. The “sliding park” had one of those cables with a handle-bar at one end where you could slide from a platform at the top of the hill to a platform at the bottom of the hill. Or, if you were a spaz like me, you could fall halfway down, get the wind knocked out of you, break your glasses (have I mentioned that I was, how do I say this delicately, a big fucking geek as a child?), and eat dirt. I liked the sliding park the best. I’ve always been a glutton for punishment.

There was also the “1-2-3 Park”. The 1-2-3 park had not 1, not 2, but 3 small jungle gyms set up in what seemed like an endless stretch of grass. Number 1 park had the best slide. Number 2 had some kick ass monkey-bars. And Number 3 had a climbing set in the shape of a fucking elephant. A fucking elephant! It was pure engineering genius. My dad got a huge kick out of setting TigerCat, who was afraid of everything for most of her childhood, on the top wrung of the elephant and leaving her there until she cried. Frankly, I got a kick out of it, too.

It’s ok, she later channeled her resentment into aggression when my mom signed her up for children’s hockey. I think that 8 years of cross-checking other children is probably the only reason why she doesn’t hate us.

There was also the “ring-go-round park”, which featured one of those merry-go-rounds with the bars that you could hang onto while you went zooming around in a vomit-inducing circle. TigerCat usually vomited. She had a sensitive stomach.

So, these were our parks. We loved them. We owned them. And frankly, it was a pleasant change from the other activities my dad would come up with to entertain us on the weekends. Like “shoot raisins out of your nose and into the potted plant”, which was abruptly banned for life by my mother when we had to go to the children’s hospital to have a raisin removed from TigerCat’s wee nostril with a pair of surgical tweezers.

We usually ended up injuring ourselves somehow whenever we were with my dad, which was due to some serious bad luck on his part. TigerCat and I were both spaz-tastic children, but somehow this mainly happened on our bi-weekly visits. Because, you know, my dad really needed another reason for my mother to hate him.

It was funny, though, because my dad was so paranoid and worrisome. He once took me to the emergency room because I got a splinter at the 1-2-3 Park. We were back in emerg a year later when TigerCat split her lip by falling off the merry-go-round at the ring-go-round park. And one time, when we had stopped a donut shop so that TigerCat could go to the bathroom, a dispenser of hand-soap fell on her face and approximately 2 pounds of pink goo exploded into her facial orifices. We went to emerg – again – to have her eyes flushed. To this day, she is wary of soap dispensers.

Yes, we had some fun times at our parks. And some strange times. I have some kind of vague recollection of TigerCat getting a kick out of peeing her pants on the slide at the 1-2-3 park, but I could have made that one up. I’m pretty sure she would pee on stuff to piss my dad off, though. It was the only way, other than swearing and extreme violence, that she knew how to express her anger. She takes after her older sister, who once, at age 3, took a dump in the sand behind a slide to express her anger at her parent’s seperation.

We’re poster-children for the effects of divorce.


Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Why I Don't Post Every Single Day

As disappointing as this may be to some of you, not every single day of my life is odd or hilarious. I know, you’re wiping away tears that taste mildly of salt and resentment, but it’s true. I can’t be “on” every single day. Take today, for instance. Today was boring, long and, at times, annoying. It was just a typical day. But, for the sake of argument, I’ll tell you exactly what happened in my typical boring day.

Whether you like it or not, suckers.

I woke up to the loud, soul-raping sounds of FauxHawk’s alarm clock at about 7:45am. And again at 7:48, 7:51, 7:54, 7:57, 8:00, and 8:03 am. FauxHawk likes to hit the snooze button. This habit will likely be the cause of my nervous breakdown/homicidal rampage at some undetermined point in the future. Anyway, FauxHawk let me sleep peacefully from approx 8:03am to 8:10am, when he gave me my first wake-up call.

FauxHawk: Peach, we have to leave in 10 minutes.
ThePeach: *from under covers*…die……go die…

5 minutes later…

FauxHawk: Peach, we have to leave in 5 minutes.
ThePeach: *from under covers*…why won’t you die?
FauxHawk: *peels covers off my face* 5 minutes!
ThePeach: I hate you.

