“Clean your house,” she said, “It will make you feel better.”

Despite many arguments, mostly in my head, against this hypothesis, I did what she said. And, amazingly, it DID make me feel better. Yet more proof that my Mom is a genius.

Through the years, she – as a Mom, I believe it’s her duty – has offered me many pieces of advice. “Don’t pursue them,” she said, when I liked yet another boy in my youth. “Let them come to you.” Many times scorned, many times embarrassed, I’ve now learned that more often than not, she was right. “Be the bigger person,” she advised, when the last thing I wanted to do was to be the bigger person. After all, the “bigger person” doesn’t have any fun. Yet an Ohio upbringing and an adoration for my Mom led me to take her advice, and while not always fun, looking back, I know that I did the right thing.

This past weekend, I felt like her. I cleaned my house to the bare bones, scrubbing the floors and windexing and rearranging closets with a gusto I usually withhold for a Lawrence’s falafel sandwich special. I washed the car, raked the yard, bought – and planted – flowers, and cooked a quasi-gourmet (or at least sufficiently tasty) dinner for myself and My Darling Roommate. I did some laundry, went to the gym, and still got my requisite 8 hours of sleep. MDR said I was playing “Happy Homemaker”; I felt like I was finally filling my Mom’s shoes.

She’s so hard on herself – doesn’t realize that she is strikingly beautiful, even at 50+ years. Her ebullience lights up the room, and people can’t help but fall in love with her. She’s never once put herself first, always giving, always stretching every last inch of herself to ensure that others around her have what they want. She’ll eat yogurt as her main sustenence for a week if that means she can buy an extra Christmas present for me or one of her various friends-cum-family that she incessently spoils. She’s all that I want to be and more.

And yet, in the midst of folding laundry and trying – to no avail – to get my fitted sheets to fold up in anything other than a ball of cotton, I wonder when I will really make that transition. When I will make the buckeyes every Christmas, when I will sit in my child’s house and scrub the bannisters, when I will do the laundry and get the gas and stock the fridge and do all of those things that my Mom does for me when she visits. Because, as much as I feign maturity and adulthood, my produce goes bad, my stairs are always in need of a good scrubbing, and I assure you, her flowers bloom longer than mine.

They say one day you wake up and realize you’ve become your Mom. In my case, I can’t wait.

We talk about it, analyze it, over-analyze it, call our friends and THEY analyze it, and then we realize that after far too much thought and far too much analysis, we still don’t have a clue.

You guessed it; again, I’m talking about (what else?) relationships.

But seriously, people, it really shouldn’t be this hard. Advice flows like fountains, with each person offering either the trite (“You’ll find it when you’re not looking”) or a personal anectdote on how they found the love of their life (“I was just shopping and I turned around and he and I were both reading the new issue of People – you know, the one about Ben & Jen’s breakup? – and our eyes locked and, well, we’ve been together ever since.”) I hope you don’t mind while I try to stop from barfing here, but I think it’s all a bunch of hooey. There IS no right way, the trite advice is overused and inaccurate, and maybe – just maybe – we really DO know what’s right.

They say we over-react, that we’re putting too much thought into it, that we’re trying to hard. I say that they’re just as full of shit as they always have been, since – newsflash – these are OUR lives, this is what we’re seeing, this is what is real to US, thank you very much.

Am I pissed off at a boyfriend? A date? A roommate? Actually, no. It’s a beautiful day here in Atlanta, the perfect opportunity to have lunch and happy hour outside, and I’ve actually been ridiculously productive these past few days, allowing me to leave before 6pm without feeling TOO guilty. So why the hostility, you ask? I’m just sick of it, seeing the same actions and the same hurt and hearing the same questions over and over again. I’m sick of the way that despite Women’s Lib and burning bras and holding equal jobs and taking some control over our own relationships, when things go badly, we inherently ask “What did I do wrong? Was I not pretty/smart/skinny/charming enough? Why wasn’t I good enough?”

I hate this. I hate that we doubt ourselves, blame ourselves, chastise ourselves for things that we didn’t even do.

Because for once, I promise you, it’s not us, it’s THEM. And however trite that sounds, just trust me on this one.

My liver and I have come to an agreement as of late – I give it a few nights off and it’ll keep processing the copious amounts of alcohol that I feed it on a semi-regular basis. Sadly, however, the past few days I don’t think I’ve held up my end of the deal.

