I sit and try to write, with the sun going down over Twin Peaks. It’s cold today, has been cold all week, and my iPod dulls my senses with a quiet ballad that makes me think of days past. Makes me think of who I was when I loved this song, full of hope and optimism and big eyes and even bigger ideas for the future. The song details a story of a couple, one of which who goes away in the midst of either an altercation or a difficult time, and returns without any answers. Her partner responds “you had time”, and it reminds me that time isn’t the salve that we wish that it was. Time is used as a substitute for a solution too often; time heals all wounds, it gets better with time, and so on. And yet time is just the mere passing of days and though the clock ticks and the calendar continues to turn, things sometimes remain the same.

Or perhaps we’re not noticing the subtle changes…sure, we notice the temperature changing and the seasons passing but we may miss those less obvious differences. The way his glance is colder than it once was, more fleeting. The fact that she doesn’t think of you the first thing in the morning when she awakens to an empty bed, instead snuggling down to grasp fifteen more minutes of rest before the day must begin. Some of these changes you don’t know because you can’t see them, can’t hear them in the lilt of a voice or a passing glance. Some of these you don’t know because you WON’T see, won’t hear, that things are changing, that things have already changed, and you’re the last to know. And some of these you don’t know because you’re gone.

Most of the time, I’d say my life was pretty normal. Note that this is a "loaded" definition since my ‘normal’ is your ‘bizarre’ because, well, this is ME we’re talking about here. But still, yes. My days and nights fall into the "nothing too out of the ordinary" category the majority of the time.

Today was not one of those days.

Today was one of those days when I know for certain that these things that happen to me – and my reactions – are happening specifically so I can put them in my book. And then when they option the rights to the movie and I get to turn down Reese Witherspoon for playing the role of me because she was apparently bitchy to a friend of mine back in Tennessee, I’ll have the last laugh. Let’s practice now….hahahahahaha.

Today was one of those days where I really think I acted out every single character in "Sex in the City". I was Charlotte in her supposed innocence and incredulity when I thought of something I had never before, something so unrealistic that it was ridiculous in nature and reported as such by all of my friends; I was Miranda in my hair-brained scheme to find out if the ridiculous thought could have any credulity to it; I was Samantha in my constant IM’s with friends (let’s just say that "fixated on discussing sex" was today’s theme); I was Carrie now, and of course when I was penning the fabulous "List" post I did earlier.

I wish I could go into more detail here but for those of you involved in aforementioned hair-brained scheme to do some sexual reconnaissance for me, I appreciate. Go forth and reconnaisse (sp?). But in the meantime, a tidbit of information just made me reconsider my epitaph. And, given the information above, you SOOOOO want to know what it is.

You have one. I have one. Your boyfriend has one, your sister has one, and even your Mom has one (though I’m sure she pretends it’s a very, very short one.) 

Your list.

You know what I’m getting at here: the list of how many people you’ve slept with. And unless you’re one of the handful of people I know whose lists consist of two or less (just like mine, right?) you will one day need to get it out of your head and onto a notepad. Or excel document, like my friend suggested last night so he could cross reference age and race and number of instances and – again, this is HIS list, not mine – add ratings so he can do further analysis. Is it any wonder my friends are geeks?

People’s opinions on the list vary; some choose to disclose when in relationships while others prefer to stay tight-lipped on the subject. Because, though societal norms dictate otherwise, it really doesn’t matter even though most people think it does. I won’t go down that whole double-standard road but suffice it to say that factors like long-term relationships and how long you’ve been sexually active and morality and age and Methodist mothers who somehow successfully incite Catholic guilt all play a factor in  your list and its length. 

Now before I continue, note that there’s nothing overly extraordinary about my list; if a "normal" list was ever created, it’s probably mine. Not freakishly high, not freakishly low, somewhere in the (again, sorry to use this) societally-deemed acceptable range for my age, etc. And that’s all I’ll say there. (The end, Love Aubrey.) But in talking with friends about our lists and the creation therein, I’ve come to a lot of conclusions about both the process and the variations of said lists which I will share with you now.

