Blecchhh. Tell me about it, Banksy.

Dear Ether,

4 days of rain the forecast.  Yep.  Dark days ahead.  As you know, I suffer from terrible seasonal affective disorder and the dark, wet skies aren’t going to make things pleasant.  These are the days that I wonder what the point of being in “sunny California” is?  Yeah, yeah.  I know I can’t have good weather all year round, but when it rains here, I find this place to have very few endearing qualities.  

When it starts to hit heavy, I tend to put on Bach, light a candle and stay under the covers.  But, I have a serious deadline for a huge feature due on Monday.  The feature is on a subject that’s–well–let’s just say it isn’t rocket science.  Yet, it requires a ton of accurate research and pressure and when you can’t stand the subject you’re writing about, it becomes utter agony. This, coupled with the weather is gonna be a toughie to pull off.

I’ll try not to be a miserable git.  I can’t promise the happiest of posts, but hopefully you guys will act as a nice break from the monotony of writing about a certain brand of shoes that are anything but glamorous.   In fact, I’d like to give this article the “boot.”  

To all my fellow Jewish friends, Hanukkah starts tomorrow!  Awwww, how lovely.  So, for those of you who get there before I do (living in a different time zone) spin a dreidel for me and eat a tasty latke!  

Not much to this entry.  Just wanted to check in and let you know I still had a pulse.  I’m exhausted from doing research and speaking to “experts” about vacuous things.  I’m hoping my next assignment will be a nice reward–a piece with some depth to make up for this moronic topic.  Hey, you win some, you lose some.  For example, my book feature comes out this Sunday.  Can’t wait!  I wrote over 2,500 words and reviewed 14 books (hey, I got attached and couldn’t choose!). My Editor told me 3 books would be cut (sniffle).  I wait with SERIOUS angst to see which ones got sliced (again, major attachment issues).  After the bad boy is published I’ll tell you what books I recommended (really fab and unique stuff that is tick list worthy for gifts!).  

A more boisterous post tomorrow I hope.

YAWWWWN! STREEEETCH!  (I think I just felt my Quasimodo lump snap!) 

Time to hit the hay a bit early.  Guten Nacht gang.  I begin early tomorrow (and you KNOW how much I love to rise and shine).

PS: Sorry I haven’t Tweeted in a while.  Will be back on form once this fucking piece is done!  I’m also trying my best with comments.  Do be patient…please

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Taking life one step at a time? Or, like the ebb and the flow, eventually the waves have to end up crashing somewhere, right?

Dear Ether,

I have so much I want to say to you.  So much.  I feel like I’m always such a downer.  

I look at other blogs and they are so cheerful and full of hope and happiness.  I try to be like that.  Fun.  Witty.  Chic.  But some nights like tonight, my black cloud comes out.  That’s the breaks with a diary blog where I post daily.

I’m really lonely.  I’m really scared.  And no matter what advice anyone gives me I seem resilient to ever let it penetrate and work to ease my pain.

I have a feature due on Friday.  All I want to do is duvet dive.  

I dream of what I could have been had I felt better about myself when I was younger.  I wonder what my life would be like now if I had left England and English gent behind?  I was only supposed to be there a semester abroad–not 9 years.  Why did I have to be greedy?  Why couldn’t I have had my lovely moment and left it beautiful?

I’m sorry Ethers, but I feel rather light-headed and my stomach is a bit sick.  I just wanted to write something.  Be vital.  

Hey.  Ebb and flow.  Tomorrow could be a sassy post about fashion or another dreary entry about life.  I can’t make you any promises.  I write how I feel on the day or in the moment.  Right now, I don’t feel so good.  

It’s Sunday night at 8:24pm in Los Angeles.  My room is dim.  I’m wearing a hoodie with strawberries on it from Primp, no-name drawstring pajama bottoms in charcoal gray, I’m barefoot, my hair is messy but tied back and in my ears are vintage emerald and diamond studs.  Thought that’d make me seem more human.

Now it is 8:27.

I’m going to go to sleep.  My mind is too busy to concentrate on reading.  

Was this a pointless post?

Why the fuck do I feel so lightheaded?  

Now it is 8:30.

Ebb and flow, right?

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Only an artist's rendering--but how wonderful if it could be true.....The Fountain Of Youth.

Dear Ether,

“24 is my age limit for girls.  And truthfully, that’s even a bit old.”  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing from my 20 year old cousin.  A girl my age was too damned old for him.  I had actually hit an age where I was considered a grandma to boys.  Look, the truth is, I wouldn’t want to date someone 20 (unless he was a Vanderbilt and BUILT) but I had never thought that I was excluded because I had a few smile lines and could legally drink.  In fact, I thought it would be a bonus that I could buy booze!

As you all know I’m not looking to date a poor student–and lord knows I’m NOT looking to date my bloody cousin.  But I’m freaked out about aging.  Hearing these words was just another slap in the face that there is no fountain of youth and that I’m not getting any younger.  There’s going to be a point where I’m going to be too old to wear certain clothes and hairstyles.  Shit.  Will I be too old to turn up Jay-Z full blast in my car also?

So, I have to accept that 20 year old boys look at me and think I’m a old broad rather than a hot tamale.  That’s tough to stomach.  I feel like I was in University and 21 not too long ago.  I felt like I could have anything and be anyone and now things are closing up for me.  Options are becoming more limited.  Many of you will think this post  is really immature and that I’m pouting about something trite.  But for me, this is like seeing a first gray hair (thank god that hasn’t happened yet).

I never thought I would ever be this age.  I never thought I would be strapped down in a relationship filled with problems.  I never thought I’d be saying good-bye to my twenties.  Truthfully, I thought I’d die my my twenties.  I really did.  Don’t ask why I thought this.  I just always had this premonition that I wasn’t meant to live past a certain point in my life.  Screw premonitions, huh?  (That sounds terrible–like I wish I was dead.  Please don’t misconstrue…)

I know most of you reading this would think the thought disgusting, but it makes me sad that I’ll never be able to kiss a teenager again or experience college love for the first time once more.  And you know what’s weird?  Movie stars from the film “Twilight” are the new generation of cool and desired and that “hotties” of my era are celebrating their 40th birthdays.   Robert Pattinson is too young for me, and yet, when I see him on the big screen, I find him quite attractive.  How odd. How odd that I am no longer able to have these crushes realistically (well, I was never going to snag a movie star—but you get my drift).

I cannot change my birth certificate.  I cannot change my experience.  And you know, a huge chunk of me still feels the same way as many 20 year olds.  But it’s off limits.  Very weird.  Very weird indeed.  I know you can’t change time, but I sure wish I had appreciated being young.  And I know many of you will think that I am ruminating on something stupid and repeating the same mistake that I wish I hadn’t done when I was 19.  But, I guess we can only live and feel in the now.  And right now I’ve never felt older.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

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

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