Indecisive Peach

The Moody Blues is the first concert I ever attended. I went with my Mom and I remember we were late. The pedal was to the metal as she was hauling butt down the highway in Salt Lake City. I remember looking out of window at passing two white limos and speculating that we might be passing the band. My brush with fame.

Let’s recap the band:

1960′s Psychedelic and the mustaches…the mustaches…

1970′s Thoughtful and the hair… THE HAIR

1980′s Surreal and the crazy makeup

My lands, that needs to comeback. They don’t make videos like they used to.

I tend to procrastinate my lady issues. I think, it’s self-cleaning; I’ll eat yogurt, drink cranberry juice and it’ll just heal itself.

This is why I end up popping pills and dialing for a local Lady Doctor to let me into her schedule. Now that I’m not a student, I went to the employee health center hoping they could fix me up like the student health center has done for the last six years.

“Are you telling me you can’t help me and even though I know that were I a student, nary five blocks over, someone could have me in stirrups, do some lab work, and send me on my way munching some antibiotics in a half hour…but… you guys here can’t?”

“Yes. Call a real doctor. Oh, and that’ll be five dollars.”

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It’s sad that one of my favorite songs is the best known, yet still unknown, elevator music. The video is even seasonal!

If my dating history were to apply for a diversity scholarship, it might have a decent shot if it stuck to its attention to religions. My first boyfriend was a hardcore Mormon in all ways. While being told that we should marry and have children when I get out of high school is great when you’re fifteen and in the throes of a first love, but the heebie-jeebies which that invoked not two years later were overwhelming.

I then quickly went through a Southern Baptist (who are not allowed to dance) and a “former” Mormon who told a very young and very experimental me that he still believed that sex should be for marriage.

[Well I certainly changed that.]

My personal running joke from that time is that someday I’d settle down with a Moonie and have a nice mass wedding.

That'd be my expression too.

So you can imagine that I nearly spit out my juice when J told me early in our dating from many, many moons ago that his family belonged to the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

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I’m finishing my online application to a program to teach English in Japan tonight. I begin the awkward process of chasing down my letters of references tomorrow. I need fancy paper for my resume. There is a Public Service Career Fair on Tuesday and I’m going to wear the dry-cleaned slacks that I wore in San Francisco.

It’s that line that makes me feel like there is so much more out there. I have no need to stay here any longer and something in my soul is calling for something much different than what I’m doing now.

Perhaps it’ll aid, or rather, help in me resuscitating my writing.

This has been reverberating in my mind for the last two weeks or so, an excerpt from Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club:

And then Second Wife walked toward me, smiling, her fur coat gleaming with every step. She stared, as if she were examining me, as if she recognized me. Finally she smiled and patted my head. And then with a swift, graceful movement of her small hands, she removed her long pearly strand and put it around my neck.

This was the most beautiful piece of jewelry I had ever touched. It was designed in the Western Style, a long strand, each bead the same size and of an identical pinkish tone, with a heavy brooch of ornate silver to clasp the ends together.

My mother immediately protested: “This is too much for a small child. She will break it. She will lose it.”

But Second Wife simply said to me: “Such a pretty girl needs something to put the light on her face.”
I could see by the way my mother shrank back and became quiet that she was angry. She did not like Second Wife. I had to be careful how I showed my feelings: not to let my mother think Second Wife had won me over. Yet I had this reckless feeling. I was overjoyed that Second Wife had shown me this special favor.

“Thank you, Big Mother,” I said to Second Wife. And I was looking down to avoid showing her my face, but still I could not help smiling.

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I would have to pick up my dry cleaning on my scooter. Oops.

Dear Cupid,

How are you? I figure you’re not getting a lot of e-mail traffic this time of year, am I right? Plus I’m pretty sure the vacation mode is long past and you’re not too busy yet pre-planning Zales commercials and testing new heart shaped candies. Yes, timing seems good and here I am dropping you a line.

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A running theme I have in my life is this: I can’t believe I’m doing/have/or am experiencing X, because hot damn, look at how adult X is. [Mind you, only one X.] I’m critically aware of each encroachment of the adult human experience, and in general, really do favor it a great deal.

I told J not too long ago, when he asked me why I felt the need to be growing up and gaining responsibilities in my life, that I’ve felt I’ve had the mental capacity and status of an adult much longer than I’ve been able to enjoy the frivolity and privileges that comes from the falling pages of a calender.

Today’s catalyst: dry-cleaning. I just pulled out a ticket from my wallet that lets me know that I have one dress, one blouse, two slacks, and one skirt waiting for me at a dry cleaners in town on Friday at five. It’s like in the movies! …Except I putter up on my scooter instead of a Caddie.

Perhaps this is how it’s done in Italian movies.