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

I guess it's the luck of the draw you who get as your toilet attendant. I get freaked out by the ones in clubs who expect $5 for handing you a paper towel and a mint. I hate the ones who douse you with perfume and expect an enormous bonus too. But me....oh no...my toilet lady wasn't looking for a tip. More like a tiff. Read on about the legend of "The Bog Lady of St. James Park In London."

Dear Ether, 

It all happened on a Spring day, many May’s ago.  English gent was working in the Foreign Office and I would meet him frequently after work at St. James Park as I was working on Old Bond Street and it was just a few minutes walk to have our rendezvous.  It was delightful.  For those of you who haven’t experienced the absolute magic of the place, really, it needs to be on your tick list. 

Just outside the hustle and bustle of Trafalgar Square and en route to Buckingham Palace lies a park lush with flowers, a lake with the most extraordinary Swans (both black and white), mallards with impossibly iridescent green heads and a whole variety of other wonderful web-toed creatures that make for tremendous fun while sitting on the benches that surround the lake.  Weeping willows cascade around you, people sit on the grass after work drinking white wine and rolling out a nice supper from M&S or a café.  And the flower beds are a masterpiece.  They cover the grounds neatly in the most unbelievable shades of color and the surroundings are like a magical floral fantasy.  No bud is out of place and it just feels like fragrance heaven.  

English gent and I would meet at the Starbucks on Charing X Road and grab our Venti lattes, head on over to our benches, sip away, sometimes bringing bread for the birds to munch, and just enjoy the calm after a hard day’s work.  BUT….after a large latte….a girl’s gotta use the facilities, right?  The closest one was right near the exit of the park heading towards Trafalgar Square.  It was in a hidden cove and it was usually empty.  I soon figured out why. 

The Bog Lady. 

Innocently, I walked into her “den” and she looked me up and down like fresh meat.  I start to go into a stall and she angrily said, “I just cleaned that one, pick another.” What, was I not good enough for a clean throne?  Okay, cool lady, whatever floats your boat.  Staring at me with beady eyes, her white apron smudged with grime, I picked another stall and shut the door and she yelled with her heavy accent, “Don’t slam that door so loud, girl!”  Oh boy.  There was no one else in a bathroom with about 10 other stalls.  Is she going to listen to me pee?  Rate my work?  And you know if I left even a drop on the seat she’d come after me with a broom and a tazer.  Finishing my business, she, as predicted, looked in the stall, gave me a dirty look, and sauntered back to her perch.  I went to wash my hands, and guess what, she appeared AGAIN!  “Why are you letting the water run and using so much soap.”  I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.  She handed me one little paper towel and said “Be more careful next time, you were very disrespectful.”  I was sorta shocked, but knew it would make for a great story.

A great story.  Once. 

But then I had to keep using her fucking bathroom.  And I asked myself, does this lady LIVE here?  No matter what time of day, holiday, weekend, she was THERE.  And she got to know my face.  And she HATED ME.  When there was a queue she actually held her arm out like a human barrier just in case I might bolt.  And once she accused me of peeing on the seat.  When I calmly explained that it wasn’t urine, that the toilet spit water when it flushed, and gave her an example by flushing it for her, she became incensed and told me to leave without washing my hands. 

I tried to see how she treated other young women in her palace.  She wasn’t chirpy, but she was fucking Ghandi compared to the Stalin she was towards me.  People would shake their heads in pity for me.  Others would laugh.  I was PISSED (no pun intended).  English gent asked why I didn’t change toilets?  Well, this one was really convenient and why should I change?  I had to sort this out bog-lady issue myself! 

On an empty Thursday I walked in at a time I knew was dead for her.  She was mopping (or should I say moping).  Before I even opened my mouth she said, “You’ll have to wait until the floor is dry (she was moving like a slug).  I asked, “Why are you so rude to me?  What have I done to you to make you angry?”  She said nothing.  “This has GOT to stop.  I don’t want to report you.  It’s a waste of my time and it could lose you your job.  But you are intolerably cruel.  I just want you to leave me alone when I use the bathroom.”  She said, “I know what you did 7 years ago.”  Ummm, Ethers, I wasn’t even in England 7 years ago.  “What?!”??!  I wasn’t even here, I was living in the States.  What do you think I did?”  “You went into stall 8, shit, didn’t flush and clogged the toilet.”  I just started to laugh.  Laugh so maniacally I think she even was frightened.  “So, this is what this is about?  You think I shat in your toilet and ruined your bathroom?”  “I KNOW you did,” shaking her mop at me. Okay.  I’ll be here around this time tomorrow.  I have something to show you. 

As always, in her disheveled garb, I showed her my passport.  I pointed to the date it was issued.  I didn’t even own a passport 7 years prior and then showed her my stamp into England, which was inked way after 7 years.  She had the wrong clogger of stall #8.  She cocked her head side by side, re-adjusted her glasses and stared at me for a moment. “I can’t get over how much you looked like her…and she was American.”  “Sorry.  Wasn’t me.  And you know what, you’ve treated me like garbage for so long that I had to bring my passport to a toilet to be able to use something I pay taxes to build.”  In her heavy accent she said “I won’t say I’m sorry because I thought what I saw was true.  But I will say that I won’t be rude any longer.  I’ve been working this toilet for 20 years. You don’t know what I’ve seen.  Prostitutes, homeless people, drug dealers.  I have to be tough.  Okay?”  I felt absolutely no tenderness for this woman.  Just grateful that I could use the toilet and not worry that she was going to climb through the bottom of the stall and attack me.  

I’m sure she’s still there being coarse, snappy and rude.  Wiping down glass with graffiti etched into it and sneering at drips on the floor and toilet seats.  And I’m sure at night she wonders who the Yankee bitch was that ruined stall #8 all those years ago.  I think she should be on all the tour books.  You’d really get to experience the “real London” through her.  Tough, a little nuts and someone who takes no crap!         

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

PS: For those of you who have never seen St. James Park, here is a mere snippet of its beauty.  

Gorgeous view of the palace with weeping willows and a gorgeous lake with fish and ducks.

My favorite! The ducks! It is so magical after work to come and decompress and sit on the benches and just watch these beautiful birds in their habitat. Such a variety!

They change the flowers all the time, but here is a Spring collection. No dead anything here. This is maintained always and the varieties are stunning. The smell is breathtaking and this winds around the whole park.