You see, in the midst of:
getting lost in a Ross shopping center and
watching the ACC tournament and
finding $2.50 margaritas and
searching for battery chargers and
watching kickball and
breaking bread with Brad and
leaving Audblogs and
meeting Jay Allen! Jay Allen! and
the unequalable Jish and
singing “Like a Virgin” and
making a movie and
breathing through my mouth for two hours while making said movie and
getting manicures and
napping and
figuring out if we are Hot or Not and
gallivanting with the one, the only Noah Glass and
exchanging cards with a Cocky Bastard (who is actually quite lovely) and
laying out and
seeing John Stamos and
eating guacamole with every meal and
adoring Shellen and
breaking Biz Stone’s glasses (oh! the remorse…) and
shaving heads and
taking Jager shots o’ death and
refusing to wear a shirt to bed and
watching Ev flirt and
taking a ridiculous amount of photos and
seeing Neil Pollack introduce Ben Brown and
seeing some beaver and
getting my Blogger tees and
chatting with Jeff Veen and
playing a REALLY bad game of pool and
watching MJ try to flip Jonathan Abrams and
swooning over Chris Weatherall like all the other girls and
running into the guy from the Dodge Durango “Hemi” commercial and
giving him a Blogger tee and
tripping on the street and
hurting my arm and
going to the hospital to get it checked out and
finding out that thankfully, it wasn’t broken and
still not unpacking,

I forgot my end of the bargain.

I’m really sorry, Liver. I promise to do better in the future. Will you ever forgive me?

I feel like I’ve been through this before…

Why does it always happen like this? It’s supposed to be a RELAXING time, yet the preparation just about ruins it. Have I bought enough cat food so that My Darling Roommate can continue with what has become “Fat Cat Diet 2004: Shock & Awe”, more an experiment in sleep deprivation and meow-ignoring than anything else? Have I figured out what I should pack, checking the weather more often than I hit Send/Receive in order to fend away the impending rainstorms that threaten to usurp my tanning plans? Have I synced up my Palm Pilot so I don’t miss a meeting? Have I included all computer accessories so I don’t end up in hopefully-unmissed meeting without important computer info? Lord almighty, I sure hope I have.

Yes, Aubrey is off, once again paying a visit to the land of the Alamo as well as to Austin, the locale of SXSW. (For those of you like MDR who fail to know just what these acronym-like things mean, it’s a Music/Film/Interactive festival where geeks like me go to play with other geeks and talk about geeklike things. Oh, and drink.) I have client meetings tomorrow, Monday & Tuesday, and a lovely weekend in between where I shall sleep a lot, drink a lot and likely call my Mom/Friend/Roommate to overnight me the crucial item that I knew I couldn’t forget but did. In the midst of various notes on the backs of envelopes, receipts and parking vouchers, I try to remind myself that yes, I have to go to PetSmart, yes, I should really stop and get money out of the bank, yes, I should stop typing this and finish all the things I need to do before I can get out of here and go home and pack and do all the things that I need to do there. So as my brain figuratively runs willy nilly (Ha! I said “willy nilly”!), I will leave you with the following thoughts:

• If you’re going to be in Austin this weekend, email me and we’ll meet up. Miss Sarah Hatter and I have something in the works, and trust me, you don’t wanna miss it.
• If you’re going to be in Atlanta this weekend, be sure to drink green beer at Fado.
• If you’re going to have your cell phone on this weekend/through Tuesday, I’d suggest you should likely turn it off past 11 or so. I can’t be held responsible for things I do or say past, well, noon.

Yes, it’s one of those weekends.

In my absence, enjoy the (hopefully) lovely weather, send me emails, proposals, money, clothing, boyfriends, and flattery. Especially flattery – I love that.

Narcissistically yours,
Aubs

Sitting around the table talking with some friends, I found myself laughing over the silliest things, laughing so loudly, in fact, that I got “shushed.” By a girl. Bitch…doesn’t she know that we were doing what we do best? Getting together over a few glasses of wine, a few Sapporos, some sushi, and the chatting about this and that. Of course, the topic of conversation inevitably went the way it always does: Talking about Boys.

Yes, despite whether or not these are old friends, new friends or even mere acquaintances, discussing our love lives seems to be the common thread that binds us all. Run into someone you haven’t seen in a while? I promise you that within five minutes they’ll ask if you’re dating anyone or will inquire as to how your love life is going. Single, Married, Attached, or permanent bachelorette, whatever your ‘status’, it’s a regular topic of conversation.

Perhaps it’s because we all go through the same experiences whether we’re in Pittsburgh, Peoria or Pensacola. Girls at this age (mid-to-mid 20’s; I refuse to EVER say “late”) seemingly have a one-track mind. Yes, jobs are important. Buying a house, getting a puppy, volunteering, caring for friends and family – yes, those DO take precedence. Yet despite women’s lib and the feminist movement, despite Oprah urging us to “live our best lives”, despite our Moms (or maybe it’s only mine) repeating the mantra that “we don’t need a man to make us complete”, I think that many 20-somethings, whether they want to or not, still feel that having a boyfriend/significant other/husband really IS the most important thing.

