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

Dear Ether,

I haven’t had time to do a proper Wish List in forever!  Yes, I have been perusing the Web drooling at collections knowing that by the time I’ll be able to afford these gorgeous clothes, I’ll be too old for them.  And that was what I always adored about my Wish List.  That I could shop and put together an ensemble as if I were ready to slam down that credit card after making my selection.

So, eyebrows knit, concentration at the highest level, I hit the Matthew Williamson website and was blown away by the easy to use and fun virtual closet that lay before me.  Many times I visit high-end designer  sites and they are embedded with so many bells and whistles.  Too much Flash and crazy music.  You can’t even figure out how to navigate the bloody thing and you give up before you even get to see what they have on offer.  I also love that you can copy and paste images allowing you to make a visual tick-list for later consideration.  So many designers have posted their pictures with such high security that you can’t pull pieces that you might want to save on your desktop or share with your friends and ask for advice.  The only crummy thing that Maestro Williamson has done is not posted the prices.  Dun, dun, dun!  We know what that means.  That the goods are so damned pricey they are afraid to show you what they cost for fear of you collapsing right in front of your screen.  They offer you a NYC phone number to call for advice about any frock, but I hate this feature.  I want to have the privacy of working online and cutting out dealing with a pushy sales person.  Bad move Matthew!

Anyway, I wanted to go for something sexy, badass, uber luxe and probably worth a zillion dollars because–fuck—the prices weren’t there so I figured why shouldn’t we live in fantasy land this once?  Matthew Williamson kits out all the cool kids from Sienna Miller to Kate Moss.  This Brit, believe it or not, actually started with some of his first goodies in Marks & Spencer’s in their “Autograph” range……whoa!  Williamson, has actually stayed quite close to his department store grass roots having been part of Designer’s At Debenhams in the UK since 2002 under the name “Butterfly” (his famous insignia) and more recently, by partnering up with a one-off collection with H&M.  In 2006, Williamson took over as Creative Director at Pucci (not surprising as he is known for his brilliant patterns and color palettes, just as Emilio Pucci was).  And, he has a lovely line of fragrance and candles that he launched in 2005.  Not surprising, this 38 year old is a graduate from Central St. Martin’s in London and has now become one of the staple names on the runways today.

So, picture this.  You are out in London.  It is cold, but man have you got the MOST amazing shoes you want to show off and anyway, when you get inside, it’ll be warm.  So sporting a short dress (again, don’t worry, you have a “pimp” coat covering you) you are almost ready to go.  While applying your make-up, you’ve lit a lovely scented candle to get you in a sexy, chilled out mood.  You’ve grabbed your blingalicious, but beyond jealousy-enducing bag, just as you’ve heard the taxi honk its horn.  Damn, you look HOT!  Let’s GO!

Yep. This hugs you in ALL the right places. The pattern is beyond cool with a futuristic/Asian inspired feel. The hand-beading at the chest allows you to forget about the need for jewelery as it's built in! The tulip shaped skirt and the polo neck make the dress architectural in cut (which is on trend). The black band around the waist looks like a belt giving the appearance of a petite ribcage and the sleeves are fitted to elongate the arms. The length is perfectly cut to show off the right amount of leg and the right amount of heel! Lace Jersey Polo Neck Dress-Black Multi, www.matthewwilliamson.com (price upon request)

Yeah. These aren't your ordinary black court shoe. From the platform, to the wings on the side to the hot-pink piping---these are killer heels. Again, these are slightly architectural in design which match the quirkiness of the dress and the heel height will make your legs soar! Nappa Patent Court Shoe-Black www.matthewwillamson.com (price upon request)

These are from the runway....but I thought I'd give you another alternative to the basic black if you really wanted to go wild! I think the blue snakeskin might actually work with the patterns in the dress and certainly the color scheme. These shoes are NOT for the shy violet--though neither is this ensemble. I like that these shoe-boots are a bit more punk-funk and make the dress slightly more daring. Call me crazy! But hey, it's always YOUR choice. Runway Shoe-Boots, No Price or Name.

I'd kill for this bag. Kill! It's sexy, elegant, trendy, youthful, seductive.....it is THE perfect evening bag. I love the shimmering colors and the scales on the shell. The chain in the gunmetal looks very evening---and chains as straps again are on trend. This will go magically with the colors of the dress. LOVE THIS! Hard Evening Acid Python Oval Bag-Blue, www.matthewwilliamson.com (price upon request)

I promised you a ridiculously opulent jacket--well here it is! A fox fur coat fashioned to look like mink, is going to keep you warm and trendy. Typical of Williamson, there are panels of bespoke brocade near the lapels in orange and gold. Curvy, with loads of volume and class, as much as you are going to want to reveal your dead-hot dress---this is going to be a pity to take off. Fox Brocade Coat-Mink, www.matthewwilliamson.com (price upon request)

And finally, just to get you going before the night begins and calm you down after it ends, here is one cool candle from Matthew's extensive collection. With loads of colors and scents, you'll find the one perfect for your groove for the night. I just chose this one because I thought the color looked nice and the name "Dusk" seemed appropriate Matthew Williamson Scented Candles, www.matthewwilliamson.com (price upon request)

Dear Ether,

Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote, “Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night. I miss you like hell.”  

