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

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

HA! Dear Anyone Who Knows One Of 365 Expecting Gifts Like Pictured: Dream On!!!!!!!

Dear Ether, 

Bah-Humbug.  Yep.  You heard me.  And this is from a nice Jewish girl!  Here’s my dilemma.  Shoe-gal, whose local convenient store, if she lived in London, would be the Harrods Food Halls, has bought me a Christmas gift.  A very kind gesture indeed. However, I must reciprocate, and as we know my local convenient store does not have a green awning and a doorman.  

It was really strange that she wrote me and told me that she had bought me something.  We haven’t seen one another in about 2 weeks.  She’s been doing business in NYC (probably shopping in Bergdorf’s) and she finally got back into town.  Truthfully, I have missed her.  She’s a helluva lot of fun, really kind, and has pizzazz in the bag!  She also gets me out, which is good.  The Quasimodo lump that is starting to grow on my back from bad posture (and a crummy desk chair) from toiling away at my computer is really getting unsightly.  Anyway, I dunno about you guys, but I never announce that I have bought someone a gift…….UNLESS I want one BACK!  

So that’s my theory.  Shoe gal wants me to know she has bought me a gift and she wants something in return.  An exchange.  Fuck!  The problem is I don’t have the bucks to get her something that will live up to her bling lifestyle.  And, what happens if she got me something outrageously pricey?  What am I supposed to do when she opens my card with a $25 gift voucher to H&M?  I think she’d shudder at the fact that the store carried anything with polyester.  And what happens if she’s just picked me up a token, and I end up spending my Bat Mitzvah savings on her?  Then I’ll feel like a superficial and  presumptuous ass.

I feel very rude.  She has asked me to hang out this weekend and I have ignored her E-mail.  Terrible, I know.  But I’m afraid to communicate with her because I’m in this bind.  Look, the truth is I can’t see her this weekend anyway (I’m on deadline).  But, eventually she and I will end up making a date and the inevitable exchange of pressies will happen.  Damn I hate the holidays. 

So Ethers, what’s your advice?  Tis’ the season of giving, right?  But, what happens if all you have lining your pockets is lint and some old chewing gum?  I can’t ask Shoe-gal how much she spent, or what she got me.  And I can’t get the gift first and then give her one based on how much she spent……….and what do you get for a woman who can afford anything anyway?  And shoes are OUT of the question. 

So—how much should I spend?  What genre of gift should I give her? And, what do I do if her gift is crazy expensive and mine looks like a cheap piece of crap in comparison?

 Please don’t tell me it’s the thought that counts.  Because if you guys felt that way, then you would all be happy with a shitty Christmas jumper, a fruit-cake and “The Beach Boys Sing Christmas” CD……….right? 

HELP!

Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

And it wasn't because we didn't pay our electric bill........

Dear Ether, 

August 2003.  New York City.  I’m living in Manhattan with the Big Apple Beauty until yet another one of my visas is approved for England.  It is SWELTERING outside.  And in the East Coast of the United States in August that usually also means humidity—like the bloody AMAZON!  It’s like an unremitting furnace.  Big Apple Beauty, thank goodness, had air-conditioning in good ol’ #1403. 

We had made plans that day to go to the Lower East side (we lived on the Upper East side—-the total opposite end of the city) to go and get a delicious deli lunch, visit the famous pickle lady who sells the best sours out of a barrel on the street (you could die from palette joy!).  We also wanted to check out some of the groovy shops and funky new cafes that had been opening up down there.  Both of us had been complaining that we were SO lazy and unmotivated.  That we always made plans and never stuck to them.  We had made this date over a week a go, and rain or shine (and what shine it was) we were going to schlep down there and keep to our schedule.  I wore a nice vest-top, skirt and refined flip-flops with a heel and she wore trousers and a T-shirt and sneakers.  We were set to go.  The second we stepped out, we were soaked.  I mean, thank GOD for deodorant.  But we marched to that Subway station, and dammit, we made it. 

We poked our head into some cute boutiques and then got completely waylaid by this famous bra shop.  The shop, owned by an Orthodox Jewish couple, was known for brand name underwires for bargain prices.  AND, the wife could take one look at your boobs and tell you what bra size you should be wearing and type you needed.  Basically, a really ghetto Rigby & Pellar.  The store was a total dive, had no air-con and Big Apple Beauty and I were sweating while a stranger fondled our breasts.  It was…..errr…..charming to say the least.  But hey, anything for a deal, right? 

Pleased with out new over the should boulder holders, we walked out onto the street and noticed proprietors of shops standing outside of their properties and people rushing to grab taxis.  It looked like Armageddon.  We went up to a shopkeeper and asked what was going on and he told us that the whole city had lost power.  Too many people had overused air-conditioning and busted the system.  Shit.  Okay.  That meant it was going to be sweltering in the apartment, and we didn’t have a fan, but it’d get fixed soon enough.  All we had to do was hop on a bus and get home.  OH.  RIGHT.  The city was in a deadlock.  The streets were filled with people walking and no cars or buses could pass.  The Subways were dead because of loss of electricity.  You have to remember we were at least a 2-hour walk away in bad shoes, horrible heat and in with a mass of other desperate people.  The worst part was that convenient store owners who had cold water hiked up prices to $5 a bottle.  People were fainting on the sidewalk.  It was hideous.  Big Apple Beauty, no youngster, often felt lightheaded.  We’d hop on a bus—packed to the limit—just to have a break and some air-conditioning.  The bus, of course, wasn’t moving. 

I’d say we left the Lower East side at around 4pm and didn’t get to the Upper East side until at least 7pm.  At that point our feet were bloody and blistered.  Big Apple Beauty couldn’t take her shoes off because they had swollen so badly.  To make things worse, we were really badly dehydrated.  You have to remember, we NEVER ventured that far EVER.  Of all the luck.  The day we get motivated, and look at our reward! It was really eerie seeing the city, one so famous for its skyline, pitch black.  The heat did not cease, so we sat by the East River to try and get some of the breeze.  All you saw were candles flickering all around.  It looked like it must have done during the 19^th century. 

Of course none of the lifts worked in her building, and she lived on the 14^th floor, so we had to walk with a doorman and a torch up steep steps in a narrow corridor which was a heat trap.  By the time we reached the apartment we both were so sick.  The water had been turned off, so no showers to get rid of the sweat and using the toilet was dangerous!  We only opened the fridge when necessary and we sat listening to a radio dripping wet in her stuffy apartment looking out of the window seeing a million other people with candlelit flats doing the same thing.  Eventually the power came back to certain areas, but not until very late in the evening.  There were many people (elderly mainly) who had perished.  It was the worst blackout since 1977—and even then it wasn’t as bad as in 2003. 

I don’t wear that bra anymore.  But when I did wear it, man, it was like a badge of honor.  I earned that sucker.  Big Apple Beauty and I swear, no matter how tempting the pickles are or the lingerie bargains may be, we can’t imagine going down to the Lower East side again.  That place was literally hell…actually…probably hotter than. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Not the bra I got from the joint in the Lower East side.....but this million dollar baby made of diamonds is how I think of it when I look back on how much it cost me to get it!