I Am Not A Morning Person

You've all seen the movies where the beautiful female lead wakes up in the morning to bird song, sunshine streaming through lace curtains, her cheeks pink and her hair perfectly coiffed.

Woodland creature flock to her breathtaking loveliness, and the day always starts with a song.

Suffice it to say that I do not wake up as gracefully as Cinderella.

All those coffee mugs and night shirts that are emblazoned with the phrase "I Don't Do Mornings," were created specifically with me in mind. My alarm clock is my least favorite item in our house (including dirty litter and the cob web that keeps appearing in my living room window). It has been beaten, smacked, and punched so many times, there are bits of plastic missing from its face. It's a miracle the thing still works.

And when I wake up in the morning, I'm less-than-dewey-fresh.  I always, always have "Edward Cullen" hair. Oh c'mon...you know, like this:

Except he styles his this way on purpose. (source)

There's almost always crap in my eyes and sometimes at the corner of my mouth. I have bags under my eyes big enough to carry a week's worth of groceries. A giant zit will have formed on my chin overnight that rivals most 13 year old boys on the cusp of puberty. My grey hair multiplies by factors of ten. And let's not forget about the lone chin hair that manages to grow to an inch in length from bedtime to rise-n-shine. In short, I don't resemble Cinderella in the slightest. I look more like her 30-something-year-old ugly step cousin.

My husband is always patient with me, especially on mornings when I get up super-early to help him get out the door for work or class on time. He gently points me in the direction of the coffee maker, ignoring the curse words muttered under my breath, usually in his direction. He moves furniture and cats out of my path, so they don't get tripped over or tread upon. 

Not to say that he doesn't find humor in my less-than-graceful state upon waking. He may or may not have made references to movie characters before. And we're not talking about glamorous starlets or adorable cartoon divas. Oh no. We're talking more along the lines of giant lizards with fire breath whose only concern is stalking its prey.

Because, you see, there are 3 things that need to happen before I'm ready to welcome the morning with a song: a hot shower, a hotter cup of coffee, and at least 15 minutes in front of my make-up mirror. After copious amounts of hair gel and concealer, and a second cup of coffee, I'm much more presentable to the general public.

Cool mug, huh? I designed it. You can buy it HERE.

By cup number three, I'm officially a human being. I can keep up with normal conversation, I can answer the phone by the second ring, and I can even check my email without worrying that I'll reply to something in a snarky manner. But it's that first cup---that first steaming-hot cup of delicious fuel--that really starts the process. In fact, that first cup of coffee is so crucial to my ability to function in the real world, that I'm beginning to wonder how I ever made my way through life without it. I don't remember being 8 years old, knowing that the only way I would be able to wake up as an adult was with the help of a jolt of caffeine (2 sugars and splash of half-and-half, please and thank you.) 

I certainly don't remember any of my teachers teaching me about the importance of morning coffee in math class.

I mean, it's basic arithmetic. Am I wrong?

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.

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. )

The Tortoise and The Hare (And the Smart Phone)

It wasn't that long ago that I was writing love letters to Verizon and my shiny new Droid 2 Global. In fact, if you could have painted a portrait with me and my Droid, holding hands and walking into the sunset together, it would have been an apt and 100% accurate portrayal of how I felt about my phone. I was in love.

But, as things sometimes go, my relationship with my Droid has fallen on difficult times. Yes, I still love its sleek design. Yes, I adore its ability to keep me linked up to the world when I'm AFK. And yes, I long to touch its keyboard with unbridled passion. 

Ok, I'm starting to freak myself out. Time to switch metaphors.

You see, it comes down to this: My Beautiful, Capable, Super-Fast, Super-Elite Droid has, in a matter of 17 months, become Old, Slow, and Obsolete. I'm a 4G girl living in a 3G world. And this saddens me deeply.

I need my social media apps on my phone to work. And for the past 2 months or so, any time I try to open one, I get this:

Ten minutes, twelve curse words, and one frustrated blogger later, and guess what....all I can see, STILL, is this:

To say it's infuriating is only a slight understatement. I've tried everything I can think of to lessen the load on my Droid---deleted apps I don't use, removed photos of stuff I don't need, bribed it with shiny things and money---and still, my phone is slower than Methuselah. 

Things That Are Faster Than My Droid:

Truly, if being slow was the only problem I had with my Droid, I might try to make peace and move on. But it freezes on a regular basis--to the point where I'm now removing the battery at least twice a day to reset it. Due to its regular removal in order to reset the phone, the back panel that keeps the battery inside won't stay closed. And do we even want to talk about the battery life?? I have to charge my phone THREE TIMES A DAY. Yes, I use it a lot. But that's just ri-donk-u-luss.

And so, even though it's been an epic one, my romance with Droid is surely coming to an end...

In October. When my contract is up.

Sigh.

How An Electronic Device Has Made My Life Exponentially Better (IE: I Might Write Sonnets & Song Lyrics In Its Honor)

Up until a few days ago, any time I wanted to watch TV, I first had to round up a gaggle of remotes. (I'm not sure just how many remotes constitutes a gaggle, but suffice it to say, it's more than two but less than 10.)


