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

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

I don't think I've had as much fun as THESE guys. But, I've had my fair share of going out this week and I just wanted to give you an update on what I've been up to. It's rather positive---rare from this old gal. Enjoy it while it lasts........

Dear Ethers,

La-dee-da.  I’ve been going out in this town called Holly-weird and meeting some very unusual people at some very unusual venues.  It’s really odd what I’ve been up to lately, and my life has seemed like a blur this past week.

So, here is my giant and glam update.

As mentioned, I went to this party thrown by shoe gal.  It was an Indian themed night and she hired local women who are brilliant chefs from India to cook massive amounts of the most amazing curries, meats, lentils (I could go on) that you could imagine.  My only complaint: no chuntey (what’s wrong with this country!).  Her house is a lovely home just off Rodeo Drive and is an Art Deco/Spanish style beauty from the 1920’a that is in impeccable condition and decorated with impeccable taste.  To add true Indian flavor to the night, she had a few members of the cast of Slumdog Millionaire (no, sadly not Frieda Pinto or Dev Patel) and gave beautiful embroidered pashminas as presents for coming.  I think the highlight for her was seeing Kiefer Sutherland in her home (she’s a huge 24 fan).  She sheepishly got the photographer to snap myself and another one of her friends with him (cringe-worthy—especially after seeing the picture).  He was actually really lovely.  But the weirdest person to show up was this bonkers Arab prince who brought an escort (no, like a 1-900-babe escort) and his bodyguards and I swear to god he was nuts and high on something and it wasn’t Allah.

The next night our new royal friend invited us out to a jazz bar he shut down for the evening, treated us to an amazing show of music and dancing and the most delicious food ever (the bill evidently came to $5,000 for 9 people, a very sneaky guest told us).  The champagne and conversation flowed and he, again, was bonkers.  From the shirt open to his midriff with chest hair bursting out and a gold medallion sitting on top of its puffs, to his toupee dancing as much as he did that night—it was certainly errrm, different.  He’s staying in a cabana in the Beverly Hills Hotel (it is to die for) and the room costs $4,500 A NIGHT!  And he is staying for 6 months!!!!!!!!!  I’ll just let you ponder all the nice things you could do with the money like I did when I first heard the numbers.

Then, last night, I had the most AMAZING evening.  I was invited to an exclusive Chanel dinner honoring their fine jewelry collection.  A very small number of us sat at a pre-set dinner on top of the boutique in Beverly Hills where the chef from Lucques made us a 5-course meal with wines to match each dish.  The room was dimly lit with Chanel votives scented with No. 5 and their signature white camellias.  When I went out for a cigarette, the balcony had amazing couches and the view of the city was sparkling.  The backdrop of the building was of dozens of double C’s lit in white.  Marvelous.  The best part was when the models, all donning Chanel, came out wearing the jewels.  All of us got to wear them and I sat with a 2 million dollar diamond collar around my neck (the center stone was 8 carats!).  I was so nervous that they thought I was going to do a runner that I kept looking at security reassuringly.  They gave us as a parting favor a rare bottle of Chanel Beige EDT which costs $200 (that’s $100 a ml!).

So all in all it’s been an adventurous week.  However, I feel guilty that English gent couldn’t join me for the festivities.  Shoe gal is really big on it being all girls when she invites people…….so he wasn’t invited to the party nor the jazz club.  Her attitude is, if she doesn’t bring her man, she doesn’t want you bringing yours either.  I like it in a way, because it allows me to mingle with potential new friends.  And in fact, I have made one or two new possible friendships out of these nights out.  I think if English gent HAD been there, I might have been attached to him too much and may not have been as gregarious and keen to talk.  It’s really nice having girlfriends and I like shoe gal’s philosophy.  But there is guilt that he is left home a lot. We are going out to dinner this evening and I hope that we will get a chance to catch up then.  But, the truth is when we are at home together, we don’t really do much.  So I feel when I DO get the opportunity to go out, I should take it.  Why sit home twirling my fingers when I could be out living life?

Besides that, I’ve got the normal worries about work.  My company that I freelance for just lost 500 employees which, as I mentioned before, trickles down to me.  Work will be scarce.  I really am so desperate to get on that oh-so-coveted ladder and have terrible anxiety everyday about it.  I want out of this house and freedom.    I want to have independence.  I want to know if I am building a nest here or not.  These are all very worrisome questions.

I hope you are all well.  I love talking to you guys.  It’s so nice to have a chat and be able to open up.  If you ever have any questions or if you ever want to open up yourself, e-mail me.  I love getting e-mails and you know I’m a comment fiend.  I can’t believe tomorrow is Fashion Friday!  Seriously, I feel like it was yesterday that I was snapping my leggings and star top from my last post.  UGH, I am so fat, what am I going to bloody wear for you people.  Good thing you can’t see back shots.  That way if nothing zips, I’ll be okay to still photograph myself in it.

Until my closet seeks your eyes out tomorrow.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

I swear to god, I think some of the rich assholes I've come across in my life, would, if they were sentenced to die, end up requesting a bespoke chair like this. They wouldn't DARE touch another filthy heathen's death throne let alone sit in it without it being a brand name. The people I've seen come and go throughout my life have been so superficial that when I couldn't measure up to their spending habits, they judged me not for who I was as a person, but who I was when I got dolled up or knew the right people. As soon as my credit card got maxxed out, so did our friendship. I keep falling into the trap of meeting these people partly because on the outside I look a certain way, but also because of the profession I'm in. This is why I keep my distance from people. Because at the end of the day, these fuckers will die peacefully in the electric chair as long as their shackles have shiny brass LV hardware emblazoned on them. The worst part is, they aren't even deep enough to care that they are about to sizzle. They'll just be pleased as punch to be going out in style.

