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Let me explain. It started when I was three months old and my family just happened to move into the same house in Chappaqua,
New York, where the former president and Secretary of State Clinton live today. Then, about three years later, in 1956, we
were living in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, when Richard Nixon was running for vice president for a second term.

He was on a whistle-stop tour when my mother took me to the station to watch his train come chugging in and slowly stop. There
he was, standing at the back of the caboose, waving at people. It was chilly and I had on a pink flannel coat with a fur collar.
Mom always dressed me impeccably in very short dresses and lovely coats. On this particularly cold day, however, I was wearing
a pink number I called my “fat coat,” because it was so thick and fluffy it made me look like a pink snowball.

Apparently, vice presidential candidate Richard Nixon noticed it, too. When the train pulled to a stop, he scanned the crowd
for a moment and then swooped down, lifted me
from my mother’s arms, and held me up for a photo op. Mamie Eisenhower, the wife of the presidential candidate, was also on
the train and she handed me a rose. Later, we dried it in an atlas where it remained for many years.

Of course, I don’t remember the actual moment. I was only three. But what I
do
remember is seeing the newspaper the next day in Pennsylvania and there I was, in the arms of Richard Nixon in my fat coat.
The man meant little to me at the time but I recall noticing that something could happen one day and end up in the newspaper
the next. That was the first time I made that connection. Since his name was printed and mine wasn’t, was that an omen that
my life’s work would be behind the scenes instead of in front of the camera?

Back at the gallery, Ethel spoke again. “Are you the Wendy who used to wait on me at Brooks Brothers?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s me. I served you. How can I help you?” I asked politely, starting to believe that she really
was
Ethel Kennedy.

“How are you?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I answered. “How are you?”

“Great. Listen, I’m having a party tonight for Don Klosterman of the LA Rams. Would you like to come and be Joe’s dinner partner?”

I inhaled sharply. The now late Don Klosterman (his name meant nothing to me at that moment) was a legend in the world of
football, building winning teams in three different leagues throughout his career, I would learn later. Ethel Kennedy was
asking me to be Joe’s dinner partner, her handsome and savvy son with her late husband, Robert F. Kennedy.

“Can you come to dinner tonight at Hickory Hill?” she asked.

“Okay,” I said haltingly.

The very name, Hickory Hill, carried with it a sense of
elegance and history. This colonial brick house in McLean, Virginia, built around 1815, was used as a temporary headquarters
by General George B. McClellan during the American Civil War. The home had originally been bought by Senator John F. Kennedy
and his wife, Jacqueline, who sold it to Ethel and her husband, Bobby. Who didn’t want to go to dinner at Hickory Hill?

“Where do you live?” Ethel asked.

I gave her my address in Georgetown.

“I’ll have Caroline Croft pick you up and bring you to Hickory Hill.”

I hung up the phone, wondering how on earth Ethel had found me. When the phone rang again (two calls made it a busy day at
the gallery), it was my boss from Brooks Brothers. “Wendy, did Ethel Kennedy just call you?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Good. She was looking for you and I gave her your number. So what did she want?” he asked eagerly.

“She wants me to come over for dinner,” I answered, hardly able to believe it myself.

I left work early and gathered my roommates together to tell them that I would be Joe Kennedy’s dinner date that very night
at Hickory Hill for a dinner given by Ethel Kennedy to honor Don Klosterman. I did the research to find out who Klosterman
was but God only knew who else would be at the dinner and I had no money (thanks to my work at the gallery) and no decent
clothes. When I put my head together with my roommates, Torrey and Cynthia, we decided that the nicest dress that any of us
owned was rolled up in a ball on its way to the cleaners. I pulled the gray knit dress out of Torrey’s car and I ran an iron
over it. It was dowdy and conservative and it would have to do.

Then I called my mom. “Ethel Kennedy just asked me to go to Hickory Hill, that huge house in McLean, Virginia,” I told her.
“I’m supposed to be Joe Kennedy’s dinner partner. She’s sending a car for me.”

“I don’t want you getting into a car with a strange man,” Mom said protectively. “You don’t know those boys and I don’t want
you driving around with them.”

“Mrs. Kennedy is sending a woman to pick me up,” I assured her. “Her name is Caroline Croft.”

That seemed to placate my mother. As I got ready for my big night, she told the rest of the family and one sister after another
called me with advice.

“What are you going to wear?” said Peggy.

“How will you do your hair? You have to look really good,” said Terry.

My third sister, Mary, being a little more scholarly than the rest of us, said, “Let me tell you about Joe Kennedy.” She gave
me a rundown, offering me all the information she had on this man, next to whom I would be sitting at dinner.

