Tuesday, August 29, 2006

ThePeach Bids Farewell to TheNurse; Tap-Dances Awkwardly in the Street

I’m feeling very sad today. My oldest Universitytown friend, who you all know as TheNurse, has moved away from Universitytown forever. She’s moving on to greener, less-pretentious and less ugg-filled pastures. Greener pastures filled with sheep and the robust sheep-herders who make tender love to them on the rolling hills. Yes, TheNurse has moved to New Zealand to try out her nursing skills and bring out the rummy on a new continent. She couldn’t have moved any further away unless she decided to go live for a year in the seventh circle of hell. And I’d still check for seat sales.

(I just got the teary eyes again…man I am one lame motherfucker).

I have never lived in Universitytown without TheNurse, and I have to say that I’m not sure how to go about it. Who will stop my impulsive shopping habits?

ThePeach: I shall now purchase $300 worth of cosmetics because the advertisement told me to.
TheNurse: *slap*

Who will control my relationship crazies?

ThePeach: Do you think FauxHawk actually loves me, or do you think he just pretends and he actually thinks I’m fat and slovenly?
TheNurse: *slap*

Who will control my fat crazies?

ThePeach: Did I gain 25 pounds in the last week? Because these jeans feel a little tight.
TheNurse: *slap*

Who will control my general crazies?

ThePeach: I’m feeling glum…I think I’m going to go on a liquid diet, get 1 or 2 more kittens so Milo can have some buddies, max out my MasterCard on designer lip glosses, quit my job, and tell FauxHawk that I’m not good enough for him.
TheNurse: *slap-slap*…*slap*
ThePeach: Thank-you. Let’s get drunk, Rummy!!

TheNurse keeps me in line. She also keeps me in booze, which is of equal, if not greater importance. Every Wednesday she convinces me to get liqued up and go tramping at the local dance-club. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing the next day, we have to go ho it up every Wednesday night.

ThePeach: I don’t know if I wanna go tonight…I have to be at work the next morning.
TheNurse: Please, you won’t go to work.
ThePeach: I might.
TheNurse: But you won’t.
ThePeach: But I like to pretend I might. It makes me feel industrious.
TheNurse: Have a shot of schnapps and put on your tube-top, bitch!
ThePeach: It’s already on and I’m already drunk!!
TheNurse: Do we really have to go through this every Wednesday?
ThePeach: WOULD YOU LIKE TO TOUCH MY KNOCKER?!

It’s the end of an era now. 5 years of living with or directly beside TheNurse have come to an end. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves last night, so we watched a dvd. We chose “Elizabethtown”. It might be the worst movie ever made, which is surprising considering it had a fairly stacked cast. But it was contrived, full of cliches, and hit rock bottom when Susan Sarandon broke into a slow tap-dance to “Moon River” at her husband’s memorial service.

The TheNurse dropped me off for the last time and we said our awkward good-byes. She cried, I cried. She laughed, I laughed. She cried more, I cried more. We’re not so good at the good-byes:

ThePeach: *sob* I guess we should hug or something?
TheNurse: *sob* At this point we should probably just make out.
ThePeach: *sob* I’m good with a hug. But I’m going to smell your hair a little.
TheNurse: *sob* I’m going to rub your back a little.
ThePeach: *sob* It’s ok to like it.

Then there was some more crying and hugging. Then, because we’re awkward, awkward people – we decided to pull a Sarandon and tap-dance in the street. Slowly. Mournfully. At night.

I’m not joking.

ThePeach: *tap-dance, cry* I’m expressing my sadness through dance.
TheNurse: *tap-dance, cry* I feel like it should be raining and we should be doing this in front of the headlights of the car.
ThePeach: *tap-dance, cry* Now watch my twirl.
TheNurse: *tap-dance, cry* Now watch my time-step.
ThePeach: *tap-dance, cry* *sings* Moon river….
TheNurse: *tap-dance, cry* Is anyone watching us, do you think?
ThePeach: *tap-dance, cry* Probably. We’re not exactly being inconspicuous.
TheNurse: *tap-dance, cry* *sings* Two drifters…

And that’s how you say goodbye to your oldest Universitytown friend, fake boyfriend, actual lover (no…wait...that was supposed to be a “in my mind” thought), and replacement mother.

