This is Freud's room recreated in his home on Hampstead, North London. You can clearly see the famous couch many heads perched on during sessions. Though I do not lie on a couch when I go to therapy, the couch represents the center of the room. The most important piece of furniture. It is where the patient collects their thoughts, discusses and learns. I have always held my sessions as a special place for me to escape. A womb-like arena (not as beautiful as Freud's) that allows me to be open and honest without any judgement. On Thursday, my womb will be invaded by English gent. My name will be spoken many times. But I shall not be there. I have many mixed emotions--loss of trust, fear, anger--even hope. And I know that this womb is not just mine---many bodies enter it. But, none of them have ever spoken my name without me being present. I wonder how many "Freudian Slips" will occur on Thursday?

Dear Ether,

English gent has stolen Dr. W. Yep, it is official.  MY therapist and MY partner have now booted me out of the loop. Okay.  I’ll tell you the whole story, but here’s the irony. YOU GUYS are now my only source of therapy for the moment (well, at least until next Tuesday) and what’s even worse:  I’M footing the bill!!!!  

English gent and I have been going to therapy together for about 6 sessions now because our relationship has been in a really terrible rut of late.  He blames me for bringing him to Los Angeles and to this concrete grave of misery and I am angry at him for so many reasons, all you have to do is hit the sidebar under “English gent” or “Love” and you can read why.  It was my idea we start therapy because I felt that we needed a mediator–someone who could be in the middle and help us through our discussions (which normally end  in him walking out of a room needing a cigarette or me diving under the duvet crying and dreaming of the life I thought I should have had).  Dr. W took to the English gent (and to be fair, the old therapist has a soft spot for me too) and really wanted to help us.  So one session turned into many and we started to really open up.  But English gent was getting angry.  He felt that it was well and good that we spoke about our feelings in our sessions, but that nothing happened outside the 45 minutes that changed anything in reality.  He said today was his LAST session with Dr. W.  Now of course I was infuriated.  I felt really trapped and frustrated.  If English gent stopped going to see Dr. W, then what?  I mean, we obviously couldn’t handle this relationship problem on our own and we don’t have any other confidants, so what were we going to do?  

I slept until 2pm today, that’s how gutted I was.

3pm rolls around and with my face sullen and sombre we take our seats on the couch in Dr. W’s office.  English gent talks about how angry he is with me.  That I don’t act as a woman should when I expect him to act as a man should (this might be a good point—but his version of acting like a “woman should” is doing laundry, cooking, cleaning….you get my drift…..and as long as he has known me…..that just IS NOT me…….so I was really fucked off…….and my idea of what a “MAN” should be is having money to support himself, having good enough credit to have a fucking credit card for Christ’s sake, being able to drive and not have me chauffeur him around, buy me a thing or two every so often…….but no…….he is  a stinking baby who still calls his mother “Mumma” in Russian.  Kill me).  Then he goes on to say that I’m unsupportive of his work.  Ethers, he sits in the office all day doing work for his business abroad as a freelancer and makes it very clear he doesn’t want to be disturbed.  He is on English time so he drinks Red Bull’s 5 times a day (which are like $2 a pop, chugs coffee after coffee like it’s water and smokes at least a pack a day…have I mentioned he is up until 5am most nights?)  We never go anywhere together because I can’t pay for both of us.  We are stuck in this house and are ironically so far apart is is pathetic.  I’ll leave it up to your imagination to wonder what our sex life is like (he is 27–you’d think he’d be rearing to go—and truthfully, I haven’t been less interested since before puberty, anyway).  It’s dire straits.  It’s always a threat of, “I have a return ticket back to England, why don’t I just go?” Or I say, “This isn’t working anymore, but I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to lose you in my life and I know if we end like this and you fly back to London, I’ll never see you again.”  Ethers, am I bound to grow old with a man who I bicker with?  Where we’re just angry companions, but stuck together because we care for each other from memories and a feeling of family?  And if he goes, I know I will always wonder if I lost the great love of my life because we went through a bad patch and maybe couldn’t work through it.  I mean, no one is gonna be happy in their late 20’s living with parents with no money, no license, no visa, no job (the list can go on).  And me!  You guys know I am dying for that golden ticket.  And soon, that will fade and stop shining and I’ll just be and ugly old hag that no one will want—then that will be the final nail in my coffin.  

So why do we stay together?  Why is the question he and I have been asking for almost a decade.  And we come up with so many pros and so many cons.  Our great times and our hideous times toughing it out.  No one knows either of us better than we know each other.  We are too afraid to let go.  I know many of you would say it’s like a plaster/Band-Aid.  Rip it off fast and it hurts less.  No. No.  I can’t even imagine the idea of unveiling the wound that the bandage shows underneath.  The last look in his eyes before he boarded the plane with no return ticket.  The last time I’d smell his neck.  The smell of his body on the sheets when I returned home from that agonizing drive.  The few gifts he gave me.  The albums full of memories.  8 YEARS OF MY LIFE SHARED WITH HIM.  Every reference of my 20’s with HIM.  Help me Ethers.  But please, don’t tell me yet to leave him.  Please?  Can you try to be constructive?  Can we go into salvation mode 1st?  I beg you out of desperation.

