Pink Lipstick is my Power Tie. Confessions of a Girly-Girl CD.

I am a creative director. And a woman. One of 12%-ish now, I’ve heard. The numbers are climbing, but nowhere near 50%, which would be the goal. So how do we get there?

We, (that’s us female creatives) talk about how we got here.

This occurred to me during a recent Q & A with some college students. A young woman asked me “the question.” You know the one: 

“As a woman, what have you had to overcome to succeed in this industry?”

My friend and creative manager, who was also on the panel, raised her hand with the enthusiasm of a first-grader who’s about to pee herself and blurted out, “I know! I’ve seen her present stuff in meetings and be told flat out it wasn’t funny. And it was.”

Well, yeah, that happened. Once or 37 times.  

But here’s the truth. I’ve never wanted to admit it. Never wanted to talk about how I’ve had to overcome stuff because I’m a woman. First off, I don’t like making excuses, and talking about any obstacles of being a female copywriter seemed to do just that. It felt like I was compensating for not being more, better, sooner.

Second, my mentor, John Schofield, is a man (obviously) who is also my good friend and surrogate big brother. I am where I am largely because of him. My current boss, Tracy Wong, is also a man (not obviously by the name, but obviously when you meet him) and is a truly great guy who inspires me daily to be a better creative and a better creative director. And there are many other dudes I feel lucky to have worked with. So, in other words, I worried I’d be throwing the men I admire and respect under the bus by admitting, yes, dammit, it’s been hard to be a girl sometimes.

But that’s dumb. Because I’m not helping change anything by being quiet. Plus there’s got to be at least one aspiring female copywriter wondering what she’s up against, or hopefully, what’s changed for the better. And every female CD, ECD, CCO, or BFD has a different story about how she found success or how she defines it. So if each of us tells our story, it’s bound to inspire another young woman who’s finding her way in the industry. 

*Exhibit A. My uber-professional notebook.

So, here’s MY truth. It’s not always been easy. ‘Cause while I really love hanging with the guys I work with, laughing at their gross jokes, hearing f-bombs dropped as often as vowels, I’m a full-on girly girl. Pink is my favorite color. * I genuinely love salad. My hobby is horseback riding, for chrissakes. In other words, even though I appreciate a good poop joke and relish being around the guys, I have never, even remotely, been one of them.

My first real copywriting job 20 years ago was an interesting mix of old and new school. In a big, established agency (McCann), surrounded by a lot of young, forward-thinking people. I got — and created — a lot of opportunities. I can guarantee I made less money than other writers at my level, (all guys), but it never occurred to me to ask for more. I got some seemingly sizable raises, was quickly promoted to senior copywriter, loved my job, loved my creative directors, loved life. Who was I to complain? (Um, I was a super-dependable, award-winning workhorse, is who I was, and I should’ve realized it.) When I slowly started seeing my reflection in the glass ceiling — there weren’t any visible females in creative leadership then in the McCann network —  I left to go freelance.

After four years of freelancing for both agencies and clients, I sought out a staff job at an agency with a reputation built on the name WONGDOODY. And all the schlong/poop references it implies. And let’s just say my feminine sensibilities did not take the place by storm. I was one of two female creatives at the time, and the other was Pam Fujimoto, who could succeed in any situation she found herself in. Only human in an all-alien agency? No prob. Pam wouldn’t just survive, she’d make all the aliens want to redesign their spaceships, be a cooler shade of green, and find an award-winning way to colonize earth that everyone was super psyched about.

For me, though, it was hard at first. I won’t lie. I was respected for my work ethic, but not always my work. Some of that I’ll attribute to inexperience. But some of it was based on taste. Not good vs. bad, but subtle vs. overt. Emotional vs. bombastic. Looney Tunes vs. Itchy and Scratchy.

