Thursday, December 31, 2009


I used to wear red underwear every December 31.

It’s old wives tale that, if you wear red underwear on NYE, you will be engaged before the next year is out. When I admitted this to Spaz and MC last night over a bottle of red, they laughed their asses off and Spaz pulled a muscle in her neck. Rightfully so.

It’s hilarious for a few reasons, really. First, that I would subscribe to any kind of superstition. I don’t even believe in recycling, and I’m pretty sure that’s real. Second, that I wanted to be engaged at all. I mean…look at me. The idea right now of sharing my life with someone – forever – makes me break out in a stress rash. And I’m happy for my friends who are choosing this path, and jealous of their poufy dresses and shiny rings, but I have to admit that I laughed for approximately three days straight when one of my facebook friends posted a serious picture of her, her husband, and her newborn dressed up as Mary, Joseph and Jesus. I’m pretty sure that baby Spencer wasn’t a product of immaculate conception, honey. More likely a bottle of baby duck and an anniversary.


But there was a while when I thought FauxHawk and I would get married. He was in his 30s, a doctor, serious about life, and I kept hoping that the day would come when he’d break out the bling and I’d start my jew conversion classes. And I loved him stupid amounts, and told myself that maybe someday he’d start acting like I was important to him, and so I wore the fucking red underwear every year and fantasized about our venue (outside tent, CapitalCity, late September) and first dance (In my Life – The Beatles).

Turns out I wasn’t the person FauxHawk wanted me to be, as I discovered just this week. That was a fun conversation. Sharing is caring. Keep me away from the knives and the shower rod.

But the person that I am, right now, isn’t so bad. And if you want to date someone who pays all their bills on time and cleans the toast crumbs off the counter every morning, then you need to keep looking because that is never going to be me. The only thing I pay consistently is the poutine delivery man, and I prefer to use my kitchen counter for rough sex (after which I do wipe it down, actually).

So, it’s safe to say that my goals are slightly different this year. And 2010 is going to be great, once I get past the soul-suck of my final semester of school. I’m moving to TheBigCity in June to start working at TheBigNewspaper. Yes, I have a bonafide job. And I’m going to travel, and I’m going meet new people, and I’m going to spend time with my old people who I love and who don’t base my worth on my ability to drive, and I’m going to maybe train to run a half marathon if I can get my lazy ass off the couch, and I’m going to fuck while I’m still limber enough to be contorted, and I’m going to leave crumbs EVERYWHERE because I just fucking love toast, ok? I love toast. Sue me.

So, I’m not sure what kind of underwear I should wear tonight to bring about this awesome life.

Probably crotchless.

Happy New Year, bitches!!

Love, love, love,


Wednesday, December 30, 2009

I like Coffee, I like Tea.

The other morning I was making coffee in my sister’s French Press while she made some Chai tea at the other end of the counter.

I ground the coffee beans and shook them into the carafe. I poured in the boiling water and struggled with the press. The water pressure made it difficult. I sighed.

ThePeach: *pushes press* Do you ever feel like all the pressure in the world is against you?
TigerCat: *pours milk into tea* Well, you date a lot of really complicated guys, Peach.
ThePeach:…I was talking about the French Press.

Just a little breakfast reality check.


Thursday, December 24, 2009

Milo visits Santa

For a class assignment I recently did something...awful. We had to write a participant observation piece about something we had never done before. Coming up with ideas our professor approved of was challenging.

Remember MC and the bus trip to Syracuse?

I was having the same problem. I had sent at least three brilliant (in my mind) ideas to my prof, all of which were rejected by her. Finally, as a desperate joke, I suggested I take my cat to get his photo taken with Santa and write about crazy cat ladies.

She loved it and told me to do it.

Joke's on me.

So, that's how I wound up bringing Milo to a PetSmart a few Saturdays ago to get his photo taken with Santa. It was godawful. I spent four hours hanging out with Santa, who kept staring at my tits and asking if I had a boyfriend. Milo still hasn't forgiven me for bringing him to the land of dogs.

If I made another factual error and get another B I will lose my shit.

Anyway, I decided to post the results for your Christmas viewing pleasure. All proper names have been removed.

Merry Fucking Christmas from ThePeach and angry Milo!


Santa looks friendly enough, but my little guy is having none of it.

Milo grips at my shoulders and then looks at me with scared eyes as I pass him over to the elf and she places him on Santa’s lap. He squirms and buries his face in Santa’s curly beard.

“Hey, buddy! Look over here!” the elf says from behind the camera.

But Milo just stares wildly at the door, his arms sticking out stiffly from Santa’s tight grip around his waist.

The elf shrugs and presses the shutter on the camera, capturing the moment.

You can’t hope for much more from a cat.

Twenty minutes earlier, my cheeks are flaming as I push a shopping cart into the CapitalCity PetSmart, my 3-year-old black cat howling from inside his little cage, which is jammed into the children’s seat.

PetSmart stores across Canada and the U.S. offer a “Santa Claws” in-store photo event the last three weekends before Christmas. Pet-owners can bring their animals into the store for a picture with Santa and a festive photo frame for $10, half of which goes to PetSmart pet charities.

I’ve spent three Christmases with Milo, but I’d never been tempted to bring him to get his photo taken with Santa. I’d often tried and failed to make him wear a miniature Santa hat, but cats – at least, my cat – are usually uncooperative in these matters. Once the hat was strapped on his head, Milo would flail his front paws spastically, batting at the offending item until he knocked it off. Then, he would grab it in his teeth, lie on his side, and kick at it with his back legs, a flurry of red velour and claws.

I always did this in the privacy of my own home, where my pet obsession could remain a secret indulgence.

Now, as I wheel Milo toward Santa in a store full of people, I’m on full display.

The average Canadian household spends more on pet expenses than they do on childcare, according to 2007 census data. The pet industry is a $4.5 billion business, with marketers and stores trying to appeal to the parental nature of pet-owners. The trend is known as the humanization of pets.

As a single woman in my twenties without kids, I’ve tried not to think of my cat as a child. Milo doesn’t wear clothing, he doesn’t eat off a plate and I have never called myself his “mom.”

But Santa photos seem like the first misstep.

The operations manager assures me I’m not alone, boasting that last weekend the store sold 55 photos.

“We’ll have lines, and dogs everywhere,” he says with a grin.

There are already dogs everywhere. Behind me, in the grooming studio, four large dogs howl as they get haircuts. I can hear barking from the training class at the back of the store. The yapping of two small Chihuahuas in matching Christmas sweaters cuts through the air.

Milo cowers in the back of his cage. He’s outnumbered.

Santa informs me that, in his experience, about 70 per cent of the animals who get photos taken with him are dogs. Santa usually works in the cat adoption centre, but today the middle-aged employee has donned a red suit, black boots and a bushy beard.

“Santa, your gloves!” says his elf Samantha, 19, as she throws a pair at him.

Often, larger stores will hire professional photographers, elves and Santas for the yearly “Santa Claws” event. But this CapitalCity PetSmart gets less traffic than some of the other five locations, so they assign their own employees to the job.

Samantha and Santa say they don’t mind playing the part.

“I’ve been hanging around animals my whole life,” Samantha says from beneath a pointy green hat. She gestures to her striped tights, her curled felt shoes, and her green jumper.

“I’m really friendly, and I’m willing to dress up in costumes like this.”

Santa adjusts his beard and shrugs.

“It’s something new to do,” he says earnestly, his eyes wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

“The animals mostly behave.”

But Luna the German shepherd isn’t cooperating. The friendly dog keeps turning around to sniff Santa, ruining the shot.

“Sit, Luna!” her owner pleads.

She grabs a squeak toy and holds it behind Samantha, who has the camera. She squeezes it.

Luna turns, her ears perked.

Samantha presses the shutter.

“You only get a few shots where they don’t look terrified,” Samantha admits later, as she rests her feet at the printing station.

“The parents love it, but you can tell the animals are hating life.”

Later, after I’ve sent my enraged cat home with a friend, I explore the rest of the store. There are aisles of Christmas gift ideas for pets. I’m seriously tempted by a set of strap-on antlers for cats or small dogs, but decide Milo had been through enough that day.

As I pass display after display of festive stockings and Christmas-coloured stuffed mice, I wonder if I’ve neglected Milo by assuming he didn’t care about presents.

After all, he’s just a cat, not a child.

Tell that to the mother of Oscar.

“He’s my little boy. He’s like my son,” she says of her yellow Labrador retriever.

Oscar is a model of obedience. He sits demurely by Santa’s feet and looks straight at the camera. His ears perk up when she offers him a treat.

“There we go,” she says proudly as Samantha snaps the perfect picture.

Oscar wags his tail as his owner shows me a wallet full of photos of the dog. She says she has commissioned three oil paintings of Oscar from a professional artist in Toronto.

“Let’s go and see what you want to ask Santa for Christmas!” she says to Oscar as they head toward the dog section, Oscar sniffing at the bags of food they pass on the way.

An hour later I see her beaming as she pushes a cart full of bags past the cashier.

After a lull in action, I check in on Santa. It’s been almost an hour since anyone came in for a photo.

As I round the corner toward the photo area, Santa’s head sinks lower toward his chest. His eyes are closed and his beard is crooked. Swathed in sagging red velour, he is dwarfed by the large green bench under him.

A tiny poodle in an argyle sweater trots by. The snap of the dog’s nails on the linoleum jerks Santa back to attention, and just in time.

Max the “skinny pig” is here for a photo.

Skinny pigs are a breed of hairless Guinea pigs. They’re smaller and more delicate than the furrier variety. Max is almost a year old and he looks like a miniature hippo, grey and folded. He’s wrapped up in a blanket.

“It’s his first Christmas,” his owner, 21, explains to Samantha, cradling Max like a newborn.

Santa holds Max gently as Samantha moves in for a close-up.

“Well, don’t you have a lot to say!” Santa coos to the chirping critter.

Later, Santa talks happily about his three cats at home and tells me Milo is very handsome. I’m doubtful as I look at the photo of the two of them together, Milo staring like a stunned deer into a headlight as Santa holds his bulky black body tight to stop him from running away.

I tell him I love my cat but that I was embarrassed to bring Milo to the store.

“I don’t want to look obsessed with my pet,” I tell Santa.

He laughs and tells me I’m in the right place for it.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

ThePeach hits rock bottom; regrets all those holiday Lattes

Today my credit card was declined in a No Frills grocery store.

No Frills, people. That’s literally the lowest grocery store in the food chain, just barely above the food bank and a squeak below Walmart.

Declined, trying to buy no-name eggnog and breakfast sausages for my sister.

Thank god I went to dollarama before No Frills, or Cockdoc wouldn’t be getting his Christmas present.

