Wednesday, February 28, 2007

ThePeach's Reading Week: Kitten Wars and Vom

This past weekend was really special. Gather round, my children, and I shall tell ye a tale in two parts.

Kitten Wars

It was reading week last week in Universitytown, which meant that all of the students and most of my friends traveled down south. Pretty much everyone I knew spent their week lying on a beach, sipping tropical drinks with Hep-A ice cubes floating them, and becoming tanned negroids. My own damn sister went to Jamaica with CockDoc, where she feasted upon delicious buffets and soaked up some skin cancah (that’s cancer, folks).

I spent reading week working, because there is no reading week in the real goddamned world. I also spent my reading week cat-sitting for TheTeen while the bastard went to Cuba. TheTeen’s cat is fat, slow, and friendly. Her name is Potter. I naively assumed that she and Milo would be best buddies and maybe even lovers. I had visions of them cuddling with me in bed at night, curling up around each other in picture-taking adorableness. Oh fuck me, I was SO wrong.

The second that Potter entered my apartment she tried to scratch Milo’s little eyes out, growled like a bulldog, and ran as fast as her fat little legs could carry her to the darkest corner under my bed. Like the tard he is, Milo gleefully chased after Potter, scurried under the bed, and, I can only assume, tried to pounce on her. Potter responded with a fit of hissing, slashing of claws, growling, and running like hell with her pot belly swaying beneath her. Milo looked at me confusedly with his wide kitten-tard eyes, shook his scratched-up head, and ran after her to try being friends again. This pattern would continue for 8 days. 8 days of hissing, clawing, cats flying at each other in full on warfare, feces being left in various places to mark territory, and Milo never learning to leave the bitchy cat alone. Poor little reetee.

I should mention also, just to give you the appropriate visual, that Potter is about twice the size of little Milo. She left poops in corners of my apartment that were bigger than he is. So, don’t feel bad for Potter when little Milo would fling himself at her. Milo would usually just bounce off her massive ass and trot away, leaving Potter to growl in her precious way and continue to eat holes through everything in the house.

On day 3, Milo was, as usual, attempting to befriend Potter by running after her and jumping on her face. This time, Potter actually stood on her hind legs and swiped Milo with both paws in some kind of mystical, black arts, kung-fu kitten move. This was accompanied with loud cat screams and hissing, presumably to scare Milo away. Milo, being a mentally stunted kitten, responded in the only form of attack he knew. He ran like hell to the futon, jumped up, squatted, and released a torrent of urine into the fabric and into my soul. Way to show her, Milo. Way to show her.

On Day 5, Potter was finally starting to warm up to her new surroundings. She only growled 50% of the time, and only swatted at Milo’s face when he got all up in her grill. I was finally starting to think that they might be able to peacefully co-exist. I had spent the past 5 sleepless night covering my head with my hands as the cats chased each other, jumped on my face in anger, and knocked shit over in their quest to kill each other (or, in Milo’s case, make friends with the nice kitty). And then, we had a breakthrough! Potter was rolling around in her own dirt on the floor when Milo timidly approached her and sniffed her ass. Potter warily gave him the evil eye, but refrained from trying to eat his face. Miracle!! Finally, they would get along!

Of course, Milo responded to this gesture of peace by jumping up on the kitchen table, knocking a glass over in his excitement, and throwing himself – spread-eagle style – onto Potter’s peaceful form. It was a kitten kamikaze attack. Potter, upon being bombarded from above with flying tard-kitten, attacked Milo with all of the force in her tubby soul, ran under the bed, and bit me every time I tried to feed her for the next 48 hours. Milo found more luck making friends with a twist tie that he found under the counter, and happily entertained himself with his new best friend until Potter went home 3 days later.

Cats are precious, don’t you think?

