I’m an addict.

There. I said it. Feels good to get it off my chest, like they say it will. The first step is admitting you have a problem, and lookie there – I just admitted it.

Narcotics? Nicotine? Caffeine? Alcohol? Nope. None of the above are my vice of choice. Not even gluttony, despite the 1/2 bag of butter-lovers popcorn that I just consumed as an afterthought to my Slim-Fast lunch (um, those things aren’t too filling, but I’m too steadfast and too destitute to get anything else!) It’s the Internet.

I’ve heard snippets on the news that people out there in Internetland really ARE addicted to the instant gratification that the WORLD WIDE WEB (emphasized to denote the way that my Mom still thinks of it) brings, but for me, it’s more the weblogs and personal websites that give me my daily fix. As I mentioned in my last entry, there’s my required daily reading, and even when I’m swamped, head under water, I’m jonesing for my daily fix of Sarah or HelenJane or Josh or CW or Heather or anyone else I’ve referenced on the right.

Anyway, in my daily check-up of cyberpals (is it presumptuous to think that they’re my pals? I hope not…) I came across the following post, copied from Sarah Hatter’s site so you all can enjoy as well…

First things first: I have never been in love. I have pretended to be in love, and have fooled many people into thinking that I was, I might have even fooled myself, but it’s never been real. Second: if I were in love right this minute, if you were standing here before me and we were face to face and for some reason we needed to determine whether we were in love with each other, I have a feeling you would say that you knew what I was thinking and that we didn’t need to say anything, and I would have the urge to say, no, you don’t know, you have no idea what I want.

My entire life has been an effort to avoid clichés, to turn from the obvious, to seek out and uncover the hidden beauties life affords those with time enough to find them. I’ve spent all my energy running against the grain with hopes of being unique, or even mildly spectacular, however far fetched that may be. Part of that struggle of mine, self-inflicted and entirely unnecessary as it may be, has been to keep from ever being in that dime a dozen movie star roses and chocolates and walks on the beach kind of love. I do not like that kind of love, only because that’s what everyone gets, and I want something all my own.

What I really want is to fall asleep in the car with you driving, or to make dinner while you read in the other room, or to laugh the way we do at silly little things we have no way of explaining to other people. I want quiet afternoons listening to good music and walking to breakfast on summer mornings. I want simple things, I don’t want something from a movie you saw a few years back and told yourself, “That’s what I will do, but I will put my own personal spin on it, just to make it original, even though I’m stealing it from a movie.” Let’s not do what you thought you’d always do, that sort of thing won’t impress me. Let’s not be in love the way you thought it would be, the way you planned and dreamed and figured. Let’s take a chance on having an abnormal love and surprise each other by not playing the games and not following the rules, and I promise you won’t be disappointed.

This made my insides ache, it rang so true. And while I hate ‘piggybacking’ on other peoples’ posts or ideas, with all due respect to Sarah, I have to add my own take on this.

I, too, have never been in love. And every time I have admitted this, the person who I have told seems incredulous. They denounce the veracity of this statement, and inevitably I either retract it or change the subject. But when all is said and done, it’s the brutal, honest truth.

At 26 years old, this seems like the latter-day version of a scarlet letter. Because, you say, what is wrong with you if you’ve never been in love? If you’ve never said (besides to your family or friends) “I love you” and never heard (besides from your family or friends) the words in return. Does that brand you unlovable?

For all that is dear and true in this world, I hope to God not.

Loyal readers of this site will find it no surprise when I say that I’m a romantic at heart. Rose-colored glasses are worn more often than not, and I’ve even been told that I’m too quick to forgive. With a few exceptions, I keep my pain private and will take the higher road, even when the higher road sucks big piles of ass. The Golden Rule and Karma and all similar mantras run through my head whenever I want to air my dirty laundry here on this site where – face it – I have the right to talk about whatever I damn well want to.

But today is all about the brutal truth.

I’ve never been in love. And despite my accomplishments, despite my many successes, despite the best family and most amazing group of friends that I can’t even begin to imagine my life without, it still makes me feel like I’ve failed here. And that breaks my heart.

I’ve had a ‘love of my life’ but, somewhere in the midst of reality and growing up and his wedding, the ‘love of my life’ became nothing but a coined phrase with very little meaning behind it. A joke, albeit a pretty pathetic one. As we’re prone to do, I moved on. I’ve had relationships, some better than others, each teaching me about what I wanted and – in some instances – teaching me more about what I didn’t want. And we grow, and we learn, and we get our heart broken and we pick up the pieces and go on – because, after all, that’s life. That’s what you do.