First, there are always, ALWAYS, multiple versions of the list: the socially acceptable one, the one
you are comfortable with sharing, and the REAL list, the latter being the one
you’re most averse to create. For some reason, there is always the person (or people, in some of your cases) that you don’t count. Now, it’s pretty clear to me that if the penis was inserted into the vagina (in this case, we’re discussing vaginal sex only; sorry, anal/oral lovers, this is MY post and not yours) then it would be deemed as ‘sex’ and thus would need to be added to the list. Get out your nail files, ladies, it’s time to add another notch on that ol’ bedpost.  However, for some reason that isn’t the case. Whether you’re embarrassed to admit that you had sex with that person because they were fat/ugly/in a relationship with someone else/your friend’s brother/related to you, or you weren’t sure if you actually had sex (and you adhere to the "if you don’t remember it, it didn’t happen" rule), you still had sex. Sorry, that’s just how it is. Yet these people are only found on the last list – the REAL list – and just by willing it so you can often times remove them from your mental list.  Denial…not just a river, you know.

Then there’s the second list: the one you’ll disclose under duress. Many times this is said as an estimate ("it can be counted on two hands") but be forewarned: if you hear an ‘estimate’ know that the moniker is just another way to say "I’ve slept with a lot more people than this." Because really, you can count to fifty on two hands, you know, you just have to keep counting. Depending upon the questioner or recipient of said information, this list can be more or less accurate, save for those people you choose to not count and rounding up or down depending on your gender. (Girls, down. Guys, up. Obviously.) If the person you’re having the conversation discloses their (comfortable) list with you and yours is somewhat similar or, as a girl, quite less, you’re more likely to disclose the real (fake) number. However, if (as a girl) yours is more and you’ve already agreed to have this conversation, the only recourse (at least, the only recourse *I’ve* ever heard about) is to lie.  Helpful tip: low, prime numbers are good. Multiples of five sound fake.

The last list is the "pie in the sky" list, the one that comes out when you’re drunk and you wonder "how in God’s name did I decide to pick the number eight?" This is a completely arbitrary list, and no validity  should be given to it whatsoever. This list changes depending on the number of beers you drank, who you’re hanging out with, and what your mind (on that given moment) decides is an inoffensive number. I’d guess that 90% of the time this list is ten or less. The point of the list isn’t to convey anything, it’s more used as a litmus test to see what other people will believe which will later influence list number two. If the level of incredulity dissipates between four and seven, well, I’m guessing you may stop at "six" for your comfortable number, at least for the time being.

The most important point to reiterate here: EVERYONE has a fake list, not just girls. It may be off by one, or you really might be confused about that New Years Eve in NYC a few years back, but both guys and girls have at least one REAL list and one FAKE one. No arguments; this is my website and I am omniscient in its domain.

Sometimes the actual list creation can be tricky once you’ve decided to suck it up and finally make your REAL list. This can involve statements like "Oh shit. Pete. TOTALLY forgot about him" and may lead you to do things including (but not limited to): review your Christmas Card list for any former suitors who have somehow slipped your mind, IM your friend requesting the name of her boyfriend’s random friend who was in from out of town, and realize that you have a predilection for men with the name "Rob" with various number of "B’s" in their names. Totally fictionalized actions, of course…I am the queen of creative license.

Once the "REAL" list has been created, however, it may cause you concern. Don’t worry – there’s NOTHING wrong with only having slept with three people. They were hot! They were (relatively) good in bed! They adored you! Likewise, if your list spans an entire page in a legal pad, you might just be a single guy (or gal) who likes sex. A lot. And hey, as long as you’re cool with it (and safe) go forth and consummate.

Because, really, that’s what it all comes down to: being comfortable with yourself, with your sexuality, with what feels like a good decision in the moment or in the long term. Whether you’re saving yourself for marriage or you’ve made your way through your entire (new) friend circle, know that the whole stigma associated with the list and its inherent suggestion of promiscuity is based on societal norms, whatever those are, since – as evidenced above – everyone lies, and there are many, many versions of each story.

