Mood Swings

Restless. Like the pounding of the sea in that ancient rhythm. The ebb and flow of my life leaves me wanting more. My soul is itchy beneath my skin, desperate for meaning. I look to menial tasks to make me feel like I've accomplished something in a day where my only duty is to answer the phone, answer the email, answer the same question over and over. There's no logic to it. There's no real reason to feel this way. And yet, I do. I need to get out. I need to get away. I need to bury my feet in the sand, lift my face to the sun, and purge discontent. I am restless.

Content. Like wrapping hands around a steaming mug of fresh coffee. It spreads its warmth up through my chest, wrapping me in an embrace as familiar as time. I prop my feet up on my husband's lap, cover us both with the gray-green afghan, and sink into gratification. There's nowhere to be tonight. No deadlines to meet, no tests to cram for, nothing requiring our immediate attention. Brian rubs lazy circles on my calf with his thumb and my eyelids begin to droop. As the moon rises in the sky, I feel my heart fill with unrestricted, absolute love. I am content.

Listless. Like every muscle has turned to water and any spirit once perceived has now dissipated. Lifeless, limbless, I am so much flotsam on a lazy sea. I have no desire to move, no desire to breathe, no desire at all. I float on an air of laziness. The only energy spent is that of the solitary tear drop that ekes from my eye. Questions bounce around in my brain: When is it my turn? When will life stop being so hard? What did I do wrong? A thunderclap outside and all I can think is finally, the weather will match my mood. I am listless.

Hopeful. Like a gull on the edge of the wind, soaring up, up, up into the blue. I place my hands on my belly and close my eyes, imagining what it will be like to feel life move beneath them one day. In the deepest parts of night, I lie awake, eyes barely focused on the popcorn ceiling, and pretend I can hear her cries for me, wailing through the gloom. I can almost trace the swell of her cheeks, the curve of her elbow, the slope of her nose, as if it were my own face in my mind's eye. Hair, thick and dark; eyes the color of rain clouds; fingernails minuscule and translucent: I can see her. How I dream for her. How I wish for her. Knowing that she is still within me, somewhere...I am hopeful.

Hurt. Like a child sent to bed without her supper for no reason she can understand. I am bewildered, rejected, discarded like so much trash. I reexamine everything I ever said, everything I ever did, to deserve this treatment. I turn to those I can still trust, those who love me for who and what I am, those who don't judge me for my misgivings. And still, it is there, in the back of my mind. Each word a weapon, and the silences that are deafening. They seem to go on forever. I've wished for a chance to understand. But I do not. I cannot. And I have to stop trying. For my own sake, for yours. I will retreat to my corner now and lick my wounds. Self-preservation is the only avenue I know now. I am hurt.

Optimistic. Like the very knowledge that the storm will eventually blow over. The bits and pieces will be picked up and put back together again. I will find a way to move past the others and be victorious. My life may not be perfect, but my life is my own. I will live it to the fullest, find a way to dull the aches and overcome the pains. I will revel in my love, my family, my friends. I will write and write and write, peeling away a layer each time I hit "publish." I will laugh too loudly, love too fiercely, and live too largely. I will be okay. I am optimistic.

I am linking up with Yeah Write today,

because it's not very often that I'm in a serious 

mood, and so it should be recorded

for posterity.

A Glimpse Into the Thought Process of That Gabby Abby

Yesterday was one of those days. You know, the kind where I watched the clock, waiting not-so-patiently for 5:00, so I could race to the door, lock up, and officially end my day of hell work. At 4:59, sharp, I flipped the sign on the door to "CLOSED," grabbed my keys, and headed out to park the golf cart for the night. (Yes, I have a golf cart. I swear, it's not as exciting as it seems.)


As I walked outside, I noticed that the wind was beginning to pick up. I'd looked at the radar a few hours earlier and watched the progress of the storms blowing in our direction. I took a deep breath in, and hoped for a thunderstorm. They always cheer me up.


I climbed onto the cart, put my key in the ignition, and put it in drive. Off I went, the last step in finishing my workday.


As I turned the corner, a gust of wind smacked me in the face, blowing my hair in all different directions. Suddenly, there was an itchy, tingly feeling on my left ankle. I reached down and scratched, never taking my foot off of the accelerator. 


Another gust of wind, and that weird itchy feeling came back almost immediately. My first, immediate thought was, "Crap on a cracker, I bet it's a spider."


I pulled up to the unit door where I'd be parking the cart, put on the parking break, and glanced down at my ankle, heart pounding, expecting to see an eight-legged demon hitching a ride on my leg. Instead, I saw this:

I tried to take a picture. Apparently, that's as difficult at this angle
as actually hitting this spot with my razor.

Now, I've been shaving my legs every single day since I was 12 years old. No joke. I can't stand the feeling of stubble, and so every morning, I dutifully lather up and shave my legs. And somehow, I'd managed to miss a spot. But it wasn't just a small, stubbly spot that had been missed for a day or two. This was a patch of hair, each one approximately an inch long, that was blowing in the breeze like Farrah Fawcett in a wind tunnel.


Seriously. They were long enough to braid. 


I was immediately concerned with my own lack of attention to detail. Clearly, I'd been haphazard in my daily shaving. I checked my other ankle, and it was smooth as a baby's butt. So, it was just my left ankle that was proving to be a difficult place to reach with my razor.


As I walked into the office to finish my paperwork, I wondered to myself what would happen if I continued to miss that same spot over and over again. And then it hit me.

May the fourth be with you.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how my thought process often leads to posts here on Abby Gabs. (And yes, the idea of Photoshopping Chewbacca onto my ankle really did pop into my head. I'm not fibbing.)

Be Enough Me: Learning to Love Myself

I write a lot of funny blogs. I make silly faces at the camera, I photoshop myself into funny situations, I tell you humorous anecdotes from my life. I love to laugh, and I laugh a lot. My life is filled with love, and laughter, and family. For that I am blessed a thousand times over.


But the truth is, some days it's really hard for me to think of something funny to say. Some days I can't seem to find anything in my life to shine a light on, for my blog's sake. 


I know that, a lot of the times, I throw myself under the funny bus just to get a laugh. I'm often times critical of myself, but in a way that seems humorous. The truth behind the clown mask, though, is that more than one day a week, I wake up feeling "less than." Unworthy. Hidden. Like the words I write are only to be lost in a sea of other voices, and mine is the one drowning while others are clawing their way to the surface to be seen.


Despite my 30 years on this earth, and the love and admiration I have for so many people in my life, I think I still struggle with learning to love myself. There are so many aspects of "ME" that I joke about, make light of...but those aspects often weigh on me like so many stones.


My weight.


Infertility.


Dreams that go unfulfilled year after year.


Insecurities.


Most days I am happy. Most days I can find humor in the world. Most days I love everything about my life.


But...


At least once a day I think about the fact that I don't have a child yet. 


At least once a day (usually many more times than that) I chastise myself for being overweight, and for not being diligent enough to do something about it permanently.


At least once a day I wonder how someone else will react to what I say or what I do, and if that will color their opinion of me to a different, unfavorable shade.


At least once a day, I dream of the little house in the country with a fence and a garden and a swing set and a pretty kitchen that I don't have (yet.)


I worry that I'm being selfish. That I'm not enough. 


But I am enough. 


I cook and clean and make life easier for my husband, who is working towards his nursing degree. 


I spend quality time with my family: bonding with my dad over a glass of wine and a bubbling pot of red sauce; helping my mom design the perfect beaded key chain; laughing with my brother over any and everything.


I strive to be a good friend: sending cards, little gifts, photos. Calling to check in often. Dropping off casseroles to those who need the comfort. Loving them, each one, with every inch of my heart. I snuggle and kiss and spoil their babies as if they were my own (even when it breaks my heart, just a little, each time.)


I do my job. I write my blog. I stay busy. I make others lives easier, more enjoyable.


I am enough. 


Even on days when I think I'm not.

JustBeEnough.com is a site that focuses on telling empowering stories of women, written by women. It's mission is to inspire women to remember to celebrate themselves. This month they are fighting the good fight against cancer. For every 20 link ups this month, Bellflower Books will donate $75 toward a 20-page memory book for a family fighting breast cancer. Feel free to link up and help their worthy cause! And thanks to Jen at The Misadventures of Mrs. B for giving me the idea to participate!

A Public Service Announcement

This is my brain:

This is my brain on coffee:

Any questions?

Over-Analyze Is My Middle Name

Not really. My middle name is Rae. But I do tend to over-analyze. And not just about bills, or the direction of my life, or how to become a backup dancer for the New Kids, and other crucial aspects of day-to-day living.


I over-analyze EVERYTHING.