Weekend of Vom
Part 1

I also spent my last few days of “reading week” with the flu. It was unpleasant. I started feeling nauseous and achy Thursday morning, and I spent all day moaning and bitching at work about how much I hated everything. Being sick makes me cranky and depressed. And a real treat to be around. By Thursday afternoon, my stomach was in knots and I was sweating like Oprah on a treadmill with a shake’n’bake pork chop dangling in front of her. I decided to skip the gym, fearing that I would shit my pants. I napped, cradling my bloated, tender gunt as I moaned in discomfort.

I was convinced to go to the bar, somehow. I say “somehow” like it’s hard to convince me to binge drink, which is a lie. Being an alcoholic isn’t easy, but I do my best to keep myself baseline drunk at all times. Anyway, I skipped dinner for fear of the poops, put on loose-waisted pants, and waddled to the bar. I managed to stomach 2 drinks before I waddled back home, pooped a garden hose, and passed out in a feverish state of delirium. I spent the next day sleeping, sipping water, and feeling like a garbage-bag of ass. I avoided all foods. Foods make me die. Flus make me skinny?

And then, Milo barfed. This isn’t unusual, as he has some sort of kitten puking disease that we can’t diagnose but is costing me hundreds of dollars in tests and special hypoallergenic hippie/lesbian kitten food. But what was unusual was that, this time, Milo puked like the forces of evil were compelling him. Usually he just regurgitates whatever he had just eaten in a neat little pile, sniffs it, and then eats it again. This time, he projectile vomited in a serious of violent outbursts all over the kitchen wall. Scared at his eruption, he backed up and cowered behind the bamboo plant on my table. He looked so pathetic and frightened that I immediately picked him up to comfort him.

Big fucking mistake.

Upon touching him, Milo burst into another series of projectile vomit, this time coating the table and all of its various coverings (bills, dishes, sex toy order receipts….what?) in chunky, smelly, kitten ralf. Motherfuck!! I used almost an entire roll of paper towels to clean his mess. If there had been food in my stomach, I’m sure I would have joined the festivities. If there had been anything but flu and monkey-poop in my heart, I would have laughed out loud at the hilarity of the situation.

Part 2

Saturday came, and I still felt gross. I still hadn’t eaten, hadn’t left the house, etc. But there was a big party that night at TOP’s that I couldn’t miss, so I napped and prayed that I would feel better by 8pm.

I should mention that the party had a theme: no clothes. Yes, the theme was no clothes. You could wear anything but clothes. How could I miss this??! Even in my flu-riddled state I wanted to dress like a crazy slut and funnel. So, at 7pm I got out of bed and started getting ready. I picked my outfit – a wee little apron and a tea towel, pinned appropriately to cover my knockers and ass. I showered to get the kitten vom and garden-hose smell off of me. I made soup, so that my stomach wouldn’t be totally empty when I started pounding ‘em back.

I ate the soup. It was tasty. I immediately lunged to the toilet and puked the soup and a layer of stomach lining for 10 minutes. It was still hot. And no longer tasty.

I rinsed my mouth and continued getting ready. I went to the party. I felt much better after puking. Really.

Part 3

Woo, party! I drank gin and tonic all night, thinking that tonic would calm my stomach. And gin would disinfect my gut. Made sense to me. We all got pretty hammed. TOP wore a tube top and mini skirt made out of LCBO bags, which was very resourceful of her. TheCrazy wore saran wrap, which was very sexy of her. We broke out the pot, and then made saran-wrap boots for ourselves, which gave us magical dancing powers (see last post). I should mention that there was one brown guy that none of really knew that well at the party. He showed up in a toga and had a very hairy back. He was like a shaved orangutan…except not shaved. Not shaved at all. But he joined in the festivities and drank and smoked valiantly with us. The he disappeared with the chip bowl.

He returned a few minutes later and sneakily emptied the chip bowl into the garbage. Curious. Then he disappeared again. Curious. Except not curious, because I was too focused on my magical dancing abilities to notice anything awry.

