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.
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.


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.



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.


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.


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?