Category Archives: Uncategorized

Why Write?

Posted on June 18, 2013 | 54 Comments

Disappointment isn’t something that I deal with well. More often than not I keep things behind the scenes, but occasionally whining slips out—as evidenced by this post I’ve written and quickly put up before I could go and delete it.

But I’ve been thinking I need a new hobby. This writing thing has been great and I truly enjoy it, but the disappointment and rejection tend to build and create this volcano of frustration and self-doubt that threatens to erupt when even the garbage man refuses to buy my new book.

YOU CAN READ IT WHILE YOU’RE ON THE CRAPPER, YOU FOOL!

Anyway, I have a couple humor-centric posts coming soon, but that’s where my head is. Stuck up my butt in a constant loop of defeat, researching ways to make creative doilies out of cat hair and perfecting my pitch for “Shark Tank.”

But a friend—a writer friend—alerted me to something she had recently read that might resonate, and yes, yes it did. It’s an introduction to “Why We Write: 20 Acclaimed Writers on How and Why They Do What They Do” by editor Meredith Maran.

Below is part of what she had to say:

“Why do writers write? Anyone who’s ever sworn at a blinking cursor has asked herself that question at some point. Or at many, many points.

When the work is going well, and the author is transported, fingers flying under the watchful eye of the muse, she might wonder, as she takes her first sip of the coffee she poured and forgot about hours ago, ‘How did I get so lucky, that this is what I get to do?’

And then there are the less rapturous writing days or weeks or decades, when the muse is injured on the job and leaves the author sunk to the armpits in quicksand, and every word she types or scribbles is wrong, wrong, wrong, and she cries out to the heavens, ‘Why am I doing this to myself?’

It’s a curiosity in either case. Why do some people become neurosurgeons, dental hygienists, investment bankers, while others choose an avocation that promises only poverty, rejection, and self-doubt? Why do otherwise rational individuals get up every morning – often very, very early in the morning, before the sun or the family or the day job calls – and willingly enter the cage?

Is it the triumph of seeing one’s words in print? Statistics show this isn’t a reasonable incentive. According to the website Publishing Explained, more than one million manuscripts are currently searching for a U.S. publisher. One percent of these will get the nod.

Nor can we credit the satisfaction of a job well done. As the ever-cheerful Oscar Wilde put it, “Books are never finished. They are merely abandoned.” Only 30 percent of published books turn a profit, so we can rule out material motivation. God knows it can’t be for the boost in self-esteem. To paraphrase Charlie Chaplin’s depiction of actors, ‘Writers search for rejection. If they don’t get it, they reject themselves.’

Why, then, does anyone write? Unlike performing brain surgery, cleaning teeth, or trading books, anyone can pick up a yellow pad or a laptop or a journal and create a poem or a story or a memoir. And, despite the odds against attaining the desired result, many, many people do. We fill our journals and write our novels and take our writing classes. We read voraciously, marveling at the sentences and characters and plot twists our favorite authors bestow upon us. How do they do it? we ask ourselves. And why?”

In 2001, naturalist Terry Tempest Williams addressed the question in “Why I Write” in Northern Lights magazine.

“I write to make peace with the things I cannot control. I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white. I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write to begin a dialogue. I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things differently perhaps the world will change.”

I don’t know if I would go as far as to say I write in hopes the world will change, but I suppose I write in hopes that my world will change in some way. Writing gives me an escape, and although at times it feels like it makes me a prisoner to my head and leaves me at the mercy of readers who might not be there, I come back. Every day I come back to the words.

And I promise words with less weight in the future, but I just had to vent. Today, that’s what writing is for (the doilies will just have to wait.)

If you write, why do you write? If you read, why do you read?

Like the blog? Buy the NEW book here. Why? It has stories about drunk nuns, Vanilla Ice and adventures at the ATM. Plus, you’ll be cooler than my garbage man. 

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Perfect (Playground) Pitch

Posted on June 14, 2013 | 32 Comments

Playgrounds and jungle gyms were staples in my childhood, and despite the many injuries and near-miss catastrophes, those were good times. And while I’m not sure, I think kids today are missing a lot of the fun, what with their plastic playgrounds and “soft surfaces.”

It’s sad to think that they might never experience the thrill of woodchips and pavement gravel embedded in their knees or get 3rd degree burns from a hot metal slider. Oh, the memories.

But let’s also be a little practical here.

While the general premise of a playground is great, there were some questionable choices in earlier versions. I can only imagine what the first “playground pitch meeting” sounded like decades and decades ago.

Playground pitchers (PP): Children need something to climb other than trees, so let’s construct a whole ground for play on cement, cover it with splintered woodchips for safety and then scatter pieces of metal equipment throughout.

Committee (C): Go on…

PP1: First, we’re going to include a swing with both black rubber seats that will reach inferno temps in the summer and wood seats that provide the likelihood of ass splinters. Don’t worry though, as the splinters will be ignored when swingers get blisters on their hands or their flesh stuck in the metal chains.

There’s also the slight chance that riders might get overzealous, pump extremely high and then jump off and attempt to be Super Grover at the suggestion of their mom, badly bruising their tailbone and then blogging about that 25 years later, but the odds are slim to none. (Editor’s note: Yeah, it happened.)

PP2: Speaking of metal, we will provide numerous unsupported slides of heights from 10-feet to 12-feet with a nice concrete mat at the end covered in woodchips for those riders who slide down headfirst.

PP1: Next to the slides we’ll provide monkey bars so that “chicken fights”—American Gladiator-like contests in which foes hang from the bars and attempt to pull the other off the structure—can be staged. We also see children climbing on top of the monkey bars and hanging upside down above cement by their legs like cave bats.

PP2: The next piece is a “teeter-totter.” One kid sits on one end while the other—preferably of similar weight, but doubtful—climbs up onto the opposite end. They push off and up and down they go!

PP1: With this there is the slight chance that one will purposely get off when at the bottom of the teeter-totter, causing the other user to crash down to the ground at a dangerous speed, possibly breaking their tailbone. Depending on weight distribution, there is also the risk that one user will purposely get off and catapult their counterpart across the park, but that could be fun, too!

PP2: Finally, the “merry-go-round,” a metal structure with rails that children will grab and run around with to speed the structure up before trying to climb on it like Jackie Chan jumping on a moving train. Once on, they hold on for dear life to the handles (and their recently ingested lunches) and either wait for it to stop spinning or drag their feet off the side through the woodchips to slow the thing down.

C: I like where you’re going with this. And just think! In the winter the slide can be iced up, creating a kid cannon that will launch them clear into a hardened pile of frozen snow.

PP1: Exactly. More importantly, those that don’t survive the playground will be weeded out of society, but better to find out early, right? After all, much like lawn darts and eyelash curlers, it’s not the toys that are inherently dangerous. It’s how people choose to use them.

C: Agreed. Add a tetherball court—ropes, balls, children with bad aim. A little knock on the head from a tetherball is an easier way to learn the lesson of avoiding rapidly moving objects than letting the kid step out in front of a speeding car someday, smug in the unrealistic expectation that bad things can’t happen.

This is really a win all around.

Like the blog? Buy the NEW book here. Why? It has stories about drunk nuns, Vanilla Ice and adventures at the ATM. It’s obviously  destined to be an American classic.

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Ask Abby Anything

Posted on June 12, 2013 | 20 Comments

I have a “real” to put up soon, but today I present a completely self-indulgent “Ask Abby Anything” segment. The “TODAY” Show hasn’t called to interview me yet and considering I’m nosy about other people, I thought you might be nosy about me.

Then I realized how vain that sounded and regretted the idea, but it was too late to take it back so I just moped about it for a few days and then decided to shut up and answer your questions instead.

I couldn’t cover them all in this post, so I’ll do the second part shortly—if you don’t find this horribly boring.

Let’s move on.

Surprisingly, the first question wasn’t, “Why do you ramble so much before actually getting to the point?” but rather, “When you write, do you ever feel like any topic is ‘off limits?’ Are there things you want to write about, but shy away from because the blow-back might be too severe?”

Yes and no. I don’t shy away from anything, but at the same time I try to make sure that I’m writing about me more than anyone else. I don’t mean that in a self-centered way, but rather that there are a lot of stories out there that aren’t mine to tell. I have issues—sometimes with other people—but I don’t need to vent that all here. Given the fact that anyone can find anything on the Internet, I also make sure I wouldn’t regret my boss or a relative reading it.

I’ve also changed the direction of my blog a bit in the past year and kind of avoid more serious topics now. For every post that is questionably funny, there are probably 10 “serious” ones that get trashed. I figure everyone has their own crap and gets bored reading about mine all the time. I kind of just want to have fun.

“Have you ever had any funny/awkward interactions from co-workers or other people in your day-to-day life reacting from something they read on your blog?”

Blogging is weird because you never know who has read something. After I published this post, a coworker (with a great sense of humor) made a point to tell me he replaced the paper towel all by himself. There have also been times people have asked me about things I’ve mentioned and I get freaked out until I remember that I blogged about it. It’s nice to know they read, but also weird because I don’t know as much about them.

“When it comes down to brass tacks, do you think beer in the glass or beer in the bottle is more classy?”

I don’t even like beer, which is not a trait I inherited from my mom. However, when I was a cocktail waitress in college I had a woman who insisted I serve her draft beer in a wine glass because she thought it looked classier. Questionable, at best. Final word? I say bottles save you from washing a glass. The end.

“Crunchy peanut butter or smooth? And, more seriously, when did you make the decision to be vegan and why”?

Smooth sunflower seed butter, as I can’t tolerate peanut butter. And while I like almonds, I’m not a huge fan of almond butter.

As for the vegan issue, I rarely ever talk about that here in any depth because I’m not preachy and figure to each their own. The short version is that I was a vegetarian for eight years before I went vegan. My decision was a combination of my own health (another topic in and of itself) and ethics. Once I learned that animal agriculture is responsible for the death of over 56 billion animals worldwide each year–not even counting fish—and that even animals raised under the most “humane” circumstances suffer tremendously, it wasn’t hard to transition.

Given my  history with OCD, exercise and food, veganism also gives me a sense that the food I’m eating has a nutritional and ethical purpose. This helps ease the guilt that has dominated my eating for years and I never feel deprived, only rewarded. A majority of the blogs that I read are vegan/veggie-centered, so if you want recommendations, let me know!

“Why is it you always get the chance to see squirrels dancing? What am I doing wrong?”

I get them drunk on fermented fruit. Also, they signed a contract that barters seeds for a minimum of two hours of entertainment a week.

Stay tuned for part two in which I address hummus, couches and love—and any other questions you want to leave in the comments below. Otherwise, my turn.

“Who is the one person you would like to interview and why?”

Like the blog? Buy the NEW book here. Why? It has stories about drunk nuns, Vanilla Ice and adventures at the ATM. It’s obviously destined to be an American classic.

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The War on Wedgies

Posted on June 9, 2013 | 47 Comments

While I am a grown woman, I’m not “girly-girly” at all, and the description of my wardrobe and beauty regime can be summed up with “comfort” and “if I have to.”

But when you think about it, the things that women do in the name of beauty are rather ridiculous. Do men let strange women attack their face with hot wax? Do they stuff their legs into nylons like a sausage is stuffed in a casing? Do they glue fake eyelashes on their eyelids and stick multiple hoops through their ears?

OK, some of them do, but most of them don’t and neither do I.

I understand wanting to look nice and whatnot, but women just complicate things. Men don’t complicate things. While some women worry if pants make their ass look big, I highly doubt that men worry if a pair of jeans makes their penis look small.

But there’s no greater proof than the comfort chasm between the sexes when it comes down to underwear.

underwear-mishap

Not all underwear, of course, but the fancy crap.

I get that one is expected to own something a bit sexier than a six-pack of Hanes from Target and agree that everyone should have something small (or medium or large) they can wear that makes them feel good. Even if no one ever sees the contents of it in action, a little extra color or some leopard print design might be just what you need to get your proverbial panties out of a bunch some days.

But let’s be practical, people.

For the cost of one pair of those fancy underoos, you can purchase a dozen pair that you won’t have to try and discreetly pull out of your crotch by pretending to get something from the front of your jeans.

Don’t act like you haven’t done it.

For most men, (hopefully) clean is their favorite color of underwear and they would probably rather have you comfortable and happy instead of distracted by the thread creeping far up your ass.

So to summarize: What’s the point of wearing something uncomfortable that practically nobody else sees anyway? Okay, okay. In the interest of balance, I’ll play devil’s advocate.

Perhaps you are some sex maven that can do a triple back flip off your sex swing with perfect form, and wearing a $45 thong is necessary to complete your performance and dazzle the spontaneous suitors you entertain on a daily basis.

But for the majority of us who have retired the sex swing in favor of a Papasan chair, it just doesn’t make that much sense.

And I have to think that if by chance you are swept up in a spontaneous moment, your suitor most likely won’t care if you’re wearing a Victoria’s Secret four-color, invisible line lacy bikini bottom with magic unicorn dust or a Ziploc bag bedazzled with Puff Paint and scented magic markers.

Save the money and the stress of a wedgie-filled existence.

It’s truly what’s inside that counts.

Like the blog? Buy the NEW book here. Why? It has stories about drunk nuns, Vanilla Ice and adventures at the ATM. It’s obviously destined to be an American classic.

P.S. I’m nosy and have to think a couple of you are nosy, so I’m toying with doing an “Ask Abby Anything” post. If you have questions about anything—me, writing, picking up men in Home Depot—either email me or leave a comment on my Facebook page. If I actually have interest, I’ll use them in a future post that will probably embarrass me.

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Talking Dirty

Posted on June 4, 2013 | 38 Comments

If you’re new here, I should tell you that I love my garden and flowers.

The OCD in me takes immense pleasure in dead-heading petunias, picking green beans and pulling out weeds (in both my yard and any other surface that makes me feel twitchy—it’s actually really a curse.)

While Michigan weather is unpredictable, it’s usually a safe bet that you can start planting things any time after Memorial Day, which means we’re getting down and dirty around Chez Abby these days.

But a few trips to the greenhouse and Home Depot combined with my useless need to make puns have enlightened (questionable word choice) me to the fact that the simple act of gardening could also be a great bed to plant the seeds for a budding romance—or at least leaf a good first impression.

So if you’re someone like me whose relationship status is often: “Drunk on allergy medication and just cleaned out the cat’s crap box,” this guide might be just what you need to get down and dirty.

Get Down and Dirty

The most important thing to remember is that no trip to Home Depot (or similar home improvement store that will make you feel like you need all new handles for your cabinets) is official until you loudly proclaim either, “I just want a good stud finder!” or “Where my hose at?”

This establishes your mission—not to simply find tools or get kelp for your yard, but to find someone who will be mowtivated to maybe plant one on you (wink, wink.)

When approached by a possible suitor, be sure to lure them over to the gardening section, as making initial contact around the nails, caulk and nipples is a bit too forward these days—and the puns are entirely too obvious. You’re screwed.

See? Way too obvious.

Once you’ve secured your position in the Garden Center, casually mention that you’re an entre-manure who wants to create Miracle-Gro for small boobs. If they don’t get your humor, move on, as brilliance cannot be wasted on those who can’t till it like it is.

But what’s that, you say? They dug what you said?

Then with the fertile groundwork planted, continue to cultivate the conversation by sharing that although you’re “a bit rough around the hedges, you’re really a kick in the plants” or that you “just finished trimming your bush and are looking for veggies that will ex-seed all your expectations.”

They will probably counter with something that sounds like, “Umm…I’m rooting for you—ha, ha—but I thought you were looking for the aisle that contained cow shit for your garden.” That should be interpreted as, “I think that weed make a great pair.”

But if you’re forced to leave without your stud finder or hose, don’t feel too bad. Remember, it’s the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and at the end of the day, you’re still single and ready to shingle.

gnomes

And of course, there’s no place like gnome.

Like the blog? Buy the NEW book!

Thanks again to everyone who has shared and will continue to share—hint, hint—the news about my new book. If you read it and don’t hate it, I would love for you to write an Amazon review. If you hated it, then you probably hate my blog. And raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, but that’s okay. Some people are weird. Don’t feel bad.

Anyway, the winner of the Amazon gift card as chosen by random.org is Marie! I’ll send you an email today.

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Spring Word Search

Posted on May 31, 2013 | 19 Comments

This isn’t a “real” post.

Well, technically it is considering that I wrote words and published it here, but the “real” post will come on Tuesday, so be prepared for mild amusement and/or disappointment and the winner of my giveaway.

Yes, the giveaway!

The real reason for this post that isn’t really a post is to remind you to 1) read my last post 2) humor me by possibly buying the book and 3) leave a comment so you can be entered to win the Amazon gift card.

With your “to-do” clearly established, I will also add that I wrote this post that isn’t really a post is to 4) thank everyone who HAS read, shared and commented on my last post and 5) welcome all the new followers as a result of those shares and a magical alignment of the stars.

Because I’m saving a “real” post for Tuesday—good lord, I better make sure I have a post done by Tuesday—I thought today would be a good time to do another “Word Search” post.

For the uninitiated, I get some very random and often humorous search terms that lead to my blog. Sometimes I can tell what post led them here, but sometimes I’m confused and a little bit disturbed.

For example, I’m not sure what it means that “emotional constipation” has shown up on the list more than once, but I don’t feel like that’s very favorable for me. Actually, it’s not very favorable for whoever is Googling “emotional constipation.” They really should start up a blog.

Anyway, I present the latest Word Search installment (with my notes in parenthesis.)

  • I’ve got on my big girl panties, bitch bra and shitkicker boots
  • I wish it were socially acceptable to hibernate (whoever Googled this—we should be friends)
  • Fine, whatever. I’ll just date myself.
  • I love stickers and raccoons hunting with pellet guns (who doesn’t?)
  • Peegret—when you wish you would have gone to the bathroom before you left
  • I have to be naked when I drive
  • Banana clips or Polish babushkas? (Forget the meaning of life. This is the important stuff, people.)
  • Woman cites “He hit ‘reply all’” as reason for insanity. Judge accepts plea.
  • Vanilla Ice in a thong
  • Traveling gnomes using the squatty potty and avocado cutters (at the same time?)
  • I wrote “bitch” in my GPS and it lead me to your driveway (I saw you pull in and dove behind the couch)
  • My grandma is totes cray-cray (probably because you use the words “totes” and “cray-cray,” which technically aren’t even real words)
  • My dog calms down after I put a dress on her (please send pictures)
  • I would exercise but it makes me spill my drink
  • I like putting on a show for the neighbor lady with my tater tots (let’s assume tater tots is NOT a euphemism for anything else, shall we?)
  • Boy squirrel glued in a French maid dress cleaning the house (is this a thing? I would totally sign up for that.)
  • I’ll be your dork

I will be your dork for as long as you guys will put up with me. And if you’ve put up with me all the way to the end of this post that isn’t really a post, I will remind you again to enter the giveaway and then come back next time when one person will be announced the winner and everyone else will be disappointed and probably never visit again.

But for now, enjoy your weekend. Unless you’re the person who Googled “I want to nurture Martha Stewart and help her with her bra wedgie.”

In that case, you’re on your own.

Like the blog? Buy the book.

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Abby Still Has Issues and a Giveaway!

Posted on May 28, 2013 | 54 Comments

I wrote another book.

cover2front

You probably have questions, like “Why in the world did you think that’s a good idea?” “Why should anyone buy this? and “How did it feel to find a picture of yourself as a toddler in a bathing suit and realize your boobs are still the same size?”

Well—you little ray of sunshine, you—perhaps writing this book wasn’t a good idea and maybe no one will buy it. But people actually buy Snuggies, so I figured it was worth giving it a go once again.

I say “again” because there are a few of you out there I roped  into buying my first book (or that found it propping open the door of a portable toilet at a campground somewhere in the rural Midwest) who read it and might decide to give this one a go in the comfort of indoor plumbing.

If you do, I thank you in advance for reading this book, the second compilation of neurotic essays from this blog.

(“Neurotic,” not “erotic,” although if that will help sell some copies, I can try and slip in a few pictures of me longingly gazing at a new jar of vegan pesto or something equally lusty. Just let me know.)

Will anyone buy it? I don’t know.

But I’ve had at least 12 people ask me to write another book, and 7 of them weren’t even related to me or drunk at the time of request. Because I’m a people pleaser when that pleasing will validate my many insecurities, I decided to cater to my audience of dozens.

You’re welcome Mom and that creepy guy from Facebook.

Actually, I did it because writing is the one thing I really take pride in, the thing that keeps me afloat when I feel like I can barely keep my head above water (ahem, every day.) So while this book is far from perfect or fancy—much like me, it has some issues — if I can share a little humor with even a dozen people that I am or am not related to that are either sober or half in the bag, then it’s been worth it to me.

And I hope it’s worth it to you.

But if you hate this new book, I suggest you drink while reading it or use it to prop open the door of a portable toilet at a campground somewhere for someone to find.

I’m all about paying it forward.

Speaking of which, here’s the deal.

First, you buy this book HERE in paperback,  HERE in Kindle or out of the back of my car if you see me in person. Then you share this post via Twitter, Facebook, running up and down the street yelling that you just bought a book, etc.  Finally, leave a comment below telling me what you did or plan to do.*

Why?

Because you’ll be entered in a random drawing for a $20 Amazon gift card you can use to buy another copy of my book (since you’re buying it right now) or a life-sized Justin Bieber cutout. Your call. I won’t judge…that much.

I will announce the winner in a post on June 4, so get thee to the Amazon.com!

*If you don’t plan on doing anything but still want to leave a comment, that’s fine. But if you win, I will demand that the gift card can only be used to buy a life-sized Justin Bieber cutout. Although future posts here include underwear and pick-up lines at Home Depot,  I do have some dignity, my friends.

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I Love Not Camping

Posted on May 23, 2013 | 28 Comments

I originally published this a couple of years ago, but seeing as it’s almost “camping season” and no one’s on the Internet this weekend, it’s worth a rerun. Plus, there’s an announcement at the bottom. 

Spring has sprung, which means many people will be packing up to go camping in the coming weeks. I will not be one of them, as I do not camp.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the outdoors and worship the sun and nature. And while I’m not high-maintenance, I don’t find appeal in sleeping on the ground in a tent pretending I’m homeless.

But despite the tent aversion, I do have a bit of camping experience.

When I was younger we had a trailer up north that we spent a good deal of time at in the summer. It was a decent sized rig with a shower, small kitchen, deck, etc., but it was still a trailer.

I fished, shot my bow and arrow (not at anything living, at least not on purpose,) tore around on the 4-wheeler and hit the lake with the inflatable alligator before coming back to nighttime campfires, Cribbage games and attempts to attract bats by throwing random crap up in the air by the park lights.

Such a princess.

I was young, and other than the fact that I rolled out of the top bunk of triple bunk beds—a bed rail was quickly installed—I had no real complaints. Now that I’m older and debatably wiser, I would have many complaints, which is why I don’t even attempt to pretend to want to camp.

Why someone would want to leave indoor plumbing and decent food and increase the likelihood of contracting mosquito malaria, dirt-covered food and being attacked by a baby deer in the woods is beyond me.*

*Of course, to each their own (disclaimer so campers don’t get pissed, although if they’re camping, they shouldn’t have access to Wi-Fi.)

But for those who enjoy camping and would like to recreate this experience at home, I have a few suggestions:

  • Hang your clothes over a wood fire to get that signature smell, the one that will hopefully cover up the other signature smell of musty dampness.
  • While you’re over the fire, singe your eyelashes and grab a hot poker to recreate the experience of starting the fire and attempting to roast anything with a metal stick.
  • Scald the skin on the roof of your mouth in an attempt to eat whatever it is you were trying to roast that didn’t fall into the flame.
  • Hover—a lot—and get used to swatting bugs with one hand while wiping with the other. This takes skill, which is why you will most likely find yourself pissing on your own leg (hey, you wanted to go camping.)
  • Pour sand directly into the bottom of your bathing suit and any exposed crack or opening in your body. If a lake is nearby, also include seaweed.
  • If you feel like getting fancy, spray yourself with a water bottle to recreate the (lack of) water pressure trailer showers provide. Forget about washing your hair (this is actually a positive in my book.)
  • Plant families of the loudest bugs on the planet in your backyard directly next to your window. If available, add in the mating calls of mystery creatures you’re sure are rabid and hunting you down.
  • Roll your meals in damp dirt.
  • Roll your clothes in damp dirt.
  • Roll yourself in damp dirt.

So for those of you starting your camping season soon, may the force be with you. I plan on working in the yard a bit, reading and enjoying the luxury of warm showers, good food I didn’t have to catch and a few good baseball games.

I love not camping.

Announcement time:

cover2front

So I wrote another book.

You should probably want to buy it, and the good news is you can! Exclamation point! Things got done sooner than I expected, so I’ll share the info Tuesday (along with a giveaway.)

Stay tuned!

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A Natural Reaction

Posted on May 20, 2013 | 92 Comments

For every action, there is an equal and opposite overreaction, usually by me.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve realized that I’m great in situations that don’t directly involve me on a primary level. Whereas other people freak out, I remain calm and collected. For example:

Situation: Stepdad cut off part of his finger while using the snow blower a few years ago.

Others: He (understandably) came yelling into the house holding his house-of-horrors hand. Mom (who will deny this) freaked out and started running around while the two of them talked over each other and wasted precious time.

Me: Calmly called 911 and described the emergency while also getting ice ready for the “stub” (if found,) ripping up his Mensa application and Googling “How to Reattach a Fingertip for Dummies” and a recipe for a new vegan cheesecake.

Because it wasn’t my finger and wouldn’t impair my ability to eat or do something of equal importance, I was fine. But there are still those “rare” days when something will happen and on a scale of 1-10 in the crazy department, I come in at about “Lindsay Lohan.”

Situation: A summer thunderstorm.

Others: Some sit on the porch and watch the storm roll in while others go about their business in a normal fashion.

Me: OH MY GOD! We’re going to lose power and all of my food will go bad, not to mention that I’ll miss the ballgame and can’t even go on Twitter to complain that we’re going to lose power! (All of this is said while trying to fit into the Thundershirt my mom has for her 13-lb dog.)

Situation: I send an email, text, etc. or put up a blog post and don’t immediately get a reply.

Others: Probably forget that they sent/posted it and simply go on with their lives.

Me: Fail to realize that not everyone is as OCD as me, and that they might be busy with “social lives” or whatever. Instead, I assume they hate me and are creating a Voodoo doll of my likeness instead of replying to email or reading my blog (If you are creating a doll though, please embellish the boobs quite a bit. I’ll totally buy it from you.)

Situation: Notice that the Kleenex box in my bathroom actually matches the bathroom.

Others: Would never notice this in the first place.

Me: Sigh deeply, realizing that now I can never use the last Kleenex in that box because it perfectly matches the interior of the bathroom and that moment might never happen again.

