So it’s Day Six of Project: Crazy Puppy and so far, so good. (If by that I mean “so far, no sleep, waking up every two hours, and becoming very, very close to the bodily functions and cycles of a 6 1/2 week old puppy.” I suppose that equals good, right?) I’d heard it was like having a baby, and without all the pushing, recovery, and weight gain, I’d say it’s an accurate comparison. Oh yeah, and without getting knocked up. But I digress.

Miss Lila Belle was officially welcomed home last Friday, a scared, quiet little thing who wasn’t overly good at walking, didn’t whimper, and certainly didn’t bark. She was perfectly content laying on my lap and sleeping…even food wasn’t that much of interest, and had to be wet since her teeth weren’t yet all in.

How things have changed.

In just six days, Lila has embraced the excitement of running! Of trying to jump! Of eating not only her food, but mulch! Business cards! Wires! My toes! She’s a master of the dog-language known as ‘whining’ (especially in the wee hours of the morning) and yesterday, discovered that she can bark. So, today, she has barked at every object imaginable, including all 22 lbs. of a very confused Sullivan and the fireplace screen. She gets these ridiculous spurts of energy, running around, tail wagging so fast you can barely see it, yelping and barking and generally amusing herself to no end with whatever she can find, and then – just as soon as it starts, it’s over. She’s exhausted herself and curls up into the cutest ball of darling fur, silent and pressed up against some part of my body to show me that she’s still there, even while asleep. It warms my heart (and, as I’m writing this, currently my left thigh.)

I’ve had a dog before, but I was young and had very little to do with the training. Now, I’m like a worried parent, reading everything I can on house training and crate training and researching dog walkers (the hour round-trip home from work every day is wreaking havoc on my mileage, not to mention the skyrocketing expense of gasoline.) I have a few friends who just recently also adopted a puppy, so they’re my lifeline. We even had a puppy play date on Sunday. It’s safe to say that this cat person has now become a equal opportunity cat and dog person.

Welcome to Le Menagerie Sabala, Lila Belle. I’m so glad you’re here to stay.

So yes, I’m back. I’m still in the throws of jet lag, which somewhat surprises me since I had little-to-no problems with it once I got to Sydney. I suppose I should get used to walking around like a zombie since Miss Lila (Middle Name) will likely be keeping me awake for some time to come. I figure it’s good practice for children.

But yes. Here I am. And though so many fun things are happening here (the house will sell, it really, really will) and so many new additions are coming (Miss Lila, I can’t wait) and so many things are still good (yay job! yay new house! yay st. patty’s fest!) I still feel like Atlanta has lost its lustre. It’s as if, after being gone just two weeks, coming home was a letdown.

I suppose it was to be expected – any time you head off to the wild blue yonder in all its fantasticness, the novelty of the situation makes the status quo seem less than desirable. It was like this the first time I visited Atlanta.

Five years ago almost to the month, I came down to visit my friends Brandy & Allison. At that time, I was in my post-grad school funk, sick of DC, sick of walking everywhere, sick of the cold weather and the same people and the same job and basically being in the first of a few of my quarterlife crises. So, when I came down to the Dirty South (ha, that term still cracks me up), I found it to be refreshing. New! Novel! Much like its native beverage, Coca-Cola, Atlanta offered me the effervescentness that a tired, old, boring DC didn’t. In comparison, DC was a two-day old flat Pepsi.

So I came back, energetic, and applied for three jobs that Sunday evening. Being that we were still in the midst of the dot.com boom, I had three new emails waiting for me Monday morning – all three companies were requesting an interview. In just three months, I had quit my DC job, moved my stuff, found an apartment, a roommate (though I didn’t know how crazy psycho he would be), a job and was here to stay. Oh Atlanta, I was home.

