Wednesday, December 19, 2007

ThePeach Is Peer Pressured to Update her Blog; Results in World’s Most Random Post

As you all know, I cave quite easily to peer pressure. I’m a fairly convincible person. This applies to peer pressure regarding drugs, drinking, sex, not doing work, and to commercials telling me to buy stuff. So, my life goes a little something like this:

ThePeach: I’m not drinking tonight. I have to finish grad school applications. I’m serious this time.
TOP: You will come out. You will have at least 5 drinks. You will stay out until 3am. And you will eat nachos with me.
ThePeach: Ok.

ThePeach: I’m not smoking pot anymore. It makes me too unmotivated and hungover and retarded.
WeeOne: I sent you pot for your birthday. Expect it to arrive in the mail any day now. I also sent you a DVD of Family Guy Episodes. Be sure to message me when you’re high so we can discuss how nature and fashion are fucked up.
ThePeach: Ok.

ThePeach: I don’t want to have sex tonight.

**Ha, suckers! That never happens. It goes a little more like this.

ThePeach: I would like to get freaky in all kinds of ways tonight.
FauxHawk: zzz
ThePeach: Ok.

ThePeach: I can’t spend any more money on makeup. Ever. I have to pay the cat’s vet bills and my bank account is already severely in the red this month.
Commercial: This covergirl lip gloss will make you pretty, skinny, rich, and tell your mom she’s a whore for you. Buy it now. Buy 10 of them.
ThePeach: Ok. I’ll buy 20 to be safe.

So, to conclude, I am an awesome person.


1. TigerCat is a Ho

Guess where my sister is right now? Hawaii. For 10 days. With CockDoc. Paid for by CockDoc’s parents. Plus a 1st class flight.

*grits teeth*

I hope she has a simply wonderful time.

Guess where I am right now? Work. Eating stale bagels. Unbuttoning pants due to bagel bloat. Shivering because the heat is broken. Smelling like a wet boot thanks to the puddle of slush I fell in earlier.

In all seriousness, I hope she has fun. For reals.

Did I mention that TigerCat will be gone for Xmas? That’s fun for me. TigerCat will spend her Christmas lying on the beach, sipping Pina Coladas, and walking hand-in-hand with CockDoc through the gentle surf at sunset. I will spend my Christmas pouring my grandpa whiskey, watching documentaries on crops with my grandpa, administering first aid when my mom burns herself cooking dinner, and picking the turkey off the floor after my mom drops it and then hides in her room, cying, for a good portion of the evening.

Merry Christmas!

2. ThePeach has an Awkward Moment

My friend TheCrazy threw a surprise party for her husband, TheCastrato. I attended. I drank aplenty. At the end of the night, some of us went to get some late-night food. We decided to go to Burrito Boy (refried beans plus a gullet full of vodka…yep, that mixes just as well as you’d think).

FauxHawk, his best friend TheYetti (whom I love, btw, despite his unfortunate body hair affliction), TOP, and I trundled off to Burrito Boy. All the while (and extremely under the influence), FauxHawk and TheYetti tried to convince me that this would be the best culinary experience of my life.

ThePeach: Really? Burritos?
ThePeach: I’m not much of a “burrito” person, per se. It seems kind of gross.
FauxHawk: Once I caught you eating fries that you found lying in the street.
ThePeach: What’s your point?
ThePeach: Ya, I don’t know.
ThePeach: Awkward.
FauxHawk: DO IT!!
ThePeach: Awkward.

3. ThePeach has Another Awkward Moment

I attended a fancy work Christmas part-ay this year. I have worked here for 3 years and this is the first time anyone thought to invite me. I’m well-liked.
Anyway, the party was a formal affair. It was held at the Yacht Club. Champagne was floating around. There were caterers running about in their wee little uniforms. All of my boss’s bosses were there. Some of these bosses are high-powered doctors who have never even met me before or didn’t previously know that I existed. Again: well-liked.

I put a lot of effort into looking classy. I wore a dress and appropriate-height shoes. I didn’t get too drunk until the bosses left (and then I may or may not have performed a solo interpretive dance to Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” as CockDoc turned somersaults behind me). I was charming and polite. Enter TheBoss:

ThePeach: *walking back from the buffet* Hello, TheBoss’ Bosses. I hope you’re enjoying yourselves tonight.
TheBoss: WHOA, LOOK AT ALL THE FOOD YOU TOOK!!!! *giggles*
ThePeach: *nervous laughter*
ThePeach: *nervous laughter*
4. A Serious Moment

This story is not meant to be funny, but serious. It involves a raging schizo it will probably end up seeming funny because all crazy people are hilarious, but laugh not, my friends. Laugh not. This was a major moment for me.

A crazy lives on my street. I call him the “Wellington Street Crazy”, not to be confused with the “Wellington Street Cripple” who zooms up and down my street in a scooter, flipping people off with his one arm. It’s a good street.

The Wellington Street Crazy (or WSC, for short) lives in a mental-health outpatient group-home a few blocks from me. He paces the streets every single day, grumbling and scowling at people and occasionally yelling at them. Once he told me to fuck off because I wasn’t his mother or the Queen. Ok.

In the summer, WSC rides a very old and rickety bike up and down the street all day long. Seriously, that’s all he does. He looks very peaceful upon his bike, which is a pleasant change from his usual “gonna rip your face off with my teeth” snarl.

WSC has really impacted me for some reason. I’m not sure why. I just find his presence on my street very profound. So profound that I actually wrote a poem about him and got it published last year. (Ok, I write poetry. You SHOULD fully judge me for this. I’m one EMO characteristic away from cutting myself with razors and painting my room black. And yes, I live with my cat and I write poetry. I am lame. Fuck you.) Here is the poem:

The Wellington Street Outpatient

Old wheels groan with exhaustion;
the pedals are weary
with stiffness and pain,
their joints are streched tenderly,
patiently, by their caregiver.
Sitting atop that seat
with mannequin posture,
looking at no one,
willing his friend to carry him
one more block and back again.

He doesn't talk except when he screams,
pleading with demons, swearing,
assaulting the concrete.
The neighbors don't look from their papers
as they have grown tender for the man
in crumpled coveralls and a cap:
stray hairs like fine white wires
poking out of his neck
as he coaxes his rusted reprieve
one more block and back again.

The sun whispers on his bony shoulders;
he passes the parade of briefcases
and sandwiches in ziploc bags,
the moan of the wheels overpowering
the clicking of corporate shoes.
No one dares break the trance,
the timid calm in those weathered eyes,
so no one says hello
as he determinedly pedals
just one more block and back again

By ThePeach

Ok, so we’ve established just how profound I find this schizo (and just how lame I really am). Now, another important factoid about WSC: I see him EVERY SINGLE TIME I LEAVE MY HOUSE!! I swear to god. If I leave the house at 9am, he is walking past my house. If I come home from work at 5pm, I pass him on the street. If I stumble home drunk at 3am, he is going for a midnight stroll. At first I thought he was stalking me, but then I realized that the man is just constantly pacing the street 24/7.

Also, he has never once made eye contact or any sign of seeing me in any way. I thought maybe he thought I was one of his hallucinations for a while. I have passed him every day for 3 years and we have never spoken, smiled at each other, or otherwise acknowledged each other as humans. This isn’t to say I haven’t tried, but after awhile I gave up. Possibly for fear of him ripping a rusty spoke out of his bike and stabbing me in the aorta with it.

So, last Friday I was walking home from work when I passed WSC, as usual. But this time:

ThePeach: *clomps down street in cheap boots*
WSC: *stops walking*
ThePeach: *looks at WSC*
WSC: *looks ThePeach in the eye*
ThePeach: *automatically shields aorta with hand*
WSC: *smiles*
ThePeach: *carefully smiles*
WSC: Hello.
WSC: How are you?
ThePeach: Good…how are you?
WSC: Oh, I’m surviving. Bye, now. *starts walking*

The Wellington Street Crazy talked to me!!!! He talked! He smiled!!

I consider this was one of the more profound experiences in my life. Not that “finding fries in the street” and “discovering Smirnoff Ice coolers” were tough to top, but still.

Ok, this way wayyy too sappy for the likes of you sluts. Here’s something to make up for it:

Titty, titty, motorboat, poop, fucking, muffins.

I think I just accidentally wrote the title of my autobiography.

Ok, that’s enough randomness for now. Maybe later someone can peer pressure me into pooping on TheBoss’ desk.

I’d like that.


Thursday, December 06, 2007

Milo Hates Chanukah Part 2

Who remembers an entry I wrote around this time last year where I said that Milo hates Chanukah? I included this charming picture of of my cat, taken by FauxHawk the Jew (encouraged by Peach the Whore).

Milo does not look pleased surrounded by Chanukah paraphenalia. In fact, I would like to suggest that, in this picture, there should be a thought bubble floating above the cat's head that reads: "First I'm going to bite off your face and then I'm going to poop in your Yamulkah".

Hence my conclusion that Milo hates Chanukah.

I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I do not hate Chanukah. I thoroughly enjoy the festive holiday and the potatoes fried in oil that we gorge upon to commemorate the miracle of oil. Maybe it's the miracle of potatoes. I'm not clear on that one. I also enjoy the Chanukah songs that are sung at this time of year. Such as this oldie from a "multicultural politically correct holiday-inspired" play TigerCat starred in at the tender age of 10:

Light the candle

Spin the dreidel

Celebrate our victory tonight!

For our history

And our freedom

Light the candle see the light!

This year on the second night of Chanukah, FauxHawk came over to my apartment so that we could grill paninis on my new panini press (!!). He brought his menorah and some jew-candles so that he could burn the candles as we made dinner. Milo seemed pretty engrossed in trying to disembowel a twist-tie as we lit the candles, so we felt assured that he was in no immediate danger. He soon grew tired of the twist-tie, but then he was focused on trying to suck the cheese out of my panini with his little stinky-asshole mouth. I was focused on trying to punt the kitten across the room.

Back off. Get your own sandwich.

And then...this:

Milo: *suckles on ThePeach's Panini while ThePeach has her head turned* CHEESE!!! CHEESE!!!

ThePeach: *turns back to panini* YOU SONOFABITCH SHIT-FUCKING AWFUL CAT!! *punt*

Milo: *acts dejected for .2 seconds* TWIST-TIE!!! TWIST-TIE!!! *picks up twist-tie in mouth and trots away happily*

5 minutes later...