We get hardened and wizened and more realistic, and put away our childhood dreams of the knight in shining armor. Some people lower their standards, some people settle, some people realize that what they thought they wanted wasn’t anything that they actually needed. And somewhere, at some point, love falls into the mix.

They say that you find it when you’re least expecting it – how many times have (to quote Bridget Jones) “smug marrieds” issued that trite cliché, leaving every girl to wonder how to not expect something that is constantly brought up by our family and friends? Because, though we’re loathe to admit it, somewhere in some small nook and cranny of our cerebrum, hiding in the gray matter of our brainstem, under the 2-for-1 margarita Monday dead brain cell repository, there’s that nagging thought. What if? What if I never find someone?

Normally I’d end this entry on some witty, chipper note, reiterating that I don’t want to get married right now, that I’m loving my life the way it is, a disclaimer to all guys who read this site and, without that damage control, might find my honesty a bit too, well, honest and be found running down North Highland Avenue away from commitment-obsessed Aubs as fast as they possibly could. And while those statements are true, that I do love my life, and that if I had a wedding anytime soon it would have to be at the justice of the peace wearing Carianne’s bridesmaid dress as my gown (a result of my much-referenced financial destitution), I don’t feel comfortable ending this post that way. Because one day, I do want to meet someone, and hopefully sooner rather than later. I want my own version of the fairy tale, I want my partner to be the person who deals with the fact that cooking is a foreign word in my house, the person who knows I have cats and knows it’s because I’m such an animal lover that I still say a prayer every time I step on an ant because I feel so guilty for ending its life, the person who knows when I have PMS because I’m found rearranging my linen closet until 1am on a Tuesday night. I want a partner in all sense of the word, and I want it to be imperfect. Until that day, I suppose I’ll continue to fall in like, to have my crushes, to get angry at distance and timing and logistics, and to remain optimistic that every pot will one day find its lid.

(Is it too much to hope that mine will be Calphalon?)

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens

Hell, let’s be honest here, these aren’t MY Favorite things. (Though I sort of do love whiskers on kittens, as long as they’re not shoving them in your face at 3am like Sullivan tries to do EVERY. SINGLE. FRIEKIN. MORNING.)

My favorite things are much more materialistic and much more intangible. Some cost a proverbial arm and a leg, some cost nothing but your time. As such, since it’s Friday and since I’ve often considered starting an “Ask Aubrey” website where all of you in Internet-land can ask me questions about restaurants, beauty & fashion tips and even sexual questions that you know, despite my giggles at first, I’ll answer since discretion isn’t in my nature, I figured I’d give props (ha!) to some of MY favorite things.

First, let’s talk about the little magic pill that has recently changed my life. No, not Viagra (if anything, I’d need the exact opposite, but I’ll not go into that here…), but Chaser – Freedom From Hangovers. Take 2 of these with your first drink and voila! The next day you are as chipper as Tiny Tim tiptoing through the tulips. Or something to that nature. Get it online or get it at GNC.

On to food & drink. Mini Oreos rock like nobody’s business. All those little tasty treats in one small little bite-sized version? Food Orgasm. Also, we discovered a fun promotion that they’re doing here in Atlanta – it’s Budweiser bottles that were brewed & bottled THAT DAY and then served at various beers. Let me tell you, this stuff is tasty. Fresh. Cold. And superduper. Who knew that I’d be a Budweiser drinker!? And now that we’re discussing beverages, my new favorite wine is Petite Folie Menage a Trois. (LOVE to see my keyword report now that I mentioned threesomes yet again…) Anyhoo, if you’re in Hotlanta, you can get it at ONE.Midtown Kitchen (yet another place that should be paying me since I refer people to it almost daily.)

How ’bout stores? Well, fab’rik in Atlanta is fabulous, and not only because it’s owned by my friend Dana, who is a complete doll. I beseech you to shop there. Also, shesheme is now carrying the cutest clothes ever, and I do mean CUTEST CLOTHES EVER, and the offerings on the website are just a few of the fabulous pieces they have in the shop. If you’re in the Raleigh area, go there at once. (And while there, get Jane to cut your hair at The Parlour. And then have Elizabeth Galecke take pictures of you. It could be a day of girlie fun…)

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but until we get that big ol’ rock on our hand, treat yourselves to some jewelry by Alexis. Lexi Designs are eye-catching (and hopefully guy-catching.)

