Wednesday, April 30, 2008

ThePeach's Dad is Operated Upon; Fun.

My Dad had surgery last week to repair a problem with his esophagus and, since my Mother has scarred him for life and he hasn’t remarried or even dated since their divorce 22 years ago, I had to go stay with him and take care of him as he recovered. What followed was one of the more entertaining weeks of my young life.

I should begin by pointing out that I’m a bit of a Daddy’s girl. Probably by default since my Mother is a crazy harpy, and when I have to choose between idolizing a parent who:

a) pops antidepressants like candy, makes up food allergies and illnesses for attention, brought CoorsLight into my life, and talks in the breathy voice


b) smokes pot while he re-shingles the cottage roof, is addicted to nasal spray, lets me say “fuck,” and hates my mother

then I’m going to have to go with the pot-smoking, nasal-spray sniffing, potty-mouthed mom-hater.

I should also point out that my Dad babies me. A lot. Some might find this smothering, but I’m starved for parental love and will gladly take it in the form of being coddled at the age of 25. I think the problem is that my Dad thinks I am perpetually 11 years old. I’m not allowed to use knives or electrical appliances when I visit him. He pre-cuts my food for me so that I won’t choke on large pieces. He serves me my food on a plastic puffalumps children’s TV tray. He walks me across the street. Just to reiterate – I am 25 years old.
For as long as I can remember visiting my Dad, this is how I would be welcomed to his apartment:

Age 11
ThePeach: Hi, Dad!
Dad: Covenchenco! Your pizza pocket is in the oven and I’ll serve it to you just as soon as I cut it up into tiny pieces. In the mean time, why don’t you read this “Seventeen” magazine and have a popsicle and a glass of orange crush?
ThePeach: YEAYYYY!

Age 14:
ThePeach: Yo, Dad!
Dad: Covenchenco! Your pizza pocket is in the oven and I’ll serve it to you just as soon as I cut it up into tiny pieces. In the mean time, why don’t you read this “Seventeen” magazine and have a popsicle and a glass of orange crush?
ThePeach: COOOOOL!

Age 17:
ThePeach: Sup, Dad!
Dad: Covenchenco! Your pizza pocket is in the oven and I’ll serve it to you just as soon as I cut it up into tiny pieces. In the mean time, why don’t you read this “Seventeen” magazine and have a popsicle and a glass of orange crush?
ThePeach: Word.

Age 21:
ThePeach: Hey, Dad!
Dad: Covenchenco! Your pizza pocket is in the oven and I’ll serve it to you just as soon as I cut it up into tiny pieces. In the mean time, why don’t you read this “Seventeen” magazine and have a popsicle and a glass of orange crush?
ThePeach: Ummm…ok, sure. Hey, maybe next time you could pick up a “Cosmopolitan” instead?
Dad:…but that’s for adults.
ThePeach:…Sorry, you’re right. I’ll have my orange crush now.

Age 25:
ThePeach: Hey, Dad.
Dad: Covenchenco! Your-
ThePeach: I know.
Dad: And-
ThePeach: After you cut it up, got it.
Dad: Why-
ThePeach: Ya, I see the “Seventeen”…great, Hannah Montanna is on the cover. I really relate to that 14 year old.
Dad: Have-
ThePeach: can I maybe just have a bottle of water?
Dad:…*gasps* what did you just say?!
ThePeach: I said bring on the Orange Crush and the popsicle!! You know I can’t read “Seventeen” without them!
Dad: *sigh of relief* I better get you an ice cream drumstick, too. You look like you need one.
ThePeach: Oh jesus.

Ok, I think you have enough background info to fully appreciate this story. Tally ho! (Heh, ho.)