In honour of TheNurse, I would now like to express my feelings through the vocal stylings of Sir Mix-A-Lot:

I like big butts and I can not lie
You other brothers can't deny
That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get sprung, wanna pull out your tough
'Cause you notice that butt was stuffed
Deep in the jeans she's wearing
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring
Oh baby, I wanna get wit'cha
And take your picture
My homeboys tried to warn me
But with that butt you got makes me feel so horny
Ooh, Rump-o'-smooth-skin
You say you wanna get in my Benz?
Well, use me, use me'
Cause you ain't that average groupy
I've seen them dancin'
The hell with romancin'
She's sweat, wet,
Got it goin' like a turbo 'Vette
I'm tired of magazines
Sayin' flat butts are the thing
Take the average black man and ask him that
She gotta pack much back
So, fellas! (Yeah!)
Fellas! (Yeah!)
Has your girlfriend got the butt? (Hell yeah!)
Tell 'em to shake it! (Shake it!) Shake it! (Shake it!)
Shake that healthy butt!
Baby got back!

I won’t be the same ho without you, Rummy!!!

Bitch better write…

ThePeach

Friday, August 25, 2006

ThePeach Wants to Punch 4-Year Old Children in the Face

This post is not going to make me look good…

Damnit, there goes my motherfucking humanitarian of the year award!!

So, I think that by now you have come to realize how much I hate my job. In case you needed another example, here’s a summary of my day last Monday:

10am-5pm: Enter Data. Lose partial eye-sight. Lose ability to bend wrists. .Lose will to live. Lose the ability to use language and can only communicate in a series of 1s and 0s.

TheBoss: Hey, Peach!! How’s that data-entry coming? Almost done?
ThePeach: 110111000011100101010 (“go die, you motherfucker.”)
TheBoss: Wow, you’ve been doing this data-entry forever. I guess 500 8-page surveys was a lot to ask.
ThePeach: 111000110101010000111000 (“I’m going to light the box of data on fire and throw it at your face”).
TheBoss: Too bad I didn’t realize before that all the data you’ve been entering for the past 4 months is too old and we can’t actually use it. But luckily there’s another, more recent, even bigger box of data that I’m going to get you to enter in its place!
ThePeach: 00011110011010101001110001!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I HATE YOU!!! I HATE YOU!!! I’M GOING TO THROW MY OWN SHIT AT YOU THE NEXT TIME YOUR BACK IS TURNED!!! I’M STAYING HOME TOMORROW JUST TO EAT CORN AND DAIRY PRODUCTS TO MAKE IT A GOOD ONE!!! WATCH YOUR BACK, BITCH!!)

5pm-7pm: TheBoss makes me go for an after-work drink with him. He yells at me for only ordering a Sprite (I needed to detox from my weekend) and proceeds to get buzzed from the multiple beers he orders.

TheBoss: You know, when my wife comes to bed and takes her shirt off, I just think “there’s my baby’s milkers!”.
ThePeach: 111001010100100011100000!!!!!?????

So anyway, that was my Monday. As you might fathom, between the soul-dredging work and the mind-raping boss, my job is a wee bit aggravating. Now, add to that equation the fact that, during the summer months, the room next to my office is A MOTHERFUCKING SUMMER CAMP FOR PRE-SCHOOLERS. Yes. From early June to late August, I basically share my office-space with 50 4-year olds.

My sex drive has decreased dramatically. There’s no better birth control then walking into the office like the hungover whore you are, being hit with a wall of children-stench (sunscreen, juice, and urine – this is my new kryptonite) and passing 50 screaming whine-traps:

Chil’uns: SHE HIT ME!!! I WANT MY JUICE BOX!!! YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!! I WANT MY MOMMY!! I NEED TO PEE!!!
ThePeach: Oh, sweet Jesus. No. No.

They should make the local highschoolers come sit in my office for a day. Even if it caused just one-less deformed crack-baby to come screaming into the world through his 14-year old mother’s birth canal, it would be worth it. This town is crawling with crack-whores and their screaming bastards. And happy social workers.

The camp is a fun-with-science theme that cycles chil’uns on a bi-weekly basis. Every second Monday is “cheer day”, which is as awful as it sounds. First, the kiddies learn their camp cheer, which is as follows:

Camp Counselor: SCIENCE DISCOVERY!!!???
Chil’uns: KIDS REPRESENT!!! WHAT-WHAT!!! (you need to envision 50 4-year olds ‘raising the roof’ as they say this).

It is imperative that you understand that this cheer is repeated approximately 100x/day. Anytime one of the counselors wants this kids’ attention?

Camp Counselor: SCIENCE DISCOVERY!!!???
Chil’uns: KIDS REPRESENT!!! WHAT-WHAT!!!

And the children screeeeam this cheer. They fucking love it. Their shrill little voices penetrate the walls of my office, making my teeth grind and my uterus shrink each and every time. I wouldn’t be surprised if my uterus had completely disappeared by now, leaving in its place a bear-trap soaked in poison.