Tis the season to lie in the dark wondering what happened to your life.

Falalalala lalala la.


Saturday, December 19, 2009

Confessions of a failed yuppie

I’m in Universitytown for the holidays, staying with TigerCat and CockDoc.

I have really needed this vacation. If you’re wondering why I haven’t updated my blog in the past 3 weeks, it’s because I’ve been in the dark place again (it’s dark). All I do is work and lie on the couch thinking about my work and how poor I am. Throw in some instant noodles, microwave popcorn and cat vomit removal and that’s pretty much how I spent the last month.

TigerCat’s apartment is a beacon of festive hope in my dark place. It looks like someone put Martha Stewart in a small box, threw in some speed, shook the box vigorously for 15 minutes, and then set her free in the apartment with some garland.

TigerCat is currently unemployed and has directed all of her time and energy into Christmasing the shit out of life. She has baked over 500 Christmas cookies. She has handcrafted home-made ornaments for the tree. She has had the menu for Christmas dinner planned since October.

Enter ThePeach.

I rolled into Universitytown with a suitcase full of dirty clothes and mismatched socks with holes in them, zero dollars in the bank, and an apartment back home where the power is likely to be turned off before the New Year.

I’d forgotten how grownup all of my Universitytown friends are, what with their houses and their marriages and their sweater vests. I’m trying to fit in, but the results are…discouraging.

Knitting FAIL:
I have zero dollars and at least 5 people to buy Christmas gifts for. I got it in my head that a solution might be to purchase cheap yarn, learn to knit using youtube videos, and knit everyone a scarf in the one week before Christmas.

TigerCat took me to a craft store, I explained my situation to a store clerk, and she assured me I could knit a scarf in like six hours once I got the hang of it. Then she showed me how to knit, and I tried to pay attention but realized that knitting is boring, so TigerCat paid attention while I thought about writing, sushi, and the last episode of Glee.

Then I bought 6 spools of yarn and some knitting needles. Total price: $60.

The price of a scarf at Old Navy: $2

Not a promising start. No matter, I would knit the shit out of the scarves and gift everyone with a homemade token of my love!

TigerCat and I had an idea in our minds of how this would go. We would sit on the couch by the Christmas tree, sip tea, maybe bake some scones, and chat about niceties while we quickly knit perfect scarves. Just like old ladies in the movies, or old age homes.

This is how it actually went:

TigerCat: This is actually pretty easy!
ThePeach: FUCK.
TigerCat: Look, my first row.
TigerCat: Look how tidy my stitches are.
ThePeach: *throws knitting at wall*
TigerCat: This scarf is going to be beautiful!
ThePeach: *tries to stab own heart with knitting needle*
TigerCat: And yours is…oh…it’s…do you want help?
ThePeach: I’ll kill you.

I had to restart approximately six times, and each time I cried and swore like I had tourettes. It took me two days to realize I was making the wrong kind of knots.

My first attempt at a scarf for my grandpa turned into a heap of frayed yarn unraveled in a pile beside the bed.

My second attempt looked like something you pull out of the bottom of a bathtub drain.

My third attempt had a hole you could fit your fist through.


My final attempt had a five-foot long dangler hanging from the middle of one of my rows for no apparent reason. I knew I would actually kill myself if I started over again, so I just cut the dangler and pretended I never saw it. I hope it wasn’t a load-baring dangler.

It’s been three days, countless shit-fits, and 60 dollars. I have successfully knit approximately one inch of scarf. It’s the equivalent skill of the hand-print mosaic a five year old makes in kindergarten and gives as a mother’s day present, except I’m 27 years old.

I’ll give it to my grandpa on his death-bed.

Guitar Hero FAIL:
So, it turns out that when you’re a yuppie you spend your nights playing Guitar Hero, Rock Band, Band Hero, or some equivalent. This is what people do after the bar, before the bar, or in lieu of the bar. It looks like fun, and I've been anxious to try it.

Trying to hone my skill, I decided to play Guitar Hero World Tour with TigerCat and CockDoc one night. They put me on the drums to start, figuring it was a good place for me since I played the actual drums for like 13 years.

We lost within the first 7 seconds of the song. TigerCat smiled encouragingly as she held the microphone and said we should try again, maybe on beginner instead of easy. CockDoc strummed the guitar and said nothing.

We lost in 9 seconds.

I blamed the drums, saying it’s hardest instrument. So they put me on vocals, and TigerCat immediately picked up the drums with the skill of Phil Colins while I stumbled and cracked my way through Michael Jackson’s “Beat it.”

CockDoc strummed the guitar and said nothing.

The band still wasn’t up to par, so then they tried me on guitar while CockDoc deftly aced the drums and TigerCat sang like Gwen Stefani.

I wasn’t as bad on guitar, but I was still not up to the same level of skill as my other band members. What is this star power you speak of? What is this solo? Why is your tv bigger than my bathroom?

I went to bed discouraged, tripping on my knitting on the way.

Shopping FAIL:
Yuppies also like to shop in big-box stores like Walmart and CostCo. It might be for the prices, or it might be to laugh at the mulleted fatasses buying icing in bulk. I can get on board with that, so we went to Walmart on my first day in UniversityTown.

TigerCat bought all of the ingredients for our Christmas dinner at a quarter of the normal retail price. I got over-stimulated by the low prices and bought a pair of boots that don’t really fit and make me look like a cowboy. I also bought a club-pack of socks and some Halls throat lozenges. Then I got so overwhelmed that TigerCat had to take me outside and we left.

Today we’re trying CostCo. I’ll probably try to buy an 800-pack of tampons and then faint from excitement.

I’m scared.

Life FAIL:
Last night we got high and watched the movie “You, Me and Dupree.” It’s about a nice, young, middle-class couple and their hobo friend who comes to stay with them and winds up destroying their lives.

TigerCat and CockDoc kept looking at me throughout the movie. Like when Dupree admits he doesn’t have a license, when he can’t pay his rent and is living on a cot in a bar, and when he burns down part of their living room from lighting too many candles during sex.

I’m not sure what they’re hinting at.

Tonight they’re taking me to a holiday party for married people.

Maybe I’ll bring my knitting.


Sunday, December 06, 2009

ThePeach enjoys LittleBird's bluntness; pain

“ThePeach, do you enjoy pain?”

My friend LittleBird asked me this over a drink at the corner bar. I looked at her blankly.

“Seriously. Do you enjoy pain?”

She took a sip of her beer.

Why would she ask me that?

Is it because I’m planning on spending my Christmas holidays in UniversityTown, living across the street from FauxHawk, allowing him to cat-sit, and having platonic semi-romantic dinners with him?

Is it because I’m currently playing online scrabble with FauxHawk’s mother, because she won’t stop facebook stalking me, and she decided she wants to tutor me in the ways of the triple word score?

Or is it because I’m debating adopting my ex-ex-boyfriend’s cat, because he’s a stoner and neglects the cat we adopted as a kitten in the weeks before I left him for FauxHawk, and I can’t bear to see the cat suffer so why not add to my baggage and vet bills and live in a constant state of kitten wars as Milo and Potter duke it out for king of the litter mountain?

“Do you enjoy pain?”

I enjoy drinking. And gravy on top of anything. And lesbian sitcoms. And loose-fitting pants.

Pain? Feck.


Friday, November 27, 2009

MortalCombat is dedicated; hysterical

As usual, most people in my class are suicidal this week.

MC, however, has managed to maintain some semblance of sanity in a time of end-of-term assignments, no sleep, and crying over soya sauce bottles that just won’t open. She is a beacon of strength and productivity. She gave me a box of KD and the will to live this afternoon.

I spent today lying on the couch, wallowing in the dark and twisty parts of my mind, and also watching “The L Word.” MC spent the day trying to come up with an idea for her participant-observation story for our writing class. She sent a few ideas to our prof, who would then immediately write back snippy answers about how uncreative MC’s ideas were.

After the prof vetoed another one of MCs idea, MC texted me tonight to ask if she could borrow some bus tickets. I told her to come upstairs and grab some. I paused the lesbian porn.

Enter MC. And the crazy eyes.

“I’m going to Syracuse tomorrow.”

She stared at me intently.

I’m sorry. You’re doing WHAT and WHY?

“I’m going to Syracuse tomorrow.”

I looked into her crazy eyes, open wide and bulging with intensity. I realized she was not joking.

“I’m going to Syracuse at 8am. I just bought a bus ticket. I’m doing my participant-observation piece on Canadians who go to the US to shop on Black Friday.”

Oh. Kay.

“Have you run this idea past our prof?”

Her eyes flashed with madness. I took a step backwards,


Oh. Kay.

“So, let me get this straight. In the 15 minutes since our prof vetoed your last idea, you booked a bus ticket to Syracuse and are now going to the US tomorrow morning at 8am?”


And then the hysterical laughter started. I was hunched over clutching my ribs and gasping for air, I was laughing so hard. MC was shaking and gripping her knees, her long hair draping the floor. We laughed for about 10 minutes straight.

Then I looked up and MC was crying like a crazy lady.

Why doesn’t she like me?? Why is our prof so mean to me?? I don’t know what I did wrong!! I go to every class! I even do the fucking reeeeeeadings!! And now I have to go to Syyyyyracuuuuuse!!!”

I ran up to her and hugged her. She sobbed into my shoulder.

“At least you’ll get to go shopping?”

“I don’t even have any American money!”

This brought on another 10 minutes of bladder-clutching laughter. I told MC she had better text me the next morning so I knew she was still alive.

“I’ll text you from the bus! It’s 3 hours each way!”

Then her eyes welled up with tears again.

Journalism school: don’t do it.


Monday, November 23, 2009

ThePeach is defeated by Soya Sauce; life

I’ve hit new levels of pathetic.

Tonight I had a big seminar presentation based on two long articles. One of them was easy, one of them was dense. I stayed up until 3am trying to understand the dense one and making conversation points to bring up with the class. Today, 30 seconds into my seminar, my professor informed me that I was presenting on the wrong article, and one of them was not actually part of my assignment: the dense one.

So, that sucked.

But I shook it off. Forged ahead with the other article, cheeks blazing with shame. During my class break I sprinted to the coffee shop to get an anti-suicide cookie. They were out of cookies.

That also sucked.

When class finally ended I slunk home and decided to make my first meal of the day. It was 9:30 pm.

No big deal.

I sautéed my vegetables. Boiled my noodles. Got out the Soya sauce to douse the veggies in salt.

The lid wouldn’t come off.

