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

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