It’s the much-loved, oft-quoted movie that some believe defines the very core of male/female relationships.

Of course, I’m talking about “When Harry Met Sally.” Admit it, guys, you’ve seen it, despite its possible categorization of a “Chick Flick.” (Perhaps that’s just because you still fantasize about Meg Ryan circa 1989, but perhaps that’s only my roommate.) Anyway, throughout the movie, the characters debate on the nature of relationships.

Harry believes that “men and women can’t be friends because the sex part always gets in the way.” Sally disagrees, stating that she has “a number of men friends and there is no sex involved.” For Harry, it is black & white: “No man can be friends with a woman that he finds attractive. He always wants to have sex with her.”

As for me, I’m on the fence.

I’ve had a number of male friends over the years, most of which have been 100% platonic. True, there have been the friends-turned-romances in the past which came complete with high hopes for their success, since everyone SAYS you should start out as friends anyway, yet for one reason or another they didn’t live up to the hype. Yet besides this handful, I’ve successfully separated Friends & Relationships, not to mention Sex.

Still, something that Harry says also strikes a chord with me, because though I haven’t dated them, I find MANY of my guy friends attractive. Am I attracted TO them? Not always. But Attractive? Most of the time. Is this a girl vs. guy thing, or does the “Attracted to” vs. “Finding them Attractive” disparity mean more than a gender difference? Not to sound too Carrie-Bradshaw-esque (which yes, I DO get compared to on a regular basis), but this poses the question: Can Men & Women ever REALLY be ‘just friends’?

In my optimistic, rose-coloured glasses view of the world, I would like to say a resounding ‘yes.’ If I found out that my guy friends were only sticking around because somewhere in the back of the head they had some inane fantasy about knocking my boots, well, I’d lose not only respect for them, but some invaluable friendships in the midst of the fallout. I would like to think that we, as the mature adults that we’re at least pretending to be, can handle this ‘separation of church and state’ (in a sexual sense, of course). We’ve got our friends on the left, our love interests (potential or actual) on the left, and never the two shall meet.

Reality? I think not.

Too often, when we’re feeling a little bit down or low or are long-overdue for a boost of self-esteem that only a new crush can bring, we begin to look around and consider our options. ‘What about Joe?’ we say. “We’ve been friends forever. And his new beard is oh-so scruffy and delicious. Perhaps? Could we? Could it work?” This is when I wish the universe had a game-show style buzzer, nixing our irrational thoughts for all the world to hear (and to embarrass us enough to never think them again.) Because honey, 99.9% of the time, no. It will NOT work. Proceed straight to the mirror, tell yourself how fabulous you are single OR attached, and go treat yourself to a Hot Fudge Sundae (with cherry on top, to boot.)

As for guys, well, being a phallic-less gal o’ fantabulousness, I can’t speak for them. I can say, however, that it takes two to tango, or, in this case, NOT tango, as it may be. I’ve not been on the receiving end of many unwarranted advances by someone I would staunchly place in the “just friends” category, meaning either a) I’m not that cute (which I refuse to believe) b) guys can separate “girl friends” and “girlfriends” just as well as we can separate “guy friends” and “boyfriends” or c) they DO want us, but just have better self restraint.

So where do YOU lie? Is Harry’s theory a bunch of hooey, or is Sally a bit ignorant on the matter of relationships even if she CAN fake one hell of an orgasm? Or is it somewhere in between?

Please tell me your thoughts. For once, I’m befuddled.

I’ve lived with a boy before – not in the romantic way, mind you, but in the “we’re roommates so please stop assuming that we hook up every day” sort of way. He was a darling, darling boy who I adore more than most people in this world, who I adore so much that I continue to write his recommendations for one charitable worldly intellectual program to the next. My former boy-roommate is a doll, is smart as a whip and has the uncanny ability to make me feel like a sheltered, unschooled-in-worldly-affairs flit who spends more time drying their hair than thinking about things that really matter. And I love him for it.

That was in 1995.

The next boy that I lived with was (and probably still IS) a strange bird. Upon receiving my job offer to move to Atlanta, I had approximately 10 days to find a place to live, pack, move & start my life over in a new city. Thus I ended up moving into a condo with this 30-year old divorced paint-seller who seemed like a safe choice, (was even Mom-approved), who I believe is the reason for my extreme hatred for goatees & facial hair. (Minus the beard. I love me a scruffy bearded-one.) I lived with him for six months to the day, and received a one-sentence email telling me he’d like me to move out. He didn’t want to give me reasons, didn’t want to talk about it, which, in retrospect, just adds to his oddness and I had no problem leaving THAT situation. (Note that I’m sheltering you from the very disturbing parts of this random lad, but I suppose it’ll suffice to say that he frequently used the phrase “I’m gonna rock out with my cock out” when he was hitting the booming hooker-opolis of Buckhead. ICK.) Before I moved out, he gave me a list of grievances he had with me, including me inviting a friend over without asking his PERMISSION, eating his FOOD (which I can easily say I never once did) and not taking the trash out. (On that one, guilty as charged.) Weird, weird character. Good riddance.

