Epic Embarrassing Night, Again, Enjoy

Yet another awesome moment for me as I love to provide entertainment for my friends in real time and then share them with my friends online.

Last night we went to a dinner party at our club, but really they sat tables up around the pool and tennis courts. It was a beautiful night. Perfect weather, they had live music and ice sculptures and shrimp cocktail, prime rib and even nachos.

You know that based on what I have said I must be beginning another story that includes an awkward Abbie moment. You so wont be disappointed. I went to this shindig knowing I was dressed up and in close proximity to water. This is why I walked ten feet away from the side of any pool. I know I have a mark on my head with these men. Any one of them would gain tremendous satisfaction of being the guy who tossed Abbie into the pool with her giant orange patent leather espadrille, wedge, platform shoes.

Here is the real deal. I can barely swim. I grew up with a 12 foot deep pool in my backyard and I still sink. I would not be able to swim at all with these giant wrap around and buckle orange cones around my ankles, they really are cute.

Here is my sweet niece in my orange summer shoes. She liked them enough she wanted her picture taken in them. We had so much fun playing with clothes when she came this summer.

Now mix in the fact that I have an undiscovered genetic disorder that makes me gasp for air when I am underwater and it would have been a trifecta of embarrassment when I sank to the bottom of the pool while holding my nose. There would be clapping and cheering while no one noticed I drowned.

They all “owe me one” for various stunts I have done to them, (read about me tipping over their canoes during river trip last month) and I know I have it coming but it cannot be in a pool during dinner and an ambulance call. That would be really embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as when I tackled one of the husbands on the golf course and put him in a headlock, in front of his wife and other men, (I am 5′ 3″) because he ran off with my golf cart key. I have told you, I am Monica Geller.

Here I am taking my picture with my teams winning score in golf.

There are probably more people that would like to toss me in that pool.

I didn’t even realize how easily I could outdo my pool fear in my head, and all alone while just standing. But I did.

Jim asked me to walk up into the tennis pavilion to take a look and help him pick out some golf shoes. The tennis pavilion is like a raised square gazebo. The golf shop set up a little display and the men were getting their party loot or swag.

I wasn’t really interested and he was trying on shoes and not listening to me when I said to pick out the cool looking ones. He was trying on the ones that looked like ever other pair he wears.

I am standing in the middle off all these tables with my super cute orange giant shoes that I knew ROCKED when one of our friends looked at them and said, “No one told me there would be hookers here.” I told him he was jealous and that if he was nice I would let him borrow them as I am sure he wears the same size as me.

Karma, Karma, Karma. As I am standing there and looking so sassy and smart in my hooker sandals I am holding a vodka-cranberry that I have not yet drank and I have my legs crossed at my ankles. Suddenly! an earthquake shook the tennis pavilion and a drunk golfer shoulder checked me.

OK, none of that happened. Go back to legs crossed at ankles. Giant platform heels, little girl (me) rocking ankle because she is bored looking at golf shoes that all look-alike because her husband is making her. Karma. My one ankle rolls but because my legs are crossed it sends my other leg off-center. I am holding my first FULL cup with ice and cocktail so I am concentrating on not spilling. As I am trying to correct my shift in center I yell, “oooohhh! OOO!” and then “AAAAHHHHHH” then you hear WAAAHHBBUMMPP!!! when my feet flew up higher that my waist and I land on my right tush SO HARD I roll up to my shoulder. There is cocktail and ice that rained down like ticker-tape to all four corners of the tennis shop turned golf store. I am laying on the ice and drink and in my white skirt with legs in the air and they are, of course, finally uncrossed. I look around and I have a circle of men around me looking down. One of them announced “Jim, at least she is wearing underwear tonight!”

I know Jim. His face tells me his instinct is to run like he doesn’t know me. It is like the time we were facing a skunk and he pushed me forward and ran in the house. But he didn’t, he helped pull my embarrassed butt up. He was impressed with how NOT graceful my Olympic falling moment was. I think that gets you more points in the falling Olympics. I am a gold winner!!!

I have a sore right hip today. I have ANOTHER “stupid Abbie story” and I have to go figure out what I did to pi$$ off Karma and make it right.

Really though I am so happy I didn’t get tossed in the pool, white skirt and pink underwear.

