The audience is sitting in my head

I think I'm way too aware of my audience.

A strong performer learns that you have to modify your performance sometimes depending on whose watching.
If a venue is small, you can bring the level down to be more intimate.
If the venue is outdoors, you sure as hell better project.

And life is one big grand stage.

But sometimes I get so caught up in being aware of my surroundings, the self awareness almost impedes my delivery.
I'm too aware of how my words ring in certain ears.
And that is throwing off my verbal prowess.


When you're young, you're unawares you even have an audience.
Unless you were a kid like me who asked to have her picture taken every time she saw an adult with a camera.

The other day I was on my break and some teeny bopper in her short short A&F shorts walked up to me, interrupting my thoughts, and demanded, Excuse me, I need to use your cell phone.
No May I or Would it be alright if just I need it give it to me.

The determined look on her face and her sense of entitlement baffled me.
I just handed over my phone and muttered, Sure.
And after her important conversation of Where ARE you? to presumably some other A&F scantily clad preteen she handed me my phone and was on her way.
I shook my head over how unmoved she was by her lack of social graces and wondered how the rest of the world might act if I attempted the same sort of demanding presumption over their mobile devices.

Something tells me I'd have a lot of lattes thrown in my face.
So long as they were made with soy.
Mmmm.

Why is it Hannah Sluttanah was blithely unawares and I'm all too aware?

It is possible I over think things.
Just a skosh.

I'm really aware of my writing audience.
Or I should say the audience I'm getting to know.

My Mother told me she hasn't read my blog in a long time.
I think the last time I read it you were ranting and raving about something.
I was childishly crushed.
Mama was one of my first readers.
To think I'd lost one of my original followers made me question my voice as a writer.
Is she scandalized by how unladylike my writing voice has become?
And then my mind inadvertently started considering censorship.
Poppycock.

I am being too self aware.

Surely, if anyone KNOWS how much of a lady I am or ain't it is my Mother.
Ya can't kid a kidder.

And I can't fake a Reese.
I can simply embrace her.
And trust that'll draw the type of audience suited to this type of lady.
Whoever she turns out to be.

Life as a Starbucks Bitch

Spotting the Texter

I have really wretched taste in men.
Really, really bad. Baddy bad.
I am just stupid when it comes to dudes.

But I really am good at other random things.
I have rad parking karma and I always find a spot.
I'm great at making girlfriends because I have no problem asking them out.
And I'm really good at getting boys to kiss me.

But I'm really starting to question my taste in who I'm kissing.

And spotting the Texter reminded me of how incredibly idiotic my tastes really can be.

The Texter was the kid who a couple years back got in contact with me because we used to know each other. 

Thank you again, Facebook and Starbucks, for supplying me with an endless supply of men to canoodle with.  I would surely be a crazy cat lady by now had I not sipped on all the naughtiness you provided.  I thank thee.

So Texter and I exchanged numbers and talked about meeting up sometime.
Only he never wanted to meet. 
He only wanted to text.
For MONTHS.
It was one of the weirdest things I'd ever experienced.

How is he supposed to stick his tongue down my throat if we never actually meet up?

Men are fucktards.

But I thought he was so damn cute I was determined to make something happen.

And because there's flint in my fingertips, eventually I did start a fire.
But not the way I was used to.

I'd started hanging out with Mr. Volcano and my unavailability to Texter made him finally pursue me.
He wanted to meet.
And I was SHOCKED.

I met him at a bar and we made out in the back room and in his car.
That's all!  I'm a lady, thank you.
And I'd like to say it was the bomb diggity and totally worth the seven months of inane texts but like I said, my taste in men kinda blows.
And I was preoccupied thinking about the tattoo clad kid who played his guitar for me.
Texter's cigarette laden kisses couldn't compare.
He was a one night only event.
And proof that sometimes lame things come to those who wait.

Which is why when I happened to drive by him on the street the other day I shook my head in utter amusement.
As I live and laugh, the Texter himself.