I tried turning it both ways. Running it under hot water. Using a cloth. I even took a knife to the fucker and almost lost a finger. I grunted like a caveman trying to figure out how to make fire. I left it alone for a few minutes, hoping I was just imagining that it wouldn’t open. I started talking out loud.

“Why?” I asked the bottle. “Why?”

I jabbed it with a spoon. I tried another cloth. I twisted so hard I almost snapped my wrist.

“Why?” I whimpered. “Whyyyy?”

The veggies started going limp. The noodles were over cooked. I rammed the bottle on the side of the counter, hoping to loosen something. I turned it both ways. I screamed.

“WHY??” I sobbed. “WHYYYY???”

I turned off the frying pan. I turned off the pot full of soggy, bloated noodles. I lay on the couch and weeped for 35 minutes.

Spaz called.

Spaz: I called because I thought you might be feeling sad. It’s easy to get sad after night class.
ThePeach: AHHHEEEESOOOOOYSAUUUUCE *hysterical sobbing*
Spaz: …so you *are* sad, then?
ThePeach: *hysterical sobbing, muffled by pillow*
Spaz: Are you lonely? What’s wrong?
ThePeach: *hysterical sobbing* I…I…I…*hysterical sobbing* I CAN’T OPEN THE SOYA SAUCE!!!! *weeps*
ThePeach: *weeps* I think it’s a metaphor for my stupid pathetic life.
Spaz: How long have you been crying?
ThePeach: *weeps* I’ve been on the couch for 35 minutes.
Spaz: Jesus. How many ex boyfriends did you text during those 35 minutes?
ThePeach: *sobs* TWO!
Spaz: Jesus.
ThePeach: *hysterical sobbing* Now I can’t eat dinner.
Spaz: Wait. You never got the lid off?
ThePeach: *sobs* no-o-o-o!
ThePeach:…*sniffle* It’s not funny! I’m staying on this couch until I die.
Spaz: Want to come upstairs and eat cake?
ThePeach: I’ll be upstairs in 30 seconds.

And then I spent another 35 minutes on a couch. But this time I had cake, and Spaz, and no MOTHERFUCKING SOYA SAUCE laughing at me from the kitchen.

It’s been a bad few days. School sucks, life sucks, money sucks, work sucks, and the cat bit my face this morning.

But it took a bottle of Soya Sauce to break me.

Fuck the condiments.


Monday, November 09, 2009

Good morning to you, too.

Cats. They are vengeful little bastards.

I spent the weekend away and, when I got back, Milo was extra loving because he had been so lonely. He head-butted me with affection all night, curled up in a little ball on top of my stomach while I lay in bed, and purred like a monster while I slept. Wittle rat.

But I wasn’t fooled. I knew what was coming once the happiness of having me home again wore off.

Welcome to my Monday morning:

5:45am: Cat wakes up, drags stuffed mouse into the bed, starts pouncing on it on top of my stomach.
6:00am: Grows tired of mouse, but not of jumping on top of my body. Moves to my head. Gallops in place on my face.
6:30am: Howl. Howl. Howl. Howl. HOOOOOOOOOWL PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
6:45am: Resumes jumping on my face.
7:00am: Licks my face with raspy, smelly little cat tongue until I push him onto the floor. Immediately flies back onto the bed with agility of a furry eagle, as if his feet didn’t even hit the floor. Now he’s angry. Resumes howling. Adds biting.
7:30am: Bite. Bite. Bite. BITE. Gnaw.
7:45am: New tactic. Stands in place on my face, paws on eyelids, until I gasp from sensation of eyes being pushed backward into brain and flail about in bed trying to get him off me.
7:46am: I get up. Put on coffee. Cat gallops in circles around my feet.
7:47am: Open door to get newspaper. Cat sprints out the door, side-checking me on the way with such force that I almost fall over. Turns around once to glare at me, and then gallops like a demon stead through the hallways.
7:48am: GALLOP. ThePeach chases.
7:50am: GALLOP. ThePeach chases.
7:52am: GALLOP. ThePeach chases.
7:53am: Cat sprints back into apartment, hitting head on apartment door on the way in. Seems unfazed. Sits down by empty food dish and resumes howling. I feed him.
7:54am: Scarfs food like he just spent 2 years licking dirt in Ethiopia.
7:55am: Jumps into windowsill. Tries to hunt the cars driving by on the street below.
7:56am: Projectile vomits into windowsill.
7:58am: Curls up in a little ball on top of a cloth shopping bag on the kitchen table. Sleeps like angel.
8:00am: I call the vet to make appointment to have Milo put down before lunch.
8:02am: Chip cat vomit out of window tracks using a spoon.

Happy Monday!


Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Professionalism FAIL, part 3794

I sometimes freelance for the lifestyle section of this national newspaper chain. It makes me happy in my heart, because they ask me to write about hard-hitting topics like senior citizen fitness, peanut allergies, and more senior citizen fitness. God I love old people!

Seriously. They're adorable.

My current assignment is to compile a parent's guide to the most popular toys this holiday season. I find this a little tricky, maybe because I'm at the bitter age in my life where the sight of children makes my ovaries dry out. I'm not sure when this happened.

My first choice is "Baby Ah-Choo." Not because I think little girls need dolls, not because the doll comes with kleenex, a thermometer, and what I believe is a tiny fake bottle of hand sanitizer, but because I want to put the fear of H1N1 in the little disease-spreading grade schoolers. I don't want to catch swine because some dirty child wants to wipe its hands on everything and lick door-knobs. So let's teach them proper sanitization.

With Baby Ah-Choo.


I had to make a conference call to the senior toy buyers at a major Canadian department store. While on the phone discussing nerf guns and dolls that crap themselves, one of them asked me a question.

Senior Buyer: You don't know the tv show Bakugan?
ThePeach: No, sir, I do not.
Senior Buyer: It's the most popular boy's cartoon out there!
ThePeach: I do not know of it.
Senior Buyer: You must not have any young boys, then.
ThePeach: No, sir, I do not.
Senior Buyer: Do you have any children?
ThePeach: NO. GOD, NO!!!
Senior Buyer:...let's discuss the Flutter-By-Fairy.

That one just slipped right out.

I'll have to watch that.


Monday, October 26, 2009


HotMess and I went to hot yoga yesterday. Or, at least, we thought we did. Obviously neither of us read the schedule, and we accidentally wound up in a 90 minute extreme stretch class.

Oh holy fuck.

Of course we still had no idea that we had entered this new, fresh hell. 45 minutes into the class and we both had been holding our ankles over our heads for 20 minutes using special yoga straps (weird, why are we so good at this pose?), there are 9 inch bricks under our tailbones to fold us inside out, and we're both still waiting for the actual yoga to start.

Another 45 minutes later and we've both been holding deep birthing-style squats for 15 minutes, stretching our hip flexors and birth canals to the point of paralysis, and it's finally occured to us that maybe we took the wrong class. The hysterical laughter started, which is frowned upon in extreme stretch class, so then we had to try to muffle it. While in extreme birthing squat. I might have actually birthed one of my ovaries.

We should have known that we had walked into the wrong class right from the get-go. Usually our class is filled with 20-something yuppies in perfect yoga-body shape, all glistening perfect lady sweat in the 100 degree yoga room. When we walked into yesterday's class and lay out our matts, I was slapped in the face with an overwhelming yet distinguishable scent.

ThePeach: *lifts hips into downward dog, whispers* Why does it smell like balls in here?
HotMess: *lowers hips into resting child pose, whispers* Because the room is full of balls.

Men. Men everywhere. Old, topless men.

Extreme stretch:

Bad choice.


Sunday, October 25, 2009

Lies, lies, lies.

I went to the doctor on Thursday. Just the yearly check-up/weigh-in/speculum rape/syphilis swab.

As usual, the doctor and I nimbly circled around each other in the alcohol dance.

He asked me if I drank a lot.

I asked him what constituted “a lot.”

He asked me how much I drank in an average week.

I said I didn’t drink every week.

He asked me to guess.

I said maybe 10 drinks/week maximum, but that wasn’t every week.

He nodded like he believed me and then ordered a liver functioning test anyway.

Two nights later, I’m sitting alone on my couch, wondering how I just drank two-thirds of a bottle of red wine in under an hour.

See, I have this fiction piece I’m supposed to write for my writing class. I haven’t written fiction – real fiction, not a thinly veiled autobiography – in years. And even then, I wasn’t very good at it. Poetry, sure. Emo haikus, bring it. But real fiction? The thought makes my guts churn. I haven’t had an original idea in my entire life.

Add to the fact that we will be tearing through our final products next week in a group gang bang that our professor likes to call “workshopping.”

So, I thought a little wine might loosen me up and get the creative juices flowing. It worked for Ernest Hemingway. And Faulkner. And Thomas. Do not go gentle into that good night! Drink wine and write! I’m pretty sure that’s the point, anyway.

Instead I just drank all the wine and wrote nothing. I’d failed my drunken writing forefathers. And then I was drunk, alone, and in my pjs at 9pm on a Saturday night. So when the peer pressure text messages from my friends started coming in, I had no choice but to back out of my convictions that I would spend the night working, put on pants, and get thee to the bar.

So now, here I am. Sunday morning, I’ve still written nothing, and I have a massive red wine headache.

Being a writer is hard.

Those liver function tests should be back any day now.


Tuesday, October 20, 2009

ThePeach skips sleep; doesn’t skip talking

I’m on thin ice with my thesis supervisor.

When she called me into her office for a meeting last week, I knew it wasn’t going to be good. The second I received her brusque email requesting a meeting that morning, I broke into a fear-sweat. My eyes watered with tears. My stomach lurched.

Time for a fistin’.

It had already been a rough week, what with the OSAP audit, the piles of work I haven’t been able to get to, and that nagging faintness that makes me do things like end my TA sessions 30 minutes early so I can go lie down in the dark and dry heave in peace.

So, if my life was going down the crapper, I knew that this meeting was going to be the black plunger that pushed me further down a drain of watery feces.


Long story short, the meeting consisted of me sitting silently with tears running down my face while my supervisor calmly told me that I was a disappointment.

No big deal.

So today I had to drop off an assignment to her. I hadn’t slept all weekend in order to finish it, so I was feeling a little…oh…special.

I was in her office for a maximum of 45 seconds. Here is what came out of my mouth:

Supervisor: *giant plastered-on smile* Ooook, this looks just fine. Just fine. Good. Good.
ThePeach: *stares dully into her eyes* You look scared of me.
Supervisor: Um what?
ThePeach: *deadpan voice* You look scared of me.
Supervisor: …no…I’m just glad you’re back on the ball.
ThePeach: *eye twitch* Thank you for kicking my ass.
Supervisor: …well…I tried to be gentle about it.
ThePeach: *scary calm voice* Yes. You kicked my ass gently.