Each time I hear a “WHAT-WHAT”, I feel a compelling urge to punch something on beat. Like the wall. Or the stinky face of a chil’un:

Camp Counselor: SCIENCE DISCOVERY!!!???
Chil’uns: KIDS REPRESENT!!!
ThePeach: *PUNCH-PUNCH!!!* YOU DON’T LIKE THAT MUCH, DO YOU? DO YOU??!!! Now, go tell all your stinky friends to SHUT THE FUCK UP OR THEY’RE NEXT!!!

After they learn the camp cheer, the kiddies divide into groups and learn group cheers. The groups always practice in the hall outside my door, often leaning on the door as they stumble, screaming, over cheers such as:

Chil’uns: WE ARE TIGERS, HEAR US ROAR!!!! WE ARE TIGERS, HEAR US ROAR!!! WE RUN FAST AND HUNT WILD BOAR!!!
ThePeach: *bangs head on desk, cries, swears*

If I ever accidentally leave the door to my office open, one of the chil’uns will always wander in and stare at me in wonderment. It’s as if they’re shocked that a person exists in this room, as they’ve imagined that an angry, swearing troll lives behind the door.

Chil’un: *stare*
ThePeach: Um…hi…are you supposed to be in here?
Chil’un: *stare*
ThePeach:…I think you’re in the wrong room.
Chil’un: *stare*
ThePeach: You’re supposed to be next door.
Chil’un: *stare*
ThePeach: *stare*
Chil’un: *SCREAMS, RUNS AWAY*
ThePeach: ByeBye!!

Anytime a chil’un misbehaves in the classroom, he is sent into the hallway to have a temper tantrum. This usually occurs directly in front of my door. Have you ever heard a 4-year old have a temper tantrum? It goes a little something like this:

Chil’un: AHHHHHHHEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHEEEEEAHHHHHHEEEEEE!!! *kick*
Counselor: Shush, now. Shush.
ThePeach: Why, Jesus? Why?
Chil’un: AHHHHHHHEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHEEEEEAHHHHHHEEEEEE!!! *kick*
Counselor: I’m going to count to 3…
ThePeach: Is it because I’m sleeping with a Jew?
Chil’un: AHHHHHHHEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHEEEEEAHHHHHHEEEEEE!!! *kick*
Counselor: 1…2….
ThePeach: Because I can stop. I swear, I can. I’ll break up with him right now, on my cell phone, if you’ll only make the screaming stop.
Chil’un: AHHHHHHHEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHEEEEEAHHHHHHEEEEEE!!! *kick*
Counselor:…3…
ThePeach: Look, I’m dialing his number right now.
FauxHawk: Hello?
Chil’un: *sniffle* I want my snack-pack.
ThePeach: *hangs up*. I win again, Jesus! When will you learn not to fuck with me?! SUCKA!
FauxHawk: Hello??

I can’t even go to the bathroom in peace. And I pee a lot at work, due the copious amounts of water I drink to shake off the hangovers I usually have. I have to avoid peak-times, or I’ll be in line behind 50 chil’uns clutching at their wee-wees and pee-pees, jumping from one leg to another, and crying. If I do manage to actually make it into the bathroom, I am always met with the following:

1. No paper towels.
2. No soap.
3. Pee on the floor.
4. Finger-paint on the door handles.

One of the little girls will almost always ask me to help her wash her hands. Another will try to peek at me under the door, giggling in the way that only a 4-year old perv can. One of the bold ones will ask me direct questions about who the hell I am and what I am doing in the ‘bafroom’. Another will want to show me the parachute she made in class that day, then she will cry when it doesn’t work properly. Then a counselor will enter the bathroom and give me a *look*, insinuating that I made the chil’un cry. Then I will run back to the sanctity of my office, drying my wet, soap-less hands on my jeans and vowing never to urinate again. Repeat this scene 2 hours later.

The other day, the chil’uns were being particularly loud and my office-mate and I discussed ways to shut them up.

Office-mate: Ok, I think we should fling open the door, grab one of them by the hair, beat the shit out of it, and throw it back in the hall. I think that should get the message across.
ThePeach: And if they question us, we’ll tell the Counselors that it wandered in here and tripped and fell on its face a bunch of times. And broke its arm.
Office-mate: God, yes.
ThePeach: Or we could pay-off the school-bus driver to drive the bus off a cliff.
Office-mate: GOD, YES!
Camp Counselor: SCIENCE DISCOVERY!!!???
Chil’uns: KIDS REPRESENT!!! WHAT-WHAT!!!
ThePeach/Office-Mate: *tear out hair, weep gently*

They’re screaming as I write this. Ouch, my uterus burns like poison.

