Where have I been? In dreams of sweet smelling lavender.......or so I one day imagine.

Dear Ether,

No. Please. Don’t be frightened.  I mean, not that you were or anything.  (Clearing throat) It was just in case there might be one or two of you who MIGHT have wondered where I’d been, that’s all.  

I’ve missed blogging.  Before I became a “blogger” I never knew how good it felt to be able to write and speak my mind and heart.  Sometimes say wild things. Write in stream of conscious.  Tell stories that no one knew but myself.  And since Friday (my last post), I have missed this form of expression dearly.  

My days have consisted of 14 hour sessions of research and writing about a subject that is so bizarre, so controversial—yet to the outside world appears foolish and cut and dry.  I have been writing about UGG boots and their phenomenon.  From my research, I have found so much history, so many lawsuits, so many opinions from so many rich and powerful people (in a multi-BILLION dollar trade) that this has turned into a full-fledged investigative reporting piece.  My piece is going to really make a huge impact when it is published.  I’m really quite scared.  You have to remember, I write about mascara and Sienna Miller, not counterfeiting and fraud.  A lot of people I’ve worked with have been so kind to me.  So generous.  There are so many players in this boot game.  I want so very much to represent everyone fairly.  But, for the first time I have not been able to write magazine cheeriness. I have had to write like a newspaper reporter.  I want to disconnect my phone and computer on Sunday.  Am I proud of this piece?  I don’t have a fucking clue.  I am numb.  I, when I agreed to write this, never expected it to be a 3,000 word expose.  If I fuck this up, I could be out of a job and blacklisted from a lot of tick-lists for a long time.  And that’s NOT what I need.

Why couldn’t I have been good at math?  Then I could have been an accountant or a broker?  Or better at standardized tests and deductive reasoning?  Maybe I would have been a swell lawyer?  Science—a doctor?  But, alas, I have none of these talents.  And a career switch for me is impossible.  I don’t even LOVE writing.  I love ideas and coming up with themes for photo shoots and working with a team and researching ideas.  But when it comes to the craft of sewing a piece of work together, nope, don’t love it.  It upsets my stomach, I never feel terribly confident and Ethers, it ain’t gonna make me rich!

I find life confusing.  I find my brain muddled and cloudy and it is often difficult for me to think and categorize my life.  I live in a world with half-drunk mugs of coffee, warm soda cans and a desk filthy with old business cars and eyebrow tweezers.  My coaster is a “Last of the Mohicans” CD soundtrack I must have bought 10 years ago (fuck knows).

I dream of lying in a field of lavender in Grasse.  The oils are released in the baking of the sun’s heat.  They calm me like a drug.  The sky is a perfect hue of crisp blue and I am wearing a full skirt made of white cotton.  I can’t visualize the top.  My hair is loose.  My dog sits beside me just a few feet away under a tree.  I no longer have a hump on my back from my days sitting at my computer desk.  No black circles under my eyes are seen on my now tan skin.  My cuticles have healed because I am no longer nervous.  I owe not a single E-mail, phone call or time-limit to anyone.  I am a stranger.  They truly address me as One of 365.  There is no English gent, no family.  I am ageless.   I am a polyglot.  I have endless credit in the bank.  I never gain weight.  I never feel pain.  I drift in and out of consciousness.  It’s like being given a second chance….maybe a re-birth.  

How sad to always escape into a hopeless dream.  Why can’t one be content?  That’s for another night.  This evening, my tired body has to rest and maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in Grasse for a short, sweet minute, smelling lavender.

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

Yeah. This was a repeated nightmare for me every time I went to sleep at night and had a temp gig the next day. I thought I was going to be throttled by my boss. I was the PA from hell and all I could say was "Fuck!"

Dear Ether,

“Errrrm, can you repeat that for me again?”  I think I must have said that at least 15 times a day when I answered the phone. I was working as a temp for a very important VP for a marketing firm in London.  I had enough trouble pronouncing HIS surname (and was too afraid to ask him for the 100^th time to correct me) and felt like I should be wearing the tallest dunce cap in the building.

I began temping while I was writing my dissertation for my Master’s.  I didn’t need to travel into Uni any longer so I was able to work during the day and write at night.  PA work paid the best and because of my typing speed and my “lovely disposition” I was the perfect candidate for the gig.  The only problem was I stank at it.

I couldn’t make coffee (instant included) for the life of me.  My hand trembled so much when I presented the java to the folks in meetings there was more of the stuff on the saucers than there was in their cups.  And tea!  Forget it!  I would always turn crimson with an apology saying that we Yanks were rubbish at making the stuff and beware of the hemlock that was to come.  I couldn’t figure out the phone systems and would disconnect people—like the CEO.  I couldn’t even get tasks like photocopying right.  The damned thing would always jam when I tried to use it and it would take me 20 minutes to make one Xerox which I’m sure made my boss wonder where the hell I’d been.  Oh, and forget ever booking a meeting room correctly.  Ha!  If you wanted Room A, you’d always get Room B at the wrong time and in the year 2013.  And as I wrote above, not only could I never understand anyone on the phone, I was so flustered to get their name correct, I often forgot to take down their details.  I was the temp from hell.  Every Friday I would, with a huge lump in my throat, go into the office of whomever I was working for, and ask them to sign my timesheet.  I knew I didn’t deserve the cash—except that I had shown up on time and sat there for 8 hours.  I caused far more calamity than I did calm.

