Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Professionalism FAIL, part 3794

I sometimes freelance for the lifestyle section of this national newspaper chain. It makes me happy in my heart, because they ask me to write about hard-hitting topics like senior citizen fitness, peanut allergies, and more senior citizen fitness. God I love old people!

Seriously. They're adorable.

My current assignment is to compile a parent's guide to the most popular toys this holiday season. I find this a little tricky, maybe because I'm at the bitter age in my life where the sight of children makes my ovaries dry out. I'm not sure when this happened.

My first choice is "Baby Ah-Choo." Not because I think little girls need dolls, not because the doll comes with kleenex, a thermometer, and what I believe is a tiny fake bottle of hand sanitizer, but because I want to put the fear of H1N1 in the little disease-spreading grade schoolers. I don't want to catch swine because some dirty child wants to wipe its hands on everything and lick door-knobs. So let's teach them proper sanitization.

With Baby Ah-Choo.


I had to make a conference call to the senior toy buyers at a major Canadian department store. While on the phone discussing nerf guns and dolls that crap themselves, one of them asked me a question.

Senior Buyer: You don't know the tv show Bakugan?
ThePeach: No, sir, I do not.
Senior Buyer: It's the most popular boy's cartoon out there!
ThePeach: I do not know of it.
Senior Buyer: You must not have any young boys, then.
ThePeach: No, sir, I do not.
Senior Buyer: Do you have any children?
ThePeach: NO. GOD, NO!!!
Senior Buyer:...let's discuss the Flutter-By-Fairy.

That one just slipped right out.

I'll have to watch that.


Monday, October 26, 2009


HotMess and I went to hot yoga yesterday. Or, at least, we thought we did. Obviously neither of us read the schedule, and we accidentally wound up in a 90 minute extreme stretch class.

Oh holy fuck.

Of course we still had no idea that we had entered this new, fresh hell. 45 minutes into the class and we both had been holding our ankles over our heads for 20 minutes using special yoga straps (weird, why are we so good at this pose?), there are 9 inch bricks under our tailbones to fold us inside out, and we're both still waiting for the actual yoga to start.

Another 45 minutes later and we've both been holding deep birthing-style squats for 15 minutes, stretching our hip flexors and birth canals to the point of paralysis, and it's finally occured to us that maybe we took the wrong class. The hysterical laughter started, which is frowned upon in extreme stretch class, so then we had to try to muffle it. While in extreme birthing squat. I might have actually birthed one of my ovaries.

We should have known that we had walked into the wrong class right from the get-go. Usually our class is filled with 20-something yuppies in perfect yoga-body shape, all glistening perfect lady sweat in the 100 degree yoga room. When we walked into yesterday's class and lay out our matts, I was slapped in the face with an overwhelming yet distinguishable scent.

ThePeach: *lifts hips into downward dog, whispers* Why does it smell like balls in here?
HotMess: *lowers hips into resting child pose, whispers* Because the room is full of balls.

Men. Men everywhere. Old, topless men.

Extreme stretch:

Bad choice.


Sunday, October 25, 2009

Lies, lies, lies.

I went to the doctor on Thursday. Just the yearly check-up/weigh-in/speculum rape/syphilis swab.

As usual, the doctor and I nimbly circled around each other in the alcohol dance.

He asked me if I drank a lot.

I asked him what constituted “a lot.”

He asked me how much I drank in an average week.

I said I didn’t drink every week.

He asked me to guess.

I said maybe 10 drinks/week maximum, but that wasn’t every week.

He nodded like he believed me and then ordered a liver functioning test anyway.

Two nights later, I’m sitting alone on my couch, wondering how I just drank two-thirds of a bottle of red wine in under an hour.

See, I have this fiction piece I’m supposed to write for my writing class. I haven’t written fiction – real fiction, not a thinly veiled autobiography – in years. And even then, I wasn’t very good at it. Poetry, sure. Emo haikus, bring it. But real fiction? The thought makes my guts churn. I haven’t had an original idea in my entire life.

Add to the fact that we will be tearing through our final products next week in a group gang bang that our professor likes to call “workshopping.”

So, I thought a little wine might loosen me up and get the creative juices flowing. It worked for Ernest Hemingway. And Faulkner. And Thomas. Do not go gentle into that good night! Drink wine and write! I’m pretty sure that’s the point, anyway.

