Monday, November 22, 2010

What I know about Paula

I get a lot of wrong numbers in TheBigCity.

Ever since I changed my area code in May, I get these random people calling my phone. Sometimes I don’t answer and they leave confusing voice mails. Sometimes they text me in the middle of the night, or at lunch, or when I’m really busy doing other important things, like watching internet television or teaching the cat to fetch a ping pong ball.

All of the wrong numbers are looking for Paula.

Paula, who either has a number very similar to mine, or changed her number and didn’t tell a select group of people. Paula, who has needy friends who just really, really want to talk to her, say, at 2am on a Tuesday. Paula, who I’ve garnered a fair bit of info about through my random observations and mullings, just like I have about skinny, naked guy in the next building over.

Oh yes, we have a skinny, naked guy, much like the cast of Friends had an ugly naked guy, and I have to admit it makes me feel very urban to have a naked guy of my own. I haven’t yet tried to poke him with a series of chopsticks taped together and stretched across the alley, but that’s mostly because I’m fairly certain skinny, naked guy is whacking off to internet porn over there.

Seriously. His knees are usually up around his ears.

Here is what I know about Paula, based on six months of messages, texts and phone calls:

1. Paula has one really, really douchey friend

This guy is an asshole. I don’t fault Paula for not telling him she changed her number, or that he has the wrong one, or for running over him with her car if she decides to go that route.

Douchey friend likes to call in the middle of the night, repeatedly, until I pick up. This is how our conversations usually go:

Me: Hello?
Douche: Yo, Paula! We’re at the *indecipherable* and you should be here!
Me: Sorry, wrong number.
Douche: Yo, Paula?
Me: SORRY, wrong NUMBER.
Douche: This isn’t Paula, yo?
Me: NO THIS IS NOT PAULA. THIS HAS NEVER BEEN PAULA. YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER AGAIN.
Douche: Do you know where Paula is, sweetheart?
Me: WRONG. NUMBER.
Douche: You have a nice voice there, sweetheart.
Me: *click*


Sometimes, when my phone is turned off, after he’s tried calling 2 or 3 times, he leaves me an enraged message.

Douche: YO PAULA. PAULA. WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, SWEETHEART? WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING YOUR PHONE? PAULA, I’M GETTING REALLY ANNOYED HERE. WE’RE AT THE *indecipherable* BAR AND YOU NEED TO CALL ME BACK. OK. BYE.

Now that I think about it, this guy might be an ex-lover, or an obsessed psychopath, or both, and he plans to strangle her during non-consensual sex and then cut her into pieces so she can never leave him.

Run, Paula. Run for your life.

2. Paula has an ethnic, old-lady acquaintance

Sometimes an old Indian lady calls looking for Paula. At least, I think she’s looking for Paula. She could also be saying “caller,” or “hello,” or maybe “korma.”

Maybe she’s ordering Indian food. Maybe she’s ordering Indian food every time, and then she sits around wondering where her food is 20 minutes after I hang up. But why would an Indian woman order Indian food? That’s like me ordering in…poutine. Which I’ve done multiple times, actually, but regardless, I’m pretty sure she’s looking for Paula.

Here is how our conversations go. She usually calls around 5 or 6pm…which is totally dinner time, but I’m still fairly certain she’s looking for Paula and not trying to order Indian Special #6.

Me: Hello?
Indian Lady: Oh hello, hi. *indecipherable* *voice trailing off* Paula/Korma/caller/hello?
Me: …HELLO?
Indian Lady: Oh hello, hi. *indecipherable* *voice trailing off* Paula/Korma/caller/hello?
Me:…You want to sell me what now?
Indian Lady: Oh hello, hi. *indecipherable* *voice trailing off* Paula/Korma/caller/hello?
Me: Mom?
Indian Lady: Oh hello, hi. *indecipherable* *voice trailing off* Paula/Korma/caller/hello?
Me: I think you have the wrong number.
Indian Lady: PAULA/KORMA
Me: I’m sorry. Wrong number. I think? Mom?
Indian Lady: Sorry. So sorry. Ah sorry.
Me:…ok bye.
Indian Lady: ok bye.


This has happened at least six times.

3. Paula may be trying her hand at internet dating, and possibly having webcam sex with suitors

I mean, I’d do the same if my only friends were a douche and an old Indian lady. Get out there, Paula! Meet people! Just don’t give them my number.

Last weekend, BadInfluence and I went for a long walk through the city and wound up in an old Hungarian coffee shop. As we waited for the waitress, who looked EXACTLY like FauxHawk’s mother, to bring us our coffees and strudel, I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize, from a person who didn’t leave their name. I hate when that happens, because then, just in case it is from someone you know, you have to write back.

Although I was fairly certain I didn’t know this person, because none of my friends would miss an apostrophe, even on their death beds.

Here is an exact transcript:

Internet Sucker: Hey sweetness how are things at your end
Me: Hey who is this?
Internet Sucker: Don’t you suck forgetting me its jayson
Me: Who are you trying to reach?
Internet Sucker: haha we met on pof (editor’s note: plenty of fish) a while back you seen me on webcam also… ;)
Me: Sorry, you have the wrong number. This is ThePeach. Never been on POF.
Internet Sucker: I’m so sorry

That poor sucker. He bared his heart, and probably his genitals, and Paula gave him the wrong number.

Wouldn’t it be funny if “jayson” were my skinny, naked guy? I mean, SNG is so definitely stroking his penis in front of his computer over there. Seriously, I can see it.

Sometimes the stars just align.

What I don’t know is how the old Indian lady fits into all this.

She probably does just want Indian food.

ThePeach

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

ThePeach can still run like the wind. Maybe more like a gentle breeze.

Good news, sexies!

I haven’t destroyed my body nearly as much as I’d thought.

Running has, oddly enough, become a fairly important part of my life in the last few years. I still loathe exercise, but there’s something about running that connects with me. I like the solitude of it – it gives me time to think, and clear my head, and sometimes even have insights and smart-person ideas that just don’t come to me when I’m in the fetal position on the couch. I wrote most of my thesis based on ideas that came to me during long runs along the canal in CapitalCity, for instance.

I love the routine of it. I love finding a route with landmarks, so that I can map out exactly how many kilometres I’ve run so far, and how many I have to go before I get home again. But I also like the spontaneity – finding new neighbourhoods, new parks, new hobos.

Running takes away the suicides and the lingering by the knife drawer habit and makes me loving again. Or as loving as I can be, anyway. When I come back from a run, after I’ve showered, I usually want to either accomplish things, or have sex and then accomplish things. BadInfluence encourages my running as much as he can without dipping into the dangerous zone of making me think he thinks I should exercise because I’m fat and he doesn’t love me anymore AND I’LL KILL YOU, BASTARD.

It’s a fine line.

I hate running on treadmills. Treadmills make me want to punch puppies. When I run outside, I get fresh air in my lungs. When I run outside in TheBigCity, once I get through the exhaust fumes and urine clouds, there’s actual nature to be consumed. And running alongside nature makes me feel like a person-person again, instead of a mole-person.

In short, running is important to me.

And like most things important to me, such as friends, family, nutrition and grooming myself, running has been abandoned since I started working at TheBigNewspaper.

Who the fuck has time for that racket. Really.

Today I hit a low point. I’ve been missing BadInfluence, and the weather has been ass, and the internets weren’t cooperating – have I mentioned that my entire job is running the internets? – and I’ve been super exhausted from another week of 7am start-times and 5pm end-times, and I basically hated life. My colleague brought his wife, baby son and a Tupperware container of Halloween-decorated cupcakes into the office, and I essentially ploughed down his family to get at the dessert. Elbows out, feet lifted high, like I was caught in a stampede.

Bitch needed sugar. Baby was in the way.

After licking orange icing off my face, I decided I should call it a day. I tramped home in my high heels, all hatey and sugar-coated, when the sun came out for the first time since Friday. I noticed that it was unseasonably warm for late October, which I now know is due to a massive “weather-bomb” of storms and possible tornados headed our way.

But still. Sunshine.

That’s all it took. I squeezed into my old running spandex (still fits, thank you stress for burning all calories I take in), strapped on my knee brace for good measure, and hit the sidewalk.

Ten minutes later I was running along the lakeshore and had my stride back.

The question now is: am I loving, or do I want to accomplish things?

I just put in a load of laundry. Maybe I’m done.
ThePeach

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Buona sera, bitches.

BadInfluence is here for a visit this weekend. He flew in last night so that we could have one quick evening together before I had to work the next day (hence the 6am blogging).

I decided to make the evening special, and I'm not just talking about wearing the push-up bra that makes my tits look like torpedos.

Although I did wear it, which in hindsight was not a great plan, food-wise.

Since BadInfluence was coming straight from work, and doling out plane fare so he could get here early, I decided to make him a romantic dinner. I lit candles, I played sextastic music, and I timed a yummy dinner to be prepared the second BadInfluence came through the door.

I decided to tap into my Italian roots and made creamy balsamic mushroom bruschetta, followed by home-made pizza. And lots of wine. Plus the torpedo bra that, seriously, made me want to fondle my own boobs. And I'm more of an ass-man.

So, BadInfluence walks in the door, and is greeted by bruschetta and my tits.

Guess which he went for first.

As he was trying to rape me I was trying to rape him right back, but with food. I forced him to choke down two bruschetta pieces before I gave up and decided that he would not pay attention to my cooking until he, you know, rocked my body.

Following a little couch exercise, I put the pizza in the oven. He followed me into the kitchen and still, I was surprised to see, had the rape eyes.

ThePeach: This is a three course Italian dinner.
BadInfluence: tits.
ThePeach: Bruschetta to start.
BadInfluence: tits.
ThePeach: Then pizza.
BadInfluence: tits.
ThePeach: *kisses BadInfluence* And then...you get a special dessert. *winks*
BadInfluence: You better not have a fucking tiramisu in the fridge.

The torpedo bra is available at La Senza for $40.

ThePeach

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

ThePeach still gets chased by hobos

Just a quick update because I'm exhausted and horizontal on the couch right now after another 7am start at work. But I know I gave you all abandonment anxiety this summer, so I figured I should write something before you start dating people who remind you of your fathers.

So, I live in yuppie heaven now. It's cleaner(er), there's (a slight amount of) nature, I can see the lake (and into the apartment building across the street, where BadInfluence and I once caught what we're pretty sure was a dude jerking off at his computer. His shirt was off and we could only see one hand, anyway) from my window, and, best off all, I very rarely spot hookers or hobos (until I walk 2 blocks north).

Last week I had dinner with Spaz. We drank wine and stood by her kitchen island in her brand new condo, and talked about how we can't believe these are our lives. Just a few months ago we were haggard students living in CapitalCity, and here we are now, drinking (a $10 2L bottle of) wine, eating dinner in our shiny (so expensive my first rent cheque bounced) condos, talking about our (occasionally cry-fit-inducing) jobs. We're real, class-act, city girls.

