I love my new chair.

You see, I’ve had this chair for over a month, what with it’s over sized gloriousness and pseudo-suede stain-repellent fabric, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I was able to enjoy it. Actually, it wasn’t until yesterday until I was able to even sit on it. Yes, as trite as it sounds, I’ve been *THAT* busy. But sit on it I did, yesterday afternoon, with Lila Belle acting uncharacteristically good, sitting on my lap and only biting me ten times a minute vs. her usual fourteen. The house was clean, even after the party o’ fabulousness, the errands had all been run, I had slept in until 10:30 (a magical feat in itself) and I had even showered. It was a Sunday, I had nothing to do, and life was content in my big red chair.

And then there’s today.

Mondays are never fun – something always goes awry, whether it’s realizing that I overdrafted my checking account by splurging on that round of shots over the weekend or just having the typical “why am I at work and not sleeping” slump that can happen. But today – well, it started off innocently enough, yet by 8am, Murphy had come for a visit.

I woke up at the semi-typical 6:30 to Lila Belle announcing that her bladder was calling; I let her out, pretended to go back to sleep but finally sucked it up and took her for a walk. Since Lila is a dog not aversive to the fun that red Georgia mud can bring, I decided that she was in need of a bath before I partook of the shower. And that’s where it began.

Lila isn’t a fan of the bath; ok, Lila HATES it. I have to literally lock her in the bathroom and hose her down while she tries to bite, scratch and claw me. She’s very creative in her methods of torture. After 10 minutes of torrential puppy-shaking wetness (with a little all-natural herbal puppy shampoo to boot) Lila was clean…and then she managed to run around the house, slipping and sliding and running into doors with her wet little curly self. Lila was a dog possessed. Lila was ALSO a dog who needed to spend some QT with herself in her puppy crate while I tended to my own getting-readyness.

So I showered. No detail necessary there.

Post-shower, I realized I needed to brush one of the cats, but – as is the case nearly every day – the cat brush was missing. (I assume it’s in the black hole o’ Aubrey things that still have yet to be discovered, cavorting with my nail polish, eyelash curler, tweezers and iPod mini somewhere in the house.) So, instead, I used this comb I had back when Sebastian was a kitten; it’s actually a flea comb but works well to get out Samantha’s long-cat-hair matts. So I’m combing, and combing, and – huh. What was that? That little black thing? It kinda looks like….

OH NO IT ISN’T.

(But it is.)

A flea.

Well, in the land of the Sabala menagerie, a flea is an indicator of something more, something much, much worse. After all, there’s never an isolated flea, and with three (yes, I admit it, I’m a virtual spinster) cats and a dog, a flea ushers in Crisis Management: INFESTATION procedures. Yes, one flea means many fleas on many animals who sit ALL OVER THE HOUSE. Including my bed. Shoot me now.

After further inspection, the worst was found to be true. Sebastian, Sullivan, Samantha AND Lila Belle all have fleas. That’s FOUR ANIMALS, sitting on EVERY SURFACE of my house, with fleas.

Really, shoot me now.

I didn’t think there could be an insect that I hated more than ants; oh, but I was wrong. There’s something about the little ones, those creepy crawly little things that hide themselves in their meager size, and just make my skin crawl. And while the animals haven’t shown a symptom (there’s been no scratching or itching on ANY of them), I, on the other hand, am now suffering from first-degree psychosomatic skin itchiness. I swear, any errant hair falling on my arm sends me into a tailspin of scratching.

To add insult to injury, Lila absconded my lavender scented eye pillow, and after no less than 10 minutes (!!) of chasing her around and around the coffee table (a game I could see going on ad infinitum) I finally ripped it out of her mouth – only to have the silk fabric rip, sending lavender seeds flying like a virtual fountain ALL OVER THE LIVING ROOM.

Then the toilet overflowed.

Then I stepped in dog pee.

I looked at my watch…7:56am. Looks like Murphy’s Law has hit La Casa Sabala with a vengeance, providing retribution from a nice, relaxing Sunday spent cooking and finally watching the TiVo’d Alias and Gray’s Anatomy finales.