FauxHawk: Where's the cat?

ThePeach: *mouth full of panini* Dunno. Hell?


So, to summarize, Milo stuck his face into the flames of the Menorah and singed off all of his left-side eyebrow whiskers. His right-side eyebrows are long, white, and lustrous (like the old japanese man that he is), and his left-side eyebrows are short stubs with melty ends that smell like burnt plastic.

After the tard stuck his face in fire, he yelped and leaped around the room and then took cover under the couch, where it is a well-known fact that Menorahs can't find you. He was mighty angry for the rest of the night. Plus, cats use their whiskers to judge space, so I expect him to bump into walls and other objects until his stubby eyebrows grow back to their original bushiness.

If Milo didn't hate Chanukah before, he sure does now. Chanukah burned off his eyebrows and took away his depth perception.

Light the kitten

Spin the dreidel

Celebrate out victory tonight!

For our history

and our freedom

Light the kitten see the light!

Also, even though Milo stuck his reetee face into the flame of the candle, the candle STAYED LIT. What a Chanukah miracle of potatoes!!! No wait, light. I meant to say light.

Everybody sing along! Light the kitten...


Friday, November 30, 2007

TheBoss Sends ThePeach an Important Work E-Mail

Here is the work E-Mail from TheBoss I found in my inbox when I got to work this morning:

A skinny little white guy goes into an elevator, looks up and sees this HUGE black guy standing next to him. The big guy sees the little guy staring at him, looks down, and says: '7 feet tall, 350 pounds, 20 inch private, 3 pound testicles, Turner Brown.'

The white man faints and falls to the floor. The big guy kneels down and brings him to, shaking him. The big guy says: 'What's wrong with you?' In a weak voice the little guy says, 'What EXACTLY did you say to me?'

The big dude says: 'I saw your curious look and figured I'd just give you the answers to the questions everyone always asks me.I'm 7 feet tall, I weigh 350 pounds, I have a 20 inch private, my testicles weigh 3 pounds each, and my name is Turner Brown.'

The small guy says: 'Turner Brown, Sweet Jesus, I thought you said, 'Turn around!'

Another day, another sexually innapropriate joke from TheBoss.


Friday, November 16, 2007

This is going to be random.

Yesterday was interesting. I had tons of work and was feeling sleepy, so I went to Tim Hortons for a large hit of speed. I was just going to get a large tea to give me energies to get through the day, but my uterus made me also buy cookies. I was a little annoyed with my uterus at that point, but those cookies sure looked tasty and, really, two cookies are unlikely to give me an extra chin or roll of back-fat. So I gave myself a little justifying pep-talk.

ThePeach: Peach, you’ve had a hard week. You have lots of work to do. You deserve two gooey TimWhore’s cookies. Two cookies won’t kill you.
ThePeach: And really, Peach, you’re still pretty far off from becoming morbidly obese. Enjoy a treat every once in a while.
ThePeach: Shh, Uterus…shhh…have a cookie.
Uterus: FUCKIN’ A!!!!

So, I nibbled on my cookies and walked back to my office.

Unfortunately, I passed one of god’s little practical jokes on the way back: a bake sale.

ThePeach: Oh god…oh god no…must…keep…walking…don’t…want…chins…
ThePeach: I won’t listen to your threats, uterus!
Pelvis: *screams in agony*
ThePeach: *to bake sale salesperson* Here’s all the change I have. Give me as much as you can fit in my backpack.
Uterus: *purrs*

Ok, so then I ate 6 cookies. That wasn’t as easily justifiable. And, since I am squeezing into a very tight dress tomorrow, this meant I had to take my most hated course of action.

I would have to go run on the motherfucking treadmill that night. Motherfuck!!!

But first I had to get through my day of work. I was literally up to my asshole in papers to write, so I was feeling the stress. This was not helped by an afternoon visit from TheBoss:

TheBoss: *opens office door* Hi, Peach!
ThePeach: shmyfglygrofsshh (mouth packed full of cookie)
TheBoss: I have to go do some running around. I’ll be back for my kids in a few hours.
ThePeach: *spits out cookie* excuse me?
TheBoss’Spawns: *scream and run into office*
TheBoss: Bye!
ThePeach: OH MY GOD.
TheBoss’Spawns: *scream, hit Peach with umbrellas*

Ya. My boss dumped his two young sons on me for the afternoon. They are 4 and 7 years old. I think you can imagine by now, through getting to know me through my blog, just how much I love young children. Young boys are demented hellions. Now factor into the equation that these young boys are the offspring of TheBoss. They spent the next 2 hours screaming and destroying my office, while I anxiously begged everyone on my msn list to come to my office and put a bullet in my eye.

So, that was fun.

Afterwards, I went home and weeped gently onto my futon while Milo attacked my feet. It was a sad scene.

So, then I went to the gym. That was also a sad scene. Those cookies did not appreciate being shaken up in my gullet on the treadmill. They did not appreciate it AT ALL. My uterus was also pretty pissed.

ThePeach: *wheeze* run….run bitch…run like the wind…
Uterus: WHAT ARE YOU DOING????!!!
ThePeach: *pant* run…keep running…don’t die…ignore that wedgie…
Uterus: OH MY GOD!! WHY???
ThePeach: *cough* run…run…ok, maybe pick that wedgie because it’s starting to seriously hurt, but for the love of god, keep running…
ThePeach: *dry-heave* run….run bitch…run away from the chins…

Ok. So, after that debacle I went home and worked on essays all night. That wasn’t very fun, either. FauxHawk came over around 11 and I was very glad to see him. We went to bed. But first, I drank some chakra tea.

I need to explain about the chakra tea. TheHippie (who else?) bought me a package of chakra tea for my birthday. 3 days ago I decided to try the “sexual” chakra tea, just for fun. It promised to awaken my sexual chakra (which is chakra number 2, in case anyone wants to look it up). I was pretty skeptical, but I figured what the fuck. Let’s see if TheHippie’s lesbian tea could get me laid.

My friends, it did. I don’t know if it was just a placebo effect, or if “chakra number 2” is Sanskrit for “put it in me”, but I essentially raped FauxHawk two nights in a row. I don’t think he minded. At least, he didn’t say anything, but I might have been muffling his voice by sitting on his face. He’s such a good sport.

Anyway, last night he came over and I was hoping to have a 3-night run. So I guzzled more chakra tea and jumped anxiously into bed.

FauxHawk was already asleep. Poor little lamb, I guess I wore him out those past two nights. Plus the whole “doctor” thing is tiring, I guess. So I was a good girlfriend and woke him up gently.

ThePeach: *slaps FauxHawk*
FauxHawk: zzzzz..huh what??!!!
ThePeach: Oh, sorry…were you sleeping?
FauxHawk: Yes.
ThePeach: *strokes FauxHawk gently* sorry….
FauxHawk: That’s ok…what…do you want?
ThePeach: Sex.
ThePeach: I’d like some sex, please.
FauxHawk: But…I’m sleeping…so tired…
ThePeach: I shaved!!!
FauxHawk: zzzzz…
ThePeach: *raises face to god* I SHAVED!!!!!

So, that was a lost cause. I lay in bed with the chakra number 2 tea coursing through my veins and anger coursing through my mind. I just drank a steaming mug of sexual prowess and had no outlet. FauxHawk snored gently beside me.

And then…poetic justice arrived in the form of a stinky monster named Milo.

Milo usually sleeps on the bed, and usually on top of me. It’s the one time each day where he’s cute. Last night, Milo jumped into the bed and crawled across FauxHawk’s dozing body. Milo started purring. The purring got louder. The bed started shaking.

Milo was homo-raping FauxHawk’s leg. Perhaps he drank the remnants of my number two chakra tea.

FauxHawk woke up to the sound of my hysterical laughter.

FauxHawk: What…what the fuck?
Milo: *hump*
FauxHawk: Why is the bed shaking?
Milo: *hump*
FauxHawk: Oh…my god…
Milo: *hump*
FauxHawk: Is he…am I being…oh my god…
Milo: *hump*

Oh, Milo. What a good kitten. This is what happens when you refuse my sex. My cat homo-rapes you.

At least someone got laid.

Anyway, Milo tired himself out pretty quickly and curled up to have a post-coital sleep on my stomach. I was no longer angry, and I told FauxHawk that I loved him and let him fall back asleep.

He’d been through enough that night.


Monday, November 05, 2007

ThePeach Hangs Out With a Rapist; Racist

I guess I had a pretty typical weekend. You know, for me. On Friday I went to my favourite bar and on Saturday I went to Ottawa for my grandpa’s birthday party. This seems like a pretty normal thing to do.

Until you tack on the raping and the black-face.

Ok. Slow down, Peach. Have another gin and just let the story flow of its own accord. Like the gin. Into your throat.

I’m ready.


Friday night rolled around after a long and stressful week, and FauxHawk and I headed to our favourite bar to have a few drinks with TheCrazy and TheCastrato, who are newlyweds. TheC’s had been on a romantic dinner-date earlier in the night, so I assumed they would show up at the bar a little buzzed and very much in love, and the night would then proceed pleasantly.

They showed up hobo-drunk and hating each other. They tripped through the bar door with their wine-stained teeth bared and immediately proceeded to tell us about the pitfalls of marriage. Ah, young love! Because they were already fall-down drunk and surly, FauxHawk and I felt the need to catch up. Or, as TheCastrato eloquently put it “GET FUCKING GUNNED. FUCK!”. No problem. Fast forward 2 hours later and:

1) FauxHawk is tackling TheCastrato to prevent him from fighting a guy in the street who looks like he could cut us all up.
2) TheCrazy is dancing sensually on the table and then falling skull-first onto the floor, which smells of onion rings urinal-pucks.
3) I am asking the uptight blonde next to me if I can motorboat her, and then doing it anyway just to loosen her up.

Watch out. Any one of you could be next to get your boating license.

