It's Just Abbey

Something rather amusing has been happening to me lately. Whenever I am around my parents or family I start to remember random childhood memories. Okay, that’s not the fun part. The fun part is that when I remember them out loud parents don’t remember them the same way I do. My memory tends to have me very victimized and oh so tiny or just very naive. Much like a famous scene in A Christmas Story.

When we first realized that I have a REALLY slanted view of reality I started to think back and recount my childhood from my very first memory. As I did I unearthed one of those memories I really wish I could bury. One of those stories that end with people just shaking their heads at me. Maybe they react that way because I am weird little creature or because we shouldn’t be talking about these stories. We repress them, lock them away and throw away the key.

Let me set the scene for you. I am in fourth grade. I am very impressionable. I am very sheltered. Now, I have already heard my first dirty joke. It was a terrible joke about a 3 piece bathing suit (yeah, I know) with the punch line, “If I put a quarter in the slot and push the button will the bells ring?” It isn’t worth completely telling so just let your imagination fill in the blanks. But you remember those days? All dirty jokes were precursored with “Guys?! You wanna hear the dirtiest joke EVER?!” And everyone crowds around and the joke is whispered. It is secret and taboo.

One day I was sitting at lunch and casually a boy tells a joke. Everyone laughs and giggles into their chocolate milk. I didn’t get it. I wasn’t even sure it was a joke. I thought he was just talking. But not one to be left out of a good giggle fit I played along. No one wants to be the lame-o kid saying, “I don’t get it!!” So I just spent the day confused and upset. I didn’t get a joke! What if this was an important joke? Something fundamental to my childhood. Oh god oh god oh god.

I went home and ran into the living room and confronted my mother and father. I asked them, without any explanation, if they got jokes. My dad just kind of nodded and I busted out the joke.

So a fly is cruising along the river and there is a cat sitting on the river bank. The fly sees something and dives to the water. As the fly dives a fish jumps up really high to eat it. The fish eats the fly and splashes into the water. The water splashes all over the little cat on the bank. What is the moral of the story? Every time a fly drops a pussy gets wet.

My dad looked at my mother. She returned his gaze. Without a moments hesitation they reply that they didn’t get it either. Did I tell it wrong? I shook my head no. My dad just shrugged and said he didn’t get it and it was clearly a lame joke. I agreed and was relieved I wasn’t dumb for missing the point of that joke. It simply meant I had a sense of humor. I high brow sense of humor. I marched up the stairs and never thought a think of it again. Well, until today.

As I look back on that now I am almost horrified. I still barely swear in front of my parents at the tender age of 24 and yet when I was 10 years old I said the phrase, “When a fly drops a pussy gets wet” to them straight faced.

I can only imagine the fast mental conversation my parents had when they made eye contact.

DEAR GOD OUR CHILD IS WARPED FOREVER!
WHERE DID WE GO WRONG?
ACT COOL!

I don’t have the guts to recount this to my parents because either they will remember and never let me live it down or they won’t remember it and just give me a perplexed look. Much like the look my mom gave me when I told her I named my plant Patrick.

I’m not sure what I would do if my sisters Lauren and Taylor spouted that joke at me. I’m 100% sure I would start laughing then lock them in the basement from the evils of the world. Then I would hunt down the twisted little kid who told them that joke and drop kick him halfway across the county.

Speaking of which… I don’t remember seeing that kid much after that little incident… I never really questioned why we moved in the middle of my fourth grade year. Okay Abbey, maybe repressing memories is a good idea…

I met Christopher Moore last week.

If you don’t know who Christopher Moore is get in your car, go to the bookstore and buy the book You Suck or Dirty Job. Read it. I’ll wait.

…

You back? Okay, so guys, I met Christopher Moore. HOW EXCITED ARE YOU?! I know right?! Let me tell you about the insane adventure because it was Classic Abbey.

So he was going to be in Columbus and that is about 2 hours away. I left around 4:30 to be there by 7:30. Perfect. Wrong. I forgot about rush hour. Jesus. How do people in the cities stand it? I want to move to Chicago like whoa but I cannot, repeat, cannot STAND rush hour traffic. If rush hour traffic was a person I would write bad things on bathroom walls about it and then succumb to the madness eventually killing it in the snow and watching the blood steam in the frigid cold.

I got there at about 7:15. As I pulled into the parking lot I realized that I forgot to hit the bank. I needed $20 to get in. FUCK! I threw my car in gear and sped down the street looking for an ATM. I was swearing and cussing the whole way. I used the GPS on my phone trying to find something but I was lost lost lost. I ended up in the worst part of the city and at a very questionable gas station. I was on the phone with Hoppie having a meltdown because I was terrified I wouldn’t make it to see Mr. Moore. I got my money and sprinted to my car. I used my phone to find the place again and then my phone died.

