There's a Milk Monster In Our Midst...

It all started when Dizzy was a kitten. You know---adorable, small, rambunctious. One day he discovered the milk at the bottom of our cereal bowls. And the obsession began.

It was all fun and games at first. He'd hop up in my lap, nudging his tiny little nose toward the bowl. I'd give in to the cuteness and let him lap the milk from among the Fruit Loops, and we would all giggle at the cute little slurpy noises he would make as he gobbled it all up.

Fast-forward a few years and now Dizzy is a full-grown, 10-pound cat. He's still adorable, but he's much bigger now. And much more insistent that he gets his milk prize every morning. He still jumps up in my lap, but if I'm less than agreeable with his begging, he takes matters into his own...paws.

When he's satisfied that he's saturated his paw in enough milk, he'll sit back and slurp it right off of his foot. Loudly. Usually in my ear.

This habit annoys me. It all but infuriates Brian. Being the Dad in this scenario, Brian usually puts Dizzy on the floor with a firm "NO." And Dizzy, knowing which side his proverbial bread is buttered on, will sulk for a moment, then mosy over to my corner of the room.

His M/O has changed a bit over the years. He will find a perch that is as close to his goal as possible (usually the arm of the couch) and stare at me as I eat my cereal. Sometimes his face is less than an inch away from mine.

He doesn't always wait so patiently, but for the most part, he'll allow me to eat at least 3 spoonfuls of cereal before he makes his move. And then, ever-so-slowly, he'll start to creep closer, and closer, and closer, until...

Most of the time, I get relatively annoyed, and relatively quickly, and wind up pushing him out of the bowl. But some days...most days, as soon as he starts making that same slurpy sound...

...I cave in and let him have his fill.

It's worth it, even if I have to eat my Cheerios dry.

Tweezers: Beauty Tool or Means of Torture?

A girl I admired in high school once told me I had really nice eyebrows.

It as one of those rare, odd compliments that has always stuck with me. Here I am, nearly 14 years later, and I still think of her when I examine my eyebrows in the mirror. 

Truthfully, I never plucked a single hair out of my brow-line for years. I was probably 27 or 28 before I even thought about it.

That thought was made possible thanks to a less-than-friendly manicurist at a local nail salon.

I'd gone in with a friend for a pedicure, and was looking forward to being pampered for that blissful thirty minutes. I was not, however, looking to be dissed by the guy who buffs my heels. He took one look at my face as I settled into the massage chair and said, "You want I do your eyebrows?"

Thinking I'd somehow communicated that I wanted 'the works' instead of just the pedicure that day, I answered, "No, just the toes today. Thanks."

He had the audacity to smirk at me, then said, "Ok, lady. But I do eyebrow for ten dolla'. Wax away those ugly hairs." Then he put his fingers over his eyes and waggled them at me.

I was shocked. I had perfect eyebrows! Didn't he know?? I wished I was still in touch with that girl from high school, so I could call her up on the phone and let her wax philosophical about my forehead hair with Mr. Manicure. 

That evening, I came home and studied myself in the mirror. Ok, so there was an errant hair here and there. And to my horror, there was a weird one growing out of the center of my forehead. 

But other than that, my eyebrows were normal. 

Weren't they?

I turned to Google for help and realized that at some point between 1999 and 2007, the natural eyebrow look had gone out of style in lieu of the perfectly sculpted eyebrow, complete with a nearly-architectural arch.

Well, my eyebrows had never had much arch to them at all. They were sort of...flat. Like someone took a ruler and drew a line of hair across my forehead, leaving just enough space between them so I didn't look like Bert sans Ernie.

I began to doubt my friend's kind words, and myself. I immediately went to the drug store, bought my first pair of tweezers, and set to work trying to remedy this hair-fashion problem.

Let me say that whoever devised plucking as a method for hair removal was a sick, sadistic freak. I don't care what anyone says---every single hair you pull out of your face hurts like holy hell. You never get used to it. 

I'm not sure what led me to the conclusion that pulling them all out at once would hurt less than one at a time, but my next move was to schedule an eyebrow waxing from my hair stylist, LeAnn. She is wonderful, and as gentle as can be...but it still hurts. A lot. 

