Are Ya'll Ready For This?

Before there was this version of Abby:

There was this version of Abby:

In case you are squinting at your computer, wondering who the adorably precocious child in fringe may be, let me just tell you. That's an eleven-year-old me. And I used to be a clogger.


"What's that? A clogger, you say?"


Yes. A clogger. For those who don't know what clogging is, let me tell you. 

Clogging is a traditional type of percussive folk dance which is common in the Appalachian Region of the United States, associated with the predecessor to bluegrass - old time music which is based on Irish and Scots-Irish fiddle tunes.

Thanks, Webster.

So you see, when I say I was a clogger, I mean I danced in tap shoes. Not wooden shoes.

To tell ya the truth, I was pretty dang good little clogger, ya'll. I was a dancer with the Tri-City Express Cloggers from Kingsport, Tennessee, and we didn't just dance at weekend festivals and nursing homes. Oh no. We also competed. (Hence the trophies in the picture above.)


My dancin' feet took me travellin', in contests and competitions state wide. One of the more memorable experiences was at Dollywood--a brand spankin' new theme park in Pigeon Forge. We'd practiced, and practiced HARD, for weeks leading up to the Dollywood competition. It was our first time competing in such a large venue, and we had no idea what we were up against.


(PS: Let's take a moment to acknowledge the fact that you're probably laughing at me right now. You know it, I know it. It's totally ok. Let's move on.)


This competition at Dollywood wasn't a 3 hour affair. Oh, no. It was a weekend-long competition. And so our entire troupe--all 8 of us--brought our sequins and our hairspray and our tappy shoes and filled up a small corner of the giant auditorium. We each had our own entourage--parents, siblings, grandparents, friends--and the excitement was palpable.


I vaguely remember a guy wearing all denim and cowboy boots taking the mic and making a brief speech, and then, the competition finally began. We settled into our seats to watch as the first team clacked out onto the wooden stage. There were at least 30 of them, and they were all wearing matching red jumpsuits. Not just any red jumpsuits, but SEQUINED red jumpsuits. 


A collective "WOW" could be heard on our 2 rows as we took in the spectacle. We'd never seen a clogging team like this before. 


And THAT'S when the music started.


The bass pumped through the huge speakers, the synthesizer loud enough to make our already-big  hair stand up even taller. And like a perfectly-oiled machine, the dance troupe on stage began their choreography to the song that would haunt us for the rest of the weekend. You might remember it--a little diddy called "Are You Ready For This?"





(We're going to pause again right here so you can laugh about the awfulness awesomeness of that video. then we're going to move on. Ready? Ok.)


As the red-bedazzled team tippity-tapped their way into the judges' hearts, we just sat there in awe. Where was the blue grass? Or the Garth Brooks? Who were these sophisticates from the big city? How could we begin to compete with our modest costumes and our small numbers? And they were dancing to music so cool and hip, we'd never heard it before! We were doomed.


Twenty minutes and 3 teams later, we were beginning to feel the nerves. Another team, this one decked out in green ruffles, took their places beneath the spotlights. And we sat watching, hearts in hand.


The now-familiar strains of  "Are Ya'll Ready For This?" played over the loud speakers. 


My Dad was sitting behind me, and I remember hearing him say, "Really? Again?"


We sat through another 4 minute routine, the unfamiliar song pulsing in our brains. And when the next team danced to the exact same song, I could see the adults in our group begin to cringe.


By 6 pm Saturday night, we'd heard the song approximately eleven-hundred-and-forty-seven times. 


(What? So I might be rounding up a little. Big deal.)


After our performances were done, we began packing up our little group to head back to the cabins for the night. To say that we were ready to get out of that auditorium---and away from that song in particular---was understatement of the year. As the last team took to the stage, none of us were surprised to hear that fateful question asked of us again.


"ARE YA'LL READY FOR THIS?"


Without rehearsal and in perfect unison, my Dad and 2 other dads stood up and answered with a resounding "NO!"


And our merry little band of cloggers made our way to the exit, laughing all the way.
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Fast-forward to spring of 1994. I was in the eighth grade, and a proud JV Cheerleader. As we jogged out into the middle of the basketball court to perform our first halftime show, my years as a clogger were the last thing on my mind. My parents sat proudly in the stands, and I took one last second to look up and smile before taking my position.


When I looked back up again, the strains of Jock Jams playing loudly in the background, I nearly tripped over my pom poms. Because when the guy yelled "Are Ya'll Ready For This?" both my parents reflexively shouted the word, "NO!"


We now equate that reaction to PTCPD. Post-traumatic clogging parent disorder.

I'm sharing my love of techno music today with my favorite

Blogging Community--Yeah Write. (You totally

thought I was going to say Clogging Community, didn't you?

That's okay. We forgive you.

Especially if you stop by on Wednesday and vote for your 3 faves.

How Blogging Has Improved My Life (The Woven Moments Great Blogging Anniversary LinkUp)

When I first started blogging in February of last year, my only objective was to create somewhere for me to come when I felt like being silly. It was a way to put a small piece of myself out into the world, and I wanted it to be honest. Real. 


And usually silly. 


It gives me an outlet for my creativity, my bad puns, and my daily attempt at humor. And for the most part, I feel like each time I click the word "Publish," I've given my readers another little piece of the Abby puzzle.


The most delightful (and unexpected) thing that came out of blogging were all the perks associated with living in the blogosphere. And today, in celebration of The Woven Moments 1 year anniversary, I'm sharing 5 of those perks with you.


And believe me when I say, if this post drives you to begin your own blog just so you can come visit the Wondrous World Wide Web through the eyes of a blogger, then I'll support you one million percent. (Also, every time a new blogger joins the party, a fairy gets her wings. Just sayin'.)

5 Ways the Blogosphere Has Improved My Life

I always have pictures of myself for internet avatars, passports, Christmas cards, and all other applications where pictures of yourself are relevant. 

And I have Abby Gabs to thank for it. Never before has self-photography been so crucial in my day-t0-day life. For the first few months of blogging, any time I would hand the camera to my husband to take a shot of me posing, it required a 20 minute explanation behind why I was standing on one foot with a silly grin on my face and an imaginary bow-and-arrow in my hands. 

I guess he just couldn't imagine how this picture....

...could eventually become this year's Valentine.

However, I'm pleased to report that nowadays, he just takes the picture. Because usually, the payoff is worth the wait.

On days when life throws me a curve ball that smacks me in the eye, and I'm feeling particularly unfunny, I always know I can turn to the blogosphere for inspiration, support, and ultimately, a good belly laugh.

And on days like that, when I'm nursing a black eye, I know just the blogs I'm going to turn to for that laugh. You will see the influence of Clay Baboons as soon as you open up Abby Gabs in your browser. (Stephanie and I are one of many Robots and Bloggers Against Captcha. Join our cause today.) The Bearded Iris is one of those blogs that makes you put your coffee mug down before you start reading. Inevitably, you will forget this rule, and then you'll be cleaning coffee off of your monitor. But it's a lesson quickly learned, especially if you start with her recent post about poo. And if you love illustrated blogs as much as I do, then Odd But Nice is the place for you. The post in which she begs the PS3 to release her husband from servitude is one of my favorites of all time.

But if you're short on time and just want a quick chuckle, please-oh-please visit Heavy Browsing. What's funnier than making fun of fashion? Making fun of BAD fashion. This blog has everything a good humor blog needs: funny pictures, hilarious captions, and dry humor. It's perfect in every way.

Blogging is a huge asset to my marriage.

On the rare occasions when I say or do something wrong, all I have to do is this:

...and all is forgiven. 

I always knew my close friends and family would read my blog. But I never expected to find a community so willing to embrace my goofiness.

And want to talk about really amazing? I never expected to make friends. I have Canadian friends and Mid-Western friends and Yankee friends and Southern friends. I have people who comment on every single blog I've ever written---and I'm not just talking about my Mom. People have reached out to me on my blog, on Twitter, on Facebook--just to tell me that they laughed because of Abby Gabs. For a writer, nothing feels as good as validation. (So feel free to leave me a comment or two below!) And to know there's a group of people out there in the world willing to read my thoughts on a regular basis is downright invigorating. Thanks to each and everyone of you who have ever offered encouragement, words of advice, and your unwavering support. (You know who you are!)

More than anything, the blogosphere gives me a place to be creative, witty, and downright silly.

I spend the first 30 minutes of my day brainstorming ideas for the day's post. Sometimes I already have an idea planned, and I mentally Photoshop images to fill out the post. Other days, I have a jumble of ideas in my head, all waiting to congeal into one. Either way, as a blog author, I get to have an epiphany every, single day.

Sometimes, that epiphany comes in the form of a creative way to illustrate that epiphany. It's like push-ups for my brain.


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There are a hundred more reasons why blogging has improved my life tenfold. I could keep listing, but for those who read Abby Gabs on a regular basis, you know I have a penchant for odd numbers (particularly the number 5.) So I'll take my OCD, end this list, and wish Ryan (The Woven Moments) and her partners in linky land a very happy anniversary.


Wait...is there cake? Because I like cake.

Sudafed Dreams

Late last week, my husband came home sniffling and coughing. "Don't worry," he reassured me. "It's just allergies."


By Monday night, I was sniffling and coughing, too. (Riiiight. Allergies my ass.)


Brian came home from class bearing a heavy bag from the Target pharmacy. In it were all the goodies required for me to power through a head cold. Zycam, Advil Cold and Sinus, tissues, and the best ingredient of all---Sudafed. (Let it be said that Sudafed is mana from the gods.)


For the last 3 nights, I've been doping up and hitting the sheets, ready for a night of drug-induced sleep. When I say that my dreams have been memorable, that's a major understatement. 


Why else would one have a blog if not so she could share her most bizarre dreams?


Monday Night
Night one of Sudafed.  I was absolutely worn out from a strenuous workout with friend and trainer, Dana. The head cold had hit me, and hit me hard. The last thing I remember was setting my alarm clock. In what felt like less than 4 minutes, it was going off, and I was sitting up in bed, giggling like an idiot. Because, in my drug-addled state, I'd dreamed a dream unlike any other I've ever had.


In it, Dana and I were wandering around in the woods. It became apparent very early on that it wasn't just a regular old bunch of trees and moss that we were traipsing through. No, indeedy. We were wandering around the Forbidden Forest. (You know, from Harry Potter?) We spoke in hushed whispers, hoping not to invite the attentions of unwanted creepy crawlies. Finally, as we scampered over a particularly muddy crest, we saw what we had come looking for.


A blue, sparkly unicorn.


There he stood in all his glory. Dana and I were awed. She leaned over and whispered to me, "Do you think that's him? Do you think he'll be able to teach us what we want to know?"


"All we can do is ask," I replied. And so, slowly, quietly, we made our way down to the unicorn. As we approached him, he slowly opened one eye. And then, miraculously, he spoke.


"The next class doesn't start for 20 more minutes. The mats are over by the wall."


Twenty minutes later, Dana and I took our first yoga class from the unicorn master. Dana couldn't stop laughing, I spent my time trying to ignore her and meditate, and the unicorn was too busy murmuring directions for downward facing dog to notice.

Tuesday Night
I was well into day 2 of the head cold. I could barely breathe, my head was throbbing, and it felt like my eyeballs were about to pop out of my skull from all the pressure in my sinuses. I couldn't WAIT to pop another Sudafed and hit the hay. Brian and I finished watching the newest episode of Blue Bloods (which had saved to our DVR.) As soon as it was over, I crawled into bed and into oblivion.


I woke up Wednesday morning with a giant smile on my face. Not only was I feeling better, but I'd just had a dream about Donnie Wahlberg.


I know. Color you surprised.


In the dream, I was back in high school. I was pretty, popular, and petite. The last bell had just rung, and I headed to my car in the school parking lot. The roaring engine of a motorcycle filled my ears, and my heart skipped a beat. It was Donnie--the leather-wearing, bike-riding, bad boy at school. And he was heading straight for me.

He asked me if I wanted a ride home. I giggled and said yes. And the dream ended with me climbing on the back of his motorcycle and riding off into the sunset. 


Yes, it really did. No, I'm not lying.


Wednesday night
By last evening, I was feeling better, but still slightly nasally. Brian and I completed a 2-mile jog earlier in the afternoon, and the only way I got through it was with Brian's enthusiasm and ingenious idea to chase me making zombie noises when I started to slow down. By 10, I was ready to call it a night. In one last attempt to knock this cold out for good, I took my Sudafed like a good little girl and turned out my bedside lamp.


I bolted upright in bed far before sunrise, cold sweat trickling down my neck. And the vivid dream I'd just had playing in my brain.


I was walking alone down a quiet, country highway. The rifle in my hand was heavy, cold steel. Every single sense was tingling, and I knew I was on alert, though I wasn't sure why. Every footfall sounded like a clap of thunder to me. And as I rounded the bend, the sound of someone following me was unmistakable. 


And when I turned around, my worse fears were realized.


I was being chased by a zombie. And I had led it straight toward camp.

Fortunately, in the dream, I found my bad-ass Buffy attitude and whooped some zombie tush. However, the encounter woke me from a dead sleep, heart pounding. With fear? Adrenaline? Excitement?

I don't know. But zombies seriously creep me out. It's the poor dental hygiene. Oh, and their deep desire for wanting to eat my brains.

Why I Hate The Snooze Button: A Blog in Pictures

Alarm clocks. The bane of human existence since 1807. (I'm guessing. I don't really know when they were invented. But 1807 has a ring to it, so I'm going with it.) Sometime in the 80s, a man intent on torturing wives invented the snooze button. And society as we knew it began to crumble.