Let me take a moment to explain how terrible it is when my phone dies. I can’t text, call, tweet and I was pretty sure I had no idea how to get home. Shit shit shit.

I got into the building and things got worse. I was being put on the wait list. The show was sold out. They said I could wait and maybe some seats were open but there were about 20 people ahead of me. There was no hope left. They said I could wait the hour and half to get a signature. I was about to cry. I sat in the corner with my book and sulked.

A woman came out and started promising people that they would get free tickets to something else later. Nothing that mattered. I continued to sulk. The woman came over to me and asked me if I wanted free tickets to whatever-the-hell.

This was my moment! I pulled out my best pout and held my book close to me. “No ma’am. I live two hours away. I am just going to stay and get a signature. Thanks.”

Hook. Line. Sinker.

The woman freaked out. TWO HOURS AWAY! She whisked me away and told me I could sneak in the back and watch, but I had to stand. Uh, okay! And I got in! I stood in clear violation of the fire code and watched one of my favorite authors talk to me, I mean everyone. He is almost funnier in person than in his writing. I loved it. And not the best part but I should also mention it was free rendering my whole ATM adventure useless. Fantastic.

Afterwards I stood in the never ending line to get my book signed. Talked to a few other fans and let a kind lady ahead of me. Then I got up to him and tried my very best not the fan girl squee all over him and turn into a puddle of goo. I had it all worked out in my head. I was going to tell him that he was a goof for spelling Abbey without the E and give him a run down on all the variations of the name Abbey. (God help me, I should never meet George Lucas. Can we say restraining order?) But I just mumbled a hello, gave him my book, got a picture and scurried to my car.

I just sat in my car bouncing and trying to find a way home without my phone. Not an easy task because I am directionally challenged. Spoiler alert: I made it home okay.

It was just supposed to be a there and back again journey (Star Wars AND Lord of the Rings? Randal Graves just died a little inside.) (And boom goes the Kevin Smith dynamite.) (Next blog: How to regain readership after nerding out all over the place.) But it turned into a cluster of doom and stress. Nothing is ever simple. Seriously, is anything ever easy? Hoppie keeps telling me that these little adventure are what life are but I think my ulcers disagree.

Don’t get me wrong, I had an awesome time. I am not bummed out about it because these things happen to me all the time. I get lost, scared, confused and bursting into tears on my way to work. There has to be a medication for this kind of thing.

Welcome to the second installment of BFFridays! I won’t dilly dally and just get straight to the awesome.

Today’s friend is… ::drumroll:: The lovely and very attractive Phedre.

I met Miss Phedre in college. We both played tenor sax and we were both afraid of the other one. She thought I hated her, I thought she hated me. Why? Who the hell knows? I was super cool with Brown and our commuting bond and she had her fancy new dragon tattoo and legs that never ended. We were always on speaking terms and generally tolerated the other. Solid foundation for a never ending friendship.

My freshman year I was in this class called Springboard. It was a class where a freshman was pair with an upperclassman to be guided through the rough life of being in college. I was paired up with Spirit McGee who convinced me to be the MC for a Lip Syncing contest. Well, I can’t host one and NOT be in it. I needed back up though but my only friend other than Brown at the time was my middle school friend that followed me to college. She wasn’t the adventurous type and only spent time at home. So I needed someone fun. I was sitting in band practice and just went out on a limb to ask Phedre to be my partner. Very unlike me at the time. I am surprised I didn't pee my pants asking her. She was so COOL! But guess what! She agreed!

We didn’t practice anything we just decided on a song. Lady Marmalade. Two of us. Lady Marmalade.

We threw on gold and silver pants and red and blue boas. Not quite like the video but pretty close!

We stormed the stage and did the most bad ass, schizophrenic performance of our lives. And we won motherfuckers. Well, Phedre won. I was the host so wasn’t eligible. Plus my totally awesome Milli Vanilli joke fell flat. NO ONE GETS ME!

She won a round trip flight to Florida! Yes! Awesome! We got a plan together, get her sisters on board and we flew into Daytona to tear it up! We didn’t have a damn plan. All we had were hotel points and a dream. When we got there we discovered it was Daytona Bike Week and the rest is history. (And tales for another campfire.)

I have some many Abbey and Phedre stories I don’t even know where to begin! There isn’t enough space on the internet for all of our insane adventures. So let’s run down the deets.