For instance, I was shopping at Walmart the other day, and encountered an employee while looking for a new nail polish color. She was an older lady, and was busy stocking fingernail clippers when I pushed my cart up. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, and I went about my shopping, when all of a sudden, she gave me a nice compliment.

My initial reaction was to be flattered. Obviously, the Disney Princess skin care routine is working. I finished my Walmart shopping with a smile on my face, and headed to the car,  humming "Chim Chim Cheree" all the way.


It wasn't until I was driving home that I began to think about the encounter with the sweet Walmart employee. At some point, it went from being a kind moment with a complete stranger, to wondering why she'd bothered to speak to me at all. What was she trying to say? That I'm the fat girl with the pretty face? What was she thinking when she decided to compliment me? 

"This girl looks like she needs someone to throw her a bone. Maybe she's having a bad day. I know, I'll say something nice."

By the time I got home, I was fuming. How DARE she suggest I have nice skin! And only then, with that thought, did I stop, re-analyze my analyzation,  and laugh at myself. 


I also tend to over-analyze when it comes to my job--particularly confrontations with customers who are less-than-friendly. It usually starts with me strolling into the office, unknowingly walking into someone's "kill zone." And then, I get blindsided with their rage over the price of gas/the fight they had with their mother earlier/a hangnail. They take all that frustration and anger, wad it up, and throw it at me.

Typically, all I can do is just stand there and take it. Sometimes I'm able to diffuse it with my winning personality and sharp-as-a-stick wit. But sometimes, the person is SO outraged that I feel the need to defend myself. 


Let me say that, I'm NOT a confrontational person. I don't like it when people are yelling at me, and I feel the need to lash out. However, I rarely lash out at the person who did the yelling. I'm usually so flustered, I can't think of a single thing to say--no poisonous barbs to fling in their direction, no witty comebacks for their angry tirade. 


And so, after the confrontation is over, I try to find another outlet to release my own pent-up frustration. It may be a series of angry text messages to my husband. I might fire off a rant email to my Mom. But, more often than not,  I just let it stew. I obsess over every aspect of the confrontation. I think of awesome things to say, and wish I'd thought of them during the argument. Six hours later, I'm cooking, and obsessing, over an event that I can't change.

Inevitably, I'll have that fluttery, anxious feeling in my gut when I go to bed that night. No matter how hard I try to let the situation go, I sink into self-judgement until, finally, I come to terms with the event. 


Or I'm distracted. Usually by something shiny. Or Donnie Wahlberg.


Similarly, I obsess over the actions of the ones I love most. Nothing gets me started like the tone of someone's voice. 


Here's the thing. I HATE talking on the phone. I really do. I have to answer my work phone 84 billion times a day, so when it comes to having personal conversations on the phone, I reserve them for people I really, truly love. As in, adore. As in, would walk over fire and brimstone for. 


So, when it's been a few weeks and I haven't heard from a friend, I'll pick up the phone and call. Just to check-in. Just to let them know I'm thinking of them.


Let me preface this by saying that I KNOW all my friends have lives of their own. They work, they have children, they have full lives. 


But nothing hurts quite like being met with indifference when you've looked forward to a conversation with a loved one.

Typically, I know they're just tired/busy/distracted/chasing a kid around trying to take back the television remote. 


I also know that I'm one of few left with no children, who's husband is gone a lot, and that I'm needy. Psychologically I know that, when I'm met with little enthusiasm, it's because they're tired/busy/distracted. But emotionally, I'm all over the place.

Did I say something wrong? Did I make them mad? Do they not want to be friends anymore? WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

 My husband would say that my tendency to over-analyze every little thing is endearing, and also, a little nutso.


To that, I would say, OMG, is he right? Does he really think I'm crazy? What if he stops loving me? What if he leaves? What if he throws garbage at me.....

A Comedian I'm Not (Always)

Yesterday's post was NOT funny.


I tried to make it funny, but it just wasn't funny. It felt forced.


I've had "My Funny" leave me only once before while writing Abby Gabs, and I managed to turn it into a relatively funny post. (Not like yesterday's post.) So, I started wracking my brain to figure out why my post yesterday was less than funny.


That's when it hit me.

AHA!

PMS. PMS affects My Funny. (Generic apology to my male readers here.)


PMS doesn't necessarily take away My Funny. It just dulls it a bit. IE: The wit is still there, it just seems fuzzy around the edges. See, when it's just a normal, PMS-free day, I'm all wit and charm and hilarity.

