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Nothing says love like hitting someone in the face with a pillow.
(Photo courtesy of Scott Beale / Laughing Squid)
1. I received an email from my old roommate Brian (who I adore and miss desperately since he’s been in Krygyzstan for the past 2 1/2 years) wishing me a Happy Valentine’s Day last night since it was already Wednesday there. I didn’t realize how much I missed him until he wrote me the following:
"When you were thinking of me, did it include us getting ham-dogged
together? Or was it another time, perhaps when I hung your stuffed dog
from the balcony? Or the time when I identified your sleeping place in
our apartment with the 5 foot long computer printout banner reading,
"Virgin Sleeps Here"?"
Yes, Yes, and Yes. Only it wasn’t a computer printout, it was written with a sharpie on a long roll of paper towels. Geesh, Brian, get it right.
2. I just received a "romantic" Valentine e-card including a dog giving me a big wet kiss. Except the big wet kiss was the dog peeing on me. Nothing says love like golden showers.
3. Darling Willo just sent me this. Love her.
I remember reading a card years ago that said: "Valentine’s Day isn’t just about lovers, it’s about the ones you love." So true. Even if I won’t (necessarily) be GETTIN’ lucky this Valentine’s Day, I’m lucky to have so many friends that that I love.
Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone. Go forth and get your smooch on.
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I just love this marketing campaign as it echoes my sentiments exactly, especially with Valentine’s Day approaching. Rest assured I’ll be having fun but Cupid? He’s dumb. F-that romantic shit for couples. We *ALL* know that Valentine’s Day is for us singles; specifically, us singles who are having a party replete with Spin the Bottle and Seven Minutes in Heaven.
Sound like anyone you know?
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My friend Misty had a Procrastinator’s New Year’s Eve party (as she has done every year for the past SIXTEEN!) and this year’s theme was to dress up as either a superhero or a villian. I decided to stay true to my previously declared Superhero persona, aka, SUPERBLONDE! (especially since I have been successfully reblonded and rule the world with my flexibility.
In this case, it looks like my head is attached to my body backwards.
Told ya I was flexible.
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Unlike most adults who are “real” blondes, I was born with auburn hair. So much, in fact, that my first haircut was on week four of my existence. I had huge, reddish-brown curls that stuck out in every direction. My hair lightened up little by little, so by the time I was in elementary school I was headed towards a life of dumb blonde jokes.
As of late, I’ve gone a little darker with my hair, allowing my hairdresser to add dark mahogany streaks that are actually six shades darker than even the “never sees sunlight” dark parts in the back. I like it – I do! – but I like it most in person instead of in pictures. In pictures I think I just look like I have dark hair. (Egads. And the world takes a collective grasp at this ignominy.)
So in December I decided to tell Lana (short for Svetlana, which cracks me up b/c while she *IS* Russian, she’s not what you’d expect) that I wanted to go blonde again; basically, return me to my natural hair color and throw in a few lighter streaks for good nature.
She refused.
Claiming it would damage my hair, she put some blonde streaks in the front and again, the rest is prettily woven with mahogany that does, as promised, shine in the sunlight. Nearly two months later, I’m done. I want my blonde hair back.
My friends laugh at me, saying I’m still really blonde, that they love the streaks and the “depth” of it. And yes, I suppose if you had to qualify me with a general hair color, blonde would be the winner. However – and note that I am NOT a blonde-aholic like my friend Lisa claims to be – it’s not blonde enough.
I need to be reblonded.
It’s like peanut butter and jelly. Mork and Mindy. White bread and American cheese (read: GRILLED CHEESE, aka, my favorite food.) Aubs and Blonde just GO TOGETHER. I’ll tolerate the demeaning jokes. I put up with the assumptions that I’m stupid. Because, really, we DO have more fun.
Let’s hope that come Wednesday, I’ll look like the “me” in this picture (only skinnier, paler, and with longer – BLONDE – hair.) Because I think it’s time to liven this place up a little and have some more fun.
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I’ve been lax in posting lately…never fear, things are going well, just crazily busy with the move and family in town and birthday parties and heading to Vail and then Tahoe and – phew. I’m exhausted just reading that. After a weekend of unpacking voraciously (pics to come) and an awesome impromptu Monday night ladies wine (un)dinner, I headed off to Vail yesterday morning where I’ll be enjoying the winter wonderland-y conditions through Friday afternoon. (It’s snowing like crazy here right now, or it was the last time I got my ass up from these horribly uncomfortable conference room chairs.) Then I head out to Tahoe through the following Tuesday for more skiing, only on rocks and trees and branches and gravel. Really, it’s apparently the worst snowpack in the Sierras since 1850. Hi, Wii bowling.
So that’s me. Pics will be posted soon, stories will be recanted, and DebauchAubrey will continue. Never fear. I’m just MIA for a few days…and then chaos will return.