*PUNCH-PUNCH!!!*

ThePeach

Sunday, August 20, 2006

ThePeach Wins a Colouring Contest; Loses Innocence

I have only ever won 2 contests in my entire life, and both of them occurred when I was under the age of 8. I peaked early. One of these contests was a goat-herding competition that I won when I was 5. I am not shitting you. No, I did not grow up in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, attend cow-pie high, and marry my brother – but I did go to the yearly fair that my city threw, and part of this fair included letting grubby children man-handle domesticated animals. In this competition, smelly roadies encouraged parents to let their pre-school aged children run around in a pen with about 20 goats enclosed within. The goal was to be the first child to herd 3 goats into their “home”, a.k.a. sad and tiny cage. I dominated the competition, dragging those motherfucking goats into their cages with a surprising strength and rage that would foreshadow my later behaviour in life. I was given the blue ribbon, and I believe I was so proud that I wore it to kindergarten, pinned to my osh-gosh-b’gosh overalls, for an entire week. I still have it somewhere, unless my mom sold it in the infamous “purge the house of all memories of CoorsLight and any precious childhood tokens that we could possibly clutch to in a desperate attempt to convince ourselves that our childhood wasn’t completely disastrous, while we’re away at University so that we can’t stop you, so that you and your new bf can make a fresh start, you crazy bitch” garage sale. Actually, she probably did sell it.

I failed to mention that, when I won the blue ribbon in goat herding, 2-year TigerCat was so effing jealous that she threw a raging, screaming, huggies-soiling temper tantrum until the roadies could be convinced to sell my mom another, identical ribbon to appease her. Skank steals all my thunder.

The only other contest I have ever won was a colouring contest when I was around 8 years old. My Dad, in a glowing display of parenting, took TigerCat and me to the horse-tracks for the day so that he could get his gambling and beer fix. He liked to call the track “the ‘pones” (the ponies, for those of you who aren’t down with dysfunctional parent lingo), and I will continue that tradition. As he continued to lose, swear, smoke, and drink – I got bored. So my dad let TigerCat and I go see what was going on in the tented area of the ‘pones. Miracle of miracles – it was a children’s tent!! Apparently there were enough parents addicted to gambling that the ‘pones actually organized activities to keep their poor, future-gamble-holic children entertained! Sweetness. One of the activities was a coloring contest, where you had to colour a picture of *shock!!!* a wee ‘pone running on a track. I crayoned that motherfucking ‘pone like an artist. The ‘pone glimmered in various shades of brown, white, and black as he ran down a golden track. I knew I would win. You might even say that I would have bet on it.

I did win. I won 50 bucks. To an 8-year old, it is a fortune. It is an endless supply of gummy-bears, stickers, and sparkly scrunchies. TigerCat and I jumped up and down with excitement, probably holding each other’s hands and squealing with an innocent glee.

We made our way back up to where my Dad was sitting to tell him of my fortune.

Peach/Tiger Dad: COME ON, BUSTER!!! RUN, YOU BASTARD!!! DAMN YOU!!! DAMN YOU!!! VAFFANCULO!!!
8-year old Peach: Daddy!! Daddy!! I won the colouring contest!!! My pony was the best pony!!
5-year old TigerCat: It’s true!! It’s true!!
Peach/Tiger Dad: Put on your sweaters, we’re going home. And we can no longer go get ice cream.
8-year old Peach: Daddy!! Daddy!! I can buy us ice cream!! I won 50 dollars!!
5-year old TigerCat: It’s true!! It’s true!!
Peach/Tiger Dad: …50 buckaroos?
8-year old Peach: 50 buckaroos!!
Peach/Tiger Dad:…Well, that’s just great sweetie. But you know what’s even better than 50 buckaroos?
8-year old Peach/5-year old TigerCat: WHAT??!! WHAT??!!
Peach/Tiger Dad: 100 buckaroos!!! And if you let Daddy put your money on the next race, we can turn it into 100 buckaroos if our pony wins!
8-year old Peach: 100 BUCKAROOS!!??!! GAMBLING IS THE BEST!!

Do I really need to tell you the rest of the story?

Our pony lost, and it was my fault for picking a loser. That’s how I pieced it together, anyway. My dad swore a blue streak, TigerCat probably cried, we all went home, and no one got any ice cream.