I’m a treat in the morning.

FauxHawk dropped me off at home on his way to HickTown, where he is currently doing a family med rotation. I stumbled through my door, greeted my landlord – who I’m pretty sure thinks I’m either a hooker or a vampire – and went into my apartment.

8:25: I put my pajamas back on. I embrace counter-productiveness.
8:30: Precious nectar and life-blood: caffeine.
8:35-9:00: read various people’s blogs. Read my own blog to see if anyone has left a comment. Conclude that I have no friends, am unloved, and should probably get back into bed.
9:15: remember that I have a job.
10:30: leave for work.

I can never have a real job. I don’t think I function in normal society.

From 10:45, when I arrived at work, until 12pm, I did the following:

check email account number 1.
check email account number 2.
message WeeOne.
check email account number 1.
check email account number 2.
message ThePilot.
read my blog to see if anyone left a comment. Feel a hurt deep in my stomach that can only be the depths of despair and grief.
Realize that the hurt is actually hunger, not grief. Am momentarily happy and relieved. And also hungry.
check email account number 1.
check email account number 2.

Then I ate my lunch. It was a pita. The lunch meat was questionable, since I had it in my fridge for over a week and it was starting to smell like feet. I ate it anyway, because I am po’.

At that point, I decided to get down to some work. Just as I opened my datafile…

*phone rings*
ThePeach: Research lab, Peach speaking.
TheBoss: Peach, you want come cookies?
ThePeach: I do want some cookies.
TheBoss: Come upstairs, I have cookies. Don’t tell anyone else. I don’t want to share.

So, I went upstairs and had some cookies with TheBoss. I also convinced him to let me take one down to the other girls in the lab. The ones who do actual work. They also deserve cookies. Actually, they deserve cookies way more than me.

Then I put in a good, solid hour of real work. It was exhausting. I decided I deserved a break. I went next door, to the Tim Hortons, for more precious caffeine. Also, I keep hoping that I will win roll up the rim. Also, I like to rile up the surly, fat employees who work there- probably on some kind of prison-community integration program.

ThePeach: Caffeine, please.
Butch Uggo: *scowl*
ThePeach:…so, do you think this cup’s a winner?!
Butch Uggo: *death rays at my head*
ThePeach: Well, I hope it is! Because I haven’t won a single thing yet and I’m in here every single day!
Butch Uggo: *is dead on the inside*

Then I went back to my office and messaged my friend Xena, or as she likes to call herself, ThePeach’s Fuzz Licker. She’s dirty.

Then, I rrrrolled up the rim and saw, as usual “PLEASE TRY AGAIN”. Then I screamed “MOTHERFUCKER!!” and threw the cup at the wall. The office-mates laughed and resumed their hard work. They’re used to my daily roll up the rim outbursts. Motherfucking Tim Hortons.

I then actually worked for a few more hours. Then I rushed home, grabbed my gym clothes, and met FauxHawk for our twice-weekly sweat-a-thon. And after that, we went to the gym. (heh, I’m so clever. Seriously though, we did not have sex. We just went to the gym. My life isn’t exciting enough to have sex in the afternoon. Or before Letterman).

In our spin class, I noticed that our instructor, who was probably in her late 40s or early 50s, looked and sounded EXACTLY like Paula, the boss from “The 40 year Old Virgin”. It was hard to concentrate on pumping my legs when all I could think of every time she shouted “faster! harder!” was “I’m very discreet….but I’ll haunt your dreams”.

When I got home, my grandpa called me. He was either drunk or suffering from some form of night dementia. We were having a conversation about decisions and he suddenly broke into:

Grandpa: Eenie Meenie Minie Moe, catch a nigger by the toe!! Oh wait, that’s not a very nice word, is it?
ThePeach: Not so much, grandpa, no.

Then I went over to TheNurse’s to watch a movie and destroy her apartment by being a spaz and knocking shit over. Like a bag of cookies, a broom, and a glass of sprite. I was banished to the couch and told not to touch anything. This is becoming a recurring theme in my life.

