Lately, I’ve been thinking about how my life would be different without this website. Besides the amazing people I’ve met through it, or the writing jobs I’ve gotten because of it, I wonder what – if anything – would be different if aubreysabala.com never existed. And, while on this train of thought, I’ve talked to a few of my friends and asked them this question:

Do you think my life would be easier if I didn’t have my website?

One response: Sometimes I think you cause yourself more pain than joy with your website.

Then, of course, I had to discuss and explain, which I’ll attempt to do here.

My friends – these are some of the closest, dearest people to me. They know me in & out, have lived with me over the years, even when I sincerely thought that buying a sweater in size XL at J. Crew was in fashion. They’ve lived through a ton of laughter, a ton of tears, and even a few amaretto sours before math class. And their sentiments are real, are kind, I honestly know without a doubt that they want the best for me, so when I see them questioning a part of my life, or my behaviour, I listen up. As I have been doing.

Their stance – that they don’t understand how, or why, I choose to be this honest, at least in a public forum. To them it would make more sense if I wrote these thoughts in a journal – online or otherwise – for only my eyes to see it. While I get where they’re coming from, I don’t agree…and that’s why I’m trying to figure out why I don’t.

I started this site in 2001 as a work project, something to do in some downtime. The style was much different, but the content has, for the most part, remained about the same. This was right around when blogs were getting big; I, being only on the cusp of techno-nerd-coolness, didn’t realize that my meager little site may one day fall under that moniker. To me, it was a place where I could highlight my writing as I was still struggling to get published…I needed a place to have a portfolio and a place to exercise my writing. So aubreysabala.com was created, and four years later, is what it is (whatever that is) today.

Through the years, it’s gotten a lot more personal. The articles – as I still call them – aren’t nearly as stand-alone as they once were; years back, I was able to submit many of them and publish them in various publications & magazines without much editing. They were about universal thoughts – guys and girls and observations about life, love, etc. As I still think they often are. However, as more people came to the site and the readership increased, it became more of its own entity, more of the “Aubrey has a website.” And, well, I suppose I do.

So, through the course of time, it logically also became something that people I was close to, including people I dated, knew about and even visited. And this, similar only to my parents in nature, is where it gets a little harried.

My friends think it’s a bit too personal at times, especially if they put themselves in the place of a date or a boyfriend or even an ex-boyfriend. And I understand – it might just be. But to me, it’s part of who I am, take it or leave it. As with most things about me, there’s rarely a gray area…it’s all or nothing. And yes, I know I could probably write this all with some password protection, guarding my inner-most feelings a little more closely, but that’s not who I am, not how I’ve chosen to do this.

There’s some catharsis that comes along with shedding all inhibitions, knowing that if anything, anywhere, in my life, I’m telling the truth here. And even though I know (in some cases) or assume (in others) that there are people reading this that I may not want to, or are here remaining in my life in a virtual sense after they’ve exited it in a physical sense (something that I’m still coming to terms with – it just doesn’t seem fair somehow that they can leave but still be here), I think it’s more important for me to continue on. I’m making that choice knowingly, willingly, understanding what I’m risking. It’s because part of what makes it real, for me, as a writer, is the very expression of it, painful or not, to the world, which I suppose includes those from days and months and years gone by who I’d otherwise wish farewell to but – given this forum – have no say on their presence on the site.

Also, I think the very process of learning discretionary writing is somehow important. Instead of blatantly saying “John Doe, you broke my heart, you know that, don’t you?”, I somehow, in some form, am coming to terms with it myself over the next weeks & months, and that sentence will end up somehow making sense in a very different wording. As with most things, expressing such public feelings and coming to terms with them take time, and by having to learn this discretion publically, in my writing, it’s like I’m easing into the acceptance of it all myself on my OWN time frame.

It’s a question of authenticity and free will. For instance, when I’m going through a hard time, I have a choice presented in front of me: I can either write about it now, albeit not naming names or specific situations, knowing that people involved may just wander over here to see how I’m handling it all, or otherwise choose to write something safe, something innocuous, somthing that has NOTHING to do with what’s really going on in my head. And the choice is different each time – sometimes I take the leap, put my heart on my sleeve as I’ve done so many times in the past, write authentically what I’m feeling; other times it’s still too soon, too close to me, and though it’s almost harder to keep it refrained, I choose the safe route, and in doing so feel myself heading down the path of blithe drabble that is as disposable as anything I’ve jotted down on a napkin.