You would think that this event might have turned me off gambling, but unfortunately that is not the case. TigerCat and I both might have minor gambling problems. I can’t pass a casino without going in and losing twenty bucks to the slots – or, as I like to call them, the sluts. I buy scratch tickets every time I enter a convenience store. I am not allowed to go to Vegas.

I got high this weekend with a group of friends and relayed the story of the ‘pones to them. They all laughed hysterically, and FauxHawk looked relieved that he had solved at least a minor portion of the mystery that is the causes of my neuroses. One of my friends, TheCastrato, sings in a band and is now considering naming it “50 Bucks at the ‘Pones”.

I think it’s catchy.

ThePeach

Thursday, August 17, 2006

ThePeach and TheBoss Go For A Drive

TheBoss has been on vacation for the past 3 weeks or so, which has been fantastic for me and my work ethics. I could leave early if it was sunny out, I could not come in at all if I was hungover or tired, I could dick around all day…so, basically I could do what I always do, but without that pestering sense of guilt.

Also, I could eat whatever the hells I wanted without TheBoss calling me fatty-fat-fat or poking me in the hips. It was beautiful.

But all good things must end, especially when your name is ThePeach.

TheBoss came back to work this week but, except for a few manic meetings which consisted of him pacing my office and throwing around curses like they were going out of style, I haven’t had any memorable Boss encounters. Until today, that is. I’ll try to remember as much as I can as vividly as I can muster, but this whole day was such a whirlwind of mania and fat-comments that I might not be able to do it justice. But, just like taking that first sip of vodka in the morning, it needs to be done.

We had a presentation to go to this afternoon, and TheBoss decided that we should buy some refreshments for it. He sprinted into my office 10 minutes before the presentation was scheduled to start…

TheBoss: PEACH!!! WANNA COME BUY DONUTS WITH ME???!!!
ThePeach: Sure.
TheBoss: Ok, let’s go Fatty!!
ThePeach: Excuse me??
TheBoss: MOVE THOSE LEGS!!!

It had begun.

He sprinted to his car and I scurried along behind him, visualizing how easy it would be to kick him in the back of the knees (CHICKEN LEGS!) and watch him sprawl onto the street. I restrained myself. We got into his car…

ThePeach: *mustering all her courage* I’m not fat, you know.
TheBoss: Sure, Fatty!! I saw you jump in excitement when I said the word “donut”!
ThePeach: Actually, I was just excited at the prospect of leaving the dank, non-circulated, window-less office before I hung myself from the flickering fluorescent lights with a computer cord.
TheBoss: What?
ThePeach: I said “Yay, Donuts!”
TheBoss: FATTY!!!

We pulled out of the parking lot and almost hit a Chinese girl who was crossing the street, and as we passed her TheBoss stuck his head out of the window and shouted “MOVE IT!! YOU’RE NOT IN THE HOMELAND ANYMORE!!”.

1 Human Rights Violation.

We whizzed past the main street and passed a bunch of trendy restaurants and bars.

TheBoss: Isn’t this the area where all those little hotties stand outside the restaurants holding menus to entice the men to go in?
ThePeach: I guess so.
TheBoss: Oh man, one time my buddy and I were so drunk that we started hitting on those girls and heckling them, and they didn’t know what hit them!!!!
ThePeach: Was it your batman-underwear?
TheBoss: *looks out window* Whores!

2 Human Rights Violations.

We pulled into the TimHos drive-through and TheBoss proceeded to heckle the poor toothless crack-whore (I’m just assuming) on the other side of the intercom. After he finally ordered a dozen donuts and a bran muffin for himself, (“I’M GOING TO SHIT LIKE CRAZY LATER!!) we pulled up to pay.

TheBoss: Oh man, what are they going to think when they see me with a young girl like you?
ThePeach: I’m not too sure.
TheBoss: I’M DA PIMP AND YOU DA HO!!

3 Human Rights Violations

As he was waiting for his change…

TheBoss: I think I need a new signature in my emails.
ThePeach: “Best wishes” was pretty good.
TheBoss: What do you think of “Peace Out”?
ThePeach: Oh god, no.
TheBoss: PEEAAACCCCCEEEE OOOOOUUUUUTTTTT *waves fingers in a west-side symbol*
ThePeach: *cradles head in hands*
TheBoss: Did I do the finger-symbol right?
ThePeach: I’m not sure.
TheBoss: Ya, I guess you’d need to be Black.