And just remember: PRIME NUMBERS.

Back in September when I had Whooping Cough (I know – WHO GETS WHOOPING COUGH? Um, yeah. Me.) I was so sick that they gave me not one, but TWO prescriptions of Cough Syrup with Codeine since I didn’t sleep for nearly two weeks. (They also gave me an inhaler, but that’s not nearly as fun. You’re supposed to brush your teeth directly after using it. Uh, what?) This cough syrup doesn’t just work, but it gives you some awesome side effects, my favorite being the quasi-lucid dreams it instigates. Note that I say "quasi" since I don’t really know if I’ve ever had a REAL lucid dream but I think this is pretty close to what I’d expect one to be like. Anyway.

Now, I’ve always been a pretty vivid dreamer anyway, and by ‘vivid’ note that I mean ‘really messed up, bizarre hour-long sagas that caused my college roommate to create a "no telling me your dream right when you wake up" rule’ dreams. Yeah. That type.  They often involve people from High School that I was certain I had forgotten, places from my past, and stairs. Not sure what it is about those stairs or, sometimes, ladders, but stairs are nearly always in my dreams and I’m unable to climb up them. It doesn’t take a dream therapist to guess that it MAY have something to do with my fear to take the next step, but who knows. I might just like multi-level buildings and their ascension devices. Again, ANYWAY.

Some of my recurring dreams involve me being back in High School or in college perhaps and I’ve not gone to some class because I’ve been too busy or didn’t feel like it or SOMETHING. They started out being the math anxiety dreams (I’d have missed nearly a semester of math class and have to prepare for my finals knowing nothing about the subject matter) but now can also involve English or another subject that I was actually competent in unlike that of the dreaded MATHS. In these dreams, whatever setting, I can’t find my locker…I honestly have no idea where it even is…and then on the rare occasion that I *DO* find it, I haven’t the slightest idea what the combination is. I then have to trudge down to the office to throw myself at the mercy of the secretaries who look at me like I really am a massive moron. I mean, who can’t find their locker? Duh. I have this dream, or some semblance of it, about three times a week. At least that’s as often as I remember it. While I used to be really stressed by the stupidity and frustration felt in the dream, now I just write myself off as a stupid moron who is probably going to flunk math and therefore not graduate and therefore not get a job at The Goog and then I go to the cafeteria to get those freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Because, really, there’s no calories in dream cookies and damn, they are really, really good.

But enough about my normal (if you can even call them that) dreams…what I’m talking about today is how fabulous my dreams have been while taking my Codeine cough syrup this past week. OMG, seriously? They’re sagas. They’re full-length movies that the MPAA would have to cut down into various movies and assign different "R" (or in some cases,  NC-17)  ratings because they’re THAT LONG. They  have involved escalators (am not afraid to take those), Bergdorf’s Spring Marketing campaign starring my college sorority friends (and me being upset I wasn’t asked to be in it since the theme was "Blondes Have More Fun" and come on, that’s SO me), my friend Nicky, the putt-putt place I went to growing up, an orgasmic yoga class, my high school reunion (babies were allowed…um, no. Never.), not being able to find my hotel room in NYC, weddings, divorces, and a bizarre Christmas dinner with both of my parents where they ordered me Bouilliabaisse. News flash: I don’t like Bouillabaisse. Why would they order me that? Note that this was just one very, very small sampling of, say, one thirtieth of one dream. Sagas, I tell you, sagas.

What I’m saying here is that these dreams are FUN! I’m even (sometimes) knowledgeable that I’m actually dreaming, so when Lila Belle starts snoring and wakes me up, I’m able to fall right back asleep and begin again! Like that whole thing about my newest crush and the hot tub? GOT RIGHT BACK INTO IT, YO.

While I’m not one to engage in recreational drugs, I really think some pharmaceutical company out there should market this as a way to enjoy your dreams again. Come up with a catchy name, market it to the insomniacs and light sleepers alike, and voila! Instant success. In the meantime, I’m SO rationing that cough syrup and may need to see a doctor to perhaps get a refill. I mean really, the hot tub dream? HOT.