That was in 2000.

Since then, I’ve lived alone, lived with girl roommates, and then lived alone again. I got used to being the master of my own domain (not in the Seinfeldian sense; more in the “this is my house, this is my castle, and I can leave dishes in the sink for a week if I want to” variety.) Yet this summer, after my freelancing became a less-frequent occurrence and after the purchase of my much-beloved Saab-alamobile, it became clear (after overdrafting my checking account a few times) that I was going to have to get a roommate.

I met this process with trepidation – I’d seen the good, seen the bad, and seen the nasty hairy ass of aforementioned grossholio roommate on one evening I returned to find him passed out naked on the couch. I LIKED living alone, liked my independence, liked my solitude. If I wanted to have friends over, I did. If I wanted to walk around naked, well, off went the clothes. And if I wanted to sit on my couch in my PJ’s all day, eating Jake’s Ice Cream and weeping over the episode of ER when Dr. Greene dies, rest assured I did just that. Yet the financial necessity was unmistakable, so I proceeded with the roommate-obtaining plan.

That was in August.

My current roommate, known to you all as “My Darling Roommate” (since he is, well, nothing less than darling) moved in on September 1st. Already a friend, I was excited to have him move in and hoped he’d be comfortable in an already-girlie-decorated place with three cats and their oft-wayward owner. Quiet by nature (though not at all shy), I wondered how our personalities were going to mix when living under the same roof.

The first few weeks he definitely kept to himself, spending the majority of his time in his room, only emerging to make one of the ten meals that he eats a day. (Note that I am not exaggerating in the least here – this boy can EAT.) As often is the case, I was traveling regularly, and saw him only sporadically. Yet he liked the cats, kept the place clean, and could crack me up like nobody else. This situation seemed to be working out better than even expected!

That was in September.

Since then, my Darling Roommate and I have become really good friends. We play scrabble, UNO, Trivia Pursuit and have recently crowned ourselves No-Limit Texas Hold-em Maestros. We’ve mastered the grocery store runs, he pushing the cart and getting his requisite $20 of eggs, cereal, brown rice, cheese, tuna & black beans so he can use his $5 off coupon while I troll the Morningstar Farms aisle and contemplate the shelf life of bagged salad. He grabs the flyer upon entering the store and allows me to put my purse in the baby-seat part of the cart without TOO much griping. The TV alternates between Football, Felicity Reruns & Celebrity Poker, and Saturday & Sunday mornings are spent in our pj’s discussing the evening prior and the day ahead. Sunday is for cooking.

Somehow, over the past few months, we’ve gotten into this routine which is both comfortable and wonderful. He takes out the trash (hurrah!) and listens patiently while I describe my oh-so random daily dreams, and I make kick-ass veggie lasagna and some to-die-for Twice Baked Potatoes. I know that he prefers cheap paper towels that are biodegradable over my much-adored Bounty. He knows that I will sell my soul for the grilled cheese at Heaping Bowl.

Living with someone requires give & take. I’ve found myself watching more football than ever before, and he’s flipped through an “In Style” or two, though will likely kill me for saying this. I love having someone else around, love being able to kick his ass in poker (don’t listen to anything he says – I’m a Card Shark) and love being able to make dishes for two. And while I live alongside one of my best friends, I’m not sure if I express to him enough how grateful I am to have him as my roommate.

So Thanks, Darling Roommate. You’re the best.

Still, you’re a HUGE jerk for not having to work today.

Driving home in traffic, I had an epiphany.

Prompted by U2, which, we all know is a fabulous musician-muse for anyone in need of inspiration, I found myself singing passionately to “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”

And you know what? I haven’t.

I’ve had shitty relationships that have topped YOUR shittiest relationships, fabulous relationships that were logistically challenged, and mediocre relationships that were, well, mediocre. Thus their termination. After bad, worse, good, better and so-so, I’m sans beau.

And right this very second, right this very moment, I couldn’t care less.

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This message brought to you by People who shouldn’t be Blogging while drunk.

