Monday, March 30, 2009

Karma FAIL; Horoscope Irony

Disclaimer: I really hope that no disabled women were injured in the making of this blog.

I never check my horoscope. Overall I think astrology is a heap of poop. I mean, I’m a libra…what exactly about me screams “balance?” Unless my redbull highs balance out with my caffeine-withdrawal lows. But I think we refer to that more commonly as a substance abuse problem, and not a balanced lifestyle.

Plus my horoscopes are always crap, and they’re self-fulfilling prophesies regardless. Like if my horoscope said “you will find happiness in cheetohs today” then I’m probably gonna go eat some motherfucking cheetohs and find my happiness. Not because the stars destined cheetohs into my life.

Anyway, today TheQuack sent me my horoscope before I could stop her.

Libra: You can never go wrong with kindness.

Or can’t I?

Yesterday I went to the gym. My busted-ass knee has finally healed just enough so that I can sweat out some of the gravy, gin, and chemical cheese that constitute my diet. I still can’t run, but I can elliptical like a motherfucker.

It was getting late. The gym closes at 7pm and at 6:25 I was just getting into the change room. That doesn’t leave much time for chemical cheese purification so I was feeling rushed. I hung up my coat, locked my locker, and grabbed my iPod. I will not exercise without my George Michael mix. By the way, I’m still not gay.

As I was rushing toward the cardio room I almost tripped over a kind disabled woman and her walker. She was very slowly walking toward the door. She could barely move…I’m not even sure how she got into the change room in the first place, but it must have taken a very, very long time. I saw that she was struggling to get her walker over a bump in the ground so I asked if she needed help.

I know, it’s so unlike me. But the thing is, I’ve been having really bad karma lately. And I think it all started last week when I didn’t give a homeless woman change for the bus. Not only did I not give her change (I needed it for laundry! I finally had the perfect combination of loonies and quarters to wash my pants, goddammit! No homeless woman was going to take that from me!), but when she asked again I put my iPod ear-buds in and walked away, throwing a “sorry” over my shoulder and letting George Michael’s “Faith” take me to a happier place.

And then I got rejected from three internships, lost my Mastercard, and my cat threw up in my clean laundry.

If I ignored the kindly disabled woman the universe would probably take away my right leg in some kind of horrible bus accident. So I offered my assistance. Plus she really looked like she needed my help, whereas the homeless woman could easily give a hand job to a meth-addict for that bus fare if she got desperate.

I helped the woman get her walker over the bump. She continued to slowly and painfully walk toward the door. I looked at my watch: 6:28.

ThePeach: Do you want me to get the door for you? You know…when you get there?
Kindly Woman: Oh, that would be wonderful.

At approximately 6:32 we reached the change room door. I opened it and let her walk through. I watched her shuffle down the hallway. It made my heart hurt.

ThePeach: Do you need help with the elevator?
Kindly Woman: Actually, yes. If you don’t mind…
ThePeach: I don’t mind at all.

At approximately 6:35 she had made it to the elevator. I pressed the button, held the door while she got inside, pressed the button for her floor, said goodbye, and got out while she traveled down to the first floor. I went to the cardio room and got on the elliptical machine. I ellipticalled like a motherfucker for about 10 minutes before it hit me.

ThePeach’s iPod: You gotta have faith! Faith! Faith! You gotta have FA-AITH!


Does it get any worse than that?

This is what happens when I try to help people. She’s probably still in there today. I was too afraid to check.

Be kind, Universe. My intentions were good.

Please don’t take my leg.


Thursday, March 26, 2009

Single Ladies

Just because it brings me joy. Bitch has moves.

My life isn't so bad.