Ok. So, I was in a happy place. TheCrazy and I then had an intimate conversation about…I don’t even know…and then it seemed like a fantastic idea to give each other lap dances. Much sensual motorboating ensued. And then, after TheCrazy sat in my lap and pitched herself face-first onto the floor yet again, but this time pulling me and a table with her, ensuring that the entire bar was staring at us…the following happened:

TheCrazy: *pushes table off her skull* Yoush knows, I really do loves you, Peach.
ThePeach: *untangles mangled leg from bar-stool* Isssh loves you, bitch.
TheCrazy: *stands up* I’msh gonna kiss you now.
ThePeach: *stands up* I’msh gonna likes it.
All Men: OH MY GOD.
ThePeach: That wash a nice kisssh. I appreciates your loves. I’ma gonna motorboat you, yoush sonofabitch.
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you first.
ThePeach: Wows. Hey, didn’t you just kissh me alreadys?
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you now.
ThePeach: Wai-
All Men: HOLY GOD.
ThePeach: Whys do you keep kishing mes?
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you now.
ThePeach: But-
ThePeach: Oks. Enoughs.
TheCrazy: I likes your titsh.
ThePeach: Muffinsh make them grow.
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna touch your titsh.
ThePeach: Huh?
ThePeach: Heh…oks…hands off my nips pleash.
TheCrazy: I’ma gonna kish you.
ThePeach: Oh jesu-
All Men: YES.
TheCrazy: Oks.
ThePeach: Oks.
TheCrazy: We cool?
ThePeach: Ya. We cool.
TheCrazy: Oks, cause I’m gonnas flash your titsh to the bar now.
ThePeach: WHA-
All Men: *applause*

So, to make a rambling drunken story short, the entire bar saw my tits and TheCrazy raped my mouth. To be fair to her, the rape was consensual. Emphasis on the sensual.

I’m pretty embarrassed about it now, though. Especially since the bartender, who was obviously sober, came over to our table just to tell me that he saw the whole thing and that I am a real “bundle of trouble”. Ok.

FauxHawk then took me home, where we immediately passed out. What a waste of a good dyking.


FauxHawk and I drove to Ottawa to meet up with my mom, my sister, and CockDoc for my grandpa’s 81st birthday party. I was only, like, 80% dying of hangover. Could have been worse. We met up at my grandpa’s favourite restaurant, which is kind of like a daycare center for the elderly.

You walk in and are met with the smell of old people and tomato soup. Tables of little old ladies are scattered about the room. A Dixie-land band is playing “When the Saints go Marching in” and the old ladies who can hear are clapping along, while the old ladies who are deaf are smiling blankly. You sit down and the menu consists of 6 pages of “Experienced Diners” sections, and 1 page of regular-person menu.

To my grandpa, this place is heaven. It is my hell.

The food is bland, mushy, and boring. The waitresses talk in EXTRA LOUD VOICES and call everyone SWEETIE PIE and HONEY. The band plays its music EXTRA LOUD so all the deaf ladies can hear it, which means that none of the old people can hear each other talk and the ambiance in the restaurant is a LOUD constant rendition of “Yellow Bird” peppered with the throaty voice of an old person shouting “WHAT?” every 10 to 15 seconds.

At one point, my grandpa walked over to one of the tables full of old ladies and wished a grey-haired woman a “Happy Birthday” since the waitress had just brought her out a cake. This was the scene:

Grandpa: *eyes table of ladies* I’m going to go wish that pleasant lady a happy birthday.
TigerCat: Oh man, he is totally taking her home tonight.
ThePeach: *chokes on tomato soup*
Grandpa: *shuffles over to table*
Grandpa: *leans into grey-haired woman and presumably wishes her a happy birthday*
Grey-Haired Lady: *smiles blankly*
Grandpa: *shuffles back to our table*
Grey-haired Lady: WHAT?
Grey-Haired Lady: WHAT?
Friends of Lady: WHAT?

After dinner, and after TigerCat and I took turns dancing with my grandpa in front of the band (“follow my lead, girls. I’m gonna spin ya”), I went back to my grandpa’s house with my mom and grandpa. TigerCat and CockDoc drove back to UniversityTown, and FauxHawk went out with some friends. I put on my sweat pants and prayed to Allah that my mom and grandpa would just go to bed so I could watch tv alone. No dice.

My grandpa grabbed a bottle of wine and suggested we watch a movie together. The movie he picked was: “College”. A black and white, slapstick comedy, silent film starring Buster Keaton. It was filmed in 1927.

I spent my Saturday night watching a silent film with my grandpa. I am 25. Is this normal?

The film was pretty much everything you’re imagining right now. The only sound was vaudeville piano and every 10 seconds a screen with lines such as “Esther was the most popular gal in the malt shoppe” would pop up to aid the progression of the plot.

My grandpa got a real kick out of the movie, and guffawed appreciatively as the male hero tried out for the baseball team but, saints preserve us, didn’t know the rules of the game of baseball. Comedic genius!

And then something caught my attention. The male hero, only referred to as “the boy” in the text screens (“The boy preferred science over baseball”), decided to get a part-time job. Luckily, he walked past a restaurant with a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. Ooh, relief is felt by all. Until the next screen pans out and shows the entire “Help Wanted” sign.

“Help Wanted: Negro Waiter”

It gets worse.

The next scene shows the male hero in a waiter’s uniform, holding a tray of food. His face and hands are painted black.

The male lead was dressed in black-face. BLACK-FACE!!!

My grandpa is of course guffawing and slapping his thigh with the hand that isn’t wrapped around the bottle of wine. I am sitting in shock on the plastic-covered couch, asking god why he keeps feeling the need to send me material for my blog. Doesn’t he think my life is interesting enough without schizophrenics in my workplace and black-face in my movies?

Back to the movie. Of course, the real “negroes” working in the restaurant are made to act like wild animals, and the kitchen is like some bizarre jungle where the tribes dance about like monkeys and the “black queen” (aka lady stirring the steaming vat of soup) gives sex eyes to every “negro” within 5 miles. Once said steam melts the blackface off the male lead, the “negroes” chase him out of the restaurant with large knives and sticks.

I just…how do you…is there a reaction for a situation like this?

My grandpa could see that I was grappling with something major, and turned to me to say something reassuring.

Grandpa: He’s not really a negro, Peach. He’s in black-face.

Ok. So, that was my weekend. The two nights couldn’t have been more dichotomous if I had tried. Friday finds me being molested by TheCrazy, and Saturday finds me getting a lesson in black-face from my grandpa.

A quick note to God: You can stop now.


Thursday, November 01, 2007

ThePeach Gets a Visitor at Work

I have been dying to blog about this for days, but unfortunately I have been up to my asshole in essays and have literally not had an extra second available. But now that I have handed in my paper and not slept in about 4 days, I will gleefully attempt to convey the scene from last Monday to you.

10am. I had just walked into my office with a massive tea in hand. I sat down and turned on my computer. I had gotten 4 hours of sleep the night before thanks to the massive procrastination of my essays for the past 2 weeks which culminated in the manic writing of scores of bullshit while hooked up to a constant caffiene drip. I was cranky. I was still fuzzy-eyed.

As I suckled on the sweet teat of tim hortons and opened my favourite celebrity gossip web pages, a disheveled looking woman wandered into my office and stared at me blankly. She scratched her head, sending her short hair into further disarray, and continued to stare at me with her bug-eyes.

I wasn't alarmed. My office is right next to the main door to the building, so I often get lost and confused people in my office asking me for directions. These people are usually stretch-pant clad undergrad whores, however, and this woman may have been wearing alarmingly tight acid-washed jeans with zippers at the ankle, but her face full of wrinkles and fresh scent of homelessness clued me into thinking that I was not dealing with an undergrad. However, she was still probably just lost, so I asked her if I could help her find something. What followed was one of my more interesting work conversations.

ThePeach: Do you need directions?
Lady: ...*scratch**cough* you do psychology?
ThePeach:...I work for the psychology department.
Lady:...*tugs on denim vest* can you tell me about my nervous system?
ThePeach: I'm sorry?
Lady: The brain...and nervous system...can you help me with my case? *starts looking in all the corners of the room*
ThePeach: Maybe try the main office. Upstairs.
Lady: They can't help me.
ThePeach: Go there anyway. *starts getting annoyed*
Lady: I used to be an alcoholic...would be affected?
ThePeach: Maybe. No. I don't know. Yes.
Lady: I like your office.
ThePeach: ...I'm just going to make a quick phone call to my boss.
Lady: No...that's not necessary. *cough*...can you help me with my nervous system? *sits in a chair and pulls it up to where she is sitting within an inch of my face*
ThePeach: *tries to recall any memory of self-defence moves/remembers that she never went to that self-defence class because she was hungover* I don't think I can help you.
Lady: Somebody put a computer chip in my brain.
Lady: Somebody put a computer chip in my brain and I need help getting it out.
ThePeach: ...try the main office. Upstairs.

So, the scary lady stayed in my office for another 15 minutes, talking in her monotone voice about her nervous system, until another woman walked into my office, took the lady by the arm, and led her away. I can't be too sure what the fuck happened, but it might have had something to do with jebus knowing that I have a blog and wanting to give me interesting material.


Thursday, October 25, 2007

ThePeach is Conflicted about Hallowe'en

Ok. I have a problem.

Hallowe'en is yet again upon us, and since this year I won't be spending it dry heaving and sobbing myself to sleep, I plan to go all out and dress up and get drunk and...probably dry heave and sob myself to sleep. But as a result of too much vodka and pot and ass, not from being broken hearted. Ah, yes. I have a wide range of emotions; all of which involve vodka and most of which end in vom and tears. Healthy.

What's funny (in a kick to the labia kind of way) is that FauxHawk keeps forgetting that we were broken up at this time last year. Bless his soul; he has a poor memory. So, he keeps asking me to remind him what "we" dressed up as last year and which party "we" went to. He forgets that my Hallowe'en last year was not very festive. So, like a good girlfriend, I tactfully remind him.

FauxHawk: What should I dress as this year?
ThePeach: AIDS?
FauxHawk: No...too complicated. What did you go out as last year, again?
ThePeach: Single.


FauxHawk: Should we do a couple costume this year?
ThePeach: Can we be dead Anna Nicole and Larry what-his-face with the fug baby??!!!
FauxHawk: No...too boring. What did I go out as last year?
ThePeach: Remorseful.


FauxHawk: Should we go to the MedsHouse party this year?
ThePeach: Maybe. Does the girl's bathroom have a door yet?
FauxHawk: Where did we go last year?
ThePeach: Our seperate ways.

You get the idea.

But I digress. I have a problem.

As I have mentioned before, FauxHawk is a wee bit metro. He enjoys loofas, designer shaving cream, and manly lip balms. He gleefully sports velvet jackets over tshirts that say "Smile if You're Gay". His hair is perfectly sculpted and he always smells fresh. Don't get me wrong - I enjoy all of these qualities. Except maybe for the loofah. But who wouldn't enjoy a fresh-smelling, well-dressed, soft-lipped boyfriend?