Dear Ethers,

 My pal, uber celeb shoe gal is having a party tomorrow night and English gent cannot come. He’s about 2 weeks behind on a project that he’s doing freelance work for in the UK and it’s due Monday.  He simply doesn’t have an hour, let alone an evening to spare.  I’m really nervous about going alone.  Shoe gal has on her guest list people like Angela Basset, Johnny Depp, Halle Berry (and hopefully her man….grrr), Annette Bening and Warren Beatty.  She also has a lot of Beverly Hills elite (blechh) and very chi-chi designers, business people and friends (hopefully the normal people) coming as well. 

I really like shoe gal.  She’s fun to hang out with—alone.  But when she is in her element amongst the rich and fabulous she acts her role and it makes me uncomfortable.  I also don’t know a single person going and feel like I’m going to be the poor schmuck who is unemployed, not wearing Cartier and living at home with her parents.  

I’ve felt like this a lot in my life.  I went to extremely expensive and elite private schools from 12-21.  The kids were all children of directors and actors, CEO’s of major companies or huge real estate guru’s, or people that were serious investment bankers.  I always hated becoming friends with them because even though by global standards I was doing pretty damned well financially, in their circle I was always the poor girl who could never keep up.  I was never able to go out for $15 drinks, take taxis, shop at Barney’s, give expensive gifts, buy the pricey make-up.  They made me feel insecure and embarrassed.  And to be honest, it really wasn’t my fault.  I was proud of myself for putting my foot down, not spending money I didn’t have and never pretending to be someone I wasn’t.  They were the jerks who couldn’t understand the concept that maybe there were some people who didn’t fly in their Concord lifestyle.  By then, they dropped me—I supposed it was a good thing because they probably weren’t nice enough people anyway.  But, it always hurt because the process in dumping me was humiliating. 

My shoe gal knows that I’m just a freelancer but I think she assumes I have money.  I wear very expensive handbags (all bought for 50% off when I worked as head of copy and content at a very exclusive department store in the UK).  I wear expensive clothes (again, either bought on sale and then again marked down with my discount, or through my clever eye at TJ Maxx, outlet malls, mega-sales and savvy shopping).  I don’t think I’ve bought anything full price in years.  I’m starting to get the problems I have with her that I’ve always had with the other rich friends I’ve acquired.  She wants to go out to eat to places where the bill comes to $120 because she ONLY drinks Champagne and sparkling wine.  She shops on Rodeo Drive (she lives about a block from there) and she never even looks at the price tags at Chanel (she has a personal shopper there who knows her by name and brings her, yes, her favorite bubbly while she tries on $5,000 puffer jackets). 

Here’s what you should know about her.  She is 43, so almost 14 years my senior.  She was first and orthopedic surgeon and then became one of the top shoe designers, at least in America.  She came to this country at 8, fleeing from war and speaking no English.  This woman is brilliant and has made the American dream happen for herself.  She is a successful businessperson and she has worked damned hard.  She should reap the benefits of this—I’m not taking that from her.  But, it’s just getting hard to keep up.  I don’t want to lose her as a friend.  But when she calls me up and says let’s meet for a drink, she’s not talking about the local pub.  She means The Four Season’s Hotel. 

I have NEVER allowed ANYONE to treat me as a charity case.  I’ve had these rich friends offer to pay for me and I have always said no.  There are two reasons why.  1: I never want to owe someone because then they feel that they own you in some way. 2: I feel it has to damage the relationship somehow because the friend might start feeling resentful that they are being used for their cash.  

I had a terrible incident happen to me in London.  I had an extremely rich girlfriend of mine who came to visit from the States and wanted to go to the Light Bar in London.  A drink there is 15quid.  She was staying with me and wanted to take a cab and I told her that it would cost 40quid and the tube was free.  She was really angry and offered to pay for the taxi.  I finally gave in but was really uncomfortable.  She then got us into the Light Bar and kept ordering us rounds (there were two other friends she knew from London there as well).  I said to her that I could not afford more than one drink, but she kept ordering anyway and told me she’d pay.  I was gutted and miserable the whole night.  When the bill came, it was almost 1000 pounds.  All 3 of them took out their credit cards and I was the only person who couldn’t pony up the cash.  My “friend” explained, in a stupid, drunken manner, that I didn’t have the money to afford the drinks and could the three of them cover me?  I was devastated.  I didn’t speak to her for the rest of the next day and thank goodness that evening she flew home.  She and I speak on occasion, but the friendship really died on that night.  I swore NEVER to let that happen again. 

The problem with the business I’m in is that I’m either interacting with people who have large expense accounts or who are very wealthy.  I don’t actually hang out with fellow journalists all that often.  It’s not easy NOT having the green.  I want to be friends with my shoe gal, but I don’t want to have the talk with her that I’ve had with so many that has made me turn crimson—that I just can’t afford to go out with her.  

Again, the irony is that I come from a well-off family, and I would certainly not be considered poor.  But to these people, I am broke.  A hindrance.  So, I’ll go to this shoe gal’s party, put on a big, smiley face and pretend that all is hunky-dory in my life.  But inside, my heart is thumping and all I’ll want to do is get the fuck out of there.  Can you now understand why I don’t want to be broke with English gent and why I want so badly to be a success in a career and make money so that I’m not embarrassed anymore?  I know I should be confidant in myself regardless of what others think—but realistically, the world doesn’t work that way.  You’ve got to be able to pay the bills, not matter how lovely a disposition you have or how happy or in love you are.  I NEVER want to be someone’s charity case or anyone’s poor relation.

I’ll give you guys the details about the party as soon as………..

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365