Tuesday, February 24, 2009
You met my friend TheCrip in a bar in Quebec City last week. Which is funny, because I hadn’t seen TheCrip in a few years, and then I ran into him in a bar last week as well. TheCrip is a drunk, which is how we get along. When he saw me in the bar in UniversityTown he immediately bought me a gin and started talking to me about poop. Again – how we get along.
Is it true that you’ve heard of my blog, Sir? TheCrip says that you have. I don’t want to call TheCrip a whore liar but, well…it seems unlikely to me that an actual journalist would have heard of a blog that could be best described as the neurotic rants of a drunken, whorish, poutine-guzzling cat-lady with latent lesbian tendencies.
No. This does not make sense to me.
But if you do know my blog, Sir, then I have oh so many questions for you. Such as:
1. Is it true that being a journalist means I’ll be poor forever? Because last month I made a curry out of two carrots, an onion, and a bag of craisins, and then I ate it for six days. I can’t live like this much longer.
2. How much coffee do you drink? Do you have heart palpitations yet? Today I had to shotgun a coffee in a class break, and I’m pretty sure I could feel my heart thudding against my chest walls. It was like an inside massage. In my chest. But not relaxing.
3. Is it true that I will probably be divorced at least twice and then live as a lone wolf until retirement or, more likely, death? Because journalists need love too. And I’m too poor for hookers. See 1.
4. Do you sleep? How? When? Tell me everything.
5. Can you get me a summer job? Hahaha just kidding…haha…ha…ok, seriously. Help me. There are no jobs. I have no money. I just ate a single egg for dinner. A single egg. I beg of you, Sir. I’m a good journalist when I’m not blogging about dancing on bars or motorboating strangers, and you know I’d be a real hoot to have around. And if this blog doesn’t scream professionalism, I don’t know what will. I’ll even wear pants.
Ok. I’m only 50% serious. About the job, not the egg. The egg was sadly true.
Thank you for reading my blog if it’s true that you’ve heard of it, Sir. Some day I would like to buy you a gin and ask you questions 1-4 in person.
Yours in professionalism,
Monday, February 23, 2009
So now I give you: The Shit I Did in the Past Week or So
1. I was a good reporter
The day before reading week was our last radio newscast. I went to a city council environment meeting that was supposed to make some announcement about lead in the drinking water. It seemed important, so I put on pants for once in my life. Actually peeled off the lulus, which might be growing organically into my ass skin, and put on pants with a zipper. It was restrictive and awful.
Also, I wore high heels. What the fuck. Let’s get crazy for city council.
The meeting started at 6:30pm and ended at 10. I was suicidal by 6:45. At 10 I was delirious. I stumbled out of the meeting hall like I had just been emancipated from a concentration camp. Happy, yet too weak to do anything but crawl, grasp my ribs, and moan.
I looked at my notebook. Three pages of carefully documented notes, then the handwriting got a little sloppy, then a series of cartoons, and then a page of city-council environment/drinking water inspired haikus. Want to read some?
Tonight, out of spite
I’m going to dump detergent
Into the river.
Three and a half hours
To find out our water’s fine
I will cut this bitch.
Thank god one of my classmates was there with me. We knew about 5 minutes into the meeting that it had no news value, so she recorded the sound of me opening a granola bar wrapper and then eating it. The bar, not the wrapper. It didn’t make the newscast.
2. I found my new favourite
After the news cast my classmates and I got silly drunk, as per our Friday ritual. It started with thai food and a bottle of wine, and then dessert and 3 or 4 or 5 martinis (martinis: making amnesia cool again), and then redbull vodkas and dancing, and then gin and karaoke. I broke out the George Michael. I probably should have been a singer instead of a journalist.
After the bar, my ruined liver sent signals to my uterus, which sent signals to my stomach, which sent signals to my brain that I should eat some poutine. So GinBucket took me to some dive on a side-street behind the bar. They served poutine in tin pie plates, and 5 dollars gets you an entire pie plate to yourself. Heaven.
But I discovered something special for next time.
This dive serves gravy pizza. Pizza with gravy on top. People line up out the door to get it.
I will be one of them.
3. I went to UniversityTown
I went to UT to visit FauxHawk for reading week. Within 24 hours of being there I had:
- been given 6 free shots from my friend the bartender
- watched TheCrazy put her leg behind her head. She was wearing a skirt.
- kissed TheCrazy
- saw all three of my favourite UT hobos ambling down the main street
Then I took it easy for a few days. Then I did this:
I find it's best, when dancing on a bar, to take your shoes off. Ah, UniversityTown.
4. I was a responsible pet owner
Milo needed a checkup. He also needed more medicine and prescription cat food. Nothing makes me feel more like a goddamn crazy cat lady then when I have to call the vet, usually from a public place, and say the following:
ThePeach: Hi, this is ThePeach. I’m calling about my cat Milo.
ThePeach: Milo Peach, yes.
ThePeach: Yes, he still vomits every day.
ThePeach: Ok, let’s order more prednisone.