Unfortunately, when you combine these factors with FauxHawk's chosen profession of gyna doctor, he can be mistaken for a homo. Now, my boyfriend is not gay. NOT GAY. He's a well-dressed, fresh-smelling, soft-skinned bundle of heterosexual man-power. We have heterosexual sex. I know this because I am there when it happens. Once, he slept with a stripper. True story. This was before we were together.

Anyway, as you can see I am pretty defensive about FauxHawk's metro image. So I am sure you can understand why I am so distraught about his choice of Hallowe'en costume this year.

FauxHawk wants to dress up as Richard Simmons.

I'm just so...I don't know...oh god...there are no words.

It's a great costume idea, for sure. It will be hilarious. But...ya.

Well, it gets worse. FauxHawk has a huge exam this weekend and is on call a lot this week, so he has asked me to go buy his costume for him. He has requested that I look for tight, shiny shorts and a man-tank and an afro wig.

I'm so conflicted. I want to be a good girlfriend and buy my man his homo costume. I want him to be happy on Hallowe'en.

What I don't want is to go to a department store and ask the salesman for help buying shiny shorts ("As short at possible, please.") for my boyfriend. What I don't want is to peruse the man-tanks for the shirt that I think will make my boyfriend look the most gay. What I don't want is to try on X-large women's running shorts to see if they have enough room for FauxHawk's junk.

I feel like, if I do this, I'm just asking for it. If I do this, 5 years from now FauxHawk will announce to the world that he's gay and all my friends will whisper "remember when she bought him those sequined women's shorts?"

I just...I'm so...oh god, hold me.


Thursday, October 11, 2007

ThePeach Has a Rough Day at Work; Kicks TheBoss in the Pills (in her mind)

Yesterday was not a stellar day. It was more like one of those days where you feel all Emo and are driven to tenderly cut yourself with a plastic Tim Hortons knife, but the cheap-ass knife snaps in two and a splinter of plastic lodges itself in your cornea. Ya, it was like one of those days…

No, I am not a cutter. I am, however, a master of analogies.


The day started like any other day for me. My clock radio went off and I immediately hit snooze to savour 9 more minutes of precious, precious sleep. And also to stop the assault of Nickelback coming through the speakers. Of course, the cat knows not the meaning of ‘snooze’. The second the alarm goes off, the cat snaps to attention and starts jumping on my face and bladder to rouse me. When this fails, he begins to yowl into my ear until I push him off the bed. This process takes approximately 8 minutes. After he lands on the floor he pouts for about 30 seconds before he crawls back into the bed and falls asleep on my legs. 30 seconds later the alarm goes off again and the process is repeated. Usually for 45 minutes. This earns me about…three and a half minutes of extra sleep. Score.

Yesterday I also woke up with a nagging headache. It was unpleasant. I popped about 3 extra-strength advil with my morning caffeine.

When I got to work, OfficeMate warned me that TheBoss was cranky with me. I swallowed another advil and asked her what was up his acorn this time. Apparently he was flipping out because a dataset that I had sent him wasn’t scored properly. This perplexed me because I couldn’t remember sending TheBoss a dataset anytime recently. I opened my work email and noticed about 5 cranky emails from TheBoss telling me what a shit-hole I am. I noticed that my phone was blinking and discovered several messages from TheBoss in a similar vein. Tricky.

I looked through all of my past emails to see when I might have sent TheBoss a dataset. There was the dataset I had sent him 3 weeks ago, but it couldn’t be that one. He told me he needed that dataset in 24 hours so that he could write a report on it, and thus I had to work late and skip class that day to get it done in time. So there was no way this could be the same dataset that he had only opened that morning, 3 weeks from when I sent it to him.

Then I remembered that TheBoss is a useless, sack of shit, anal bum-cover who sits in his office reading dirty jokes all day.

It was that dataset that he was looking at. The motherfucker. My head was pounding and I thought I probably shouldn’t take any more advil, lest I perforate my liver. So I got a large timwhore’s tea and a bagel. This seemed like good medicine.

Well, one mystery was solved. But I still couldn’t figure out why the data in TheBoss’ version of the dataset wasn’t scored properly. OfficeMate informed me that TheBoss had been bitching about how he had to stay up all night fixing the dataset and running the scores again, and I was thoroughly perplexed. I tried calling him and e-mailing him but he wasn’t in his office. I munched on my bagel and rubbed my temples. I got butter in my hair but I didn’t mind.

Finally, TheBoss made a grand entrance into my office.

ThePeach: *chokes on bagel*
TheBoss: What the fuck happened to the dataset I asked you to do? Why didn’t you score it? I was up all night rewriting the syntax!
ThePeach: *dislodges bagel from lung with a swig of tea* I’m not sure. My version has the scores and the syntax. I don’t see why I wouldn’t send you that version.
TheBoss: Well, you didn’t.
ThePeach: Did you check your emails from me?
TheBoss: Of course.
ThePeach: All of them?
TheBoss: …Sure.
ThePeach: Because it says here in my email history that I sent you the scored version of the dataset 3 weeks ago. When you made me stay late to finish it for you. *shows TheBoss e-mail history*
ThePeach: So you were working with an old version. I sent you that version a month ago. I said in the e-mail that it wasn’t scored yet. *shows TheBoss e-mail history*
ThePeach: So you didn’t actually check my emails.
TheBoss: Well, it doesn’t matter anymore because I did it all last night.
ThePeach: Yes, but I did it for you 3 weeks ago. You just didn’t read any of the emails I sent you.
TheBoss: Hey, these crackers are tasty!
ThePeach: That’s my lunch.
TheBoss: Tas-tee!
ThePeach: I have to go to class now.
TheBoss: *spits cracker crumbs as he talks* No, I need you around this afternoon to get something important done for me.
ThePeach: But…class?
TheBoss: No. Mmm! Crackers!!!

I took another advil. I was pretty upset about having to miss class, especially since I had been up late finishing the goddamn readings for it. And especially since my prof, an uptight lesbian (probably), already hated me for missing so much class already.

TheBoss tripped back into my office 20 minutes later with the important work that he needed me to do. It was this: Make a contact sheet for his 6-year old son’s hockey team.

Make a contact sheet for his 6-year old son’s hockey team.


Before I could say “Why don’t you eat my asshole?”, TheBoss was gone. In his wake he left me the list of hockey contacts and an empty box of crackers.

I briefly considered swallowing the entire bottle of advil, but I feared what perverse things the boss would do to my body when he discovered it in the office 2 days later. The coroner would conclude that I died of box of crackers to the taint.

So instead I got another tea and 2 cookies.

So, after that pleasant day at work I went home and made dinner for myself and FauxHawk. FauxHawk was leaving for a conference that night so I tried to be cheery around him since I wouldn’t be seeing him for a week. I made him a tasty dinner. He partook. I offered him some sex. He did not partake. I was nice about it because he was leaving for a conference, so I kissed him and helped him carry his bags to the car. He got in his car and drove away.

I was sad and un-sexed, so I decided to reheat the leftover thanksgiving pumpkin pie. As I let it cool on the counter, I went to the fridge for a glass of water. When I returned to the counter I discovered Milo chin-deep in the pie. The little fucker was licking and gnawing at the pie like the fat-ass he is. Just prior to his snack of pie he had made a snack of his own asshole, so I was forced to throw the pie out.

So, that was my day. TheBoss pillaged my soul and ate my crackers, FauxHawk ate my dinner and didn’t pillage me at all, and the cat ate my pie after he pillaged his own asshole.

My life has recurring themes.


Ps – I miss the hawk.

Monday, October 01, 2007

Overheard in Universitytown

Hello, bitches! I'm not dead! There are many more updates coming your way soon. I swear in the name of cheese and sex, and all other things holy.

Here is something to get the ball rolling.

Last week I was walking on campus when I overheard this gem:

leggings-clad girl #1: Carly is getting fat, right? Like, do you think Carly is fat? *flips hair*
leggings-clad girl #2: Fat for a cheerleader? *sends a text message on her magenta razr*
leggings-clad girl #1: No, fat for a person. *presses carefully-glossed lips together*
leggings-clad girl #2: *thinks carefully* She's definitely cheerleader-fat.
leggings-clad girl #1: For sure she is. *sighs*
leggings-clad girl #2: That's really unfortunate. For Carly.

And then, in a whiff of Chanel perfume, they walked around the corner and out of my life forever.

God bless you, Universitytown. Only here would a person weighing more than 90 pounds be considered fat. It's girls like this that keep Universitytown so thin, hot, bulimic, and leggings-clad. These girls are like modern day heroes, really.

I'm going to write to the mayor and suggest that we erect a bronze statue picturing a 90-pound girl in leggings and uggs carrying a massive prada purse, with a cell phone in one hand and a stack of laxatives in the other. We should place it in front of city hall with a plaque on the front that says "Universitytown: Hate Yourself."

I'm going to kick some bony ass as soon as I finish my muffin.


Tuesday, September 18, 2007

ThePeach's Parents are Supportive; Soothing

The fact that I turn 25 in 2 weeks is disturbing on its own. When you add the loving phone calls I've been getting from my parents about my 'milestone' birthday to the mix, things start getting downright horrifying. 'Britney in a bikini' kind of horrifying.

And now, I give you: ThePeach's Monday Night.

Phone: *ring*
ThePeach: *eating corn flakes/watching tv/"studying"*
Phone: *RING*
ThePeach: No.
Phone: *RING!!*
Milo: *attack!!* Feel my wrath, phone!! Mullafucka!!
ThePeach:'s tv time.
Phone: *RIIIING!!!!*
Milo: Ah, I see we have a fighter-phone. I kill you! I kill you! *attack!!*
ThePeach: *prys phone out of Milo's mouth. checks call display* Fuck me. God give me strength for the trial I am about to endure. *presses Talk* Hello?
ThePeach's Mom: HI HONEY!!
ThePeach: *wince* Mom, there's really no need to yell. I can hear you just fine.
ThePeach's Mom: WHAT??
ThePeach's Mom: WHAT??
ThePeach: *lifts arms to throw phone through window. Considers possible consequences. Reluctantly lowers arm*
ThePeach's Mom: IS THAT BETTER?
ThePeach: You're still yelling.
ThePeach: I know.
ThePeach: And it worked out so well for you.
ThePeach's Mom: WHAT?
ThePeach: Nothing. Go on.
ThePeach: I don't.
ThePeach: *silence*
ThePeach: Sweet merciful christ. *puts down phone*
Milo: *attack!!*

An hour later...

