The weekend started off like any other. We were running late, as usual; the Highlands were over-crowded, as usual; we were tired after a long week, as usual. Important guests were arriving, dodging the affects of the hurricane with a road trip to our fair city. We met for dinner, for drinks, for good conversation. Topics from blogging to car washes were pontificated, discussed in a familiar way that made the fact that some were meeting in person for the first time seem surprising. Kindred spirits, we were.

Like-minded people, souls, personalities are a blessing of sorts. Underneath different backgrounds lies commonalities — a favorite, somewhat obscure song that would lend accompaniment to a wedding’s first dance, a love of literature, amusement at the same joke. How we find our friends, often in unlikely places, unlikely packages, is almost as interesting as the friendships themselves.

True to form, fun was had. Debauchery ensued as planned. We ate with gusto, we drank with vigor, we listened to the band with rapt appreciation and a tune in our hearts. And we played the tambourine like it was nobody’s business.

If only we didn’t have to sacrifice an intact ulna (read: armbone) to do so.

It creeps up on you, and determining just when it happened is almost impossible. Like a subtle cooling of the seasons, by the time you realized that it’s happened, it’s already done. Not that it’s a bad thing – you may try and fight it or resist it if you knew what was happening, knew the exact day that you would be released. Like an unexpected Spring snow, one day you just wake up and realize it’s gone.

You realize you’re over him.

It could be while you’re driving in the car and a song comes on that used to make you think of him. You find yourself singing along, just enjoying the tune, and only after it’s over it occurs to you that it used to be his favorite. Or perhaps his birthday passes and you realize later that you didn’t remember. Or maybe, just maybe, you run into him unexpectedly and feel no sadness, feel no rage, you feel – Nothing.

It’s the soul’s way of exhaling, this magical release of feelings. Breakups cause people to experience the gamut of emotions, from sadness to anger to loss to fear to emptiness…I could go on. Whether it’s a mutual end to a tumultuous coupling or an unexpected blow, few are immune to the wrath of feelings associated with breakups, and these feelings last days, weeks, months and – I’ve seen it – years. People move on, get over it, on their own time, with friends, family, and possibly even new love interests soothing some of the open wounds with care, love, and laughter. Feelings wane over time — where once a dagger through the heart is now a small pang of remembrance. And then one day, it vanishes.

It’s cathartic, really. Realizing that the soul & the heart mend themselves seems nearly magical. It lightens your step. It opens your eyes. It frees you from wondering, worrying, caring. It’s a whole new world of possibilities at your feet. It allows you to be fair to your new relationships, to enter them unabashedly and without the pang of someone half-broken. It’s healing, it’s helping, it’s healthy. And it’s mine.

Different friends hold different purposes in our lives. We’ve got our partners-in-crime, our tried & trues, our work cohorts & our advice-givers. We turn to them for different reasons and at different times, be it for a night on the town or a pat on the back. This support network is invaluable.

I was talking with one of my advice-givers yesterday about this, that and the other (or was it the other, that & this? Who knows…) and, as usual, the conversation led to relationships and the many misinterpretations that occur within. Why is lack of communication usually the deal breaker in a relationship? Whoops, am getting ahead of myself. Let me take a step back…

You see, this past Spring, my friend had liked this girl, they had gone out a few times, and things seemed to be going well. They had a great time talking, emailing, going out. They were attracted to another, looking for the same things in life, and both unattached. Then, without much notice, she ended things. (On voicemail, no less.) A bit hurt, a bit disillusioned, he wondered what happened. Not the first time you’ve heard this story, now, is it?

He turned to me for advice a few months later, because somewhat out of the blue, she began emailing him again. They were cute, flirty, intelligent emails that didn’t by any means cross the line into impropriety, and they definitely piqued his interest as he never got an explanation (nor closure) regarding this girl. There seemed to be a pattern of what I call “the rubberband theory”, where whenever he took a step forward, she pulled back, and vice versa. The same ol’ song and dance.