Eventually our other friend joined us, we talked about work and relationships, finished the wine, and I stumbled home on foot around 1:30am.

It was a lovely night. I could smell the lake (and urine) as I turned down my street. And then on the sidewalk, right in front of my apartment doors, I saw...a hobo.

YOU DON'T BELONG HERE, HOBO!, I thought to myself.

DRAG THAT BUM LEG TWO BLOCKS NORTH!

He had wild hair, a red face, and a limp. I tried to scurry around him, but he looked right at me with his hobo eyes and took a deep breath, puffing up his chest to prepare for a hobo-yell.

"YOU STINKING AMERICAN JEW!!!!"

He waved his hands in the air and glared at me. Then opened his mouth again.

"YOU STINKING AMERICAN JEW!!!!!"

Wrong on all three accounts, hobo.

After a brief sidewalk stand-off, he limped along, and I walked into my building with a sigh of relief.

Then I drunk-dialed Spaz, our friend, and my work friend who, by the way, had to be up at 7am in the morning.

Class-act city girl. That's me.

ThePeach

Monday, October 11, 2010

Yuppie fail

BadInfluence came to visit this weekend, and he brought GinBucket and MC to stay with us on our glorious new futon. Those of you who have been reading my blog for years and are primed to the word ‘futon’ may know where this is going already.

Spaz and I planned for her to come over Friday for dinner, and then we’d have one or two drinks as we waited for our friends and lovers (in reality it was an entire bottle of white, and half a bottle of gin, to the point where Spaz was playing Barrel of Monkeys with my cat).

Friday would be the first time I had guests in our new, beautiful apartment.

Let me backtrack a little. I also started working 7am-3pm shifts at work this week. Since I still have to look professional and not like yesterday’s whore, I have to wake up at 5:15 in the morning. You know what wakes me up every morning? The dulcet tones of the British media. You know why? Because 5:15 is too early even for CBC. Fucking CBC even acknowledges that no one should be awake at 5:15. No one. So I wake up to their BBC stream. This depresses me, even though it makes me feel closer to Cleavage. Connected through the radio, if you will.

My point is that I have to go to bed early. At 11pm on Thursday I looked over at the futon just in time to see the bastard cat release a torrent of hot urine all over it. A fucking jet stream of liquid SATAN. He made eye contact the whole time, so nonchalantly, all like “Ya, that’s right. I’m doing this. It feels great.”

11pm. On the only place to sit in my apartment, and where the lesbians were to sleep the next night.

I went through seven stages of grief. Six of them were weeping, and one of them was calling BadInfluence in a fit of rage to tell him it was his fault BEEEECAUSE YOU LEFT ME HEEEERE ALOOOOONE.

At 11:30, I began the scrubbing. I scrubbed like a little slave-girl until 1am. I was delirious from the fumes of cleaning products and piss. I dragged the mattress into the sun room, lit some incense, sprayed half a can of aerosol, opened all the windows, yelled at the cat, felt bad about yelling at the cat and patted his little head, spent the next 20 minutes blocking his attempts to bite my arm off, the little fucker, scrubbed my hands to get the smell of piss off them, and passed out for a solid 3-4 hours of sleep. Wicked.

I gave the futon another vigorous scrub the next afternoon, before the arrival of the guests. Then I flipped it over, put it back on the frame, covered it with blankets, sprayed more aerosol, and hoped for the best. Everyone said they couldn’t smell piss, but they could be lying because I look like a serial killer right now, all pale and dark-circled and muttering to myself.

This was my first yuppie fail of the weekend.

Part 2:

BadInfluence and I went to the big farmer’s market downtown on Saturday. I like how big cities go to great lengths to make you forget you’re in a big city so you don’t get depressed and start shooting people from your office window. I’m pretty sure that’s why they have farmer’s markets (food other than Indian takeout!), group yoga classes in courtyards behind offices (exercise! Relaxation! Being part of something other than the commute!) and the occasional caged-in tree on a sidewalk (wait. waaaait. I know what that is. I've seen one of those before...).

So we totally douched it out, white-person stylez, and went to the market to buy local veggies and meats. We felt very sophisticated yet earthy, choosing our peppers and picking out our steaks.

And there was music in the background, barely audible above the market chatter. Sweet, soft music. I looked around for the source.

And my eyes stopped on a midget playing a mandolin. A midget. Playing a mandolin.

He was sitting on a little crate.

I’ve gotten in trouble for this kind of talk before, so I’ll just leave you with the image.

Part 3:

Because we weren’t quite douchey enough yet, we stopped at the wine store on our way back from the market. I was looking at the $8 bottles, like a classy bitch, when the salesman asked me if I’d like to taste their vintage Trius.

I’ve never been one to turn down free booze.

He poured BadInfluence and I each a little glass, swirled them for us, and set them down.
I immediately dumped it down my throat, opening my esophagus like a snake digesting a mongoose. I daintily returned the glass to the counter. The salesman eyed me warily.

“Oh, sorry. Was I supposed to spit that out or something?”

Yes I was.

We bought our cheap wine and were on our way.

Part 4:

By this time, it was early evening. We thought about watching the sun set over the lake, from our awesome view, but instead had dirty jungle sex for two hours, the kind where people get thrown around and you come-to with slap-marks on your face. You know, romantic sex.

I do not regret this choice.

Part 5:

This was not part of our Saturday, but needs to be mentioned. We were having a wine and candlelight night before BadInfluence left for CapitalCity. It was very romantic, what with cuddling and love-chatter.

Until I said this:

“You’re not funnelling water into my ass. I don’t care how much you want to get laid tonight.”

The context is unimportant.

Isn’t this exactly what you imagined I’d be like as a yuppie?

ThePeach

Tuesday, October 05, 2010

I'm not dead - really

It’s been more than five months since I last blogged. Blogging is kind of like exercise…easy to stop, and once you do stop, starting up again seems impossible, like too much work, and you’d rather use your free time to lie on the couch with a sandwich.


Oh hey, I also stopped exercising.


The thing is, my job at TheBigNewspaper has taken over my life completely. I eat, breathe and sweat TheBigNewspaper. I don’t really do anything else anymore – when would I? And I don’t want to blog about work, lest they find out about it and fire my young ass.


But today, on my 28th birthday, I decided to fuck it. Plus last night was too completely ridiculous not to write about it.


So, welcome back. My three remaining loyal readers must be very excited.


So, my summer. As you know, I’ve been in TheBigCity since May 1. BadInfluence came with me, until he had to fly to B.C. for four months for his own internship. Long distance was about as awful as you might expect. I visited him once for four days, and we mostly had sex in his sublet. I hear Victoria is beautiful, though.


Life with Cig, my 20-year-old pot-head roomie, went on as expected. She’d hit the bong at 4am, pump Elvis tunes, and paint pictures of moustaches. Like, I’d wake up in the morning and find giant moustache paintings drying on the dining room table. She also enjoyed not wearing pants, inviting her friends over for parties, and getting tattoos.


As for my internship, they definitely put me through the gauntlet. I got to do some reporting, which was awesome and fulfilling, but mostly I was a web editor. And then, halleluiah, they decided to hire me…as a web editor.


I got the news editor drunk last night and asked him if I’d ever be a reporter. He said no. He also told me I’m not a good writer. This was at my birthday party.


So, life dreams shot to shit, but at least I have a job?


In surprising life news, BadInfluence and I moved in together in September and I’ve become a total fucking yuppie. Like, we look at pillow covers in The Bay and buy Spanish classical guitar cds to play in the apartment while we drink wine and plan our thanksgiving dinner menu. Ya, I’m gross. And it. Is. Fucking. Awesome. Seriously, I like having the same man in my bed every night. And after he gives me a good tumble at night, he makes me pancakes in the morning. Heaven.

I never thought I’d enjoy being a yuppie. Turns out I just couldn’t picture it with FauxHawk, who would rather live out his years sitting cross legged in a tree fort, pretending to be 19. Does that even make sense? I don’t know, I’m pretty fucking hungover right now.


Who knew? I’m a secret domestic. And having BadInfluence around has increased my humanity levels by at least 70 per cent. Example, he packs me a lunch for work. Usually I just eat a bag of chips and down two redbulls, like a proper journalist. I have this ringing in my ears lately and I think the redbull has probably snapped some wiring in my brain. The guy I buy it from at the gas station across the street knows me by name. When I don’t show up for a few days he asks where I’ve been. Oh my god, I have a dealer.


Anyway, things in our yuppie heaven were lovely, and then journalism reared its ugly head and offered BadInfluence a job…back in CapitalCity. It’s just a month contract for now, so I told him I thought he should take it. It’s a great job for him, and it’s not like there’s a ton of them here. Only job I can get is running the interwebs, for fuck’s sake. So, he’s gone for at least a month and I am back to living like a hobo child. It’s been two days and the apartment already smells like rotten garbage and there’s a pile of cat-vom on the floor with my foot-print hardened into it.


I suppose I should get around to telling you about last night.


I went out with Spaz (she works here, too) for dinner, to start. We went to this Asian-fusion place, had a few drinks, and after catching up about our lives, got into the always cheerful discussion of our old, dying grandfathers and how much we miss our families. We both had tears in our eyes as she was telling me about how her grandfather was sad that she wouldn’t be there to decorate his Christmas tree this year…when our tiny Asian man-server walked toward us with the world’s smallest, saddest birthday cake.


Then he started singing – it was more like a whisper, really – in a slightly off-key, haunting voice.


Haaaaappy biiiiirffffdayyyyy to youuuuu….


Spaz and I were stunned. This was beyond words. This was a tiny, sad Asian man, holding a tiny, sad cake, singing the world’s saddest rendition of happy birthday. Spaz had no choice but to join in, her soft little voice clashing with his. She stared at me with horror throughout the whole song, just her and the tiny Asian man singing.


After he left and I blew out my little candle, we fell onto each other laughing for the next 10 minutes. Now we were crying for real. Holy shit, these things only happen to me, don’t they?


Free cake though. Yay.


After this we met up with some of our other friends and went to a bar where some of my friends/colleagues from TheBigNewspaper hang out on Mondays. When they found out it was my birthday, the tequila came out. This was the beginning of the end.


Four shots of tequila, 3 gins and two ciders later, I was telling the news editor that he should send a reporter I don’t like to Afghanistan, I lay my head on the table and cried about being a web editor, and I told everyone there that tequila makes my clothes come off. Then I took a cab home and left the cabbie a $12 tip because I couldn’t wait for the change.


After exiting the cab I immediately vomited in the potted plant on the sidewalk. Then I walked into my building, said hi to my doorman, got in the elevator, and pressed 22. At floor 6 I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I held my lips together with one hand. At floor 10 I vomited on the floor. At floor 16 I tried to mop it up with a piece of paper from my purse. At floor 18 I remembered the security camera in the elevator. This is the last thing I remembered that night.


