And the Good News Is...

by Dana Perino

  Potty training in a high-rise apartment from forty-six floors up was a challenge—that’s a long way for a puppy to hold a pee. To keep his mind off having to go before we got downstairs, we’d race him down the long corridor to the elevator. Then we’d rush him through the lobby and finally outside to a very busy Forty-Second Street. That was a lot to ask of a nine-week-old pup.

  Jasper was very much like Henry, especially in looks and size, but immediately I could tell he was more of a baby than Henry ever was. He was super-sensitive, with every emotion emphasized—joy, fear, love—all of it. I was very protective of him, which is why Peter didn’t tell me right away about what happened while I was working over Labor Day weekend.

  During the Republican Convention in Tampa in September 2012, Peter took Jasper on a mini-vacation down to Annapolis and Washington, D.C., to visit old friends. They went down to City Dock Coffee and Peter tied the leash around one of the metal tables outside, just like he used to with Henry. But Jasper wasn’t Henry and was confused about being left outside. He strained the leash so that he could see Peter inside the shop.

  The metal table slid along the sidewalk, making quite a noise and startling him. Jasper got spooked and started running with the table still attached behind him, the clanging noise getting louder as the metal scraped and banged on the cobblestones—which only made Jasper run faster.

  Someone in the shop said, “Dude, is that your dog?”

  Peter looked up and then ran outside calling, “JASPER! BABY! COME BACK! IT’S OKAY!”

  Jasper doubled back and started running back across the street with the table still clanging behind him. He was headed straight for the expensive vehicles parked diagonally along the street. With Peter running after him seeing dollar signs in his eyes from the possible damage to the cars, Jasper cleared the vehicles and then kept running around the town square. All the while, Peter was yelling and running after him, “JASSSPPPEEERRRR!”

  Finally, Jasper tried going around a truck that had fresh fruit and vegetables at the market, and the table got lodged beneath the tailgate. Peter reached down and picked Jasper up and calmed him down. Eventually he untangled the leash from the table and headed back to the coffee shop dragging the table with him. The table scraped the stones and Jasper started freaking out from the noise and tried to get out of Peter’s arms. So Peter had to pick up the table in his other arm and carry it across the street. This time he tied Jasper to the parking meter and went in to get his mocha.

  “I don’t suppose anyone got that on video?” he asked, embarrassed.

  I wish I’d have been there to see that, though Peter was wise to keep it from me until I was back in New York and everyone was safe. For weeks after that, Jasper would jump a foot in the air if he heard any metal scraping on concrete. We had to pick up and move chairs so that we didn’t startle him. A fan sent me a note about it and said, “Somewhere Henry is shaking his head and smiling.”

  On his second day home, Jasper got to be on The Five, and a star was born. He’s been back to the show a couple of times, and he always steals the spotlight (and is uncharacteristically poorly behaved under the bright lights). A lot of fans want him to come back more often so they can see Bob get irritated.

  Within a few months, Jasper became a social media A-lister and gained fans all over the country. I posted pictures of him from our walks in Central Park and on our road trips up and down the East Coast. We made up lyrics about Jasper to “Take It Easy” and “Desperado” by the Eagles and posed him for big events, including my most popular post ever, Jasper and all of his “friends” (toys) getting ready to watch the Presidential debate, complete with snacks. I was fortunate that Peter indulged the fun I was having with Jasper—he didn’t think I was crazy. A couple of my co-hosts, however, certainly did. And maybe I am—in a good way.

  Like Henry, Jasper doesn’t care if his mom is on television or occasionally gets to speak to the former leader of the free world. He doesn’t know that President Bush 43 painted his portrait and that it’s his mom’s most treasured possession.

  Jasper gives me a joy that I’d hate to have missed in life. Because of him, I have connected to more people than I ever would have with politics alone. I love my dog friends, and I have no idea if they are Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians, or Martians. Pets are a great equalizer. It doesn’t matter what your politics are. If you’re a dog person, you’re all right by me. And if you’re not, give me five minutes alone with you and Jasper.

  On Red Eye in 2013, one of the topics was about a Hollywood actress who wanted the paparazzi to stop taking pictures of her little dog. Always kidding, Gutfeld said that I was known to fly into a rage if people took pictures of Jasper. I said, “I don’t believe in keeping my dog from people. I share my dog with everyone. Jasper is America’s Dog.…” And we’ve called him that ever since. He’s worthy of the title.

  It’s not lost on me who the real TV star of the family is—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  CHAPTER 5

  Take It from Me—Please

  On my first official morning as the White House press secretary, I got a call from the Secretary of Education, Margaret Spellings. Margaret had been with President Bush since he was the Governor of Texas and led the White House Domestic Policy Council during his first term. After his re-election in 2004, President Bush nominated her to serve in the Cabinet.

  I considered Margaret a mentor, colleague, and friend. She has a terrific laugh and a delightful Southern drawl. She was plenty busy, so it was thoughtful of her to call me before my first briefing. She must have sensed my anxiety. I was the first woman press secretary in a Republican administration, the President was unpopular in the polls, and the White House was managing several simultaneous crises. Plus I had Tony Snow’s very big shoes to fill. My “new job honeymoon” wouldn’t last long.

