The Internet, like most things, brings with it both the good and the bad. It’s an often (relatively) free mode of information, a consumer gateway, a communication device and even a community of like-minded souls whose appetites for entertainment, information and camaraderie are voracious. The positives are too lengthy to mention, but it’s the negatives that I feel compelled to address.

We live in a society of free speech, at least here in America. I have the right – and ability – to post my true thoughts on my ex’s, to vent about my frustrations and to boast about my successes. Those who read my website also have this unalienable right, and like television or radio or other mediums, have the ability to choose what they want to read. In clear terms, if you don’t like what you see here, go away.

That may sound strong, as I love getting new comments and seeing my site stats rise, being the oft-times narcissistic attention whore that I am or at least portray myself as on this website, but it’s come to a head lately and it’s led me to contemplate something I thought I would never do – shut this site down.

If I am anything, I am a writer. It’s not just what I do, it’s who I am. Having this website, as petty and trite and whatever derogatory comment you would like to say about it, has been an exercise in growth, a much-needed personal journey into the land of the published. After all, one of the hardest things for a writer is obtaining the clips and the credentials – the publication – that validates you as a writer. A vicious cycle, the writing world, where the prerequisite for getting published is BEING published, and vice versa. And even though a blog is essentially a self-publishing venture, it’s endearing and validating to see that there are people out there who not only read what I write, but find many of their own sentiments and feelings in my words. Until recently, it made it all worth it.

Yet by putting myself out there, I’m making myself and my innermost thoughts vulnerable. Sounds logical. Brings me back to my discussions of self-censorship and whether the person I portray myself as on my site is actually who I am. More often than not, it is. My life is basically an open book. Which isn’t always good.

More than my friends’ fears of random stalkers finding out too much about me, it is when how and who I represent myself as begins to affect my life, both at work, and in my personal interactions, that I begin to wonder if the good outweighs the bad.

I have never apologized for who I am. I’m a much different person than I was in middle school, in high school, even in college. It’s the wisdom that a few broken hearts and a woven tapestry of success and failure can give you. It’s the self-awareness that comes with being comfortable with who you are. And yet the fact that I am being judged for this makes me question it all.

My identity is important to me. Not only as the depiction of who I am, but being Aubrey Sabala defines me more than the mere name. I am a daughter, I am a granddaughter, I am a friend. And I am all of these things as Aubrey Sabala. I am proud of my name, and more often than not, proud of who I am. Narcissistic or not, I want to own my writing, and want it associated with who I am, as well as my name.

In the era of Google, where nary a detail is truly held private, having a website is a risk, and it’s a risk I have undertaken knowingly and until now, without much reservation. Having a website using your full name, containing a lot of personal details about yourself, and containing your photographs only ups the ante. It is vulnerability at its greatest extent.

I am not unique in this quandary – Dooce was actually fired for her website, and there are countless others who have gone through conflicts for what they have revealed about themselves online.

And this is the struggle that I am going through – is the risk of judgement by coworkers, friends, foes, and perfect strangers stronger than the desire for accurate self depiction? I am neither ashamed nor insecure about who I am nor who I portray myself as on this site, though apparently others’ judgments do hold credence in the real world. It would be much easier, at least in the short run, to shut the site down, to possibly re-emerge somewhere, sometime, under a different identity, quietly fading into the sunset as yet another casualty of the Web.

Right now, I just don’t know.

I’m a fan of lists. I always have been.

I often write these entries in list format, as it soothes my Type-A brain and allows me to feign a semblance of organization even in the drudges of complete and utter disorganization which is, more often than not, the case.

I love seeing different projects, such as this or this, as they provide a structural context around our usually jumbled lives and provide us with the guidance we often need.

When my aunt passed away, a “To-Do” list was left on her counter, a stark reminder of the reality that is death. The unfinished items would forever remain on that list, either completed by others or remaining incomplete, depending on the urgency and need postmortem.

Of all of the lists I make, my most frequent is the “To-Do” List. There I detail my often-overdue assignments, my shopping lists, and the small, annoying phone calls that seem to have become a daily requirement (i.e., United Water for charging me ten times my normal water bill. I’m none too pleased about that.) Though different in content and nature, each list has one thing in common: the title. Yes, every one of my “To-Do” lists MUST, without exception, contain the title “To-Do” displayed prominently on the top.

This is nothing if not unnecessary, since both the format and the content clearly discern this list from another in type. The title is gratuitous, to quote one of my favorite people, and yet I still find myself compelled to this extemporaneous labeling schema. Which both amuses and irks me to no end.

Am I afraid that my “To-Do” list will be mistaken for a “To-Don’t” list? Silly Aubrey.

