Ermm....even if I had an ass like this...I need a bit more coverage...

Dear Ether,

Is it wrong to wear knickers from Costco?  Does buying underwear in a vacuum-sealed pack by the dozen make me less of a woman?  

I don’t enjoy spending a lot of money on undergarments.  I like them to be functional.  Now, it’s true that I haven’t been on the dating scene in a long time. I probably wouldn’t wear my 80’s floral patterned pants to meet a hot dude at his apartment.  BUT, what about schlepping around during the day?  I mean, women, when they go to the market, wear lacy-black thongs (how do I know this—well, you know when you squat down looking at the bottom shelf, be careful!  We can see your business…enough said).   Or, ladies power-walk to work wearing La Perla.  I suppose many women feel that it all begins with the foundation of your clothes and then you build up.  Not me!  I like the freedom of throwing on my cheap-o undies, 100% cotton, fully covered bum, in a dopey pattern or just a block color.  Though I do have my standards–I never wear white! 

I own a couple of sexy little numbers.  And sometimes, when I’ve been bad about doing laundry, I’ve been forced to pull them out for everyday use.  I feel silly.  Like I’m wearing a cocktail dress out to McDonalds.  It doesn’t feel like I’m treating myself to something special.  In fact, it feels scratchy or too posh.  It seems like a waste.  People would laugh if they knew what was under some of the clothes worn to many of the events I attend.  For example, I have a beautiful Chloe dress that I wear with black Louboutin’s.  Yeah……I then rock the look with budget lingerie from the Gap or Primark.  

When I first changed in front of English gent, I didn’t expect to be going au natural.  And since I rock the shitty undergarment look, well fuck, out came the 5 year old, no name nude bra.  And, of course, the Costco paisley-print briefs.  HOT!  As a joke I said “What do you think?” He laughed and said, “That is truly shocking.”  Hey, Ethers, at least I still had it in me to shock a man!  

When I see a woman in an ad or a film wearing a gorgeous set of lingerie and see her power of seduction, yeah, I often feel the elastic in the waist of my knickers and frown.  But, instead of spending 30 bucks per pair (at least) on some silk string bikinis, I’d much rather enjoy a nice lunch instead.  

Recently I saw some tabloid photos of Miranda Kerr (Orlando Bloom’s lady) in a corset and thigh-high’s from the Victoria’s Secret fashion show.  Yep.  She looked amazing. But, then I saw another pap photo of her changing in the background of another runway show.  She was wearing a crappy, plain nude bra and from what I could see a tan thong.  And you know what, she still looked pretty fucking hot.  At the end of the day, if you’ve got a great bod, those vacuum-sealed bargain beauties are gonna be just fine.  And if you don’t have such a great figure, yeah, maybe a sexy number from Rigby & Pellar will make you appear hotter or feel better.  But, hey, let’s face it, no matter how tight you lace that bustier, you ain’t gonna look like Ms. Kerr.  So, my feeling?  Save your bucks.  You’ll only be wearing that stuff for a few seconds anyway if you’re with a guy.  And at the end of the day, the fewer strings and snaps he has to deal with to get to you, the better.  Viva la underpants!!!!!!

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

One of the MANY reasons I choose not to wear white underpants.....visible panty line....though this lady has a few other things to think about!

Ahhh.....Only in a perfect religious world, right?

Dear Ether,

“Feliz Navidad” is blaring away in the kitchen (only in L.A., right?).  My mom has been cooking all day preparing lamb, cranberry sauce, special winter vegetables, a fig pudding and a few other treats.  A little pine Christmas tree sits in the middle of our dining room table.  My great-grandmother’s China is laid out in a lovely red and white pattern.  It’s English—Staffordshire.  We are celebrating Christmas Eve with a bang.  

We are Jewish.

English gent is Anglican. 

Though he is not religious—he did always attend Midnight Mass in his little village church in East Sussex.  When he was a kid he was an acolyte, holding that candle proudly behind the Priest.  His parents made a special meal, handed out little presents and decorated the front of their house with a poinsettia or two. 

The bottom line: the guy certainly wasn’t Jewish, that’s for sure. 

But during the High Holy days and Chanukah, English gent wore a yamaka/kippah here in the States.  He lit the menorah, he listened to the Rabbi and his spiel.  He was a good sport, because, man, I HATE temple and am not into anything religious whatsoever.  But he wanted to learn about Judaism and respect my parents desire for him to participate.  As we Jews would say, he was a “mensch” (a real man!).  