Fast forward until today. I’m in no hurry to move – in fact, the commitment to buy a new home here is one attempt to quell my insatiable impetuous nature. Before I started at Google, I looked for jobs in various places – Chicago, New York, Minneapolis, even Cleveland! Nothing was holding me here, nothing was taking me away. But then my house, Google, and a few other things came around (not the least of which were significant others who I thought would last longer than they did, optimistic as ever) and I stayed. And stayed. And here I am, four apartments, one owned house and one newly-contracted house later, still in Atlanta. So of course something different seems new & better – the grass is always greener, or so they say.

So, like I said, here I am. Things are good – status quo. And yet the goofy smile and darling accent of one Australian reminds me how far away I am from a place where I would love to live. The normalcy of the city – the unseasonably cold temps, the day-to-day work tasks, the routine I’m so accustomed to – only reminds me that I’m so far away from someone who the very thought of makes me fall asleep smiling.

Hello. My name is Lila. I’m just 5 weeks old, and already the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. I can’t wait to join “Le Menagerie Sabala”, a lovely house with three unruly cats, one poker-obsessed uncle and a very, very excited Mom, Aubrey.

My Mom needs your help – while I have a fantastic first name (fitting, right?) I’m still without a middle name. And as any self-respecting lady knows, I can’t very well enter society without a middle name. My Mom says you can help – send her middle name suggestions or leave them in a comment, because I’m coming home in less than a week and need to have a great name by then.

Thanks everyone – can’t wait to meet you.

Perhaps it’s a sign of something more, something unseen, something I don’t know about myself. I’d certainly hope not, the very thought seems not only unfortunate, but sad. Really sad. If I’m somehow behind this, doing something unknowingly to cause this – again and again – I only wish I knew what it was so I could change.

Not that I’m big on changing for the sake of change, or for others. I am who I am, and – for the most part – I’m pretty happy with it. But this, this keeps happening. People keep leaving, people I like and I lust and I could love, they keep leaving. Not just leaving, but leaving me. With no explanation.

Just one day, they were there; the next, they vanish. As if what came before didn’t really happen, that we weren’t really dating, that all those times we talked about the future – be it a trip in months to come or even a dinner one night next week – never happened.

It makes me think I’m crazy – how do people know if they’re crazy? What if I just made it all up in my head, altered my pictures of us together but blocked that out, and altered my journal to show that they were in my life when really it was just me, wishing and hoping and making myself believe it? Deep down, I know that’s not the case – I know it did happen, they did exist, we did exist – but it’s almost easier to think that perhaps I’m going crazy instead of the fact that these people who I once so highly respected, once had the ability to make me feel giddy and excited and all nervous in my stomach by something as little as an email, can value me, value us, so little that they can leave it without so much as an explanation. How could it mean something if they, again and again, leave?

Anytime you’re faced with a hard decision – and I’m not talking about Coors Light vs. Miller Lite here, these decisions are the life changing ones, the ‘should I stay or should I go’ type of decisions – there’s the easy way out and the right way. Very, very rarely the two are one and the same, and when faced with that choice, the only decision is to step up to the proverbial plate and do it the right way. Because, though you think you may be making it easier on everyone, (your excuse for really just making it easier on you and avoiding the harsh reality of life and emotion), what you’re really doing is making the other person wonder if they’re losing their mind, wonder if the relationship existed at all, wonder what was wrong with them that they didn’t even warrant a real goodbye.

Relationships aren’t easy. They bend you and stretch you and sometimes subtly break down who you are. Not all at once, of course, but little by little, your very self is being torn – just a small rip at first, just a little one here or there. But after a while, after a few relationships and a few broken hearts and a few hurts and a few tears, all of those little rips eventually break you.

Please. Remember that what to you seems like a small, meaningless rip could actually be the tear that rips someone else apart.

For the first time in months, I’ve just finished reading some of my favorite sites. I read Sarah. And Sarah. And HelenJane. And Dooce. And Josh. Just to name a few, because that’s all the time I had and that’s just HOW far behind I’ve been. Um, way behind.

Everyone always tells me how busy I am, and I only partially agree. I don’t think I do well being bored, not having a lot (or, as often is the case, too much) to do. Yesterday, in my afternoon “vacation” time (I’m working 5:30am – 1:30pm to coincide with the US hours) I wrote four (count ’em, FOUR!) of my freelancing articles. Boo-YA, Editor of mine. Today, I worked 13 hours, since I headed into the office this morning with Mindy, and she’s still on a call, and I’m still here. And yet, though I’ve got books next to me, here I am, still on the computer, still half-chugging away. I just gave myself a little break to catch up with some old blog friends via their posts.

I don’t really remember the time when I wasn’t busy. Not just in work, but in life too. When I had that job oh-so long ago which was oh-so boring and I had oh-so little to do (hi long breakfasts! hi three-hour lunch shopping sessions!) I still found a way to keep myself entertained, and a lot of it involved various blogs, especially the ones listed above. But now, two years into this great, not-boring, never-unbusy job with a great, fun freelancing job and a great, fun group of friends and in the midst of a great, fun vacation (can you say wineries! 20+ bottles? My soon-to-own wine fridge – already INSTALLED in my new counter – is soon-to-be full. Yum!) I was able to catch up. And that, my friends, is a great side effect of vacations, especially ones where most of your day doesn’t coincide with distractions or even anything taking you away from work.

Who knew you could be so productive when your IM is off!?!?!

It’s been a week now, and I feel like I’ve been on vacation for a month. We’ve had the perfect mix of active and lazy, work and play, meeting new people and catching up with old friends. It’s amazing what a little time away can do for the soul.

Last Friday, Google was nominated for an Australia-wide website award. They held the event at Luna Park, same place as the forthcoming MTV Music Awards here on Thursday. It was the perfect type of awards event – fast, fun, easy-going – minus the fact that they didn’t serve dinner. Which is where the story begins.

As often is the case, not eating enough while drinking sends the usually ebulliant Aubrey into Insanely Inebriated Aubrey™. Which – for those who’ve witnessed it firsthand – isn’t necessarily the best state for me to be in, though it does provide constant amusement for onlookers and friends alike. So, despite my lofty intentions to keep eating (the not at all “heavy” hors d’ourves included risotto balls served by a female server, and I believe my exact words were “Hey Ball Lady! I need to eat some more Balls!”), I’d estimate that I ate approximately 200 calories. Leaving my tummy very, very empty. Not a good starting point.

The other half of this devilish cocktail was what we were drinking – champagne. No, not a glass to toast with, not just a little to add some edge, but Champagne. The. Whole. Night. God Bless us all.

It started out just fine – just a glass or two…yum. Funny thing about those bubbles – you have a bit, you want a bit more. And so I did. And did. And did again. Next thing I know, the party is a ROARING success, I’m chatting with anyone and everyone, and – remarkably – my glass remains full. As it continues to all evening.

The party soon moved from the outside patio into the main venue when it got a bit chilly for my overly-red sunburn and flowy dress, and though the DJ was in full force, nobody was dancing. The pint glass full of champagne (they ran out of proper glasses) helped me take care of that REALLY quickly, showing those Ozzies a thing or two on how we do it in Atlanta. It probably would have been better if I wasn’t the only person dancing, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. I was starting a trend, after all. I was getting this party started.

I also got it ended – no, I didn’t get thrown out, nothing that tawdry. Just the end of the party is a bit hazy, but not the next day – not for one bit. We headed out to Hunter Valley, the wine country about two hours north of Sydney, and while the ride was fine, I would offer one bit of advice:

Don’t drink two bottles of champagne the night before if you expect to be able to attend wine tastings without the aid of no less than FOURTEEN antacids.

I only wish I was kidding.

I’m sitting on a couch overlooking the Sydney harbour – Manly beach is around the bend. I had planned on going there today. But now, I’m not so sure.

I’m sitting on this couch, crying.

I just got the news that Jack, the cat that I had been taking care of for the past two weeks, had to be euthanized yesterday afternoon. The whole time I had him, I did all I could to help him eat, be comfortable, and get better. He seemed to be doing well – this cat, despite his frailty and injuries, just enjoyed having someone pet him. He could spend all day just nuzzling with your hand – everyone who met him said the same thing – “He’s just looking for someone to love him.” Well, in his last days, he found just that.

It’s crazy how willing the heart is to be broken. I’ve only lost one real pet in my life – my dog, Pumpkin – who my parents had to put to sleep while I was in college. I remember being really sad, but somewhat removed. You see, unlike my Mom’s current dog, Bailey, Pumpkin was treated as just that – a dog. Whereas Bailey rules the roost and hasn’t ever realized he’s a canine, Pumpkin – whether good or bad – was the family dog. His loss was a little easier to take only because I kept him, to some extent, at arms’ distance.

But Jack…well, I had him just for two weeks, but in that time I found myself wanting to protect him, wanting to do all I could to make him gain weight and thrive and grow. I knew he was an older cat that had a hard life, but as each day passed and he became sweeter and sweeter, I started to envision him living out his remaining days with a fantastic foster family. He would have made a great pet for an older person needing companionship – he wasn’t only looking for someone to love him, but also someone to love.

In the end, that wasn’t meant to be. They had discovered a tumor behind his remaining eye, and it had started to affect him neurologically. Thankfully, he wasn’t in extreme pain, but the most humane and ethical thing to do would be to euthanize him. Since I was traveling, the humane organization that I’ve been working with, Furkids, sent two of their volunteers to be with him during his last hours. I only wish I could have been there – I so hope he wasn’t scared.

Jack, I’m so glad I was able to help you the past two weeks, and know you’re in a better place. Once I stop crying – which doesn’t seem to be any time soon – I’ll smile thinking of how better you’re feeling wherever you are.

But in the meantime, I’m sad. Just really, really sad. And I miss you.

There’s many indications of single-dom in society, and I’m not just talking about my dinner of ice cream and red wine alone on Valentine’s Day. I’m referring to the more subtle signs, the things that occur to you as a single person going through your daily routines. It’s cooking for one. It’s not having anyone to help you move, or at least nobody that is helping you because he knows he’ll get a NICE reward afterwards. It’s the “and guest?” syndrome where, knowing that you have weddings right around the corner, you again relegate yourself to be sharing a room with another one of your single girlfriends, ducking the bouquet, and standing by yourself in the corner when “all the couples who are in love” go out for their dance. I’m not broaching this to invite you to my own personal pity party, just was realizing it when I was at the airport last evening.

At the Atlanta airport, the arriving passengers go up an escalator and arrive on a landing full of waiting friends and family, often complete with signs, balloons or bouquets. Men and women, anxious to see their loved ones, tackle the maze of parking in order to show their loved one that they care. And I, arriving home to my animals, a lot of dust bunnies and a snoring roommate, walk by them all with a feeling of longing, wondering when someone will be waiting for me.

Pre 9-11, I went to the airport once to drop off and once to pick up my then boyfriend, waiting for him at the gate, excited about our reunion after he’d been away for a month and a half. It was only natural that I would drop him off and pick him up – I didn’t want to wait to see him when he returned. (Perhaps I should have reconsidered, since he dumped me a week later, but that’s another story for another time.) Anyway, these days, the last person I see when I leave is the cab driver and the first person I see when I arrive is someone else’s boyfriend, husband, son, daughter or wife.

And doing this last night, I came to the realization that this might be a new criteria in my love life, since I’ve dated people since Mr. European Dumpee five years ago, and only ONE of them has ever driven me to the airport. The rest? I’ve taken cabs. I’ve gotten friends to pick me up. I’ve even had a car service. But a boyfriend? Apparently seeing me as soon as I arrive or bidding me farewell in person just hasn’t been that important to them. Which makes me realize, perhaps they shouldn’t have been that important to me.

Just like the road to the airport, love is a two-way street, and I’m tired of spending it in a car by myself.