Which brings up a great point – a “To-Don’t” list. Just as we often find our partners not by identifying what we are looking for but learning what we are not, so is a “To-Don’t” list especially helpfuly by providing us some guidelines of things we don’t want to, or shouldn’t, do.

A truly fantastic idea.

As such, I give you The Official Aubrey To-Don’t List (version 1)

• Eat Peppers, Pickles, Onions, Mustard or Pineapple
• Date boys that need the definition for the word ‘catty’
• Inhale deeply while riding MARTA or being in any of their elevators
• Be too generous with second chances
• Ascend or Descend ladders while inebriated
• Put Diesel in a SAAB
• Settle
• Insist on being right all of the time
• Think small
• Look too far ahead, such that you will miss the moment that you’re currently in
• Pretend that you can afford to buy an entire round of shots when you are currently paying your electric bill with a credit card
• Be close-minded
• Be too worried about what other people think
• Talk all of the time. Instead, listen
• Cut bangs. Ever. Not a good look
• Turn down a free meal
• Use Unlubricated condoms
• Eat Mexican before a date
• Regret the past. Learn from it instead.
• Buy Salon-quality shampoo & conditioner. Dove works just as well, if not better.
• Forget to wear underwear when wearing a dress if you feel that fan kicks are in your immediate future
• Try too hard
• Ever say Never

And on that note, I’m off to lunch. No Peppers, Pickles, Onions, Mustard or Pineapple in sight.

For $15, I received much more than my long-awaited haircut at Great Clips. I received the wisdom of the ages.

Jennifer, the sassy chocolate-skinned hairdresser who resembled Jacquee of “227” fame in both vernacular and appearance, imparted her invaluable words of wisdom upon this willing student. Openly shocked that at 8:30pm my hair could – and did – remain wet 12 hours after I showered (apparently a talent she had never seen before in her many years of beautifying clients all over Atlanta), she first inquired if I was a martian.

Never a good sign from the woman who I was entrusting with my tresses.

After affirming that, to the best of my knowledge, I was born in Cuyahoga County, Ohio, not Mars, she happily informed me that she was just “playin’ around with [me].”

Astute, she clearly was.

Jennifer was a jovial sort, chattering to herself as she chopped my coif into a quasi-layered mop (which I hope lies flatter upon drying it tomorrow morning), she then turned to the essential hairdresser-client topic du jour: my love life.

Asking if I had “found [me] a husband yet”, Jennifer was stricken when I divulged that no, I hadn’t and yes, I was over 25. She was honestly aghast, this 42-year old single woman, and said, I kid you not, the following sentence:

“Girl, you’re getting up there, you’d best start praying to the Good Lord that he brings a man into your life. And SOON!”

She furthered this statement by saying that if I found myself still single at age 28, I may as well move to New York (where she apparently believes there exists a bevy of available men) and read the book “Date Like a Man” (apparently an Oprah favorite.)

“Sugar,” she said, “It took me a long time and finally I found a man, so you’d best get started now. There’s no time to wait, you don’t want to be alone for the rest of your life. Seriously, honey, I started praying, asking God to bring me a few men into my life – I wanted a choice, you know – and I got me some. You should start today.”

Oh. Silly me. I’ve been going about this all wrong. Instead of enjoying my life, going through the daily trials and tribulations, the heartaches, the headaches, the love and the laughter, all of which helping to further teach me who I am and what I want, I should have just been sitting around, praying to God for a husband.

It all makes sense now.

“It’s hard out there by yourself. No fun, you know? I mean, you can hang out with your girlfriends but that gets old. You need a man,” advised this Beautician-cum-Dr. Phil.

A-ha! No more should I enjoy Aubrey, Intercontinental (which, incidentally, was fabulous), no more should I cavort and camaraderize with my galpals at Bachelorette parties, getting boys to sign my thigh or rate my rack (I’m still appaled by the 7.5 rating and demand a recount!), and spending the weekend with a few of my favorite people. Instead, I should be more devout and more clear in my wants. I should be finding me a man.

Now don’t take this as a critique on prayer. On the contrary, actually. I pray every night for the good will and safety of my friends, families, and even foes, asking God for direction and to help guide me in the path that I’ve yet to conclude whether or not is predetermined. However, to solely rely on the power of prayer to complete me, as she implied, is folly at its very core. Life, and love, are what you make of it. There’s a quote that says “There is fate, but it only takes you so far, because once you’re there, it’s up to you to make it happen.”, a mantra in which I firmly believe. Sitting around and waiting for my life to happen is like saying you’re hungry and waiting for food to appear in front of you, without ever bothering to cook it or order it at a restaurant.

