If I had to list out some of my (many) talents, sleeping would certainly be in the top 10, if not top 5. That shouldn’t detract from the adeptness of the other talents (and note that I’m using that word both very literally and figuratively, depending upon which I’m referencing), its just the I’m especially good at all things relating to sleep: falling, staying, returning to, anywhere and everywhere. Insomnia is a foreign concept to me, something I’ve experienced only a handful of times, and as any good sleeper will attest, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy nor a jackass ex-boyfriend. Really, it was the worst.

Beyond sleeping, I also find myself in the camp of talented dreamers. Even as a little girl, my dreams were always very vivid, and while I wouldn’t go so far to describe them as lucid, they are always at the very least affective. This combination, being able to and being good at sleeping, as well as having overly realistic, often very emotional, dreams means that while I sleep A LOT, I’m not always that well-rested. As was the case last evening.

As many other puppy owners will attest, weekends no longer hold the same significance once your schedule is invariably dictated by someone else, that very same someone who has four paws and drools a lot. Lila Belle is no exception; while she doesn’t inherently understand the small joy of turning the clock back each October, nor does she grasp the concept of weekends. To her, every day is a Monday, every day one should awaken in the 5-o’clock hour, and if one is awake, one must PLAY. So yes, most weekends I begin my day when many of my friends are coming home from the bars (or at least heading to SOME bed.) While they’re enjoying their version of post-coital bliss, I’m trudging up Sacramento towards Lafayette Park with all the other dog owners who “enjoy” our bleary-eyed staggers up a hill far to steep for 6am. This weekend, though, due to circumstances that made Friday night (and subsequently Saturday morning) atypical, coupled with a gross rainy day, I opted instead to teach Lila who is boss and literally sleep until 4pm. Amazingly, save for a few minutes of tug-of-war and chewing on one of her many bones, she acquiesced and bequeathed upon me many hours of uninterrupted sleep. I figured I’d try the experiment yesterday as well; while not as successful (5am came early, there was much more playing involved) she still let me snooze until 2pm. Her reward was a huge mid-afternoon “who cares if it’s raining” walk and a well-rested Aubrey.

That’ll teach me to mess with a schedule, however unsavory it may be on the weekends.

Lila, apparently overly well-rested, wanted nothing to do with the 10:00 bedtime that we’re used to. Nor 11, nor midnight. And when she finally did grant me some sleep, it clearly wasn’t very deep since the smallest sound would send her into a barking tizzy. For those of us who live at the corner of 2 busy streets, a “small” sound is an anomoly usually digressed to cacophanous roars of sirens and blaring horns.

When I finally DID fall asleep, the dreams began. Clearly having watched too many episodes of “Alias” back-to-back then followed by a few “Sex and the City”s, my dreams were a seemingly incoherent mix of trite romance, foreign espionage, and a 50’s themed play where my old college lacrosse crush, now graying, joined forces with a notorious asshole from High School to tell me I had to portray the slut character though they, nor Michael Vartan, would smooch me. Dodging their insults, I was trying to find my costume amongst a mishmash of unorganized knicknacks I really should have thrown away years ago and still meet up with the hunky protagonist, one of two lovely lads, their persona switching back and forth so I wasn’t really ever sure who I was looking for, just that I needed to let them know in earnest that I was only playing a trollop, not that I actually was one. It doesn’t take an expert to interpret this one (my experience as a layman dream interpreter with years of subject matter could easily attribut this to real-life events) but that notwithstanding, it didn’t make the experience that less traumatic. Mondays are hard enough without tossing and turning in a stress-related jumble, trying with all your will to defend your relative virtue to those whose opinions are just starting to matter.

And so I’m on my way to work, bleary eyed and on my second cup of coffee, makeup-free and thoroughly unsettled. I’ve got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, and am trying, somewhat unconvincingly, to tell myself it’s just the aftermath of a nonsensical dream.

For those of you who haven’t yet gotten my Christmas card, I promise, it’s in the mail. That is, if you’re one of my friends AND I have your address AND you responded to me asking for your address AND you didn’t dump me via email nor did you dump me because you like men. Because if you were one of the dumpers, well, I wouldn’t be running to the mailbox anytime soon, though thank you for making me more and more like Carrie Bradshaw each day. (Post it, my ass…email is MUCH better.) But yes, for those of you who I happily place on my "nice" list (and the few of you who I very much enjoy keeping on my "naughty" one, if you get my drift), yes, keep an eye out. The proverbial check is in the mail (and by ‘check’, I *do* mean this picture of Lila.)

However if you’re still waiting, or find yourself on the aforementioned "F-You" list, then you can enjoy other people’s cards instead. See? Even though I wish you coal in your stocking and STD-burning in your undies, you can’t say I’m not generous in my article linking.

