The progression of a Phat Tuesday (pun intended)

Date: March 4, 2003
Place: Various Atlanta locations

Scene: Picture, if you will, a typical Tuesday. This can, and usually does, involve work, home, dinner, and maybe even a bit o’ “24”, my latest guilty pleasure. It likely involves going to bed about an hour after you had originally intended, teeth brush and (if lucky) makeup removed. General stuff.

And then there’s last night. Fat Tuesday. I’d like to take you on a little journey and the reasoning behind the loss of my soul. But I’m getting ahead of myself here, so will just begin…

Time: 3pm
Place: Work (ugh)
Mood: SUPER
Am quite excited for the hours to come, rattling off emails on our meeting place (Fontaine’s in the Highlands) and time (8pm). I’m feeling quite smug over my strategic choice of this New Orleans inspired bar that’s not too far from my house as the perfect meeting place. Small butterflies of giddiness flit around my tummy.

Time: 5pm
Place: My bed
Mood: Sleepy
Just need a few minutes of shut eye — just a bit. Will definitely awake by 6 to shower and be ready for my 7:15 dinner plans.

Time: 6:47
Place: My bed, still
Mood: Semi-hysteria
SHIT. Am late.

Time: 7:30
Place: The Highlands
Mood: Frustration
Driving around every single street in the Highlands proves futile. Apparently others have a similar thought of celebrating FT (Fat Tuesday) in style. Well, that’s good, the more the merrier.

Time: 7:55
Place: The Highlands
Mood: EXTREME frustration
STILL DRIVING AROUND. Aubrey, sans food and rapidly decreasing blood sugar, is getting a bit testy.

Time: 8:05
Place: Fontaine’s
Mood: Violently irritable (and starving)
OOOH, I think I’ve made a huge mistake. The bar isn’t just crowded, it’s drink-spilling, people-pushing, fire-hazard packed. They’re not serving food save from ordering from the kitchen. Further, the menu is reduced, none of which choices falls even nearly w/in my diet except for the Oysters, and I’m not a fan of sand in my teeth. I’m growling, audibly. Getting a drink takes nearly 15 minutes, food is out of the question, so I decide to make the most of each trip and get two VS+2L (Vodka Soda’s w/2 limes). Killing two birds with one stone and all ‘dat.

Time: 8:45
Place: Fontaine’s
Mood: Elevating
2 drinks later, a little bit o’ shit-talking, and some reminiscing about freshman year randoms including Little Chicken, his Friend, and Square Root of F-D up Hair Dudes Squared (as well as Ray’s passed out bathroom fetal position nap and my toast to cheese at the cocktail) are working. The night is looking up.

Time: 9:15
Place: Fontaine’s
Mood: Rather good, thank you very much
Despite the difficulty finding the people that I knew were there, somewhere, drinks 3 & 4 are outstanding. Especially when #4 was so graciously purchased by Eric. And wearing my red boa ALWAYS puts me in a good mood.

Time: 10:15
Place: Moe’s & Joe’s
Mood: God, I really AM a rock star, aren’t I?
Feelin’ REAAALLLLL good. Chatting up a storm. Discussing the thought of marketing an all-in-one VS+2L as an entreprenurial effort (basically, lime-flavored, carbonated vodka in ONE BOTTLE for convenience) and deciding that PBR pitchers for $3.95 is the best deal in town.
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Time: 11:30
Place: Still M&J
Mood: Damn, I’m hungry
Realizing that a liquid diet has never worked well for me, I think I need to eat. Now. Only problem, have no money. No card. No nothing. But you know what I do have? My soul. It makes perfect sense for me at this juncture to sell my soul for 8 chicken wings. And that’s exactly what I did.

Time: 11:45
Place: M&J
Mood: Ravenous and carniverous
Pictures are worth 1000 words, and since verbal communication at this point was limited at best, I’ll let them do the talking…

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Damn, those were good wings, but I feel like I’m missing something.

