I’m a wee bit of a crier. As I write this, I can literally HEAR my family and my husband echoing, “That is the understatement of the year.”  

Ok – I cry a lot. It’s just how I roll. You give me a compliment – I’ll probably tear up. You offer up constructive criticism – I will be fighting the tears. Movies, commercials, sermons – oh yeah, every time.  In fact, the year I graduated from college, the administration was working on a film to use for marketing and fundraising purposes, and they asked me to be interviewed on camera. It was the YEAR I WAS GRADUATING and you are asking me to ruminate about my college experience? Um, yeah – WATERWORKS! It took like seven takes because I kept crying and no one could understand what I was saying. True story.  

Friendship is a funny thing. It seems like it should be all manicures, mojitos, laughter-till-you-pee-your-pants and middle-of-the-night-phone-calls – and if you’re lucky, it is all those things and more. Unfortunately, it’s often the “more” piece of the equation that proves a little more complicated. 

The truth can be a nasty little bugger and in friendships of a certain depth, the truth cannot be ignored. However, the truth is not always easy to swallow, not even over perfectly muddled mojitos.

I recently found myself in Southern California for a business trip and had dinner with an old college roommate whom I hadn’t seen in more than five years. Over baked brie and red wine, I looked across the table at a beautiful, independent, grounded woman who, despite our distance and gaps in communication, I knew with full confidence I could still count a true friend.

I get it. She has the whole you-go-girlfriend cackle and has struggled with her weight like your best friend. She gives away cars and has a school for young girls in Africa -- I get it -- Oprah is great. Like most of America, I am not fighting it -- I've fallen under her spell; more often than not I watch her show at night and yes, I get a subscription to her magazine, ok? But more and more the hate portion of my love-hate relationship with Oprah is cropping up to the surface.

I'm telling you something is not right. Once I started down this road, I thought perhaps it is just the fact that she is as taken with herself as we are. Does she really need to put a gianormous picture of herself on the cover of her magazine EVERY SINGLE SOLITARY MONTH? Does this not bother anyone else? I mean, so wierd, right? Sure I still read the magazine - but I swear I would enjoy it alot more if she shared the covergirl wealth.

I ran across this tidbit the other day and thought it supremely interesting:  

Japanese marketing company Hime & Company recently announced that staff members are allowed to take "heartache leave" when faced with a break-up. Employees ages 24 and under are given one such day off per year, 25- to 29-year-olds can take two, and those older can take three days recovery time.

I feel like we are so trained to keep our heartache hidden and our emotions in-check, that this blows the lid of the model. It's not to say I've never taken a "sick" day due to heartache, but God knows I made something up so no one would know. Hello? I'm not an idiot! And so goes the thinking, right? To suffer heartache is human, but to admit to it -- to call a spade, a spade -- feels like an entirely different matter.

When I was in fifth grade Mr. Cohagen gave me a B – my first B – in math. I felt sure a B didn’t suit me. Eleven-year-old me decided I couldn’t rest until this B was out of my life. I went to Mr. Cohagen and talked myself into an A. To this day, I don’t know what made me think that I could “challenge” a grade – and I have absolutely no idea what it is I said…

All this to say, I’ve always held myself to a very high standard; with unrealistic expectations for myself, and the people in my life, I’m often left frazzled and disappointed. Today was a day where I came home from work, very late, and feeling both.  

I chose an industry where things move fast and faster; an environment where if the client says jump, our only question is how we should bill it. And for the most part I’m a person who does best in over-drive – but there are days – like today, where I question why I have to be like this.

I spend my days creating strategic messaging, drafting talking points and coaching executives on how to interact with the media. Most often my clients know what they want to say, but don’t how to say it, or to whom, for that matter. Perception is everything, which is why we don’t let just anybody spout off to the media. We train and coach and practice.

And maybe it is this orientation, that makes me react so strongly when I read something like this, from Blender magazine:  

“Right now I'm also reading the Bible, beginning to end. I'm very religious. That's how I've gotten to where I am.”  — Heidi Montag, MTV’s The Hills   

If you don’t know, The Hills is a pseudo-reality show where MTV crews follow several 20-somethings around L.A. It is the epitome of everything that is ridiculous about reality television – 22-year-old girls whose “reality” includes getting paid by MTV to wear designer clothes while partying and hooking up with Hollywood’s C-list. I won’t go into the details but Heidi is the “villain” of the series and known primarily for getting gianormous new boobs and being engaged to her fame-whoring equal.  

I wish I could say I was one of those people who didn't care about "stuff"; the rare breed who actually want to have someone buy a goat or a star in their name. I am not one of those people. And despite a tender streak that results in spontaneous tears - whether it be a Hallmark commercial or a compliment from my boss -- at the end of the day, I prefer stuff over sentimentality. Sad but true.

Flexing His all-knowing muscle, and no doubt showing off His sense of humor, God landed me the sweetest guy;  one who wants to save ticket stubs no less. So this Christmas, I decided I had to take action. I orchestrated a trip to Barnes & Noble and while "casually" browsing, I "stumbled upon," a book I thought it would be "fun" for Eric and I to read together: The Five Love Languages. (Insert manical, evil laughter here).