But, with each waxing, I get that perfect, shaped, arched eyebrow that all the fashion magazines say is the number one accessory must-have.

Still, I can't help but miss the days when I didn't have to pluck at all. Mainly because ripping hair out of my face on a regular basis seems like a form of torture that should be reserved for terrorists and the mass murderer guy that Kevin Bacon is hunting on basic cable.

Either way, I'll continue paying LeAnn to wax my eyebrows every 8 weeks. And I'll keep yanking that one weird forehead hair out on my own (before I go see her, because WHO HAS A HAIR IN THE MIDDLE OF THEIR FOREHEAD?) 

Why?

Because I liked being the girl with the perfect eyebrows.

Would An AbbyGabs Coffee Mug Make Your Life Better?

The other day, I posted this thought on Facebook:

And believe it or not, I got quite a responses in favor of an Abby Gabs t-shirt. In fact, many of you requested one to add to your own wardrobes. 

I have to admit, I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about opening a little swag shop associated with my blog. I've actually thought about it quite a bit, mainly because a few of my favorite blogs (Late Enough, Crappy Pictures, Hyperbole and a Half, The Oatmeal) all have shops of their own.

Not to mention my father-in-law, Walt, author of The Lucky Puppy, who launched his shop years before I ever heard the word "blog." 

After about an hour of scouring my blog, looking for items that might make cute t-shirts, I find that I have a few. All they require are a little editing, some funny catchphrases, and a vessel on which to print them up. For instance...

How cute would this be on a coffee mug?:

And I had already thought of this one for my nerdy Comic Con t-shirt...(Saying something like L8 Nerd.) 

I have a few that I could take ideas from, too...like Super Abby:

Or the classic "I Survived the Red Roof Inn:"

Of course, there would be Abby Gabs swag, too---bumper stickers derived from my banner, t-shirts with just the blog logo on it, etc.

The question is: are you guys really interested in this idea? Would you be willing to buy a $5 bumper sticker with my face on it? Would you really wear a t-shirt with a badly-drawn, caffeinated dinosaur on the front? 

So let's put it to a vote. If you'd love to see an Abby Gabs swag shop, vote below. And if there's an illustration you adore that you'd pay to see on merchandise, and I didn't mention it above, let me know which one you're interested in!





I'm curious to hear your thoughts, readers. I will say, I'm probably going to create the nerd shirt for myself, but opening up a shop would be a totally different endeavor! I think it would be fun, and I'm hoping you will, too. Let me know your thoughts in the comments below. 

Addendum

After publishing yesterday's post (all about how I fell in the shower and the subsequent pity party I threw for myself), I managed to trip no less than four times in front of Brian, nearly wiping out each time.

In complete seriousness, he looked at me and said, "If you don't stop it, I'm going to wrap you in bubble wrap."

Cuz I'm first class cargo, readers.

Thanks for all your comments and concerns. I'm on the mend and feeling much better (and brighter) today. But don't be surprised if, the next time you see me, I'm wrapped in yards of bubble wrap. He sounded serious, y'all.

How I Lost My Battle Against Gravity And The Bathtub

So, last Wednesday, I slipped and fell in my tub.

Now, I know what you're thinking, readers. That sounds HILARIOUS! Surely, this post will be filled with a humorous story, illustrated with funny cartoons...and it will most certainly finish with a zinger of a punchline! This is gonna be great!

But in truth, friends and neighbors, it's hard for me to joke about the incident just yet. Mainly because laughing (as well as sneezing, yawning, farting, stretching, and lifting) hurts like hell.

Here's how it went down. If you'll recall, we live in an apartment that was decorated in the early 80s. We have the pleasure of enjoying fake wood paneling, cheap carpet, and a wallpaper-covered piece of plywood that serves as the back splash behind our oven. Needless to say, the tub is no exception to the rule. It used to be one of those with a textured bottom, to help keep its inhabitants from slipping. But since it's been used now for almost 25 years, that helpful texturing is now gone. 

In the past few years, we've spent a fair amount of dough trying to remedy this problem, mostly with bath mats. We've had them in all shapes, sizes, and textures. 

And recently, we'd found one that seemed to work. Sure, it would gradually slide a little to the right from time to time, but we always were able to pull it up, and restick it to the bottom of the tub for maximum anti-slippage. 

