A Wicked Review: 6 Degrees of Donnie Wahlberg

I mentioned in my last post that I was going to see the travelling Broadway production of Wicked. Many of you have sent texts or tweets inquiring as to how the evening went. It all started with a photo shoot...

This is our "we're normal, we're adorable, look how pretty we are" shot.

This is our "we're giddy, we're overly-excited,
OMG we're going to see Wicked" shot.

...followed by our prompt arrival at the theater. As in, we pulled into our parking space at 5:45. They didn't open the doors to the event until 6:45. And the show didn't start until 7:30. We were the FIRST ones there. Seriously. I'm not joking. Even the parking attendant was amused at our punctuality.


And so, Tina and I stood outside of the theater for over an hour, noses pressed to the glass, peering inside to "see what we could see." We were thrilled to see tables of Playbills nearest to our door. We squealed with glee when we saw the swag table, decked out in t-shirts and coffee mugs and track jackets, all in varying shades of green.


And when the ushers began to appear, all wearing Elphaba-green bow-ties? Well, we may have joined hands and jumped up and down. Maybe.


When they finally opened the doors to the theater, Tina was the FIRST person inside. We enjoyed frosty beverages (daiquiris--both banana and strawberry.) We tried our best to seem nonchalant as we casually browsed the wares for sale. I noticed a large book on one of the tables and realized (with some enthusiasm) that it was the Grimmerie. (For those not familiar with the book or play, the Grimmerie is the book of magic spells used by the Witch.) While there were no spells to be found in the pages of this particular Grimmerie, it was instead a 'behind the scenes' book, all about the characters, music, creators, and design of Wicked.


I flipped open the heavy green cover, and the first page I turned to had a large picture of Fiyero, Elphaba's love interest. I gasped as I instantly recognized the actor as Joey McIntyre.

For those with no clue who Joey McIntyre is, and why I nearly swooned with delight when I realized he'd been the 2nd Fiyero (and voted "Favorite Fiyero" on BestofBroadway.com) on Broadway, let me remind you of the title of this particular blog post. (I'll wait while you scroll back up to read it.) Then, let me point you to exhibit A:

NKOTB....from left to right, Joey McIntyre, Jon Knight,
Donnie Wahlberg, Jordan Knight and Danny Wood.

It's like Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, except with Donnie Wahlberg. If there really was a yellow brick road, I'm convinced it would lead me to Donnie's house.


ANYhoo...


We left the swag table, Tina listening to me chatter on and on about Joey McIntyre, and headed over to the double doors leading into the theater. We stood there, waiting patiently, until they finally opened them up and let people stampede wander to their seats. Tickets clutched in our hands, we asked the first usher we came to where we might find Row K, Seats 36 and 37.


She pointed her flashlight down toward the stage and said, "Just keep following the stairs until you find Row K on your right. Then, head toward the center until you find your seats."


I followed Tina down the stairs. Each step took us closer to the stage. We found Row K, and Tina led the way down the row. And the closer we got to the center, the more excited she became. She kept looking over her shoulder at me, eyebrows raised in disbelief. And there they were, seats 36 and 37--smack dab in the middle of theater, 10 rows back from the orchestra.


Tina sat down, a huge smile on her face, and said, "Remind me that any time I go to a play, I want YOU to get the tickets. These seats are AMAZING!!!"


She wasn't kidding. This photo was taken from my seat:

We were SO CLOSE, I couldn't even get the dragon AND the stage floor into the same shot.


At 7:30 sharp, the lights went down, the orchestra began to play, and the show started. I won't tell you much about it, in case you ever go to see it yourself. Suffice it to say that I laughed, I cried, I applauded and whooped and hollered. At intermission, Tina and I stayed glued to our seats, never willing to miss a single minute. We talked about every single aspect of the show: from music to actors to costumes to lighting. And when the curtain came down at the end of the second Act, I was absolutely awed. 


I was expecting it to be great. But it was SO much more than I ever anticipated. I get weepy just thinking about it.


I will say this: every single person I talked to who had seen the show previously said that "Defying Gravity" would be the highlight of the live show. I'd seen it on YouTube and on various TV shows, so I knew exactly what was going to happen. But when Elphaba took to the sky on her broom for the first time, I was absolutely awestruck. I had goosebumps. All the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. And involuntary tears rolled down my cheeks. It. Was. Amazing.