On to people. I LOVE me some HelenJane, some Josh, some Heather, some Sarah, some Cati, some CW, some Jason, and, most recently because she inspires me to one day make it big, some Sarah. (I mean, MANDY MOORE! Making a MOVIE! Of HER BOOK! Swoon.) Tell me I’ll be famous one day…please?

Places. Figure 8 Island may just be the best place in the world, so good, in fact, that I’ve decided to get married there. (Um, that is, when I find a boyfriend, a fiancee, and a groom, in that order, preferably.) I still love Wrightsville Beach despite some of its “far-from-loved or even liked these days” residents (and yes, I AM talking about you), since Middle of the Island makes up for aforementioned unsightly locals, and I would move to Sydney, Australia in a heartbeat. (The accent. Swoon again.)

Singers, Bands & musicians come and go in my favor, even more quickly than ex’s. Though, through the years I’ve found and continued to adore U2, Counting Crows, Bob Schneider, Pete Yorn, Allison Krauss, Garrison Starr, Cat Stevens, Elton John, Kate Bush, Peter Gabriel, Sting, Springsteen, Catie Curtis, Cowboy Junkies, Fleetwood Mac, James Taylor, Lifehouse, Pat McGee, Shannon Worrell…I’ll stop now but trust me, I could keep going.

WARNING: Boys, you’re gonna be bored for the next paragraph. Skip if so desire…
Makeup & All Things Girlie is a neverending list that continues to grow…Loreal Double-Extend mascara rocks the Casbah. I love the scent of Queen Bubble Bath (appropriately named, of course) as the scent of rose-anything makes me a happy Aubrey. Sonia Kaschuk makeup brushes are the best ones around, and are VERY affordable, and her Gardenia scent is also fantabulous. Stila makes the best eyeshadows, Bobbi Brown for eyeliner (in navy or charcoal eye shadow – simply wet a brush and draw it on) and lipstick? I’m currently loving Delux Beauty lip gloss in Norris…truly fabu and not sticky at all.

Ok. That’s your rundown for today. I’m off to my lunch date…oh! And feel free to buy me anything on this list. You know a Happy Aubrey is a much NICER Aubrey. And who doesn’t want Nice Aubrey?

I recently fulfilled every twenty-somethings’ dream:

I went to see Chicago. Live. And in Concert.

Our seats rocked.
The band rocked.
Their outfits, which I am convinced are the same authentic blue v-neck vests, worn – of course – without anything underneath them, and coupled with the skin-tight black pants that they wore in the late 70’s, rocked.

There’s something to be said about old-school songs, the ones that you know you slow-danced to in seventh grade. These are the “Let’s Wait Awhile”s, the “Lady in Red”s, the “You’re The Inspiration”s that remind us that adolescence was nothing less than tumultuous and that you wouldn’t live it again for all the money in the world.

We FELT those songs. We LIVED them. We would listen with our Sony Walkmans in the back of our Dad’s car after being forced to attend yet another much-despised family event to songs like Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me” and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was singing to you. That she just KNEW what you were going through. And that somehow, by hearing those words, it made it alright that {insert nameless crush here} wasn’t in love with you and was found going to second base with {insert trashy 7th grade slut here} behind the auditorium. We ached, but since misery loves company, Bonnie’s take on the matter made it just a wee bit better.

Fast forward to today, and the 7th graders are now going through the same angst and adolescent hormonal misery that we were in the late 80’s, albeit raised to a frighteningly precocious level involving sex, drugs, and other unmentionables that I hope have abated by the time I bring a child into this world.
Where are THEIR songs? Somehow, I doubt that Christina Aguilera and Michelle Branch are today’s Journey and Chicago and Foreigner. What do they slow dance to? And, prey tell, do they do the Frankenstein-esque side-to-side slow-dance-sway with approximately three feet in between the boy and the girl, like we did?

What is this world coming to where lines like “I don’t wanna live without your love, I don’t wanna face the night alone”, “And even as I WANDER, I’m keeping you in sight. You’re a candle in the window, On a cold, dark winter’s night”, and “And being apart ain’t easy on this love affair, Two strangers learn to fall in love again” don’t exist. I mean, come on people, FEEL THE ANGST. FEEL THE PAIN.

