Let Me Take Off My Invisible Super Hero Cape For A Minute...

Sometimes I worry that I'm an over-helper.

When I hear that a friend has suffered a loss, or a family member is sick, or someone I love had a bad day, I immediately want to jump in with both feet and help.  I'm the one who offers to get your mail, feed your dog, or fold your laundry. I'm the one who scours the internet for articles specific to your plight, sends them to you in an email, triple-checks every hour to make sure you know I sent them in that email, and then sends them to you in a text message just to be sure you got the info. I'm the one who wants to show up with a casserole, two pies, and a week's worth of magazines.

I know, I know. I'm sure most of you are thinking, "Oh, she must be a nice friend to have!"

Maybe. But I worry.

A lot of my desire to help comes from that period in our lives when Brian had first been diagnosed with cancer. Each and every person---from the maintenance workers at the hospitals to the dear friends who dropped off sub sandwiches so we wouldn't have to cook---were so very valuable to us. I'll never forget the kindnesses we were shown--from friends, from family, from nurses and doctors and surgeons and techs. It was the only thing that kept us standing, kept us moving toward a destination rather than staying stagnant, cooped up in our own sorrow and fear.

And so, when I hear there's trouble in the neighborhood, I feel called to action, ready to offer my services in any way, no matter what is needed.

I show up with my casserole and my two pies and my week's worth of magazines, hoping that the help I'm offering is appreciated. Wanting to be helpful. Wanting to be valued. What I tend to forget, in my gusto, is that every person reacts differently in any given situation. Where I might be thrilled to my toes to hear the doorbell, my friend may rather be left in peace to deal with life in their own way. 

And sometimes, their own way doesn't include a stack of magazines three miles high.

I'm glad now, looking back, that I wasn't given much time to grieve and worry and pace. Relieved that our friends and family filled the scariest moments with conversation, casseroles, and consolation. I know, for us, that it was exactly what we needed.

I think it makes sense, then, that my immediate reaction to a friend in need is to don my "Save The World" cape and swoop in to save the day. Often with baked goods and some form of mindless entertainment.

So I'm learning to offer a kind word instead of a pot of chicken noodle soup every once in awhile. I'm trying to hold back that part of me that wants to rush to everyone's rescue when, in fact, they may not need rescuing at all. But above all else I'm trying to remember that, while a stack of magazines a mile high might just be the ticket to someone's happiness, it might just be coffee table clutter for another one to deal with later.

But don't worry. If you give me the green light, I'm still going to offer to bring them over. Especially if you haven't read the latest issue of "O." But I won't be offended if you say no.

The Visitor

Sometimes, I'll wake up in the mornings and realize that I'm no longer alone. I have a not-so-frequent visitor--one that is never welcome--and he knows just how to bring me down. Having him around makes it nearly impossible to get anything done: from blogging, to house work, to anything remotely fun. In fact, this not-so-frequent visitor really only makes me want to sit on my couch, buried beneath an afghan, wasting my day while dirty laundry and empty water bottles pile up around me like so much trash.

My visitor doesn't have a name, but if he had a face, I imagine he'd look something like this:

He makes me feel sad, worthless, and lethargic. Sometimes, he makes me so angry that I tremble. He brings with him all the bad feelings in the world and dumps them on my shoulders, clearly expecting me to carry his baggage throughout my day. 

Sometimes, my visitor shows up because of a repeating frustration in my life.

On most days, I can cope with these frustrations. I'll cry in the shower, or watch Firefly reruns on DVD, or vent to my husband, or join a cause that makes me feel like I'm making a difference. Exercise helps. Writing, too. Sometimes throwing paint on a canvas and pretending I'm an artist is all it takes to keep the visitor from latching on, dragging me down. 

On other days, I'm vulnerable. And I'm only one Huggies commercial, one Facebook rant, one angry customer away from succumbing completely to the visitor.

But sometimes, the visitor shows up, baggage in hand, for no real reason at all.

There I'll be, minding my own business, and suddenly---*knock knock.* And there's the visitor, ready to drag me down into the depths of despair over something as trivial as bad grammar.