On Monday, I was in the depths of dispair. Oh, woe is me, woe is Aubrey, woe woe woe.

Woe.

On Tuesday, I was in the height of happiness. Oh gleeful am I, glee glee glee.

Glee.

Today, I’m even happier. No, didn’t win the lottery but did dodge a $25k immediate necessity, got myself a fabulous renter for my home (so didn’t have to sell it after all, nor move back to Atlanta!), FOUND my camera through my Magnum PI investigative prowess, and am getting ready to hit my first professional sporting event in the great state of California in a LUXURY SUITE, no less. (That means free beer! And munchies! And beer! And ogling at hot Bball players! OGLE!)

While one near and dear attributes my aforementioned dispair to mere over-reacting, I disagree entirely. YOU TRY coming up with TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS in the next three weeks. YOU TRY coming to terms with the fact that nobody will ever see just how cute you looked at your Christmas party because irresponsible you left your camera in a limo. YOU TRY dealing with that, some other crap I won’t bore you with (read: personal, so none of your damn business), the "holiday season" (fa la la) and a bit o’ plain ol’ PMS and YOU SEE if you didn’t have a near breakdown.

Then again, wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Just glad it worked out, and yes, will be keeping my promise to God and heading straight to church on Sunday. You make a deal with the Big Guy, you keep it.

Some of my biggest disappointments have come from facing reality. No, it’s not the blindsided losses that have rattled me; instead, it’s more of when I – or others – make me face the truth that was there all along that I’d chosen to ignore, or at least talk myself into turning a blind eye against. I’m a startlingly perceptive person – many writers are – but it’s in wishing that my intuition wasn’t accurate that I find myself creating an alternate reality.

That’s not to say I live in a dreamworld – quite the contrary. It’s that I prefer to be optimistic, going for the golden ring of possibility though frought with obstacles, instead of contentedly acquiescing that my goal, whatever it may be, is likely unrealistic. There’s no knight in shining armor coming to rescue me, I’ll readily admit that, and yet I still prefer to look for some semblance of happily ever after, actively embracing the potentially rocky road as the path.

A cynical friend is convinced I’m obsessed with the unattainable – the guy that lives too far away to make it work is the latter day unavailable football player of high school days past. While I recognize my tendency to push barriers, I disagree that it’s a concerted self-sabotage for someone who’s not really ‘ready’ for the next step. Instead, it’s part situational, part personal preference, and part human nature to want the dream come true. Throw in a  few adages – "Good things come to those who wait" and "Anything worth doing is worth doing the hard way" and you’ve pretty much got my view on life. I’m in no rush and know what I’m looking for – it’s just that I often don my rose-coloured glasses and imagine the preferred outcome instead of the authentic reality.

No, I’m certainly not living in a dreamworld, though today is one of those days where I naively wish I were. For once, I’d like to bypass the hard road, instead simply wishing it was all easier.

…Is having your far-away favorite hunky lad-crush come for an unexpected visit (and stay a few extra days!) That’s one sure way to have me singing “Fa La La”…

I spend a lot of time in airports, usually running to the gate right before they close the doors. Not normally a late person (or at least not normally wanting to be one), for some reason I cut it close each and every time. So on the rare occasion when I arrive early or my flight is delayed (both of which are currently the case!) I find myself trying to keep busy by doing those tasks that inevitably get put off each evening my the lure of slumber.

As is the case right now – today’s task (besides waiting on the police and expressing my very adult-inclined dissatisfaction with my realtor) is to make the Christmas Card List. If ever were a day to get thyself on my good side, today is the day. After all, who *WOULDN’T* want to see Lila in a Santa hat?

And yet, as I find myself going through my blackberry to make the official List, I find myself again being confronted with the phenomenon that was all-too-obvious at last week’s Ten Year Reunion; while the addresses may be “Alicia and Jon”, “Beth and Jack”, “Kelly and Drue”, the signature on mine is just “Aubrey”. I don’t have the “and John” or “and Pete” or even, God bless him, “and Michael Vartan” (because really, why WOULDN’T he want us to send a card together?) All joking aside, though, the Holidays are yet another slap in the face to all us singletons out there who, like me, have a certain predilection to send out copious amounts of Christmas cards.

And so, like last year and the one before and all the ones before that, you’ll soon be receiving a card from me and MY significant other(s), though know that the “and Menagerie” is simply implied.

