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 18th 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.
As the world spins around and people live their lives, I wonder, where do I fit in? Where do I belong? I've been a nomad--a bit of a gypsy my whole life. So tell me Ethers, where AM I from?
Dear Ether,
People often ask me where I’m from. It’s so hard to say. If I say London, they’ll cock an eyebrow, wonder why I don’t have an accent, and when I explain I only lived there 8 years, think I’m affected. If I say I’m from Los Angeles, I almost have to cough it out. I find it difficult to believe. Half my life I don’t even remember spending in California, and the last 8 were when I was a teenager and didn’t really have freedom to see the city. I spent 3 years in CT and 1 year in NYC. So I guess I have to technically say I was BORN in Los Angeles….but really, where am I from?
When I close my eyes and ask this question, I picture myself with my face plastered against the grimy plexiglass of the last row on the tube being jerked to sleep by its stops and lurches on my way home from an exhausting days work. I see myself in a magnificent coat with a full scarf and a sugar-free vanilla skinny venti latte from Starbucks. I imagine great jeans, my All Saints boots and a fag in Camden heading to a freelance job walking to the beat of my own heart amongst the throng of other colorful people, all while seeing the florist set up her hut diagonal from the tube station. I visualize English gent and I on a night bus when we first met laughing before we cared about money and being adults, heading into the depths of ugly New Cross. The feeling of a cup of tea to soothe you after a bitter day and watching the rain pour down and just being so grateful to be indoors. And what about fingering the wares at a market stall and being called ”love,” or walking through the Sussex countryside and passing the same river Virgina Woolf drowned herself in all those years ago?
And what of Los Angeles? Again, I slam my eyes shut, feeling my lashes against the tips off my cheekbones, and I see memories too—just in different hues. Bright blue skies with sun that warmed your skin and made you golden after a day at the beach. Nights when my brother and I would be bundled into the back of our old station wagon and my mom and dad would take us to drive-in move theaters (relics now) in our pajamas. Every year on my birthday being taken to the same Mexican restaurant that had been around since 1927 and having mariachi’s sing to me and have my picture taking wearing a sombrero so big that it covered my whole face. Looking down at my feet and seeing the heavy tan line my flip-flops left on my feet. The smell of the gardeners laying down fertilizer in October for seed to grow for fresh grass. Pumpkin pie and gravy for Thanksgiving and catching my dog on the table while we were all in the other room having hour d’oeuvres. The overwhelming beauty of fuchsia bougainvillea growing wildly all over neighbor’s gardens. My darling standard poodle whom I used to lay out in the backyard with and talk to for hours until it got too chilly and then we’d go inside and we’d talk for even longer debating issues of the heart!
I now reside in Los Angeles, but in my soul I know it is temporary. I know I am bound for somewhere else. This place and I, it never had a connection. And being here, I remember that now. And I pine for London. But boy did she and I have our problems too. Where’s next? Where will I end up being from? I don’t know. I feel just because you’re born somewhere doesn’t make you from there. It just makes that the place you were issued your birth certificate. Like I’ve said before, I feel like more of a Londoner than a Los Angelino—but not according to my records or when I’m issued jury duty.
I always thought it was so funny that I was considered an immigrant. Me. A white, upper-middle class girl, with a Master’s degree and some cash in her pocket. Terrible. I know. That I should feel like I shouldn’t be looked at as the same as someone from Africa or Mexico. I’ll never forget sitting in East Croydon in the Home Office waiting for my papers. I was very nervous. I didn’t know if my visa was going to get reissued. A guy about my age from Nigeria spoke to me. He saw my passport in its clear folder. “You’ll have no problems” he smiled. “I don’t know, I’m really worried this time. I’m applying for residency.” He grinned and said, “You are white, American and a woman. Me, I’m black, a man and from Nigeria. I have been here 6 times. If I get rejected this time, I am out of chances.” I looked down to the floor and didn’t know what to say. He said cheerfully, “Don’t feel bad. Remember, you have a good home to go back to. I have a good family too. I just want a better life. Just remember, it’s all about where you’re from.” We chatted a bit more and his number was called. I wished him well. Then it was my turn to go to the desk. I was shaky but determined. Within ten seconds I was approved. They were most concerned about how I was going to pay. I still wonder if 7 was that man’s lucky number and if he really meant what he said about remembering where you were from—that no matter where you are in the world—you can always go home again—wherever that may be.