Seriously, it has to get better.

Doesn’t it??

• I’m wearing a crown. It strongly resembles this.
• I’m drinking a Tecate.
• I’m trying to create an “Ode to my iPod Shuffle”, my newest toy and addition to the 20 gb. and mini counterparts (of which I have both.)
• I think the grammar in that sentence is wrong, but I don’t have the energy to try and fix it (partially due to all aforementioned bullet points.)
• I’m making a badass mix for my Birthday extravaganza tomorrow.
• Weather permitting, we will all be listening to said badass mix in this.
• Said badass mix includes the Thong Song, I Touch Myself, and Party All The Time. (Yes, by Eddie Murphy.)

So yes, if you see someone in a baby pool rocking out to Part Time Lover while drinking a Tecate, chances are, it’s me. Do say hello, won’t you?

The new Britney Spears/Kevin Federline show was supposed to be called “Can You Handle My Truth?”. In possibly the only smart decision that the couple made, they decided to pass on this; however, Britney utters this phrase no less than 4 times in the first episode, causing gawkers worldwide to throw up a little bit in their mouths. There’s nothing like regurgitating your dinner due to a pop star’s obsequious self-aggrandizement.

Still, with all due disrespect to the aforementioned couple, admitting the harsh truth about yourself is hard. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, after having this website and basically putting [most of] it out there for the world to see, should they choose to, but yet it never gets easier. Especially when it’s something unattractive.

A few months back, I realized that I was insecure in my relationship, something that didn’t surface until I was drinking. Sober? All was good and fine. The relationship was as easy a one as I’ve ever had, and things were going along quite swimmingly. While drinking, however, was a completely different story. Instead of relishing in my boyfriend, my inebriated mind twisted things all around and remnants from the past came to rear their ugly heads. It wasn’t anything he was doing, mind you, but more the regression into patterns from relationships past, relationships where – for one reason or another – I always found myself suspecting that they weren’t being loyal or forthright, suspicions that later proved themselves true. There’s something to be said about women’s intuition – it hasn’t yet let me down – but sometimes I think we’re all too prone to consult it even when everything is fine.

Whether or not things were actually fine is another story; we ended up breaking up shortly afterwards, possibly partly caused by this over-analysis and continual need for reassurance that things were, in fact, ok. Which, in retrospect, apparently they weren’t. Women’s intuition or self-fulfilling prophecy, who knows.

Through this experience, I found myself taking a deep look at myself, trying to see if this was a pattern found in other relationships; I went so far to ask some of my exes if I had done this, if they had found me insecure; for the record, they hadn’t. (Then again, these are the same people whose very actions caused me to be insecure, so their authority on the matter is somewhat questionable.) Regardless, I have spent the last few weeks in an introspective tailspin, trying to take an honest assessment of who I am and how I feel about that. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s certainly been interesting.

I realized, amongst other things, that I’m somewhat passive-aggressive, and that my whole life, I’ve done everything I could to avoid conflict. I’ve never gotten in a true fight with my parents, with a friend, with a boyfriend. When couples talk about how much they argue in a relationship, I can’t relate – at all. Instead of ‘rocking the boat’ and standing up for myself, I instead internalize it…there’s a recent example where someone I cared about acted like a total ass, essentially leaving me alone at an out-of-state wedding, and instead of leaving him there (had I been sober, I would like to think that I would have the gall to do so; in reality, probably not, even though he deserved it) I found myself upset because *I* had done something. Instead of being furious, like I should have, I was so worried that my behavior would shake things up so much that we wouldn’t survive. Well, joke’s on me – the relationship didn’t survive, leaving me not only alone, but angry at him AND myself for not standing up for myself.

Things are going to change. RIGHT. NOW.

Conflict is never fun, but neither is suppressing it. Instead of bitching about it to someone else, I may as well address it with the person; what’s the worst that can happen? They could get mad? Bring it – I need a little conflict resolution these days, and at least I know I’ve not sat on the matter, mulled it over internally until it made me sick to my stomach.