Have you had an epic fall? This one may tie with my bowling alley fall. I love telling that story! Wearing Other People’s Ugly Shoes. Ok, Wearing Other Peoples Ugly Shoes is funnier. Have you read both and which do you think is funnier?

Abbie Gale, allthatmakesyou.com

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Funny Ending to AWKWARD and a Lesson For Us All


I decided to contact the mom from my kid’s school who sent me the AWKWARD AS HECK NAKED PHOTO OF HERSELF to my phone.

I am soooooo glad I did and so glad I didn’t have to tell her I am not into girls, that way.

I think we can all take away a BIG lesson from what happened to her, (and don’t forget me, as I was handed this AWESOME situation to write about.)

I just copied the text conversation I had with the mom who sent me naked pictures of her boobies this week.


The sliver of the photo and white bubbles are from her.  It took me HOURS to reply, (in blue.)  I get a boobie picture on my phone and “It took forever to get up the nerve to take this” and I am pacing the house chanting…

“What the heck do I do?  What does this mean?  

Ahhhhhh who can I share this freaking hilarious situation with?”

And so I shared it with y’all a couple of days ago.

The first half of the story here Awkward!  What do I do Now?

The aftermath and explanation below.

Deep thoughts by Abbie: 
We all get things in our teeth.  We all get boogers.  We all have boobies.  Just don’t have pictures of your OWN things as in food in teeth, boogers in nose or YOUR boobies on YOUR phone.  OH, and NEVER, ever,  leave your phone with a group of teenagers without a password on it.

-Abbie, allthatmakesyou.com

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All that makes you smile, laugh, think, love, cry or cry laughing.

PS  I promise I wont send you pictures of my boobies.  I may at any time send a picture of something in my teeth or an exceptional booger.  Stop it!  We all get boogers!


Our Most Embarrassing School Art, To Date Anyway

I am running a few of my favorite stories this week.  I will be back soon with new stories, that is if I don’t end up in jail in NYC.  My boys said they won’t miss me much when I am gone since I make them unload the dishwasher.  I reminded them that I wash and load the dishes and so they will have to load as well while I am away.  

Anyone willing to bail my naked ass out of jail?  I know I will be naked because with two drinks and I am drunk and three…NAKED and jail seems like the logical progression for four.  I hear the girls at BlogHer like to party at the conferences, crap.  

Your dad is a BONE doctor!  How can you NOT know there is NOT a bone in it?

I don’t know.  They are sweet.  They are cute boys.  They win classroom awards like, “Most Conscientious”.  These are the only reasons I can think of that the teachers don’t call me when my boys do a project in school and they...just look at the picture.

There are reasons I am not a PTO mom, or a scissor mom, (the ones that come to school to cut things out).  The reasons are because my kids think its funny to make a pasta skeleton and put macaroni testicles and rotinini pee-pee and spaghetti BONE?  I asked what the spaghetti was and he said, “That’s the bone in the pee-pee“.

I know I clearly have more to worry about, judging from this picture, but….




I take a few deep breaths.  I put it into perspective.  There are three types of pasta that makes up the noodle guys junk (oh and we know it’s a noodle GUY, right)  but the dude has no feet.

For all of you with girls I want to remind you that little boys are different.  For little boys, that area is a toy that stays with you.  To quote one of my kids when they were three, “When can I get one of these BALLS out so I can see what they look like?”  Your daughter is putting shoes on her Barbie’s feet right now and I have an anatomically (in)correct foot-less pasta dude on my fridge.

-Abbie, All that makes you smile, laugh, think, love, cry, and hopefully cry laughing.


Sunday Dinner Cancelled, Bring Vodka and Mop

“Sunday family dinner is cancelled.  Bring vodka and mop.”

This was a particularly unbelievable story that began with an innocent shopping trip to the grocery store to make the perfect Sunday family dinner.

I was dressed in a sundress and floating about my kitchen putting away the groceries and planning the meal in my head.

The kids were outside playing with their friends.

Jim was outside golfing with friends.

All was right in the world.

Then I dropped a can of whipped cream.

It just bounced and as I bent over to pick it up it shot diagonally like a rocket.

So I twisted myself and tried to catch it on the bounce.

Wait that isn’t a bounce!