So, I found this really groovy store on La Cienega in West Hollywood en route to my gym which is on Sunset. It’s the most amazing little place. Stationed between a car wash and a crummy parking lot, it’s the sleekest little boutique with a white awning. Written in the coolest black lettering simply states the name Opening Ceremony. I’d driven by a few times and wondered what this place was all about. Was it a club, a restaurant? The LAST thing I expected for it to be was the most unique clothing store I’d been to in Los Angeles thus far. Opening Ceremony carries everything from their own label (which is very Euro-vintage) and Topshop to Acne Jeans and bonkers labels you’ve never heard of. I was thrilled when I walked into their groovy labyrinth where their very attractive and well-dressed staff point you in all directions so you can get lost in this candy shop of clothing, shoes, accessories and more. I was thrilled to see a whole rack of Topshop, though it was mainly the Kate Moss collection. It was ridiculously expensive (Londoners, if you thought you paid through the roof for the scraggle-toothed waifs creations, try buying a tank-top for $100 where they even have the chutzaph to leave the UK tag on that says 25 quid. Um. No.) So, even though I couldn’t afford a single thing in this hot-house for hipsters, I thought if they had a website it would be great to share their wonderful world with you. So I was thrilled when I Googled the shop and found out they did indeed sell online. Their collection is SO much more limited on their website then what they have to offer in store, but you still get the groove factor from the cool graphics, off-beat models and unique clothing selections. If you’re looking for a brand that nobody else is really going to be sporting, or a label that is uber cool that you’d see the likes of Sienna Miller wearing, than you’ve hit the right spot. Opening Ceremony likes to show that they don’t carry the regular stuff that your local mall does–but truthfully you’ll have to pay. The stuff ain’t cheap, even on sale.
The “Wish List” look this week is all about travel and getting upgraded to First Class when you’re flying. Why shell out the big bucks on a plane seat when you could spend it on an outfit you’ll wear for ages! Even if you spend 24 grueling hours flying, the amount of money you spent on a First Class ticket could buy you a runway look that will make you the envy of all your friends and may even get you snapped by “The Satorialist.” I could have chosen a wack-a-doodle outfit from Opening Ceremony (and trust me, if you visit their shop or site, you can see nutty stuff. Chloe Sevigny has her own label there, just to give you some idea!) but I wanted to pick something that was unique, still wearable, and that would be comfy to fly in. And when you nonchalantly ask the narrow-eyed flight attendant about being upgraded, she’ll take one look at you and say to herself, “yep, this girl is used to high-flyin’ style.” The only thing that it’ll cost you is the price of an economy class seat and some killer clothes from this choice selection. So, get out your passport, dust off your luggage and get your doctor to prescribe you some sleeping pills because honey, you are about to see some duds that will get you an oversized leather seat, champagne and rid you of that screaming kid who keeps peering over his chair making crazy eyes at you (don’t you hate that!).
I love this jacket because it sort of has that fencing coat feel, but also an old-fashioned bodice look to it too. I adore the darting. The lines will hug your body and show off your figure in all of the right places. The arms are cut long so they will give the appearance of elongating your limbs. The front zip is handy, making the jacket easy to take on and off. This is perfect for when you fly (the temperatures in those planes are so unpredictable!). The material is also great. A mix of cotton and rayon, this lovely jacket won't wrinkle too badly so you'll leave the plane as crisp as you entered it. G. V. G. V. Arch Braid Zip-Up Jacket In Beige, Originally $1,025 now $513, openingceremony.com
You're going to be in the clouds anyway so why not represent the mood of the flight? The attendants will appreciate YOUR appreciation for their jobs (okay, maybe I'm taking this a bit too far) but it is a cute thought, no? I just loved how light and airy this top was. It looked like a watercolor painting and I loved how the fluffiness of the blouse mimicked the fluffiness of the clouds. It's actually hand printed in Japan, and I reckon just a lovely summertime top. It think it will layer nicely under the cotton jacket because the fabric is so thin (the jacket really needs to not have anything too bulky underneath as it is so snug, it fits like a top in its own right). Made of silk and cotton, you'll be breathing fresher air in this ethereal piece of cloth in the front of the cabin then in the back, that's for sure. Wakana Koike Fluffy Cloud Blouse, $300, openingceremony.com
Don't these just look comfortable? The loose tied waist? The wide legs? The linen and cotton blend? The chilled out Japanese-inspired cut? You know they'll just sit well on you, be a great fit and won't make you sweat bullets in the summer heat but protect you from the sun. I think the cloud blouse would look lovely tucked into the trousers showing off the tied waist and I like the idea of the natural looking jacket and pants matching together to make a really "green" look. And if you spill champagne on these compliments of First Class, I bet you it won't even show! United Bamboo Baggy Pants, Originally $405 now $122, openingceremony.com