I refuse to be a passive observer in my life. If I want something, I go for it, be it a job, a guy, or even the last bag of Mini-Oreos in our office kitchen. (Which I got, incidentally.) Success without strife, reward without effort, is bittersweet at best. How would one know the feeling of sunshine without ever feeling the dampness of rain?

In the future, I believe I’ll take my advice from others, though I think I got a pretty damn good deal on a haircut.

Women.

We’re our own worst enemy.

Worse than pessimistic friends, worse than that skinny bitch in the corner flirting with the Harry Connick Jr. look-alike that you’ve had your eye on all night, worse even than a vengeful ex-girlfriend, we girls can sabotage our happiness with our preponderance for over-analysis. It’s a talent, when you think about it, even if it’s not one we’d normally tout as a beneficial one, and a talent that seems uniquely suited to women, especially those in their mid-to-late 20’s.

Let me give you an example.

Girl likes Boy. Girl emails Boy. Boy doesn’t write back in the 30-minute requisite turnaround time. Girl assumes Boy hates her, has forgotten about her, has reconciled with his ex, and Girl slumps into major depression and quells her loss with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

Girl rejects the theory of Occam’s Razor, and instead of logically assuming that Boy is out of the office, in a client meeting, or that even Boy’s email isn’t working, Girl invents a preposterous yarn involving the sordid discovery of Girl’s secret Kenny G. obsession, Swedish swimsuit model ex-girlfriends with breasts the size of large honeydew melons in the peak of ripeness, and a mass exodus to a pub with his buddies, involving many a Guinness and much laughter, at Girl’s folly for thinking he liked her, to boot.

Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill, Girl’s over-analysis mimics an Aaron Spelling cliffhanger during sweeps week as opposed to a 30-second commercial on auto insurance. Whereas the reality is usually no more complicated than an overflowing inbox, we’ve purchased the movie rights on the whole saga, casting ourselves as the tragic heroine, of course.

Though we make every effort to disguise these behaviors, and many may disagree with my next statement,
ALL. GIRLS. DO. IT.

I’m not proud of my girlish over-analysis, but it seems to be a hardwired thought process here to stay despite my active combative efforts. I don’t WANT to re-read emails in a search for underlying messages that may provide fodder for the fire of boy-interest paranoia, especially since I know guys are much more simple than that. (And by simple, I mean “If he doesn’t like you, you’ll know.”) And yet I, yet WE, do this, among other equally pointless behaviors.

We look for hidden meanings, disguised intentions, falsehoods, and interpret every exhaustion-driven succinct email as another nail in our proverbial relationship coffin. Whereas in the corporate world and even in our relationships with friends we exude competence and confidence, all it takes for our resolve to falter in our love life is a missed phone call or an email that doesn’t include “talk to you later” or the equivalent.

How ridiculous we are, these creatures of Manolo-obsessed habit that we are, to put this much time and effort into decoding the mysterious interactions with the other gender. Because, face it, guys would NEVER put this much effort into decoding us. While we’re told to put on an air of mystery, to treat our accessibility as a virtue, and people have made fortunes advising us in the art of playing hard to get, boys have somehow learned to see through the facade and understand, at least on a surface level, that what we’re doing is playing games. And they go with it. Conversely, most guys are WYSIWYG – what you see is what you get, for you tech-lingo neophytes – and their intentions are basically obvious. If he wants to see you, he’ll make plans to see you. If he wants to talk to you, he’ll call (with the only rule followed is basically the 3-day waiting rule, if not the 3-date expectation mantra). And, God forbid he’s found someone new or has tired of your beauty and charm (which, while being horrifically unjustified still seems to be possible. Shocking, I know!), you’ll know. The calls will wane. The plans will be of the up-in-the-air variety. The emails will stop, as the signs are far more obvious than the omission of a ending salutation in an email.

There’s drugs for everything these days, from impotence to obesity. If someone could just make a remedy for over-analysis, they’d make a goldmine.

But what would we do with all of that extra time?

My friends, I’m frazzled. (And I’m not just talking about my hair.)

I’m a figurative chicken running around with her head cut off, trying to get everything done before I hit the road for my extended jaunt o’ Intercontinentaldom. My to-do list has dwindled to some extent, a feat no less than massive, and still I find myself adding more to the neverending list of Things to Do. (Which reminds me – why do I feel the need to title every To-Do list with “Things To Do” . I mean, it couldn’t be mistaken for a list of, say, baby names or people that I never should have dated, unless one of my ex’s was named “Cat Litter.” But I digress.)

