I hope this won't be me standing on the side of a road somewhere in Beverly Hills. The 5 dots on the cardboard are like a giant question mark. What CAN I work for? I don't know. It seems my skills are in a dead industry and no one seems interested in what I've got. Any Ethers recruiting out there?

Dear Ethers, 

The recession in America is really tough.  So much tougher than I thought it would be when I left England.  I never thought that on the brink of 30 I would be freelancing (barely) and hearing the sound of crickets on the other end of the phone lines with recruiters who seemed so effusive about my CV and my prospects.  

I grew up with the mentality that if you worked hard, got good grades, went to an excellent University and hell, like me, even got a Master’s Degree, that you would have no problems making your way up the ladder.  I was SO wrong.  Unfortunately, I joined a dying industry just as it began to hit the first stages of its Cancer.  My resume and experience became meshed with something that would give me skills for something that was no longer needed.  I toiled away as an intern and worked my way up——-all to be back to where I was at 22 years old except at 22 there was hope and time.  

I’m really scared.  I don’t know what else I’m capable of doing.  I wouldn’t ever go into PR (LOL….in the magazine business we call going into PR breaking into the “dark side”) and marketing and advertising are impossible to penetrate because they usually want people with agency experience (something I don’t have).  Even though I have applicable skills, because the economy is so bad, there are people with the EXACT skills who are also unemployed, so employers have the pick of the litter.  

In London I was always able to get solid work.  I was able to get really well paying copywriting freelance work and get by.  Though I was never on that coveted ladder, at least I was able to maintain a life and be out in the world with people.  In my present circumstance, I am alone a lot at my computer writing and hoping for that E-mail or the phone to ring.  

English gent says that I have to stay put because every time the going gets bad I bolt.  But I hate L.A. and I just don’t see any opportunities here.  But I can’t keep flittering back and forth.  It just makes me start from square one again and throws everything off kilter.  And again, I don’t have the time to do that any longer.  

I know there are many of you out there who are reading this and probably feeling this same way.  That you’ve tried everything to no avail.  So what can we do to stay positive and keep on trucking?  Well, blogging helps me because it takes up time and keeps me from getting rusty with my writing.  But, it doesn’t help me get anywhere with my future.  The truth is nothing is going to land on my lap—I have to be tenacious.  But, Ethers, I HAVE been tenacious (you should hear the ballsy phone calls I make!).  It’s crazy.  I thought if I pulled out my secret weapon, “the chutzpah,” it would all come together.  But even my crazy attempts have been fruitless.  

I know what you’re going to say.  “Keep on going!”  “Something will break for you soon!”  Thanks guys.  But the truth is, it’s been months.  And my hope is waning.  I know that I’m lucky I have a roof over my head and that my folks are being supportive.  That I’m not a parent with kids and a house with a mortgage.  But the truth is I have to take care of English gent financially until he gets any kind of working papers, and that’s taking a whack out of my savings.  We can’t really afford to go anywhere and do anything because we have to be very careful with every penny.  I feel terrible guilt because I brought us here thinking it would be a better life—even though we had good jobs in England. 

So that’s my employment update for now.  I promise I’ll let you guys know if anything changes, but it’s been like molasses for months.  You’d think it would be fun living like a retiree at 29—-it actually sucks—-yep, there isn’t even a pension.  

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

I just don't know how many more beat downs I can take. I sometimes don't even go into hysterics anymore but go into a quiet place and stare and just leak---sort of like this picture. Life, people---they are so cruel. But why? If we all are hurt by others and hate it, why do we perpetuate it?

Dear Ether,

Let me preface this entry with the fact that this post is more of a rant and a spew than my normal writing.  It’s a bit stream of consciousness and slightly all-over-the-place.  I needed a forum to explode so with that in mind, forgive some of the speed bumps ahead.  But as usual, your support and comments always make a difference and I look forward to hearing your opinions. X

Hollywood is a whole different beast to London—especially journalistically.  The red carpet here is filled with angry and competitive reporters who have formed a clique and don’t appreciate the new girl on the block.  I happen to represent a really good title and these other girls don’t—they are working for tabloids—and that is exactly the way they behave: cheap and tacky. 