$10 for anyone who can get my soul back…

Aubrey: Married by America

Ok. Am just sitting here with the drabble that is “Married by America” on tv right now and I can’t stop thinking that there are a lot of people from Atlanta on that show.

I also can’t stop thinking that there’s a reason for this. And that reason is that Atlanta is somewhat devoid of worthwhile dates/suitors/boyfriends/girlfriends. This is a little-known fact amongst people that don’t live here in Atlanta…granted, these are the same people that think it’s still HOT-Lanta and that Buckhead is a cool place to go out.

Not going to hold it against them, they just don’t know.

They don’t know that there are, in effect, approximately 8 bars that are even somewhat acceptable imbibing locations. They are (in no particular order), Mo’s & Jo’s, Highland Tap, Smith’s Olde Bar, Atkins Park, the “Hand-in-Hand/Prince of Wales/Rose & Crown” British triumvirate (counted as one, you see, as it’s the same bar on a different street in a different location), Neighbors (in the summer), Five Paces/Churchill Arms (again, same bar in essence) and East Andrews.

To compound the idiocy that is 8 acceptable bars for 4 million-plus Atlantans, East Andrews will soon suck as the Brio crowd finds out about it, Neighbors is dead in the winter, The British Triumvirate no longer serves Caffrey’s, Highland Tap can get claustrophobic and Mo’s & Jo’s is pretty small. Atkins Park contains the same people at any given day, and Five Paces/Churchill arms is basically a frat party for the 25-year-olds that refuse to cut their fratboy hair or stop being bitchy srat girls.

That leaves me with Smith’s. This smoky, not-quite-Midtown, not-quite-Highlands bar is my fave, what with the billiard-shooting gamers, the Golden Tee obsessors and, well, let’s face it — the proliferation of good looking and seemingly single men. Add to that the fact that it’s the best venue in town to hear live music on a not-yet-so-big-that-it’s-not-fun-to-go-to-anymore scale and it’s got the trophy for Atlanta outings.

Come one, come all, come if you’re a guy…just don’t come with your girlfriend.

But back to the “Married by Atlanta” concept. Now, it’s a well-known fact that I continuously propose to both Nicky and Brian and sometimes even Mike on a semi-regular basis, and while they’ve yet to take me up on it, I can’t imagine being married to someone I’ve never even dated. Of course, the family gets to ask all of like 5 “telling” questions to determine who to eliminate and who to keep, which will surely be able to pick them a mate for life.

Now, I pose that we enact these standards upon my own dating scene. Wouldn’t it be great if I could do a virtual fashion-show of my suitors, traipsing them up and down the runway to the critical stares and glares of family of friends? Then throw them the hard questions — the ones about their past relationships, their love life, their family, their sex lives…you know, all the things that you’d never tell anyone on a first date but that all of these reality-show media whores are happy to blab to the universe. Wouldn’t it just be so great to get the input of your ‘inner circle’? Their critique? Their pointed questions that would just lay everything out on the table and start from there?

In a word? No. For once in my life, I’ll take the mystery. I’ll take my chances. I’ll take Door #2, Chuck, and I’ll figure it out myself.

Who ever said romance and mystery were dead?

Exhausted observations

Am too tired to be witty, creative, or funny. It’s post-Alias, I’m still in love with Agent Vaughn, and being able to get to bed before midnight is a lofty goal.

Anyhoo. I’ll keep it short for once and just share the following things with you:

1. I’ve finally updated my pictures, including me in my 1995 prom dress. Note that it isn’t me in 1995 wearing said red dress, but me LAST NIGHT wearing the gown. Why? It fits and is a testiment to my forward-thinking fashion sense in that it’s not that outdated. (Though ‘it fits’ would be sufficient.)
2. Because you know I secretly want to be your social chair, I’ve added an events calendar. Just spreadin’ the love.
3. Heath Ledger needs to invest in Propecia, or else he’s soon to be knocked off my Top 5 list.
4. It’s cold as can be in NYC. How come Felicity never looked frigid?
5. Am still befuddled by the way our brains can let us remember only the good times, forgetting the bad, and send us into ‘winsome ex-boyfriend missing’ land. Anyone with a cure for this, let me know.