We watched “The Constant Gardener”, which takes place in Africa. I decided I would like to go to Africa.

ThePeach: We should go to Africa.
TheNurse: And do what?
ThePeach: I don’t know…volunteer stuff.
TheNurse: What skill exactly can you offer?
ThePeach: Be a spaz and knock shit over in Africa?
TheNurse: probably.

Then I came home and wrote this.

This is why I don’t update every day. Because, some days, this is my life. Boring, long, and – somehow – still strange. And there would be a lot more posts exactly like this one. The only thing that would vary would be the number of times I go to Tim Hortons.

Now I must go to bed, because I have a long day of e-mail refreshing and rrrolling up the rim ahead of me tomorrow.

Motherfucking Tim Hortons.


Sunday, March 26, 2006

Wine and Cookie Dough: Reunited and it Feels so Good.

So, last night a bunch of us decided to have a girl’s night in. FauxHawk was out of town, WeeOne had just dumped her boyfriend, Cleavage had pot, TheHubby (who does, in fact, have a penis but is still included as an honorary chick) had a bad week, and TheHippie had surfaced from her sex-fest with her TempBf and needed some cookie dough to re-build her strength. What a perfect setting. We all gathered on the couches at WeeOne/TheHubby/Cleavage’s house and hit the sauce hard. And then, as usual, we hit the bong and hilarity ensued.

I decided to write down everything funny that someone said while we were high, and post it word for word today even if it made no sense. Here is the list that I found crumpled in my pant pocket this afternoon when I finally dredged myself out of bed/my drug coma:

ThePeach: Let’s get fucked.
TheHubby: Let’s.
Cleavage: Let’s.
TheHippie: I guess I’ll get high, too. I wouldn’t want us to not be in unison anymore.

ThePeach: Let’s stay young forever!
TheHubby: Crack that window open a little farther and hope that Peter Pan comes flying in!

TheHippie: How does one call a rat? With a rat whistle? *wooooooo*

TheHippie: Did you just mix red and white wine together?
TheHubby: I’ll make rosé.

ThePeach: What’s the dirtiest thing you ever did?
TheHubby: Well, I dated a prude, and now I hate her!

Cleavage: He was all “I’ll get you wet again, baby”.
TheHippie: God, it’s like he’s living in a porn.

ThePeach: I want some cheese!
TheHubby: I ate it all last night, sorry. I had an "episode".

Cleavage: Do you want me to tell you about the time I had sex with a girl?
ThePeach/TheHippie in unison: Yes, tell us! *eye each other warily*
ThePeach: Why did we say that in unison?
TheHippie: And enthusiastically?
ThePeach: Do you think that, on some subconscious level, we want to learn how to have sex with women?
TheHippie: Oh god, are we lesbians??
ThePeach: Oh god, are we going to be a lesbian couple??
(*nb: aren’t the ‘noids wonderful?)

After I stumbled my way home at 2:30am, I found the following message on my answering machine:

“Hi Peach, it’s TheCrazy. I know FauxHawk is out of town, but I think you’re still around. I have 3 crazy med-school girls visiting me this weekend, and last night we ended up going to the strip club, where I danced on the stage with the strippers. Anyway, it made me think of YOU and the time you went there and got your boobs taken out. Call me if you want to get crazy tonight.”

I thought about calling, but then I passed out.

I’d had enough lesbian encounters for one evening.


Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Another Gym-related Curiosity

Dear Overly Enthusiastic Chick in my Spin Class,

Don’t take this the wrong way, but who the fuck are you and where did you come from? Are you on opioids? I’m sincerely baffled by your incessant need to verbally express your enthusiasm – through shouting “WOOOO!!!!” – every time the instructor tells us to increase our resistance or speed. Seriously. Also, the sheer mechanics of HOW you are able to do that confuses me. By that point in the class, I am usually unable to draw oxygen into my lungs and am a quivering, wheezing, drooling Yetti-like creature. Yet, somehow, you can muster enough air and enthusiasm to shout “WOOOO!!!”. At a point where most of the class looks nauseous and I’m considering punching FauxHawk in the face for convincing me to join the class, the last thing I want to hear is “WOOOO!!!” every 3 minutes.