I like to pride myself in giving good advice. (It’s the TAKING my own advice that I struggle with, but that’s another topic for another day, another place.) I’ve soothed crying family members, encouraged down-in-the-dumps dumpees to get back out there, tried to advise people to be the bigger person, even when being the bigger person is anything but fun. I try to think my advice helps, and though would never push it on anyone, want my friends to know that I’m here to give it. Such was this case.

After hearing the full story (and trust me, there were so many twists and turns in here that it rivaled Lombard Street in complexity), it seemed to boil down to an issue of attention. Namely, she liked knowing that he liked her and was flattered by it, but when it came down to it, she wasn’t looking for anything serious, or at least didn’t seem to be looking for anything serious with him. Throw in a bit of immaturity on her part, a bit of insecurity on his, and they had a problem here. He didn’t want to come off as too vulnerable, and felt like he was getting mixed signals. As such, from my viewpoint, I told him to play it cool. “Give a little,” I told him,” But not too much. Let her come to you.”

He completely ignored me. And good thing he did – they’re dating seriously now three months later.

Apparently, the miscommunication was vast, and only by laying his cards on the table, by having a pretty frank discussion with her about everything that happened from his vantage point, (making him completely vulnerable and something I strongly advised him against, mind you), did they begin to see where the misinterpretation occurred. If he hadn’t stepped out on the proverbial ledge, this would likely have ended as another dating casualty that we all know so well.

It’s like that rerun of Friends which, convenient for today’s post, was shown (and viewed by me) last Thursday. Phoebe was going to a party where she would likely run into her ex, and she was worried about looking fabulous and “saving face.” It’s this very issue of pride that leads us to not say what we’re thinking, to hold back, to keep our cards close to our chest. It’s this very issue of pride that causes us to stay in our safe little worlds, without risk of getting our hearts broken.

In the past, I’ve instituted “Brutally Honest Aubrey Day” where, after a few pints (or few more than you should have) you basically say what’s on your mind. Though it’s worked well,(I mean, what’s better than getting to go up to your crush and telling him that he’s hot, as mandated by a self-imposed potentially mortifying drinking game?), what’s stopping us from having these conversations sober, when we most need to have them?

Fear. Often paralyzed by potential outcomes, we hold back from saying what we need to, what we want to, a result of the ‘What If?’ syndrome that sends us into temporary vulnerable paralysis. As a result, we inherently choose the safe route or by refusing to choose, we’re, in essence, making a choice to do nothing, to stagnate, to become comfortable with the reality instead of looking for something more, something potentially amazing and better and scary and possible. A vicious cycle, and frightening choice.

Wonder if I’ll take my own advice this time.

I’m glad my arms are somewhat long, because I have just been patting myself on the back all day.
You see, my “Aubrey Improvement Plan” is going swimmingly well, so well, in fact, that Dr. Phil and Oprah both should send me on their shows to talk about my success. My friends, I’m making progress. (And am grading myself accordingly on said progress below.)

Much is written about Spring Fever, but I pose that it’s not a single-season event, since I’m smack-dab in the midst of “Fall Fever.” Not the birds & the bees type, where the warm temps cause hormones to start a-churnin’ again, but more of the Spring Organization variety, only with an Autumn twist to it. It’s the New Years Resolution-esque goal setting that I’ve come to expect every time I begin to feel a cool breeze descend upon the stagnant late-summer heat, when fireplaces emit a woodsy aroma of the Fall, making me want to stock up on button-downs and new jeans and all things Octoberish. Perhaps a remnant of “Back to School” days long gone, but getting everything in tip-top shape is high on my Type-A personality things-to-do list. And this year, it’s all about me.

I recently got a subscription to Netflix, not because I wanted it, but because it fit well in my Aubrey Improvement Plan, Rule 1: Watch More Movies. With one exception, I know nobody who sees fewer movies than yours truly, and the ones that I do see win an uncanny amount of Razzy Awards. Oscar Nominee? Didn’t see it. Box Office Hit? Nix that one too. It really is a travesty, because I do like movies, I just seem to have an aversion to GOING to them or RENTING them. (Or RETURNING them on time.) Thus Netflix. While I’m not doing so well in speed-viewing (have had my original three movies for just over 3 weeks now), at least I’m not paying late fees. I’m giving myself another month (after all, Sex & the City is off until January, thus ‘bye bye’ to HBO) and will then re-evaluate my success in movie watching.

