The words highlighted above are the perfect summation of how I feel about my father. However, we are bound like a book, and I believe our words, like a novel, are already written. Read this post which is so dear to my heart and let me know your thoughts. I think anyone with a father can relate somehow to this piece. Maybe Ethers, you can give me SOME hope? If we keep using the book analogy...and the picture above....the page is not fully printed. Maybe there's time to add more text to it.

Dear Ether, 

The first man I ever fell in love with was my father.  I suppose you could technically call it love at first sight. 

He was born in Longmeadow, MA (a small, peaceful town where homes are from the 18^th century and have plaques proudly boasting their build dates on their spotless facades).  He was the eldest of three boys and since this is an anonymous blog, I will attest to the fact that he was by far the smartest.  He excelled at everything he did and when it came time to go to University he was courted by every Ivy League school (Harvard even offered him a yearly stipend for his pocket money).  He became one of Eli’s men and went to Yale on full scholarship, became a Skull and Bone and sailing through college with perfect grades and varsity sports under his belt, went to Yale Law School.  If you look at notebooks from his time at college (this was before laptops) his handwriting is in perfect script and there is not a cat-scratch in them.  Of course after graduating from Yale Law, he went to one of the finest firms in the country in Manhattan, got a stunning apartment in a brownstone on the Upper East Side and worked for five years, toiling away being told he’d probably be made the youngest partner if he kept up his fervor.  However, he was unhappy.  He was a writer through and through.  And, lucky, brilliant Dad, and his writing partner, wrote a script and sent it to Hollywood with their fingers crossed.  And guess what?  They landed a job on a TV show immediately.  

Oh, of course there are many more things about him.  That he was perpetually youthful looking which would serve him well as he aged (people often ask him where he hides his portrait).  That he has never had a health problem in his life (knock wood).  That he has always had a love of cars, so much so that when my grandparents, in the 1950’s bought a pink Cadillac (yes indeed) with white leather seats and, amazingly, a record player (the latest and greatest in technology—if they only knew what the future would hold) he sat for 7 hours in it mesmerized.  He says when he closes his eyes he can still see his feet not being able to touch the ground and can smell the interior. 

And so, the tale continues.  My father comes to L.A., works on very famous comedy shows, meets my mother, 2 years later they get married, a year later they have my older brother and then 2 years later I’m born—and my love affair begins.  It’s unfair, really.  It was my mother who gave up a hugely powerful job as a producer, rare for a woman in those days, to become a stay at home mom, and become the bad guy.  My dad worked 12-hour days trying to squeeze out jokes sometimes at 2am (not an easy task).  Often I wouldn’t see him at all.  But when I would hear that car pull into the carport, I would run downstairs and throw my arms around his legs.  

This is what I remember.  He always had a brown briefcase with gold numeric lock keys and never wore a suit.  He always had a stern look on his face and disappeared upstairs.  It was only later did I find out that he was so stressed out and filled with anxiety that he needed to be left alone and decompress.  As an adult and a writer I understand this now.  But then, it wounded me.  And that made me want him more.  And this could be why I have so many attachment issues with men.  But that’s a whole other round we can discuss another time Ethers.  Through the years and his many styles of eyeglasses (whoa, there were some beauts’) I sought his approval.  My mother was so hard on us and was the school marm while my father was the hero who swept through and was quiet and calm.  On weekends we would go to the beach or he would read “The Arabian Nights” or Dickens to us.  I had a canopy bed and he would sit in the dark improvising the most masterful tales until he lulled me to sleep.  The only requisite was that I give him a topic.  

