• Everyone is skinny. EVERYONE.
• They drive really nice cars. I don’t think these skinny gas-guzzling drivers have ever heard of a Prius.
• Development is constant: in the nearly 6 months I’ve been gone, high-rises have emerged and long-standing haunts (read: Buckhead Saloon) have been demolished.
• It’s not really that cheap. With the exception of houses that will run you a fraction of the exorbitantly-priced SF prices, everything else is about the same. (Read: a beer will still run you five bucks.)
• People are crazy active – everyone, everywhere, is going for a run. (See aforementioned skinnyness, point one above.)
• Spring. I had forgotten how much I missed it. Sigh.

First thing I bought upon arrival: Sweet Tea.

Thank you, Chik-Fil-A. I’ve missed ya.

My first thought when I got off the plane in Atlanta today:

“Ooh, Southern boys. Yum.”

I would be posting MY pictures right now, but due to overuse of my camera it seems to be dead.

That, or the wearing of a lovely madras sportcoat over my going-out-hoochie shirt broke the camera somehow.

I’d say it’s a toss-up.

As such, you’ll have to settle for these and know that they’re a very, VERY small representation of what is to come.

Tracy and Toby – though really, his name is Kurt.

They had these write-on cups that were just TOO much fun.

The night then proceeded from there. Without going into too much detail, let’s just say the night was long, sleep was at a bare minimum, and madras jackets were all the rage. (That, and somehow I choked down not one, but TWO gin and tonics. For the record, I hate gin. I hate tonic. But at the time, they were tasty.)

This is the aftermath of the evening – we’re on our way the next morning to do it all over again. I’m attempting to still be awake but really, the wall is propping me up.

This is five hours later after a Gator win and a push-up challenge. I’d like to pretend I won but was actually eliminated for my ‘ass in the air’ form.

Kudos to Lu for the pics and just as soon as my camera recovers from one hell of a weekend, MY pics to follow.

“I’m gonna get some milk out of that teat later, and it’s gonna be cloudy like sake.”

A few years ago (well, two, to be exact), a friend of mine turned me on to what is called "Future Me." The premise is that you write yourself a simple email that will be delivered at some date in the future. You can write whatever you want, make some predictions – it’s your email, to you, from you.

And it’s hilarious.

On the website, FutureMe.org, you can see some random posts that other people have decided to mark as public. I’ve spent the last 45 minutes alternating between cracking up and feeling really sorry for people and how hard they are on themselves; most of them, though, are both funny and intraspective, like:

Dear FutureMe,
You better still be with Joe, and if your not I hope you realise what
you had was so special for a teenager. Most 30 year olds are still
looking for someone to love who returns their every feeling. You’ll
never find a better bf, Joe is loyal, considerate, kind, generous,
selfless, and he’s even rich and has a 7" penis. Don’t loose him,
whatever you do.

Others seem to be somewhat hard on themselves…

Dear FutureMe,
I think I’ve already sent one of these. I am not sure. So, how did the
research position thing turn out? I imagine you fucked that one up big
time. Good going fuckhole. This was sent on March 5th 2005.

Some are somewhat obscure…

Dear FutureMe,
I hope you aren’t a billy goat. Even though that would be cool. Are
there robots taking over? If yes that must suck. Unless they do your
homework or something.

Some are emphatically threatening…

Subject: Are you still a fucking loser?
yes you are AHAHAHAHAAH aha! fucking reject mother fucker! this is you
from the past d00d and if you dont have a job by then i swaer to god
ima get in a time machine come there and FART IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION
then disapeer as myteriously as i came… IN YOUR HAIR!!!!!!!
OMGWTFLOLBBQ?! btw HAPPY BIRTHDAY YA FUCKING ME YOU!!!

And others, well, others are from me, 2 years ago…

Dear FutureMe,
I hope
by now you’re married, or at least in a relationship. I hope that
you’ve had lots of rampant, mind-blowing sex, are out of debt, and have
finally shampooed your carpet. I hope that you’re officially over that [name withheld]-asshole, that your cats are healthy, and that Google has gone
public.

But the sex…did I mention the sex? Yeah. Lots of it.

Love, Me

…and a snippet of another one from me, last year.

