Sunday, June 28, 2009

ThePeach goes to White Rock; Her Soul Sings

I'm currently on WeeOne's couch in her beautiful White Rock condo. My mom and I took the bus down here yesterday and spent the day sightseeing, and then - like a gracious daughter - I put her on the bus home so I could spend my night getting high and eating cheese.

First off, it has to be said that White Rock is like paradise. The beach, the mountains, the trees...gah. I feel like I'm in "Twilight," but with more sunshine and less vampire. I may never leave.

Last night was the quintessential west coast night. It was everything that I love about life. I may have to move here.

It started by putting on some comfier clothes. WeeOne and I both walked out of our bedrooms wearing head to toe lulu. Perfect.

Then we walked to a wooded park and smoked some BC pot in the grass. Then we wandered over to her "thinking spot" to contemplate life and look at the ocean, mountains, and sky. We touched the grass and agreed that the world was beautiful. We danced home to the music in our hearts. Then we ordered sushi. Then we walked to pick it up in a light misty rain. Our hair curled. Then we walked back home and ate all of the sushi, moaning in pleasure the entire time. It was the best culinary experience of my life. Then we smoked out of WeeOne's new pipe, which I had helped her pick out at a smoke shop downtown. Then we listened to the rain. Then we watched 3 back to back episodes of Canada's Next Top Model and discussed fashion and time travel.

In conclusion, I am a BC cliche. It is wonderful.


Thursday, June 25, 2009

ThePeach goes to Vancouver; is Mistaken for an Indian.

Oh hey I’m in Vancouver.

I’ve also been awake for almost 24 hours and yet am not tired. Jet-lag induced insomnia is going to be fun. By the way I might write like a drunk. I feel a little crazy.

My mom recently moved here and I decided to come for a visit. I fucking love this beautiful city, even in the goddamn non-stop pouring rain. Packing a hair straightener was a futile choice. My hair is like a wooly yeti, but I’m going to embrace it peacefully. West coast stylz.

My first day was fun. My mom and I spent the day at Granville Island, eating like two fat whores. Then I had a 15 minute coma-sleep, during which time the caffeine from the 3 coffees I had on the plane and the 2 cappuccinos I had here made my pulse race so hard that I could actually feel it in my neck. I swear the sheet twitched. At one point, my pulse may or may not have synced up with the ticking of the clock in the spare room where I’m sleeping. It's like my body makes music now. Healthy.

My mom lured me out of bed with more caffeine and the promise of Indian food. We walked to a restaurant and ordered enough food to feed all the orphans in Asia. My blood content is now 40% caffeine, 40% curry, and 10% awesome.

The waiter – a nice Indian man – came over to talk to us for a bit about his Tandoori oven. No, I should clarify. My mother, who likes to randomly delve into weird conversations with total strangers, started talking to the nice Indian waiter about the Tandoori oven. The waiter started explaining how it adds to the flavour of the food, and then nodded at me and said “Well, you know what I’m talking about.”

I looked at him blankly as I shoveled lentil curry down my throat at breakneck speed.

“Well,” he said, “have you not been to India?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said between bites.

He looked at me with wonderment. “But you are Indian?”

Wait, what?

I told the kind sir that I am not Indian and he looked at me like he refused to believe it and then tried again. “But…you are Indian?”

You know, people often think I’m foreign. I have naturally really tan skin. I’m a darky. And I have dark brown hair and brown eyes, and my features are a little unusual because I’m an Italian/Ukrainian/Canadian mix. I often get people asking me if I was born somewhere else. When my sister and I traveled in Europe, locals thought I was one of them in every country we visited, from Croatia to Italy to France. It was kind of sweet as it meant we rarely got the tourist treatment until I opened my fat, ignorant Caucasian mouth. Just yesterday I was asked if I was Greek from the waitress in a Greek restaurant. That’s weird two days in a row, come to think of it. Also, I eat a lot of foreign food. Maybe too much.

