My 14-year-old Sierra graduated from eighth grade today. She’s awesome.

The ceremony included the recitation of all 600 graduates’ names, with each kid collecting a diploma. It was actually pretty efficiently done, with two readers handling names and two columns of students walking at a time. It took maybe 10 minutes total.

Before they started calling the names, the principal gave a request: Please hold all applause until the end. That request makes complete and total sense; applause after each name would make things take for-friggin’-ever. And if some kids get big applause and some don’t, that sucks, too. So hold your applause. No biggie.

They start calling the names, and we’re only a few in when a parent yells “Woooo!” after their kid’s name is called. That, of course, unleashed a dam. About 30% of the time when a kids’s name was called, you’d hear some cheer. Sometimes it was a simple “Woo!”

Sometimes, it was a much longer, louder, “WOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!”

And occasionally, you’d get things like “Yeahhhhhhhhhhh!!!! WAY TO GO TIMMY!!!! YOU ARE THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME!”

Here’s the problem: These longer, louder cheers would overlap the next name. Or the next two or three names. That sucks.

I didn’t object to a simple, understated, celebratory “Woo.” But I did take offense to the carousers whooping it up like crazy. As did a curmudgeonly grandfather sitting behind me, who kept complaining about it. “They’re covering up other kids’ names. It’s not right!”

Look, I love celebrating folks, praising and cheering good work, and sharing your joy and enthusiasm for successes — especially family successes! But it’s important to lift people up without simultaneously pushing others down. A chiller “Woo” doesn’t mean you love your kid less; it means you also have respect and admiration for everyone else.

Woo!

A couple days ago, I was asked how to avoid feeling sleazy when it’s time to talk about rates and pricing. I’ve written previously about how sales isn’t sales — my shorthand for the reality that not every sales interaction needs to make either party feel like there’s a gross, clichéd used car salesperson involved.

When I’m selling something, I don’t see myself as a salesperson; I see myself as an entrepreneur flexing a certain muscle to help a potential customer have something that improves their work, or life, or both.

(By the way, I’m sure there are lovely used car salespeople. I just haven’t met them yet.)

So my answer to this question about how not to feel sleazy when you’re selling, and especially when you’re getting into the conversation about pricing, is simply this: Don’t. Don’t feel sleazy, because it’s not sleazy. If you need to, simply pretend you don’t feel sleazy; like confidence, this is definitely a fake-it-til-you-make it situation.

One way these unpleasant feelings often manifest when people are sharing pricing is the instinct to apologize for the pricing — either explicitly, or by negotiating on the other side’s behalf before you’ve even started. Here’s how this often sounds:

• The price is [heavy sigh]… $1,000. Yeah. I know it’s a lot.

• I normally charge $500 an hour, but I usually take $450, and since we’ve known each other a long time, I could do $400, or even $350 if you really need it.

• It costs — and I’m sorry, because it’s a big number — $2,000.

No. No no no no. NO.

No.

Your pricing represents the value of what you’re selling. Apologizing for it is a huge no-no: It devalues both you and whatever it is you’re selling. You know the worth of what you’re offering, so whether it’s a salary request or a sale price, the reality remains: This is what it costs, because this is what it’s worth.

This doesn’t (necessarily) mean you're unwilling to negotiate. Rather, it’s a clear demonstration that you know the value you’re offering, and you’re not ashamed or embarrassed of it.

A couple weeks back, I shared that I was auditioning for the puppet-heavy musical Avenue Q. I talked about how I was nervous, but that I did what was necessary to feel as confident as I could in the room. Specifically, I brought my own puppet, did character voices, and exuded as much confidence as I could, despite feeling some nerves.

And here’s the fun followup: I got cast!

I was auditioning for two roles: Trekkie Monster, whose voice and physicality is clearly inspired by Cookie Monster, and Nicky, who is inspired by Ernie.

My role in this upcoming production of Avenue Q? Brian. Brian is one of three non-puppet characters in the show, and the only one traditionally played by a male-identifying actor. So to recap: I auditioned for a puppet-heavy show, brought my own puppet to the audition, used goofy Muppet-inspired voices, got called back… and was cast as a human.

