The facts:
The conclusion:
For the last 3 months, I’ve been working on a "super secret internal project" here at Google. Yes, I’ve been working with Urchin, the web analytics software. Yes, I moved to California. Yes, I’m busy as can be. But that’s about it – besides the infrequency of my posts as of late (Sorry, Mike, I’ll get on it) I haven’t really elaborated much on what I’ve been up to from a work standpoint. But, as of 7pm PST last evening, I can, which is good, b/c I’m not really much of a secret-keeper, at least not about myself.
So, without further ado, I invite you all to check out the latest news. In a nutshell – Google rebranded Urchin and has launched an enterprise-scalable, FREE web analytics service. Before this acquisition, Company X would buy keywords and write relevant ads, so that when you searched on Google for, say, "Laptop Computers", you could click on the aforementioned ad and end up on the client’s site. That’s where Google then bid you a fond adieu (for the most part) and left the transaction at that point with no insight on whether or not you continued through to a purchase. Now, with Google Analytics, Company X can know that you searched on Laptop Computers, you clicked on the ad, you got to their site, placed the product in the shopping cart but didn’t purchase. Or maybe you did. Or maybe you just left the site immediately; whatever your behavior, Company X can now help track this to make refinements to their site and to learn about your behavior. Invasive? I take the stance that no, not so much; the company never knows that it’s YOU or YOUR identity, just that a user followed the following path to purchase. In the end, I see it as a win-win.
What does that mean to Bloggers? A TON. Prior to this release, getting site stats was nearly impossible unless you wanted to pay for it. The installation was potentially difficult and the stats were rudimentary at best. Now, the Blogging community should rejoice – you now have near real-time access to how many people were viewing your site, where they came from, and even what they did there. Get linked by Dooce.com or a trackback from Slashdot or something? You can now know that’s why your traffic tripled. In short, the power of analytics is yours, free of cost.
Google. Gotta love ’em…I know I do.
If ever I was doubting moving to this city, I take it back. I take it ALL back.
In the past month, I have been to more theme parties than I had in the 5 1/2 years that I lived in Atlanta. Not sure what it is about San Francisco, but it’s one theme party-tastic city. (That, and obsessed with Flip Cup. But I digress.) Not that I’m complaining; quite the opposite. The fact that I kept out my Halloween Costume Bag (soon to become a Fabulous Costume Crate) instead of storing it says that I’m anticipating many, many costumed festivities to come. To that I say: Bring it.
We’ve gone to 80’s parties.
We’ve gone to White Trash Parties (notice the side scrunchie.)
We’ve gone to Old Hollywood Parties – yes that IS a Poloroid!
80’s and Kickball and Hollywood, OH MY!
Lila agrees.
San Francisco, thanks. I think I’ll stay.
Him: You can overnight the CD to me so we can enjoy it together even sooner.
Me: OK, Mr. High Maintenance. I’ll see what I can do.
Him: Mr. High Maintenance? What about Mrs? I spent half an hour looking for your mojo.
Once upon a time, in the great city by the bay, lived a delightful young lady. We shall call her "Aubrey", and while she’s not a princess in this story, she doesn’t really mind being treated like one now and again, especially by hot suitors over the age of 25. Anyway, Aubrey had a good job, a nice house, une petite menagerie, and some really rockin’ cowboy boots, not to mention a multitude of formal dresses and really, really soft towels. But we digress…Aubrey, new to the city, was enjoying herself just swimmingly until one day, she realized that she had lost it.
Her Mojo.
"Egads!" cried Aubrey. "My MOJO! I must find it! I wonder if I misplaced it, or if it was stolen, or – hmm, I wonder if it’s truly lost." The tragedy of losing one’s Mojo didn’t escape our leading lady; after all, Mojo is a very very good thing to have. "Perhaps it’s in one of these boxes that still need to be unpacked…"
..and with that, our heroine went about attempting to rid her (miniscule) palace of any and all unnecessary accoutrements, i.e., plastic crates and cardboard boxes full of stuff that used to be important but now just doesn’t fit. Three (thousand) days later, a weary Aubrey still hadn’t found her mojo (though her house looked spectacular.)
"Hmm." thought Aubrey. "I should retrace my steps. When’s the last time I remember HAVING my Mojo?" She thought back. It wasn’t at the Halloween party – no, that was a bust…she would prefer to forget GOING HOME ALONE even after donning the short skirt and fishnets. (I mean, really…fishnets? That’s hot.) Nor was it at the Naughty Nurse party, but then again, she WAS talking to a strapping young buck…emphasis on ‘young’, being that he was 23. Was it the weekend before? A-ha! Perhaps it was! There was some success that one evening…that was it. He had stolen her Mojo. And it was up to her to get it back.
So our principessa decided to take matters into her own hands, even if she had no idea how to reclaim one’s Mojo. But damnit, she’d try. So the first thing the very next day, she went to visit the Mojo-Robber and demand it be returned to its rightful owner. Despite claims of "You’re crazy" and many questions of "Now, how much have you REALLY had to drink?", Aubrey was undaunted. It was HER Mojo and she was going to get it back. Right. NOW.
—————–
After being released from jail with just a warning about drinking too much on a weekday, Aubrey proceeded to drown her sorrows at the local watering hole. (I mean, it was only a WARNING.) Lamenting her loss, she confided in the bartender her quest to reclaim her Mojo, only to notice a familiar glint in his eye. From the mirror behind the bar, she caught her reflection, and was startled to see what she did…her MOJO! She hadn’t lost it after all, she just hadn’t recognized it. (After all, Mojo can take on many different forms, especially in a new city.) Delighted, Aubrey leapt over the bar and planted a big wet one on the bartender (a hot, strapping young buck himself!) – she had found it! Her Mojo! Hallelujah.