But…Indian? Really? I guess maybe my hair is a little extra exotic looking, what with the rain-inspired fro. I mean…I guess I have a bit of extra colour. I spent a lot of time outdoors when I was visiting Universitytown. TigerCat has a pool.

I looked in a mirror in the Indian restaurant and was shocked. In dark light I could totally pass as Indian. Like, one from the north or something. Holy shit. I need to increase my spf useage.

Next up: Bollywood?

Watch out, Ruby Dhalla.


Saturday, June 20, 2009

Saturday is for hangovers and hate-mail

I’m not feeling so hot.

Last night started pretty tame. I went to see the movie “Year One” with Tigercat and CockDoc. It was funny, but more importantly I hoovered an entire large buttered popcorn by the time the previews had finished. I felt pretty portly and awesome as I limped out of the theatre, my face covered in grease and my popcorn baby gestating nicely.

And that was when I got a text from TheCrazy telling me that Saturday’s drink fest had been moved to that night, and to be at her place in 40 minutes.

Oh god. I had a bad feeling that 5 pounds of chemical butter and a bucket of gin wouldn’t mix well, but I’ve never been one to turn down an invitation to get fall-down drunk. I would persevere.

But first I had to wash the grease off my gluttonous face and greedy little fingers. I also put on high heels and lip gloss, the official uniform of drunk whores.

Once at TheCrazy’s house, I drank a steady stream of gin for the next 5 hours. I belted out some seriously hardcore karaoke with TheCrazy and TigerCat. I really let loose on girl anthems such as Alanis’ “You Oughta Know.” Perhaps I have angst. My friend TheBartender balanced a glass of whiskey on my head for 2 minutes while I did a little boob-shake dance. We all agreed that I had marvelous talents.

I drunk-texted FauxHawk, who is away at a conference on the east coast. I checked my phone today and here is what I sent: “We are going to a Sandals resort over xmas or else.” I’m sure I had my reasons. By the way, his response was "Halifax is aaaawesome!!!" Communication is the key to any healthy relationship.

At one point we decided it would be a good idea to go to TheBartender’s bar for last call. I somehow wound up with a $15 glass of sherry in my hand, which really makes no sense when you think about it. I don’t like sherry, I don’t remember ordering it, and I definitely didn’t have $15. I hope I didn’t steal something that I thought would be funny, but that’s likely what happened.

After this we decided it would be a fantastic idea to smoke at CockDoc’s house. Obviously I walked the whole way there without my shoes. There’s nothing classier than yesterday’s whore staggering home from the bar with her high heels in her hands.

I frolicked in the grass on the way. The dew felt nice on my legs.

Things get even hazier from here, but I know I made it to CockDoc’s, smoked, ate some pizza, and somehow made it back home afterwards. I probably crawled.

I woke up at 1pm when TigerCat phoned me to see if I wanted to get all you can eat sushi. I dry heaved, wiped the sweat off my face, and told her she better go without me. After I hung up I ran to the bathroom to puke, and then went back to bed until 3:45pm.

I woke up and swallowed half a bottle of advil. I looked at myself and noticed that I was wearing a baby-tee from TheBartender’s bar. It had a tractor on the front. I think he gave it to me at some point during the night, but I’m not too sure when I started wearing it. Mystery. I hope I didn’t change in public. I swore I would stop letting Universitytown see my boobs.

Dehydrated, spinning, head pounding, and sweating gin, I decided to check my facebook.

And that’s when I noticed the hate-mail.

As a journalist, the more articles you write the more hate-mail you get. There is always somebody out there who will be offended with something you have written. Sometimes I take it as a compliment that my articles are being read at all. But usually hate-mail kind of devastates me. I need constant positive reinforcement, as you may know. I need it to get through my day. And the thing about journalists is that most of us are completely insecure about our work. Once one of my professors – a brilliant writer with a long, successful career – wrote a fantastic article for the Toronto Star. Everyone loved it and was talking about it. It created a lot of buzz. And yet, at a party that same week (yes, my professors are awesome) that professor drunkenly and shyly asked me if I thought the article was ok. When I said yes, his face lit up with relief and he said “REALLY?” and then proceeded to say everything he thought was wrong with it.

