Monday, September 29, 2008

ThePeach Helps TigerCat Dodge a Bullet; is a Modern-Day Hero

In the past few years my Mom’s gift-giving skills have really gone down hill. I believe it began the year she gave me a bright purple, suede business jacket for Christmas. The problem is that she puts a lot of effort and money into buying these gifts, so returning them or even suggesting an exchange would make me the world’s worst daughter (more so). The excitement begins as soon as the present is placed in front of me. Her eyes get bright. She starts swinging her little legs. She might even tear up a little if it’s a particularly meaningful gift, like that time she got me the giant red poet’s blouse, straight out of the renaissance.

TigerCat doesn’t get off any easier. My mom actually cried happy tears on TigerCat’s graduation day when TC unwrapped her gift box and found a giant emerald bracelet inside, perfect for an 80-year old or maybe a member of the British monarch. You can’t return gifts like these. You have to keep them, pretend to love them, and dutifully break them out at holiday gatherings. The guilt about how much money our Mom spends on these items is palpable.

So, TigerCat and I are both a little scared as our birthday week approaches. I have to do apprenticeships in the winter, so I fully expect to receive a $500 business suit from Talbots or Laura; navy blue, with pleated legs and some kind of gold braided trim. If I’m lucky she’ll throw in some silk, nautical-print scarves. Land ho!

I had brunch with my Grandpa on Sunday. As we waited for our orders, he discussed gift ideas for TigerCat:

Bobba: Well, Peach, it’s almost birthday week!
ThePeach: Heh. Yep.
Bobba: I’m not sure what to get your sister yet.
ThePeach: Gift certificates.
Bobba: Well, I asked your mom for help.
ThePeach: Oh no. Dear god, no.
Bobba: She had a suggestion.
ThePeach: *mutters* God give us strength.
Bobba: She suggested I get your sister a nice muff.
ThePeach: *spits out coffee*
Bobba: A nice, warm muff for winter.
ThePeach: You mean…like in the place of gloves?
Bobba: Maybe a fur one.
ThePeach: As in, hey, it’s 1947, let’s go caroling in our muffs and stoles??
Bobba: Your mom thought it would be nice for her to wear to work. In the winter.
Bobba: No. Not yet. But I was looking at-
Bobba: Oh. Dear. So, then what should I-
ThePeach: Gift certificates.

Of course, you know this means that now *I* will be receiving a nice, fur muff for my birthday. It will probably cost $300, and I will never be able to return it, and I’ll end up giving it to Milo to use as a cat-version of a blow-up doll. Milo is going to kitty-bang the muff (heh) and I will have to spend my birthday dressed as a menopausal sailor.

I am the BEST sister in the world.


Saturday, September 27, 2008


*I ate fish sticks for dinner. *

That almost counts as meat.

Also, last night TheCrazy was in town and we did many redbull/vodkas and ended up aggressively making out with each other on the dance floor of a swanky bar as her husband watched. As in, she tried to take my pants off in the bar. And boobies were touched. Why do I turn into a massive bull-dyke everytime I drink with her? What does this say about me? I need a penis, stat. Clarification: not as in, I need to grow a penis so that I can fuck girls. No. Not like that. I mean as in I require some hetero sex.

Drunk Peach is fun. But drunk Peach is dangerous. I need a Designated Conscience (DC) to be by my side at all times. Any takers? I might punch you in the ear if your suggestions include putting on my pants, putting down the drink, and not raping my friends; but there's like a 75% chance that I'll hump you. The choice is yours.

Do I hear some Indigo Girls in the background?


Friday, September 26, 2008

The Hippying, part 2

I just realized that I haven't eaten a single meat product since Monday. It's mainly a function of being poor and too busy to cook, but still.

If I don't eat part of an animal soon, I predict I will be dead by Sunday.

Help me.


Thursday, September 25, 2008

why, god?