Dear FutureMe,

Last
year, you accomplished much of your goals – you’re out of debt, Google
went public, you’re (mostly) over [name withheld] (w/just a little recent
setback) and yes! You shampooed your carpet. Bravo, Aubrey, your Future
Self is very, very proud of you.  But the sex? The fabulous rampant
mind-blowing sex? Hmm. Didn’t really happen.  Damn.

So this year, I think we
make a few more lofty goals. Since I also didn’t accomplish the
‘married, or at least in a serious relationship’ goal, let’s go with
that one again. As for a job, you’re probably still at Google, though I
hope you’re doing something more fun than mind-numbing keyword
expansion. I hope you’ve had a chance to again travel abroad, and you’ve sold your townhouse and are in a fabulous new single
residence. I also hope that Lila Belle has stopped biting you 3500
times an hour.

Repeat after me: MIND. BLOWING. SEX.

Love, Me

Wonder what next year’s will say?

Unsurprisingly, I’m pretty much an open book. Happy? You know it (and no, I’m not clapping my hands.) Sad? Not too hard to figure it out. As such, when something exciting happens, the only thing that makes it better is to be able to tell my friends all about it. While I stray away from counting my chickens, I do at least love to share the latest and greatest when I feel it’s warranted.

One of these days, I’ll learn to show some restraint.

As a single gal living far away from family and friends, it’s inevitable that they often ask if I’m dating anyone. To prevent having to go into the diatribe of the various lads who are lucky enough to wine and dine with yours truly, I usually keep it vague or mention a detail or two about the suitor of the week.

I’m going to start pleading the fifth, or stating that the dating well has gone dry (even though we all know that’s certainly not the case.) Turns out that my friends suffer from ‘over-zealous mother of a single girl’ syndrome, where they apparently have photographic memory about any and all details that I’ve mentioned.

“How’s the new guy? The one from Oregon?” “Tell me about your new catch – he went to Stanford, right?” “When do we get to meet this Doctor boyfriend of yours?”

Argh. Argh argh argh argh argh. My pride a bit scathed, I have to let them know that the Oregonian was a bit too obsessed with the outdoors, the Stanford guy was quite light on his toes, and the doctor? Well, I just don’t think I could ever be Aubrey, Mrs. Ass-Doctor.

Aubrey, when, WHEN are you going to learn?

From now on, pals, expect a surprise wedding announcement as your next insight to my love life. With the exception of vague references here, Aubrey is about to go incognito.

I’m grouchy.

I snapped at three people today.
BEFORE 10am.

I don’t know if it’s the incessent rain, the bizarre feeling of apathy mixed with discontent that has been so pervasive as of late or what the exact cause is, but for some reason I’m just not myself. I’m trying to snap out of it; really, I am! The In-&-Out Chocolate shake didn’t work (though it WAS tasty), the trip to the shoe store didn’t do it either, nor did the thought of a date later this week (and we know that should certainly snap me out of ANY funk.) No, I seem to have landed ass-first in a pile o’ grumpiness, which is apparently a tricky place to emerge from.

I’m not used to this demeanor, this whiny, bitchy gal that I’ve seem to become today. Hell, I’m a trooper – I break bones regularly and still ski down the mountain! I go to school dances with two (day-glo) casts on my arms! I trudge through the drudgery of boring work with a smile on my face (or, well, at least not a big frown.) Did you know frowning takes like a bazillion more muscles than a smile? I’m risking wrinkles for this mood I’m in! EGADS!

Good things have been happening; I’m trying to concentrate on these. Friends in town! Friends MOVING to town! Friends with PUPPIES THAT PLAY WITH LILA moving to town! Oysterfests and Street Fairs and Concerts, oh my! Coachella up on the horizon, with a wedding and the promise of a month without daily rain before. Really, these are good, good things. And yet the black cloud o’ doom has descended upon me sometime in the past few days. I’m just walking around feeling like a sack o’ ick.

My friend suggested he knew what was causing this funk; I literally punched him in the head for trying to tie it back to PMS (that, and he wouldn’t stop singing the ‘Shoe Carnival’ jingle even though I warned him he was risking a head-bashing.) I’d say I’d go home and drown my funk in a glass of (lovely, very robust, quite pricey) red wine but have watched too many after-school specials to know that this isn’t necessarily a good remedy. (Two glasses, on the other hand, may just do it.)

I don’t like this funktified state I’m in. I want excitement, I want surprises, I want some brightness on the horizon.