One time a gentleman called and I asked his name.  Forgive my spelling (I’ll do my best) but he said, “Rude Wank.”  I couldn’t believe it.  There was silence on the phone.  How was I going to tell my boss that a guy named Rude Wank needed to chat with him? I was so worried that I got the name wrong AGAIN and was going to go in there and make a fool of myself that I was almost inclined to forget about the message, but Mr. Wank said it was urgent.  This was the piest de la resistance.  I knew that fucking this up would be my utter downfall.  I walked into his office, and bless him, the poor bloke never gave me a hideous glare (though he was pleased to hear that I didn’t intend on making a career out of being a PA) and being the immature idiot that I was, entered like a bumbling schmuck.  “Uhh…yeah..I….ummm…just got…errr….this call….oh man……Rude Wank…..he said it was urgent.”  “Who called?” he asked.  Fuck me….I knew that was it.  I was going to back out of the room like he was Elizabeth the 1^st and I was a fucking servant and then run like the wind.  “Uh, Rude.  Rude WANK.”  “Blimey.  Okay.  That’s an interesting…well anyway. Thank you.”  It turned out that was a common Dutch name and I’d actually gotten the bloody name right, but jesus, pit stains were never heavier than that day.

The more skills you claimed to have, the more dosh you got.  So, of course I claimed to have many more abilities than I indeed had training in (hey, rent needed to be paid) so I claimed I was a master at Powerpoint, and excelled in, well, Excel!  BIG mistake.  I was called in for a PA gig where my main job was to work with dreaded Excel spreadsheets.  I thought I was computer savvy and could hack it.  Oh my god.  Have you ever tried Excel without testing yourself on it first?  That software is the DEVIL!  I ended up going to IT, begging for mercy about 6 times during the day, buying a lovely woman lunch, and having her do my work for me.  I called my agency that afternoon and told them I was coming down with a cold and couldn’t complete the rest of the week.

But, because none of these polite gents ever complained, I kept getting work!!!!! I couldn’t believe it.  But then D-day happened.  I was sent to a very high-end advertising agency.  I was to be there 2 days.  My job was to help the guy type, type, type.  I was given a hand over for all the typing(ironically with a girl with a missing digit) and she was lovely, but I smelled bad news immediately.  The guy was head of the joint, mean as hell and I was shitting my pants.  The irony of this temp job was that I actually could do it!  Typing was my forte.  But he was scary and mean.  Nothing I did was good enough.  Mr. X was a rotund man with a face that was beet red and he looked liked he was going to keel over from a heart-attack any minute.  His office had a large easel with a beautiful oversized coffee table book of designs that probably cost a fortune.  He also had a very precarious stack of art books that were at least as tall as me (I’m 5’6).  Shaking in my boots, he asked me to come in and put the books away.  They “bothered” him.  Easy right?  I was so scared with him being in the room watching me with his swollen, beady eyes. I took 2 books from the pile, but the balance must have altered and they came crashing down.  FUCK!   There had been a tea and coffee cart there from a previous meeting.  They hit that and it caused the beverages to become like a waterfall in the air landing on his precious book on the easel.  Did I mention his desk looked like Armageddon had come?  His computer was knocked off, his keyboard dangled on its side.  The red laser of his mouse kept flickering for mercy as it swung back and forth like a pendulum.  His tea was all over his desk calendar and paperwork and his trousers were soaked.  This all happened within 1 minute.  I didn’t know what to do.  I kept repeating the words “sorry” and “oh my god,” but he was silent.  And I knew like deadly Vesuvius, silence was going to turn into a violent eruption…and it did.  He screamed bloody murder.  After verbally abusing me for a good two minutes at the top of his lungs, two gentleman from offices next to his came to escort me out.  They told me to go home.  I tried explaining to my agency.  They quietly listened (it really wasn’t my fault!) and told me they’d be in touch.  I never heard from them again.  Truthfully, I could have sought out other recruitment offices to hire me (they are a dime a dozen in London).  But I was SO done with being a PA.  It was hard, not rewarding and I really was horrible at it.

It’s funny.  I’m excellent at very difficult tasks.  Writing under hideous deadlines.  Making a shoot work in impossible situations.  Working with PR’s to get that one of a kind Gucci dress that Vogue wants but I sweet talk them into lending to me.  And if you need to get an interview with a celeb that won’t talk—they are butter in my hands.  But, send me to fax something and I am dumb as rocks.