So, my point is that even the best of us have small and tender egos.

When I got my very first piece of hate-mail this Christmas, I called Spaz and Mortal Combat in hysterical tears at 8am. They had to convince me not to jump in the river or quit my internship. I seriously considered not going back.

I’ve gotten a little better since then.

This week I have been writing a lifestyle series on baby boomer health for a national news organization. I’m in love with the work, and my articles get printed in papers all over the country. Oh, and they pay me by the article. It’s probably the happiest I’ve been.

You would think that an article on fitness tips for baby boomers wouldn’t garner any hate. But bitches be crazy, yo. One, in particular, went to all of the effort to creep me on facebook just so he could send me a message to ream me out. I might need to update my security.

His concern? That I was too restrictive in my definition of baby boomers. His message was angry and long. Here’s an excerpt:

“Please get your history correct, and not from the Bill and Hillary Clinton's of the world or your boss who is most likely a true Boomer (ex hippy) or the majority of your readers (seniors 55 to 69) or the people in charge of the company you work for ( ex anti establishment who became the establishment), and for a lack of a better word boomers are 50 to 69, basically the majority of this generation senior citizens 55+, they did not like the establishment in the 60's and they don't like being old in 2009. Maybe you could tell them the true history and maybe just maybe the true boomers 1940 to 1959 will realize they are only yet another generation.”

He also mentioned that I should take History 101.

I mean…for the love of fuck. Come on. Through facebook? On a Saturday?

I swallowed the other half of the bottle of advil and replied, because that is the professional thing to do.

“Dear sir,
Thank you for taking the time to comment on my article. The dates I used were given to me by my editor. I'm sorry if they offended you. I’ll be sure to pass your concerns on to my editor. ThePeach.”

So anyway, that’s how my day has gone so far. I managed to have a shower and put on sweat pants. There is no food left in FauxHawk’s house, so I might order in. Maybe sushi. I might have thrown up when TigerCat first suggested it, but she got me craving salty fish.

I have to stay in to do work tonight. It’s for the best. I made enough of a mark on the world yesterday.

I’m still wearing the tractor shirt.


Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Part of me was missing

I'm in Universitytown for the week. I've loved spending time eating delicious foods and catching up with TigerCat, and getting drunk and having blackout sex with FauxHawk, but there was one reunion that beat it all. Hands down. No Question.

The Learning Channel.

I'm currently watching a special on primordial dwarf children. They just put a 1 foot tall child on top of a miniature horse. Then the dwarf rode the miniature horse in circles inside the stable. And then my heart exploded from happiness.

Welcome back to my life, lover.


Thursday, June 11, 2009

He's just not that into you. And by you, I mean your story.

Being a journalist is a lot like being a sad, stereotypical single girl.

- Some days you don't get dressed.
- You spend all day sitting by the phone, begging for it to ring.
- Constant rejection.
- You refresh your email every 3 seconds in the hopes that someone wrote back to you.
- When the phone does finally ring, it's your mom.
- When you get desperate, you're ok with letting yourself be used. I'm talking to you, PR.
- Everytime you enter your apartment, the first thing you look for is the flash of your answering machine. Second thing you look for is your cat/ice cream/box of wine.
- You cry when the bitch in your voicemail tells you that you have no new messages.
- You convince yourself that the man dodging your interviews might just be really busy/having a bad day/is out of town.
- You smoke, drink, and wonder how you got here.

I'm writing two large feature articles right now and it's making me a little loco. Haven't slept, am living off coffee and brown rice, and NO ONE WILL CALL ME BACK.


Deadlines. Always a hoot.


Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Thanks, grandpa.

I just got back from a lunch date with my grandpa at Mongolian Village or, as he called it, "Mongol's Grill." Lunch was fine...had myself a stirfry. And then...

Grandpa: You dropped a noodle on yourself.
ThePeach: Oh. Where? *looks down*
Grandpa: There *points*, where the cleavage should be.