I’m a little busy Aubrey bee around here in Hotlanta, where the typical August(!!) heat has caused our daily constitutional of storms to begin popping up around the area. I’m hittin’ the road (via SmellyMARTA, since my coche is enjoying it’s weeklong vacation at CarMax) in an hour, and still have a bag to repack, lunch to eat (ok, MORE lunch to eat – whoever says that Slim Fast fills you up was talking out of their ass), and approximately 938387 work-related items to tend to.

But that’s become status quo around here.

As I begin my sojourn to places familiar and unknown, I am quite concerned about my ability to access the Internet. (We’ve already talked about my addiction in a prior post.) I suppose I could go on a hiatus, a la the charming HelenJane (apparently all the cool kids are doing it) but the thought never crossed my mind. I mean, I could no more go on a hiatus from my site than I could give up French Fries, and anyone who knows my #1 failed New Years Resolution can attest to the fact that it’s not only improbible, it’s impossible.
Still, my access will be limited so these daily posts will become, well, less than daily. Unfortunately. (I know y’all are just waiting with bated breath.)

As such, here are some things that I can’t forget to tell you so in an effort to save time, I return to my much-adored list format.

1. If you’re in the Cleveland, San Francisco, or DC areas in the next week, give me a call or drop me an email at aubrey@aubreysabala.com. I’ll be comin’ to yo’ hood and would love to partake in some delectable beverages. And to hug y’all and stuff.
2. If any of you are planning on making a mountain out of the most ridiculous molehill I’ve ever heard of, a topic that is nothing less than moot at this point and still remains horrifically immature and insane, besides showing that apparently my friendship is a threatening proposition, save it. I’m done.
3. If you’re the lovely person who is watching my menagerie while I’m gone, God Help you with the Cat Litter. You’re a real trooper.
4. If you’re the lovely people who I will be seeing and/or staying with while in DC, get ready. I’m comin’ to town, and I’m not sure the city’s yet recovered from my last visit.
5. If you’re the roommate of the person who I will be staying with while in DC, hide the Aveda or else I’m calling dibs on it. (I’ll stay away from that hairdryer though.)
6. If you’re in the position to find me a roommate, Godspeed.
7. If you’re my boss, you rock. There’s nothing better than an unexpected promotion except for an unexpected promotion with an unexpected raise to boot.
8. If you’re Matthew McConaughey, Heath Ledger, Michael Vartan or – my absolute new favorite human on television, Jason Lewis (Samantha’s current hunk on Sex & the City), give me a call. You’re delectable. (More to come on Jason in the near future, never you fear.)
9. If you’re feeling generous, amuse yourself with AubGarb or consider yourself a charitable human for buying me something off of my wishlist. Remember, Membership Has Its Benefits.
10. If you’re the owner of white shoes and extended sideburns, they’d better still be intact when I return. You know I’m only kidding when I make fun of you for them.

On that, I’m off to go do 1028378 things. (The list has increased you see.)

Have yourselves a happy, wonderful week, and I’ll be in touch. (Just don’t hate me if it occurs after the 2am hour…)

There’s nothing better than live music, except when it’s one of your friends performing the live music at a venue that you adore for its intimacy and unpretentiousness and you’re surrounded by a wider group of friends who are all there for the very same reason – to support your pal and ease his nerves and show how excited you are to see him perform.

Such was my evening, and I’m still raving about it.

The place: Smith’s Olde Bar. For those not local to Atlanta, this is one of my favorite bars in town. The downstairs offers tattooed waitstaff with less-than-the-recommended allotment of teeth, ample pool tables, a kickass jukebox (though I was shocked to see that Elvis Costello’s Greatest Hits was missing “Veronica”, his best song ever), and even some Golden Tee to entertain the boys while the girls are being backstabby and gossipy, a result of the strong Vodka Soda’s they pour. The wood is dark, and the walls are lined with signed band posters showing the array of performers that stream through the down-and-dirty doors of the local hole-in-the-wall. The air is usually full of smoke, tempting those who are trying to kick the habit into relenting to their vice and bumming a cig from a perfect stranger.

The upstairs is where the magic happens. The room, unadorned, is flanked by a bar on the side and the performers spin their tales of love, life, loss and more while the crowd nods their heads, taps their feet and feels that the music is directed especially for them.

Last night, the performers were nothing less than fantastic. A trio of cousins, John Moye directed a family affair as his cousin, strumming the guitar and brother, playing the drums added melody to his Ben-Folds-esque piano tunes. His voice was crisp and clear, rattling off lyrics that spanned from the heartwarming to the amusing, my favorite being about a pompous British guy named Jim Treadly who had “better tread gently.” Poetry in motion.