Sometimes I wish I was a singer instead of a writer, at least to remove the immediacy. Their personal feelings get written one day but sung about days or months or years later when the pain has dulled and the very thing that made them cry is being spun on radio stations all over the country as a catchy refrain. And yes, I have the choice to write this now and display it later – I’ve done that many times. But it doesn’t feel the same to me, again I feel a sense of unauthenticity. So, for now, this is the method that I know to work. Tomorrow? It may change. But today? It’s what gets me through.

To quote Anna Nalick:

2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer
inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you’ll use them, however you want to.

Use these words however you want to – that’s what there here for.

Aaah, Summer.

Yes, I know you’re not technically here yet, but trust me, I’m ready. In anticipation of your arrival, I have already unpacked all of my bathing suits (even if I still haven’t unearthed the majority of the “true” necessities.) Perhaps it’s the weather and the fact that I haven’t driven my car with the top UP in over a week. Or it might be the distinctive smells that announce your impending arrival that I’ve rediscovered on my new pre-work run with the pup. Or maybe it’s because the true joys of the summer – namely, the beginning of the Aubrey Cookout Series – is beginning this week. Whatever the case, I can’t wait to see you.

The evolution of the Aubrey Cookout Series spans back to years past when I got a grill as an Easter present from my Dad. (‘Who gets Easter presents?’, you ask. UM, that would be me. But I digress.) Anyhoo, a lazy Sunday by the pool also warranted some grilled chicken and burgers on the barbie. A boring Saturday night without plans? Come on by. You bring the food, I’ve got the beer, and – voila! A tradition was formed.

And so we continue this tradition this weekend, with the weather hopefully beckoning friends near and – well, if Buckhead is far, then far – to Casa de Sabala for some fun, friends, and festivities, I can’t help but think that you might be getting ready to arrive. And since your arrival includes two beach weekends (Hello, Destin! Hello, Wrightsville Beach! Hello, feet in the sand, sun on my back, tan lines and more!) and a trip to the Phoenician as well as 12 days in Hawaii, if this is the unofficial beginning, then I just have one thing to say:

Welcome, Summer. I’m glad you’re right around the corner.

I’ve been talking to my exes.

No, not talking in the ‘let’s get back together’ sort of way, nor in the ‘hey baby, it’s 3am…wanna come over’ variety either. Enough time has passed with these certain individuals that I know that both of those situations are not only unlikely, but ill-advised. But on the same note, enough time HAS passed where a phone call isn’t seen as an invitation, nor a suggestion of anything; rather, it’s seen for what it is. A call to say ‘hello’, to see how they’re doing, to catch up with someone who once played a huge role in your life. And it’s from talking to these very people that I realized something – that, after the drama has died down, all the tears have dried and the dust has settled on the love-long-gone, they often hold the key to your future. Thus I mandate that all relationships need an “EX-it Interview”

Similar to a debrief after a very important corporate meeting where all details are discussed and rehashed to help you prepare the deliverables and meet future & current expectations, the “EX-it Interview” is equally important to YOUR future. The ex, whether a former adulterer or boring dud, holds valuable information that you need, things that can help you going forward, can prevent you from making the same mistakes. As long as you’re on good terms (or heck, even solid footing) with said ex, I’ve personally begun to realize how helpful they can be. (Now if only they were that helpful when you were dating…but that’s another story for another time.)

Yes, I’ve been talking to my exes lately, only to find that I remember some things much differently than they do. They remember the the football game; I remember crying afterwards. They remember the beach; I remember carting all the stuff to and fro by myself and getting frustrated. But they remember a few other things – they remember talking on the phone until the wee hours of the night, and the nickname they always called me that I had since forgotten. They remember the road trips, the times we would sit out on the deck drinking while the sun went down, cracking ourselves up over nothing. And its in these “EX-it Interviews” where you have the chance to ask questions about yourself in the past, the “was I overly insecure when we dated” or “did you think I was jealous” type of questions. The things that really matter, the things that you’re trying to avoid in your current relationship, the things that if you knew you were doing them, you’d stop, the things you really need to know.

So yes. I’ve been talking to my exes. I’m just not sure I’m ready for the latest “EX-it Interview.” Not yet, at least.

I was listening to the radio today, and the local station was interviewing Jane Fonda regarding the premier of her new movie with my Top-5 member, Michael Vartan. They discussed the Red Carpet Premier here in Atlanta tomorrow, I drooled openly when they mentioned that a walk-on role in Alias was part of the silent auction (don’t think I didn’t head to my floundering checkbook to see the feasibility of a bid!) and then the conversation turned to her new book – “My Life So Far.” And, with all due respect to Mr. Vartan and his amazing hunk-dom, that’s where the conversation turned interesting.