And then…

TOP: That guy is passed out behind the couch.
ThePeach: LOOK AT ME DANCE!!! *goose-steps in a circle around the coffee table*
TheCrazy: I TOLD YOU, THE BOOTS ARE AMAZING!! *Jumps and falls into the splits*
TOP: Seriously, that guy is behind the couch on the floor.
ThePeach: Shut up, he is not *goose-step*.
TOP: He is.
TheCrazy: I don’t believe you *high kick*.
TOP: He’s there.
ThePeach: Let’s check. *all 3 peer over the couch*

The brown guy was passed out in a massive pool of his own vomit. Like, a tidal wave of vomit. A tsunami of beer and chips and fresh death. That explained the chip bowl. Panicking, and also laughing out loud at the pot-fueled hilarity, we ushered the guy to the bathroom, where he vomited directly beside the toilet and all over his toga and every towel in TOP’s house. I hadn’t seen this much vom since I was 16. Seriously, I didn’t think people still got sick like this at parties. But then, we had been riding this bike for a good 10 years, and this guy still had his training wheels. You can’t expect to keep up with the Tour De France of drinking when your bike still has streamers on the handles. But all metaphors aside, there was a lot of fucking puke to deal with.

The brown dude briefly wandered out of the bathroom, told us he was fine, and then threw up in the hallway and onto the shoes. He was shunned back to the bathroom. We had some serious puke to contend with, here. TheCrazy decided to gather the sullied towels and toga and run them to the washing machine across the hall. She bravely gathered the puke linens in her arms and ran to the hall, screaming at the top of her lungs, with puke dripping onto her. She discarded her load into the washer and felt a trickle of vom make its way down her forearm.

The she threw up into the washing machine. Right into the washing machine. She closed the lid and came back to the apartment.

TheCrazy: I put the towels in the washing machine.
TOP: *mopping hallway* Thanks.
TheCrazy: No problem.

Before all the vomit could be mopped up, TOP’s cat got out of her room and excitedly ran towards the pool of regurge. She started lapping up the bits of food, which caused TheCrazy to run towards the sink and hurl what was left in her stomach into the dish-rack.

Cats are precious, don’t you think?

At this moment, several of TOPs friends decided to make a late entrance to her party. They had previously decided that they were too cool for costumes, and showed up in normal clothes. They entered the apartment to find a topless brown guy puking into the bath tub, TOP in a lcbo bag mopping up vomit in the hallway, TheCrazy wrapped in saran wrap and puking into the sink, the cat lapping up regurge, and me, in an apron, still goose-stepping around the coffee table. We really know how to party.

When the brown guy tried to crawl into TOP’s bed and smeared vomit all over her sheets, it was unanimously decided that it was time to call him a cab. TOP decided to give the guy a bucket to take with him, but found that he had already vomited in it. Thinking that the cab wouldn’t happily accept the brown guy and his bucket full of vom, TOP decided to rinse it out. Watching someone else’s chunks circle her sink drain was just too much for her, and TOP puked into the bucket herself. She shrugged it off and continued to rinse the bucket and handed it to the guy. He left.

The shell-shocked friends who showed up late were still standing in wide-eyed silence in the doorway. One of the guys cleared his throat and started addressing TOP, TheCrazy, and myself:

Cool Guy: So…let me get this straight. That guy puked.
All: Ya.
Cool Guy: And then TheCrazy puked.
All: Ya.
Cool Guy: And then TOP puked.
All: Ya.
Cool Guy: And ThePeach puked, too?
ThePeach: No, I puked before I got here.
Cool Guy: *shakes head* This is so sad.

Fuck you, cool guy. Fuck you.

Seriously, though. We really do know how to throw a party.

WOO, Reading week!!


Monday, February 26, 2007

ThePeach Still Has It...