I think I pushed things a little too far last night. 4:30am is not an acceptable bed time when wakeup time is 6:30am. I immediately regret thinking I had time in my life for cooking, vegetables, or health in general. Also, I want to barf and die. I'm going to quit school and get a job at quiznos.
You know what's interesting? How no sleep is 100% correlated with looking like a pubescent bridge-troll.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

I'm a damn hippie now; not smelly

As I type this I am drinking fair-trade, organic, Peruvian coffee. I bought the beans at the independent coffee shop on campus. I was on campus because my welfare, I mean "good food box" had arrived. I carried the local produce home in a giant reusable bag which I had brought with me, tucked inside the giant cloth bag I now use as a purse. The produce weight like 15 fucking pounds, but I still walked all the way home because it seemed like a waste to take the bus on such a beautiful day. When I got home, I peeled 2lb of carrots, 2 apples, a pear, and an onion and threw them in my slow cooker with some broth* and spices. In 2 hours I plan to puree the foods and create hippie soup.

And then maybe I'll dread my hair, whittle* a guitar and break into:

If you're going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you're going to San Francisco
You're gonna meet some gentle people there
For those who come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there
In the streets of San Francisco
Gentle people with flowers in their hair

Seriously, someone please tell me what is happening to me before I stop shaving my armpits (oh god, I just realized I haven't shaved my legs in like 10 days) and renounce soap.


*broth was not quite broth. I didn't have broth, and I'm lazy, so I strained all the alphabet noodles out of a can of campbell's vegetable soup. It took like 20 minutes. I probably could have walked to the store in that amount of time. This soup might taste like the inside of an asshole.

**a big thanks to FauxHawk for pointing out that "widdle," which I had originally written, actually means "to urinate." Urinating a guitar is a talent I don't yet possess.

EDIT: the soup was AWESOME. I am the bestest cook of life.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Shameless self promotion

Hello, sexies.

I had a very grumpy day yesterday, probably due to my 3 hours of sleep, devil-pms, and hate of studying. I'm also pretty positive that I might be an awful writer with no hope of a career. But then MortalCombat fed me cookies, Spaz used the expression "brazen retard" to describe a cocky classmate, and I managed to get 5 hours of sleep last night, so I feel better. A little.

So! Here is an example of the shit I do now. This is one of the many assignments I handed in last week. We were supposed to go out into the city and observe a person, setting, or both. And then write about it descriptively. I decided to write about the cab ride home from the bar last Friday. You know what's hard to read the next day? The notes you write for yourself when it's 2:30am and you've been drinking double gins since 7pm. I woke up the next morning to find a fleet of post-it notes stuck to my desk with phrases like "teh fogs was sexyyy. USER IT!!!' written across them in illegible scrawl.

The Ride Home

Several sets of high heels snap along through the dark street. Their owners are invisible through the warm fog sensually curling its fingers over the downtown Market.

It is 2am. Tiny droplets of dew, barely illuminated by the dull streetlights, form on the hoods of the empty cabs lined up on George Street. A row of glowing cigarette butts bobs alongside the outside of the McDonalds.

“Ok, yes. Hold on,” says a gruff French voice from behind one of the butts. A stocky man emerges from the lineup. He balances a coffee cup on the roof of his Honda and opens the door. “Where to?”

“I been driving a cab in Ottawa for on about 39 years,” says the man as he eases the car through a green light. His white hair sticks up in a fine fringe around his ears and tickles the collar of his plaid shirt. “I live in Lac Phillipe. ‘Ave you been? It’s beautiful.” He lights another cigarette and turns his head to look at the back seat. “You mind?” The corners of his thin mouth turn into a smile. “Thanks.”

The acrid smoke thickens the air, which now matches the white, swirling haze outside the windows. The man could be driving into an abyss for all that is visible, yet his voice is as still as the world outside. “You like jokes?” He laughs hoarsely, his rough face beaming with pleasure as he delivers the lewd punch line. He takes a last drag and flicks his cigarette out the window.

“12 dollar 47 cents,” says the man as he stops outside the white apartment building. The skin on his hand feels rough and callused as he slowly takes his money. “See you again soon, eh?” He drives away. The mist licks over the car, slowly drawing it back into the night. The rear lights fade, shrink, and are swallowed.

Would you say I ended with fog in a sexual way?