I woke up this morning at 11am, fully dressed, with all the lights on. My head was cracking. I picked up my phone and saw I had written – but not sent – a message to BadInfluence that said “I’m tucked.” I think I meant fucked. My throat and mouth felt fur-lined. I stumbled into the living room and saw the cat puke with my footprint. Guess I didn’t notice that when I got in. Little guy. He wanted to puke, too.


I went into the bathroom and saw an empty box of gravol on the floor. Empty. How the fuck many gravol did I take last night? Two? Ten? FUCK. I could have OD’d…on gravol. How tragic would that have been? I can see the headlines. “Drunk whore tries to take gravol to calm her stomach; is found two days later on the floor with half her face eaten by her cat.”


I signed into facebook and one of my colleagues immediately messaged me.


Colleague: So some chick that was with us just randomly started kissing me at the table last night.
ThePeach: Send me an ambulance.
Colleague: She was really into it until she realized people were watching.
ThePeach: Please, ambulance.
Colleague: It was that chick you brought with you.
ThePeach: Wait. What?
Colleague: Ya, that girl *name removed to protect friend*
ThePeach: OH GOD.



So then I message my friend, who woke up to find her kitchen covered with shredded cheese. She was horrified to hear this revelation and has no memory of anything past midnight. None. I do not tell my colleague this, even when he asks for her number. Disaster.


So, then I dry heaved on the couch until 3pm. Then I decided to open the package my mom had sent me for my birthday. I eagerly cut open the packaging, and pulled out…this.

Yes, it is exactly what it looks like. What you see, friends, is a tshirt with a drawing of a little Korean girl holding a Siamese cat. What you can’t see is that the bow in her hair is a real bow. I thought I was hallucinating when I opened it.


My mom called shortly after to ask if I liked it. Lying makes baby jesus cry.


Then I had a 3 hour nap. Then I forced myself to get dressed and I met with my work friend for dinner. Then I came home and puked again, but this time in the can, like a lady.


Then I decided I should blog again. And here we are. It’s been five months, and my life is completely different from where I left you last time.


It’s funny how everything can change, but nothing really changes at all.


ThePeach

Friday, May 28, 2010

One Week: Purgatory, Chernobyl and Roti Thursday

At the end of today I will have worked my first week at TheBigNewspaper.

Here is what I have learned:

1. The subway is fun. The subway during rush hour is not. The subway during rush hour in a heat wave is what I imagine purgatory might be (as opposed to the "Lost" sideways world where we all realize we died through our emotional connections to each other, and time is relative, and we convene in a multi-faith church that has doors to heaven, and where the FUCK is Walt??). Just riding in circles, getting elbowed by pushy old chinese ladies with carts and men in business suits, sweating on everything, trying to decide whether or not to move out of the way to allow people to get off at their stops or just stand in the doorway like an asshole bouncer of the yonge line = the grand test.

2. Even if you only have to walk 4 blocks from where your streetcar drops you off, don't wear your high heels to work. My feet look like chernobyl. They look like cambodian killing fields. They look like leprosy. I'm now one of those women who carries my shoes in my purse and treks to work in flip flops (I couldn't stomach the runners, I just couldn't. Maybe when I'm 40). I have actual holes in the backs of my feet. Red, wet holes that ooze body fluids while I air them out at night and then I wake up with my heels stuck to my sheets and have to rip the sheets off my feet and scream like a little bitch and wake Cig when my alarm goes off at 6am and then I have fresh holes instead of scabbed holes like I would prefer. It takes 3 giant elbow bandaids on each foot just to whimper my way into appropriate office shoes in the downstairs bathroom at my work. I work on the second floor and have to climb a flight of stairs everytime I go to the bathroom or buy a coffee = 45 times/day. Conclusion = I will be a double amp by July. How poetic.

3. The office has Roti Thursday. Every Thursday they order Rotis from this roti place around the corner, and they all get pretty excited about it. The order emails start circulating Wednesday, and all anyone can talk about Thursday morning is the merits of mild versus medium and garlic versus yogurt. My trainer was teaching me how to crop photos for the web when someone told him that the roti place brought back the mint sauce. His eyes actually welled up with tears.

I still don't think I'm properly conveying how obsessed my office is with Roti Thursday. When I first moved to the department I'm currently in, I noticed that the walls were covered with movie posters. Each poster, oddly enough, had an image of a brown dude in a chef's hat photoshopped into it. I would later find out he is the chef. So, there's a Raiders of the Lost Ark full-sized movie poster on the wall, except it says 'Raiders of the Lost Roti' and Indiana Jones is a brown dude in a chef's hat. Now, superimpose this theme onto evey movie poster you can think of ("Breakfast at Roti's," "A Roti runs throught it," Dude, where's my Roti?") and that is my office decor.

Tragically, I missed the order deadline for Roti Thursday. So I had to eat a ham sandwich.

Ah, I see that I will now be late for work. Perhaps I should shower. I'll just go wrap my feet in plastic bags and limp into the bathroom.

I hope my screams don't wake cig.

ThePeach

Monday, May 24, 2010

I've been a bad girl

I’ve lived in TheBigCity for 24 days.

As a born and bred CapitalCity girl, I’m not supposed to like it here. We’re sworn hockey rivals, provincial versus national capital enemies, and god knows you can’t get a decent poutine anywhere in this sweltering cement jungle. Cheese curds, people! Cheese CURDS.

We’re told TheBigCity is impersonal, breeds stiletto-wearing snobs and men with douche-beards, and will rape you, shoot you, and leave your corpse encased in cement in a barrel in the bottom of the Queen’s Quay.

But I’ve always been a bit of a sadist.

I’m totally having a sordid, sexy, blow job in the bar bathroom affair with my sworn enemy. TheBigCity seduced me, sweet talked me into bed, and instead of feeling dirty I feel dizzy and maybe slightly drunk. There’s a lot of fucking patios here. My blood is now at least 30 per cent sangria.

I live right at ground zero. I trip over a passed-out homeless person every time I leave my 30-storey apartment building, there are hookers at one end of my block and a gaybourhood on the other, and I can spin in a circle and see at least seven cheap sushi restaurants on any given day. What’s not to love here?

I’m a ten minute walk from the most prestigious shopping district in the province (*credit card screams*), my jogging route takes me past one of the best skyline views in the city, and when I get sick of cement and exhaust fumes, a 30-minute streetcar ride east takes me to the beach or a 15 minute ride west takes me to the land of yuppies, farmer’s markets, and the heaven patio – where TheAmazon, BadInfluence and I baked in the sun last weekend and got hammered on beer and brunch. So what if I don’t remember going out for dinner that night, threw up on the subway, and was in bed by 9pm? Heaven. Patio.

Speaking of puking in public, I’ve also made my mark in a $5 martini bar in little italy after a romantical dinner with BadInfluence, and 3-storey bar inside a series of Victorian houses in the old student neighbourhood. I’m so classy, I’ll class the shit right out of you.

Speaking of BadInfluence, we had 3 weeks together in TheBigCity and we made the most of them, by which I mean I was drunk most days and I’ve eaten so many baskets of sweet potato fries that three people have asked me if I’m pregnant. Thanks, whores. Maybe after I finish this post I go for a little jog.

Yesterday BadInfluence left for his summer job on the other side of the country – literally the furthest point west he could possibly go. A mere 7 hour plane ride and 24-hour work schedule now separates us until September. Eff. It’s funny – FauxHawk and I were often separated because of his work, usually for months at a time, but this feels so much worse. Maybe because FauxHawk kept me at such a distance already that a geographical divide didn’t make much difference. Anyway, my point is my heart hurts. I miss my lumberjack and his beard. Non-douche beard, I should add.

Tomorrow I start my job at the big newspaper, and I’m already shitting my pants. I’m currently surrounded by news magazines and newspapers, trying desperately to come up with story ideas that won’t get me laughed out of the board room and lead me to take a long walk off the pier. But, like, what do you suggest to the editor in chief of the biggest national newspaper in Canada? Oh hey, have you thought about Afghanistan? Maybe we should do a story on the oil spill in the gulf. I hear something happened in Haiti a while ago. Oh my god, I need some immodium.

And luckily for my one remaining reader, my panic = the return to blogging. You’re welcome, loyal fan.

I’ll leave you with this anecdote. We’re having a heat wave today, and my 30-storey cement block is reminiscent of the oven chambers at Auschwitz, so I ventured to my neighbourhood starbucks for some relief. There are four starbucks within a five minute walk of my door, and I only had to visit three before I found a spot to sit. Ah, population. Anyway, I spent a lovely two hours sipping my pike’s place and reading about world events as I watched people cross one of the city’s biggest intersections outside my window. It was heavenly.

And then I heard a splat and something cold and slimy hit my bare back.

I looked to my left – a brown guy on his laptop was blinking his eyes, covered in tufts of whipped cream. Behind him, a blonde poptart in a black halter shirt put down her blackberry and wiped a dollop of whipped cream off her face. I looked to my right. A red-faced girl stood over what was once a frappuccino – from the taste of my back, it was mocha – and an explosion of whipped cream and frothy calories surrounded her. The floor, the walls, and the half of the surly Starbucks patrons were covered in her disaster. I left before things got ugly, quickly crossing the street to my apartment. When I got in the elevator, I saw that my hair was also covered in frapp. No wonder the homeless dude with the guitar did a double take.

I love this place.

Don't tell CapitalCity. He's sensitive.

ThePeach

Monday, May 03, 2010

ThePeach undergoes life changes; not menopause

Herro. It’s been a while.

Here is a list of life happenings that have occurred since we last spoke:

1. I finished journalism school
I have a master’s degree now. No big deal.

2. I finished my thesis
This nearly killed me. There were a good two months where I didn’t go out, and a solid 5 weeks where I didn’t leave my apartment once. I stopped changing my clothes, preferring to don my “apartment uniform:” grungy old lulus and a baggy green sweatshirt. I stopped styling my hair, preferring to don my “haggard mom” wet bun hairdo. I stopped wearing makeup, preferring to don my “vampire hobo” natural beauty.

Add to this that I started living off a diet that consisted solely of microwave popcorn, asian noodles, spiral kraft dinner, coffee, and redbull. Not even sugar free redbull, as my liver had learned to metabolize this too quickly, but the full sugar, 10 million calorie, jolt your heart, can’t blink, motherfucking red to the bull.

And then I stopped communicating with the outside world. No phone calls, no msn convos, no emails. I even stopped checking my snail mail. I hope those bills can pay themselves.

All in all, I failed at humanity for over a month. But I wrote a 12,000 word thesis. On time. I have an eye twitch that may turn out to be permanent, I forget how to communicate and might have developed autistic tendencies, and BadInfluence may never touch me again (was I supposed to take off the apartment uniform after I handed in my thesis? I want to be buried in it), but my god I wrote a damn good article that is too long to freelance and about a topic that interests me and about three other people.

So worth it.

3. I moved to TheBigCity
Four days after I handed in my thesis, I woke up in a bedroom a five hour drive from my old home. This involved three days of manic packing, several teary goodbyes, and one tow truck to pull BadInfluence’s car off the side of the 401.