I’ve always been a huge music fan, and more than even clothing or hairstyles, songs evoke memories of days and moments passed, bringing them clearly into the forefront of our lives as if they just happened seconds ago. I remember sitting in my friends’ bedroom listening to “To Be With You” by Mr. Big and listening to her chat about her new, older, and somewhat rebellious love interest. I remember aching through the chorus of the song, wishing I had a new, older, and somewhat rebellious love interest as well. I remember sitting in my black pleather chair in my basement, excited and trying to combat the butterflies in my stomach as we listened to “More Than Words” by Extreme and I received my first kiss. I remember driving through the streets of my home town with my best friend, listening to “Send Me On My Way” by Rusted Root and realizing the significance of the words, as she was leaving me in the depths of High School life as she headed off to the glamourous land of college. I remember sailing down Airport Road in the hot Carolina heat screaming “Semi-Charmed Life” as my friend in the car behind me did exactly the same. I remember having dance parties when I lived up at UVA to “You Sexy Thing” and knowing that the soundtrack of the summer was “Boogie Nights.” (And trust me, we boogied our nights away.) I remember the confusion of the time right before you graduate and trying to hold on to anything familiar, driving to “Go Your Own Way” and being inconsolable because my man o’ the moment was doing just that. (Without me, I must add.) I remember driving to a wedding with a guy who I refused to see as anything but perfect for me, listening to “Amber” by 311 and just willing it to work out even though my heart and my mind knew that it never would.

In the soundtrack of our lives, there are moments that stand out, mental snapshots of people and places and scenes. Woven together, they make up the quilt of your experiences, a warm and inviting memory where you know everything was right in the world for at least one moment. Music is the fibers of this quilt, tying the people to the places to the events. And as each day passes, we add to our quilt of life, with a secret smile or hand on the small of your back or a joke passed between just the two of you. We too often plan so far ahead that we miss where we are right now, miss the very experience as its happening.

Last night was one of those moments where for once, we were brought into the here and now, forgetting about the there and then. Looking around at people I knew well, people I hadn’t seen in forever, and people I just met, it became clear that moments like this were too few and far between, and that I want more of them.

So now, I remember sitting in a music hall with the flickering candlelight brightening the smiles on people’s nodding faces, laughing with friends and being nothing less than happy in the present, listening to Moye. And loving every bit of it.

Oh, woe is me.
Woest of the woedoms. Woe-ful, in fact.
Woe.
Woe.
Woe.

I’m saddened, desolate, and – at the very least – annoyed.

Woe, I say.

Picture if you will the Aubrey of the past few days. The Aubrey of over-worked-dom that, yes, I’ve mentioned on many an occasion here. The Aubrey of dogged determination, Herculean strength, house-cleaning rampageness that has allowed me to even justify breaking nearly every fingernail in the pursuit of getting the house ready for my NewRoommate. Picture me falling into bed at 1am for the past two nights, surrounded my insane amounts of clothing and whatnot, feet dirtied, legs bruised, arms sore from hauling all of my respective shite up into the attic and down into the third bedroom. Picture my usually well-coiffed hair (ok, moderately well-coiffed) in awry in Medusa-esque tendrils while I dripped with sweat in the late July Georgia heat as I cleaned the garage, the third bedroom, preparing for NewRoommate to move in while I was gone being Aubrey, Intercontinental. Pre Aubrey, Intercontinental was Aubrey, Roommate-Preparer.

And all for naught.

Excuse me if I vent here for a second, but I am now Aubrey, Enraged. Ask any ex of mine what happens when I do my Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde transformation into Aubrey, Enraged, and they’ll let you know that keeping your distance is a fabulous suggestion.

So NewRoommate, or as we shall heretofore call him, The Artist Formerly Known as NewRoommate, or TAFKAN for short, came over this evening. We had discussed the logistics — he would be renting out the upstairs room and wanted to put some of his furniture (loveseat & sofa) in the downstairs bedroom. Since the upstairs bedroom is/was currently furnished with a bed, dresser, and desk, these pieces would have to relocate to the downstairs bedroom. As such, I hauled the bed and the dresser downstairs, leaving ample room for a loveseat, a sofa and an entertainment center. (I even put my dresser IN THE CLOSET to accommodate more space for TAFKAN.) Logical, no? Apparently not according to TAFKAN. Oh no. TAFKAN wanted more.

