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.

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.


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.


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.


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


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.


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?


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.