And on that, I’m out. Nighty night…

Two for the price of one

So, here’s the dealio — was going to write one entry and then had so many compelling facts that I wanted to share (public service to y’all) that I decided to combine and give you TWO! for the price of ONE! Without further ado…


WANTED: PATIENCE

Does anyone know where I can get me some? I truly believe that I am the most impatient person in the universe. Perhaps it’s a remnant of my only-childness, but I want instant gratification and, dammit, I want it NOW.

Waiting sends me over the edge. The day I get preggers I’m going to want to pop out that kid immediately. 9 months to wait? Hell, I want the gestastion period of an opposum. (13 days, incidentally.)

I think I’ve always been this way…I get huffy when I have to wait in line and I would happily nominate the ‘self-checkout’ lanes at Kroeger the best new invention ever.Still, I interminably end up in the lane that says ‘please wait for cashier input’ and said cashier is out on his/her smoke break, but it’s at least a step in the right direction.

Another theory is my whole extroversion. In an article kindly sent to me re: introversion, they touched upon the opposite, a profile I scarily find myself well-attuned to. (Note the italicized text added by the person that sent it to me…) It says:

“Extroverts are energized by people, and wilt or fade when alone. They often
seem bored by themselves, in both senses of the expression. Leave an
extrovert alone for two minutes and he will reach for his cell phone.” [In
extreme cases, she’ll subconsciously finger the ‘send/receive’ button on her
always-connected portable internet device, thus ensuring she’s never far
from human contact.]

Pathetic, but true.

Do I bore myself? Lord, I hope not. After all, if I can’t even keep myself interested, how can I keep others attentive? But yet, a vein of truth runs through this — anyone who knows me knows I’ve usually got 15 things due/overdue and pack my day/night full of things to do. (Granted, some of these ‘things’ include surfing the web to stay in touch with my favorite sites and of course update this daily banter, but I digress…)

It gets worse.

Emails. I send them off, and really AM obsessed with hitting “send/receive” as if it would actually prompt the person to send me a reply.

Is there a cure for this? Am I doomed to forever being impatient, antsy, and irritable?

I don’t know, but all hell’s going to break loose if you don’t let me know and leave a comment on my site soon…

A test of the emergency broadcast system

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This is a test of the emergency broadcast system.

The broadcasters in your area (read: me) in voluntary cooperation with other broadcasters in your area (read: my alter egos) have developed this system to keep you informed in the event of an emergency.

Please be warned that the conditions are right for boredom. There is a strong system brewing in the West that may soon make it into your area, causing you to stare at the clock and wonder why it is moving so slowly. Note that this is only a watch at this time, meaning that conditions are favorable for droning-on bosses and long-winded coworkers. Please stay close to your television and radios as this may, at any time, change over to a warning, with actual boredom and drudgery spotted on the horizon.

In the event of such a warning, please seek shelter at your nearest bar, pub, or brewhouse. If you know of no such place, a trashy strip club or even cheezeball watering hole will serve the purpose. If you find yourself stuck in a place where you cannot make it to one of the above safe locations, shut the door, turn off the lights and crawl under your desk for a little nap (being sure to brush away the crumbs of the many lunches you have eaten while sitting in front of your computer).

If you witness a fallen power bar (or a half-eaten Twinkie, abandoned long ago), do not, I repeat, DO NOT eat it. Identify the nearest liquor store in your area and proceed there immediately, stocking up on airplane bottles to fill your (locked) third drawer of the filing cabinet.

If this had been an actual emergency, the Attention Signal you just read would have been followed by instructions directing you to go to the “Shizzolator” (type in my web address for some fun) or make some poems with online website Magnetic Poetry.