On Thursday I had a journalists nightmare.  My Editor and I spoke on the phone and she told me rumors had spread that I was piggybacking off of other journalists interviews on the carpet, asking for celebs details on the carpet and pushing PR’s for goodie bags—all NOT TRUE.  It was humiliating, hurtful, mean and so spiteful.  I thought I was doing a really good job and was actually calling my Ed to ask for more responsibility and then she dropped this on me.  She was really supportive and said that these people have done this to many of her reporters in the past.  That they want your job and that this is a small, incestuous town.  But the worst thing is, I DIDN’T DO ANY OF IT.  And what was particularly embarrassing was that it wasn’t only my Editor that new about it but other important people on the magazine as well. 

I don’t know who would take the time to make up stories about me, call the magazine and try and get me in trouble.  And my Editor told me it was several people!  I thought it was so mean and petty and cruel.  I know there’s no crying in show business—but I began to because I was gutted that I had worked so hard and that no matter how hard I defended myself, this was still going to reign in the back of my co-workers minds.  And—because I didn’t know who ratted on me, I can’t protect myself next time I go out there so I feel very paranoid.  I’m normally quite boisterous on the carpet—I’m afraid I’m going to be in a shell.

This happening,  and the drink being drugged,  MR. X, and my lovely shoe gal (but her awful name dropping friends)—I just can’t stand it anymore.  I need out.  But where am I going to go?  I have no more connections in the magazine biz in London which is a shame because I love writing that style (and frankly, I think it might be the wrong field for me—the women can be so harsh and I tend to have a thin skin).  I’m going to be 30, on no ladder, with no friends, no flat, and a broken net because of the damage done by staying with my family in Los Angeles.  And my relationship with English gent is a mess too.  

Is there something wrong with me? Why don’t I fit in anywhere?  Why are people making up lies about me?  Why are people so callous?  And frankly, my idea of a good night is not standing on a red carpet with a bunch of other cut-throat journalists who are fame hungry.  I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if a person is a celeb or not, I just want to do my job.  Please don’t think I’m not grateful to be working.  I AM.  I am damned lucky in this recession to be given this opportunity to work with a top magazine.  It’s not the magazine I’m angry with, it’s the people who are my secret enemies—people who don’t even have the balls to show me their face and approach me if they have a problem.  In short: pussies.

I want to write.  Thank god I have One of 365.  But I’m not a little kid anymore.  I’m a grown-up (can’t believe it) and I need a career.  I want to come home tired, but at least proud of my day.  I don’t want phone calls from Editors telling me some bitches called about me with lies.  I felt like I was 17 again and it was High School and I was being reprimanded by the principal.  I feel past that. 

If I move back to London, I suppose it’s back to flat-hunting on The Gumtree, temping or freelancing, and trying to remember who I cut ties with and who I can call for help. It’ll still be rainy, and people will still slam into me at the Tube station and I’ll stick out because I’m American.  And If I move to NYC, all my savings will be eaten up because of the recession.  And when I lived there, people were just as bitchy as they were in Los Angeles. 

Anyway, this is what I wrote in my defense to the accusations (and please remember, my Ed was really supportive).  There have been edit’s of course to protect identities. 

Dear XXXX,

1. I have NEVER piggybacked on ANYONE’S interview.  This is a cruel, made-up lie that someone is either extremely paranoid about or just wanted to sock it to me.  I always write XXXX  if I “group interview” and have never stolen a quote from another reporter.  I have been a victim of being piggybacked and have never been petty enough to report this.  Shame on whomever spat out this B.S. 

2. When I worked in London I received gifts bags daily.  They ranged from Burberry handbags and opulent hampers from Fortnum and Mason to gift vouchers to Harvey Nichols for 500 pounds.  I received beauty products that were worth more than some people’s car payment’s and was flown out to lush spas. I most certainly would NEVER have been chomping at the bit for (excuse me) the “rubbish” gift bags they give in Los Angeles which consist of take-away menus, bottled water and maybe a hand-lotion.  Again, that is a ridiculous and cruel rumor someone made up to humiliate me and make me seem petty. 