I was too nervous and excited to listen well. Why had Ethel Kennedy called
me
? When I finally stared into the mirror, with the addition of a string of very small pearls, a headband, and conservative
heels, I looked like Alice in Wonderland as a matron: dumpy and all dressed up for a dinner party, looking the best I could
considering what I had to work with.

I thought about the dinner ahead of me and how poorly prepared I felt. But I had earned this invitation and there was a reason.
I had been funny and engaging when I met Ethel, serving her and making sure she had what she wanted. And she had considered
me someone interesting enough to invite to dinner. Now, I was as ready as I would ever be when the lovely Caroline Croft arrived
to pick me up in her long pastel
silk shirt with flowing silk pants that looked somewhat like a caftan. I immediately decided she was the coolest person I
had ever met. After all, she had worked for Senator Ted Kennedy for years. Now, she was executive director of the Robert F.
Kennedy Foundation for which she coordinated fund-raisers. She actually managed to put me somewhat at ease, even though I
knew I looked like a twenty-four-year-old dweeb. She was very kind to me and eventually, she ended up becoming a friend.

Of course I was in awe when we pulled up in front of Hickory Hill at dusk. I gazed at the sweeping grounds that I had seen
only in photographs, swallowed hard, and entered through the front door to be greeted by Ethel Kennedy herself. After a moment
of small talk, she introduced me to her son Joe, who was wearing a pair of nice dress pants and a blue jean shirt. He was
close to my age and had a friendly face with a big Ken doll smile and a warm personality. He was a really nice guy and when
he took a look at me, I could only imagine what he was thinking since I was clearly overdressed for the occasion as I stood
there looking like a religious Barbie doll.

I wanted to retreat into a corner. I felt so out of place and awkward, but instead, I had a good time engaging with people
in some great conversations. No sitting in the corner and just watching, I reminded myself. I needed to be interesting and
interested. As a result, the evening was fun and I would discover later that this was just the kind of party that Ethel loved
throwing. She was happiest when her house was filled with children, dogs, and appetizing smells from the kitchen. Wonderful
historical paintings covered the walls in this beautiful colonial home, and Joe made lively dinner conversation and treated
me with respect.

I scanned the dinner guests to see humorist and satirist Art Buchwald, Vernon Jordan, and Don Klosterman for whom the
party was being thrown, and diverse Washington notables—a fun and rowdy group. I realized that Ethel had invited me because
when we met she pegged me as an interesting person. Since she wanted some nice girls to attend her party that was overrun
with men, she had called me, feeling that I would fit in. I was age-appropriate for Joe, but really, I was desperately out
of my league with him and I knew it.

Toward the end of the evening, when people were starting to leave, I began to say my good-byes. I could hardy wait to get
back home where my roommates were having a party to celebrate my dinner with the Kennedy clan. They were waiting for me to
give them the scoop about the people who were there, the food, the decor, and of course, Joe. I politely thanked him for the
evening and just as I was about to leave with Caroline, Joe said, “You don’t really want to leave right now, do you?”

I was taken aback. Was he asking me to stay? Did he like me enough to want to spend more time with me?

“Why don’t you stay for a while,” he said, “and I’ll take you home a little later?”

I considered my options. There was a group of people waiting for me back home, drinking beer and impatient to hear about my
evening. I could play it safe and go home right then with very little to report about the night. Or I could stick around,
have Joe Kennedy drive me home, and arrive with a terrific story.

I went for the story and I stayed for another hour while Joe walked me around the house and showed me the back rooms with
photographs that were legendary. He was altogether charming, he was a perfect gentleman, and I was glad I had stayed behind.
I soaked in all the historical references from my in-depth tour, but little did I know that in the not too distant future,
I would be in Ethel’s employ and Hickory Hill
would be a place where I would report to work each day. But I get ahead of myself.

On that night, when the last people were leaving, Joe escorted me to a white convertible, opened my door for me, and went
around the car to get into the driver’s seat. “Oh, my gosh,” he said, “I didn’t realize I was so low on gas.”

The sirens went off in my head. Oh, God, I thought, I’m in trouble now. Reminders of Paris flashed through my mind, but Joe
managed to get me back to my little townhouse without getting stuck in the middle of the Georgetown Parkway. He parked in
front of my house and when I reached over to hug him good-bye, the next thing I knew, he kissed me. I kissed him back. He
was a great kisser, and we steamed up the car windows for a while. Suddenly, he said, “Don’t you want to invite me in?”

I had never wanted anything more, but I couldn’t invite Joe Kennedy up to my house where my friends were having a Wendy Went
to the Kennedys’ for Dinner party. It would look so lame. Instead, I kissed him one more time, thanked him, and reluctantly
headed toward my apartment. When I turned to catch a glimpse of the back of his car disappearing down the street, I noticed
something lying on the road. I walked back to find Joe’s navy blazer that had fallen out of the car when I got out. I picked
it up and thought, “This is a great souvenir of one of the most amazing nights of my life.”