Wicked was the topic of conversation for the rest of Tina's visit. We listened to the soundtrack over and over, talked about our favorite parts over and over, quoted from the show over and over. When she left Saturday afternoon, she gave me a big hug and thanked me for the memory we'd created together. And then my Wicked Weekend came to an end.


I can't wait for the opportunity to go and see the show again. And I will. Believe you me.


But for now, I'm going to ride the Wicked high I'm still on.


And I'm going to figure out the 6 degrees of separation between Donnie Wahlberg and Kevin Bacon. 


What? I really think I could do it...


*EDIT* Thanks to friend, reader, and fellow book clubber, Rachel, who figured out the 6 degrees between Donnie Wahlberg and Kevin Bacon. If you're curious, here it goes:  Kevin Bacon was in JFK with Gary Oldman who is married to Uma Thurman who was in "The Accidental Husband" with Ajay Naidu who was in "Office Space" with Ron Livingston who was in "Band of Brothers" with Donnie Wahlberg!

Defying Gravity

Today is a huge day. It's a day I've been waiting for since early November of last year. The tickets have been bought, the dress has been selected, and my date arrived last evening.


Today, I get to see my first off-Broadway play.


Today, I get to see "Wicked."

This is my "OHMYGODI'MSOEXCITED" face.

I was a senior in college when Wicked first hit the stage. Like all successful musicals, the Broadway stars made their rounds to all the daytime talk shows, to promote the show. I watched Kristin Chenoweth sing her brains out on the Rosie O'Donnell show. I saw both Kristin and Idina Menzel belt out "Defying Gravity" on award shows and late night talk shows. I vowed to see it on Broadway, in New York City, before it ended.


Last fall, Brian and I were watching Jeopardy, eating our dinner, and minding our own business when a commercial, announcing Wicked was coming to the North Charleston Performing Arts Center, came on the screen. I squealed. I cried. I jumped up and down. And I begged Brian to take me.


We bought the tickets as soon as they went on sale.


I've been patiently counting down the days on my Donnie Wahlberg calendar while harmonizing with Kristin on "Popular." And the day has finally arrived.


About 2 months ago, Brian made it plain that he wasn't interested in going to see the show. (He's not into musicals. I know, he's a crazy person.) His response to my excitement? "I'll go if you can't find anyone else who wants to go."


So I offered the ticket to the one person in the whole wide world who I knew would be just as jazzed as I was by all the jazz hands. Brian's Aunt Tina.

The first time I met Tina, we all climbed into my car to go out somewhere. My huge CD book (remember those?) was in the backseat. As we drove through the little town of Boone, headed toward our destination, Tina flipped through, checking out my taste in music. Suddenly, she exclaimed, "You have the soundtracks from Little Shop of Horrors, Annie, AND Oklahoma!!?!! You're the ONLY PERSON IN THE WORLD that I've ever met who has all three. Well...except for me."


We've been thick as thieves ever since that moment.


And so, tonight we will pretty ourselves up. We will brave the traffic and drive to the coliseum. We will be there earlier than anyone else, and we will stand in line singing "Popular" and "Defying Gravity" and "I'm Not That Girl." We will bounce up and down in our seats until the house lights go down. We will take in every single aspect of the production, from lighting to costumes to staging to props. At intermission we will giggle like school girls and relive all the wonderful moments we've just witnessed. We will race back inside the theater as soon as the bell dings to signal the end of intermission. We will sing along with all our favorite songs. We will cry when Fiyero dies, and when Elfie takes to her broom, and when Glinda mourns the loss of her friend. 


And when it's all said and done, we'll get in our car, drive back home, and talk about the show for the next 3 weeks to anyone who will listen, and to some who won't.


Today is a huge day.

Today, I see Wicked.

I Pity The Fool

Meet Mr. T.

If you were expecting the guy from the A Team, I'm sorry to disappoint. Mr. T was the nickname for my first car. That's him in the background (and me in the foreground, on graduation day, 1999.)