With MacWorld making my day a little brighter yesterday with their iPhone (OMG – I wish there were more text-messagey acronyms like this so I could put them all here but in the meantime, OMFG times a thousand – I want that fucking phone NOW, not in June. Hear that Steve Jobs? Mmmkay, thanks. Love, Aubrey) and Jesse, my rental insurance claims adjuster making my day a WHOLE lot brighter today by putting my settlement check in the mail (WAHOO!) I figured it was time for a little retail therapy. Why yes, I *DID* already buy myself a fun lil’ Shuffle (it’s too precious to pass up) and a car iPod adapter thingie (’twas stolen…doesn’t work that well in the city but will en route to Tahoe) but now I get to use my fundage to replace all the stuff that was taken! Hellooooo, new iPod nano! Bonjour nouveau wallet! Hola, mi favorito hipster glasses. Buon Giorno, iTV, welcome to the abode. I suspect you’ll be quite happy here.

(Le) Sigh. For someone who hates to PHYSICALLY shop (my years as a fashion writer have given me an aversion to anything resembling a mall) I must say that eShopping (or, more specifically, iShopping) is hella fun.

.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: left; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; }

I’ve taken a wrong turn at CES, originally uploaded by jasonshellen.

Hee.

I believe I was pretty clear last week when I donned 2007 the year of “AVOIDING THE DRAMA” (caps intended). Yes, to quote Daisy, drama DOES “make things more exciting.” True, true, but from someone whose life is pretty damn exciting and excitable on any given day, I think I can sit back for the next twelve months in my proverbial rocking chair and be a contented witness to someone else’s drama instead of playing the starring role in my own. I mean, I’ve won quite a few imaginary Tony’s and Emmy’s and Oscar’s for my roles through the years (you should see the number that I’ve won in the last six months alone!) and frankly, my awards shelf is getting pretty full. And it’s a pain in the ass to dust.

So yes, I’m taking some time off, passing the flag to others equally qualified to enjoy the drama and all the Xanax that comes with it. I’m MORE than happy to offer a few pills to the kind recipient; I’ve got a stash.

Thus far, I’ve done well. I’ve stayed home despite multiple invitations otherwise on instances when drama could potentially rear its ugly head. I’ve left things remain un-retorted to save innocent folks from being brought into unnecessarily long-overdue-to-be-resolved situations. I’ve even taken the fall for an ill-timed head shake that had NOTHING TO DO WITH ME only because in bringing it up, it would seem that I was defending myself. I’ve sat on the porch to escape. I’ve left early. I’ve turned down suggestions of DebauchAubrey because I could see where it was leading! See!? I AM MAKING AN EFFORT HERE.

And yet Drama has sought me out yet again, this time a result of a crafty internet troller and an innocent smooch. The details of this are FAR too insane to go into here since aforementioned situation a) involves legal action (not on my part, Thank God) and b) is likely being read by aforementioned troller but simply put, sometimes even when you shut the door on Drama, it finds its way in through the window and slams itself on your good-intentioned fingers.

OW.

Girls are always worried about doing the right thing, saying the right thing, lest we be called (time for inside voices here) – dare I say it!? – crazy. It’s the venerable Voldemort-esque “that which should not be uttered” label that all girls are afraid of. To be called ‘crazy’ by an ex is the latter-day Scarlet Letter, only in this era it’s a fancy cursive “C” replete with sequins and Swarovski crystals. 

Due to this (irrational) fear, we often find ourselves withholding what we need to say the most in order to save face or at least save a part of our fragile ego. So things remain unsaid, closure remains unattained, and we remain (phew!) un-crazy. We may not be the right person, we may not be what he wants, but at LEAST we’re not crazy.

Of course, we are then miserable and questioning in our ‘deigned’ sanity, instead drowning our sorrows in Pizza Pino and red wine with the gals.

