Friendships, like relationships, go through different phases. Sometimes you’re the best of buddies; other times, you’re lucky to get in a call even once a month. People come in and out of our lives at different times, and while it’s unfortunate that we can’t keep the same friends forever, it’s also not realistic. I’ve discussed this before in one of my posts and despite the fact that I was able to successfully sever ties with this person, I found it’s not that easy. Like that Krispy Kreme you couldn’t resist or the Jello shots from the previous night, friendships past inevitably come back to haunt you.

I suppose it’s the same way with relationships, but I can’t really say since I’ve rarely had the situation where you still find yourself having to hang out with your ex. You can draw pretty clear lines when you break up – the return of the t-shirts, DVDs and the separation of friends goes a long way, and eventually it gets easier. Yet with a friend that you’ve broken up with, those lines aren’t so clear.

As I’ve said, friendships come and go. My breaking point is trust – when I find that I can no longer trust a friend, I try and avoid interactions as much as possible. It’s a shame, really – I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, often more than I should. Yet there comes a time when Occam’s Razor must take effect; i.e., the simplest explanation is the one most likely to be correct, and after hearing a dozen or so “likely stories”, it just gets old. REAL old.

Still, it’s not that simple. You were friends at one time, and though you chose to end it, there is often a feeling of guilt associated with it, especially if you don’t come right out and say the reasons why you’re “breaking up” with said friend. As in relationships, there’s two ways out: the coward’s way, which is just the non-returning of phone calls, eventually drifting apart without explicitly stating a reason, and the harder, yet more valiant method, having a heart-to-heart and telling the other person what’s on their mind. And though I frequently chastise an ex for pulling the coward’s way on me, I am loathe to admit that I’ve done the very same thing when it comes to breaking up with a friend.

And so we find ourselves in one uncomfortable situation after the next, wondering who was right and who was wrong, feelings hurt and someone always feeling like they were justified in their actions. Apparently, NOT all’s fair in love and war, especially when it comes to friendships.

Maintaining a weblog and maintaining some semblance of balance in one’s life is a delicate equation. When you’re working, you’re constantly thinking of topics upon which to write. I can be touting the wonderfulness of Home Depot’s tools and realize that I should post on how many tools there are in Atlanta, in the non-hardware variety, that is. I’ll be driving to work and cut off by some smoking hoochie in her black BMW and I think that I should broach the subject of smoking in society and whether or not it really is a deal breaker in relationships. I can race home to beat my darling roommate so that I can get the garage on a cold evening and I ponder writing about the time I announced that it was “Cat Treats for Dinner” night because I refused to move my car out of the garage and go get them new food. Basically, every intracacy, anomaly, and seemingly normal behavior, occurance or incident is fodder for my fire.

As such, I find myself posting on more regular intervals than I did in the past. While they may not be nearly as witty, have endings that wrap up the anecdotes in a nice, neat, Aubrey-approved package, or invoke the writing genius that I try and channel when creating an entry of importance, at least they come, and come frequently, at that. I used to send out an email to a group of friends (read: practically everyone I knew, including – by mistake, once or twice – jerkface ex-boyfriends) alerting them to any updates on my site. They (ok, most of them) had expressed that they never knew when I wrote new posts, and that they’d love (ok, wouldn’t mind) getting a short email indicating as such. As any good friend would, I acquiesced.

Yet as days got longer, my free time began to dwindle and these posts became written earlier in the mornings and after work (yet ‘scheduled’ to post mid-day when most people checked the site), I found myself with little time for these alert emails, possibly leaving MANY of my devoted fans (ha) without any indication of updates. The tragedy! The horror! The disaster this could cause – what would they DO without this oh-so important notice!?

I searched high and low for solutions, inquiring with the kind folks at TypePad about the creation of this feature, and until now, with little success. Yet behold, the power of the internet and smart people that know Biz Stone, Genius, I have long last found a solution.

It’s called “Bloglet” and it allows you – the interested reader – to simply input your email address over there on the right (You see it? Look to the right. Scroll down a bit if you have to. There’s an empty text box. See?) and voila! Upon my new entry, a nice little email will arrive in your inbox alerting you to the changes, complete with a short synopsis of the post. Glory, Glory Hallelujah.

See? Despite a gray, nasty, rainy day here in (the antithesis of Hot)Lanta, the World (Wide Web) is a wonderful place.