This website serves the online area. This concludes the test of the Emergency Broadcast System.

disillusionment

I think it’s time for a little game…what do the following statements have in common?

“I don’t kiss and tell”
“I never come to Buckhead”
“It’s my first time”
“I love you/I love you too”
“NO they don’t make you look fat”
“It never rains in Southern California”

OH!! (Hand raised, waving around like that annoying pest in your third grade class that always wanted to scream out the answer), I KNOW! I KNOW!

Big fat lies.

I’ll leave the first five to be discussed at another time, another place, and will now tackle the last. Um, I call bullshit.

It didn’t just rain when we were in San Diego. It poured. I’m talking big, fat, drenching rain that soaks you to the bone when running across the street from the nasty sushi restaurant to the only cab in sight. I’m talking the type of rain that permeates your soul, and catches you off-guard when all you have brought with a hood is the top of your ghetto fabulous velour outfit. I’m discussing the type of rain that drenches even your spirits despite the fun, frolicsome debauchery that involves Sunday night salsa dancing and a Hummer Limo. Trust me, it was THAT type of rain.

Nary a ray of sun was seen after Sunday. No sunburns were received, no natural lightening of my hair was experienced, and basically, the only way that it could even be thrown in the quasi-vacation category was that I ate a lot of food.

You know how the news is talking about “Winter Blizzard 2003” and the “Storm of the Century” for the big fat snowstorm that is currently stranding my Dad and my favorite late-night-caller (and his roommate who uses expensive hair products) in the DC area? it was one of those, only rain. Apparently, San Diego hadn’t had any precipitation since December and looks like Mother Nature was making up for it. It even sabotaged our (discussed) trip to Tijuana since even the hovels on the hills that add to its colorful culture were collapsing in mudslides. No, this wasn’t the 90210-esque scene that I imagined — no Brenda surfing with Dylan, no shopping with Kelly up in LA at Rodeo Drive, and dammit, no bartering with Mexicans.

It was as grey as my GF (Ghetto-fabu) outfit. It was as soggy as my spirts. It was as big of a letdown as was last week’s Joe Millionaire. It was, in essence, the “When Animals Attack” version of a vacation, a added bonus turned sour.

That said, it wasn’t Atlanta, and I got a $400 voucher on Delta to boot. Hmm, I think perhaps I’ll save that Zoloft for even bigger tragedies, like if Trista doesn’t pick Charlie…

PS: For all of you who wanted to see my “Friday Futility” article, it’s password protected but very generically and lightly so. Email me if you can’t figure out the simple prompts, and it’s all in lowercase…

Friday futility

UPDATE:
Ok, so apparently this little entry is a bit confusing. Sorry about that. Basically, I wrote a little ditty on how Fridays often involve a lot of sitting around, procrastinating, and counting the hours and minutes until Happy Hour begins. It was a funny little piece, I do believe, but one that may possibly have given the (false) impression that I partake in this very un-work-ethical behaviour. Now, you know I’m a stellar, dedicated employee who eagerly assesses epidemiological software in Sub-Saharan Africa, so, to that end, didn’t want to jeopardize my position as such. So, removed the entry (temporarily) but, never fear, it will be back in some form, somewhere on the site, once I retrieve it from it’s ‘saved on my computer’ state and upon my return from not-as-sunny-as-it-should-be San Diego. (Which is an entry in itself that I can guarantee is forthcoming once I recover from all that it has been thus far…)

On another note, I’m famous. (For real this time, and I’m not talking about the January 2002 issue of Cosmo) Only problem, no one knows that it’s me. A quandary, you see. My little entry from last October, entitled “A Letter” (found at: http://www.aubreysabala.com/blog/archives/000015.html) has been circulating the Internet, both domestically and (according to my favorite person ever BK), internationally. You may have even received it, bastardized, of course. Amuse me and check out the original text…and then figure out a way that I can fund my writing career by receiving royalties on it.

