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aubrey’s signature double-bird, originally uploaded by fling93.

I’ve never had a month like this, never had a month with more ups and more downs (or perhaps the ups were more like mediums, and the downs more like WAY DOWNS, but regardless, it’s been hard.) With constant travel, a new job w/Google, and most of my life firmly residing in the land of Passive-Aggressiva (a country bordering the fine nations of Dramarama and Can’tYouJustGetOverItAlready), I’ve been somewhat of a mess. For someone like me who likes needs to have control over at least part of her life, being a perpetual observer to the actions around me that instigated the ensuing chaos has been hard. Ok, terrifying. And with them coming one after another after another with no time in between to recoup or even analyze, it’s no wonder that I’m just spent. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.

Thank GOD for my amazing friends, who have been there with the right thing to say and the offer of apps or a glass of wine or just some perspective. Truly, I’m so lucky. Because I know it will get easier, once I just let it all go and let happen what is supposed to. Or, to be crass, when I just say "fuck it."

So when the opportunity to say it comes along – say, by shooting the double bird – it’s no wonder that I embrace it wholeheartedly. Because at this point, I just don’t know what else to do.

You think you know, think you understand. The me you assume I am is going to disappoint you. I’m not who you think I am.

I’m not easy. I’m not difficult.
I’m not simple. I’m not complicated.

I’m nothing and everything you’d expect, so abandon your assumptions now.

I want what I want, when I remember that I want it. I look outside to remind myself to look within. I smile when I want to cry, cry when I should be laughing. My life is an open book yet I remain a mystery, the me I withhold from you and everyone. Now and then a comment, a glance, a moment or two passes and you catch a glimpse of it, of me, and I see that it startles you, the crack in my armor that reveals myself to you. By the time you acknowledge it, the moment has passed and I’ve returned to the person you equally don’t know.

I want you to let me be, let me continue down this well-beaten path that I know so well, where I’ve trudged long and far that even in the darkeness it’s familiar. And yet the familiar somehow seems false, the ritual now forced. I’m afraid of what may come, what may lie ahead, because I feel you’ve seen too much and won’t adhere to my wishes.

Or maybe it’s because you know I’m a liar.

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Me sporting the "Paris Hilton arm" (terminology courtesy of J.Rodbell, pop culture afficianado), originally uploaded by Aubs.

I hate Paris Hilton.

Ok, I’ve never met her, so it’s probably not fair for me to actually HATE someone I’ve not (yet?) met. So I suppose I should clarify: I think Paris Hilton is a trashy, skinny, overhyped celibritante whose very existence annoys the living shit out of me on a daily basis. (You should see my comments on those people I actually DO know and don’t like. Don’t mess with me, eleventeen year old bitch. I’ve got several years on your neophyte, wrinkle-free self-aggrandized ass…you may think you’re great but I *KNOW * I am. But I digress. Back to Paris.)

Whatever you say about Paris (and Daisy, I KNOW you love “Stars are Blind” and will agree that it’s a great song to slow dance to at a Bowling Alley…on repeat…after 90 beers), the bitch knows how to pose. Granted, it’s so overplayed it’s almost comical, but her ‘signature’ pose, when mimiced, does make your arm look immediately skinnier and you, if done correctly, look a wee bit sassier.

They say imitation is the highest form of flattery; in this case, I don’t agree. In this case, imitation just provides me a good photo op and an easy excuse to talk smack about Paris. And I think we can agree that, as a result, we ALL win here.

Ok, ok…Why I’m posting these publically is beyond me, but figured y’all would enjoy the ridiculousity that ensued AFTER the football game (see post below, and more pics here.) Basically, my pals from NC hadn’t seen "Snakes on a Plane" (nor heard the theme song which, after a drink or thirty, I found to be completely unacceptable) so alas, I decided to grace them with my own rendition(s) of it. Without further ado, I present you the "Aubrey does Snakes on a Plane" karaoke series. I apologize in advance.

Take Two: Time for some ass-slappin’ FUN! (And NO, I’m "Not sleeping in the crib!")

AUBREY, TAKE THREE, wherein Tracy is worried about spilling her beer and I’m worried about her not giving me constant attention.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled broadcasting. Surely, it’s better than this (though not nearly as amusing.)

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Tailgating!, originally uploaded by Aubs.

I’m a frequent flier. And by that I mean that I probably spend more time in a plane than I do in my apartment, and not only because it has a much better air conditioning system (then again, it’s competing against the lack of one entirely, so that’s not really saying a lot.) What is true, however, is that I travel a LOT.

Statistically, I’ve been lucky. With the frequency that I travel, you’d expect me to experience a lot more delays or cancellations than I do. Instead, I’m a high-status level brat whose main complaints include the "snack pack" on Delta flights (raisins and faux cheese is NOT enough sustenance for a 5 1/2 hour flight) and not getting upgraded to First Class every time. (Brat. I told you.) I know how lucky I am – any time I see the ominous red "Delayed" (or worse yet, "Cancelled") status message on the screen I give thanks that it’s not my flight. Brat, perhaps, but lucky brat at that.