Instead I just drank all the wine and wrote nothing. I’d failed my drunken writing forefathers. And then I was drunk, alone, and in my pjs at 9pm on a Saturday night. So when the peer pressure text messages from my friends started coming in, I had no choice but to back out of my convictions that I would spend the night working, put on pants, and get thee to the bar.

So now, here I am. Sunday morning, I’ve still written nothing, and I have a massive red wine headache.

Being a writer is hard.

Those liver function tests should be back any day now.


Tuesday, October 20, 2009

ThePeach skips sleep; doesn’t skip talking

I’m on thin ice with my thesis supervisor.

When she called me into her office for a meeting last week, I knew it wasn’t going to be good. The second I received her brusque email requesting a meeting that morning, I broke into a fear-sweat. My eyes watered with tears. My stomach lurched.

Time for a fistin’.

It had already been a rough week, what with the OSAP audit, the piles of work I haven’t been able to get to, and that nagging faintness that makes me do things like end my TA sessions 30 minutes early so I can go lie down in the dark and dry heave in peace.

So, if my life was going down the crapper, I knew that this meeting was going to be the black plunger that pushed me further down a drain of watery feces.


Long story short, the meeting consisted of me sitting silently with tears running down my face while my supervisor calmly told me that I was a disappointment.

No big deal.

So today I had to drop off an assignment to her. I hadn’t slept all weekend in order to finish it, so I was feeling a little…oh…special.

I was in her office for a maximum of 45 seconds. Here is what came out of my mouth:

Supervisor: *giant plastered-on smile* Ooook, this looks just fine. Just fine. Good. Good.
ThePeach: *stares dully into her eyes* You look scared of me.
Supervisor: Um what?
ThePeach: *deadpan voice* You look scared of me.
Supervisor: …no…I’m just glad you’re back on the ball.
ThePeach: *eye twitch* Thank you for kicking my ass.
Supervisor: …well…I tried to be gentle about it.
ThePeach: *scary calm voice* Yes. You kicked my ass gently.

And then no one said anything and I decided to make my graceful exit.

I think that went really well.


Thursday, October 08, 2009

The Peach watches the fat grow; blames external forces

I haven't been for a run since school started over a month ago. This is a travesty. A travesty! I feel like a sluggish, lardy twat. Long gone are the lithe breakup-anorexia days of yesteryear. Gone are the days of leggings. Fleeting are the days of lulus.

Not ok.

I blame journalism school.

Is it possible that this year is even worst than the last? How can a program be designed to make us all want to kill ourselves? I slept 3 hours last night and I feel like I should get down on my knees and supplicate to the gods of mercy for their offering. Seriously, these are the kind of everyday, normal phone conversations I have with my classmates on a daily basis:


*phone rings*
HotMess: Peach?
ThePeach: Oh hey, HotMess. How was your day?
HotMess: Well, I pulled two all nighters in a row, haven't slept since Sunday, haven't changed my clothes since Monday, haven't eaten anything except 7 RockStar Burners, and still managed not to finish my radio documentary and my prof thinks I'm lazy and useless. So I'm just kind of driving around the city and fighting the suicide. You?
ThePeach: I only had to pull one all nighter - last night - so I'm ok. You know, a little nauseous and dizzy and suicidal but nothing too bad. I'm currently wandering through the drugstore like a drunk in order to buy a jumbo bag of chips. I need fuel before I mark those undergrad exams. I also want these exfoliation gloves. Like I have time to exfoliate! *hysterical laughter* Are you going to sleep tonight?
HotMess: *weeps slowly*
ThePeach: Yeah. Me neither.

*phone rings*
Spaz: Peach?
ThePeach: Oh hey, Spaz.
Spaz: How come you weren't in class last night?
ThePeach: Oh, a girl in the newspaper section I'm editing had a royal fuck-up so our professor sent me an email in which he called me an unprofessional debacle, so I spent my night sobbing in front of my laptop and simultaneously doing the girl's interviews, and then I didn't get to start my own article until 5am, and I haven't slept yet, I just hoovered a bag of ruffles and now I'm marking undergrad exams. You?
Spaz: I spent my day contemplating my future as a writer after getting back our assignments. I'm leaning towards never writing again. Sorry about that email. Remember the time I cried for two days over a mean email from our prof?
ThePeach: Yeah. I do.
Spaz: Want to come cuddle with me in my bed?
ThePeach: Yeah. I do.

