Completely Legitimate Reasons I Could Have Quit My Job

They took away my mirrors

My narcissism knows no bounds, and when the lobby renovation of my building was finished, there were no more mirrors for me to double check myself before heading up to my office. There used to be a wall of mirrors and gold mirrored elevator doors in which I could double check my hair, look for wardrobe malfunctions, and just get a good glance at myself as I walked down the long hallway.
image

Once they began construction, I knew nothing was ever going to be the same.

I had no idea what I was doing

I wasn’t a writer anymore, but I was still writing a little social media content. I was also negotiating big fat contracts and talking to potential partners. lt was strange and scary, but let’s be honest here…I was talking to people every day, shmoozing, and learning…I kinda liked it. And it turns out, I’m pretty good at it.

They wanted me to work in the office on Black Friday

Not at MY office, mind you, but the corporate office, which was about an hour drive. I was told to bring crossword puzzles because it was known that there was nothing my team could do to help the madness. Let me clarify that I was planning on working Black Friday. From home. I could care less about shopping these days, but driving up to the main office at 4 am to do crossword puzzles? Sounds like a waste of my time. If I had to work on Black Friday, and could be of any use to my peers (other than running coffee, which was also a recommended option for things to do), sure no problem. But that wasn’t the case. The office would have been a lonely skeleton in which I felt trapped by corporate entities that just wanted to look good in front of their superiors. That don’t impress me much.
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My friends were leaving

At one point, I had oodles of friends at my old company. But they were all moving on to bigger and better things. New fancy companies with matching hoodies and name recognition that would make anyone swoon. I’ll admit I was jealous. That green-eyed monster can be a beast.

Something magical happened

Sure, those were all perfectly acceptable reasons to leave a perfectly acceptable job. But I’m not really that kind of girl. After a few less than savory experiences in the world of employment, I knew it was important to be picky as fuck when I did finally jump ship and the only reason I would ever leave would be if I found something amazing to take its place. And somehow, I happened across a magical unicorn of job listings at a company I really wanted to work for doing something I wanted to do…and the rest, as they say, is history.

I feel like I’m home.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

What Can You Do With an English Degree?

Whilst shopping at Carson Pirie Scott, I observed (eavesdropped) a couple of ladies who had run into each other randomly. I listened as they played catch up and maintained a somewhat blah degree of small talk. I drew a little bit closer as they began discussing one of their children who, to her mother’s dismay, was getting a degree in English.

Her friend/acquaintance asked, “Well, is she going to teach?”

The mother of this English major expressed her disappointment and incredulity that her daughter was, in fact, not going to be a teacher and what in the world could she do with such an inferior degree.

If you major in English, there are a LOT of career paths you can take. These are just a few ideas.

It was, at this point, the time I felt it necessary to interject. Yes, I did jump from being a fly on a wall to joining their conversation. Because OMG people need to understand the relevance and brilliance of English majors everywhere.

I marched right up to those women and interrupted the fuck out of their conversation. “There’s actually a lot you can do with an English major.”

They looked at me only a little funny, because in the Chicagoland area, and probably by extension the Midwest, it is entirely normal for people to just jump into your conversations. We’re a pretty friendly people. Even if we do eavesdrop and take joy in overhearing people quitting their jobs out of the blue.

“I have a Bachelor of Arts in English.”

“Do you teach?”

“No, actually I don’t. I’m certified to teach English, but I have no desire to do so. On the contrary, there are many things that a degree in English can prepare college grads for that other degrees don’t.”

“Really?”

Well, duh, lady.

“I’ve actually had a couple of thriving careers with my English degree, and the beauty is that I’m not tied down to just one. I was a catering manager for a couple of years, and now I’m a senior copywriter for a Fortune 100 company.” (And now I’m an editor. Maybe one day I’ll own a restaurant or something. It’s the circle of life, bitches).

The ladies were impressed and maybe a little less judgeysaurus rexy about the whole English major thing. As I walked away, I was transported back to my senior year of college in which one of my favorite professors, Dr. Prescott, led our senior project class. The project? Write a research thesis discussing one career path you  can take with your English major.