I’ve gone through phases…I didn’t date a ton in high school, and when I did, it certainly wasn’t very serious. As for college, pretty similar – lots of dates, lots of kisses, but no looking-into-each-other’s-eyes-imagining-our-children swooning. (Maybe that’s because I spent more time looking-into-lacrosse-players’-eyes-and-trying-to-focus-after-that-last-shot, but who knows.) At age 26 (and 3 months minus 1 day away from the big 2-7, damnit,) I feel like I’m in a pretty good place. I’m dating, I’m enjoying my dinners and conversations and outings and getting to know new people and even the late night messages (it’s not a booty call if you don’t answer, after all) that I’ve been experiencing. I’m happily engaged in my routine of dinners on Sunday with My Darling Roommate where I cook everything out of Cooking Light, Martha Stewart ‘Food’ and Southern Living that I can find/fit in my cart at Publix, Mondays bringing racquetball & Thursdays ushering in some No-Limit Texas Hold ’em. And while I feel like I’d like a boyfriend at some point in the future, I don’t know how one would currently fit into my little idyllic life, complete with a bevy of avocados, 7-layer Chocolate Coconut Bars and lackadaisically lounging around in our PJ pants and talking about who’s harder up for an evening of passion.

And so I find myself looking at it all with a new attitude…that things are actually pretty great. A romantic relationship, while formerly being the main course that I was seeking for so long, is now a mere cherry on the top of the best mint-chocolate chip sundae I’ve ever had. And trust me, it’s tasty.

As much as I just HATE to stray from the verbal sparring that was going on in my last post, I feel it’s my duty to provide you with a bevy of information. Such as…

…the fact that I’m going to the Hockey game tonite. If I were dating an English guy (or New Zealander, at that), we would be going “to the hockey.” Don’t you think for one split second that I’m not gonna buy one of those huge foam fingers and wave it around like a moron. I’m good at that.

…the fact that I’m a bit sad that Charlize Theron won the Oscar because now she’s too high-profile (and costs too much) to play me in the movie of my life. That is, unless I do something WAY high profile, like steal her hot boyfriend away from her or something.

…the fact that I’m right now trying to come up with a plan to do just that. It just somehow isn’t fair that SHE gets to have sex with him while I don’t. He may just be the perfect man, and we KNOW that’s a strong statement for me.

…the fact that I’ve written a tawdry little ditty on my friends’ site…I’ll let ya know when it’s posted. It’s not for the weak, however…

…the fact that my Mani/Pedi lady was a little on the OCD side today. I mean, she must have touched up my toes three times, leaving me with never-drying toenail polish.

…the fact that this day has gone slower than molassas.

…the fact that this time next week I’ll be in Austin. Bring it.

So that’s that. Must go find myself a Diet Barqs, some patience to make it through the next 90 minutes and a very devious plan to make Stuart Townsend my boyfriend. I’m open to suggestions.

I’ve always thought that at the end of your life you’ll look back and everything will make sense. You’re in that place between life and death, when you get to review all that has come before, and through the magic of God and Heaven and all things spiritual, you’ll be given the missing puzzle pieces and you can see your life as a delicately woven tapestry of interconnectedness. You’ll understand why you met the people you did, figure out WHY they were in your life, be it for good or for bad. Things that we can’t explain in our earthly lives – why babies have to die, why God takes the people we love most away from us, why a loving God would put us through so much pain – make sense and give us the peace that we’re always desperately trying to find. We may just find the meaning of life, and as we (hopefully) walk through the pearly gates with all the worldly wisdom we can handle, we realize that all along we should have had patience that one day, we WOULD understand.

I’m trying, I really, really am.

Not a very patient person by any means, I believe in fate & destiny and that there’s a higher plan for us all, but also believe that it’s up to YOU to make fate happen. I feel that there’s not just one destiny for each of us, but many, many crossroads where we can choose one direction or the other. It’s the “Choose Your Own Adventure” concept of life, with various endings, each one brought on by the many choices that you have made over the years. For instance, if we hadn’t moved to my hometown and I hadn’t been friends w/Trisha I wouldn’t have known that her brother wanted to go to UNC so I wouldn’t have visited there my Junior year nor would I have gone to the UNC Summer program where I met Beth which was one of the reasons why I chose to apply to UNC and if I hadn’t gotten in late I wouldn’t have known Kelly and without Kelly I wouldn’t have known Brandy and Beth wouldn’t have known any of them and if Brandy hadn’t moved to Atlanta I wouldn’t have come down and visited her and drank at Rock Bottom and swore that I would move here and wouldn’t have applied to my job and wouldn’t have met Jessica without whom I wouldn’t have met Jake without whom I wouldn’t have met My Darling Roommate. So see? Because I knew Trisha, I can afford my house AND my car, with a three-TV sports room to boot. Circumstances + Choices = Fate & Destiny.