My Mom says the best thing about turning 40 is that you learn not to give a shit. Mom, I hear ya loud & clear … only I’m learning this 12 years early. While I may not have seemed like a force to be reckoned with in the past, take heed – times, they are a-changin’.

Get ready.

Happy Birthday to Me!

366 days ago, I was a different person.

I was also a YOUNGER person, but that’s besides the point.

It’s been a year since I’ve conducted my annual birthday analysis, trying to see where I’ve come and what I’ve left behind. My 27th year has definitely been full of ups and downs (hopefully more ups than downs) and through it all, I’ve lived and learned.

Cliche? Oh yes. But so true.

In the last 366 days, I’ve bought a new house, gotten a new puppy, fallen in something-like-love, fallen out of something-like-love, broken up with someone, been broken up with (via email, no less), laughed my head off, cried my heart out, been challenged, challenged others, made some mistakes and learned from them.

I’ve hurt and been hurt.
I’ve loved and been loved.

I’ve made the wrong choices, I’ve acted stupidly, I’ve done everything wrong. And sometimes, by chance or by choice, I’ve done it all right.

I can’t say I’ve loved every day of my 27th year, but I can say I’ve learned from them all. Even today. Even right now. Even in the midst of pain and hurt and tears and wondering when the hell is it going to stop, when is it going to just make sense? I’ve not yet figured it out, but I know I’m somewhere today that I couldn’t have been was it not for the last 366 days.

And so I welcome this next chapter of my life, my 28th year here on earth. I doubt it’ll be easy, but it’ll be worth it.

I didn’t think this day would come. Not that it’s a bad day, mind you, I just thought – given who I am, given my current predilections – that this day was never imminent.

Oh, but we surprise ourselves daily.

It’s not that I thought I was too good for it; on the contrary. It’s more a matter of preference, of druthers.

And yet, as often happens as we turn older, our tastes change. Three years ago I wasn’t ready for it; two months ago, probably not either. But now? Timing combined with situational constructs means what once was passe now is fabulous. What once was undesired is now much adored.

It doesn’t help that I am who I am, that lists often beckon my life, that I’ve already put more forethought into my Labor Day plans than many have about their upcoming weekend. I usually pontificate, over-analyze, trying to make sure that what I want is really, really what I want. Perhaps due to my unfocused nature of late, perhaps for other reasons, but this time, I didn’t go the normal route, didn’t look and search and compare and stress…for once, as uncharacteristic as it is, I just went with it.

So yes, for this birthday, I didn’t make a list. I didn’t even have in the back of my mind what I wanted (a good thing, since I officially celebrate the 7th anniversary of my legal drinking age birthday in less than 48 hours – read: Turn 28 on June 8th) but instead, fell upon something that I wanted and voila! There was my perfect birthday present.

But really, who would have EVER thought that I would have chosen California Closets over clothes?

I hate sports analogies.

I’m not one of those writers who thinks ‘striking out’ is a witty alternative to say that your pompous attitude and vicious ego caused you to go home sans nookie. Nor will you ever hear me use the 1980 US Hockey team in an inspirational post. Those motivational posters at the mall with the cyclist pedaling up a hill, the sun setting in the background? CHEE-zy. Nope, not for me.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself comparing sports and love at a dinner last night. In the midst of a carafe of chianti, in the company of dear friends, I found myself waxing poetic on the subject, and despite my prior aversion to the practice, it made sense.

It MAKES sense.

Dating is the only game where, before you succeed, you lose every single time. It bucks the odds – in any sport, where do you lose EVERY game and not quit the team? If you were to strike out at every at-bat, would you keep going up there and swinging for the field? Probably not. But dating, perhaps because its outcome is hypothetically and proverbially “worth it”, is the outlier. It beckons the hardy, the road-weary, the tiresome. It encompasses us all – from the smallest runt to the largest brute – and invites us in its banter. Dating – and its close-cousin Love – are liken to today’s Texas-Hold ‘Em poker invasion, with just about everyone throwing their name in the hat.