I arrived in CapitalCity the night before my Dad’s operation, and he was in full coddling mode due to the anxiety of going under the knife. The first thing he did when I got to his apartment was show me how to use the microwave and the toaster, and gravely reminded me to not to use any sharp knives while he was in the hospital. Next, he showed me everything that was in the fridge and instructed me on how to prepare meals for myself:

Dad: Ok, don’t forget to remove the wrapper on the Pizza Pop. And I know it says to make them in the oven, but I don’t want you to burn yourself, so follow the microwave instructions instead. And it would be best if you could avoid using any knives, but *gasp* then how will you cut small enough pieces so that you don’t choke??? OH GOD, that’s it, I’m cancelling my surgery! I can’t leave you here – you’ll cut yourself and choke! *eyes well up with tears*
ThePeach: Dad…it’s ok. I’ve used knives before, and I’m always very careful. I promise to chew each bite at least 30 times before I swallow it.
Dad: *picks up phone to call hospital*
ThePeach: DAD! Don’t cancel your surgery! I’ll just…I’ll only eat soft foods while you’re gone! I promise!
Dad: *warily puts down phone* No knives.

Fifteen minutes later I was served a grilled-cheese sandwich on my puffalumps tray, despite my insistence that I had already eaten dinner. I made my Dad promise not to cook me anything else since he was sick and had been on a liquid diet for 3 months. Of course, I woke up the next morning to the smell of pancakes and was force-fed approximately 12 before I was allowed to push away the puffalumps tray and get dressed for the hospital.

Because my Dad is ghetto, we took the bus to the hospital. Because I am gimptarded, I fell ass-first into an old Chinese lady’s lap when the bus lurched forward. This amused my Dad but not the old lady. I hope I didn’t crack her hip.

At the hospital, my Dad’s nerves really began to take hold. That’s when the secrets started pouring out of him like vomit out of a drunken freshman:

Dad: Your Mom called me last night before you got here.
ThePeach: Ew.
Dad: I know.
ThePeach: What did she want?
Dad: Well she wanted to wish me good luck. That took 30 seconds. Then she spent the rest of the time talking about you and TigerCat.
ThePeach: Oh. Great.
Dad: Actually, mainly she talked about TigerCat. She kept saying how proud she is of her, and how well she’s doing, and how she never has to worry about TigerCat.
Dad: Then she said that she worries about you all the time.
ThePeach: Um, why? Because I chose a life of higher education instead of divorce?
Dad: Who the fuck knows. She also kept saying that you’re going to be 26 years old soon, and then she’d point out that when SHE was 26, she already had two kids.
ThePeach:…that’s precious.
Dad: I guess that’s why she’s worried.
ThePeach: She’s right. I need to get started right away if I’m going to be a single Mom of two by 27.
Dad: *giggles* Seriously though, I think she just doesn’t like you as much as she likes TigerCat.
ThePeach: …
Dad: Ooh, I found a National Geographic Magazine!

10 minutes later

ThePeach: *fuming* She’s worried about ME?? What the fuck!
Dad: Check out this picture of a lemur. Man, National Geographic rocks!
ThePeach: I’m going into a Master’s program!! I have two bachelor degrees! She only made it through two years of undergrad before she quit to get married and have me!
Dad: Actually, it was only one year.
ThePeach: WHAT?!
Dad: And she had already quit before I met her. Actually, she was working in a burger joint when we met. I think she just tells you that whole “I quit to birth you” story to make you feel bad.
ThePeach: OH MY GOD.
Dad: Look, Meerkats!

Thank you, Dad! I’m going to save that special secret to bring up at an appropriate time. Like Christmas dinner. Or her birthday.

1 hour later

ThePeach: Dad, please stop crying. It’s just day surgery. You’re going to be fine.
Dad: *wipes eyes* But who will cut your food?
ThePeach: Dad, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I use knives at home. And I’ve never hurt myself.
Dad: Yet. *sniffles*
ThePeach: Would you like another National Geographic?
Dad: What if they put me under and I see a bright light?! Oh GOD, I’m sorry I married that crazy lady! I didn’t know she was crazy! I’M SORRY!
ThePeach: heh.
Dad: I know she gave me my two beautiful daughters, but I’M STILL SO SORRY!!!
ThePeach: heh.