There are so many things I want to ask you. What, exactly, are you so excited about? The sweat running into your eyes, rendering you a curious combination of blind and thankful that you’re on a stationary bike and not an actual one on the side of a mountain somewhere, where you would surely careen to your gory death? No? Perhaps you’re excited about the burning sensation eating through your muscles with the speed and intensity of a fat kid with cake. Not close? Then I’m boggled.

Regardless of your reasons, I’m going to have to warn you that my feelings towards you are veering dangerously close to “homicidal” or “violent death by bludgeoning”, and not just because exercise makes me cranky. But because today, in a albeit quieter echo, FauxHawk cranked his resistance and shouted “WOOOO!!!”. Thanks a lot for turning my boyfriend into a temporary chipper fairy. The next time you shout “WOOOO!!” in class, if I can muster any strength or enthusiasm at all it will be to throw my shoe at your face.

I just thought you should know.



Ps. Please pass the following message along to your friend. You know which one I mean:

Dear chick that walks around in the change-room completely topless, but wearing sunglasses,

Why? Again, I must ask – why?


Monday, March 20, 2006

Ode to TheHippie in Sonnet Form

TheHippie is a truly stellar girl
with a black-chick ass that just never quits.
I can honestly say she rocks my world
in her Birkenstocks or her stripey mitts.
She loves to recycle and eat tofu
and we drink until everything’s a blur.
She’ll justify anything that I do
like eating 3 dinners (I learned from her).
One time, in Stella (her echo sedan)
we grooved to easy rock for seven hours.
We’re in love – but not romantically, man
but if we were I’d send her cheese – not flowers.
I wrote her this ‘cause she had a bad day
Please don’t interpret it to mean I’m gay.

Seriously - not gay.


Saturday, March 18, 2006

ThePeach Isn't Irish, but you can Fuck Her Anyway

First of all, apologies again for neglecting my blog. I suck. And not just in the good way that keeps me from being single. But also in the bad, neglectful way that makes me a poor blogger. It’s been a weird couple of weeks, but I promise to be better!

So, yesterday was St. Patty’s Day. I love any excuse to get liquored and act like an ass, so I went out to celebrate despite the fact that there’s not a single Irish bone in my body. I will not make the obvious joke.

I wanted to wear green and be festive, but alas, I hadn’t done laundry in a good month and was forced to wear the least smelly shirt I own. It was not green. I was sad. I would just have to pretend to be Irish by getting violently drunk, popping out a few Catholic bastards, and punching Protestants. It seemed appropriate.

The first order of business was to go to a small party with FauxHawk, TheCrazy, and other assorted MedFriends to get our drink on. Despite the fact that the apartment we were in reeked of armpit, it was a good time. I quickly got peachy drunk and tried to join the MedFriends in a conversation about financial planning by saying “Ish don’t even knows what an RRSP is but I thinksh I’m shupposed to have one.” I then noticed a guy who seemed familiar and told FauxHawk and his friends “It’sh very poshible that I fucked him once.” Ah yes, I am a classy girlfriend.

As the liquor and dishes started to run out, I made myself some kind of swampy mixture of juices and gin that ended up resembling cloudy urine in an empty mason jar and drank that. When some blonde cleavage-vessel who was so drunk that she could only open one eye at a time asked me if there were any more drinks I told her “I’ms drinking fucking urine out of a mashon jar – what the fucks do you think?”. Then I helped her pour one of her own. I like it when drunk hoes fall down.

I spent quite a while sitting on the couch watching a guy Pediatrician drink, dance like a stripper, drink, simulate ramming his girlfriend in the ass, drink, put an amateur porn video on, drink, pelvic thrust the air, drink, and show us how fast he could flick his tongue (“the ladies looove it!”). When it was time to leave, he offered to give us a lift to the club. I declined. I didn’t want to die.