As I mentioned last week, I’m getting ready to take this city – hell, this world – by storm. Aubrey is going to unleash her dating prowess on the unsuspecting masses, and I hope – no, I pray – that they can handle it. After all, I’m one heck of a girl.

Anyhoo, while the plans are in place and I’ve not yet announced my four-tiered plan (though I will, shortly – just be patient), I’m doing some, um, preliminary research. Like any activity, you have to get in shape to be at your prime when the money’s on the line. As such, I’m exercising my dating muscle.

Now, I’m a reasonable girl, and despite what people always say, I really am NOT too picky. It’s not a deal breaker if they don’t open the door for me, I like beards (though no goatees – ick) and receding hairline? Who cares. You don’t have to call me every day – actually, please don’t – and I’ll watch football with you anytime. Tall? Fine. Medium? Fine. As long as you’re at least 5’8″, I’m cool with it. Dark hair, light hair – c’mon, when it comes down to it, it really doesn’t matter. I’ve covered this before.

And yet, with my open mind and sparkling personality, I’m still pretty shocked when a date goes awry. As was the case last night.

I won’t go into details (to protect the privacy of the date-ee) but let’s just say I doubt it was a love connection. I had high hopes, but by the end of the evening, there was nary a hug nor a handshake as we said our goodbyes. And, in true Aubrey fashion, the ‘quirks’ of the date were by no means typical.

I think I should start a subsite on the perils of dating. Lest ye smug marrieds forget, I have anectdote after anectdote that will remind them that the singleton dating world is a cold, harsh one, where men tell girls that they should be a plus-sized model, when girls find out that they’re on a date with a gay anorexic who has a strange predilection for hot rod magazines, and when the date stands up, without warning, mid-conversation and leaves for the restroom. All of this on the next episode of Dates Gone Bad.

That said, I’m not overly discouraged by one not-so-great date. MANY more fish in the sea, MANY more dates to be had. After all, this is just PRACTICE. The Aubrey four-tiered plan is ahead, and in the meantime, I’d love to hear YOUR stories. What’s the wierdest/worst date you’ve been on?

When I first moved to the South over eight years ago, I began to pick up the vernacular. I learned what “pull the door to” means, what “cut it up” requests, and besides “y’all”, I learned a new greeting. “Hey.”

Going back in December for break, I was inundated with friends discussing my new-found ‘accent.’ While this didn’t necessarily go unnoticed myself, I was most surprised not by the references to “y’all,” but to “hey.”

As Sarah so astutely says in her entry, “Hey” can mean many, many different things. “Hey!” is different from “Hey.” which is by no means the same as “H…e…y.” No, this seemingly innocent word can mean one of many things, and to my friends, it meant that I had deserted them.

I always knew I would be going to school out of state; at least, I knew that I HOPED to go to school away from my home state of Ohio. Whether it was the weather on that day in April when I first visited the campus that hooked me or it was the three weeks of pure, adolescent revelry disguised as a summer academic program, something drew me to this fabulous school in the idyllic mecca of Chapel Hill, and no other university would measure up. (I’m glad to say that years later, with Georgetown under my belt and a frequent visitor of other beautiful schools such as UVA, this is still the case.) Very few people in my high school went out of state for college; it wasn’t that they couldn’t, mind you, but they just didn’t. There’s something comfortable about the town, something that many people return to after a stint in Chicago or Atlanta or New York, and though I understand it, I don’t think it’s for me. Yes, much to my Mother’s dismay, I don’t see myself ever living in Ohio again.

She would tell people to “teach me how to become a Southern Belle,” half in jest and yet half in seriousness. My Mom thought that the gentile nature of my roommates would somehow rub off on me, turning me from a often uncouth Ohioan into a “I’d never burp in front of you” tried and true Southerner. My roommates were more than happy to teach me their ways of the world, be it a big spritz of perfume before a date, the fact that I couldn’t wear my PJ’s and glasses when I received a late-night phone call from my crush to come over and “study,” or the constant reminder to wear lipstick. And for the most part, they’ve succeeded; I have lots of lovely perfumes, I no longer wear my Pajama pants in public, and, well, let’s just say I’m still working on the lipstick part. Yet despite my often un-rouged lips, I would consider myself a Southerner.

I still get the comments about my accent on my infrequent visits home, and I wonder what my “Ohio friends” think when they hear I have no desire to return. I hope they don’t think I’m looking down on them or their choice to return to the city, as that’s far from the case. We each go where our heart, and our life, takes us, and for me, it’s taken me to the South and politely invited me, as only a true Southerner can do, to stay. And hey, I’ve accepted.