Of course, not knowing what I wanted to be when I grew up, as I had JUST dropped my education minor (to teach English) the previous semester, I looked to what I knew. Dad was in wine sales for years before he took on ownership of the bar. Liquor sales seemed like a brilliant idea. Plus I could source dad and some of his cronies for my first-person sources. It was ingenious. I got an  A.

English majors, and really anyone with a degree in the liberal arts, often get a bad rap for being lazy and stupid (LAS – Liberal Arts and Sciences). None of which is actually true. Lazy? Fuck no. We’re intuitive. We’re clever. We believe in working smarter not harder. If we can write a paper in 3 hours when we’re given 3 weeks, why in the world would we waste time writing it early? If we work better at 2 am than at noon, we’re going to write the shit out of a final paper in the middle of the night. Because we can. We understand our strengths and weaknesses. We know where and how to thrive.

-Literature is unbelievably helpful, because no matter what business you are in, you are dealing with interpersonal relationships,It gives you an appreciation of what makes people tick.-

As an English major, I learned more life skills than most of my friends in other more direct degree programs. Sure, a business major is going to learn how to land a deal or make a sale, but I learned how to talk to and more importantly, write to people. To engage my audience in a way that makes a sale feel natural and authentic. I learned how to negotiate a big fancy contract without ever discussing contract negotiations in a class, because I know people. I know words. I know the intrinsic value of human interaction in every aspect of business. Someone who went straight from their B.S. to an MBA program without working a day in their life doesn’t necessarily have that luxury (this also doesn’t mean that that don’t).

So what can you do with an English major?

Whatever the fuck you want.

Did you go to college? What did you major in? Did your major lead you down an expected career path? 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Who Needs Big Brother When I’m Listening to Your Conversations?

I realize that I’m a total creeper. To be fair, you guys asked for more of these…so if you’re weirded out, you’ve only got yourself to blame. Except for the graphic. That was all me.

I'm always listening to conversations, and when I hear or see something noteworthy? I write it down.

My old company had a big ole corporate office that I almost never visited. I worked at a satellite office full of hipsters and people who didn’t seem to mind that I wore rainbow yoga pants to work. It was a comfortable place to be. In my last couple of months at the company, I was required to make my way to corporate on a weekly cadence. My teammates and I called it Mordor because a dark cloud seemed to loom over the long drive to the office.

One of the neat things about Mordor err…corporate was the miniature city within an office. When I realized I needed to buy tampons, I could just head to the convenience store inside the building. Which is exactly what I did on my last Mordor err…corporate day.

I walked into the shop, where a woman was sitting behind a register on the left side of the counter and a young man was standing behind the register on the right side. Another employee was walking back and forth through the store, and I made my way to the pharmacy aisle.

I grabbed a box of tampons, walked down the snack aisle, stared longingly at the box of Oreos that I opted not to purchase, and made my way to the cashier, a young gentleman in his late teens/early twenties. I thought to myself how far I’d come since my embarrassing first period, and how I didn’t give two shits that some dude had to pick up a box of tampons, look me in the eye, and ask if I needed anything else. If he did ask, I considered telling him to hold on a second, I needed some Midol – just for funsies, but he never gave me the chance. He scanned my tampons, and as I was punching in my phone number to the system, some other guy (my assumption is that he was the manager or supervisor) walked behind him.

This was the exchange that played out.

Cashier: K, I am not in the mood. I’m sick and don’t feel well.

Wait, what the fuck is going on? Where did that even come from? That guy never said anything.

Supervisor: I don’t give a shit.

Woah. Hostile much? Wait, these people are AT WORK. This is how they’re speaking to each other in front of customers. This is SO fucked up.

Cashier: Fuck this place.

Well, this is an interesting turn of events…I wonder if he’s going to…

The cashier reaches behind his neck, pulls off the lanyard he’s wearing, and drops his badge on the counter before I’ve had the chance to swipe my credit card.

Cashier: I quit. I’m done dealing with this bullshit. Have fun making deliveries today.

Did that seriously just happen?

Yep. Yes, it did. That guy just quit. While ringing up my tampons.