Phone: *ring*
ThePeach: *eating more cornflakes/studying for real*
Phone: *ring!*
ThePeach: No.
Milo: *carefully licks his pooper* I'm busy now, phone, but I'll kill you later.
Phone: *RING!*
ThePeach: *checks call display* Oh, it's just Dad. Phew. *Presses talk* Hello?
ThePeach's Dad: Chovincinquo! How's-a-my-Cov?
ThePeach: I'm good, Dad. How are you?
ThePeach's Dad: Eh, I'm going to Vancouver next week.
ThePeach: To visit your girlfriend?
ThePeach's Dad: Eh, I might try to see her. It depends how many rounds of golf I can play after smoking a joint with St. Jacques. I might not have time.
ThePeach: That's...great.
ThePeach's Dad: Can you believe you turn 25 in 2 weeks! You're a quarter of a century!
ThePeach: *exhales through teeth* I know.
ThePeach's Dad: My little Cov! 25!
ThePeach: You know what Mom told me today? She told me not to feel bad about being 25 and not having 2 kids like her, because she may have had 2 kids at 25 but I'll have 2 degrees.
ThePeach's Dad: What the fuck does that even mean? Why would she say that?
ThePeach: *feels the rare warmth of being understood by a parent* I know!!
ThePeach's Dad: She didn't even WANT kids!
ThePeach's Dad: Oh, right. Sorry. *laughs hysterically*

So, that was my night. My mom hints that I'm on my way to being a barren spinster because I chose an education over a prematurely disastrous foray into motherhood, and my Dad's words of comfort are to inform me that I was an unwanted pregnancy. I guess I should just be thankful that I wasn't born with a rusty coat-hanger lodged in my head.

Although I do suffer from mysterious headaches and have several unexplained scars...


Monday, August 20, 2007

ThePeach's Summer

Oh my god. It has been over a month since I updated. 2 months since I have done an actual update and not a lazy-shit update. I am SO sorry. Please don’t leave me. I need you. I need you like I need cheese. I need you like I need TimWhore’s muffins. I need you like I need gin in the morning, for fuck’s sake!

I promise I’ll be a better lover to you. I’ll be attentive to YOUR needs and demands. I’ll pleasure you whenever you want. I won’t let my work come first ever again. What work, you ask? Fuck you!

I mean…I love you…

So, this post is shaping up to be quite random. There’s not really going to be an over-arching theme or topic, unless surliness is a theme.

1. ThePeach is Lazy
So, you’re probably wondering what the shiz I’ve been doing for the past 2 months that has kept me so busy. The honest truth is I have no idea. Seriously. I’m drawing a complete blank on anything I’ve done since July. It’s like I’ve been cryogenically frozen for 2 months and I’m just being thawed now. I can’t even really blame the drink, because I haven’t been drinking too much lately. Except for TheCrazy’s bachelorette. And I guess her wedding. And also possibly BeerFest. Ok, so maybe the drink played a minor role.

Mainly though, I have spent the past 2 months lying on my futon watching Friends and Hell’s Kitchen. Sometimes I went to the gym. Sometimes I went to work. Usually I went to the fridge and made myself a sammich.

I guess I have been kind of busy planning my upcoming trip to Europe with TigerCat. We leave in FIVE FUCKING DAYS, by the way. Holy shit. Have I mentioned that TigerCat and I have never “backpacked” before? Our idea of vacation tends to be an all inclusive resort where we don’t have to think or move for 7 days and can just steep in local rum and occasionally get electrocuted from trying to use the lamp in our hotel room. Fucking Cubans. I’m a little nervous about the whole backpacking thing, frankly. For instance:

- do I have to become a hippy now? Do I have to wear headbands and dreadlock my smelly hair? Do I have to wear flowy skirts and Birkenstocks? This could be a problem, since I don’t like the taste of granola or vagina.
- Where do I plug in my hair straightener?
- Do I have to pay to use a shitter? What if I don’t know if I have to poop or just fart? Do I gamble to save the 2 Euros? If I shit my pants, will they still let me into the Vatican?
- What if I get lost in Croatia? The only Croatian words I know are “Hello” and “Bees!”
- Do I have to use a bidet in Paris? Can I control the water pressure? Will my ass try to drink the water? Will this feel bad, or natural?

This leads me to my next topic of discussion…

2. Can the Ass Eat?
Some of you may recall my fevered debate on this topic. I really want to know whether or not the ass can eat. This whole train of thought was birthed from a conversation I had with WeeOne about drugs that are inserted into the ass. The ass can take medicine. It will absorb the medicine through the ass lining. Same with alcohol and drugs. I once saw a video of a guy who funneled beer into his own asshole, and then funneled it back out into a glass and made another guy drink it, and then that guy threw up. That was a good Christmas party.

So anyway…can the ass eat? If I were to grind up some steak and put it in an ass, would it be gone by morning? I would really like to run some experiments to find out. I just need ethics approval and a hungry asshole.

3. ThePeach is Stealth
Cleavage is living in England with her internet lovah now, but before she left she invited a bunch of us over for a going away party at her parents’ house. I was mighty hungover from TheCrazy’s wedding the night before, so I didn’t drink until the sun went down. I felt a little awkward being one of the only sober people and having to mingle with Cleavage’s family in my hungover state, but I tried to defer attention from myself by swearing like a sailor on leave and sticking a plunger to my forehead (there are pictures somewhere).

Later in the night, when all of the adults were tucked into bed, us kiddies gathered in the backyard and smoked an assload of pot. We were fucking HIGH. I discussed my observances on various societal trends and rolled around in the grass like the animal I really am. WeeOne and I gazed at the stars. TheHubby and I caressed each other lovingly. TheHippie and I morphed into one person. I was almost ready to dance the dance of the free when Cleavage’s Dad appeared and angrily asked us what we were doing. Cleavage had previously warned us that her Dad was very anti-drug, so everyone tried to act sober and hide the pot evidence. Especially me.

Cleavage’s Dad: *gruff* What are you kids doing?
Cleavage: Oh, sorry Dad. Did we wake you up? *sits on bag of pot*
WeeOne: We were just looking…at the stars.
ThePeach: *under breath* Oh…jesus…
TheHippie: *giggle*
Cleavage’s Dad: Why are you sitting in the backyard at 1am? There’s a storm on the way.
Cleavage: We didn’t want to keep you up so we stayed outside.
WeeOne: To look at…the stars.
ThePeach: *under breath* can’t…keep it…in…
Cleavage’s Dad: You shouldn’t be outside in a storm.
ThePeach: *under breath*…the pot…wants me…to talk…
Cleavage: We know. When it gets close we’ll come inside.
ThePeach: I don’t want to be an amputee, Sir.
TheHippie: *punches ThePeach in the uterus*
WeeOne: Oh, shit.
Cleavage’s Dad: What?
ThePeach: I don’t want to be an amputee. I won’t stay out in the storm.
Cleavage: *slaps ThePeach*
Cleavage’s Dad: I’m really not following you.
ThePeach: If a storm comes, one of us could get struck by lightening, and it will probably be me because I’m so connected to nature right now. I can really feel the nature…*pets lawn*…oh god, the grass is so soft! So ya, I would get struck by lightening, and the resulting burns to my body would probably be so severe that I would lose a limb. Probably even more than one. And if that happens, I want one of you to kill me, ok? I don’t want to live as a cripple *sobs*. I know it will be hard, but I want one of you to kill me. And TheHippie, I think it should probably be you. Because you would do it out of love *takes TheHippie’s hand* Fuck, you all know how much I fucking hate amputees! *cries*.
TheHippie: *looks lovingly at ThePeach* I would totally do it out of love.
Cleavage: Oh my god.
ThePeach: *laughs hysterically* I’m sorry! What did you want me to do!? I’m so fucking HIGH, I had to say what was in my heart!
Cleavage’s Dad: I’m still here, you know.
ThePeach: You should really try touching the grass.

I don’t think I’ll be invited back.

4. Croatia Should be Good Times
One of the places TigerCat and I are visiting is Croatia. It is supposed to be awesome. In fact, just today I read on that Nicky Hilton is currently vacationing there. If Croatia is good enough for a Hilton, it’s good enough for me. Seriously though, it looks beautiful there. All of our guidebooks tell us that Croatia is the “jewel of the Adriatic” and that it’s a beach-lover’s paradise. Plus their traditional breakfast is pastry stuffed with layers of meat and cheese, so you know I’ll be eating well. Apparently Croatia is starting to attract tons of tourists, so now is a good time to go because they still haven’t become part of the EU and consequently are still cheap as shit. All in all, it is a perfect vacation spot.
Oh ya, except for one minor detail.

I was flipping through our guidebook one last time when I came across a warning I had missed before:

“WARNING! As tempting as it is to wander the beautiful hills that circle Dubrovnik, one should never leave the main roads due to undiscovered land mines which still can be found in the area.”

Oh, that’s just fucking beautiful. I can see it now. TigerCat and I will be wandering down to the beach, admiring the beauty of the coast and eating our cheese and meat pastries, and I’ll get a leg blown off as I point out an exotic bird.

TheHippie: you know what you need to do if this happens. Do it out of love, my friend. Do it out of love.

5. Milo is still a Bastard
The cat has been pretty good lately. He has been pretty whiney ever since I put him on a diet, but I find that a few swift kitten-punts usually shut him up. I have to admit that I’m going to miss the fucktard while I’m in Europe, though. I don’t know if I can sleep without a furry, grunting, ass-stinking monster lying on my face. TigerCat, maybe you should stop shaving just in case I need you to comfort me.

Well, last Friday Milo decided that he was going to be cute and he curled up to sleep for the night on my chest. I was reading a scary book and I appreciated the stink-ball’s company. He purred and twitched and patted my face with his little paws, and we both slept quite soundly. “I’m going to miss you, stinktard!”, I thought to myself as I dozed off comfortably.

And then I woke up with cat vomit on my knockers.

Actually, I woke up to the sound of Milo retching. It sounded like he was trying to heave up a brick. I forgot that he was lying on my body and groaned that I would have to get up to clean cat vomit out of the carpet. Then I opened my eyes and made eye contact with him just as he released a neat pile of yellow chunks onto my tits.