Wednesday, March 25, 2009


I don’t do anything half-assed. If I’m going out for one drink I don’t come home until I’ve sucked on a homeless person’s beard and thrown up in a 24-hour poutine diner. If I’m going for a quick run I limp along for 8km on what turns out to be a pulled ligament in my knee and then come home and lie in a pool of my own sweat while I ice my leg with a bag of frozen peas. Last week my sister told me I should watch the first episode of “Big Love” and I’m already halfway through season 2 and have done some rather extensive research on polygamy and Mormonism.

Polygamy is the new lesbianism.

What I’m getting at is that I don’t have the kind of bad day most normal people experience.

I have the kind of bad day that only ThePeach can experience.

It started with the sound of my cat puking. This is a pretty normal occurrence. Milo pukes almost every day. My little bulimia kitty.

But I got up to investigate, armed with a roll of paper towels. Milo prefers to puke onto soft, carpeted areas of my apartment and it’s necessary to clean them right away.

Today he found a new soft spot. My clean laundry.

Specifically, the clean sweaters I had lay flat to dry on my kitchen table. He managed to hit three of them with one stream of the regurgitated cat food, black hair, and bits of elastic bands that comprise his vomit.

Bad kitten.

Breakfast eaten, showered, dressed, and ready to face my day. By the way, breakfast consisted of toast with peanut butter, but I had to scrape the peanut butter remnants out of the jar using a spatula.

Added “buy more peanut butter” to my life list.

I checked my email. Another rejection letter from yet another internship I had applied for. Keep in mind that these are unpaid internships. I can’t even convince anyone to let me work for free.

Feel down, but focus on the positive: I still have that 2-week CBC internship.

Check news online. Headline: “CBC Announces 800 Layoffs”

This can’t bode well.

Immediately crawl onto the couch and watch 2 more episodes of Big Love. Can’t face monogamous world yet.

Moping is boring. Decide to face life.

In other words, I crave peanut butter.

I limp to the store on my fucked-up knee. While I’m out I decide to also pick up the ingredients to make my awesome tofu stirfry. I already have the tofu, so I get some spinach and other assorted super-veggies. Iron helps us play.

I get home and start making the stirfry, and then pull out the tofu. It is covered in a layer of slime and smells like a corpse.

So, tofu can expire. Who knew? I always thought it was indestructible, like twinkies.

Stirfry FAIL.

I can’t find my MasterCard.

Cancel my MasterCard over the phone. Kind Sir on the other end informs me that he’ll move my current balance onto my new account.

Then, before I can beg him not to, he tells me my current balance.

Oh. I see.




Doesn’t he know any better than to just…just…tell someone their MasterCard balance??!! If I had known this would be happening I would have swallowed half a bottle of gin and taken a few valium first! MOTHERFUCK!

I’ve literally just hung up the phone when it rings again. I’m still hysterical but I answer it just in case it’s the magic job fairy, or the lottery, or in case roll up the rim makes house calls now.

It’s my Dad. He sounds concerned.

Dad: Are you ok?
ThePeach: Um sure, ya. Why?
Dad: Because I just had lunch with my sister and she’s worried about you.
ThePeach: The sister I randomly ran into on the street yesterday?
Dad: Ya. She said you look terrible. Like exhausted, and dying. Terrible. She was worried. Now I’m worried.
ThePeach: I look…terrible?
Dad: That’s what she said.
Dad: Do you need a vacation? Maybe you should just splurge and put one on your MasterCard. You deserve a break.
ThePeach: *weeps*

I don’t…there aren’t…words…for days like this. To sum up: I can’t get an unpaid job, I’m going to go to debtors jail, I look like I just crawled my way out of a fresh grave, my life is covered in regurgitated cat food and black hair, and I probably have cancer of the knee.

I messaged TheHippie to cry over msn:

TheHippie: Oh my god. Go to bed immediately and forget today ever happened.
ThePeach: I can’t. That’s what I did yesterday to forget yesterday ever happened. I think all that’s left for me now is suicide.
TheHippie: Or you could sell your virginity online. It’s the newest thing, apparently.
ThePeach: You’re about 9 years too late for that one.

