Dear Ethers,

Thank goodness I can actually post today.  Usually my “Wish List” is posted as a happy Monday greeting for all of you fashionistas out there who are hating the fact that it is a whole new week and my page might act as a slight distraction from your snooze-fest of a job.  But, I guess Tuesday sucks as much as Monday, so let’s hope my dreamy delights will keep your eyes from slamming shut in front of your computer for at least 5 minutes while you check out this week’s garb.  

When I worked on the lovely, yet unaffordable Old Bond Street, I used to peruse the shops right before the boutiques would open always armed with a hot Starbucks in hand (boy Starbucks has been there for every important moment of my life except my Bat Mitzvah!).  The street cleaners washed down the pavement, the window cleaners used their squeegees to make the windows glisten and I would dream of one day being able to afford to stroll in to one of these glittering havens and buy…..a 300 pound key chain.  I remember when the whole Alexander McQueen skull-scarf rage was en-fuego and the shop girls would tell me people we’re trying to bribe them to get them ahead of the queue on the waiting list!  Now you see copies everywhere—but when that scarf was hot—man was it untouchable.  

I’ve always been very 50/50 about Squire McQueen.  His stuff has either been so avant garde that it is just too nuts and unwearable or so imaginative that you wish you had the 5 grand to buy the dress and be stared at when you stole the room.  I like that he is all about the badass woman.  That’s why I’ve called this “Wish List” the “Futuristic Dominatrix” because I think he empowers the female form with cuts that are really severe and strong, but also so out of this world that you might imagine it to be something from 3009 not 2009.  I love his studding, I love his sharp shoulders and even though his skulls are now a bit passe, if you’ve got the real deal, you still feel kinda smug that you have an original McQueen skull piece.

I also like that he is pure London.  He is from the East End of London and his dad was a cabbie.  He was an apprentice on Savile Row (it breaks my heart that will be a dead tradition one day) and was a product of Central Saint Martins–where else, right?  His runway shows are famous (remember the human chess game catwalk?) and he was head of Givenchy for 5 years and then broke free to become who he is today.  He has perfumes, had a special line made with MAC cosmetics and launched online in 2008 allowing people like us to buy his ready-to-wear with a click of a button.  

So, may I present my choice of what I think encapsulates Alexander?  I might have chosen other things for myself on his site—but I thought, if I could pick a comprehensive outfit that fit his attitude….well, this would be it.  Hail to the McQueen!

Our first up to bat in the beautiful beatings from our lovely dominatrix! I actually thought this looked very Westwood when I first saw it, but then I could see in the shoulders and the corseting around the hips and knew that this had our gents staple all over it. I love how it's a gunmetal silver. Imagine walking into a dimly lit-room and the fabric glowing. Or, even a brightly lit room making it come alive and sparkle. Metallics seem to have never wavered from being in style each season and I think this is one killer dress that has demure potential, but that we are going to adorn with badass accessories--well, everything but the whip! Silver Lame Drape Front Dress, $1,515, alexandermcqueen.com

Have you read "The Story of O?" I don't know, this reminds me of something they'd have in that house! It's got leather, spikes, hoops and chains. I think buckled around the dress would be so unconventional and unexpected that people would be shocked and then smirk with delight. It's also going to begin the leading theme with our accessories. Pyramid Chain Belt, $2,175, alexandermcqueen.com

This is such a killer bag--no literally. I'd hate to back-up into somebody who had this on the tube--those things look sharp! But I like how it looks ready for street battle and you can throw anything in it. It goes perfectly with the belt above and the silver metallic dress compliments it well because of the textures of the two pieces. Studded Faithful Tote, $3,995, alexandermcqueen.com

I had to throw a skull scarf in there. This one is cool because the skulls are covered by a dogtooth/houndstooth pattern. The colors mesh with the scheme we are looking for and I thought tied around the handles of the bag, this could look really groovy. I think it's a different take on the slightly overdone staple and you could even use it in your hair as a wrap if you really wanted to go all out and futuristic. Silk Dogtooth Skull Scarf, $315, alexandermcqueen.com

I adore fingerless gloves. They seem so biker babe and hardcore. They also show off a lovely red manicure beautifully! Great for smoking a cig, but keeping the rest of the hand cozy and the leather works well with the theme. Oh, and it is also easier to wield a whip with fingerless gloves, don't you think Black Motorcycle Glove, $470, alexandermcqueen.com

And finally, the shoes. Don't tell me these don't look like something Madonna has stashed away in her wardrobe for special occasions! Do I even need to explain? The leather, the heel-height, the studs, the buckles---wear these with tights and that dress and imagine all the accessories together. Throw on a red lip, a sexy perfume---you are unstoppable. Studded Buckle Bootie, $1,395, alexandermcqueen.com

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

A woman scorned...tsk tsk. But there is a first for everything. And my short, little tale will tell you the time that I SHOULD have looked more like the girl in this picture, but in my timid youth I allowed myself to be stood upon. No longer. My big mouth might get me into trouble sometimes. And things may be rocky with English gent. But every day I aim to NOT be a woman scorned ever again (fuck you Mr. X).