Yes, I am writing to you live from TheBigCity. I’m currently hiding in my bedroom on the 21st floor of a highrise in the thick of downtown, listening to ambulances scream by and hobos yell at pedestrians. I start my new job at the big newspaper in a month, my lease in CapitalCity ran out, so here I am.

It’s been slightly overwhelming. Good, but a lot to take in. I…live..here? I’m sure I’ll have lots more to say about this later. Right now I’m still trying to get over the shock of moving. I will admit that I already like TheBigCity a lot more than I thought I would, and I’m getting used to the noise, the ethnic people, and my roommate.

4. I have a roommate
Let’s call her Cig. Cig is 20 years old and works at La Senza. She’s south-asian and has “reincarnation” tattooed over her left tit. She told me that she had a fish named “Cigarette the Fish,” but I haven’t seen him yet, so I fear she may have killed it.

I’d lived here for all of an hour before she lit her first bowl.

Cig, as it turns out, is a massive pot head. The pot smoke wafts out from under her door all day, and from the balcony all night. I suppose it could be worse. She could be a coke head. And I do enjoy the pots, as you know. Just maybe not at 10am, when we share a wall, and I can hear her sucking on her bong. She enjoys the wake and bake.

From what I can tell, here is a typical day in the life of Cig:
10am: wake up. Light bong.
10am-10:15am: Suck on bong. Cough. Loudly.
10:15am: Fry a pan of bacon. Take it to bedroom.
10:25am: Eat bacon in room, watch episode of Dexter. Loudly.
11:15am: Offer ThePeach some pot. Peach declines.
11:20am-12:30pm: lie in bed. Loudly.
12:30pm: Shower. Put on a slutty dress.
1:00pm: Go to La Senza. Sell mesh thongs and fluorescent pink bras to preteens.
9:00pm: Come home, go to room.
9:01pm: Light bong. Suck on bong. Cough. Loudly.

And so forth.

I’m going for a drink with her tonight after her 9pm session. I’m looking forward to getting to know the inner workings of Cig. Does she have deep thoughts? Dreams and ambitions beyond working at La Senza? Can she tell me where the garbage chute and/or laundry room is?

Stay tuned.

ThePeach

Monday, April 12, 2010

About last night...

We had a class party last Friday. It’s probably the last time our little journalism family would hang out all together. For many of us, it was also the first time we had taken a break from writing our theses in weeks.

So some of us really took to the bottle.

I think I peaked at about 1:45am, when I convinced GinBucket that we should climb the dividing wall in HotMess’s high-ceilinged apartment. She climbed up on my shoulders, then dragged me up, and then we were perched on a dividing wall, ceiling height, with a bottle of vodka and a lemon, for the better part of 30 minutes.

We finished the vodka. I – with all the love and tenderness in the world – whipped the lemon at BadInfluence’s head. Below us, Spaz chased MC around the apartment to get her pants back. MC screamed like a rape victim. BadInfluence drank from a bottle of tequila that had been in HotMess’s fridge for a year. GinBucket and I watched it all from a storey above them, like drunk God.

Things get a little blurry here. I think GinBucket flew. I almost lost a tooth during my graceful dismount from the heavens. There was talk of renting Saved by the Bell porn. I wanted a Happy Meal. I hit my head. I took something that may or may not have been a gravol.

Pretty typical night.

Here is an exact transcript from my text messages/phone calls the next morning:

11:12am. From GinBucket to ThePeach.
“ Why did I jump off HotMess’s ceiling? I can’t find MC’s aspirin. My life hurts. If I die it was nice knowing you.”

12:00pm. From ThePeach to GinBucket.
“I feel like I just crawled out of a grave.”


12:15pm. Phone call from Spaz to ThePeach.
Spaz: Do you think MC is still pissed about the pants? I'm worried.
ThePeach: I...can't see...where am I...
Spaz: I won them FAIR AND SQUARE!

12:30pm. From MC to ThePeach.
“Hey, just back from my pedicure. GinBucket’s still in bed, immobile. Did you have anything to do with her jumping off a wall?”


1:00pm. Phone call between MC and BadInfluence.
MC: I'm quite sure ThePeach convinced my girlfriend she could fly.
BadInfluence: I have no doubt. Brunch?
MC: Can't. Girlfriend's dead. Also, she's wearing your shirt.

2:27pm. From ThePeach to MC.
“I’m spinning in the breakfast diner. I fell last night and hit my head. Where’s my bacon.”

2:30pm. From MC to ThePeach.
“When’s GinBucket gonna get up and watch Jersey Shore with me?? Life, so hard.”

4:00pm. From FrogBoy to ThePeach.
“How was the rest of the party last night? I heard it got weird.”

7:15pm. From ThePeach to MC.
“Well. I just woke up. What day is it?”


The future of the media world.
ThePeach

Sunday, April 11, 2010

How I write

It’s thesis writing month.

Classes finished a few weeks ago, and now we’re supposed to spend April writing up/htmling up/voicing up/ingesting up the last year or so of our lives. Because I chose print medium, that means I have to write up a 40 page article suitable for publication in a magazine, which may not seem so bad if you’re not in journalism, where the average article is 500 words and still most people won’t read past paragraph two. So trying to write a compelling piece of journalism 20x that length is…a challenge.

I’m averaging 4 pages a day, which is quite good for someone with the self-discipline of a toddler left alone in a room with a 3-layer chocolate cake and instructions not to touch. For me, the battle is not so much in spitting out the words, as it is in making myself actually sit down and do it. I need a fire under my ass to accomplish the littlest of things – I need to see a live rat licking a 10-day old plate before I contemplate washing dishes. I need my power to be shut off before I pay a utility bill. And, my god, I need deadlines before I can write shit all.

This is why daily news suits me. There’s no time for procrastination, not when the deadline is 5pm and it doesn’t matter if you’re working on a news brief about a knitting circle or a 1000 word feature on conflict in the middle east – get your shit to print or get your ass back to the unemployment line.

There are textbooks for journalists, meant to inspire us and teach us the basics of writing for print. An essay that is featured in most of them is "Why I write," first penned by George Orwell and later remastered by Joan Didion. These just happen to be two of my favourite writers and two of my favourite essays. But I think we all know why we write...writers are all very similiar people - creative, wanting an outlet, expressive, somewhat introverted, brimming with neurotic tendencies, and one 9am gin short of alcoholism.

How we write, however, is different for everyone. This is how I write.

Without a deadline other than the general “end of April…if you can,” my days since April 1 go a little something like this:

7am: Alarm goes off
8am: Actually roll out of bed, convincing oneself that subliminal soaking of 1 hour cbc news during sleep is productive.
8:10am: Coffee #1-3.
9:00am: Open word document, flex fingers in anticipation of Pulitzer Prize worthy word-stuffs about to pour from brain.
9:30am: Stare at blank page. Heart starts speeding up.
10:00am: Maybe a shower will get me going.
10:30am: Maybe an hour on facebook will get me going.
11:30am: Call MC to see how her writing is going. Learn that she is done her first draft. Call Spaz to see how her webpage is going. Learn that her supervisor told her she’s brilliant. Call BadInfluence to see how his writing is going. Learn that he still hasn’t started. Feel better, put down phone.
12:00pm: Stare at blank page, tears in eyes. Question thesis choice, medium choice, career choice. Reread older sections, decide I’m a terrible writer. Life = wasted.
12:30pm: If I can’t be smart, maybe I can be hot: to the gym! Stairmaster like a motherfucker, sweat like a whore. Rock out to Michael Jackson’s greatest hits, stretch to the Twilight: New Moon soundtrack. Feel better about life.
2:00pm: OH MY GOD IT’S 2:00PM.
2:30pm: Eat everything in the house, consuming 5x as many calories as I have just burned. Lie on couch in shame.
3:00pm: Sister calls. Yell at her for disturbing my writing process.
3:30pm: Train the cat to fetch a ping-pong ball. Watch him take a nap. Take photos of his cuteness.
4:00pm: Message BadInfluence in tears. Hint that if he wanted to bring me a redbull and also give me a back massage, that would be ok.
4:01pm: BadInfluence shows up with redbull; concern. I’m affectionate for 4 minutes and then I yell at him for disturbing my writing process and tell him to leave.
4:05pm: Watching BadInfluence put on his jacket makes me feel loving; panic. I jump on his back while he ties his shoes and cling to him like a liferaft; whisper dirty things.
4:06pm: BadInfluence rolls his eyes and carries me to the boudoir.
4:07pm-4:50pm: I'm a good girlfriend.
4:51pm: Yell at BadInfluence to leave; shotgun redbull.
4:52pm-8:00pm: Write 4 pages.
8:10pm: Message BadInfluence. Tell him if he wants to come over and make me dinner, that would be ok.
9:00pm: Eat beautiful meal, cuddle, watch news. Love life; BadInfluence.
10:00pm: Panic about the drek I’ve just written. Reread it, make BadInfluence reread it, start rewriting sections, yell at BadInfluence for not being more stressed.
12:00am: Slink into bed, ashamed at acting like such a heinous bitch. Promise BadInfluence I’ll be nicer tomorrow.
12:01am: Yell at BadInfluence.

And that is how I write.

ThePeach

Sunday, March 21, 2010

How ThePeach and BadInfluence spend Date Night

My Friday was really annoying.

Actually, my whole week was. It got off on the wrong foot when the documentary I was recording on Monday, about a man who can’t afford vet care for his dog, turned into a doc about how the dog had to be put down. And I was there when the man found out. Not good karma. Not good.

Fast forward through a week of disastrousness to Friday night, and I’m drinking alone and writing a section of my thesis instead of drinking with friends, like the plan had been.

I lie. BadInfluence was there, too. He was drinking quietly on the couch and avoiding making eye contact with me while I screamed at my computer. He had come by earlier to be supportive during my writing process – a process which I hoped would be done in time to go out and meet our friends – and then take a cab with me downtown.

And it was going fine until my computer crashed as a result of a virus my mom had accidentally sent me in a spam email trying to get me to buy Nike shoes online.

Nothing would open. Then nothing would save. And then the computer went byebye and I lost a fair amount of the work I had written that night.

Insert epic shit-fit, a volatile temper tantrum of grandiose proportions.

BadInfluence wisely made no sounds and no attempts to touch me, lest I KILL HIM.

See, when I get really stressed and ragey, I become what I like to call “stabby.” It’s like, if I were some kind of rare jungle reptile, and if I had this cool evolutionary defence mechanism when I feel threatened, and that mechanism was to SHOOT SPIKES OUT OF MY SKIN IN ALL DIRECTIONS LIKE A JABBY BLOWFISH AND KILL WHATEVER IS TOUCHING ME, GODDAMIT.

That’s what it’s like. Stabby.

So, then I needed 2 more hours than I had planned for. And then it was too late to go out. So we watched Dexter and I sulked, the spikes under my skin trying to decide whether or not to explode and stab everything, including BadInfluence, right in the fucking eye.

That was not date night. Saturday was.

Bobba, my grandpa, had invited us over for dinner. God help us.