You either love it or hate it, look forward to it or dread its arrival. Not the new season of “The Bachelorette” (though I suppose some could argue that this gamut of emotions also holds true for that occurrance), but Valentine’s Day.

Very few holidays – I’d go so far as to say no OTHER holiday – comes complete with the varied spectrum of emotions as does February 14th. We don’t have people wearing black on Christmas or Easter as a way to mourn the arrival of this holiday, yet one could argue that those days are religious in nature, as opposed to Hallmark-inspired. Yet I believe its the very core of the day that wields the dichotomy of emotions, as traditionally this is a day for lovers. As such, some of us who are presently Lovah-free (as I am) find this day to be a bit melancholy. At least, I normally do.

For some reason, I look to Saturday with unusual apathy. While in years past I’ve taken one of two routes – either complete denial or complete sadness (both entailing consuming copious amounts of alcohol) – this year I’m quite unfazed by its arrival. Could I be growing up? Am I accepting that this day is like all others, just with more people being shmoopy, gushy and (admit it) more annoyingly lovey-dovey than usual? Or have I realized that Valentine’s Day should be no different whether you’re single or attached?

I’d say the latter. Though I do love to buy and send Valentines (especially the homemade variety with doilies, glitter and red markers), I don’t really expect much in return. I’ll admit that I’ve bought a little trinket for a friend or roommate or family member in the past (or present – can’t ruin any surprises, you know) yet am not stalking my mailbox for sentiments of affection in return. In fact, I believe the net total of gifts/cards/presents received in the past five years includes flowers from my Dad, flowers from my Mom (yeah yeah, I’m an only child), a drawing of flowers from a guy/quasi-ex, a mix CD from aforementioned guy/quasi-ex, funny cards from friends, but no 1) romantic flowers 2) sappy love letters (which, actually, I don’t think I’ve ever received said sappy love letter. Ever. That’s pretty sad, come to think of it. But I digress…) or 3) lingerie. (Though am happy to provide suggestions…) Still, with the exception of sappy love letters (c’mon, every girl wants at least ONE in her lifetime), I don’t feel like I’m missing out on too much. After all, Valentine’s Day isn’t just a day for lovers, it’s a day to recognize people that you love, friends & family included.

Valentine’s Day speaks to commitment, a commitment that I’m surprised I’m not yet ready to make. There’s something to be said for long-term relationships, but there’s something to be said for harmless flirtation, be it with a neighbor, a new crush or even a far-away friend. Flirtation is innocent as long as you keep it that way, and subtle inuendos are oft-times the impetus for a flip-flopping nervous tummy like no other. Flirtation is fun, and sometimes I’ll happily trade the lazy Sundays in bed for an email chock-full o’ sexual tension.

So as we’re infiltrated with red hearts, cupids, roses and an influx of Victoria’s Secret ads, remember that though this holiday has many interpretations on its origin, I’ll be spending it with good friends, a bottle of red and some no-stakes email banter.

That is, unless I get a better offer…

Sarah Hatter believes that “Single is the new Married.” In fact, a forthcoming article penned by this much-adored blogger pontificates this hypothesis in much more detail than I can muster, so you’ll just have to wait and read it. Still, I am apt to agree with her, possibly because a) I am single and b) I like the concept that single is now being accepted into society the way that being married always has. However, not everyone shares this view.

Neil Steinberg of the Chicago Sun-Times believes the opposite – that married is normal and anyone who finds themselves single over age 30 is not. This has enraged fellow bloggers enough to write various posts on their site condemning Mr. Steinberg for his idiocy. As such, I’ll let their sentiments (as well as my roommate’s, who is not only one of the funniest humans I’ve ever met but has a way with words that is enviable by even me:

“this guy is obviously an idiot. While he makes valid points that most would not argue, he is also assuming (based on a prior article, I believe), that all/most single people are happy. Dude, I’m the poster child for clinical depression. F him. I hope his wife is blowing some younger guy as we speak. The reason he’s so pro marriage is because he looks like a tool who couldn’t get any when he was single, so he latched on to some fat chic named Heather who has bangs….here’s a pic of the dude: He looks like he’s tons of fun in the sack….)

represent my own thoughts. I’d love to hear yours.