Until this weekend. I was throwing a baby shower for one of my dearest friends in Raleigh, North Carolina, and I knew that getting there was going to be precarious. I had a 7am flight out of LAX, meaning that I had at least an hour drive ahead of me from the OC (no Seth Cohen sightings…yet) so a 3:45am wake-up time (wasn’t sure about traffic) was necessary. WHICH WAS FINE. The flight routed me through Cincinnati, got me to Raleigh at 4:15 with plenty of time to cook and clean and generally do all that needed to be done to prepare for the BEST BABY SHOWER EVER (TM). Only that’s not exactly what occurred.

For the first time in, um, ever, I was EARLY to the airport. I found parking relatively easily (!!) and was at the check-in by 5:30am, leaving me plenty of time to enjoy a greasy breakfast and buy a book or two.  Though when I checked in, it seems that my Cincinnati flight was delayed for two hours, thus getting me into Raleigh around 10pm at night. Which, frankly for this aforementioned frequent flier brat, was COMPLETELY UNACCEPTABLE. Which I kindly explained to the helpful agent who, pulling some strings, re-routed me through New York so I could arrive at 7pm instead.

First mistake. Don’t tempt fate.

Boarding the flight to JFK, I was a bit saddened to see that I missed the first class upgrade by one person (hey, asshole – whoever checked in instead of me? You suck.) but wasn’t that big of a deal since I basically slept the entire way. (3:45am wakeups make for a very sleepy Aubrey, especially when she’s sick as a dog and hasn’t been sleeping due to the worst cough in the universe.) I had just enough time to grab some food (see aforementioned comment on craptastic Snack Packs, with narsty PEPPERCORN faux-cheese to boot – grody), a glass of Pinot and make it to my gate to board my flight.

Second mistake: Don’t get complacent.

I got to the over-crowded gate, only to see that ALL of the flights out of JFK were either delayed or cancelled. Thankfully, mine fell into the "Delayed" category, a statement I never thought I’d make, but regardless of the time, I HAD to get to Raleigh that evening. What type of person throws a baby shower, has 25 people come in for it and then doesn’t show up herself? (Don’t answer that. Please.) So, 2 hours later, we finally board the plane only to hear that we would be on the tarmac for at least an hour since there were so many planes trying to fly out at once. Apparently, rain is not something JFK enjoys.

So we sit. And I read. And I call my friends (who can’t really understand me due to aforementioned cough/cold/laryingitis) but get the gist that I’ll be late. REALLY late. Better late than never, though.

Two hours later, the pilot announces that we had to go back to the gate to get more fuel – we were being routed around the storm and had waited there so long that we needed more. FINE. Fuel me up, baby, just get me the hell outta here. We head back to the gate, start to get fuel and then get the announcement that they apparently said "Fuck it" to our plane and alas, we were cancelled.

Cue hysterics…Aubrey is NOT in a good place right now. Sobbing, I call the prego friend (who was currently hosting my three other friends in town for dinner) and sob through the fact that not only do I not get to arrive on Friday evening and I had no idea when I *WOULD* be showing up. A tired, sick, grouchy, hungry Aubrey isn’t exactly emotionally stable, you know. In a surprising moment of clarity, I decided to call Delta directly from the plane instead of standing in the 100+ person line; they were able to get me on an 8am flight from LaGuardia the next morning, getting me into Raleigh at 10am, just in time to rush and get myself together for the shower. This, however, posed two problems: 1) I was in JFK. As were my bags. The flight on Saturday was from LGA. Just HOW I would obtain said bags was questionable. 2) Where the hell was I going to stay?

Cue hysterical Aubrey #2 when the gate agent tells me that my bags would arrive in Raleigh sometime within the next 48 hours. That’s well and good, I suppose, except I would only be in Raleigh for a grand total of 22 hours before I had to fly back here to the OC. Cue ANGRY, HYSTERICAL Aubrey (with a cold, so I’m basically just blubbering, making incomprehensible guttural sounds and shaking and crying. Let’s just say it wasn’t my finest moment.) Somehow, though, it worked…perhaps they were scared, but regardless, I was able to get someone to try and locate my bag. Granted, this took four attempts to find my RED bag from the cart labeled "RDU" and nearly two hours, but after all was said and done, they succeeded. I had clothes! And makeup! And a hairdryer! HURRAH!

What I *DIDN’T* have, at this point, was a place to stay. My cell phone was dying (though I kept charging it at random outlets around baggage claim) and being 9:30pm in NYC, most people were already out for the night. FINALLY, my amazing friends Harry and Alice were kind enough to offer me the floor of their new place, which – seriously – was heaven. I bartered with a gypsy cab driver, and with bags in tow, made it to the bar they were at for a quick drink before bed. I even got to see Denis (!!) who promptly fake-tattooed my arm (love ya, baby!) and two Stellas later, I was nearly able to realize that one day, this would eventually turn out to be a humorous story.

