"Better keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you must see the world." George Bernard Shaw

Dear Ethers, 

Often times when I’m lying in bed thinking, I’ll leave the window open and cover myself up in the duvet.  I like the cool breeze on my face while my body is swathed in the rich down.  Today in Los Angeles we had very heavy winds.  It was the first sign of fall. Crackling leaves dragged their dead forms down the street making scratching noises as they flew pass.  The trees shook and swayed and crows squawked their horrid cry while picking the newly laid seeds in the fertilizer often laid just before Halloween.  I stared out my window while all this was happening, warm under my blanket, only my face exposed to the day outside, and I breathed everything in, squinting whenever a ray of sun peeked through a branch.   

This is the same thing I’ve been doing since I was a little girl.  It’s strange to me that I’ve been doing this in the same bed, through the same window and past the same tree; just a different date and an older body.  I never thought I’d be on the brink of 30 staring out this window pondering, waiting for another winter to come.  You know what’s funny? I never thought I’d ever BE 30.  I remember being in a bowling alley with my parents and there were a bunch of adults and college kids.  They seemed SO old.  I thought I’d never live to see that age.  And you know what, they were younger than I am today. 

But it’s crazy.  As the years go by, they go by so much faster.  My parents are in their late 60’s, the Big Apple Beauty is almost 70 (my god—she always seemed ageless) and the car my parents bought me for getting into college (that I still so vividly remember driving for the first time) is almost 11 years old.  How does time escape us?  My grandmother, who is 93, said that you look in the mirror at 25 and the next minute you’re her age (if you’re lucky)–that’s how quickly things go.  And the scary part is that things from your youth only seem like yesterday.  

Being human is such an odd condition.  It’s something I’ve never really gotten my hands around.  Someone took a picture of me about 8 years ago looking out my said window—they caught me with the sun in my eyes.  My pupils were lit by the sun—they looked like illuminated oak floors with a spray of black lines breaking through the wood.  I remember very clearly what I was thinking in that picture.  That I couldn’t believe another sunset was happening. Do you know that your eyes stay the same size as they were when from the day that you were born?  I’ve always had really big eyes.

I cannot tell the future.  I cannot fix the past.  I can wish, but I often find that futile. It’s nighttime now.  The wind is blowing heavily and I’ve shut the window because of the chill.  I’ll wake again tomorrow and spend a few minutes of the morning staring at the sky.  I’ll collect my thoughts.  It’ll be a new day.  New leaves will fall from trees and be blown down the street scratching away into oblivion and I wonder what my day will be like.  What will hit me next? What memory will fall into my mind?  And I’ll wrap myself tight in my duvet and ponder, feeling the breeze on my face seeing life’s clock ticking through each leaf that does a pirouette to the floor.

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

I'm running out of time...English gent and I are running out of time....and all I can do is just shut my eyes and fall asleep because in some demented way I think it makes time go away. But it's the worst thing---because sleep to a depressed person is like a drug. While you're gone--the hit is real nice. You're asleep and away from pain. But when you wake up and the drift has worn off--time has still passed and you've just made it far worse for yourself. I just sometimes don't know how else to cope without aching so badly...

Dear Ethers,

I woke up this morning and I wasn’t feeling good.  Not in a feverish way, but in a mental way.  The sky was heavily clotted with gray and black clouds, there was a chill in the air, and it was a Sunday (never a good day for me).  It had been a lousy weekend after hearing about the news regarding my job and I had been kept up all night ruminating about my life and wondering what I was going to do.  I had to wake up early to go see a film (the last thing I wanted to do). On little sleep, I hauled ass and went.  It was a comedy and I barely cracked a smile.  

