Eight days, Two countries, Two weddings, eight events, countless glasses of wine and a ton of pictures later, I’ve returned to this lovely state just in time to enjoy the aftermath of a hurricane. It was a whirlwind, it was a blast, and it’s possible that I’ll never feel normal again (and by “normal”, I mean “hangover-free.”) I’m sitting here staring at my suitcase, willing it to unpack itself while my forehead is peeling off in a lovely manner. And the week ahead…well, let’s just say it may be one of the busier, hectic weeks I’ve had in a while and I’m seriously considering playing hooky on my life.

If only I could.

That’s the funny things about vacations…you leave with the best of intentions to take it easy, to finally relax, but when you return, tanned and (not sure how this happened) 7 lbs. lighter, you also return absolutely exhausted. Which is why there’s only one thing that has been on my mind today.

I need a vacation.

“You have sad eyes,” he said. “You miss someone.”

I instantly disagreed, at least in my head. To the waiter, I smiled.

Missing was only one of the many emotions that have taken over my days as of late. Excitement, anticipation, exhaustion, anxiety, stressing, ebullience, diligence, multi-tasking – those all came long before missing. And this week? No, missing was not the predominant feeling…instead, sunburning, fruity drinking, snorkeling and relaxing took precedence. And yet…

These past few days, I’ve held the role of an observer. Going on vacation by yourself, especially to a tropical island, has allowed me to sit back and watch as much as I wanted. People scoffed at the idea…”going so far away, how will you entertain yourself?” I assured them that years of business travel all over the world, my impetuous nature and my 27+ years of being an only child had well-prepared me for a little jaunt to paradise.

And I’ve been right. Besides the “Just One?” comments that are so prevalent at restaurants, this has been a breath of fresh air. I went parasailing. I went snorkeling. I laid around as much (and as often) as I wanted, napped as much (and as often) as I wanted, ate as much (and as often) as I wanted. And through it all, I was able to breathe the fresh ocean air, tan (or redden, as it may be) my body, and relax enough to prepare me for days to come.

That’s not to say that I’ve been a hermit. Quite the contrary. Apparently, vacationing ‘en solo’ gives off a message of “please, you, anyone, hit on me.” My parasailing captain wouldn’t let me sit anywhere but next to him, and tried to woo me in broken English against the roar of the motorboat. The bartender on the snorkeling boat wanted me to enjoy my drink, “just as much as he enjoyed looking at me in my bikini.” The wait staff at various restaurants knocked drinks and items off my bill, with a wink and a smile. Who said vacationing alone doesn’t have its perks?

But honestly, I’ve had a blast. I’ve been busy swapping stories with Amy & Casey, Gavin and Talia, Bob & Karen, Pat & John, Kathy…I could go on and on. They showered me with compliments, tried to set me up with their sons, fought over who was better suited since, in their words, they would “never have been this brave to go off by theirselves at age 27.” I took the compliments to heart, with a smile.

I think only children are able to fall back into the “observer” capacity without even knowing it. And as I’ve been here the past three days, I’ve found myself seeing people that remind me of my mother. Of my father. Of my friends. Of a boy too far away. Of my beloved deceased grandfather. Of the people, the things, that matter.

“You have sad eyes,” he said. “You miss someone.”

And I do. A lot of someones.

I know, I know, I’m on vacation. I should be out cavorting in the sun and surf with all the hot Arubians that are oh-so transfixed by this blonde on vacation, en solo. Fear not, my friends, I’ve cavorted most of the day away, and anyway, my nice little red back needs a break from the rays.

This island is beautiful. It’s got a constant breeze, enough to dry your hair right out of the shower and blow it into your third strawberry-banana dacquiri (only $3 at happy hour.) The water is a pristine color, a turquoise that likely defined the Crayola color, and the white sand somehow doesn’t get that blistering hotness that North Carolina sand does after a long day. There are lizards, iguanas and geckos, some a bright green with a touch of that turquoise from the sea, scampering in the bushes. Others are more bold, standing in the middle of your walkway as you have to navigate around them, pushing out their waddle for all to see and revere.

