I was listening to the radio today, and the local station was interviewing Jane Fonda regarding the premier of her new movie with my Top-5 member, Michael Vartan. They discussed the Red Carpet Premier here in Atlanta tomorrow, I drooled openly when they mentioned that a walk-on role in Alias was part of the silent auction (don’t think I didn’t head to my floundering checkbook to see the feasibility of a bid!) and then the conversation turned to her new book – “My Life So Far.” And, with all due respect to Mr. Vartan and his amazing hunk-dom, that’s where the conversation turned interesting.

Now, my knowledge of Jane Fonda is somewhat limited – I know she was/is an actress, was in “Barbarella”, was married to Ted Turner, lives in Atlanta, and there was some incident back during the Vietnam War. (I’ve since done a bit of research to find out more, but for sake of this article, that’s where my knowledge was previously.) What I found to be so interesting in hearing her talk about this book wasn’t that it was her memoir, which I assumed from the title, but that her reason behind writing the book was to provoke others – specifically women – to reflect on their own lives and relationships.

In the interview, Ms. Fonda continually mentioned not feeling ‘good enough’ for the majority of her life, and the interviewer asked her what changed, what happened to make her realize that she was. Jane’s answer? “I finally realized that ‘Good enough’ was ‘Good enough.'” Not overly prolific, mind you, but when you think about it, it’s the very acceptance of yourself that makes it – makes you – ok with who you are. And I’ve seen in too many people, myself included, that this isn’t always the case.

I think many women, once they reach the age that they feel comfortable enough to look back on decades of their life, discovering patterns, want to help the next generation, afraid that they’ll see themselves in the young. In fact, when my Mom called me at work about a month back to tell me that I should get this book, I didn’t think that much of it; after all, this occasion happens at least once a week, usually after a viewing of Oprah or Dr. Phil. But hearing that statement today on the radio – well, I think my Mom may have been right. Perhaps I DO need to read that book – perhaps so do my friends and other girls around me who, without meaning to, without intention, find themselves questioning themselves and their actions at the very time they should be embracing them.

While they say that jealousy rears its ugly head, insecurity is much more subtle, peeking out slowly behind an otherwise innocuous facade. It doesn’t come out with a bang; instead, it’s littered in innocent statements, often without your knowledge, but added up, conveys something much stronger even than jealousy – that perhaps you’re not really where you think you are. That ghosts – or relationships – from the past might not actually be vanquished. That time might only heal some wounds, but not all. That although we should learn from our past experiences, we shouldn’t be so wary that we’re – in essence – recreating them without meaning to. That sometimes we have to pick up, move on, and let good things happen without constantly looking for the other shoe to drop. Because you’re not ever moving forward when you’re constantly looking behind you.

So much to say, so much to say … with my apologies to Dave Matthews, of course. But the sentiment remains.

Some status updates for your enquiring minds (read: I don’t think I’m prolific enough to write anything if it doesn’t exist in list format at this state. My apologies to YOU, the World Wide Interweb, for that.)

The house – if possible, it exists in even MORE disarray than before, the aftermath of getting everything out of storage last weekend and finding that I have probably been keeping Rubbermaid in business with the purchase of their storage bins.

The puppy – she’s getting her last (!!) round of shots today, rendering her a fantastic candidate for Doggie Day Care. (Trust me, this puppy has more energy than I, or even her trainer, know what to do with. I’m guessing she’ll never have a weight problem.)

The job – Busy, busy, busy. Freelancing is running amok as well, and I have since coined myself Cheezy McCheezealot (my apologies to my guy-friend for this vernacular) after ending an article on Paulding County with a one-word paragraph – “Indeed.”

The health – Eye surgery…I survived. Harder than I had expected, but for a gal who has worn glasses since 3rd grade, being able to actually SEE in the shower is a new experience. (So THAT’S why I always missed shaving the hairs on my knees…) However, after surgery, moving, a weeks worth of screaming at every customer service representative known to man as well as running home nearly every day at lunch to try and meet some delivery-person or repairman, et. al, it’s no wonder I’m now un-officially sick. (And for those who don’t know the difference between Aubrey Officially Sick and Aubrey Un-officially sick, the former involves much whining; the latter involves too much to do to have time to do the whining. Plus, talking without coughing in this case is more than a bit difficult.)

