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.


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).”


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:


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.


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.



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.


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.