I was supposed to make my debut at the gym and start a whole healthy routine again, but all I wanted to do was get into bed and be comforted by the warm duvet and disappear.  I was in and out of consciousness having odd dreams and the night just ticked away.  Right now my heart is racing, I feel shaky, I haven’t eaten and I don’t think I could stomach much of anything anyway.  Facing tomorrow seems frightening.  English gent’s visa is up in 20 days and if he doesn’t get his paperwork in he has to go back to England.  They were really rough with him at the border—and buying a ticket is out of the question.  We need to turn in that paperwork if he is gonna stay in the States, but neither of us know what to do—do we bolt and go back to what we know (London) or hand over $2000 we really don’t have (and might be better spent on tickets to London and a deposit on a flat)?  Do we stay in America (he can’t leave the country for 6 months) and remain miserable trapped in a country or at least a city and a living situation that is unbearable?  And, we really only have days to decide.  Remain here or, like people on speed, pick up and pack up—as well as find a flat and jobs in the UK.  

I’m in a major mess.  I am so sorry that my posts have been depressing. I’m sure you guys miss my fun entries and my nutty stories.  But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you what was really going on in my life.  

I wish I could take all my mistakes away (all of us do)—but everything just feels overwhelmingly too late.  English gent is like a fish out of water here and hates it—so I know he will inevitably want to go back to England–so why am I wasting my precious $2000?  I had so many problems in the UK–so I’m afraid to return but also eager for my freedom and its comforts that I know so well.  But who can help me there?  If I move, my parents won’t give me a dime, I don’t know what profession will take me on……………

Look, there are no more kind, comforting comments you lovely Ethers can make.  You have been INCREDIBLY supportive.  Too generous.  Nobody likes the girl who always is sad.  Nobody likes the girl who always is crying and complaining—especially when I’m sure each of you have your own problems.  I just use this forum as a platform to spew.  This is why I lose friends a lot of the time.  They see me one way, but then the dark-side comes out and they abandon me.

I gotta get back into bed.  I really don’t feel good.  My “Wish List” will be up and running–probably a bit later than normal tomorrow.  Wish me luck…..I hope I don’t get any un-welcomed news waiting for me from my job.  I also hope that English gent and I make the right decision…we’ve made so many bad ones.  Maybe even staying together this long—a whole other mess and saga you all know very well.

Thanks for your time…………and understanding.  I won’t always be like this.  I still have 8.5 months ahead of me on this blog—let’s hope by the end, I’ll be where I need to.  That’s the point of this—it’s my journey, right?  But those clock hands keep ticking and shoving me towards the future and I have to stop believing that if I lay on them and sleep they won’t move forwards.

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

Dear Ethers,

In many of my posts I have mentioned that I will, in time, explain my absolute obsession for Sienna Miller.  Today is sadly, not that day.  However, the outfit I chose for this week brought out her old boho spirit thrown in with a little of Ms. Moss. It just felt right to dedicate this Friday to these phenoms of fashion. This outfit brought me such joy to put on.  It reminded me of how I would dress up and go out for a night in London (something I miss dearly).  A tunic, some boots and a funky belt.  I’d get my bag sorted, slam my Oyster card down at the Tube and head towards town on the Northern line getting off at Charing Cross and then walk towards Covent Garden or wherever the lights would take me.  Ethers, I really felt like I was back in Blighty posing for this one

For many of you this will not be to your liking.  You’ll think the tunic is way too short, the belt a nightmare out of the 80’s and the boots something out of a Sci-Fi film.  But for me, this outfit spells Soho on a Saturday night.  It spells Sienna Miller when she was dating Jude.  It has Kate Moss written all over it when she went to Glastonbury.  And that’s why, folks, I fucking love it.  So, no made up back story for our girl tonight.  This girl is ME….living out her dream as a fashionista back in a town she misses terribly and paying homage to the creative outlets and outfits that London is so famous for.

So to you Sienna, Kate and all you Topshop girls in Brick Lane who wear corsets with leopard leggings and tutu’s over them—Viva La London Fashion!!!!!  And hey, to all you Brits out there, maybe whisper the name One of 365 tonight at the pub.  I could use the big-up and I’d love it if the city that owns my soul was reminded that I still think of it everyday.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Damn right if I bent over you'd see WAY too much! And that tunic in the sun might be see-through. But dammit, while I'm still young enough and can say I did it, I want to be a bonkers, boho, beatnik too! And the best part about the bloody thing? It is so comfortable.