1 hour later

ThePeach: Dad, they’re going to wheel you up for your surgery now. I’ll be here when you wake up. You’ll be fine.
ThePeach: Ok, I won’t.
Nurse: *wheels Dad’s gurney down the hall*
ThePeach: Ok, I will.
Nurse: *pushes Dad’s gurney into elevator. Doors shut*
Dad: *shouting behind closed doors* NO KNIVES!!!!!
ThePeach: *shouts back* OOOOOOKKKKKKKK!
Crowd At Elevator: *eyes ThePeach warily*
ThePeach: Ya, that’s right. I’m 25.

My Dad’s surgery took a little longer than we thought, so I was stuck waiting for him on his ward for a long time. I was very nervous and exhausted by this point. Around 9pm, the phone at the nurse’s station rang.

Nurse: Hello? Uh-huh? Uh-huhhhh…um, ok. I’ll check. *to ThePeach* Are you Mr. Peach’s daughter?
ThePeach: Yes! Is he out of surgery? Is he ok???
Nurse: Yes. He just woke up this minute. I’m on the phone with his nurse in the recovery room, and your Dad is asking about you.
ThePeach: About me?
Nurse: Yes, apparently he’s very anxious and wants to make sure you’re ok.
ThePeach:…he wants to make sure…that I’M ok?!
Nurse: Yes.
ThePeach: I’m ok.
Nurse: *into phone* She’s ok. Hold on, I’ll ask. *to ThePeach* Did you use any knives?
ThePeach: Oh jesus.


An hour later they finally wheeled my Dad onto the ward. I anxiously met him.

ThePeach: DAD! How are you feeling??? Are you ok???
ThePeach: Really?
Dad: I FEEL LIKE A MILLION BUCKS! HERE, LOOK AT MY WOUNDS!!! *lifts gown, starts jabbing at incisions*
ThePeach: DAD!! Don’t touch those!
ThePeach: Shhh…Dad…people are sleeping….you’re a little loud.
ThePeach: *to nurse* um…?
Nurse: He’s had a fair amount of morphine.
ThePeach: Ah.

After they got him settled into his bed I stayed with my Dad for another couple of hours, until he fell asleep. I helped him sip some water and get comfortable. I placed his glasses, magazines, and my phone number all within arm’s length. I called his sister to let her know he was fine.

Dad: *singsongy voice* YOU ARE MY ANGEL.
ThePeach: Shh…sleep. Your room-mates are very sick and want to sleep.
Dad: *singsongy voice* MY ANGEL OF MERCY.
ThePeach: I don’t think you know what that means.
ThePeach: Shhh…I saw them. STOP JABBING THEM!!!
ThePeach: Nope.
ThePeach: Shhh…Dad, keep your voice down. Here, take a little sip of water.
Dad: *sips…spits all water onto his gown*
Dad: I couldn’t swallow it.
ThePeach: I already got you a bin to spit into.
Dad: I FORGOT!!!!
ThePeach: Shhh…
ThePeach: Hey, why don’t I turn on your tv? You can watch some tv nice and quietly until you fall asleep. *turns on tv*
TV: Welcome to another episode of Little People Big World!
Dad: *screams* MIDGETS!!! TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! *screams* MIDGETS!!!

Ah yes, I am my Father’s daughter for sure.

When I got back the next morning to take him home, my Dad had no idea that I had even been there the night before. Ah, morphine.

It has been a week, and my Dad is doing fine. I stayed for 4 more days after his surgery but that was all my Dad could take of me being there without him being able to coddle me. He insisted on sending me home on Friday, and I would later find out that this was so he could sit on the shitter for two hours and attempt his first post-surgical poop in peace.

Seriously – I am my Father’s daughter.


Thursday, April 17, 2008

ThePeach Gets Owned By MasterCard Employee; Sad Life Flashes Before Eyes

Ok. Those of you who know me quite well know (and those of you who don't have probabaly assumed) that I am poor at managing my own money. I get really overwhelmed with bills, so I tend not to open them and I leave the envelopes in a pile on the floor for Milo to bite at or poop on. I get really stressed when I know my bank balance or credit card balance, so I never check them and just assume that I'm not bankrupt yet. I still pay my bills and make payments, mind you, but that's only because I set up my online banking to automatically pay them each month or because I randomly guess what my minimum payment on my credit card might be.