So, we are paying homage to him tonight.  My brother, Bachelor One of 365, has compiled a CD of great Christmas music (yeah, I don’t think many of us could take much more “Feliz Navidad”).  We’re going to light a nice fire and have some lovely wine.  And we are referring to dessert as “pudding.”  Proper, innit’ it?  

Today—well, tonight, English gent and I are going to quiet our brains and not think about our issues.  I’m sure he misses his family terribly.  I know he’s gonna miss that Midnight Mass.  Hey, if I’m missing Regent Street lit up,  my Buck’s Fizz and the excitement of the Christmas sales in London coming, then I’m sure he’s nostalgic too.  But here we are.  Los Angeles, CA.  It’s sunny.  Not hot. It certainly doesn’t have the vibe of the holiday season.  I feel like I’ve taken so much away from him.  If this is a drop in the bucket to make him feel just a dash better, then I hope it works. 

We may be Jews, but damn can we cook!  And we sure know our Christmas tunes and, truthfully, have always envied those who’ve had trees   English gent is giving us a great excuse to have a holiday we never got the opportunity to celebrate in our house (but would have LOVED the chance).  And you know me, ever the fashionista!  I went to the Salvation Army and bought the most fab (hideous) Christmas jumper to wear this evening as part of my attire (no, I will not be taking photos as it could be used against me and ruin my career one day—LOL).  It is very demure, might I add.  No one could call me a Ho, Ho, Ho tonight!!!!!!!!!

Have a mighty fine Christmas Eve and I hope Santa (or your Mom and Dad—hahahahha sorry kids if I ruined the magic, but if you’re reading this blog, you’re too young to being doing so anyway!) gives you something special in the morning (I know my friend Wildernesschic is hoping for a certain Mulberry bag………) 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

GULP!!!!!

Dear Ether,

It’s really quite strange.  One of 365 is a very small, anonymous blog.  A lovely and loyal group of chapettes leave kind comments, and occasionally I’ll get a few newbies leaving their P.O.V’s.  But, in my working life, my writing is published under my real name.  The articles are very public in well-known titles. Publications always post what I write online after it goes to print.  Standard these days.  I’m not used to having anyone really Tweet my work or write anything that I can’t censor before they leave a comment.  However, with this new situation, it’s my name and my writing standing stark naked for the world to judge.  

Often I get wonderful re-tweets and kind words.  And then I get shitty comments really attacking what I’ve written.  Total cringe.  I’ve recently been asked to start blogging for a national newspaper in addition to writing articles for them.  Well, it’s certainly a change of pace from One of 365.  My voice is 100% different, as are my topics and my word limit.  No swearing, nothing too daring and always having to mind my p’s and q’s.  I also have an editor making sure what I submit is proper.  

It’s so weird living this double life.  I can’t check the back-end of these sites to see hit rates or stats.  I can’t pick images.  I feel so out of control.  I also really want to reply to people who leave their opinions, but I’ve been instructed that this is off limits.  So, yes, silenced from any kind of interaction.  

As a writer…as a PAID writer….the sacrifice you have to make is once you hand over you work, it often no longer belongs to you.  I need the money.  That’s the truth.  So, I have to shut my trap and keep on trucking.  Look, I’m not likening myself to a celebrity, but you know how they say they don’t read what the tabloids say about them?  BOLLOCKS!  I am obsessed with comments about my articles and reading reviews about my writing.  My articles are posted on more than a few blogs and I wish so badly that I could write to bloggers—either thanking them or explaining to them what the truth is.  Hey, everyone has a right to their opinion.  But, the more public my work becomes, the tougher it is to just be quiet.  C’mon.  You guys know me.  Have I ever seemed like the type to be shy?  Exactly.  I think many of you Ethers, if you knew my real identity, and read my work, would laugh at my pieces.  See a whole other side of me.  

Right now I am at the stage in my career where I need to start marketing myself and getting my name out there even MORE.  Oh yeah.  MORE.  That means opening the door to a whole lot of extra opinions.  I don’t have the thickest skin, and maybe this is a good time to grow it.  And if I want to be a winner in this media game, I better start to play harder.  But I gotta tell you, the pressure and anxiety—always trying to please everyone—make the right decisions.  I feel like I’m in a fog.  

Right.  Back to my latest feature.  How very odd indeed.  I wonder if it will be loved or hated?  Or, actually, when I’ll start to not give a shit?  I’m never going to be the next Austen or Roth………..shit, I never thought I’d ever work again as a paid writer.  But I have to say, even the little bit that I add to the recycling bins of the world, well, it can be surreal sometimes. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

6 Feet Tall. 300 Pounds. And I Wasn't Giving Her The Padlock Key For The Fridge. Nope. Not After What She Did!

Dear Ether, 

He name was Carolyn.  CARO-LIN.  NOT line.  She stood over 6ft tall, had naturally white-blonde, thin hair and bangs. I remember her very swollen red face and that she could have invested in the company North Face (it seemed to be her brand of choice)—AND girlfriend weighed about 300 pounds.  

This was the first person who greeted me when I entered halls at University in London.  She was holding a large tub of Wine Gums.  She just kept shoveling them into her mouth without even looking at the candy first.  We stood at two ends of the hallway.  It was like a David and Goliath duel.  I was armed with luggage and she, with a projectile of confectionary.  She was sort of transfixed.  And, that looked like a shit load of candy, and she was piling it away like a model hungry for a garden salad.  Hmmm….

It was a bit strange to me that she was just standing waiting for flatmates to arrive.  I mean, it could have been hours until anyone else showed.  But I guess the Wine Gums kept her occupied.  I knew she was American by the way she was dressed (terrible stereotype, I know…).  I also knew she wasn’t from New York or L.A.  In a very heavy Mid-Western accent, through a gooey smile, she said “Hi.  You’re the last one to arrive.  Where are you from?”  When I told her I was from the States, she (seriously) began jumping up and down (I swear the floor shook) and told me we were the only two Yankees out of 10.  She gave me the tour (the kitchen) and then told me that all the cupboards had been taken—I had the crummy one on the floor.  I actually later found out she took TWO cupboards on the top tier (selfish git) and secretly cleaned out my area where the cleaning supplies were kept so I’d have somewhere to keep my food.

Now, you have to understand.  I really didn’t dislike Carolyn because she was overweight, or fit the hideous stereotype of a loud American.  I disliked her because she was a snoop, a thief and ANGRY!  I specifically wanted to go to a Uni in London that immersed me with the culture.  I didn’t want to hang out with Americans.  So, she glommed on to me, but I really had no interest in checking out the city with her.  I wanted to see what Brits were like—see insider stuff.  Not be a tourist.  This really offended her.  We also had NOTHING in common.  I liked fashion she liked food.  I liked theater and music.  She liked food.  I liked markets and clubs.  She like bloody FOOD.  And she was very possessive of the kitchen.  She was so huge, no one could cook when she was making her meals because she took up the whole space.  And, we had 2 tiny fridges and she used all the shelves.  And her meals—my god.  She must have spent a tenner on every dish.  Her lunch was a 12inch baguette with brie and bacon and…well you get my drift.  She used a fucking mixing bowl for her cereal in the mornings.  But, then things got bad.  Our food started to disappear.  First it was little things.  “Hey, guys, did you see the crisps I bought.  I swear, I got like a 12 pack?”  Then it was major things.  “Ummm….I bought a  ton of cheese….like 10 quid’s worth and it is GONE.”  And Carolyn would always, whenever you sat down to eat, ask for a “bite” of whatever you were eating.  Yeah, a “bite.”  She usually ate half.  And my folks would send me care packages with American candy or food—bullion.   And she would come into my room, plop down, and without permission eat a coveted Hershey bar or rip open a bag of Twizzlers and eat them.  She was a food bully. 

One day she popped out to get something and left her door open.  A few of us were eager to see her inner sanctum.   She never let us in her room.  When we opened the door further, what we saw amazed us.  Here room was a pantry!  She had a whole set up….a microwave, hot-plate, kettle.  And……..so much food……..it was like a convenience store.  But she got back before we had time to leave.  And she was MAD!  Like a giant beast, she wailed and turned crimson.  We tried to defend ourselves and told her of our suspicions of her thievery and her sampling our food—and how we were sick of it.  I swear to you, Ethers, I have never seen someone who appeared so jolly, become so vicious.  She picked on each one of us, throwing insults our way—calling me an “Anglo-fucker” (HA!) and sending all of us into a state of shock.  The next day, as if nothing happened, she ate her cereal, smiled and left for class.  It was like the food exorcist.  We all bought padlocks for our cupboards, put our names on post-it notes on our food in the fridge and ignored her.  

When it was time for her to go, she left silently.  But she did something that I still think is ingenious.  The next day we each received a package.  It was beautifully wrapped.  The note said, “Have a good rest of the year, Love Carolyn.”  Surrounded by dainty lavender tissue, was a plastic bag with a note that said “You’ve been sent a Crap-O-Gram.”  We had been informed that Carolyn had sprung for medium sized dog shit (you could go for a small pup  all the way to a bruiser) scooped out from the fine English countryside.  I think we were just grateful it wasn’t her OWN shit.  Because from all that food she had been consuming, I’m sure she could have made a “LOAD” of presents for us all.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

"Aiutare"

Dear Ether, 

I don’t like to speak to anyone in Dr. W’s (my psychiatrist) waiting room.  I specifically arrive 10 minutes early before each session to gather my thoughts.  To collect myself and think about what I’d like to cover that day.  Unfortunately, he shares office space with other doctors, so I often have to sit with other patients. Everyone tends to mind their own business.  The crackly stereo plays classical music from the public radio station.  Eyes tend to stare down at laps. 

But every Thursday, whilst waiting for my 1:15 appointment, I’m always left alone with an Italian woman.  She’s in her late 30’s.  Severe black hair in a chignon.  Badly painted lips in a brick red. A dowdy outfit.  I know as soon as she walks in, flicks the button to let her therapist know she’s arrived, she’s going to begin conversing with me.  She doesn’t seem to notice my body language, my monosyllabic answers.  She often repeats the same things in a very heavy accent. 

“Ciao.  You look GORGEOUS. Always so stylish.  Oh, I wish I was like you.” Let’s just say I don’t wear my Sunday’s finest when I attend therapy, so I think she says this as an opening line to everyone.  I always smile, nod my head, thank her, and look down.  She continues.  “This week, so bad.  I am unwell.  SO unwell.  I drove 1 hour to get here and cried the whole way.  I think something is poor with my medicine.”  This is when she starts to cry—some more, I presume.  Now, I’m not in the best state either, and I don’t know how to deal with her.  She’s a total stranger, and I don’t know if she’s schizophrenic or has some other mental illness.  I attempt to calm her.  Ask her about Italy.  But she has a one-track mind.  She sometimes reaches to grab my hand.  I don’t like this at all.  Now I know this seems so cruel and cold.  But, I can’t stand being touched by strangers.  I’m also slightly scared of her.  She continues, “Please.  Help me?  You look like you can help me.”  I tell her, as I do every week, that I too am here because I have troubles and that I wish I could do something for her.  Then, like snapping out of some trance, she begins to overly compliment me about some item of my outfit again.  

Finally Dr. W. fetches me, and her eyes follow me as I leave.  I’ve told him about her.  He says he’ll speak with her doctor.  But nothing ever changes.  This has gone on for almost a year. 

On December 10^th—my Thursday appointment, as per usual, I walk in to see Dr. W.  I finally have peace as the Italian woman (I do not know her name) does not show.  What relief.  Maybe she has gone home for Christmas.  Dr. W. fetches me, I smile and crack a joke saying that the “Princepessa” has allowed me to think for once with her absence.  That I have some good things to chat about today.  Without any emotion, he tells me that she had actually hanged herself the previous week.  No one had found her for a few days.  She had no friends.  It was the smell which had alerted people of her death.  I nod my head up and down–eyes blinking, taking it in.   “You know, I spent a year with that woman.  1 day a week for 10 minutes.  She always asked for help .  And each time she annoyed me.  I’m sure that’s how she everyone treated her. And, I know I couldn’t have changed her fate, but maybe I could have made 10 minutes of her day a bit happier.” 

I guess, through my selfish behavior, I got my wish.  I no longer had to speak with anyone in the waiting room.  But gathering my thoughts in the waiting room—forget it.  All I’ll be picturing each Thursday–for a while at least–is a woman with raven colored hair, bloody colored lipstick and alabaster skin dangling from the ceiling.  What would 10 minutes have been out of 52 weeks?  Less than an hour?  Shame on me.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365