Occupation: Student and Oboe Goddess
Hobbies: Being an oboe goddess, driving to Delaware and back, mobster
Location: Ohio and Delaware or somewhere in between
Favorite TV shows: Gilmore Girls and Scrubs. The End.
Favorite Drink: Sex on the Beach. I have no idea if that really is her fave, but it should be.
Car: Honda hand me down. Being the youngest is a bitch!
Favorite thing ever: A cross between her Hippo named Delta or her cat named Abbey. (True story: When she moved away I bought her a yellow cat and named it Abbey. According to everyone at the Phedre Family Manor, that cat is a demon. You’re welcome!)
Proudest moment in life: Anytime she recognizes my casual Scrubs quotes or anytime she can out drink you. Don’t try. You will lose.
Notable boys in her life: Twat Waffle – Now Ex boy who once bought her groceries for her birthday a few days late. Delta – Current boy who lives in “fucking Delaware” and gifted her a pretty nifty Hippo.

Phedre is my outraged best friend. When things go wrong she is on my side no questions asked. She is the friend that slams credit cards on bar tops and screams for more drinks. She is the friend who will threaten anyone who crosses me. She spent the better part of the summer 2007 walking two miles to bars in high heels with me and walking barefoot back. She is my brunette twin. When no one in the world can understand us, we call each other. We get us.

The part about Phedre I will always love the most is her stubbornness to know what you need before you do. This was made clear in her role in the Hoppie fiasco. While I hold Hoppie’s analysis for next Friday, this story is all Phedre. Long story short she knew I liked him before I knew I liked him and this famous conversation took place:

Phedre: So I think I kinda like Hoppie. I should ask him out.
Me: YOU DO?!
Phedre: Yeah, is that a problem?
Me: What? No! Of course not… I mean, you’re single and he’s single… Yeah. No issue. Why would I care? Go for it!

I remember that conversation making me die a little inside for unknown reasons at the time. Phedre on the other hand, the sneaky little shrew, knew exactly what she was doing. Lying to make me face my issues. And guys, I had issues. But more on THAT later.

What more can I say? She is a slammin’ hottie. OH! Her code name. Phedre is the name of the main character in Jacqueline Carey’s Kushiel Trilogy. This trilogy was brought to my attention by my BFF Phedre because she loves those books. Not only does she love them but she has loved them probably before they existed. If she had the money I am pretty sure she would get this tattoo on her back in honor of Phedre no Delaunay, hero of our realm!

This is a full back tattoo. Spanning the bottom of the neck to the tailbone. I should set up a PayPal account! Hey Phedre, if I can raise the money will you get this tattoo!? Oh the nerdiness...

But that friends is my brief rundown on the lovely and talented Phedre.

Have a wonderful weekend everyone and be sure to be back on Monday. Last night’s Christopher Moore Debacle is a blog and a half of craziness. And if you haven’t already, BE MY FAN! Other than that… Happy Easter!

You either hate April Fool’s Day or you OMG love it. Anyone that likes playing pranks is easy to spot and you already know who they are. Anyone who will punch you for being a jerk to them is also a pretty easy one to spot.

But don’t you think that pranking friends is kinda played out if not just mean? What the hell is a practical joke? There is nothing practical about playing jokes on a friend. Unless of course they bet you $500 you can’t prank them. Then if you pull it off, you have $500. Practical. Making people mad or cry isn’t practical at all! Aren’t these people our friends? So I propose a change.

April Cut A Bitch Day!

It is the day we all go around seeking vengeance on an enemy! Yes! All laws are off the table (except murder… That holiday is in June) and you can do as you please!

-Your old roommate bury old dishes in the backyard so he wouldn’t have to wash them? Take a hammer to his Playstaion.

-Get cheated on? Time to steal their front door.

-Some kid broke your Skip it? Find her house and burn it down.

-The guy that told you that you were ugly in high school? Slash his tires.

-That girl that told you that that guys was TOTALLY into you? Slash her tires too for good measure.

-Drive thru lady at McDonald’s give you a quarter pounder when you CLEARLY asked for a double quarter pounder? Find her house and burn it down.

-Some girl steal your boyfriend? Find HIS house and burn it down. Why are you mad at her?

Okay, I am going to stop there because most of these answers result in burning down house or serious car damage. I need anger management, I know but who can afford that? I am paying too many court bills for arson and vandalism.

Short blog today, why? NERD ALERT! I am currently on my way to go meet Christopher Moore (::squee!!!::) and get my copy of Bite Me signed. I have a few things to discuss with him. He is a fan of spelling Abbey without the E. Gross. His only downside… Fun fact though, Mr. Moore penned the novel Fool. Appropriate, no?

Happy pranking everyone! Make sure you keep your friends close. They are the ones who will be bailing you out of jail!