There were times I tried to mold my writing style to be more like some of the very talented copywriter dudes I worked with. And guess what? It was always a miss. I wasn’t being true to me, and I was a very crappy them. But here’s what I did (and do) have going for me. I work really hard. I am tenacious. I am optimistic and I truly love what I do. And I realized, even in my greatest moments of frustration or self-doubt, that I had a unique and powerful voice.

(Some days, that voice felt like Enya opening for a Slayer concert, but it was unique and powerful, dammit.)

So, I listened. I learned. I took some criticism to heart, and chalked up other comments to be less about me and more about the person making them. I sharpened my wit and my writing style. Laughed at A LOT of my own jokes (still do.) And kept bringing my unique, female perspective, which later turned into a unique, working-mom perspective, to everything I did.

IMPORTANT NOTE TO ASPIRING FEMALE CREATIVES: Despite my girly-girlness, this does not mean everything I touch is super-feminine, soft, or features kittens and a Summer’s Eve watercolor wash. So, no, it’s still not cool to have a pink resume.

Fast-forward to now. Fourteen years, another freelance stint and shit ton more experience later, I am back at WONGDOODY as a creative director. (Tiny fist pump.) I’m pleased to report that my agency not only supports female creatives and female leadership, but actively celebrates them. Our upper management is 50% female (Go Pam, Skyler and Megan!) Our creative department is close to 50/50. We even offer a Women in Advertising scholarship!

Plus, women in general are now recognized as the purchasing decision-makers they are, while (most of) the world is finally regarding being a woman as a source of power and strength, as opposed to being an obstacle. My unique female perspective and sensibility is not just valued, but sought after both internally and by clients. Oh, and the ass-kicking Wonder Woman movie just came out. So yeah, it’s a good time to have two X chromosomes.

* Exhibit B. It's all about a discreet and subtle use of color.

This is all to say being a female copywriter hasn’t always been a picnic. But any obstacles I’ve had to overcome have made me sharper, more resilient, and a better creative. And most importantly, staying true to myself and believing in what I have to offer has gotten me through the sucky, self-doubt-filled days. And made everything I’ve achieved, and still intend to achieve, that much sweeter.

One last thing. Never underestimate the power of red boots* and pink lipstick to help you feel like you can take on the world. Underwear you don’t buy in a 4-pack helps, too.

Take it from this girly-girl CD. Or find another female leader who speaks to you. Thankfully, there’s more of us every day.

I Told a Stranger About my Promotion

“I got a new job!” I said to the man. He looked at me blankly. “I’m a Creative Director now!” I said, pointing to the press release on my phone featuring my picture. I thought at least with a visual aid, it might help hit home what a big freakin’ deal this was. “Oh” he said nonchalantly.

Then he waved his fork in a circular motion toward his beef stroganoff.  “Well, this… this work. I’ve got to work on these things…“ he said, pointing now at little mound of baby carrots nearby. “And then the work, it…” he trailed off.

My dad, patiently posing for photos with friendly strangers who resemble him.

The man isn’t a stranger to me, but, I am mostly, to him. That man is my dad. And he has Alzheimer’s. The reason I even tried telling him the news was because I had told my husband that it really stung not to be able to share something I knew would make him so proud. Feeling my pain, his own dad gone for many years, my sweet husband encouraged me. “Tell him! Maybe he’ll understand.” And so I did.

I didn’t really expect him to light up with a hearty congratulations. Or to shout about how proud he was of me to his “friends” who were sitting in chairs, staring blankly at a National Geographic special about baby water buffalos getting eaten by crocodiles. I guess I was just hoping for a glimmer of recognition. A sign, that deep down, even though he doesn’t even know who I am most days, he was proud of his little girl.

I don’t spend a lot of time being sad about my dad. Despite my easy emotions at everything else in life, I am have a certain stoic calm about the whole thing. (Which I'm sure will unravel someday.) Maybe it’s because my grandmother had the same disease and followed the same patterns, and I watched my dad handle it with a certain resignation and a healthy sense of humor. Maybe it’s because it’s such a slow process and I find solace in the fact that he’s not in pain, not an active mind trapped in a body that’s failing him. In fact, it’s the opposite. I swear the man still has a 6-pack under that shirt I’m pretty sure he took from someone else’s closet.

