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

My words began to haunt me.......

Dear Ether,

To become haunted by oneself through ones own words is disturbing.  I would see the same pattern in my writing that happened in my real life.  I started out with promises of friendship, stories, fashion, beauty—and yes, life as it truly was (the good, the bad and the ugly).

But as time progressed, all I began to do was write about the bad and the ugly.  See Ethers, this is what always happens to me outside the sphere.  I lure people in, friendly with a sense of humor, witty banter about vacuous pop-culture.   I even look the part wearing trendy clothes and a big lip-glossed smile.  But as you get to know me, the facade cracks and all I am is gloss.  A shellac that you brush over worn out wood or cracking paint to make it appear glistening.  But, underneath this varnish, what you have is damage that needs repairing.  And even through my anonymity, my veil, I still couldn’t stop from being who I was.  I could have hit the delete button or not published certain stories—but I did.  In doing so, One of 365 just became another ugly appendage of the human being sitting in front of the screen.  I was afraid of people leaving me.  Becoming bored of me.  I felt self-conscious, like I was moaning about the same woes for months and no matter what advice I was given, couldn’t change.  Being deserted again horrified me.  I couldn’t bear being a failure in yet another forum of my life.  So, I pulled a Houdini of sorts and disappeared.  I didn’t check my e-mail for One of 365, leave comments on posts of fellow bloggers who I love, Twitter became a ghost-town for me.

So, why today?  Is it because it’s the 1st of February?  A new start and a fresh month?  No. A dear friend of mine dedicated a post to me.  I didn’t deserve her kindness, as I didn’t answer a single e-mail from her for 3 weeks.  But my bosom buddy Wildernesschic (who if I could have a smidgen of her passion and kindness…) kept at me.  I couldn’t believe someone was willing to see past being ignored.  And then, with a deep breath, I checked my inbox and comments area.  I was surprised to see that others had asked after me too. I was so grateful.

I don’t think I’ll ever be writing about cotton candy and keg parties.  That’s just not me.  And you know what else isn’t me anymore?  ”One”—at the header of my page.  The story will always be there for all to read—it is my first entry.  But, I’m going to re-write that page as an “about me” instead.  The only thing that still stands true in that piece is my hope in One of 365 to discover something in the journey of blogging.  So far I have already.  And one of the realizations is that a huge part of my writing here in the ether no longer has anything to do with that girl and her night with Mr. X.  As said, it will always remain in One of 365’s archives, but it is no longer who I am.   And, I’ve thought about the title One of 365.  Yes, I will do my hardest to post daily.  But one day out of 365 doesn’t necessarily mean consecutive days.  Fair compromise?

To all you who cared about me and didn’t just “gloss over” this varnished set of numbers….as always….

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

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