The wedding – Mine? You jest. This is just highlighting the beginning of the official wedding season; aka, every weekend in the summer. We’ve got three this month alone, one in June, two in August, with bachelorette parties, et. al. to boot. But – if you can believe it – I’m FINALLY caught up on my gift-giving! Wonders never cease.

The pictures – From many an evening on the town, with many a beer to be spilled, with a few including a Viking helmet and sword (you’ll have to see it to believe it) and even an Indian headdress from this past weekend’s jaunt to New Orleans, they’re coming. I promise.

Because right now, the shower is calling me, Lila Belle is nearly late for her puppy appt, and this girl is still wondering how people get by on DIAL-UP. Because really – Comcast? If you don’t get yo’ ass out here DAMN skippy, I’m gonna lose it on yet another one of your customer service reps. And – ask any T-Mobile or Home Depot rep you know – it’s not a pretty day to witness an Aubrey spurned. (My apologies to them…actually, I take that back. They deserved it.)

Well, I survived. Not just the surgery, but the packing, the move, the deliveries, the overly unhelpful customer service people, a Braves game, a trip to Fado, and even a venture into the “might-as-well-be-in-Tennessee” city of Dacula, GA. Yes, though I have been wearing the same Google sweatshirt, flip flops and jeans for the past three days and haven’t the slightest idea where the dress I’m wearing for the wedding this weekend in New Orleans is, it’s official. I’m the owner of a new home, a new puppy that loves her backyard, a fabulous new loveseat/overstuffed chair combo, three fireplaces, and a kitchen that even I don’t understand how I lucked out enough to get.

And yet (don’t you love that I’m always finding a caveat?) I keep attempting to make progress, to unpack another box or put together another lamp or side table and yet it seems like the ratio of unpacked vs. packed is still skewed in the ‘How can one person own this much stuff‘ side. Every time I unpack a box of, say, formal dresses (one of two, and yes, I know how pathetic that is), there exists three more plastic crates of books! Of photo albums! Of dishes! And pots and pans and lamps and socks and – who knew – an entire box of pashminas. I live in Georgia and have a WHOLE. BOX. OF. SCARF-ESQUE-THINGS. No need to chastise, I’m embarrassed enough myself.

Still, I had fabulous helpers this weekend, and even though “complete and total disarray” is too kind of a phrase for the actuality that is my disaster-scene-living room, I had friends stop by, some even unexpectedly (my favorite thing ever!!) and I had wine to offer them – from a wine fridge, no less. I had my crafty gal-pal wield a drill like nobody’s business, my savvy decorator/builder guy friend offer suggestions for my decor, and enjoyed the pleasure of the company of a delightful young lad not only at the Braves game, but also at our friends’ Seder last evening. All in all, despite the treadmill of boxes, the overwhelming feeling that I’ll never get to the bottom of the unpacking, I secretly feel that for the first time in a while, perhaps I’m not just running to stand still – perhaps I’m going somewhere.

I’ll admit it – I’m a stresscase. Whether it’s work (often) or guys (um, sorta often), I tend to be somewhat of a worrywort. Granted, through the years I’ve found ways to justify it (“I’m a writer, I need to over-analyze!”) or disguise it (“Sure, I’ll have another glass of wine! Stress? What Stress?”) – but regardless, once a worrier, always a worrier.

Still, I’ve always known that worry about something rarely helps the situation – in the long run, it doesn’t affect whether or not you’ll get the job, if you’ll find your dream house, or if he’ll call or not. I’m a firm believer in the “things happen for a reason” mantra, that worrying, as easy as it is to revert to, plays little to no bearing in the outcome.

And yet when it’s something big, something serious, I can’t help but worry a bit. As is the case this week.