And then no one said anything and I decided to make my graceful exit.

I think that went really well.


Thursday, October 08, 2009

The Peach watches the fat grow; blames external forces

I haven't been for a run since school started over a month ago. This is a travesty. A travesty! I feel like a sluggish, lardy twat. Long gone are the lithe breakup-anorexia days of yesteryear. Gone are the days of leggings. Fleeting are the days of lulus.

Not ok.

I blame journalism school.

Is it possible that this year is even worst than the last? How can a program be designed to make us all want to kill ourselves? I slept 3 hours last night and I feel like I should get down on my knees and supplicate to the gods of mercy for their offering. Seriously, these are the kind of everyday, normal phone conversations I have with my classmates on a daily basis:


*phone rings*
HotMess: Peach?
ThePeach: Oh hey, HotMess. How was your day?
HotMess: Well, I pulled two all nighters in a row, haven't slept since Sunday, haven't changed my clothes since Monday, haven't eaten anything except 7 RockStar Burners, and still managed not to finish my radio documentary and my prof thinks I'm lazy and useless. So I'm just kind of driving around the city and fighting the suicide. You?
ThePeach: I only had to pull one all nighter - last night - so I'm ok. You know, a little nauseous and dizzy and suicidal but nothing too bad. I'm currently wandering through the drugstore like a drunk in order to buy a jumbo bag of chips. I need fuel before I mark those undergrad exams. I also want these exfoliation gloves. Like I have time to exfoliate! *hysterical laughter* Are you going to sleep tonight?
HotMess: *weeps slowly*
ThePeach: Yeah. Me neither.

*phone rings*
Spaz: Peach?
ThePeach: Oh hey, Spaz.
Spaz: How come you weren't in class last night?
ThePeach: Oh, a girl in the newspaper section I'm editing had a royal fuck-up so our professor sent me an email in which he called me an unprofessional debacle, so I spent my night sobbing in front of my laptop and simultaneously doing the girl's interviews, and then I didn't get to start my own article until 5am, and I haven't slept yet, I just hoovered a bag of ruffles and now I'm marking undergrad exams. You?
Spaz: I spent my day contemplating my future as a writer after getting back our assignments. I'm leaning towards never writing again. Sorry about that email. Remember the time I cried for two days over a mean email from our prof?
ThePeach: Yeah. I do.
Spaz: Want to come cuddle with me in my bed?
ThePeach: Yeah. I do.

And this was just yesterday.

Maybe tonight I'll try to go for a run. Or maybe I'll just lie on my floor and let the heart attacks take me.


Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Another heart-warming father daughter moment

My dad picked me up for lunch on my birthday. On the way to the restaurant he asked me about my love life. I think he felt bad about his previous insistence that, without FauxHawk, I would die alone. This had been his favourite suggestion for the past 3 months, and one he hinted at in all of our interactions. So I think this line of questioning was him trying to be supportive. Guess how that went?

Dad: So, any guys chasing you?
ThePeach: Uh…yeah. I guess. A few.
Dad: A few??
ThePeach: Well, yeah.
Dad: The boys like you, eh?
ThePeach: *awkward laugh*
Dad: They do, don’t they?
ThePeach: I…no? Yes?
Dad: See, everyone always thinks that boys just want the hot girls. The really attractive ones. But it’s not always true! Sometimes they want the smart girls, like you! That Master’s degree is going to really help you out, I think.
ThePeach: …

*whimpers* Daddy.


Sunday, October 04, 2009

I like drinking.

I woke up spread-eagle on a completely deflated air mattress at 10am. I slowly opened one crusty eye, felt yesterday’s makeup tear my eyelashes out, and looked to my left: Cleavage in the fetal position beside me. TheHubby on the bare floor beside her. Above me, TheHippie’s leg, dangling from the couch. I squinted and could just make out TheCorporate and QueenB passed out in QueenB’s bed. I was still wearing my bar shirt but not my push-up bra. I was still drunk.

QueenB stumbled out of the bedroom.

“Who wants breakfast?”


I cheerily scarfed down eggs and a muffin, full of drunken zest for life. And then we started talking about last night.

TheHubby fixed his eyes on me.

“Do you remember asking if you could puke on the lawn, and then trying to do it?”


“Do you remember walking barefoot down the streets and yelling that you probably had AIDS as a result?”


“Do you remember puking in QueenB’s bathroom for 20 minutes?”

That explains the sore throat.

“Do you remember passing out in QueenB’s bed?”

What? How did I wind up on the air mattress? Lies.

“Do you remember me trying to physically drag you out of the bed, and you whining about how comfortable you were and to leave you alone?”

Absolutely not. This did not happen. I do not black out.

That’s when Cleavage chimed in.

“I had to shake your shoulders for 10 minutes to keep you awake. You would not move.”

Pretty smug from someone who slept on the bathroom floor Friday night, spooning the heater.

And then QueenB spoke up.

“I got home 20 minutes later and you were spread eagle on my side of the bed. Not just in my bed, but on my side. So I told you to get the hell out and you ran to the air mattress like a scared little bitch.”

Well. That’s because I do anything you tell me, alpha-bitch.

TheHippy kept quiet through this entire humiliating exchange. But later, as she drove me to the train station, she made a confession.

“Don’t feel bad. I woke up on the bathroom floor at 8am with no pants whatsoever and no idea what happened.”

Oh thank god.

Anyway, after breakfast I had a little nap with TheHippy. She spooned me. It’s the only advantage of being the lowest bitch in our alpha hierarchy – I’m always the little spoon. I have to do whatever I’m told, but I get cuddled.

I woke up at noon, this time not drunk.

Oh sweet jesus in heaven. Here comes the dry heaves. I tried to remember just how much I drank. There were many birthday shots. 6? Probably 4 vodka redbulls. That explains the shakes. And god knows how many gins. 8? 12? 30? I’m sure I danced like a sweaty, epileptic munchkin. TheHubby said I aggressively grinded his genitals in a corner of the dance floor. God only knows who else got dry-humped. You’re welcome, TheBigCity.

So, the weekend was a great success. We consumed at least 40,000 calories each, mostly in cheese form. I drank myself into a blackout. Two out of 8 of us slept on the bathroom floor. Two out of 8 puked. Two wore shirts as dresses to the bar. One of us cried while standing in line for post-bar poutine. TheHippy and I discovered that we’re blood twins: we’re both O+, we both got our very first periods at Guide Camp, and after one night together out uteruses were back in sync. It’s starting to get weird, actually. We’re like twins who were separated at birth, but I’m the parasite twin who feeds off her.

But anyway, this weekend made me love life again.

So, maybe I’m a train-wreck. Maybe I’m a total fucking disaster, and I’m going to go to debt jail and be evicted and have my cat taken away by social services.

But I love my fucked-up, disastrous, train-wreck of a life.

And, apparently, so do you.


Saturday, October 03, 2009

The dark place is dark on the train.

Why is it that I only ever have time to update when I’m in transit? I shouldn’t even have time for this – I’m supposed to be failing, I mean marking, the assignments of the little nuggets I TA, while simultaneously rewriting my thesis proposal and having a newspaper story meeting via email. But Via Rail’s wifi is down, so now that I’ve had a celebratory nap and sandwich, here I am. With time on my hands.

Ok, I don’t actually need wifi to mark assignments or rewrite my thesis, but I’m using it as an excuse. Eat me.

I’m having a life-fail kind of week. I haven’t really slept in a month, my knockers are definitely shrinking, my apartment smells like garbage, and I might have to whore myself for rent money. If anyone will have me. The fact that my uterus is making me want to simultaneously weep and stab people in the face isn’t helping things. This bitch will cut you, and then hold your hand and ask you to tell me I’m pretty.

I went to the bar last night for a reprieve from the constant writing. I was so stressed about work that I smoked 4 cigarettes. Bad. Bad!! Don’t go into journalism, kids. It gives you cancer and probably the clap. We’re all whores.

Anyway, my Dad drove me to the train station today. He didn’t help things, either.

ThePeach: *opens apartment door* Hi, Dad. I’m just running a few minutes behind because I had to call a source. I need 10 minutes. And sorry about all the dirty dishes but I haven’t been home much. And if it smells like cat pee, it’s because the cat peed on my globe and mail yesterday. I threw it out but the smell is really lingering.
Dad: *scans room in horror* Jesus, Peach. I know you’re not so busy that you can’t take 10 minutes to clean up! What’s wrong with you??
ThePeach: Grad School is wrong with me.
Dad: Have you paid the dentist yet?
ThePeach: Fuck! The dentist!
Dad: Getting calls from creditors isn’t going to help your financial problems. Why are you such a train-wreck?? Get your shit together! Have you taken FauxHawk back yet?
ThePeach: *grits teeth* He. Doesn’t. Want. Me. Back. Father.
Dad: Of course he does. You’re just being stubborn. That ship is going to sail, you know.
ThePeach: I can’t…even…this is…too much…right now
Dad: Oh, shit. I forgot. Have a good birthday this weekend.
ThePeach: *hysterical weeping*

To recap: I live in a heap of my own filth, I can’t pay my bills, and I’m going to die alone.

And all this from a 55-year-old single man who is seriously contemplating growing his own weed.

So now I’m in the dark place again. I’m typing this with my hood on and my face pressed against the train window. I may or may not have cried in the tiny, aluminum bathroom.

But things are looking up. I’m on my way to TheBigCity for a reunion weekend with my women/husband. It will be TheHippy, Cleavage, TheHubby, QueenB, Workahol and TheCorporate – together again. I’m salivating with excitement. And at the thought of the $200 worth of sushi we will order for dinner, and that I will vomit up 4 hours later, after my 12th jager bomb.

I’m also really looking forward to taking this disaster out on the town. Let’s see who I can head-butt this time.

I leave you with this:

A comedian on the CBC radio show “The Debaters” yesterday, on why womanhood isn’t dependent on motherhood:

“Yes, my female body has the innate biological urge to procreate. But sometimes it also has the innate biological urge to put on sweatpants, eat a tub of ice cream, cry, and shoot people. And I manage to ignore most of that one.”


UPDATE: Life is amazing again. I love my friends so much. I just ate half the ocean worth of sushi. Last night I drank a 2L bottle of wine and then watched a porno called "Man Country." Tonight I'm going to the club to drink 5000 gins, dance like a rightous whore, and make out with everything with legs.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

ThePeach is old; barren

I had lunch with TigerCat and my Dad yesterday. I’m having a fairly stressful week, so when a baby started screaming in the restaurant, my reaction was to curl my face in disgust and mutter “take it for a walk. TAKE IT FOR A WALK.”