And so I beseech you, cheezeball bands of the 21st Century, take some tips from Mr. Big, from REO Speedwagon, from Peter Cetera. Give us today’s version of “Glory of Love”. Teach them how to dance like zombies. I just can’t accept that Hanson is as good as these kids are gonna get.

Rise up, rock-ballad singers. Go forth and musicate.

Your challenge awaits you – The future of tomorrow depends on it.

So here it is, a work in progress.

I was one of the lucky few (or, more likely, more than a few) chosen to test out the new features of TypePad, Mena & Ben’s brilliant new Blogger-esque brainchild. Basically, you’ve got all the functionality of Movable Type (which I currently use for my content management and website publishing) plus a whole lot more intuitive, great options and design help for neophytes like me. They also host the site, which rocks the Casbah for many (though I don’t know if I need it for my site, but we’ll see.) Anyhoo, it’s been fabulous thus far and, as a result, I’m in the process of redesigning, tweaking it, and making it everything that I want it to be. Because, trust me when I say this, the functionality available is pretty stellar.

For those of you who have NO idea what I’m talking about, here’s a little tutorial on blogs.

The word “blog” is actually a shortened version of Weblog, a category in which my site apparently falls. I was initially hesitant about adopting this terminology, especially about my site, because many blogs out there deviate from mine quite significantly, the most obvious difference being that they post short, stream-of-consciousness entries that are much more frequent than mine. But over the past few months, as I have read others’ sites and saw that each one, at its nature, is extremely personal in both content and form and style, I’m happy to refer to my site as a blog. As MY blog, that is.

So I’ve got a blog. It’s got articles on it. And though I do know HTML, I use this fabu program called Movable Type (developed by Ben & Mena Trott, who, along with the Shellens who now technically work for my company – are my Überheros) to publish my site. Basically, it is a web interface – a web-based form for you technophobes – where you type in what you want to say, a title, can do a little bit of editing and voila! Your site is published for the world to see. The main difference right now between Blogger & Movable Type, the two most popular Blogging tools, is that Movable Type is held on YOUR webserver and Blogger is a common server and program. Both have their pros and cons; MT was so difficult to install when I did it last year that I had to pay someone (Ben Trott) to do it for me because, say it with me, “Aubrey Don’t Know Jack About Coding.” Sad but true, and I am getting better. However, because it is on your server, as long as your server is working and you keep current with updates and releases, you’re golden. Blogger, on the other hand, provides an interface much better suited for neophytes like me. You define a few fields, push a few buttons, and within 5 minutes, you’ve got yourselves your very own blog. It also offers two options; if you have a server and a domain name (such as http://www.aubreysabala.com) you can publish to your own site and keep your own address. However, if you don’t, you can use their system (the names are “whatevernameyouwant.blogspot.com”) which is good for the serverless few. However, as with any centralized system, it inadvertantly goes down now and again, leaving the masses without comments or some functionality they need and sending some people to the land of irkdom.

I chose MT because my favorite site at the time, Dooce, used it and I loved the look of hers as well as the functionality. However, I don’t have my Adorable Bearded Soon-to-be-Father & Husband, who is a coding genius, nor do I have the design skills of Dooce so my site has proven to be easy, functional, and – sadly – a bit bland.

I want pizzaz. I want fabulous comments. I want to be able to change the look of my site without having to learn about Cascading stylesheets (CSS) because, quite frankly, I don’t even have the time or energy to BEGIN to think about doing it.

And thus this test program. Lelia can attest to the fact that I did a full-out happy dance at the beach when I saw that I was picked to test the site, and it’s been a fabulous procrastination option as I’m already overworked here at work and only got 3 hours of sleep last night for reasons I’ll keep to myself. I’ve sufficiently played around with this fabulatastic program and while it’s not exactly where I want it to be, it’s pretty darned close. (Or, with a few more late nights, it will be.)

And so I beseech you – post a comment. Play around. And let me know what you think about the design, the look, the functionality, because – trust me when I say this – Blogs are here to stay.

(You know you loved the cheezy ending of this entry. Admit it.)

I’m captivated by my hands.

They’re tanned, all the way to the nail bed, with the in-between spaces a sparkling white, unbastardized by the rays that touched every other part of my body the past five days.

And I’ve come to a conclusion:

I. MUST. LIVE. BY. THE. OCEAN.

And soon.