Most of the time, I can kick the visitor out after a day or two of torment. Sometimes (like last week) it takes me a few days. Regardless, at some point he packs up and leaves, and I inevitably crawl back in to the sunlight. 

My life resumes as normal: writing blogs, cleaning my house, enjoying time with friends and family. Living, and loving, life. It will take me a few days till Abby gets her groove back. I can still feel the visitor's presence, vague as it may be. I think, maybe, he's always there, lingering in the background, waiting for a chance to pounce. I guess my job, now, is to keep myself busy enough, silly enough, happy enough, that there's nothing for him to pounce on. 

Not because there's anything wrong with being sad, or angry, once in awhile. But because I miss who I am, who I'm supposed to be, when the visitor is visiting.

A Public Service Announcement

This is my brain:

This is my brain on coffee:

Any questions?

The Ketchup Conversation

For those who have been reading for awhile, or those who know me personally, you know what I do for a living. For those who don't: a brief summary...


I'm an on-site manager for a storage facility. For in depth info, you can read about it in a previous post. 


Let me clarify that I'm the only employee. I have no co-workers, it's just me. I answer to one individual, and that's the owner of the facility. My boss. For the purposes of this blog, we're going to call him Bossman Bill.


To fully appreciate Bossman Bill, you should know that he's the most gracious, kind-hearted, friendly sort of fellow who is easy to like, and easy to get along with. He's always been nothing but wonderful to my husband and me, and working for him is really very easy. 


Example of his kindness: when we first took the job and were moving our belongings into the apartment, Bossman Bill noticed that we didn't have a dining room table. "Where do you eat?" he asks. "On TV trays," we replied.


Two days later he showed up with a brand new dining set as a "house-warming" gift.


Keep in mind, we'd only known Bossman Bill for about 2 weeks.


See? Kind-hearted and all-around-wonderful guy.


To say Bossman Bill is frugal is an understatement. This man LOVES a deal. He often calls me to tell me about sales he's found at local grocery stores.


"Abby," he says, "do you like <insert name of product here>? Because if you do, they have a buy one, get one 50% off at <insert name of popular grocery chain here.>"


He also brings me coupon books, office supplies he got for a good price (even if I already have them stocked), huge tubs of cashews or cookies he finds at Sam's Club for a steal, and just about anything else you can imagine.  


It's sort of adorable. I mean, who doesn't love a deal? 


It would also be an understatement to refer to Bossman Bill as a Chatty Cathy. And coming from me, who sprung forth from a family who can talk for hours without breaking a sweat, that's really saying something. But to his credit, Bossman knows it, and makes jokes about it. Because he's so left-brained, he doesn't think anything about explaining something to me, down to the nuts and bolts.


For instance, a few months ago, while B was in the hospital, Bossman Bill noticed that the towel rod in our bathroom was starting to come out of the wall. Bossman Bill, being ever vigilant in making sure we are 100% happy with our less-than-normal situation, immediately went about fixing it.


Now, keep in mind, my husband had just had literal life-saving surgery, so the last thing on my mind was the state of our towel rod. But Bossman Bill called to tell me he was fixing it. He then outlined the products he intended to use, the correct method to patching a hole in the drywall, the measurements (down to the inch) of where the new rod would hang in comparison to the old rod, the color paint he would be using to cover the patch work, and a detailed description of the new rod.


This conversation took about 15 minutes.


Most normal people would have been ready to feed him an hungry mob of zombies.


Me: I half-listened, made occasional "uh-huh" comments, and understood this was his way of taking care of us in the best way he knew how, in circumstances beyond his control.


See? A little annoying, but totally endearing.


Now, I had to tell you all of THAT to tell you THIS.


We often have conversations that make me chuckle. Ok, well, we often have one-sided conversations that make me chuckle.


Yesterday morning, he came into the office with his usual cheerful self. No normal greeting needed:


BB: Do you like ketchup?
A: Um, I mean, yeah we use it, but....(holds breath, waiting for him to hand over 6 bottles of ketchup from Sam's)
BB: Good. I've got something for you. (disappears for a moment, and comes back in with a small object in his hand. I sigh in relief in the knowledge that I'm not going to have to give away ketchup to the next 6 customers who come through my door.) Check this out!
(He hands me this:)

Apparently, the world's coolest ketchup delivery device.