  “How ya doin’?” she asked.

  “Well, actually, I’m pretty nervous,” I said.

  “Well, you’re gonna have to put your big girl panties on and deal with it!”

  So that’s what I did—I snapped out of my worry-induced funk. That wasn’t the first time that I’d been given advice just when I needed it. As you’ve read so far in this book, I’ve been blessed to have many people who have helped me succeed in my career. I benefited from suggestions to shine at a smaller college rather than to party at a big one, to go for the job opening as a press secretary on Capitol Hill even if the timing was off, and not to let negative press get under my skin—all advice that has made a huge difference to me.

  A person I used to admire from afar but is now a friend and mentor is former Congresswoman Susan Molinari, who now runs public policy for Google. I like her mix of grace, smarts, and spunk. When I thanked her for her help in making a career decision, she told me that the only thing mentors ask in return for their advice is that it be passed on to others. I agreed and have tried to hold up my end of the bargain.

  Susan, along with my friends Dee Martin and Jamie Zuieback, helped me turn an idea I had into a reality. To keep up with requests for advice from young women and their parents about the keys to achieving their life and career goals, I came up with a version of speed dating, but with mentoring instead of romance. We called it Minute Mentoring and focused on helping young women starting their careers. Susan and Dee worked for the law firm of Bracewell-Guiliani, and the firm was our main sponsor.

  We invited women leaders from all sorts of professions to meet with small groups of mentees, share their top three pieces of advice, and take questions for the allotted time. Then, that group would get up and move to the next mentor. The mentees usually got to see six mentors, and then we hosted a cocktail reception where the young women could practice their networking skills.

  Somewhat to my surprise, the advice was neither gender nor age specific. We got requests from young men asking for opportunities to participate (some of them volunteered at the events, hoping to learn something and maybe get some of the young ladies’
phone numbers). The idea of speed mentoring caught on and we had requests to host events all across the country. Our little group wasn’t able to fulfill demand, so we came up with instructions on how we put together our events so that they could host their own.

  I like to help young professionals think through what they need to improve their careers. I enjoyed being a mentor at our events, and I also learned a few new tips that I started using myself—especially about how to better manage my schedule.

  When I had the idea to write this book, I realized that passing some of these lessons on remained a major motivation. So the following are some of my favorite pieces of advice, broken into three categories: Quick Fixes, Good Habits, and Big Picture. I hope you can benefit by them.

  This is not a comprehensive list, and many of the usual tips about what to wear to the office and having a good attitude I didn’t include here. Those are standard pieces of good advice. I don’t really need to tell people that dressing like a slob won’t get you promoted or that a positive person is more likely to get a raise than a negative one—that should be well understood by now. But if you already know those basics and have incorporated them into your life, what follows can help you take your career to the next level.

  But before I get to the practical advice, my first big overarching lesson, which I’ve relied on over and over, had to do with butterflies.…

  Making Butterflies Fly in Formation

  Shawnalee Whitney was my college speech team coach. Shawnalee had long sandy brown hair, beautiful skin, and blue eyes. She was also talented, clever, and cheerful. Shawnalee drove our small team all around the West, racking up miles on her minivan.

  On those road trips across the mountain ranges over to Utah and back to Pueblo, Colorado, we got to know each other very well. We learned about each other’s families, favorite books, pets, hopes, and dreams. We also used to come up with fantastic insults for the university, which seemed to give all of its money to sports while we scrimped by, even though we used to win our tournaments and make good grades.

  While we had a measly budget, Shawnalee worked it out so that we could go to competitions in Austin, San Francisco, Tucson, Seattle, and New Jersey. We had a great time in Monmouth, New Jersey, when we realized the staircase at the main hall was the scene for the movie version of Annie, the musical (it was also the summer retreat of President Woodrow Wilson during the campaign season in 1916). We climbed up the curving marble steps a few times just so we could pretend to be singing orphans. Our university looked nothing like many of the schools we went to visit (the story was that many of our buildings had been designed by the same architect that built the state prison, if that gives you an indication of how far that was from leafy green quads and the hallowed halls of New England’s campuses).

  At one tournament when I was a freshman, I completed my rounds and changed into jeans while I waited for everyone else to finish. One of my teammates rushed around to find me—I’d made it to the finals and had fifteen minutes to get back to the classroom. It never crossed my mind that I’d make the cut, so I hadn’t bothered to look at the list. Shocked that I was still in the competition, I changed back into my suit in a little bathroom stall and ran to where the judges were waiting.

  Shawnalee was there and took me aside to offer some encouragement. She could sense I was nervous, so she gave me what ended up being one of the best pieces of advice I’d ever heard.

  “It’s okay to have butterflies in your stomach, as long as you make them fly in formation,” she said.

  In my imagination I could see it—butterflies flying like the Blue Angels, obeying my instructions. After that, I could channel my nerves into a more positive energy that came across as enthusiasm rather than anxiety. I started to learn how to ride the waves of fear of speaking in front of judges. And lo and behold, I actually won the tournament.