Hell, I just want a day without rain.

“You’re playing the field.”

I look in her direction, trying to determine exactly what she’s getting at.

“Me? Huh? What do you mean?”

“Well,” she replies, “I thought you wanted to settle down. You know, with a boyfriend.”

Hmm. I mull this over. She’s partially right, of course, ‘settling down’ IS one option, just as “staying single for a while and enjoying dates with various lovely boys” is another option. (Eloping in Vegas and joining a convent are a few others that I’ve considered in the past, but I think I’ve put them on the back burner as true choices as of late.)

“Well, yeah, one day I will. And with the right person, of course. But now? I’m not sure.”

While she looks at me incredulously, I start to consider her point. I DID want to settle down, and am sure that somewhere in my perpetually fickle personality this could again be the front-running option. But right now – well, not to turn all XY chromosome on y’all, but I feel like a kid in a candy shop, like a chick in a sausagefest. My formerly typical-girl dating behavior has somehow evolved into a much more California’d version, the laid-back alternative reality of how I usually am. Because, after three months of traveling and six months of living here, I think I’ve found my groove. I’ve figured out the appropriate concoction of social life and work commitments, and add in a dash of an early-spring tan and some fabulous out-of-town guests, and I’d say my little existence is doing just fine.

She continues to stare like I’ve grown another head.

I continue to mull.

“Is it that strange to hear me adopt this attitude? I’ve always been pretty laid back when it comes to guys – after all, it’s been how long since I’ve had a serious boyfriend and you don’t see me chomping at the bit, now, do you?” Surely I’ve got her with that data-driven point.

“I don’t know, it just seems…hmm, well, not like you.” She truly looks perplexed.

So great, I’ve apparently been a boy-crazy sex-obsessed girl we all love to hate? That’s a lovely depiction. I’m going to chalk up her obvious delusions to the fourth gin and tonic she’s consumed. That, or else someone should have had an intervention with me quite some time ago; say, back in third grade when I had a crush on Ethan Foster.

Am I really this pathetic? Or – more accurately – WAS I always this bad? I’ve always adopted the girl equivalent of “Bros before Ho’s” and take pride in my non-ditching of gal friends when my flavor of the month came along. And to that point, HAVING a “flavor of the month” should add credence to my argument, shouldn’t it?

“It’s just not that important to me right now,” I assert. “I’ve got so much going on, and after a few months on the road, I’m just starting to get used to San Francisco. I love hanging out with the guys that I am, but…well, not sure if any of them right now are suited to be the future ex Mr. Aubrey Sabala. you know?”

At this point, she begins to extol the virtues of Bachelors Number 1-4, not that she’s actually met any of them (which I of course point out immediately.) To her credit, she’s making some good points…Bachelor Number 2, in fact, really IS adorable (in that ‘looks like a grown up version of my future tow-headed child’ sort of way) and yes, Bachelor Number 3 DOES have the potential to be the front-runner if a) there was really a competition for this status and b) if he lived less than 3000 miles away. Her points? Yep – they’re valid, and for a second they make me start to think that perhaps I’m taking all of this a little TOO casually.

Reality smacks me in the face immediately. I didn’t enter into this lackadaisical attitude by chance; in fact, it’s been somewhat of a conscious decision. After a few months (years?) of being a bit (um, a lot) disillusioned by the perpetuated ideal of love and all that comes with it (thanks, television!) I’ve decided to try a different route. I still think that a lazy Sunday date is fantastic, but I’ve also come to turn a few of these down to hang with my best gal, Lila Belle, for a long afternoon walk. I think a side effect of now being (strangely, proudly) jaded on the whole notion of romance is the subsequent lack of emphasis we then can place on it. I’ve made myself my own priority, and if (and/or when) a dashing lad comes into the picture, he’ll have to fit into the life I’ve made for myself. And if he doesn’t? Well, there’s that whole “square peg in round hole” colloquialism – tongue-in-cheek tawdry pun notwithstanding.

“Trust me,” I assure her. “I’m fine. If it makes you feel better, it’s probably just a phase I’m going through…who knows? Next week I could have a big fat ring on my finger and be skipping merrily through the tulip fields.”

Even though I have my fingers crossed behind my back, I suppose it IS possible. Because, really, how fun would the conversation on who could officiate my wedding be?