Monday, September 22, 2008

How to Calculate "Suck at life"

Here's a handy formula in case you, too, ever want to suck at life:

[1 boring essay x 1 entire night set aside to write it / 5 good hours procrastination by googling charity runs, updating blog roll, calling every family member, and talking to every friend on msn] + [3 hours sleep - 30 minutes because feet too cold to sleep but too lazy to get up for socks - 20 minutes for bastard cat crawling over body and perching on other pillow to stare creepily at my face] + [6 straight hours of class today with no break - doing readings - having time to make self look like less of troll + blogging instead of showering] = Suck at Life.

Ah, monday.


Saturday, September 20, 2008


In the past 24 hours I just made 3 major life achievements, none of which I would ever have fucking DREAMED of while living in UniversityTown. I don't know know who I am anymore! What is happening to me?? CapitalCity is morphing me into a riper peach (heh, see how I make puns?).

Ok, here are my 3 earth-shattering achievements. Prepare yourself:

1) I got 4 hours of sleep on Thursday and then had a day of class on Friday and, instead of going back to bed as soon as I got home, I went for a run with MortalCombat and we ran EIGHT GODDAMN KILOMETERS!!!! AH! Who am I??

2) After the 8km run I went to the bar with MortalCombat and Spaz, where we partook of tequila shots and then I SANG KARAOKE!!! Three entire songs!! WHAT.THE.FUCK. I hate public attention. I'm what I like to call a shy egomaniac....this is why I blog. I want you to think I'm amazing but I don't want to put myself out there in any way. Well, I put myself out there last night. I put myself out there in the key of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" and Sonny and Cher's "I Got You Babe," amongst others. Tequila warps my brain.

3) I'm actually completely ashamed of this last one. I don't know how to break this to you - my gentle, supportive readers. You've listened to me whine about them for about 3 years. You've read all about my hatred, scorn, and judgment of them. I loathed them. I still loathe them. But I BOUGHT LEGGINGS!!! WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK??!! And the worst part is that THEY LOOK GREAT. I just...I don't...I don't understand. Perhaps all the running? Perhaps the being too welfare to eat? I just...what? I'm so...lost? I own...leggings? I understand if you don't want to be my friend/read this blog anymore. Does it make it any less painful if I bought extra long sweaters to wear with the vile purchase? No? Ok.

...I'm wearing the leggings RIGHT NOW!!!!

Who am I? What's happening?


Wednesday, September 17, 2008

In a sexual way

I’m the smartest one in my class.

We had an assignment this weekend to write a descriptive piece about a setting or person. I chose to write about a cab ride home on the foggiest, most surreal night I had seen in a while. I carefully described the fog, the drive, and the frenchie cab driver in what I thought was a poignant vignette. I hoped it would impress my tough and talented professor.

I should mention that this professor also pulls up each of our assignments using powerpoint in class so that the entire class can see what everyone else has written. He then critiques the writing in front of all of us. This is a style of learning that makes me shit in my paisley lulu underwear.

So, I handed this in on Monday and, in preparation for the critique I’m expecting in class tomorrow, this afternoon I re-opened the file I had sent him to take one last look at my work. The story was all there, just as I had remembered it. Beautiful. Then I scrolled to the bottom and noticed that I had failed to erase the point form notes I left for myself during the writing process. There they were, about 6 lines below the end of my story.



SO, my prof is going to think I’m goddamn moron. And so will my entire class. But it gets worse. What did the note to myself say?

“Remember to end with fog in a sexual way.”

End with fog in a sexual way? Now I’m not only a moron, but a nymph. A nymph with a woody for fog. I’m the whore who prioritizes the sexualization of fog in my writing – so much so that I have to leave myself reminder notes for emphasis.

Can’t wait for class tomorrow.

In a sexual way.


The Things I Do Now

Hello, lovers.

I’ve decided to briefly emerge from my hole. It’s a dark hole. A hole of studying, and writing, and consuming mass quantities of news, and waking up at 6am every day, and not sleeping ever, and forgetting to feed the cat so he eats a hair elastic and pukes it in my bed, and not doing dishes because I have 40 coffee mugs and all I consume is caffeine anyway, and eating chocolate turtles in my sweatpants instead of exercising or being a useful member of society in any way.

Not that I don’t occasionally have fun. I’ll get to that.

But ya. Grad school is hard. Journalism grad school is really hard. I need a valium, an immodium, a good bang, and about 3 weeks of tropical vacation. Prease.