In the meantime, I’ll be trying to think of something amusing/interesting/thought-provoking to write. I trust you’ll be able to amuse yourself in my absence.

UPDATE! I thought of something interesting to say – thanks to helen jane. (You can all now take a collective sigh of relief.)

As of today, 2:14PM EST, I have visited the following states in red.

create your own visited states map
or write about it on the open travel guide

And the following countries.

create your own visited country map

Looks like a road trip should be in my future. (Or perhaps a weekend of debauchery in Cancun.) Who’s with me?

As the day continues, and the grayness descends on Atlanta, I finally have time to breathe. Not in the ‘Waiting to Exhale’ sort of way, mind you, when the protagonist is all stressed out about her man-life, but more in the “I’ve been gone for 11 days, have 2987 people to write back, 297 bills to pay, one big fat messy house to clean and one horrifically messy desk to find my work in the midst of.” After all, you have to HAVE a man-life to stress about it, I suppose. (Though I’ve been inclined to stress about the lack of men in my life, but for today’s purposes, let’s just go with the aforementioned assumption.) While I’m a fabulous multi-tasker, a world-famous fidgeter and a Royal Member of the Type-A Association of the Universe, it’s times like these that send me straight to the crazy bin. (Figuratively, of course. I believe that despite my over-taxed nature, I’m still on the right side of the sanity line. Or at least I hope.)

Anyhoo, I’ve found myself checking off many an item on my to-do list. I’ll spare you from the details, but think of all of those horrifically mundane tasks that you need to do – such as calling a Doctor’s office who has failed to process your insurance correctly and then having to call your insurance to tell them it’s their fault and then calling BACK the Doctor’s office who demands that you pay them the $700 that you/your insurance company owes them for an unfortunate tambourine-playing fracture of the arm – and multiply it by twenty. Basically, I need an assistant. I think it’s time Aubrey got an Intern.

Between my work (can you say LOOOOONNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGG hours?) and my life (can you say taxes? Bills? Cat hair? Grocery store? Gas for the car? Gallivanting around town being the superstar that I am?) I am having a hard time managing it all. I’m continually pulled in 20 different directions, and as a result, everything gets about 1/20th of the time I’d like to be able to allot to it. Both of my parents are on the “Why don’t you ever call me?” bandwagon (note: I assure you that I talk to my parents more than you talk to yours even WHEN I’m lax in calling them. After all, my Mom calls no less than three times a day!), I haven’t written a letter in what seems like eons, and my house? Let’s just say that I think I’m going to hire a cleaning lady with my bonus. (Is “cleaning lady” politically correct? Should we be using “Abode Sanitizing Specialist of Either Gender” as an alternative?) So please, my friends, forgive me my trespasses, I’m a busy, busy girl.

That’s where the Intern would step in. S/He would delight in all of these little life management tasks – the scooping of the litterbox not so much, but hell, every job has its downsides. S/He could even drive my Saab-alamobile when it isn’t in the shop and when I’m not driving a 2004 Jeep Grand Cherokee whose sound system is making me wonder if Chrysler isn’t getting a BIT better in its automobile manufacturing. While S/He is at it, they could also get gas on my Exxon card – I’d pay, of course. S/He could watch all of the Netflix movies I have sitting around and report back a synopsis. S/He could present me with my daily schedule – lunch with Val, Dinner date with [insert whoever I have a date with on said night] here, Grocery shopping on Thursday – no, scratch that, S/He could also go Grocery Shopping. (Then again, she would have to go with my darling roommate who, despite being oh-so delectably darling, is a very VERY fast grocery shopper. Though he WILL hold girlie products of the Playtex variety AND carries the 20 lb. box of cat litter while I trail behind him like a happy puppy.) Ok, scratch scratching that. I kinda like my Grocery outings.