So after an hour-long torture session at the gym on Wednesday morning, I wasn't even thinking about the potential for a rib-crushing fall as I stepped into our middle-aged shower. In fact, I was more focused on my aching legs and abs---which is why, when the bath mat came out from underneath me like Tony Hawk's first skateboard, I was more shocked than anything else.

I vaguely remember thinking to myself, while staring at my red toenails as they soared over my head, that I was impressed my pedicure was going on 2 weeks old without chipping.

And then...impact.

If I'd just let gravity take its natural course, and landed on my really round rumpus, I probably would've bounced a couple of times and been fine. However, in an instinct older than time, I tried to catch myself by putting my arms out. It worked---I did manage to catch myself. But  my entire body weight came crashing down onto the lip of the tub, ribs-first, where my arm worked as the brake. I also bashed my head into the wall. I was left breathless and seeing stars.

I sat in the bottom of the tub for what felt like hours, the water beating down on me, trying to take a breath. But the impact had knocked the wind out of me, and the only thing I was able to squeeze out were a few rogue tears. 

My cat, Dizzy, however, had no problem filling his lungs. As soon as I started trying to gasp for breath, he instantly knew something was wrong and began yowling at the top of his voice. I thought for sure that Brian would have come running at this point, but he'd been vacuuming the living room when I'd headed toward the shower. Naturally, despite Dizzy's best efforts, Brian couldn't hear him over the roar of the vacuum. Finally, I took a huge breath, and my chest filled with fire and glass. I shouted for Brian--once, twice, and finally a third time. By the time he found me, the pain associated with the fall had started to set in, and my muscles began shivering in protest.

I came away from the accident with bruised ribs, achy muscles, and a very minor concussion. 

Sounds pretty bad, right?

That's because it was.

So much so that I threw myself a big ol' pity party this weekend. Party excitement included: closed blinds, stretchy pants, pain killers, multiple blankets, junk food, old movies, avoidance of phone calls and text messages, occasional mournful glances at my bruises in the mirror, and absolutely no eye-contact (even with my cats.)

I watched depressing movies, cried a lot, and generally felt sorry for myself, from morning till night. It was SO much fun. Aren't you glad I didn't invite you?

In conclusion, I'll be adding the following items to my 2013 wish list: anti-gravity boots, full body armor, and a football helmet.

Oh, and a new bath mat would be nice, too.

(Look at that! I managed a somewhat snappy punchline after all. Go me.)

Munchkin Quest--Our Newest Obsession

This post is going to read a little like an advertisement. But that's ok. Because Brian and I have a new nerdy obsession, and I absolutely must share it with you. 

Raise your hand if you've ever heard of Munchkin Quest!

***crickets***

Yeah, that's ok. I'd never heard of it either. But in our eternal quest to reach "Nerdvana," we stumbled upon this little board game in the vast reaches of the world wide web. And since it arrived at our door step a few days ago, we have been playing it non-stop.

Munchkin Quest is a dungeon-crawler board game, much like Dungeons and Dragons (so I've heard.) (Dungeon Crawler=Role-playing game where players explore a labyrinth, fighting monsters and using magic along the way.) (Still with me? Ok, good.)

Anywhoo, the purpose of this little game is to wander from room to room, defeating scary monsters, and leveling up your player. Sounds pretty simple, right?

WRONG.

This game has eleventy-billion rules. Seriously. It comes with a rule book 20-pages thick. There are numerous dice to be rolled, a mountain of cards to figure out, and rules upon rules to be memorized. 

But don't let that information daunt you. There are SO many things I love about this game. 

*It is cutthroat. It is way too easy to pull the rug out from beneath your opponent's feet. All it takes is the luck of the draw, and the guts to actually play the card when the time arises.

*It has a sense of humor. What other game do you know of that allows you to curse your opponent by tossing a chicken on his head, rendering him unable to fight with 100% accuracy?

*It is about luck, not skill. It doesn't matter how awesome you think you are at this game, if the cards and the dice aren't with you, then you will not win. (Unless the cards and the dice decide to join your team about halfway through---then it is entirely possible to win, even if you've been down by 5 or 6 levels the entire game.)

