I stared at the white toilet bowl in dread. The gurgling in my tummy was unrelenting, having dragged me out of bed a full twenty minutes before my alarm went off in a vain attempt not to yack all over my pretty pink and purple comforter.
I could hear my alarm wailing away in the other room, an ominous theme song from one of my favorite TV shows, sure to get me out of bed before I got overtaken by a horde of ravenous zombies.
But there was little I could do to silence the alarm while there on my knees, praying for mercy from a porcelain god. I had already projectile-vomited twice, leaving nothing on my stomach but acidic bile. Hence the dread.
“Peaches?” I heard my sister, and other half, calling from the door of the bathroom we shared between our two bedrooms. “You okay?”
“Perfect,” I replied, just before violently ralphing that dreaded bile. This took a few minutes, and I’ll spare you the ugly details, mostly because I’m sure you have plenty of questions, not the least of which, “Your name is Peaches?”
Don’t feel bad. Most are taken off guard by it. Peaches isn’t exactly registered on any Top Baby Name site. If I had a nickel for each time I was asked, “Is that a nickname?” I would be kneeling before a better, more luxurious toilet.
To understand my name, you would have to know my mother, Sunny McPhee. Whatever image that conjures in your brain is likely accurate, at least for one of my mother’s many phases. Blond? Yep. Hippy? Certainly. Free flowing flowery muumuu? On many occasions.
My mother was a free spirit, so named by my grandmother for the sunny blond hair she was born with. I came out with reddish peach fuzz. You do the math.
Not all her children were named after their hair. My sister, roommate, soulmate, twin (but not really) was named Fern, because that was hanging in the doctor’s office when Mom found out she was pregnant. Our older brother Archer was named for his Sagittarian birthday, my younger sister Dallas was named after the city in which she was conceived. Then there was my baby brother Dash, named because he shot out into the world in the car on the way to the hospital.
Mom insisted that we were all born to stand out. Our unique monikers set the stage for us to carve out our own individual places in the world. For most of my siblings, this had worked out. Archer, while not as earthy as the rest of the family, had gone on to make his fortune as an attorney back east. Fern was an artist and a dancer, who had her own fitness channel on YouTube, teaching others the beauty and health benefits of dance. Her modest following of 50,000 fans helped pay the bills. Dallas was already a world class athlete at 12, having competed and won significant figure skating competitions, with an eye on the Olympics as soon as she was old enough to compete.
And Dash, well he was the most fabulous five-year-old in kindergarten. He often co-starred in Fern’s workout videos with his own signature rainbow tutu.
I know I’m not supposed to have a favorite, but Dash is totally my favorite. And none of my siblings are too offended because he’s their favorite, too.
And then there’s me.
I’ve been telling stories since I was two and writing them since I was twelve. I love poems and stories and the magic that comes from taking intangible things and making people feel tangible feelings. If I were a musician, I’d create music. I’m way too impatient to learn that language to create, so I became a writer. Because I’m too intimidated to write a book, I became a journalist. I write about things that already exist, plucking the story out of mundane reality.
We all create our own, individual magic. That was how I chose to create mine.
I worked at a pop culture news joint called Headliner Pulse, where we write about the rich and fabulous. It’s kind of my jam. I’ve made some solid connections in the entertainment industry, mostly because I like to keep it respectful. These powerful folks are still people, and I try never to lose sight of that. Because of this, I’m often requested by certain celebrities whenever they want to make a public announcement, like a wedding or a new baby. They know I’ve got their backs.