  I still get nerves before a speech or a TV show, but I’ve learned that adrenaline is essential for a good appearance. The anxiety alerts my brain that I need to be ready to perform. Without nerves, my delivery would be flat and no one would watch. So now I get nervous if I’m not nervous (Peter says if I’m not worried about something, I worry that I forgot something to worry about).

  I’m not always able to manage my anxiety, though. Once I was almost crippled by my nerves. It was when I got a chance to compete for a charity on Celebrity Jeopardy! Alex Trebek has been in my living room since I was a kid, and I still watch the show every night with Peter. I shout out answers without concern that I’ll embarrass myself if my answers are wrong (Peter, on the other hand, gets almost all of them right). But on stage that day, outside of the comfort of my home, I was completely exposed. My butterflies were all over the place, from my toes to my throat.

  The Jeopardy! team could not have been kinder, and they tried to put us more at ease in the greenroom. We took pictures as a group—they put me, five feet tall, next to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, seven-feet-two. Even though I wore five-inch heels and was standing on a box, he towered over me. It made for a funny picture.

  In the audience, I had a great group of supporters there to cheer me on—including Bob Beckel, who wore a suit for the occasion.

  I won the practice round, so I felt pretty good (and maybe a little too confident). My pulse slowed down. In the actual show, I was leading going into the first commercial break. But after that, I fell apart. I swung and missed at one clue about a stringed instrument, and then I never recovered. In “Final Jeopardy,” I could have caught the leader but could not come up with the “Guggenheim” art museum. I knew it started with a “G” but I could only think of Getty. David Faber of CNBC won the match, but I still raised $10,000 for Companions for Heroes (matching rescue animals with war veterans diagnosed with posttraumatic stress syndrome). So my appearance was definitely worth the embarrassment (and now I sympathize more with other Jeopardy! losers).

  I wish I’d remembered Shawnalee’s advice and made my butterflies fly in formation that day. My voice was caught in my throat most of the time I was on stage, and I couldn’t click the buzzer at the right time. I let my anxiety get the best of me, and I didn’t get to enjoy the experience as much as I’d have liked.

  Still, having competed in speaking events helped me get in front of groups and cameras and not totally fall apart. I encourage parents who are looking for activities for their sons and daughters to urge their kids to join the speech team. The number one fear in America is public speaking, which can hold people back from future career opportunities.

  On the speech team, students learn skills and techniques that help shore up their confidence. Just look at what it did for me—I learned how to think critically, spot flaws in someone’s argument, and persuade people to agree with me. (Right, Bob?)

  Of all the things I did to prepare for a career in communications and journalism, by far the speech team was the most important contributor to my success. It’s where I learned to herd butterflies.

  Quick Fixes

  FIND YOUR STRONG VOICE

  How people present themselves is directly proportional to their success. One of the biggest weaknesses of young people today is talking like a Valley Girl, where the end of every sentence goes up making every statement sound like a question. It’s called up-talking. I think you’ll know what I mean? If you started reading this out loud? You’ve heard this before I’m sure? It’s like super-annoying?

  Up-talking starts when kids become teenagers. It used to be confined to girls, but I’ve noticed more young men doing it, too. People try to assimilate to make social situations easier, and up-talking helps them fit in with their friends. Group-think turns into group-talk. They think it sounds cute or sophisticated, and they use it as a shield to protect themselves from a disagreement or confrontation. It masks a lack of confidence in their comments and opinions—if everything is a question, then they can’t be accused of being opinionated (or wrong). Young people used to grow out of this habit, but for some reason they’re holding on to this verb
al tic well after college (maybe another sign of America’s protracted adolescence).

  Up-talking makes most adults cringe. It suggests immaturity and a lack of seriousness. It grows tiresome, especially for employers. I’m convinced that one of the reasons young people have a hard time moving up in companies is because they can’t stop up-talking after they graduate. What boss would want to have someone who talks like that visit an important client?

  Thankfully, up-talking can be addressed fairly easily. First, the adults have to intervene to help someone break the habit, or these youngsters will be hobbled in their careers. If you have a child or an employee who up-talks, you have an obligation to discourage it. As uncomfortable as it can be to point out someone’s shortcomings, it’s for their own good. You can do it in a way that doesn’t embarrass them. I suggest taking the person aside and gently saying that you want them to succeed and that you’ve noticed something that’s holding them back. Tell them that they need to find their strong voice.

  Usually a young person will not have any idea what you’re talking about, so you might have to do an imitation so that they can actually hear what it sounds like. Try saying the same sentence like they do and then saying it again with a strong, steady, and confident voice. Then they can hear the difference.

  Another way to explain how to find their strong voice is to show them that there is a physical aspect to it. I think of it this way: Right behind your chest bone at the top of your diaphragm is a little power center. If you put your finger right there, you can feel it. You turn the power center on by taking a breath and then tightening your core as if someone was about to punch you in the upper abdominal area. And then there—that spot right in the center, the strongest part of your upper abs is where it is. Hold your finger there while you breathe and you can feel it. Now try speaking from there. It works for me. It helps me stand up straighter, opens up my lungs, and makes whatever I’m saying sound convincing.