Mostly, our family deals with my dad’s Alzheimer’s with laughter. In the 2/12 years since he’s been in memory care facilities, he has told us in broken sentences how he’s played for the Mariners, reffed a Seahawks game, done some casual welding and gone “up North” for projects multiple times. He escaped (for real) once, which was terrifying for a few hours, but now we retell the story about how my daughter and I came upon him, 3 miles from his care facility, carrying a huge, wire dog cage. I calmly convinced him to put the cage down and get in the car, and we drove him back to his home without incident. But I bet the people who lived in the house where I found him are still wondering where that cage came from.

Increasingly, words are difficult for him. But he’s still polite as can be, offering bites of his stroganoff, smiling when we say his name as if he recognizes us on some level. All the nurses and caretakers tell me what a kind, polite guy he is. And in that way, he’s still my dad.

As usual, when I left, I gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He smiled kindly, which is something else that hasn’t changed. But you could almost see him thinking.  “Wow. That lady with the new job is nice, but a kiss? We just met!”  Or maybe he was thinking about stroganoff. I’ll never know.

'Tis the Season

Guess what, everybody! It’s horse show season! Yaaay, right? 

Oh...you're getting paged for a fake meeting? Okay cool.

For those of you still here, you’re in luck! Because I've answered some of the most common/dumb/adorable horse-show related questions I’ve gotten over the years right here. So you’ll soon have knowledge about my obscure hobby that could literally SAVE YOUR LIFE.  If you’re ever in a life-or-death game of Jeopardy, where the topic is "Horse Shows."

Giddyup! (Nobody actually says that while riding a horse, BTW.)

Q: DON'T GIRLS OUTGROW BEING HORSE CRAZY?                                                                                                                     A: Nope. Once it’s in your blood, you never get over it. It’s like a really fun kind of malaria.

Q: DO YOU RACE?                                                                                                                                                                              A: No. Only jockeys race. And jockeys are toddler-sized humans made entirely of brass balls and muscle fiber. I am not that. Also, Thoroughbred racehorses cost approximately a billion dollars, and people voluntarily pay real money to go watch them. That also doesn’t apply to me.

Q: DO YOU JUMP?                                                                                                                                                                                   A: No. It’s exciting and fun to watch, but my horse isn’t trained to do that. I did it when I was younger and bounced better.

Q: SO, WHAT IS SHOWING?                                                                                                                                                                  A: Showing is competing. Either in an arena or on a course. It means you pay an entry fee to ride in front of a judge who will rate you and your horse based on a set of very specific, objective criteria. And whether or not they like the color of your riding pants.

Q: DO YOU WEAR THE LITTLE OUTFITS?                                                                                                                              A: If by “little outfits,” you mean larger versions of the riding clothes your daughter puts on her American Girl doll, pretty much yes.

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The sickness is commonly passed down through generations.

Q: DO YOU WEAR CHAPS AND A COWBOY HAT, LIKE A COWBOY?
A: If you ride Western, yes. I ride English, so I wear English-style riding clothes.

Q: SO YOU WEAR TIGHT PANTS AND TALL BOOTS?                                                                                                                        A: Yes. And the pants are called “breeches.”

Q: WHEN YOU WEAR THE TIGHT PANTS AND TALL BOOTS AND GLOVES, DO YOU EVER CARRY A LEATHER WHIP AND SLAP YOUR PALM WITH IT?                                                                                                                                                                  A:  You're a perv.

Q: SO YOU JUST SIT UP THERE AND THE HORSE KNOWS WHAT TO DO?                                                                                    A: Um no. Imagine you control your car with only your hands, voice, and tiny movements of specific muscles. Also, imagine your car is afraid of mountain lions, plastic bags and the occasional light breeze. Sometimes, your car doesn’t get along with other cars on the road, and sometimes it’s tired and really just wants to go back to the garage. So you have to convince your car to do exactly what you want and not run into other cars, using cues that are undetectable to the human eye. All while a person with a clipboard watches you like you might be shoplifting. It’s kinda like that.