I don’t know whether to binge drink myself into a coma, sell my hair (I already look like death…why not go for broke?), or crawl into bed with my laptop and my new tub of peanut butter and stay there until I’ve watched every tv show ever created and posted on the interwebs.

In reality I’ll probably do all three.


Thursday, March 19, 2009

HotMess has a Car; ThePeach Enjoys It

HotMess has a car that pretty much personifies what journalism has done to our lives. The entire back seat is lined with Globe and Mail newspapers. There was a 24-pack of double-ply toilet paper in there for about 3 weeks. Over Christmas break HotMess left an apple in the cup holder. One month later it as a living organism.

Ususally when HotMess gives me a ride I have to brush various items out of the passenger seat. Last time these items included a stack of newspapers, the same pack of toilet paper, an empty can of sugar-free redbull, an empty bag of mini rice cakes, a tampon, and a dirty pair of gym pants. HotMess was most perplexed by the pants.

"How did those get here? When did I take my pants off in the car?"

I have no doubt that it happened. It's an adventure. Her car is like the tickle trunk.

Last night HotMess gave me a ride home from school again. Bless her. When we got to my apartment she passed me the empty red bull can and asked if I would throw it out for her. I said yes. As I was walking toward the garbage she decided maybe she would throw out some of the other clutter. I told her good luck, waved goodbye, and started walking into my lobby. Through the windows I could see her rummaging around in her back seat.

Suddenly she crouched over, as if trying not to pee her pants. She darted excitedly toward the window and started waving her hands at me. She frantically gestured to something she was holding in a bag. Through the window, she revealed the mystery object: a carton of a dozen eggs, all of them broken and oozing egg-gunk.

"YES!!!" I shouted and sprinted back outside.

"I have no idea how these even got here!" HotMess gasped between hysterical laughter.

"They must have been here for at least 3 weeks!"

I crouched over, clutching my bladder and trying not to pee in my lulus.

A dozen eggs. This is why I love HotMess.


Wednesday, March 04, 2009

TigerCat Regresses; ThePeach is a Step Ahead

Growing up, my sister and I always wanted pets. I wanted a kitten. Our mom was allergic to animal dander, so you can guess how this fairytale ended.

Every Christmas I would ask Santa for a little white kitten. And every Christmas morning I would tear through my stocking, find a Barbie or a magic nursery baby that could pee itself, and stare at my mother with anger.

Mom: Look, honey! A magic nursery baby that pees itself!
4-year-old ThePeach: Where is my kitten.
Mom: And when you dissolve its diaper in water, a birth certificate appears that tells you whether the baby is a boy or a girl!
4-year-old ThePeach: I ask you again. Where is my kitten.
Mom: The magic nursery baby loves you.
4-year-old ThePeach: *whips baby at wall* WHERE IS MY KITTEN!!!???

The kitten never came. Or if it did I never found it, and its bones are still curled up in the toe of my felt Christmas stocking.

TigerCat followed suit and wanted a baby animal of her own, too. She tended to copy my every move for the first ten years of her life, before I started down my path of destruction and she wisely made her own way in the world before she wound up licking hobos and eating craisin curry. But for a while, there, she was my little copycat, but with subtle enough differences that she maintained a semblance of independence. I had a little mermaid backpack in pink. She had one in blue. I had a ginger cabbage patch kid named Anne-Marie. She had a black cabbage patch kid name Amika-Jo. I had a pink princess bike with fat white tires. TigerCat was afraid of bikes but would perch on the cross-bar, clutch my torso with her stubby little child fingers, and scream that she hated me as I rode her to the park (which she was also afraid of. Severe “man in the white van” anxiety, that one.)

So, of course, TigerCat wanted a puppy.

When I was five, Santa left me a stuffed animal. A white kitten. I scoffed at it.