With that, our heroine ran out of the bar, ready to take on the city reinvigorated. And that, my friends, is how Aubrey Got Her Groove Back.
————————–
Oh yeah. She lived happily ever after with her prince in a house in the city (with great views) where she was allowed to have as many trash bags as she would like without having to pay an extra $90 for them and never, ever cut up her cardboard boxes as instructed by her landlord because really, who has four extra hours for that shit?
The End.
These days, it seems like everyone is busy, busy, busy. My darling friend HJ, in between Halloween Costume-making and Hearns-party-planning, is swamped yet still posts; same goes for giddily happy sweet Sarah Brown. And as for me, well, we know I’m drowning in the weight of boxes that need to be unpacked that contain stuff that won’t fit in my house as well as a sick puppy (who, thanks for all who asked, seems to be back to her normal belligerent self, if this picture is any evidence)
but that doesn’t mean I haven’t found time to enjoy the city.
In fact, I’m enjoying it quite well, especially as Halloween approaches. So, while my brain still swims in the aftermath that was too many vodka sodas from last evening, enjoy a pictorial view of my life as of late. 
After twenty-six lovely days spent on an air-mattress (albeit, a lovely one, I would highly recommed a pillow-top Aerobed
should you, say, get in a fight w/your beloved and find yourself
relegated to the living room), I again returned to my bed. OH, how I
could wax poetic about my lovely, comfy, fabulous bed…but again, will
save that for another time as well. As the movers spent days (ok,
hours) bringing in all of my previously-scaled-down possessions only to
find that the ‘scaling down’ should also have been scaled down, I
nearly wept with glee. "Look! There’s my couch! And my dresser! And my
ladder, oh, I love you ladder." After all, it is *MY* ladder, and again
seeing all that I had left behind in Atlanta returned to me safe and
(somewhat) unbreakably sound, it was a delightful occurrence. And after the movers de-taped and de-blanketed my things, I stood in the 2′ x 2′ space that was left unadorned and thought – "aah, home."
Then the reality began. The menagerie was all-too excited to
explore…after all, there was much tape to be chewed on and things to
smell and couches to scratch and get all hairy, their specialty. Lila,
however, was quite disconcerted; her formerly vast expansive (read:
completely empty save for an Aerobed)
apartment, perfect for much toy-chasing and bone-chewing, was now
maligned by the plight of the boxes (also, the name of my future movie
re: moving should I ever make one.) So, picture this if you will:
Feline menagerie in heightened level of curious excitement squeezing
into spaces that were designed for rats, not cats, while Lila stood
giving me her best look of indignation, barking her irritation with jubilance,
and sighing just as loud as she could to exhibit her frustration with
her thoughtless owner, Aubrey of Too Many Material Possessions.
Which, sadly, is the case. I really, truly believed I had done a
sufficient job downsizing; I gave away HALF OF MY CLOTHES, after all,
including formal dresses. Duvet covers, my other oft-purchased
collectible, also found themselves on the "cut" list, and as for
furniture? Gone. I kept only the basics and the good stuff. Then why is
it, after all the cathartic house-cleaning and de-cluttering,
that my cute little place is a booby-trap laden maze of boxes and
crates and Things That Just Won’t Fit (the technical term for
‘everything I own.’)?
I suppose it’s an exercise in growing up. Converse to the "get older,
settle down, buy a house in the suburbs" (read: Accumulate) mentality
that so pervades our society, I metaphorically said "the hell with it."
Leaving a three-bedroom home for a three-room apartment (yet paying the
same, minus any equity, natch) is something I had said I wouldn’t do –
after all, I had come so far! Grown up so fast! Owned a home when I was
24, look at me, world, I’ve about made it.
But then I realized, perhaps "making it" wasn’t what I was wanting. What’s a 3-bedroom home for one person (and albeit a Grande
Menagerie)? Why do I need all this space – to entertain? Yes, that’s
lovely, but at the end of the day, my home is where I make it, and
despite the never-ending box-opening, the constant Russian Matryoshka nesting dolls-esque condensing, I know that when I walk into my house this evening, I’ll again think, "aah, home."
I sit on the plane, listening to these songs.
The location isn’t unique: I listen to them on the radio, on the subway, on the bus, in my car. Even the artist isn’t unique, I could easily interchange one with the other, because in essence, they’re saying the same things. They’re all writing about love.
And I doubt it.
“It sells songs,” I tell myself. “That must be why they’re asking how to ‘keep love alive’ or are ruminating on the very nature of life, of love, on how loss and longing keeps them frequenting bars, lamenting the departure of love.” I don’t adopt my cynical nature when hearing it from a female singer, yet with males, I return to doubting everything I hear.
What does that say about me?
It’s incongruous. As trite as it sounds, as pathetic as it may be, I believe in love. If you pressed me on it, I’d probably be liken to say it’s the meaning of life: to love and to be loved. And yet when I am faced with its harsh reality, the unadorned truth of how it succeeds and fails independent of our best intentions, I find myself retreating into my shell of cynicism.
These songs, they’re just a melody I can memorize, a hypothetical reality that draws people in on the romanticized notion that “yes, this could apply to YOU one day!”
Because, cynicism aside, I’ve never seen it. I’ve never felt it, at least in my life, in a romantic sense. So to put the faith in the fact that it exists…I’m not there yet. I’m not yet a believer.
AubreySabala.com 
