The guidebook for corporate women who are ready to shed the bitch and rocket to lasting success and happiness, too.

I’ve had a successful career in advertising for going on two decades even though the industry is a breeding ground for bitches. Controlling, bossy, ambitious, stop-at-nothing, intolerable bitches. But now I’d had enough and I quit.

“Talk about the kettle calling the pot black,” my friend said, dismissing my bitch excuse for quitting my job at a San Francisco agency.

I gasped and sputtered, “Are you calling me a bitch?”

“We’re both bitches,” she said proudly. “It’s why we’re successful. Remember that line from Madonna—’I'm tough, I’m ambitious, and I know exactly what I want. If that makes me a bitch, okay.’”

Yeah, I remember that line and yeah, maybe it had gone to my head. But in my defense, no one until now had ever called me a bitch. What if my friend was right. What if I was the bitch?

I called up Bernadette Boas who’s written the book on bitches—literally. It’s called, Shedding the Corporate Bitch.

Bernadette had rocketed to the top of her organization, “lashing out, venting, condescending people, disrespecting them, and being a bitch to anyone who crossed my path,” as she put it. Then after decades of high performance, she was let go.

Her story was like hearing an echo. Except in Bernadette’s case, she spent years in bitch recovery. When she emerged, she built a process, brand, and enterprise around helping people “shed their bitch to find the rich.” (You can learn more at SheddingTheBitch.com. Order the book here.)

“I was the ‘bitch of bitches’,” said Bernadette. “But I came to see that my bitchiness was a cover-up for my insecurity. I didn’t believe in my own competence, skills, or talents. That’s why I teach that the starting place for shedding the bitch is discovering your skills talents and accomplishment, or your riches.”

Now this emphasis on women taking responsibility for their bitch isn’t to say that Bernadette doesn’t understand the corporate pressures that can cause a smart, competent woman to stop believing in herself and to compensate by trying to ‘man up’ and get into the old boys club. How could she forget what she’d lived for years? Still, she says, we always have a choice. If Virginia Rometty making it as the ninth CEO in IBM’s history and its first female chief exec is any indication, I’d say Bernadette was onto something.

“I’ve been following Rometty closely,” said Bernadette. “From what I can tell, she didn’t get to the top by being a bitch. She’s strong, confident, assertive, dedicated, and dignified. She took risks, trusted in herself, and leveraged all her skills and talents to pursue her dreams and goals not just for herself, but for the greater good.”

Rometty: CEO of IBM. Me: unemployed. There is, as they say, no arguing with success. Which brings me to the obvious. Yup, it’s time to shed the bitch. I got a feeling, no one’s going I don’t to miss her.

–Spoken by David Mitchell, author of  “The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet,” in an interview with Terry Gross, host of the NPR show, “Fresh Air.”

Ever get to that point in your life where you’re sure you know what’s going to happen next–the words, “I coulda seen that coming,” ever ready to tumble out of your yawning face?

It’s happened to me a few times and when it does, I respond by shaking things up but good. Sometimes too good. This time, I left everything I knew, including my home, dog and friends, to take an advertising job in San Francisco. It wasn’t easy but enduring boredom infused with sameness and predictability seemed worse at the time.

So now I’m back to doing what I’ve done before–writing copy, thinking about brands, and coming up with strategies and tactics designed to take markets by storm (or at least get some attention). This time though, I’m finding things are different.

Though the job title is the same, the ad business is no longer the free-wheeling, crazy and creative world it used to be. Blame on lawsuits or the lousy economy but clients sure have become a whole lot more cautious and restrictive in what can be said and done to get the brand out there. So much so that I now find, I’m more of a copymover–or as a woman in the editorial department put it, a copypaster. What this means is the account team tells me exactly what the client wants, and I dutifully move the “approved” copy around the page.

Care to see my ad, doctor?

This leads to conversations like this:

“What’s the call to action?” I ask the account manager, Frank, as he briefs the team on a new ad for a pharma client.

“We want the doctors to call the sales reps,” he says.

Now what I want to say at that point is, that’s not going to happen unless the sales rep is giving out free lap dances. But as we just had a workshop on sexual harassment, I keep my mouth tightly zipped and nod seriously as though I’m thinking hard.

“I know, I know,” says Frank suddenly, waving his hands excitedly. “You can use the bullets with the new data from the clinical trial.”