And this guy works with sick children. This is why I no longer have faith in medicine.

At the club, we met up with TheNurse, TheHussy, and some of their friends. That’s when things got…sloppy. I quickly became adorned with green garlands and shamrock-sticker paste-ons. Sweet, I no longer needed to get knocked up to get in the Irish spirit of things. It was probably for the best. Any fetus that managed to survive in my womb would be so pickled with alcohol and drugs that it would have flippers for arms and legs and, most likely, Smirnoff instead of blood. Actually, that would be funny.

Next, I started handing strangers wallet-sized pictures of the guy whose apartment we had been at. I found them on his desk. I wrote his phone number and "call me for big dick" on the back, which is funny because the guy is the size of a medium-built midget. I hope someone calls him.

TheCrazy, who is a much sloppier drunk than I, started molesting me. There’s a few pictures circulating around somewhere of TheCrazy unbuttoning my pants, tugging on the front of my underwear, and licking my stomach. Look for them on your favourite amateur porn site. I got into it, though, and the 2 of us started dancing like greased-up strippers on E. I took my face out of her tits long enough to notice that we had attracted a crowd, and that the bouncers were circling us. Not to stop us. Not to kick us out. To watch us. It was time to go. Also, it was 2:45am and the music had stopped 15 minutes ago.

FauxHawk and TheCrazy went to get some Poutine and I went with TheNurse to get some pizza. On the way, I started randomly talking to people and asking them to join our “orgy”. Most people looked at me like I was a leper, mainly the girls (stuck-up universitytown whores!), but one guy said “hell yeah!” and followed us to PizzaPizza.

ThePeach: So you want to be in our orgy?
TheNurse: Ohhhh god, Peach!
Guy: Ya I do!!
ThePeach: What can you offer us? You think we’ll take anybody?
Guy: I have a tongue ring!
TheNurse: And it’s orange…
ThePeach: You know, I dated a guy with a tongue ring and it didn’t do anything for me. All I gained was the loss of tooth enamel.
Guy: Well, he didn’t know what he was doing.
TheNurse: And you do?
Guy: Hell ya!
ThePeach: Ok fine, you can be in our orgy but you can’t fuck me because I have a boyfriend.
Guy: YOU have a boyfriend???
ThePeach: Don’t worry, TheNurse doesn’t. You can fuck her.
TheNurse: Jesus, Peach!
ThePeach: Ok, fine. You can fuck her friend *Friend of TheNurse that I met that night*
Friend: Great, thanks.
ThePeach: I want a fucking Pita.
Guy: But we’re at PizzaPizza.
ThePeach: This is true. I must now leave. To Pita Pit!

And that’s the last time TheNurse saw me that night.

I found FauxHawk and TheCrazy in the Poutine Place and we spent the next half hour trying to get a fucking cab. Fucking, fucking universitytown!! Finally, TheCrazy (who was, by the way, dressed up as a leprechaun) threw her poutine at a bush and took off running down the middle of the street at full leprechaun speed. FauxHawk and I looked at each other.

ThePeach: Should we go after her?
FauxHawk: Well…she’s pretty far ahead. In fact she may be gone forever.
ThePeach: *wipes a tear* I’ll miss her.

But lo and behold, moments later a cab came zooming up to us with TheCrazy in the passenger seat. She had done the impossible: snagged us a coveted cab on the busiest night of the year. God bless her precious soul. When she got out (“Guys, I have no money”), she thanked the cabbie by wistfully and tenderly caressing his face in both of her hands.

When we got back to FauxHawk’s, I somehow managed to knock over his 3-storey, painstakingly organized metrosexual shoe rack. He spent the next 20 minutes in an OCD frenzy while I was banished to the couch and ordered not to touch anything else.

He still did me, though.


I Like St. Patrick's Day Posted by Picasa

Friday, March 10, 2006

ThePeach is Sweaty and Old

Yesterday, FauxHawk convinced me to do a spinning class with him at the gym. He didn’t so much convince me as he dragged me, but the point is that I got some exercise. I’m now a cripple with leaden stumps for legs, but woooo exercise!