The fact that I don't ever open or respond to any mail that I receive from my bank, credit card company, or service providers means that I keep accidentally signing up for services that I don't want. For instance, apparently I pay for two life insurance policies, accident insurance, female cancer insurance (??), and I also apparently pay money to receive a detailed credit report from my bank each month - which of course I do not open. Banks are tricksy. Apparently they prey on people such as me who have a phobia of mail by signing people up for policies and giving you 30-60 days to cancel. I suppose this is where opening one's mail becomes vital. Oh well. At least I'll be well covered when I contract female cancers.

I would hanker a guess that I get my poor money-management skills from my mother, who went bankrupt twice before the age of 40. I guess divorces are 'spensive.

So, my neurotic bill-fear recently became a major issue when I accidentally maxed out my credit card. This may not seem like a huge deal, but my credit limit was $6000. Um, Oops. So, I did the mature thing and panicked, sobbed, and went about planning my own fake-death to gather life insurance from my two policies and start anew in Mexico.

When that plan was vetoed by FauxHawk, I sucked it up and started making payments. For the past four months I have dutifully put as much money as I possibly could onto my mastercard. I tried not to spend as much money on other things, like drinking and buying pants, and focused all of my energies onto paying off my bill. Last week, when I received my hefty tax return, I put ALL of it onto my mastercard. I'm such a good little banker.

So, when all is said and done, I assumed I had finally paid off my mastercard. Of course, I couldn't be sure because I still wasn't checking the balance, but deep in my heart I knew that I had finally done it. The pride I felt, my friends, was immeasurable. I gloated to my family that I had gotten myself out of debt, and they pretended to care. I started looking up vacations that I could spend my seemingly limitless credit on, because monetary responsibility deserves luxurious rewards. Right?

And then I decided to check my balance for real.

$3000 still in the hole.

Well. Clearly there was a problem, here. I had dutifully put all my monies onto the card, so obviously this was a mistake. Oh god, perhaps my card had been stolen? Or maybe I was the victim of a scam that I formulated in my head whereby my online payments all went to some con's bank account? Yes, that must be it. I called mastercard to report this problem to them, and here is how the conversation went:

MC: Hello, thank you for calling mastercard! How may I help you?

ThePeach: Something is wrong with my card.

MC: I'm very sorry to hear that, Ms. Peach. What seems to be the problem?

ThePeach: I'm quite sure that my card is involved in some kind of scam whereby my payments go to some con's bank account.

MC:...I see.

ThePeach: I would like to fix this problem, ma'am.

MC: Well, Ms. Peach, I'm looking at your account now and we have received all your recent payments.

ThePeach:...but, that's impossible! How can my balance still be so high? It's a scam, I tell you! A SCAM!

MC: Ms. Peach, maybe your balance seems high because of your recent spendings?

ThePeach: No, impossible. I have no recent spendings. Now I'm sure my mastercard has been stolen! I would like to report my mastercard as stolen, ma'am. STOLEN!

MC: Ok...but first let's run through the expenses and make sure they're not yours. Ok, Ms. Peach?

ThePeach: Let me guess? LCD tv's? Cars? Gold? ...other things that people spend stolen money on?

MC: Well, first I see a $500 purchase from Jamaican Vacations back in January?

ThePeach: Oh...ya...that was me.

MC: $400 to the OUAC for grad school applications?

MC: $100 at Universitytown Pub? date, please?

MC: I see $100 three different times in February, $80 March 3rd, $80 again on March 11th...

ThePeach: Ok, stop. All me.

MC: There are ATM withdrawals on various dates in a place called "Bubba's Poutine"?


MC: $100 in an underwear outlet store?

ThePeach: Please stop.

MC: $50 from an online shoe store?