In leaving Atlanta, I not only bid adieu to my friends, my gorgeous house (Rent Me! Buy Me! Let SOMETHING happen so Aubrey isn’t always this broke!) and some of my favorite restaurants ever, but I also said farewell to something I had long become accustomed to having: my own column. Yes, leaving my freelance work at The Sunday Paper was such a bummer…not only did I have the BEST editor around, but I had a venue to write about shopping, fashion and the like on a regular (weekly!) basis – AND get paid for it to boot.  Yep, second only to my stint as a restaurant reviewer, this gig rocked.

But now, here in San Francisco, while I *am* doing a little bit of writing for Citysearch, I find myself sans articles (save for this forum) and am bursting (not just with fruit flavors, but also) with tidbits and details that I feel I should share! Alas, it would be selfish of me to withhold this valuable information – after all, you *should* know what makes your eyeshadow stay on indefinitely! You *should* know my thoughts on the cute little J.Crew tie flask they have this year. And of course, you REALLY should know about this brand of "body oil" that, um, let’s just say it does the trick. Yep, these are time-tested (by me, of course) tricks o’ the trade that you, my friends, should know about.

So, without further ado, I provide you with: AubreySays.com, your one-stop-shop for any & all of my recommendations. It’s still under construction (the URL will soon work; right now, a mere redirect) so stay tuned, but in the meantime, check out the Ultimate Holiday Wish List and come back soon, ya hear?

I had written this long, poetic diatribe of my life, my puppy, and the aftermath of this week’s reunion, yet in Googling how to spell "Cujo" (the appropriate moniker for my darling Lila Belle) it refreshed THIS window, distroying my article (which really is a shame, since in my sleep deprived state, I tend to mix metaphors more often than usual, and really, who doesn’t want to know about a picture being worth a pot having a lid after a stitch in time?) But alas, that’s reality, that’s technology, and instead of pseudo-Pulitzer articles, you now get a bulleted list.

• Thanksgiving was lovely. It’s not until you’re again around little kids (especially if you don’t yet have your own) that you realize how funny and darling they are. Hi, heartstrings, thanks for talking to my biological clock.
• The reunion, especially the Friday night o’ debauchery, was a blast. I’ve put up the pictures, and will apologize in advance for the lack of any and all witty captions. (See: Lack of Sleep, above.)
• My dog, normally a 12 on a one-to-ten scale of energy, today woke up at a 7,549. (See: Definition of Cujo, also above.) You know it’s gonna be a bad day when your 22-pound 10-month-old puppy blocks the door and literally WON’T let you leave your home. Either that, or when I seriously started examining her for Rabies. One guess on who’s about to have to take a 2-hr walk/run in the rain with a needy puppy…
• See, below, darling needy puppy. She may be Cujo, but she’s MY Cujo.

Hmm. I guess I shouldn’t pack my tank tops, ya think?

In the city by the bay, I’ve noticed many, many trends.

People love flip cup.
There is no ‘off night’ when it comes to the social scene.
Theme parties are the name of the game.

And, the most prevalent of the few, is 1982.

"Nineteen eighty-two?" you say. "What’s that?"

Let’s do the math. Let’s say that you’re a boy (a hot one, at that),
and you live in the city. Let’s also just say that you hit on me or
that, on the off-chance that you’re THAT cute and I’m THAT drunk, I hit
on you. Then, my friend, 1982 is very relavent.

It’s because it was when you were born.

Yes, my friends, my social debut onto the San Francisco social scene
clearly coincides with the onset of what I’m now coining "The 1982
Syndrome." In other words, every guy I meet is 23.

Now, a bit about these youthful lads – in their nubile exuberance,
they *ALL* assert that there’s very little difference between 23 and
28, which I, in my not-so-youthful exuberance, know is their futile
attempt to get me between the sheets (or at least pressed up against a
wall or making out at a club.) You see, I’ve BEEN 23. And to that matter, I’ve also been 24, 25, 26, and 27. At 23, they don’t know better. At 28, I DO.

I’m going to pretend it’s my new-found moisturizing regimen or
perhaps the fresh air of the city. But alas, I think it’s just mere
demographics – the social scene here spans many ages whereas in
Atlanta, it pretty much segregates according to decades. The 23
year-olds play with kids their own age at bars where college fake-id’s
are still the norm. The 26 and older crowd, otherwise known as "If
you’re not married by now you’d better give up, take up knitting and
get a cat", plays in their own sandbox with their own kind. The
young’uns, hypothesizing on what us elders would be discussing at cool
East Atlanta bars (besides hemmorhoids, viagra and cat litter) wouldn’t
imagine of hitting on one of OUR group; the same is held true
conversely. But here,  hallelujah, the plebians mingle with the
royalty, the young with the old – caste intermingling is the norm. And
– Bobbi Brown cosmetics or demographics aside – the true beauty of
being 28 is not just that we know better; it’s that we know better but
are wise enough to do it anyway.