So, that’s that. Until I return, try and keep your Joe Millionaire & Bachelorette finales (next Monday and Wednesday, respectively) anticipatory angst in check…

Starfu*king

I’ll admit it — I’m a starfu*ker.

I crave the limelight.
I have mini-fantasies about being discovered.
I come up with elaborate stories just to perhaps get a glimpse of those who live in the land where the sun always shines, where movie scripts magically appear on their doorstep, and where an inclusion into US Magazine is a reality of their job.
I lust after fame (and its subsequent fortune) and, well, for lack of a better word, that makes me a starfu*ker. [Note: The strategic spelling is a website necessity or any and all porn-seekers will end up hitting my site.]

In a feeble attempt to find a documented definition of “Starfu*ker”, I found a little bit of everything, but the closest to my intended meaning was found in an interview with Kathy Griffith when she said that it is someone who “kisses the asses of celebrities.” Now, that titillates me in the definition itself, since I would have to be in the same premesis with said star to be able to do any authentic ass kissing and that, my friends, would be the penultimate happy-dance impetus.

Pathetic? Perhaps. But genuine, nonetheless.

Take this weekend. Apparently, Atlanta is bracing for the revelry that is the All Star Game, and I will attest that those near and dear to me have been actively planning their outfits since December. (It is an amazement in itself that I have been excluded from this consensus, but somehow I got a hold of myself.) There are spreadsheets of parties being passed around, name-dropping on phones (cell, work, home, and the like) galore and it seems all of the ATL is embracing my own guilty pleasure of Starfu*king.

I am no exception.

Thus far, we’ve heard the rumors that Justin Timberlake will be gracing us with his presence, Jay-Z and Ja Rule will be party hopping, and even Whitney Houston is apparently throwing a fiesta for her parole-evading hubby. Mariah is doing a tribute to MJ (Jordan, not Jackson), Beyonce is a co-host of one of the at least 100 parties that are planned, and already there are so many Hummers in the city that it looks like we’ll soon be under marshall law.

A hassle at worst, a gigantic pain in my ass at best, I’ll turn to my friend Mr. Timberlake in response to any and all naysayers:

“Cry me a river…”

A whole lot of inappropriate and politically incorrect thoughts that have been running through my head lately

…that all the attendees at the State of the Union speech are going to get great upper-knee-areas (quads?) for their repetitive sitting/standing moves that they do every time Bush says something that they feel warrents a standing ovation.

…that there’s got to be a better name for “Dry Humping.” It makes it sound like a dog whose owner forgot to refill their water bowl. Suggestions have been thrown out to include YOTHOT — an acronym for the much-experienced “you on top, he on top” activity that is prevalent during said act. Such as “So, how was your date? Did you kiss? Did you YOTHOT?”

…that it took me nearly two hours to figure out the song that was playing in the trailer of “The Hours” only to realize that it was “Colorblind” by Counting Crows and that I spent the majority of a morning trying (unsuccessfully) to download this song. I was obsessed.

…that my newest guilty television pleasure (besides Joe Millionaire, which is apparently not that bad since I’ve watched it on a DATE with a REAL LIVE BOY TWO WEEKS IN A ROW) is Scrubs. And that they often have some good songs on it and yes, that I’ve totally gone to the Scrubs message board to figure out what they were. And that I succeeded. And subsequently downloaded.

…that I refuse to do the ‘eating like a bird’ tactic when on dates. I figure I’m saving them/you a shock in the long run, since it’s only so long that I can go without chicken wings/corn dogs/burritos.

…that, although I support the Military unabashedly, I need more proof before I can support a war that, at this point I feel would be a pre-emptive strike without justifying it to the people of the nation. I’m not saying I don’t believe that we need to protect ourselves, but I think we need to show good reason and proof before we strike first.