When he found out I was seeing someone new, he immediately wanted to make a proper inspection of the man in my life. I wasn’t too worried, seeing as how BadInfluence isn’t a) quiet, b) Jewish, so my grandfather would automatically like him more than FauxHawk.

Bobba spent all week planning the menu and selecting wines. He wanted a St. Patrick’s Day themed meal, so he made soda bread from scratch and somehow made corned beef. I was fully expecting him to answer the door dressed like a leprechaun, but no luck. Although he was wearing suspenders.

Bobba was excited to have guests. He was already fairly drunk when we got there, holding a glass of whiskey and making inappropriate jokes. I had prepared BadInfluence for this likelihood, so he didn’t bat an eye when the first thing Bobba did was make a joke about his height and then tell us he was serving cheese, and did you know too much cheese can make you constipated?

No biggie.

Anyway, they got along fine. Bobba talked about himself, and BadInfluence dutifully looked through photo albums and listened to Bobba lecture him on mulching techniques.

I got drunk.

After our Irish meal (by the way, Bobba is not Irish. He’s from Nelson, BC), I cleared the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. I could hear Bobba and BadInfluence chatting in the living room. And then, in a lull in the conversation, I heard Bobba put his glass down. BadInfluence would later tell me that Bobba fixed his eyes onto his, menacingly. And then he spoke:

“If you don’t take care of her, I’m gonna kill ya.”

I almost dropped the stack of dinner plates I was holding. Amazing, a death threat. Maybe he was brandishing a knife at the time. I had no way of knowing.

BadInfluence recovered well, made a joke, and they moved on. I came back into the living room with the pie and we had a lovely dessert.

It was late by the time BadInfluence and I got home, and I was tired, so we decided to get drunk and order a movie. All the movies on Rogers sucked, so I flipped to the Adult section and we ordered a XXX version of “Friends.” It promised to be just like Friends, but with fucking. I figured it was the least I could do for BadInfluence after the death threat and all.

It was fantastically cheesy. Moanica and Shandler fucked on the foosball table. Russ and his lesbian ex Carolyn, and her partner Susie, had a threesome on the couch in Central Perk. Joe ate out Shandler’s mom in their leather recliner. Rochelle, Freebie, and Moanica had a foursome with ugly naked guy, who it turns out is not so ugly, and very well-endowed.

Call me dirty, but I love porn. It’s hilarious. And, if you’re very drunk on gin and water because you’ve run out of tonic, an aphrodisiac.

This has become a bit of a date night ritual. Last week we rented Dexxxter and watched Dexter Whoregan, hot red-head nympho, solve sex mysteries mostly involving chubby asian hookers.

Am I perverted? Maybe. Am I over-sharing? Oh, probably. Somewhere, MC is retching.

But do I know how to treat my man to a great weekend, or what? A little computer rage, a little temper tantrum, a little crying, a little stabby-ness, a little family time, a little death threat, a little corned beef, and a little Friends porn?

I should probably be a relationship coach. Maybe if this whole journalism thing doesn’t work out.

ThePeach

Tuesday, March 09, 2010

Just your average Tuesday, really.

I woke up at 7:30 a.m. and gave the cat his AIDS medicine. He’s having an “immune system episode” as a result of my being too busy to remember to order him more medicine when he ran out last week, and so his little lip is all fatty and swollen, like he lost a bar brawl. So now he has new medicine, and an adorable little swollen face, and I have a guilt complex.

And that’s enough about being a crazy cat lady for one day.

After AIDS medicine, I had breakfast and tried to muddle through my readings for my gender class. Or, as I like to call it, lady class.

Here is a direct quote from one of the articles titled “The face of terrorism.”

“Evoking Bataille’s famous solar anus, bin Laden’s penis-head resembles nothing so much as a giant pineal gland dwarfing all potential for civilization.”

I mean…come on. This is just…no. I can’t even…nay. NO. NEIN!

At 9:30 I decided to go for a run. I’ve been trying to run 10km in under 50 minutes. So far I can do it in an hour, but I breathe like I’m trying to expel my lungs through my mouth. So, I need practice. The reason I’m trying to increase my speed is to prepare for my move to TheBigCity, where I imagine running outside will involve sprinting away from homeless people with knives and dodging syringes. So, ya. Speed is key to my survival.

Even though it’s the first week of March, I went in just shpants and a tank top. I figured I would sweat once I got started and heat myself up. Plus the sun looked warm.

Incorrect. I froze my box off.

It took all of 30 seconds for my arms to go numb, and I ran with them dangling by my side like I was paralyzed from the waist up. Which, essentially, I was.

My whole body aches now, which might be from building muscle but could also be from frostbite to all four of my limbs.

After the world’s hottest, longest shower, I made a gigantic ham sandwich and sat down to tackle more lady class readings.

“Gangsta Bush: white face with the desires and dick of a black man, proving his weapon to be longer and stronger than his bitch’s, bin Laden’s (fig. 34).”

NEIN!

So, I messaged TigerCat on facebook and we chatted about hot yoga while I ate my lunch. As she was describing her instructor’s crack-pot commentary (“put your head on your knee to evoke your pituitary gland”), I heard a voice and a buzzing sound in my hallway.

“Hello? Hello? Help!! *buzz*”

Like any good citizen, I ignored it for several minutes. TigerCat described how her instructor told her to bend backwards for good colon health. And then:

“HELLO! HELLO! I’M STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR! *buzz*”

Ah, shit. My apartment is right beside the elevators. No one seemed to be helping her. I couldn’t ignore her any more. Quickly, I tossed my half eaten sandwich on the counter and ran outside.

“HELP! HELP! *buzz*”

I faced elevator 1 and yelled into the doors.

“HELLO! I HEAR YOU! I’M GETTING VIVIAN!”

Vivian is our obese, surly landlady with what I suppose we could describe as a lady mullet. She works in an office on the ground floor. I opted to take the stairs. When I got to her office she looked up from her frozen dinner and scowled.

“Yes?”

“SOMEONE IS TRAPPED IN AN ELEVATOR ON THE 6TH FLOOR!”

Vivian scowled more deeply.

“Why isn’t she ringing the buzzer?”

“She is.”

Vivian ambled over to her walky talky.

“Jim? Someone is trapped in an elevator on the 6th floor.”

Jim is our superintendant. He has a man mullet and smells like he smokes contraband cigarettes in an air-tight locker.

Then Vivian nodded at me, which I took as my cue to leave. She followed me out and stood by elevator 1. She croaked at the door.

“STOP YELLING. I CALLED JIM.”

I strutted back up the five flights of stairs to my own apartment, feeling like a do-gooder, expecting a medal to be delivered to my door at any moment.

I sat back down at my computer and told TigerCat what happened. Then I went into the kitchen for my sandwich. Nay, my VICTORY SANDWICH.

The cat was crouched over it, a slab of ham hanging out of his greedy little AIDS mouth. When he saw me he bolted into my room, dragging the ham under the bed to eat in solitude.

I get no respect.

ThePeach

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Three; fuck

Another one of my ex-boyfriends is now married. That makes three. Three of my exes have taken wives. Have houses. Are adults.

I…have a cat with AIDS. Sometimes he bites my face.

Today I found out that the ex who is a medic in Afghanistan (*swoon*), who I had a schoolgirl crush on since I was 9, who I finally dated when I was 19, and who left me for some chick he worked with at Swiss Chalet at the time…is married. The ceremony appears to have taken place on a white sand beach in the tropics. And she is hot. Thank you, facebook. Always a pleasure doing business with you.

Add that to TheEx, who married his beautiful wife in a Fairmont hotel, and the weird conservative douche, who got married god knows where but I assume an ultra-Christian church somewhere in the bible belt, and that makes three. THREE.

Now, let’s be clear. I don’t particularly wish I had been the one to marry any of my exes. I’m not holding a torch for any of them, by any means. I’m also not angry. They’re all good people (except maybe the douche, but just because he was a vagina hair to me doesn’t necessarily make him a bad person), seem very happy, and I do wish them well.

Also, I don’t particularly want to be married any time soon. This marriage bonanza isn’t making me cry over engagement ring photos or stop using birth control to try to trap some poor sucker by the balls. BadInfluence, don’t worry. Your balls are safe.

What’s upsetting me about Weddingpalooza 2010 is the choices I have made in my own life.

I am getting a Master’s degree, and I’m going to work my dream job this summer, and my chosen career path is exciting and I can picture toiling away over articles quite happily for the rest of my life.

But I’m also 27, and I’ve chosen a life where, at 3am, I find myself climbing the roof of my friend’s house in my bare feet in February, high on life and gin and my epic beer pong win. I have chosen a life path where I steal splenda packets at every coffee shop in the city because I’m too poor to buy real splenda, and I’m like a pathetic, stealth little burglar. And every time I dig for money in my giant purse, I only find an errant splenda packet, which surprisingly doesn’t fly as currency.

I have chosen a life path where I will have a 20-year-old roommate this summer, because her apartment is cheap and nice and on a subway line. She works at La Senza and has a fish named “Cigarette The Fish,” which my cat will eat on day 1, and then I’ll probably be homeless.

I have chosen a life where my entire immediate family is currently celebrating the Olympics in Vancouver, and my mom didn’t even invite me because she knew I would be too busy. It’s a family reunion of Olympic proportions over there on the better coast, and I’m lucky if I even have time to watch Olympic highlights on the CTV webpage.

I was feeling pretty down after I discovered my ex’s marriage on facebook, and I thought about calling my sister in Vancouver to complain about it. But then she called me, and my heart warmed because I figured she must have known I was upset about something, and maybe we have a creepy twin-like connection where she just KNOWS.

Incorrect. Here is our conversation:

TigerCat: Hello!! How are you?!
ThePeach: Well, I’m kind of having a bad day. TheMedic got married, and now that’s three exes that have taken wives and I’m starting to question my life choices.
TigerCat: Oh no.
ThePeach: Ya.
TigerCat: That sucks. I’m sorry.
ThePeach: Ya. How was your day?
TigerCat: I went for a walk in the Olympic Village and I MET DANY HEATLEY AND MARTIN BRODEUR!!!!! I GOT A PICTURE WITH THEM!!!!
ThePeach:…shut up.
TigerCat: I DID!!!
ThePeach: Fuck. I’m jealous.
TigerCat: HEATLEY TALKED TO ME!!
ThePeach: Oh my god. That’s…I hate you. What are you doing tonight?
TigerCat: We’re seeing Blue Rodeo for free. What are you doing?
ThePeach: Well, the plan was to write a few assignments but now I might just kill myself instead.
TigerCat: I’m sorry. I wish you were here.
ThePeach: Ya. Maybe if Mom had invited me.
TigerCat: Ya.

Conclusions: my life is not ok at the moment. NOT OK.

Yes, I chose to put my career first. Yes, my career is going to be awesome. But…right now, my quality of life kind of blows sloppy ass.