Let's rewind a little. It was the summer of 1998. I had just turned 17. I desperately wanted to be able to drive my senior year, and in order to do that, I was determined to have my own means of transportation. And that meant work. A LOT of work. I'd been promoted at my summer job at a local water park, from lifeguard to lead guard (the highest on the lifeguard ladder you can get as a student.) 


While my peers spent their summer days basking in the sunshine, splashing in the water, and saving the occasional life, I patrolled the park, walkie-talkie hooked to my belt. My responsibilities were to oversee the lifeguards, put bandaids on skinned knees, and deal with water park emergencies (ranging from a rogue turd in the lazy river, to a broken leg on the speed slides.)


Every week, when my paycheck came in, I diligently banked that money, leaving myself little to spend frivolously on my rare days off. When I had enough for a car, I went to my dad, gave him the figure, and left him to find me something reliable. I know I tossed in the word "cute" more than once. But, having little cash flow, despite my summer of savings, I wound up with Mr. T instead.


An all-white, boxy, slightly rusty 1982 Datsun Maxima, Mr. T sported a sun-roof, a cassette player, electronic windows, and a back door that wouldn't open.


I was instantly in love.


This little car took me and my friends everywhere we wanted to go. Afternoon trips to the beach, weekend drives up to Myrtle Beach to visit the boardwalk, Walmart for school supplies....Mr. T did more than just schlep us to and from school. And for that, we loved him.

Spring of 1999, 4 best friends, and the beach. One of my favorite memories, captured on film.
From left to right: Trish, Tifany, me, and Becca.

Mr. T was solely responsible for many of our double-date nights. He took Trish and me prom dress shopping. If it weren't for Mr. T, the four of us, thick as thieves, might have missed some of the most memorable moments of our lives (senior parties, sleepovers, days by the pool, nights by the ocean).


Becca was my most frequent passenger. She lived one neighborhood over, and I picked her up every morning for school. On the warmer days, she knew I'd be opening the sunroof at some point. I'd turn to her and say, "Sunglasses secured." We'd flip our glasses down onto our faces, I would press the button, and the sunroof would creak open, raining down shards of rust and debris. The glasses were less about protecting our vision from the sun, and more about protecting our eyeballs from the detritus trapped between the metal and the glass.


But you may still be wondering how my little Datsun got his nickname. So let me tell you that tale.


It was the first day of school. It was also the first day driving my car alone, as a legally licensed driver in the state of South Carolina. I remember my mom standing on the front porch, tearfully waving goodbye as I backed out of the driveway. I'd gotten to school just fine, the day had come to an end, and Becca and I decided a trip to Georgetown was necessary. You see, we'd found out that a favorite teacher of ours was in the hospital there, recovering from surgery. We also needed supplies for one of our classes, and Walmart was calling our names.


So we loaded into the car and hit the road, Madonna blaring from the speakers.


As we pulled into the hospital parking lot, I started the hunt for a parking spot. I wasn't trying to be a hero--I knew parking wasn't my strong suit. I was looking for a spot as far away from another vehicle as I could manage. The best I could find was near the back of the visitors' lot, near a big brown van that looked older than my Datsun. I figured it was worth the risk. So I turned on my signal like a good little driver, and started guiding the car into the space. 


And almost had a heart attack when I heard the telltale "SCREEEEEEE" of metal on metal.


Still halfway out of the parking space, I slammed on the breaks and threw the car in to park. Becca and I turned to look at each other, eyes wide. "Did you just hit that van??" she whispered.


"I totally think I just hit that van," I replied.


Panicked, I threw the car into reverse and sped out of the parking lot.


Minutes later, safely parked in the Walmart parking lot (approximately 2 miles from the actual store, or so it seemed.)  We stepped out to survey the damage to my new-to-me car. We studied it from headlight to tailpipe and could find no evidence of the collision at all. The paint job was still in tact (in all the places it had been in tact before.) There had been no paint transfer, and there were absolutely no dents to speak of.


Becca looked at me, dumbfounded, and said, "Your car is indestructable."


"Apparently," I said. "Like a super-hero of cars."


"Like Mr. T," she said. And in her best Mr. T voice, continued, "I pity the fool who tries to scratch Abby's car."


And that is how my Datsun forever became Mr. T.