What the hell was I thinking?
SO without.
Matt Damon, my ass.

I think my pheromones must render my intellect useless.
Has to spare energy for all the hormones surging.
And those eager bitches deserve only the finest candidates.
Those whose kisses make everything else seem to fall away, who are always worth the wait.

I miss being called darling

There are few things a single gal can't take care of on her own.
Insert snicker here.
But there is one thing in particular that just cannot be accomplished no matter how clever she may be.

I cannot sweet talk myself.

I know I'm extraordinary.
I peer at my reflection and smile at the loveliness I see before me.
But sometimes I really long for someone else to see me.
And for that handsome somebody to tell me all they're delighting in.

I am such a sucker for sappy saccharine nonsense it's ridiculous.
Oh I'm one tough cookie and I will claim I don't care one way or the other til I'm blue in the face but the truth is, I love it when guys sweet talk me.
I don't care if it's contrived.
Sue me.

I had one lover who only ever called me baby when he was being intensely affectionate and reading or hearing that word made my heart leap right out of the rabbit hole.

Sweetie. Darling. Love?
Be still my leaping heart. I am putty in your hands.

One lover even called me darlink.
Creativity only scores you double points.

I could lie and say I'm far too intelligent for all that but the part of me that giggles giddily when a guy calls me beautiful is the same part that still fawns all over Disney movies.
I'm kind of 29 going on 14 when it comes to certain things.

And I think that makes me all the more lovable.
Honey.

I miss Beaverton

I've discovered the greatest flaw of living in the Lake Oswego/Tualatin area.
There are no liquor stores. ANYWHERE.

In the ho hum that is Beaverton there are liquor stores on every corner. 
They're like Starbucks. 
Because what do low to middle income families need in suburbia? 
Coffee and booze.

Why my sudden search for liquor, you might ask?
If you need to ask, clearly we don't know each other.

Actually I'm ill. 
And I have the worst illness a Resa can get: A sore throat.
As a singer, a talker, a loud mouthed overly opinionated pistol, having a sore throat to me is like cutting off an ankle to a runner.

I fucking hate having a sore throat. 

I always feel like whenever I get a sore throat it's God's way of telling me to shut up and listen.
I do talk way too damn much.
Which is why shy guys always love me.
So, you're welcome!

But the good news is that life near the Atlantic taught me a few things and one of those things was Blackberry Brandy.
Mmmm.
Blackberry Brandy is like Dimetapp for adults.
It coats your aching throat, especially when warmed up, and it gives you a nice buzz so you're feeling too warm and fuzzy to feel wretched.
It is mana from heaven.
And I was on a quest to procure some.

But as I drove up and down the streets unable to find any liquor stores anywhere I began to feel like a crazy person. 
Normal people had their chicken soup or airborne, popsicles or orange juice.
I, like the alcoholism that dripped from my family tree, had brandy.

Do you know what Lake Oswego DOES have a lot of? 
Sushi restaurants. 
Sake.  Bleh. 
Why is raw fish more of a staple than booze in this well to do neighborhood? 
Do they all simply drink wine?

God bless my smart phone and its ability to navigate me to the one liquor store on State Street in Lake Oswego. 
I literally swerved my car into the parking lot when I finally found it. 
I kind of wish my life were a reality tv show because I know I looked like insanity behind that wheel.

I finally got home and prepared my hot water and brandy drink and sighed a sigh of relief as the syrup coated my throat.

Sometimes I really do miss living other places.
In that moment, I even missed Newport.
I think I was delirious.

The Damn Sunshine

I am not a morning person.
AVID. ANTI. MORNING. PERSON.
I'm so fervently opposed to the concept that people wake up genuinely bright eyed and bushy tailed that I am convinced there's a conspiracy.
Those who claim they are morning people --And I've seen it, you know who you are!!--are LIARS.
Big. Hairy. Liars.

Yes.
I just called you HAIRY.

