Appetite for Destruction

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Lila Belle, my cherubic, creative, energetic and all-around lovely dog, has been acting out as of late. It’s no mystery why – if MY Mom left me alone the past 35 evenings IN A ROW to go corrupt her liver, I’d eat a DVD, too.
And a box of razor blades.
And a tube of toothpaste.
And a bottle of suntan lotion.
And a cat bed.
And an “In Style” magazine.
And, clearly, a wicker basket.

Maybe I should stay home tonight…

…and ruin my streak? Naah.

The Best Imitation of Myself

"Maybe I’m thinking myself in a hole
Wondering, who I am when I ought to know
Straighten up now time to go
Fool somebody else, fool somebody else"
                            – Ben Folds Five, "Best Imitation of Myself"

Throughout our lives, we’re on a constant path of discovery. Who I was last week is very different from who I am today; don’t even get me started on last month or last year. We’re constantly evolving, chaotically changing to react to our surroundings and experiences. We’re an adaptable sort, us homo sapiens, trying to trudge through the little pieces of reality that make up our lives, attempting to look out for the forest while we’re dodging the trees. It’s only natural to get confused as to who we are on any given day.

I constantly surprise myself with the sacrifices I will make, not necessarily physically, but emotionally, things I thought I would never put up with. I maintain this higher sense of self (should we even call it our morals? Our soul? Our conscience?) and usually act in accordance to the self-directed ‘rules’ that I’ve associated with who I am and, more importantly, who I want to be. And then I go and do something that negates all that and I have to reassess just who I am and what I want. And it sends me in a tailspin. If I, Aubrey, would never do something, and then did, then am I still the me that I was? How much more am I willing to give up? How far will I stray from my own opinion of myself, the version that I’m not just putting out there for you, but the one that is true and authentic and is me?

"I feel like a quote out of context
Withholding the rest
So I can be for you what you want to see
I got the gesture and sound
Got the timing down
It’s uncanny, yeah, you think it was me."

We tend to hold ourselves to unrealistic standards; after all, we’re only human. We all are trudging through this thing called life and are trying our best to go about it and make it through, at least with our head held high, proud of who we are and what we’re doing. Maintaining a sense of self – a consistent one, at least – is a challenge, because with every relationship – romantic, or otherwise – we adapt. We adapt to people the way we adapt to our surroundings; it’s subtly striving for acceptance  that you’ll even see when you find yourself using common vernacular in a new place. This is normal, this is expected.

"Do you think I should take a class
To lose my Southern accent
Did I make me up, or make the face till it stuck
I do the best imitation of myself."

Yet where does it end? When does adaptation and acceptance become posturing? When are you trying too hard such that you’ve lost the very essence of you? What sacrifice is too much?

"Last night I was east with them
And west within
Trying to be for you what you wanna see
But I can’t help it with you
The good and bad comes through
Don’t want you hanging out with
No one but me
Now if it’s all the same
It comes from the same place
And if my mind’s somewhere else
You won’t be able to tell
I do the best imitation of myself
Yes it’s uncanny to see
You’d really think it was me
The best imitation of myself"

Am I me anymore? Or am I simply the best imitation of myself because that’s what you expect, that’s what you want to see?

I think I know the answer, and that’s what I’m most afraid of.

Common Misconception

I once had a friend who posted some nasty things about me on her website. Why she was possessed to do this is beyond me – in fact, she interpreted a genuinely sincere action on my part as a way to somehow put attention back on me. When I confronted her with it (after asking everyone I knew if there was ANY way I could be over-reacting about it; the answer was a solid ‘no’), she became increasingly defensive, reminded me that not EVERYTHING she wrote was about me (because, of course, being the center of the Universe and all, I would assume otherwise) and that she had written it a long time ago and just had scheduled a future posting.

She was lying through her teeth (for too many coincidental reasons otherwise) but the concept itself wasn’t necessarily a farce; I do it myself, writing things as they happen and then posting it much later.

Yes, people, again you’re learning that you’re getting the Aubrey-approved version of  myself, the me that I’m letting you see and know and assume is at least chronological. In that assumption, you’re wrong.

I know a lot of writers, I talk to a lot of them, and what I’ve gathered is that we all do this differently; some jot down notes and then bring them all to the ‘table’ when it’s their designated time to write; others, like myself, have to stop and write when the inspiration hits. It’s usually when I have a few precious, fleeting seconds to myself where I’m not over-analyzing something, commonly occurring when I’m driving to work or drying my hair or right before I fall asleep. When it’s a simple post – more of an ‘in the moment’ entry about lunch or Promsumating or something light – it usually IS chronological. Meaning, you’re getting it when I wrote it. But there are certain other things, certain topics that are still too close to my heart that I write about in the midst of the pain or confusion or contemplation but choose to schedule to post much later when I (hopefully) am at a different place and can be a little less attached to everything. It’s this latter group of posts that drive people to unnecessary assumptions.