I am at the point in my life where my biological clock is tick tick ticking away and I am getting that early need to take care of something. Usually to keep this at bay one would buy a cat or a dog. My current work schedule keeps that from being a possibility. I work 12 hour shift and would have to neglect whatever creature I have. I have abandonment issues and I would pass those onto my cat or dog. Plus, the dogs my parents have break my heart when they look at me leaving, I couldn’t stand to do it every day.

That being said I have been looking for a way to fill the hole in my heart that wants to love and squeeze something I can call my own.

I should mention one thing before I go on. Due to this need to mother things I have always had a weird quirk (it is probably more of an emotional cry for help or a result of a massive head wound but let’s call it a quirk) of naming everything I own. But not just any names, awesome names. Hoppie gave me a tiger a while back and I named him F. Scott Fitzgerald. My desktop’s name is Delly and my Wii is named Linus. There is a stray cat that lives in Hoppie’s back yard that I have named William H. Macy.

Anywho, today Hoppie and I decided we are going to start a garden this summer. My dad has a kick ass garden and his grandmother used to have a pretty killer one herself so it is something we both clearly think will be awesome and not at all heartbreaking. Nope… Not at all. Yeah…

We’ll call this adventure Operation Planting Hopes and Harvesting Sorrow. This garden will either be a wild success or a crushing disappointment of deadness and doom.

As we walked around Menard’s today with our heads full of hope and our pockets full of dreams I spotted something wonderful. I gasped, grabbed and loved it with all my heart. It was a starter strawberry plant. Just some little vines poking there happy little vine faces out of the dirt. I was in love and demanded we find a pot for him immediately. As we shopped I refused to put him in the cart or let Hoppie hold him. Poor little Patrick would be dead out of my hands.

Yeah, btw, I named my strawberry plant Patrick.

I happily took him home (safely carried in the cup holder) and I will plant him in his new home in the morning. It is rather late and I don’t want him to get a sub-par relocation because his mother was too tired. But he will love his new home. I bought him the nicest organic/low fat soil to happily thrive in and pretty bitchin’ pot to call his own.

It then became a question of where he shall roost. My apartment was completely out of the question because there is no sun on my patio and someone would try to sell him meth. He is too young to be exposed to those things. The only other option was Hoppie’s deck/patio thing. Plenty of sun and the only real concern is being eaten by William H Macy. In my book, that is way better than exposure to drugs and rent control.

I really hope I don’t kill him. I know this a fear all new mothers have so I should be able to get over it soon. But Patrick is so small and tiny! I just want to protect him from all the evils of the world! Drugs, violence, broken hearts, frost and heavy winds. So many things to keep me up at night. I wonder what kind of plant he will become. Will he be lush, rough and full of spirit? Will he be small, shy but very giving? You can never really know these things at this stage of development. I won’t push him or pressure him to be the plant I want him to be. I will nurture who he is and know it is for the best. All I can really do is water him and hope he learns right and wrong and the value of a dollar.

All I know is that I love him and while I have only owned him a few hours I am already as proud as anyone could be of a strawberry plant they bought in a store.

I’ve always loved to torture myself. My yearly bout with NaNoWriMo and when I tackled a marathon last year. Self inflected pain is my favorite kind. I love being stressed and in pain. (If that sounds a tad demented, it is supposed to!)

What does that mean to you gentle readers? It means that you are going on an adventure with me called Script Frenzy. It is like National Novel Writing Month but it is with a script and it starts on April 1st. I will sit down for 30 days and write a 100 page script of epic awesomeness.

This sounded SO much easier in February. I was batting the idea around and finally decided a few weeks ago that I would try it out. I kind of have a plot, I kind of have an idea but I am….

Arg! I already have writers block? I am only 130 words into a blog post and my brain is fried. Maybe it is because I am coming off a 12 hour shift at work but who knows. I am sitting here watching Julie/Julia and feeling very guilty. She is cooking and blogging. I wish I could bone a chicken for you fine people but I just can’t do that. I would probably wuss out, name the duck Brad and take him for a walk in the park.

Damn. Now I want a duck.

I have all that I need to write this script. By that, I mean I have Final Draft 7. Done. I have a plot in mind and am prepared to fumble out a screenplay next month. I have no idea what a formal script is supposed to look like but hey, that is what Brown is for. He will be joining me on this wild ride and he will be my editor hopefully. Frankly I am not sure if he knows what an actual script looks like but I am going to believe that he is a master of all writing arts. He is my Mister Miyagi of writing!

No! We are writing together like Ben Affleck and Matt Damn. He can have first dibs on which is which. But we are writing separate scripts. And I’m not a dude. So, maybe it isn’t a perfect comparison.