It is shooting all over my kitchen like a Jimmy Neutron jet pack and I am on a three-second delay trying to choose which random direction the can of whip cream will take after the next interaction with any hard surface.

It is a micro fine spray, and it is making its way around my kitchen like a naked picture of a teacher in High School.

I can’t form words as I shuffle around making a sound like, “ahhhhh–ooah-oooooh-eeehh-OOOOHHH!!!!”

I cannot catch the stupid thing.  It finally spins across the wood floors as it runs out of jet fuel.

I look around and I am amazed that all of that fit in that little can.

It was all over the floor and the cabinets and up the walls about 8 feet.  We have dark cabinets with lots of crevices.  It was sprayed up into things at a funny angle.  Up and into things like my dress and under my pony tail.  That picture is of only half of the kitchen.  I may have helped it travel by kicking it on accident.

Whip cream hates me and I hate whip cream now.

Whip cream is sticky and creamy and I am fairly certain was developed by the same terrorists as the “automatic candy dispenser” or “Christine” as I like to call it.

I sent my husband Jim and the boys a text message…

“Sunday family dinner cancelled in lieu of exploding can of whipped cream, think Jimmy Neutron jetpack style.”

I sent my girlfriends a different text…

“Sunday Dinner Cancelled, Bring Vodka and Mop”

Abbie and I love sharing with you, “All that makes you smile, laugh, think, love, cry or cry laughing.”   allthatmakesyou.com

Jimmy Neutron Photo from this website

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The Father I Used to Have (and Sea Monkeys)

My dad is Simon Cowell, not really, but that is how I often describe his demeanor.  I get that from him.  It is far less attractive on a woman, I am told. He is part of who made me and I like myself, even if I tend to “talk like a man.”

He is straight forward in business and in raising two girls.  He is Simon Cowel if Simon were raised in the midwest and literally worked his fingers to the bone.  But he isn’t the strong silent type that daughters often describe their dads as.

He is the kind of man that when a microphone needs to be passed to someone who is good with words he can step up and rustle up an instant speech that will make you laugh and cry.

Everyone will be looking at him with a smile, head tilt and with a tear.

My dad in Michigan is a funny mix of sarcasm, tough as nails, strong as an ox and as anal retentive about cleanliness as Monk and with an extra heaping of smart ass.

He never used my expression, “act like a butt and people will think your a butt” but he taught it to me.

He would call you out if you needed it and when I needed a summer job in college I wasn’t sent to the steel mill’s office to file, he sent me out with a blowtorch and steel toe boots to cut samples over the “cooling beds” of red hot rebar.  He sent me to the noisy “shear” to catch samples of steel bars to grind down for seam allowance tests and to the “yard” to find bundles of rebar to cut and bring back on a fork lift to the lab and inspect.

The guys who worked for him for 20 years would say, “He is about the meanest man I have ever met but he knows what he is doing and I respect him.”  They would also say, “Your dad sent little old you to do THIS job?”

I am sure that the 98 pounds of me with three layers of flame retardant clothing, steel toed boots, protective ear gear and face mask had to look a little funny on me.

He also never said another of my favorite phrases but he taught it to me, “for the love of God, I figure if a man can do it, I surely can.”

When family emergencies arise and you have to be in a hospital waiting room you have to find the humor in this 6′ 3″ man who wont touch the arm rests on the chairs.   Yes, he is that “Monk” from the TV show who doesn’t like germs.

When I was a teenager I came home and discovered my shower head was missing from my bathtub.  I went to tell him thinking we’d been robbed of plumbing fixtures.  He informed me I was “grounded from showers” for not “squeeging” the ceramic tile after I showered to keep water spots from forming…INSIDE THE SHOWER.

He is the kind of man that really does sleep three to four hours a night and carries a bottle of bleach around with him in case anything needs a good scrubbing.

This is why this story will never get old to tell. I

may have been eight years-old. My dad had just mowed the yard and he is hot and thirsty.

My sea monkeys that I mailed away for, that took six weeks to arrive because there was not internet ordering back then, were on our kitchen table.

These were going to be my new pets.  I couldn’t be allergic to sea monkeys, right?  They are underwater and they are cute and the cartoons on the box show them smiling and waiting to be my petsll!  

I am going to be the luckiest girl in town with my own little Sea Monkey Circus.