I’m having surgery in less than 24 hours, and – truth be told – I’m freaking out a little. Granted, it’s LASIK surgery, and though I’ve read the possible complications and know what to expect, the thought of me sitting in the waiting room by myself sends me on the fast track to anxiety-land.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve only had surgery once before (on my wisdom teeth) and for whatever reason, be it that I was younger, was in Ohio, had my Mom to take care of me or the fact that I “awoke” to find myself leading the office in a spirited round of Christmas carols, I don’t remember being this worried. But now? Today? Tomorrow? Yeah. I am. Maybe it’s because although someone is dropping me off, I’ll end up in the waiting room – waiting – alone. Or, even though someone is taking me home, I’ll be there – alone. And if I’m in pain? Yep, you guessed it – alone. The funny thing is that I know I’ll be fine, but my usual rationalizations don’t seem to be working here. Plain and simple, I’m scared.

No wonder they say “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff.” Because eventually, when the “Big Stuff” comes around, you’ll learn what a fool you’ve been worrying over something that, in comparison, is pretty small.

Still, I somehow know that when all is said & done, when this post makes me laugh over my stress, I’ll still be worrying about the job, the house, or the guy. Hey – I’m still Aubrey, after all…

Life is all about pace. Go too fast – you’ll miss some of the magic. Too slow? Eventually, your attention will turn elsewhere. But somewhere in the middle, you’ll find your groove – your pace – where things proceed smoothly.

There’s something to be said for slow & steady – the whole colloquialism about winning the race under that pace has validity, but to me it’s the steadiness that provides the winning edge. Whether it’s work, relationships, even a pilates class, maintaining that steady balance will, at least in my mind, lead to the best outcome.

Though that’s not to say this epiphany has come easily to me – quite the contrary. I’m impetuous to a fault, an all-or-nothing kind of gal who gets excited by the possibilities in life, taking them on full speed. My realtor & mortgage broker recently shared a laugh about this, telling me that they’d never met someone who, once she knows what she wants, barrels full steam ahead with such vigor, refusing to take no for an answer. In many respects, they’re right – at least for the most part.

And yet it’s been through this very type of living, the 2-second decisions, the “act now, consequences later” behaviour that people have said often draw them to me that has caused me to take pause when it means something. When it’s something of worth, stepping back and making sure you’re remembering to breathe is imperative. Because while we know that slow & steady may win the race, we also can’t forget that good things come to those who wait.

Ask, and you shall receive.

It was just a few weeks (ok, days) ago that I was lamenting my craziness, my over-committed self with three thousand things to do and a whole boatload of stress sitting squarely between my shoulder blades. I retire to bed, weary, exhausted, and yet I have to jot down five or six things each evening that I can’t forget to do the following day.

“Schedule the dog walker to come twice on Friday.”
“Call the Saab dealership.”
“Buy a wedding present.”
“Get the laundry out of the washer.”

As much as I’d like it to, my mind doesn’t turn off at the end of the evening; it just doesn’t have time.

To add to that, I had a house to sell, a new house to buy, a puppy to train, eyes to be lasiked…should I continue? Finishing each day a sane person was a challenge in itself.

And then, the universe answered.

The current house? Rented. For 18-months, no less.
The new house? I’m closing two weeks from today.
I’ve scheduled the changeover in all utilities, gotten all of my information to the mortgage lender, and hired the movers. Things are FINALLY coming along!
(I even bought a new dining room table.)

As for Lila Belle, she had a very productive meeting with the dog trainer, who suggested that Lila thinks that SHE is the boss. (Funny, I thought that I was!) As a result, we’re doing “homework” that includes me closing her jaw and growling (I kid you not) while I say “No Bite.” Then, when she pries the jaws of death off of my finger/hand/arm/leg/foot/ankle/insert body part here, she recieves “Good Girl, No Bite”. Thankfully, the ratio of “No Bite” to “Good Girl, No Bite” is starting to weigh in the favor of the latter. If I had only known back in 10th grade math that the only fractions I would be doing would include calculating my dog’s good behaviour, I would have skipped class a lot more.

But yes, things are hectic. I’m still not getting the sleep I need, but – to quote my friend after my Tar Heels beat silly Illini – this is the best week ever. I agree. After all, I’ll soon be calling THIS home.