When the director called me to tell me so, I responded enthusiastically that yes, indeed, I’d take the role. And I’m excited! (If you are too, grab your tickets.)

But of course, there was some sadness, too: I love puppets, I love this show, and I was really excited about the possibility of puppeteering onstage. Which, of course, I now won’t do.

On the flip side: I’m in the show with a great, fun role. I’m playing a 32-year-old, which to me means that clearly the production team thinks I look at least that young 🤣 — and who am I to argue?! And I’m playing an aspiring comedian who supports his friends and (spoiler alert) eventually becomes a consultant. In some ways, it’s the part I was born to play.

So of course I allowed myself to feel feelings, to be sad that I wouldn’t get to play with cool, professional-grade puppets on stage. But I also consciously encouraged myself to celebrate all the wins here: I was cast in a role that requires me to use my full, well, humanity, and I get to interact with a bunch of fun puppet characters, I help center the show’s reality, I get to sing some great songs (“It Sucks To Be,” “There Is Life Outside Your Apartment”), and to appear in a show I really love.

Essentially, I coached myself to do a fairly cliché thing: to look on the bright side. To find happiness by being satisfied with what I have.

I think many of us have an understandable instinct to believe that we are who we are, and that we allow ourselves to feel grumpy, sad, or disappointed when we don’t get the role, job, assignment, or other outcome we want. And I’m okay with feeling those negative feelings when something less-than-great happens. Finding the upside can be hard, and I’ve met folks who are willing to say, “nope, that’s not me, that’s not who I am.”

I think it’s all of us, though. By which I mean, I think — without being saccharine or phony or blind to the realities of life — that we’re all capable, with some effort as necessary, of finding those positives.

Let me emphasize, I was cast as a 32-year-old comedian. If I can’t find the joy in that, I’m broken.

The easy path is to feel disappointment and rely on time to heal those emotional wounds, to just wait until you’re less grumpy and move onto the next thing. The harder but more rewarding path is take time to honor that disappointment, but also do the work to find the good stuff, too.

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A month ago, I wrote about channeling your inner Mr. Rogers. I stand by that advice — treating people well, offering patience and thoughtfulness — is the right approach. Almost always.

I stressed in that piece that being Mr. Rogers-esque doesn’t mean being a pushover. But sometimes, toughness is required. To be clear, being tough isn’t the same as being a jerk; it’s being firm.

And you can be tough while still being polite. For example, if you’re late to pay me:

Your payment for Invoice #1001 was due three days ago. Can you please get this paid today?

That may strike you as tough as nails; it may strike you as too kind. You might object to the “please,” or you might think that second sentence shouldn’t be a question: “Get this paid today.” That’s fair. If it’s a customer’s second time with this issue, I’d likely write “I need this paid by EOD today.” If it’s a first-time offense, I’ll start softer.

I especially don’t like people wasting my time. Since I’m self-employed, I only make money when I’m doing paid work, but even when I was salaried, I was very protective of my working hours. If you miss an introductory meeting that we booked, you already have one strike against you. If you didn’t warn me that you were going to miss the meeting, you have at least two. (I’m writing more about this topic in the next couple weeks.)

I had one potential client cancel two initial calls day-of. That’s bad. I wasn’t Mr. Rogers-esque in my reply the second time, but I was tough. The canceler had suggested we meet at a specific time the next day. I couldn’t do that time. I often share a scheduling link, but this potential client had clearly lost self-scheduling privileges. And the only reason I was willing to give this person a third and final shot was that I believed they could be a great customer. My email to them this time was:

I’m not available at that time.

I understand scheduling issues can arise, but I’m by necessity protective of my time. Let’s try once more. Let me know if you prefer [Time One] or [Time Two], and we’ll give this one more shot.

We had the meeting. I booked the client. It’s going well.

Again, you may read that one and think it’s soft. People who work with me a lot would read that email and know full well — I was grumpy. Find ways to express frustration or disappointment that remain professional and also suit your personality. Polite doesn’t mean pushover.

Default to Mr. Rogers. But be ready to break out Tough Ol’ Fred when needed.