Huma Abedin, aide to Hillary Clinton, featured in Vogue: gorgeous, married less than two years to Weiner. (I do wonder what Hillary is saying to her about surviving such marital insanities.)
Maria Shriver, ex-broadcaster, ex First Lady, member of the Kennedy clan.
Their alpha men can’t keep their trousers zipped, nor be truthful or faithful.
My ex-husband wailed to me, on June 15, 1994, after barely two years of marriage, “I’m leaving” and ran off with someone he worked with; I at least had the financial dignity and means to survive without his lies and deception. Thanks to a pre-nup I made him sign.
I’d left Canada, and friends, family and career, to follow him to his native U.S. to start his medical career. (Journalism is not a business you leave untended for any length of time.)
Six weeks after I threw his stuff into garbage bags — after seven years of trying to make the thing work — I had a funny, fun, kind new boyfriend. And a marriage proposal from someone else in another country who had loved me from afar for decades.
These men are morons — and their women? I can’t fathom the rage and embarrassment they must feel at having chosen them or stayed with them.
Women like these have choices, plenty of them, and better ones than these wretches.
I’d change the locks and start proceedings on every one of these losers.
A 22-year-old from New York City gave birth to me in Vancouver on June 6, 1957.
Today, I live near her birthplace and she, in Victoria, BC, lives near mine. We each married a man from across the 49th parallel.
It’s a gorgeous sunny day here in New York and, thanks to Facebook, birthday wishes have already arrived from Bhutan, London, Paris, Cracow, New Mexico, Tuscany and San Francisco — I have, literally, a world of friends, whose love and support are the greatest gift I could have. Being a career journalist/author partnered with a career photographer/editor means we share global tribes of fun, talented, adventurous people passionate about ideas, people and connection.
It’s day filled with a mixture of joy and sadness.
I’m a little terrified of being this age, although — yes — better than the alternative. I read the personal obits in the New York Times and yesterday read one of a woman, 45, who had made partner in one of the city’s top law firms but was cut down by cancer.
I know how incredibly fortunate I to have a birthday at all.
I normally get a card from my mother, and am her only child, but she is too angry with me for applying to become her legal guardian (she now has dementia) and instead is clinging to a weird and controlling woman who loathes me — and who shares power of attorney with me. So, today, I get silence from my own mother.
My father, thankfully, is a hale 81 — and hopes to be here this weekend, driving down from Ontario visiting friends, to share his 82d with us with dinner in Manhattan and maybe tickets to the ballet. We fought bitterly for years and in the past four (since the death of his wife, a woman I never made peace with) have become closer than I ever thought possible. That’s a gift.
My sweetie, Jose, plans to take me on a silent Buddhist retreat, mid-July. You can imagine my mixed feelings! But I’m exhausted (happily) from promoting my new book “Malled” non-stop for two months and can really use some quiet time in the country. Not sure how much meditating or chanting I’ll do, but we’ll see.
Tonight, I’m making pork roast and we’ll eat on the balcony and enjoy our river view. There’s a cheesecake in the freezer and I’ll make a mango-strawberry coulis.
I’ve been thinking about some of my best past birthdays:
12…We’re living in Montreal that year, but several good friends come the five hours by train from Toronto, and we have a pajama party on the living room floor. I have photos of me with a cake covered with sparklers, happily cringing.
16…After arriving in my super-cliquey Toronto high school halfway through Grade 10, I’ve finally made some really good friends. Joyce organizes and throws a surprise party for me. Yay!
20…Both my parents are traveling, far away and out of touch, my Mom in Latin America somewhere and my Dad and his wife on his boat in the Med. My uncle Bernie, a well-known actor from London, is doing a show in Toronto and takes me out for dinner.
21…I’ve been traveling alone for months in Europe and want to wake up somewhere amazing for my 21st. I blow insane money and stay, one night, at the Gritti Palace in Venice. So worth it.
26…Paris! I’m at the end of the best year of my life, on a journalism fellowship with 27 others from 19 countries. My gal pals take me out for dinner there.
30…My mom hosts a party for me in her Toronto house. I still treasure two gorgeous art glass vases I received that day.
Anyone of us willing to ‘fess up to watching the recent Royal Wedding (hello, Grace Kelly!), knows that all eyes were on the prize — not the Prince, the dress.
As brides everywhere gear up for their spring and summer weddings, you can almost hear a chorus of shrieks and sighs over the color, style, fit, price and comfort level of that most iconic of garments, the wedding dress.
I was married May 31, 1992 in a gorgeous 1833 chapel on the Hudson River, in a day of record rainfall, wearing a dress made in about 1905, beige and white and black cotton, with a crisp cotton petticoat underneath. I loved my dress, which cost a big $300, as it was charming, comfortable, flattering and distinctive.
The marriage? Not so much. He was gone by our second anniversary and re-married within the year to a woman who attended the ceremony. Ouch!
There are few garments a woman will ever wear so subject to incredible public scrutiny and judgment, let alone meant to to carry her gracefully through such a momentous transition.
I loved this true story about a wedding dress that traveled the world, from Florida to Massachusetts to New Zealand and back twice.
So, I just came out of a television studio in Toronto about 90 minutes ago, after a 30-minute live show hosted by business journalist Howard Green, where I talked about Malled, my new book, with two retail industry experts.
Winding down, I came down the stairs and headed for the exit. A slim handsome white-haired man in a very nice navy blue suit stood in the way.
No. Couldn’t be…here, in Toronto? Why?
I was hopelessly star-struck and introduced myself and the publicist for Penguin (why did I not have copy of my book to hand him?!) and said “Keep up the good work.”
(What a thrill!)
Which Big Names have you encountered face to face like that?