Joan Holloway Has Laser Eyes

Peggy understands, of course, that last names are used as a tool of the patriarchy. However, she also knows that it is her destiny to carve the name OLSON across the skyline of Manhattan in letters of smoke and flame ten stories high; to stand triumphant atop the rubble of unworthy agencies as the survivors of McCann-Erickson’s male leadership emerge from their hiding places and beg abjectly for sanctuary while her account maenads howl in the distance and Stan looks on adoringly. (He will tower over her, but height will no longer be a subliminal hallmark of authority thanks to messaging she has encoded in campaigns for diet soda, for luxury cars, for whitening toothpaste.)

Peggy knows that on this day her outfit will be the least important thing about her, and also it will be fucking flawless, and that the name OLSON will be transformed from a historical means of claiming ownership of wives and children to a triumphant roar, a song to strike terror in the unjust and dudes who are gross in meetings, yet a rallying cry for the women of advertising and their allies. Peggy knows that on this day she can be merciful to the vanquished CEOs and VPs that crawl before her -- there is always a need for help in the typing pool or legally-required federally-funded full-time day care center. Demonstrating compassion, even vulnerability, will not make people respect the name OLSON any less, not in this new world that is partly of her making.