Thursday, April 30, 2009

Poverty is Delicious

You know, I think being poor gets a bad rap. Sometimes it’s downright hilarious, like how most of my classmates and I now only drink boxed wine because it’s cheaper than bottles. And like when my credit card gets declined as I’m buying a single can of tuna.

It’s an adventure being poor. I no longer fear the night now that I’m generally too cheap for cabs and have trekked all over the city in the moonlight, while drunk, usually wearing high heels. I’m like a beacon for rape. And yet I haven’t even been molested. Not even a little poke. I'm actually a little offended.

Most importantly, being too poor to eat normal meals has forced me to get really creative in the kitchen. You may recall the curry I made from a bag of carrots, a handful of craisins, an onion, and margarine. I lived off that dish for a week. Thank god I keep a lifelong supply of curry powder in the cupboard.

Who remembers the casserole I made out of frozen peas, minute rice, and can of cream of mushroom soup? Hearty.

Lately, I’ve been living off the same dish every single night. I call it lesbian stirfry, because it often contains tofu -when I can afford it. What I do is sauté any vegetable that I might have in olive oil, garlic, and soy sauce. If I have tofu, this goes in too. Next, I spoon some peanut butter into the dish and mix in some vegetable broth. Then I sprinkle with crushed peanuts and serve it over cheap asian noodles. You can buy an 8-pack of cheap asian noodles for like two dollah. Um, it’s delicious. And so cheap I could scream with joy. And I can literally cook it in 3 minutes. Thus I eat it for dinner every single night.

But today I was all out of vegetables. And noodles. All that was in my fridge was a teeny bit of onion, a can of icing and an empty Brita water filter. Tricky…tricky. I assembled any other various ingredients that I could scavenge out of my cupboards/freezer. Here is what I pieced together: rice, the onion, industrial size bag of frozen peas, soy sauce, garlic. Ten minutes later I had enough fried rice to eat until the weekend. And it was delicious.

For dessert I have a fine selection of canned icing. If that's not to your liking, perhaps I can interest you in a handful of dry, stale shreddies sprinkled with a packet of splenda?

In conclusion, do not pity me, oh friends with incomes. I live a rich life. A life of boxed wine, cardiovascular activity, and soy sauce on everything.

When I run out of condiments you can start worrying.


Wednesday, April 29, 2009

ThePeach has a secret life; secret shame

I’m very ashamed to share this, but if therapy (ie. Dr. Phil) has taught me anything it’s that keeping secrets now makes you punch unsuspecting people in the mouth later.

And I’m really not a violent soul.

So it’s time to come clean to the people who are most important to me: the drinking buddies, random bloggers, and strangers who read about my life over the internet.

I’ve been doing something…bad…for a few months now. I do it when I’m alone. And bored. I hide it from others, because I am scared of their judgment. And they should judge me. It’s a despicable habit.

I have been secretly filling in facebook quizzes and then deleting the results.


Oh, how I loathe those godforsaken quizzes when I see them on facebook. Does anyone really need to know which letter of the alphabet they are? Which sexual position they are? Which brand of household cleaner they are?

And then – then! – everyone posts their results and my newsfeed gets more clogged than my toilet after four pitchers of sangria and a plate of mussels. I log into facebook and instead of being able to see important information – like whether or not someone I haven’t talked to in 12 years has added an album containing 60 pictures of their engagement ring – I am forced to maneuver like a jedi warrior through an obnoxious expanse of YOUR FRIEND IS MR. CLEAN!! and YOUR FRIEND IS THE PILE DRIVER!!

It makes me so mad that I could punch someone right in the mouth.

But then, one day, curiousity got the better of me. I was alone. I was bored. I swore I would hide it from everyone. “Just one quiz,” I thought to myself. And the rest is history.

I can stop any time. I swear.

By the way, I am the Beatles song “Rain,” the Greek goddess “Hera” (the goddess of marriage? Really? Has facebook not met my mother?), the European city “London,” and the literary character “Tom Sawyer.”

I’m also Doggy Style.