I do want to get married some day, but to the right person and at the right time in my life. I don’t want to get married because I feel like my ovaries are drying up and it’s time to take a man, or because I’m worried about dying alone, or because everyone else is posting really beautiful facebook albums of their own awesome weddings and I’m worried that by the time I get married, facebook won’t even be used anymore, and THEN HOW WILL I MAKE PEOPLE JEALOUS, I ASK YOU?? HOW??!!

I suppose I will make people jealous because they will see how awesome my love is, and how simply happy I am, and maybe because my husband has a big cock and they all know that because I’m a whore that way.

But until that time comes, I am the person who climbs roofs and steals splenda and forces prednisone down my cat’s throat using a tiny syringe.

Weird that I haven’t gotten any proposals yet.

ThePeach

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Things I've learned in my women's studies class: part 1

I'm taking a women's studies course as my elective this term. The class is called "Gender, Sexuality and the National Security State," and I'm not sure why I'm in it. Everything is about "terrorists" (finger quotes!) and "white man supremacy" (finger quotes!) and lesbians (a real term, no finger quotes necessary).

After 6 weeks of class, here is what I have learned:

1) The security state is not a physical place. This is new to me. I thought it was like...New York. Or Iraq. Incorrect. It's a mental state. Or something. I'm still unclear.

2) The media are evil. Maybe worse than "terrorists." But are "terrorists" bad, or good? Still lost there, too. All I know is I, a sweater-vest wearing starbucks sipping member of the media, am evil.

3) Gay people are queer people. Aboriginal people are indigenous people. Housewives are communists. Communists are free thinkers. And maybe queers. AHH.

4) The female orgasm is a national security threat. I think that makes me a terrorist.

5) The antidote to terrorism is lesbianism. I think that makes me a terrorist.

To conclude: I am going to fail this class.

Help.

ThePeach

ps- here is a description I wrote of the class for an assignment for another class. I think it paints a pretty accurate picture.

Professor Pat’s eyes light up as she jabs a piece of chalk toward a girl in the front row.

“What did you just say?” Pat asks breathlessly.

The girl lowers her head, her cheeks blazing. The lights in the classroom reflect off her horn-rimmed glasses.

“The gaygeoisie,” she whispers.

“What?” Pat says, jutting her head down closer to the girl.

“The gaygeoisie,” she says more loudly. “Like the bourgeoisie of gays.”

“Oh my god!”

Pat opens her arms wide, like she’s about to grab the girl and lift her off the ground in a hug. She leans black and claps her chalk-covered hands together, just once. She laughs loudly.

“The gaygeoisie! I love it!”

Pat’s fourth-year women’s studies class is almost impossible to get into. Her reputation as queer-friendly, race-friendly, caste-friendly - and both painstakingly politically correct yet stridently subversive - has students lining up outside the classroom just to get a seat. Only 21 make it inside.

Blackboards scribbled with words like “epistemic ejection,” “homonationalism” and “official vagueness” line the room. Some words are underlined or circled twice, and connected by erratic lines to other words.

The students make quotation marks with their fingers when they speak.

“Queer white patriarchy,” a girl in a knit hat says slowly, her index and middle fingers curling.

“Necropolitics,” and another set of fingers.

“Terrorist attack.”

The semi-circle of students is a blur of short, edgy haircuts and dark-rimmed glasses. Six girls sip from environmentally friendly metal water bottles. Five have knit hats tugged over their heads. Four have visible facial piercings.

Everyone widens their eyes and raises their eyebrow when Pat talks about next week’s guest speaker. An ex-Black Panther will be talking to the class.

“She’s been to prison!” Pat says, her arms waving.

“She’s a feminist! She’s a communist!”

Pat grins and her eyes flash.

“And she’s queer.”

Her eyes quickly scan the room and land on the journalism student wearing a sweater-vest and drinking from a Starbucks cup.

“Not that you have to be queer to pass this course,” Pat adds.

She moves back to the list of terms on the blackboard. Her index and middle fingers curl into quotation marks.

“White National Subject.”

She chuckles and rolls up her sleeves.

“The gaygeoisie! I just love that.”

Monday, February 08, 2010

ThePeach has a week on the desk; meets some basic life standards

I’m on the desk for our radio show this week. I don’t have to do anything until Wednesday. This means instead of spending the entire weekend and all of Monday/Tuesday chasing and producing my story, I can…live my life? What is…this? This weekend I saw a movie. A MOVIE. I went out for a drink. A DRINK! I did my dishes. Ok, BadInfluence helped. Clean DISHES! I even gathered three weeks worth of torn apart newspapers and put them in a pile. A PILE!

Anyway, I also had a scarily productive morning today. I woke up at 6:30. Here is the shit I accomplished before 10:30am:

1) Read the most important, newsworthy section of the newspaper: lifestyle. Today I learned that the couple that tweets together, stays together. I also learned that today Librans ought not to go to extremes and should spin criticisms positively. We have a workshop to criticize each other’s profile assignments in our writing class tonight. My horoscope is always so wise. So wise.

2) Read the 12 profile assignments. Was impressed with classmates’ mad skillz. No need to criticize, anyway. My favourite was the profile of Famous NewsMan.

Quote: “If I couldn't rival his intellect I took comfort in the fact that I might at least compete with his fashion sense. NewsMan was known for his fancy suits but this time I would surely catch him off guard. The recent retiree was in the comfort of his own home and I was armed with my classic pin-striped blazer. I rang the doorbell and he greeted me. Dressed in a full suit.”

Not much makes me laugh out loud at 7am, sir. Well done.

3) Convinced two more potential interviewees to let me write about them for my magazine article on the “real” Lagos, through the eyes of the workers. One potential interviewee has a lace thong of mine hanging in his bar. The other is room-mates with the Irish Bartender and heard me doing…things. Convincing was not difficult. Professionalism questionable. Let the writing of “All in a Daze Work” commence!

4) Failed yet again to sync my iPod with my two new CDs: Metric and the New Moon soundtrack. This is my 67 hundredth attempt. God hates my music. He’s trying to tell me I’m too old for Werewolves and angst. Threw my iPod at the wall in rage after failing again. Froze iPod. Had to google instructions on how to re-set iPod. Re-set iPod. I consider that an accomplishment.

5) Got Vivian the landlady to stop the motherfucking BEEPING in the apartment across the hall from me. All weekend it has been BEEPING constantly. Like someone’s alarm has been going off for three days, or maybe their smoke detector, or maybe their pacemaker. THREE DAYS STRAIGHT. I knocked on the door a few times and no one answered. I know someone new just moved in. Is he deaf? Is he…dead? Either way, Vivian made it go away. That’s all I need to know.

6) Went for an 8km run. Outside. I don’t even know how I did this almost every day last year. Last winter was even colder than this one, and today I still had to stop halfway through my run to hold my mittens over my burning ears and scream like a chick. On the bright side, perhaps I also burned off some of the deepfry I ate on Thursday. And Friday. And the chemical butter on Saturday.

7) Got my period (sorry boys), thus ending the most suicidal and dark phase of PMS of my life. I’m talking lie on the couch for 2 days weeping with a blanket over my face because I can’t face the world, refuse to go grocery shopping despite the fact that the only piece of food in my fridge is half an onion, but I DON’T DESERVE TO EAT, consider dropping out of school, consider stroking the knives, can’t wear pants, can’t stop eating Chinese food, why doesn’t the cat love me, why doesn’t anyone love me, why are my tits so MASSIVE (oh, there you go dudes), seriously, I look like a porn star except I’m CRAZY, this cleavage is out of control, maybe I’m with child, oh my god I’m going to have a baby, oh wait I’m probably just fat, oh my god I’m fat in the tits, google health cleanses, google Bernstein diet, google lipo, google antidepressants, watch six episodes of Dexter while I eat chocolate chip poptarts, P to the motherfucking M to the holy sweet christ S.

Anyway, I feel much better.

And that’s what I did between 6:30am and 10:30am.

I’m exhausted.

ThePeach

Monday, February 01, 2010

I asked for this.

January 31, 2010: I miss the good old days, when only my ex-boyfriend's mother, or old one night stands from Lagos used to post comments.

I was agitated after the whole ex step father message debacle of yesterday. After some thought I just deleted the entire post so that the world wouldn't have to see my dirty laundry. Then I went out for dinner with my grandpa.

We had a great time. We went to a greek restaurant in the south end of the city and came out smelling like we'd sucked on garlic cloves for the past 2 hours. It was tasty, and it took my mind off my facebook woes.

When I got home, since I'd deleted my last status update, I made a new one:

ThePeach just had the perfect date. He picked me up, he brought me a dozen muffins, he paid for dinner, he talked local politics, and he dropped me off with a kiss. He's my grandpa. Can I bring him to prom?

Less than an hour later I got my first and only comment:

I am still hoping...
- FauxHawk's Mom.

Come ON. COME ON!! JESUS! FUCK! Seriously, universe??!!

Hoping for what, exactly? I think this can only mean one thing. Hoping that I keep waiting around FauxHawk to change his mind, and keep myself available as a uterine vessel for her grand-jews.

Appealing.

Fuck off. I need to do a mass facebook delete. All ex-lovers, ex-step-fathers, ex-step-aunts, ex-one-nighters, ex-almost -mother-in-laws, ex-almost-sister-in-laws, ex-almost-niece-inlaws, ex-everything need to get to stepping.

I'm only one person. One little person, at that. I have enough drama on a daily basis for 6 full-sized people, and each of them would have a great story.

My brain can't take much more.

Is 8am too early for a little boxed wine?

ThePeach

Sunday, January 31, 2010

The joys of facebook, part 57.

This weekend the watermain for my building broke and we had no water for a day. Imagine waking up on a Saturday morning, hungover like a sunburned Mexican in the street, stumbling to the kitchen with a handful of advil in one hand and a glass in the other, twisting the tap, and:

HISSSSSSSSSSSS

Just air.

Other perks included not being able to brush my teeth or shower or make coffee, and worrying that the cat would dehydrate and die.

I changed my facebook status to moan about my situation, and I got a few pitying comments from friends and my sister.

Then I went to the gym, showered at BadInfluence’s house, and got drunk at SpongeBath’s.

When I woke up this morning (with water, thanks be to jebus) I had a new comment on my status.

We have a spare room with a king size bed and your own bathroom with hot and cold running water that's yours if you want it. And .......I would love to see you again. My heart has been aching to have you and TigerCat part of my life again.
- CoorsLight

CoorsLight, my ex step father who hasn’t tried to contact me in over 5 years. CoorsLight, who ruined my childhood and stole my college fund. CoorsLight, who made me hate gingers. CoorsLight, whose father – my childhood grandfather – used to come over and watch me suntan in my bikini in the backyard, from behind a curtain in the living room, when I was 13. CoorsLight, who got busted for having child porn on his computer while he was raising us. CoorsLight, who stole my Nintendo and kept it locked in his bedroom so I couldn’t play it. CoorsLight, who kept porn poorly hidden around the house, so poorly hidden that by the time I was 9 years old I knew what a gang bang looked like. CoorLight, who changed the locks on our house so that I had to break in through my own bedroom window just to pack my belongings in a laundry hamper and go live with my Dad for the summer while him and my mom ended their marriage, which he had pretty much already ended when he started fucking his dental hygienist.