As I’ve said many, many times before, maintaing a ‘persona’ on the internet is potentially met with complications. People think they know you from reading what you wrote; others that DO know you take what you write to heart. Those who are in my day-to-day circle (not to mention those who are kind enough to spend the day IMing me about inane topics ad nauseum) can even get confused; one day, I’m happy as can be, and the next day this long, introspective post appears. Bipolar Aubrey? No, it’s just likely I wrote it a few weeks or months back when I was in the midst of something. I don’t label these as such, but – as I’ve said about flickr and life and my posts – don’t assume.

Just remember: when you’re consuming AubreySabala.com, be sure to take it with a grain of salt.

Promsumating

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The whole set!, originally uploaded by Aubs.

Prom – I remember it like it was yesterday. Trying to find the perfect dress, looking for matching (comfortable) shoes, arranging for transportation, deciding where to eat, not to mention pre-prom-prepping…hair and makeup had to be just perfect, all-the-while getting butterflies of excitement in your tummy. The big night had FINALLY arrived and I couldn’t wait.

Then again, it WAS just yesterday…or, more accurately, the day before. This wasn’t your typical prom, it was PROMSUMATING.

Sponsored by Consumating.com, they brilliantly planned a prom for all us Geekyfantastic-ites here in San Francisco, and it brought us right back to our own proms, with a twist or two. There were promises of Kissing Booths (which there were), Spanking Booths (we didn’t have THOSE at Westlake High School in 1995) and even karaoke (aka, The Whole Reason That Daisy Came™.) Condoms and lube were offered at the bar, and while the drinks COULD have been a bit bigger for $8, our pre-promsumating-party made a pitcher of water sufficient for my inbibation needs. There were limos, prom dresses, polaroids, pre-parties, hotel post-parties, and even the requisite drama that you’d expect from the self-annointed Prom (Drama) Queen, yours truly. I take my role VERY seriously. Suffice it to say that Debauchery – and DebauchAubrey, for that matter – ensued.

Prom: Not just for the kids anymore.

Sixth Sense

It’s uncanny, it really is. I don’t understand how it happens, but it does…it’s like you’re putting out some energy into the universe and amazingly, it’s received by the very person (or people) that you don’t want it to. Calling it "ironic" would be quite a bit of an understatement.

How is it that right when you’ve forgotten about someone they choose to contact you again? It’s like there’s a universal Happiness Management System (HMS)™ that sends instant alerts to your exes when you’ve (finally) moved on and gotten over them and just started being happy again.

ALERT: AUBREY IS HAPPY! INTERVENE! CALL HER! EMAIL HER! IM HER! GET IN TOUCH – NOW! THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO NOT BE FORGOTTEN!

And so, without fail, they do. Out of the blue, you hear from HIM, the HIM that broke your heart and made you think you’d never, ever find anyone better. The HIM that you seriously thought of sacrificing so much for, the HIM that you had talked about having children with. The HIM that just now started falling out of your daily thoughts, allowing you to again listen to a song or do something as mundane as going to the grocery store without instantly referring to his likes and dislikes. The HIM that you thought you’d never get over, but did.

Any geekyfantastic peeps out there who want to hack into the HMS™ and render it useless? Because, really, I’m enjoying this happiness and just don’t need this now…or ever.

Enamored

Can I say how much I love Pete Yorn?

I suppose I just did.

But in case you didn’t catch that,

I. LOVE. PETE. YORN.

The thing about sitting next to LOUD MARKETING CHICKS WHO INVADED MY OFFICE SPACE and their cute (but barky) dogs is that you literally have to put on your headphones and crank up your iTunes to drown them out. I don’t prefer this at all; I love to listen to music, but much prefer to have it on my nifty little USB-powered Google Speaker, not connected directly to my brain by these cheap-ass subpar iPod earphones. But, alas, I’m ‘making do.’ And in ‘making do’ I’m also listening to my iTunes on Party Shuffle, thus allowing me (and you, since I have the new badass Adium beta that shows just what I’m listening to) to cycle through all 28.6 GB of music I have on my computer, all nearly 29 craptastic Gigs of it. And once in a while, hidden amongst the Hall & Oates and Neneh Cherry and Moody Blues, I find a gem, an artist I LOVE LOVE LOVE but had forgotten about.

Like Pete Yorn. Sigh.

Have I mentioned that I love him?

Yeah. I suppose I have.

Inferences

Picture_12_1

Hmm, apparently my site (or the Google bot) knows something I don’t … not only am I having a midlife crisis (can 29 be ‘mid’ life?) but if I date men over 40 and/or meet the Dalai Lama and/or meet sexy 55+ singles, I could be a "happy person."

Who knew?