4 Human Rights Violations.

As we were driving back, TheBoss told me to open up the box of donuts and get us each one. Just as I bit into my double-chocolate…

TheBoss: So, are you, like, trying to fight genetics or something?
ThePeach: *mouth-full of chocolately goodness* Huh?
TheBoss: Are your parents fat? Are you trying to fight the fat gene?
ThePeach: What, do I look like I could explode into fattiness any minute or something???!!
TheBoss:…no…I’m just asking.
ThePeach: *fills the void in her soul with fat-on-fat double-chocolate love*

After we parked, we sprinted back to the doors of the building, me holding the box of donuts and the 6 drinks TheBoss purchased, TheBoss holding the receipt. Bastard.

ThePeach: *final muster of courage* Seriously, I am not fat.
TheBoss: Whatevah!!
ThePeach: YOU ARE GIVING ME A COMPLEX!
TheBoss: I’m kidding!!! You’re not fat!! YOU’RE HOT!!!!
ThePeach: Oh…god…no.
TheBoss: YOU ARE!!!
ThePeach: *shudder*

5 Human Rights Violations.

And all this happened in under 10 minutes. There should be a world record for the most human rights violations in the shortest amount of time, and TheBoss would come in second. Because my blog would come in first, and then Amnesty International would have me executed. If they ever found me, bitches!!!

I ate 2 more donuts at the meeting. Fuck y’all.

ThePeach

Friday, August 11, 2006

ThePeach is Afraid of Sleep

You might not expect this from me, but I’m afraid of a lot of things. And not just the possibility of turning into my Mom, but stupid child-like things. Like the dark. And burglars. And aliens. And never figuring out what I want to do with my life, working this crap soul-sucking job forever, never going to grad school, being a failure, disappointing my family, turning to the pipe for solace, and becoming a toothless street-scrag who gives hand-jobs for smack.

And sleep. I am afraid of sleep. In fact, that is why I am updating my blog at 2am. Because I am afraid to go to sleep.

You might ask how one might become afraid of sleep. You might think it silly to be afraid. You might think it odd to be scared by something as abstract as sleep. You might want to shut the hell up and try growing up in my house, motherfuckers! Sleep? Beer? Red-heads? Christmas? Meatloaf songs? ALL FUCKED. ALL PHOBIAS.

Let us begin.

My fucked-upedness can be explained, as per usual, by the actions of my mother as I was growing up. My mom was a nervous sleeper who suffered from night terrors and a bad case of the crazies. Not only would she randomly wake up screaming at intermittent points throughout the night, but she would wake up screaming anytime anyone woke her up. This proved to be completely fucking traumatizing for TigerCat and myself.

Mother’s Day Morning: 1989

7 year-old Peach: *holding a tray of breakfast* Mommy is going to love our special mommy’s day pancakes!
4 year-old TigerCat: I can’t wait to give hew this plastew mold of my hands I made in kindewgawden!!
7 year-old Peach: I can’t wait to give her the flowers I made out of pipe-cleaners and tissue paper!
CoorsLight: Children, shut up.
4 year-old TigerCat: This is going to be the best mommy’s day evew!!
7 year-old Peach: Ok, go open Mommy’s door while I hold her pancakes!
*TigerCat opens bedroom door*
7 year-old Peach: *whispers* 1…2…3…
Both: HAPPY MOMMY’S DAY!!
Peach/Tiger Mom: AHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIAHHGHHHH!
7 year-old Peach: AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
4 year-old TigerCat: AHHHHHHHHH!!!!
7 year-old Peach: *drops tray* AHHHHHH!!!!!
4 year-old TigerCat: *wets pants* AHHHHH!!!!
Peach/Tiger Mom: AHHHHHHHHHHHHH*cough*good morning my angels!!
7 year-old Peach: *sob*
4 year-old TigerCat: *sob*
Peach/Tiger Mom: Wow! You made pancakes all by yourself just for me!
7 year-old Peach: They’re on the floor! They’re ruined!
Peach/Tiger Mom: I’ll still eat them!
7 year-old Peach: I SAID THEY’RE RUINED AND I HATE YOU!!!

Any guesses as to why I now hate mother’s day?

Let’s move on to Christmas.

Christmas Morning: 1991

6 year-old TigerCat: Peach, Santa came! Santa came!! CoorsLight was wrong, we WERE good!
9 year-old Peach: I hope he brought me a Polly Pocket!!! And a skip-it!!
6 year-old TigerCat: Let’s go wake up Mommy so we can open our presents!!
9 year-old Peach: This is going to be the best Christmas ever!!
*opens bedroom door*
Both: MERRY CHRISTMAS, MOMMY!!
Peach/Tiger Mom: AHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIAHHGHHHH!
9 year-old Peach: AHHHHHH!!!!!
6 year-old TigerCat: AHHHHH!!!!
Peach/Tiger Mom: AHHHHHHHHHH*cough*Merry Christmas, my loves!!
9 year-old Peach: *sob*
6 year-old TigerCat: *sob*
CoorsLight: I need a beer.
Peach/Tiger Mom: Let’s go see what Santa brought you for being so good!
9 year-old Peach: SANTA BROUGHT ME PAIN AND HATE!!!