So here is the deal. I am starting Script Frenzy in less than 36 hours. I will not neglect my blog and you will be here for every meltdown and blowout. Don’t panic though. It won’t be all I will be talking about. Still keeping up with cake decorating classes, BFFridays, dueling books, and I have at least one race next month. Worry not! And just for your patience, I give you my happy little MSPaint drawing I made while procrastinating this very entry.

PS Now I am craving beef bourguignon. I’m not sure what it even is but it looks tasty. TO GOOGLE!

I am flawed guys.

I will wait for you to finish gasping, fainting and losing faith in all that is real.

It’s true, guys. I have a flaw. Let me explain a few things first before I spill my shame all over the internet.

I once saw a commercial about children who struggle to read where a little girl kept saying “IS-LAND! IS-LAND!” I was so concerned about being that poor bastard in the back of class trying to sound out a word as simple as island. That was when I started diving into books and dictionaries trying to learn every word ever. I never wanted to stumble on words and I wanted to be the best reader ever.

Mission accomplished. Kinda. There aren’t too many words I can’t recognize. I know what they mean and I know how to spell them. I can read books without stopping and saying, “WTF does that word mean?! Damnit Stephanie Meyers and your giant words like glower!”

But see, here is the problem. See this?

hī-pûr'bə-lē

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT SAYS! I never even tried or used the key to figure it out. Who needs a book to tell me how to pronounce things? Not me that's who! So I just learned words by sounding them the fuck out. God, this sounds like I am a moron but I am telling you this because it is true. I say really weird and hilarious things from time to time and I don’t realize it until everyone is making fun of me.

Saturday night I went on a date night with Hoppie. I threw on my knee high black boots, my Abbey Dawn pink dress (thank you Avril, for so many things!) and had my hair looking fabulous. We went to dinner, then to see How to Train Your Dragon and then out to the local club. We were perched at the bar drinking beer and chatting. I was feeling great and started to tell an amazing story. Then it all went horribly wrong.

Hoppie: What did you say?
Me: Hyperbole.
Hoppie: …Abbey, spell that.
Me: H-Y-P-E-R-B-O-L-E
Hoppie: Say it again.
Me: What the hell? Hyperbole! Hyperbole!

Looks like Hoppie is the weirdo here, right? Wrong. I was actually saying “HYPER-BOWL.” Hyperbowl. Let that sink in. Read it again. Apparently that is wrong. Not kinda wrong, but super wrong. Two more awesome examples:

Dad: Abbey, where are you?
Me: At the park near the pavilion. (Pronounced: Pav-a-lion. Jesus.)
~
Me: I’m telling you Hoppie that Zachary Quinto’s eyebrows are the epitome of sexy brows. (Pronounced: Ep-i-tome.)

It really does depress me. I mean, I am a writer for Pete’s sake. I should know how to say words out loud. Hoppie has joked he wonders what goes on in my head and how English sounds to me when I read it. Oh! Another great, classic dialogue:

Me: Why can’t things just be spelled like they sound. It would make everything SO much easier.
Dad: Spell Phonetics.
Me: F-E-N…
Dad: Stop. We’re done here.

I’ve always had a rule that you should never tell people you are smart because they should be able to figure that out without you telling them. But I don’t have that rule about telling people you aren’t a freaking idiot. I’m not an idiot. I swear I'm not. I just CAN’T READ! Ug.

But I can’t be the only one with this issue. Think about the first time you read Harry Potter. How did you read Hermione? Probably not the right way and if you say otherwise you are a liar! Unless you already knew that name existed before those books in which case, whoop dee doo for you.

I have become what I feared! IS-LAND! IS-LAND! My worst nightmare. I am so glad I am not in elementary school anymore. “Abbey, can you read the next three paragraphs? Abbey, why are you hiding under the table?” I think it is where my bizarre form of stage fright comes from. I can go out and make a fool of myself on stage, I will talk to almost anyone and public speaking is fine. When I was in high school and trying out for plays I was always worried I was going to read the word wrong and they would all laugh at me. They would point and ridicule me. They would chuckle and break my Skip It! Kids are terrible.

So that’s it people. I have a soft spot for sounding out words to the amusement of all. But don’t you dare laugh at me. Laughing at me for a mispronounced word is like voting me prom queen then dumping pig blood on me. I’ll kill you with my mind. You shall all suffer.

I was going for a Monday – Friday blog week but a dead internet and passing on the couch like a drunk teenager kept that from happening. Whoops. Also I have decided to start laying out a little Abbey backstory. I’m declaring Friday to be BFFridays! The day I will gush and explain all my strange friends (helping seal the deal of my book deal ::ahem::)

Our first installment of BFFridays is of one of my oldest friends. I will give you the history of his code name first. I texted him asking him who his hero was in the journalism world was. I was hoping that he would respond Bob Woodward, Walter Cronkite, or Wolf Blitzer. Then I could tell you all about my biffle Blitzer and how he is a badass. But no kids, this was the text I got back:

“My journalism hero is CNN’s Campbell Brown, for having a baby less than a year ago and losing the weight fast enough to resume becoming my favorite JILF.”

So I am calling him Brown for now because Campbell, well, I’m calling him Brown. (Sorry Brown, I bet you thought I would go with Crusher but no such luck. Mawhahaha. Big Dawg is a cruel blogger friend.)

Brown and I met our senior year in high school when he moved from Pennsylvania. He was an alto sax. I was a tenor sax. Our friendship was unthinkable. But then I accompanied him to the auditions for the Junior/Senior play. Somewhere between there and our mutual hatred of Somerset Maugham we became best friends. And to understand why we are friends I will reference two key conversations.

1) Setting is in the car on our way to Meijer to get Ninja Turtle action figures after the latest Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie came out.

Me: I was really disappointed with that film honestly.
Brown: What were you expecting?
Me: I dunno, something a little better.
Brown: Like what? The thrilling combination of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Philadelphia?
Me: Mr. Turtle will you please remove your shell.

If you didn’t understand that joke, that is why you aren’t as awesome as Brown. Because he didn’t skip a beat and laughed his ass off.

2) Setting wandering around a bit buzzed in a college graveyard in custom shirts that read “Never gonna give you up” and “It’s the final countdown.” (The dialogue doesn’t matter at this point does it?)

Me: I can’t wait for some sucker to marry me so I can have my Legend of Zelda themed wedding.
Brown: Yeah, my Star Fox wedding will be awesome too.
Me: Oh no! What if people get confused about what Zelda I mean? What if people show up drunk in flapper dress with novels no one wants to read!
Brown: I’m pretty sure no one will think you are throwing a 1920’s Zelda Fitzgerald wedding.
Me: But seriously how cool would that be?

Brown and I have had countless adventures. Like on his 21st we walked 2 miles to get him a free Flaming Dr Pepper shot then a three mile trek to his apartment. We don’t believe in designated drivers and really appreciate a good work out.

He is a mover. Born in Cali, relocated to Pennsylvania then doomed to Ohio. Then he spent a crazy summer in Washington DC, moved to Illinois, and he is now he is in the great state of Texas as a hot shot reporter for a local paper but we are still going strong. Here is the Campbell Brown fact sheet.

Occupation: Reporter and heartbreaker
Hobbies: Reading, rocking awesome glasses, improv classes, making fun of my ex boyfriends, and writing the next big sitcom.
Location: TEXAS! YEAH TEXAS! HE LIKES BELT BUCKLES THE SIZE OF HIS FACE!
Favorite TV shows: Futurama, Arrested Development, It’s Always Sunny in Philedelphia.
Favorite drink: Appletinis (“I took Appletini mix to the reporter party. Abbey, things got a little crazy.”)
Car: VW Jetta names Candide.
Favorite thing ever: Giant crosses of doom
Proudest moment in life: A tie between his first published article and the time the guy at the gas station mistook us for athletes.

So here is a post in honor of my best pal Brown. He will be my partner in crime in April as I try to conquer Script Frenzy (like NaNoWriMo but with a script) and he will always be the first one I call if something from my hilarious past creeps up or if the Onion has something classic. I'm sure he is proud as hell to be the first entry in BFFridays.

Sadly though, Brown’s boyhood dog Patches passed this week. Everyone send him your happy vibes this weekend.

If you haven’t already BE MY FAN on Facebook, or I will cut you! I wanna get stickers or pins and they will be freeeee to any and all fans. See, incentive? It’s just how I roll. Have a wonderful weekend folks!

Word of caution. My little sister is turning 6 (wasn’t she just learning to crawl?!) and my “baby” brother is moving to Fort Hood. Both events happening tomorrow and I am in the middle of a world class freak out as the older sister so readers beware. Don’t worry though, I am quelling the emotions with tequila and chocolate. As long as quelling doesn’t evolve into fueling, I think we are all safe. But more on those things later. Why?

Because last night was the final night of Cake Decorating 101!

I showed up with a double layer cake and a bunch of frosting that really looked like Playdough. Bright colors, a little tough and very, very tasty. On nom nom. You didn’t know Playdough was tasty? Try it. You’ll love it! I promise. Immediate drama because I got out of the car to race inside (always late Abbey! Shame shame) and I managed to swing my cake in the container and it smashed against the side. NOOOOOOOOO! I got inside as fast as I could and fixed it the best I could. A few spatulas, my mother’s help and a prayer salvaged it with minimal damage. Whew.

I cannot say the same for the poor woman in the back of the class. I don’t know how she managed it but she dropped her cake. Just, plop. Dead cake. It was tragic. We all looked with no words of advice. What do you say to something like that? “Oh no, ma’am! You ruined your final exam cake. Tough luck!” We couldn’t tell if she was going to laugh or cry. She somehow put the piece of her broken cake back together and made something decent in the end. Overall, she held it together well. I would have snapped and taken a running leap out the nearest window. That statement is much less dramatic sounding if you know we were on the first floor. Pretend we were on the seventh. DRAMA!

So my mom and I sat there ready to decorate the hell out of our cakes. We learned how to make vines and leaves and sweet peas. That wasn’t the issue. Sweet peas and vines were easy! Of course we both took turns complaining about how hard we sucked but whatchya gonna do? It was the damn roses. You know? The frosting roses from hell.

Now, we know how to make these but I think we were nervous. This was the last cake! Final exam! We broke roses, dropped them, smashed them, and ate them out of fear. Ug. I don’t work under pressure! My mother and I were about to have aneurysms! There were veins in our foreheads were pulsing and all the blood was rushing to our faces. All we had to do was take the rose off the rose nail and onto the cake. Easy? Yes! No! STOP FALLING FACE DOWN!

We toiled into the last minutes of class to finish our fabulous cakes and did it! Huzzah! We even got certificates claiming our accomplishment. Where did I put that resume? I have something to staple to it…

My mom’s cake was pink with a white border. She made three gorgeous roses and had them piled in the middle with a vine and leaf pattern similar to mine and to be fair I copied that design out of a book (kinda.) We were pretty stoked about our final cakes. As we were packing up our things my mom plopped the lid over her cake and SQUISH her roses lost altitude. NOOOOOOO! They were fine one second, and pulverized the next.

Hey Duff, from Ace of Cakes… I’m not sure I am ready for that job yet. Too many terrible things happen and I just can’t take that kind of stress over dessert. Yet. Keep me in mind sir! I will one day be able to handle the daily dilemmas that you are your awesome crew face. One day I shall be one of you. Oh yes.

So other than some cake smashing and rose flattening my mother and I survived our cake decorating challenge. We learned quite and bit and got some bonding time out of it too. Win win I say. We have plans to open our own cake decorating business. Check the papers, we’re gonna be huge!

But Abbey! What will you blog about on Wednesdays now that your class is over? Glad you asked. Guess who signed up for cake decorating 201? THIS KID! Ah yeah! The fun continues in two weeks with royal icing, fondant, and God knows what else. I can tell you this. It will be four more weeks or tears, rage and sugar induced comas. Stay tuned!

So yesterday someone suggested that I become a fan of “Not Being Raped by Ben Roethlisberger” on Facebook. At first I thought, well I am not a fan of Big Ben or being raped… So being raped by him would be a double whammy of suckage. I AM a fan of not being raped by him!

Then I just started to get mad. Why? Because Big Ben Worthlessberger is on my Top 5 People I HATE HATE HATE List. My list of mortal enemies. These are people I just cannot and will not forgive. They could give me billions of dollars and not rape me and I would still feel like poking them in the eye. Let me run that list by everyone.

(List is in chronological order because on a level of hate from 1-10 they are all 11.)

1. The girl who broke my Skip-It.

In case you forget or need a song stuck in your head....

When I was six I moved from Missouri to Ohio. In the first few weeks of school I was trying to find my place in this new group of kids. I mean, they all learned to read together. That is a bond that cannot be broken into easily. So I brought my paper bag of Barbies. Oh Little Abbey. You sad little girl. Who has a paper bag of Barbies?? You look like a little 6 year old sociopath!

So one day my mom went out and got me a hot pink Skip It. I was elated. These were new and cool and no one had one! I was on the path to being Queen Bee now! So I carried that to school like a hunter bringing his kill to the village and the peasants rejoiced. I was the center of attention! Everyone wanted to know my name and sit with me at lunch! I was like the kid with crutches except my toy cost way less and both my legs worked! Neener neener neener!

Then along comes my first mortal enemy. She wanted to play with my Skip It. I allowed her too.

MIIIIIISTAAAAAKE!

She took that thing for a spin like it was a rental car she had insurance on. Sure enough, about 10 violent spins in the ball on the end flew off, into the street and was crushed by a car. She handed back the stick, the only remaining piece of my Skip It, and just said, “Oops” and left. All the other kids just sighed and walked away. WAIT! I STILL HAVE MY BAG OF BARBIES! COME BACK! Ug… Who knows who I could have been if she hadn’t crushed the dreams of my weird little self. Bitch.

