These past two weeks have been a blur. I’m getting used to turning on the news and seeing coverage of only one subject, THE subject, the life-changing events of Tuesday the 11th. Just the day before I wrote my little “here” about not talking to people in elevators, and how I wish I could go around telling everyone just what I think of them (for better or worse, but hopefully, for better.) Now it seems that perhaps I almost waited too long, as over 6000 people are missing and believed dead, a result of the worst act of terrorism that this country, this WORLD, has ever seen.

We are told by our leaders that the mastermind of this plot will be caught, and will pay for the destruction. I believe in responsibility for actions, but am not sure if annihilating a country already torn by war and one of the poorest in the world is the correct way to go. Yes, those who committed these acts must be punished, but it is imperative that we initially target the true people that are responsible for this: namely, the Taliban and Osama bin Laden. Throughout history, civilians and innocent people have always been affected, and often killed, by war. We, as a country, as a unified front against terrorism partnered with other leading nations of the world, must try to minimize this risk. Dropping a bomb, or many, upon a city to destroy the population as a whole, as a strategy to ‘get’ the one who is hiding, is not only statistically irresponsible, but is trying to make two wrongs into a right. Let’s hope and pray for continued strength for our leaders, troops, and officials as we begin what may be a long road to eliminate terrorism from our world.

Still, everyone is affected differently by the recent events. News channels are starting to deal with the healing process, the psychological ramifications from this most horrid act. Sleeplessness is prevalent, and when we do finally get some rest, it’s often laced with frightening, unsettling dreams of what may still lie ahead.

Our generation has never lived through a major war, and the largest tragedy we have witnessed may have been the Challenger explosion. We know where we were when that event happened, just as we know what we were doing when a plane first hit the World Trade Center, then another, and then the Pentagon. We watched, aghast, as both towers came falling down and we learned of another crash near Pittsburgh. We have been loyal to our television, our radios, but most importantly, our country. Our patriotism has never been this obvious, this strong, this public. We have been changed, yes, but let’s stand behind our leaders, support the heroes who have tirelessly been continuing to search through the rubble, and let our compassion and kindness extend to strangers around the country, and the world.

We are stronger than those cowards who thought they could tear our country apart by a massive act of destruction. We have fear, at times, but are not afraid to stand up for the things that make this country great, the freedom that we are used to, the freedom that our country was built on. This freedom, this strength, is what will allow us to prevail as the strongest, the best, nation in the world.

Just last night I read an article about the benefits of human touch. It increases our immune system, our mood, even elevates endorphin levels, causing all of us to be a bit happier. Now more than ever, this is needed. So take a minute, give your roommate or officemate a hug. Your boss? A pat on the back. Give what you can to others; not just monetarily, but emotionally and spiritually. We are strong, but we are stronger with the support of our family and friends. Love tirelessly and compassionately, and we will begin to heal.

God bless you all and America,

-aub

I’ve come to a quasi-monumental conclusion today.

I will dispel with small talk in the elevator.

Elevators are an anomaly of human existance. There are social behavior studies that solely devote their research to elevator interactions. Everyone is stuffed in there, breathing someone else’s exhaled air, looking straight ahead and trying to pretend that they are, in fact, alone. Touching in an elevator? A mortal sin. If someone (God forbid) accidentally brushes your arm, you bristle and they apologize as if they have done inexcusable damage to your psyche. And facing forward? The studies have had people intentionally face backwards at the rest of the elevator’s occupants, and know what happens? The majority of them turn around, too. Are we a society so fearful of human interaction that we, like ducks in a row, follow the actions of each other in order to avoid contact?

It’s the small talk that gets me. I truly have little to no desire to befriend the others in the elevator, and while being polite, would rather not talk about the weather today.

“It’s gonna be another hot one” was the conversation this morning, as if that was a rarity in mid-summer Atlanta. I agreed and tried to look amazingly interested in the contents of my purse.

He continued.

“Hot and muggy. Yep. Gonna be hot.”

I think we have gathered that at this point, but rudeness is not permitted in small talk-ville, so I muttered an agreement, praying that the eternal meteorologist would stop.

“Hot hot hot. That’s Atlanta for you.”

Yes. I know. I do live here as well. Please, sir, exit the elevator.

