FOF Cathie Black, whom New York Mayor Bloomberg recently appointed to be Chancellor of New York City schools, is a no-nonsense woman. I’ve known her for years, albeit not well. But I know her enough to know that she’s probably going to manage the massive system quite well (it’s the largest public school system in the US, with 1,700 schools, 80,000 teachers, 1.1 million students, and an annual budget of $23 billion.)
Mayor Mike and FOF Cathie
Many educators don’t want Cathie to hold the position, claiming she has no education experience, whatsoever. Her two kids went to private school, as did she. Phooey, I say. Cathie was head of Hearst Magazines, and anyone who can manage magazine editors and publishers can manage absolutely anything and anyone. That includes teachers, parents, students, superintendents and deputy superintendents.
I have been an editor and publisher for 80 zillion years, so I know of what and whom I speak. Magazine publishing is filled with creative, competitive, demanding, passionate, argumentative and smart people. Good editors and publishers are difficult, if nearly impossible, to manage well. They fight with each other on a day-to-day basis (publishers want editors to write about advertisers and editors want to write about everyone but advertisers). Publishers think they run magazines because they are the ones who bring in the revenue; editors would rather die than report to publishers. Editors don’t pay any attention to advertising quotas and publishers don’t give a hoot about pretty pictures. Throw in prima donna art directors, photographers and writers, and you’ve got your hands full.
Before leading Hearst so successfully (she created O magazine, for example), Black built USA Today into an extraordinary success in her eight years there, and broke through a critical gender barrier in 1979 when she became the first female publisher of a weekly consumer magazine, New York.
New York City has never had a female Schools Chancellor. I wish Cathie success in breaking through this barrier, too. My educated guess is, she will.
P.S. Read Cathie’s interview with FOF.
I married at 21, and although I wasn’t technically a virgin, the one sexual experience I had when I was engaged didn’t exactly qualify as sex. Sex during my marriage would not rank in the annals of great sex. I entertained making an appointment in the seventies with Masters and Johnson, but thought it would be too much of a hassle getting to the then-famous sex therapists and researchers. Sex became less and less important over the years. As a matter of fact, I didn’t care about it all all by the time I was 37.
Sex at the George Cinq
Then I met Edgar on a plane trip from Atlanta to New York in June 1988, when I was 41 (he was 55), and he awakened sexual feelings that I never dreamed I had. We had sex three times a night for two years. We had sex on the carpet in his fancy office when I went to work with him on Saturday mornings (he was the boss of a mult-billion company.) We had sex on the beach in Long Boat Key. Florida; at the George Cinq in Paris and in a Holiday Inn somewhere in California when we drove from San Diego to Seattle. We had sex on an authentic steamboat when we cruised the Mississippi, and we had sex in the car. I literally saw red flashing stars when we had sex. It was wild. We had sex in multiple positions, and never once used any sexual aides that weren’t part of our bodies.
Sex on an authentic Mississippi steamboat
As I look back. I realize Edgar was probably a bit like Bill Clinton and Tiger Woods. He could never get enough. After years sans sex, I was only too happy to oblige. I remember thinking that I had made up for everything I missed, in only a couple of years. I also thought it wasn’t possible that all women had sex like I was have with Edgar, both in quantity and quality.
Sex on the beach on Long Boat Key
Although Edgar had gotten heavy during the 12 years we were involved, and the sex was less passionate, I was still attracted to him the last time I saw him, at his home in Florida on July Fourth weekend in 2000. I learned that weekend that he had been sleeping with a next-door neighbor after he retired and moved South permanently. I told him he’d never see me again.
Sex in a Holiday Inn
I subconsciously knew he was screwing around soon after we met (he cheated on his wife with me, so what would stop him from cheating on me?), but I couldn’t stay away from him–or maybe I couldn’t stay away from the sex. Then again, maybe the sex was so good because Edgar was trouble.
Whatever the reason, the sex was the best I’ve ever had. I don’t anticipate having those kind of feelings ever again. Believe it or not, I don’t care a bit.
Question: How come I can watch the movie Pretty Woman over and over without getting tired of it?
Answer: Fantasies are fantastic. What could be better than a macho, uber successful, stunning man flipping over a beautful, smart hooker with a hear of gold and deciding to give up his self-centered life for her love. I am transposed into Vivian for two whole hours. A man is giving me money to buy clothes on Rodeo Drive, having passionate sex with me in an elegant hotel suite that’s bigger than my apartment, and introducing me to fascinating food, culture and people.
Imagine, one single man capable of giving so much to one single woman! Edgar gave me his credit card briefly after we met, but took it back when he thought I was charging too much on it (and I was no where near Beverly Hills). Douglas taught me a lot about art, but wasn’t big on passionate sex. And most of the fascinating people I’ve met through David are former clients who spent some time in jail (he’s a criminal attorney.)
On the other hand, I guess I’ve gotten what I needed in each of my relationships. Besides, I’ve earned the money to buy my own clothes. Some of the greatest museums and restaurants in the world are all around me. And I’ve met–and continue to meet–fabulous people through my career.
I can’t complain. Nevertheless, I’ll take a good fantasy any day of the week. So would Julia Roberts, I assume.
As I prepared to do the laundry this morning (this being Saturday, my usual laundry day), I was wondering if I could machine wash a black dress that I love. I located the care label and saw the familiar little symbol (the one that looks sort of looks like the tub of a washing machine) with the number 30 in it, so I knew it was fine to throw it in with the rest of the wash (even though I have no idea what temperature 30 is!) I never remember (or never knew) what all the other little symbols on the label mean, so I decided it was high time to hit the Google key.
For the benefit of all my FOF pals who are tired of spending so much at the dry cleaners, here is a handy little guide to laundry symbols. I found it at a nifty site called www.textileaffairs.com. I’m not turning into Martha Stewart, but it never hurts to impart a bit of practical info.
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