When I finally got inside, blazer in hand, my friends were all over me, wanting to know every little detail of what we ate,
who was there, and how I liked Joe. I told them how the people looked, what they wore, what was served, and how queer my clothes
were. When I finally got into bed, I looked at the navy blazer sitting on the chair beside my bed. I decided I would frame
it with the caption, “I had one date with Joe Kennedy and all I got was this lousy blazer.” Then I laughed myself to sleep.

Now I had a great albeit a bit embarrassing story to tell, but little did I know, it wasn’t over. The night after the dinner
party at Hickory Hill, I got back from the gallery and ate a light supper with my roommates. Three of us girls were hanging
out in the living room and I had on a horrible flannel nightgown with lace around the neck, granny-style. We were enjoying
a relaxing evening, knitting, crocheting, and gossiping about men. A total loser kind of night…

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I jumped up and threw the door open to see Joe Kennedy standing there, smiling at me. “Hi,” he
said, “sorry to bother you, but did you find my blazer? I think it fell out of the car when I was dropping you off.”

“Yeah,” I said, returning his smile in spite of myself. “I found it in the street. Just wait a minute.” I took off toward
my bedroom, granny gown and all, got the blazer I was going to frame, and handed it to him.

“Thanks so much,” he said, turned around, and he was gone.

I closed the door and headed back to the couch, picked up my knitting and thought,
First it was the Alice in Wonderland gray knit with the pearls, and now I’m in the mother of all granny nightgowns. Too bad
Joe Kennedy will never know how way cool I really am.

BE SOMEONE OTHERS WANT TO BE AROUND

We’re all attracted to people who are lively, stimulating, and fun to be with—the ones who see the glass half full. Don’t
you like being with someone who makes
you laugh, treats others with kindness, and is funny and engaging? This kind of person is
doing
things in life as opposed to people who are not, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to tell the difference.

Close your eyes right now, and think about two people you love to be around. Now think of two people you would
not
want to sit beside at a dinner party. We all know the type—they talk only about themselves, their energy is negative, and
all they do is tell you about their problems. Do you want to be that kind of person, the one who gets your place card switched
at a dinner party because no one wants to sit next to a complainer? Wouldn’t you rather be the one whose place card gets switched
because everyone wants you at their table?

When I was in the most painful part of my divorce, I spoke with Arianna Huffington, politico and founder of the Huffington
Post. Having just survived a public divorce of her own, she told me, “People don’t want to hear about my pain. So I don’t
talk about it.”

I got the same lesson from Nancy Reagan when Larry and I had dinner with her one evening after her husband had passed away.

Larry asked her, “How are you doing?”

“I don’t talk about it,” she said.

“Why not?” Larry said.

“Because no one wants to hear about someone else’s sorrow,” she said.

So this was even true for Nancy Reagan who was talking about a president? Apparently so.

The key to being an interesting person is to stop complaining, step outside yourself, and be interested
in others. Here are some basic rules that will work in your favor:

•  When someone comes to your table, stand up and show your respect, whether they are older or younger.

•  Remember what your mother taught you and listen well.

•  Look people directly in the eye if you expect them to remember you.

•  Shake someone’s hand and let them know you’re happy to see them.

•  Smile.

My boyfriend, Randy, is a master at making people happy. He was trained to do this when he worked with the pharmaceutical
company Eli Lilly, and it stuck. Today, he treats others with so much interest and kindness, no one ever wants him to leave,
including me! The point is that when you make someone feel good about themselves, they will remember you and the fact that
you have good energy. In a spiritual sense, that’s what it’s all about. Good energy attracts good energy. But you have to
be real about it and not just pay other people lip service. Being available, interested, and interesting is a lifestyle, not
a momentary action.

Do you know anyone in your life who says all the right stuff, who “acts” interested, maybe they remember your kid’s name and
they ask about you, but you know they really don’t care? They’re acting nice but the energy behind their actions doesn’t lie.
You can tell the difference when someone is truly engaged and
when someone pretends to care, while in truth they’re thinking only about themselves and what they can get from you.

I recently attended a seminar near San Diego at the Chopra Center for Wellbeing in Carlsbad, California. The seminar was entitled
Sages and Scientists, and many scientists and philosophers spoke over the three days. There was a great deal of valuable information
given out, but in my opinion the best advice of the weekend came from one scholar who got up toward the end and said very
simply, “Be nice. You know, the Golden Rule!”

This does not exclude being strong, forceful, or creative. We can be nice, too, and that will make you feel better about yourself.
If you run into a jerk in your life, you don’t have to be one, too. Why drop to a level of negativity and rudeness that will
hurt everyone involved, including you? As Sun-tzu says about the art of war, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
I would add, “And be nice to all of them.”