My Mom claims that when I was younger, I used to get irritated that she didn’t, and I quote, "brag about me as much as [my] Dad did." Looking back, I see how ridiculous that sounds, but I won’t dispute the claim because really, this is the same person who had an unhealthy obsession with Drakkar cologne and oversized flannel shirts, so it’s clear my thought processes weren’t exactly optimum. That said, I don’t know why this is something that I would have wanted, since my Dad took (takes?) great joy in highly exaggerating any quasi-success of mine; according to him, I’m sure that I’m close to becoming the CEO of Google any day now. Regardless, it’s flattering and sweet, and I’ll leave it at that.

My Mom, as of late, has embraced this practice, and no matter where she goes, she has to point out to EVERYONE that I’m her daughter and that I WORK FOR GOOGLE! (Emphasis necessary – it’s usually said as a half-squeal, half-exclamation.) Whereas before she would try to set me up with anyone she came in contact with ("Look at this picture! Isn’t she beautiful? Are you single?") she now glosses past that (since all of my photos in her wallet have been replaced by ones of my puppy, her undisguised longing for a grandchild) and goes straight to the Google thing. (Perhaps she thinks my looks are waning and that my job is the ultimate aphrodesiac…hmm. That’s certainly disconcerting…but I digress.)  "GOOGLE! SHE WORKS FOR GOOGLE!" She was in town this weekend and I lost track around the twentieth person she had to share this tidbit with; I instead nursed my embarrassment in my second glass of wine as she attempted to pick up yet another throng of young gay men who found her "darling" and me, certainly, playing for a different team.

She’s been crafty over the years; one of her best friends and she got together at some pharmaceutical rep convention armed with the best photos (respectively) of me and her friend’s son, shared a bottle of wine, took a trek to Kinko’s and made colored copies of these ‘albums’, rolling them in a mailing tube and sending them to each of us. Imagine the glee in the sorority house after the "hunky Nick" photos arrived; let’s just say there were bets on how long it would be until we got together, despite the fact that I was in North Carolina and he was in Florida. (My pals knew how persuasive Sue Sabala can be…) Rumor has it that Steph (my Mom’s friend) threatened to cut off her son’s allowance until he emailed me. (Which he did; we’ve since met, became friends, and he’s now married – not to me. So much for the ‘wedding contract’ they conducted on the back of an envelope at a sushi restaurant in DC.) That, I suppose, was one of the success stories, if by ‘success’ I mean ‘I wasn’t raped and murdered by a homeless random accosted as a potential suitor for me.’

It seems my Mom is back on her quest to find me love, or at least her desire to tell the world that I WORK FOR GOOGLE! I HAVE A DOG! I HAVE CATS! (And oh yes, I’m cute.) Despite me trying to dissuade this behaviour often conducted in public transportation, convention booths and – her favorite – planes, she appears to have turned a deaf ear to my pleas. I protested on the grounds of safety; she can’t go off giving random people my email and phone number; she countered with the fact that I have this website. (Hmm, well, I *sorta* see that, but at least I control what I disclose here.) I can handle the embarrassment of her public exclamations of my glory (wine is an amazing thing), but who KNOWS what she says when I’m NOT around?

Looks like the Mom Matchmaker-Bandit is back on "The Mysterious Case on Why Aubrey Can’t Find Love (and how her loving Mother can fix this by telling the world SHE WORKS FOR GOOGLE!)" – I received the following email today:

Hi Aubrey,
My name is [deleted] and I sat next to your Mom for almost 5 hours on Tuesday going home to Cleveland from San Fran. She’s quite an interesting lady. I learned a lot about you. Not all of which I’ll share w/you now (Trust me, it’s better this way!)

I’ve not included the rest, and while I’m sure he’s a lovely guy, I’m going to say it once and for all:
MOM – STOP GIVING OUT MY EMAIL OR PHONE NUMBER OR PICTURE TO RANDOMS YOU MEET ON/AT THE PLANE/CAB/TRAIN/BUS STOP/HOMELESS SHELTER/TJ MAXX/GROCERY STORE/HOTEL/CONVENTION HALL/STREET/VALET PARKING/BOOKSTORE/TRADER JOE’S/PET STORE/SUBMARINE/SPACE SHUTTLE/MARS.

(Now if you meet them on a Hollywood movie set and they’re a dreamy, single leading man, I’ll make an exception, but just this once.)