As I became a teenager and he became a very successful drama writer and producer (and eventually and Emmy Award winner) we became wealthier, he calmed down, but no matter what I could do, the man I was in love with never indulged me with pride.  He always was a critic.  I would show him my writing and it would be scarred with red marks.  I’d be talking to him and he’d correct my grammar.  I’d be playing soccer and  could see him peripherally on the sideline with a puckered look on his face and screaming “Come on One of 365, get in there!”  He did always tell me how beautiful I was—even when I had braces, bad eyebrows, spots and frizzy hair.  But I never felt like I was ever going to be good enough.  I was never going to be a savant like him.  I’d already failed and I wasn’t even 18.  I certainly wasn’t going to get courted by Ivy League schools or become a lawyer.  I tried everything to make up for that.   I killed myself in school to the point of exhaustion.  I forced myself to become a straight-A student when it wasn’t natural for me.  I went to summer school and did extra work to make up for, god forbid, a B or B+.  I joined every team possible and became a varsity tennis and soccer player.  But my math failed me and I failed my SAT’s in math.  2 hours of my life, after 13 years of school,  and I didn’t get into any of the colleges I wanted.  I ended up going to a top 25 small liberal arts college in CT (a pathetic attempt to try and re-live what my father had in New Haven) and fell apart there.  I became angry and depressed and slept all day and never attended classes.  I had bad relationships with men who I didn’t like let alone even love and was pained and lonely.  That’s when I bolted for England.  You’ll know the rest of that story eventually.  This is about my dad.  

To this day we bang heads at every occasion.  He’s retired now and is always around to judge.  He’ll comment on everything from weight to writing.  He’s yet to ever look at a piece of my work and ever say it was good; he always has a qualm with it.  He’s even sent back an E-mail I wrote him with corrections for me to fix.  When we fight we are both so similar.  We’re cutting and mean.  But it’s so funny…….I try to be intelligent when I fire at him because even in an argument I want to earn his respect.  So Ethers, you must be asking, “This is the first man she ever loved?”  Oh yes.  And I compare everyone I ever meet to him.   Even myself.  Because to me, he is what I would have liked to have been.  He is a constant reminder of, what I see, as perfection.  Yes, of course I’m no fool and see that he has so many character flaws.  But his achievements and his health and his wit and ease with himself–I would have dreamt for that to have been passed down to me.  Whenever I meet an old colleague of his or a college mate, they always say he was the greatest guy they ever met.  My friends all swooned over him.  I once asked him why he was so easy going to those he didn’t know as well or care as much for and he said, “Because I don’t love them.”  I guess that’s why I have such a fucked up view of love too.  He feels he has to be the bad guy to get the point across and get the irons in the fire.  I just wish instead of irons being in the fire, that there would have been just a tremendous glow and warmth exuding from it.

I don’t know what I will do when the time comes when my father is out of my life.  He’s so intertwined with it.  My brother resembles my dad AND my mom.  But I’m a spitting image of him.  It’s funny, everyday I have to look in the mirror and see the man who I love more than anything.  The first man I ever loved.  But also the man who will probably always haunt me.  When I close my eyes and I picture my father I see him sitting in the backyard on a sunny day.  He’s tan with dark hair, trim and in one of our lovely wooden chairs with the dog at his feet.  As always, he’s immersed himself in a novel.  I stare at him through the French windows of our sunroom and I see him look up from time to time putting his finger in the page where he’s left his last paragraph, and he closes his eyes.  Is he soaking up the sun?  Is he worried?  Is he thinking about life?  Thinking, possibly of ME?  And then I see him give his head a small shake and open the book again looking down once more to read.  This is the first man I ever loved.  And to my dying day, even when I am old and he is dust, I will always wonder what he really thought of me.  

If he could read this, which he never will, I would beg for his forgiveness for failing him and I would tell him that the only reason I ever stood up to him was to try and earn his respect.  But inside I was crumbling.  And if he had said the word or just put his arms around me, he would have silenced my vicious tongue.  Every year that passes I know that we are too far-gone to ever be what I had hoped for.  He really has always been the old dog that can’t learn a new trick.  And part of this is my embracing being an adult and learning acceptance.  But I still look at him through the same eyes I had as a little girl, for he hasn’t really changed much, and I walk around haunted by my first love. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

All I did was sit on a bench................