As I am now a devout team player, I nod my head vigorously and dutifully return to my desk for more copy-and-pasting of approved language. Later, I will be asked to add footnotes, disclaimers, caveats, and references so that by the time I get done with the “ad,” it will look like exactly like a page in a medical journal article.

Some call it advertising. I call it torture. At which point I realize I have traded general boredom with  the frustration of trying to be “creative” in a tight little box. I also realize Mitchell is right because I’ve been spending all my “reserve” creative energy trying to figure my way out of that box and in the meantime haven’t had a single existential crisis.

And to think, I get paid for this.

Just when I thought I’d be winding down my (not so illustrious) career in advertising, I find myself taking a “real job” in my late forties. Hard to believe I was actually crazy enough to imagine middle-age would be a time to be cashing in and kicking back.

Right smack in the middle of my 27th (failed) get-rich quick scheme, life went and surprised us all with things like economic collapses, the ruination of property values, and double digit unemployment rates. All of which led me to wake up in a sweaty panic one memorable morning transfixed by the realization that (a) I was too broke to retire and (b) too old to marry rich.

It was a terrible predicament. I spent the rest of the week rewriting my resume (which I hadn’t looked at in five years) and composing professional-sounding “cover letters” (even though I had no idea what “professional” sounded like anymore).

In what could only be described as a miracle (given the economy, for sure, and my “advanced” age most definitely), I eventually landed a senior position in an ad agency. In San Francisco, arguably among the best cities in the country. They even offered to pay my relocation. It was like falling into a crystal clear oasis after wandering aimlessly through a desert.

Within a month, I went:

• From heat (Arizona summer) to fog (San Francisco summer).
• From wearing as little as possible to wearing “layers” (the key to dressing for San Fran weather, I was told by many).
• From a daily circuit that went pool—bed—fridge, to walking everywhere by foot (since I can’t figure out how the public transport works), knapsack firmly strapped to back just in case I want to do some shopping along the way (since I was warned not to bring my car).
• From always whining about being bored and/or my loss of muscle tone, to talking to any stranger who entered my path, usually starting the conversation with: “Hey there, I’m new here. What’s good to eat around here?”
• From having my own bedroom and private bathroom, to sharing a flat with a twenty-something private school teacher in Victorian mansion having eight rooms, one tiny bathroom, roughly 3,000 antique books, an eccentric collection of Asian antiques, and 400 pair of men’s shoes (smelling of course like men’s feet).

I quickly discovered my coping skills had dulled considerably while wandering in the desert, and regularly found myself on the edge of a teary breakdown. Too much change, even if it was positive, was freaking me out.

Upon admitting my fragile state to others, I heard the following bits of sympathy and support:
“Shut up, you got a job!”
“Stop whining, you’re in San Fran!”
“Get over yourself. It’s a new beginning.”

I’m sure I’ll come round in time.

Once I stop crying.

Boo Hoo.

What do loons (who mate for life) know that we don't?

I started the “red flags” series recently to help alert older women (ie, women over forty, like me) spot male duds masquerading as eligible dudes. I’m finding I can’t do it anymore, so I’m making this my last red flag.

My reasons for stopping are not what you might guess. I mean, I could probably go on forever talking about red flags in men. I can’t do it anymore because I’m sick of all the relationship rules–the tips, warnings, does and don’ts. By calling out the red flags, it occurred to me  I was just adding to all the relationship hogwash out there.

I came to this conclusion recently while watching loons in Wisconsin.

Loons, they say, mate for life. I guess it’s true since you always see them in pairs. It suddenly dawned on me: I have never seen a loon reading a how-to-find-your-soul-mate type of book–I mean, never. So why the heck should we read them?

Most of the relationship books I’ve looked at complicate the dating and mating thing, anyway. Ladies, we’ere dealing with men here–they’re straightforward and simple. Unless you’re super high, men could never be confused with mysterious creatures who dwell in caves recharging their superhuman powers while we blow dry our hair and trim our bushes into cute heart-shapes.

The other thing that annoys me is how these books make coupledom sound like some wildly exotic country we all must visit before we die. They entice you with wanderlust and then warn that it’s best to follow their (usually bulleted and/or numbered) advice lest you get eaten alive in the piranha-infested moats and razor-topped barricades surrounding the land of love.

