A kind word to my Republican friends…

Let me begin this post with full disclosure—I am a Democrat.  I am, in fact, a card-carrying liberal in a family of Republicans.  I also happen to live in Texas, albeit in that lovely pocket of blue known as Dallas. And while I am incredibly relieved that Obama won the election last night, my joy is somewhat tempered by the fact that I vividly remember what it's like to lose.

Funny thing is, I'm not even political. I may be the least political person I know. But the morning after George W Bush won a second term, I was filled with horror and despair. How could this happen? I wondered. Dear God, what are we going to do now? And my biggest question; How could my country let me down like this?

So today, let me just say to all the Republicans out there—I get it. I know what you're feeling. A little piece of you died last night and today is a very bad day.  Every celebratory tweet or post will feel like a knife twisting in your heart. You'll feel despondent and hopeless and you'll wonder how you're going to make it through.

But trust me, moving to Canada isn't the answer. They're even more liberal than we are and your US money won't go as far as it used to. If I were a betting woman, I'd wager you wouldn't like it there.

However, if I may, please allow me to offer a few words of advice meant with only the purest intentions.

First and foremost—grieve. It's okay. Your dream of the future didn't come through. It's okay to be upset and disappointed. If you weren't, then you obviously didn't care that much. So be angry and heartsick and disgusted and worried and everything else you care to be. Take a moment to acknowledge the loss you feel and your uncertainty about where this country is headed.

When you've had your fill of that, remember to be thankful. You happen to live in one of the few places on earth where you're allowed to vocally and vigorously disagree with the party in power. Unlike many places in the world, no one will try to silence you. You need not fear reprisals. People in this country don't routinely die for their political beliefs and for that, we should all be grateful.

But above all, don't give up hope. This country will be great again. It's what we all want. And while we might not agree on how we get there, it's our common goal and we must figure out how to work together to make it happen.

So perhaps, for just today, you can decide to wait and see. Don't call the moving van just yet. If nothing else, simply vow to fight another day.

One thing I've learned is that four years goes by surprisingly fast. 

Thank You, Willis Carrier

As many of you know, I reside in Dallas, Texas. And although I wasn't born here (my father was transferred from the East Coast when I was eight) I can honestly say I love this state.

I love its wide-open spaces, its independent spirit and its ridiculously affordable real estate. I love its international airport that can get me anywhere in the country in 3.5 hours or less. I love its genuine, down-to-earth people who can be the kindest, friendliest on earth (unless of course, you're uppity or obnoxious or bitchy, in which case, you may want to steer clear.) And I love its larger-than-life personalities although I freely admit to being more in the Mark Cuban/Anne Richards/Molly Ivans camp than the "W"/Jerry Jones/Rick Perry arena.

But above all, I love that in January, I can go outside in nothing but a sweatshirt and stretchy pants and admire a multitude of already-budding trees. Just recently, while doing research for the latest Texas Tourism ad campaign, I came across a quote—"If you don't like Texas in January, you don't like Texas."  And I most heartily agree.

But right now, it's the end of July. And it's so bloody hot I want to kill someone. Not anyone in particular, just some nameless, faceless sort on which to exert a bit of senseless violence. I might actually seek out said individual if the heat weren't such an energy-sucking black hole, but fact is, I can barely muster the energy to correct my dogs, let alone inflict a mortal injury.

Fortunately, I also have ready access to what I consider the most valuable invention of the 20th century—air conditioning. And if you in any way diminish its contribution to our society, consider this: four of the top ten largest cities in the U.S. (Dallas, Houston, San Antonio and Phoenix) have only become so since the advent of a/c.

So it's shocking to me that Willis Haviland Carrier has not yet been nominated for the Nobel Prize. After all, his invention has not only improved the lives of millions but it's also responsible for keeping our entire economy alive. Without it, all productivity in a good portion of this country would come to a halt each summer.  So in essence, we'd be Europe.

What's more, Mr. Carrier has directly extended the wearability of all the super-cute cashmere sweaters I own since it's nearly impossible to achieve a constant temperature in a city known for glass buildings, "dashboard cookies" and unpredictable weather. On any given day between July and August, direct sunlight can literally peg a thermometer off the chart, which is why you'll feel the constant low-grade hum of compressors and turbines all over the city working to keep interior temperatures down. But should a random cloud front appear overhead and throw those buildings into shade, the temperature inside will quickly dip to something close to 60 degrees, give or take a degree or two, according to the incredibly accurate readings of my nipples.

This is what makes Texas summers so difficult.  It's not just the heat, it's the constant swinging between extremes.  It's the monumental chasm between the 72-degree comfort of your home and the thigh-blistering 116 of your car. It's the illusion of the beautiful summer day outside your window and the reality of the lung-searing, Mars-like atmosphere that's actually occurring out there.  It's the physical need to constantly adapt to wildly differing surroundings. Which is why the ad industry right now is a lot like a hot Texas summer.  You have to constantly adapt to everything, and just like the weather, it sucks.

 

On Maslow, Nagel & My Postal Worker

I've been a very bad blogger. And I'd like to sincerely apologize to all my loyal followers. Please forgive me, all three of you. Funny how writing for a living makes you not want to do it in your spare time.

I suppose it's a good sign that I haven't posted since last October.  It means I've been booked pretty solid since then and from what I'm hearing around the country, that is indeed a lucky thing. But now, summer is in full swing and with it comes the predictable summer drought. New business pitches come to a halt, people go on vacation and clients retreat into that heat-induced fog that makes them forget they have to spend their budgets by the end of year.

In late August or early September, there will be a mad scramble to get ads created, approved and produced by year-end. But until then, I will have several weeks in which I am free to do nothing but obsess over my as-yet unfulfilled creative goals. Written the great American novel? No. Performed my one-woman show? Uh-uh. Finished re-caulking the guest bathroom and replacing the cracked tiles I took out more than six weeks ago? Not even that. Wow, I suck.

I find it fascinating then, that the instant I write these words God sends me a very pointed message to STFU. As I sit typing on my patio, a postal employee in an official USPS truck and uniform stops at our curbside recycle bin and proceeds to collect my husband's multitude of empty beer cans.

At that moment, I am struck not only with the realization that the post office is in much worse shape than I imagined, but also that I am an ungrateful bitch.


My friend Mr Maslow might argue that I am, if nothing else, human. According to his famous hierarchy, it is only after our basic needs are satisfied that we can focus on our higher-order creative desires. If that's true, however, society should experience a collective burst of creativity during times of economic prosperity. The eighties, for instance. And we all know how that went. 

On the flip side, in times of economic hardship, there should be no art at all. And if it were true, it would be one more thing we could blame on the freaking S&L scandal. But I don't see it. I'm seeing creativity springing up as the result of the bad economy, not in spite of it. I see people and agencies solving problems in more non-traditional ways, for less money and in less time. And I am heartened to see ordinary people reinventing themselves and the entire ad industry in response.

But Maslow's basic point holds true: it seems much harder to be creative when you're worried about paying the mortgage or, say, eating.  If you're an ad agency, it's the kind of thing that might make you give up your creative principles in order to keep the client happy and keep the lights on. If you're an individual, it might make you ignore your artistic pastimes in order to pursue more income. It's a balancing act whether you're a company or just one person. Security is the springboard and creativity takes you to new heights.  But the most important thing to know is that fear is the enemy of both.

Today I learned an important lesson from my can-picking postal worker.  Be scrappy.  And when you see an opportunity, seize it.  Because who know?  It may be just what you need to take that next step.