Photo from “the yeti speaks” here.

My dad had just come in from mowing the yard and grabbed the closest glass of water to the door. He began drinking and I began the phenomenon that occurs when you cannot speak because you are so mortified.

I did the action movie arm outstretched with a slow motion face of “AAoooowwwwaaa!!!!” then “Noooooo!…!…!”

He is downing the glass with his eyes closed and enjoying the cool, refreshing glass of water while sweating and visibly tired from yard work. As he opens his eyes and sets the empty glass down I finally reach him and am sobbing while tugging at his arm.

I am looking to be consoled.

He is looking at me like I have gone mad.

I finally am able to inhale enough to exhale a sentence from my hypervenhilating…


His face.

My God…his face.

His eyes were huge and his head led his body into the kitchen sink.

Turning knob for water. 

Face, mouth, and eyes looking up at ceiling, allowing water to run in and out.

Other hand’s desperate blind feel for the little black levered sprayer.

He is now spraying the water directly into his teeth.

I am silent as he begins the rabid gurgling and spitting.

My tears of horror and sadness are now tears of laughter as this grown man is using his fingernails to pick between each and every tooth.

Will telling this story ever get old?


Me laughing 30 years later…

Once, when I was in college, he asked me NOT to park my dirty car, (boyfriend lived on a dirt road) in his driveway.  He owned a couple of car washes and he said it was as if he were a barber and I was walking around town with a bad haircut.  BTW, I never got a free carwash.

He taught me to work, and that too, I am grateful for.

He also taught me to love unconditionally my children, because in the end, he didn’t. In the end, when my mother died and he remarried he decided he wasn’t my father anymore.  He adopted me when I was three, when my mother married him.  He was the only father I knew for 21 years and I have always loved him.

Even with the rift between my dad that has now spanned 18 years I am still grateful for the gifts he gave me that made me who I am.

I am also grateful that I know to tell my boys that I will love them forever and that they will always be my children.

Happy Father’s Day to my husband Jim and thank you for being the best dad to our boys.

Happy Father’s Day to all of the dads out there and to both of mine.  Happy Father’s Day to all of the people that don’t have their dads anymore or may have never had one and may you, too, find the blessings of the father figures you have had in your life and be thankful for them.

Abbie,  All that makes you smile, laugh, think, love, cry or cry laughing. allthatmakesyou.com

This Stuff Only Happens To Me!

Have you ever felt like your kids school’s teachers and staff think you are disheveled, bonkers or possibly a stripper?  Well, after the story I am about to tell you you will realize that my kids principal and school counselor probably think I am all three.

The night before the first day of school and because this was our first year of being car riders and to two schools no less, I cleaned out the Suburban as the teachers will get a first hand look inside at the schools drop off and pick up lines.

I wouldn’t want them to see how we REALLY live.

Knowing I will finally have time to do some decorating while they are off learning I pile grocery bags of fabric that I have in my house, pieces of granite we have, cabinet door fronts we have had built…ok piles of examples of colors and pillows and wood…all over my front seat to make it easy to grab what I need and ponder while in the lines at school.  The plan is to sneak off to the fabric stores while I’m kid free. I’m thinking I’m so well prepared and getting something done while sitting.  It was good to think so highly of myself for A DAY…

On the first day of school I’m picking up at the elementary school and the principal is out walking the car line.  Keep in mind I’m still gun-shy of all teachers and principals after my less than exemplary behavior as a child.  

And here she comes to talk to me, while I’m in the car, and at my window and not at one of the windows where the car is clean…

she comes to the “a homeless person lives in this car” window.  

As I’m shrinking in my seat as she asks why I don’t have “the tag” with my child’s name and school hanging from my rear view mirror. I say (remember my kids were always bus riders), “I don’t have one.”

She is making the poop face, (like all principals do;) at my pile of house samples all over the front of my car that looks like I’m a hoarder.  I then say, “Where do we get them?”

She says, “At the open house. Did his teacher not give you one?”

Ok, here’s where I wish I could lie, I say, “We didn’t go to open house.” I am now making the poop face.

We go to all open houses. We’ve never missed one. For the love of God my first grader begged not to go and I have been to them there five years in a row. We know the teacher and made a decision to skip this one and I walked him in on the morning of the first day. Anyway, she continues with her nose scrunched up and handwrites his name on a tag (something tells me she wanted them all computer printed).

I spend the next several days saying to myself, I wish I had fewer “New Adventures of the Old Christine” moments…They only get better because that next Monday morning at the car rider drop off line the school counselor opens the door for Peter. This is the same clean backseat from a few from a few days ago.

Except that the entire time I’m saying goodbye to Peter and good morning to the counselor she is staring at the backseat floor right behind me, you know the spot the driver cannot see.  She too is making the teacher “poop face”.  

At the next stop sign I take off my seat belt and look around to find my husbands bright red gym bag stuffed so full it cannot be zipped up and a pile of black hair sticking out all over the floor of the Suburban. It is a black wig that we all know my husband wore on stage last Saturday night, with our friends at a Hospice fundraiser, dressed up as Kiss…to raise money and make people laugh. It now looks like a decapitated head in my backseat shoved in a gym bag or some kind of weird kinky thing or I can’t think of a reason that isn’t during Halloween week to have a long black wig in a duffel bag at the feet of your first grader. Sometimes I feel like I am Old Christine or Elaine from Seinfeld.

– Abbie, All that makes you smile, laugh, think, love, cry or cry laughing!

The Bethenny Frankel Show Called Me!!!

I have to share this super exciting thing that happened about a week ago. I share this because I realize this is probably as far as my very exciting story is going to go. As usual, my frontal lobe is defective and I ramble things off that perhaps I shouldn’t, even to television producers!

As some of my regular readers know I have been busy updating all three of our boys rooms. I had the phone practically in my hand for about a week straight talking to carpet people, painters, and furniture salesperson. I kept measuring and they kept calling me back with info and prices and since nearly all of these contacts were local I was shocked when, while the phone was in my hand, the caller ID said…


Who calls me from Los Angeles, California? I might get Temecula or some other former goat town in California but Los Angeles proper?

I answer, “Hello.”

Pleasant young woman, “May I speak to Abbie… Ssss….how do you pronounce the last name?”

I chuckle and say, “It is just as it looks.” and then I say my married last name and then I say, “I tried to get my husband to take my last name when we got married. It would have been so much easier, _______. It even rhymes, Jim _______.”

Nice lady on the phone chuckles now.

Who am I talking to I wonder? This is the kindest bill collector I have ever spoken with. I’m kidding!

She says, “This is _____ from the Bethenny Frankel Talk Show.”

I have instant heart palpitations. Spontaneous combustion is occurring from my ears up and my kids are erupting into what I can tell already is going to morph into World War III in the kitchen below me.

I move into a spare bathroom on the second floor in hopes she cannot hear my boys and in hopes my boys don’t find me.

I am going to sound cool, sound cool. Bethenny, in my world and my head is AMAZING. I get her. We had similar childhoods. I understand her abrasive, at times, personality and I know that it comes from having to be her own parent and knowing how to “talk like a man.” I get her need to show people she is worth something and has value and her desire to have a family of her own, to do it right. I understand her drive and let me try to say this without sounding nuts, (like I would think anyone else saying this about someone they have never MET) I think she is all that with a side of chips.

When hearing about Bethenny’s new talk show I checked it out online and they were advertising an upcoming show about friendship. They were asking people to submit a letter about any friendship their viewers may have had that was special.

I had just posted my story “Two Broke(n) Girls.” It was perfect timing and so I forwarded it on. The best part, they are going to choose two friends to fly out and be on the show.

Did I think I was going to get chosen?

Of course!

The same way people fantasize about winning the lottery, I am fantasizing about my girlfriend and I running away to CAL-i-forn-“I”-“A” to meet Bethenny Frankel! Heck, I think ALL of my neighborhood girlfriend peeps would fly out for that!

Is she calling to tell me we won?!!!!

My hands are shaking!

She says, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Me, “Yeah. Sure. No problem.” This was said in a much slower and lower tone than my voice really is. Do I always sound like a pot head when I am trying to NOT sound like me?

“Are you married?”

Me, “Yes.”

“Do you have children?”

Me, “Yes, three boys.”

“Oh…how old are they?”

Me, “7, 12, 12.”

“Oh, uh..”

Me, “We have twins. They are the ones that are 12.”

What is wrong with me?!!! Really, I had to explain that the 12 year-olds are the twins and not the 7 year-old and one of the 12 year-olds? I am so distracted by the sounds of my boys screaming, “Mom told you not to give me Charlie horse! I’m telling!”

She asks, “And how old are you?

I say, “39.”

I am now running down the back stairs while I hear my three boys running up the front stairs and fighting like a giant “Fight Club” tumbleweed every step.

I am in a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top with no bra, a very thin tank top.

She asks, “And your husband’s age?”

I say, “39.”

I am now running through our garage towards the driveway.

She says, “Awwww, that is so cute. You and your husband are the same age.”

I am now running down my driveway, but really bouncing, in broad daylight, while I hear my boys who were “against” each other have now turned on me.

I hear the boys screaming things like, “WHERE ARE YOU MOM?!”

Another yells, “I see her! She is outside on her stupid phone, walking down the street.”

Here they all come out of the garage and after me…

I say to the nice girl who works for Bethenny Frankel, “Oh yes, not only are we the same age we are born the same week AND with baby Jesus’s birthday right between us.”

WTF did I just say? What DID I just say?

I am fully prepared to run onto the golf cart path, barefoot, and with my cell phone, sans bra, and with my husbands underwear on as I realize this is a once in a lifetime chance for…I don’t even know what yet.

She is now laughing instead of chuckling. Thank God.

I am thinking, she doesn’t know me and my sense of humor. You can’t say things like that to someone you don’t REALLY know. What if she is Jewish? What does that have to do with anything? What if she thinks I am a religious freak and I really use the term, “baby Jesus” regularly in my speech?

She says, “Have you read “Fifty Shades of Grey?”

When I submitted the “Two Broke(n) Girls”story they were also chatting on Bethenny’s new site about “Fifty Shades of Grey” and how it has changed their reader’s sex life. I, the ever-present smart ass, replies with my post I had also just written that week called, “Poor Husbands and their Wives’ Naughty Books.”

They weren’t calling about the “Two Broke(n) Girls?”

I answer, “NOOO! I can’t read it because my dad will read it first on his Kindle and then he will want to have a book club discussion and I am not discussing a mom porn book with my dad and I cannot borrow a girlfriends hard copy because, well… I don’t know where it has been and what if a page is sticky? My mind would make it into something worse when it was probably just candy hands. Frankly, I feel like I have already read the book since all my naughty girlfriends are giving me the “blow-by-blow” of the three books…”

That is how I talk. Commas do not enter into my speech and my frontal lobe, which is supposed to filter what we say, has apparently completely stopped working.

She is chuckling again, “Yeah, I just wanted to call and see if you had read it yet.”

I say, “Crap, I was hoping you were calling about my post about friendship and the reference letter I wrote to my BFF’s new neighbors when they meet her and decide they hate her at first, (like I did) and why they should give her a second chance. It is honestly funnier than my “Fifty Shades of Grey” post.”

Did I just try to give someone advice on what to put on their talk show? Did I just hint that my “Grey” post wasn’t good?

OH-MY-WORD! What if I get invited to be on a show about the “naughty book?” If I don’t get banned from my kids southern schools for my post about the gay marriage vote in my home state of North Carolina I will FO SHO get shunned if I go on a talk show about a sex and bondage book.

Sign me up as I am sure this means they won’t ask me to come in and be a “scissor mom” or count “Box Tops” for the school PTO after that!

We talked for a few more minutes while I continued to ignore my kids chasing me down the street shouting things like, “ARE YOU TELLING DAD ON US?!” and, “WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?!” and, “YOU SAID YOU WOULD GROUND HIM IF HE PUNCHED ME IN THE SHOULDER AGAIN!” and, “I WANNA TALK TO DAD!”

She told me she, “liked my energy” and I continued to try to act cool, like talk shows call me regularly. I may have said my group of girlfriends were, “The Real Housewives of North Carolina.”

Yep, I did and collectively between that and the other things that slipped past my lips and the three screaming banshees that followed me everywhere, I realize I will probably never hear from that nice girl again.

I have had so much fun telling my girlfriends the story that it is (ALMOST) just as good.

Follow me or start hammer tweeting (here) Bethenny Frankel or post on her FaceBook wall (here) or comment (here) on Pinterest, (I will send you an invitation if you aren’t on even he, he) to give Abbie at “All that makes you…” a second chance because surely I have enough stories for my own show. I have “dirty” school noodle art.

Oooooo…Bethenny could bring in that British Nanny to make my kids stop calling my phone and computer and blog “STUPID.” I think a shock collar and remote I keep in my pocket would work. They say “stupid” and I say PAVLOV’S DOGS! For Pete’s sake people I am kidding! I just did it again! I just told the “Nanny Show” how to do their job.

-Abbie, and I hope we can share all that makes you smile, laugh, think, love, cry and cry laughing. allthatmakesyou.com


God and That Sense of Humor

I just wanted one picture of my nieces at my boys soccer game during their visit last February to NC.  One is a teenager and wasn’t enthusiastic about photo op.  The other niece, while far more enthusiastic, missed her opportunity to smile when her unbridled energy caused her chair to flip backwards. I hit the clicker and as I looked down to check the photo and I saw she was upside down!  No worries as she was fine but…priceless.

-Abbie, All that makes you smile, laugh, think, love, cry or cry laughing.  allthatmakesyou.com


Me, “Come here boys. I want to show you something.”

We all walk into the living room. They are bothered as they are sure I am going to give them a job.

Instead I say, “Who is wiping their boogers on the wall when they are sitting in this chair?”

I point to “Mount Snotmore” and they all three make faces like this…

Then they all start doing that Beavis and Butthead giggle.

I have found things on the wall before…

I shouldn’t be grateful it is just boogers this time, but I am. I am happy it is not a slug or worse.

I ask again who is doing this gross thing and they all simultaneously say it isn’t them.

So it’s this guy again I find in my house from time to time…

I bet it is this one. He just looks like a booger wiper.

I tell them I have bought a BOOGER DNA test from Walgreens and if whomever has done this despicable act comes clean before I get the results I might be more understanding.

It’s Booger-Gate!

They make faces like this now.

Boy, “What? They can do that now?!!”

They begin turning on each other.

Another boy, “Sure they can! If they can do it on those TV shows!”

And yet another boy, “If it was you that put them here, you better tell her!”

Second boy from above, “I put mine in the back seat of the car. Those aren’t mine.”

I am now making this face…

It was a complete “Bogger-Gate” and the worst part is that the other two came clean by telling me where their secret booger stash was, that I hadn’t found yet.

Is this normal behavior for boys? Some boys? Some animals? Expected from the children I birth?

– Abbie, All that makes you smile, laugh, think, love, cry, and hopefully cry laughing.

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Another (Funny at my Expense) Embarrassing Story

I am finishing a story for tomorrow and it makes me laugh every time I repeat it.  I am going to give you a teaser.

It is another, “Why does this embarrassing stuff always happen to me?” Story.

Toddlers shouldn’t know how to Jimmy locks, that well.

Shish kabob skewer removal 

Polishing my bellybutton


“Oh, that rattling is just pasta in our door knobs.”

Watching Oprah leads to far too much waxing for summer than necessary.

“I have to call their mom’s and explain what they saw…Oh, my, word!” 

You know how I have explained that I am a little like Monica Gellar from the old TV show “Friends?”  Not in the cleaning way, (making scrunched up face while shaking head) but in the competitive way.

So I am trying to spread the word about my stories and find readers.  I am trying to cross promote my blog onto other sites.

Circle of Moms is having a contest for the honor of being called a top 25 “Mom’s of Multiples” website.

If you like what I write all you have to do is click this and click vote for me.


I have like six votes, one is from me and do you think Obama and Romney are voting for the other guy?  The contest is only for two more days.  I am always coming in late for these things.  Who starts blogging in 2012 anyway?

If you have any other ideas to get the word out or how to share I would love your feedback.  I am doing this with nearly zero internet experience or marketing experience.  All I have to offer is being me and telling stories.  Grassroots effort without SEO classes, hiring a consultant or someone to tweet for me is my approach.  I’m throwing my stuff out there and if people like it then it will go somewhere, but I need some help getting it out.

Ok, now that whole uncomfortable part is done.

Have a great Tuesday.

Abbie, All that makes you…     allthatmakesyou.com