Geekyfantastic

Growing up, being smart wasn’t exactly an asset, at least not at my elementary school. I think it had more to do with the way they would ostracize you, pull you out of your "normal" classes so you could go with other geeks to attend the classees in the gifted program. You weren’t exactly a pariah, per se, but you didn’t really fit in.

In High School, it mattered a bit less, because most people were vying for admissions to a good college, so intelligence wasn’t completely poo-poohed; for some of us, we were also vying for class rank to then assist in aformentioned college goals, so in SOME instances, being smart was not only ok, it was actually cool.

Ok, so maybe not cool. But at least not totally un-cool.

Anyway, at some point along the line, perhaps when AOL was just beginning and chat rooms and IM were at their neophyte stages, I became a geek. I attribute this to my Dad, early-adopter-of-everything, who not only bought us a PC Jr. at some point but – and I swear this is true – was among the first few thousands of people to sign up for AOL. (Why I didn’t pick a better screen name is beyond me.) I remember chatting to my ninth grade crush (a SOPHOMORE!) about meeting in the park to make out (!!), a detail verified by my painful-to-even-read adolescent journal. Suffice it to say that while most of my friends were learning how to use three-way calling and annoying their parents by tying up the telephone line, we had to get another one for my IM flirting Internet usage alone.

This was 1991.

Fast forward fifteen years, and not much has changed. IM is still the best way to waste a day distract you from work, I’ve swapped cell phone talking for Blackberry texting, and as long as I can remember, my friends haven’t really understood half of the tech stuff I talk about.

Until now.

When I first came to San Francisco, most of my pals were Googlers, or at least ones I met through friends at Google. They were smart, they were fun, but – as a generalization – this group didn’t really embrace their TRUE geekiness. Yes, we both knew a thing or twenty about computers, but our evening conversations weren’t necessarily about supersnazzy computer lingo. It wasn’t until I went to SXSW back in April that my eyes were opened to the concept of Geekyfantasticness, the concept coined by Willo that connotates techno-nerd overtones with the fine balance of rockstar undertones. Basically, a person who embraces their love and aptitude for technology but adds some hipster flair to the mix. Be forewarned: discussions of PHP and Ruby on Rails may ensue over a few pitchers of brew.  HOTT.

So it’s no wonder I love my new crew so much. While partying FAR too much on school nights, it’s worth it:  I can firmly say that my PowerBook has never been in such good shape, nor ever so useful. Plugins! Alarm Clocks! New Adium with iTunes status included! W00T! Flickr is my friend, and though I’m still annoyed by MySpace (and maintain that  nobody over the age of 21 should be allowed on it), I’m a Dodgeball Diva and a Promsummating Princess. For once, I’m not the geekiest one in the room, and if I was, it would likely be applauded! Only in Silicon Valley do programmers score the hottest chicks (who will likely be able to out-Scrabble, trivia, and program you under the table.)

To me, you can’t get much better than that. I HEART Geekyfantastic.

Flickrsinuations

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We live in a world with no option of anonymity, especially if you’re well-ensconced in a photo-happy group like I am. Everything – EVERY. SINGLE. THING. – you do is documented by someone, and in most cases, by MANY someones. We’re becoming our own virtual paparazzi, following each other around with cameras because really, someone, at some time, will make a funny face. And we want you to have evidence of it even if you can’t remember it in the morning.

We’re a considerate paparazzi, we really are.

With the ability to tag all of these debauched photos, it’s very easy to create groups of pics to see more of the story; search on a common tag and you’ll be able to see what the group found to be important, whether it was you riding a giant-sized rocking horse or strutting a catwalk in a giant foam hat. The only problem with this, however, is that while a picture is worth a thousand words, those words don’t always get strung together to form the entire story. Pieces are missing, assumptions often get made, and sometimes the photo doesn’t really represent what was actually happening. For those of us who were there, this isn’t a problem; (for the most part) we remember what happened, who said what and did what and why we were so inclined to go on a smooching spree. For others, though, who weren’t there, insinuations ensue. It’s no different than the REAL paparazzi snapping pics of your favorite celebrity hand-in-hand with someone; next thing you know, it’s on the cover of Star magazine with a "Who’s Her New Boy-Toy?" caption emblazed on the cover.

Living across the country from many of my friends, they go to my website to check out what I’m up to, probably because I’ve been a crappy emailer as of late; in doing so, however, they inevitably click on my Flickr badge or a photo that I’ve posted and start to peruse. Without fail, I’ll get an email about one photo or another; they want to know where I got that dress, where I was when I put the camera in my cleavage (which time?) and who the squeeze of the week is. Because, to them, if you show up in multiple photos with the same person (especially if he/she is a newer entry to your photostream) there MUST be something going on. Insinuations run rampant when your life is documented on the Interweb.

Flickr: the newest grocery store tabloid. Get your copy today!