I just got owned by my 82-year-old grandpa.

For the record, I have ample cleavage. I was wearing a sweatshirt.


Monday, June 08, 2009

A note on exes.

Ah, exes. Nothing makes me want to cut myself like rehashing the relationships of yesteryear. And who doesn’t love getting drunk with your friends and stalking an ex on facebook/accidentally remembering that you have their email password/analyzing their wedding registry? Um…not me. This is a general example. Swearsies.

I’m a grizzled old whore, so I have a long list of ex-boyfriends in my repertoire. I like to pretend that most of them are dead or were a figment of my imagination or maybe some kind of drunk hallucination, like that time I drank seven Smirnoff Ice coolers in under an hour (I was 20, ok?) and could have sworn I took home Prince William. I’m not gonna judge what the royal sir was doing in Universitytown, and why he went home with a mere peasant like myself. The next morning I found out that I had actually gone home with my good friend Frances, the same girl who went to the bar with me that night to troll for men. She looks nothing like Prince William. I’m still confused to this day.

So, where was I?

Right. Exes suck. I’m not friends with many of my exes, something you may not find shocking from a bat-shit crazy drunkard with jealous rage issues. That said, I am still close with TheTool – who slept with a waitress in a bathroom stall in a restaurant while we were dating, but hey life gets crazy – and I’m still cordial and keep somewhat in touch with THEex, my first love who broke my little 17-year-old heart when he left me because, amongst other reasons, the drama of my crazy-ass family drove him into safer waters. I don’t blame him for this. My step-father had just cheated on my mom with a dental hygienist, the cops were called when I had to break into my own house to help my mom move out while he was at work, and my 13-year-old sister was banished to New Jersey to live with my aunt until she stopped being a thug. Have I ever told you the story of how TigerCat once somehow started a suburban teenage gang war? We moved not long after that. I dealt with my anger in healthier ways, like neurotic perfectionism and self-starvation. So, ya, I would have broken up with me too. I consider myself lucky that he didn’t mercy kill me.

Ok, what was my point?

Exes, man. So, my first real one was THEex. Then there was the rebound from THEex, who I dated for 9 months because I was smarter than him, his dad owned a steak house, and he taught me how to smoke pot and fuck. We are not friends, because I left him for a friend of his who was a beautiful man-specimen, worked at Swiss Chalet and always brought me free chicken, and liked to shower with me. God, I miss being 19. I’m not friends with the chicken guy, because he dumped me in a parking lot over reading week. Turns out he was showering with another girl from Swiss Chalet. It’s funny, but this breakup was probably the hardest one I’ve dealt with. And we only dated for 3 months, and I was 19, and part of the reason I liked him was that he brought me chicken. He kind of fell off the face of the earth after I assaulted him via the phone approx 4 days after we broke up (WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME ANYMORE??? *hysterical sobbing*). I’ve always wondered what happened to him, and then last month I found out that he is a medic in the military, currently serving in Afghanistan. My beautiful chicken boy in a military uniform? Cruel, cruel world.

Fucking exes.

It took me a while to get over chicken boy, during which time I trampaged with a few of my neighbours and this dude with a lazy eye but a sweet car.

Then there was the stalker. We dated for maybe 3 months but he stalked me for a good year afterwards. He was 6’7 and so skinny that he was concave. He also had an identical twin brother, which freaked me right the fuck out. He once “surprised” me by flying from his home in Edmonton to my family’s home in CapitalCity over Thanksgiving. 6 months after we had broken up. Awesome. He also threatened to kill himself when I stopped answering his emails. That was a few years ago. I wonder how he’s doing?

After that I dated the conservative mind-fuck, who judged me for having several past sexual partners but did it with me all over his apartment, my apartment, and a few public bathroom stalls. Have you ever heard a really conservative, family-values, god-fearing man talk dirty while you do it in a kilt? It’s funny. Then he dumped me because he thought I was a bad seed. That sucked, too. We don’t keep in touch.