TigerCat’s reaction was to coo in the general direction of the child, and turn to me.

TigerCat: When are you going to have babies? You’re going to be 27 in two weeks, you know. When are you planning on having babies?!
ThePeach: Fuck off.
Dad: Hey now. Give Peach a break. She doesn’t even have a boyfriend.
ThePeach: Amazing.

Yesterday’s anal fisting was brought to you by my family and the progression of time.

But don’t begrudge my precious TigerCat. She brought me a dozen home-made muffins.

I’ve already eaten 8 of them, alone in my disastrous apartment, watching more of my viable time slip by.


Wednesday, September 16, 2009

You are not alone.


So, this week of school is going great. Last week tricked us, what with the no real class and the orientations and the patios full of tequila shots and hope.

This week is all about remembering that the goal of our program is to kill us all.

I mean, it’s only Wednesday and I’m already lying alone in the dark, just staring. I’m not sure at what. Maybe at a life that is suddenly full of more writing than I ever thought possible. Like my thesis, and 1200-word op-ed insight pieces, and WHY WHY WHY does there have to be a fucking federal election each year that I am in journalism grad school?? For the love of Layton’s moustache, cool your jets Ignatieff! I want to write about other things. Like kittens.
Anyway. Today was rough, but I take some solace in the fact that everyone else in my class is wandering around like a kicked puppy, their wounded eyes pleading for the lazy days of multiple unpaid summer internships.

I got home from my newspaper workshop and immediately collapsed on the couch with a bag of chips, a jar of peanut butter, and a globe and mail. I even have to multi-task during my nervous breakdowns.

I whimpered and texted MC.

ThePeach: How was your day? I just stress-ate an entire bag of chips. Now I’m starting on the peanut butter.
MC: I want my mom.

Week 1.


Oh, right. This.

Right. School.

I'm two days in, and already I:

1. Don't have time to exercise. Let the back fat commence!
2. Spend all my waking moments consuming news. This time because I have to teach bright-eyed first years, and I should probably know what an Obama is.
3. Am down from a solid 8 hours of sleep/night to a fretful 5. The countdown is on. By next week I'll be at a red-bull driven 3.
4. Am literally down to my last dollar. Credit card is maxed out. Used the last monies to my name to order a subscription to the Globe and Mail. See #2. Now can't afford to eat. Packed lunch today = rice and a sausage I found in the back of the freezer. Will dance for nickels.
5. Have no time for life. The assignments are already starting to pile up, I just remembered that I have a thesis, and today I start my newspaper workshop. That sausage is looking pretty optimistic, as I'll realistically consume a coffee and a breath mint for lunch instead.
6. Had my debit card rejected at the dentist. 4 times, just to make sure I really had no money in my account. Do they have repo men for teeth? I have to go back tomorrow to pay them. I hope they will accept my cat, wrapped lovingly in yesterday's globe and mail.

To quote spaz: *whispers to self* It's all going to fall apart.

And now to shower and put on a sweater vest, because damn if I can't be a sexy disaster.

Send nickels.


Friday, September 11, 2009

Love; It's like a Hurricane

I saw FauxHawk yesterday. He was in CapitalCity to see his family and wanted to stop by for a visit. Of course I said yes, because I’m a goddamn masochist.

We hadn’t spent any time together in a little while, so I was nervous. I started texting people about an hour before he came over.

ThePeach: FauxHawk is coming over. I think for coffee. I’m scared.
BadInfluence: Throw your coffee in his face.
ThePeach: Actually, I was thinking I’d just look super hot and throw that in his face instead.
BadInfluence: Just as painful.

Hotness is the only weapon in my arsenal right now. So I did my best to work it, despite the fever and face full of snot. But in the end it didn’t matter, because as soon as FauxHawk walked through my door my illusions of superiority melted and I just wanted to hold hands and tell him about my day. Goddamnit, love.

We watched some tv and chatted. It just felt natural to lean back on him and have him put his arms around me. I could feel his heart beating on my back.

The thing is, it’s hard. The breakup thing is fucking hard. We’re not right for each other. I don’t want to be a Jewish Stepford Wife, slopping my 2pm martini on the carpet while I tell my kids that Daddy doesn’t know how to love Mommy, and that’s why Mommy drinks. But we love each other, and we did for five years and that doesn’t just go away after two months and an Irish bartender.

So when FauxHawk and I see each other, it seems natural to fall into old habits. Don’t worry, nothing happened beyond the cuddling. Although, really, that almost seems more destructive than a meaningless fuck.

Anyway, eventually I extracted myself from Satan’s bear trap and met some friends at the bar for a much, much needed drink. I immediately poured several gins down my throat and became slurry drunk thanks to the approximately 47 benalyn pills I had consumed already that day. Later, some of us went back to BadInfluence’s house to continue the par-tay. I was feeling a little empty, and that’s when GinBucket broke out the guitar and started singing the most amazing song I have ever heard.

GinBucket: Love, it’s like a hurricane: it happens in Florida, it gets into everything.
Love, it’s like a monster truck: it fills up whole stadiums, but it crushes smaller trucks
Love, it’s like a marmoset: it may be small and cute, but sometimes it eats its young
Love, it’s like a trailer park: ugly but functional, the rent is cheap enough
Love, it’s like a garbage man: it collects waste and filth, it smells like rotting flesh
Love, it’s like an interstate: it gets you from place to place, but it’s littered with dead raccoons
Love, it’s like a newborn child: seems interesting when it’s young, gets pedestrian after a while
Love, it’s like a hurricane: it happens in Florida, it destroys everything.

I sat there in awe, gin in hand, while GinBucket sang what is essentially my new theme song. I might have fallen in love with her a little bit at that moment. But remember that I'm predisposed to people who can sing and play guitar at the same time.

Anyway, I eventually stumbled home at 4am, took two more benalyn, fever-slept until noon, and then met MortalCombat at Starbucks. We took our coffees down to the canal and lay in the grass, watching a little girl in a white dress chase ducks. We discussed life and love.

Love really is like a hurricane. But thank god for friend love. It keeps me alive.

And drunk. Which is so key.


Thursday, September 10, 2009

ThePeach is back to the real world; does not like

Ola, bitches.

I’m back to school this week and the return to the real world has had its ups and downs. The ups include seeing all my MJ lovers again and getting drunk on patios.

The downs are more interesting.

1. Another burn from Grandpa
I had brunch with my grandpa the day after I got back to town. I was feeling good – all tanned and awesome – and was excited to see the only good man in my life. We went to Cora’s, ordered our crepes and coffees, and my grandpa beamed at me.

Grandpa: I missed you, girl!
ThePeach: I missed you, grandpa! *shovels crepes into mouth*
Grandpa: You look great!
ThePeach: *mouth full of crepes* SHANKSH!
Grandpa: You fattened up in the face!!
ThePeach: *chokes*

Amazing. Just the look I was going for.

2. I have Swine Flu
Ok, not really. But maybe. Ok, not even maybe. But I do have the motherfucking cold of death and want to be dead. I can barely breathe, I sound like I swallowed a chain saw, and I have a fever. And the only cure is more cow bell. Seriously, though, there is no cure. I’ve been going to bed at 9:30pm and drinking litres of neocitron, to no effect. Last night I ran out of neocitron and stumbled to the Lebanese minimart at 9pm in booty shorts and a hippy shirt, dazed by fever. I stood in the middle of the packed little minimart, completely overwhelmed. The kindly Lebanese man helped me.

Lebanese man: What you need?
ThePeach: *wheeze* drugs.
Lebanese man: You sick, sweetheart?
ThePeach: *cough* drugs.
Lebanese man: Ok, I have the thing. *reaches behind a display of sanitary napkins from the 1970s, fish hooks, and flashlights* Here, good drugs.
ThePeach: *examines dusty box* Is this neocitron?
Lebanese man: Better. No name neocitron. Extra strength. It help you, sweetheart.
ThePeach: *wheeze* I also need microwave popcorn.
Lebanese man: *points* There. Under Beef Jerky display.
ThePeach: *eyes well up* You always have everything I need. You are amazing and I love you.
Lebanese man: How much drugs you already take, sweetheart?
ThePeach: *wheeze* I’ll also take some beef jerky.

Anyway, now I’m fully blitzed on cold meds and I have to go meet the class that I TA this year. Fuckin’ A!

3. Milo is great
The cat is not happy about living with me again. The little traitor fucking adores FauxHawk, who was cat sitting while I was in Portugal. The cat tried to scratch my eyes out when I took him away from FauxHawk’s, cried the whole way home – even after I fed him part of my Big Mac – and now spends all day sitting by the door, howling like a little bitch, and looking at me with sad eyes.

But the other day he really expressed his distaste about living with me by sprinting around the apartment with a full turd dangling from his ass, eventually depositing it on my living room carpet.

I’m trying to be patient. He is a child of divorce.

But I might have to have him put down if this continues.

Well, I think that’s everything for now. Time to go meet the first year students I will be teaching and spread the swine flu.



Sunday, September 06, 2009

ThePeach Goes to Portugal; Epic Bender Ensues

Oh holy fuck me sideways on a donkey cart. How do I even start to describe the past 14 days of my life?

I should have known that this entire trip would be a gong show from beginning to end. TheAmazon and I can’t spend a weekend together without someone fucking a cowgirl or winding up in the hospital, so I should have foreseen that this would not be your average backpacking vacation.

It started with our flight there, which was cancelled due to tornadoes in Philadelphia. Why not? So then we were put on standby with Lufthansa, a German airline, got seats with 20 minutes before takeoff, TheAmazon wound up sitting next to the hottest chick on the plane, and I got stuck with an old Austrian man. But he did get me drunk, so all was not lost. We landed in Germany instead of Portugal, transferred flights, I got bumped to first class (YES!!), and eventually we made it to Lisbon.

Our first few days were uneventful, save for drinking one too many pitchers of Sangria, scaling a 30 foot monument at 4am in front of what turned out to be a security guard, and finding out our hostel roommates were two Spanish Men named Manuel and Juan. Ola.

We did the good little tourist thing in Lisbon, and then decided to head south to the Algarve. We wanted to go to Faro, but we decided to stop in this small town called Lagos for 2 days on the way. We had heard it was a pretty neat little town, so a pit stop there seemed reasonable.

We never left.

Oh my god, Lagos. LAGOS!!! We accidentally stumbled about the hedonism paradise of Europe. First of all, it is the most beautiful place I have ever seen. The water is aquamarine, the beaches are golden, and the backdrop is a series of tall cliffs jutting out into the ocean. The weather is perfect every single day. Thank god I packed my booty shorts at the last minute, because I didn’t take them off for 10 days. It’s flinging flanging hot in the Algarve.

We had no idea what we were getting into when we got off the train on our first day there. I mean, we could see that we had landed in paradise, but we didn’t know that we had landed in drunktown/fuckville. After a day spent at the beach, we decided to get dressed and head out for dinner. We were a little tired, so we decided it would be a quiet night. We made it two blocks from our little guest house before an Australian heartbreaker named Garreth stopped us in the street and offered us a free shot if we went to his bar.

We looked at each other. Well, what’s the harm in one free drink before dinner?

Next thing we know it’s 6am, an entire Aussie footy team has just done body shots off my ass and TheAmazon’s tits, TheAmazon has lost her shirt, and my g-string is hanging from the ceiling. Ok.

Not too sure what happened there. We slept for 4 hours, stumbled to the beach, and lay there until the world stopped spinning.

Multiply x 12 days.

Lagos is a strange little place. It’s a backpacker Mecca, where travelers from all over the world visit and then never leave. The entire town is run by Aussies and Brits, save for a few old Portuguese ladies who run the guest houses. You can forget you’re in Portugal until you go to the bathroom and have to squat over a hole in the floor with 3 other people.

Every single bar plays “Tonight’s Gonna be a Good Night” by Black Eyed Peas. It might as well be the Lagos anthem. And with happy hour all night, 2 for 1 mojitos, and free shots, every night really is a good night. The trick is not to resist. You have to let yourself become a part of the rhythm that moves Lagos, otherwise you need to get the fuck out. Drink until you’re blind, smoke like a 50 year old hooker, and enjoy the company of hundreds of other people who just want to drink, smoke, and get naked on the beach, up against the walls of the old town, in the clubs, etc. And for the love of syphilis, use a condom.

This isn’t to say we did nothing but drink. We went to Sagres to go surfing and nearly died in the violent waves. We walked 6km through a desert to get to the point of Piety – the most southwestern point in Europe – and felt like Jesus dragging his cross. We hiked through cliffs, swam in lagoons, and explored caves.
And then as soon as the sun went down we went back to being sloppy, drunken cunts. One day I woke up with a giant bump on the back of my head and no recollection of how I concussed myself. Another day TheAmazon woke up with a sprained ankle. I have a series of bruises from hip to calf on my left leg. Really wish I knew how that happened.

I adopted the town dog, a stray little monster with an underbite and crazy eyes. His name is Steve and I gave him bacon every morning. He loved me and I loved him until he bit me, the little fucker. Add rabies to the list, along with lung cancer and skin cancer. We made friends. Many friends. Some were special friends, like the sexy Irish bartender who bought me shots of absinthe and smirked as I flirted shamelessly.

“Yor a dorty gurl.”

Oh fuck me. It’s all over.

Turns out Irish accents make my clothes come off. Like, immediately. I can add that to the list, along with tequila, guys who can sing and play guitar at the same time, and anyone in a position of authority. Note: this list is not to be used for evil by any of my readers.

But by our last day in Lagos we were getting disillusioned. And not just because Ireland eventually burned me for a German whore (new favourite expression = pump and dump) and TheAmazon’s Aussie bartender decided she was no longer a lesbian.

On our last morning I sat on the curb, holding my absinthe-riddled head while TheAmazon shopped for souvenirs. A giant rat ran past me. How metaphoric.

The thing is, everyone in Lagos is running away from something. I was trying to forget my failed relationship, TheAmazon was trying to forget her hateful job, and everyone who works there has basically run away permanently. Nobody throws their entire lives away to live in perpetual sin if they’re not escaping from something back home. So the town has a bit of a dark edge to it. When you realize this it starts looking less and less like paradise. You start noticing the how all of the ex-pats have little guts and are prematurely aged from drinking 8 hours/day. You see the beggars with no feet. You see the fucking rats.

We left just in time, I think. My recommendation is to stay no more than 10 days.

That said, we were both wrist-cuttingly depressed to leave hedonism, which was only made worse by the 20+ hours we spent in transit on the way home. We were so grumpy on our first flight that I actually started yelling at the parents of one of the two screaming babies in our cabin. “BABY GRAVOL!!!” “BABY GRAVOL!!!” “FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!”

So anyway, to keep ourselves from getting arrested, we did the math. For real, it took us a good 4 hours. I give you…

Portugal By the Numbers:

Average Hours Slept per night: 4.8
Average Drinks consumed each per night: 11.8
Total Drinks consumed each over 12 days: 153
Number of times the word “cunt” was used per day: 37 (approximate)
Number of cigarettes smoked each per night: 9
International Man Bingo Winners, rated by performance:
- Team Event: Australia, with an average 8.25
- Solo Event: Ireland, with an average 8.5

I also give you: Strange Facts about Portugal!
1. When they bring you bread at dinner, they serve fish paste instead of butter. Like, it comes in the little plastic container, but it’s made of sardine. Being adventurous, I tried it. Bowels no likey.
2. The number 2 is pronounced “douche” in Portuguese. Therefore TheAmazon and I ordered everything in pairs in order to say douche as much as possible. Douche bus tickets. Douche tequila. Douche surfboards. Obrigado.
3. Bidets are everywhere. I used them to clean my feet after the beach.
4. 5 euro Portuguese hair straightners WILL tear out half your head of hair after 2 weeks of use. Bad choice. Good price.
5. At least 5 Indian restaurants on every street corner. Vindaloo while backpacking and averaging 11.8 drinks per night = not recommended. Bowels no likey. NO LIKEY.

So anyway, that’s pretty much my trip in a nut shell. Before I left I said I had 3 goals: to come back fat, relaxed, and with some serious perspective. I think I managed all three, although “fat” is questionable. But most importantly, moving on from FauxHawk is starting to seem less impossible. Like maybe I won't die alone after all. Or die of a broken heart. Also, I really hope he keeps his promise to stop reading my blog. Moving on seems more possible (eventually), but hurting him is still impossible. My heart still aches when I think of him.

One final note: Pauly Shore was on my connecting return flight from Philly to TheBigCity.

I love my life.


Thursday, August 20, 2009

It's time for my Lisbion experience

Oh holy jesus.

At this time tomorrow I will be flying to Lisbon. Scratch that. At this time tomorrow I will be sitting in the airport in Philadelphia, hoping that my baggage makes it onto my connecting flight to Lisbon. And by 8am on Saturday I will be in Portugal.




In true Peach style I’m completely unprepared for two weeks in a foreign country. I have booked exactly one hostel. Our first one. That is all. TheAmazon and I figure we’ll wing it from there, head down the coast, and hope for the best. As of yesterday I had 4 dollars in the bank, but luckily my grandpa loaned me money so that I don’t have to traffic myself just to have a roof over my head. But still, my funds are what we might call “limited.” I didn’t buy any kind of travel insurance, which means I’ll break my leg on day 1.

I packed, at least. Mainly bikinis, shpants and medication for every possible poop scenario. Bring on the garlic seafood, sangria and dysentery.

My grandpa wants to be helpful so I let him drive me around to run some errands today. Have you ever gone shoe shopping with a well-meaning 82-year-old man trying to bond with you on a feminine level? What I needed was trampy black wedge sandals for the bar that cost under 40 dollars. I got them. Thank you Payless.

But first I had to endure 20 minutes of this:

Grandpa: *stares at walls of discount shoes. Scratches head. Randomly picks up pair of hooker heels in size 11* Now….these are…patent leather….very classic…
ThePeach:…I think they’re a little big.
Grandpa: *Picks up pair of metallic pink flip flops* Pink…is…a feminine colour…for a lady…
ThePeach:...I think I like a different pair. *tries on wedge sandals*
Grandpa: *bends over. Stares at my foot.* Black…will match…every outfit…

Eventually I just bought the damn shoes before he could try to ask me about my period.

I’m trying to clean my apartment as I pack since I’m going to be getting back to CapitalCity only a few days before school starts, and I’ll be overwhelmed enough without having to call the police to come kill the contents of my fridge.

I started by bringing down my recycling. I’ve been throwing all of my recyclables into giant plastic bags ever since the breakup, and the heap kind of completely took over my foyer. I had to sort everything today, and that’s when I realized just how downhill my life has gone since I got dumped.

The contents of my recycling included:

- 5 jumbo Tanqueray bottles
- 2 jumbo Bombay Sapphire bottles
- 2 jumbo Vodka bottles
- 7 empty wine bottles
- 6 2L tonic bottles
- 10 cans of tonic
- 20 cans of redbull
- 2 OJ cartons
- 3 pizza boxes
- 3 10-pack of microwave popcorn boxes
- 4 kleenex boxes.

Well. I think that says everything right there, doesn’t it?

I should have saved it and made it into a modern art installation piece. I'd call it "drinking helps."

I guess this is why I need this vacation. It’s been almost two months now since FauxHawk and I broke up, and I see this as the final phase. I’m hoping to come back tanned, fat, relaxed, and with some serious perspective. FauxHawk and I were together for five years, but now I have my whole life ahead of me. All two years of it before I die of liver cirrhosis. Seriously, did you SEE MY RECYCLING????!!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!

Bitches, I bid you adieu. I’ll try to update from Portugal, but paying for internet access makes me cranky. So for now I’ll leave you with this google image photo montage of how I imagine my trip will go:
I'll start every day with a light breakfast:
Take in a little scenery:

Have sex with Christiano Ronaldo:
And probably also this chick:
Love, kisses, and inappropriate touching,


Enrich your word power!

Addiction: noun.
1 : the quality or state of being addicted
2 : compulsive need for and use of a habit-forming substance (as heroin, nicotine, or alcohol) characterized by tolerance and by well-defined physiological symptoms upon withdrawal; broadly : persistent compulsive use of a substance known by the user to be harmful.
3: pouring milk that expired one week ago into your morning coffee, hearing the distinct splash of a semi-solid chunk hitting the brew, and pretending not to notice because you used your last available grounds to make this pot.

Baby needs her medicine.


Monday, August 17, 2009

The bright place is bright.

One hour until my revised article deadline. This burst of timely energy is brought to you by coffee and Mika, my favourite hipster artist.

I dare you to listen to this song and not be joyous. I'm trying to pump myself up for my last burst of writing, so I'm currently dancing around the apartment like a housewife on roofies, cradling my coffee mug and scaring the bejesus out of the cat.

4 days until I go to Portugal. Coincidentally, 4 dollars in my bank account. Must finish articles and receive paycheque.

Man alive! 50 minutes! Back to anaphylaxis.

How can I help it
How can I help it
How can I help what you think?
Hello my baby
Hello my baby
Putting my life on the brink
Why don't you like me
Why don't you like me
Why don't you like yourself?
Should I bend over?
Should I look older just to be put on your shelf?
- Mika


Sunday, August 16, 2009

The dark place is dark.