Situation: A winter ice storm/blizzard.

Others: Some people enjoy the view with a cup of hot cocoa while others go about their business in a normal fashion.

Me: OH MY GOD! We’re going to lose power and I’ll freeze, not to mention that I’ll miss the hockey game and can’t even go on Twitter to complain that we’re going to lose power! (All of this is said while trying to create a blankie fort by preemptive candlelight.)

Situation: Hot gym guy says, “Are you done using this bench?”

Others: Tell hot gym guy if they’re done using that bench.

Me: Translate that to mean, “I don’t even care that right now you smell like IcyHot and have what is either avocado or a booger on your shirt. I think we should run away together somewhere warm and perfect our slow-motion “Baywatch” jog.

Situation: Hot gym guy says, “Abby, remember the restraining order?”

Others: Well, they probably stay away at least 100 yards.

Me: Translate that to mean, “I don’t even care that right now you smell like IcyHot and have what is either avocado or a booger on your shirt. I think we should run away together somewhere warm and perfect our slow-motion “Baywatch” jog.

So as you can see, I’m actually quite a rational person if you sever a limb, suffer a natural disaster a safe distance away from my house or need instruction on how to create a weather shelter cocoon out of catnip-laced blankets.

Overreact? Not this girl, my…OH MY GOD IT’S A SPIDER WHICH MEANS THERE ARE A MILLION OTHERS JUST WAITING TO EAT OFF MY FACE!!!

Ahem. Carry on.

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Those Pearly Whites

Posted on May 17, 2013 | 23 Comments

Aside from the costs involved, I don’t mind going to the dentist. In fact, at the risk of raising my weirdo quotient up a bit, I will admit I kind of even like it.

I’m very OCD with my oral hygiene and have only had one cavity in my 31 years, always getting my Polaroid picture on the“No Cavity Kid” wall and picking a cheap plastic toy out of the toy chest or stocking up on free stickers when I was younger.

As an adult this distinction is no longer special.

I don’t get my picture on a wall, but instead get the bill and a “see you in six months.” This follows an hour of poking and prodding in my mouth with sharp metal objects while asking me questions and making conversation, all the while knowing full well I am in no position to answer with their hands shoved in my mouth.

I still try.

And because I will blog about anything, here is a rundown of my last visit:

  • Even though I arrived early and had to endure 15 minutes of waiting in the lobby listening to the secretaries make witty banter about the women on “The View,” I was soon taken back to the exam room promptly on time. That was nice.
  • I was immediately offered a paraffin wax hand treatment—yes, a paraffin wax hand treatment. The hygienist took me to a small tub of heated wax, dipped my hands and then covered them with plastic and something that resembled giant oven mitts. That was nicer.
  • Arriving back in the exam room, I was given a hot neck pad to put behind my head and then immediately fitted with some sort of new space age goggles and the requisite paper bib that hasn’t changed in 50 years. (The fact that I was wearing oven mitts, a paper bib and goggles is the reason why I wouldn’t want a hot dentist. Mine is old and considerably balder each visit I see him.)
  • The prodding began, followed soon by a few polite questions that—as I mentioned above—I was in no condition to reply to. Between swallowing and opening my mouth to the precise degree of angularity requested, I somehow managed to tell her that I did floss (constantly for the past week leading up to this visit) and I would prefer mint paste and ALL THE STICKERS!!!
  • Several times throughout the cleaning she expressed her awe of my “spectacular home care,” used the words “oral,” “cavity” and “swallow” and made reference to moisture and tight spaces. This caused me to giggle, which resulted in me questioning whether I had really matured since I was 12 years old and requested the bubble gum flavor of toothpaste (and ALL THE STICKERS!!!)
  • After slipping the oven mitts, goggles and plastic bib off, I was given a new toothbrush, floss of the mint “easy-slide” variety and a water bottle.

So even though I didn’t get my picture on the wall, at least my teeth were clean and my hands were soft and supple.

Plus, she gave me a sticker.

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