Now, my knowledge of Jane Fonda is somewhat limited – I know she was/is an actress, was in “Barbarella”, was married to Ted Turner, lives in Atlanta, and there was some incident back during the Vietnam War. (I’ve since done a bit of research to find out more, but for sake of this article, that’s where my knowledge was previously.) What I found to be so interesting in hearing her talk about this book wasn’t that it was her memoir, which I assumed from the title, but that her reason behind writing the book was to provoke others – specifically women – to reflect on their own lives and relationships.

In the interview, Ms. Fonda continually mentioned not feeling ‘good enough’ for the majority of her life, and the interviewer asked her what changed, what happened to make her realize that she was. Jane’s answer? “I finally realized that ‘Good enough’ was ‘Good enough.'” Not overly prolific, mind you, but when you think about it, it’s the very acceptance of yourself that makes it – makes you – ok with who you are. And I’ve seen in too many people, myself included, that this isn’t always the case.

I think many women, once they reach the age that they feel comfortable enough to look back on decades of their life, discovering patterns, want to help the next generation, afraid that they’ll see themselves in the young. In fact, when my Mom called me at work about a month back to tell me that I should get this book, I didn’t think that much of it; after all, this occasion happens at least once a week, usually after a viewing of Oprah or Dr. Phil. But hearing that statement today on the radio – well, I think my Mom may have been right. Perhaps I DO need to read that book – perhaps so do my friends and other girls around me who, without meaning to, without intention, find themselves questioning themselves and their actions at the very time they should be embracing them.

While they say that jealousy rears its ugly head, insecurity is much more subtle, peeking out slowly behind an otherwise innocuous facade. It doesn’t come out with a bang; instead, it’s littered in innocent statements, often without your knowledge, but added up, conveys something much stronger even than jealousy – that perhaps you’re not really where you think you are. That ghosts – or relationships – from the past might not actually be vanquished. That time might only heal some wounds, but not all. That although we should learn from our past experiences, we shouldn’t be so wary that we’re – in essence – recreating them without meaning to. That sometimes we have to pick up, move on, and let good things happen without constantly looking for the other shoe to drop. Because you’re not ever moving forward when you’re constantly looking behind you.

So much to say, so much to say … with my apologies to Dave Matthews, of course. But the sentiment remains.

Some status updates for your enquiring minds (read: I don’t think I’m prolific enough to write anything if it doesn’t exist in list format at this state. My apologies to YOU, the World Wide Interweb, for that.)

The house – if possible, it exists in even MORE disarray than before, the aftermath of getting everything out of storage last weekend and finding that I have probably been keeping Rubbermaid in business with the purchase of their storage bins.

The puppy – she’s getting her last (!!) round of shots today, rendering her a fantastic candidate for Doggie Day Care. (Trust me, this puppy has more energy than I, or even her trainer, know what to do with. I’m guessing she’ll never have a weight problem.)

The job – Busy, busy, busy. Freelancing is running amok as well, and I have since coined myself Cheezy McCheezealot (my apologies to my guy-friend for this vernacular) after ending an article on Paulding County with a one-word paragraph – “Indeed.”

The health – Eye surgery…I survived. Harder than I had expected, but for a gal who has worn glasses since 3rd grade, being able to actually SEE in the shower is a new experience. (So THAT’S why I always missed shaving the hairs on my knees…) However, after surgery, moving, a weeks worth of screaming at every customer service representative known to man as well as running home nearly every day at lunch to try and meet some delivery-person or repairman, et. al, it’s no wonder I’m now un-officially sick. (And for those who don’t know the difference between Aubrey Officially Sick and Aubrey Un-officially sick, the former involves much whining; the latter involves too much to do to have time to do the whining. Plus, talking without coughing in this case is more than a bit difficult.)

The wedding – Mine? You jest. This is just highlighting the beginning of the official wedding season; aka, every weekend in the summer. We’ve got three this month alone, one in June, two in August, with bachelorette parties, et. al. to boot. But – if you can believe it – I’m FINALLY caught up on my gift-giving! Wonders never cease.

The pictures – From many an evening on the town, with many a beer to be spilled, with a few including a Viking helmet and sword (you’ll have to see it to believe it) and even an Indian headdress from this past weekend’s jaunt to New Orleans, they’re coming. I promise.