So Aubrey, Roommate-Preparer, is diligently sweeping out the garage this evening when TAFKAN arrives as scheduled, albeit 15 minutes late. Excited about the MAMMOTH progress I have made, I ushered TAFKAN into the downstairs room, where I have masterfully set up the bed and masterfully prepped the room for anything that needed to be stored or set up downstairs. TAFKAN looks less than pleased. You see, apparently, when we discussed the logistics of renting out A ROOM, TAFKAN heard that I would be renting out A BEDROOM, A BATHROOM, and ALSO A FULL OTHER EMPTY ROOM FOR HIM TO SET UP AS AN ENTERTAINMENT CENTER ROOM. And in TAFKAN’s world, the presence of my spare bed did not fit.

Please correct me if I’m wrong, but if I do not put the spare bed in the spare bedroom, where exactly would I put it? Please correct me if I’m wrong, but when someone rents out a room in a furnished townhouse, they are renting out a bedroom, a bathroom, and the use of the common area. Please correct me if I’m wrong, but do you not think it’s ASKING TOO MUCH to expect the owner of the house to find a NEW PLACE for her FURNISHINGS while you bring ALL of your furniture (which could easily stay at your parents’ house, where it is currently residing) so you can just set up an EXTRA room TO YOUR SPECIFICATIONS?

There’s a name for what TAFKAN was looking for, and it is called AN UNFURNISHED APARTMENT.

As such, Aubrey is again Sans Roommate. Again Sans Money. Has returned to the land of Destitution.

Please make out all gifts, checks, and wishlist items to Aubrey McBrokeBroke Destitutio. I’m pursuing a legal name change as we speak.

Oh, procrastination, why do you plague me so?

My in-box (virtual, of course, as documented on my oh-so dot.com whiteboard located conveniently next to my overflowing not-so dot.com bulletin board) depicts my overwhelmingness of everything.

I have work. I have freelance work. I have more freelance work. I have overdue freelance work, due tomorrow freelance work, due Thursday freelance work. I have a spare bedroom that resembles the aftermath of either the Tazmanian Devil (a la Loony Tunes) or a three-year-old’s remains of a quite efficient tantrum. I have a closet that is straining to hold the overabundance of clothing that I added to it last night in preparation of NewRoommate’s arrival. I have a dead Palmetto Bug in my third bedroom that I inadvertantly killed after knocking its back two legs off, an act of cruelty that I’m still feeling a bit guilty about. (Oh, bleeding heart, why do YOU plague me so!?) I have a cat that keeps eating the dried flower wreath as well as the fronds from my infamous grass skirt, resulting in said cat puking said fronds into the communal water bowl, just to annoy his over-frazzled owner. (Note the restraint it took me to not say ‘mother’ there, since I’ve come to terms with the fact that cat owners are notoriously known as crazy. Not me, no sirree.) I’ve got shower presents to buy, websites to update, campaigns to track, blogs to read, and suitcases to fill with inordinate amounts of clothes that, while lessening the strain on the already-overburdened self-built closet, will surely heighten the strain on already-overburdened and sore Aubrey-arms while traveling. You see, Aubrey is about to become Aubrey, Intercontinental.

And what am I doing?

You guessed it, procrastination.

Why is it, when our to-do lists are miles upon miles long and we’re frazzled to the tips of the much-needed-to-be-cut ends of our hair (Update: Great Clips closed at 9. I was still at work. Damn you, Great Clips.) we find it almost seducing to put off all that needs to be done, instead tending to all that we want to be doing? It’s the IM syndrome of life – when you have seven windows open on your computer, responding to the blinking IM is sometimes the easiest way to feel that you’ve accomplished SOMETHING.

As is this post. Instead of droning on about my work (already did that), my destitution-turned-to-mere-poverty (again, been there, wrote that) or my less-than-pristine house (yep, that too), I shall stray and address a topic more near and dear to my heart. Travel.

My friends, I’ll let you know a little bit about Aubrey, Intercontinental. She packs like a champ. Yes, this ravishing blonde (self-flattery helps when overwhelmed, you know) has been known to fit a ball gown, a ghetto-fabulous velour running suit, clothing suited to both NYC and San Diego in December, as well as adding the treats from a H&M shopping spree, into a carry-on. Please be in awe when you note that this trip was for 8 days. Yes, she is flexible. (And not only in the former-gymnast sort of way.) As such, in a repeat performance astounding shocked onlookers, Aubrey, Intercontinental, will again be performing her marvelous packing pursuits as she fills her carry-on with dresses for a bridal shower, work casual clothes, work not-so-casual yet not-so-businessy clothes, work not-so-casual-but-oh-so-chic-for-wine-tour-and-SanFran-Bay-Cruise clothes, travel at the ungodly hour of 6am two times in one week clothes, DC out-to-a-party clothes, DC out-to-a-bachelorette-extravaganza-clothes, and still manage to have the perfect pair of shoes. Boys, are you hearing this? Aubrey doesn’t overpack.