ThePeach: I think he’s sick of salmon flavour.
ThePeach: Yes, he does like chicken.
ThePeach: Ok, chicken flavour. He’s also out of food.
ThePeach: Yes, another ten pound bag of prescription cat food.
ThePeach: The hypoallergenic one. With extra fibre.
ThePeach: No, his urine output is fine.
ThePeach: Dandruff? Ya, he’s still flakey.
ThePeach: Ok, I’ll pick up some omega supplements for him.
ThePeach: And poke a hole in the pill and squirt the fish oil into his mouth? Ok.
ThePeach: See you in a week.
ThePeach: *hangs up phone*
Strangers: *stare at me*
ThePeach: MY CAT HAS AIDS! FUCK YOU!
Strangers: *continue to stare*
So anyway, I took Milo to the vet. They had to take a blood sample. They do this by stabbing a needle into my kitten’s neck. I watched once, and then on the way home I almost hurled all over the Hawkmobile, so now the vet takes Milo into the back room to stab him with pointy things and I sit in the waiting room and think happy thoughts. Gravy Pizza. Gravy Pizza. Gravy Pizza.
Then I had to pay the bill.
GRAVY PIZZA. GRAVY PIZZA. GRAVY *SCREAM!!!!*
5. I Watched TV
I also talked to TheNurse a lot, since she was home all day watching TLC at the same time. Our favourite was to watch What Not to Wear together and make fun of the fuggos. Like these crazy asian twins who talked like they were nine years old (“I like this dress! I can wear it to the picnic!”), and somehow had slight Mexican accents (I like dees dress! I cahn wear-a eet to thah peecneec!”).
Reading week = scholastic pursuits.
6. I have a new friend
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Did I just cry four times while watching “Mamma Mia,” the musical-movie inspired by the music of ABBA?
Four times? Mamma Mia? Really?
Because Meryl Streep led the women of the island in an all-girl freedom-dance to the tune of “Dancing Queen?”
They let go of their inhibitions and rediscovered their youthful vibrance in a bonding experience! Together! Through song!
Oh my god, I need a fucking hysterectomy.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Monday, February 09, 2009
It started out as all me.
I was late for the class because my sources for a story I’m working on all decided to call me back at 5:00, when I should have been on my way out the door.
Then I forgot deodorant.
Then, because we were late, we had to run there.
Then I realized I forgot my inhaler, and the running 20 minutes in sub-zero temperature didn’t bode well for my ass-mar. I had a bad feeling that I might once again have to leave the class halfway through it so I could lie in the fetal position in the hallway and gasp for air like I have emphysema.
Then we finally made it to the gym and I realized I forgot my ID card, and had to beg the receptionist to let me into the class.
By this time MC was pretty…agitated with me. I do not fault her for this.
But this didn’t help:
MC: Ok, change quickly, we’re going to be late!
ThePeach: Ok! I’ll just throw my coat in my locker and…oh.
ThePeach: I forgot my lock.
MC: You are so useless today.
But then MC had to eat her words when she looked in her bag and realized she forgot her RUNNING SHOES.
Hahaha sucka! Bitch had to kickbox barefoot. She was afraid of tetanus and the floors were freezing, so she pranced through the hallways toward the class like a little imp, her kickity little legs lifted as high in the air as possible.
The class itself was pretty weak today. I was disappointed.
But there was one shining moment: a new move to rival the crouched running man with popeye arms.
I call it: the peewee herman dance.
If you’re impatient, start watching at the 2:30 mark.
Our instructor led us in a move almost exactly like Peewee's famed tequila dance. I tilted my hips and waved my arms about my midsection with glee. I've never been happier in my life. MC and GinBucket didn't really get it, but maybe they're a little too young to fully appreciate PeeWee.
For the record, PeeWee Herman horrifies me. But this dance gives me more happiness than I can express in words.
TigerCat and I will occasionally break into the smooth peewee moves in public places. Like shopper’s drugmart. Or bars. Ok, it’s just me…but she watches and laughs. Ok…she turns away and pretends not to know me.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
This semester has been…hard. At times, a little miserable. I was reluctant to love Radio, and the transition into broadcast was a bumpy one. To top it off, Radio played hard to get. Radio didn’t want my affections. We might be having hot radio sex now, but getting to this point was awful.
So, the past month of school has been difficult and trying.
I’ve barely had time to go out. I know. Me. Not going out. Sacrilege.
I’ve also not had time to go running, which upsets me. Not because I miss the exercise, but because my thighs are fat now. It probably doesn’t help that I eat Kraft Dinner every second day and poutine at least once/week, and that there’s a fucking Beavertail Hut 2 minutes from my house.
Anyway. This weekend, things changed. Not my thighs. They remain the same.
But I finally, FINALLY had time to go on an old fashioned bender. Praise be to jebus.
On Friday I went out with my classmates. We wound up dancing like whores in some hiphop bar, where I proceeded to get fall-down drunk, get into a legitimate fight with a bartender, awkwardly reveal my own life-secrets to others, flail to the music like I have some kind of palsy, consume 3000 vodka redbulls, and *supposedly* send three text messages to my friend at 5am. Don’t remember that part.