Because right now, the shower is calling me, Lila Belle is nearly late for her puppy appt, and this girl is still wondering how people get by on DIAL-UP. Because really – Comcast? If you don’t get yo’ ass out here DAMN skippy, I’m gonna lose it on yet another one of your customer service reps. And – ask any T-Mobile or Home Depot rep you know – it’s not a pretty day to witness an Aubrey spurned. (My apologies to them…actually, I take that back. They deserved it.)

Well, I survived. Not just the surgery, but the packing, the move, the deliveries, the overly unhelpful customer service people, a Braves game, a trip to Fado, and even a venture into the “might-as-well-be-in-Tennessee” city of Dacula, GA. Yes, though I have been wearing the same Google sweatshirt, flip flops and jeans for the past three days and haven’t the slightest idea where the dress I’m wearing for the wedding this weekend in New Orleans is, it’s official. I’m the owner of a new home, a new puppy that loves her backyard, a fabulous new loveseat/overstuffed chair combo, three fireplaces, and a kitchen that even I don’t understand how I lucked out enough to get.

And yet (don’t you love that I’m always finding a caveat?) I keep attempting to make progress, to unpack another box or put together another lamp or side table and yet it seems like the ratio of unpacked vs. packed is still skewed in the ‘How can one person own this much stuff‘ side. Every time I unpack a box of, say, formal dresses (one of two, and yes, I know how pathetic that is), there exists three more plastic crates of books! Of photo albums! Of dishes! And pots and pans and lamps and socks and – who knew – an entire box of pashminas. I live in Georgia and have a WHOLE. BOX. OF. SCARF-ESQUE-THINGS. No need to chastise, I’m embarrassed enough myself.

Still, I had fabulous helpers this weekend, and even though “complete and total disarray” is too kind of a phrase for the actuality that is my disaster-scene-living room, I had friends stop by, some even unexpectedly (my favorite thing ever!!) and I had wine to offer them – from a wine fridge, no less. I had my crafty gal-pal wield a drill like nobody’s business, my savvy decorator/builder guy friend offer suggestions for my decor, and enjoyed the pleasure of the company of a delightful young lad not only at the Braves game, but also at our friends’ Seder last evening. All in all, despite the treadmill of boxes, the overwhelming feeling that I’ll never get to the bottom of the unpacking, I secretly feel that for the first time in a while, perhaps I’m not just running to stand still – perhaps I’m going somewhere.

I’ll admit it – I’m a stresscase. Whether it’s work (often) or guys (um, sorta often), I tend to be somewhat of a worrywort. Granted, through the years I’ve found ways to justify it (“I’m a writer, I need to over-analyze!”) or disguise it (“Sure, I’ll have another glass of wine! Stress? What Stress?”) – but regardless, once a worrier, always a worrier.

Still, I’ve always known that worry about something rarely helps the situation – in the long run, it doesn’t affect whether or not you’ll get the job, if you’ll find your dream house, or if he’ll call or not. I’m a firm believer in the “things happen for a reason” mantra, that worrying, as easy as it is to revert to, plays little to no bearing in the outcome.

And yet when it’s something big, something serious, I can’t help but worry a bit. As is the case this week.

I’m having surgery in less than 24 hours, and – truth be told – I’m freaking out a little. Granted, it’s LASIK surgery, and though I’ve read the possible complications and know what to expect, the thought of me sitting in the waiting room by myself sends me on the fast track to anxiety-land.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve only had surgery once before (on my wisdom teeth) and for whatever reason, be it that I was younger, was in Ohio, had my Mom to take care of me or the fact that I “awoke” to find myself leading the office in a spirited round of Christmas carols, I don’t remember being this worried. But now? Today? Tomorrow? Yeah. I am. Maybe it’s because although someone is dropping me off, I’ll end up in the waiting room – waiting – alone. Or, even though someone is taking me home, I’ll be there – alone. And if I’m in pain? Yep, you guessed it – alone. The funny thing is that I know I’ll be fine, but my usual rationalizations don’t seem to be working here. Plain and simple, I’m scared.

No wonder they say “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff.” Because eventually, when the “Big Stuff” comes around, you’ll learn what a fool you’ve been worrying over something that, in comparison, is pretty small.

Still, I somehow know that when all is said & done, when this post makes me laugh over my stress, I’ll still be worrying about the job, the house, or the guy. Hey – I’m still Aubrey, after all…

Life is all about pace. Go too fast – you’ll miss some of the magic. Too slow? Eventually, your attention will turn elsewhere. But somewhere in the middle, you’ll find your groove – your pace – where things proceed smoothly.