And this was just yesterday.

Maybe tonight I'll try to go for a run. Or maybe I'll just lie on my floor and let the heart attacks take me.


Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Another heart-warming father daughter moment

My dad picked me up for lunch on my birthday. On the way to the restaurant he asked me about my love life. I think he felt bad about his previous insistence that, without FauxHawk, I would die alone. This had been his favourite suggestion for the past 3 months, and one he hinted at in all of our interactions. So I think this line of questioning was him trying to be supportive. Guess how that went?

Dad: So, any guys chasing you?
ThePeach: Uh…yeah. I guess. A few.
Dad: A few??
ThePeach: Well, yeah.
Dad: The boys like you, eh?
ThePeach: *awkward laugh*
Dad: They do, don’t they?
ThePeach: I…no? Yes?
Dad: See, everyone always thinks that boys just want the hot girls. The really attractive ones. But it’s not always true! Sometimes they want the smart girls, like you! That Master’s degree is going to really help you out, I think.
ThePeach: …

*whimpers* Daddy.


Sunday, October 04, 2009

I like drinking.

I woke up spread-eagle on a completely deflated air mattress at 10am. I slowly opened one crusty eye, felt yesterday’s makeup tear my eyelashes out, and looked to my left: Cleavage in the fetal position beside me. TheHubby on the bare floor beside her. Above me, TheHippie’s leg, dangling from the couch. I squinted and could just make out TheCorporate and QueenB passed out in QueenB’s bed. I was still wearing my bar shirt but not my push-up bra. I was still drunk.

QueenB stumbled out of the bedroom.

“Who wants breakfast?”


I cheerily scarfed down eggs and a muffin, full of drunken zest for life. And then we started talking about last night.

TheHubby fixed his eyes on me.

“Do you remember asking if you could puke on the lawn, and then trying to do it?”


“Do you remember walking barefoot down the streets and yelling that you probably had AIDS as a result?”


“Do you remember puking in QueenB’s bathroom for 20 minutes?”

That explains the sore throat.

“Do you remember passing out in QueenB’s bed?”

What? How did I wind up on the air mattress? Lies.

“Do you remember me trying to physically drag you out of the bed, and you whining about how comfortable you were and to leave you alone?”

Absolutely not. This did not happen. I do not black out.

That’s when Cleavage chimed in.

“I had to shake your shoulders for 10 minutes to keep you awake. You would not move.”

Pretty smug from someone who slept on the bathroom floor Friday night, spooning the heater.

And then QueenB spoke up.

“I got home 20 minutes later and you were spread eagle on my side of the bed. Not just in my bed, but on my side. So I told you to get the hell out and you ran to the air mattress like a scared little bitch.”

Well. That’s because I do anything you tell me, alpha-bitch.

TheHippy kept quiet through this entire humiliating exchange. But later, as she drove me to the train station, she made a confession.

“Don’t feel bad. I woke up on the bathroom floor at 8am with no pants whatsoever and no idea what happened.”

Oh thank god.

Anyway, after breakfast I had a little nap with TheHippy. She spooned me. It’s the only advantage of being the lowest bitch in our alpha hierarchy – I’m always the little spoon. I have to do whatever I’m told, but I get cuddled.

I woke up at noon, this time not drunk.

Oh sweet jesus in heaven. Here comes the dry heaves. I tried to remember just how much I drank. There were many birthday shots. 6? Probably 4 vodka redbulls. That explains the shakes. And god knows how many gins. 8? 12? 30? I’m sure I danced like a sweaty, epileptic munchkin. TheHubby said I aggressively grinded his genitals in a corner of the dance floor. God only knows who else got dry-humped. You’re welcome, TheBigCity.