I actually said “Are you fucking KIDDING me??!” out loud as Milo pitifully limped to the edge of the bed to go back to sleep. I then walked to the washroom and mopped the vomit off my chest with toilet paper. The pile didn’t drip or shift or anything when I stood up. Milo pukes pure glue, apparently. After I had soaped myself down, I returned to bed and the next morning I totally forgot that the whole episode had even occurred. It wasn’t until I was sitting in a movie theatre with FauxHawk 20 hours later that it all came back to me like rape memories in a psychologist’s office (oh man…too far? Fuck you! It’s my blog!).

Fucking, fucking cat.

6. Pla-cen-ta!
So, this morning I decided that I needed a second breakfast and ambled on over to TimWhore’s for my daily fix. As I walked in, I noticed that there was some kind of conference taking place in the office building attached to the TimWhore’s. People were milling about with clipboards and everything was quite professional looking. I walked past the registration desk on my quest to make myself fatter and noticed the following sign:

“National Association of the Placenta Conference: Placentas are Life!”

Oh, wow. I was not expecting this. National association of the PLACENTA!!!??? The placenta has its own association!!?? I can just imagine the conference schedule:

9-10am: Registration
10-11am: I bet no one told you that you have to birth one of these fuckers after your baby pops out. Have fun with that.
11-12pm. Placentas vs A Can of Dog Food: Can you tell the difference?
12-1pm: Lunch. Placenta Soup (tastes like babies!).
1-2pm: Why is it purple, and many more questions answered.
2-3pm: Why yes, you can throw it like a slippery football.
3-4pm: Placenta fight!!!

This whole debacle reminded me of two things:

a) TheHippie and I placed “placenta” at the top of our favourite words list a long time ago. Seriously. Try saying it out loud. It’s so fun! Pla-CEN-ta! PLA-cen-ta! Pla-cen-TA! Also on the list are the words “uterus”, “electrolyte”, and “vas deferens”. We start saying these words whenever we’re bored or high or both. Or neither.

b) Once, FauxHawk took me with him to work on a Saturday afternoon because he needed to get something out of his locker. He took the opportunity to show me around the delivery floor, and luckily no women were currently in labour or I would have shat my pants. He showed me the operating room, and the delivery rooms, and his staff room, and then he took me to a random fridge in the middle of a hallway.

FauxHawk: Want to see something awesome?
ThePeach: Um ok.
FauxHawk: *snickers*
ThePeach: Is this going to make me shit my pants?
FauxHawk: No, no…it’s just really cool.
FauxHawk: *opens fridge* You see that huge bucket?
ThePeach: Ya.
FauxHawk: Look inside it!!!
ThePeach: *peers into bucket* AHHHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHH!!!! WHY???????!!!!!
FauxHawk: They’re placentas!!!!!
FauxHawk: *Laughs Hysterically*
FauxHawk: Wimp.
ThePeach: *shits pants*

And that, boys and girls, is what you have missed in the 2 months since I have last posted. I still plan to write something about TheCrazy’s wedding/stagette, but all in good time. I thought placentas were more important.

Seriously. They’re purple.


Sunday, July 29, 2007

Something to Tide You Over

TheCrazy's Cottage Bachelorette: Adult Diaper Pyramid. The Crazy is on top. This pyramid collapsed shortly after the picture was taken, but luckily no one rolled into the fire. Good thing, too. Those diapers are damn flammable. I'm on the very bottom, right corner. I wear my diaper like a pro.


Hello impatient and disgruntled readers!

I am not dead. I haven't been inprisoned for punching a 4 year from the day-camp in my office in the face (yet...). I haven't fallen of my new, red bike and become a quadripalegic that can only communicate through a series of blinks and grunts. I haven't run away to Mexico with TheHubby/TheHippie to open our heart-shaped tortilla business. So, I guess I have no excuse for not updating my blog in over a month, other than:

- I have an exam on Tuesday. I'm not really studying, but I should be.
- It has been sunny. I have been working on my melanoma in my free time.
- Harry Potter 7 came out and that took over my life for a while. I also lined up at midnight with a group of fuggly teenagers wearing capes and brandishing wands. Accio dignity!
- I have been planning my shitshow of a trip to Europe with TigerCat. We leave in less than a month! I have no sense of direction and TigerCat has a finicky asshole. The Croatian language has no vowels. Should be awesome times!
- Facebook is taking over my life.
- So is "Hell's Kitchen" and "Wife Swap"
- My muffin regime finally caught up with me and I've been spending a lot of time in the gym to stave off the chins. I love that fat has an evolution. At 18, fat went mostly to the thighs. At 21, we discovered the "new" fat - the back fat. And now what I eat goes mainly to the jowels and bingo-wings. I am a creature of mysterious beauty.
- Work? I guess I still go there and stuff.

So, thank you for all of the threatenting messages. I promise I will update soon. I have plenty of stories. Like TheCrazy's bachelorette, where I wore an adult diaper and saw TheCrazy's vagine. And the upcoming TheCrazy/TheCastrato wedding, which words will not even be able to describe. I'll just have to post a picture of TheCrazy, naked except for her veil, zooming off in a golf cart and let your imaginations tell you the rest. Seriously, I imagine that something along those lines will happen. Probably because I'll suggest it.

I am off to the gym to work off another brunch courtesy of my grandpa, who almost killed us 5 times on the drive to the restaurant by stopping at green lights and stopping mid-turn at a busy intersection. I may vomit my bacon-course onto the treadmill, but the jowels! The jowels! And it's not like I'm going to stop eating fatty meats any time soon.

Fuck that. That's no way to live.


Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Milo is Fat; Angry

My first clue should have been when his ass got stuck in his cat-house entrance. Or maybe when he started spending his entire day stretched out on the floor and rolling around on his back like a quadripalegic. Or maybe when he stopped playing with his toys. Or maybe when he jumped on my stomach while I was sleeping and knocked the wind out of me and almost made me piss my bed. Or maybe when he started eating entire bags of cat food in 2 weeks.

But I couldn't ignore it when we took him to the vet and he weighed in at a hefty 12 pounds, which made the vet laugh out loud and FauxHawk shake his head in shame.

I don't care what you fucking say. He's beautiful.

Just let them gorge on their kibble in peace. Fucking paparazzi...

Friday, June 22, 2007

ThePeach is a Muffin-Whore; Fat

Hello, bitches! I’m back. No, I was not on an exotic trip or partaking in something exciting. I was writing essays and studying my face off and crying and not sleeping and wearing dirty clothes because I’m afraid to go to the Laundromat again and eating lots of muffins. June was a fun month. School is awesome. Deciding to take summer courses was a great choice. I do not regret it. My new muffin-gut and under-eye circles circa. Whitney vs. Bobby agree: studying is fun!

Ok, so here is what I’ve been up to all month:

1. Class

I decided to take two full-credit courses summer courses. That’s the maximum that they let you take, because apparently two full-credit summer courses are a lot of work. They also recommend that you do not attempt full-time employment when you take summer courses. I scoffed at the University registrar’s suggestions, and decided I could definitely handle two full-credit summer courses plus a full-time job. Eat me, University. You don’t own me!

It’s 6 weeks later, I have just finished one of my two courses, and I want to die. I literally want to be dead, because at least then I could lie down in a quiet place. In 6 weeks I have read over 10 full-length novels, many homosexual poems, and written 6 essays plus a seminar presentation and a final. I have also gone to work every day and done things that have nothing to do with my courses, like run statistics and talk to prostatitis patients and read celebrity gossip while I eat muffins. I hate English. I hate books. I hate my job. I love muffins. I hate studying. I’m still tired.

Now I would like to discuss the other students in one of my summer classes, because I think it’s important that you understand what I was going through every morning from 9am-12 for 6 weeks. It was a small class, maybe 25 people, and it was a seminar – so we were expected to talk. Some keeners took this to the extreme, and I would now like to introduce you to:

a) Chatty Deaf Guy who looks retarded but isn’t.

I swear I don’t have a vendetta against the deaf. This guy just really pissed me off.

Chatty deaf guy who looks retarded but isn’t talks the most of any person in class x10. He literally answers every question, often cutting other students off because he can’t hear them. It’s like he wants to prove to us that he isn’t disabled, but maybe he should re-consider his bowl-cut hair, striped t-shirts, socks rolled up to his knees under sandals, and heavy mouth-breathing if he doesn’t want us to think he’s a tard.

Chatty deaf guy who looks retarded but isn’t has a cochlear implant, which is a super fancy gizmo surgically placed in the temporal lobe of his brain that allows him to pick up sound-waves transmitted through a special microphone worn by the professor (whoa, my psyc degree just paid for itself. That 30k was totally worth it.) He has learned how to talk, but can’t properly hear himself when he does it, and thus is goddamn LOUD. Also, he sounds like…well…a deaf guy. You know, the thick, high-pitched lispy voice? That is the voice that answered every goddamn question asked by the prof, every day for 3 hours, for 6 straight weeks. None of us could understand a damned word, and neither could the prof. But he didn’t give up; no. Chatty deaf guy who looks retarded but isn’t dominated that classroom.

Prof.: So, what do you make of the British imperialism in Dickens’ “Hard Times”?
ThePeach: *snicker under breath* Hard…and Dickens…heh.
Attention-seeking Fug: Well, when I read the book this weekend, I thought that-
Prof.: …Yes. What else did you guys think? Attention seeking Fug?
Attention-seeking Fug: Ok, so when my grandma used to read my nursery rhymes as a baby-
Prof.: …Let’s take a 15-minute break.

This brings me to my next annoying classmate:

b) Attention-seeking Fug with bad hair/face.

Attention-seeking Fug with bad hair/face likes to talk about her life in response to questions posed by the prof. It doesn’t matter what the question is, attention-seeking Fug with bad hair/face will find a way to make it personal, and will take 20 minutes to tell her story because every second word she uses is “Like”, “Well”, or “You know”. This would be bad enough if she weren’t also unfortunate to look at. But attention-seeking Fug with bad hair/face is greasy, has huge bug-eyes that I don’t think I have ever seen blink, has hair that may or may not be a wig from 1964, and wears clothes that are just a little too tight for her…um…pleasantly proportioned physique.

Finally, my personal favourites:

c) Pasty nerd-couple with matching hairstyles and shoes.