Anyway, while I was there, I noticed something that scared me even more than the lululemon camel-toe: buff chicks who don’t sweat. Seriously, what is up with them? There was one in my spin class who didn’t release a drop of perspiration – and this is a class where the windows and mirrors actually fog up and the floor gets covered in about an inch of unidentified liquid by the end. I come out of those classes looking like I just wrestled a greased-up Oprah for some fat-free chitlins – and lost. And then rolled around in some wet ass.

But this girl, with her perfectly toned ass and defined abs (let’s hunt her down and kill her!), looked like she just took a leisurely cycle around the park.

There are others, too. The blonde girl on the treadmill who sprints for 45 minutes, the tanned chick in the short-shorts zooming along on the elliptical, the girl with thighs o’ steel on the rowing machine.

All of them could kick my or any of your asses. None of them sweat. I don’t trust them.

They’re like some kind of beautiful android. Maybe they’re the new evolution of human. Either way, they make me look bad. Natural selection is weeding me out for being sweaty, and I don’t like it.

Anyway, after that debacle I went to Swiss Chalet with TheNurse and TheHussy. God, I loves me some greasy chicken and chalet sauce. But I was so exhausted from the spin class that I was nodding off in my seat. And then I had a horrible realization/glimpse into my future: I’m 23, and I’m already falling asleep in the swiss chalet. Maybe I should start wearing adult diapers, too, just to save myself the effort. And get myself one of those motorized scooters with the orange flags to scoot up and down the street and honk at youngin’s.

Seriously, it doesn’t sound so bad.


Wednesday, March 08, 2006

I have no sister

It is with great sadness that I report the death of my sister, TigerCat. I shall miss her wily ways, and I feel as though a part of me is now missing. But she’s dead now, and I don’t know if anything will bring her back.

Dead to me, that is.

Allow me to explain. There’s a reason she was my soul-twin. TigerCat and I were alike in many, many strange ways. We both hate most people. We both drive away most men. We finish each other’s sentences. We have the same bra size. And, up until yesterday, we were both retards when it came to math.

No more.

Around 4pm, TigerCat excitedly informed me that she, my supposed sister, had gotten an 85 on her stats midterm. Here is an excerpt from our msn conversation:

TigerCat: Guess what?
ThePeach: Mom got married again?
TigerCat: Come to think of it, I haven’t talked to her in a few days…it’s possible. But that’s not my news!
ThePeach: Ok, tell me.
TigerCat: I got an 85 on my stats midterm!
ThePeach: hmmm, well that’s too bad, but there’s always the final to bring your mark up. Maybe get another tutor.
TigerCat: What the fuck are you talking about?
ThePeach: I’m just saying, a 35 isn’t the end of the world.
TigerCat: I said 85. I got an 85.
TigerCat: I got an 85.
TigerCat: 85. In stats.
ThePeach: …how? Wha? How?
TigerCat: I don’t know…I studied and I understood it.
ThePeach: I have no sister.
TigerCat: Haha come on.

I have no sister.

How I long for the days when she would call me and, in a hysterical combination of crying and screaming with laughter that I know all too well, tell me that she got 13% in accounting. And then I would commiserate by, in the same voice, telling her how I studied for a week straight for my stats final and got a 36. Both of us crying and screaming with laughter. Or that time that she checked her stats mark and said "shit, I got 6 out of 18...well, at least I passed". A tear rolls down my cheek just remembering those precious times.

Up until yesterday, we were convinced that we were genetically retarded in math and all things math related. We were both intelligent in all other areas. I’m not one to toot my own horn (heh), but I am at least reasonably intelligent. Perhaps the best example of this is my GRE scores. GREs are graduate entrance exams similar to LSATs and MCATs. I scored top marks in my verbal and analytical sections. My math section? 11th percentile. 11th PERCENTILE!! A trained monkey (ya, I went there) could score better than 11th percentile!! And I studied for the math section. Just ask TheNurse, who helped me. And now thinks I might be missing a section of my brain. The section that knows the multiplication tables.