So, the weekend was a great success. We consumed at least 40,000 calories each, mostly in cheese form. I drank myself into a blackout. Two out of 8 of us slept on the bathroom floor. Two out of 8 puked. Two wore shirts as dresses to the bar. One of us cried while standing in line for post-bar poutine. TheHippy and I discovered that we’re blood twins: we’re both O+, we both got our very first periods at Guide Camp, and after one night together out uteruses were back in sync. It’s starting to get weird, actually. We’re like twins who were separated at birth, but I’m the parasite twin who feeds off her.

But anyway, this weekend made me love life again.

So, maybe I’m a train-wreck. Maybe I’m a total fucking disaster, and I’m going to go to debt jail and be evicted and have my cat taken away by social services.

But I love my fucked-up, disastrous, train-wreck of a life.

And, apparently, so do you.


Saturday, October 03, 2009

The dark place is dark on the train.

Why is it that I only ever have time to update when I’m in transit? I shouldn’t even have time for this – I’m supposed to be failing, I mean marking, the assignments of the little nuggets I TA, while simultaneously rewriting my thesis proposal and having a newspaper story meeting via email. But Via Rail’s wifi is down, so now that I’ve had a celebratory nap and sandwich, here I am. With time on my hands.

Ok, I don’t actually need wifi to mark assignments or rewrite my thesis, but I’m using it as an excuse. Eat me.

I’m having a life-fail kind of week. I haven’t really slept in a month, my knockers are definitely shrinking, my apartment smells like garbage, and I might have to whore myself for rent money. If anyone will have me. The fact that my uterus is making me want to simultaneously weep and stab people in the face isn’t helping things. This bitch will cut you, and then hold your hand and ask you to tell me I’m pretty.

I went to the bar last night for a reprieve from the constant writing. I was so stressed about work that I smoked 4 cigarettes. Bad. Bad!! Don’t go into journalism, kids. It gives you cancer and probably the clap. We’re all whores.

Anyway, my Dad drove me to the train station today. He didn’t help things, either.

ThePeach: *opens apartment door* Hi, Dad. I’m just running a few minutes behind because I had to call a source. I need 10 minutes. And sorry about all the dirty dishes but I haven’t been home much. And if it smells like cat pee, it’s because the cat peed on my globe and mail yesterday. I threw it out but the smell is really lingering.
Dad: *scans room in horror* Jesus, Peach. I know you’re not so busy that you can’t take 10 minutes to clean up! What’s wrong with you??
ThePeach: Grad School is wrong with me.
Dad: Have you paid the dentist yet?
ThePeach: Fuck! The dentist!
Dad: Getting calls from creditors isn’t going to help your financial problems. Why are you such a train-wreck?? Get your shit together! Have you taken FauxHawk back yet?
ThePeach: *grits teeth* He. Doesn’t. Want. Me. Back. Father.
Dad: Of course he does. You’re just being stubborn. That ship is going to sail, you know.
ThePeach: I can’t…even…this is…too much…right now
Dad: Oh, shit. I forgot. Have a good birthday this weekend.
ThePeach: *hysterical weeping*

To recap: I live in a heap of my own filth, I can’t pay my bills, and I’m going to die alone.

And all this from a 55-year-old single man who is seriously contemplating growing his own weed.

So now I’m in the dark place again. I’m typing this with my hood on and my face pressed against the train window. I may or may not have cried in the tiny, aluminum bathroom.

But things are looking up. I’m on my way to TheBigCity for a reunion weekend with my women/husband. It will be TheHippy, Cleavage, TheHubby, QueenB, Workahol and TheCorporate – together again. I’m salivating with excitement. And at the thought of the $200 worth of sushi we will order for dinner, and that I will vomit up 4 hours later, after my 12th jager bomb.

I’m also really looking forward to taking this disaster out on the town. Let’s see who I can head-butt this time.

I leave you with this:

A comedian on the CBC radio show “The Debaters” yesterday, on why womanhood isn’t dependent on motherhood:

“Yes, my female body has the innate biological urge to procreate. But sometimes it also has the innate biological urge to put on sweatpants, eat a tub of ice cream, cry, and shoot people. And I manage to ignore most of that one.”


UPDATE: Life is amazing again. I love my friends so much. I just ate half the ocean worth of sushi. Last night I drank a 2L bottle of wine and then watched a porno called "Man Country." Tonight I'm going to the club to drink 5000 gins, dance like a rightous whore, and make out with everything with legs.