Landslide

I'm reminded of when I decided to finally do something about my desire to be a singer.
I was somewhere around 26, Eamon and I were living in Southern California, recently married, young, few responsibilities besides for work, listening to KCRW and going to Trader Joe's on Saturday afternoons. Of course there was a dog, it was Buck the Standard Poodle with an ego. Eamon used to throw unripe oranges for him to fetch, Buck could have done this until he died if we let him. He'd come running back across the parking lot of the building across the street from our apartment, orange juice streaming from his mouth and drop the fruit at Eamon's feet, or make Eamon grab the slick thing out of his mouth to throw it again. It was a sight. Anyway, I placed an ad in a weekly. I tried to represent my style as somewhere between Syd Straw and Penelope Houston, thinking this would at least limit the calls to people who knew who these gals were.
I got a few calls and tried out for some bands, realizing that I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to be able to stand in front of people and sing without huge substances ingested, inhaled or smoked. Thusly, I gave up on the idea. Yet, there was one more call. It was a guy and he asked to speak to Abby and I said that he was and he said " Abby" and then gave me my first and last personalized obscene phone call.
Oh, the joys of putting your name out there in the public domain. There is a price to pay, but sometimes you just have to unfold your world a little more to express yourself. What reminded me of this story, is that my husband is a little uncomfortable with my candid sharing of personal data. Well, I say, Homeland security is already watching our every move, so what's three more!