3. Finally, as for the e-mail exchange.  There are 2 incidents where this happened.  I forgot to tell XXXX about the 2nd.  The first was with XXXXX who I had met the night before and then met again coincidentally the next night in a row at the XXXX gala.  She and I got chatting and it turns out she and I have a mutual friend (my college roommate from XXXX in XXX).  We exchanged e-mails.  The second XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. 

So that folks, is my defense.  I hope this never happens again—but of course, I don’t know who my hunter is so I’m out there as fresh and easy prey.  That’s L.A. for you.  I’ve known it since I was a conscious human being—this city isn’t me.  I mean, as grown-up women, we still lie and tattle on each-other? C ‘mon! Shaking Julie Robert’s hand isn’t that important to me if the price is humiliation and degradation.  At the end of the day I’m a writer, not a star-fucker. 

Dedicatedly Yours,

—One of 365

Dear Ether,

People seemed to really like some examples of some beauty writing that I’ve done in the past.  Well, I just had a freelancing gig and wrote for a pretty famous company (hence the XXX when you see them in the writing below) about shaving and self-tanners.  I worked with the advertising and promotions teams to create an advertising page for the magazine promoting  2 beauty products.  Basically a magazine and a brand will work together to get a product(s) promoted without making it too obvious by having it mesh with the editorial feel of the magazine.  You’ll usually see in the upper-right hand corner of the page, “Advertisement.”  But if you can pull it off, sometimes you can get the reader to think it’s part of the mag and that’s when you can really hit home and maybe get the sell.  I did this for two brands.  “Billy Jealousy,” a shaving product and “Mystic Tan,” a self-tanning product.  You’ll see how I write the pieces as if they are 100% editorial, but I am promoting their products ONLY.  Clever, eh?  This was for one pretty famous beauty supplier who was advertising in a mag.  So here you go and enjoy.  I think it’s fun and I enjoyed writing it.  And, you do learn about self-tanning and shaving.  It is, in theory,  really and editorial piece.  I just used specific brands rather than brands of my own choosing.  It’s amazing how many elements go in to making a magazine, right?  Anywhooooo…the fun part is when you see it laid out.  Have a great Sunday and I will see you for the “Wish List” tomorrow.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Self-Tanners: 

Mystic Tan's Perfect Tan Kit, $54, Sephora.com

Self-tanning has always been tricky.  When the first products came on the market we were left with a radioactive tangerine tint that made us look more George Hamilton than groovin’ with a J-Lo glow.  But since those “dark days,” products have evolved.  Cutting- edge brands like Mystic Tan have given natural-looking hues to almost 200 million people.  XXXX is delighted to carry Mystic Tan’s new luxe line of DIY products that have revolutionized the self-tanning world.  Their collection includes the Perfect Tan Kit Body, Perfect Tan Kit Face, Sunless Tanning Spray Face and Body, Sunless Enhancing Moisturizer Body and Shimmer Face.  [Pssst!] If you’ve ever envied Jessica Simpson’s golden skin, Mystic Tan is her secret.

But no matter how “golden” the self-tanner becomes, the application process is not always fail-safe.  So…Welcome to Self-tanner 101!  

The first step for any self-tanning guru is exfoliation.  Removing dead skin cells is key because you don’t want dry zones like knees and elbows to collect tanner and make the product appear dark, muddy and uneven. Now, here comes the fun part…the application!  But be wary.  Many of us have earned the Scarlet Letter of self-tanners: discolored palms (the true sign of a novice).  A helpful hint: Use latex gloves for application.  Worried about having white hands?  Problem solved. All you need to do is rub the backs of your palms with self-tanner in a clockwise direction.  Works every time!  

Okay. Body exfoliated?  Latex gloves snapped on?  You’re ready!  Believe it or not, this is the easy part.  Using gentle, long strokes, apply the tanner as evenly as possible along your skin.  A great tip is to add a dollop of moisturizer to the tanner, making the product a bit more malleable and therefore easier to apply.  This is also excellent for tan enhancement, because it helps saturate the color into your skin.   