This is a silk tunic I got from Zara years ago for 15 quid. I love it because you can wear it over leggings, or with sandals and hey---like me---with boots. It's light as a feather and I love the multi-color green/grey effect. You can wear a slip underneath it if you're a bit shy about things being sheer, and it also comes with its own tie so you don't need your own belt. Zara Silk Tunic, 15 quid, London

Ok. Many of you are recoiling at the site of this. Older folks who dumped a belt like this and gave it to Oxfam/Goodwill are wondering who paid good money for this crap? I DID! And I LOVE IT! Look how good it looks with the tunic! It just adds that boho crazy vibe--that rock-star chic. It's badass and I think it is so outrageous, it's cool. It's fashion, baby. Vintage Belt, 8 quid, Camden Stalls (Where Else!!!!)

Knee-high boots are really in this season. I really like the dove-grey color and the patent finish. They also have a great almond-shaped toe and a little bump of a heel so you could walk miles in them. They look sick with tights and great with bare legs. I like how they bring out the silvery-grey in the tunic and just tie the whole swinger-Carnaby vibe out of the outfit. If I had Kate's legs I think they'd look way hotter, but alas, I must make do. Grey Patent Boots, Originally $411 Reduced to $100, Due Farina, American Rag, Los Angeles

I suppose one day you'll see all of me. But, for now, here is an X-Ray image of my teeth (no, they aren't black---I didn't live in England THAT long!) I'm forcing a big old smile that does not come naturally to me. The reason I took this image with this filter on is because at the end of the day, underneath it all, a smile can really just be a facade and a straight face can be a very happy person but one caught in their thoughts. I dunno--a man once told me I'd be attractive if I'd smile more. Here's my story...

Dear Ether,

I was once told by a man that I would be much more attractive if I smiled more.  I wondered, “Did that stop people from approaching me because I looked like a sourpuss?”  When I catch my reflection in a store window or a mirror, I definitely look unapproachable.  My head is often lowered, my cheeks sucked in giving my lips a down-turned pout and sunglasses usually shade my eyes.

I was never the girl who was bought drinks at bars or was approached on streets.  I never got asked out on dates or was flirted with in public.  And I didn’t get it.  I know you guys don’t know what I look like, but you know I’m honest, and I will try and be humble, but I’m not bad looking.  And when I put myself together, I actually look quite nice.  So when I saw girls who I thought were less attractive, I never knew why I wasn’t getting any attention.

You know, some people have a great smile.  Their eyes crinkle beautifully, their teeth glimmer like ivory piano keys that explode in their mouths welcoming you to their face.  Their lips are full and their grin just makes everything more inviting.  When I smile, I lose my upper lip, my eyes almost disappear and it looks like I’m missing my back teeth because my lip casts a shadow over the last few molars.  I just don’t have a pretty smile.

When I had braces, I learned to smile with my mouth shut.  An almost pucker-like smirk.  I look back on these photos and see how dreadful I appear.  My chin juts out, lines gather around my nose and mouth.  No one would ever mistake me for the Cheshire Cat.

After this man suggested this about my appearance, I tried to take heed of his advice.  I actually felt the atrophied muscles in that region struggle and shake trying to hold the pose.  I felt stupid and foolish. After a few tries I gave up and my face relaxed back into its straight-lined position. The thing is, I don’t NOT smile, I just don’t have that kind of cheerful visage.

I will tell you one thing—(and it’s my surprise)—when I laugh—I give it everything I’ve got.  THAT’S when my teeth come out and sparkle and when my eyes shine and you see my dimples.  So, maybe the secret is you’ve got to make me crack-up.  And when you do, maybe I’m really damned beautiful.  So though I’m not on show every minute, what makes me special is that I come out from the woodwork and glitter every once in awhile.  And it’s the people who matter that get to see the really attractive me.  It’s the people who take the time to invest and not just enjoy the ongoing music of the large piano key teeth but maybe some of the flat notes hidden by my skinny excuse for lips.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365