He loved the Oriental Rugs in the elevator.

He thought the bathrobes were decadent, and I had to agree.

He became accustomed to staying there when he was in town, which, looking back, wasn’t as often as I liked to think.

Whether I wanted to or not, the lobby, the bar, the interior always reminded me of him, and it made me a bit melancholy.

Yet things have changed, and two years later almost to the day, I found myself there with somebody else, dining in the familiar dining room, again paying an ostentatious amount for a drink. Tangible evidence that in even a short time, things can change dramatically.

We live in the reality of today, of the moment, and while we have our hopes & dreams, we live in the present and ignore the fact that one day you may find yourself in the same situation with someone new, may find yourself repeating the same actions but nothing is actually the same. How can we envision our future other than what we know, or at least envision it with somebody new?

We’re optimists, or at least we try to be. When things are going well, when we can’t get that silly little smile off our face, giddily wasting the day with daydreams and imagining the next time you get to see him, we think that it will always be like this. It’s this very romanticism of new love that sends some of us to the alter long before we’re ready, then sending us to the divorce lawyer in shame when we thought we had found everything we wanted.

I know my present, but I remember my past. I remember late night phone calls, I remember a sweet, unique sentiment around valentine’s day, and yet I remember the worried inquiries from my friends who tried, without avail, to dissuade me from what was quickly becoming a bad situation. I remember my assurances in return, that somehow it was my fault that he treated me that way, that somehow it was okay for him to take me for granted. I remember trying again, looking for the best when I was seeing anything but.

He wanted to know a criticism that I had towards him; these conversations were frequent and at the time, I marveled in how mature we were to be able to talk about our faults with each other, figuring that we were doing it to avoid making the same mistakes. I told him that I was not so worried about him being immature, but that I was scared because I couldn’t see an end in sight to his immaturity. Without realizing it at the time, I was able to imagine my future, and instead of inherently figuring that he would be a part of it, I was afraid that he wasn’t prepared to be.

Most days it doesn’t bother me, doesn’t occur to me to think about him. Most days I am not even resentful, not angry at him even despite his cowardace and disappearance. I’m glad I know better, glad I have gone through it because I know that I’ll never make that mistake again. And then something small – a random appearance in a dream, an oriental rug in an elevator, makes me remember, and for once in my life, I’m glad I remember both the good times AND the bad.

And yet years later, with new people and new experiences and new likes and new loves, I still find myself remembering him when I step foot in the Ritz, even when it’s with somebody new.

I never thought this day would come.

I mean, I KNEW it would, but not yet.

I have on a pair of jeans from my freshman year in college, and they STILL FIT.

I have worn my prom dress, in public no less, and IT still fits.

I don’t use wrinkle cream, though I know one day soon I’ll have to, because I don’t yet have wrinkles.

I’m young, right? 26 is Young, tell me it is.

Because the fact that I BABYSAT these girls – changed their diapers, in fact – is making me feel pretty damned old.

And no, you can not date them. They’re still under 18.

I am 23. I am walking the streets on a cold, blustery day. I am still trying to remember which way to look at the streetlights, so I end up turning my head side to side – a sure sign of a tourist – so I don’t get hit by one of the wayward cabs. The horns blare at me as I jump up on the curb, getting water into my boots. Bloody England.

I am new to this country, though we all speak the same language. I am young, but wonder when I started feeling this old. I am alone, for the most part, knowing only a few people in this entire country and yet I still feel comfortable with the tea and the quaint little room that I have to drag my three over-stuffed suitcases into as I almost fall down the rickety stairs. The walls are pink, and have small flowers on them. The seams do not match up.

The bathroom has a strange flourescent light that poorly illuminates the cramped room. The toilet has a strange lever, and the water level is lower than it is at home. The bed is soft – others would call it too soft, but I think it’s perfect.

The morning comes earlier than I would like, and I begin to get used to The Big Breakfast on BBC4. The announcers are annoying and somewhat raunchy, but I find it calming in a peculiar way. The shower is makeshift, and the water pressure is ridiculous. I should know this by now about London.

I am 23 1/2. Seven months have passed, and I am in a new room. The counters are spotless. The bathroom has a phone next to the toilet, and the flushing lever is common. The cabs outside are blaring at someone else, some other tourist who is looking left-right-left-right-left before embarking onto the street. The weather is warmer, and I know that the prawn sandwich is my favorite at Pret-a-Manger. It is unusually pleasant for March, and the light overcoat that I bought at Zara a few months back is unnecessary when the wind stops. I like this area, I like the Lush store around the corner that I can smell from blocks away, I even like the tourists in Knightsbridge. I feel educated, I know my way around, and I know that I can get into the Long Bar at the Sanderson if I wanted to.