As petty as it sounds, I kind of want this guy – site unseen – to dump his (obviously cool) girlfriend and marry me instead.
http://www.thingsmyboyfriendsays.com/
Granted, I’d likely have to stock up on Depends since I’d be pissing my pants laughing for the rest of my life. Small price to pay for the man that INVENTED sex!! ————————– Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Device
While yesterday’s ad wasn’t overly well-suited, Google has redeemed itself today. In accordance with my "Avoid the Drama" mantra, they offered me the following site to check out: DatingWithoutDrama.com.
Thanks, Goog, I’m glad you agree.
Apparently, God wants me well. And you too. So please, please pray that we overcome gout. (Read: WHY THE HELL is this an ad on my website!?)
The end, Love (a gout-free) Aubrey
Riding in the car on Tuesday, I got ready to say my goodbyes. I had received the phone call at 12:30am telling me that my cat Samantha – the darling, sweet kitten with the biggest heart – probably wouldn’t make it through the evening as she was experiencing full kidney failure. Somehow, she did, yet I was told the prognosis was very grave, and I should be prepared for her to ‘go’ at any time. I was driving her from the overnight Emergency vet to the normal vet and as she laid there, somewhat glassy-eyed and clearly in a stupor, I told her I loved her, that she had always been a good cat and that if she needed to ‘go’, she could. I almost crashed into three cars since I couldn’t see from all the tears.
Thankfully, two days later, Samantha is doing better (thanks, everyone, for your thoughts & prayers & flowers!) and while she’s nowhere near fully recovered (nor ever will be) she ate her first unassisted meal last evening and her kidney values are improving. HURRAH!
During this entire ordeal, I’ve been fixated on the concept of love. While I know that we will all eventually lose people and animals that we love, the thought and excruciating pain of that almost makes me want to wall myself off from loving anyone or anything. Extreme, I know, but I’m not yet trained in the art of loss. You see, us Sabalas (nee, Czabalas) and Kings have the gift of longevity – we’re a hearty stock.
In fact, nobody in my (somewhat) extended family died until I was in college. My great grandparents lived to be over 100, and I jokingly say that if you marry a Sabala (at least this one), you’ve got one for life. As such, I’m a death neophyte, and the mere suggestion of anything but complete immortality renders me a sobbing mess. God help us all when I have children.
So, it should be somewhat unsurprising that I’ve never told anyone I loved them. (I’ll give you a minute to process that.)
[minute passed]
Yes, that’s right. In all 29 years of my life, save for family and friends, I have never told a boyfriend that I loved him. The crazy thing? Nobody has ever told me either. The reason being that I’ve never been in love.
Sure, similar to Daisy’s binders, I would write "I heart Brandon" on my brown-paper-bag-covered books since in sixth grade if you DIDN’T love Brandon, you were blind. (Brandon was – and is – hot.) I had a "I heart Peter" keychain (at least my Mom reminded me that I did as she’s including in her care package to me containing all of my middle school notes. That should be good.) I equated "obsessed with a pre-pubescent skateboard riding boy with awesome hair" to love and, well, didn’t we all? As years passed, however, I realized that was a different "L" word, that was "Like" and should NOT be confused with Love. Or Lust, for that matter.
Liking is easy.
Lusting is fun.
Loving is hard.
I don’t know what this says about me, whether it says I’m guarded, complacent in my shell of protection, avoiding getting hurt. I’ve had my heart broken one too many times by someone who I was in one of those OTHER "L" words with to know that I don’t think I can bear it if I actually LOVED them. Maybe it tells of my predilection for unsuitable guys, who knows. What I *DO* know is that I’ve never had to have that horrible "I’m not saying it first" conundrum because I’ve never BEEN in love.
Like? I can do like. I *OWN* like and, you know what? I like so much I probably like YOU.
Lust? Oh baby. Lust is my middle name. (Or would be if "O’Neil" wasn’t it already.) I lust with gusto.
Love? Not for me. At least not now.
Maybe it’s fear of dilution. After all, I agree that it’s better to never have said it as opposed to saying it a ton without meaning. Similar to why I waited until I was 22 to lose my virginity (shock and awe, I know!) I think I place so much meaning in those three words that I won’t say them until I’m sure. And thus far, I’m only sure of one thing: that I’m NOT in love.
"Those three words are said too much, they’re not enough."
– Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol
Like Daisy said, I’m not Carrie Bradshaw (despite popular opinion) and while relationship ruminations are often the topic at hand, I don’t have an answer for this one, nor a hypothesis. I realize it DOES say something about me and my nature, just am not sure what.
I wonder if lovelessness is a disease. And if it is, where I can find the cure. Because I really, really would like to make use of that "I heart Peter" keychain one of these days…80’s garb is soooo retro-hip.
AubreySabala.com 