But after his fifth phone call, I thought, Oh God, I’ll just throw him a bone and be nice. Unfortunately, talking to him was a bit of a joke. My initial feelings were confirmed; he had prepared a list of journalistically prodding questions and kept pelting me with them over and over in hopes that I’d break down and admit I actually did hate the town, which in fact was simply not true. I hurried off the phone.
The next day, driving up to my country house, I stopped at my usual gas station. The attendant, who looks like a Bangladeshi Clark Kent and whom I’ve seen every weekend for the past eight years, seemed especially excited to see me.
“Ohhhh, you’re on the cover of the paper!” he said.
Oh fuck.
In that moment, I got what it must be like when you’ve robbed a bank and you’re trying to quietly skip town. There I was, standing at the counter with two pink Snowball cupcakes that looked like big nipples, reaching for a loaf of white Wonder Bread—yes, it’s the only thing Ava will eat her grilled cheese on—while Clark Kent waved a copy of the Poughkeepsie Journal at me with large pictures of my face and Wonder Woman’s on it. “ ‘Wonder’ Blunder? Jab at Poughkeepsie About Comic Icon’s New Look Draws Notice,” blared the headline. The article inside noted: “Comments about Wonder Woman’s makeover have residents wondering why Poughkeepsie was the apparent target of a fashion publicist.” I’ll tell you why: it was a slow news day in upstate New York!
I know people say there’s no such thing as bad publicity, but in the moment it can feel pretty bad. After all, I’d been a good sport with the New York Post, and the piece turned out to be quite a bit of fun. But for me, it quickly turned to sour apples when I saw myself on the cover of the Poughkeepsie Journal. It had been years since I’d thought about Wonder Woman. Yet while others were talking about the recession, depression, national debt, and fear and violence, I was talking about hot pants. That was my big contribution to a cover story. What is my life coming to? I wondered. To be honest, the whole thing made me feel kind of chippy.
Luckily, sometimes what seems at first like an annoyance, a setback, or a really huge mistake can actually be part of something much larger. I’ve told you many times that I do not believe in coincidences. I do believe every moment is engineered by our soul and the Divine. In fact, some experiences, both good and bad, are meant to teach us what we need to know at a certain time. Look at it this way: Our soul and the Divine are conductors in the rock opera of our lives, and though I didn’t know it at the time, the summer of 2010 would be, for me, a song with a great motherfucking hook. Can you believe that Cutrone’s cutting comments (there I go with the alliteration again) about Poughkeepsie would lead to an invitation to visit Eleanor Roosevelt’s estate? Or that, once there, I’d receive a crash course in human rights and the urgent need for us all to accept and embrace our Universal Motherhood, which would change my whole outlook on life just as I was starting to think about this book?
See, you just never know what’s around the corner. The Poughkeepsie Journal article inspired a woman named Barbara Henszey to e-mail my dear friend Kenny Zimmerman—one of my tribal elders and a fashion legend—for help getting in touch with me. Just days after the article appeared, Kenny forwarded me this e-mail:
From: Barbara Henszey
Date: July 13, 2010 8:55:22 PM EDT
To: Kenneth Zimmerman
Subject: Eleanor Roosevelt Center
Kenny,
The Eleanor Roosevelt Center in Hyde Park celebrates all the remarkable elements of ER’s legacy, but its overall visibility is weak.
Kenny, I know you are a good friend of Kelly Cutrone. It struck me the other day that she and Eleanor Roosevelt might have been great friends. Kelly’s book is full of poignant inspiration and activist wisdom, the hallmarks of ER’s journey. Do you think Kelly might have an interest in contributing to the Center? I would appreciate any input—from brainstorming to assistance in planning an event. Perhaps when Kelly is at her weekend home, we could meet for an hour at Eleanor’s Val-Kill home in Hyde Park.
If Kelly is not able to help at this time, I would love to give her and her daughter, Ava (and you and Arlene) a tour through the grounds. It’s a most magical place.
Best,
Barbara
Reading this, I felt as though I’d been hit on the head with a coconut. I mean, Eleanor Roosevelt and Kelly Cutrone? Whaaaaaaaaat?! I was simultaneously curious and elated that anyone would think Eleanor and I would have been friends, even though I knew almost nothing about her or what she accomplished in her life (but it certainly sounded fancy). I accepted the invitation partly because I was flattered, and partly because this woman Barbara seemed like she was stabbing around in the dark and needed some help. Maybe I could at least get her some free publicity for the estate.
Ava and I decided to visit Val-Kill the day before I was scheduled to fly to Toronto for a retreat with the Indian-born guru Sri Devi Amritanandamayi Ma, commonly called Amma, for whom I’d been consulting on media and branding. (To