Growing up in Cleveland, I spent a lot of time at the beach. And by beach, I mean Huntington Beach, the not-so-vast strip of separating Lake Erie from the neighboring town of Rocky River. I could ride my bike there, and did on occasion, when the whir of the backyard sprinkler seemed too suburban for my waterloving self. At night in the summer, when we finally reached the magical age where the state decided that we were competent enough to operate $50,000 vehicles loaned or purchased for us by our ostentatious parents (note that I am excluding myself from this group, unless someone can make a case that a 1985 gold Plymouth Caravelle was in any way, shape or form ostentatious), we would drive up and down Lake Road, parking to mingle with others our age as we walked along the pier or on the warm, damp grass lining the beach. It was a mishmash of hoodlums, brainiacs, druggies, populars, and somehow the cement parking lot just a few short yards from the lapping water nullified and equalized the high school caste system, making us just a group of kids enjoying the warm breeze and adolescent conversation. Youth at its best.

And now, years later, I find myself returning to the water, listening to its beckoning call, willing me to live there. I love the feeling of sand in my toes, of the exhilaration when a wave knocks the breath out of you, of salt water making your hair a crunchy mess. I love looking for Periwinkles as the tide nips our toes, of walking with friends drinking a Corona as the sun starts to set behind the cirrus clouds, of laid-back clothing, attitudes, demeanors that only a beach town can bring.

And I say it again:

I. MUST. LIVE. BY. THE. OCEAN.

The weekend was everything I wanted and even more than I needed. Cell phones were turned off, messages ignored, internet remained unchecked. Mornings were spent riding bikes past sprawling beach mansions and running up the dunes, afternoons included outside showers and with the evenings came my first (yes, I couldn’t believe it either) time skinny-dipping.

I want to experience this every day. I want the sunlight through the plantation blinds to awaken me with blue sky. I want my afternoons on a hammock spend lackadaisically eating strawberries and reading House & Garden. I want to hear the waves lapping the beach at high tide, the call of the gulls, the chirp of the crickets. I want to see the stars, undiluted by artificial lighting, to watch the fireworks in the distance as we skip and leap with sparklers in hand, to witness the sandpiper unsteadily ambling down the beach in search of its next meal. I want to write in this surrounding, to settle down here, to give my children this life.

This feeling, this experience, is what I want for now, for days – and years – to come.

Somehow, someway, I need to live this life.

The countdown has begun … it’s T-minus 20 hours and counting until my vacation begins.

Gone will be the buckets of paint and drop cloths that have invaded my house, gone will be the paintbrushes with crusted-on paint pervading every faux bristle of the overpriced brushes that are found lying around in various locations around my bedroom, and taking their place will be sand, sun, and splendorous housing on the North Carolina coast.

I’m just bubbling over with anticipation, I tell you!

It’s been a crazy few days here in the land where the monsoons never stop. I’ve begun writing an entry at least 3 or 4 times a day, each time being interrupted by pesky little things like email, work, phone calls, meetings, and what may have been a moderate case of food poisoning. (I’ll leave it at that.) As such, posting was minimal. In my absence, though, I now have a lovely blue bathroom and a lovely light blue bedroom and a lovely light-blue body. Seriously, people, I have found paint on places on my body that I didn’t know even existed. While I’ve always been more than a bit flexible (you hear that boys?), I cannot for the life of me figure out HOW I got paint in some of the places that I did.

But enough about that.

What I want to talk about today, as my brain is bouncing around making a mental list of things I can’t forget to bring to the beach and trying to plan a self-rewarding event this evening (because I finished painting, you see…) and trying to get everything done that I need to before I kick it outta this waterlogged town, is basic driving rules.

Now, we’ve heard my rants and raves about Atlanta drivers and the municipal back-assward driver’s license system (so back-assward, in fact, that I waited 3 years to get a GA license because it is THAT big of a hassle). I’ve screamed and yelled about people that don’t use their turning signals, sworn up and down that one of these days I will rear-end the dumbass who is driving 25 mph in a 55 mph one-lane road, and tried very hard to quell my overarching road rage-ness that is so prevalent when riding behind the El Camino with eight men in the back ogling me in my convertible.

And now I have a new gripe. Blinking lights.

Unless the rules are different in Georgia than they are in, say, Ohio (where I so successfully took driving classes with the pervy student driver teacher) or North Carolina (where all residents fully accept the NASCAR mentality of speed driving) or DC (where Georgetown streets lead you to be the best parallel parker alive), red blinking lights mean stop. Yellow blinking lights mean proceed with caution.