This is how I feel about English gent.

Yes.  He lives here.  I see him.  But who he WAS and who I WAS and who we WERE……….there is a giant abyss.  I reckon loneliness might be one of the most painful emotions of the human heart and mind.  Many a man and woman will die shortly after a spouse passes away–they call this “the broken heart syndrome.” When English gent and I used to be separated, I would feel so alone and be in such a catatonic state that I couldn’t eat, interact with anyone and would force myself to sleep hoping I’d catch him in a dream.  

In so many ways I have let this poor guy down.  He left London, his family, a great job, a lovely flat, friends–the lot–to follow me and a pipe dream to Los Angeles. He did this because his love for me was so great that the above paled in comparison to being alone.   And I, partly through selfishness but mainly because I was madly in love, allowed him to give these things up to come West.  So how did things go so South?

When he looks at me, his once warm eyes narrow and ice over.  I even see them flicker with impatience as he listens to me speak.  He sleeps constantly (not in bed with me) even though he drinks constant cups of coffee to try and fight, what I think is heavy depression.  He still dresses up every day, dapper as a dandy, as if he has a destination.  But sadly, he just sits in his office or walks in the garden smoking cigarettes.  When I hug him he is rigid.  When I touch him he stiffens.  

I don’t want this post to be about what I’ve done wrong or what he’s done wrong.  Nope.  That’s been written about countless times.  This piece is about missing someone.  Feeling their presence.  Hearing their monotone voice.  And feeling that “there is a hole in the world.”  

Poor English gent.  He has no one to talk to about his woes.  Nowhere to go and hide.  No money to treat himself.  Ethers, I can’t fix this.  I can’t fix him or our problems–at least not in the immediate future.  But he’s a good person and I remember so many wonderful moments that we shared that changed both of our lives. I can’t bare watching someone so key in my life suffer.  Yep.  Maybe I miss a ghost.  An ethereal object that will never return.   It haunts me.

What he doesn’t know is that I still smell his jumpers—right around the neck (that’s where he carries his wonderful smell).   I still look at him and think he embodies utter beauty.  When he speaks sometimes I close my eyes and listen because his voice is so melodic and his thoughts so intelligent—I even tear up.  And I watch him in that garden smoking those cigarettes.  Pacing back and forth.  Smoke billowing out of his mouth.  I know he can’t see me, but, like a voyeur I try and guess what he’s thinking about.  To try and crack his secrets.  And he thinks I’ve just discarded all of his handwritten notes that he’s sent to me over the years. Gorgeous letters written in a fountain pen with beautiful drawings around the edges on cream paper.  I’ve kept every single one and have them in a special drawer. I take them out and read them, crying line after line.  

One day I hope this will pass.  That we can either move on and go our separate ways content with our parting.  OR, we can finally accept one another and embrace our future.  But right now, like a horrible nightmare, I keep walking in circles day and night around the space we’ve created.  

So, to you English gent, “I miss you like hell.”

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

A Bad Dream? Or What Was To Come?

Dear Ether,

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

His breath is calm and steady.  He is asleep.  I lay there too.  My back is turned and I am fully awake.  The room is dark except for the street light coming through the slits in the blinds.  The orange glow cracking through dances every time the wind blows making a projected light show on the bare wall.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I leave for the States in 1 week.  I don’t know if I’ll get into a Master’s program and receive a student visa.  If I don’t, I never see him again.  I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like I love English gent.  

He shuffles slightly.  The bed shakes.  

Tick. Tick. Tick.

God this is unpleasant.  This time I brought my own pillow (if you recall Ethers, his idea of a pillow was a flattened, gray “creature”) but the mattress is old and I can feel the springs.  And his bedding is so shabby I’m freezing.  

It’s the kind of “in love” that I’m in that it’s almost like an obsession.  If I lose him I’ll wonder what would have been?  I’m already in agony when he’s away for the weekend to see his parents.  This is unhealthy.  He’s only 20.  He won’t risk anything for me.  Oh London. My London. I’ll miss you.  I’m going back to where I’m from–ironically, IT’S so foreign now.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The blind wildly whips itself against the pane making the room too bright.  The bed is making me nauseous.  I’m SO uncomfortable.  I can’t stop thinking.  I’m incredibly tired and I can’t sleep.  I just won’t get on the plane.  Yeah.  That’s it.  That’s the solution.  The blind goes wild again.  The silhouettes from the street reflect on the wall in fast flashes.  It makes me jumpy.

They say try counting backwards.  That makes you tired and occupies your mind.  99, 98, 97….

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I jump out of bed and take the ticking beast, wrap a towel from the floor around it and place it outside the room.  CAN YOU GET A NEW FUCKING ALARM CLOCK, CHRIST!

He sits up in bed and stares at me.  I’m downing a bottle of water and he lights a cigarette.  

Finally, the room is silent.

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365