Something Real

Meg & Dia can not only sing, write pretty darn good lyrics for their ages, and play guitar, but they are not put off by adoring teen fans. Good to remember what we once were. Amazingly enough, these talented beauties are local. They hail from Draper, Utah, and attended the very same university that I do. One of my friends and fellow English majors (the brilliant Amber who is on her way to Stanford Law) once resided down the hall from the sisters and has a CD of their early dorm-room recordings.

I took A to see them at our local coffee house last spring. During finals week (the epitome of sacrifice to an intelligent guy). We waited all night long listening to mostly silly wanna-be-rocker-boy bands (the exception was The Utmost, whose CD we purchased that night) to just listen to the girls who got top billing. A loved them immediately, and after the show both Meg and Dia posed for pics with her, one of which is now her photo caller ID on my phone. Next time they come through, you can guess which girl will be front row.

Every time I go over there--he’s so subtle about it with his blog, the roll divided under album songs--I have to listen to Journey. I lose a bit of respect from my daughters each time they hear Mr. Perry crooning through my iBook (A says it degrades the machine). Today, I mistakenly did a Google image search for Steve to show them my “crush” from my seventh grade skating rink days. I am sure the howling laughter could be heard at least three and one-half blocks away. I also told them that a guy that I dated in high school actually looked like Steve Perry, too. This was simply too much. The next thing I knew, they were accusing me of wearing headbands. I straightened my back, threw my hair over my shoulder and told them that, indeed, I had the coolest headband of all my friends. It was thin and turquoise with feathers that hung dow (I neglected to tell them the feathers got stuck in my cherry lipgloss when I did the speed skate).

It may take years to recover.

I dreamt of water last night. Not the amniotic comfort of the ocean, but the chemical killing of a swimming pool.

What began as playful banter between E and I while in the Natatorium, moved to menace. I swam away from her, but she, being the stronger swimmer, overcame my efforts of escape and she began to pull my legs. My head jerked violently under the water. I resurfaced, coughing and choking, fighting to get to the side, to save myself.

I was awakened by the ferocious wind, screaming and demanding, berating the house for denying its entrance.