I’m in the dark place (that’s what he said).

My work situation is not ok. It has leprosy. It has AIDS. I’m one more email from an editor away from tenderly caressing the knives.

After I sent in my articles on Friday I was expecting to take a nice, long coma-nap and then drink my life away. Instead, all within the same hour, my editor sent back the articles and asked me to expand them by Monday (fuck!), my prof emailed me to tell me to redo the bibliography in a new style format (FUCK!), and my magazine editor emailed me with 40 more articles to edit by the end of the week (FFFUUUUCKKK!).

All of this on no sleep.

Save me, Allah.

My immediate plan is to dig a big hole and go lie in it. Like a dead body. Or Saddam. You’ll find me in 6 months with a full beard.

After receiving all of these emails at once, I just kind of lay on the couch in a daze for a few hours, waiting for the heart attack to take me to a better place. Do you think heaven has jungle sex? And poutine? I hope not, because I’ll be really jealous when I’m burning in hell.

I had to cancel a movie date with FrogBoy that night thanks to the gentle fisting of my 3 internships. Instead I stayed in and stared at my laptop, willing it to explode. At 11pm I figured food might be a good call, so I had a deep fry platter delivered to my apartment. I'm not joking. The anorexia portion of my breakup is now but a distant memory. On the bright side, tits.

I met my grandpa for brunch yesterday. He brought me 3 jars of peach jam. I’ll add them to the stockpile of jam in my freezer. My freezer currently consists of about 30 jars of jam, two bottles of gin, and a 10lb bag of corn.

I went for another run last night. CapitalCity is going through a heat wave and there was a smog warning, but bitch needs her ass to look edible in a bikini when she goes to Portugal in a week. How else am I going to have a Lisbion experience on the beach? Note to self: purchase more bikinis.

Anyway, my run was brought to you by the letter “I” and the number 2. For “immediate regret” and the number of times I leaned on the guard rail and dry heaved into the canal. Poor choice, Peach. Poor choice.

I meant to do more work when I got back from my run, but I was sneepy-sneepy. I guess 3 consecutive days of no sleep catches up with you eventually. So I got into bed at like 10:30 (on a Saturday. Wooo awesome!) and set my alarm for 6am. Oh right, I forgot that I’m a zombie now. At 1am, after lying in bed having a heart attack over my work for 3 hours, I finally turned on my tv and tried to trick my brain into falling asleep with bad tv movies. I found a terrible mid-90s Gwyneth Paltrow movie, which by all rights should have made me hit REM, but no dice. 2am. I finally caved. Dug out my old sleeping pills from a few years ago, back in the day when I hated my job so much that I required prescription drugs just to function as a human. I had to be up in 4 hours, so I cut the pill into thirds and swallowed only one jagged little piece (allusion! Look at me!). I got back into bed, saw a commercial for Kentucky Fried Chicken, and within 5 minutes was passed out and dreaming of buckets of dirty bird.

I woke up at 9am. I guess it takes 3 hours of CBC Radio 1 to wake a person out of drug comas. Fucking, bloody, douchey HELL.

On the bright side, today is the inaugural SANGRIA SUNDAY with MortalCombat!!!

That’s right, bitches. MC is back from South Africa and we have 3 months worth of gossip to catch up on. Which is why the plan is to park ourselves on a patio at noon and drink Sangria until we get sun stroke or alcohol poisoning or both.

And then I’ll come back home and edit 40 articles.

Drinking helps me.


Friday, August 14, 2009

Yay, Crazies!


It’s 3:30am and I’m still working. I haven’t left my apartment once since Saturday and now it’s Friday morning. Not once, except to go for a quick run on Tuesday. In the dark. Alone. Because I’m a gremlin now.

That’s almost an entire week. Wow. Ok.

I just finished my first article on food allergies. Now I have to write the second one. Like, right now. Starting at 3:30am. And it’s a full-length feature. Awesome possum.

It’s not entirely my fault. I only got my last interview at 10:00pm tonight. The thing about journalism is that much of it is out of your control, and most people do not answer their goddamn phones or check their emails or are of ANY USE TO ME.

So, my deadline is noon. I can squeeze in a few hours of sleep, but I don’t trust myself to sleep first and write later. I’ll wind up waking up at 4pm in a sweaty pile of sheets and then use them to hang myself.

Ok. That was graphic.

I’ve had a lot of work over the past week. I managed to juggle my 3 internships for most of the summer, but they all took a simultaneous dump on me 7 days ago. After I finish these articles I have 40 poorly written pieces to edit for the magazine I work at. It takes me over an hour just to do one, mostly because people do not know how to use basic grammar or write a clear sentence or are of ANY USE TO ME. Also, my bad for forgetting about the magazine internship when I booked my Portugal trip, because the magazine goes to print on the 24th and I fly out of the country on the 21st. Oops. Shorry. Maybe if they paid me I would have a better memory.

Other highlights from working 3 simultaneous internships from home:

- Not a single clean mug or cup or knife in the entire house. This is because all I live off of is coffee (mug), gin (cup), and peanut butter on toast (knife). Today I realized the bread had mould, so I guess I’ll be eating the pb straight from the jar (spoon/spatula/IV needle). Made tea at midnight. Drank it out of a bowl.

- Not a single clean article of clothing in the entire house. I have actually worn my entire collection of old lady underwear, long after the sexy thongs and then the non-sexy thongs ran out. Tomorrow I may have to fashion some kind of loin cloth out of dental floss and paper towels. Wait, I’m out of paper towels. Fuck it, I’m wearing a bed sheet.

- The cat might be dead.

- Last night I ordered in poutine for dinner at 11:00 pm. And a can of orange crush.

- TheAmazon is in Mexico for work. I just sent her a text message at 3am and all it said was “You’re a Mexicunt.”

- Anyone I interview comments on how upbeat I am. Any family member or friend who calls me asks if I’m perched on the ledge of my balcony, contemplating swift death.

- My grandpa called while I was on a caffeine high and now I have to spend my Saturday driving to a winery with him. It’s 2 hours away. Oh fun.

- Oh hey, there’s the cat. How long has he been passed out on the floor behind a tv tray? I just poked him. Definitely alive.

Ok. So, anyone who thinks being a freelance journalist is the bestest job in life (*coughTheQuack) should no longer have any illusions. Look at me. LOOK AT ME. I HAVE THE CRAZY EYES.

I can't lie. I still love it. But oh fuck this bitch is tired and needs a vegetable and some fresh air. Maybe some human contact. Maybe some internet television. Heroes is fun. So is How I Met Your Mother.

Oh my god it’s 4am.

This is the state in which I will be writing a national instructional article on anaphylactic shock. The magic of journalism, bitches.


Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Poverty is Delicious: Part 2.

I really do enjoy being skank-ass po’. I might make my ghetto food adventures a recurring entry.

The fun thing about freelance work is that the paycheques come very irregularly, if at all. So maybe I’ll have two weeks where I have money, and then I’ll pay all my bills and stock up on necessities like gin, Kraft Dinner, and peanut butter. And then I’ll go another 6 weeks with no income whatsoever. God help me if the rent is due during that time (it always is) and if the cat happens to need $250 worth of blood-work and $70 worth of prescription food (he always does, the little FAIDS bastard).

So, here I am, furiously writing articles about food allergies just to keep me out of debtor’s jail because I haven’t seen incoming money since early July, and bitch is hungry for lunch.

A quick check in the fridge shows that I currently am in possession of: mouldy pita bread, milk on the cusp of expiration, and some fresh basil. Also mouldy. Ok.

So, in times like this, you break out the reserves. Like the 10 lb bag of frozen peas that I keep in my freezer for scurvy emergencies and also to use as ice on my busted running knee. I have an identical bag of corn.

I also found an old can of tuna.

I give you: ThePeach’s Working Single Mother Tuna Noodle Casserole!

So named because I will probably feed my little bastards this exact meal in like 10 years, when I’m still earning the same amount of $ and have no mens to speak of.


1. Cook some whole wheat pasta. Preferably macaroni. If, like me, you only have spaghetti, break it up into bite sized pieces.

2. While the spaghetti confetti is cooking, dump the can of tuna in a bowl. Add a can of cream of mushroom soup. Cream soups are the staple of any poor, single girl’s diet and no whore should ever let herself run out. I buy mine in bulk.

3. Remove the two 10lb bags of vegetation from the freezer. Whack them against the kitchen floor to break up the solid ice block they have surely become by now. When the bag of corn explodes all over the floor, like mine did, swear loudy and sweep the niblets under the stove. Deal with them in 3 months, when the smell starts.

4. Mix veggies in with tuna mushroom concoction. Add pepper. Add the cooked noodles. Top with bread crumbs. If you don’t own bread crumbs, toast some bread and mash it up in your hands. It’s very satisfying if you have rage. And, let’s be honest, if you’re single and poor you likely have a lot of rage.


5. Bake at 350 for…well…I had a phone interview partway through the baking, so I really have no idea. 20 minutes? Before the burning starts.

6. Eat, bitch.

It really is delicious. And the cat got to lick the tuna can. Everyone wins!

Until he pukes tuna into my bed.

Then I lose.



Jesus, people. FINE. I updated my "who the hell am I talking about?" section. STOP THE PEER PRESSURE. It's over now.

Speaking of peer pressure, guess who came over last night and convinced me to smoke pot and watch episodes of How I Met Your Mother when I should have been working?

This is why he's called BadInfluence.

Ok, FINE. He came over and made me promise I would do work and stay sober, and then I wrestled the lit joint out of his hand and inhaled furiously while running away from him.

He put up a good fight.


Monday, August 10, 2009

ThePeach is a stoner; special lady

Why, god? WHY did I ever think I could purchase $70 worth of pot and still have a functional existence? I’ve been stoned for like 2 weeks. What day is it? Where am I? Why are there two empty Swiss Chalet chicken containers on the floor beside my couch?

Please. Check me into pot rehab.

It’s been an interesting week. Wait, is today Monday? I work from home and I’m drunk most days, so every day is the same pretty much.

It’s been an interesting several days, I guess I should say.

The only reason I’m blogging right now is because I have to write two articles today and I need to warm up my brain. It took me two hours just to open Microsoft word. I’m so pooched.

It’s come to my attention that I might be more upset about my breakup than I allow myself to believe. I spend so much time working, and then binge drinking, and ultimately distracting myself that I kind of forget most of the time that the man I loved so much that it hurt broke up with me over the phone. On Canada day. While I was on the other side of the country. And because he called my cell, it charged me long distance. It cost me $12 to get dumped.