These are the days I come up with my best blog ideas.

But on PMS-y days, my thoughts are otherwise occupied. While I can come up with somewhat decent topics to write about, they always feel a little less...shiny. That's probably because my thoughts are consumed with other things...

Like huge Hostess cupcakes. And how I'm going to murder the next person who calls and interrupts The Gilmore Girls. And tequila. Always tequila.

There must be a hormone to blame. Or lack of sleep. Not enough caffeine? Something about PMS is seriously toying with my ability to be funny. Which indirectly affects my ability to be adorable. I mean, who's going to keep coming back to read a "sort of okay" blog??? 


And if today is the first day you've ever read my blog, and you're thinking, "She thinks she's funny? Really?"---PLEASE don't judge me by this post, or yesterday's! Just go read this one, and you'll swear you've just encountered Whoopi Goldberg's long lost Caucasian cousin.


Because, brain gnomes? Seriously?

"I'm SOOOO not funny."

WAIT! I just thought of a way to make the cute little brain gnome funny!!!

Now THAT'S funny.

The Evolution of My Chef-Like Self

The year: 2001. The place: my first apartment. The occasion: my first "dinner party."

The telephone conversation went something like this:

Dad: "Hello?"

Abby: "Hi Daddy! Whatcha doin?"

Dad: "Oh, just sitting here watching the game. State's down by 8. What's my little girl doing today?"

Abby: "Well, I'm having some people over to see the apartment, and I'm going to fix them dinner."

Dad: Silence.

Abby: "What? I can totally do it."

Dad: Silence.

Abby: "Dad, c'mon. I'm a smart kid. I can do it. I just need your help."

Dad: "I don't think I can be there before your guests arrive."

Abby: "I don't want to you to come cook! I want you to answer some basic cooking questions for me."

Dad: "Ok, shoot."

Abby: "Ok. So, I'm making spaghetti. My first question is, how do I cook the noodles?"

I'm hoping that this conversation will illustrate to you, dear reader, just how inadequate I was in the kitchen. I could slap together a PBJ with the best of them. And I made a mean Pop-Tart. But other than that---no knowledge at ALL.

That first pot of spaghetti was probably horrible. I honestly don't remember. I was so proud of my accomplishment, of having my first dinner party, that it could've tasted horrible and I just wouldn't remember.

Fast forward a few months, when I started dating my husband. Now here was a man who was self-sufficient. Earlier in our friendship, when we were all still living in the dormitories at Appalachian State University, B had made an entire lasagna dinner for his friends. Lasagna--from scratch. Big tossed salad with fresh veggies. Garlic bread that was to-die-for. Shortly after we began courting, B started teaching me a thing or two in the kitchen. Methods of cooking, a few fail proof recipes, how to grill a steak. It was like a light switch went off in my head.

By the time we moved into together, my curiosity about cooking increased. We now had the Food Network, and I would watch Emeril, Rachael Ray, Paula Deen, and Bobby Flay for HOURS. I started buying cook books, and experimenting in the kitchen.

By the time we moved to Charleston, I had most of the basics down. I could follow a recipe easily enough, and most of the time, they would turn out how I expected. Certainly, there were mishaps (please don't ever ask about the peach pie incident, unless you want to make me cry), but I felt that I was making progress.

I got my first real chef's knife as a wedding gift in 2004. After that, the sky was the limit.

I can saute, grill, pan-sear and roast with the best of them. I can see a recipe that sounds sort of interesting and make it my own. I can wow the taste buds of my husband, my family, and my friends. I can bake cupcakes, birthday cakes, and the best damn Christmas cookies you ever put in your face.

Abby--Official Foodie and Apron-Wearer

And I honestly, truly love it. 

I spend every Sunday with my Mom and Dad. And it's my favorite day of the week. Dad and I start planning dinner while we're still eating breakfast. We shop together, carefully choosing the perfect ingredients, squeezing tomatoes and smelling basil and buying only the choicest fish. We chop together, season together, inhale the wonderful aromas together, taste sauces together. And revel in our success when the dish makes my Mom say, "Yum."

And I owe it all to my hubby, and my teachers at the Food Network. Because truly, I learned everything from knife skills to cooking techniques from that channel. It was like culinary school, from the comfort of my own home.

Thanks to the best teachers, ever.

My next step in taking over the world of food---growing my own garden. And making gazpacho from my own veggies. Move over, Barefoot Contessa, Abby's moving in.