Me: Ummm…can someone complete my transaction?

The girl sitting down stood and moved toward the register I was at, and the previous cashier turned from the door before he left.

Cashier: A, I’m really sorry. I’m sick of this shit. I have to go.

That was fucking ridiculous.

The girl completed my transaction, and I went on my merry way. Furiously typing up the exchange in my “other people’s conversations” files, anxious to tell you about this insanely ridiculous story.

It seemed fitting that this happened on my last day at the central office, as I only had a few days left. I was glad I didn’t quit in anger like that guy, but it definitely added to the weirdness I felt about leaving.

Have you ever witnessed someone leave their job or have you quit in a rage? What is the craziest way in which you’ve left a job?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Life is Just Plain Weird. Oh, and I Quit My Job Today

Quitting a job is absolutely bizarre. Today is my last day at my current company. In two weeks, I’ll start a new role at a new company, where I’ll learn new things and make new friends and start a new routine. But over the last week or two, things have been…weird. Because I knew I was done. But I was still getting stuff done. It’s a very surreal experience. I could say it twenty different ways and it wouldn’t feel normal.

Quitting your job is weird and awkward, and the ceremonious way in which we do everything makes it even weirder.

I’ve quit jobs before. I’ve sent e-mails to bar managers and called in to restaurant managers, but typically, I don’t just leave a job for something better. It’s never been my MO. I’ve been laid off and left jobs when they weren’t right for me, but I promised myself I’d never quit a job without a better job, this time. And so I waited it out. Until I could find a place that could offer me a new home. A place to grow. Which I did, and I’m SO excited about. But that doesn’t make leaving this job any less weird. These are just a few of the weird things I kept thinking about over the last week that make quitting a job the right way a little strange.

Two Weeks Notice

First, you’re advised to give notice. And not just like, hey tomorrow’s my last day. Instead, the norm is to offer 2 weeks of your time after you know you’re donezo. When a job lets you go, you’re out that day. Why does this tradition exist? During those two weeks, do you tell people you’re leaving? Do you keep quiet and get as much work done as you can? I fell somewhere in the middle and was wigged out the entire time. I’m proud as fuck I was able to see a contract through to completion and launched before my last day, but what if I hadn’t finished it? Would I have been expected to continue working long after my last day to finish it? Would I have left it to someone else who wasn’t in on the rest of the contract process? Fucking weird, right?

Exit Interviews

I always thought I’d leave angry with a big ole bone to pick with HR. I’d been preparing for my exit interview since I started. I documented every instance of ridiculous, crazy, and horrible things. But when push came to shove, I didn’t have anything to say. Sure there were times I was so angry I threatened to quit.  But I got a lot out of my job. I learned a ton. I explained my reasons to my boss, but mostly it was just the right time for me. I have a new job lined up that I’m so incredibly excited about, and I’m not leaving my current job on bad terms. I’ve made my peace.

Saying Goodbye

I’ve bid farewell to many a co worker in my almost 3 years with the company.  Several times, I’ve shed a few tears. Not just because everything makes me cry…but because I was genuinely sad to see people go. Now it’s my turn to go, and I’m genuinely sad to say goodbye to the people I’ve come to know here. That doesn’t make it any less awkward. I started telling some people last week that I had put in my notice, and others I didn’t tell until yesterday. Others still, I didn’t tell until I sent my last e-mail. It’s just weird. Because I didn’t want to be in the middle of contract negotiations and then tell people I’m leaving. I didn’t want to be working on a project and let people think it was going to slip between my fingers. I wanted to finish what I started and get it done properly without a thousand questions as to why…but then I felt guilty not telling them until now.

But my last day is here, and I’m not sad or angry or joyful. I just feel weird. Adulting is hard.

Have you ever quit a job for something new and exciting? What is the strangest thing about quitting a job? What other weird traditions do we stand by that should maybe be eliminated?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I’m a CopyWRITER not a copyrighter

Since my first job as a copywriter (which, by the way, is a word that I had to add to my Google and MS dictionaries in order to not have that annoying red squiggly line), I’ve confused many a strangers and friends alike.