But in the mean time, I give you:

The Things I Do Now

1. I Eat like Poor People
I hate it. Gone are the days where I could go out for sushi every week and make elaborate meals every other night. Gone are the days of fresh fruits and vegetables. Gone are the days of civility. Now is a time of Kraft Dinner. It is a time of grilled cheese with a side of instant oatmeal. A time of casseroles that consist of a can of cream of mushroom soup dumped over frozen peas. I’m one pop-tart sandwich away from having a welfare baby.

TigerCat made me feel a little better when she reminded me that both her and I used to eat this way when we were poor students:

ThePeach: *sob* and then I just dumped a can of mushroom soup on top and called it casserole!
TigerCat. Sick. But we always used to eat like this, remember?
ThePeach: *sob* no.
TigerCat: Remember the summer I lived with you? Remember how we ate?
ThePeach: No.
TigerCat: Remember how neither of us could find jobs, couldn't afford any groceries, so one night I made us dinner and it was ground beef with ketchup served over minute rice?
TigerCat: So I'd say you're doing pretty well.

A combination of being REALLY poor and too busy to live has lowered me to this state. I will actually have sex with the first person who takes me out for dinner. I’m not kidding. Man or woman. And if it’s sushi I’ll have sex with you in the restaurant. I’ll be your wasabi dream.

2. I don’t Sleep…until I SLEEP.
So I have to stay up at least long enough to watch the 11pm news every night (except tonight, because I felt that blogging took priority over passing my next news test). Then I get up at 6am so that I can read the Globe and Mail and the local paper, listen to cbc, and watch Canada A.M. before I head to class and get my ass ripped by my daily news test.

SO, doing the math, if I were to fall asleep right after the news and stay that way until my alarm goes off, I can get a maximum of 6 hours of sleep/night. This math fails to take into account the writing I do at night, the fact that I’m usually wired off the caffeine when I do make it to bed, and the fact that my cat is fucking feral. I am seriously going to punt him off my fucking balcony tomorrow if he tries to eat my face tonight. He’s also a fan of galloping around the apartment like a possessed steed and howling at the door because his lover, the hall carpet, is calling to him.

But ya. Even on weekends I don’t sleep that much. My internal alarm is set for 6 now. Even if I drink until 3am (which I still do, you’ll be happy to hear), I wake up at 6. I might just stumble to the shitter, pee straight gin, and go back to bed, but the damage is done. I won’t sleep. Not deeply.

So, I’ve been starting to get a little…wonky. Grumpy. Bat-shit crusty, if you will. Last night I was sure that I heard water running in my apartment all night, but nothing was dripping. I decided the leak was in my brain. And then today I had a rare and miraculous day off. So I didn’t set an alarm. And I slept from 10pm until 3pm the next day. I blow myself away.

I’m the hero of my generation.

3. I Drink Coffee Now.
My entire life, I have resisted the foul brew. I lasted one week of class before I caved. It’s awful. My pee smells weird, I have to use mouthwash 3x/day, and I have gut rot.




I love you.

4. I Go Out when I Can.
It’s usually only one night a week, but I make up for lost time. I can’t let gin forget me. If gin leaves me, I’ll die. And not just from delirium tremors. Last Friday my class went on a Booze Cruise. I managed not to fall overboard or to convince myself that I should be free to swim with the fish/nature. But I did get so loaded that I led the girls in my class in a rousing game of “who would you fuck in our program”. Klassy. And I did get so loaded that I ate both poutine and nachos once we made it back to land. And I did get so loaded that I slapped the asses of my new friends. Repeatedly. Hopefully they understand that it’s done out of love and respect, and only like 30% out of sexual attraction.

5. There’s More, but I’m Tired. Shocker.
I do more things. But I’m tired now. I’ve been awake since 3pm, dammit. Let me see if I can summarize it all in one paragraph.