As we grew older, we learned to stop attempting to wake our mother up. Yet, we still happened upon many situations in which we had no choice. As we became teenagers and started staying out late to get to 3rd base in the back of our boyfriend’s cars, our Mother had a rule that we had to let her know when we got home no matter what time it was. Even if she was asleep.

The hallway at 1am: 1999

17 year-old Peach: My boyfriend told me he loved me so I let him take my bra off!
14 year-old TigerCat: I just got to 3rd with someone’s boyfriend.
17 year-old Peach: what??
14 year-old TigerCat: If any angry chicks come here looking for me tomorrow, I’m not home.
17 year-old Peach: Jesus.
14 year-old TigerCat: Wow, I am HIGH.
17 year-old Peach: Drugs are bad. Anyway, we better let mom know we’re home…
14 year-old TigerCat: Seriously, I am like totally reading your mind right now. That is CRAZY!!
17 year-old Peach: Let’s go…
*opens bedroom door*
Both: *whisper* Hi Mom.
Peach/Tiger Mom: AHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIAHHGHHHH!
17 year-old Peach: AHHHHHH!!!
14 year-old TigerCat: AHHHHH!!!
Peach/Tiger Mom: AHHHHHHHH*cough*Hi Girls, did you have a nice night?
17 year-old Peach: *sob*…y-y-yes.
14 year-old TigerCat: AHHHHHHH!!!
Peach/Tiger Mom: That’s nice. Goodnight!
17 year-old Peach: LIKE I CAN SLEEP NOW!!!
14 year-old TigerCat: AHHHHHH!!! I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE SCARED AND ooh I’m going to heat up a burrito.

And this is why I am afraid of sleep. I am afraid of people who are sleeping, I am afraid of going to sleep, I am afraid of the state of sleep itself. I am afraid that sleep turns people into homicidal psychopaths who want to hurt me. I am afraid that my own unconscious mind will concoct various terrifying dream sequences and visions while I slumber. I am afraid that I will wake up and not know where I am. I have nightmares almost every night, and oddly disturbing dreams the rest of the time. My only solace is sharing a bed with someone, and even then I put off going to sleep for as long as possible by babbling about random shit into the wee hours of the morning. Just ask poor FauxHawk, who gets to hear my philosophical mind-rambles each night:

ThePeach: You know, I really think that Alanna on “Canada’s Next Top Model” should have won. Andrea is such an anorexic whore.
FauxHawk: You do realize I have to be in surgery in 4 hours?
ThePeach: I guess I am getting sleepy…
FauxHawk: That gravol I slipped you must be working.
ThePeach: What?
FauxHawk: I love you! Sweet Dreams!

MY ASS. I think that night I dreamt that I was forced to join a roaming gang of criminals and my initiation was to kill a puppy with my bare hands. It was pretty average.

AHHHHHHH!!!!!

ThePeach

Monday, August 07, 2006

ThePeach is a Voyeur




I'll make love to you
Like you want me to


And I'll hold you tight
Baby, all through the night


I'll make love to you! When you want me to!

And I will not let go 'til you tell me to!

Baby, tonight is your night...

ThePeach

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

ThePeach Has a Relatively Normal Week

Ola, bitches. Yes, I am aware that it has been 7 days since my last update. Shut your whine-traps. We are having a mother-fucking heat wave. HEAT WAVE. It’s hard to be witty and creative when you’re sweating like a whore in church. And your pants stick to your sweaty, sweaty thighs. So you don’t wear pants. Which seems like a brilliant plan until it’s time to leave the house. Short-shorts? Out of the question for anyone whose daily food intake consists of more than a shot of caffeine and a nostril full of blow: I am hot. Society has deemed my size 6 frame too fatty-fat for slut-wear. I am miserable and sweaty and HOT. And concerned that global warming means the end of the world and that we’re all going to die. And I don’t want the last thing I do on earth to be entering motherfucking data for TheBoss so that he can get a raise. But on the other hand, I don’t want to be one of the people that happens to be underground or something when the world explodes and by some freak of coincidence happens to survive and has to start the world from scratch. I don’t want to have to live in some tent made out of dog-hide and tell my army of mutants to find a way to re-invent the internet so that I can have something to fucking do. It’s too much responsibility. So, ya – I’ve had a lot on my mind.