That’s not to say it doesn’t involve practice – just like any good sport, you have to work at it, going through the motions again and again until you think you’ve got it just right, only to find yourself up at the plate connecting with only air. That’s also not to say that the practice isn’t fun – in fact, practice doesn’t always seem like work! You can forget you’re actually playing a game, but – as many of you would agree – love is the ultimate game whether we like it or not. Yet despite our trouble, our toil, our resilience, until we finally hit the ball out of the park to win the game, we remain – sadly – lost.

I’m a persistent type of gal. I lost more grade school elections than one should and still continued to sign up each fall on the poster board in the hallway. I’m ridiculously tone-deaf yet always auditioned for a solo. As a (pseudo) adult I’ve had my heart broken so many times I thought I’d never recover yet again am held captive by the lure of the dream, instantly forgetting how it felt to cry myself to sleep. If it was any other sport, I would have long ago hung up my skates, thrown down my glove, bent my golf club out of repeated failure – but it’s not. I – and perhaps you – continue to get up there, head held high, and give it another shot, hoping this time will be the exception to the rule, crossing my fingers that it’ll be MY name they announce on the intercom. In the meantime, however, I’ll be busy practicing.

He laughed aloud.

It wasn’t for anybody else’s benefit – he had just heard some good news, and really didn’t give it a second thought as he chuckled to himself. It was an ebullient, gleeful laugh – one that fills up your lungs and without realizing it, you’ve got a smile on your face. Laughter like that, not to evoke the sentiments of some cheezy coffee-table book author, are good for your soul.

I heard him laugh through the wall – they’re actually quite thin here – and wondered to myself what the news was. Did he get the job he was wanting? Did he hear from his wife? Did his daily lottery ticket hit the $500 prize? A laugh that authentic, that pristine, indicates that his happiness is pure, unblemished, and that for one fleeting second – regardless of what happens later in the day – he was happy.

I found myself jealous. Those moments where your laughter is contageous, where you feel your inside rise up with the fluttery feeling that is true giddiness, doesn’t happen that often, not just to me, but to any of us. Those are the days when you find yourself walking on air – when there’s a silly little perma-grin on your face and even waiting in the loooonnnnnggggg line at Chick-Fil-A for your fave ice dream (hugely oversized in a cup o’ ice dreaminess) doesn’t even phase you. It’s like walking around in dreamland where all is right in the world – where the guy calls when he says he will, when your jeans come out of the dryer a size too BIG(!!), when your dog sleeps through the night and you arrive at work with a vase of tulips waiting for you on your desk. If you were a Disney character, you’d have the oversized-Cinderella eyes and the birds would be chirping on your shoulder.

Yeah. That type of day.

I don’t really remember the last time I had that kind of day, but it wasn’t until I heard the laughter – the loose, trilling laugh of the man next door – that I realized how long it had been.

I need that laughter, that day. I’m long overdue.

The other side of the story.

I always wonder about this – I know how I perceived the situation, but know that the very same event, looked at from another point of view, is a very different sotry. It’s only natural – there’s the truth, the actual occurrance of events, and then there’s the perception of said events. And herein lies the disparity.

Pride often takes center stage in a breakup. Either party may want to contact the other, but hubris mixed with insecurity often prevents it. So things remain unsaid and that incongruence in perceived reality not only remains, but grows. Instead of sitting down and talking through everything, we over-analyze and consult our friends, and after days turn into weeks turn into months, something that once was so promising ends up as “he threw in the towel” and “she’s crazy”, monikers that – after years have passed and you run into each other at a restaurant with your new partners – will be the one sentence explanation of your acquaintance. It’s a shame, really – this compartmentalizing and over-generalization negates the way that holding his hand made you feel like a part of something or the easy laughter of the day in the sun, only to be replaced by three-word labels.

And so what remains unsaid is the nail in the proverbial coffin, the point of no return. Later on is just too late to revisit – you’ve both moved on, the unsaid should remain as such. The beginning of a new chapter resolutely marks the end of the one that precedes it, and while that’s not always bad, it’s a shame that it’s partially due to a self-mandated silence, the very silence that contains the other side of the story.

Anyone besides me notice a resemblance?