Grade Thus Far: B-

Which brings us to Aubrey Improvement Plan, Rule 2: Read More Books. I’m an avid reader, and always have been, so it’s not the sheer numbers that I wanted to improve upon here, but the quality. Yes, I love myself some Jane Green, some Marion Keyes, some “Shopaholic Takes Manhattan”-esque little ditties that are easily devoured on a 2-hour flight. Not so cost-effective, when calculating that I’m spending nearly $6/hour to amuse myself in flight, but harmless, light reading nonetheless. A few hours of giggles and empathy for the man-crazed, journalistic bumbling heroines is worth the $12 price tag, I do propose. Still, when trying to pursue a somewhat-serious writing career, complete with forthcoming book(s) that are still recorded only in various journals as well as the intricacies of my cerebrum, it never hurts to challenge yourself with some reading outside of your familiar genre. Thus “The Da Vinci Code” and “The Secret Life of Bees”, hands down two of the best books I have read in years. I recommend them as highly as I can. Go forth and obtain these both.

Grade Thus Far: A-

The Aubrey Improvement Plan is a three-pronged approach, initially targeting three key areas in which I definitely am striving to better myself. As such, the last (and somewhat most desperate) rule is the following: Aubrey Improvement Plan, Rule 3: Begin to Cook. A former subscriber of Cooking Light and the current owner of something like 20 cookbooks, you’d think that this fete-aficionado would not only know HOW to cook, but do it voraciously. Au contraire. My tragic flaw in this area is my lack of patience (which will likely be addressed in Phase 2 of the Aubrey Improvement Plan, Forthcoming) and I can’t justify spending hours on end to cook for me and me alone. That said, I do love to entertain, and thus my proficiency in the arena of appetizers and desserts. It’s the main dishes that take too long and thus are passed over without a second thought. Well, I have made major inroads in this area, especially yesterday. Yes, Neophyte Chef Aubrey has earned herself a new Moniker: Aubrey, Iron Chef of Sushi.

Grade Thus Far: A

Not too bad of a mid-plan GPA, I do believe. Now come over and eat some sushi – I have 7 full rolls left.

My story is not unique. It is not comparable to the tragedies that so many faced on this day, and I would never want to represent it as such. But it is mine, and it is real.

Driving to work this morning, the cloudless sky reminded me of a day exactly two years ago. The weather was warm in Atlanta, and I was heading to work early as we had our monthly office meeting at 9am. A brisk September morning, I distinctly remember letting my left arm lazily fall out the window as I willed myself to wake up during the two-mile journey into work. I dropped my bag off in my office, grabbed a notebook, and walked downstairs to the theatre for our weekly meeting.

Much was on my mind that day, as I was heading to New York on Friday the 14th for an interview at Sotheby’s, a much-anticipated opportunity to finally get paid for my writing. I was looking forward to the interview, and also looking forward to spending time with my Dad, who worked a few weeks out of the month in New York. More specifically, worked at the World Trade Center.

As I groggily walked into the theatre, I glanced at the agenda that was being projected on the massive television screen, silently hoping that the meeting wouldn’t run as long as usual. I made my way to a seat on the aisle, and as I began to sit down, my coworker swapped the agenda to a live feed from CNN of a tragedy that had just begun to unfold. A plane had hit the World Trade Center.

My memory from this point is jumbled…I remember leaving the theatre, shaking as I tried to walk up the stairs into a conference room. I remember seeing my CFO and telling him that I had to leave the meeting, that I had to get in touch with my Dad, because he was in the World Trade Center. I remember sitting in what we called the War Room, a small conference area complete with a hand-made Lego table with our company’s logo inscribed upon it, and trying to remember my phone number. Any phone number. The head of sales and our soon-to-be President noticed me in the room, shaking and crying, and I remember them sitting with me and offering a collectively calm voice of reason as they told me to call the phone company and cut in on the line to my Mom in Ohio. Above all, during this sense of panic, I remember a busy signal at my home in Ohio and my Dad’s cell phone going directly to voicemail.