So you’ve tanned yourself, and you’re wondering, “what now?”  Well, don’t allow your skin to get near water for at least 4 hours.  Also, this stuff can stain!  If you’re planning to throw on that white Prada maxi-dress right away, that’s a huge no-no.  

If you have the time to tan and set during the day, more power to you.  But the ideal time is just before you turn in for the night.  Then you can shower off the residual product in the morning.  (To protect your sheets, wear a scruffy pair of old pj’s.)  This is ideal because you maximize the amount of tan time allowing, for the deepest color possible, and you don’t have to worry that any of the above uh-oh’s will happen.  

So now that you’re tan and gorgeous, all you have to do is maintain your new radiance.  Moisturizing is key, because it keeps skin from sloughing off and also prolongs your beautiful bronze.  Use Mystic Tan’s Sunless Enhancing Moisturizer Body that provides offers a subtle amount of color while keeping skin hydrated.  

(Okay. That’s it.) You glow, girl! 

Shaving: 

Billy Jealousy Hydroplane Super-Slick Shave Cream $20 sephora.com

We all—men and women alike– have nightmare stories about shaving. Many a prom night photo has been ruined by guys with Band-Aids slapped over razor burns.  And surely there have been countless summer BBQ’s where girls showed up in pants instead of cute new dresses because they had a shaving fiasco.  

The simple fact is we didn’t have the “cutting-edge” razors that populate the market today–razors with names that sound like launch vehicles designed by NASA!  Well, we’ve come a long way from that scary man in the barbershop wielding a straight edge blade, a leather strop and a shaky hand.  What’s so exciting about this razor revolution are all the brilliant products that have arrived to help us in the fine art of shaving. Creams, waxes, oils, foams—even lasers! 

XXXX’s team of specialists is always on hand to help you select the shaving option that’s perfect for you (and we’ve got quite a selection).  And now we’ve found something genuinely unique that’s going to make any shaving aficionado “jealous.”  Hint: it also won Best Shaving Cream at Esquire’s 2007 Grooming Awards.   Oh, and George Clooney is a fan.  Care to read on? 

Hydroplane, by Billy Jealousy, is a foamless shave cream that lubricates the skin to give you the closest shave possible while also protecting against razor burn, nicks, bumps and ingrown hairs.  A little goes a long way with this 8oz. bottle, because it miraculously gets slicker and more powerful as you add warm water to it.  As we all know–ouch!–shaving can leave a burning sensation but Hydroplane provides a pleasant cooling effect as it performs its magic.  The formula includes micro-silicon beads that have a slight exfoliation action–also fantastic for an ultra-soft finish because it sloughs off dead skin cells.  And with chamomile and aloe to keep skin calm and humectants to preserve moisture, it’ll give you the happiest skin on the planet.  Because Hydroplane is perfect for every skin type, all you have to do is massage onto face, shave, and rinse with cool water.  And, because it’s such a smooth product, women are grabbing it off the shelves after rave reviews from the men in their lives.  Hey, if a guy can steal your shampoo and conditioner, why can’t you steal his shaving cream? 

XXXXXX’s Tick List: Do’s and Don’ts of Shaving  

1. Always shave with warm water.  The best time is after a steaming, hot shower.  Or, ladies, a great time to shave is IN a steaming, hot shower!
2. Make sure you have a sharp blade.  Dull blades are going to tear skin, cause ingrown hairs and create razor burn.
3. Never shave against the grain (even though we’re tempted because we think we’re getting a closer and quicker shave: we’re actually causing small cuts to the skin that could lead to infection and ingrown hairs).
4. When you’re finished shaving, always rinse with cool water.  This closes the pores and calms the skin.
5. Moisturize! Use an after-shave balm, lotion or cream and avoid anything alcohol based (unless you want to encourage burning!).
6. Don’t be cheap!  Sometimes things are worth spending a little extra money on.  That bag of 100 razors for 99 cents is priced that way for a reason.  Invest in a quality razor and a well-researched product.

Celebrity is all a bit blurry. The girl in the picture has a stunning figure and stands out in a red dress, but where she's standing and what her emotions are seem fuzzy. What goes on behind the scenes of the rich and famous is an odd one. They will never fully be just like you and me. But when you get close enough and things become clearer some of the fantasy goes away and it takes the magic with it.