Dear Ethers,

At 8 years old I was kidnapped from a school by an old man.  This is a true story.  For 7 hours I was alone with him in his apartment.  There was nothing sinister.  He was simply lonely.  

I had been playing soccer since I was 4 years old at Fairfax High School in Los Angeles.  Anyone could come and watch our games.  There were many soccer fields set up at once for all the events going on over the weekends and with so many kids, there was chaos. 

It was half time and my mom, who was team-captain, was handing out Gatorade and apple slices to hyper players.  Sitting on an aluminum bench scraped with graffiti sat this innocent looking gentleman.  I remember exactly what he looked like to this day.  He was wearing khakis, argyle socks, black sneakers, a sky-blue lightweight sweater with a white shirt underneath and a flat cap.  He wore heavy rimmed glasses.  He beckoned me over and asked me about the game.  I thought he was someone’s grandfather so I tried to be polite.  I plunked down next to him and after a few more questions was itching to go back to my teammates and gossip.  As I started to get up this feeble man suddenly had a strong grip.  He told me that he wanted to show me something at his house.  I told him I couldn’t go because I was in the middle of a game.  He started to pull me.  When I called out my mother’s name she couldn’t hear me.  When I tried again, he covered my mouth.

He kept pulling me until he pushed me into the front seat of a very old Buick.  He locked the doors and said he only wanted to talk to me for a few hours and then he’d bring me back.  I was hysterically crying.  I could see my mom’s black hair in the distance, her head bent over handing out cups to kids.  I wondered when she would notice I was missing.  

His apartment was in a retirement home only a block from the school.  It was a swirl of oranges and browns with a lot of stripes and plaids thrown in.  His rug was the color of pea soup.  I remember because I sat on it without budging for hours.  The strange thing is he simply turned on the TV and watched, commenting on a joke or a line every so often.  I recall never feeling threatened for my life, just missing my parents and feeling chilly because I was in shorts and a T-shirt from my uniform.  

He never offered me food or showed me the bathroom.  But he was very protective of the phone and the door.   He wasn’t a complete fool.  I kept asking him if we could go back to the school.  I asked him whose grandpa he was (I still didn’t understand he had nothing to do with my team).  I looked around to see if he had any pictures of family.  There were none.  Everything was so tidy.  

I was patient.  Incredibly patient.  And he was very quiet.  I was so confused.  Time just kept ticking away. 

And then there was terrible rapping on the door.  

“Police, open up NOW!” 

My captor did not budge.  I did not budge. 

The door was knocked off its hinges and there were a handful of cops who grabbed me by my shirt and hair and pulled me off the floor.  They carried me downstairs in a rush to my parents who were white as ghosts and held me with all of their might.  That was the first time I had seen my dad cry.  A female police officer asked me if I had been touched, and I said no.  They took me to the doctor anyway.  It was humiliating.  

The man never explained to anyone why he took ME specifically or why he took anyone at all.  He had no record and was not senile.  He was given a restraining order.  

From then on my mom never let me out of her sight anywhere.  Eventually she let up when I got older, but she watched me like a hawk.  She said she failed me as a mother and would have killed herself if anything had happened to me.  She later told me that the hours I was gone she had collected sleeping pills and was going to take them with a huge slug of alcohol if I had been found dead.  She, to this day, says she has never been closer to death in her life (and Ethers, she has had a life-threatening illness……..I’ll write about that one day).  

I’ve had many weird and wonderful things happen to me in my life.  I know the man who kidnapped me is long dead.  But I’ll always wonder what those lost hours spent between us meant.  Why they happened and what their significance was.  He could have stolen everything, I’m so lucky he just got away with 420 minutes. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

I've collapsed. I'm like a girl in a squat who just sleeps all day-- a faded beauty surrounded by things that might have once been grand. I was once useful and now I am just a drain. BUT I will wake up one day and my greatest fear is that I will be alone. I'm sorry I've turned into the girl in the picture. But I believe what was once beautiful can be salvaged again with belief and hope. Am I right, Ethers?

Dear Ethers, 

I know I was supposed to share my Valentino catwalk show with you today, but I wanted to hold off and address something that has been causing me great anxiety.  

My blog has been very negative and depressing lately.  I don’t know what to do about it.  I’m afraid what I write is redundant and dreary.  I fear it’s become a broken record.  I’m even bored hearing about my saga with English gent and Los Angeles and my woes about my career.  But I pose the question: if this blog is supposed to be real and honest—and about my daily thoughts—then what am I supposed to do?  

Maybe it was a foolish challenge to write every day.  I mean, others do it, but often they have jobs where they have fresh material that they can bring to the table everyday.  Me?  I’m just a normal person—and who really wants to read about someone else’s “normal” when they have their own B.S. to deal with daily?  

When I started One of 365 I wanted to be everything to everyone.  I wanted to be a shoulder to lean on, a smile for someone, a big laugh, a brilliant insight, a fashion guru, a beauty aficionado—I wanted to be the girl that would have impressed Mr. X and everyone else out there in the world.  I wanted to write my little heart out and have everyone relate to me in someway because I felt that I could connect the human spirit whether you lived in Uganda or the USA.  I loved to write and had so much to say and felt blogging was a dream opportunity. 

I feel like I’ve failed.  For about 2 weeks I’ve wanted to throw in the towel.  Erase One of 365 from the blogosphere, delete my e-mail address and my Twitter account and do what I feared most—-fade into the ether.  I felt like an arthritic 90 year old every time I sat at my keyboard writing.  It felt painful to type, to search for images, to feel anything.  I’ve been rubbish at responding to comments (which is my FAVORITE thing about my blog), writing to other blogs I’m a fan of (sorry guys) and Tweeting (which I also adore because of the live and clever banter).  

On the 29^th I will be a quarter of the way through my 365 days. I’ve come a long way, but still have a hell of a long journey ahead.  I know sometimes we hit potholes in life and since my blog is really reflective of my life, can you understand that I’m in a deep pothole–a deep, scary pothole?  I mean, I hope that the 4 wheel drive will kick in and I’ll get out of this and those of you who will have stuck with me will be able to see this dark cloud’s silver lining shine again.  Look, I can’t go on much longer like this either, so if you think reading about this everyday is crummy, imagine living it…. 

My point is, this blog is a journey——and I made no promises that it was ever going to be a smooth ride.  To put it crassly: things suck right now.  But even though it often takes all my strength to sit down and write this and face my feelings, I sometime don’t know what I’d do without this site.  

Will you take my word on something Ethers?  I’m really a nice person who is in a pinch right now.  I’m loving, but desperate.  Hopeful, but crushed.  Amidst people, but lonesome.  And don’t let this scare you, but sometimes I wish I could just fall asleep and never wake up.  But I can’t imagine life without me in it. God knows how, but I get up with my heart in my mouth and I manage to tick each day off the calendar hoping that maybe tomorrow will be the day that the 4 wheel drive kicks in.  

I’m only 29.  But my god, I’m fucking 29.  Can you understand that sentiment?  Amelia Burr said “Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.”  I do not feel that way at all.  My dying wish is to have that inscribed on my gravestone.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

I'm not going to say much, because it'll ruin the story. But see this girl. She looks somewhat surprised, but not in a "I'm going to kill myself because someone shaved off all of my hair" kinda way. Well. This photo could have been me....but with a VERY different expression on ol' One of 365's face. Seriously---don't ever fuck with my hair.

Dear Ethers, 

OH MY GOD.  I have the CRAZIEST story to tell you.  Right.  So, you know how I’m always going on about my hair and its length.  I mean, by this time you know the diameter of each follicle.  But you also know how much I treasure it.  I swore the only way I would ever cut my hair is if I became destitute and it was the last thing I had to pawn to eat that night. 

So, I had straightened my hair for an event and had been wearing it down because I usually don’t take much care to make a fuss over it (you know, tying it in a messy bun etc…) and wanted to work my “do.”  I’m walking down the street and this woman comes up to me and says, “You have the most beautiful hair.”  Well, of course I was pleased and thanked her very much.  But she went on.  “Is that your natural color?”  I politely responded, “Yes, it’s my own.”  “So you don’t use any dyes at all?” Okay, now not only was I getting annoyed, but I was getting weirded out.  I said, “Look, I’m real busy…” and she cut me off and started telling me that she worked for this charity called “Locks of Love” and they were really desperate for donors because all of the salon owners were paying a fortune to girls and it was the recession. 

Now, I’m not saying I’m the most benevolent person in the world, but I do give to certain charities.  But they are ones that I choose and that I approach.  I make it a policy NEVER to give to charities on streets or on the phone.  I like to do my research on the net and donate via e-mail.  But regardless, where was this woman’s badge?  Who the hell was she?  And I’m sure “Locks of Love” didn’t have a bombard you policy that freaked young women out on the street.  

I calmly told her that I had no intention of cutting my hair and that I would appreciate her leaving me alone as I felt this was very inappropriate.  Now, a normal person would walk away.  Oh no, this lady got PISSED.  “Don’t you care about kids with cancer?  Women who’ve been burned and lost parts of their scalp?”  Did I mention I’m standing on a street where there were cafes and people were staring at us?  I just started walking away—but she followed.  I started to reach for my cell phone and my keys. 

And then I felt a tug. 

My whole body went numb and I swear to god for a second I thought she took out shears and lopped my hair off. 

I spun around and screamed at her to never fucking touch me again and that I was dialing 911.  I’ve never seen a skinny woman with a bob-cut run so fast in my whole life. 

When I got home I called “Locks of Love” and told them my story.  And Ethers, I’m not joking (and you might think I’m a pussy) I was crying.  I think they were afraid I was going to sue for assault charges.  But the truth is I didn’t have the woman’s name and they said they have so many volunteers that even with my description of her, it was hopeless. 

I think “Locks of Love” do a wonderful thing and I do not want to incriminate them for one woman’s insane breakdown.  But I have to tell you that I will never forget that moment.  I did wonder if that woman was really from “Locks of Love” because they told me that dyed hair WAS acceptable though bleached wasn’t.  And if the lady had cut my hair without it being in a braid or ponytail first she would have done it for nothing—they can’t accept it loose.  Oh and FYI, if you ever DO want to donate, your hair needs to be 10” tip-tip minimum (and they do request it to be clean, thank you very much).  

Later that night I took a shower, used my special Kerastase shampoo that I pull out for special occasions and my Redkin conditioner that is for VERY special moments, and lathered up grateful for something to still be attached to my head.  My waves re-appeared, and as my hair dried, up it went into its lazy bun happy to be protected.  I was just so happy to have given my OWN locks some love that night when it all could have been snipped away by some nutter with a bad bowl cut.  Sheesh.  Only in L.A. 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

A woman scorned...tsk tsk. But there is a first for everything. And my short, little tale will tell you the time that I SHOULD have looked more like the girl in this picture, but in my timid youth I allowed myself to be stood upon. No longer. My big mouth might get me into trouble sometimes. And things may be rocky with English gent. But every day I aim to NOT be a woman scorned ever again (fuck you Mr. X).

Dear Ethers,

When I was in College in the States (which I HATED and subsequently made me move to England) I was invited to a dance.  I was really young when I think about it now.  I had just turned 18, I had never had a boyfriend.  I mean, this was BIG.  The school I went to was old for American standards, being from the early 1800’s (it even had a slave tunnel that ran underneath it for underground escapees!) and it was done up in a beautiful gothic style.  Trust me, it was THE ONLY endearing thing about the place.  The dance was black tie and was to take place in one of the old halls that had probably seen balls and banquets where ladies and gents had gotten their tails and hoop skirts out before there was TV, an iPod or the Polio vaccine.  

I wasn’t particularly keen on the boy who asked me.  He was about 2 years my senior and I barely knew him.  He was the older brother of a girl who was in my dorm and since I really was very inexperienced with guys, I felt very anxious.  But, I was committed to the fact that this was part of what college was about and I had to go for it.  I’ve always had a very slim frame and a nice height, especially in heels.  I probably weighed about 110lbs and in my lovely red Betsey Johnson wedges (very 1940’s, Rita Hayworth) I was about 5’9.  I wore a black strapless LBD.  I had gone and had my hair done and went to Stila for my face to be made up.  I really went all out.  For a girl who had never had her dance card even penciled in, I felt it might be a full night with names marked in lead on my sheet. 

The arrangement was to meet outside of the Dance Hall at 8pm.  This was before cell phones were really popular so neither of us had one.  Lickety-split, I sprayed some special perfume my mom gave me, gave a last look in the mirror, took a deep inhale, and walked alone to see him.  I could see girls were looking at me and other guys were admiring me.  It made me feel shy.  Again, I hadn’t yet embraced being an adult yet and many of these kids were from Manhattan or Seniors in college and had come into their own—I felt like a kid.

8:15.  8:30. 9pm.

He never showed.  

I stood outside watching other couples happily enter the building where you needed a ticket to get in (he was in possession of those). I heard the music playing from inside and the loud chatting over it.  Glasses clinking.  Why did I wait a full hour? 

I had a red pashmina that I wrapped around my shoulders and walked home humiliated.  I didn’t want to be seen by anyone in the dorms because I didn’t want to tell anyone what happened.  Nowadays, oh, if I could step back into that One of 365 body and tell her what to do, that night would be SO different, but Ethers, I was crushed. 

I remember staring in the mirror at my beautifully made up face and seeing my eyes well with tears and thinking, “What a shame, my make-up will be ruined.”  But then I realized there was no occasion for it to look nice.  I slowly unzipped my dress, sat on my bed and undid the ankle-straps on my shoes.  I took the pins out of my hair, each wound up piece unraveling onto my shoulders.  I could have called home that night or spoke to a friend, but I think this was a right of passage for me.  Being stood up.  No one could console me anyway from 3,000 miles away. 

I got into bed and thought of those couples still in that old Hall dancing away.  I wondered why he didn’t show or leave a note?  Door locked, side light table on, I picked up a book and read until drowsiness stole me away and my alarm woke me for classes.  I wasn’t very popular so no one really asked how it went.  But then I saw him (it was a VERY small school).  I sort of cocked my head in wonderment with a quizzical look on my face.  He was sitting in the café with a group of friends.  I know he saw me, and he chose to ignore me. And I didn’t even know what I did wrong.  And to my dying day, I’ll NEVER know.

It was the first time in my life that a boy had hurt me.  And though he really had no deep meaning because I didn’t care about HIM, per se, it was the feeling of being jilted by the opposite sex.  We all remember our first kiss, our first “time,” our wedding and so on.   But do we all remember the first time we got stood-up?  I still have those Betsey Johnson wedges and still wear that strapless LBD.  And you know what, another guy eventually came and dipped me and put his hand on the small of my back in that outfit and I DID get my dance.  It all worked out in the end.  But I do wonder………..what WAS that boy thinking leaving an 18 year old girl standing out in the cold on that October evening?  And, 10+ years later, I wonder, has he ever thought about me?  Funny how someone can be an influence on your life, but you can make no impact on theirs.  And do you know what’s even crazier?  Even though it’s been a decade, I can still close my eyes and see myself in that mirror with fewer lines on my forehead, features less sharp—and yes—still a virgin (oh boy, sooner or later I suppose I’ll have to reveal that tale to you guys–I mean, do you even want to hear it?) thinking that 30 seemed dreadfully old.  And hearing my now 93-year old grandmother say, “It all goes by in a flash.”  My god, what a simple memory can conjure.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365