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

How many have watched the tide come in on New Year's Eve?

Dear Ether,

I don’t know if people were more afraid of me last night or if I was more afraid of them.  But, gladly, we all ended up keeping our equal distance.  

It was 4am.  I was bundled up in a coat, my long hair wild having been unraveled from a bun. I was wearing trousers with bright gold shoe booties.  My make-up was smeared around the eyes which were very wet from constant crying.  

I sat overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica, about a 20-minute car ride for me, watching the dark water.  The pier stayed lit up for partygoers.  The lights of the Ferris wheel reflected off of the tide. 

It was 2010.  The new decade.  

Was it last night?  Or, this morning? 

Everyone was asleep by then. Earlier, it had been a very pedestrian evening.  I usually come home for Christmas and New Year’s, so I’m used to being in California this time of year.  My family doesn’t do much.  We go for a very nice meal, come home, sit by a fire, and then watch the ball drop on T.V. from Times Square.    

But this time it was different.  This time, I felt trapped.  I felt a big pillow smothering me over my face the whole evening.  2010=my 3^rd decade on this planet, and what the hell was going on with my life?  I don’t want to get into it—many of you know the fine print.  But, I certainly didn’t feel like clinking glasses and signing “Auld Lang Syne.”  Every year when the clock strikes 12, I close my eyes and I swear THIS year will be different.  That things will change.  But they never do.  The only thing that happens is that I get into a bigger bind and I age.  And the people around me age.  That ball is actually like the hands of time reminding me that yet another year has passed………and none of my dreams have come true. 

When I went to hug everyone as the fireworks went off in the background on television, I saw the look of fear and sadness in their eyes.  Maybe it was my skewed and negative imagination.  Big Apple Beauty’s age suddenly betrayed her, as did her loneliness.  Bachelor One of 365 gave me a stiff squeeze and I saw in his eyes a vacancy of a man who has yet to have found love.  My mother held me too tightly.  A sickly woman, she grasped me like it was her last celebration, and I saw desperation in her glare.  My father, the man I’ll always love but will never please, hugged me but stared at me with discontent and confusion.  And then there was English gent.  His once almond shaped and welcoming green eyes looked downcast and defeated.  Yes, he was my New Year’s Eve Kiss—but I felt like our lips simply grazed skin. 

We all parted, Big Apple Beauty asking for an anti-anxiety pill to help her sleep because she couldn’t stop crying.  English gent passing out in his office.  My folks meandering into their own room and Bachelor One of 365, my dear brother, off to yet another party, in hopes of finding that soul mate.  

I sat on my bed, hugged my dog and cried into his fur, threw up in the bathroom and suddenly felt claustrophobic.  I needed freedom.  I kept seeing the Thames lit up and the London Eye spewing fireworks from the news that evening—I wanted to see the water.  I drove in absolute silence to Santa Monica.  I kept hearing my mother’s voice warning me as a kid saying that only drunks drive on the road on New Years Eve.  I didn’t care.  I was in a trance.  As mentioned above, I was still in my clothes from dinner.  I looked wild.  The wind was fierce and I couldn’t light a cigarette.  I gnawed at my fingernails.  I purposely didn’t take a mobile.  I didn’t want to be reached……and I figured if they noticed the car missing, they’d known I’d gone out.  I wanted to be in a bubble.  

I looked back on my year.  Mr. X and how fucked up that had been.  My mess with English gent and all those years now on the line.  My 20’s almost over—and what did I have to show for any of it?  My relationships with people and how sour they’d gone.  Bolting from one place to another and never being happy.  London.  How I slept half my life away.  I looked at all the people holding hands or friends elated to be together on this night.  And here I was on a park bench in stupid gold boots and purse that could have paid a month’s rent somewhere.  

I sat for about an hour.  I couldn’t bring myself to watch the sunrise.  Too romantic.  Wasn’t there for that reason.  And, sorry Ethers, I came to no conclusions.  I stood up, my hair whipping me in the face, smoothed out my coat, took a deep breath, and walked back to my car where I mechanically drove back home.  

The house was still.  My dog greeted me with a stretch, but also with a pleading to sleep.  I walked up the steps, entered my hovel of a room, dumped all of my clothes in a heap on the floor and realized that the bench I had just occupied and vacated meant nothing.  It was as if I was never there.  And, I suppose I feel that often about my impact on the past 29 years of my life.  That I’ve sat on many benches and it wouldn’t have mattered either way if I’d been there or not.  And the people I love who are in pain and agony, who feel lost and scared…….they too have sat on many benches and stared at the sea and it could have been just as well had they never arrived.  

I got into my duvet coffin, the 2010 version I suppose, curled into the fetal position, dog warm at my feet, and wake today……..like any other day……….

I have no resolutions.  I have no dreams or expectations.  I’m just a girl who sits watching the ocean endlessly ebb and flow and life reflect off of it. 

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