But my FAVORITE thing about Munchkin Quest are the cartoons on the cards. They are HILARIOUS, people. You'll draw a weapon that is a Sword That Kills Everything (Except Squid.) You'll fight monsters like the Leperchaun (a leprechaun with leprosy) or the Zombees (undead bumble bees). 

Just to give you a small taste of the Munchkin realm, here are a couple of illustrations depicting how Brian and I ended our most recent game.

Brian as an Elf Warrior, sporting Butt-Kicking Boots,
carrying a Step-Ladder (for those hard-to-reach monsters)
and cursed with an Evil Chicken.

Me as a Halfling Wizard,
wearing the Amulet of Fire-Breath,
with a Fire-Breathing Shoulder Dragon as my pet.

 The hairy toes are my favorite part.

So if you're looking for a board game to while away the hours while you slowly become the nerdiest person in your social group, I suggest you pick up Munchkin Quest. It's a little on the pricey side, but it's definitely worth the gold pieces you'll throw down for it. Because I promise you--you'll be speaking the lingo and tossing around the insults like a true Munchkin in no time.

Our Battle With The Bulge Begins With My Personal Battle With The Alarm Clock

Do you know how many muscle groups it takes to lift a hair dryer, and then blow dry one's hair?

Almost as many as it takes to successfully remove clothing, step into the shower, and bathe.

Of course, I was never really aware of this until recently. You see, Brian and I joined a gym.

It's a small little place, with tons of equipment packed into it. Each elliptical and treadmill has its own television, which works out well for those that want to watch ESPN (Brian) or Jerry Springer (the chick next to me the other day) while they sweat away the pounds.

Me? I'm an iPod girl. All the way. Put some tunes in my ears and I'm ready to go. (Especially if it's the New Kids on the Block.)

We've been at it for a little over a week now. For the first few days, we were going in the evenings after work, just to get the feel of the place and the people who worked there. But as we pulled into a packed parking lot last Wednesday afternoon, we decided that it might be better to try the early mornings before work, in hopes that the line for the water fountain wouldn't be three people deep at any given time.

And it works. Arriving at the gym before 7:00 a.m. ensures us side-by-side training equipment for the duration of our stay.

However, when the alarm clock rings in the wee hours of the morning, we inevitably have a conversation that goes something like this:

Brian wakes gracefully, for the most part. It takes him a few minutes to get the brain engines revved, but once they are, he's up and pleasant and ready to face the day.

Me?

I SUCK at getting up early. Always have, and probably always will. I'm usually cranky in the mornings, I rarely say more than five words at a time, and if you were the one who woke me, then you should rue the day you were born. I'm not a nice morning person. Which is why, when Brian first suggested getting up early for morning workouts, I may or may not have growled at him.

But, believe it or not, it seems to be working. I'm awake and chipper (and sore) by the time we leave the gym. I have more energy throughout the day. And I'm hoping to start racking up some serious pounds lost soon.

Just promise me you'll pray for Brian, y'all. Because he's in charge of waking me each morning. Poor guy.

Meet Captain McSneezyPants

I believe that everyone has their own special brand of super-hero-ness. You might not know it, but there's something about you that could be construed as a super power. Maybe your smile can light up a room, or maybe your soprano high notes shatter glass. Either way, it makes you special. Unique.

I mean, Mary Tyler Moore can turn the world on with her smile.

Donnie Wahlberg can turn the world on with his abs.

And not to toot my own horn or anything, but I can turn the world on with my homemade cupcakes.

My husband's super power, however, isn't always one that puts a big grin on Earth's face. In fact, if he's not careful, Brian's super power can part hair, break windows, and startle someone into a panic attack.

My husband's super power is his sneeze. Let's call them his Super Sonic Sneezes.

When we first started living together, a sneeze from Brian was enough to leave me huddled in the corner, arms over my head, preparing for the ceiling to fall. Seriously. They are that loud. It got so bad that I finally asked him to try and devise a way to warn me when he feels one coming on.

It took a few years, and a few trial runs. Flare guns don't work inside. Tapping his leg didn't help much either, since my clogging background brainwashed me to recognize that sign as the beginning of a hoe-down.

After years of practice and polish, Brian finally has a signal down. It works in almost every situation (although we find it can be slightly dangerous when he is driving.) But regardless, it gives me a chance to batten down the hatches, prepare myself for the thunderous sound that will issue from between his lips, and grab a hold of any expensive vases.




