MJ, Mary Jordan, probably isn’t expecting this, but if she is, she’d never let me know. She’s been my right hand and my left, my loyal, trusted personal assistant since we began working together at J. Walter Thompson in 1996.
She has my back. She protects me from everybody, friends and enemies alike. She gets raves from strangers she’s had to deal with on the phone or through e-mails and texts.
She’s typing this damn book for me. She’ll probably edit and rewrite this chapter. Or maybe she’ll just throw it the hell out. She puts up with me when I’m ornery or short-tempered, tries to laugh at my bad jokes, counsels me when I’m doing something half-assed.
She went with me to transcribe the first Q&A between myself and President Clinton.
He grinned at her. “So you’re the famous Mary Jordan!”
Occasionally, MJ is misunderstood by people who think she’s too protective—but more often than not, it’s people who want to keep her in her place and who don’t understand that she doesn’t have a place. She’s MJ. She’s her own person, beholden to no one. Not even me.
She’s yet another Catholic. MJ’s mom kept up the garden and flowers in her parish in Carmel, New York. When she died, she was so beloved at the church that two priests, two monsignors, and a deacon conducted the service together. I guarantee that Pope Francis won’t get a better funeral Mass.
Mary loved her mom and the service couldn’t have been more beautiful.