The people here are kind. The employees, of course, but also the other guests. Though the island’s main language is dutch, it’s become so Americanized that everyone speaks English and the US Dollar is accepted everywhere. In a typical twist of Aubrey Small-World fate, I ran into a honeymooning couple (which probably makes up 80% of the resort, the other 20% being families) that are good friends with MY good friend Bubba that I grew up with. (Yes, they even have “Bubba”s in Cleveland.) We’re hitting the town this evening, which should prove to be a unique experience. The other couple I’ve met (again, honeymooners) are in their mid-to-late 50’s; they met on September 6, she moved in with him on September 9th. I think they could party me under the table.

So yes, I’m away. I’m relaxing, I’m preparing for the weekend of weddings ahead and all that goes with that. I’m getting used to myself again, getting used to this independence, settling into the me that I am these days, and doing it with a big, fat dacquiri in my hand.

(And have I mentioned that my beach is topless?)

audio post powered by audblog

I have recently rediscovered the joy of Saltines.
You can take your triscuits, your Ritzes, your Wheat Thins, et. al. For me, it’s saltines.

[“A whole post about Saltines?” you say, “Well, that’s just ridiculous.” Well, my friends, ridiculous times call for ridiculous posts, and my life as of late has been prime-time ridiculous. Just trust me. Now back to Saltines.]

The white, unpretentious box beckons me, reminding me of days off from school, upset tummies, and chicken noodle soup. Add in some flat ginger ale (or, my total favorite, Jello Juice – did anyone else’s Mom make this delectable concoction?) and wow, I’m sitting on the couch watching Jem & the Rockers (which I only did on the rare occasions that I was out of school, since my nerd-bus took me all over the city and didn’t get me home in time, and also, I always thought Jem was a little freaky), happy as a clam.

I’ll admit it, I’ve fallen victim to the marketing hype of Baked Lays! WOW Doritos! Butter Flavored Pretzel Bites! (and my favorite) Combos! But really, people, all you need is a good quasi-dry, semi-flaky, perfect with soup, perfect when sick, but perfect just about any other time, Saltine.

Especially on a rainy day, when you have a 20-lb. cat-induced scratch on your forehead, have no food in the fridge and didn’t get enough sleep.

Yum.

My Dad grew up with two brothers; twins, in fact. He was older by three years, but between the three boys and my Grandfather, it’s safe to say that my Grandmother had her hands full. Especially when it comes to tools & gadgets.

Though I’m an only child, I can see how “one-upping” your sibling is basically second-nature – you want what they have and vice versa. As such, there were always FOUR Craftsman drills, FOUR weed-eaters, FOUR roto-tillers purchased at any time as a way to try and avoid this when possible. (My Grandfather was nothing if not generous.) And in the rare event that one brother got a new “toy”; well, let’s just say that Sears benefited quite nicely from a very innocent form of sibling rivalry.

I always found this to be amusing, this pseudo-competition to have the latest & greatest. People didn’t really keep up with the Joneses any longer; the neighbor getting a new TiVo didn’t send me straight to Best Buy.

Or so I thought.

Blame it on genetics, blame it on boredom, blame it on what you will, but lately I’ve had a strong case of Household Envy.

I know, I know…this “transition time” (as I’m calling it) IS filled with ups & downs. I’m getting used to new friends moving to Atlanta, friends getting engaged, friends having babies, not to mention a certain fabulously cute boy who now lives over 700 miles away. It’s only natural that I’m feeling a bit unsettled and wanting something new for myself. And after seeing brand new homes, brand new comforters, brand new furniture (not to mention the amazing house that the host of the baby shower lives in) it was all I could do to not call my realtor and tell her I wanted something brand new for myself – like a big fat brand spankin’ new HOUSE.