Dear Ethers,

When I was in College in the States (which I HATED and subsequently made me move to England) I was invited to a dance.  I was really young when I think about it now.  I had just turned 18, I had never had a boyfriend.  I mean, this was BIG.  The school I went to was old for American standards, being from the early 1800’s (it even had a slave tunnel that ran underneath it for underground escapees!) and it was done up in a beautiful gothic style.  Trust me, it was THE ONLY endearing thing about the place.  The dance was black tie and was to take place in one of the old halls that had probably seen balls and banquets where ladies and gents had gotten their tails and hoop skirts out before there was TV, an iPod or the Polio vaccine.  

I wasn’t particularly keen on the boy who asked me.  He was about 2 years my senior and I barely knew him.  He was the older brother of a girl who was in my dorm and since I really was very inexperienced with guys, I felt very anxious.  But, I was committed to the fact that this was part of what college was about and I had to go for it.  I’ve always had a very slim frame and a nice height, especially in heels.  I probably weighed about 110lbs and in my lovely red Betsey Johnson wedges (very 1940’s, Rita Hayworth) I was about 5’9.  I wore a black strapless LBD.  I had gone and had my hair done and went to Stila for my face to be made up.  I really went all out.  For a girl who had never had her dance card even penciled in, I felt it might be a full night with names marked in lead on my sheet. 

The arrangement was to meet outside of the Dance Hall at 8pm.  This was before cell phones were really popular so neither of us had one.  Lickety-split, I sprayed some special perfume my mom gave me, gave a last look in the mirror, took a deep inhale, and walked alone to see him.  I could see girls were looking at me and other guys were admiring me.  It made me feel shy.  Again, I hadn’t yet embraced being an adult yet and many of these kids were from Manhattan or Seniors in college and had come into their own—I felt like a kid.

8:15.  8:30. 9pm.

He never showed.  

I stood outside watching other couples happily enter the building where you needed a ticket to get in (he was in possession of those). I heard the music playing from inside and the loud chatting over it.  Glasses clinking.  Why did I wait a full hour? 

I had a red pashmina that I wrapped around my shoulders and walked home humiliated.  I didn’t want to be seen by anyone in the dorms because I didn’t want to tell anyone what happened.  Nowadays, oh, if I could step back into that One of 365 body and tell her what to do, that night would be SO different, but Ethers, I was crushed. 

I remember staring in the mirror at my beautifully made up face and seeing my eyes well with tears and thinking, “What a shame, my make-up will be ruined.”  But then I realized there was no occasion for it to look nice.  I slowly unzipped my dress, sat on my bed and undid the ankle-straps on my shoes.  I took the pins out of my hair, each wound up piece unraveling onto my shoulders.  I could have called home that night or spoke to a friend, but I think this was a right of passage for me.  Being stood up.  No one could console me anyway from 3,000 miles away. 

I got into bed and thought of those couples still in that old Hall dancing away.  I wondered why he didn’t show or leave a note?  Door locked, side light table on, I picked up a book and read until drowsiness stole me away and my alarm woke me for classes.  I wasn’t very popular so no one really asked how it went.  But then I saw him (it was a VERY small school).  I sort of cocked my head in wonderment with a quizzical look on my face.  He was sitting in the café with a group of friends.  I know he saw me, and he chose to ignore me. And I didn’t even know what I did wrong.  And to my dying day, I’ll NEVER know.

It was the first time in my life that a boy had hurt me.  And though he really had no deep meaning because I didn’t care about HIM, per se, it was the feeling of being jilted by the opposite sex.  We all remember our first kiss, our first “time,” our wedding and so on.   But do we all remember the first time we got stood-up?  I still have those Betsey Johnson wedges and still wear that strapless LBD.  And you know what, another guy eventually came and dipped me and put his hand on the small of my back in that outfit and I DID get my dance.  It all worked out in the end.  But I do wonder………..what WAS that boy thinking leaving an 18 year old girl standing out in the cold on that October evening?  And, 10+ years later, I wonder, has he ever thought about me?  Funny how someone can be an influence on your life, but you can make no impact on theirs.  And do you know what’s even crazier?  Even though it’s been a decade, I can still close my eyes and see myself in that mirror with fewer lines on my forehead, features less sharp—and yes—still a virgin (oh boy, sooner or later I suppose I’ll have to reveal that tale to you guys–I mean, do you even want to hear it?) thinking that 30 seemed dreadfully old.  And hearing my now 93-year old grandmother say, “It all goes by in a flash.”  My god, what a simple memory can conjure.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

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

Dear Ethers,

I’ve been looking at my past “Wish Lists” and they have seemed very “adult.” Very “grown-up.”  Now, I have nothing against this—in fact, I think there is nothing classier than a woman who is wearing something understated, well-cut, elegant with just a slight tweak of trend to her outfit.  But, being on the cusp of (cough, cough) 30, I want to embrace the joy of reckless youth and funky dressing.  And I DO indeed mix it up.  I don’t have a particular style that you could connect me to.  I could buy a smart pair of clean, black trousers from Joseph and then order something from Net-a-Porter and buy something outlandishly fabulous.  I think life would be boring if you didn’t put your clothes in a funky blender.  

