Monday, July 20, 2009

Signs

It’s starting. The obsession. I can’t help it.

Ever since I went to Vancouver last month I’ve become one of those annoying people who can’t stop talking about it. Every time it gets oppressively muggy here in CapitalCity I say “ugh, it doesn’t get like this in Vancouver” to anyone who will listen. I can’t eat sushi here anymore because it tastes like stale corpse compared to the buttery fish of Vancouver. I even wear leggings around the house and think “if this were Vancouver, this would be acceptable attire.”

Fuck. I kind of hate myself.

But I can’t help it. Have you ever just connected with a place so easily and naturally that it immediately felt like home – but better? MortalCombat is going through the same thing with South Africa, where she is living for the summer. We can ache together when she gets back.

Now that I’m suddenly single after 5 years and have no attachments, save for a highly portable animal, there’s really nothing stopping me from packing up and hauling my ass back west after I graduate in April. The “plan,” a.k.a. FauxHawk’s life which he penciled me into to suit him, was to remain in CapitalCity until we died. He grew up here and has no desire to go anywhere else. He wanted us to get a big waspy house, raise little jew babies, and spend every weekend with his mother. And I suppose this sounded ok to me, but not ideal. Love makes you whack.

But now I just want to get the shit out of here. I’m young and I need more adventures. I basically have the most portable job possible. And now I have friends and family out west. Why wouldn’t I go?

Also, the mens are hot out there and Peach needs to get laid. Tossed around. Slapped.

Lately the universe has been giving me signs:

1. Mouthy family of disabled child
Last week I was in Universitytown and I went to Starbucks to guzzle coffee and relax with a book. I had been enjoying the silence for about 5 minutes when the loudest, most annoying family ever sat down beside me. The mother was really shrill but the daughter – the fucking daughter! – would not shut the fuck up. She kept yelling and creating a ruckus, and I just buried my face in book and fantasized about throwing my coffee in her face. I’m not child-friendly.

This lasted about 10 minutes before I looked up with the intention to glare them into shame.

The daughter had Downs Syndrome.

Well, shit.

She was also kind of really cute, except for her unibrow. She beamed at me and waved, and I waved back and mouthed “hi” silently.

“HHHHIIIIIII!” she screamed, scaring the shit out of me and everything with ears in a 10 mile radius. I’m pretty sure she startled an old man outside into dropping his cane and stumbling on the sidewalk, but I can’t be sure. Sometimes old people just trip.

Of course the shrill mother took this as an invitation to prop her head on her elbow on my table and start telling me her life story. Her daughter's name was Catherine. She was 5. She too lived in CapitalCity. They were here for a vacation. She worked in the civil service, but had a journalism degree. Oh, I had a journalism degree? Where did I work? She couldn’t find work in CapitalCity because she wasn’t bilingual. I wasn’t bilingual? Well, I needed to move or I would never find work. I needed to get the hell out of CapitalCity before it ruined me, just as it ruined her.

This is where her silent and stoic husband piped in.

“Go west. Move to Vancouver. You won’t regret it.”

Thank you, family of loud disabled child, for my serendipitous Vancouver sign #1.

2. Dreams
I’ve been having a lot of dreams about moving. Mostly about my future sexy Vancouver apartment, which I cannot afford but has great views. And large windows which my new sexy Vancouver boyfriend likes to push me up against.

Anyway.

Last night, though, I dreamed about FauxHawk. Of course, fucking brain. I dreamed that we were married and I was in labour with his baby, and right after I pushed it out I found out he was cheating on me with some latino girl. And he loved her. He was sorry. Good luck with the baby.

Then I dreamed that I went to Universitytown to visit TigerCat again, and FauxHawk and I agreed to meet up for a coffee at his place, and when I got there his bedroom was covered in bras. Huge ones. Because he’s been fucking big-tittied whores since we broke up.

I woke up at 6am completely pissed off. Fuck! Why were the bras so fucking big??

But then I fell back asleep and dreamed that I sold all of my possessions and moved to Vancouver and had an awesome apartment and awesome life. It was a peaceful dream.

So, in one night I dreamed awful, angry dreams about my ex and then peaceful awesome dreams about my new life.

Thank you, brain, for my serendipitous Vancouver sign #2.

3. Ricardo
The night before FauxHawk lovingly broke up with me over the phone on my last day of vacation in Vancouver (oh yes. Thanks for that, asshole), my mom and I had a really nice dinner at the Mediterranean restaurant across the street from her condo. It was right on the water in False Creek, the sun was setting over the Granville Bridge, and the entire sky was pink. I had just got back from climbing Grouse Mountain with TheQuack and was feeling pretty awesome about life in general. And then I saw our waiter.

Tall, dark skin, and the kind of deep brown eyes that you want staring into your soul while he fucks you retarded. A gorgeous, gorgeous man specimen. When he came to take our order I realized he was very Italian. Oh, swoon. And my mom pointed out that he specifically asked for our table, probably because he wanted to meet me. I still hadn’t showered after mountain climbing and looked a little mangy, so I thought not. Until he came over and smiled at me and I thought “Well…maybe.”

Take me, sir.

I was with my mom and I was still in love with FauxHawk, stupid Peach, so I didn’t try anything coy. Gorgeous Italian waiter would have to remain a figment of my fantasies.

I just talked to my mom this morning. She went to a party at the restaurant last night. I casually asked her if the hot waiter was there.

“Oh yes. He sure was. His name is Ricardo. I think he was wondering where you were.”

Ricardo. Ricaaaardo. Yep. That’s a name I can scream out while being pressed up against a sheet window. I think a gorgeous Italian waiter with dimples and an accent would make a great rebound lay. Yes? Maybe I’ll start looking up flights.

As long as I don’t have to bring him back to my mom’s.

So, there you have it. Three signs that I should move.

And fifty that I need to get laid.

ThePeach

8 comments:

Sonya said...

I'm actually at a point where I get pissed when people ask me where I'm from. I'M FROM HERE. I'm just pale and talk funny.

weeone said...

those are some pretty good signs that say move to vancouver... i know im not one to argue :)

PS: its supposed to be 25 degrees, sunny with blue skies today - no talk of humidity ...

quackattack said...

You WILL move here ...

Cleavage said...

There is a seat sale on. You can get one-way flights for $211 with taxes just before thanksgiving (read: when I will be in Vancouver). There is, at the very least, a strong case for visiting again soon. And then moving there.

Spaz said...

I like the break-up hostility. It means you're over the first hump. And it's hilarious. xo

Hotmess said...

Bring me with you. I can't live in Ottawa. Politics and boredom just isn't going to work.

Hotmess said...

ps: I just spend the last 30 minutes at yes 6 am signing us up for free contest competitions. A possible 14 days in Thailand or "the best date" in LA is in the works.

Also my friend from Rwanda just sent me a link on how to make your own gin in a bathtub. Things are looking up.

Hotmess said...

Wow. Perhaps I shouldn't be allowed to leave comments on your blog early in the morning. What is a "free contest competition?"