For anyone who has ever gone through shock, it’s something you’ll never forget. The complete abandonment of your senses is the most frightening part – I liken it to a person with Alzheimer’s who knows that they should be remembering something as simple as a phone number or a name but just can’t find the facilities to do it. You exist in a daze, with mere seconds lasting hours and hours lasting seconds. It’s a mishmash of confusion to the greatest extent.

I somehow ended up at my desk, and finally got through to my Mom, who was surprisingly calm and being strong, reiterating that we didn’t yet know anything and that he may not have made it into work yet that day. She advised me to be calm and assured me that we would hear something, anything, soon.

I called my Mom’s best friend Stephanie, who asked me which building he was in. I told her I thought it was the North building but I wasn’t sure, and that his office was somewhat high up as he had just recently taken photos of the stark architecture against a clear blue sky. A sky eerily similar to the one on that day where the world changed. Still thinking that this was a freak accident, I was hopeful that perhaps he was in the building that had not been hit when Stephanie told me that there were two planes, and that both buildings had been hit. I think this is when I broke down.

As an only child, my parents have often been the center of my world. The very thought of anything happening to either of them breaks my heart even in anticipation. Seeing them grow older has shown me the stark reality that we are not invincible and depicted the role that death plays in life. Thinking that I had lost my father that day paralyzed me with fear, with regret, with desolation.

I continued trying to get in touch with my Dad, but the cell phone lines were down. Dialing the number over and over again, it was all I could do to maintain a glimmer of hope that he was alright. When my phone rang and I heard his voice on the other end, I again burst into tears. He was alive.

From our brief conversation, I found out that he had gone downstairs to the Mezzanine level with his friend Bron to get his morning cup of coffee when the first plane hit. His description of the events are catastrophic, as the impact nearly imploded the level below the street where he was at. Climbing up and out of the Mezzanine, he and Bron convened upon the street and tried to figure out what to do.

He witnessed it all first-hand. He saw the unimaginable sight of people jumping to their deaths. He was there when the buildings collapsed, running for his life. And miraculously, he made it back to the hotel, relatively unscathed, at least physically. He was one of the lucky ones.

Life changed on September 11th for all of us. Many lost their fathers, their mothers, their sons & daughters. Children lost their parents. Wives lost their husbands. And even those who the attacks didn’t affect directly were changed on this day. We all lost our innocence.

Numerous stories have been done on the aftermath, how the families of the victims are coping and living and moving on. Very few, however, have been done on the families of the survivors. How the event molded some families together and how it tore others apart. How the survivors viewed life in the aftermath, some embracing life with gusto, others realizing it was too short to continue on unhappy. I was not there, did not see people jumping to their death at my feet like my father did, but I can attest that having it touch me so closely, the affects have still been many. I still wake up in the middle of the night to find tears streaming down my cheeks. I can barely remember what life was like before, when my family was intact, when a tragedy such as this was only found in a Tom Clancy novel or starred Denzel Washington and Bruce Willis on the big screen. When the feeling of protection was taken as a de facto standard in this country, when terrorism was something we only saw on the evening news on the Gaza Strip or in other, far-away lands. When a cloudless blue sky didn’t remind me of that day, two years ago, where my world changed forever.

On the road again
Just can’t wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin’ music with my friends
And I can’t wait to get on the road again

On the road again
Goin’ places that I’ve never been
Seein’ things that I may never see again,
And I can’t wait to get on the road again.

Pretty much sums up my life lately. My suitcases never return to the closet, such that I have a travel kit of just about every necessity pre-packed and ready to shove into my ever-overflowing suitcase at a moment’s notice. My bed is a haven, a long-lost friend that I only visit infrequently these days. I’m a time-zone hopper, a traveler, a gal with a penchant for frequent flier miles. I’ve even started to look forward to my morning nourishment of Biscoff and 10 oz. tumblers of Diet Sprite, filled to the brim with ice so that Delta can conserve their precious soft drinks. Pretty sad, actually.

