I didn’t know much about playwright Wendy Wasserstein, who died in 2006, at 55, except that she was single; funny; won a Pulitzer Prize for her play, “The Sisters Rosensweig;” had a great many creative and well-known friends; gave birth to a baby daughter, but never revealed the father, and was the sister of Bruce Wasserstein, a genius (if not pompous) billionaire investment banker, who died a few years after Wendy.
Now a new biography, “Wendy and The Lost Boys. The Uncommon Life of Wendy Wasserstein,” by Julie Salamon, gives us a (sometimes) painful look into her background. Her mother, Lola, was a piece of work. When she was walking down the street once with a young Wendy, she pointed to the crowd and said, “They are all looking at you and thinking, ‘Look at that fat girl.’” After her husband died, at 29, Lola married his brother, but neglected to tell her second set of kids, Wendy included. Wendy learned the facts from a sister.
The antithesis of her professional life, Wendy’s personal life was unsatisfying, a conflict Wendy apparently never resolved.
Wendy’s daughter, now 12, lost her mother when she was seven and her uncle, Bruce, when she was around 10, the two people she loved most in the world. I trust the young girl is showered with love by her mother’s close friends, who must miss her every single day.
Almost three weeks ago, I called the head of marketing for a big personal care appliance company to tell her about the FOF Beauty Bash in October. I thought she might like to introduce her company’s newest beauty tools to the FOFs coming to the event, maybe even make a presentation about them. Great opportunity for a company that sells products like hair dryers and straightening irons.
I told her assistant I was sending her boss a document about the event and she assured me she’d give it to her.
Week 1. No response, so I leave a couple of messages on the boss’s, as well as the assistant’s, VM.
Week 2. Still no response, so I leave a few more messages on their VMs.
Today, in the middle of Week 3, I call again. Lo and behold, the assistant answers and I go through the rigamarole of reminding her who I am, why I’m calling and did she give my email to her boss?
There was a pregnant pause, even though I had left her about three voice mails in the last two weeks and sent two mails—all with no response.
“No, she’s been traveling and has been in and out of the office,” assistant reports.
“I’m sure she reads emails when she’s away from the office. Why didn’t you forward it to her?” I asked.
“She’s busy,” assistant responds.
“We’re all busy,” I answer back. “Is it your job to decide what should be put in front of her and when? What if she’s missing a good opportunity for your company? I’m sure she expects responses when she presents opportunities to others. I wrote to you weeks ago and left numerous messages since then, with no response.”
“I will give it to her when she comes in this week,” assistant answers.
“Thank you,” I say, gritting my teeth. I am 64 and no longer interested in winning popularity contests with assistants like this. I learned long ago that they are barriers to making progress and it is a waste of time to humor them.
I love when people present opportunities to me for FOF. Opportunities are what makes the world go round. Uninterested, unmotivated, unresponsive assistants are no assistance whatsoever. They are exasperating and worthless and should turn their jobs over to someone who really appreciates having a job and wants to do it well.
I’m no genius when it comes to politics or the economy, but when I looked at the photos of the 12 people appointed to the Super Committee (members of Congress tasked with finding a way out of the United States debt crisis), something immediately jumped out at me.
Look at the line-up of six Democrats on the top row and six Republicans on the bottom. Do you see what I see?
Yep, you’re right. There’s not one member of a minority on the bottom. AND, THERE ISN’T A SINGLE WOMAN. Perhaps House Speaker, John Boehner, wasn’t up-to-date on the US Census and didn’t know that women and girls represent 51 percent of the US population. Perhaps John Boehner does know that, but doesn’t think women are mentally equipped to deal with big-time issues like debt and budgeting.
As it is, women are poorly represented in Congress: Of 100 senators, 17 are women (12 Democrats and 5 Republicans) and of 435 congressmen, 76 are women (52 Democrats and 24 Republicans.) It’s bad enough that so few women—from either party—step into the political arena. It’s repugnant that only one woman is chosen, from the ones who do step forward, to sit on a critical committee.
“It’s a Super Committee, as long as you don’t think women are super,” my son, Colby, said.
We cannot continue to leave our voices at home.
We worry about our children, even when they’re not children anymore. When my son lived in Barcelona for his junior year in college, I worried that a car would run him over if was on his cell phone when he crossed a big boulevard. When the New York streets are icy, I’ll call my grown daughter and remind her to be careful walking. We can’t help ourselves. It’s a mother thing.
A 27-year-old woman was raped in the early morning today in her upper East Side Manhattan apartment. She lived on a street lined with brownstones and small apartment buildings; her apartment was on the ground floor. She left her window open last night, giving the rapist instant access to her room while she slept.
I don’t believe there’s a mother on the planet who would think to advise her daughter to close her window before she goes to sleep. We can’t protect our children forever, no matter how hard we try.
Thank goodness, the young woman was not killed or seriously harmed, except, of course, for the mental anguish she is suffering.
My thoughts are with her and her mother.