I really like these because they tie the whole outfit together in a glamorous way without being too "bling" but show you have style and know your fashion. They are architecturally very interesting with the layering of the suede. The heel is almost like a bamboo reed, and they just look comfortable. They work with the whole organic look of the outfit. It's like you aren't trying too hard, but you're letting people know you've got style. That's what the flight attendant's will pick up about you. That you aren't pushy, but you know what you want and you get it. They'll see you "own it" and they'll wanna give it to you. High-heels=high-flying. Hussein Chalayan Flap Boot, Originally $849 now $249, openingceremony.com
If you want to "bag the deal" you can't be schleping around a beaten up purse that says "there is a hole in the lining of this baby that has about $3 worth of parking meter change in it that I can pull out if I turn it upside down." You need to look like you're carrying important things in an important case. This will hold all of your key documents and even a small laptop. It goes beautifully with the colors of your outfit and is crisp and clean for summer. Want Les Essentials De La Vie Bag, $625, openingceremony.com
Any hot-mama traveller sports major shades. Even if it's nighttime. Crazy. I know. That's why these babies are good, because the tint isn't too dark so you won't look totally nuts if you have a evening flight. These vintage inspired sunnies are wonderful with the whole bohemian-sleek look of your outfit and just add that finishing touch to make you look polished. If you've had a rough night, they won't be able to see it in your face (these are HUGE) and if it comes to a stare down for that upgrade, you're hiding behind lenses and they're not. Who do YOU think is gonna win? Linda Farrow Vintage For Charles Anastase Sunglasses ca1-c6, $275, openingceremony.com
To keep on truckin’ with the beauty front, I’m going to insert a write-up I did on one of my favorite make-up must-haves for a page I did for a women’s magazine. I dunno, it felt so good to be writing about beauty again yesterday (Beauty Trend: Say “Da” For Russia!), I thought I’d go with the flow and finish the week with another fun one (tomorrow is “Fashion Friday’s” so technically the week ends then). I’d been looking at my sidebar and noticed that I had written so few things about beauty and thought it was really funny given I’m a beauty writer. I guess I was so convinced that when I started this blog I was going to keep my day job out of things. But you know what, I really love what I do and I’m going to try and include it more because it’s such a part of me. Also, because I’m not writing beauty every single day like I used to, when I DO write about it, I’m reminded about how much I miss it. So, this is short and sweet. Really stylized and written in SUCH a women’s magazine format. Reading it again I can’t help but laugh! Okay, here’s a fun little piece on a favorite product of mine:
Beauty Artillery
Mission: Killer Eyes Weapon: Mac Eye Kohl “Smolder”
Be armed and dangerous ladies! Here is the sexiest secret in town. I think I've come across dozens of pencils in my day and NOTHING has even come close to a black liner like "Smolder." I always make sure to own at least 2 (1 for the kit at home and 1 for the on-the-go bag). If you wanna make those eyes stand out, there really is no better solution. Lock and load baby!
In this Lipstick Jungle, a poorly tinted lip “bomb” can ruin even the most vibrant pucker. So, like a good soldier, you need to be armed with the right weapons to ensure that you’re ready for battle. I mean, who wants to be taken captive by the wrong blush, powder or foundation? Not you, my cute recruit. Not you. So listen up. I have a little item that will keep you ready for action anytime.
Mac Eye Kohl in “Smolder” (even the moniker is badass) takes your eyes from innocent peepers to sexy sleepers. And, F-Y-Eye, even as far back as the Bronze Age, Egyptian queens applied Kohl not just to glam up their orbs, but also to ward off the sun’s glare. To protect and to serve, right? Old Cleopatra sure knew her stuff.
“Smolder” is my chosen war paint because it’s the essential frame for your eye. The consistency of the product is slick, and it glides on easily, making straight lines a snap (especially if you’ve got those pre-date jitters). Kohl is also a better alternative to a standard pencil because of its smudge-ability. If you want that smoky-eyed, sultry look, this is one product worth fighting for.
Mac offers the pencil in a variety of colors. It’s also ophthalmologist tested. Visit their website at www.maccosmetics.com for more details. Mac Eye Kohl “Smolder” $14.50
Awwww, wasn’t that a bit of fun? I love writing product write-ups for mags because you can totally be tongue and cheek, be a bit silly and go nuts with wordplay. Sniffle. I REALLY miss my 9-5. Okay gang. See you for “Fashion Fridays.” I don’t know what I’m cooking up yet to wear, but hopefully it’ll be something fab. I better start thinking of a story now. I’m debating putting a poll up—sigh—I think it might be a pointless endeavor. But I hate to give in. I’ve begged, pleaded. But alas, no one will click a little button and VOTE! I always think, “maybe this week they will.” But always to my chagrin. (Smile) We’ll see….
Step out of the Ether and send me an E-mail. I would be glad to have your thoughts, feelings and ideas.