I also somehow prompted GinBucket to shake me by the shoulders in the middle of the dance floor and proclaim:
Peach. You are bisexual. Why won’t you just admit that you’re bisexual?! YOU. ARE. BI. SEXUAL.
Oh. I hope not. Maybe I should stop watching The L Word. You know how there are scientific studies that prove watching violent tv makes kids more aggressive? Ya.
I don’t really remember getting home. I woke up at 11am and wanted to die. I know I say this every week, but I have never been more hungover. Each week I find new ways to destroy my body a little worse than the week before. My body is so displeased with me right now.
ThePeach: O.M.G. Wow. Ok, I need some breakfast.
ThePeach’s Thighs: Maybe you should make a laxative smoothie.
ThePeach’s Brain: Maybe you should have a glass of water, two advil, and then check into rehab.
ThePeach’s Liver: What. The. Fuck. WHAT THE FUCK. Bitch, what’s wrong with you?
ThePeach’s Gut: I don’t…I don’t even know…what is this? What is this? Is this redbull, vodka, gin, wine, and…a can of icing? Is that…is that what I’m seeing, here? How…how…you want me to digest this?
I made it as far as the couch and then stayed there until 3pm. Then I showered and went to visit MC, who was in a similar state. We watched a movie and ate Kraft Dinner.
ThePeach’s Thighs: Have you ever looked into Hoodia? I hear it’s perfectly healthy. You might have a heart attack but wouldn’t you rather die skinny?
ThePeach’s Gut: What is…this? This orange paste? Is this…is this chemical cheese? Are you really eating chemical cheese? Do you WANT cancer?? Because bitch, I will grow a tumor so fast your head will spin.
As I was lying on MCs couch in a state of stupor, my friend (who will remain nameless) called.
Friend: My bitch. I’m in town. Get your fucking ass off the couch. Get dressed. I’m coming over.
I dragged myself back into my apartment, squeezed myself into jeans (ThePeach’s Thighs: *SCREAM!*), and tried not to hurl.
Friend and I wound up at a pub downtown, where we drank 3000 vodka redbulls. Then something…awkward…happened.
Friend met up with an old friend of hers. A very, very hot bartender. She was blonde, thin, tanned, and within 20 minutes Friend had her hands down this chick’s pants in the middle of the bar. I stood around awkwardly and texted everyone I know to beg them to come rescue me.
Friend continued to attack the hot bartender over the next several hours, while I stood around and drank very, very heavily. Everyone in the bar stared at us, because here are these two hot blonde chicks totally going at it, and beside them is this awkward brunette chugging vodka like it’s an olympic sport.
I turned around for one second, and when I looked back I saw the two of them heading toward the girl’s bathroom. Ok. Now I was alone and chugging vodka.
20 minutes later I had made friends with the bartender’s friend, and we decided maybe we should leave. But the friend needed to get her keys, which were in the bartender’s pants. We debated over what to do for another 20 minutes before we finally stormed the bathroom. They were in the last stall, pressed up against the wall. I would later find out from Friend that they were nekked.
After much begging, the keys were whipped over the door and landed in the sink. We rinsed them and made an exit.
But I guess my friend and the bartender decided they had enough, because they emerged at that moment. The bartender went home to go see her boyfriend, and my friend left with me. She looked like she had blue balls (blue clit?), so I suggested we go get some food and debrief.
We wound up at the 24-hour poutine diner, where I immediately ordered a large bacon-poutine.
ThePeach’s Thighs: *SCREAM!!!!*
HotMess joined us. She got my rescue text and swooped in to save me, albeit a little too late. But still. Bitch is my hero.
When we finally got back to my apartment, my friend told me all the details of her bathroom lesbian encounter. I love her. Then we talked about her blue balls for a while.
I decided that I’m probably not bisexual, since I can’t really picture myself going down on a girl in a bathroom stall. Or anywhere, really. I have, however, given head to a man in a bathroom stall.
Take that, GinBucket.
I woke up this morning and was once again shocked at how badly I had abused my body. I decided I needed to detox, get some exercise, fit into my pants again, and be a productive member of society.
Then I got a text from my friend Pretty.
Pretty: I’m in town tonight. Want to go out?
Thursday, February 05, 2009
ThePeach's eye: *twitch*
Doctor: *listens to my breathing*
ThePeach's leg: *jerks*
Doctor: *touches my cool, clammy skin*
ThePeach's lungs: *wheeze*
Doctor: You have to stop drinking coffee. Now.
I've had two coffees since my appointment.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Sunday, February 01, 2009
"A League of their Own" is that baseball movie with Rosie O'Donnell, Madonna, and Geena Davis.
It's just a baseball movie, but I've already cried three times in the one hour that it's been on. Three times. To "A League of their Own."
They're overcoming stereotypes and adversity! And bonding with each other over their love of the game!
Jesus christ do I ever need to get laid.
20 minute later update: 5 times.