I used to live with someone who was a leader of this conspiracy and he tried for weeks to converse with me first thing in the morning. 
Then one day it finally sunk in that the only syllables I could articulate before I'd had my shower and cup of coffee were grunts.

I tried working out early in the morning once.
I nearly threw up and fainted at the same time.

I think vixens were made for night fall.
Sparkle and seduction hours happen in the dark.

It makes me wonder how I survived Starbucks for all those years.
Acting, dahling.
Mad. Award winning. Acting.

At least God gave me those skills.

My new pseudo, Richie, is an early bird.
A "morning person" if you will. 
A conspirator if ever there was one.
The sun rises and his on switch clicks in to gear and he is ready to jump out of bed and make the most of his day.
The chipper bastard. 
He makes me ill.

But he thinks I'm a crazy bird for sleeping the day away and making love to the late hours of the night.
Tomato.  Tomah-to.
I'm rad and he's nuts.
I'm completely okay with that.
Obviously he is too.

But today I had to get up with the damn sunshine for a damn work meeting about all of our damn events--Damnit!!--and Richie mockingly told me to enjoy my day of sleep.

What.Ev.ER. You don't KNOW me, I jeered.  Maybe I'm gonna stay up!
Ha. Yeah. Right, Richie sneered back.

Psssh.  That did it.
I will now stay up all damn day just to prove him wrong.
Chipper know it all bastard.

I may never be a morning person--BECAUSE THEY AREN'T REAL!!-- but I sure am determined.
And if anyone is up to the task, it's this gal.
Stubborn.  Loud.  Night time worshipping dame.

I'm just that fucking fantastic.

Veronica's Summer Winds

Veronica drove home, watching in her rear view mirror the orange sky following behind her.
She was calm and content, feelings her heart had nearly forgotten how to embrace.
The sand was still scattered on her cheeks and on her feet.
She kicked off her sandals and drove bare foot, wiggling her toes in delight over the pedals.

The music filled her car with loving guitar chords and the wind kissed her face. 
She rolled down her window further and leaned out to hug the wind back.
She was overflowing with love.
For no one and no thing in particular.
Just, love.

Veronica kept smiling as she recalled details of her nights reveries.
Somewhere deep inside, mixed with her skepticism and shattered adoration, a new warmth stirred within her. 
It carried her forward, gliding along hills, possessing her wounds and wrapping them in tranquility. 
The pair of eyes now bouncing around in her mind belonged to a new face.
And that was a comfort.
Each day seemed to carry with it blankets of comfort, extra soft and fuzzy, just the way she liked.

Veronica had inadvertently released a treasure and stumbled upon what seemed an even rarer find.
She reached her hand out to catch the wind, warm and inviting, as it returned her appreciation.
Veronica had felt that continuously.
Reciprocity.
Shared melodies and whispered lyrics sung under lamps that scattered shadows.
And hugs, long squeezes of gratitude, timidly offered for exchanged company.

The summer always carried change in its winds and Veronica shook her head over her forgetfulness.
She finally stopped and stepping out of her car she glanced back at the fragments of orange sky that remained.
They crept up on her, those nights she failed to look up, wanting to skip from sun to stars and miss the stroll.
But it knocked her down, the power of such hope.

And for once, for one blissful breath, Veronica stopped.
The thoughtsdoubtsscheminguncertainty.
And she tasted the oxygen that was all her own.
And placed her hands neatly in her pockets, relinquishing control for how the clouds of her heart would part.
She had seen a glimmer in those eyes, a glimmer like the pair she'd once grown intoxicated on, like a pair she had nearly forgotten.
And the glimmer reminded Veronica that orange skies weren't nearly as rare as she once believed.

So she watched, drinking it in.
And she waited.
And she had never been so thrilled to wait, to see, all she'd yet to believe could be seen.
The grins overpowered her mouth and she laughed.
She laughed loud, long laughs.
And she waited with renewed faith, she waited.