CoorsLight. CoorsLight. COORS fucking LIGHT.

Right on my facebook wall. For the world to see. His heart aches. He wants me to live in his house, which he bought with the money he stole from my grandparents.

If you’ve ever wondered why I drink, this is a pretty big fucking clue.

CoorsLight.

I miss the good old days, when only my ex-boyfriend's mother, or old one night stands from Lagos used to post comments.

Thanks again, facebook.

ThePeach

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

TigerCat has a bad night

TigerCat is having a quarter-life crisis. She can't find work in Universitytown so she's jobless and bored, but she can't leave because CockDoc has one and a half more years of training. When she called tonight she was feeling a little...special. Here are some gems:

"Universitytown is a fucking vortex. Suddenly it’s three years later and I have no career and I hate my life. I feel like I’m waiting for something but I don’t know what. But I do know the longer I wait, the bigger my ass gets.”

“I just hate Universitytown and – ooh! I found a fox in my facebook fairyland garden!”

Poor sister.

ThePeach

ThePeach writes things; kills self

Ola,

I haven't slept since Saturday, I spent the last 3 days straight in the radio room making a documentary, I'm out of printer toner, all I eat is crap cafeteria $8 salads, and I want to kill myself.

That said, I haven't updated in a while. So here's some shit I wrote. A profile. Names changed.

Oh hey I just ran out of time to shower. This is not a life, people.

ThePeach

***

The woman’s wrist is swollen, red and bent to the side. A small bump of bone pushes under the tight skin like a hill.

Dr. B.W. gently holds her elbow and tells his junior resident, Dr. M.H., to grab her fingers.

“Your only job is to tell us if you’re in any pain,” W. says to the grey-haired woman lying on the gurney.

And then he nods at H. and the two of them start to pull hard in opposite directions. W. lunges to the side, putting all of his weight into pulling this woman’s elbow. At the same time he runs one hand up and down her arm, feeling the bones move, guiding them back together. Finally he tells H. to grab the gauze and the strips of plaster.

She’s ready for her cast.

It’s 7 p.m., 12 hours since W.’ shift started.

W., 34, is an orthopedic surgery resident at the CapitalCity Hospital’s Civic Campus. He’s in his third year of residence, seven years into medicine, and two years away from a permanent staff position. At this stage in his career W. is a work-horse, pulling overnight shifts on top of day shifts, barely eating, rarely sleeping, and learning from his seniors while teaching his juniors.

He’s a middle-man, a resident but not an attending physician, a doctor but not a certified specialist, both a student and a teacher.

And as of tonight W. has worked 15 days back-to-back.

Long hours and juggling multiple roles can subject hospital staff to “unsustainable” levels of stress and burnout, researchers at CapitalCity University say. In a study released earlier this month, they warned that health care workers can suffer poor physical and mental health, conflict between family and work lives, and declining personal relationships. The study confirms that health-care workers are among the most stressed, overwhelmed and burned-out workers in the country.

But W. smiles and cracks jokes as he tenderly wraps the woman’s wrist with wet strips of plaster. The woman smiles back as W. runs his hands up and down the wet cast. He dips his hands in warm water and shapes the plaster like he’s molding a vase on a pottery wheel.

“I just accept this is how my life is going to be for the next few years,” W. says as he examines the woman’s X-rays half an hour later. His hands are caked in plaster and his shoes are stained with blood.

“It’s part of the price we pay for this short period of training.”

He runs his index finger over the white bones on the lit screen, the wrist now firmly encased in a plaster cast.

“See how the radius curves into the scaphoid?” he says to H..

“It looks good. We can send her home.”

His pager beeps. Someone else has broken a bone.

W.’ life is bones – realigning them, splinting them, sometimes removing them. He pores over their images, looking for cracks and bends in what should be smooth and straight. He snaps photos of some of the more traumatic X-rays and takes them home to examine them again and again – over dinner, while he studies, before he goes to sleep.

Tonight in the resident library he takes a photo of a spine snapped in two, the top piece overlapping with the bottom thanks to a skiing accident this afternoon.

The patient is only 34 years old. The same age as W..

“He’s paralyzed,” W. says as he frames the X-ray in the screen of his iPhone. He clicks the capture button.

“Poor bastard.”

W. admits he doesn’t have much of a life outside of work. He usually wakes up at 5:30 in the morning, skips breakfast and is in the hospital an hour later. He might eat a peanut butter sandwich for lunch if he has time. If he doesn’t have to work overnight then he cooks himself a light dinner in his bachelor apartment on Preston Street. He lives alone despite the nurses’ best intentions to set him up with eligible women.

“Relationships have come and gone and not all of them have understood,” W. says.

“It’s difficult when people aren’t used to the lifestyle we have or haven’t really seen it before other than on TV. They find it a bit of a shock.”

But his family and friends are supportive, W. says. He grins and says sometimes he has time to meet his friends at a pub to watch football, but only on his rare days off.

His mother and three younger siblings live in the city and they get together for dinner whenever they can. He says he’s always been close with his family – closer since his father died this summer after a long illness.

His pager beeps and W. strides out the door, back towards the emergency room.

H., W.’ junior resident, says W. doesn’t seem to let the stress of the job get to him.

“B. is consistently calm, cool and relaxed,” H. says of his mentor.

He adds that W.’ patients warm up to him very easily.

A few minutes later W. wraps a shoulder sling around a woman in her seventies whose tissue-paper skin hardly covers her bones. W. jokes that she gets a special sling because she’s a special patient. She bats her eyelashes.

At 9 p.m. W. has a few minutes between cases. He hurries down the carpeted hallway of the main floor in search of dinner and, more importantly, coffee. He walks briskly in his blue scrubs, eyes focused on the turn that will lead him to the Second Cup stand. He rounds the corner.

Closed.

“One thing I would change about the hospitals in Ottawa,” W. says as he turns around and hurries back toward the cafeteria, “is that there are no all night coffee shops.”

“But at least I can get a crappy cafeteria coffee. Maybe some food.”

He rounds the corner.

Closed.

W. chuckles and pulls a protein bar out of his shoulder bag. He tears the wrapper and pops one chocolaty end into his mouth.

“I guess tonight this is my dinner.”

Before he was a bone man, W. was a muscle man. He worked as a personal trainer for three years. He says he still goes to the gym as often as he can, but not as much as he’d like. The health of his own body is important to him. He knows he needs to eat more, get out more and rest more.

“If I saw myself as a patient I would certainly tell myself to get more sleep,” W. says as he chews.

“But it’s just not possible right now.”

His pager beeps. W. quickly swallows another bite and hurries toward the emergency room.

There are more bones to be set.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

The joys of facebook; life

I wrote a quick status update this morning on facebook. I’ve been working on some freelance articles and have been struggling with writer’s block (or “I’m lazy and obviously need to watch 12 episodes of The L Word”-block), so I wrote a joke-ish update about how much I’ve been procrastinating:

I've washed the dishes, cooked everything in the fridge, cut the cat's nails, gone through my banking statements, updated my ipod, organized my recycling...I guess it's time to start writing. Unless you think of anything else I should be doing. Is it too early for taxes?

Two people commented:

1) FauxHawk’s mother (“Yes, it is. Are you moving?”)
2) The Irish bartender from Lagos (“Visiting me?”).

All I need now is maybe an ex-boyfriend, or my own mother, or maybe Stella the stripper and the circle of awkward will be complete.

Seriously, facebook.

Seriously.

ThePeach

Thursday, January 07, 2010

ThePeach is Truman; Scared

Do you ever feel like your life is some kind of ridiculous television sitcom, and everyone is in on the joke but you?

Wow, that makes me sound like a schizo.

Seriously, though. Sometimes my life plays out in such perfect irony, such timely hilarious misfortunes, such metaphoric events, that I can’t help but wonder if someone is scripting it.

Take yesterday. If I were the sitcom writer, I could call yesterday “Better luck next time!”

Team B:
The day started with my 8:30am full day radio workshop. It’s a fun class, despite the workload. The first thing that happened is that we got assigned into production teams. There are three teams and about 24 students.

All week, MC had been giving me a hard time (in a loving way…I think) about how our class schedules worked out this year. Because our class is divided into print versus broadcast streams now, and because we each choose 2 out of 4 workshops to take in varying semesters, and because we take different electives and TAships, it works out that it’s possible to have zero classes together with some of our classmates. Like HotMess, for instance. I have barely seen her this year, and it hurts my heart. Liver is functioning better, though.

But this semester I somehow have every single class with MC. Every single one, including our elective and our TAship. It’s some kind of fluke mishap, and she jokes (jokes?) that she’s going to kill me after about two weeks. There’s only so many times she can lead me blindly to our classroom, tell me when things are due, and hold my hand throughout assignments. And listen to me whine on our walk to school. Oh yes, I’m going to be punched. For sure.

But in our radio class, since we work mostly in our teams, I reassured her that we would just be on different teams and it would be like we don’t have the class together because we wouldn’t see each other all day. This seemed to mollify her.

Until we got put on the same team.

Our names were picked out of the hat one after the other, so for a brief moment we both thought she would go on the next team. It’s what would have made sense.

Instead the prof thought for a moment, and then added her name under mine on team B.

I looked at her cautiously.

She had the wide MC rage eyes. She shook her head, teeth clenched, and said she was going to fucking kill me.

I giggled nervously.

Sources, part 1:
I’m working on two freelance stories for the major newspaper chain right now. I have a ton of interviews to do, and I used all my breaks yesterday to attempt to call my sources.

First, a word on sources: some of them are lovely, charming people to talk to, and go out of their way to get you the interview (and get their name in the paper).

Some of them are goddamn jackasses who make you jump through hoops and kiss their asses just to get a 5 minute phone interview about parenting styles. PARENTING STYLES, you stuck up asshole!! YOU ARE NOT STEPHEN HARPER, YOU ARE NOT EVEN IMPORTANT, JUST ANSWER MY GODDAMN QUESTIONS AND GET BACK TO MASTURBATING. God! Jesus!

Guess which kind I was dealing with yesterday?

Actually, no. First I had a lovely interview with a child psychologist in Montreal. It was quick, to the point, she was clear and friendly, and she agreed to have her photo taken. Cut. Print.

And then I started trying to get a hold of the family counsellor in Vancouver. I needed this specific family counsellor, otherwise I would have called someone less, oh, pedophilic sounding. Seriously, I have never felt more uncomfortable just from hearing someone’s tone of voice. In the three minutes that we briefly talked, he made me feel like I needed a bleach and brillo shower.

