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Got to a bit of a rough start this morning; got to a rough end last night, in fact. Nothing major, just grumblyness about people cooking in the kitchen until after 10 when it’s my night to clean it. I hate frittering at the best of times. Frittering to clean just stinks.
I also pulled Gawtcha last night as my guide for today, which made me immediately go ‘oh shit!’. No taking the car out in case I get pulled over, or I get a flat tire, or it breaks in some other magical, meaningful way (not all magical meaning is good). There is no greater fear for a devotee of Hermes than to have your mobility truncated. Even worse is to have both your mobility and your finances affected.
So I went to bed anxious, and I had weird dreams about how I was staying with my parents in this huge mansion, but they were on vacation. I invited a few friends over, and it ended up being a John Hughes-level high school party, complete with things breaking, naked guys passed out on my bed, messes being made… the works. And I wandered around trying to figure out how to get all these people out and the place cleaned up before my parents got home.
So… rocky start. But now I have peach juice, and things are looking up. I have strong, positive associations with peach juice. I first had it when I was 13, and I was living for a short time with my mom up here in Mountain View. I think of that time as the time when I came out of my shell, grew up a bit. My glasses were disposed of for contacts, I’m pretty sure my braces came off around then, too. I got grown up clothes instead of the little onesie jumpsuits with purple hearts on the chest that my dad and stepmom insisted on buying me. I got boobs. I read my very first romance novel (Not sure I recall the title – Midnight Madness or something like that – but Slade Rockwell, alpha-male CEO of… something… and Holly Holbrook, virgin-mistaken-for-whore secretary of Mr. Rockwell, will forever be burned into my memory). I may have even gotten a friend or two.
And I associate all that with peach juice, because my mom used to buy it in these little bottles, and I had a dress the same peachy color as the juice. The dress made me feel like a southern belle (there may have been a white hat that I wore with the ensemble). I would wear it and drink my peach juice and I became a peach myself. A woman, by which I mean an object to be desired and consumed. At the time, this didn’t strike me as a bad thing.
(I still have positive associations with consuming peaches, but in that dynamic, I am both the consumed and the consumer. And… uh… suddenly this blog is turning PG-13)
At any wise, rocky hurdles crossed with the help of fond memories, I forge on into the day.
I may still decide to remain homebound. Y’know… just in case.