So then came TheTool. And then after that crashed and burned, I moved onto FauxHawk, my sexy doctor man who thinks I'm a funny person with a quirky family. Keeper?

Five years later, we’re still good. But sometimes little reminders of my exes come along and bitch slap me in the mouth.

Like when I saw on facebook that THEex asked his girlfriend to marry him. During their year-long trip around the world. With what looks a lot like a Tiffany princess cut engagement ring. Coolio. In all seriousness, it’s been almost 10 years since we broke up and they both look very happy. And she looks like a good fit for him. I bet she never almost got arrested breaking into her own house. I raise my gin to you, THEex. Happy marriage?

It might have been 6 or 7 gins.

Finding out chicken boy was a medic in Afghanistan (*swoon*) was another little slap. God I bet he looks good over there. Do they have showers in Afghanistan?

The guy with the lazy eye and the sweet car died in a car accident last November. That was kind of awful.

Another trampage victim is now married with a 3-year-old daughter. Howdy.

TheTool is a lawyer.

Exes, man. As much as you move on and do your thing, they’re always a part of your past. Which is why I totally felt for TigerCat this morning when she emailed me to tell me her high school sweetheart is engaged. They dated for 4 years and broke up like…5 year ago? I don’t even know. She’s been with CockDoc for 3 years or something and they live together and are very happy. But still, there’s just something about signing into facebook and *BITCH-SLAP!* the man you used to love is engaged. Probably to a whore, but still. I should also mention that TigerCat is currently visiting CockDoc’s family in Victoria. She’s trapped in their house with this news.

I plan to visit Universitytown this weekend to gin the ouch out of her.

I’m not sure if this post had a point. I hope the take-home message isn’t that I’m a huge tramp. I don’t think that’s why I wrote this.

Exes. They suck.


Saturday, June 06, 2009

Oh hey I'm crazy now: the continuing saga.

Day 3 of the West Jet midnight madness sale. Still no flights to Vancouver.

There’s nothing left to clean in my apartment, my crappy non-cable is only playing infomercials, and I've eaten every solid food in my kitchen. So tonight I had to find new ways to occupy myself until the sale starts at 2am. I thought about solo binge drinking, but realized that the only alcohol left in my stash is peach schnapps. And I may be an alcoholic, but I’m not fourteen years old. I have standards, dammit.

So I decided to take a purer route and do some yoga. At 12:30am.

It gets worse.

We’re having a bit of a heat wave in CapitalCity, and my apartment stores heat kind of like a green house. So, even at 12:30am, my apartment is a sauna. Therefore, I did my solo midnight yoga wearing only a ragged sports bra and what I lovingly refer to as my “1984 Summer Camp Counselor” short-shorts. They’re baby blue, make my ass look like a giant bubble, and are frighteningly short. Frankly, they’re obscene. I have only worn them out of the house once, on Halloween. I went as a 1984 summer camp counselor.

(That's me, TheNurse and TheHippie, on our way to a Halloween party circa 2005. Awesomeness knew no bounds)

So anyway, there I was: it’s 12:30am, I’m doing a downward dog and sweating like a prostitute, my ass is a giant baby-blue bubble, and the cat is wrestling with – and eventually is defeated by – the mesh bag that holds my yoga mat.

Friday night, ladies and gentlemen.

That peach schnapps is starting to look pretty fucking tempting.


Thursday, June 04, 2009

Oh hey I'm crazy now

Day 3 of no work/no human contact/no reason to leave apartment:

I finally did my spring cleaning. At 2:00am. There's nothing quite like sweeping up cat hair, mopping the floors, and rearranging furniture in new pleasing ways in the middle of the goddamn night.

So, I have a clean apartment for the first time since...I moved in. The cost? Sanity.

I'm waiting for the midnight madness sale on WestJet, which starts at midnight mountain time, 2am my time. I guess there are worse ways to kill time than cleaning.

Unexpected perk: the fumes from Mr. Clean with bleach are more potent after midnight.