A: Oh, well...that's cool...
BB: It's the new ketchup packet from Chick-Fil-A! I thought they were pretty neat, so I grabbed one to bring you.
A: Wow. Thanks.
BB: See, if you want to squeeze it out, you just tear off the top, but you can also rip the whole top off for dunking.
A: I see that. Pretty nifty.
BB: I thought so. And they told me that Friday is "FRIES-DAY," and if you go and ask for the new ketchup packet, they'll give you a free medium fry with your order! 
A: Oh, cool! That's really cool. I'll have to share that information with B. (thinking to myself--wow! Useful information! I should write this down...)
BB: Now you have to go between 2 and 4 pm to get the free fries.
A: Oh. (thinking to myself, um, I have to work Friday till  five, so this information is now totally useless.) I guess you'll be there, huh?
BB: ME? No way. There'll be a ton of people there. Hanged if I'll stand in line all day for a free medium fry when I have coupons at home that I can use any other day. (A thinks: naturally.) Even the lady that was working the counter said she was thinking about calling in sick. *Chuckle.*
A: Well there you go.
BB: But it's pretty smart of them, dontcha think? I mean, I bet they'll do a ton of business that day with all those people coming in to get those free fries. On regular days, there's almost always a huge line with people waiting in the drive-thru. I bet it'll be standing room only.
A: I know the location in Goose Creek always has a long line in the drive-thru.
BB: Yea, I know the guy who owns that one, and the one in Summerville. His name is Mr. X, and he's the nicest guy. His family lives in.....


I'll stop there and hope that you understand what makes this conversation funny. Because explaining it might take longer than the ketchup conversation in general.

Sunday Funnies

In keeping with the "I wanna be a writer when I grow up" theme, I present you with today's comic, "Agnes."

For more comic-y goodness, visit www.comics.com!

Today's Top Ten: Why My Fingernails Are Destined to Be Short

I just applied for my first-ever freelance writer gig.

Terrified. Absolutely terrified.

I haven't applied for a job since 2003. Which meant total overhaul of my resume, a new cover letter, and writing samples, interspersed with moments of self-doubt and terror.


Since I have no idea if they'll even read my samples, let alone if or when I'll find out about the job, I'll just say that getting this gig could be seriously huge for me. As in doubling my current salary huge. BUT...I'm not going to focus on that. I'm going to focus on continuing to do what has brought me joy for so many years--write. If this gig doesn't pan out, I'll look for another.


Except this one is perfect for me. Wit, humor, obscure references---all required. It's like they know me. Like the mothership is calling me home.


ACK! STOPPIT!


Ok. No more obsessing. Instead, I'm going to do my second favorite thing in life, that has been bringing me joy for not as many, but still a number of, years. I'm going to write a list! Yay!

Top Ten Reasons Why My Fingernails Are Always Short:

1. Because I don't drink milk. So they're brittle and awful, so I just keep them trimmed.

2. Because I have short, husky, troll-like fingers. I imagine I'd look like a transvestite version of Gimli from the Lord of the Rings (who is a dwarf, not a troll) if I had girlie nails. 

He's so pretty.

3. Making jewelry requires nimble fingers. Some ladies can do intricate wire-work with long, lovely nails. Me--because of aforementioned troll-fingers, it's easier for me to work with very short nails.

4. Because things like global warming, rising gas prices, and Lindsay Lohan's legal struggles keep me on edge. Biting my nails relieves that tension.

5. My beautiful new cell phone is a touch screen. I imagine long nails would make it that much harder to navigate. It already takes me twice as long to send a text because of my larger-than-most fingertips. Nails would only increase the pain and suffering of friends who already wait 30 minutes for me to reply, "LOL."

6. I went through an acrylic nail phase a few years ago. I learned two very important lessons with acrylic nails: they murder your real life nails, and it hurts like h-e-double-hockey-sticks when you break one.

7. Part of my "Fat Girl" persona requires me to draw as little attention to myself as possible. (Unless it is from the safety of my computer chair.) So I don't eat large meals in front of friends, I have trained myself to laugh without snorting, and I don't have siren-red she-daggers.