So, I went to a bar with TheCrazy and TOP this weekend. We were drunk, high, and full of cheese. It was pretty typical for a Saturday. We all felt amazing and, thanks to the magical leg-warmers that TheCrazy had made for us out of saran wrap (“I feel like I could walk right through this wall now!”), we had stellar dancing powers. Seriously. Those leg warmers were precious.

Anyway, we were dancing like whores on the dance floor, and some random dude started chatting me up. Here is how he chose to hit on me:

Dude: Hey, what’s up?
ThePeach: STARE IN AWE*cough* heyyyy…nothin’.
Dude: My name is Dude.
ThePeach: *blank stare, continues to dance like whore*
Dude: Do you go to school here?
ThePeach: Used to. I graduated. *tries to dance away from him*
Dude: Well, cheers! *clinks beer bottle on my g&t glass*
ThePeach: Cheers.
Dude: So…what are we cheers’ing to?
ThePeach: Huh?
Dude: We should be cheers’ing to something.
ThePeach: Ok…
Dude: Let’s cheers to my buddy Jim. He’s a real good buddy of mine.
ThePeach: Sure, here’s to Jim *raises glass, takes sip*
Dude: He just died, like, a week ago.
ThePeach: What?
Dude: Ya, he just died. I don’t mean to be playing the sympathy card here, but he just died.
ThePeach: Oh my god!
Dude: *tries to rub up on me*
ThePeach: Oh my god!

So, that was a little weird. TOP, TheCrazy and I moved to another area of the dance floor and continued to dance like whores. TheCrazy started doing high kicks and humping the tables. TOP started humping me. It was pretty typical for a Saturday. And then, another dude started talking to me:

ThePeach: YA, HUMP IT GOOD!!
Dude: Hey, what’s up?
ThePeach: HUMP*cough* ‘sup.
Dude: Do you go to school here?
ThePeach: *sigh* no, I graduated.
Dude: Awesome, awesome. I could have gone to school here but I decided to travel.
ThePeach: Uh-huh. *dances like a whore*
Dude: Ya, I backpacked for a few years.
ThePeach: *grabs TOP desperately*
TOP: *understands signal, starts grinding my ass and feeling my knocker*
Dude: Hey!
TOP: *continues to grab my ass and feel my knocker. Slowly pushes dude away*
TOP: You can’t call me a cockblock; I’m a chick.
TOP: Well, I think I won.
Dude: *stares infuriatingly at us, continues to rape us with his eyes until we leave the dance floor for fear of our lives*

So, ya. I still have it.

If “it” is attracting crazy sons of bitches.


Wednesday, February 14, 2007

ThePeach’s Mom Really Knows How to Say “I Love You”

My mom has always gotten me and my sister Valentine’s Day treats for as long as I can remember. It’s sweet in a “I’m the only person who could ever love you because I raised you to repel men” kind of way. She used to make us heart-shaped pancakes when we were young’uns, and now that we live in separate cities she sends us little packages of candy/themed socks/etc. every year.

This year she chose to express her motherly love in a different way.

She sent my sister and I each a laminated wall-sized poster of our dead grandmother and great grandmother.

In case you missed that, I’ll repeat the key points:




Dead People.

Because nothing says “I Love You!” like a poster of the recently deceased. Maybe I’ll hang it over my bed. I like the idea of dead people watching over me while I sleep.

My mother does realize that I live alone in a house that was probably built over 100 years ago. Does she want me to be haunted?? I don’t know if I believe in ghosts, but I think this poster is just begging for it. I might as well go leave lighted black candles on my grandmother/great-grandmother’s graves at a full moon and then use a Ouija board to ask them if they have any unfinished business.

Awesome, Mom.

I’ll be having night-terrors from now on, by the way.