Here’s your update anyway, you sexy whores. One humorous tidbit from my week for every day that I didn’t update:

1. I went to a traditional Vietnamese wedding this past weekend. FauxHawk’s friend is Vietnamese and I was invited to the wedding. Actually, my name was on the invitation, which I am sure caused FauxHawk to shit his pants and run outside to wink at anything with tits just to prove to himself that he still has it. Don’t worry, FauxHawk – you still have it. Anyway, the wedding was obviously full of Vietnamese people, and I was the tallest and fattest woman there. In fact, I think that, if it weren’t a human rights violation to do this, I could tie 5 Vietnamese women together and then they would be the same size as me. 1 woman for each leg, 1 for the torso, and 1 for each arm. I would call her “Pho”, which is the only Vietnamese word I know and also my favourite noodle dish! Pho and I would get along just fine. But, as it stands, I do not like teeny Vietnamese women on their own. Anyone who makes me look bad goes on my black-list. This is also why I hate beautiful people, brilliant people, and successful people. Fuck ‘em all!

2. When I got back from the wedding weekend, I went out for dinner with TheNurse, TheHippie, WeeOne, and TheHubby. TheHubby and I shared a cheese appetizer that made my stomach orgasm in happiness and my thighs scream in anger. I’ll let them work that out on their own. TheHubby had to get back to white-ville that night, so us ladies decided to have a chill girl’s night in to watch tv. This of course led to the smoking of much pot and the drinking of much wine, which of course led to my philosophical contemplation of why clothing exists. Why do we cover ourselves up so elaborately? We’re really just animals, you know. We eat grass and give birth in fields.

3. TheHippie saw Aunt Hettie at the A&P!! Celebrity sighting in Universitytown! Aunt Hettie likes over-priced groceries, too!



4. My kitten is officially a little man. I have this stuffed cat named Fluffer which I have had since I was 4 (TheNurse: “HAHAHA HIS NAME IS FLUFFER??!”). Fluffer stays in my bedroom. Milo likes to fight Fluffer, which I think is fucking adorable/hilarious. He’ll make his little kitty growl, shake his ass in anticipation, pounce on Fluffer, and bat him like crazy with his back legs while he tries to tear his head off. Adorable. Milo will also use his teeth to pick Fluffer up by his head and drag him around the apartment. Adorable. I’ll often get home from work and find Fluffer lying in the middle of my living room with a proud Milo standing beside it, and I’ll congratulate my little guy on having such a good fight. Adorable. The other day, Milo was once again attacking Fluffer…but something was different. He was purring. He was still biting Fluffer’s head, but instead of using his back legs to tear the shit out of it, he was…mounting Fluffer from behind. Then Milo’s tooth-pick of a kitten penis came out. Then there was the realization that OH GOD, my kitten is trying to make rough yet tender kitten love to my stuffed cat. Not adorable, but instead quite scarring. Fluffer is now dead to me. DEAD! If there is a god, he’s hilarious. On a bright note, Milo gets his balls chopped off in a month.

5. Asian Cymbals added me to msn!! I feel 100% cooler and think that my life is about to take a turn for the hilarious. It’s like in grade 6, when the coolest girl in class asks you to join her Beverly Hills 90210 club and you practically piss yourself with excitement. You have to be “Donna”, but it’s still pretty awesome.

6. I had the following e-mail exchange with TheBoss:

From: ThePeach
To: TheBoss
Subject: Data

Hi Boss,

Here is the updated dataset, with 350 surveys entered.

ThePeach

From: TheBoss
To: ThePeach
Subject: re: Data

Peach,

You a robot. Luv that.

Best wishes,

TheBoss.

7. I stayed with my Dad for a night while FauxHawk and I were out of town for the wedding. He still thinks I’m 6, so he served me my dinner on a purple huffalumps tray as usual. He pre-cut my microwave lasagna. He hovered over me while I ate in case I choked. Dessert consisted of pie and ice cream. Then he made me popcorn and gave me a chocolate bar. I like being 6. Then I was shocked back to the present when my dad flipped the tv to “Family Guy” and started giggling like a school-girl in a scene where Stewie and Brian get high.

Peach-Dad: HEHEHEHE Oh man, they’re so stoned! HAHA oh man, I get just like that!!

ThePeach: *whimper*

Alright – 7 days where I didn’t blog, 7 amusing tidbits from my week.

Now I can get back to lying around in no pants.

ThePeach