I have new friends and they crack me up. I use any remaining food money to call TigerCat and FauxHawk daily. I have a cat who humps the couch about 6x/day. Every day, I get lost on the massive campus and discover some new oddity – like a swamp, an underground tunnel, and a cafeteria that serves 9 dollar stir fry. I have had 3 class lectures about the legal dangers of blogging inappropriate material. Heh. TheHippie got me addicted to “The L Word” – a show about lesbians. Interpret as you must. I see my family. My Dad delivers me ghetto groceries and my 82-year-old grandpa tries to kill me by driving me around town. I am becoming a better writer. This is not visible in the blog, where I write like a tard and don’t bother with spell check.

I think that covers it. Please allow me one week before you start harassing me again.

And now to lull myself to sleep to the gentle sounds of the cat morphing into a wolf.


Monday, September 08, 2008

UniversityTown University vs. CapitalCity University Part 1: Uggs vs. Fugs

I feel like I just fell ass-first into the Land of Oz. I’m like Dorothy, but surlier and with bigger jugs. I’ve been living in UniversityTown for so fucking long that I forgot that there’s more to the world than rich, obnoxious, pop-tarts* who carry prada bags and drive around campus in Daddy’s range rover so that they don't scuff their uggs. There are…how do I say…diversities here. Poor people. Brown people. Hippies. Ugly people. Disabled people. Ugly people who are also disabled. Brown Hippies. We had none of this in UniversityTown University. In 8 years, I don’t think I saw a single student in a wheel chair. We had a campus accessibility program, but I think it was to cater to one blind chick. One blind chick who was, of course, rich and beautiful. I have probably gone a good 4 years without talking to an African-American, and now there are 5 in my class of 21 people. Just as an example.

Now that I have some perspective, I can honestly say that UniversityTown University is BULL.SHIT. And it almost ruined me! Here, I’m considered a label whore! Me, ThePeach, a label whore! Because I own Lulus and Guess Jeans. I have entered a bizarro world, bitches. On my first day of class I carried my books and snacks in a giant lulu shopping bag and had the following conversation with 3 girls as we sat down:

ThePeach: Oh, I like your purse! Is that Nelson Mandela on the front?
Classmate1: Thanks. Yep, I bought it at a market when I was volunteering in South Africa this summer.
ThePeach: Ah.
Classmate2: That’s cool! Mine is from Namibia and is made from the recycled plastic ties they use to hold newspapers together.
ThePeach: Wow.
Classmate3: That’s so awesome! Mine is made from recycled plastic bottles in Belize!
Classmate1: What’s your bag, Peach?
ThePeach:…I have to go to the bathroom.

AND I’m, like, attractive here. This is unusual for me after going to a school where girls get weekly facials (heh), wear designer heels to class, and spend their weekends in the Muskokas. But people here have gunts. They wear unfortunate clothing. They have bad hair days. Some have acne. Some are “mentally disabled” (see?? See how I learn??). I am a stone fox.

I think the most perfect example occurred today as I was running errands on campus after class. I was buying yet another motherfucking textbook when I stumbled across a food stand in the university center. It was sponsored by the food bank. First of all, even if we had a food bank at UnivesityTown University, there are literally NO POOR STUDENTS who would use it. The students there scoff at canned foods and unglamorous charity. Here in CapitalCity, we are all poor and encouraged to use the service. So, I looked at the program they were advertising: cheap, locally grown produce baskets. For 10 bucks you can order a food basket containing locally grown, seasonal fruits and vegetables. So, I did. Now my bank account is negative 910 dollars, but no scurvy for me! AND, to thank me for signing up, the people running the program made me a free smoothie!

SO, to tally, in one instance I observed 3 qualities I have never seen on UniversityTown campus:

1. Service for poor students
2. Environmental and sustainability-conscious planning that is also non-profit
3. Free hippy food

And, I saved the best for last:

The girl who made my smoothie only had one leg.

WHAT THE SHIT IS UP WITH THIS AWESOME SCHOOL??!!! I’m having diversity overload. I need to lie down and maybe wear my lulus for a while to get back to baseline.

Ok, I can’t lie to you: the smoothie-making amputee scared the hell out of me and I couldn't stop staring at her peg-leg. I’m still your same old, charming Peach.


*wicked term courtesy of my friend, Pretty: the prettiest man I know.