Us travelers become accustomed to early morning flights, waiting futily on the tarmac as everyone around you takes off, the cacophony and olfactory irritation of crying & pooping babies, angry foreigners chastising each other in their native tongue, and even that person behind you that keeps kicking the back of your seat. We develop thick skins, we pull into ourselves, because God forbid you sit next to a ‘talker’, one of those unfortunate souls that misguidedly believes that the happenstance that placed you in the seat next to theirs allows for free reign of conversation. We splurge on magazines and hard-backed books, overpriced at the W.H. Smith because we need to distract ourselves from the reality that we are in a gigantic steel object that somehow flies through the air and contains the very futures of all of its occupants (as well as some skank-nasty stale air.) Some of us can even sleep.

I’ve become a member of this lucky club (not the mile-high club, mind you), but the Aviation Slumber Society, or ‘ASS’ for short. Before the plane even leaves the gate, especially on a 5:50am flight or the odious Red Eye, I find myself nodding off. Normally an avid sleeper, one who engages in somnambulist activity with vim, vigor and gusto usually found only when attacking a plate of french fries at 3am on a Friday night, it’s not surprising that I can get some shut-eye while in flight. However, I’ve come to realize that my slumber is not the picture of Sleeping Beauty that I had hoped to portray. You see, I sleep with my mouth open.

Many a time a jolt or bump or turbulent event has jarred me from my sleep and I’ve found myself unattractively nodding off with my mouth agape. Not just slightly open, mind you, but full-fledged old-man agapeness that makes me look less than cute, a fate worse than death, at times. It’s as if I have morphed into the unattractive profile of my elderly grandfather when he would snore so loudly that he would wake himself up, only minus the snoring. (Until I hear otherwise, I sleep snore-free.) Still, it’s nothing less than mortifying to realize that perfect strangers are staring at your uvula, or at least hopefully noticing that the fluoride in the Cleveland water supply must have worked because I’m cavity free. Regardless, embarrassing.

But what to do? Should I sacrifice sleep for vanity? Or do I just snooze away, mouth hanging like I’ve got a problem with TMJ? Here’s an invention – a little alarm that will subtly rouse us mouth-gapers when our jaw drops, saving us the embarrassment of onlookers galore.

Maybe I’ll just have a few cocktails and leave it to chance.

Nomad. Vagabond. Departer. Drifter. Emigrant. Migrator. Mover. Transient. Wanderer.

Throw in “expatriate” and “gypsy” (if only because I believe that Van Morrison was singing directly to me in “Into The Mystic” when he described my ‘gypsy soul’,) and it’s me in a nutshell. Prone to the “Grass is Always Greener” syndrome, I find myself longing – and looking – for more, never really settling into where am nor what I’m doing. Weary of mind, weary of spirit, I find myself constantly looking ahead. Until now, when – while both weary in mind and spirit, believe you me – I’m looking back.

I moved to Atlanta on a whim. One day, planning my strategic route to the grocery store and growing fatigued at the requisite “Who do you work for” question that comes inherent with living in DC got to be too much. I wanted to drive my (then) new car around town without nearly getting blindsided by four errant cabs and hitting a self-aggrandized congressman who was too busy picking lint off of his Brooks Brothers suit to watch the traffic signals. I wanted to trade in the old, the charming, the historic for the New South, the glitz and glamour that surely Atlanta offered. And one trip down here was all it took.

I came to visit my two college friends and a weekend of debauchery ensued. I don’t know if it was my smittenness with the night scene, the electricity that then-Buckhead offered, or the bevy of attractive guys with voices so sugary and Southern that their vernacular dripped like honey, warmed by the sun of an Indian Summer afternoon, but whatever it was, I was captivated.

I applied for jobs immediately upon return, and given that it was still the Internet boom, got a few responses in not days, but hours. Within 6 weeks, I was bidding DC goodbye with nary a tear nor a look back. I was ready.

Since then, Atlanta has been much to me. A home base when I traveled, a true home when less transient, a source of pride, even, when catching up with High School friends who never strayed far from the metropolis that is Westlake, Ohio. I can feign the cosmopolitan facade all I want, playing up how WARM and how WONDERFUL this town is, yet, at the end of the day, the facade often crumbles.