You can imagine our surprise (and dismay) when we discovered that another person on this planet uses Captain McSneezyPants' Super Secret Sneeze Signal. And not only is he using it as a source of adorableness, but also to sell people on a service plan with AT&T.




Uh-Oh. Your Super Secret Sneeze Signal has been compromised. Back to the drawing board, Captain.

Note: I'm not selling anything for Disney, nor am I making any money for posting an AT&T commercial. Both videos just help me illustrate my point a little better. And the kid in that phone commercial cracks me up.

X's and O's

♥ May your chocolates be filled with caramel (and not that weird fruit stuff.)

♥ May your roses be fragrant (and not wilt-y.)

♥ May your Valentine's Day cards be multiple and exceedingly cheesy.

♥ May your conversation hearts be witty and sweet.

♥ May your romantic outings go off without a hitch (but if they don't, make sure you send me the funny story so I can blog about it.)

♥ And most importantly, may yours hearts be full on this, the day Saint Valentine kicked the bucket.

Happy Valentine's Day, from Team Abby Gabs!

For Brian, On His Birthday

I have a present for you.

I wanted to give you everything you've ever wanted: special-edition Transformers from China, a shiny new Kindle Fire, a super-sexy Camaro, all the Doctor Who figures in the world....

I wanted to give you all the impossible things we both dream of but can never have: a room filled with hundred-dollar bills, a giant mansion with the world's best man cave, a trip around the solar system in the TARDIS, a friend by the name of Jean Luc Picard...

If I could, I would give you all those things and more on your birthday. But we don't have much money right now, and no matter how much I try, I can't get a hold of The Doctor. And so, my love, all I have to give you on your birthday is, well, this:

Maybe next year, I can get you that Camaro.

Happy Birthday Brian! I love you to the moon and back!!! 

Further Proof That I Married The Perfect Man

I'm having an Ugly Duckling Day.

You know, the kind of day when you wake up in the morning and, upon perusing your reflection in the mirror, wonder just why in the hell it doesn't break? 

Today, my hair is frizzy, my skin is badly broken out (stress and chocolate does that to a girl,) and my jeans are feeling too tight. I didn't even bother with makeup this morning. "What's the point?" I thought to myself as I tossed the mascara tube back into the bag. "This isn't going to hide the ugly that's all up on my face."

In short, I felt like this:

I slapped on some chap stick, picked the scab off of a nasty zit, and called it a day.

As I wandered into the living room, Brian beamed up at me from the couch. "Good morning, pretty lady," he said, and kissed me with some enthusiasm.

A small piece of ugly cracked off and fell to the floor.

Then, completely unaware of the inner dialogue I had going on in my Ugly Duckling brain, he said to me, "You look cute today."

Another piece of ugly was blasted away by his kind words.

And just a few minutes ago, he looked up at me and said, with utter sincerity, "You're the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world."

I won't go so far as to say that, after a few sweet sentiments from my husband, that I'm feeling like a swan. However, I'm feeling a lot less Ugly Duckling, and a lot more:

Thanks, honey. You always know what to say to this lucky ducky.

How A Weekend Sale At the Mall Made Me Feel Like A Granny

With the holidays comes family, and with family comes after-Christmas-sales.

Well, at least with our family.

And so, a day or two after Christmas, I took Brian's thirteen-year-old cousin, Jenny, shopping.

To say it's been a long time since I shopped in a mall is an understatement. I haven't really set foot in any store (other than department stores, craft stores, and Old Navy) since I was in high school. And clearly, shopping for teenage girls is much different now than it was back in the dark ages, when the dinosaurs roamed the earth. (I.E. 1993).

Anyhoo, Jenny was out to spend some of the Christmas money burning a hole in her pocket, and I was looking forward to coming off as hip, fashion savvy, and fun. Our destination?

Hollister.

The first thing I noticed as we entered the hallowed halls of this teenage fashion mecca was a giant poster of a half-naked boy. Yes, boy. Because I don't think he's old enough to vote, folks.

Source

I stood there for a moment, wondering if the model was trying to sell me a surf board, a diet plan, or clothing. By that time, Jenny had disappeared into the store.