HOW HARD IS THIS TO REMEMBER?

Every day that the lights near my house become discombobulated from the howling winds and Noah’s Ark-inspired Hurricane levels of rain and end up on the ‘blinking pattern’, I want to personally get out of my car (stopped, of course) and hand each driver a pamphlet on driving and light signals.

Let this be a public service for all of you driving morons, all of you Georgians who seemingly grew up in a patch of kudzu eating collards & black eyed peas, smoking behind the high school instead of taking any driving lessons, YOU DO NOT STOP AT A YELLOW BLINKING LIGHT. YOU DO STOP AT A RED BLINKING LIGHT.

Got it?

And on that, I’m off to find some highly caffeinated drink to keep my eyes open for the 2 1/2 hours that remain of my day. If you’re headed to the NC/Wrightsville Beach-ish coast this weekend, call my cell and we’ll play. Until then, enjoy your time off, wear sunscreen, and leave me comments and send me things. After all, I just provided a public service message and deserve to be compensated, don’t you think?

“People tell me, ‘girl, you’re crazy,’
Some people say that I’m nuts.
Tryin’ to get back together with your baby,
They say that once is enough…

I don’t want to hear another word,
Don’t need your well thought-out advice,
I thank you all for being kind,
I can make mistakes myself just fine.”
“Mistakes” Robinella and the CC Stringband

There’s something to be said about second chances. I’m a firm believer that for whatever reason, things or situations or people or decisions can go awry, and that we all deserve a second chance. Be it on the job, at home, or in a relationship, second chances are life’s little ‘do-over’, the proverbial ‘get out of jail free’ card.

But third chances? Never.

I was recently in a situation where I gave somebody a second chance. This person had let me down in the past, and let me down in every way you could possibly imagine. You’ll understand why I was justifiably wary to reconsider our friendship, our relationship, as I had hardened myself to the reality that I had, in fact, misjudged this individual, a crime worse than death in my mind, since I pride myself in being a pretty good judge of character. Foolhardy, perhaps.

The song quoted above says it all…my friends told me to be careful, to be hesitant, to watch out for myself. I heeded their warnings, at least I tried to, but in the end, my over-romanticized notion of life and love and fairy tale endings took precedence. I was exhibiting my free will, my independence, and my ability to make my own decisions and my own mistakes. And so I did.

It all goes down to whether you believe that people can ever really change. In the past, my optimistic self said ‘maybe.’ I’ve now changed my mind. Though every woman wants to believe that every guy will settle down one day, and we like to flatter ourselves that it could be US that makes them want to ‘settle down,’ nobody should go into a relationship with their eyes shut. People tell you who they are by their actions, not necessarily their words, and if you choose not to listen, then be prepared for disappointment or, at the very least, disillusionment.

I’ve done this in the past, and never again.

I hate to sound jaded, bitter, angry, because honestly, I’m not. I’m disappointed – in this individual, and in myself for allowing myself to open up and wonder ‘what if?’, to be open to possibilities. And I’m enlightened. I’ve learned from my mistakes, have learned that people are who they are and learned that I’m more in love with love itself than any one person, at least for now.

Do I regret my decision? Never. What’s done is done, what’s learned is learned, and there is a point of no return.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Lately, our local radio station, Q100, has been talking about a topic that I’ve been meaning to discuss for a while: the double standard.

We all know just which double standard I’m referring to – the acceptable promiscuity gap between men and women, or, in plain English, a man is allowed to sleep with as many women as he wants, whereas if a woman matched his behavior, she would be considered a slut, a whore, and (my favorite), a trollop.

I’m not going to take the time to discuss the veracity of this statement – anyone who lives in the 21st century knows that this is the case, whether they agree with it or not. That is not the issue. Nor am I going to delve into the biological and evolutionary reasons for male promiscuity being accepted (the argument that men’s sperm are cheap, based on the sole number as well as their investment in childbirth, whereas women’s eggs are expensive, using the same crieria, and that male promiscuity has thus been rewarded – again, little cost besides the cost of pursuit – while female promiscuity has been discouraged – i.e., every potential mating could result in childbirth, thus huge cost.) Yes, those are the evolutionary theories behind the phenomenon, though I want to discuss why this continues to be the way.