Fast forward to the next day. The flight was delayed (surprise, surprise), I dried my hair in the cab by sticking my head out the window en route to La Guardia then primped in the airport bathroom; changed in the car as I raced to the baby shower (only an hour late) and – Southern fashion propriety be damned – was bra-less and jean-clad for the shower (I won’t begin to discuss Self Tanning Disaster 2006, but suffice it to say that jeans have been the uniform for the past few days.)

It was a blast.

All the girls were there, Kelly looks amazing for 8 months pregnant, and the day was perfect. We went to the UNC game afterwards, even setting up the Tailgate of the Century; our team won, and we adopted a post-game tailgate to complete the evening. The best part, though, was getting to catch up with my girls; these women have been the sisters I’ve never had for the past 11 years. Some of them I’m lucky enough to talk to every day; others I get to catch up with a few times a year. And through all the things that have been going on with me lately – the indecision, the questioning of all that I know to be true, the fear of change and paralyzing anxiety that has plagued me as of late – I know that the 31 hour journey to No
rth Carolina was worth every minute to remind me of just what I’ve seem to have forgotten: Who I am, and what really matters. And – most importantly – WHO really matters.

You’re looking at ’em. I love you girls.

(More pics – and videos  for your viewing pleasure.)

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My Henna Tattoo, originally uploaded by Aubs.

"Summer" in San Francisco isn’t just cold, it’s foggy. And misty. And icky. However, travel 20 miles South and it’s a very different climate, part of the reason why I love having the drama of The City (and I use this word very broadly) and the weather and then the sun and relaxing calm of working in Mountain View.

This past weekend, we decided to partake of public transportation and head south to Berkeley, thus checking off yet another thing on the "Aubrey Farewell-Tour To-Do List." (CHECK!) Leslie, Cameron and I went and met Dan & Leah for Thai Temple brunch (SO much food for $4) and then the (un)diligent amongst us that didn’t go off to work (read: Me – obvi, Cam and Leah) trolled around the streets of Berkeley for a little shopping and funning and sunning. (And deuce-deuce drinking, natch.) Since I’m totally aversive to tattoos (too fickle) but in an edgy mood as of late, we decided to hit up the henna lady on the corner for some hipster henna action. I got a badass one on my upper back and Cameron opted for a  hott "sleeve" that ended up turning out awesomely. (Not to be left out, Leah got one on her hand, but I don’t have a pic for some reason.)

This is the result.

All I gotta say: It’s gonna look HOTT in my baby shower dress on Saturday.

There’s no way to start this post without mentioning the incredulity that it has been five years.  FIVE YEARS AGO today. It’s something I don’t write about, something I barely talk about…something that I probably should start owning up to. It’s not a unique story, and certainly not the most tragic, but it’s what makes me go through many days feeling broken, not just because of what happened afterwards but just by the fact that it happened. As it’s only in retrospect that we can identify what the pivotal points in our life are, this is the only situation where I knew, inherently, that nothing would ever be the same. Somehow – and the events themselves surprised me in their occurrence – this was the day that I grew up.

It’s ironic…I spoke at my graduation, and the theme of my speech was growing up…asking if you ever knew when you really had. I questioned if it was when you went to college, or your first friend got married, or when you had a child, or perhaps when you started taking care of your parents. 11 years later, and (hypothetically) somewhat wiser, I know the answer is yes, yes to all of them. Every day, with everything you do, you grow up a little. With heartbreak and failure, with happiness and success, you grow. Yet it wasn’t until September 11, 2001 that I realized that sometimes it comes subtly, and other times it comes immediately with the events of a tragedy or the realization that youth and innocence is fleeting and can be taken away immediately on a bright blue day when all should be sunshine and happiness and it’s anything but.

I feel like I should be reflecting back more on this day…I think we all are, in our own ways. We have to; it affected everyone differently. For me, it was the impetus that caused my family to change irrevocably. Was the outcome inevitable even if this day hadn’t happened? It’s likely, but I can never be sure. What I can be sure of is that I deal with it in my way, know that it affects my own cynicism and anger and hurt and hatred and dispair that is so often related with the losses of this day in September, but more often the losses that occur later. Life changed for us all five years ago, and for me, it changed from this day going forward. My loss occurred later – nine months and two years and three and half years and yes, today, five years later, I’m changed. I will be changed on my wedding day, I will be changed with the birth of my child, I will be changed on my deathbed.

They say time heals all wounds. I don’t think time will ever actually heal this.

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False Advertising, originally uploaded by Aubs.

Yeah, as if drinking Pom Tea is going to instantly give me skinny legs and big boobs.

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This party ROCKS!, originally uploaded by Aubs.

Much fun was had this weekend, including car-buying, park-gaming, bowling and a fabulous wedding thrown in the middle to boot. The fun just kept on coming.

When I can get my head around putting words together to describe it all, I will. In the meantime, enjoy the photos.

I’m searching through old messages sent from my ex (there’s a good reason…I need a link I sent him back in the day) and the ad that appears?

Who said that context-based advertising isn’t targeted?