Dear Ether,

So, I covered a red carpet on Thursday night.  I can’t tell you anything (yadda, yadda…the close lipped contract….) and this entry isn’t going to be about the party itself, but about the vulnerability of the celebrity.

My job went as it should.  I did the normal carpet chit-chat.  Some celebs were better interviews than others.  The waifish ladies did their poses for the cameras looking confident and gorgeous.  And then they sauntered off into the affair itself.  After I was finished doing my interviews, I went into the party for observations, to grab a drink and take some visual notes on what the event looked like because sometimes cameras aren’t allowed in.  Also, you might get a chance to chat with a celeb a little more in-depth and get something juicy.  It’s also a fun perk (though I find it a little awkward because I don’t know anyone and hanging out with famous people for the sake of it has never been my thing).  You might also walk away with a goodie-bag and you are guaranteed amazing food and cocktails.  My favorite perk of going to V.I.P. shin-dig’s has always been that I get to explore a club or a hotel that you would normally never be granted access to.

But Thursday I had the strangest epiphany. As I was observing these make-up clad women and trendily dressed men that I had seen on the big and small screen, I realized that they were vulnerable.  I think all my life I’ve always thought of celebrities as being super men and women.  That they were touched by fairy-dust and were infallible.  I think some of these people think they are too.  Look at the classic case of James Dean.  But, I think as the walls are crumbling with privacy between the media and the public, stars are starting to realize that they actually are just like “us” with a bit more cash and possibly more problems (though don’t get me wrong, I’d like to have the problem of what dress to wear to the Academy Awards or what movie to choose from instead of how the hell I’m going to pay my water bill….).

I can’t drink heavily when I attend these parties for 2 reasons.  1: I’m on the clock so it would be unprofessional.  2: I drive and so I have to be sober come time to leave and go home.  But a lot of these celebs either come with PR people who drive them home, they have drivers or scarily, they might even take the risk of the road themselves.  So, if you’ve ever been to a party where everyone around you is drunk and you’re sober, it’s like walking through a madhouse of slanted eyes, cockeyed grins and loose limbs.  And that’s what I saw straight and clear with these well-known folks.  It was like a weird party at college.  Their eyes were darting around if they were standing around without anyone to talk to looking desperate and embarrassed.  They used the old texting on the mobile phone trick if they were sitting alone so they “looked busy” and they seemed jittery and had uncomfortable silences just like you and I would have at a party if we were in their position.  I was really surprised.  You always think they have a zillion people to chat with and are the king’s and queen’s of the balls.  Not so!

You know, when I went to parties for my previous line of work, very few of them were celeb functions.  They were mainly cozy press affairs so most of the people who attended were PR’s and fellow journalists.  Also, Hollywood is a whole different kettle of fish than London.  People are star crazy here.  The people who are reporters are so hungry for some sort of claim to fame that they froth at the mouth when they see any celebrity.  It just doesn’t do it for me.  Do I smile or chuckle to myself when I see someone famous?  Of course!  But these people—they will literally stab you in the neck if you get in their way of a possible meeting with anyone recognizable.  I find it really pathetic and it actually made me feel sorry for them.

But I digress.  When I saw the vulnerability and the desperation in many of these celebs eyes, and the look of being lost and not having anyone to talk to, I actually felt depressed.  I felt sorry for them.  I know I shouldn’t and I’m probably reading WAY too deeply into this, but it just felt like the barrier between audience and stage had fallen and I had seen the actor through their make-up.  It was kinda ugly.  I grew up in Los Angeles and my dad, as mentioned in earlier posts, was a TV writer.  I also went to a school that was laden with celebrity parents.  I used to go on studio lots and see famous people daily.  Fame is not anything terribly shocking or heart-stopping for me (except for Sienna Miller—and I keep meaning to explain that one—but alas, it will have to wait for another post).  But I can understand how people who aren’t jaded like I am are crazed when they see someone they adore in the flesh. A couple of the other reporters wanted to stay and try and see if they could hang out with some of the famous folks.  But as soon as my revelation came, I wanted out.  I busted a move, handed the valet my ticket and thankfully got in my car and was pleased to leave and get on with my work.

Look, I’m sure I am over-analyzing.  But, it really is weird when you see the mask fall and underneath isn’t the glorious face of Dorian Gray but the plain visage of John Doe.  These people get pit stains, spill on themselves, step in shit, and get lonely and lost at a party.  I guess the reason it made me feel so bad is because somewhere in me was the dream of wanting to be famous. The perks are great—the money, the opportunities, the chance to play roles in locations that are exquisite.  But a the end of the day, they go home and check their e-mail where they delete their spam about Viagra, open up the fridge and stare wondering what they want for a snack and cry when they have a down day.

Funny how one stupid event can just remind you of that, eh?

I love the magazine I’m working for.  I’m grateful for the opportunity and I adore the inside chances I get to experience and the interesting people I get to speak to.  But for some reason on Thursday something hit a bad chord in me and I had to share it.  I don’t know, I’ll let you know if the next one brings out these emotions in me.

In conclusion, flashbulbs and canapés, there will always be famous people.  And there will always be fans.   But there are very few people who actually get to see what goes on behind the curtain.  And you know what, a lot of their life is a big old set.  A fake reality.  Their truth is no different than ours.  So next time your eyes are darting back and forth wondering “why isn’t anyone talking to me” or “shit, I don’t know anyone here, I’m nervous,” just know your favorite celeb has been there too.  She’s just been wearing a designer dress that’s more expensive than you have on while doing it.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

All things that were once vital and beautiful decay and grow dusty over time. This flower, for instance, still has the traces of what it must have looked liked in the height of its beauty, even though it is slowly decaying. But, at least you can appreciate that it ONCE WAS vital and beautiful. That it had a chance to blossom and bloom. Will I ever get my chance to be fragrant and admired--even just for a fleeting moment? Or am I to remain a perpetual bud, never having the lucky enough fate to unravel into a beautiful rose?

Dear Ether, 

We didn’t have very much money when I was growing up.  My dad was a television writer.  But he was in a comedy duo with a man who drank too much and wasn’t reliable—and it was becoming a struggle for my dad to come up with jokes at 4am with the stresses of a family to feed.  He decided to do the unheard of and leave comedy and make a leap of faith and try drama.  Obviously this caused a tremendous falling out with his writing partner of decades (who sadly, soon later died, and his wife has cursed my father for eternity) and my dad was very alone and very scared.  He was able to send 1 of us to private school on the savings he had (my older brother) but since I was still in elementary school, I stayed in public school.  This was a grave mistake.  In Los Angeles public schools are unfortunately havens for children of immigrants and gangs and I really didn’t fit in.  When the doors locked behind you (after walking through a metal detector to see if you were carrying any weapons) anything was a-go.  I was bullied, threatened, friendless and scared every single day.  

My mom was working as a substitute sign-language teacher to try and make ends meet as my dad pounded away on script after script trying to break into the drama genre.  I remember she worked a whole week to buy me a new pair of sneakers.  They were bright white and a bully, the minute she saw them, stepped on them with her muddy shoe leaving a greasy imprint.  I was devastated not because they were damaged, but because they were so dear to my mother.  I was almost pulled out of school twice.  Once was when I was choked on the playground by 3 girls who literally wanted my lunch money (I had none, I brought my own paper bag my mom made for me) and another time my parents got a perverted crank phone call saying I had been kidnapped by this caller and I won’t get into the horrible details, but I’m sure any parent of a 12 year old girl would be sickened by what this man said on the phone.  

It was all looking terrible.  My folks were circling ads for apartments because they were going to sell our beautiful house, I was wearing my brother’s hand-me down clothes (which didn’t help because I was about 5’6 when I was 12 and rail thin with braces and 1 huge zit that perpetually appeared between my monobrow—his clothes just gave me the name “dyke” when I walked the halls).  After being turned down for scholarships, and being on the edge of disaster, like a gift from the man above (and I am not religious) my dad sold a script to a very famous TV show, was nominated for an Emmy and our whole lives changed.  He was hired on that show and then for the next 20 years worked successfully as a drama writer and eventually did win an Emmy. 

I grew up always being the underdog and believing that if you worked hard enough, and you had the chops, that you would reap the rewards.  My dad was proof of that.  I grew up with the mantra that you never ever gave up, no matter what, or you might as well curl up and die.  But I look at my life and wonder, what else can I do?  I’ve exhausted every phone call.  I’ve written every letter.  I’m lucky that I don’t have kids to feed and a house to pay off, but can it be possible that I am the living Sisyphus?  That I am destined to roll that damned boulder up that hill, only to have it tumble down?  I know it is cliché, and I know Sisyphus was supposed to be slightly elated just as he got to the top because he always thought “maybe, just maybe THIS time it’ll be the end for me.”  But, I don’t know.  Just like there are a million girls who are just as beautiful as Sienna Miller pulling pints and trying to be actresses who will never make it or men MUCH more talented than Damien Hurst who are incredible artists who slave away with black rings under their eyes on their light boards who will never be anything more than a sketch artist making a meager living, well, maybe I’m just going to be one of THESE people too.  It’s just so funny to me.  I, whose so bad at math, see the job thing as a simple equation.  Job + Talent=you’re hired!  But nope.  Not anymore.  It’s who you know, timing, luck and a million other things.  Here’s a perfect example.  When I was working for my mag in London as a beauty writer we were looking to take on an assistant.  When we interviewed her I thought she was adorable.  The Beauty Director, who I adored and is about the most down to earth sweetie you could imagine, said she crossed her off her list as soon as she walked in the door.  Why?  Her bag was too expensive.  If she could afford a bag that was more than Beauty Director’s pay for a month, she could go fuck herself.  WHOA!  I mean, talk about random, right?  How many jobs have I lost out for because of my accent or because my outfit was shit?  Or they felt threatened by me?  Whatever happened to the good old days of a meritocracy?  Or, just giving people a chance?  Getting a job these days is harder than winning the lottery.  Frankly, I wish I had never gone to school and had just gone straight into interning and working my way up.  I might be a Director by now.  

I look at pictures of that hopeful skinny girl in her bro’s old Gap pocket T, faded in marigold and evergreen with matching shorts with ducks or racecars on them (and matching braces rubber bands to match).  My big ol’scrunchie in my hair ready to face my future.  Ready to plow away and give a pint of blood if I had to if it meant the difference between getting an A or a B.  And now look at her.  Same eyes, same fingers, same heart pumping away.  And she is so jaded and lost.  I was so guarded then.  So protected by people telling me that if you try, you get.  Well, the world isn’t like that.  My dad was lucky.  But you know what, I went into his office today and saw his Emmy, coated in dust, not touched in years.  I think he was just grateful to have survived.  And if that veritable hood ornament represented that, then so be it.  But I think his proudest achievement was getting me out of that school and getting me into a safe haven.  Protecting his greatest asset: his kid.  

If I could go back in time (oh and we wish we all could) I would have lived that skinny girl’s life so differently.  I want to live it differently now.  But I am locked in this trap with English gent and my parents and life.  I’m writing this piece at 5am on a Sunday morning because I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t sleep because I was staring out of my window, looking out of my turret and wondering who I am going to be next week, next month, next year?  I want to be vital.  I want to embrace life.  I want to just find the peace my dad had when he sold that script.  What an anvil off his chest that must have been.  He deserved it.  I just hope I do something that deserves the weight off my chest too—and soon. Because the weight of life is getting to be a lot to handle. 

A pretty morose weekend blog.  Sorry gang.  Hey, tomorrow is the “Wish List.” That should cheer you up on your Monday morning blechhh, right?  As always Ethers, thanks for listening and all of your comments. And thanks for not thinking I’m a miserable fuck.  I’ll get happy.  I’ve got some fun stories I’ve got cooking up in my brain.  Just been feeling a bit wound up and lost lately.  My journey is leading me in frustrating circles that lead to dead ends—and if you knew me you’d know I’m a very “hands in the mud” kinda girl.  This is not the life for me—a life of inactivity and waiting.  I just want something to be proud of, even if it grows dusty over time.  At least I could know that it was once shiny. 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365