Of course, I didn’t say that. But ooh, how I wish I could. Like Jim Carrey (who incidentally, I abhor) in Liar Liar, if I could have one “Brutally Honest Aubrey” day, how refreshing it would be. All of my ex’s would get a phone call and an earful. A cheated-on girlfriend of a quasi-ex would as well. It’s not all bad, though. I’d finally profess my feelings to the love of my life, tell my parents how much they mean to me and how thankful I am for all they have done for me, and give praise where praise was due. I’d let my friends know how much I cherish, respect, and depend upon them, and that I love them equally for the things they are as well as the things they aren’t. I’d try to mend old wounds, forgive outdated disagreements, and generally let people know what I was thinking and feeling.

Why we don’t do this every day is beyond me, but until that day comes, no, those pants do NOT look fat on you.

Honestly wishing you a happy Monday,

-aub

Long weekends.

You look forward to them and that “extra” day of leisure, mentally filling them with all of those outstanding tasks that have been on your Outlook “To Do” list for, say, three months.

Fun things like oil changes, arranging photos, and finally writing that letter to your grandmother.

Others plan fun getaways…mini-vaca’s to exotic locations like Charleston, Savannah, and, hmm, Duluth?

Instead of embracing our ‘free’ time, we fill it up with tedious tasks or long road trips.

It’s a lose-lose situation, I think. Not to scoff at time off; we need a break now and again. But we’re unstatisfied if we don’t have major plans (my situation) and those of us that do, end up a bit bitter at the money spent and end up more tired than before they left.

Is there a solution to this eternal quandry? Which is the better choice–stay and veg out in front of “Starz Theatre” (channel 329 from one who knows..) or head off into the sunset, a weekend away of high-fat meals and high-alcohol consumption?

I don’t know which I’d choose, but right now my liver (and meager bank account) are thanking me.

Hoping you had a great Labor Day,

-A tired (yawn) Aubrey

P.S.- We knew it would happen, but a gigantic CONGRATS to Drew Haddad and Danny O’Leary, two official members of the Indianapolis Colts and Buffalo Bills (respectively.) Couldn’t be prouder of these guys…

I firmly believe that it’s the little things in life that cause us the most frustration.

We prepare ourselves for the biggies. The car wrecks, the speeding tickets, those situations that, while not exactly optimal, are somewhat bound to happen time and again.

We know how to deal with those…frustration ensues, and, as always, we get over it. May put a small damper on the day but nothing major.

But the small things. The teensy little annoyances can just make or break your entire afternoon.

Point in case: You walk into work, sun shining, pretty good mood. It’s the beginning of a glorious day, nothing can get you down.

That is, until you get on the elevator and it stops on EVERY SINGLE FLOOR before yours, the last, the eighth. Or you’re driving down the road, not necessarily in a hurry, and the person in front of you decides to turn left in the middle of the road.

It’s the Murphy’s law of minutia, whereas any annoying occurrence can and WILL drive you somewhat insane.

We tend to exist (and I’m guilty as the rest of us!) in a “ME ME ME” state of mind. I inherently think that the cars ahead of me should proceed straight, nonstop, until I am ready to make a turn. And the elevator? The fact that I’m descending from the 8th floor should override anyone else’s attempts to board and/or stop on any floors that I deem unnecessary (which is any and all that I hadn’t planned to stop on.)

Are my moods always this precariously intertwined with the mundane functions of life? Am I truly this impatient? Must it always be about me?

I hope not, but until my calming yoga breathing starts taking effect, I’m taking the stairs.

-aub

ps-If you haven’t registered yet for http://www.shesheme.com , I invoke you to do so at once. Think of all the Wednesday Wisdom you’re missing! (how to clean your closet is a necessity…)

Found myself doing one of those embarrasing things that you’re half-oblivious to until midway through them. As if you suddenly wake up and find yourself in a stupid-acting dream, then quickly look around, hoping that noone saw you act like a total moron.

Sadly, I wasn’t so lucky.

