aubreysabala.com

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

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..."