Atlanta itself is a mishmash town, stuck smack dab in northwestern Georgia, with nary a true body of water within at least three hours. (And no, Lake Lanier does NOT count.) Post-Civil War Atlanta became known as the center of the Southern restoration and has had its fair share of history, not the least of which being the birthplace of both Martin Luther King and Margaret Mitchell. Yet it’s a nomad’s dream, as very few of its over 4.5 million residents are actually from here. It’s lost a true, unified culture, and the personality is flailing, at best. As such, I find its charm a bit weary and often find myself longing for more.

It’s ironic – the very things that made me leave DC are the things that make me long for a different city than the one in which I currently reside. While I don’t miss the political infiltration that can smother you come campaign-time, I miss the accessibility of DC, the charm, the history. I miss the intimacy. For all that Atlanta is and all that it offers, it falls short in the areas that it needs most – charm. Somewhere between the influx of people and the urban expansion, we’ve lost the around-the-corner coffee shops bearing names other than the neon glow of Starbucks, we’ve lost our Mom & Pop diners, and we’ve lost the hustle and bustle of a city on the go. Attribute it to the Southern Way if you must, but in many ways, Atlanta has lost its lustre.

Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, though I doubt it, but I’m finding myself tired of the routine. I know where most people will be on any given night, and though I do love the music scene and do love the weather and do love the Peachtree Road Race and do love my house and do love my friends, I long for the the water. I crave that sleepy, lackadaisical feel that towns like Savannah and Charleston provide in bulk. I yearn for streetlamps and Spanish moss and unpretension and even miss the sandwiches at Booey’s in DC. I’m happy here – I love my job, love my house & friends – but there’s the part of me that feels like I’m being somehow a fraud.

We have free will, and all, and I suppose I could again heed the call of the nomad, the song of mystery and opportunity and excitement that blows though my trees every so often, but I feel stuck. Stagnant. There’s nothing keeping me here (besides the job, that is), but nothing taking me away. I’m untethered yet bound by convenience.

A funny thing about vacation – it has to end sometime. Gone are the lackadaisical days with our feet in the sand, trashy books in our hand and evenings filled with shrimp shells, Old Bay and inventive games of “Go Fu*k Yourself”, a delightful variation of “Go Fish.” Though just back less than 12 hours, I’m already in the midst of “Vacation Hangover”, gazing longingly and lovingly at the sand that permeates every square inch of my car, my suitcase, and my body. Instead of waves lapping gently at the shore, feet burning on the hot afternoon sand, I’ve got an inbox that will need attending to, messages that will need returning, a house that is not only crying out for a good cleaning but is practically weeping in neglect. Face it, my friends, I’ve got the Post-Vacation Blues.

I suppose I could sit here in my melancholy (but Oh-So “Golden Brown”, Lori-style, state) and mourn the loss of tomato sandwiches and Beatty’s Chicken Salad, or I could recap some statistics:

The Cost of Debauchery
22 Cases of Beer: $300
10 Bottles of Sunscreen: $50
3 Bottles of Off Skintastic: $10
9 Rounds of Mini-Golf: $45
Pictures of Beatty in Drag circulating the Internet: Priceless

I know this will come as a shock to many of you, but alas, I’m hitting the trail yet again. This time (and please, if you’re at work, try and conceal your shock as it may clue coworkers into the fact that you’re not doing your work) it’s vacation.

A. WHOLE. WEEK. OF. VACATION.

With the exception of Spring Break and a Winter Break or two (which doesn’t count b/c Winter in Cleveland is NOT synonymous with sun nor fun), I’ve never taken been on vacation for a week. Makes you want to prank call and chew out my parents, doesn’t it!? Anyhoo, at least in my four years of work-tastic life, I’ve never taken five consecutive days off. And oh, after this week, how I deserve it.

Yes, while you are sitting in corporate life-suckage I shall be contemplating what color to paint my toenails, since the abundance of sand warrants regular re-pedi-fication. While you’re working on your TPS reports and trying to dodge a “Case of the Mondays”, I’ll be contemplating whether SPF 8 will leave me bronzed but not burnt. While you’re stringing together curse words into an intricate hand-woven tapestry of profanity, I’ll be stringing together my bikini.