Monday, April 27, 2009


Two days left until I start another internship. Today, therefore, I plan to be a lazy hobo and do as little as possible. I was horizontal on my balcony as soon as the first sunbeam hit it this afternoon. I'm reading "Fugitive Pieces" by Anne Michaels and wearing a bikini. I have nothing that I have to do. Literally nothing. Life is grand.
At 2pm my old friend hunger paid me a visit. I decided to continue along today's theme of "decadence" and make a frozen pizza. Life = love. While it cooked I talked to TheNurse on msn. I gloated about my fabulous day and the gorgeous weather. I told her that in about 5 minutes, I would be eating pizza, in a bikini, on my balcony. We agreed that it was probably the best day of my life. I said 'bye' and took my gigantic pizza out of the oven. The sweet smells of garlic and cheese filled my apartment and my soul.

I cut the pizza into four massive slices. I put two on my plate and put the other two in the fridge. Then I immediately took those two pieces out of the fridge and added them to my plate. Nice try, bitch. Who are you kidding?

I grabbed the plate, walked onto the balcony and let the sunshine wash over my bare skin. Heaven. I took a deep breath and felt at one with the world. Maybe even with god.


The sounds of my freshly baked pizza sliding off my plate and landing - cheese side down - on the dirty floor of my balcony.

I stood there in shock for about five seconds; my eyes bugged out, staring at the carnage. Then I tried to scoop the pizza off my balcony floor.


The sounds of the cheese seperating from the pizza and remaining - glue-like - stuck to my balcony floor. All I held in my hand were the empty crusts of shattered dreams.



ps - I still ate it. All of it.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

A Perfect Universitytown Weekend

Dear sexy bitches,

Sorry for the delay. The past few weeks have been a little busy, what with school ending for the year and trying to figure out my summer plans (a.k.a. operation: “don’t become homeless – you wouldn’t survive a knife fight and you know it”). In a strange twist of irony, I managed to go from zero internships to four internships in just a few weeks. I believe I owe my thanks to HotMess for making me take yoga with her every day since the semester ended. All of that karmic bullshit and positive whatnot has really paid off. And who knows when I'll get to utilize my improved downward dog skills. Probably tonight.

Anyway, this summer I will be working. A lot. Mainly unpaid, but I enjoy a good life challenge like trying to pay rent with a maxed out credit card or stealing canned soup from the food bank.

My internships are the following:

1. Copy Editor for CapitalCity Life Magazine (summer-long)
- edit articles written mostly by retards. Salary = $150/month. Not joking. Ah, journalism.

2. Internship at CBC Radio 1
- I’m working for a political show. Who is Michael Ignatieff? What is a house of commons? What is a lady gaga? God help me. Unpaid.

3. Internship at CanWest
- I’m on the breaking news desk. If someone gets shot, I’m your bitch. Unpaid.

4. Research Assistant for two journalism professors
- I’m helping them publish the new edition of “The Canadian Reporter,” a textbook we all know and love. PAID. Praise Allah.

So ya. Busy summer ahead. It all starts next week, and I decided I need a little escape before the madness begins. Somewhere where I could drink with wild abandon. Somewhere where I could wear sweatpants to the bar and still be better dressed than most patrons. Somewhere where I could have jungle sex.

Where else? Universitytown. Precious, precious Universitytown.

I got here yesterday. So far, it’s been a perfect Universitytown weekend. Some highlights:

1. I went for a jog through the student neighbourhood. In a matter of two blocks I saw:
- A group of barefoot students sitting on their balcony and singing.
- A squirrel run out of a house.
- A guy sitting on his lawn smoking a hookah.

2. Yesterday TigerCat and I ordered pizza. Our delivery-woman had no teeth. Literally zero. Not even a single tooth to help her chew.

3. Today FauxHawk and I went for a walk. I passed a man with no legs. Literally zero. Not even a single leg to help him walk.

4. Yesterday TOP humped me. Or maybe I humped her. I don’t know…it was a really confusing time.

5. I went shopping at the discount department store today. I went on a real spree. For $120 I purchased the following:
- three shirts
- one pair of converse low-tops
- two pairs of flip flops
- two bras
- one pair of underwear
- two boxes of oil of olay mini-facials
It was a shopping miracle! It helped that the store was closing because of the recession and everything was 20% off. Recession: you’re all right.

6. Tonight TheCrazy will be joining us in our binge drinking and my life will be complete. I’ll try not to make out with her this time. I’m making tofu for dinner so maybe I’ll hit my lesbian quota early.

7. Heterosexual sex count thus far: one, but the weekend is young.

Yours in joy,


Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Today's lame movie that made ThePeach weep:

Marley and Me.

Ya. That movie about the dog. Although maybe I shouldn't call Jennifer Aniston names. OH SNAP!


Seriously though. Weeped my fucking face off for a solid 15 minutes. But all Marley wanted was to love everyone!!! He's a loving creature just trying to find his place in the world! And in our hearts!

I think I'm going to make a whole series out of lame movies that make me weep. In case anyone lost track, so far we have:

A League of Their Own

Mamma Mia

and now, Marley and Me.

My uterus gives them all two fallopian tubes way up.


Tuesday, April 07, 2009

We didn’t start the fire; It was always burning since the world’s been turning

Yesterday was an unusual day, even by Peach standards.

A Miracle
It started with a miracle. No, wait…it started with a blizzard in April, which was more of an apocalyptic mind-fuck than anything. But – after I had trudged through said blizzard with Spaz and MC to get to a morning meeting – then a miracle was bequested upon me.



We went to Tim Hortons before the meeting. I ordered an x-large, since it was the only size left that still had rrroll cups. I bitched to MC and Spaz about how I hadn’t won all season or, you know, in the past three years. I chugged the precious liquid in my meeting and shivered with energy and pre-rrroll excitement. I tried to discreetly rrroll my rrrim while our professor was speaking.

Win: Coffee

Professor: …excuse me?


A Reunion
Later in the day I checked my facebook, as I usually do 40-50 times/day. Oh, a message from my ex-step-Aunt.

You heard me.

You may recall that I am the damaged child of two divorces. I had a step family from age four to 17. Then my step-father started sleeping with his dental hygienist, a surly woman with no uterus. So then we moved away and my step-family slowly forgot about us.

Ten years later my ex-step-aunt gets facebook, finds me, and my life gets even more complicated. Yesterday she emailed me to say she wanted to meet for lunch.

Oh, perfect. I do love uncomfortable blasts from the past. What shall we talk about? That time your brother changed the locks on the door when we tried to move out of the house and then I had to break in through a window and the police were called? Or how about we reminisce about the wedding?

I haven’t seen this woman in ten years. So, lunch should be fun.

I had 2 more meetings yesterday, so by 4pm I was tuckered out. I lay down for a quick nap. The cat grunted and dug around in the blankets with me for most of it, but eventually he passed out across my face and we slept like dead people.

I was pretty groggy when I woke up an hour later. I limped to my computer and messaged Spaz.

“Yo. I just woke up. What day is it?”

And that’s when my fire alarm went off.

My entire apartment shook with the noise. Milo freaked right the fuck out and started galloping around my apartment like a horse of the apocalypse. I waited for my landlord to speak on the intercom to tell us this was just a test, but her trashy, whiney voice did not appear.

Oh. Real fire, then.

Time to wrangle Milo.

Yes, my first reaction in a fire is to rescue my AIDS-cat. I’m aware how pathetic this appears.

So, Milo was still sprinting around my apartment with fear in his eyes and speed in his legs. I got his carrying case out of the closet. As soon as Milo spotted it, he went bat-shit. I was starting to panic at this point, and I was still completely groggy from my coma, so I started running after the bastard cat – carrying case tucked under my arm – and I smacked right into the corner of my bedroom door. With my face.

Ok. So now I’m also bleeding from the skull.

Eventually I captured Milo. He squirmed and clawed at me. I could feel his little heart fluttering. Little guy. So scared.

So scared that he fought me like a guerilla warrior and I probably broke one or all of his legs shoving him into his cage. By the time it had probably taken me ten minutes to exit my apartment. Fucking cat is going to make me burn to death.

When I got outside I joined MC and Spaz in the blizzard. They took one look at me, with my bleeding face and my angry warrior-cat locked into his feminine purple carrying case– and started screaming with laughter. Spaz took approx. five to seven pictures.

Thirty minutes later the firemen told us we could go back inside. Fire time is over.

The cat hid under my bed for the rest of the night. I ate a jar of peanut butter on my couch and watched episodes of “Secret Diaries of a Call Girl.”

I have a giant scrape across my forehead today. How perfect for my reunion with my ex-step-aunt.

At least we’ll have something to talk about now.