There was a remote for the cable box. Another for the PS3 (which we use as a DVD player as well as a game console.) A third remote was used solely for the purpose of changing between HDMI and AV (I have no idea what that means, only that HDMI2 means I can watch Buffy on DVD and AV2 means I can play Just Dance 2 on the Wii.) And then, there was the teeny, tiny, easy-to-lose sound remote. It's only job was to turn on the sound. I could have all 3 big remotes but without that little jerk, watching TV turned into a digital game of charades. 

Please let me reiterate my disdain for the teeny tiny surround sound remote. I hated it from Day One, which was approximately 2 years ago (read: around the same time that Brian started nursing school.) My begging started during that same time frame.


Abby: Honey, can't we please just buy a universal remote?
Brian: I mean, I guess...what's wrong with 4 remotes?
Abby: Seriously?
Brian: We just need to find somewhere to put them, so they're always there when we need them.
Abby: *crickets chirping*
Brian: You know, like a basket, or a remote caddy, or a special drawer.
Abby: *crickets still chirping*
Brian: Hey, what about that basket your Mom gave you for office stuff? That would be perfect! We'll put it right in front of the TV so we won't forget.
Abby: *you guessed it. More crickets.*
Brian: It'll be GREAT!


Needless to say, Brian's ingenious idea only worked about .64% of the time...which is to say that the only time all 4 remotes found their home in their comfy new basket was when I was cleaning up the living room for company, and they all got put there at the very. same. time. Inevitably, the cable remote stayed nearest to my coffee mug. The PS3 remote would wind up in a drawer on the other side of the room. The TV remote was most often found under the entertainment center.


And the teeny tiny sound remote? Who knows. It's been lost no less than eleventy-billion times.


After two years of begging, and pleading, and cursing the teeny tiny sound remote, my dreams finally came true. Brian drove to Best Buy, acquired a new universal remote, and programmed that bad boy to perfection. And guess what----it does ALL THE STUFF!!

HOORAY!!!


I've never been so in love with a device that runs on batteries IN MY LIFE. (Except for my cell phone. Although, we've been on the outs for a while now. But it's still a love/hate relationship.) One little green button is devoted to turning on the TV. The other little green button turns on the cable box. The handy-dandy INPUT button switches between HDMI and AV. 


And my favorite new button on my favorite new remote??? The AMP button. Why? 

BECAUSE IT MAKES THE TEENY TINY SOUND REMOTE OBSOLETE!!!

If I haven't adequately put into words how I feel about this universal remote, let's try an Abby Gabs illustration instead:

*Artist's note: I may or may not say that quote every single time I pick up the remote, in a deep falsetto. And I may or may not swoosh the remote through the air like it's flying, singing the Superman theme song all the live long day. Maybe. It hasn't been recorded for posterity, so you can only take my word for it at this point.*

I would take a second to be slightly embarrassed about my obvious infatuation with a piece of plastic. But I'm too busy hugging it and kissing it and calling it George.

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.)

A Princess Party for Two

Reason number eleventy hundred and twenty one why I adore Twitter---it gives me the opportunity to talk to other bloggers. Case in point: about a week ago, I was perusing my Twitter feed when I noticed friend and fellow blogger, Laverne, from Kindred Adventures, was tweeting about a somewhat boring experience at a child's birthday party. I jumped in, hoping to give her a reason to giggle. 


And our conversation led to this blog post.


And so, without further ado, I'm thrilled to give you my very first co-blog, written by Laverne and illustrated by yours truly. Please enjoy!

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     

White mock-vintage mirrors hung on the purple walls. A table in the middle of the room held china place settings, ready for a tea party. A small stage in the back of the room waited to be filled with 5-year-olds dressed as princesses. Rock-n-roll musical chairs, Justin Bieber, hip-hop-hokey-pokey and Taylor Swift pulsated continuously. Smiles painted their faces and rosy cheeks, glitter and giggles and screeches showed their happiness. A room holding racks of princess dresses, rows and rows of bedazzled shoes, pails of crowns and containers of wands waited to transport the girls from a birthday party to the world of princesses.

I sunk into the yellow paisley embroidered couch. My daughter didn't want me to leave. (I had planned on dropping her off and then heading over to a coffee shop for some "me" time.) I was here at the Princess Party for the duration...two long hours. Sigh. The smell of bubble gum perfume, children's lip gloss and nail polish saturated the room. The music intertwined with the eardrum-piercing screeching left me of thoughts of my own. I took out my phone and began to tweet. 

I tweeted some more...and still, nothing.

Then, there she was...Abby.

Now it was my turn to smile.

"How are you? What are you up to?" I was happy to find a friendly face that might help make the time fly by.

"Just finished a great run. All good here! How are you?" she happily replied.

"I'm at a princess party right now and hopefully soon, a few beverages, some dinner, and bed!" I shared.

"Aw, man!," Abby tweeted giddily. "I wanna have a princess party!" 

My imagination began to drift. Suddenly I felt like I was with Abby in one of her drawings. Just what would it be like if our life was like a Princess Party?