So basically, I have actual proof that I am math retarded (by the way, TheHippie is shitting her pants over the number of times I have used the word retarded in this entry). And I was comforted by the fact that TigerCat had the same deformity.

I don’t even know her anymore, man.

I have no sister.


Monday, March 06, 2006

An idea of what it's like to be in your early twenties

To give you a beautiful example of what it’s like to be in your early twenties - stuck somewhere between enjoying your youth by drinking yourself to death every night and mourning your old age by drinking yourself to death every night - here is a sample of the msn names on my list of friends right now:

- Dear (universitytown university), why are you so adverse to your students getting into grad school?
- I might get kicked out of tomb-raiding school for that midterm :(
- Work, meeting, class, brass practice. Ugh, I think I have old person burn-out.
- Someone left a bag full of meat on the kitchen table and now it’s all rotten!!
- Yo, today is the first time I saw a woodpecker.
- Today I am officially old.
- Napping. On nights tonight.
- What a peachy weekend…why does school have to go ruin it?
- Can I please not be sick anymore?
- Star Athlete. Whatever that means.
- Who needs elected representatives?
- We’re not in the Jazz Band. We ARE the Jazz Band!
- Class then work…need more sleep!!
- My business always bores me to death. I prefer other people’s.
- I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve. I have a history of losing my shirt.
- Need help. Suggest something to research for intimate relationships class.
- My office has a great view of a concrete wall.
- No longer 23 :(

And finally…

Here is a conversation I had with ThePilot today that illustrates – perfectly – what it’s like to be in your early twenties:

ThePilot: Peach, we need to talk.
ThePeach: It scares me when you call me by name.
ThePilot: It scares me when I see kids at work and think that they’re cute.
ThePeach: Pedophile cute or parental cute?
ThePilot: The 2nd one.
ThePeach: I’m not sure which answer scares me more.
ThePilot: I’m really glad I ran this by you before I told my other friends.
ThePeach: That’s what I’m here for.
ThePilot: To clarify, I’m not a pedophile.
ThePeach: You’re going to love my next blog entry.

It’s just such a magical time!


Friday, March 03, 2006

More Driving Follies

I had another driving lesson today. I really wasn’t in a driving mood and tried to convince some of my lab-mates to take my place, but we figured that Frank might notice when I’m suddenly Chinese. And a good driver.

So, I sucked it up and did the lesson. The reason I was in a non-driving mood, by the way, is because my current existential crisis about what to do with my life has totally and completely funked me out. We’re talking the kind of funk that even a fresh can of icing can’t fix. Hopefully a big, shiny drink tonight will at least ease the pain.

Anyway, I actually did a good job today. Maybe mind-numbing depression is good for my driving? It took the edge off, for sure. I was much less cautious in my turning and lane changing. Or maybe I’ve just lost the will to live and can now live on the edge – the edge being aggressive lane changing. Either way, I didn’t totally suck. Frank was so proud.

At the end, he asked me if I’d be able to practice on my own at all and I said probably not since a) I don’t have a car (and really, how could I if I don’t have a license?), b) FauxHawk has a car but is very busy, what with the med school and all, and c) the last time FauxHawk let me drive I almost ran over a girl…while she was walking on the sidewalk. It’s her own damn fault for getting in my way. My way being the sidewalk. Anyway, FauxHawk isn’t exactly an eager beaver about letting me drive his car anymore. Do you blame him?

Here was Frank’s solution:

Frank: You know, you should get a new boyfriend.
ThePeach: *laughs out loud at the idea of anyone else ever putting up with me*
Frank: I mean it. You’re a very, very attractive young lady. I am sure you’d have no problem finding a new fellow.
ThePeach: A fellow with a car.
Frank: Yes, and make sure he has one of those new Mercedes cars.
ThePeach: I’m on it.

FauxHawk should rest assured that, even though he’s nervous about me driving his car, which by the way is a Honda Civic, I’m not going to leave him for someone with a Mercedes and a death wish.

Although I may have developed some tender feelings for Frank.