I’ve lost track of where I was.  Right. So. I cannot make it to our twice weekly session the second time being this Thursday, because I have a meeting and then an event to cover.  So what did Dr. W suggest?  That English get come sans me.  I was shocked.  He is MY therapist. The guy I pay.  The man I introduced English gent to.  And now THEY are going to have a pow-wow about ME behind my back?  Yes, yes, yes.  I know.  This will be all fine and dandy.  He’ll get to say his piece and Dr. W might coach him and this is only to help.  But I feel so vulnerable.  As I chauffeur him to that session, I wonder, how many times will my name be mentioned and what will be said?  And the truth is I have NO right to ask.

I wish I was free.  That I could be 21, just out of school and fresh.  I wish this was the beginning.  That I had more time.  That I hadn’t made so many mistakes and hadn’t given into love so fast and hard.  Some of us do it easier than others.  I’m a sucker.  I’ll keep you updated, as you guys are now my clearest and cleanest form of therapy.  Thank you for listening.  I just wish I wasn’t sitting here with my face full of tears and the tops of my hand wet with the drippings of the falling droplets all over them.  What a mess—in so many way—what a giant mess.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

I am a soldier when I shop. I do it for the country that is One of 365. I have to make sure this "governing-body" looks damned good and I can't have ANYONE get in my way.

Dear Ether,

When I shop, I become a fierce, focused creature who does not like to be disturbed by ANYONE.  When a friend asks me if I’d like to go shopping, I always try to weasel out of it.  I don’t want to be interrupted with questions about HER dress or what I think about how HER shoes look on HER feet.  I need to focus on the sale racks, sizes—my eyes rapidly scanning for deals without any deterrent.

I love shopping.  There are many women who detest it and only go when they have to find an outfit for an occasion.  I adore just heading out and perusing the boutiques seeing what I can drool over and store in my mind for when the sales come.  I love the air-conditioned rooms, the music the they play, the pang in my heart when I see a tag with a red slash through it.  I am a hunter and clothes are my prey.

I wouldn't make a badge or a bumper-sticker out of this, but it sure is my mantra

I have an excessive amount of clothing.  It’s beyond ridiculous.  I’m actually pretty proud that through the mounds of cloth I don’t have anything I truly regret.  I mean, of course there are the pieces of crap you buy from Primark that you wish you maybe should have saved the 5 quid on for a coffee, or you realize you just bought ANOTHER black top.  But for the most part, I’ve done decently well.  Nothing too horrible.  I’ve had regrets.  I bought a Mulberry bag on sale in London that was 250 quid reduced from 500 and it sits smushed in a corner never used.  It’s a little small and just a bit traditional for me.  Would I like the money back, of course!  But, no one would look at it and say, “What the hell were you thinking?”  I’m always good about making sure to buy clothes that are made of lovely fabrics (I could ADORE a piece, but if  it’s made of polyester or some shit I can’t pronounce—I’m done).  I hate when from a distance you see a garment that’s lovely, and then you get close for further inspection and see it’s possibly flammable—oh, the horror!

English gent is an excellent shopping partner. He is the ONE person who I can tolerate to take with me.  In fact, he is quite an asset being a fashionista himself (though when we see a mirror we tend to fight over it in a shop). He gives honest advice on how things look on me.  He also knows the trends and gives ace investment premonitions.  He never tires, he’ll wait patiently while I scour the racks and he appreciates clothing as much as I do (he is so in love with fashion that he has been known to buy something, change out of what he is wearing, and walk out of the store donning his new outfit!).

My style icons are a mix of Ms. Paltrow, the perfect Ms. Sienna and legendary Kate Moss, of course.  When I go out, I try to conjure these women.  I’m lucky with my figure that I can pull some of the looks off these ladies can (I’m not as tall as Gwyneth nor as flat-chested, I’m not as leggy or skinny as Sienna or Kate) but I can make their looks happen if I try and do get compliments which make my day (because if ONLY they new how much I paid for them—STEALS!).

(This is for you gentleman who read my blog…I thought I’d throw you some eye-candy)

Yep, this is how we ladies feel when we are donning something sexy. Or at least, I do. What an entrance!

My dream is to walk into Burberry and buy some of their Prorsum goodies, hit Chanel and buy a pochette bag, saunter into Temperley and buy a whimsical dress made of silk and air, and have no credit card limit.  Oh, yes, there are millions of other designers who I’d kill to wear.  But honey, put me on a stranded island with these 3, and I’d make the natives catwalk cuties in no time.

I have kept every item of clothing I have ever bought.  They are stored in boxes throughout my folks house.  I refuse to give anything away.  I believe one day something might come back or if I have a daughter she’d kill me for giving it away (yes, I think there is hope for the overall and the multi-colored high-top).  Clothes, to me, have always been my hobby.  Some people love thimbles, spoons, Rembrandts.  I love Miu Miu or a great pair of jeans.  And when I go out looking spiffy, there’s no better feeling in the world.

But………just don’t fuck with me while I’m getting my outfit together.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

PS: As it is the recession…………