Of course, the hardest thing we'd have to do in the morning would be just to get out of bed. Our hair, nails, and makeup would be done for us.

Too much glitter and enough sequins--enough to blind a person--would be all the rage. The second hardest thing we would do would be to decide which of the rows and rows of sequins, puffy, fluffy layered dressed we wanted to wear that day.

Our day would be spent twirling in our dresses and hanging out with other princesses, doing what princesses do best.

"Mommy....Mooommmyyy......MOMMY!"

My daydream crashed around me. "Yes sweetie?"

"I have to go potty."

Sigh.

It was glittery and sparkly and wonderful.....while it lasted!

*     *     *     *     *     *     * 

Princess dresses, tiaras, and Jose Cuervo...you guys KNOW I had a blast working on this project with Laverne!!! I hope you'll check out her awesome blog, co-written with best pal, Shirley. And I hope that one day soon, Laverne and I will be able to have a real life Princess Party...without Justin Bieber. (Just sayin'.)

Today we're linking up with Yeah Write.

Because we have a feeling that there are some

other closeted princesses out there in the

blogosphere that might like to join us for

a royal margarita...or two...

This Morning, I Became An Assassin.

When my alarm clock went off this morning, I had no idea what was in store for me in the first thirty minutes of my day. I simply wiped the sleep from my eyes, padded to the bathroom, and started my morning routine with a steamy hot shower. 


Showering, and other bathroom moments, are rarely a single-person sport in my house. In most cases, one of our four feline friends will accompany us while we "take care of business." This morning was no exception, and our orange kitty, Scooter, followed me into the bathroom and took up his place next to the bathmat. I took off my jammies, waited until the water was piping hot, then stepped inside.


Ahhhh.

Nothing gets me going in the morning like a nice, hot shower. When I was squeaky clean, I turned the water off and reached out for my towel, trying to keep the shower curtain as closed as possible. You know...so all the steam stays inside and you can be warm for a little while longer.

I'm a two-towel girl: one for my hair, another for my body. I wrapped Towel Number One around my head, and went for Towel Number Two. That's when I noticed something strange. Scooter was still in his favorite Mom's Taking A Shower spot, but he was no longer curled up and napping in the steam-filled room.


Instead, he was at Full Cat Attention. His whiskers and tail were twitching, and he was trembling with feline delight.

When his Eye Lasers are trained on one specific spot, it can only mean one thing.


We had company.


Crappity crap crap. I was home alone, the husband off to day two at his new job. If it was an eight-legged You Know What, I was veritably trapped in the bathroom until Brian got home from work. 


At 7:00.


P.M.


It was going to be a long day.


I drew the shower curtain open all the way, terrified of what I might find. 


And found a Palmetto Bug the size of a hover board instead.

There I am, naked and wet, at my most vulnerable, trapped in the bathtub by a giant, evil bug from hell. Awesome. I spent the next five minutes trying to convince my cat to pounce on it. However, he just sat there, totally frozen, my pleas of "SICK IT, SCOOTER!" gone unanswered.


I begin considering my options. Staying in the tub, unclothed and freezing, isn't one of them. I think about dropping a heavy shampoo bottle on it's head, but know I'll miss. And if it starts climbing into the tub, I'll loose my Cheerios. That's when I spot the most likely weapon for this scenario, sitting across the bathroom in the corner.


Toilet plunger. Bingo.


I take a deep breath, position myself on the far end of the tub away from the bug, and leap for the plunger. In that moment, I was not Abby, Naked and Scared. I was Abby, Bug Killer Warrior Princess.

Needless to say, when I started swinging the plunger, Scooter beat feet for the door as fast as his puffy tail could take him.


The first time I whacked the bug, it bounced and, unscathed, scurried underneath the skirt of the shower curtain. Near my feet. I whirled around, ripped the shower curtain up and over the lip of the tub. No bug on the floor. It had scurried up into the shower curtain, and was trapped somewhere between the decorative curtain and the plastic liner. I gave it a hefty shake, and the bug fell out into the tub, trapped on his back, all six legs waggling in the air, trying to find a foothold to flip itself over.


I didn't give it that chance.


With three mighty smacks, I neutralized the threat with my handy dandy toilet plunger. Problem solved.


Except now there was a dead body in the bottom of my tub.


Not willing to use up a number of plastic bags and duct tape, I considered my options. There was no way in hell I was going to pick that huge sucker up with toilet paper. Nuh unh. I hadn't finished my "O Magazine" yet, either, and even though it was the closest scooping mechanism nearby, I wasn't willing to get bug cooties on it for the sake of body disposal. I thought a spatula would probably work best, but, um, ew.


And then, a lightbulb moment. (Thanks, Oprah.) I scurried to the kitchen (still naked, mind you), and scrounged around in a drawer for a minute until I came up with a rarely used, plastic picnic spatula. Back to the bathroom I went. I scooped up the now deceased bugger, and sent him to his watery grave.

Don't worry. I threw away the spatula. And I eventually managed to get dressed and everything.


After I took a morning swig of vodka. Straight out of the bottle.