The Unfortunate Intruder

It's been raining here a lot lately.

Not just typical August-style raining. We've been dealing with the all-day-long, thunder-and-lightning, high-winds-and-hail, torrential downpour kind of rain.

After a week or more of this weather, we're left with sodden ground, lots of standing water and puddles, and a longing for the sunshine.

Finally, the clouds parted yesterday and the sun peeked feebly out, as if to check to see if the coast was clear. And for the first day in a week, I was able to go outside, breathe in the fresh (wet) air, and proceed with my day as normal.

For those who are long time readers, you know that my job is a strange one. I live where I work, and vice versa. And my normal morning routine goes like this: wake up, shower, dress, fret with my new (longer) hairstyle, walk to the office, open the office, and go outside to get the golf cart. 

So there I was, bopping along, a song in my heart and a smile on my face. Whistling a since-forgotten tune, I opened up the unit door so I could retrieve the golf cart for the day. 

I should pause here to remind you that, as an official Spider-Hater, I am always hyper vigilant when it comes to keeping an eye out for them. Especially when I'm entering a situation where they have been known to linger before. So, every day, twice a day, when I open that unit door, I automatically go into "Scan for Spider" mode. That, along with the sudden "clicking" sound, was the only thing that alerted me to the unfortunate intruder.

For the first time in nearly 9 years, it wasn't a spider, or a hoppy toad, or a waterbug that greeted me when I opened the door.

It was an honest-to-goodness crawfish.

And he was less happy to see me than I was to see him.

My immediate gut reaction was to run for the hills, screaming Brian's name all the way back to the safety of the office. Here I was, all by myself, in flip flops, facing a ditch shrimp. Terrific.

But I hesitated just long enough for Mr. Crawfish to begin backing himself in a corner, little claws at the ready, clicking and clacking the whole way. He literally quivered with fear. And my terror turned to concern for The Little Guy's welfare. I quickly scanned the contents of the unit, looking for tools that I could use to strategize LG's rescue.

Leaning against the wall in the opposite corner was my trusty old lobby dust pan and broom set. You know--the kind of dust pan that closes and traps the dirt inside. I picked it up, and it was slightly heavy from dust and debris. I considered walking to the trash can on the other side of the building to empty it, but as I turned to walk away, LG started to back himself into a corner that I knew I'd never retrieve him from unharmed. 

"Well, buddy, you're just gonna have to hold your breath for a minute, then," I mumbled. And I situated myself so that my toes were as far enough away from LG as possible, placing the dust pan between us. Very carefully, I nudged LG into the dust pan with the broom.

If he was scared before, he was royally peeved now. The insistent little "click click" of his claws was now a louder "clack clack" combined with what I can only describe as a hissing sound that came from his body. He attacked the broom bristles with gusto, clasping onto them and refusing to let go. LG's resistance to the dust pan increased my anxiety to a fever pitch. There may have been wailing involved.

After a 5 minute struggle, I finally got the poor man's lobster safely inside the dust pan. Unfortunately, it does not lock. So I beat feet to the golf cart, leaned the dust pan against the seat so it would stay closed, and threw that sucker into reverse. I drove about 200 yards, to the back of the facility and the swamp beyond. I could hear him clicking his claws menacingly from the confines of his dusty prison.

I parked the cart, carefully took the dust pan, and carried it to the closest point to water that I could get to (without getting my feet wet). I chose the perfect spot, spread my feet wide, and carefully tipped the dust pan so that its contents (crawdaddy and all) slid out onto the marshy ground. LG was covered in dust and debris. And guess what, ya'll? He was STILL angry.

I waited, hoping for that moment where he would realize his freedom and scurry into the dark, swirling water. The music would swell, a lone tear would roll down my cheek, and all would be right with the world. But The Little Guy just sat there, in his pile of filth and debris, clacking his claws at me angrily. So I climbed back onto my golf cart, bid him goodbye, and went back to my day.

I went to check on him later in the day, and he was gone, with only a little trail of dirt leading to the fence line to let me know he'd been there at all. 

Farewell, my dirty little friend. May you live on to scare the s**t out of someone else another day.

Penguin Monkey Hat

I had one of those brief-but-wonderful phone conversations with Jenna the other day. You know the kind--where you talk about little things going on in your lives, swap recipes, laugh over a long-standing inside joke. Nothing earth-shattering or out-of-the-ordinary. Just the kind of conversation that leaves you feeling a little happier than you were before it started.

I must have sounded blue. Because today, I received the world's best cheer up/get well card in the mail. 

Mad Libs are kind of a thing for us. Years ago, as college students and aspiring writers, we found the exercise to be both stimulating and hilarious. We would sit around on the dorm room floor, illegal candles flickering, Ani Defranco playing quietly in the background, and whip out the most impressive adverbs we could think of--majestically! quizzically! unabashedly! Buried in a trunk somewhere in my storage unit, filled-in and used-up Mad Lib books wait to be rediscovered. 

There's one thing everyone knows about a Mad Lib. Once you receive the challenge, you cannot acquiesce. And so, I sat down with my Mad Libs card and prepared to fill it out.

Because every good Mad Lib includes food and some type of undergarment.

There's another thing that everyone knows about a Mad Lib. You have to use a pen. Pencils are for cheaters.

I took my time, choosing words out of thin air. I focused less on thinking up SAT-worthy words, and just jotted down the first words that popped in my head. I found myself smiling for the first time all day. Hours of a tension-filled work situation melted away. I forgot about my aches and pains. And I lived in the silly moment, shared between friends who live many miles apart.

Part of the body: knee pit! Of course! Verb: dance. Because that sounds lovely. Number: 13. Duh. It's my lucky number. I jotted down each word as it came to me. And finally, the last blank space. Noun. And I thought of Jenna. Mad Lib complete, I sat back, read my work, and grinned.

It was the perfect 5-minute vacation from life. 

In the true art of sharing, here is my completed Mad Lib:

As a busy woman, it's eagerly acceptable to spend a little time, 

and cookies, spoiling yourself. Consider a full-underwear massage 

at a day spa. Settle in for an evening with a steamy 

oak tree and a hot cup of dish detergent. Head to the 

beauty bubble and tell the stylist to try 

something that complements the shape of your knee pit. 

Pay a visit to your favorite butterfly store and buy 

some gangly new things that will cause men to dance 

in the street and follow you like lovesick stars. Keep your mind 

and body the finely tuned suitcases they are by getting in at

 least 13 minutes of shuffling every day. Really, it all comes 

down to following the Golden Kitty Cat. 

Treat yourself the way you'd want the perfect friend to treat you.

My Girl

My mother stood, framed in the doorway of my bedroom, late afternoon sun streaming in behind her. "It doesn't have to be a long nap, now," she said, "but you need to get a little rest before tonight." The door closed quietly behind her, and I was left alone in my pink-and-white bedroom.

I was seven years old. I didn't take naps any more. But the promise of a new, exciting experience lingered on the horizon. So I scootched down beneath the covers and tried my best to go to sleep.

Yellows and oranges danced on the inside of my eyelids. My toes twitched. Sleep was elusive. Nancy, my best friend and favorite dollie in the world, wanted to hear about the fun I'd had today while I was away from her. I whispered in her ear about the train ride, and the water balloon fight, and the hot dogs, and the parade. I told her all the names of my 1st grade class that I'd seen throughout the day: Larry and Crystal and Robbie and Tasha and even Miss Green. And as I talked her through our afternoon picnic with Nanny and Pawpaw, I drifted off to sleep.

Adam and I enjoying the Labor Day festival.

When Daddy woke me up, the street light burned outside my window. "C'mon, sleepy head. You're gonna miss the street dance."

I sat up, covers falling into my lap, and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Daddy tugged on my crooked pigtail and said, "Let's go let Mom fix that crazy hair-do before leave, ok?"

I took the stairs as quickly as I could, holding onto the wooden stair rail for purchase. Mom sat in the living room, the evening news on the television. My Baby Brother snoozed in  his bouncy chair just at her feet. "C'mere, munchkin. Let's fix that ponytail," she said softly. I sat at her feet, and tried not to wince as she pulled the brush through my hair, untangling the mess I'd made while napping.

Pigtails secured, she said, "Hop up." I did, and she tucked my shirt into the waist of my shorts. "Your shoes are in the den. Hurry, now. Daddy's ready to go."

Excitement coursed through my body. I was going to the Labor Day Street Dance with my Daddy. I was a big girl, now. There would be grown-ups there, and funnel cakes, and loud music, and fireworks. I tugged my sneakers on, lacing them up haphazardly, and sprinted for the front door.

Daddy kissed Mom on the cheek. "Save a dance for me," she said. And she winked.

The end-of-summer heat receded, leaving the evening balmy but comfortable. Lightning bugs lit out path to the sidewalk, and Daddy took my hand. We walked the few blocks to the party, waving at neighbors watering their azaleas, eventually joining a small clan of folks headed to the party. The air smelled of grilling meat, smoke, and fried food. We stopped to cross the street at the barber shop on the corner, and Daddy pointed across the street. My seven-year-old self quivered in delight.

The blacktop of the A&P parking lot was covered in lawn chairs. Six or seven vendors sold cotton candy, balloons and noisemakers, hot dogs. A large stage had been constructed at one side of the lot, lights flashing and horns blaring as the band warmed up. Children raced each other and squealed and shouted. A train at the historic station nearby blew her horn--two short bleets. The Labor Day Block Party was in full swing, and I was itching to jump right in the middle of all the fun. I looked up at Daddy with a huge smile on my face. "Can we go dance now?" I asked. 

"You bet, chiquita," he said. "But let's find Nanny and Pawpaw first, ok?"

We waded into the teeming crowd, my hand gripped tightly in his, and made our way to the front of the stage. There, my grandparents had scouted out a perfect spot and set up a half-dozen lawn chairs for the family members that would meet us there. I gave Nanny a big hug, and Pawpaw planted a whiskery kiss on my forehead. "Gayle will meet us here in a little while," Daddy told them. "Adam was still sleeping when we left." 

Daddy fished his wallet out of his pocket, took out a dollar, and said, "Here, baby. Go buy yourself one of those pink glowy necklaces." My feet slapped the blacktop as I ran to the nearest vendor. Several minutes later, I had in my possession the prettiest glow-in-the-dark halo. I settled it onto my head, pigtails holding it in place, and skipped back to my family. As I approached them, a loud sound of feedback happened on the stage. It startled me, and I jumped into Daddy's lap. "Don't worry," he said. "That's just the microphones. The band is getting ready to come on! Are you excited?"

I nodded my head, my new halo sliding atop my head,  but I stayed firmly on his lap.

A man came out on the stage and welcomed everyone to the annual block party. People yelled and clapped and hooted. And then the band came on stage. There were 5 or 6 men, all wearing goofy red Hawaiian shirts. I looked up at Daddy and giggled. The one guy at the front took the microphone in hand and talked for a few minutes.

And then the music started.

People abandoned their lawn chairs and hurried to the front of the stage, creating a makeshift dance floor. And boy, did they start to boogie. Dad tapped his foot along to the music, jiggling me in his lap, breaking the tension from moments before. He pointed at the old guy from the barber shop, who was wiggling his butt back and forth, and I giggled. Then I pointed out the couple doing intricate turns and dips. He nodded and said he'd teach me how.

The song changed, and Nanny and Paw got up and headed for the dance floor. Daddy looked at me and said, "Wanna go dance, Abby?" I nodded, and out we went.

He led me out into the sea of dancers. "Step up on my feet and I'll show you the steps," Daddy said, and offered me his hands to guide me. And so I did. He rocked back and forth, testing my weight, making sure I had my balance. And then he smiled his big Daddy smile and said, "Ok, here we go!"

I stayed focused on his feet, memorizing the steps. One two three, one two three, rock step. One two three, one two three, rock step. After a few minutes, I looked up at him, grinning. "Think you've got it?" he shouted over the music. I nodded and he lifted me off of his feet, spinning one, two, three times in the air. I was still laughing, big belly laughs, when he sat me back down on the pavement.

A younger me, with Daddy.

The song changed again, this time to one I recognized. Daddy grinned wide and said, "Ok Lil' Miss Dancer, let's see what you've got." He took my hands, counted down to a slower beat than the music, and walked me through the basic steps. The lead singer crooned about sunshine on a cloudy day, and Daddy counted: "One two three, one two three, rock back. One two three...that's ok, rock step. Other foot! One two three, rock step. Look at you!! You're shaggin', girl!"

As I kept up to the tune on my own, Daddy joined the band, singing to me about bees and honey, and how I was his girl. And we danced.

When the song came to an end, he twirled me around again. Friends and family standing around clapped for us. I noticed Mom sitting in our lawn chairs, a big smile on her face, My Baby Brother bouncing on her knee. Dad ruffled my bangs and said, "You're one terrific dancer, kiddo." And my heart opened wide.

Later that night, as I sat in my Daddy's lap watching the fireworks explode in the night sky, I would breathe in his smell of Old Spice and Irish Spring. I would hum the melody of that song again. I would learn one day that it was called "My Girl," and it had been sung by a band called The Temptations. It would eventually become the song I associated with my Daddy, the song we would dance to at my wedding. But for that one night, the summer of 1987, it was just the song playing in the background of a magical childhood memory. 

Dancing to "My Girl," seventeen Septembers later.

I'm hanging out over at The Speakeasy. Drop by to read some  awesome posts by some awesome writers!

Laziness 101

For the past two weeks, there have been three things, and three things alone, that I've been interested in doing.

#1: Drinking Coffee. The stronger, the hotter, the more frequent, the better.

#2: Pinning All the Stuff. Particularly recipes for stuff I'll probably never make, DIY projects that I'll probably never attempt, and home decor stuff for a house we don't have yet.

#3: Watching Reruns of 30 Rock. Because Kenneth the page makes me laugh out loud. And Tina Fey is my s-hero. 



(My love affair started with Kenneth when it was revealed that he is a clogger.)


It's true that all of these activities, when enjoyed separately, are all worthy endeavors of one's time. However, when you combine all three of them simultaneously, with the inclusion of pajamas, cookies baked from a Pinterest recipe (one of the few I tried), and a new-found Pepsi addiction, it's not a pretty thing. The only impression I'm making on my own life lately is the permanent one of my butt on the couch cushion.

I'm not sure what brought on the funk. Brian going back to school, recent personal health problems (i.e. a return of the dreaded kidney stone), the end of the summer Olympics....many different things could contribute to this new laziness I've been experiencing.

So this morning, I made the bed. I did some laundry. I vacuumed and straightened and dusted. I scrubbed my kitchen counter tops and soaked some stinky kitchen towels in hot water and baking soda (another tip from Pinterest.) I emptied my inbox and replied to some emails. I read some blogs and left some comments. I sharpened some pencils and painted my toenails. And finally, I wrote this blog.

I'm officially exhausted and will be rewarding myself with a hot cup of coffee and Season 5 of 30 Rock on Netflix.

What? I'm working on it.

Sometimes, I Pretend Like I'm Tina Fey...

...not just because she's funny, and pretty, and really, really, really rich. But because she has, at her very rich fingertips, and entire entourage of people ready to make her funny ideas become reality. Producers, and camera men, and sound guys, and make-up artists....if Tina has a dream to shoot a silly montage for her show, she just snaps her fingers, and POOF...there it is.

Like today, for instance. I was sitting around in my pajamas, moping into my cereal bowl, missing my husband (who started back to school today.) And I found myself thinking about how I could reach out to him and make him laugh, to help relieve the first-day-of-school jitters. As I often do, I found myself thinking about a certain episode of "Friends," where Joey moves out and he and Chandler miss each other. And I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be totally awesome to film something like that? With myself sitting in front of a window, peering out as the sad, cold rain pours down over the city?"

If I were Tina Fey, I could have done just that, with brilliant writing, perfect lighting, and an honest-to-goodness window with rain water sluicing down the pane.

Instead, there's just me, my computer monitor, and a JVC camcorder.

So he got this instead:




True, the production value is in the crapper. But I think my point was pretty clear. I'm so sad and lonely...

After publishing the rain video to youtube, I began to wonder if it would make Brian laugh. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe it would make him feel guilty instead. So I began to think about previous posts I've done for him....turning him into superheros and telling stories about how he changed an old couple's tire.

And there was that nagging voice in the back of my head again. "If only you were Tina Fey..."

If I was Tina Fey, I would have created a meaningful montage, with video of our perfectly-staged first kiss, a clip of beautiful us holding hands and splashing in the surf, and other meaningful stuff. It would have been timed with the perfect music, and it would have been award worthy.

But I'm not Tina Fey. I'm Abby. So I created this extremely-silly-but-still-heartfelt montage instead:



In conclusion, I really wish I had Tina Fey's job, life, and money. But I don't want her husband. Because I have the perfect husband already.

Hope your first day back was a huge success! Love you honey!

My Hair, Some Advertising, and a Little Donnie Wahlberg-Husband Rivalry

A couple of months ago, I mentioned that I was considering changing my hairstyle. I'm proud to announce, after approximately 12 weeks, that I'm making some not-so-significant-but-still-some-slight progress. I always knew growing out a pixie was going to be challenging. But so far, I'm pretty pleased with the results.

I love how it started doing this "woohoo" flippy thing in the front:

And I love being able to use all the cute hair accessories I've purchased to keep my hair out of my face:

This one was taken about 3 weeks ago. See how much it's grown since then??

However, after having a pixie cut for almost 5 years now, there are certain things I'm having to get used to again when it comes to having longer locks. Like hair touching my ears:

And what I'm referring to as my Elvis side burns:

Granted, those few little things will be tamed when I visit my friend and stylist, LeAnn, tomorrow. But at some point, the snipping here and there to tame the beast won't be able to contain those puppies, and I will have to don some gold sparkly glasses just to get my shopping done incognito.

The one thing I'm really struggling with, though, is a habit I formed as a young child. When I am focused on something (writing, reading, Doctor Who on BBC America) I tend to play with my hair. It's totally involuntary, and I really don't even know I'm doing it half the time. But there I'll be, minding my own business, and somehow my hands wind up in my hair.

Truly, it's not such a terrible habit. The problem is when I do it during the day. Because inevitably, after about an hour, I go from looking like a normal, mostly-coiffed Abby, to something more along the lines of Medusa in glasses.

Source

Not only do I look weird, but I've actually suffered a hair-play injury, involving a pinched nerve in my neck, due to my overzealous twirling of late. And so my husband has been given the assignment to help me remember to STOP playing with my hair. Now he walks around the house randomly shouting "HAIR!" and "Arms down, missy!" 

I swear I'm not making this up. Everything I publish here is true. Mostly.

Anywhoo, I'm excited to see what the next 12 weeks will bring. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I lose the Elvis look by Christmas. It'll happen. I just know it.

IN OTHER NEWS...
Those of you who are observant will have noticed that my BlogHer ads are live as of today! (Those of you who aren't observant will now scroll up to see what they missed. It's ok, you can go peek. We'll wait for you....Back now? Awesome. Let's continue.) There were a few moments of confusion this morning as I tried to find my newly generated ad code on the BlogHer website, but with the help and support of my husband (who reminded me to breathe,) Alex from Late Enough (who sent me an email with more Abby-friendly instructions), and MoMo from Team BlogHer (who cheered me along like a pro), I finally got the ads installed. I think they look fantastic! And I'm super-excited to see what my association with BlogHer will bring in the future.

That being said, I'm still trolling for readers. The little contest I started last week brought a few new faces to my Abby Gabs Facebook Fan Page, but I still haven't broken 70 friends. So, spread the word, share the love, and pretend like all you REALLY want for Christmas is an Abby Gabs specialized portrait.

Lastly, a little shout out about a big thing that happened to me last week. I wished the ever-sexified Donnie Wahlberg a happy birthday via Twitter, and he totally hugged me.

The following conversation with my husband took place minutes later via text message:

A: I just got a Twitter hug from you-know-who.
B: Will Smith? The Doctor? DJ Jazzy Jeff? Voldemort? Justin Timberlake? That guy from the Backstreet Boys?
A: Noooooooo.
B: Mark Wahlberg?
A: Noooo, but you're closer.
B: The Funky Bunch?

And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I married him.

The Gift of Godchildren--Summer Series with My Pal Laverne, Part II

This blog came to me in fits and bursts over the past month, and I've been itching to publish it. But it was never quite complete. I'd poured my heart onto the empty white space, and yet I felt like something was missing. When Laverne and I decided to do a 3-part series this summer, this idea resurfaced while we were brainstorming blog ideas. There was never a moment of hesitation as I pitched my idea: I had the words, could she provide the artwork? There are few people in the world I would trust with such a precious subject matter, and Laverne is at the top of the list. And so, with a full heart, here is part two of our summer series.

♥   ♥   ♥

Excitement jitters just beneath my skin as we turn onto the curvy country road. The sun peeks through the tree limbs, and the horses in the pastures graze in the summer heat. Brian guides our car past farm houses and patches of forest, instantly knowing when to turn into the driveway. As many times as we've been here, I still don't know which house is Jenna's until we arrive.

Anxious for our day to begin, I leave bags and presents in the back seat and drag my husband to the back door. As soon as I step up onto the stoop, I see that she's been waiting, and is as eager for our arrival as we are.

She wraps me into a one-armed hug, and it's like no time has passed at all.

Bub peeks shyly from behind Jenna's leg, and I know he'll need a few minutes to adjust to new visitors. I crouch down to his level, keeping my distance, and reach out to ruffle his dark hair. "Hey, buddy," I say quietly. Noting the graphic on his t-shirt and hoping to draw him out, I say, "Is that a puppy dog on your shirt?" He glances down, long lashes brushing round cheeks, then looks back up, a big grin on his face. "NO!" he says with authority. "Flower!" And he bounds into the kitchen with the excitement only a 2 year old can possess. 

Brian and Jenna are sharing small talk about the weather, the drive, his schooling. I stand by quietly for a moment, fingers itching to hold Baby Girl. Jenna, sensing I'm there, hands me the baby without breaking the conversation. I welcome her weight with surprise. "Who's a big girl?" I croon. I look at Jenna, eyebrows raised. "It's only been 4 months! How can she already be this big??"

We settle in at Jenna's big dining room table, making plans for the day, talking about all we've missed in the last few months. 

In what feels like minutes, Bub gallops into the room and announces that he's hungry. Jenna checks the clock and, just like that, it's lunch time.

PBJ's, fresh fruit, and strawberry daiquiri pie are served with a quiet efficiency. Bub eats enthusiastically, occasionally breaking into baby babble, and even serenading his grapes with a rousing rendition of "Old MacDonald." 

After lunch time comes nap time, and we decide to load the kiddies into the car and let them sleep while we take a quick road trip a few towns over to visit with another family member. No sooner are we out of the driveway than Bub and Baby Girl are snoozing away. Conversation turns to more adult topics: work and life, future plans, bills, mortgages. 

And Buffy. Of course.

We arrive at our play date destination. 

I disappear to grab my camera and as I walk back into the laughter-filled room, my eyes land on Brian. He's holding Baby Girl, whispering something into her ear. 

Inside, I weep from the pain of being unable to provide him with this in his own life. I push it down, swallow the lump in my throat, and paste a smile on my face. There is time for tears later.

Our two hour play date comes quickly to a close, and it's time to load back into the car and head to dinner with Jenna's mom and step-dad. Bub is talkative this time, and so we sing, and we count, and we make animal noises. I glance up into my visor mirror to see Jenna plant a kiss on a squirming, giggling Bub. I laugh.

Dinner feels like a party. We drink margaritas, we share salsa and stories. 

I am simultaneously in the moment, and distracted by the beautiful baby sleeping in her car seat next to me. Bub sits across from me, eating his beans and rice with gusto. Jenna's husband, Reid, is finally able to join in the fun after a long day at work. 

Conversation turns to Brian, and questions are flying about his upcoming graduation, job prospects, what his future holds. I let their words fall away and turn my focus onto Baby Girl. Thinking no one is watching, I run my finger lightly over her little foot. I straighten her hair bow, and tuck a stray corner of blanket back into it's rightful place. Just a moment. I wanted just a moment with her. And when it's over, I rejoin the conversation. 

And the evening rolls on.

As we emerge from the restaurant, the sun and moon are struggling for possession of the sky. It's a three hour drive back to our house,

We drive Jenna and the kids back home. Gifts are exchanged, a few more pictures are taken, and it's time to take our leave. I hug and kiss each child soundly, knowing they'll have grown even more by the next time I get to visit. Brian and I fight over who hugs Jenna last. More waving, hugging, promises of future visits. And then it's just the two of us again, heading back toward home.

Our headlights pierce the darkness and the tears I've fought all day finally come. I cry because my best friend lives so far away. I cry because I'm so happy that we got this time together, however brief. 

It is nearing midnight when we get home. And still, I pull out the memory card from my camera, loading the pictures onto my computer screen. And Brian and I relive our day--all smiles and giggles and songs and love--before heading to bed.

So You Want To Be Famous..

Hello Abby Gabbers!! Boy, do I ever have some exciting news to share with you!! My humble, silly, often awkward blog has been accepted into the Blogher Publishing Network!!


Yes, that is a video of me dancing to The Pointer Sisters. You're welcome.

For those who don't know, BlogHer is a website dedicated to supporting women who blog. And it's MASSIVE. Founded in 2005, it reaches no less than 40 million people per MONTH. The social media aspects of being involved with Blogher alone could help increase a small blog's traffic by a lot. And the best part? It's all by women, for women, and about women. 

The Blogher Publishing Network will give me the opportunity to make a little cash while continuing to bring you the silliness that is Abby Gabs. Here's what it will mean for you: there will be a couple of new ad spaces added to the site.

That's it.  There will be no major changes to the content of Abby Gabs, you won't be bombarded every day with reviews and giveaways (though there may be one occasionally.) It'll just be a couple of ads, some change in my pocket, and the potential to grow my readership in a way that, as of right now, seems unimaginable to me.

Down the road, I'm hoping Blogher might approach me to be featured on their site. I've also joined the Blogher Book Club (SQUEEE!) and if they choose me to review a book, I'll do that here, as well. (In Abby Gabs fashion. With pictures and humor and stuff.)

And so, in celebration of being embraced by the BlogHer community, I've decided to thank my readers (current and future) with a little Abby Gabs fun. 

Here's the thing, kids. I'm trying to reach 100 fans on my Facebook Fan Page. As I'm writing this, I'm hovering around 60 fans, so I've got a few slots left to fill. And what's better for motivating people to click "Like" than a friendly little giveaway? 

Cash and Prizes

For my 75th friend, I will draw you a customized portrait, which you can use freely for your Facebook or Twitter profile picture, Christmas cards, or t-shirts. It will be similar to the one I recently drew of myself:

For my 99th friend, (because it sucks to think you're going to win the grand prize but you are actually right on the cusp of losing), I will draw TWO customized portraits. One of you, and one of a friend/spouse/pet/Congressman/landmark. Because two is better than the price of one. (Or, you can opt of one portrait featuring two people. Your choice. Because I'm flexible like that.)

And for my 100th friend, you will be forever immortalized here on Abby Gabs in a classic (completely fictional) tale of our friendship, with portraits included in the post. There will be drawing and photoshopping involved, so be prepared to see yourself as Thor or Martha Stewart, depending on the story line we agree upon. (Author's Note: If I've never met you in my whole life, there will be liberties taken to make the blog interesting and fun for everyone.)

For those who would rather see themselves as Neil Armstrong/Al Roker/Cat Woman/POTUS, you can similarly opt out of the drawn portrait and choose a Photoshopped portrait of yourself instead. The choices are endless. Here are a couple of examples of what you can expect:

My husband, as Superman.

My friend, Heather, as Wonder Woman.

But wait, there's more!!!

I don't want to leave out my current Facebook fans, so, each and every one of you will also be entered to win a customized portrait as well. Once I reach 100 fans, I will do a random drawing including everyone (except those who already won stuff. What? Don't be greedy.) So, that gives you some incentive to spread the word!! Because the sooner I get to 100 fans, the sooner you guys get your drawings!!!

Thanks in advance for your support as I move forward with the Blogher Publishing Network!! I can't wait to see what the future holds!

My Awkward, Silly, Could-Have-Done-It-Better-With-Crayons Self-Portrait (Or, The Perfect Self-Portrait for Me)

Abby Gabs was barely 7 months old the first time I linked up with Just Be Enough. This blog is totally dedicated to supporting women writers. It gives us a place to share who we are: as bloggers and wives and sisters and mothers. It encourages us to carry empowerment around our necks like gold medals.  When I found out JBE was all about helping women find their inner strength? Well, forget about it. I had to join the party.

I've written quite a few Be Enough blogs. And each one of them is a feather in my cap, a reminder that even on my bluest days, I am enough. I go back and visit these posts on a regular basis. They are, without a doubt, some of my best writing. Why? Because it allows my readers (and in some cases, me) see a part of That Gabby Abby that may not otherwise appear on this blog. 

And so, when I found out that Just Be Enough is celebrating their birthday, I wanted to participate in celebrating a site that gave me the tools to do some serious soul searching. And their idea of a party was to ask us to create a self-portrait.

Now, for those who have read Abby Gabs for any length of time, you already know that self-portraits are a way of life for me. I'm a pro at the stretch-the-arm-out-and-point-the-camera-at-myself shot. I have also perfected the set-camera-on-a-mostly-stable-surface-and-take-a-delayed-picture shot. I had to, if I was ever going to get shots like this:

...so I could Photoshop them into shots like this:

Courtesy of THIS POST.

Most recently, I've taken to using a tri-pod (or my husband) to get shots like this one:

So I could turn them into something more along the lines of this one:

Courtesy of THIS POST.

When I think of what I want my self-portrait to say about me, I think of the pictures I've used in my blog banner over the last two years. Sure, I wanted them to be relatively pretty (read: no visible zits, chin hairs, or food stains.) I wanted my readers to view me as Confidant, Cheeky, and/or Cute. So I set up my tri-pod (thanks, honey), and did my best posing.

Note: I always tilt my head, I always cover my chin-scar, and my bottom lip ALWAYS covers my wonky front tooth. (All tips given freely by Tyra Banks.)

But in reality, the thing I should be conveying in those portraits is the MAIN thing you should know about me. I am silly. I never take myself too seriously. Humor is my thing. I like to make people laugh---nay, snort. And none of these pictures (despite how well-lit they are) scream "Look at me, I'm a comedian!" 

So when it came time for me to take a self-portrait of myself for this post, I struggled with the concept. Once again, I found myself wondering how I would capture this silly part of me in a self-taken photo (without resorting to Photoshopping myself in front of a red brick wall, hecklers at the ready.)

And as usual, while perusing my own photos and graphics, hoping for inspiration, the answer came to me. The PERFECT self-portrait of silly, awkward, sort-of-terrific me would be one of my badly drawn graphics. And really, it captures me--as a person, as an "artist" (anyone who owns the 96-Count Bonus Box of Crayola Crayons gets to use that word), and as a blogger--just right.

Notice the sparkles for flare and fabulousness.

The only thing missing is my cracked tooth, but I couldn't figure out how to put that in without making myself look like a hobo.

Happy Birthday Just Be Enough!!! May you change as many lives, and touch as many hearts, in your 2nd year as you did your first. With love, from That Gabby Abby (She's the chick in desperate need of a haircut pictured above.)

Come join the party and help us celebrate!

And share your self-portrait with the world!

(Feel free to make yours less kindergarten-ish

than mine. Unless you have the big box

of crayons, too. )