Pasty nerd-couple with matching hairstyles and shoes are either dating or the fucking grossest brother and sister I have ever seen in my life. They walk into class hand-in-hand and do not stop touching each other for the entire duration of the 3 hour class. They also answer every single question asked by the prof. The female counterpart of pasty nerd-couple with matching hairstyles and shoes talks less often than her boyfriend/brother(??), so I don’t want to punch her in the throat quite as hard as I’d like to punch the male counterpart even though she lisps. Male counterpart of pasty nerd-couple with matching hairstyles and shoes talks in a fake pseudo-british accent and likes to tie in his answers with other great literary classics to show off to the prof that he has read them. Which he probably does, aloud, while touching himself and staring wistfully at the female counterpart. I imagine that this is how pasty nerd-couple with matching hairstyles and shoes have relations.

Pasty nerd-couple with matching hairstyles and shoes look like the same person, and, frankly, it scares the hell out of me. They both have skin that has never seen the sun. They both have those puffy nerd-lips which are somehow paler than their actual skin. They both have long, stringy, ratty brown hair which falls at their shoulders. It is never washed. It is always matted along the scalp. They have the same figure. Seriously. And not in the slightly ok way where a chick has no hips or tits. No. Pasty nerd-couple with matching hairstyles and shoes are BOTH CURVY. The male counterpart has HIPS, which he accentuates in his TIGHT BELL-BOTTOM JEANS! It confounds me.

Pasty nerd-couple with matching hairstyles and shoes also wear matching outfits every single fucking day. I am serious. I’m talking right down to the socks and shoes. The matching shoes, by the way, are brown and blue fake adidas, or as I like to call them, Fadidas.

This couple scares the hell out of me. Maybe it’s because I can’t tell them apart. Maybe it’s because I can’t tell which one is the woman until one of them speaks and either has a fake British accent or a lisp. Maybe it’s because I think they might each have both male and female genitals. I can’t say for sure. But I can say for sure that I want to punch them both. In the throats. A lot.

So, this was my class. Apparently summer courses bring the lepers out of hiding.

2. Muffins/Poop

What with all the exhaustions and stress of the past 6 weeks, my body has been craving lard. I have slowly but surely let my diet go to pot. It started with bagels, then became bagels with cream cheese on top, which turned into bran muffins, which morphed into chocolate chip TimWhore’s muffins every day for the past 2 weeks. A muffin a day keeps my uterus at bay. And I think they might be brain-food, because I apparently study harder and write better with a chocolate muffin churning around in my gunt.

The rest of my body, however, is not pleased with my recent addiction. This was evidenced yesterday when I went to the gym with TheHippie for the first time in a month. Even putting on my gym clothes sucked my will to live. Apparently muffins and lulus don’t mix well. In the change room, TheHippie and I whined and moaned about the run we were planning.

ThePeach: Seriously, I don’t want to do this. This is going to suck. I’m already winded just from putting on these fucking pants. Let’s go to TimWhores and buy muffins.
TheHippie: Why!?? Why can’t we just be fat?? Why??
ThePeach: I’m already tired. I want to lie down. I don’t want to run. Running is for lesbians.
TheHippie: Why, god??! Why can’t being fat be ok? Why do you force us to be thin??!

Well, we did run. And it did suck. My muffin-gunt bounced along with me for the full 6km. Afterwards, I did not feel athletic or proud.

ThePeach: *pant* Why do we do this? I hate this. I hate exercise. This was 45 minutes of my life that I will never get back.
TheHippie: *wheeze* Why, god?? I just want to be fat, damnit.
ThePeach: *pant* Uuuugh the muffins are not pleased. No. They are angry that I am trying to exorcize them from my gunt.
TheHippie: Let’s go get some deep-fry.
ThePeach: Amen.

Apparently, the FDA has released a new diet pill which may be the answer to my prayers. If my prayers involved shitting my pants and farting oil. “alli” is a new OTC drug which has apparently been flying off the shelves in the States since it’s the first FDA approved OTC diet pill. According to the website,, Alli works by blocking the body from absorbing the fat in your diet. Well, that sounds wonderful. Ideal, in fact!

But that fat has to go somewhere. And it does, my friends. It goes straight to your anus, where you will apparently shit and fart oil uncontrollably while you take this drug. I am serious. It’s listed right on the website:

What are treatment effects?
alli™ works by preventing the absorption of some of the fat you eat. The fat passes out of your body, so you may have bowel changes, known as treatment effects. You may get:
- gas with oily spotting
- loose stools
- more frequent stools that may be hard to control

Umm…oily spotting? So, we’re talking splatter farts, here. Oil-splatters. From the ass. No, that is not ok.

The website also has the following to say:

“You may feel an urgent need to go to the bathroom. Until you have a sense of any treatment effects, it's probably a smart idea to wear dark pants, and bring a change of clothes with you to work”

So, basically the drug manufacturers are telling you that it is inevitable: you WILL shit your pants. You WILL shit your pants, and your shit WILL be oily, and this greased-up shit WILL seep through your clothes and ruin them. You WILL have a constant stream of greased-up shit running out of your ass, and you WILL need to wear Depends. You WILL smell homeless. And this drug is flying off the shelves in the States, where the fatties would rather greasy-shit their pants than put down the milkshake.

So, after some deep soul-searching, I have decided “alli” is not for me. I have enough issues in my life without adding shitting myself to them.

Well, I had several other topics I wanted to mention in detail in this post, but I am running out of time and space. So I’ll try to sum up each topic in 2 sentences:

3. My New Bike
I have a bike now. It’s red.

4. The Cat
Milo ate his way through a plastic bag of treats this morning while I slept, consuming both the plastic and the entire contents of the bag. Then he threw up in a neat pile on the place-mat on my kitchen table…and then I decided that he probably doesn’t actually have a digestive disorder, but is bulimic.

5. TheAmazon’s Birthday
It was TheAmazon’s birthday last weekend and we got gunned and went dancing and she took her top off and threw street-meat at her boyfriend. We also found a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest, and I named it Bert…Bert died, and I am sad.

6. Sex
I’m having it! The rut in our sex life that I like to call “FauxHawk’s 4-month stint as a baby-catcher, gyna-sewer, and sleep-deprived slave-horse” is almost over, and my selfish whore of a vag couldn’t be happier.

Ok. I’m out of steam. Plus I’ve been writing this at work for the past 2 and a half hours, and I feel like maybe I should do something productive before I leave early to smoke pot and eat sushi with TheHippie and Cleavage.

I work hard for my money,


Monday, June 11, 2007

ThePeach's Job is Slightly Less Glamorous than TigerCat's Job

Here is the difference between my job and my sister's job:

It's 1:00pm and TigerCat rushes into my office to say hello after running a catering event on campus. I can hear her heels approaching my office before I see her. She is wearing a pin-striped suit, dangly earrings, has her hair styled, and has a blackberry strapped to her waist.

I am wearing baggy discount capri pants and a crusty tank top. My hair is still wet from my shower. My makeup is smeared with sweat after biking to my office. My hair is askew from my bike helmet. I am sitting cross-legged and bare-foot in my chair and reading about Paris Hilton on the internet. When TigerCat enters my office, I have a plastic plate with 4 cookies on it on my lap and a hotdog hanging out of my mouth. There was a free bbq on campus and, as free food always excites me, I look pretty pleased with myself. The hotdog is literally shoved halfway down my throat. Ketchup and mustard are dripping down my hands and and my chin. I am the picture of grace and femininity.

TigerCat: *checks blackberry* I have 10 minutes left on my parking meter so I thought I'd say hi before I drive my boss' car back to work.
ThePeach: I have a bike. *swallows hotdog*
TigerCat: God, I'm sweating in this suit.
ThePeach: My bike is red. *licks ketchup off forearms*
TigerCat: I just catered a lunch for the Urology department.
ThePeach: I just ate a free hot dog. *scratches head*
TigerCat: Well, I guess I should go get the car. I see 20 empty water bottles lined up along the side of your desk?
ThePeach: *eats cookie* Ya.
TigerCat: Are they yours?
ThePeach: Ya.
TigerCat: Are you a crazy person? Are you hoarding water bottles now? Do you urinate in them and then hide them in places around the office?
ThePeach: *eats 2nd cookie* Recycling is in the hall. If I get up to recycle, I have to put my shoes on. Unless I want hepatitis.
TigerCat: So you just hoard all of your empty water bottles along the side of your desk in a perfect line until you decide to put your shoes on?
ThePeach: Ususally one of my office-mates recycles them for me. *whispers* I think my office-mates think I'm crazy...
TigerCat: *eyes water bottles warily*
ThePeach: cookie?
TigerCat: Thanks. Oops, gotta run!

And then she rushed out of my office in a whirl of pin-stripes, corporate professionalism, and judgement. I could hear her heels clicking as she ran down the hall.

It was a tasty hotdog.


Thursday, May 31, 2007

ThePeach's Law

When you:

- Have to host a swanky conference for TheBoss the next day and must look business formal while you schmooze big-shots and kiss pasty ass.

- Haven't done laundry in a month.

- Drag every single article of clothing and textile you own to the dingy laundromat after work the night before the conference.

- Wind up doing 3 loads of laundry amongst the hobos and hookers who frequent your laundromat.

- Put your clothes in the dryer and then leave with TigerCat to get ice-cream.

- the Laundromat will enforce the new summer hours, and close while you are licking pure frozen lard out of a cone down the street.

- you will bang on the windows of the laundromat and swear.

- you will angrily walk home to discover that you chose to wash every single one of your towels and will probably have to dry off from your shower the next day using toilet paper and the cat.

- you discover that you chose to wash all 5000 pairs of your underwear, and will probably have to go commando to your conference the next morning. Mental note: no skirts. Mental note: avoid TheBoss.

- you stay up all night the night before your conference picturing the ex-con who runs the laundromat wearing your lacy underwear and blowing himsef kisses in his bathroom mirror.

- you toss and turn all night the night before your conference imagining the grizzled crack-whore who was loitering outside the laundromat strutting around town in your beautiful LuLu gear and butting her cigarettes on the ass of your luon pants.

These things only happen to me. Ice cream stole my clothes and angered my back-fat. I had my ass kicked twice by ice cream. And I skipped the gym to do laundry.

Angry and naked,


Monday, May 28, 2007

The Universe Has a Message for ThePeach; ThePeach Ignores It

I’m not a lesbian. But I am in love with a woman. It is a pure, innocent love based on friendship and respect, and yet the universe keeps telling me that she should be my dykey she-bitch. Stop trying to corrupt our love, Universe! Leave me and TheHippie alone.