For the most part I think I’m doing very well. I live my life, have fun, accomplish stuff, and generally avoid depression and sadness. The only place my breakup has really manifested itself is in my apartment, which looks like a bombed Romanian orphanage. And I guess in my appearance, which looks much the same. Actually, I’ve been told freedom looks good on me, if only I would gain 5 or 10 pounds. Judging by the chicken carcass on my floor, I’d say I’m on my way.

I went to the bar with TheAmazon on Friday. I wore one of my favourite bar shirts. It was a little looser than the last time I wore it, which ultimately resulted in it falling off my body. I got a free drink out of it. Advantages!

Ok, time to focus in a linear fashion, here. This story has a point. Swearsies.

Friday was a rough day. I had been working for like 3 days straight at that point with no breaks. Not even for pot. I had been living off of microwave popcorn and coffee. I had experienced some minor man drama that morning, but I dodged the hurty bits and just focused on work. TheAmazon was flying in for a visit that night and I just needed to finish my research before she got there. And then, at 9pm, FauxHawk called to chat. You know, just a nice little catch up with the man who ripped my heart out. Being friends is yay. The conversation was pretty casual and cheerful, and after we hung up I congratulated myself for being so cool to him on the phone. I got back to work.

The computer screen was a little blurry. Weird. Oh hey, breathing is a little hard. Must be the coffee. And is my heart palpating? That doesn’t feel nice. Stop it, you.

Next thing I know I’m curled up in a little ball in my desk chair and crying like a pitiful tool. This lasted about an hour, despite my best attempts to stop the cry hole. I walked around the apartment. Negative. I washed my face. Negative. Showered. Shaved my legs. Weeped the whole time. Poured a gin. Nothing.

TheAmazon showed up at my door to find me crying, blasting the Amy Winehouse, swigging gin, and prancing around the apartment in leggings and a bra.

TheAmazon: *immediately sits down* Sit in my lap and tell Momma what’s wrong, Boo.
ThePeach: *sobs* Boo is sad, Momma!
TheAmazon: *pats her lap* Momma will help.
ThePeach: *sits on lap, weeps* My life is stupid and overly dramatic and no one loves me.
TheAmazon: I know just what Boo needs. You’re going to put on a shirt. We are going to the bar. We are going to dance with ugly men and let them buy us drinks. I am going to order tequila and lick the salt off your cleavage. You are going to let momma feed you poutine. Then we’ll come back here and cuddle and maybe I’ll fork your skinny ass. Sound good?
ThePeach: *sniffle* Ya, motherfucker.
TheAmazon: *slaps my ass* YOU CALL THAT ENTHUSIASM??!

And we did exactly that. I woke up the next morning with a line of salt all the way from my jaw to my inner thigh. I might have accidentally had a lesbian experience, but I can’t be sure.

We drank and smoked that night until 5am. At 9am TheAmazon rolled over in bed and woke me up.

TheAmazon: Bitch, wake up. Get your credit card.
ThePeach: *coughs up half a joint* SHMEH*cough*WHAT? *dry heaves* WHERESH AMI *squints eyes* Momma?
TheAmazon: Boo, I have a plan.

30 minutes later we had purchased flights to Portugal.


What…did I do? How…why…oh my god. I’m going to Portugal. With TheAmazon. In 11 days. I put it on my mastercard.

I think it’s safe to say that I need a vacation, but still. Wow. Impulsive. We’re going to backpack from Lisbon to Faro and stop in Lagos to fuck surfers. Or learn to surf. Or both, whatever. We have no accommodations booked. No real idea of what we’re going to do there. But I have a feeling it’s going to be the best experience of my life.

See, I’ve had an epiphany about the kind of person I am. (God, this blog is a whole lot of emo. Aporogies.).

I’m the kind of person who wants the experiences. All of them, good and bad. Often they go hand in hand. When I die (which might soon, at this rate), I’m not going to remember that I had no mastercard debt for one brief month in the summer of ’09. But I guarantee I will remember the wicked backpacking vacation I had in Portugal with my oldest friend, TheAmazon. I’m going to remember that I loved someone deeply, even if they sucked and broke my heart. I’m going to remember that I was totally irresponsible and drank too much and did more stupid things that just wound up hurting me in the long run, but I’m also going to remember how good it all felt at the time.

This is getting deep. It’s the fucking THC.

My dear friend ThePilot – another one of my oldest friends - was in CapitalCity for the weekend, too. We met up on Saturday and he took me to his adorable house in the country for dinner. We chased frogs. Shucked corn. He picked me a flower and put it in my hair. He reminded me that life is good.

We were sitting around his dining room table, eating pie and drinking coffee, when we started talking about how I’d like to move to Vancouver next year. I was still feeling kind of spent from my cry fit the day before, very hungover from the tequila, and pretty much like an unlovable wretch. ThePilot looked at me and said:

“I don’t know many women who would leave everything they know and go live on the other side of the country just for the adventure of it. That’s a compliment, in case you’re wondering.”
Well. Some people find my craziness intriguing.

Maybe there’s hope for me.


Friday, August 07, 2009

I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo.

Ok. I’ll blog. Sorry for the delay. I bought $70 worth of pot this weekend and kind of lost track of time and space for a few days. Then I remembered that I have a month’s worth of work due today, so I’ve been working like a plantation slave since Tuesday. A plantation slave who creates textbook bibliographies instead of harvesting indigo and getting raped by massa’, but, you know, same thing.

So, I haven’t slept in 3 days, I have moderate to severe caffeine psychosis, and my work is due in a few hours. Perfect time to blog.

Also, I was worried that I didn’t have enough good camping stories to satisfy your eager little minds. It was a genuinely awesome weekend, but I don’t know if anything that random or hilarious happened. This is what I told ThePilot when he accosted me about my trip. Then I started listing some of the nice, normal things that happened over the weekend. Then I realized that they were not normal at all. Then I was scared that my sense of reality has become warped by my weird life.

Anyway. Here are some highlights:

1. TV lied to us.

TigerCat and I both craved Iced Caps on the drive down. We figured that we’d pass at least 6 Tim Hortons’ before we reached the camp site, seeing as how we had to drive through at least 6 crappy small towns in rural Ontario. But there were ZERO Tim Hortons’! ZERO! With each passing town we got angrier and angrier. Finally, as we passed through the last town, TigerCat slapped her hands on the wheel and muttered:

“What the fuck. I thought this was Canada.”

Then she just kind of stared blankly at the road and no one talked for a while.

2. Our tent lied to us.

TigerCat bought us an awesome tent on sale at WalMart. It was super cheap, sleeps 4, and in the picture on the front an entire family lounges comfortably in the canvas.

In reality, the tent was a hobbit hole. Our air mattress barely fit in it, we had to change one at time while lying down because it wasn’t tall enough to sit up in, and TigerCat and I slept basically on top of each other, like slaves in a slave ship (why does this post have a slave theme? I’m not a racist. Swearsies). Also, it rained on the last night. Our hobbit hole then transformed into a hobbit swamp. Not fun.

3. Kids are fun.
TigerCat, TheCrazy, TheCastrato and I all went to the beach on Saturday. It was a perfect sunny day and I enjoyed scandalizing the kiddies and their pot-bellied Dads in my whore’s bathing suit. We ate cookies and grapes and read our books until it was too hot to ignore the lake. The women ventured in while TheCastrato left to seek shade. The lake was refreshing but damned cold. We waded in just past our knees and then lingered there to acclimatize ourselves. And that’s when I felt a cold shot of water to my ass.

I looked behind me to see a grinning 3-year-old boy pointing a water gun squarely at my ass cheeks. He pressed the trigger and shot another stream of freezing lake water at me. Bingo: right to the ass. I looked the wee pervert in the eyes and said “stop.” He giggled. Pressed the trigger again. I looked around to see if there were any witnesses to potential toddler drowning, and I noticed the kid’s father watching us. Just staring, with his arms crossed over his burnt pot belly.

Perverts: it’s genetic.

4. Cooking is fun.
We don’t have a Coleman stove, but we do have a hibachi BBQ that we did most of our cooking over. On our last morning I was in charge of breakfast. I dragged the BBQ out of the dining shelter and the cooler out of the car. I found the package of bacons. Mmm. Bacons. The package was vacuum sealed. We neglected to bring scissors. Or knives. Fast forward 10 minutes of angry grunting and attempting to rip open the package with my teeth, and you find me squatting in the dirt, hacking at the bacon package with my grandfather’s axe. Great success!

During all this TigerCat was at TheCrazy’s campsite, boiling water to make coffee. Bless that child.

Next it was time to light the BBQ. I once again squatted in the dirt (like a slave?) and turned on the gas. I stuck the lighter into the grill and flicked the switch. I looked into the grill. Did the BBQ light? I couldn’t be sure, so I thought the best way to check would be to light it again. I once again stuck the lighter into the grill and flicked the switch.

TigerCat and I as wee tots, running through the grass on a warm summer’s day. My first bike – pink, with purple streamers on the handlebars. My first kiss, on the playground, from a boy in my class. These are the images I see when my life flashes before my eyes.

The flames shot about 6 feet in the air and knocked me backwards into the dirt. The violent sound of rushing fire could probably be heard across the lake. I gingerly patted my face. Eyebrows: check. Eyelashes: check.

I guess the BBQ was lit.

5. I’m one with nature.
Two more of our friends spent the night with us on Saturday, and we had a big campfire together. We chugged our coolers and beers, played guitar, and smoked some of my $70 worth of pot. We had singalongs which, in my high state, seemed like the most beautiful thing imaginable. We’re singing as a group! To an acoustic guitar! In the woods! I practically came in my pants when we broke into “Creep” by Radiohead. Oh, pot.

But with the drinking comes the urination, and we were a good 10 minute walk from the nearest shitter. Most people are adept at pissing in the woods, but I, sir, am not. I just can’t pee in anything but a toilet. It’s not just the actual mechanics of the squatting and avoiding your feet – it’s also mental. I cannot – cannot! – let go of my bladder in public. I’ve tried.

But this time something was different. Maybe it was the pot. Maybe it was the woods. Maybe it was the one-month dumpiversary since my breakup and my newfound strength. Whatever it was, I marched into those woods like a motherfucking star, found a log, took my pants right off, grabbed the log for support, and voided recycled vodka into nature. I did it 3 more times throughout the night. We all had our own pee spots. I liked mine. I had to climb down a bit of a slope to get to my log, but it gave me a sense of privacy.

The next day I realized that my private pee log was actually basically on the side of the major highway that runs past the campground. I was pantless and peeing on the side of the highway – four times.

That had to be a treat for anybody driving by.

I’ll leave you with this: