This is a Romanov. She is strikingly beautiful. Though she is not the woman whose photograph would later captivate me, when I saw this image of Princess Olga and she took my breath away...I felt she was a good way to convey how I felt the day I DID see the visage of the stranger on the other end of the phone.

Dear Ether,

Somewhere in Odessa there is a photograph of me.  It might be stored away gently in a envelope.  It may be crudely covered in rubble in a dump.  But somewhere…..somewhere in the Ukraine there is a snapshot of me taken when I was in my mid 20’s.

The original keeper of the photo was a woman I never met.  She spoke no English and I no Russian.  My glossy print sat on her mantelpiece for about 5 years in her modest studio flat.  It shared space with images of her grandchildren, husband and daughter and a few tattered black and white photos that survived the war.

English gent is half Russian.  His mother is this woman’s daughter.  To me she was only known as Babushka.

I only spoke to her a few times on the phone.  I muttered foolish statements that English gent had taught me.  “Ya Loo-Bloo Tibia” (I love you).  She laughed with good nature into the phone and repeated. “Ya Loo-Bloo Tibia Tour-Jah” (I love you too).  It felt sad that I was crippled by language and couldn’t communicate with a woman who I knew had a tremendous history and warmth.  I had never been handicapped by language before—in fact, it was something I was so good at.  I always handed over the receiver feeling like a puppet who’d just done her job entertaining.

One day, I asked to see her photograph during a visit to English gent’s house.  His clan are a family of pale, fair-haired, light eyed, slim people.  Babushka was in her twenties in the photo I was shown.  She couldn’t have been more than 5 feet tall.  She had coffee-colored hair and brown pupils. I know it seems crazy, but I felt a sudden closeness to her.  I felt she was from my stock.  That English gent’s genes had all come from his father’s UK side (and even his mother was shockingly fair—she didn’t resemble Babushka at all).  Though I’m much taller, we were both the dark horses.  I asked English gent’s mom if I could send Babushka MY photo.  I felt if that made me feel a connection to her where words couldn’t, maybe my photo could create the same spark.

When she received my photo, Gent told me she cried.  That she “understood.”  She loved my dark looks—and it made her so happy that he was with someone who reminded her of her heritage.  After that, I made sure no longer to be a marionette on the phone but to have a translator and convey true feelings across the line.

But, as we all know, time is a harsh enemy.  And she was not young.  She no longer could speak on the phone or read letters.  And then she died.  When English gent’s mother went to her flat for the last time, she said she noticed my photo immediately.  It stood out more than the others and looked as though it had been fingered the most.  It was slightly dog-eared and had many fingerprints on its finish.  I like to think that she passed it around for many to see.  By the time Gent’s mom came back to clean the flat, the mantle had been tidied and to this day, those pictures have never resurfaced.

Though we never got to know each other, when we looked into one another’s eyes from so far away, we had an understanding.  I often wonder what my photo got to see in her little flat?  I wonder what aromas surrounded it as she cooked her traditional meals?

Wherever I am in Odessa, decaying in a landfill or safe in a drawer, at least I can say for a moment in time a picture spoke a thousand words for both of us.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

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

Ring...Ring...My Normal Dealings On This Holiday.

Dear Ethers,

I hate Thanksgiving.  Yes.  I’m the original Scrooge of this holiday.  I’ve always been grateful to be out of the country whenever November rolls around.  Thrilled to make a quick phone call to my folks, say a half-hearted festive I love you, and then hang-up happy to be freezing in my flat eating Indian food while they munch on turkey.  

Though I do love pumpkin pie.

Why do I dislike this beloved Thursday?  I don’t like the food, (oh god, cranberry mold jiggling on the table next to the gravy with giblets—blechh). I’m not a fan of the forced family get together with relatives gathering asking me questions I DON’T want to answer and the false sense of gratefulness for what, exactly?  I mean, I tend to have more complaints than thanks (I know, I’m a jerk–but you guys know I’m a total pessimist).  Oh, and the hot breath of my dog on my thigh with his eyes bugging out of his head desperate for something, just SOMETHING, is SO pleasant whilst eating.  And he always chooses ME as his bosom buddy.

And I think cornucopia’s are ugly floral display’s, don’t you?

I’m sure you are all “cluck clucking” me about my terrible attitude, but I have to be honest.  

My Mom cooks for two days straight killing herself in the kitchen and dead at night from her toils.  She then becomes mean as hell to everyone around her.  Very festive.  My father, Mr. Perfect, panics if anything is out of place and I begin to worry he might keel over from stress about the few people arriving for dinner. Again, incredibly cheerful. My crazy Aunt S., who has chosen to humiliate me since I’ve been conscious, asks me out loud what bra size I’m sporting these days and then, without permission, lifts up my top and tries to look.  My brother, a total attitude problem at 31, just sits at the piano and is anti-social and rude.  Besides giving me a “noogie” and acting like he’s a frat brother from “Animal House,” there’s really not much else he contributes.  English gent might as well don tails and a bow-tie and put on a heavy Edwardian accent because he ends up being everyone’s bitch.  Need I go on?

Oh, and just this morning The Big Apple Beauty, in town for this “grand event,” took a rolling tumble down our steps.  We all thought she might be dead as she made no noise.  After lying crumpled on the floor for 30 seconds, she got up.  Her perfectly streaked hair looked like she stuck her finger in a socket. She winced and limped outside.  There she remains lying on a chaise lounge moaning with hideous scrapes on her arms.  I’m sure the bruising will start to show any time now.

I detest any meat on the bone and seeing a turkey carcass haunts me.  I hate dark meat and everyone in my family is selfish and takes all the white first.   And yes, my dad might, just might, put on Neil bloody Sedaka in the background.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone–especially to the poor Indians whose land we stole–thank you even more for giving us this holiday.  But hey, at least you guys are gonna have fun tonight at the casinos.  Whose having the last laugh now?

Anyone for roulette?  In my case, I wish it was Russian…….

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Life challenges you everyday. The hardest thing to do is to face it and stare right back because it can all change within a blink of an eye. This post is here simply as a pause for thought. I'm so grateful for your good thoughts and for a positive outcome. I'll be back to my normal rants and stories tomorrow. But today, I am of very few words.

In this short Life by Emily Dickinson

In this short Life
That only lasts an hour
How much — how little — is
Within our power

My dad may have prostate cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. That's all I can hear right now. Please say a good wish for my family.....and to those men out there, get checked out. Early detection is a life saver.

Dear Ether, 

I’m really scared.  My dad just had a test for prostate cancer and they found that it was hard (a healthy prostate should be soft and spongy).  They are doing a biopsy tomorrow and won’t have the results until Friday.  All is gloomy around the household.  

My uncle, his brother, was diagnosed with prostate cancer just last year.  They say if you have sibling who has had the disease, your chances go up.  

My father, whom I just recently posted about (Read: The First Man I Ever Loved Was My Father) and wrote that he never had an injury in his life, could be thrown a very heavy blow.  I know prostate cancer, if caught early, is very curable.  But cancer is cancer and that’s an ugly word.  They say that it’s most virulent in men in their 50’s.  My father is in his early 60’s.  But, again, whose to know.  All is speculation.  

My mom, always positive, thinks he will be fine and will be healthy as he always has.  I can tell by the sallow look on his face and his body language that he does not feel the same way.  

This is the man who I thought was infallible.  A man who I thought was perfect, may have something that will mar him internally and change him psychologically.  I do not fear anything as serious as death, but I do fear suffering for him and the severe shake to his belief in his youthfulness and health.  My father.  Mr. Perfect.  The man I love most.  I can’t bear that he is potentially living with something destroying him. 

Everyone always told me that I took after my father.  I always felt so proud of that because he had a constitution like a rock and had aged handsomely.  If HE is bound for any sort of demise, than I, too, am not going to be always strong and healthy either.  

I’ve never really been unwell.  My brother takes after my mother.  He has a zillion allergies, and always complains of aches and pains (whether this is psychosomatic, I don’t know).  He is always taking off work because he is sick.  I can’t remember the last time I visited a GP. 

But back to my Dad.  He is aging.  He has graying temples, sagging skin, a few scattered sunspots and thinner hair (though a full head—he is not even close to bald).  Aging is a reality, but to see your perfect father lose to the inevitable hands of time.  That even HE can’t beat the clock………it makes you realize that you too, are bound for the same fate. 

My dad wont be alive when I reach his age.  He won’t see me with paper thin skin on the tops of my hands, fat blue veins popping out of them.  He won’t see me chop of my lovely hair and wear it as a woman of my age should.  He’ll never see my lens prescription grow thicker or my eyes grow less clear.  I’m grateful for that.  Because watching him vanish is terrifying and painful.  

Please send out a good word for him.  I hope he is going to be okay.  You’ll remember from my earlier post that I have so much I still must work out with him.  I can’t lose him.  I can’t allow anything to harm him. 

Nobody’s perfect.  I know that.  But to give him cancer?  No.  Please.  No. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365