Now, many of you will think this Monday’s choice is a little bonkers.  But, I figured if I am going to go for it, MAN am I going to go for it!  I chose Sonia Rykiel because she is so French and so fun.   English Gent’s mother bought me a sweater from Madame Rykiel that is so beautiful.  It’s taupe with multi-colored cherries all over it.  I get compliments every single time I wear it.  What’s ideal about her collection is she has a diffusion line for the younger crowd and a higher-end line for the more sophisticated bunch.  But what’s great is that both collections mix and match beautifully, and I’ve done that with my “Wish List.”  Just keep in mind, Rykiel is MEANT to be a bit off the beaten path.  I’m not crazy here—she is known for her abstract colors and wild ways.  But that is what makes her so unique! Now remember, a “Wish List” has to be all from one designer top-to-toe, so you are getting 100% Sonia!

So here’s the back story on our girl.  She’s a trendy-chick who is studying in France for the year and really wants to embrace everything she can about the country. She’s REALLY into fashion and she knows that she looks totally tongue and cheek in this get-up but loves the attention.  It’s a bit of old world Paris style that’s been given some LSD and brought to 2009.  She’s got a great figure so even though this might look a little out there, it’s “catwalk crazy” to the folks who notice her and they might applaud the endeavour.  She’s keeping slightly toasty because the season is changing, but no need for a heavy coat or stockings yet.  She loves art, Karl Lagerfeld (but of course, he’s a “LEGEND DARLING”), crepes, black coffee and men with nicotine stained fingers and wing-tipped shoes.  She’s bloody wealthy, but shhhhhh, you mustn’t tell anyone, for she must be part of the starving artists to get in with the salon sitting groups and must secretly sneak into Colette to get her fashions.  She’s always got a camera with her snapping away the sites and a great group of friends whom she rides the Metro with and speaks scatty French to.  She loves to have a smoke on the top of the Musee de Orsay and her dream  is to fall in love with a man who looks like Cary Grant, but can dance like Justin Timberlake.  Shall we meet our belle femme?

PS: This is dedicated to a follower of mine named Julie who is French Canadian and who I thought of right away when I began to think of this post. To you Julie, une source d’inspiration!  xoxoxoxox

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

This cheeky and fun sweater is fab because of the French word play (come here darling, pull over)--but it is also describing what the actually piece is--a pull-over! I think it would fit our girl snugly, be very cool and she would make a lot of her French citizens laugh. I also think it looks kinda retro with the lettering--almost as if her granny sewed the words on for her! Wool Intarsia Sweater, 550 pounds, soniarykiel.com

I love that this has an artists look to it. There is an illusion of a belt there, but it is merely just part of the fabric. Slung low on the hips with the sweater, I think it is all Tres Artistic! And again, playing with different mediums in cloth is really fun. You'll see how the pink will be key with the other elements of the outfit in the next few choices. Trompe L'Oeil Belt Skirt, 198 pounds, soniarykiel.com

How fun are these! They are the perfect pop of color, they match the top and the pink in the skirt perfectly and they show off the legs beautifully in a wild and funky way. I think this is such a great alternative to tights because you are not corseted around the waist and they are not as heavy and stuffy. If you think these are bonkers, wait till you see what's coming up! Isn't our belle incroyable? Multi Striped Socks, 25 pounds, soniarykiel.com

Aren't these so old world French? They are the perfect shoe to wear with the socks and the skirt. This is a girl who is running about town. She is in no mood to be dealing with heels and besides, these are very "I'm an artist!" The vintage feel goes with the sweater and the whole idea of French culture. This style shoe is globally very hip right now so this can be worn with shorts, linen trousers, a skirt. They are just a good, comfy purchase. Derby Moccasin Flat, Originally 207 pounds Now 100 pounds, soniarykiel.com

Oh yes! You knew it was coming! A beret of course! But in hot pink--never! And now you know why the belt on the skirt and the stripes in the socks make sense! This is such a cute play on the classic and she can wear it with her tresses long and flowing or in a side bun with a dollop of gloss and some cat eyes and mascara and she'll look gorgeous. LOVE IT! Beret, 35 pounds, soniarykiel.com

And as a final little accessory, this is a lovely little ribbon pin that she can put in her beret....but I was thinking what would be cooler is if she held her bun up with bobby pins and then attached the ribbon to it using the bobby pins to keep it in place. Look, it may be too much, but ribbons are SO on trend right now and this girl is going for it, so I say tack it on! Little Ribbon Pin, 80 pounds, soniarykiel.com

PS: If you enjoyed this “Wish List” please visit my sidebar under Wish List for other brands and see the fab stories and colorful creations I’ve come up with. I’m a magazine writer so the posts are like fun editorial pages. Also check out “Fashion Fridays” on the side bar if the Wish List still hasn’t fed your fashionista fancy. It’s a lot of fun too. Happy Monday