Then I took a deep breath, reminded myself that I was working to get OUT of debt, and settled for buying a rug.

Not very sexy, I know, but there’s something amazingly cathartic about “Fall Cleaning” your house. My Mom lives by some core tenets, one of which is that a clean house is an antidote for depression. Though wallowing in your own sadness is often more tempting than making your bed and cleaning your room, at the end of the day you still may be sad, but at least you’re sad with a clean house. So instead of sulking over the fact that I couldn’t afford the $479,000 house that I’d like, I decided to take my sorry ass, my meager(ish) finances and My Darling Roommate up to the Outlets and do a little bit of retail therapy.

What a transformation! A few hundred dollars later, I returned to my dustball-filled, cluttered and (sadly) juvenile living room to do a bit of Queer Eye action, fresh off advice from one of my fave. Queer Eyes himself. I wanted the living room to look warmer, stronger, richer; wanted my bedroom to look softer, more elegant, more inviting. And after a day or two of cleaning, some new lamps, rugs, paintings, curtains, innumerable Swiffer cloths, a roll of paper towels, two sponges, three massive garbage bags that were so full of junk that I couldn’t even lift them, plus some good ol’ Ohio-bred elbow grease, I’ve gone from post-college “shabby chic” to post-quarterlife crisis not-so-shabby, oh-so chic.

Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.

Change is scary. It seems to happen in waves, when all of a sudden you look around and realize that basically everything around you is in flux, and yet you’re stuck in the middle of the chaos, the veritable eye of the storm.

I’ve been somewhat lax in my posts as of late, caught up in my whirlwind of what is and what will be, the past, present and future. Trying to handle the current windstorm while battening down the hatches for the ones to come, so that when they arrive, I’ll somehow remain safe and sound, protected from the storm.

Welcome to my little hurricane.

That’s not to say that things aren’t good, because, on a high level, the 20,000 foot view, they’re all just fine. Viewing a storm from space always dwarfs it from reality, as it just appears to be a pretty cyclone cloud, making its counter-clockwise rotation in near perfect spirals. Yet when you’re on the coast and the storm is coming, gaining speed and intensity, you hope you’ve done everything you can to be prepared.

That’s what I’m banking on.

When I see so many things changing, my first reaction is to want to jump on the bandwagon myself, act on my impetuous nature, run away and make rash decisions and shake things up myself, just so I can relate to the fear and excitement that these people close to me are experiencing. They’re moving up, moving on, moving away, and the jealous part of me wants that for myself as well. I become fixated on the stagnant nature of things in my life – the promotion I didn’t get, the house that I still live in, the weddings I’m again going to alone – instead of looking at all of the things that ARE changing…the karate classes I’m taking, the excitement of my company going public, the vacation I’m taking for myself, just to name a few. These things, these are the metaphorical tools that I’m using to batten down my metaphorical hatches so I don’t have to think about the fact that I’ve four close friends move away in the last month, with another few (the hardest ones yet) just around the corner.

Because no matter how much I can prepare, I just really, really am going to miss them. And finding yourself in the middle of the storm alone is scary.

I do a pretty good job of leaving my love life in the past. New love interests don’t want to hear about old love interests, and for the most part, I don’t combine the two. (Unless we’re playing a game of “I’ve never”, then I must, must, must include the fact that I have kissed three sets of brothers, one of which were identical twins, but since it was only kissing, I figure that’s juvenile enough to at least mention for status if nothing else.) Anyhoo, past loves (and by ‘loves’, know I really mean ‘likes’, since there are no past ‘loves’ per se, only guys that I decided to kiss now and again and foolishly found myself enamored with for a day or week or so. But I digress…) remain in the past. As they should be.

As such, because I don’t talk about them, and really, because there really isn’t too much to talk about (minus the week full of dates that I went on where one was a gay anorexic, the second told me I could be a plus-sized model and the third was a cat abuser so I rescued his cat), I really don’t ever think about any of my (few) exes that have been privileged enough to play the “Let’s Date Aubrey” game-o-fun. And I prefer it that way. If you’ve kept my interest for a few weeks (or a few months) then know that you’ve got my undivided attention.

At least in my waking hours.

Now, settle down, kids. There’s nothing tawdry going on in my dreams; quite the contrary. But every now and again someone from my past will pop up in one of my dreams, a cameo not only unexpected, but also undesired. Like last night.

Don’t really remember the entire story, but there was a party, there was an ex, and he was as cocky and British and assholey as ever. I’m pretty sure his cameo was prompted by the cocky, non-British yet still seemingly as assholey guy at poker last night gallivanting with a pretty young thing while I got stared at in my karate-uniformed glory as I beat the proverbial pants off him at Texas Hold’em, but hey, who knows. Anyhoo, my subconscious must have registered this under “Similar to Assholey British Quasi-Ex” and lo and behold, up pops the British Asshole in Aubrey Dream-o-Rama. There were discussions of high thread count sheets, a lot of alcohol, some aquarium rocks and plants (likely prompted by the true-life plight of an adorable boy’s true-life fish), and yet I remember being absolutely disgusted by the actions of aforementioned Asshole. The same actions that, four years ago, had me eating out of his hand and swooning at the very sight of him.

Which makes me think that perhaps the occasional cameo isn’t so bad, if it shows you how far you’ve come.

The whiteboard to my left has my “Queue,” the never-ending stream of work that, despite making very fulfilling checks next to some items, continues to grow in scope as it exponentially increases the magnitude of my omnipresent headache. The bottom left corner is another type of queue, and it too continues to grow in length while also adding to my stress. It’s the “Presents” list, and it is currently an ignominy to the good Sabala name (if that does, in fact exist.)

My friends, all ten of you, I’m sorry.

The list spans back to November 2, 2002, which is the first event on the list that I still owe a present for. I know they say that you have a year from the date of the wedding to give the happy couple a present, and alas, I’m pushing two. So Laura & Jay, I promise, it’s coming.

It’s pretty difficult to locate a registry nearly two years later; I know from experience. And when you DO finally find one, you’re met with the choice between a hundred dollar meat fork and a hundred dollar soup ladle. Sexy, these beyond-belated presents are not.

I don’t ever MEAN to be so late on the presents. It’s just that by the time the wedding comes around, it’s usually one of three for that month, and I refuse to show up with a $25 gift certificate for Crate & Barrell. Because basically, that’s what my budget allows. So it ends up on my list, and each month I PROMISE myself that I really WILL buy a nice gift for my friends and each month, I end up with an Ad Velorum tax, an Income Tax bill, or something ridiculous like an adorable boy leaving for business school, thus prompting a fabulous going-away present. (I know, I know, priorities.) As such, my list remains intact.

And so I offer my formal apologies to: Jay & Laura, Alex & Betsy, Jessica & Jakob, Beth & Andreas, Mindy & Mike, Sarah & Brant & Baby Ella, and Eric & Amy & Baby Eva. Carianne & Scott and one on the way, Lauren & Michael and bun in the oven, and Lelia & Bradley – kids, I’m gonna break this evil streak and get your presents to you on time.

For real.

So Much to Say” – that Dave Matthews song keeps running through my head each time I realize that another day has gone by and I haven’t yet updated my website.

Haven’t yet posted the fantastic pictures from the beach weekend.

“

Haven’t talked about the oh-so scary man at the bar and the fact my friends told him I was on my fourth wedding with two kids, Jose & Conchita.

Haven’t told you that drinking makes me think I’m a Harley driver.

Haven’t talked about the end of Boot Camp, the beginning of Karate, the winning of the Poker Tournament, the failure to get a promotion, the Caribbean trip I’ve booked, the amount of sleep I’ve lost, the changes that are coming on a daily basis.

So Much to Say, my friends, but you’ll have to hang tight. So Much Tiredness takes precedence.