I've never been a user of the snooze button. I think it's silly. If you want to sleep until 6:02 a.m., set your alarm to wake you at 6:02 a.m. Don't set it for 5:45 a.m. and then spend the next 17 minutes slapping the stupid thing into submission.


Maybe it's just because I'm a light sleeper. Maybe it's because I'm not a morning person. Or maybe it's because there's nothing more grating that that "BEEP BEEP BEEP" sound. Especially when it occurs much earlier than you'd anticipated.


See, here's how the snooze button works at my house. My husband, ever on the go, inevitably has to be up much earlier than I do. So his alarm goes off before the sun comes up on a regular basis.

You will note that, at the time of the first alarm, the entire household (four cats included) is sleeping soundly. And most everyone will sleep through that first alarm. Except for me.

Brian pommels the clock into silence and falls immediately back to sleep. And I lay there, now wide awake, with the knowledge that over the course of the next 20 minutes, that alarm will go off again. And again. And again.

A million thoughts roll through my head in those first few minutes. "Did he really hit the snooze button? Or did he turn the alarm off completely? What if he turned it off completely---he can't be late for class today. I guess I'll just lay here and watch the minutes tick by, and if he's not up by 6:15, I'll wake him up myself. Great. Perfect. Just wonderful."

Finally, I feel my eyelids begin to get heavy again. Deciding once and for all that he's a grown man who can wake himself up for class, I allow myself to drift somewhere between asleep and awake. My body relaxes, my mind begins to quiet, and I float toward dreamland. And then...

Now I'm mad. Not only am I awake, but Cat #1 realizes I'm awake and begins his "Mommy's Awake So Let Me Wash My Tail and Knead Her Pillow Into Oblivion Until She Pets Me" routine. And Cat #3, our most vocal feline when it comes to meal time, descends from his perch at the foot of the bed and begins yowling for his breakfast. And my husband stretches, yawns, and opens his eyes to the world that I've been aware of now for exactly 17 minutes.

Now Cat #2 joins Cat #3 in the "Feed Me Now" campaign, and Cat #4 begins the "Catch Mom's Toe Under The Blanket" game. And Brian and I lay a moment in silence, both of us aware of what's coming next.

*Full Disclosure: my husband has not used his snooze button since very early on in our relationship. When we first moved in together, he was a 3-times-a-morning snooze button user.  It became apparent a few months into our relationship that his addiction to the snooze button was a possible deal breaker. Eventually he came over to my way of thinking. And he does his waking up on the couch instead of in bed. Which is where I'll be, sound asleep. Mostly. If Cats 1 through 4 cooperate.

The Tree

There's just something about trees.


Here in the South, we have live oak trees. They are huge, and leafy, and they drip with silvery Spanish moss.


But there's one Tree in particular that is more than just another tree. There are few words in the English language that can truly explain this Tree. "Majestic" comes to mind. It's the Angel Oak Tree on John's Island. And it is a sight to behold.

We have tried to explain The Tree to our friends and family. We allow our eyes to grow wide and our voices to lower to a reverent whisper when we speak of its beauty. But its not until we take them to stand beneath her boughs that it truly makes sense. We tell them what to expect, and how they will react. We tell them "you will marvel at its girth, its grandeur, its grace. And you will be awed."

People pilgrimage to The Tree. They come to sit at the base of her massive trunk. They come to place their hands upon the bark. They come to breathe in the smell of earth and fallen leaves. They come to listen to the music of the wind as it sings through the limbs. Conversations stop as they first encounter her, and voices are immediately hushed to a whisper. There's a reverence here, a sense of awe and wonder, of piety. With faces lifted to heaven, a deep spirituality washes over all who enter here.

Pictured: Brian's Aunt Tina--rock star, true friend, and fellow tree enthusiast.

After a few moments, murmured questions arise. "How old is it?" you will ask. And we will respond, "They estimate over 1500 years old." You'll cross your arms, close your eyes, and think back to your high school world history class. You'll think of all the life that was lived beneath the boughs of The Tree. The wars that were fought, the homes that were built and destroyed, the people in bonnets and hoop skirts or feathered headdresses and deerskin leggings who must have journeyed here as well. You think of the hands that have tended The Tree. The people who have dedicated their lives to keeping it healthy. The men or women who have weeded around its base, propped up the limbs that were beginning to crack, and carefully removed those damaged by wind and storm. And you'll place your hands on the rough bark, run your fingers over the lichen and the moss and the knots. And you'll place yourself in The Tree's history, too.

And when the time comes to leave, you'll find it hard to pull away. You'll look back over your shoulder, taking in Mother Nature's imposing work of art, and you will sigh. And as your car bumps down the dirt path of Bohicket Road, you will try to put your adoration into words. And you know, deep in your heart, that The Angel Oak will call to you until you meet again.