And when I say 'disappeared,' I mean that literally.

Because the second thing I noticed when I followed her inside was the lighting. Or rather, lack thereof. How the heck am I supposed to read the price tags if there's three spotlights in the entire store?

Oh. Right. I get it.

I squint my eyes and glance around in the darkness for Jenny. In normal situations, I would have just called her name. However, the music pumping into the store was so loud that when I shouted "JENNY!" the only thing I could hear was my voice reverberating around in my own brain. So, the usual "Marco Polo" strategy was out. Wishing for a flashlight, I went in search of the shopping teen.

It only takes me a second to locate Jenny and we spend the next thirty minutes perusing the wares for sale. At this point, I'm noticing two remarkable trends. The first? All of the clothes for sale were the bright neon pinks, greens, and oranges of my childhood. (IE: the eighties.) And second? Everything in this store, even the "Extra Larges," are teeny tiny.

Are these clothes for people? Or clothes for dolls? I'm confused.

That's when I notice all the "kids" working at the store are impossibly tall, impossibly thin, and impossibly good looking. Huh. Oh, and they're all wearing "Hollister" brand clothing. In fact, the boy who offered to unlock the dressing room for us was wearing the same thing as a mannequin in the boy's department.

I'm only assuming this is what he said, because I really couldn't hear him at all, and I suck
at lip-reading. However, the sign behind him TOTES said that, because I nearly
took a picture, but I was afraid my flash would scare the natives.

I will say this: the clothes Jenny chose were adorable. A cute green sweater, a sweet little black-knit top, and a t-shirt donned with vibrant green and pink stripes. We took her purchases up to the register, got in the shortest line, and waited. It was nearing closing time, so everyone was making the mass exodus at the same time. After about a ten minute wait in line, we finally got up to the registers. A beautiful young lady with flowing blonde hair smiled, took Jenny's stack of clothes, and started ringing them up.

When I handed her my debit card, she looked at me and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, we don't take debit cards at this register."

Feeling like an idiot, I immediately started looking for the sign I missed. That's when I realized there wasn't one.

"You should really put up a sign that says something to that effect," I said to her, frowning.

Which is why, when she said this:

...I got a little mad.

(And yes, she actually said the letters L, O, and L. She did not, in fact, "laugh out loud.")

However, to her credit, she flagged over a store manager, who opened up the register next to hers and rang us up without forcing us to wait in the "Debit Cards Are Ok" line for another ten minutes. We paid for our purchases, the cute store manager (who maxed out the overall age bracket in the store at 17) handed Jenny her bag, and we headed back for the car.

I had such a terrific time talking clothes and fit and color with Jenny. And she looks fantastic in all the little tops we bought for her. 

However, shopping at Hollister was definitely an eye-opening experience for this 30-something.

But it made Jenny happy. So it was worth it.

Totes.

**I should mention that Jenny and I were accompanied by Brian's other cousin, Shelby. The three of us spent an hour shopping together and had a wonderful time! Shelby is in her early 20s, and I'm sure felt much more comfortable in Hollister.**

My New Shoes

When I was a kid, it didn't take much for my Mom to convince me that spending an afternoon shopping was a good idea. Truly, I've always loved to shop. It didn't matter to me if we were going for a quick ten minute perusal of the hardware store, or if we were going to spend all day bouncing from shopping mall to outlet store---Mom said, "Let's go shopping!" and I said, "I'm in!"

But the two words she could utter to really get my 7-year-old inner shopper excited?

"New Shoes."

Oh yeah. Especially if they were dress shoes.

Mom, actually, wasn't usually too thrilled when I needed dress shoes for some special occasion. Not because she didn't like to shop. But because I had a very specific test for whether a particular pair of shoes was going to work for me or not. And that often involved doubling our time at a store.

You see, it didn't matter to me if the shoes were comfortable. It didn't matter what color they were, or what style. It didn't even matter to me if they had snaps, straps, or laces.

All I REALLY cared about was how they sounded when I walked on a hardwood floor.

Luckily, most of the shoe stores we frequented back in the late 80s came equipped with a handy-dandy little section of linoleum near the front door. Mom would strap me into my shiny new patent leather mary janes, and before she could complete the "where's your toe?" test, I was beating feet up to the linoleum to check out the "clippy cloppy" factor of my new kicks.