…that I’m secretly jealous of anyone who can go on the Atkins Diet since I could easier give up birthdays and christmas before my french fries. (ok, well, maybe just SCALE DOWN on them. No need to go cold turkey on anything, esp. on holidays in which I receive presents.)

…that I have been known to overdramatize stupid little events when feeling sorry for myself, casting myself as the tragic star in an imaginary movie, emphasizing my sadness and mentally imagining the morbid music playing appropriately in the background.

…that, when it comes down to it, I’ll have to agree with my friend Alan when he told me I was a hopeless romantic. Hate to say it (as it often gets grouped in there with accusations of high maintenance) but I am. And, to add insult to injury, I fully admit to over analyzing. It comes with the second “X” chromosome, as any girl can attest to.

…that I hate Carrot Top, Christina Aguilera, and didn’t like that Mojo person from Joe Millionaire. It was due time that she and her damned hat got the heck outta France.

…that I wish more people would drop in to visit without calling beforehand. While some see it as rude or an imposition, I think it’s charming and welcome any and all of you to follow suit. That is, if I’m not in a fight with you, and if I am, come prepared with wine, flowers, and a big apology.

…that, in the midst of a lot of good, fun, new, and exciting things going on in my life, I find myself thinking about things (and people) from the past that I shouldn’t miss, but sometimes do. And that I sometimes have to stop myself from calling them, knowing that it probably is better this way.

…that I miss “Felicity” and have almost written entries on this site on how I wish my life was like that show, where everything turns out for the best in the end, hushed voices, pregnant pauses and all.

…that Heath Ledger is about to be bumped off of my “Top 5” list if he doesn’t invest in some Rogaine.

…that I feel the need to tell anyone and everyone I see that I’m training for 1/2 marathon to keep me accountable and so I won’t wimp out when I decide it’s far too cold for me to go outside and run.

…that I miss the ‘g’.

Swimming laps of luxury…

There’s something about posh hotels that just makes you want to speak with an English accent, you know? The fact that the majority of the staff here at the Ritz (in DC, no less) has that sophisticated, elite, pompous but lovely intonation doesn’t help, and makes me just want to say “AAH yes, Jeeves, why of course you can assist me with my bags, it is to be expected.” Or something along those lines.

I swear. Step one foot into this lovely establishment and I stand a bit taller, a bit straighter, a bit more of the nouveaux riche poseur that I can so effectively pretend to be. I inherently put on my (jasmine scented) airs, perhaps at a pathetic attempt to prove to the staff that, why yes, I DO deserve to be here.

Now, I’ve stayed in some nice hotels before — Australia brought me to the ANA Harbour Grand Hotel Sydney down on The Rocks, I lavished the sun at the Coral Beach Hotel in Marbella, Spain, and for one reason or another, I’ve been on intimate terms with the Ritz in Atlanta a few times. I’ve become accustomed to the 400-thread count delight that beckons me to oversleeping, the plush white robes that have beckoned some to do gyrating, post-midnight dances, and the telephone next to the toilet. And I like it.

I don’t want to return to my life as the pauper-esque homeowner with (two plus one) cats, with the daily drabble that is work, life, bills, finances, cat food, cat poop, dishes, laundry and, you know, all that stuff that I keep saying that one day I’ll hire a personal assistant to do for me. I like being a high-roller, a baller, a player (all adjectives come courtesy of my hilarious boss), I like my posh poseurdom, I like playing little rich girl in big bad hotel and, dammit, I like the expensive food and the mini-bar and the status that goes along with it.

Pretentious? You bet.
Pompous? Even better.
Addictive? They need a 10-step program for this, I tell you, or at least something to help our symptoms of withdrawl.

Oh, that’s right, they do! It’s called Champagne, and I think I see some with my name on it in the mini-bar. Heck, it’s a medical necessity, and who am I to stand in the way of health promotion?

From me, from the Ritz, from DC — champagne wishes and caviar dreams.
-aubs