I had that car for 3 years. It went with me to college. I drove it from the mountains to the beach and everywhere in between. As Mr. T started declining in health, I even learned how to change the hoses beneath his hood. And when he took his last breath in the driveway of the basement apartment I shared with Brian and Jenna, I mourned for him.


RIP Mr. T. The super-hero of cars. 1982-2002.

Labels

Things That I Am:

Loyal. 

Funny.

Obsessive.

Wordy.

Loving.

Silly.

Ever been to Mordor? I have. Sort of.

Slightly neurotic.

Overly enthusiastic.

Quick to trust.

Loud.

Larger than life.

A wee bit self-conscious.

Only Richard Simmons could save me from the evil FAT monster.

A musical-theater junkie.

A Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan through-and-through.
A New Kids on the Block uber-fan.

A video game enthusiast.

A connoisseur of bad television programs.

A self-proclaimed artist.

"Me." A Self Portrait by Abby.

Nerdy. (Live long and prosper.)

Polite (mostly.)

Slightly crude (sometimes.)
Potty mouth. (Sorry Mom.)

Mother of 4 cats. (Yes, I said cats.)
Fan of parentheses (can't you tell.)

Sarcastic. (Who? Me?? Naw...)

When jury duty happens to good people.

I am a wife. A daughter. A sister. A friend. I am a godmother. A writer. A wannabe chef. A collector of picture frames. I am struggling with weight loss, writer's block, and PMS. I drink coffee, and wine, and even an occasional beer. I love books, good movies, bad TV. 

I am a soul. Single. Solitary. Unique.

I am so much more than the sum of my parts.

I am me. Not what the world labels me to be.

What labels are you trying to change in your own life? Link up 

with Just Be Enough and let's collectively change the conversation.

We’re inviting posts from voices everywhere to share your
labels and who you are beyond that. The focus is whatever
you need it to be– from our lives as moms, dads, parents,
spouses, professionals, survivors, athletes and more.
We invite you to join us, to celebrate our strengths,
to celebrate our diversity, to celebrate
our voices and change the conversation.

Abby Gabs News: A Video Blog

While watching the news with my husband the other day, a question popped into my head. I turned to him, and the following conversation ensued.


Abby: Do you think they teach the newscasters how to talk like that in school?
Brian: I dunno. Maybe.
A: Like...is there a text book? 
B: Guest speakers, maybe?
A: *In bad newscaster voice* "Today in class we will teach you how to use the inflection of your voice to make your point."
B: You should blog about it.


So I did. In video blog form. Enjoy.

Can't see the video? Point your browser here: http://youtu.be/eGafzYC4dTw

Weekend Warriors (An Illustrated Abby Gabs)

Sundays are Professional Family Days for us. When I say that we have it down to an art, it's not an exaggeration. A typical Sunday consists of Dad's famous country breakfast, time outside with the dogs, a grocery trip (or two, depending on how much beer is left in the fridge from Saturday night), dinner on the grill, and inevitably, a bonfire.


It's pretty perfect. I look forward to Sundays from Monday morning until Saturday night. We will occasionally have a variation on the above-mentioned formula, and that's ok. But for the most part, my Sundays are pretty much always the same.


Except for this past weekend.


We'd easily gotten through breakfast and a grocery trip without incident. There was even a quick jaunt to Sam's Club thrown in the mix, just to spice things up a bit. By the time the sun went down, Adam decided it was time to start our weekly bonfire. And so, Daddy, Adam, Brian and I headed out to the back yard, while Mom finished cleaning up the evening's dishes.


Things started out normal enough. Adam started a pretty low-key fire, burning a few cardboard boxes and an old pallet. We sat around, sipped our beer, and let the warmth of the fire lull us the rest of the way into a full-blown food-coma.

After about 30 minutes (and a few more beers), Adam made the announcement that he had a pile of stuff in the garage he needed to burn. Brian and I glanced at each other, eyebrows raised, as Adam rounded the corner with another pallet and several more cardboard boxes. Dad hummed along with Garth Brooks in his picnic chair, totally relaxed and oblivious to what was coming next.


Namely, Laid Back Adam was now being replaced with Fire Bug Adam. And Dad was none the wiser.

It didn't take me long to figure out, despite my slight beer haze, that Adam's plans may go a bit awry. Especially after he launched Pallet Number One onto the already-blazing fire. Brian was right there with me. Somewhere between Pallet Number One and Pallet Number Two, Dad started to catch on, too. 

But it wasn't until Mom (also known as The Voice Of Reason) joined us that panic began to set in.

You see, there's a small tree that overhangs the fence in my parents' back yard. And the flames from Adam's bonfire were just beginning to lick the very bottom branches. Sparks flew up into the night sky each time my baby brother would add a new cardboard box to the inferno. And we'd all been nonchalantly waiting for one of those embers to catch, and for the tree to go up in flames.


Eleven words from my mother and the entire family jumped into action, like characters in a cartoon.

Brian, always prepared, had his phone at the ready, fingers poised to dial 9-1-1 at a moment's notice.


Adam sprinted across the yard, hauling the water hose behind him, shouting, "Dad! Dad! Go turn on the water!!!"


Mom and I jumped behind Brian, to protect ourselves from errant flames that may decide to dance on our heads.


And Dad stood calmly by the conflagration now threatening his tree and, ultimately, his garage, and directed Adam as to where to point the hose.


Ten minutes later, crises averted, we were back in our chairs around the fire, enjoying our frosty beverages, tree still (mostly) in tact.


I can't wait until next Sunday.

I'm linking up with Yeah Write this week,

because I'm hoping someone out in the

blogosphere will appreciate how much

my drawing has improved, thanks to 

the handy dandy Draw Something app. 

I've been practicing!!

Make sure you stop by and read the other

fantastic blogs that are linking up, as well!

Be Enough Me: It's That Time. Again.

We've been down this road before, more than once. Ovulation charts, fertility monitors, basal thermometers. The overwhelming sadness and defeat that comes with negative pregnancy tests. The wave of hope that comes with a new pill. The nights laying awake, imagining the moment when I can finally announce to the world that I am with child.


When Brian got sick in 2010, all those plans went on the back burner.  Birthing plans turned into survival plans. Daydreams about a tow-headed toddler were replaced with nightmares of losing my partner. The constant chirp-chirp-chirp of the monitors were for my husband, battling cancer, not for me, a new baby in my arms. Priorities were rearranged. The bottle of Clomid was shoved into the corner of the medicine cabinet, replaced with pain pills, stool softeners, vitamins and Scarguard. When your husband is fighting for his life, the last thing on your mind is where you are in your menstrual cycle.


Here we are, almost a year and a half after Brian's surgery, and that familiar yearning, that tug on my heart, that desperate desire to be a mother, has returned.


It never really went away. I've always wanted children, for as long as I can remember. We were distracted for awhile, by an ugly monster named Cancer, but that distraction is over. And now, the time to start over, to try again, has arrived.


As the end of the year approaches, and with it, Brian's graduation from nursing school, my anxiety increases. I point my browser to all those familiar websites, rereading articles on infertility treatments that I could already recite in my sleep. I find myself flipping through the pages of the numerous pregnancy books already on my shelf. My list of baby names has already started growing again. 


Every day, as I jog around our property, iTunes in my ear, my mantra has changed. No longer do I hear "breathe in, breathe out" as my feet pound the ground. Now it's "baby, baby." With every inch I lose, every pound I drop, I feel like I'm closer to my goal. Not to fit into a pair of jeans. But to get my body healthy. So I can carry a baby.


At least once a day I find myself standing in front of a mirror, hands on my stomach, lost in a daydream of "what if" and "when."


For now, the timing still isn't right. There are tests to be taken, finals to study for, and projects to complete. It gives me time to get myself ready--mentally, physically, emotionally--for the road we are about to travel again. To prepare myself for the roller coaster that goes with trying to get pregnant when you've failed so many times before.


For now, we proceed without the aid of doctors. No drugs, no treatments, no hormones. Just us. 


For now, I pour myself into the other children in my life. I am actively spoiling my godchildren...

...and I will continue to champion little Everett, until he is well and home with his family again.

For now, I am simply in the planning stages. Thinking over my strategies. Hoping beyond hope that we won't need medical intervention. Trying to stamp out my fear of failure and, ultimately, the inability to get pregnant at all. 


I will face my fears and start over. Again. Because I must. Because destiny tells me I must. And because this time, just maybe, we will be successful.

Abby's Three Sure-Fire Ways To Get Yourself Out Of A Funk (Or, Drink A Lot of Sake)

I mentioned a few days ago that I've been having a bad case of the blues. There are several contributing factors to my funk...ranging from work woes to familial fracas (fracii?) to persistent worry over friends. Quite frankly, there have been a few days in the past month that I've just wanted to either A) pack a bag and catch the next flight outta here, preferably to a tropical climate where there is always copious amounts of rum or B) crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep my life away.


As it often goes, life doesn't work that way. As much as I deeply desire to have my ass in the sand and a beer in my hand, I just can't get away right now. (Isn't that a country music song? If not, it should be.) And so, I've found other ways to cope with this unsolicited depression. Some things have worked, others have not. Today, I'm sharing with you the list of things that worked...the good, the bad, and the sake.

Abby's DIY Funk-Removal Program

Get thine arse off the couch and get outside.

When it's sunny, and 65, and absolutely gorgeous, you shouldn't stay inside watching reruns of Friends on TBS. That's what I'd been telling myself for about a week when I finally took my own advice. On Wednesday, I got up at 5:30, put on my shoes, and went for a jog. Then, invigorated, I hopped in my car and drove myself to Lowe's, where I spent a large chunk of my paycheck on living green things.

A few pots, a couple of bags of potting soil, and my iPod plugged in, I spent the better part of the morning planting my annual container garden. There's something therapeutic about having your hands in the soil. My pretty little petunias agree.

This year, I'm growing tomatoes, basil, cilantro, dill, and strawberries. I'm already looking forward to harvesting their bounty. There is nothing in the world as wonderful as my favorite Springtime Pasta, especially when the tomatoes and basil come from my very own garden.

 I also took the opportunity to fill my new cheery bird feeders. I've already been thoroughly thanked by the local bird population. I've woken up the past two mornings greeted with birdsong---cardinals, blue jays, mourning doves, purple finches, house wrens, grackles....and I'm holding my breath that I'll see a Carolina Wren before too much longer. 

My plants, my birds, my sunshine....better than Prozac. I'm tellin' ya.

Get thine arse dressed up and go on a double date with friends.

After scrubbing all the dirt out from underneath my fingernails, I donned a pretty spring dress and headed out for a double date with our friends, Steven and Arielle. We went to an amazing Thai-fusion restaurant called Bambu (which just so happens to be run by our dear friend, Sam.)

Let me remind you that we live in the sticks. And all the cool stuff to do is in Charleston. And because we live in the sticks, and Charleston is almost an hour away, we don't always get to do all the same cool stuff that all the cool Charleston kids do. Well, Wednesday was my day to be cool. 

I drank sake. I engaged in witty and intelligent conversation. I ate sushi (for the first time, ever.)

Did I mention that I drank sake? Not just your run-of-the-mill sake, but apple-infused sake. It tasted like little shots of apple pie. So. Stinkin'. Good.

I will mention here that sake makes me a little silly. Case in point: I was absolutely fascinated with the sinks in the ladies' bathroom at Bambu. So much so, that I took a video. Don't believe me? Here it is:

It's ok. You can laugh at me. It's laugh-worthy.

So, after 3 (or was it 4?) shots of sake, a couple glasses of wine, the most delicious food I've eaten in months, and the kind of gut-busting laughter that only comes with the company of really great friends, life was good again. It was like getting a big ol' shot of happy, right in my arm. 

I'm totally ready to do it all over again. (Especially the sake. Did I mention the sake? Oh my lord, the sake...)

Get thine arse in your pajamas and spend the day doing absolutely nothing special with your spouse or significant other.

What can I say about this one other than it works?? Our day went like this:

*Cereal. 

*Pointless conversation. 

*Headline News. 

*Sports Center. 

*Skyrim time. (Yes, we play together. One drives, the other navigates. What? It's adorable.)

*Pause for Abby to make lunch (curry chicken salad sandwiches with fresh pineapple).
*Lunch with a movie (Comic-Con: Episode IV, created by the esteemed and adored Joss Whedon. It was the best stinkin' documentary, ever. If you have any love for nerdism, watch it!)

*Brian builds a new Transformer's shelf and rearranges his collection. Abby takes pictures and tries not to laugh at her husband.

My living room looks like Hasbro puked all over it.

*More Skyrim time.
*<edited for content>
*Pause for Abby to cook dinner (gorgeous steaks with collard greens and corn on the cob--Brian's favorite meal.)
*Eat dinner with another movie (We Bought a Zoo--really great, feel-good movie. Loved it.)
*Early bedtime for reading, snuggling, and talking about how awesome our day just was. Vow to do it again next Thursday.

*   *   *   *   *

Are you down and out? Feeling moody? More interested in moping than moving? If so, try these three fail proof methods of lifting your mood. They will work every single time. I swear. 

I just managed to make this whole blog sound like a Hairclub for Men commercial. Because I'm just that awesome.

*   *   *   *  *

Also, thanks to those of you who have visited Sunshine for Everett since my post on Tuesday. I'm thrilled and beyond-excited to announce that we've already had a few donations come through, both here and on SforE!!! Everett continues his battle with HUS, and for daily updates, you can visit his new blog. Thanks for all your support and continued prayers!!

Sunshine for Everett

So many of you have commented, tweeted, texted and called about my buddy, Everett. If you haven't read about him, you can find out all about his battle with Hemolytic Uremic Syndrome, and what we're doing to help, in my recent post titled "Turning to the Blogosphere for Help."

With those same goals in mind, I have created a new blog, titled "Sunshine for Everett." My goal is to help family and friends stay as up to date as possible on Everett's condition. I wanted to create a space where people could come and visit daily, to leave comments and messages of support and love.

Similarly, I wanted to try and help the family with their growing expenses, as Heather is still living at the hospital with Everett and her family is over 5 hours away. There are several ways to donate on the new site, including Pay Pal, a direct link to the hospital gift shops, and a means to contact me for people who want to mail their payments directly to the family.

I would love it if my readers would point their browsers over to the new blog and visit. It's still in the very earliest stages, and there will be many edits coming down the pike. (*Note to Abby: You still need to put a follow button up so people can add this blog to their list. Doh.) 

I have also created a tab above for readers who wish to show their support on their own Facebook timelines, or their twitter feed. There are a variation of designs available! And all you have to do is right click and save to your computer, then upload the banners or profile pics to your social media of choice!

Let's keep sending Everett all the sunshine we can muster! Positive thoughts, prayers, virtual hugs, small donations---whatever you've got, we'll take it!! Thank you in advance!!!

*   *   *   *   *

As for Everett's progress, the HUS is still attacking his red blood cells. He is still receiving daily dialysis and blood transfusions to battle this disease. While every day isn't a good one, there is still some progress to report. Everett has successfully urinated a few times, which is a good sign that his kidneys are fighting hard to work correctly. He was also in great spirits on Easter Sunday, and received an Easter basket from the hospital. He had a blast playing with his Play-Doh, and several smiles were shared.

Nevertheless, Everett still has a long battle ahead of him. Living in a hospital is as frustrating as it is expensive, so please keep sending positive messages in Heather's direction.  I will keep my readers posted, via Abby Gabs and Sunshine for Everett, as I receive information from the family. Thank you, again, for your continued support of my dear friend, and her beautiful boy.

The "D" Word

With spring comes many lovely things that begin with the letter "D" -- daffodils and dandelions and doves and daisies.  Unfortunately, for me, spring also came with something else, something less pleasant, something I wasn't sure I should blog about at first.


Depression.


I'm not sure there has to be a specific reason to find yourself in this position. A series of events, maybe. A certain date on the calendar that holds meaning for you. The passing of a friend. Loneliness. Discontent. But somehow, for whatever reason, despite the copious amount of "happy" in my life, I find myself in an unhappy place. Like someone attached a weight onto my cheerfulness.

There are light moments. Moments of clarity and laughter and fun. Moments when it feels like the anvil has been released, and my happy balloon is left to its own dancing devices. These moments are filled with family, my husband, my cats, my friends. I find whole pockets of time where I feel normal again. I feel the weight lift when I breathe in the springtime air, lift my face to the sun, feel the green grass between my toes. But when these moments should fill me up, leave me feeling content, instead they are fleeting. I reach for them, grab at them, but they filter through my fingers like so much smoke. And the weight returns, heavier than before. It always feels like Monday.


When I wake up each morning, I tell myself there's potential for a happy day. I open my windows and listen to the birds chirping at my feeder. I dangle a string for one of my cats to play with, but it hurts to smile. I turn to my writing for solace, but I cannot find the funny girl in me, no matter how hard I try to find her. The potential of a beautiful day is overshadowed by the dark cloud that follows me.

Depression causes suffering. My writing is suffering. My husband is suffering. My weight loss journey is suffering. I am suffering.


Spring tantalizes me through my open windows. The sun beckons me to come out and play. I ache to get my hands in the dirt, to plant something that will grow. I want to start my garden. I want to take a chair and sit in the sunshine, beautiful journal in hand, and write the book that is in my head. I want to lace up my sneakers and run, feet pounding the pavement, the scent of honey suckle filling my nostrils as I jog toward the woods.


But all I do is sleep. 

I tell myself it's because I don't want to taint something good, something beautiful, with the depression that plagues me. I want the chance to come out of my funk, so that the ugliness of  my gloom doesn't color the petals of the flowers, or darken the edges of the story I want to tell. I tell myself that I'll do it later, tomorrow, another day. A day when I feel better.


It's not something totally foreign to me. I've been down this road before. I know it is a passing thing. One day I will wake up and the sun will shine for me again. The laughter in my heart will return. It may take a few days. Maybe a couple of weeks. But I will come through this storm. I may not be unscathed, but the scars give me character. Strength. And I will be better for it, in the end.

Confusion: A Lack of Clearness Or Distinctness

There are a lot of things about life that don't make much sense to me. I could list hundreds of them. 


For example, I don't understand the importance of learning calculus. In the grand scheme of things, only about 1.7 percent of us will ever apply calculus in the real world. (I made up that stat. Not because I'm too lazy to research it, but because math makes my face hurt, so I just make up numbers willy-nilly. I choose to believe it's use of my writer's licence.)


I also don't understand why coffee from a Keurig tastes so much better than coffee from a regular coffee maker. (I don't have to understand it. I just have to enjoy it.)


You can just color me confused when it comes to the following things:  the media, how they get the little marble in the spray paint can, the process of bread-making, most conservative politicians, and the purpose of the M+/M- key on a calculator. Oh, and can someone please tell me who first looked at this weird fruit and decided it was probably edible?

I look at it and think, "ALIEN!!!"  (source)

(That's a Rambutan, apparently. Grown predominately in Malaysia. It's name literally means "hairy." Ew.)


Anyway, I spend a lot of my time scratching my head, pondering the universe, how it works, and why people do and say the things they do and say. Usually, I can come up with a plausible reason for something. Occasionally, I have to throw in the towel and just "agree to disagree." 


But sometimes, something is so mind-bogglingly confusing that I just can't stop obsessing about the reason for its existence.


Case in point: the poke app on Facebook.

Hi. I'm your friend. And I'm going
to virtually poke you in the eye now.  (Source)

For the life of me, I cannot figure out why this social media megalord feels the need to revert us all back to kindergarten--the only time in our lives when "poking" is socially acceptable behavior. Once upon a time, while wandering back to your classroom after lunch, a poke was like a hello, how are ya, how's your family.  As adults? It's likely to start a fight. 


Seriously. Think about it. When was the last time somebody poked you (since you turned 6) that wasn't the beginning of a fight?


(Yes, tickle fights count.)


Let me just put it this way. Poke fights landed my brother and I in big trouble when we were kids. And my mom didn't mess around. We didn't get sent to our rooms or grounded or beat with a broom. When Adam and I were fighting with each other, we were forced to sit on the couch, side-by-side, holding hands.


Which is why I only ever poke him on Facebook now. 


It's like long-distance sibling rivalry.


Oh, wow. I totally just figured out the purpose of the Facebook poke app. Gee, blogging is so enlightening, isn't it?