ThePeach: For the love of god, stop.

MC: I see various bills at a restaurant called "Asia-riffic Foods"?

ThePeach:...I like their noodles *whimper*

MC: $50 on prescription cat food and another $50 on cat medicines? Oh and $75 at the futon cover store?

ThePeach: I beg you to stop.

MC: Oh, and I see more bills from the UniversityTown pub throughout March and April?

ThePeach:...are you finished?

MC: $100 at the pants store.

ThePeach: DAMMIT!

Oh my god. Talk about your pathetic life flashing before your eyes. Cat medicine, noodles, and outlet-store underwear?! This is where my money goes?? I just got owned.

Although I'm still about 65% sure that I'm part of some elbaorate scam. And I'll prove it...from Mexico.


Tuesday, April 15, 2008

ThePeach Writes Exams; Material Presents Itself

Hello, friends.

Now that I'm finally finished pulling pretentious bullshit out of my ass, a.k.a writing English Lit essays, I am into the final stretch: exams.

Before I get into that, I should give a quick shout-out to our Lord Cheesus for having my prof assign me the following topic for my last term paper: "How do the authors of the 1920 Harlem Renaissance represent the "Negro" in their work? Do they conceptualize a "new Negro"? If so, what do they see as the future for the New Negro?"

Oh how I love an excuse to use the word "Negro" in an English essay. I used it as much as I possibly could, ie. every single sentence. Even when unnecessary, like in the sentence: "The symbolism in this NEGRO phrase clearly articulates the author's NEGRO opinion that NEGRO equality must be the NEGRO goal NEGRO." Maybe I exaggerate. Or maybe I should have asked my grandpa to write the essay for me? I'm sure he could have also tied in some relevant opinions about "orientals" and "the arabians."

So anyway, essays aside, I wrote my first exam last Friday. I was pretty nervous since I only read the textbook for the first time the night before, and even then I skipped over all the "boring" poems, which comprised about 75% of the required readings. So, I walk into the exam room, slip off my coat, wipe the fear-sweat off my forehead, grip my pen, and look around. I noticed some instructions on the black-board at the front of the exam room. I blinked. Could this be right? I looked again. Yep, the instruction on the blackboard, written in large capital letters and triple underlined, read as such:


Cheesus strikes again!

Wow, I mean come on exam proctors. I know you mean no study aids allowed, but maybe you should have included a qualifier and perhaps considered not using capital letters. I briefly considered going to the front of room and asking to speak to the proctor:

"Excuse me...about the instructions on the board? Well, I haven't had a blood test in a while, and I'm pretty sure I'm clean but I can't be I allowed to be here?"


"Does it have to be full-blown AIDS or does HIV count, too?"


"I received tainted blood in the 80s. I can't write this exam."

So, to conclude, between the NEW NEGRO and the AIDS, English Literature is a hoot!


Thursday, April 03, 2008

Save me, Cheesus!

Oh holy motherfucker.

CoorsLight got facebook. He added me within 4 minutes of creating a profile. I haven't communicated with CoorsLight in about four years, since that time he sent me pictures of his Honeymoon with his replacement single-mom/sugar momma/pre-made family. The last time I saw him in person (five years ago), his soon-to-be wife was drunk off red wine and called my sister fat, my mom a bitch, and me a mole-covered freak. That was a pleasant Easter.

CoorsLight. Facebook. CoorsLight. Facebook.

Helloooo limited profile!

You might be wondering why I would add him at all, and it's true that I should probably just ignore his request and go on with my lovely CoorsLight-free world. But I just can't...I have a morbid curiosity to see what he will say to me. And you know, it's hard to just drop someone out of your life after they played Father to you for 10 years of your childhood and adolescence. 10 wonderful, drunk, rage-filled, money-stealing, scarring, made me fear all red-headed men years. have failed me.


ps - I have 24 hours to begin and finish a 10-page paper. Can it be done? No. Will I get all high off the tea and try anyway, and then pass out sobbing at 5am? Yes sir.