I am 26 1/2. I am in a dimly lit office, wearing a scarf that I could have gotten in London for a killing. My hair is in two buns on the side/top of my head, and they’re a bit too tight and starting to give me a headache. I am in need of a nap. The light scent of my perfume brings me back to three years ago, when I found this uncommon scent as I was walking along a street both foreign and familiar to me. All of a sudden, I am 23 again. And it feels like home.

Watch out, Atlanta, this little chickadee is going to rock the proverbial Casbah of the Atlanta dating world.

You just wait.

Yes, forthcoming is a thoroughly thought-out, studied, pondered, pontificated upon three-phased approach to take Atlanta by storm. Get ready – Aubrey is ready to date.

Not so shocking, you say, when hearing this, as relationships and dating are frequently mentioned on my site. Yet there’s a difference between TALKING about it and actually DOING it, and my friends, I’ve crossed the line. Yes, the Aubrey Dating Booth is open and currently taking applications.

While I can’t yet give away the details of the full plan – which, I must say, astounds both me and my darling roommate with its brilliance yet its simplicity – I WILL tell you that you, my loving and ever-so-loyal readers have a role in this. No need to sit by, passively reading my forthcoming fortuitous plans, but as I love you so, you’ll have a part in my Master Plan to take over the Universe, uh, I mean, Dating scene. Just think, all you karma-believers will be gettin’ a notch on your metaphysical bedpost. Or something like that.

So be prepared – your task is not hard, but it will take some thought, some pondering. In the meantime, read my older posts, get a feel for who I am and what I like. Because in the days & weeks to come, I’ll be asking for your help.

Chop chop – time’s a-wastin’!

How is it 2004? I feel like the New Years Millenium parties were just yesterday! (Ok, maybe more like last month. If they were yesterday, I assure you I would be lying prone on my couch, eyes covered in soothing gelled eye-mask to make the cacophonic pounding in my head abate.) Point is, how can it actually be 2004, and more importantly, why isn’t anyone else as shocked as I am?

No, I’m not a latter-day Rip Van Winkle, not a coma-victim waking up from a long rest. I’ve lived all 365 x 3 + 6 days since December 31, 1999, and while I hate to use trite metaphors (simply because I often mix them up and then feel like a dumbass when someone corrects me in their comments), I’m pretty comfortable saying that time DOES fly.

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be one of those whiny, “woe-is-me”-esque posts where I lament my single-dom, wonder where the hell my life is going, and basically whine about me not yet getting a nobel prize for writing my Great American novel that I’ve not yet started. I’ll save that for another day. In fact, I’m not yet sure where this post is going as I sit here and ponder my existence in the early days of 2004, looking out the window on a brisk, yet sunny Atlanta morning and finding hope & excitement in what may lie ahead. It’s the whole resolution-thing, where people once and for all declare to themselves and to anyone else who will listen that THIS YEAR they WILL lose 20 lbs, they WILL quit smoking, they WILL stop spending money on ridiculous things like AG Jeans (which, in my mind, are SO not ridiculous. Have you seen my ass in them lately? CUTE!). But yes, the tradition of New Years resolutions may be a good one, but I’m taking a ‘pass’ this year.

In prior years, I’ve made un-resolutions, resolving to NOT do certain behaviours and to enjoy life to the fullest. And while I’m sure I could do that again, sure that I could come up with some kitschy, funny little ditty on eating french fries and ice cream and laughing with my friends & whatnot, I’ve chosen to avoid the cliched resolutions (or un-resolutions which, let’s face it, are basically just resolutions themselves) and just go with the flow.

Aghast? Is Aubrey really taking off her type-A cloak and letting her hair down a bit, throwing caution to the proverbial wind? Yep, let it fly. I can no more will my life to go the way I’ve envisioned it than I can go back in time and decide to end a futile and failing relationship before it got bad.

Yep, this year I’m letting it all go. If I want to go find me a boyfriend, well, I’ll go do that. If I want to eat the entire homemade cake I made the other night (that wasn’t as good as I had hoped, actually), then hells bells, I’m on it. I’ve got a can-do, will-do attitude, so resolutions can just go right out the window, I’m taking life by the horns and riding it like the mechanical bull at Steeplechase.

Without that whole ‘broke my dress, flashed the crowd’ thing, of course…