Anything that made a sound other than "clippy cloppy" immediately got sent to the rejection pile, much to my mother's chagrin.

I don't think I've ever tried to explain what it is that I love so much about shoes that make that sound. I think, when I was a kid, it was because they made me feel grown up. Important. Like the kids in my class would hear me coming, just like Miss Green in her fancy black pumps.

There may have been some fascination with noisy shoes from the time I was 4, and strapped on my very first pair of tap shoes.

In truth, "clippy cloppy" shoes made me feel glamorous. Like a tiny version of Miss USA, except with even bigger hair, and a hot pink dress. Because hot pink was my favorite color from age 7 to 10. And we all remember how big hair was in the 80s.

Fast forward to my adult years, and the sound a shoe makes on hardwood rarely comes into play when choosing new shoes. In college, it was about fashion. Now, it's about comfort (and some semblance of style.) 

But a few days ago, I spotted a pair of boots that I knew just had to be mine. Sure, they had a slight heel--something I usually avoid at all costs--but everything about them....from the sleek design to the silver side buckle...made me dream of making them mine. Eagerly, I slid them onto my feet and admired them in the tiny little foot mirror. As I started walking around in the carpeted store, I had a flashback to the many times I tapped my way through the shoe stores in my childhood. Noticing a bit of hardwood near the entrance, I grabbed my purse and sneaked over, tapping my toe tentatively on the hard surface. And when the "clippy cloppy" sound reverberated back to my ears, I knew I'd found the perfect pair of boots for me.

Yes, I bought them. Yes, I giggle like a school girl every time I wear them.

Video Proof:


What can I say? These boots have the capability of making me feel like a fashionable, slightly-fancy, grown-up version of the kid I used to be, in all their "clippy cloppy" glory. I say every girl needs a pair of shoes that can do that, am I right?

This post is dedicated to Mom, for all her patience and infinite wisdom when it came to shopping for shoes.

Bring On The Turkey!

"What are you thankful for this year?" I asked my husband today.

"My loving wife," he said, tongue in cheek. "The fact that nursing school is almost over. Supportive friends and family...I'm thankful for new beginnings."

Isn't he so sweet, y'all?

I have to agree with him (especially about the loving wife part. Except insert "husband" where "wife" is, and we've got a winner.) But there are a few...unique things that I'm thankful for this year, other than the usual. And what's the point of having a blog if you can't write about them (in list form)?

I am thankful for...
...the gift of humor.
I like to laugh. A lot. Most days, I laugh at myself, my husband, my cats, my friends, and my television. Sometimes, I just laugh at life in general. (And usually, I document it all here, for you to see.)

...my godchildren.
It's a brand new shiny thing--one that I've never been able to say until this year. But knowing that there are two adorable little ones, just a relatively short drive away, that I'll get to spoil outrageously as they grow up...well, that just gives me the Warm-and-Fuzzies. I love those little babies to bits.

...social media.
That may seem to be a shallow thing to some, but social media has opened up a whole new world of communication for me. I've honed my stalker skills, made some amazing new friends, and gifted myself with a voice solely my own. Tell me that's not something to be thankful for!

...my fuzzy, four-legged children.
When you're all by your lonesome most of the time, it's nice to have a soft kitty, a warm kitty to come sit on your lap. Those little balls of fur own my heart. My house is full of happy, sleepy kitties, and they all like to purr. (If you don't recognize the lyrics I just ripped off of Sheldon Cooper, then your nerd card is revoked, people.) I am also HUGELY grateful that they are all over the stomach bug they passed around for the better part of a month! Yay for no more cat puke!

...having the time to hone my skills as a writer.
I know that, if my life were any different than it is at this moment, I might not have the time to be working on my very first novel. And so, I will be grateful that I have this opportunity, and hope that it will lead to future opportunities down the road.

...wine, chocolate, and other stimulants that make life fun.
I'm particularly looking forward to the apple cider sangria we will be enjoying with our turkey and our stuffing today.

...and lastly...I am thankful for Photoshop.
Because without it, I couldn't wish you a Happy Thanksgiving in a traditional, Abby Gabs sort of way.

Enjoy the pumpkin pie, y'all!!