As the day continues, and the grayness descends on Atlanta, I finally have time to breathe. Not in the ‘Waiting to Exhale’ sort of way, mind you, when the protagonist is all stressed out about her man-life, but more in the “I’ve been gone for 11 days, have 2987 people to write back, 297 bills to pay, one big fat messy house to clean and one horrifically messy desk to find my work in the midst of.” After all, you have to HAVE a man-life to stress about it, I suppose. (Though I’ve been inclined to stress about the lack of men in my life, but for today’s purposes, let’s just go with the aforementioned assumption.) While I’m a fabulous multi-tasker, a world-famous fidgeter and a Royal Member of the Type-A Association of the Universe, it’s times like these that send me straight to the crazy bin. (Figuratively, of course. I believe that despite my over-taxed nature, I’m still on the right side of the sanity line. Or at least I hope.)

Anyhoo, I’ve found myself checking off many an item on my to-do list. I’ll spare you from the details, but think of all of those horrifically mundane tasks that you need to do – such as calling a Doctor’s office who has failed to process your insurance correctly and then having to call your insurance to tell them it’s their fault and then calling BACK the Doctor’s office who demands that you pay them the $700 that you/your insurance company owes them for an unfortunate tambourine-playing fracture of the arm – and multiply it by twenty. Basically, I need an assistant. I think it’s time Aubrey got an Intern.

Between my work (can you say LOOOOONNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGG hours?) and my life (can you say taxes? Bills? Cat hair? Grocery store? Gas for the car? Gallivanting around town being the superstar that I am?) I am having a hard time managing it all. I’m continually pulled in 20 different directions, and as a result, everything gets about 1/20th of the time I’d like to be able to allot to it. Both of my parents are on the “Why don’t you ever call me?” bandwagon (note: I assure you that I talk to my parents more than you talk to yours even WHEN I’m lax in calling them. After all, my Mom calls no less than three times a day!), I haven’t written a letter in what seems like eons, and my house? Let’s just say that I think I’m going to hire a cleaning lady with my bonus. (Is “cleaning lady” politically correct? Should we be using “Abode Sanitizing Specialist of Either Gender” as an alternative?) So please, my friends, forgive me my trespasses, I’m a busy, busy girl.

That’s where the Intern would step in. S/He would delight in all of these little life management tasks – the scooping of the litterbox not so much, but hell, every job has its downsides. S/He could even drive my Saab-alamobile when it isn’t in the shop and when I’m not driving a 2004 Jeep Grand Cherokee whose sound system is making me wonder if Chrysler isn’t getting a BIT better in its automobile manufacturing. While S/He is at it, they could also get gas on my Exxon card – I’d pay, of course. S/He could watch all of the Netflix movies I have sitting around and report back a synopsis. S/He could present me with my daily schedule – lunch with Val, Dinner date with [insert whoever I have a date with on said night] here, Grocery shopping on Thursday – no, scratch that, S/He could also go Grocery Shopping. (Then again, she would have to go with my darling roommate who, despite being oh-so delectably darling, is a very VERY fast grocery shopper. Though he WILL hold girlie products of the Playtex variety AND carries the 20 lb. box of cat litter while I trail behind him like a happy puppy.) Ok, scratch scratching that. I kinda like my Grocery outings.

I should place an online application! Calling all organized, kind, hot (if you’re a male – if you’re a gal, well, you can’t be hotter than me. I do have an ego to protect) recent grads – one-of-a-kind internship comin’ your way. Want to have a first-hand look at what goes into being the fabulous, the (not-so) famous Aubrey Sabala? Want to learn how to make the perfect cocktail, grow your organizational skills, and add a great first job to your resume? Come on – the job market is tight. You know it, I know it. What I’m offering is a letter of recommendation from a writer (oh, how I can embellish!) vouching that you, my future intern, are the bee’s knees. (I’ll even say just that. “[Insert your name here] is just the bee’s knees. I can’t remember getting by without [him/her]. You should hire them. And while you’re at it, wanna date me?” ) It’s a win-win. You get to be my lackey intern, get a fabulous letter of reference from a world-renowned writer (ahem, embellishment. See?) and I get my life to go back to normal. Must not be allergic to cats, boys that eat eight times a day, or nail polish – I really like nail polish, you know. Bonus points to hot young males with scruffy beards and curly hair. (Think Tad from “Friends.”) All ages (21-28), sexes (sorry, hermaphrodites, you kinda skeeve me out) and nationalities (ooh, if you were British or Australian, that would just be TOO much! Tasty!) will be considered. We here at Aubrey Sabala, Inc. are an equal opportunity employer, after all.

Any takers?