Mom: Look, honey! A super special stuffed kitten!
5-year-old ThePeach: Where is my kitten.
Mom: Feel how furry he is!
5-year-old ThePeach: I ask you again. Where is my kitten.
Mom: This kitten will live forever!
5-year-old ThePeach: *whips stuffed animal at wall* WHERE IS MY KITTEN???!!!

But eventually I felt sorry for the stuffed creature. I eyeballed it lying crumpled against the wall. I snuck over to pet it – once – while my mother basted the turkey. I tapped its plastic eyeball. “Stupid cat,” I whispered. “Go back to Santa.”

By dinner time the cat was named “Fluffer,” had its own chair at the table, and I threatened to back-hand anyone who touched my creature.


TigerCat and I argue over how her counter-part, Fluffy Puppy, joined the family. Was it the same Christmas? Was it a gift from our Nana when TigerCat hit her head on the coffee table and wouldn’t stop crying? Is that the stuffed animal our Mom bought her when TigerCat and I took our first joint swimming lesson, I had to scoop her confused body off the bottom of the pool because she didn’t understand the concept of floating, and she failed “yellow”? We can’t agree which of these it might have been. All we know is that, around the same time that Fluffer entered our lives, Fluffy Puppy made his appearance.

Fluffer and Fluffy Puppy were best friends. They shared a fort in our grandpa’s basement. They had matching snowsuits for when we took them outside. They napped together. And, for our entire childhoods, these stuffed animals came with us everywhere we went. Seriously. We were inseparable. And this lasted far longer than either of us would care to share. I still slept with Fluffer in undergrad. Every night. Even the sexy nights. TigerCat was the same. We went to Cuba when we were in undergrad. I was probably 21 and she was 18. We were unpacking our suitcases, probably already drunk off pina coladas, and we both pulled out our respective creatures. I think some of our…um...patheticness…can be explained by our lack of parental stability. But still. 21 years old. Cuba. Fluffer.

I still have Fluffer, but now he lives under my bed. He looks like he’s been through Auschwitz. His eyes are scratched out, his tail is only semi-attached, and most of his fur is gone. What is left is grey. Fluffy puppy lives under TigerCat’s bed, too, in a similar state of destruction.

Yesterday, TigerCat and I were talking. She’s been feeling a little down and she decided she wants a puppy. A cockapoo, to be exact. She’s even looked up local breeders and picked out the one she wants. She sent me a picture.
It is Fluffy Puppy.

The curly brown hair, the pokey little tail, the dangly puppy ears. This dog is the exact replica of TigerCat’s childhood creature. You know, pre-Auschwitz. My sister didn’t even realize the similarities until my mother pointed them out.

It doesn’t take a Psychiatrist to analyze this gem. My sister is feeling down and she wants to cuddle the puppy of her childhood! We laughed for a long time when we realized the connection.

ThePeach: HAHA OH I WILL! AND I…heh…I…also have a live cat now. Which I got that time FauxHawk and I broke up and I was sad.
TigerCat: HAHA OH…man…we are kind of loserish.
ThePeach: Heh…
TigerCat: *cough* Maybe this is too pathetic for your blog.
ThePeach: Probably.

Or not. At least we have each other?


Monday, March 02, 2009

Just Your Average Weekend

I had a pretty typical weekend. Nothing out of the ordinary for me.

On Friday MC and I stayed in to watch the movie P.S. I Love You, eat mass quantities of cheese, and guzzle wine. By the end of the movie, through our tears, we decided a trip to Ireland is a must. That’s where true love hides. Ireland. True love and burly, sensitive musicians in wool sweaters who could charm my lulus off any day of the week.

I should probably stop watching rom-coms.

On Saturday I went out for lunch with my Grandpa. I had a large breakfast, so I told him I would like something light.

Grandpa: Of course! Something light! I know the perfect place!

Twenty minutes later I am walking into an all you can eat Chinese buffet in suburban hell. The first thing I see is a greasy-haired fat kid in a stained tshirt. He is holding a plate full of French fries and hot dogs. I do love authentic Chinese food.

Five plates of greasy noodles and red sauce later, I’m feeling pretty sexy. Obviously this is a good time for me to go shopping. My grandpa drops me off at home and I hop on a bus to the mall.

So, Aritzia has their new spring line out.

Mastercard: *screams*

I also went into the pre-teen jewellery store, Clare’s. Yes, I am 26 years old and I buy jewellery in a store that sells Hannah Montana backpacks and hot pink, fake Uggs for $12. So anyway, as I’m paying for my grownup necklace, the saleschick asks me if I ever watched “Ready or Not.”
Um obviously. I hit puberty in the 1990s, and I’m Canadian, ergo I was obsessed with Ready or Not. It’s how I learned that it’s ok to touch your friend’s little titties in a tent if you’re curious about breasts. It’s how I learned that, if I get my period in school, the cooler girls will make fun of me and I’ll have to cry in a bathroom stall. It’s how I learned that no one likes a girl with a moustache.

Yes, I watched Ready or Not.

“Busy Ramone was in line three people ahead of you,” the excited salesgirl told me.

OH. MY. GOD. I immediately got a description of what Busy had been wearing and sprinted through the mall unsuccessfully trying to track down my childhood idol. Only later did it occur to me how sad it is that a former Canadian tv star also has to shop in a discount preteen jewellery store. MC also informs me that Busy now works as a waitress in TheBigCity. Oh, Busy. How the moustached girl has fallen.

On the bus ride home I happened to sit across from a man in my building who we lovingly refer to as “wheelchair guy.” It was weird seeing him out of his natural environment: the lobby of our building. Wheelchair guy spends most of his time sitting in the lobby, chatting with the passerbys, or just wearing his ipod and staring at people. I didn’t know what to make of him in a public place. It was like the first time you see you go to work with your mom, and begin to understand that she has a whole other life outside of your world. I didn’t like it. He should stay in the lobby.

When I got home I did some laundry. FauxHawk is coming to visit next weekend, so I thought maybe I should wash my sheets for the first time in months.

Then I went out with some friends. It was a pretty typical night. I chugged a box of wine. Nothing good ever comes of boxed wine.

I went to a club. I said some inappropriate things. I’m told I licked a homeless person’s beard on the street after the bar, but I’m hoping my friends are making this up. Mouth AIDS: not a goal in my life. I do remember trying to steal a car. The engine was already running and everything. Never mind that I don’t have a license, that I was drunk enough to lick a hobo, and that grand theft auto isn’t so forgivable in the courts. I tried to convince one of my friends to steal it with me. He also doesn’t have a license. But we each have our G1, and I’m pretty sure two G1s make a G2, just like I’m sure that two drunk drivers make a sober one.

Well anyway, the car remained untouched. Mainly because my friend pretty much tackled me in the street to keep me away from it.

Then we went to get some poutine. I was jumping with glee as we entered the diner. Then I got a little tired, so I put my head down on the table. Then I got a little dizzy, so I went and threw up in the bathroom. Then I got in a cab and went home. I may have licked a hobo, but I still have my god damn dignity. I know when it’s time for a whore to check out. Somewhere between mouth AIDS and public vomiting is that fine line.

I walked into my lobby and threw up a little. In the lobby. Why am I so sexy? Life is a mystery. Luckily it was 3am, so wheelchair guy wasn’t there to witness it. I’m pretty sure I left the puke where I deposited it and ran up to my apartment. I hope I don’t get evicted.

I woke up at noon the next day, lying on a totally bare mattress. Right. Probably should have made the bed before I went out. I looked down and realized I was wearing my pajamas backwards. Top and bottom. I crawled to the couch, got into the fetal position, and stayed there for 6 hours while I seriously questioned my life choices.

Like I said, it was a pretty typical weekend.