In relationships, there’s always the initial stages where you’re learning about each other. You learn that he hates sushi or has a huge obsession with fantasy football. It’s that warming-up period where you learn how your quirks and his fit together, learn which “battles” to fight and which to let slide, learn to make it all work.

And then one day, it does. You know that he plays poker with the boys every Wednesday and shouldn’t disturb him during that time, know to expect him to come over on Sundays to mooch off your HBO subscription. You’ve left that precarious period at the beginning of the relationship where you’re worried that if he really found out that you organize your clothing by color and style (sad, but true) he’d declare you too anal and dump you on the spot in some juvenile asshole way like via email and entered into the honeymoon phase, where all is good and fine and he finds your type-A-ness adorable.

And then, when it ends (which it likely will, unless you found that gem who makes the honeymoon stage last forever), it’s not the schedules that you’ll miss, it’s the meaningless, mundane acts of nothingness that will suddenly reiterate the new-found void in your life. It’s not the restaurant that you two were so fond of; rather, the fact that you once drove his car home from that restaurant. It’s the comfortability that comes from time, the easy casualness of it all, the fact that you can sit in his car and know where he keeps his cell phone or the fact that his work badge is kept in the glove compartment. It’s the feelings of mutuality, the un-difficulty of it all, that makes you miss not necessarily him, but the feeling that you had when you were with him.

I always expected to miss the person, to miss their traits, their kindness or even their uniqueness, but I never thought that I’d miss a beat up old car and the way that the seats would recline just so.

That’s life – you never get what you expect, and never lose what you expect either.

I’m long overdue for an update on my darling Lila Belle, and I apologize for it taking so long – you see, I’ve been a bit preoccupied. And so we begin…

Lila is a very, very smart dog. She knows the difference between her doting Mom sitting on the couch and playing with her and her toys as opposed to her Mom sitting on the floor and playing with her. She prefers the latter. The former evokes a Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation to cute, docile, pleasantly-chewing-on-her-proper-toy into crazed mini-wolf with teeth of small razors.

The efforts with housetraining are going swimmingly as well. While Lila is very astute to her inner digestive & excretory systems, so much that she knows to start whining at 2am, 4am, 6am, and 7am (while in her crate) so that I will wake up and let her out, she also takes much glee from taking two bites of food, one sip of water and performing her second-best trick; namely, peeing on the floor. She really is quite talented.

Another recently-developed trick by my brilliant puppy is her ability to bark. If there was a MENSA for barking dogs, my little Lila Belle would be elected president straight-off. She has learned not only to bark at the chair, the couch, the fireplace, the bookcase, but now also her toys! The cats! Her uncle Mike! And ME! She has perfected the ‘run-lunge-bark’ trick commonly performed only by older dogs. Lila is an overachiever – she’s gifted in the ways of the bark.

We mentioned toys – as to be expected, my sweet puppy is somewhat spoiled. (Not a shock to any of you, I’m sure.) Not only does she play with her toys, specially designed to help her during this “teething” period that I commonly refer to as “painful, dangerous puppy hell”, but she has taken advantage of the multitude of cat toys that were long ago abandoned by my darling felines who prefer to play with items like milk caps, beer boxes and luggage. (They, too, are creative.) Apparently not afraid to buck stereotypes, Lila has enjoyed a pink dangling feather and green sparkly mouse to the extent that her, ahem, excrement often sparkles. Nobody doubted my dog would be effervescent, just not that much.

Thankfully, the weather has been nice, so we’ve been able to traverse to the nearby parks to exert some of this fantastic puppy-energy outside instead of the preferred method; i.e., chasing the cats and running around the coffee table until she slips and slides on the hardwood floors head-first into the entertainment center. (Undaunted, she does it again and again, despite the sure-to-be-growing knots on her head.) The park involves Lila overestimating her size and ferociousness…she has a predilection for barking at dogs a wee bit bigger than she is, such as a Great Dane or a Mastiff. She is also very proficient in the chewing of grass, leaves, and sticks. And digging – this puppy can dig a hole in anything (including our park blanket. A new one is on the shopping list.)

