I haven’t blogged in almost four days because I–and everyone else at FOF--has been consumed with the production of the first FOF Beauty Bash, in New York, which ended a couple of hours ago. My feet are killing me, my brain is mush and I don’t want to talk to a soul for the next 12 hours, at least. But these last two days were fantastic, and I’ll gladly live with the tired feet and voice.
I’ll tell you more about the BB tomorrow, when I can put together a coherent sentence again. But I can say one thing clearly: The last 48 hours proved to me, once again, that we are the greatest generation of women in history.
Till tomorrow!
Geri at the entrance to the FOF Beauty Bash
Sometimes, I cannot be sweet/understanding/magnanimous when people I am relying on fail to deliver. Such is the case with a young man whose company I hired to help us with a project for FOF. He really seemed smart, creative and passionate. Unfortunately, the minute we hired him, he disappeared from the scene and four of of his employees stepped in to handle the project. Not one, not two, not three, but four. They talked up a storm, sent progress reports, had lengthly conference calls with us, and, at the end of the day they didn’t do a thing I and the staff of FOF couldn’t have accomplished in a fraction of the time. To make matters worse, they told us, on three different occasions, that they were making great progress when, in fact, they weren’t making progress at all.
I had enough yesterday and told two of the team of four how I felt. It wasn’t the first time I had expressed my disappointment with their lack of progress, but I expressed it a lot more strongly. Their reactions? Uber defensive, critical of my criticism, arrogant, delusional about the facts and completely unable to accept a shred of responsibility for their lousy performance.
One of the best things about being FOF is being able to tell it like it is, without worrying about winning a popularity contest. I set high standards for myself, and for those who work with me. I have since I was a young girl and I’m unlikely to relax them any time soon. If my expectations are too much for someone to handle, they shouldn’t expect our relationship to have a fairytale ending.
It was teeming yesterday when I went with brother-in-law Russ, FOF sister Shelley, and son Colby to see the 9/11 Memorial. Russ had reserved tickets weeks ago, on the first day they became available online (he’s a pro at this). The wait for tickets is now two months so we weren’t going to let the rain deter us.
photographs by Colby
The focal points of the Memorial–two square “pools” that mark the footprints of the two fallen towers–are spectacular sights. Graceful waterfalls dance down the 30-foot sides of each pool, into two voids, fraught with symbolism. The names of the 2,977 people who died that horrible day, as well as the six who died in the 1993 bombing of the WTC, are cut into beautiful bronze borders that frame the pools.
We walked around both pools, spotting names we’ve heard over and over during the last decade, including Father Michael Judge, the Fire Department chaplain who was one of the first to die, and Todd Beamer, who shouted ‘Let’s roll!” to fellow passengers as they prepared to storm the cockpit of United Flight 93 over Shanksville, PA. We noticed a small purple daisy, its stem stuck into one of the letters of a name, as if the cut-out letter was a vase. Approaching the name, we read: Vanessa Langer and her unborn child. It was the first of many pregnant victims. Each name chilling to read.
Colby commented that it must give relatives and friends of victims some solace to see their loved ones honored this way. The rain poured into the names and thousands of drops glistened on the metal. It was an awful day out, but the Memorial lifted my heart.
The volume of emails I receive and send most every day is utterly bizarre. Today, for example, I had to communicate with four people at the same company and the emails were flying back and forth all day long. Emails crisscrossed one another; contradicted each other, were confusing, inaccurate and irritating. Many recipients don’t read entire emails and ignore questions that have to be answered. Others don’t even bother to read anything. I often have to send as many as four iterations of an email to the same person to get his or her attention.
On days like this, my inbox starts groaning and pleading for more and more of my attention, and all I want to do is press delete and walk away. But I dutifully work my way through the communications, which just lead to more communication. I periodically glance at the clock on my Mac and it reads 8:20 am one minute and 6:40 pm the next.
How in the world did we manage to function in the olden times, 15 years ago? This is how:
We talked. We used our voices to explain what we wanted, which injected some feeling into the situation, whether it was asking someone to have dinner with us or making a presentation to a prospective client.
We were less compulsive. If we were steaming about someone or something while we were on the street, we had a moment to cool off before we picked up the phone to give them a piece of our mind.
We were more articulate. When we took time to explain something verbally or to write it—instead of rushing to answer 200 emails and 49 texts and prepare three proposals by 6 pm—we explained it well.
We used our brains. We thought while we walked, we thought before the movie started, we thought when we were waiting in lines and when we were having coffee alone in the morning. Now, we can’t be alone with our thoughts, because we don’t have any, unless we’re near a keyboard.
We listened harder. When others talked to us, we wanted to hear what they had to say. We paid attention. No one listens to anyone, which is no surprise, since no one talks anymore.