I'm like a gremlin, but instead of setting things on fire and killing people I perform household chores.


Wednesday, June 03, 2009

ThePeach is a good worker

I’m supposed to be working from home now. I'm really behind on my deadlines, so it's imperative that I'm extremely productive this week.

Here’s how today went down:

8:00am: alarm goes off
8:02am: hit snooze
8:03am: cat expresses hunger by licking vigorously at my left armpit.
8:04am: ignore cat, put arms under blanket, turn off alarm.
10:30am: oops.
11:00am: sit down at computer for full day of productivity.
11:15am: eat a second breakfast.
11:45am: oh hey, TheAmazon is on facebook chat.
11:45am-2:30pm: look up flights to Portugal with TheAmazon. Discuss the trip we would like to take. Decide to refer to Lisbon as Lisbion from henceforth. Excited for a Lisbion adventure. Decide to book flights on weekend.
3:00-5:00pm: walk downtown to buy cat food and return movies to Blockbuster. Stop in two travel agencies to discuss upcoming Lisbiona bonanza. They do not help me, as I am master of the internet and already know more secrets than they do. I should probably work for budget travel.
5:30pm: Bored. Decide to make early bird special dinner.
6:30pm: Feel hefty. Decide to go for jog.
6:45pm-8:00pm: Regret choice. Hate life. Burp garlic pasta and try not to vomit in water fountain. Run like a greased pig.
8:00pm: Oh hey, Canada’s Next Top Model is on.
9:00pm: I should really paint my toenails.
9:30pm: I should really see what’s new on the internet.
9:35pm: Oh my god, they made a literal music video for Total Eclipse of the Heart. Watch three times. Send to friends. Discover a whole library of literal music videos on youtube.

10:30pm: Shit, I’ve really wasted my day. Watch Total Eclipse of the Heart two more times.
10:45-11:30pm: Actually do work.
11:35pm: Oh hey, TheNurse is on msn.

And now I think I’ll go to bed.

11:45pm: video one more time.*sings* And I've joined the glee club of the damned! (reference joke!)

I may need to disable my internet.


Monday, June 01, 2009

Today's lame movie that made ThePeach weep

I've hit an all-time low.

This time, it wasn't even a movie. It was a re-run of Road to Avonlea. I can't afford anything more than basic cable.


So...estrogen is terrifying. Yeah?


Where's my housecoat at?

Ola, senoritas!

It’s 10:30am on a Monday, and you know what I’m NOT doing? Fear-sweating in an office downtown, wishing I could pull my work-thong out of my work-pants-induced wedgie, and gargling with Starbucks.

That’s right, my month of legitimate internships is OVAH. And I’m celebrating by wearing pyjamas until noon, getting my life back in order, and sipping my coffee at a normal pace – like a respectable addict.

Although I must say that I really hearted my last week of work. The editors decided to try me out on the Arts and Lifestyle desk, and I managed to pump out 6 articles with titles like: “Archie Andrews to Marry Veronica Lodge; Betty Heartbroken,” “Why do we care about Jon and Kate Plus Eight?” and “Much a-twitter about celebrities.” Happiness, my friends, is being encouraged to write jokes into your pieces, being allowed to use your vocabulary for once (I used the word ‘titular’ – TITULAR!), and sitting with people who would much rather talk about season 4 of “Weeds” than bankruptcy protection plans.

And apparently they liked me, too, because I’ve been offered some freelance lifestyle work for the summer. Life = love.

So, now I’m back to working from home on my other two internships. You know, the ones I’ve completely neglected for the past month and am probably fired from, but have been too afraid to check my gmail to find out. On a sidenote, I’m sorry if any of you tried to contact me through gmail.

I have a fair amount of work to weed through this week, but that’s about all I have planned. I’m pretty stoked about not having to take the bus again. Or leave the apartment for a while.

In fact, the only reason I need to leave the apartment at all this week is to buy cat food.

Wow. The slope to crazy cat lady was so slippery and steep that I didn’t even know I was falling until I reached the bottom.

This can’t be good.