If that doesn’t make me “take-home-to-Mom” material, I don’t know what does.

Except, of course, my chocolate chip cookies.

Just call me All-American Aubrey. I’ve got the rights on the action figure.

HALLELUJIA!

World, Behold. Aubrey is in a great mood.

And it’s Monday. If this isn’t the antithesis of PMS, I don’t know what is.

First, I had a spectactular weekend. Got to spend time with my wonderful friend from out of town, drank wine, took Chaser and avoided a hangover, hung out with some fabulous people at a far-too-crowded bar and took some hilarious photos to boot, ate a scrumptiously sinful Fried Calamari Pizza (don’t knock it ’til you try it), laid by the pool, cleaned my house, found my missing software, cooked a gourmet dinner (and by this, I’m talking 4-course, multi-ingredient, from-scratch type of meal), vaccuumed up beetles that rival the cat hairballs in size and disgustingness that I also cleaned up, went to the grocery store for the first time since May, and – delight of all delights – got myself a roommate.

Praise the Lord.

Gone are the eating-only-what-I-find-at-work days — again I will rise back up into the land of quasi-destitution instead of full-fledged poverty. I may even splurge and by Charmin I’m so excited. Yes, though I’ve loved living alone for the past year and love the fact that I can (and do) walk around the house bookie-ass nekked on many an occasion, I’ll happily sacrifice my exhibitionism in return for some much-needed salary augmentation.

So my roommate. I promised I wouldn’t write anything about this person without prior consent, though I do believe it’s safe to say the following:
1. It’s — he’s — a boy.
2. He has ties to Cleveland, making him all-the-more rock-star in my eyes.
3. He doesn’t hate the cats.
4. He claims that he can cook.
5. He’s moving in – get this – on Saturday. When I’m gone. For 10 days.

Leaving me, an ebulliantly excited and justifiably exhausted Aubrey, in a slight state of panic. In preparation for said wonderfulroommate, I have the following to accomplish.

1. Move everything out of the downstairs bedroom and scour it. (Check)
2. Go through Rubbermaid storage units and be very generous over what needs to stay vs. what’s gonna go. (Check)
3. Clean up the spilled paint on the garage floor. (Check.)
4. Clean up aforementioned spilled paint that somehow made its way underneath every crevice of my fingernails. (Check)
5. Clean car (though not necessary for new roommate to move in, was necessary for my sanity.) (Check)
6. Water flowers. (Landscaping must look pretty for new roommate.) (Check)
7. Cut extra carpeting to make washer/dryer area more inhabitable (Check)
8. Clean out water heater closet and somehow manage to condense Rubbermaid storage units into them (Check)
9. Move mattress, box springs, headboard & footboard from 3rd floor bedroom into first floor bedroom. (Check)
10. Move books from 3rd floor bedroom to first floor bedroom and arrange strategically on headboard (Check)
11. Empty dresser and pack up all winter attire into suitcases for storage. (Check)
12. Empty closet and pack up all winter attire into suitcases for storage. (Check)
13. Channel Hulk-like-strength to take aforementioned heavy-as-all-shit suitcases and drag them into my attic without falling, tripping, or tumbling down the rickety ladder. (Check)
14. Figure out where to put dresser.
15. Figure out where to put my inordinate supply of formal attire.
16. Clean out bathroom.
17. Get new roommate to help me move the dresser wherever it’s supposed to go.
18. Move upstairs computer.
19. Get a whole lot less sleep than I need.
20. Head out of town for 10 days.

I could continue to list my ever-increasing items of my to-do list, but even in the face of this daunting assignment, and unheard of amounts of work still to finish this week, I’m smiling. I’ve been told I’m giddy, perky and chipper thus far today, and it’s only 10:41. I’m looking forward to having a roommate, looking forward to my status of quasi-destitution, looking forward to being able to go out and buy long-overdue wedding presents and be more generous without that stabbing feeling in the heart every time I call 1-800-Wachovia and they tell me I have 84 cents in my account. (The current balance.)

Still, while I no longer have to think of creative ways to finance my current, expected lifestyle, a few things will remain. The faux bachelorette party? Still on. The free cover into various bars? Oh yeah. Bring it. The freelancing? Yep, still plan on that as well. And despite a comment or two about the practicality of my beloved SAAB-ala Mobile, it’s here to stay.

I’m living the good life, people, but in the meantime, I’m off to SuperCuts. Can’t beat a $13 haircut.