Here’s our convo:

ThePeach: Hello, Mr. Counsellor. I’m a reporter with the major newspaper chain. I’m writing a story on parenting. Is now a good time to ask you a few quick questions?
Mr. Counsellor: *breathes* I used to be a journalist.
ThePeach: Oh, wow. With who?
Mr. Counsellor: *breathes* …what?
ThePeach: Um, with who? Who were you a journalist with?
Mr. Counsellor: *breathes* oh…just…things. Print things. In English.
ThePeach: Oh…kay. So, can I just have five minutes of your time to quickly ask you some questions?
Mr. Counsellor: *breathes* Yes. But not now.
ThePeach: Oh. Would you like to set up a time, then?
Mr. Counsellor: How about 5pm my time?
ThePeach: Sure. I’ll call you at 5pm, pacific time.
Mr. Counsellor: *breathes* Bye.

Ok, so I had an interview set for 8pm. It would be a bit of a rush to get home in time for it, but I would do it.

I also tried to set up an interview with this major hotel. I talked to two PR people (bless their helpful hearts), and they assured me the director would call me asap. I kept my phone glued to my side.

Exercise:
Spaz, MC and I were super excited for our first cardio kickboxing class of the new year. I stayed on campus after my class got out at 3 so that I could just walk over to the gym later. I milled around in the journalism building, calling sources, checking facebook, and wondering if the cat had pooped in my bed.

At 5 we walked over to the gym, lugging our running shoes and stretchy pants.

Then we found out the class actually starts next week.

Like, jesus. Fine. FINE.

So instead we just worked out in the cardio room. I rowed and stairmastered. I hoped my ass was shrinking.

In the 40 minutes that I was separated from my phone, the major hotel called back.

By the time I got the message, the director had already gone home for the day.

Perfect.

Sources, part 2:
I rushed home after the gym to make my 8pm interview. I didn’t even shower off the stairmaster sweat, opting instead to just throw on a baggy sweatshirt and marinate. I scarfed down the tiniest and quickest dinner so that I wouldn’t hallucinate while I was on the phone. At 8 on the nose, I called Mr. Counsellor and got the world’s creepiest answering machine.

Ok.

I left a message. Tried again 5 minutes later.

World’s creepiest answering machine.

15 minutes later.

30 minutes later.

By 9:30 I realized that the fucker had blown me off. Jesus H Christ.

So I quickly ran downstairs to watch an episode of Cougar Town with MC.

In the 30 minutes that I was away from my landline, Mr. Counsellor called me back.

FUCK. FUCK!

I immediately called him and got the world’s creepiest answering machine. I left another message. Called three more times. Swore.

By this time I was exhausted. I spent the next two hours trying to start writing one of my articles, and intermittently calling Mr. Counsellor like a crazed ex-girlfriend.

At midnight I gave up and passed out. I set my alarm for 6am so I would be productive before I had to go spend the day TAing with MC.

Sources, part 3.
At 2am my phone rang.

I woke up with a start. So did the cat, who flew off my stomach in a fear-fit and galloped out the door.

I don’t even remember picking up the phone. All I remember is waking up at 2am to the creepiest voice in the world.

Mr. Counsellor: *breathes* Hi, Peach.
ThePeach: What? Huh? Mom?
Mr. Counsellor: *breathes* is this a good time?
ThePeach: What? Um? *looks at call display* Oh. Hello.
Mr. Counsellor: Your message said I could call you anytime. Your message said you’d be at your desk late.
ThePeach: …yes. But now is not the best time, as it is 2am.
Mr. Counsellor: *breathes* are you in…bed?
ThePeach:…perhaps we can schedule an interview for tomorrow?

I was actually seriously disturbed when I got off the phone. First of all, I had been in the deepest of sleeps when he called, so I was still confused. Then, in my semi-conscious state, I decided he was probably a sociopathic killer and was stalking me. I got up to make sure the chain was on the door. I hid in bed, convinced I was about to be ass-raped.

Just when my heart rate came back down, the cat dove back onto the bed, still enraged.

He flew at me like a rabid bat, biting any exposed flesh until 3am.

Eventually we both passed out and slept fitfully.

I woke up at 9am, the morning news blaring for the past 3 hours.

Fuck fuck fuck.

So, that was “Better Luck Next Time!”

Tune in later for “Ass-rape is no laughing matter” and tomorrow for “MC punches ThePeach in the face.”

ThePeach

Tuesday, January 05, 2010

Maybe the best thing ever; at least it wasn't Milo

I was on my way to night class yesterday and I had just stepped out of the elevator in my lobby.

A blonde girl about my age was checking her mail, and she had a teeny little poufy dog with her, approximately the size of my foot. Before I could say anything, and before she could look up, he trotted happily into the now empty elevator.

“YOUR DOG!” I shouted as the doors closed behind him.

“WHAT??!!” she screamed, looking around frantically as I pushed the button.

Then the elevator started going back up.

Second floor, third floor…

“Um, your dog is in that elevator.”

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!!”

We pressed all the buttons. Spaz walked out of the elevator on the far left.

“What’s going on??”

“Her dog is in that elevator! Alone!”

Fourth floor, fifth floor…

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!”

Spaz and I started giggling. We couldn’t help it. We kept pressing the buttons.

Sixth floor, Seventh floor. Stop.

“OH MY GOD, WHAT IF HE GETS OUT??!”

She started sprinting toward the stairs.

“Wait!” Spaz said, pointing at the elevator.

Sixth floor, fifth floor, fourth floor…

Spaz and I are now falling into each other with suppressed laughter. The girl is wringing her wrists and pressing the button.

Third floor, second floor, ground floor…

“OH FUCK, WHAT IF IT GOES TO THE FUCKING BASEMENT??”

And then the doors opened. The teeny dog was sitting demurely in the middle of the elevator, perfectly calm.

Spaz and I screamed with laughter.

The dog trotted back out, his tail wagging.

“OH, THANK GOD!!”

MC came out of the stairwell at that moment and looked at us like we were lepers.

“What are you DOING??”

I gestured to the teeny dog.

“He had a little adventure.”

And then we went to class.

End scene.

ThePeach

Monday, January 04, 2010

Back to school: Day 1

It's the first day of my last semester, and already I:

- slept through my alarm for 90 minutes
- got a threatening call from Rogers about my late bill payment
- tried to sign up for cardio kickboxing ($45)
- had my credit card declined trying to sign up for cardio kickboxing
- used a friend's credit card to sign up for cardio kickboxing
- ate Kraft Dinner. Entire box. Spirals. Sometimes a bitch has to treat herself.
- spent the entire day making phone calls for a story. No one called back until 5 minutes before my 6pm class started.
- Ate a small ham sandwich for dinner.
- shit my pants when my professor brought up how many "heart-breaking" factual errors were in our last batch of assignments. Can't be sure, but am fairly certain she made eye contact with me.
- did phone interviews all night.
- considered drowning my bitch of a cat when he howled through my entire interviews. Working from home. Not ideal. Here, kitty.
- don't have time for life.

Gah. Why. No. Stop the madness.

ThePeach

Sunday, January 03, 2010

A Very Beatles Breakup

If my relationship with FauxHawk had a soundtrack, it would be The Beatles complete score. Every song, from the early pop to the last Paul McCartney single.

I already loved The Beatles when FauxHawk and I met, but he is actually obsessed. His apartment is a shrine to the Fab 4, right down to the collector’s dolls on his bedside dresser.

Have you ever woken up to a plastic John Lennon? It’s creepy.

Our very first date (actual date, not the slimy bar hookup the week prior) consisted of getting drunk on his couch while he played the entire White Album and gave me the history to each song.

We’ve seen Paul McCartney live. I can tell you which song “My Sweet Lord” supposedly plagiarized. I know that “Across the Universe” was once the theme song for the World Wildlife Fund. I know how many takes Ringo needed to hit that last note in “With a little help from my friends.” He’s not a natural singer, that one.

But what do I do now with all this useless knowledge?

Answer: use it for evil.

A while ago I was listening to my playlist and started thinking that our breakup could be described solely with The Beatles lyrics. I think it’s fitting, in a ‘stab you with your own weapon’ type of way. It’s kind of like a new age poetry slam, but without the unwashed hair and latent homosexuality.

And I am very aware how incredibly lame this is, by the way. It’s cathartic, bitches.

So, here we go. Six months of breakup, from the phone call on Canada Day where he dumped me, to fucking with my head and not wanting to let me go and swooping in with declarations of love every time I started moving on (even though he was already moving on, fuck you very much), to today, when I told him that we need to stop being friends because it’s clear he just wants to have his cake and eat it, too.

I've arranged it like a convo between the two of us, one line per person. He starts. Giddyup!

You say yes, I say no.
Don’t let me down.
You say stop, and I say go, go, go.
Don’t let me down.
I’m so tired, I don’t know what to do.
All you need is love.
I’m so tired, my mind is set on you.
Love is all you need.
Goodbye, bye, bye, bye, bye.

When you told me you didn't need me anymore, well you know I nearly broke down and cried.
Nothing’s gonna change my world.
When you told me you didn't need me anymore, well you know I nearly fell down and died.
Nothing’s gonna change my world.

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces.
Something in the way she moves, attracts me like no other lover.
Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here.
Something in her smile, she knows, that I don’t need no other lover.
Here comes the sun. And I say it’s alright.
I don’t want to leave her now. You know I believe and how.
Sun, sun, sun here it comes.

Why don’t we do it in the road? Why don’t we do it in the road?
What would you do if I sang out of tune, would you stand up and walk out on me?
Why don’t we do it in the road? Why don’t we do it in the road?
How do I feel by the end of the day (are you sad because you’re on your own?)
Why don’t we do it in the road? Why don’t we do it in the road?
Could it be anybody? I just need someone to love.
No one will be watching us.
I want somebody to love.

And when I touch you, I feel happy inside.
Happiness is a warm gun.
It’s such a feeling that my love, I can’t hide.
Happiness is a warm gun (bang bang, shoot shoot).
I wanna hold your hand. I wanna hold your hand.

(If you drive a car car) I'll tax the street. (If you try to sit sit) I'll tax your seat
But when you talk about destruction, don’t you know that you can count me out?
(If you get too cold cold) I'll tax the heat. (If you take a walk) I'll tax your feet
But when you want money, all I can tell is brother you’ve got to wait.
‘Cause I’m the taxman. Yeah, I’m the taxman.
Love is all you need.

You say yes, I say no.
Got to get you into my life.
You say stop, and I say go, go go.
Got to get you into my life.
Good bye, bye, bye, bye, bye.
I was alone, I took a ride. I didn’t know what I would find there.
Good bye, bye, bye, bye, bye.
Another road where maybe I could find another kind of mind there.
I’ve been in love before and I found that love was more than just holding hands.
Got to get you into my life. Got to get you into my life.
I couldn’t stand the pain. If I fell in love with you.

Trala! Congrats to anyone who made it all the way through. I feel like a dirty, earnest, emo hippy. I’m going to go have a shower. Maybe get solo drunk. Maybe have sex.

I am not your back-pocket, almost perfect, can’t let you go but don’t really want you, temporary stand-in.

Ka-pow! Time to get loaded.

ThePeach