I miss my friends.

The move to San Francisco was initially exhilerating, exciting to a tee. The parties! The fun! The hunky 23-year olds that I could spot from across the bar, exuding youthful virility (sigh…) Yes, this city had it all, and how lucky I was to be here.

Then came reality.

The crazy landlord. The difficulty in finding an apartment. The sideswiping of the car, the parking tickets, the cost of boarding my dog as my work travel continued to increase. Hemmhoraging money became the norm, and if I were in a British novel, I’d be complaining about my pathetic relationship with my Bank Manager. (Instead, I don’t have one, and my account continues to go down and to the right. Lovely.)

In the depths of despair (or even at the immediate throes of lonliness) it’s only natural to remember the good times, the times that have passed, which for me, without a doubt, was in college.

I was lucky enough to get placed in a suite with an amazing group of girls. Sure, they didn’t really know what to do with an Ohioan who DIDN’T WEAR MASCARA, but they adjusted.

I taught them the "ordering from the J.Crew catalog" trick and they primped me with makeup, perfume and the like when a boy would come over to study. I’d chastise their predilection for blue eye liner and they’d again remind me that no, I didn’t wear a men’s size XL in my sweaters.

(We compromised, and all decided that short shorts were really and truly hot.)

We’d go to frat cocktails (horrific haircuts aside),

We’d harrass Little Chicken,

and even if we wore unfortunate outfits like overalls (on the last day of class, no less),


it would be ok because one of us, somewhere, would be wearing something worse.

Then we grew up (or at least some of us did…I’m holding firmly to my ‘you are as young – and single – as you want to be’ mantra.) We (and I use that term loosely!) got married.

We celebrated engagements and birthdays and, well, any day could be a holiday if we decided it would be.

And so, as I find myself missing the days where things were just immediately easier, where our big choices were between Coors Light and Natty Light (Silver Bullet, baby!) and where there was always a shoulder (at least 12 of them, usually) to cry on, I think back not just to college, but to my girls that made my college experience what it was …poor outfit choices notwithstanding.

Girls, I love ya, come visit soon.

So I’m sitting here, facing hours of work ahead of me. Jet lag, even though it’s supposed to be gone by now, makes me a) weary b) unmotivated and c) ravenous at bizarre hours. And in this case, it’s a combination of all three. So instead of writing up the meeting notes like I SHOULD be doing, I’m instead going through my photos trying to find a picture of myself that I don’t abhor.

I hate every single one of them.

I’ve been photographed since I was just a few hours old; my father, a former freelance photographer, enjoyed capturing every piece of drool his darling baby girl produced. There’s infant me, resembling a baby bird, then moving on to baby me, where I was fed far too much and resembled a baby hippo. Through the years we see the progression of my evolution – the loss of the auburn curls, replaced by a straighter, blonder coif; the (thankful!) loss of the jowels and arm rolls being replaced by a normal-sized, knee-sock wearing 5-year old at Chuck-E-Cheese.

Then we head off to the awkward years (pictures withheld to protect the embarrassed) where a Jessica McClintock dress was the perfect compliment to an unfortunate bob, braces, and two broken wrists. (I only wish this accident-prone gal was kidding.) On to High School, then college, where skorts were apparently en vogue and ’twas never too late to stay out. (I’ll withhold those as well.)

And here I am, trying to find a photo of me to upload for my SXSW badge, and the only ones I like are from when I was a child. I look at each of my current photos and my inner negative monologue takes over:
Red eyes.
I look fat.
What’s that extra chin doing there?
WHY did I wear that?
Hideous haircut.
NARSTY.

…and on, and on, and on. Seriously, I’m sure most people would glance at them, but with my hypercritical evil eye, I think they’re all repulsive.

Is this normal? Do most people do this?

Regardless – I think I’ve found the perfect picture. What says "Aubrey" better than a personalized hat?

I’m off to SXSW on Friday with the lovely, the amazing, the captivating HelenJane*

We’ll be cavorting with some of our (your!) faves: the Veens and the Shellens and the Newmans and the Armstrongs…alas, if only the Browns could come, life would be JUST about perfect. I mean, really – when else do we get to enjoy the company of the best?

(SB, we’ll miss you, and apologize in advance for the drunk dials you’re about to receive!)

Let us know if you’ll be there too – we’ll buy you a drink!**

Pictures, as always, to follow.

* only one of my all time favorite people on the FACE OF THIS EARTH.
** (and eavesdrop on some drunk bastard until we get his last name so we can add it to his tab.)

(from outer space, I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face…)

Ok, sorry – couldn’t resist. And while it wasn’t outer space, it seemed another world away…aah, Australia. How I love it.

Am knee-high in the midst of catch-up land (note: very different than Ketchup land, if I do say so) but much forthcoming:

1. Pics.
2. Stories.
3. Pics relating to stories.
4. Stories relating to pics.
5. And a fabulous article of advice on how NOT to dump a girl. (Note: disenfranchisement via IM is included.)

Stay  tuned…updates soon. I promise.

Until today, my site referred to a little-known song by Jonathan Balas entitled "California, Here I Go." I first heard this song and was struck by how similar it was to my recent move…the lyrics seemed so appropriate as I drove my convertible from Atlanta to California last October, and like the song, was "leaving it all behind."

