“A lady always knows when to leave.”

It’s a line that I first heard in a movie years ago, and it’s a line I’ve heard used by many in various contexts since then. I find it to be a lovely truth, and it’s one that I’ve tweaked to apply to certain situations I’ve encountered in my life.

I didn’t know when to leave Connecticut, even though so much can be said about the things that went on there.

The writing was on the wall.

I should have been able to read between the lines.

I should have cut my losses.

Any other saying you can think of is probably something else I should’ve done, too. But I didn’t. I think sometimes we have a tendency to stay too long – in a job that we know isn’t right but that we want to stick out for the sake of our resume; in a situation that has us on edge but that we don’t want to leave because someone might be offended, or because we might be considered rude; in a relationship that leaves us wanting something more – more patience, more understanding, more caring – but that we don’t detach from because of a mountain of small things that really don’t matter in the grand scheme (but which we believe do at the time).

We often know the exact moment the tide turns; it’s in someone’s reaction, it’s the intangible vibe that hangs in the air, in communication that becomes clumsy, messy or convoluted when it never was before.

Most of us can take a hint. I think sometimes we just choose to ignore them.

The salvage move is also known as a last-ditch effort; there’s a lot to be said for having a heart to heart about the issues at hand and appealing to someone on a basic, human level instead of in a finger-pointing manner. Calling upon someone’s humanity doesn’t necessarily mean you want to stay – it just buys you some time to regain a little sanity until you leave. It buys you time to address what might be going horribly wrong and be the bigger person. And at the end of the day, it buys you time so that a graceful exit can be made.

Moving on is one of the most underrated yet important things we can do for our spirit. I’ve placed so much value on sticking things out despite having personal appeals and attempts at bridge-building thrown back at me that I’ve not become better for hanging around – I’ve only been the recipient of more stomachaches, more unhappiness, more stress, more worry, and more wondering why I didn’t end something the moment I knew I should, instead of letting someone else end it on their terms. And I’m tired of it.

Today I am thankful for knowing that the salvage move is something that bridges the gap between resigning oneself to poor treatment and leaving without any explanation whatsoever. Make no mistake – the move is more for us than for the other person, because it allows us to voice what’s important to our soul and our being on a deeply personal level, and what we need from someone else. It salvages a bit of the dignity and honor that’s so easily taken by others these days, and gives us the green light to move on when our needs are not being met.

“If someone cuts Joel, I bleed. We are that close.”

These were the words spoken by a man’s wife – a man who went into the hospital for a normal, routine surgery, and who then then ended up having a heart attack during his recovery.

Extreme stress overtook his wife when she heard the news. Over the next few days as she tried to process what had happened and deal with the situation, all the while visiting him in his hospital room, she collapsed from what doctors called “broken heart syndrome.” Fortunately the collapse happened when she went to see him, so she couldn’t have been in a more perfect place when it occurred. Had it been elsewhere, hospital staff don’t believe she would be around today.

I used to watch movies and read books when I was little, and whenever death, grief, sadness or loss came up, I would cry. At a young age, I couldn’t bear to imagine any such scenario happening to me and my best friend. Imagining her absence from my life was too much. When we were little, my best friend was my whole world.

As I grew older and moved away from home a few times, I would imagine my parents in those situations. Again, more tears; picturing them gone forever was nothing short of paralyzing. My biggest fear was that they would pass and I’d be across the country. Now my biggest fear is losing them ever, period. But I know the day is coming. It’s coming for all of us.

Assuming one of my parents passes before the other, I am confident the one who’s left will pass of broken heart syndrome. They’re both capable of giving a look that finishes the other’s sentence. They both can make the other’s heart skip a beat and, I’m sure, stop entirely if one ceases to exist.

They’re both the kind who would bleed if the other was cut.

I think of all the ways we can go, and two of the most terrible for me would be to die in a plane crash or to drown. In most cases, I think there’d be too much consciousness and time to think, to reflect, to mourn and to regret before my end finally came.

Most people probably think that dying in their sleep is the best way to go, and I used to agree. It would be peaceful and, since I’ve always loved getting my Z’s, it seems like it would be a good fit. I don’t know that I’d ever want to die doing something that I loved, but if I were to pass due to the immense, undying love I had for someone, that would be OK by me; broken heart syndrome seems like the way to go. It would be strangely validating, in a way, and it would speak of the fact that I chose well, and that we’d found each other in this world that seems to become more strange and more upside-down by the day.

I imagine the person who would inspire my broken heart syndrome. They’d be someone of whom I feel fiercely protective, and who feels the same towards me – unwavering, loyal protection. Someone whose back I have, and someone who has mine. Someone who is a partner in crime. Someone who is both a dream catcher and a dream maker. I’m thankful for the person who’s in my imagination, because they’re born of the broken heart syndrome – the syndrome seemingly tailor-made for hopeless romantics and hopeful realists everywhere.

Love is a funny thing.

It all seems so random, so full of chance. It seems like it can happen, change or end as quickly as the winds shift. No rhyme, no reason, and there’s usually no forcing it – in either direction. What’s meant to be is meant to be. Or is it?

Sometimes I think it’s a wonder – no, probably something more like a miracle – that there are couples out there who say they’ve been in love from the moment they met. Think about the elderly couple who first connected when they were children, grew up a bit and married at 18 or so, then ended up having a blissful 70+ year marriage.

Think about the man who passes away, then mere hours later, the wife does, too – supposedly from a broken heart.

I believe the broken heart syndrome thing, I do. But what was it about them that was so binding, so permanent, so seemingly saturated with devotion and trust, with respect and love? What was it about them that seemed to make the Golden Rule their number one rule?

Was it an invisible force that made sure they were at the right place at the right time? Or was it more of a generational thing – were they simply in an era where love was perhaps more simple and less burdened? Or was it more celestial, maybe something sanctioned by the gods or driven by the alignment of the stars?

Sometimes I think these couples exist only to be the source material, if you will, for writers of romantic comedies. Other times I think they exist to give the rest of us something to strive for, to hope for.

Whatever makes great love great is, I feel, somewhat lacking today. That perhaps-unidentifiable-usually-intangible thing creates something that many want, but the process of ever getting there seems daunting. It can create impatience. It can create desperation. It can inspire everything from a hasty decision to pair off to an extended period of self-imposed exile.

I think back to the people that I loved, or that I thought I loved. Love in my teenage years was innocent and well-meaning. Love in my early 20s was more lustful than loving, a bit reckless and a lot irrational. Love in my mid to late 20s wasn’t love at all – looking back on it, it seems like it was fueled by a desire to be considered a good girlfriend which, unfortunately, had a poor and lacking definition; I shelved all of my interests for theirs, which is never a recipe for success. If you don’t have your own identity, how does the other person know who they supposedly love?

Love in my 30s has been sparse, by design. It’s been kept under lock and key in the interest of protecting my heart, but at what point does protection become detrimental? Does it ever? Sometimes with this blog I feel that I write so much that my verbal communication skills have taken a nosedive. Similarly, in the process of protecting my heart, has it ultimately shut me off from being open to exploring love?

Love is a funny thing, but I’m thankful for it – or rather, for the good examples of it. It makes me want to be a better person for myself and for whoever wants to take a chance on me, and seeing the success stories makes me content in knowing that it will happen when it’s supposed to, if it’s supposed to.

As human beings, we talk a lot. About who we are, about what we like, about what keeps us up at night, about what motivates us.

I think the talk can also be an interesting peek into the soul. Our talk can be recalling things from the past that we’ve actually done, or it can be about things that are upcoming. Many times, however, our talk is just that – talk. Talk to make ourselves seem like more powerful movers and shakers, talk that makes others think, “Wow, they’re really together.” Talk can be dangerous.

I think back to networking events, happy hour conversations with colleagues, and if they’re fueled by making connections as opposed to chatting with those you already know, a lot of the talk is simply fiction. They’re little white lies about the places we want to go but aren’t actively seeking out, and about the knowledge we claim to have in order to pad our resume.

We say we’re pursuing X, Y and Z because the truth might hurt; nobody wants to call themselves out in a group of people as someone who’s unemployed, who’s not happy or who isn’t content with the road they’ve gone so far down while they chased the almighty dollar instead of personal fulfillment.

The Happy Hour Doer can be someone who isn’t really doing anything at all, other than comparing himself to everyone else around him – and to others who are probably doing the same thing: talking.

Just talking.

It’s a phenomenon that can be motivational if we allow it – we can talk so that we put it out there to the universe and treat it as something we will ultimately be accountable for. It no longer exists solely in our head, therefore someone may ask about it in the future. Talk might just spur us into action. 

It’s also a phenomenon that can be paralyzing. We’re all talking, all “doing,” all going places. Or so we think. Then one person measures himself against someone else, and the dream is gone. The motivation is dissolved. The ability feels like it has died. All because the perception is that someone else did, while we sit there idling.

The Happy Hour Doer is a dangerous creature; talk is a dangerous thing. Today I am thankful that regardless of what other people have accomplished, and regardless of what others measure themselves against, the great equalizer will always be the word “try.” Without trying, there’s no chance of going anywhere, and nobody ever set out in a direction absolutely knowing they’ll succeed. They only figured, “Why not give it a shot?”

Here’s to less talk and more try in 2013.

So it’s been pretty cold here lately. Cold for California, that is.

Frankly, I’m into it. I love the cold. Getting all bundled up before heading out or snuggling into a blanket on the couch are awesome. Then there’s all that stuff you get to partake of…hot cocoa, apple cider, steamy bowls of soup, hot tea.

I think I developed a soft spot in my heart for frigid weather when I was back in Michigan for school. Before then, I never really knew what cold was…but I found out pretty quickly that first year when freshmen living on campus weren’t allowed to have cars, and when I had to walk uphill both ways (yep, I just said that) in the snow to get to work.

I got to my job one day and, as I was thawing out and listening to the radio, I heard that I’d just hoofed it in a wind chill that made things feel like they were well below zero. It was fantastic.

I’m not the biggest fan of the beach, even though one is never far away when you’ve grown up and spent the majority of your adult life in Southern California. And even though seeking out the salt air and the sand is rarely on my to-do list when I get some down-time, I’ve been to Hawaii twice for vacation in the past five years. Go figure. I guess the notion of little umbrellas in fruity drinks gets under my skin. And right now, even though the cold is just my speed, Hawaii seems like it could be a lovely place to visit yet again.

I was checking out a map last week, looking (dreaming?) for a place to vacation. Australia? Maybe. New Zealand? Perhaps. Hawaii again? Possibly. Everything that seemed appealing was to the left of California on the map.

Even if I went to the right and landed in the Bahamas, one could still argue that you could get there by going left…west…whatever — but just for a longer period of time.

This leads me to only one thought about which way to go when the temperatures start falling: left. Go left in the cold until you find someplace warmer. Go left until you find a beach that looks good to camp out on for a spell. Go left until you find your fruity drink. Then go left some more, stopping however often you’d like, until you get back home.

Tonight I am thankful for breaks in whatever weather we have going on in our lives, for the ability to change our scenery as often (or not) as we’d like, and for the home that we can always return to.

I’ve concluded that blue cheese hates me.

I’ve been on the hunt for the Laughing Cow Light Blue Cheese wedges for a few months now. All the stores that used to carry them no longer do: Ralphs, Vons, Vons Pavilions, Walmart, Target — you name it, I’ve visited it. The lack of wedgery has been wreaking havoc in my kitchen. How am I supposed to make waistline-friendly wings without the stuff?

My solution about six weeks ago was to use light blue cheese dressing. Easy-peasy, right? Sure. Until you can’t find that stuff, either.

Bob’s Lite Bleu Cheese Dressing & Dip ended up being my go-to, and a solid choice it was. Now that I’m out of it here at home, I figured I’d stock up again.

If only it was that easy.

I went to a store nearby to snag some. Nope, only the regular was in stock. Went to another store a few more miles away, and they had two jars: one was already expired (meh!) and one was expiring in two days (double meh!).

I smell a conspiracy.

I’m not sure what to think about this. I’ve made my own blue cheese dressing before and, while delicious, it’s sort of a process — not to mention it yields a quantity that I wouldn’t burn through that quickly.

Triple meh.

I suppose at the end of the day this might be a case of the culinary gods nudging me to try something else. I’ve long loved blue cheese — crumbles, wedge salads, as a dip, to bathe in (kidding, natch) — but maybe it’s time to branch out. Maybe? Maybe. We’ll see.

In the meantime, if you find any Laughing Cow wedges for me, I do accept deliveries.

One side spoke of solitude, of going it alone. From 22 miles away, it whispered that if the solo flight is what you’re after, it can be a lovely existence. It recalled a truth often found in songs and movies, in poems and quotes – a truth that says just because one is alone does not mean there is loneliness.

The other side told of how reaching great heights can be a difficult yet rewarding journey, as well as one where it is sometimes cold at the top. On one hand, you may find yourself closer to the sun, to the warmth, to your dream. On the other hand, the motives of others can be sobering; those dreamers who used to be familiar with warm gatherings and welcoming arms may now find themselves excluded, shut out, eliminated.

From one side of the 15th floor, the island was visible; on the other were snow-capped mountains. Large, crisply outlined cumulus clouds cast shadows on the ocean below. Mountains were marred by charcoal striations and peaks were covered in a blanket of white glowing in the afternoon sun.

The break I took for a hot cup of tea turned into an introspective collection of about 10 minutes, and one that made me feel like I was in the middle of a slight tug of war between the two. Both had pros. Both had cons. Both were appealing to some degree, and both were unappealing in other ways.

Fortunately we can often marry the best of both worlds, and come up with one that’s custom made for each of us. Today I am thankful that life is not an either/or, nor is it an all or nothing.

Three things I think are ginormous rip-offs: floor mats for your car, sodas and lip gloss.

Apparently I wear high-heeled shoes far too often, because I’ve managed to wear a hole in my driver’s side floor mat just below the gas pedal, a.k.a. right where the point of my heel would rest. The hole is small, but it’s visible; the fuzz of the mat is messy to the point of it looking like a bird was trying to nest in the footwell.

The last time I was in, I told the dude at the dealership about the issue.

“Oh, yeah – that happens a lot.”

The end.

It happens “a lot”? Weird. Maybe consider stepping up the quality a little since, you know, you’re Lexus and all.

“Hm…well, that’s no good. Can you let me know what it would cost to replace just that one mat then?” I asked.

“Oh, you’d have to buy all four,” he said.

Of course I would. Sheesh. And, yes, I realize the work-around here is to buy a one-off mat somewhere, but I’m clearly skewing in the all-or-nothing direction on this one. I do that sometimes. This time, I choose nothing.

I was wondering yesterday whether the alterations lady at my dry cleaning place would look at me weird if I brought in the floor mat for a patch job. Not that a floor mat is anywhere near a beloved, worn-in pair of jeans that would appreciate a new lease on life, but hey – they can usually fix anything, right?

I went to Subway yesterday with a co-worker, and overheard someone order a soda that was somewhere in the $1.70-something range. True, it’s not the biggest expense, but…it’s syrup and carbonated water. Such profit! Rip-off.

Lip gloss. Another button-pushing product! Perhaps if I dropped less coin and didn’t buy mine at a makeup counter in a department store, I wouldn’t be so perturbed…but I appreciate the packaging, and I appreciate the quality as compared to many of those bought at a drugstore. But come on, lip glossiers of the world – make a longer wand, brush or whatever it is that you choose to have the buyer use for applying said gloss. There’s always $3.84 worth of unused goo that I can never get to since it’s stuck at the bottom of the tube. I Googled a solution to this, and someone said that they resort to leaving their lip gloss in the car which, presumably, gets warm during the day, therefore causing said stuck gloss to shift a bit in the tube and become more reachable.

As much as I’d love to trek 15 floors down to my car, then across a courtyard, then into a parking deck whenever I need to reapply, I shall pass on this solution. Rip-off!

Rant, rant, rant. Hiss, hiss, hiss.

All amazingly, delightfully, painfully silly things to scoff at and blog about.  And all things that have simple fixes – fixes that I choose to ignore, as though they don’t exist at all.

The thing about these little nuisances, however, is that they can usually remind you of the absence of really big issues in your life. And when the bigger issues do come, those little irritations are the things that you sometimes find yourself thankful for.

Example: “Darn it, I overbleached my hair and a clump of it broke off. This is the worst day ever!”

Another example: “Dang, I need to have knee surgery? What I wouldn’t give for some damaged hair and a knee in good shape.”

See? Perspective. OK, maybe not the best examples, but I think you get my drift.

Today I am thankful for the little things that truly are little, and for the presence of little rip-offs in my life versus life-changing trials and tribulations. I know the day will come when the latter become more prevalent and time-consuming, but until then, I shall focus on conquering the challenge of goo-hogging lip gloss tubes and will share my fix with the world.

I have a thing for big hair.

Glam rockers from 80s hair bands, less glammy musicians from metal bands, hair product (shout out to root lifter), hair color – you name it, I probably dig it. It’s been a running joke for years that I have Texas hair and – whenever I travel there – it does, in fact, feel right at home. It is voluminous, layered, multi-colored and festive year-round.

A few months back, I went plant shopping at Lowe’s. One of the garden center dudes cruised over to me as I was inspecting a shrub called the Rainbow Surprise Mirror Plant. He started telling me that its leaves change color during the year, transitioning from pale green and gold during the spring and summer to hot pink and dark green in the fall and winter.

“Works for me – I’ll take it,” I said.

“Of course you will,” he replied.

I gave him a confused look. He explained further.

“Because of your hair,” he said.

“My hair?”

“Yeah. It’s all sorts of colors. It’s fun. It’s like a rainbow,” he said.

Interesting. Apparently my hair wasn’t as boring as I thought it was at the time – which is a good segue into to the fact that I suffer from what I like to call hair dysmorphia (no disrespect meant to anyone suffering from the more commonly-covered and legit topic of body dysmorphia). It seems that whenever I feel like my hair is at its flattest, it’s actually at its biggest. Whenever I feel like it’s time to funkify it with some new or crazy color, people will comment and say how colorful it already is.

Hair dysmorphia.

There’s been a picture stuck in my head for years – it’s seared into my memory like a badly charred piece of steak that fell through the grates on a grill and met a hellish demise; it’s not pretty. In the photo, my best friend and I are standing by my car during the summer of ’95; we were getting ready to head up to Solvang for a day trip before I left a few days later for college in Michigan. At the time, my hair felt normal; it was during my strawberry-blonde phase, probably with a little more emphasis on the strawberry. The color was from a box, but back then, I was down with box-color.

In reality, my hair was anything but normal. It was helmet-like and stiff, but fluffy from afar – I believe I went through 2 cans of Aqua Net that day to get it to be the size that it was, and to hold the fluffdom in place. But did I realize it at the time? Nooo. It took more than a decade to come to that realization, and I only came to it after I found said picture. I was shocked anyone let me leave the house, let alone parade my helmet in public.

What’s that saying? “The bigger the hair, the closer you are to God?” If so, then I was incredibly, amazingly holy back then.

A lot of time has passed since that photo was taken, and while I’ve graduated from box-color to the salon, my coif still tends to skew towards the large end of the spectrum.

The passing of time, as well as lingering photographic evidence, can be a good thing. Both allow you to grow, but not without reminding you of little lessons here and there. Mine? Helmets are for protection, not something hair should be fashioned into. I traded the curling iron for the round brush long ago and have ditched the hairspray for gentler, softer products, but lifeless, flat hair will never be for me – nor will my ‘do from 1995 return. And for that I am thankful.

You should be, too.

Details are important. They’re not always fun, but they’re important.

Truth tidbit: one of my pet peeves is when I send a clear email outlining X, Y and Z, complete with bullets containing as few words as possible, and then receive a phone call from the recipient of said email. He or she seems to be paralyzed by immense confusion.

“So I got your email,” Recipient will say. “What do you mean by it?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” I ask in return, even though I know it’s not nice to answer a question with a question.

“Well, I just don’t know what you mean,” Recipient will say.

Sigh.

Then I proceed to pull up my awesomely-written email and take Recipient line by line through what I’ve written, after which the light goes off and they suddenly understand.

“Oh, I get it!” Recipient will say.

Really? Good. You should, because I just read my email to you. But maybe you just wanted to hear my voice, in which case I am thoroughly flattered. Either way, hey – I’m here to help.

Similarly, I am always amused when I get an email from a recruiter that goes something like this:

“Dear Lauren – I saw you on LinkedIn and I reviewed your background. I have a wonderful B2B sales opportunity for you!”

I’m glad you reviewed my background – flattered (again), in fact. But I am stumped as to why you would deduce from it that my background is in B2B sales. Because it’s not. But thanks for thinking of me.

If I’d have jumped at each ill-fitting job opportunity, and if each one had hired me, I’d probably have 74 different careers under my belt by now.

This probably sounds like a rant but, interestingly, it’s not. It’s full of irony, because I’ve found that in the last two-ish years my ability to focus on a mere paragraph of copy is about as rock-solid as JELL-O. I can do it, but not before I start to sink. Quickly. Before I know it, the new and unimproved me has spent six times longer reading an email that I would’ve gotten through in a flash just a few years ago.

Maybe the phenomenon is simply specific to the majority of what I read (work stuff, news). Or maybe it’s not. The latter possibility terrifies me, because – gasp – can someone become one’s own pet peeve? Sure.

The horror.

I guess if there’s one thing to be thankful for, it’s that I started out being bothered by such things, and then succumbed to it myself. Had it been the other way around, I’d likely be oblivious to what’s going on. The way it happened creates an opportunity for action, to pay more attention, to mind the details…and for that, I’m grateful to the universe.

Flattered, in fact.