2. The kid who told me Santa didn’t exist

This jerk told a whole lunch table of us that he knew Santa wasn’t real and it was just parents tricking us into being good. Thankfully I was not the only one destroyed by the news. I never got over that and just glared at my parents for weeks. Thanks kid for ruining Christmas. Couldn’t just let us find out on our own could you? Admittedly it made the Easter Bunny thing easier to find out.

3. My fifth grade English teacher

This story is kinda graphic and really embarrassing. When I was in 5th grade I was in a new school again trying to make new friends with these new people. I should also note that until this point in my life I had no issue with authority figures. I assumed crossing them or questioning their methods would get me set on fire. I listened to adults no questions asked. (My dad may not agree with that one… )

Anyway one fateful day I was having a digestive nightmare. After lunch I was feeling very sickly. I asked to go to the bathroom. Nope, not allowed. We just had lunch, you should have gone then! I just danced around and took my seat praying to be able to hold it for 40 minutes. I made it 30 seconds before I went up to ask again. She said no and demanded I sit down and not bother her or I would get detention.

Too late. I was moments away from explosion. I jetted out the door and sprinted down the hallway. Internet, I didn’t make it. My little 11 year old self crapped herself running down and hall in a new school. How should I phrase this… This wasn’t the kind of “accident” you could shake out of your pant leg and blame on the dog. No. This was a new pair of pants and a pissed off janitor.

After that terrifying scene I just cried and cried while they called my dad to come get me. That teacher did call to say sorry but come on lady. Wrap your mind around what damage you just did to my psyche. I blame her for ruining my life in middle school.

(this story brought to you by the girl who spent two years trying to convince her college boyfriend that girls don’t poo. A-thank you!)

4. My college roommate

This story is its own blog post but I really don’t want to honor it with that glory. Let me explain as simply as I can. I moved in with this guy friend. It was a plutonic relationship with Phedre’s ex. How could this possibly go wrong Abbey? Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking either.

Basically he flunked out of school, didn’t tell anyone, didn’t pay rent for months, almost got me evicted (twice), was a hog and was a complete loser. Was he doing drugs? No. That would have made sense. No, he was just too busy playing video games. He almost got me EVICTED because he was too busy gaming to find a job. EVICTED. Jesus fish.

OH! And then one night after we almost became homeless, he had the balls to tell me I used too many cups in the apartment and I was being wasteful. He is lucky to have both his eyeballs still working. I was working double shifts and weekend to make sure we were able to live there. I was well within my rights to dirty all the cups I wanted and leave them anywhere I damn well pleased!

He may come up in topics later so his codename will be: Twat Waffle.

5. Big Ben Roethlisberger

Words may not be able to accurately describe this hatred but I shall try. Also, let me be clear that this is not an NFL rivalry hatred. I may be in Browns territory but I am a Chiefs girl born and bred. I have bled red and yellow since the day I was born. But that may have to do with the fact I was covered in placenta and had a raging case of jaundice. Go Chiefs!

Moving on…

You see Big Ben graduated from my high school so he became this hometown hero when he got drafted. He would come to down, schmooze, and basically throw his weight around. Whatever, I didn’t care. Let everyone act like they loved you when you were nobody, whatevs.

Then the year after I graduated I came back to march in the Alumni Band during the Alumni Night at Friday night football. I wanted to do it at least then when I still knew people in band and it was less lame then it already was. Of course, Big Ben is Alumni so he shows up and watched the football game from the pressbox. Whatever.

At halftime the rule usually goes that the Alumni Band can watch the halftime show from the track at center field. Yay! Well, I went to do that and a police officer told us no. No! You know why? Because Big Ben was here and it was a security violation. WHAT?

You’re right sir. From the looks of it, me standing there and him being locked up WAY up there would surely result in his death. I was so pissed. I was being kept from my given place because of fucking Big Ben and his “awesomeness.” Gah. If he had a vagina and was dating my dream man we would have a Taylor Swift song on our hands.

Ever since that I blame him for everything that goes wrong in my life. Why? Mostly because everyone I tell this story to laughs at me for being a nerd and tells me to let it go. But I will not be silenced! I am a tenor sax scorned and I will piss and moan all I want. He is a jerk and anyone who meets him knows this. I would say this all to his foot shaped face but let’s be serious. The guy is huge. So I am just going to sit here from a safe distance and shake my fist at him! Grrr!

Thank you for allowing me to vent as usual! This helped me work off a lot of repressed anger. Who needs therapy, right? Right.

And just so you know I made a Facebook fan page so feel free to become a fan and get all the latest and greatest news about IJA!