You see, when I say, “I’m a copywriter,” people imagine me spending all of my time pouring over boring copyrights. That, my friends is something like a copyright attorney. Of which, I am neither an attorney, nor someone who begins to understand the details of copyrights–other than knowing I should put a little © all over the place when I talk about Quirky Chrissy©. AmIright?

So this is where spelling counts, people. Grammar is important.

Grammar nazi

Copy is print. Copy is written advertising. And written media. If you just write blogs, you are a blogger, but if you write actual website content (like for…Groupon or a videographer’s website), then you may be a copywriter. Because a copy writer—Wait for it–WRITES COPY.

Blog friends, do you have a job title that confuses people? Or just tell me something awesome about grammar. (For example: I love the Oxford comma…and for work, I’m not allowed to use it…so it’s becoming the bane of my existence. And yesterday on my personal Facebook account…I didn’t use any commas at all. It was very upsetting to me that I couldn’t edit it from my phone.)

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

A Letter to Recruiting Agencies

Dear recruiter,

It has come to my attention that you don’t all seem to quite understand how the job market works. I have discovered the following issues with you and your respective companies, and I would like to help you out.

1. Do just a little bit of research

I’m not asking you to discover my life story. I’m not asking you to read all of my writing samples. I’m definitely not asking you to seek out this blog (as it is obviously not intended to use for full time employment). I’m merely asking you to do a tiny speck of research.

Just because I live in Illinois, does not mean that any job in Illinois is within close proximity to me. In fact, just because I live in a Chicago suburb, does not mean that I live within close proximity to the job you are trying to bid at $15/hour. I would spend more in time and gas getting there every day. So, look at my resume, copy the town I live in, and Google map it for crying out loud. 3 seconds will save you a lot more time than it takes to call me.

2. Speak English. Well.

It’s very hard for me to understand you when you don’t even know how to pronounce Christine. It’s very easy. Say it with me, now, “K-ris-tee-n.” If I can’t understand your pronunciation of my name, how will I know the job details? How are we going to negotiate my rate of pay? How will I know what YOUR name is?

3. Double and Triple Check Appointments

If you set up an interview for me, please for the love of God, double check on both ends that it is a go. I’ve missed out on some great opportunities because of a recruiter’s mistake. When a high profile job goes live, I get 3-5 phone calls from various recruiters around the country. I’ll remember that the next time you call.

This is a short letter, but an honest one. I appreciate that you are there to “help” me, but I also understand that the “sale” is your bottom line. If you work with me, I’ll certainly work with you. I am GOOD at what I do. All you have to do is get me the interview.

Sincerely,

Me.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

My Year as a Professional Contest Winner

The end of 2012 is near, and it’s time to reflect on the year. Each year is dubbed with a theme. 2010 was the experimental year… 2011 was the year I found Mr. Wonderful AND the career of my dreams.

2012 was my year as a professional contest winner. With the loss of my job in  January, I spent the majority of the year searching. And searching. And searching. I worked a summer position teaching reading comprehension (SO COOL!) I worked some freelance jobs and short term gigs, but still haven’t found my home in the copywriting world.

While I was waiting. And writing. And searching. I found myself winning contest after contest. $50 gift cards here. $50 gift cards there. A furniture set that was later yoinked from under me (I don’t really dig the Mix. Their communication wasn’t exactly stellar. I faxed them their paperwork…and yet they never managed to “receive” it. PSHA I say. They gave the set to the runner up. Whatever. It wasn’t the greatest set anyways. Our couch is WAY better.)

sweet couch

This is me testing out our sweet couch before we bought it.

In total I won the following this year:

  • Free food and stuff from McDonald’s
  • $50 Gift Card to Ultra Foods
  • $100 Gift Card to Victoria’s Secret
  • A Hair Flat Iron
  • $50 Carson’s Gift Card
  • 2-$10 Von Maur Gift Cards
  • 4-$20 Yorktown Mall Gift Cards
  • $80 in Certificates for JC Penney from their amazing Merry Christmas promotion

I think I did alright. I mean…Really…who wins that much shit in a year? It’s like I won the lottery…but instead of wasting money on lottery tickets, I ate a lot of Egg McMuffins on a biscuit instead of a muffin.

The Many Faces of a Professional Winner

this is what a winner looks like

this is what a winner looks like this is what a winner looks like

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Work for Cheese

Last summer, one of my more trouble-making friends, Sammy, came home to visit. Her dad was sick, so I met her in Naperville at the hospital. As any good friend would do, I took her out drinking to “drown her sorrows.”

What was supposed to be a few drinks turned into a few pitchers, and I could no longer make my way home safely. As one who does not condone drinking and driving, I needed to call my amazing (and still new-ish) boyfriend for a ride. After a long commute on the train, he got in his car, backtracked to pick me up, and met Sammy and I in the downtown Naperville area. Sammy and I were giggly, and she was wonderfully adorable, telling the boyfriend that I hadn’t officially declared my love for, that she could see why I love him so much. *Truth*

The problem was my vehicle. At the bright and early hours of the following morning, I had to ride with Brian to the train, take the train to Naper, and grab my car–backtracking to work before 8 AM. At the train station, though, I discovered a sign for the Aurora Farmer’s Market…

I love farmer’s markets. They usually have delicious fruits and veggies, tasty snacks, and so much more. Oh yes, I would be checking that out the following Saturday morning.

The next Saturday, during a rainy, wet weekend, I trekked over to the market. Perusing the booths under a light drizzle seemed all well and fine, until I got to The Cheese People booth. Cheese?! Yes. That’s right. Cheese. and LOTS of it.

Just as I was beginning a conversation with the man that I now lovingly refer to as Cheese Guy (whose name is actually Rick and he is fantastic), the rain turned on me. That light drizzle became a rolling storm, in which I sought out shelter under the bright yellow tent, sampling cheeses to my heart’s content.

It was that moment that turned me from slight cheese lover to cheese snob. My knowledge of cheese improved drastically over the last year all because of Cheese Guy. After the rain simmered down, and business started picking up, Cheese Guy asked what I was up to for the rest of the day. I told him that he was looking at my plans. Not a whole heck of a lot.

“Well then get back here and grab a knife.”

The next thing I knew, I had a glove on one hand, a knife in the other. I was slicing and weighing cheese, learning prices, and offering samples to passersby. I was good at what I did. We got busy, and Cheese Guy appreciated my efforts. I had already set aside a pretty hearty portion of cheese, and when the afternoon was over, I asked what I owed. Cheese Guy took an inventory of my purchase, did some mental math, and said, “Nothing. You just worked your ass off for me.” My rate was apparently equivalent to the cost of cheese that I was intending to buy.

For the next few months, I made my way over to help Cheese Guy out whenever I could, and when the market started up in May, so did I. Cheese Guy was promoted, and my weekend schedule got hectic, so I no longer work for cheese…but I certainly consider myself a Cheesemonger now.

It’s so cliche I can hardly control myself: Out of a drunken night of debauchery sprung a cheesy love affair.

 

Apparently Dunkin isn’t as cool as Cheese Guy. That’s fine; I’d rather be paid in cheese anyways.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

It’s Not Easy Being a Flake

Sorry about last week kids, our internet was down (so basically it felt like losing an arm or something) so I couldn’t get online to ensure that my blog post went up. I know; I know it’s an excuse, but whatever–I got a job on Friday! So I’ll be joining the world of the truly employed with a full-time salaried gig. Go me!

Anyways, getting a job got me thinking about my first job…

Of course, I was 16 and had no idea what I was doing, yet on Sunday afternoons I would drive an hour up to Long Grove, IL. I would open a cute little boutique clothing shop (all by myself). I would sit there for 8 hours, while visited by maybe 1 or 2 customers all day, have a sack lunch, sit on the phone, and read a book. I don’t even remember the name of the store, but I remember working for several weeks during my junior year of high school.

One particularly rainy Sunday, I turned off all of the lights in the store, set the alarm, and locked the door. I was ready to get home and have some dinner. I ran quickly out to my car and unlocked the doors before jumping into Melba Toast, the Explorer. I put the key into the ignition and…nothing. My battery had died. Oh. Crap.

I think that I had my Nokia brick with a hot pink sparkly faceplate, which I used to call my mom. After she flipped out on me for my not-so-brilliance (assuming that I had left a light on or something–which I still claim to this day that I hadn’t), she made me call her pal Kay, who owned the shop.

Kay told me that she would send a Long Grove shop owner friend of hers to help me out. A half hour later, a strange man (strange is relative in this scenario, as he was merely a man I didn’t know) pulled up into the parking lot with connector cables. He jumped my battery and followed me half way home to make sure my car was running alright. I finally made it home, and got a decent amount of slack from my family.

For Christmas that year, I got a nice shiny new set of jumper cables for Melba Toast. I only wished they were pink.

Wants

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Interviewing Bloopers

So, I’ve been meeting with recruiters and HR people and managers galore in the wonderful world of job hunting lately. One of the things that I have found frustrating is the number of rules that one is supposed to follow, and the number of rules that recruiters and HR people and managers change on a regular basis. So I’ve decided to offer you some of my job hunting highlights.

One of my first interviews was at a small firm in The Loop on Good Friday. Located inside the building connected to Ogilvie Train Station by an overpass, I planned to take the train down early, have some lunch, and wait patiently for my interview time. The morning started with a wardrobe malfunction due to my brand new suit skirt slit ripping up the back. Luckily, I had planned to stop over at Toyota to visit my mom and get her opinion of my ensemble. She quickly sewed the skirt for me, and I proceeded downtown in a different skirt, so that I didn’t wrinkle the suit.

I opted to take the earlier train, as the next one would give me approximately 15 minutes to get to my interview. I figured early is better. So I got downtown in one piece, and made my way over to The Corner Bakery for lunch. I had some tasty treats and then went in the bathroom to change into my suit. Of course, problem number one was going to the bathroom. Wearing scary stomach holding in body suit dealie over pantyhose meant that I had to basically strip down to my skivvies, and readjust everything, which I did. THEN, I got myself in one piece.

So the recruiter who set up the interview had informed me of some pointers when I made my way down for the interview. “Don’t wear your sun glasses on your head. Make sure that you send thank you notes. Arrive early. Allow extra time to get through security.”

I had brought a very small purse, my portfolio, a book, and my sunglasses. I also had that backup skirt in tow. So when I was ready to head toward to location of the interview, I had the pressing question, “What do I do with the book, the sunglasses, and the skirt?”

I thought about my options, and where I was. I decided to go with the most trustworthy person that I could think of: The bartender. Knowing that the Newsroom was conveniently located inside of Ogilvie, I figured that the man running the bar would be my best bet. When I asked him to hold onto my stuff, he laughed but agreed. I thanked him profusely, and made my way to the interview. When I got through security and officially arrived, it had only taken about 3 minutes. I was 35 minutes early.

Crap.


And I had left my book with the bartender. So I waited. And waited. It was Good Friday, and people were rushing to get out of the office. I thought maybe they’d get me in a few minutes early and I could jump on a train home. Nope. 10 minutes after my scheduled interview time, the interviewer finally arrived. We briefly chatted in a stiffened conversation, that at the time, I should have known meant it was like a bad first date that was never going anywhere. But I remained hopeful. Upon leaving, the bartender had kept my goodies safe and I left him a tip as I jetted to the train.

I didn’t get that job…

A few weeks later, I met with the owner of a very small firm. She was fun. She said “fuck” like 15 times in the interview. And called one of her big name clients assholes. Twice. But she lectured me for being 20 minutes early. I wasn’t very good at this interviewing game… I always thought that you were supposed to arrive early. And that they counted on you being early. Apparently it has to be 5-10 minutes only.

I didn’t get that job either…

Then at another interview, I arrived with 10 minutes to spare, STILL had to wait for 25 minutes, and managed to stash my sunglasses on top of a toilet paper holder in the handicap bathroom stall. I thought that one stood a chance too…but alas, no dice for me.

But just like when several first dates don’t go so well, I remain optimistic that it’s all going to work out the way it’s supposed to. Besides, I got to go back to working with the kiddos for another summer.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!