Because this post really has no theme, I just thought I'd include a total non sequitur image (and hey, I could go for a long shot and say there are people sleeping in this pic and my post DOES talk about sleeping...). Hey, at least this person was A: Toasty. B: Anonymous (great to market to any celeb) C. And totally on trend (those colors are SO HOT right now!

Dear Ether,

I just wanted to say a quick hello before I went back to sleep.  I didn’t feel very good today, went to a meeting despite feeling like rubbish, and then got back into bed.  English gent is wearing a face mask and declares Swine Flu! But I think  I’m just run down (I’m kidding about the Swine Flu but not about the mask….  )  I’ve taken some Nyquil/Night Nurse and hope to be in a green capsule daze soon (actually, I really don’t need that amateur stuff for slumber.  I’ve got Dr. W’s goods.  But, hopefully this will unblock my nose and ease up my throat).  

My meeting was very exciting and was about my future with my newest freelancing gig (which is the one I love the most).  My Editor is a DOLL and immediately assigned me two more pieces (really quirky and fun, I’l tell you about them later) and told me that she should have good amounts of work for me since the department I was writing for was growing.  I asked her to please consider me for a permanent position if one were ever to arise and she gave me her word she would.  She said she’d also keep her eyes peeled for positions internally posted.  I NEVER put my eggs in one basket and I don’t trust anyone EVER, but I hope this Editor is an honest one who comes through, because I’m in love with this gig.  

My first feature came out today, and when I saw my byline along with a 1,200 word article, I really choked up.  I felt like a writer again–a real journalist, not just a star fucker.  It came out in the Sunday edition so it must have been read by  loads of weekenders–and remember–it isn’t always about the dosh for me.  It’s about that lady unwinding on her Sunday after her long work week and picking up the fun part of the paper and reading my piece and smiling.  My next feature, another 1,200 word beauty, is making headlines within the next fortnight.  This is the one I’m crazy about. It’s the spec piece that got me the gig to begin with. They normally don’t take this type of feature as it’s an opinion piece (by me) and it really meant a lot  that it got printed in this publication, particularly because of its prestige.  You see, I tried to sell it to lower grade glossies and no one was biting.  To see it come alive in this newspaper is a real honor.  

Going to see “An Education” with shoe gal and another one of her fab friends (Thursday) who owns a very famous restaurant here in Los Angeles.  The friend is sassy and I like her a lot.  But she’s married to a guy with a BAD TOUPEE–what’s with me and running into people with bad hair-pieces?  She’s a bit of a cougar and a lot of fun!  Maybe a new friend in the making?

English gent and I have spent a few peaceful evenings together.  And though we do have our shorts spats, we try and hold our tongues and get along.  Hey, at least we’re in the same room together right?  Regardless, he’s my best mate and still owns a bit of real-estate in my heart so we have to see what happens.  From my stats it seems like you Ethers really liked that piece about our courtship!  I guess I’ll have to tell you a bit more about our walks down memory lane.  And what a wild, crazy path it was and still is!  

I hope you’re all well.  I’m devastated that Internet Explorer is still banning people from my site (is this so—can you let me know for sure?) and that folks can’t read when they want to escape from doing work AT work and their damned computers only allow them to search via IE.  My host can’t figure it out, Wordpress says it can’t fix it as they can’t see a problem (both say THEY can view it fine on IE on their servers) so, I am extremely confused!  Regardless, I’ve gotten some lovely E-mails from the blog.  Do continue to write.  Those who HAVE can attest to the fact that I DO indeed reply…..and like my hideously lengthy posts (remember this was supposed to be like 2 lines–I’m at 732 words) I write back a generous amount!  Anything you wanna get off your chest, any questions about a post—write me.  

Okay, back to bed (I think when I die, and if I don’t get cremated, I’ll get a coffin that looks like a bed….it makes sense….it’s where I was happiest and spent most of my days!).  I have an adorable pooch snuggled up at the foot of my bed, of course on my cashmere throw (what a prince) and some good books I’m in the middle of.  Oh, and of course a few cookies by my side table

I know many of you have already gone to bed–or will be seeing this in the morning–so I will just say–as I usually do–

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Word Count: 860

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

Dear Ether,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365