Sunday, September 07, 2008


Direct quote from my first assigned reading out of "Canadian Press Policies":

"While it is important to be specific for clarity, there are also some terms that may be used in the scientific community that are not as acceptable in casual use. Mentally retarded is a valid clinical description often found in medical journals, yet many dislike it because of the schoolyard insults associated with the term. AVOID."

You finally win, TheHippie. I'll try to be good.

Stupid gay book.


Saturday, September 06, 2008

ThePeach is Professional; Pretty

Yesterday was our class retreat/conference at a cabin the woods. They drove us out in a yellow school bus, lectured us for 2 hours about journalistic professionalism, and then gave us free range at an open bar. After 3 glasses of wine I swam in the river and stood on a floating log. After 4 glasses I introduced my class to the throaty voice. After 5 glasses I confessed that I have a bitch crush on Dr. Beverly Crusher of the USS Enterprise. After the retreat they dropped us off downtown and we stumbled into a bar. Apparently I do tequila shots again. That's a throwback to being 21. On a related note, my new bathroom has finally been christened with vomit.

I woke up this morning, dry heaved, rinsed my mouth with mouth wash, and bought all my textbooks, a digital voice recorder and microphone, and ordered a subscription to the Globe and Mail.

Professionalism, here I come.


Thursday, September 04, 2008

Grad School =

- Waking up at 6:30am. So that's what dawn looks like? My soul aches.

- Slightly classier frosh barbeques. Yesterday's came with real plates and salad. But was still mainly grade-F Maple Leaf Hot Dogs. Listeria is gonna be fun times.

- I fall asleep at 10pm. Dead, coma sleep. My blue hair grows in on Monday.

- Black Revolutionist Poets in my classes who introduce themselves by spontaneously breaking into a 5 minute performance poem about the renunciation of their slave name. I'll never introduce myself to anyone in a rasta hat again.

- bank balance of NEGATIVE 900 dollars. So far. Still have to buy textbooks, printer toner, and pay all bills. Would consider hookering self, but am too tired to walk to street corner.

- Only free time in which to update blog = 6:49am. Prease to be understanding of shitty post?

Send canned food,


Monday, September 01, 2008

The New Chapter: Capital City

I moved this weekend. UniversityTown and its screaming, one-armed hobos are now a relic of my past. I’m kind of sad about it. I’ll miss those hobos.

I only have a minute because I start school tomorrow morning and I should probably sleep or something since I have to be up at the crack of fucking dawn. And I’ve already been up to my ass in work for the course I’m TA’ing. Grad school is hard. Who knew? I'm tired. But here are some quick highlights about my first weekend in CapitalCity:

- FauxHawk was very helpful with the moving, unpacking, and settling process. I already miss him. Also, he bought me a present and gave me the sex. Good boyfriend.

- I finally found out my TA assignment for the year. For some godforsaken reason I have been assigned to TA a fourth year seminar class in International Affairs Reporting. HAHAHA. God help these students. I have to pick their reading list, and most of the sources will be coming from If Britney Spears’ vagina isn’t considered an international affair, I don’t what is.
- I went to some lame pizza party for new grad students today. On the way there I walked through a huge puff of pot smoke. I might like this campus.

- I made a friend! We went for a jog along the water after the pizza party. I ran for 6km, bitches! Perhaps CapitalCity will equal skinny, lithe, muscular Peach? Or not, since my grandpa and Dad have done nothing but feed me since I got here. It’s like they’re in a testosterone-riddled battle royale to prove who is the better father figure, and their weapons are food. I’m not sure who’s winning yet. My Grandpa took me out for steak, but my Dad bought me a supply of chips, cookies, and kraft dinner. Close one.

- While I was running, I passed a man on a bike. He yelled at me to keep to the right of the path. I guess I met the CapitalCity bike path patrolman. Next time I’ll demand to see his badge.

- There are 3 derelicts who sit outside my building all day. One sits in a wheel chair and drinks beer, one wears short-shorts, and the other has a perfectly formed mullet. Seriously, it is the most beautiful mullet I have ever seen. He takes pride in his work.

- Yesterday, before FauxHawk left, we went for a walk to the video store. On the way, a disheveled looking hobo stumbled out of a parking lot, looked right at me, leered, and said “You are fucking done”. The hobos are already talking to me.

I’m home.