As I got more advanced in my career, I ended up with a lovely assistant and also girls who I oversaw who answered to me.  I made sure to be beyond kind, patient and to never forget my years as a PA.  That and being a waitress I reckon, are two of the hardest jobs out there (well, besides hard labor).  Being someone else’s brain/Blackberry.  Whoa.  So this is an ode to all of you assistant’s out in the ether.  The ones with the pictures on cork boards and plants on your desks to give something to call your own.  I hear you.  I really do.  And to bosses out there—be more forgiving.  The job may seem easy because they are sweating bullets to make it appear seamless.  But it is an unbelievable undertaking.  Give a holiday bonus.  Give them a gift here and there.  And just say well done every so often.  And if you ever get a temp who stinks like me, pay em’ off for the week and send them home.  You’re better off.  Unless you like having stained trousers, fucked up E-mails and reservations a Cicconi’s in Los Angeles instead of London (LOL!).

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

This article is going to be the end of me. And on shoes, nonetheless....and I LOVE shoes! So, sorry for the rambling below (I needed the break from writing!).......but hey, how badass is this Chanel heel that our Queen Of England, Madonna wore? Now these really are KILLER heels!

Dear Ethers,

A really short one tonight.  My apologies.  Tomorrow could be the same (yes, the victim might be the Wish List!).  I have two enormous feature pieces I am writing that are both due on Tuesday and I am having a really rough time with them.  One is re-working a piece that was really creative (written like a story). It was  bought (yes!) and then my Editor wanted me to add a philosophical element to it that required getting quotes from major companies (which you have to chase, chase, chase) and re-arranging the piece to keep its integrity and also allow it to make sense (no!).  It’s tricky when you sell a piece to a major newspaper.  Once they buy it, they can be cheeky and keep asking you to make little tweaks until it has elements in your work that you never intended.  I really loved my original and wrote it on a whim when a cool event in the fashion world caught my fancy and made me wonder.  It just poured from my fingers and I was so pleased with it.  So was my Editor, but then she wanted to turn it into a leading feature for the week before Christmas—a very savory slot—and needed it to be a more powerful statement story and not as “fun.”  Hey, I get paid per word and am pretty damned psyched, but still, I feel stuck because I don’t think what she’s asking exactly works.  Sighhh…but, this is going to be a big deal and I just started working with this paper (and lord knows I need the dosh and exposure) so I’m not going to say no.  And, hey, a good writer is always one who can take a deep breath and hit the delete button and make edits.  

As for the other piece, you’d think it would be so easy!  I had to interview 3 major shoe designers and ask them each the same 7 questions.  Then, all I have to do is formulate a story about shoes—and hey, even easier, I get to pick the idea of the theme.  I’m allowed a two paragraph lead-in and then I have to weave their answers in cleverly.  Simple, right?  WRONG.  I can’t believe of all things SHOES are giving me a nightmare (maybe it’s my new relationship with shoe gal!).  I think I’ve written and re-written this feature about 4 times and have erased them all without saving one draft.  It’s the main story for a special on shoes for the November 15th issue and I am having is-SHOES!    It’s my first assigned piece from my Editor and I want to show her I’m really good.  She says she’s tried out loads of freelancers and they’ve sucked and I don’t want to fail her.  Maybe she’s cursed me like many a women have cursed a man.  You know, talking about how past boyfriends have stunk in bed right before you and she are about to sleep together.  All sorts of thoughts probably go through their minds and then it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.  UGH!

Anyway, the fuckers are both due Tuesday, 9AM PST and I am shaking in my boots.  I’ve never been this nervous about my work before.  I think I’ve had the confidence kicked out of me by so many Manolo’s (ha ha…ermm…ha) that I’ve lost my One of 365 pride.  It’s also nerve wracking when you know that one company you work for just fired a shed load of people and are making serious budget cuts which trickle down to you and this might be a way to make up for that loss of much needed cash.  

So, will you forgive me today?  My eyes are crossing from staring at my Mac—I even got desperate enough and tried to distract myself from writing by taking crazy pics with my Photo Booth on my computer.  I’m proud to say that I have wonderful Warhol-esque images of me cross-eyed and sticking my tongue out.  

I have to dish about the party. Some nutters were there and I’ll let you now Mr. Depp, sadly, didn’t show.  But a few famous faces did and a crazy Arab prince arrived and I have a hilarious story about that which will make you wonder if I am lying about some of the crazy shit that happens in my life.  

If you asked me when I was a kid if I would be 29, sitting in front a computer on a Sunday night ready to burn all my heels as a coup d’etat against the governing body of shoes or that I would even be obnoxious enough to use the expression coup d’etat instead of speaking English, then I think I would have tried to buckle down on my math and science skills and tried to become a therapist (I’m nuts, remember—and they say it helps one to know one—maybe I would have been great!).  

Jesus, for a quick post this thing is already almost 900 words with my ramblings.  I can’t ever write a short tid-bit, can I

Sorry for complaining, but it sure was nice to write about something else besides heel height and balls of feet.  And, seriously, no matter how bad this writer’s block is, it certainly beats the red carpet.  BLECHHHHHHHHH!  Sighhh……crystal ball, I beg of you, where will I be in the next 5 years??

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