More advice is provided for those who make it into the “honeymoon suite.” This typically takes the form of silly communication tips (like never say, “you…” and always repeat back what he said because he’s probably not even listening to what he says)–all of which are guaranteed to help both sides clarify  their endless and impossible-to-satisfy demands.

Ever hear a loon arguing about getting more “us time?” I rest my case.

Still, I can’t part without a final red flag. It’s simply this: you find yourself saying, “…but he’s…” a lot.

Some examples:

“He’s so angry and argumentative…but his family has a villa in Italy.”
Or,
“He’s so emotionally repressed…but his blueberry waffles are to die for.”
Or,
“He’s so amazing in bed…but he’s prone to get drunk and pull out his dick at parties.”
Or,
“He’s so witty and smart…but he plays computer games with 12-year-olds until 3AM.”

You get the picture.

Now let’s say, you keep repeating the same “but he” to yourself until there’s no room left in your head to think another thought. That’s a sure signal that even though you like the stuff before the “but he,” you can’t accept what comes after. Which is about when you might thinking about moving on. Because the truth is, the “but” is really an “and”–and you can’t have one without the other.

Not sure your new boyfriend is as "nice and normal" as he appears? Ask to meet his closest friend.

Typically it takes a few weeks of dating before you get to meet the new boyfriend’s best friend. When you do, pay careful attention lest you experience my fate. Years later, I still cringe at the thought of it.

Here’s what happened.

I met Robert online and after a rapid fire exchange of witticisms (mine) and entertaining retorts (his), we decided to meet for a drink. A big bear of a man (a description which I later changed to, “he’s fat as a house”), I immediately put him in the safe and cuddly box. This assessment turned out to be half wrong.

I moved in with Robert after a month of dating. (I had my reasons–they were all insane.) To any outsider, Robert, an attorney, appeared to lead a pleasant and orderly life. He got up at 6:30 AM every day; seemed enthralled by me; got excited about trying new recipes and wines; and took the whole corporate attorney thing in stride–upon arriving home, the first words out of his mouth were, “I’ve got to get out of this monkey suit.”

One night after dinner, just as we were wondering what was on TIVO, the doorbell rang. I gave Robert a startled look as this had never happened before.

“It’s Bullwinkle,” Robert said as he went for the door.

“The cartoon character?” I asked incredulous. “He’s alive?”

“No, numnuts,” he said, “My buddy, Adam.”

That was the first bad sign—his friend was named after a moose.

The second was Adam himself. Six-five and on the hefty side, everything about Adam was super-sized. He talked too loudly, smelled like a gas station, and dressed like a slob. He charged through the door and lumbered over to the couch where I was sitting.

“She’s hot,” he said staring at my chest. What’s her name?” I crunched up my nose and tried not to breathe.

“Knock it off, Bull,” Robert said indulgently. “That’s Pam.”

Bullwinkle pounded his feet on the floor and yelled, “Oh yeah!” holding up the third bad sign: a gallon of vodka.

The fourth bad sign I would not have predicted as the eighties were a long, long time ago. Robert reached deep into a cupboard and pulled out what turned out to be a bag of Coke. They cut lines, bowed, and snorted deeply. It was like watching two jet airplanes fire up and get ready for take-off.

It was horrible.

I watched them taxi out to the backyard–two monster-sized idiots, carrying jumbo-sized vodka-and-tonics, having just lost their pea-sized brains. Then I went to bed, locking the door behind me and jamming a chair under the knob.

A loud thud woke me around 4 AM. I found Robert teetering in the hallway like a life-size punching clown. I punched him and went back to bed.

I’m embarrassed to admit, I had a codependent streak in those days: I stuck around thinking I could make him stay the nice, normal Robert I’d met on our first date–not the binge-drinking-and-snorting guy he turned into every weekend. When I tried to talk to him about it, he’d complain, “You just don’t like my friends.” Couldn’t argue with that, I thought to myself. It soon dawned on me, I didn’t like Robert either.

I guess the point of the story is, if you suspect a guy you just started seeing has a dark or secret side, ask to meet his best friend. Then step back and watch them do their thing together. If you’re right, you’ll have to decide if there’s enough room in the relationship for you, Dr Jekyll, Mr Hyde, and all their buddies. Here, let me save you the trouble: there’s not.