We’re not monkeys, babboons, neanderthal men. We’re an evolved species, albeit still only using approximately 15% of our brains, but at least we THINK we know why we do what we do. Moreover, we claim to have free will. In the United States alone, we made the decision to abolish slavery, to allow women to vote, and to allow contraceptive options far more advanced than the ‘counting’ or ‘pull out’ method (though both are still actively tested by young hornies all over the world to this day.) I won’t go all NOW-y on you, and talk about equal rights and burning my bras (far too expensive to be burning those suckers, by the way – the female undergarment industry is truly out to screw us), but this societal norm irks me to the nth degree.

Bear in mind, my friends, that I’m not looking to go be all whore-y, traipsing my goods all over Metro Atlanta to get my proverbial rocks off. (And note that I do realize that this statement was necessary to mention, since societal norm would lead some of you to believe that I’m covering this topic because I DO want to go sleep with a lot of people since I’m talking about it, and that by doing so, I would be a whore.) See? You can’t escape it. Women are taught from a young age that sex is something to be ashamed of, to talk about in hushed tones, to hide from their parents. This issue sparks mixed feelings, because the decrease in age in promiscuity these days DOES alarm me, and I have yet to find a valid reason why a 12-year old should be having sex. Teenage pregnancy, though supposedly decreasing in prevalence, is an epidemic nevertheless. And it’s sad. Sex, plain and simple, is taboo, and as a result, many aren’t getting the needed education and hiding their sexuality away in a little secret place in themselves because they feel its wrong. This is just the way things are.

The most frustrating part of this is that while girls disagree with it and guys disagree with it, nothing has changed. Social acceptance of male promiscuity still abounds, with boys getting the pat on their back when losing their virginity and girls lying about it to avoid being labeled as a whore. Though shows like Sex & the City portray women comfortable with their sexuality – some, like Samantha, far more than comfortable – the reality is that if Samantha was our friend, we’d likely call her our ‘slutty’ friend. Because that’s the way things are.

This has caused many to believe that women don’t like sex. On the contrary…though I will admit that for some reason, there’s an emotional attachment that guys just don’t have. Be it an evolutionary throwback to the potential outcome of each sexual encounter or the way we were raised, women are either kidding themselves or making an active effort to dodge the feelings associated with sex when they say that it didn’t mean anything.

This brings up an interesting point – though it would be very difficult to even talk hypothetically here, since our reality is all that we know, but if the stigma of promiscuity for women was removed, would more women actually BE more promiscuous? Because today, all of those men that are being promiscuous are doing it with someone, just that those ‘someones’ are often labeled as whores. If that title was removed, would we find that women’s urges and desires are just as strong as men’s? Possibly.

I feel like I’m talking in circles here because, well, basically I am. The reality is that men who sleep around are ‘cads’ or ‘studs’ or ‘playboys’, while women who engage in the same behavior with these cads & studs & playboys are ‘whores’ and ‘sluts’. There’s not likely to be any major change in societal norms or acceptance, sending us into a hornball utopian orgy, because there still exists “the women that guys date and the women that guys marry.” Ludicrous? Of course. Reality? Sad, but true.

Well, we made it.
We were heading down to the home stretch, the true test of ability and longevity and persistence and dodging cirrhosis of the liver. And, when all was said and done, we prevailed.

Three weeks, three weekends, three Fridays and Saturdays and even a few Thursdays of birthday celebrations were experienced. We came, we conqured, and we have the scars and bruises to prove it. Long live Aubrey’s birthday month.

But enough about that. It’s Sunday, and I’m mending my party wounds, including a toe that basically exploded, a few scratches in places that don’t normally receive scratches, and three loads of dishes in the dishwasher. For the first time in the history of Aubrey parties, which have been going stong since 1995, we ran out of alcohol. Seriously. We found one unopened beer that was hiding behind the empty punch bowl and the chocolate covered strawberries (which are even better when you return home AFTER hitting the bars) and the many, many empty dixie cups of jello shot residue.

The weekend included all things festive and debaucherous and frolicsome and wonderful. There were transvestites de-wigged, sex stores visited, greasy brunches eaten, band-aids needed, and pictures taken. The only thing better would have been if “The G” could have come, but, that notwithstanding, the weekend was a success by anyone’s standards.

