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.