Monday, February 12, 2007

TheBoss Is Unappetizing; ThePeach Eats Anyway

At noon today, just as I was about to eat the lunch I’d been dreaming of ever since breakfast, TheBoss whirled into my office and delighted me with the following conversation:

ThePeach: *sings* luuuunch time! Luuunch time! ME SO HUNGRY…laaaaaa!
ThePeach’s Stomach: laaaaa!
TheBoss: *explodes into office, collapses into chair, doesn’t blink for duration of conversation*
ThePeach: Ummm…hello. I was just on my way to heat up my lunch…*edges hopefully towards door*
ThePeach’s Stomach: RUN, BITCH!
TheBoss: Wait.
ThePeach’s Stomach: Fuck.
ThePeach: Yes?
TheBoss: *giggles* Ask me why I was up so late last night!
ThePeach: *prepares mind for a soul-raping* Why were you up so late…last night…*mutters* fuck I hate this job…
TheBoss: You better sit back down, this is a long story.
ThePeach’s Stomach: FUCK.
TheBoss: So, I was sleeping in bed with the wife when she suddenly starts edging over to my side of the bed and I get all annoyed and ask her why she’s in my space and she said that our kid was in the bed and that he smelled funny. So I left her with him and went to sleep in the kid’s bed and was walking into his room when I stepped in something wet and chunky.
ThePeach’s Stomach: *clench*
TheBoss: It was puke.
ThePeach: Oh my.
TheBoss: There was chunky puke all over the fucking place! The bed, the floor…and then I realized that the damn kid was in MY bed covered in puke! So I went back to get him out of my bed and change his clothes, and as I was walking him back to his room, he suddenly started puking again. I could tell, even though the lights were off, because I could hear the splashing sounds of his puke hitting the hardwood.
ThePeach’s Stomach: *gag*
ThePeach: What a mess.
TheBoss: So I told him to run to the bathroom as fast as he could and puke into the toilet. But what I didn’t realize was that my wife had gotten up to go to the bathroom and she was sitting on the toilet! So my kid runs in there, holding his mouth, with puke streaming between his fingers, and my wife has to jump off the toilet mid-stream to let him through!
ThePeach’s Stomach: *retch*
TheBoss: So, the kid is hurling into the can, the wife is standing beside him with her underwear at her feet, and then she suddenly gets a head rush from standing up so fast and she passes out!
ThePeach: Jesus.
TheBoss: And I didn’t have time to catch her, so she smacked onto the toilet and landed in the spilled vomit.
ThePeach’s Stomach: *groan*
ThePeach: Was she ok??
TheBoss: Oh ya, she’s fine. Just damaged her collar-bone a little. Anyway, that’s why I was up so late. All that fucking puke.
ThePeach:…wow. So your wife passed out from a head rush?
TheBoss: Ya, luckily I know a trick to combat head rushes.
ThePeach: Oh?
TheBoss: When you feel one coming on, you have to bear down really hard like you’re trying to squeeze out a massive crap. Like this: *lifts leg, squeezes*
ThePeach: Ya, I get it.
TheBoss: You really need to clench the muscles around your anus.
ThePeach: Seriously, I get it.
TheBoss: Just like you’re pushing out of your anus.
ThePeach’s Stomach: Why, god?
TheBoss: Anyway, go eat your lunch now. *trips out of office*
ThePeach’s Stomach: You heard the man.
ThePeach: But…all the vomit…and anus…
ThePeach’s Stomach: When has that stopped us before?

It didn't stop me this time, either. But I ate my lunch with much less gusto than usual.

Same deal with my 2nd lunch.


Monday, February 05, 2007

ThePeach's Grandpa is Industrious; Cute

My grandpa likes to build and fix things. He is an industrious old coot. When I was a little kid, my grandpa was the man who fixed everything around our house since CoorsLight was usually drunk or playing Final Fantasy or both. He unclogged pipes, painted, built shelves, installed appliances, constructed sheds, made forts for us with detailed blueprints, and fixed everything that wasn’t running at a perfect, grandpa-approved level. For as long as I can remember, he has carried a massive Swiss Army Knife in his pants pocket which has been used for everything from whittling marshmallow-roasting sticks to fixing eye-glasses to opening birthday presents (why fumble with scotch tape when there’s a utility knife available for the taking?). It was sacrilege in our family to call a plumber, carpenter, electrician, or any other tradesman who might get the job done in half the time and without cutting the power to the entire street. Grandpa and his Swiss Army Knife were all we needed.

Of course, what with the aging and dementia, his handy-man skills have slipped a little to a level I might describe as “slightly helpful; mainly life-threatening”. My moving into a dilapidated shanty of an apartment has kept him up at night just dreaming of fix-it jobs he can terrify me with. He has showed up at my apartment with step-ladders and electric drills after driving the 2 hours to get here with his 4-way flashers accidentally on. He can hardly climb a flight of stairs, but he’ll balance on top of one of my flimsy Ikea chairs to confusedly tap at a light in my kitchen that just won’t turn on. This summer I had some nasty, brown, flaking water-stains on my bathroom ceiling and my grandpa showed up at my door with a can of special sealing spray-paint which he used to fix the problem and also accidentally cover my entire bathroom’s contents, like my towels, shower curtain, and toothbrush, in a fine white layer of paint.

My grandpa also does Tai Chi. I know that this is off-topic but stick with me, here. He started several years ago, probably as a way to socialize with other bumbling elderlies, and now he continues it to keep in shape and get out of the house. It’s all quite cute, really. Sometimes he’ll even demonstrate a move for us, and gracefully, slowly, move his rough handy-man arms about his face and bend his knees with a fierce concentration in his eyes.

After several years of advancing through regular Tai Chi, my grandpa has finally advanced to sword Tai Chi. Which apparently is Tai Chi with swords. Can you please for a moment just picture a room full of pale, shriveled senior citizens gracefully waving swords around their bodies? Now that you’ve had a good laugh, I will come to the point of my story.

Everyone is supposed to provide their own swords, so everyone in the class bought these little, retractable plastic swords that the school had available for purchase.

Everyone but my grandpa.

My grandpa went out to a lumber store and purchased a piece of balsam wood and some gold and silver paint. He made blueprints and measured and cut the balsam in the shape of a sword and then sanded it again. Then he painted the handle of his sword gold and the blade silver and laid it to dry until it was ready for some gentle Tai Chi wielding.

My grandpa has the most kick-ass sword in his Tai Chi class. Only my grandpa would carve his own sword out of wood.

I’m shocked that he didn’t cut his hand off during the making of this, but I guess he did just have cataract surgery.


Friday, February 02, 2007

ThePeach’s Dad Should Not Have Fathered Children; Consequences are Humorous to Others.

My father is an interesting man. He enjoys watching The Simpsons and Family Guy. He hates les Quebecois (“Goddamn Frenchie!! TABERNAC EST-CI!!!”) and is afraid of Black people (“Careful, Peach! Those thugs are going to swarm us!!” “…Dad, those kids are seven years old.” “And they probably have KNIVES!”). He gets drunk at the sports-bar across the street from where he lives, and then calls me the next day to tell me about how he had to carry his friend home after he passed out and shit his pants. He spends his weekends at his buddy’s cottage, where he smokes a lot of pot and eats pizza and climbs up on the roof to fix the shingles. He loses all of his money on Pro-Line.

He is, in short, pretty awesome. But oh, for the love of gentle Jesus, he should not have spawned children.

Yet, despite being allowed to drive his car when I only was 7 years old with TigerCat working the brakes and my dad working the a.m. radio, I have survived to tell you the tale of what it was like being raised by the last man on earth who should have been responsible for anything.

Everything Up The Nose

Sometimes, when we used to go to my Dad’s condo for our weekend visits, my Dad would run out of ideas of how to entertain us. This was usually after we got bored of watching him nap on the couch with WWF Wrestling on in the background, and after hide and seek became banned for life when 6-year old TigerCat tried to hide in a carton of girl-on-girl porn in the back of Dad’s closet.