I also must point out that I heard the song on Laguna Beach.

See? My 28-year-old maturity makes me not even remotely afraid to admit how cheezy this makes me.

But after a few months, and while the title of the website is still appropriate, it’s time to change. To what, I’m not yet sure…I could make a reference to Australia (where I am currently), to my long-running diatribe on relationships, boyfriends and the like, or I could keep it cheeky.

Until then, though, like me, it’s a work in progress.

Thinking back on past relationships, I – like most of you all – tend to remember the good times. The “talk-all-night-long, surprised that the sun is coming up conversations”, the way we find ourselves wanting to share EVERYTHING, right now, with that other person. The hand-holding. The public displays of affection given with total disregard to the masses, because damnit, we’re in love, you assholes. The newness of it all is so alluring, so intoxicating, that weeks or months or years later (depending on the time-frame of the relationship) it’s all we can do to recapture the early days.

I’m sitting in the snow in Tahoe, waiting on my friends, and am faced with plenty of time to observe and ruminate on the many various relationships of the people walking by. Some are holding hands, and the cynical side of me instantly labels them as a couple newly in love. Others walk side-by-side in the easy comfortability that longer-term relationships bring. I see couples with small children, obviously exasperated by their role as a parent to their unruly young-un’s, and even a few pairs that don’t seem to be on speaking terms with each other right now. And I think of all the relationships in my life, noting that more than a few of them are former boyfriends-turned-friends, and I realize that even given our platonic status – a status that I’m not only very comfortable with, but in some cases, actually have demanded – there’s part of me that is still longing to return to the way we were (cheezy Barbra Streisand song notwithstanding.)

Why can’t I be comfortable with the way we are instead?

Why is it that we clean our homes before the housekeeper comes? And, as in today, feel guilty when we’re sitting around while the movers are moving everything, even though we’re paying them to do it for us?

Say it with me, kids: Ridiculous.

I was initially enchanted by its promise – the woo of a younger existence where responsibilities can lie dormant. A return to easier days – money was no object; work, a fun distraction to our true goal: our social lives. Add in a remarkably temperate climate, the preponderance of youth and the antithesis of a current reality, and the allure was intoxicating.

THIS.
HERE.

I wanted it, consumed with a lust most often reserved for the pleasures of other, more tangible instant gratifications.

The decision, and the subsequent move, was made. I had started on a new adventure, started writing the new chapter that was the continuance of my life.

As is so often found in most changes, most big decisions, the authentic reality comes incrementally.  Though the weather may argue otherwise, all has not been sun and sparkling brilliance. A cloud or two has entered the horizon; most times, as if sunbathing, you find a new position to maximize the sunshine, the warmth. It’s only when the sky whispers otherwise, warning of impending storms, that you acquiesce and heed its advice, lest the alternative materialize.

I listened.
I listen.

Nothing is as most would want you to believe – within all statements exist both truth and lies. Our reality, at any given time, is subjective. On any given day, your public façade may emit gleeful self-abandon while your private self reels in self-awareness. Your life isn’t just what you make of it; in many ways, it’s what you portray it to be.

I’m getting used to the circumstances around me, that no city nor job nor group of friends will ever be a quick fix to an underlying discontentment. Change is a placebo for disillusionment, providing a temporary panacea until the guise is revealed. What you may find beneath the self-veiled layers may not be all bad, but bear in mind it will never be the remedy for what ails you.

Only you can fix you.

I got a beer.

Thank you, St. Valentine.

The problem with Valentine’s Day isn’t the hearts, nor is it the roses or candy or even the jewelry. It’s the fact that on this day, more than most, you clearly fall into one of two camps: those who have and those who do not.

Those who ‘have’, have plans. Have significant others. Have flowers taking up all available desk space, and – even if it really doesn’t mean anything – have evening plans with someone ten years their junior so, for the night at least, have a warm body.

Those who ‘have not’, don’t. And never is it more readily evident than this day, as their desks stay as messy as ever though remain unobstructed by pesky overflowing roses and tulips and daisys. Their evenings are free, their dinners may consist of a Lean Cuisine lovingly heated up by themselves as they crack open a bottle of cheap Merlot (egads! Merlot!) and watch Tivo’d reruns of “Dancing With the Stars.” Or – worse yet – their dinner may be a $5 snack box on a United flight that gets them in, exhausted, right at their bedtime and the airport bar is even too crowded to grab a pre-boarding drink.

You can probably guess which camp I fall into after I provide you with this following hint:

While walking down the terminal just now, I noticed an attractive man about my age. Wearing a dark suit, he sported well-coiffed hair and had the edge of masculinity that caused me to confidently assess that thankfully he wasn’t yet another metrosexual who would keep me wondering his true sexual preference. Apparently sensing my glance, he turned to look at me with startlingly blue eyes. Only then did I glance down and take note of his collar – with the tell-tale white breaking up the otherwise black starched collar, I was checking out a priest.

And I can’t even find a seat to have a beer to celebrate my decension to new lows on this Valentine’s Day.