But hell, who cares about those five extra sympathy pounds when we’re sane!?

Then again, HE probably isn’t what we want either, especially since he’s (ignorant of our amazingness/passive-aggressive/abusive/fugly/the owner of an inordinate amount of backhair for someone that young/a complete and total fucker/insert other reason why he’s wrong for you here.) And even though we realize that, and can voice that to our friends, it also often remains unsaid to the bearer of said affliction(s) since the only thing worse than being crazy is being a bitch. God HELP you if you’re a crazy bitch.

What’s happening here is that nobody is communicating. HE isn’t being honest about what’s going on, YOU’RE hiding behind imaginary labels and nobody is saying what they really feel. He’s pulling the “duck and run”, you’re pulling the “well, if he’s ducking and running, I’ll just let him duck and run” and, in doing so, you’re getting further and further away from finding out just what the hell is going on. Because, even if you have a sixth toe and it freaks him out, you deserve an explanation, even if it’s the pathetic “I’m just not into it” or “It’s not you, it’s me”; You deserve an explanation even if you have to ask for one. And if he doesn’t give you one, well, then he’s just a total fucker.

So go forth and be ‘crazy’ my friends, because we ALL know that Fucker trumps Crazy ANY DAY and you’ll eventually end out on top. Just how you like it.

So many times we base our current existence on specific events, saying "Just think – if I had never done [insert something here] I would never have met [insert awesome person here] and if I hadn’t met [aforementioned awesome person] I would never have started it all by getting a piece of pizza at Le Petit Marchet. Or something like that. We’re making direct correlations between specific moments in time and what has happened since, citing synchronicity or happenstance or the Universe or SOMETHING that has led us down the path we’re currently taking.

My friend recently asked me what my biggest regret is. I don’t have very many – I prefer to just accept whatever stupid thing I did and move on from it instead of being fixated on my dumbassness – and I answered instantly: Not accepting Ethan Foster’s invitation for me to ‘go with’ him in third grade. Because I liked him – I TOTALLY DID – and even despite my horrible haircut (one should never allow a little girl to go to a barber shop with her Dad because I BET the girl will spin in the chair so much that the barber will offer her a haircut so she’ll finally stop fucking SPINNING and the little girl will say that she likes it when her Mom puts her hair up on the sides and then the barber will go and cut OFF THE SIDES of the little girl’s beautiful tresses, leaving her with a mullet. I just bet.)  he liked me. And Ethan Foster was  in the cool  clique, he was Popular with a big friekin’ capital "P." He was Jake Ryan. He was Blake McDonnagh. He was seriously awesome. As for me, um, I was in the gifted program…I think that says it all. So when he called and asked me to go with him, I was overcome with fear that my parents would find out that I liked boys (I was only in third grade! NOBODY liked boys yet!) that I said “no” not once but probably thirty times. Because, bless his sweet heart, he kept saying “Why!? But Why?” and I would poignantly answer with a miserable “I don’t know.” Then he cried a little and hung up and then I went to my room and cried a LOT because ETHAN FOSTER HAD ASKED ME TO BE HIS THIRD GRADE GIRLFRIEND AND I SAID NO BECAUSE I WAS SCARED OF MY PARENTS! Seriously, I still can’t kind of believe it.

I regret this, you see, because I think my life would have changed. I would have been popular instead of just on the outskirts of sorta-ok-ness – I would forever be known as the first girl to have gone out with the gorgeous Ethan Foster! Instead, that went to Amanda Hennings (I think) who was not only popular, but she was RICH! Her house was like a mansion and my four-bedroom colonial paled in comparison to her palatial estate. I think that if I had “gone with” him I would have kissed him instead of having to wait until eighth grade when I smooched Jon McConnell in the pleather recliner in my  basement to a tape single of “More Than Words.”

Now, I know this is all ridiculous postulating of course, because had I dated Ethan Foster I may have done something stupid and gotten pregnant or something or maybe my popularity would have made me realize it wasn’t cool to be smart and instead of rising to the fabulously successful person that you know and love, I would be flipping burgers at your local In & Out. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you, but I really, REALLY like the free gourmet soup at The Goog. You’ve got to try it, really. (This week is Albondigas!)