And now we’re done. The house is slowly returning to it’s natural state of cleanness, save the random floating bunch of cat hair and empty glasses of diet coke on the coffee table, and – sadly enough – it’s sort of a letdown. I’ve enjoyed publically portraying that it was my birthday. I couldn’t wait to wear my grass skirt & coconut bra, couldn’t wait to see Alish and Lels and all of my favorite people that were coming into town to add to the celebration, couldn’t wait for the Sex & the City premiere that was nothing less than fabulous. And now?

It’s done.
Finito.
Finished.
Kaput.

We’re back to the daily grind, the snooze button-hitting and the laundry and the work and the normalcy that we call our lives. I’m back to over-analysis, to leaving wonderful messages on Mike & Wil with one “L”s machine (instead of singing them in person!), back to wearing full amounts of clothing and drinking like a normal person instead of a girl who thinks that Jager & Goldschlager shots would increase her breast size. A much needed break after a three week bender.

I can’t wait until next year.

You’ve never seen weeds until you’ve been in my backyard. My weeds eat yours for a midday snack, they are so gigantic. Audrey, the blood sucking plant from “Little Shop o’ Horrors” is a mere dandelion when compared to the monsters that have apparently invaded my soil.

Must be Georgia red clay or something, because, though domestic I am not, I know a thing or two about weeds. Growing up, we always had a garden and my dad worked for an Ag-Chem company. The yard was pristine, nary a strand of crabgrass in sight. The running joke in the neighborhood was that he would shoot you if you walked across his ‘perfect’ yard. And perfect it was.

Our lawn wasn’t just cut, it was MOWED. Gracefully. In patterns. The lines were always parallel, striped even, and the yard was edged, raked, manicured. It was definitely the pride of the neighborhood.

My Mom also loved her garden, when the rabbits and squirrels weren’t eating everything, that is. Weeds knew better than to mess with the Sabala household, where Round-Up and Diazinine were flowing like the Niagara. So weeds? Yep. I knew ’em.

Until today, that is. In preparation for my party, and with a post-work evening without rain (a miracle, lately), I decided to tackle my front herb and flower garden as well as the backyard and the few plants that are underneath my deck. I had surveyed the scene last week, and even invested in some Round-Up (Ed Sabala’s nectar of the Gods) to pre-spray to kill the roots. I’m thorough, you know.

So, after failing to locate the Off Skintastic (please note the foreshadowing here), I threw on my grubbiest clothes and headed into the wild wild woods. (Ok, my front yard.)

I started small, as all good weeders know to do. The previous owners’ were big gardeners, and bequeathed me with a bevy of flowers, herbs, and shrubs. Though I DO know weeds, flowers, herbs & shrubs are a little out of my repertoire. The key was to ONLY PULL OUT THE WEEDS. So, with my trusty analytical skills, I examined leaf patterns, stem fuzziness, and growth design to segregate what I KNEW was a plant from the nasty ol’ weeds. Success. After a newly-preened front garden was created, I decided to tackle the under-deck growth.

Now, my next door neighbors (both the set that just moved out and the ones that just moved in, neither of which I have ever met) do not seem to have anything that closely resembles a green thumb, as attested by their front yard. I still would hate to pull out their prized azalea bush by mistaking it for a weed. So, again I took great care in my weeding efforts, leaving me a bit full of myself when I was finished. Beware, you nasty weeds, you’ve never seen the Auberator.

Imagine my surprise when I entered the jungle. Whether it was the monsoons we’ve had lately or a supernatural event, these weeds were anomalies of nature. I kid you not, they were taller than I was by at least a few feet, massive by anyone’s standards. These weeds could eat small tigers, could hide log cabins, could provide ample shade for a small African country. If I was a squirrel, this would be the Sequoia National Park. I think Monkeys were mocking me from the branches – yes, branches – of these weeds.

They were mammoth. They were intimidating. They were…stuck. In the ground. Their trunks (the word ‘stem’ would be a misnomer), were red, brown, and the circumference of my lower arm. To pull them out, I had to put my back into it. Hell, I had to put my ASS into it, and anyone who knows my ass, knows the power it can bring. Nothing. Wouldn’t budge.

Please note the cell phone for size reference. And these weren’t even the largest ones!

Again, I strained. I pulled. I yanked, twisted, skidded on the rocks as this weed battled for its life. Yet, Super Aubrey somehow prevailed, even though it took a running start and me practically swinging from the branches to yank it out of the ground.

I was triumphant.
I was proud.
And I was covered in mosquito bites.

Nature: 1 Aubrey: 0