As of late, I have been experiencing a very troublesome personal problem. It weighs on my mind, on my soul, and paralyzes me with fear numerous times during the day. It weasels its way into my dreams, proving that even my non-waking moments are plagued with stress and anxiety and fear. I hate this.

My problem is that I’m broke.

Not just broke, mind you, but so extraordinarily money-conscious that I’m so jealous of anyone who has any money that it’s turning me into a soured bitch. (That, and the new dosage of Happy Anti-Baby-Vitamins that have thus far caused extreme irritability in my normally quasi-pleasant nature, but I digress…) So yes. Broke. If I had to change my name, I’d be Aubrey McBrokeBroke Destitutio. And the problem with being broke, besides the obvious, is that being broke is NO FUN. Not even an iota of fun. Zip. Zilch. The black hole of fun-dom. Get my drift?

Without detailing my insane amount of expenses in a pathetic line-order spreadsheet, I’ll let you know that between my house, my car, my cable (yes, this is mandatory, as I must get more than 2 channels, which is the case without it), my phone (which I tried to get rid of but can’t because of my…)…Security System (which I tried to get rid of so I could get rid of my phone, but am somehow locked in by a 3 year contract. Bastards), my cell phone, my internet connection, my homeowner’s dues, my homeowners’ insurance, my car insurance, my electricity (which should be MUCH lower than the last bill of $92/month since my house is an inferno at 80 degrees as an attempt to keep down the atrocious charges), my gas (the natural kind, not the heartburn-related type), my gym membership (I may be broke, but I don’t wanna be a broke fattie), and my grad school loans, there’s little left. And by little, I mean under $200. A month. BEFORE FOOD.

See why this plagues me like a mutated strain of flesh-eating SARS?

And yet with the full knowledge of my destitution, my desires (nor my ‘other expenses’) have not waned in the least. Weddings are still occurring. Wedding showers are still occurring. The cats still need litter. The house still needs windex and toilet paper, and shampoo, even if I do use Cottenelle vs. my much-plushy-and-loved Charmin, and Dove vs. the much-hair-smoothing Bumble & Bumble. See? Frugality.

And then there’s food. And drink. I would make a horrific anorexic, and while I’m throwing all nutritional requirements to the wind by eating as much as I can for free at work, one cannot – nor should not – exist on Twizzlers and Baked Lays and Mini-Oreos and Snyders Pretzels and Cheez-Its and M&M’s alone. (Though we also have Slim-Fast which has been my alimentary consumable of choice lately, which is killing two birds with one stone. But again, I digress…)

I’m also a social gal, as we very well know, and have come up with ‘creative’ ways to finance my socializing habit as I so choose to call it. Thus far, I’ve extended my birthday for over a month’s worth of free birthday shots and drinks, I’ve flirted shamelessly with miscreants nearing the geriatric age in hopes of a brew a gratis, and I’ve hoodwinked every beer girl in town to sample every variety of new beverage around. (And no, Zima is NOT below my standards, thank you very much.) A faux bachelorette party and other morally questionable activities are in the works…

As such, I’m turning to you for suggestions, for ideas, for promises that this is as bad as it’s gonna get. I need you to soothe me when the unexpected $700 bill for city and county homeowners’ taxes that exceeds my allotment in escrow arrives and sends me on a tailspin. I need kind words when you find me in the fetal position on my kitchen floor, clutching my ever-escalating credit card statement while whimpering “I’m poor…I’m poor.” And most of all, I need you to remind me, when I’m out on the town and being lively and feeling nothing but generous, that BY NO MEANS do I need to get this round, or any future round, for that matter. Plain and simple, I need a sponsor.

Thus I officially announce the “Aubrey Sabala Sponsorship Plan” – a Membership program with rewards. For your meager donation, you get perks that far exceed any frequent flier offerings around.

Some of these benefits include:

• Frequent PERSONAL phone calls from Aubrey Sabala herself – some even after 2am!
• Hand-written thank you letters with Googliscious treats enclosed
• The ability to post comments and even suggest new entries on Aubrey’s personal site!
• Publicity for your website (if you have one), promotion of your products (if you have them) and unrelenting support of all of your pursuits.

…and much, much more!

AND, that’s not it! For your sponsorship, you will get a keepsake “Aubrey Sabala Membership Club” card for you to carry around with you in your wallet! Already a hit at bars and clubs in Atlanta, the card will get you amazing status recognition and discounts worldwide!

How do you join this amazing program? It’s simple! Just make a contribution by clicking on either the DONATE link or the “Wish List” image below

or simply send me food, treats, or love (as well as Bobbi Brown cosmetics and Seven Jeans). If you’re interested, email me and I’ll HAPPILY provide you with my address.

After all, Membership DOES have its Benefits.