In the middle of a loud, animated rendition of “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves this morning, I realized that I was doing the following:

Singing at the top of my lungs, but only remembering 2/3 of the words. Not toxic in itself, but perhaps when combined with…
…car-seat dancing. You know the drill. Sort of shaking your booty as much as you can, allthewhile restrained in a seatbelt, which only leads to wrinkly new silk skirts and looking like a dork. But not nearly that bad until I decided to…
…”raise the roof”. The quintessential hand-push-to-the-ceiling, best served when accompanying Nelly or Jay-Z. Still, somewhat innocent in itself. Until I realized that, and this is the killer,…
…my windows were open.
Did the immediate “glance to the right, glance to the left,” hoping against hope that they would be minding their own business and not staring at the freakazoid who clearly needed singing lessons.

No, on this given day in Atlanta, it was uncharacteristically cool and haze-less, with a nice breeze blowing in the 60-degree morning. Making half the city rejoice, and ride to work with their windows down. Resultingly, hottie Ford Expedition-driver to my right and Z3 driver to my left got quite a show.

Like Madonna at her concert here last night, I aim to please. My performances will NEVER let down my fans. So, instead of ducking behind my rental-car blue-faux-leather steering wheel, you know what I did?

Turned it up and raised the roof.

As unabashful as ever,

-aub

I swear…human nature is really just an off-shoot of animal behavior. No, I’m not going off on one of my genetic-inspired tangents here, but I think we often try to complicate matters too much.

Take relationships. I firmly believe that they come down to wanting what you can’t have, or what you think you can’t have. Once it’s available, you lose interest. Throughout history (or at least the history of dating!) attraction is directly related to the difficulty in achieving that which you desire.

Point in case: Chik-Fil-A on Sundays.

Without discounting the outstandingness of Chik-Fil-A on any other given day, there’s something about Sundays that make the longing for a #1 combo with extra waffle fries and a Diet Coke almost intolerable. Nothing else compares. And you know why? They’re closed on Sundays.

You always want what you can’t have.

Carry this concept over to that guy in the cubicle next to yours, the hottie lead singer from the land down under who is your current “slice o’ heaven,” or any other person who is just a wee bit unattainable. Their value-for-the-money skyrockets. Find out that they’ve been single for a year, “desperately looking for someone to spend rainy days and Sundays with,” and POOF. Instantly, they’re stale, oversalted fries from Hardees–always available, not so desirable.

What do we learn from this?

Chik-Fil-A is a marketing genius. Give a little, but keep a little too. Leaves something to be desired.

Must go now–waffle fries are calling my name.

-aubs

I think it’s time to say goodbye to a loyal friend

We’ve been together now a few years; a bit over two to be exact. We met the first time I came to visit Brandy and Allison in Atlanta, the summer of ’99. Instantly, I knew that a special bond would be formed between us. It just sort of ‘fit’. And every time we were together, I felt a few inches taller, a bit more confident of myself. There are few friends that this can be said about, and for that, the relationship was all-the-more special.

But, as it is, all good things must come to an end, and it is with great sorry I will bid my friend ‘adieu.’

According to Jessica, my mentor of “tough love,” I must give up. Throw it away. You see, my shoe, my FAVORITE black sandel, with the perfect arch on the strap, is irreparably broken and must retire to the trash heap.

That’s not for lack of trying, you see. After the “incident,” involving a post-birthday cab ride, a private booth at 1150, and, hmm, one or two vodka soda’s w/2 limes, my friend was in pain. The first repair attempt lay at the skilled hands of a bouncer at Buckhead Saloon, who, with the help of some duct tape, bonded my sandal to my foot. A bit hard to walk, but we were back together.

After deciding that perma-shoe wasn’t the look of Summer ’01, I took the problem to a professional who promised I’d be back on my feet in no time. While the aesthetics were there (it looked good as new!) the fix just didn’t hold.

Never say die was my mantra on this one. So I, bound and determined to fix it once and for all, purchased some “Shoe Goo” and went to town. It stuck, that’s for sure, but according to some dear friends, the effect was not of the aesthetic standard that it should be.
<img src="http://aublog.aubreysabala.com/images/sadshoe.jpg&quot;
Through all of my illustrious years on earth, I’ve learned that if you don’t listen to those near and dear to you, at least when critiquing footwear, you’ll live to regret it. So, this is for you, Marcia and Jessica. I’m putting them to rest.

With a tear in my eye and hollow in my heart,

-aub

ps- Off to the mall to find a new best friend. Wish me luck…

So here it is. It’s certainly taken me long enough to get this site up and running…well, more like crawling. It’s small, simple–a good first step I suppose. Better than nothing. And just think of all the inbox space I’m saving you!

It’s Tuesday here in the ATL. As usual, it can’t seem to decide whether to be sunny or rainy. Typical. I’m giving myself a little pep-talk to convince myself that I do, in fact, wish to go to pilates tonite. My reasons include:

I haven’t worked out in a week, and have used the ‘accident’ as an excuse. In actuality, I’ve enjoyed vegging out on my all-too-comfy couch, consuming calories that range in the many-thousands. Pathetic, but oh so fun.
I can’t go on Thursday, due to my superfun trip to DC, which I will expand upon later…
Except for the fact that my bank account contains $84.39 and that the $10 potentially spent upon the class, I really have no excuse not to. It’s summer, and I’m tired of crappy reruns.
Sebastian’s got the right idea!

This being said, it wouldn’t do any harm if you all kept your fingers and toes crossed for me; I think I’ll need it. Why is it that all energy SLLOOOWWWLLYY drains away around 3pm? Like invasion of the body snatchers, a mysterious force overtakes us in the afternoon hours, rendering us semi-useless to all of humanity. If only we were in France…now THEY have the life. Wine at lunch, (and may I add that lunches range somewhere between 2 hours and, well, the rest of the afternoon,) and the government mandates that the work week is only 32 (or 35?) hours. Ooh la la.

But I shant complain. With this “struggling” economy, (won’t say the “R” word,) I think most of us are thanking our lucky stars that we’re gainfully employed, and praying that this remains to be so. The thought that it could get worse is quite dismal, so I’ll move on now.

Whoops…it’s just about time for pilates. I’ll leave you with that. Enjoy my little site of rambling, and drop me an email to let me know what you think. Until next time…

I’m getting old.
That’s all there is to it.

You think you can keep it up forever, partying, gallivanting, spending more time out on the town than doing the right thing, sleeping.
No rest for the wicked, my friend Matt says. You can sleep when you’re dead.

Hell, then, I’m one foot in the grave.

Take last night. We went to dinner at this AMAZING restaurant down on the harbour (proper Kiwi spelling and such) called Finz. It was super-swank, and quite fitting, you see. Had a drink at the bar (out of limes so had to ignominize my signature cocktail and have a vodka soda with TWO LEMONS, the travesty!) There was a stream running through the floor, an aquarium with live goldfish in it even, covered with a glass/plastic top so you could walk on it. Très chi chi. (I’ll go into the bathrooms later…)

Ordered dinner. Had perhaps 2 drinks plus a glass of wine. The dinner was superb, lots of seafood and a delectable clam sweet corn and spinich cream-based soup. Heaven, I’m in heaven….

Then, despite the stimulating conversation, a strange thing happened. I noticed myself beginning to yawn.

“YAWN!” you say, “Ha!” Yes, me too.Then it happened again. And again.

“Must splash water on my face,” I thought. “It is FAR TOO EARLY to be sleepy.” So traversed to the bathrooms, which were unequalable in scope and quality. There were REAL FLUFFY WHITE hand towels, perfectly folded next to the blue bowl-esque sink. Looked like something you’d find at a 5-star hotel in, say, Japan? I considered taking a snapshot but was a bit worried if someone else had come in there. But I digress…

Went back to the table, attempted to again engage in the delightful conversation, and then IT HAPPENED AGAIN! I YAWNED.

I was praying for little miracles, like the waiter deciding that we MUST LEAVE instead of SLLLOOOOWWWWLLYYYY presenting us ALL with a dessert menu. Or perhaps that this bevy of 6 businessmen would, in fact, bypass coffee. (No such luck.) Tried to steady my falling head on my hands, prying my eyes open, taking deep breaths…anything!

I admit it. I failed.
My head hit the table, my eyes rolled back; I did the unthinkable. I fell asleep at dinner.

And it wasn’t even 11pm.

So, disown me if you must, chastise me if you will, I’m a weakling. And a tired one at that.

Perhaps I’m just saving it for this Friday’s all-out-regalia of birthday events. Or for next weekend’s prolonged birthday celebration. Or perhaps I’m in denial?

One thing is true, however; Matt, seeker of all truth, seer of the people, (who doesn’t eat seafood because he pees in the ocean,) had it right.

NO REST FOR THE WICKED.
Let the fun begin…