As you can see in my side-bar, TheHippie and I are soulmates and heterosexual life partners. Everybody has a soulmate. Mine just happens to be a surly red-headed tree-hugger. We became life partners a few years ago when we realized that we were co-dependent on each other for happiness. This began when the marching band that we were both in (again…don’t ask) took a lot of road trips and we always shared a bed because we just slept so well together. And we both tended to drink until 4 or 5am, so we wouldn’t disturb each other when we passed out drunk in bed, spooning gently, as the sun was coming up. Yes, my friends, love is a beautiful thing.

So why is the Universe trying to turn something so beautiful and pure into a soirreé with the meat curtains?

Messages from The Universe Indicating that TheHippie and I Should be Lovers:

1. The Lesbian Choir

TheHippie and I both enjoy singing. We were both involved in choirs in High School etc., and last year we were bored and decided to join a choir. We researched some UniversityTown choirs online and chose one that appealed to both of us the most: an all girls choir called “Shout, Sister!”. It was a choir devoted to “singing from the heart”, the “spirit of life” and “the unity of sisterhood”. We were drawn to the warmth of “Shout, Sister!” right away.

The group of women was very welcoming. The music was meant to be empowering and freeing. A lot of the women were hippies, as it turned out. It was a sea of Birkenstocks and flowy skirts. And a lot of really short hairstyles. Some spiky hairstyles, even. As we warmed up to an African chant, a baby was passed around the room. Why couldn’t the baby just stay with the father during choir time? I didn’t think to ask. As we sang a rendition of Norah Jones’ “Come Away With Me”, some pieces of the puzzle started coming together:

Choir: Come away with me in the night.
ThePeach’s Brain: What a lovely, warm, group of women. I feel so at home here.
Choir: Come away with me and I will write you a song.
ThePeach’s Brain: Does that woman have a rat tail?
Choir: Come away with me and we’ll kiss on a mountaintop.
ThePeach’s Brain: That’s sweet – some of the women are so into the song that they’re holding hands.
Choir: Come away with me and I’ll never stop loving you.
ThePeach’s Brain: Huh. So none of these women shave their legs?
Choir: I want to walk with you on a cloudy day.
ThePeach: OH MY GOD.

Yes, TheHippie and I had accidentally joined a lesbian choir. Not cool, Universe. Not. Cool.

We never went back. Maybe we were afraid…

Kidding. We were afraid, but only of the hairy middle-aged lesbians trying to seduce us through jazzy love songs.

2. The Lesbian Harmony
I didn’t mention that TheHippie is an alto (lower range singer) and I’m a soprano (higher range singer), so our voices were made for duets and harmony. It is like they were meant to intermingle to create one, beautiful voice. We discovered this at QueenB’s cottage last May, when TheHippie broke out her guitar and we had a little sing-along. We both felt like singing, so we had to find a song that we both knew all the words to. I rummaged through TheHippie’s sheet music and pulled out “Closer to Fine” by the Indigo Girls. Perfect. As TheHippie played and we both sang, my voice naturally took the higher harmony and her voice took the lower harmony. It was dyke-a-licious.

ThePeach/TheHippie: I’m trying to tell you something ‘bout my life. Maybe give me insight between black and white.
TheHubby: Oh my god.
ThePeach/TheHippie: And the best thing you’ve ever done for me is to help me take my life less seriously. It’s only life after all.
TheHubby: It’s so beautiful.
ThePeach/TheHippie: Well darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable and lightness has a call that’s hard to hear. I wrap my fears around me like a blanket.
TheHubby: *wipes a tear*
ThePeach/TheHippie: I sailed my ship of safety ‘til I sank it. I’m crawling on your shores.
TheHubby: This is the best lesbian harmony I’ve ever heard!
ThePeach/TheHippie: I WENT TO THE DOC- what? Lesbian?
TheHubby: *cough*…encore?

As you probably know, “Closer to Fine” is basically an anthem for lesbians the world over. And this is the song we naturally picked to sing together. In perfect harmony, like it was made for our voices. Shit.

3. The Lesbian Play
Sometimes I write articles for a communist newspaper in UniversityTown. Not because I’m a commie, but because they needed writers and I needed experience. Anyway, last summer I was asked to review a one-woman cabaret about breast cancer. It sounded somewhat fun and I got an extra ticket, so I asked TheHippie to join me. She picked me up at my house in a cute dress and I wore dress pants. We joked that it looked like we were on a date. Then we walked to the theatre. We noticed that there were a lot of motorcycles parked out front. And that a lot of women were walking into the theatre, but no men. And was that a rat-tail? A few of the women waved at us, and we realized that we knew them from “Shout, Sister!”. I ran into a classmate who was there with her girlfriend, and I introduced TheHippie to her lesbian lover. Then we all sat down.

TheHippie: Where are all the men?
ThePeach: I’m not sure, but I feel really comfortable in this atmosphere.
*lights dim*
MC: Welcome to the Breast Cancer Conqueror’s Cabaret: A One-Woman show about having breast cancer and also being a lesbian!
ThePeach/TheHippie: Shit.

4. The Spooning/Cuddling
As I briefly mentioned, TheHippie and I often share a bed when we’re crashing at a friend’s place or on a road trip. For some reason we just sleep really peacefully together. We both enjoy a good cuddle, and it just seems natural to spoon sometimes. Last May at QueenB’s cottage, TheHippie and I were once again sharing a bed. On the last night, I decided to go to bed a little bit earlier than TheHippie (I’d been drinking since noon, ok?) and passed out on the pullout couch instead of our usual bed. 30 minutes later, a VERY drunk TheHippie came stumbling into the cottage and tried to crawl into bed with me, except that she went to our usual bed, where TheHubby happened to be sleeping. After realizing the warm body next to her wasn’t her life partner, she drunkenly stumbled to the next bed she could find, and ended up crawling in with Cleavage. Cleavage wasn’t having any of TheHippie’s spooning, so TheHippie once again got up and continued to stumble around the cottage looking for me. She ended up sleeping in every bed in the cottage that night (there are 4) until she finally found me, and then she slept peacefully until morning. All was right in the universe once more.

Also, this past May…also at QueenB’s cottage (what the shit? Is this place a lesbian breeding ground or something?)…we were all sitting around drinking and talking when I suddenly got the irresistible urge to walk over to TheHippie and give her a big hug. As I released her, she jubilantly exclaimed:

TheHippie: My god! I was just thinking about how badly I wanted to hug you right now! You read my mind!

No, TheHippie. That’s exactly what the universe wants us to think.

5. The Lesbian Kiss
Lord, there’s no real way to make this sound heterosexual, but you have to believe me that it is! While we were both in that marching band, everyone always made out with everyone else. We were a slutty mob of kilted drunks. We would get drunk in hotels and then everybody would kiss. It’s just what we did. Sometimes we were topless. Sometimes there were pictures. We had an “Asian Cymbals Memorial Room”, you see. Yes, Asian Cymbals was in this band as well. Actually, all of the friends on my sidebar pretty much were in this band. Maybe now you’re starting to understand what it was like. Anyway, Asian Cymbals started a “naked room” a few years ago on a road trip, and we always followed this tradition after she graduated by having the “Asian Cymbals Memorial Room”. It usually got pretty messy.

One night on a road trip, knowing that we would be expected to take our tops off later, TheHippie was concerned that her bra wouldn’t be sexy enough for the naked room. So I lent her one of mine, since I’m a huge whore and have many skanky bras. As usual, everyone got ridonkulously smashed and ended up making out with everyone else. I’m talking girl on girl, boy on boy, girl on boy on girl…we were whores. And of course, everyone took pictures of the sloppiness. But one picture stood out and became immortalized in bands history. One picture showed a couple so in love that their makeout didn’t look sloppy and slutty (as in the rest of the pictures of that night), but looked pure and meaningful. It could have been a wedding photo. That picture was of TheHippie, wearing my bra, tenderly kissing me.

Of course. Of fucking course.

(disclaimer: if you were never in this band, you can’t really understand that this kiss was not a symbol of lesbian love, but a regular occurrence amongst all bands members. It did not mean that TheHippie or I were into women. In fact, I think I fooled around with a drummer that night in his hotel bed. Maybe also in the pool. Who knows. Alcohol is so wonderful.)

6. The Lesbian Uniform
I like pink. TheHippie likes blue. I often wear pink. TheHippie often wears blue. If we were a couple, she’d be the man. Sucka!

Anyway, for her birthday last year, I got TheHippie a lululemon headband in baby blue. I liked them so much that I also got myself one in baby pink. Then we joined a yoga class together and often ended up wearing our matching headbands at the same time. We must have looked like the sweetest granola lesbians, side-by-side in downward dog in our matching his and hers headbands. Aww.

Last week, I bought the best shoes ever. TheCorporate told me about them. They’re crocs. But they’re girly crocs! They look like ballet flats but they’re the most comfortable shoes ever! I naturally bought a pair in baby pink.

TheHippie went downtown to buy herself a pair of the cute crocs today. She came home and told me all about it:

TheHippie: I bought a pair of the cute crocs today!!
ThePeach: YES!! Aren’t they amazing!? What colour did you get?
TheHippie: Baby Blue!
ThePeach:…oh god.
TheHippie:…Yours are baby pink, aren’t they?
ThePeach: We should wear them with our matching headbands.
TheHippie: I wore mine while I was buying them!!
ThePeach: You do realize that we’re one step away from matching his and hers sailor suits?
TheHippie: Damn you, universe.

Damn you indeed.

Why can’t you just let me love TheHippie in peace? Leave our platonic love alone!!! The Universe is prejudiced against same-sex heterosexual love!

I leave you with a song from West Side Story:

There's a place for us,
Somewhere a place for us.
Peace and quiet and open air
Wait for us Somewhere.
There's a time for us,
Some day a time for us,
Time together with time to spare,
Time to learn, time to care,
Some day! Somewhere.
We'll find a new way of living,
We'll find a way of forgiving
Somewhere . . . There's a place for us,
A time and place for us.
Hold my hand and we're halfway there.
Hold my hand and I'll take you there
Somehow, Some day, Somewhere!

FauxHawk: if you’re reading this, it is imperative that we partake in heterosexual relations tonight. Imperative.

There’s a place for us…