There’s something to be said for slow & steady – the whole colloquialism about winning the race under that pace has validity, but to me it’s the steadiness that provides the winning edge. Whether it’s work, relationships, even a pilates class, maintaining that steady balance will, at least in my mind, lead to the best outcome.

Though that’s not to say this epiphany has come easily to me – quite the contrary. I’m impetuous to a fault, an all-or-nothing kind of gal who gets excited by the possibilities in life, taking them on full speed. My realtor & mortgage broker recently shared a laugh about this, telling me that they’d never met someone who, once she knows what she wants, barrels full steam ahead with such vigor, refusing to take no for an answer. In many respects, they’re right – at least for the most part.

And yet it’s been through this very type of living, the 2-second decisions, the “act now, consequences later” behaviour that people have said often draw them to me that has caused me to take pause when it means something. When it’s something of worth, stepping back and making sure you’re remembering to breathe is imperative. Because while we know that slow & steady may win the race, we also can’t forget that good things come to those who wait.

Ask, and you shall receive.

It was just a few weeks (ok, days) ago that I was lamenting my craziness, my over-committed self with three thousand things to do and a whole boatload of stress sitting squarely between my shoulder blades. I retire to bed, weary, exhausted, and yet I have to jot down five or six things each evening that I can’t forget to do the following day.

“Schedule the dog walker to come twice on Friday.”
“Call the Saab dealership.”
“Buy a wedding present.”
“Get the laundry out of the washer.”

As much as I’d like it to, my mind doesn’t turn off at the end of the evening; it just doesn’t have time.

To add to that, I had a house to sell, a new house to buy, a puppy to train, eyes to be lasiked…should I continue? Finishing each day a sane person was a challenge in itself.

And then, the universe answered.

The current house? Rented. For 18-months, no less.
The new house? I’m closing two weeks from today.
I’ve scheduled the changeover in all utilities, gotten all of my information to the mortgage lender, and hired the movers. Things are FINALLY coming along!
(I even bought a new dining room table.)

As for Lila Belle, she had a very productive meeting with the dog trainer, who suggested that Lila thinks that SHE is the boss. (Funny, I thought that I was!) As a result, we’re doing “homework” that includes me closing her jaw and growling (I kid you not) while I say “No Bite.” Then, when she pries the jaws of death off of my finger/hand/arm/leg/foot/ankle/insert body part here, she recieves “Good Girl, No Bite”. Thankfully, the ratio of “No Bite” to “Good Girl, No Bite” is starting to weigh in the favor of the latter. If I had only known back in 10th grade math that the only fractions I would be doing would include calculating my dog’s good behaviour, I would have skipped class a lot more.

But yes, things are hectic. I’m still not getting the sleep I need, but – to quote my friend after my Tar Heels beat silly Illini – this is the best week ever. I agree. After all, I’ll soon be calling THIS home.

In relationships, there’s always the initial stages where you’re learning about each other. You learn that he hates sushi or has a huge obsession with fantasy football. It’s that warming-up period where you learn how your quirks and his fit together, learn which “battles” to fight and which to let slide, learn to make it all work.

And then one day, it does. You know that he plays poker with the boys every Wednesday and shouldn’t disturb him during that time, know to expect him to come over on Sundays to mooch off your HBO subscription. You’ve left that precarious period at the beginning of the relationship where you’re worried that if he really found out that you organize your clothing by color and style (sad, but true) he’d declare you too anal and dump you on the spot in some juvenile asshole way like via email and entered into the honeymoon phase, where all is good and fine and he finds your type-A-ness adorable.

And then, when it ends (which it likely will, unless you found that gem who makes the honeymoon stage last forever), it’s not the schedules that you’ll miss, it’s the meaningless, mundane acts of nothingness that will suddenly reiterate the new-found void in your life. It’s not the restaurant that you two were so fond of; rather, the fact that you once drove his car home from that restaurant. It’s the comfortability that comes from time, the easy casualness of it all, the fact that you can sit in his car and know where he keeps his cell phone or the fact that his work badge is kept in the glove compartment. It’s the feelings of mutuality, the un-difficulty of it all, that makes you miss not necessarily him, but the feeling that you had when you were with him.

I always expected to miss the person, to miss their traits, their kindness or even their uniqueness, but I never thought that I’d miss a beat up old car and the way that the seats would recline just so.

That’s life – you never get what you expect, and never lose what you expect either.