Have I made you jealous yet?

A funny thing about the week before vacations, as in your frantic preparation to tie up all loose ends, you find yourself longing for procrastination. When you should be packing, you find yourself enthralled by a documentary on the History channel. Instead of stocking up on cat food, your car mysteriously sends you to the mall to stock up on bathing suits. ($1.99 at J. Crew, by the way. Just call me the female Clark Howard!) Though you need to be getting all of your work done a few days early so you don’t have to stay late and end up in a bottleneck of Atlanta smog-i-rific traffic, you email your friends (many of whom are also trying to finish aforementioned activities and are thus more than a bit peeved when you begin to quiz them about their electronics supply in their house) and send them hilarious and very twisted websites such as this. It’s a curse, I tell you.

And yet despite this crappity-crap of a week, despite the fact that I will be in 5 cities in 7 days, and despite the fact that I’m going to end up doing some work from the beach for a multitude of conference calls, I’m excited. No, I’m elated. I just can’t wait to shove my pale ass into a little bathing suit, can’t wait to sleep late and apply aloe to sunburns I had futily attempted to avoid, and can’t wait to come back rested, relaxed, and ready to go all over again. Yes, it’s the dog days of summer, and this Atlanta-gal is doing the only thing she knows how to do to combat the omni-present smog and surprisingly oppressive heat.

I’m going to the beach.

So in my absence, and since my mind will be on hiatus, I beseech you for topics. Sort of like the quasi-failure that was the Aubrey Guest-Writer Series, this is the Aubrey Guest-Topic series. Here’s how it works. (You may want to take notes, it’s somewhat complicated.)
– You leave a comment with a suggested topic.
– I write on that topic.

Saves you from reading about my sunbathing braggadocia, my blonder-than blonde sea-tousled hair or my quest to live by the seaside, and saves me from utilizing any nuances of my brain that I plan on giving a rest. (Um, like the whole thing.) So, mon cheres, comment-icize and topic-icize away. I’m counting on you.

I love writing letters. Recently, it has come to my attention that I may just have an aptitude for this even more than I had previously thought. As such, and as a still-destitute Aubrey McBrokeBroke Destitutio, I am creating a business model, a profitable one sure to provide many upstanding citizens with a much-needed service.

In order to generate some advertising for my offerings, here is a sample of my portfolio:

Dear Gentlemen of the World,
Remember when we pretended that we didn’t like the nice guy? That we found ourselves attracted to the asshole, the rogue, and the bad boy? Yeah. We’re done with that.

As such, we would like to formally commend you for the following actions that make you so, well, Gentlemanly:

1. On a first date, you do not try to come in and stay the night. Kisses are fantastic. Romance will get you everywhere, pushiness and living out your libido will not.
2. On following dates, if making out is ensuing, thank you for not pushing the envelope too far. This includes understanding when we say we don’t want you to come in, understanding when all we really want to do is going to bed, immediately and alone, and not holding it (or anything that may be protruding from your pants) against us.
3. Calling when you say you will. Yes, we are fully aware of the 3-day rule. We’ll deal with it. But false claims only irk us and make us bitter and even more unlikely to want to date you again. Think of Chandler on Friends when he went out with Rachel’s boss and kept saying he would call her, without ever having the intention of calling her. Yeah. Don’t do that. We get pissed.
4. Going out of your way. Girls like surprises. ‘Nuff Said.
Again, your chivalry is darling. We like darling. We think you’re cute.
Hugs, Kisses, and the possibility of much more,
{Insert Name Here}

This letter is extremely effective, and will avoid you from having to send the following letter (below):

Dear Scary Pervert,
Hi there! Thank you for paying for the date the other night – it was the least you could do before you tried to grope, prod and poke your grimy little hands to places that did not welcome said gropage, prodage, and pokeage. I feel it would be providing you with a great service to teach you the difference between ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. As such, I have included some definitions & illustrative examples.