Q: YOU MUST BE REALLY STRONG.                                                                                                                                                     A: Riding is more about finesse than strength. But I could crush you with my inner thighs if I had to.

Q: DOES IT COST A LOT?                                                                                                                                                                       A: It can. But so do boats, time-share condos in Aruba, and Microdermabrasion. And none of those things whinny at you when you walk in the barn.

Q: DO YOU EVER WIN MONEY?                                                                                                                                                             A: Sometimes, but usually only enough to cover some entry fees and a small bag of Peanut M&Ms from the concession stand.

Q: DO YOU EVER WIN STUFF?                                                                                                                                                               A: Yes! Ribbons, trophies, coffee mugs, large, decorative keys. Even the occasional silver-plated tea set. It’s like going to an expensive, time-consuming garage sale.

Behold, my Championship Bread Basket and other assorted Major Awards.

Q: SO WAIT...WHY DO YOU DO IT?                                                                                                                                                       A: Because I love it. Because it’s hard work. Because the sense of accomplishment is great and the friendships are greater. Because I’d choose horse shit on my boots over red soles on my designer stilettos any day. Because winning always feels great, but winning with a 1000+ pound partner (who could just as easily freak out and trample the photographer) is like nothing else.

Q: ARE HORSE PEOPLE CRAZY?                                                                                                                                                          A: You have no idea.

Q: CAN I COME WATCH YOU SHOW?                                                                                                                                                 A: Just kidding! Nobody ever asks this.

It's "General Leia" to you.

The other day, my daughter and I were talking about the newest Star Wars movie, which I liked but can’t remember the name of. Sorry. Huge fan though, really.

Anyway, I mentioned Princess Leia.

Immediately, my 10-year-old corrected me with, “you mean General Leia.” (In the same tone I used with my own mom, circa 1986, when she asked me if I’d heard “Whitney Springsteen’s” new album.)

Okay, yes. I stood corrected. GENERAL Leia.

And then the awesomeness of that hit me like a truckload of Tina Fey/Amy Poehler/Jennifer Lawrence/Amy Schumer quotes.

Because it was nothing special to her. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was just a fact, like bruschetta is delicious, flip-flops are a poor choice around horses, and if she loses me in the grocery store, check the wine aisle first.

Lucky for me, she has always been a kind and generous boss.

“Girl Power” isn’t a thing to her. She hasn’t grown up in the “anything boys can do, girls can do better” era, where it was even a question. In her 10-year-old world, #glrlboss is no different from #boyboss.

Of course women will be strong and powerful and driven and have the lead in the movie and fly the spaceship and speak their minds and bring home the bacon. Of course they will. And then hand that bacon right over to their spouse to cook cause they tend to burn the shit out of everything. (Hypothetically.)

Of course a woman can be a scientist or astronaut or stand-up comic or CEO or the effing President of the United States, while also being a wife and mother (or not, totally her choice) with a highly successful female empowerment/lifestyle blog on the side. No big.

My daughter doesn’t yet know all the battles that have been fought, or are currently being fought, or still lie ahead, to get to this place. 

She doesn’t know that just 30ish years ago, Carrie Fisher was mostly famous for cinnamon bun hair and a gold metal bikini that launched a trillion teenage wet dreams.

She doesn’t know that pay inequality is still a thing. That despite my relative success and happiness, I still struggle (as do most of my female friends) with being all the things I want to be and feel I should be, every day.

And she doesn’t know how inspiring and powerful it is for me to realize she is growing up in a new world, and I am part of making that world even better for her as a woman.

She just knows that Leia is a General.

That Rey is a badass with cool hair.

And that she can be or do anything thing she sets her mind to.

Because...of course she can.