So in the midst of our saddest days, when we wonder if it is ever going to get any better than this, when we find ourselves still having dreams about our exes even though we think that things should be better by now*, we should at least try and remember that the next crossroads is just around the bend. And maybe – just maybe – we’ll find someone else standing at that crossroads, so we don’t have to make the decision alone.

I’m hoping, I really, really am.

* Note that for once, this isn’t about me!

It’s an irrational annoyance, it really is. I can’t blame them, can’t blame YOU, for doing what you know. But pet peeves can’t be chosen, they can only be tolerated. And, despite my best efforts to remind myself that I’m being silly and beyond irrational, it still drives me up the wall.

Having my cell phone ring at work, that is.

I know, I KNOW…I could turn it off. I could turn down the ringer, leave it at home, or do one of 30 other sundry solutions so please, don’t comment and suggest that I do one of those. I KNOW I’m being ridiculous, and yet I can’t help it.

A self-proclaimed oft-times attention whore, receiving phone calls is a fun, FUN activity for me. You’re thinking of me! You like me! You want to talk to me! (And you maybe even want to ask me on a date – wahoo!) So phone calls, in any form, to any number, should be well-received with gratitude to boot. Yet for some reason, between the hours of 9 and 6:00 (my normal work hours – make a note of it please), my usual euphoria from hearing “Who Can It Be Now” as my cheeze-ass cell phone ring is instead replaced by irritation. EXTREME irritation. I’m sure my coworker is getting sick of me screaming into the phone “I AM AT WORK – STOP CALLING MY DAMN CELL PHONE!!!” which I inevitably do every time it ring, so for her sake, and my sanity, please – I beg of you – email me for my work number if you think there’s the slightest need to call me mid-day. I’ll happily give it to you.

**END Illogical, Ridiculous and Relatively Irrational Rant**

My Darling Roommate (MDR) is quite a chef. He cooks up full meals every morning to get him through the day, and by full meals I mean a full 10-course meal including beans, hummus, gardenburgers, spinach, rice, salmon, apples, bananas, peanut butter on pita and trail mix. By then, he has already eaten a bowl of oatmeal (with strawberries this week – how decadent!), a bowl of cereal, and possibly another banana. Every evening he comes home to make a similar 6-course meal involving some type of meat product (this week has been pork chops and shrimp), some more rice, a spinach salad with nasty red peppers on top, and more often than not, more hummus on pita and then another bowl of cereal. Coming from someone whose daily caloric intake often hovers around the 1000 mark (if you don’t include calories obtained from alcohol, which of course I don’t), this amount of food seems tantamount to a UN Care Package for an entire African Village.

Despite it all, though, My Darling Roommate is in fantastic shape, as he should be since nary a day passes without his mandatory trip to the gym, after which he races home to try and beat me to the garage. (He’s still seething over my win the other night which kept his jeep out in the subsequent snowstorm, if by “storm” I mean “flakes.) His BFI (Body Fat Index) likely hovers around a ridiculous 5%, something that also makes me fantastically jealous being that I eat 1/10th of the calories that he does in a day and my BMI is, well, let’s just say it’s higher than that. He eats very healthy, you see; in fact, his suggestion on what I should give up for lent is “Hydrogenated Fats” since apparently those things cause nasty cancers that will eat away my very being like a latter-day ebola virus. A shame, since apparently they run rampant in my core food groups: Mini Oreos, Baked Lays, and Zone Bars. Damn.

But back to My Darling Roommate and his predilection for cooking. He is one who sticks tight to traditions, especially if that tradition is making the same meal nearly every day, using the same pot and pan and plate and bowl and fork and spoon (note the singular nature of these words – that’s not by mistake!) for his daily feasts. When it comes to food, if it ain’t broken, why try and fix it? (That said, he devours my Veggie Lasagna, so at least we’ve made a bit of a shakeup in his life!) So when it comes to replacing his tinfoil pan, the very same pan that he cooks his salmon or pork chops or [insert other sundry non-red meat meat here] for dinner, let’s just say thanks to $1.99 and me being a Darling roommate right back, I’ve changed his life for the better.

C’mon – Hydrogenated Fats can’t be worse than THIS: