A few thoughts on my oldest.

Sassypants turned 8 last week. We let her choose where to go for her birthday dinner. She had all the culinary options of the greater Seattle area available to her and she picked Old Spaghetti Factory because apparently, we’re raising a monster.

Questionable food choices aside, she’s a pretty amazing kid. Husband and I have always encouraged independence in her. Sometimes I worry we’ve gone too far, but she’s got a sense of self well beyond what I had at her age. She expresses herself, asks thought-provoking questions, and tests boundaries (for better or worse).

She loves science, reading, art, and math. When I told her I wanted to get some math workbooks for her to work on over the summer (she had some trouble at the end of the year), she lit up. She’s been asking to practice math like it’s some kind of treat. How the hell do I bottle that??

She’s also a fantastic big sister. Don’t get me wrong, she can be a shitty one, too. But more often than not, she’s super sweet with Kraken. She has far more patience with her sister than I would expect of a kid her age. She’s caring and kind, even when Kraken is pitching a fit.

It’s obviously not all sunshine. Sassypants has been like an unruly teenager since birth. She throws attitude like monkeys throw poo and rolls her eyes with the slightest provocation. She’s also a picky, reluctant eater with a strong proclivity toward getting hangry. She’s still awesome, though. And the older she gets, the more I like spending time with her. I’m really excited about the person she’ll become — but I also really enjoy who she is now. She’s affectionate and genuinely enjoys spending time with her parents. I know those traits won’t last forever, so I’m trying to soak up as much of that as I can. 

Happy birthday, Baby. I hope you love 8.

A sheep in wolf's clothing.

Like seemingly most professionals, especially professional women, I suffer from a quaint little affliction: imposter syndrome. There’s that small(ish) part of me anxious about the day people realize I’m not that good at what I do. One day, they’ll see the emperor is wearing no clothes. Except I’m no emperor; I’m more of a naked plebe wandering the streets, strategically positioning myself behind signage, water barrels, and the billowing skirts of properly-clad denizens. 

Early in my career, I chalked it up to inexperience and my non-traditional path. I never got around to going to college; I owe my career largely to a lucky temp job placement, plucky attitude, and very patient boss who liked how I wrote office-wide emails. On the surface, that may sound oh-so-bootstrappy, but by stumbling into my line of work, I’ve never felt fully in control; it doesn’t entirely feel like mine. I don’t have an educational foundation to draw from, just my gut. And intuition has never been my strong suit. On the bright side, I didn’t rack up a crushing amount of student debt.

Don’t get too jealous — I married into that.

But back to my delicate psyche. I moved from admin to writer, but for many co-workers, it may have seemed like simply a cute office experiment. After I moved on to my next job, I bumped into an old coworker who seemed unnervingly surprised that I changed companies but not roles. For someone with neurotic levels of self-doubt, it was like watering seeds. Clearly — that was 10 years and 3 jobs ago and it’s still with me.

This shit is all compounded by my start in agency life. If you’ve never worked at an agency, count yourself lucky. Yes, we could crack a beer (or vodka) in the middle of the day with minimal judgement, but it was less a perk and more a survival strategy. Agency life is brutal. One place I worked had a couple stairwells. It was generally impolite to notice the people crying between floors. There are two kinds of people who succeed at agencies: the ones who are fucking rockstars at their trade and the ones who can handle vocational abuse. I guess I like a challenge?

Thankfully, I’ve moved out of agencies for now. Maybe even forever. But now I can’t rest on being quick with the copy and the bullshit. Things are slower, more deliberate. It’s not an element I’m comfortable in. And nothing gets those inner demons talking like discomfort. Every time I write something, those little fuckers are nattering away: this sucks, they aren’t gonna like it, it doesn’t make sense, you’re gonna get fired. You’re not good enough. It’s exhausting trying to keep them quiet.

And the craziest part is that I KNOW this is insanely common. I’m sure there are several highly-capable, talented, awesome people I know working through similar issues. But that doesn’t make the anxiety any less real. In fact, it feels like as soon as I acknowledge I’m good enough, that’ll be the catalyst for everything to unwind. I have no idea how to get past this.

Imposter syndrome is a bitch. The struggle is real.

Email Like a Boss. Really?

Someone at work shared this image yesterday. Or the day before. It doesn’t matter.

As with most things, I have irrationally strong opinions. But, I have this here blog and it’s been ages since I posted. So, I present my evaluation of “emailing like a boss.” (No offense to @danidonovan. Well, not a lot anyway.)

Late email responses

Don’t do this unless they’ve actually displayed patience. If they haven’t, it just sounds passive-aggressive. While it may be appropriate in some cases, it’s a crappy default response. It eschews knowable sentiments from the sender in favor of assumptions about the recipient. I certainly don’t want to be thanked for patience if I’ve been angrily waiting on someone else. Besides, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with apologizing for keeping someone hanging.

Calendaring

This one’s entirely circumstantial. I mean, if you have a specific time request, fine. But if you’re using it as some sort of Outlook jiu jitsu, well that’s just douchey. I don’t attend a lot of meetings or block out time for tasks. As such, my calendar is pretty open. I’m usually scheduling meetings with people who are far more constrained. So yeah, I want to know what time works for them. I’m not going to imply some sort of preference where one doesn’t exist. Just because my time is flexible, doesn’t mean I don’t value it or expect others to. I hate this one.

You’re welcome

No. Just no. I don’t understand this one at all. At least the others are trying to convey a sense of assertiveness. But this? This is just going for some mealy-mouth, ass-kissing bullshit. Real talk: I am NOT always happy to help. No one is. “No problem” is perfectly acceptable, but if it bothers you for some reason there’s a well-established alternative: go with a fucking “You’re welcome.” And those asshole exclamation points. Ugh. I hate this one more than the last.

Suggestions/Directions

These are both shit. The first is farcically passive, the second can make you sound like a dick. Especially if you’re a dude talking to women (sorry-not-sorry, mansplaining is real). How about “I think we should…” or, if you’re particularly strong in your convictions “We should….” If you’re making a suggestion, own it. But also understand that hey, it’s entirely possible someone else may have a suggestion. One that actually might be the best.

Rewriting

Some people are writers and care. Other people are writers and don’t. Others are talkers. I don’t want to talk. I want to avoid talking at all costs. And just because something is difficult to word does NOT mean it’s automatically better to talk in person. There are a number of scenarios in which an email, even a difficult one to compose, is better. Sometimes you need a record. Sometimes something is sensitive/awkward, and more so in person. Sometimes someone has a thick accent the other person can’t understand. Sometimes people have to email me. Whatever. This is totally a matter of preference and, again, circumstance.

Understanding

Again, entirely dependent on context. If it is something particularly complex, new, or to someone junior, the first suggests the sender knows the reader may not get it and welcomes questions to guide clarification. The second one seems so terse and boilerplate that the reader may not understand the sender is actually expecting followup. Although really, this is a way more legit scenario for that whole “We should talk about this” thing.

Checking in

Oh, lordy. These are two distinct emails. If you need an update, like, now, send the second. But if you haven’t been waiting to hear about something (aka, being patient….) send the first. If you are genuinely checking in, the second is pretty fucking aggressive. As a recipient, I’d assume the sender thinks I’ve dropped the ball.

Errors

That second response sounds so disingenuous. Especially with those damned exclamation points. The first one is okay, but really, what’s wrong with a simple “Ooops – here you go.” While there’s nothing inherently wrong with an apology, small errors don’t require them. And they certainly don’t require “Thanks for letting me know [exclamation point].” 

Schedule change

Yeah, this one I agree with. Except it should just be “I need to leave at _____” – why you’re leaving ain’t none of their damn business.

An American horror story.

I finally got the bill for my first infusion. Okay, that’s not entirely accurate. I’ve had the bill, but Husband finally went through the mail and opened it. Now, I knew the medication would be stupid expensive – estimates were in the $1500-3000 range (ugh, per monthly dose). Those estimates were a tad off.

The line item cost for the drug alone (not the infusion or its related costs, just the drug) was twenty fucking thousand dollars. If your jaw isn’t on the floor, you’re numb to the absurdity of this system.

I mean, I could buy a Jetta for the cost of this stuff. That’s a not-shitty car, every. single. month. For eternity. Add in the cost of actually getting the drug administered, rather than having an expensive liquid paperweight, and we’re talking a monthly Passat. The insurance company getting their knickers in a twist makes a lot more sense now.

Oy vey. This post was supposed to be an amusing commentary about all this, but I can’t stay on this subject without spiraling into an rabid political rant. One that’s too fucking serious to be funny. And I really can’t risk popping a vessel over this; goodness knows how much the resulting surgery would cost.