But who knows? Who knows what ANY of it means, if I made the right decision or if that was even a turning point. Maybe he was just kidding or maybe he would have dumped me on the third day since my hair was so bad (I promise, I am not exaggerating the horrificness of my coif.) And yet part of me still wonders what I’m doing in that alternate universe, the Aubrey O’Neil Sabala in the “Sliding Doors”-esque existence. I wonder where I’m living, what I’m doing, who I’m dating (or – egads! I could be married! Maybe that Aubrey married Ethan Foster – holy shit! He’s still hot!) and, mainly, if I’m happy.

And I wonder if each time “More Than Words” comes on I get a little nostalgic for the me that is actually me, the one that said “NO” and made a very very cute third grade boy cry. I wonder if that me is sitting in her estate somewhere, drinking a glass of wine and waiting on her hot husband to come home, wondering where she would be if she had said “no” and made a very very cute third grade boy cry.

I’m lucky: I have a lot of friends.

I also have a lot of "friends" – you know, "friends" on these ever-so-popular social networking site which I’m convinced are just a thinly veiled guise for us all to get laid. (Not that I’m complaining, nosirree. We all need a lil’ more action in our lives if you ask me.) Anyway, I decided that it was time to update my picture on aforementioned sites since a) I was sitting on the phone with Bank of Piece of Shit America for three hours and b) I’m all dark and twisty (hair-wise and otherwise) and some of the NYE pics were HOTT. (Modest, I am not.) So, alas and alack, I spent the better part of the afternoon trolling Facebook (I finally joined), Consumating, Friendster, MySpace and the like while Glenda Jean was transferring me to Jorge in the fraud department and I scared Omid’s assistants with my colorful language.

It’s amazing, these sites, that people can spend so much time on them, "interacting" with people while actually just sitting in front of a computer by themselves. People spend HOURS leaving comments and having "conversations" on Consumating in an attempt to finally have some real consummating I suppose. Not that I don’t embrace the digital age; I do. I’ve discussed this before, but basically, I think we’re replacing real conversation with bits and bytes and are undervaluing the power of hearing someone’s voice instead of reading their IM’s. (Though, in interest of full disclosure, I HATE talking on the phone. Just text message me, will ya? MMkay thanks, Love, Your Favorite Hypoctrite.)

And yet as I was making up new curse words that could be understood by a 58 year-old Mexican woman in Tuscaloosa, I found myself meandering over to  MySpace…only to realize that my ex was no longer listed as one of my friends. Now, I don’t go to MySpace like, um, ever, so I figured maybe I had inadvertantly missed him, and rescanned. NOPE. He was gone. Where was he? And then it hit me: HE DEFRIENDED ME! On MYSPACE! DEFRIENDED! Can you imagine?

Ok, must fully disclose again: this is the same ex who I (somewhat…ok, yes, publicly) excommunicated from my life because I couldn’t bear him breaking my heart one more time with how much he continued to let me down. I was just tired of being disappointed, tired of it all. And so I didn’t return his texts, nor his calls, and (save for one wine-fueled call to let him know I thought he looked like Dustin Hoffmann in "The Graduate") I’ve not really looked back. I miss him – many, many days I miss him – but I just didn’t (and don’t) know how to have him in my life. So I’ve moved on (way, way on, if smooches are any  criteria) and the days and months have passed and yes, I sent a Christmas card to his roommate’s dog but it was from Lila Belle, not me, so that doesn’t really count, right? Anyway, you get my point.

What I did NOT do, however, was DEFRIEND him from MySpace! From my life? Sure! But my electronic group of friends? He can remain as long as he doesn’t leave snarky comments on my page or whatever you call it like certain other former-stalkers used to. I’m comfortable having him as a "friend", I suppose, just not a Friend right now.

So maybe I *AM* ok with the digital age…in some cases, it gives you the distance you need to learn how to get over someone.