8. Who wants long nails when you need to pick your nose? Not this girl.

9. I type fast. Really really fast. (As in 113 WPM, according to this website.) Nails would slow me down to, like, 90 WPM, and who has time for that? Again, not this girl.

10. I paint my toenails. That's enough for me.

My hubby things I have cute toes. :)

Verizon Wireless--The Cell Phone Company of Champions

My husband and I have been very happy and satisfied customers of Verizon Wireless for about 7 years now. Every time we get to upgrade to a new phone, we get a little giddy. It's got something to do with gadget envy...I'm not sure everyone suffers from that ailment, but we have it in spades in our house.


About 2 years ago, I became the proud owner of a Blackberry Curve. It was my very first smartphone, and I was THRILLED with it. Beyond thrilled. There may have been dancing. This phone was my faithful friend for 18 months. We went everywhere together, and I spent hours updating my Facebook page, looking for recipes, checking my email, and sending text messages. It was a match made in heaven.

This is your phone.

And then....

This is your phone on drugs.

My phone was taken over by tiny gremlins. 


Ok, so, I can't PROVE that there were tiny gremlins in the phone, but it started ACTING LIKE there were tiny gremlins in the phone. First, the track ball started acting possessed. I would tell it to click on Item A, and after clicking, it would shift to Item B and choose it instead. THEN, it started freezing. First once a day, then twice...until eventually, I was having to take the battery out three or four times a day just to get it to work.


I put up with this for about 4 months before saying anything to my husband. Why? Because I loved my Blackberry. And I love Verizon. And I'm not one to rock the boat. Usually.


Then the gremlins started messing with my head. One morning, I got the cheerful alert that let me know I'd received an email. I unlocked my phone, opened the messages icon, and, lo and behold, the date for the day was February 6, 2057.


Heh?


I was Back to the Future for a few days before finally breaking down and telling my husband that I was desperate for a fix.


(PS: Click on that link. Seriously. It's hilarious.)


So I said to my husband, "Let's take it to Verizon and see if the Powers that Be can fix it!"


When I mentioned that my Blackberry was breaking my heart, and I was worried I was going to have to put her down, lots of friends came forward with advice and warnings.


"They'll never let you upgrade early, unless you threaten to switch companies!" Kellie said.


"Make sure you get a guy. Then you can flirt, and they'll TOTALLY let you upgrade early!" announced Ariel.


"Best of luck...they're sticklers about the whole "upgrade" process. You may have to complain to customer service!" Tammy offered.


So, off we went to the Verizon store. Best case scenario, they'd give me a new phone and I'd be on my merry way. Worst case scenario, I'd have to wait until April 5 to do my upgrade, like usual.


So we signed in. I explained my problem. B and I perused all the shiny new phones, and I dreamed of the day when I would have one of my very own.


And then..."Ms. Abby?"


I turned, and there was Luke. My hero. My savior. My Cell Phone Guru.


I went through the problems with him. He laughed at all the appropriate moments, we bantered like old friends, and somehow, in that small 10 minute window, a kizmit connection was made.


Luke disappeared for a few minutes, and came back to tell me the best of all good news.


No, he's not going to buy me a house. He's not Oprah.


But...


"Ms. Abby, they're going to go ahead and let you upgrade to a new phone early!"


The skies opened up, the sun streamed down, and angels sang on high.

My New Droid 2 Global. No gremlins, only fat adorable angels.

And so, though I'm sad to lay my Blackberry to rest, I'm thrilled to the bone with my new phone. The customer service we received was spot on, and I dare say, we even enjoyed ourselves while at the store. Luke will forever go down in history as "Best Verizon Guy EVER," and all my faith in Verizon has been restored.


Thanks to you, Verizon, there's a new love in my life. (No, not the fat angels. The Droid 2 Global.)

It was Love at First Sight.

**Please note that Verizon did not pay me to write this blog. This is a true story, based on my personal experience, embellished adorably with photo-shopped pictures and commentary. Perhaps you've had a different experience, and for that I'm sorry. My response to that complaint: You need Luke. He's the bomb diggity.**