I should place an online application! Calling all organized, kind, hot (if you’re a male – if you’re a gal, well, you can’t be hotter than me. I do have an ego to protect) recent grads – one-of-a-kind internship comin’ your way. Want to have a first-hand look at what goes into being the fabulous, the (not-so) famous Aubrey Sabala? Want to learn how to make the perfect cocktail, grow your organizational skills, and add a great first job to your resume? Come on – the job market is tight. You know it, I know it. What I’m offering is a letter of recommendation from a writer (oh, how I can embellish!) vouching that you, my future intern, are the bee’s knees. (I’ll even say just that. “[Insert your name here] is just the bee’s knees. I can’t remember getting by without [him/her]. You should hire them. And while you’re at it, wanna date me?” ) It’s a win-win. You get to be my lackey intern, get a fabulous letter of reference from a world-renowned writer (ahem, embellishment. See?) and I get my life to go back to normal. Must not be allergic to cats, boys that eat eight times a day, or nail polish – I really like nail polish, you know. Bonus points to hot young males with scruffy beards and curly hair. (Think Tad from “Friends.”) All ages (21-28), sexes (sorry, hermaphrodites, you kinda skeeve me out) and nationalities (ooh, if you were British or Australian, that would just be TOO much! Tasty!) will be considered. We here at Aubrey Sabala, Inc. are an equal opportunity employer, after all.

Any takers?

In business, there are certain standards of decorum. Casual fridays, skirts longer than the knees, general rules of dress that are held as a defacto standard across industries. Yes, some (like my fabulous company) allow you to be a little more lax at times, with jeans (the overpriced ones, especially) running prevalent amongst our offices, but for the most part, you dress differently at work than you do when going out. Yet lately, I’ve noticed a trend and I have to admit, I like it.

It’s the dress shirt sans undershirt look, and all I can say is “yumm.”

I don’t know what it is lately about scruffy beards & chest hair that causes my little Ohio-bred heart to go pitter-pat, but it’s a definite phenomenon. Whereas I cannot STAND the look of a goatee (I somehow feel that those little hairs on your chin, when not accompanied by the hunktastic beard, lower your IQ exponentially), I find a beard to be a sexy addition to any face. Am I turning into Dooce with her delight for her scrumptious bearded husband? Is it a throwback to the days of Neanderthals dragging us womenfolk by our hair into the cave as they strut their overly-follicled selves towards their feast of raw meat and grub? Or is it more subtle than that, a passing fad that allows men to be manly and gals to swoon?

Whatever it is, I hope it stays.

I wonder if this is normal. You see male models with smooth, oiled and ridiculously toned chests leaning sexily against a rock in too-short shirts, attempting to turn on the masses yet succeeding only in the middle-aged romance-novel-reading sect. Girls go through torturous procedures to rid themselves of unsightly hair, and recently I told a friend that back hair on a potential suitor would, in fact, be a deal breaker. If our society is so hair-aversive, then why do I find that little tuft of hair sticking out of your Brooks Brothers button-down so intoxicating?

Perhaps it’s the winter. We have a biological tendency to nest when the temperatures drop, with studies showing that in true mammal form many of us add a few pounds to prepare for the winter. Maybe the sight of chest hair on an already-attractive male is related to our quest for warmth, sending us over the abyss into full-fledged gushing.

Because for whatever reason, I’m swooning.

Getting back into the swing of things always takes longer than you hope or intend. While we anxiously await anything that could disguise itself as a vacation, like payback, returning to your daily grind is a bitch. A big fat skanky one at that.

As many of you astute readers have realized, I’ve been on a mini-hiatus. A work-supplied, mini-vacation inspired hiatus, that is, that has left me a tired, tired gal. Be it the jet lag, the copious amounts of alcohol or the partying like it was 1995 (my freshman year in college), I wore this tired ol’ body out with vim, vigor and gusto. And now I’m paying for it.

Apparently, I’m not the only one who now has PVS – Post-Vacation Syndrome. We fall asleep sitting up. We look at the pile of bills and start to shake. Our kitchens are disaster zones of rancid nastiness (caused by the non-vacation of my darling roommate and his darling yet protein-shake obsessed friend) and the living room? Let’s not go there. We have piles upon piles of laundry to do, a result not only of 10 days of travel but also of a very confused houseguest who apparently finds “Aubrey’s Clean Laundry Hamper” synonymous with “Aubrey’s Toilet.” Let’s just say the result was less than lovely.

Regardless, I made it. And despite the sore throat, I’ve found my way back into the office, back into the land o’ aubrey, back into my old patterns, old habits. Not that these patterns or habits are bad, mind you, just very Aubrey-licious. So stroll with me, chat with me, let me take you into the Wonderful World of Moi.

On any given day, I get up at least 15 minutes later than I should. Now, if this was 6:30 vs. 6:15, that would be forgiveable. Yet when you have to be at work at 9, have a 25 minute commute and get up at 8:20 – well, let’s say that makeup and dry hair are often rarities at my office.

On any given day, I try and eat breakfast. And by ‘try’, I mean I think about how hungry I am, think about the fact that I KNOW I should be eating breakfast (all of those statistics and crap) but really just don’t have the energy to do so. Perhaps it’s because I’m sitting in my office looking like a pre-makeover victim who really, really wishes she was back in her bed.

On any given day, I do 29 things at once. While follow-through in most situations isn’t a problem for me, my job (and, let’s be honest here, my life) pull me in what seems to be a bazillion different directions. I have half-written emails stacking up next to half-checked excel sheets next to the Janet Jackson Bouncing-Breast video next to my Itunes logo next to an Ebay listing for an Ipod (I want one. NOW.) half covered on my screen by the three post-it notes reminding me that I REALLY need to figure out a way to get Atom feeds on my site as well as buy ingredients to make myself and my darling roommate a cake. (I’m craving chocolate. Go figure.)

On any given day, my page-a-day Crossword Puzzle calendar is at least 5 days off. What, you mean today isn’t January 21st? Also, I’ve never completed, nor started, even one of these crosswords. There goes THAT idea to keep my mind nimble in my old(ish) age.

On any given day, I have on a pair of jeans, socks, t-shirt, sweater, fleece, fleece blanket and Google hat. You’d think I worked in an Igloo.

On any given day, I tell someone that I have a crazy crush on [insert name of one of my crazy crushes here]. Do we grow out of boy-craziness, or is it replaced by man-craziness?

On any given day, I try and take my vitamins. On any given day, I fail.

On any given day, I say I really AM going to leave work before 6pm. On any given day, I fail at this as well.

On any given day, I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

On any given day, I hope that my hair doesn’t ever look this dissheveled again.

OH.
MY.
DEAR.
LORD.

Not yet hearing the message I reportedly left my darling roommate last Wednesday night, I can only wonder if it as incoherent as my last post.

My last post, I must add, that I have NO MEMORY writing.

Zip. Zero. Zilch.

Imagine my shock & horror (and, I must admit, somewhat delighted surprise in my unbelievably accurate spelling) when I just now, at 3pm on Sunday, checked my website and saw that there was a new post. “Who broke into my computer and sabotaged my site?” I wondered. Then I read it, and realized I’ve reached an all-time new low. Not only have I now started a disturbing trend of drunk-blogging, mind you, but apparently I have now been drunk-blogging with blackout. A frightening phenomena, if I do say so.

Think of the implications! I could have broken all of my self-imposed blogging rules, leaving a post naming each and every one of my current crushes among other travesties. I could have elaborated! I could have given details! Aghast, I am.

And now, after 11 days, two sunburns, 70+ drinks, 3 unidentified bruises, 4 states, one episode of “The Bachelor” being taped at my hotel, approximately 29,313,398 calories, 12 ski runs, and insurmountable amounts of laundry, I have returned to Atlanta, a bit travel-weary and wondering what I own that is clean and is NOT a pair of pj pants that I can wear to the Superbowl Party in a few hours. I return with a rested mind, two overdrafted bank accounts, a massive expense report to file, and some pictures that will never be aired on this, or any, website. Despite all the fun, all the stories, all I can say is that sometimes the best place to be is at home – especially when a boy makes you breakfast.

This is one of those moments that I know I should not post.

It takes all I can do to write a cohesive sentence.

And yet…

And yet…

And yet…

…I end up at my work party, who I think somehow is trying to make me into a less than par human.

I shant go into more. Suffice it to say the following:

1. The boy I thought was darling was 22.

2. He was at least 20 years younger than the last time I thought a co-worker was eligible for the “Aubrey Crush Project.”

3. I found myself…well., it’s none of your business.

4. Despite it all, I’m sleeping alone.

Must pack,
xoxoxoxoox,
aubs

ps: I’m sorry that this post sucks. I have zero brain cells and a lot of luggage. In the meantime, how ’bout you wonder why my crush picked the slutty hooker over me?

In lieu of something amusing, witty, introspective or even degrading about any one of my ex’s, I shall leave you with one thought:

My roommate is the most kick-ass Ms. Pac-Man player you’ve ever seen. Girls, why aren’t you knocking down our door and offering yourselves to engage in a tawdry affair with him?