So, my Dad had to come up with new, creative ways to keep us occupied. He would come up with what he figured were awesome games for children. Unfortunately, these games often ended with trips to the children’s hospital.

One such game was “shoot raisins out of your nose and into the potted plant”, which is exactly what the name suggests. TigerCat and I would line up in the kitchen, our dad would hand us each a Sunkist raisin and tell us to ram them into our nostrils, and then he’d count to 3. On 3, we’d both blow the raisins out of our noses as hard as we could, and whoever’s snot-covered raisin landed closest to the potted plant on the other side of the room, won. Because I had the bigger nose (goddamn genetic lottery), I almost always won. Little TigerCat would blow as hard as her wee nose could muster, but she always came up short.

In what would be our last game of “shoot raisins out of your nose and into the potted plant” ever, TigerCat decided that enough was enough. She would win the goddamn game if her life depended on it. Our Dad handed us our Sunkist raisins, and she rammed it up her nostril with a fierce concentration. Our Dad started counting…

Dad: 1!
8-year old ThePeach: *inhale*
5 year-old TigerCat: *inhale*
Dad: 2!!
8-year old ThePeach: *inhale*!!
5 year-old TigerCat: *inhale*!!
Dad: 3!!!
8-year old ThePeach: *projects raisin out of nostril in a perfect shooting arc; raisin lands in potted plant* YES!!! YES!!! SUCKA!!! IN YOUR FACE!! IN YOUR FACE!!
5 year-old TigerCat: *panicked yelping*
Dad:…TigerCat, where is your raisin?
5 year-old TigerCat: *panicked yelping, gasping, and crying*
Dad:…TigerCat, WHERE is your raisin??!!
5 year-old TigerCat: *gasps for air, clings to Dad’s leg*
Dad: *sigh* Ok, get your coats on. We’re going to Emerg.
8-year old ThePeach: *dances, sings* Oooh ya, I won, HUH! I’m the best, YA!
Dad: Your mom is going to fucking kill me.

So, we spent the rest of our day in the emergency department, where a shriveled raisin was removed from TigerCat’s nasal cavity with a pair of surgical tweezers, and our Mom added social services to speed-dial.

6 months later, we returned to the emerg after a game of “see how far you can shove twisted Kleenexes up your nostril” ended poorly. Surgical Tweezers were once again utilized in the removal of a twisted, soggy kleenex from my sister’s nasal cavity.

That was the day that the nostril games died. With me as the reigning Champion.

Your Screams Amuse Me

TigerCat and I weren’t the only ones who required entertainment, apparently. When my Dad got bored, his favourite activity was to scare the shit out of us. Usually he waited until we would be caught off-guard, like when we were playing quietly in the basement or sleeping in our beds. His most beloved tactic was to softly moan scary words in his hybrid language of street-Italian and French.

Often, we’d be sleeping peacefully, and our Dad would get bored with night-time TV and quietly sneak into our bedroom…

9-year old ThePeach: zzzz
6-year old TigerCat: zzzz
Dad: *tiptoes into room*
9-year old ThePeach: zzzz
6-year old TigerCat: zzzz
Dad: …oooOOOOoooOOOOooo…
9-year old ThePeach: zzzhuh?
6-year old TigerCat: *whimper*
Dad: …skelettes…willipones…
9-year old ThePeach: *whimper*
6-year old TigerCat: I want mommy!!!
Dad: …oooOOOoooOOOooo…Willipones ate your mommy and now she’s in Hell.
9-year old ThePeach: *screams*
6-year old TigerCat: *screams*
Dad: *flips on lights, bends over in laughter* OH MY GOD YOU KIDS ARE A FUCKING HOOT!!! *hoots* SERIOUSLY, YOU SHOULD SEE THE LOOKS ON YOUR FACES!!!
9-year old ThePeach:…someone peed in my bed.