Lila’s best trick, however, involves biting. While I don’t think she INTENDS to go for my fleshy little hand (or arm, or tow, or leg, or ankle, or – a new one from today – my boob), she does it with such gusto that I’m starting to wonder if she’s part-Vampire. The scratches and bite marks on my body likely make others think I’m an avid fan of ‘cutting’. Nothing like a puppy to make you look like a disturbed, self-masochistic girl from super-crazy-land.

And yet I rush home after work, anxious to hear what the dog walkers have reported (yes, I have them. Yes, they’re ridiculously expensive. Yes, I know how obnoxious that sounds, but I work really, really far away and gas would probably cost the same. No heckling.) and ready to receive the tail-wagging face-kisses that can only be given by a sweet, darling, VERY talented dog. I mean, really – despite the sleepless nights, despite the barking, despite the peeing and pooping and biting and craziness that comes with owning a new puppy, it’s worth it. After all – how can you resist this face?

A writer is always looking for the magic. The words that describe exactly what we’re trying to say, and too often, we end up spending so much type obsessing over the syntax or stringing together the sentences as an attempt to be profound that we lose sight of what we’re trying to express at all. Sometimes it’s best to just put it out there, bluntly, without the excessive flourish that so commonly distracts us from our goal – to let you, to let the world, know what we’re trying to say.

And then you hear it – a song on the radio or on iTunes or even on a television show, a song whose lyrics take the jumbled words right out of your heart and string them together in a way you had been trying to for days. It happens unexpectedly, you may have just put in an unlabeled mix CD that you made a few months back, and while the song previously didn’t mean anything to you, at this very moment, it’s perfect. It’s what you’ve been trying to say, but didn’t really know how to. It’s what I’ve been trying to say.

Two weeks away it feels like the world should’ve changed
But I’m home now
And things still look the same
I think I’ll leave it till tomorrow to unpack
Try to forget for one more night
That I’m back in my flat on the road
Where the cars never stop going through the night
To real life where I can’t watch sunset
I don’t have time
I don’t have time

I’ve still got sand in my shoes
And I can’t shake the thought of you
I should get on, forget you
Why, why would I want to
I know we said goodbye
Anything else would’ve been confused but I wanna see you again

Tomorrow’s back to work and down to sanity
should run a bath and then clear up the mess I made before I left here
Try to remind myself that I was happy here
Before I knew that I could get on the plane and fly away
From the road where the cars never stop going through the night
To a life where I can watch the sunset
And take my time,
Take all our time

I’ve still got sand in my shoes
And I can’t shake the thought of you
I should get on, forget you
Why, why would I want to
I know we said goodbye
Anything else would’ve been confused but I wanna see you again

I wanna see you again
Two weeks away, all it takes to change in time around by falling
I walked away and never said that I wanted to see again

I’ve still got sand in my shoes
And I can’t shake the thought of you
I should get on, forget you
Why, why would I want to
I know we said goodbye
Anything else would’ve been confused but I wanna see you again

I wanna see you again
I wanna see you again

As is often the case, Sarah Hatter has hit it on the head. NAILED it, in fact. Bravo, my friend, for so clearly illustrating the inherent differences between men & women. I wish I had written it myself.

The other article that I wish I had written, however, is THIS ONE. Seriously, seriously accurate, I can attest to just about every single one of those points. (Except for maybe #13 – I’m usually on time; and #10…hate to say it, but my closet actually reveals more about my Type-A organizational behaviour. But all the other ones – oh yeah.)

I’d probably also add:
#31: Before we go on our first date, I’ve already figured out what my new initials would be should we get married.
#32: I’ll always think I’m five pounds overweight, even at my skinniest.
#33: I’m scared I already like you too much.

It’s crazy – people always advise you to be yourself, but they really mean to be yourself, the #33 secrets notwithstanding. Because we all know that the first thing that sends a guy – any guy – heading to the hills is not feeling like you’re a challenge. It’s a hard-wired evolutionary behaviour that isn’t going anywhere soon, and so while we agree that playing hard to get is, well, hard, we also know that it works.

So, in case you already think I like you too much, are afraid that it’s a given, or any other reason that might prevent you from pursuing me the way I want you to, let’s set the record straight. I’m not going to come easy, but I promise you, I’m worth it.