Other times, TigerCat and I would be playing Barbies peacefully in the basement when, suddenly, a commercial would interrupt the race-car driving that our Dad was watching and he’d need some way to entertain himself for 3-4 minutes…

8-year old ThePeach: Oh Ken, thank you for buying me this mermaid costume! It’s so beautiful!
5 year-old TigerCat: I don’t want to be Ken. I’m always Ken.
Dad: *quietly shuts basement door*
8-year old ThePeach: Shutup, Peepee pants!! YOU’RE KEN. Oh, Ken, being a Mermaid is so fun! Let’s go for a drive in my pink corvette!
5 year-old TigerCat: *whips Ken at ThePeach’s Head*
Dad: *flips off basement lights, holds door handle shut*
8-year old ThePeach: *screams*
5 year-old TigerCat: *screams*
Dad: …skelettes…willipones…
8-year old ThePeach: *screams*
5 year-old TigerCat: *screams*
8-year old ThePeach/5 year-old TigerCat: *try to run upstairs, bang heads on walls, trip in the dark*
Dad: …skelettes…skelettes are coming to take you to hell…
8-year old ThePeach/5 year-old TigerCat: *scream, bang on basement door*
Dad: …willip-OOH! My show’s back on! *turns on light, opens door*
8-year old ThePeach: *screams*
5 year-old TigerCat: *screams*
Dad: Shhhh…Daddy’s watching his sports.

The Most Magical Place on Earth

Our Dad also made a lot of fake promises to shut us up. As soon as we were old enough to know what it was, TigerCat and I were DYING to go to Disney World. Like every kid in the western world, Disney World was our dream. When we were around the ages of 7 and 4, our Dad started promising us that he’d take us there some day. Some day when we were a little bit older. Some day when we were 10 and 7 years old.

Every 2nd weekend for 3 years, he promised us that we would go to Disney World when we were 10 and 7. 10 and 7 became the magical ages that TigerCat and I pined for. Time couldn’t move fast enough. Our Dad would remind of us this promise when we wanted him to buy us Candy…

7-year old ThePeach: I WANT CANDY!!!!!!
Dad: Stop whining. I’m taking you and TigerCat to Disney World when you’re 10 and 7.
7-year old ThePeach: YAY!!!

Or when we wanted toys…

5 year-old TigerCat: I WANT A POLLY POCKET!!!!
Dad: Stop whining. I’m taking you and ThePeach to Disney World when you’re 10 and 7.
5 year-old TigerCat: YAY!!!!

Or when we wouldn’t go to sleep…

9-year old ThePeach: I can’t sleep *sob*. Willipones are going to take me to hell.
Dad: Stop whining. I’m taking you and TigerCat to Disney World when you’re 10 and 7.
9-year old ThePeach: YAY!!!

Really, he would throw out the magic words of “I’m taking you to Disney World when you’re 10 and 7” just about every time we saw him for a good 4 years. And then he kept saying it when were 11 and 8. And when we were 12 and 9. And when we were 13 and 10. And then, around the ages of 14 and 11, we finally let the dream die.

It didn’t stop him.

14-year old ThePeach: Want to come to my public speaking competition!!? I’m reading a speech on how hard it is to write speeches!! I came in second in my class and now I get to read it to the whole school!!
Dad: How about I just take you to Disney World when you’re 10 and 7.
14-year old ThePeach: I’m 14.
Dad: No you’re not.
14-year old ThePeach: I hate you.
Dad: More than you hate your mom?
14-year old ThePeach: No.
Dad: Well, alright then! You’re a good kid! You know what? How about I take you to Disney World when you’re 10 and-
14-year old ThePeach: I’M FOURTEEN!!!
Dad:…How old is TigerCat?

And that’s my Dad. I love him. And I bet a lot of you are satisfyingly leaning back in your chairs as you piece together the mystery of my, shall we say, bat-shit craziness.