girl with a pearl necklace turns ONE!

I just got my 30^th follower! Claire, no idea who you are, and how you came across this, but thank you. I also just realized that it’s the 31^st of July…and July is the month in which I started this blog last year, which means that if I’m going to blow my own horn over “turning one!” it has to be today. Ok. Too many numbers. Not enough words. Let me try that again. I’ve been writing this blog for a year, and let’s be honest, with only 30 followers, I’m no Justin Halpern, and this is hardly the success that Shit My Dad Says turned out to be. He started his twitter account around the time I started my blog, and has since garnered over a million followers, published a book, and become famous. Can’t figure out how or why he’s been so successful, and haven’t yet figured out how to follow in his tread, although I have started inserting the word “shit” a lot more often, and here’s hoping that works to the same effect.

Regardless of the lack of official followers or fame however…the girl with the pearl necklace has had an eventful year. Some things have changed, some have stayed the same…she has earned me grace and gotten me into trouble…been both my pride and my torment. So here are the pearls of wisdom I have gained, the pearls of gratitude that I owe…and some links to memory lane...

1. I have spent a long year desperately clarifying that I am not referring to that kind of “pearl necklace.” And then, it was brought to my attention that actually, albeit in some hidden, unobtrusive, coy way (if that’s possible), I am. As one reader pointed out to me, “honey, mask it, veil it, lace it all you want, but let’s be honest, you’re always, in one way or another talking about sex.” (I then proceeded to list the titles of my blogs from beginning to end, and he did indeed manage to point out some hidden reference to sex in every.single.one of them). So, much to my dismay, I guess I am referring to that kind of pearl necklace. And I guess I can live with that. I mean, swallow it. (Thanks to A.D).

http://girlwithapearlnecklace.blogspot.com/2009/07/in-vermeer-not-pornographic-sense.html

2. And while we’re on the topic of sex, I received another interesting, helpful and thought provoking comment from a reader. The blog entitled “Of Whores and Horses: Further Contemplations on Writing,” discusses the idea of letting go, and begins with three Zambian words, “osa donsa maningi,” meaning “don’t pull too much.” I explain in the blog that the expression has “raised quite its fair share of eyebrows, especially when told to a group of Zambian men, who can’t help but wonder how, or why I know these words, these three words in particular.” I assumed that they reacted or laughed at it because it sounds like a Zambian man had said it to me, in the form of some sex-ed lesson on how to hold, pull, etc., (even though I had learned it from dealing with horses). But a reader then said to me she thought I was referring to something else…which is the Zambian tradition of labia elongation—in laymen’s terms, pulling on your labia to make them longer. Anyhow, long story short, this sparked a whole inquisition, and I became desperate to learn of this tradition, how, why, where and when it happened…and it became the intrigue du jour for a good four weeks or so. Turns out the notion of sexual education and traditions in Africa is lengthy, dense and complex…not to mention a bundle of rollicking fun. So, stay tuned. Sex and the Bush. Coming Soon. (Thanks to ATK).

http://girlwithapearlnecklace.blogspot.com/2010/03/of-whores-and-horses-further.html

3. One last thing on sex. I don’t know if anyone is enough of a fan to have religiously and regularly read through the comments on the blog as well as the blogs themselves. But I one day decided to do this…and I realized that some random-spam-something had posted comments that were links to websites for Viagra and such. I suppose I felt insulted or devalued or something because I immediately deleted them. But now I kind of wish I had left them there. It has a nice ring to it no? “Writing is like golf…you’ve got to have the balls…” ENLARGE YOUR PENIS! “Writing is like prostitution…you’ve got to bear it all….” BUY VIAGRA!

http://girlwithapearlnecklace.blogspot.com/2010/03/harvard-scrabble-and-golf-some-unlikely.html

4. All the praise, comments, and constructive criticisms were and continue to be great…but I guess the girl with the pearl necklace really shone most when she earned me a job. Earlier this year, I came across a listing for a writer/editor, and all I did was send a little hello and a link to my blog…and a day or two later, I had not only a new job, but a new follower! It was for a book on flirting…and incidentally I had recently written a little piece on flirting/pick-up lines entitled “Geography and it’s Discontents.” So I guess I owe a thank you to (I think his name was) Pietro, the lovely Italian man with the not so lovely pick-up line “where are you from”…but more importantly a big thank you to J.S…

http://girlwithapearlnecklace.blogspot.com/2009/11/geography-and-its-discontents.html

5. On the other hand, sending (or spraying?) the link out like that may not always be such a good idea…as it happened in the curious case of the cookie cut. Those of you who are close or obsessive followers might have noticed that in January this year, there was a blog posted on “cookies” which was taken off soon after it was published. The piece was written on the eve of Serbian Christmas…when my mother and I decided to research some Serbian Christmas traditions and discovered that one of them was to make cookies with “JC” (Jesus Christ’s initials) on them. This got me going on a little ramble about cookies…which incidentally in slang, can also be used to refer to a vagina. Anyhow, a few days later, my mother and I had tea with a Bishop (golly, doesn’t that sound splendid!) and she all too quickly told him about my blog. Before the man was out of the door, I was at my laptop taking the cookie blog down. Look I’m not really one for censorship…but I just don’t think a Bishop should ever have to see the words vagina and Jesus Christ in the same sentence. I may consider reposting that blog at some point…

6. I suppose I should also stop and thank my (real) pearl necklace. It was (I swear) the inspiration for the title of this blog, it is ever the great conversation starter, or…dare I say it, finisher. But then I must thank my dad too, because he has kindly, three times this year, fixed it when it has broken. So thank you dad. And in case you were wondering, yes it was quite a sight seeing me on my knees trying to catch all the pearls as they came thundering down, screaming shitfuckmotherfuckingshitfuckmotherfucker! I know, nothing pearly or graceful in that, but don’t judge, I’m trying the Justin Halpern method. (Thanks to D.S).

7. Beyond my father…perhaps I should thank men in general. The strangers, the friends, the men who give me pearls of inspiration and those who give me real ones. No, wait, I mean…oh whatever, take it as you wish. I wrote a blog in three parts called “In Praise of Men” a while ago. And I still believe it. Every single word…

http://girlwithapearlnecklace.blogspot.com/2009/07/in-praise-of-men-part-i.html

8. Oh alright, I won’t be sexist. Thanks to my girls too. For talking, for listening, for reading, for getting it!…and for never wearing pearls.

9. One last thing. Some of you read this blog religiously. Some of you a little less. Some of you can cite lines and dates of postings better than I can. Whoever you are, however often you read, and for whatever reason you read…whether for entertainment or marketing, that is, penis enlarging purposes…please, please, please: Click on the FOLLOW button! Look, its right here….to your right…yep, that’s the one! à

10. Sorry that wasn’t the last thing. This is. Like the “pillow and champagne bucket,” you’ve got to save the best for last after all. Dear Mom. My very first follower, my biggest fan, and my favourite person in the whole world to quote. My mom reads every blog before the rest of the world is even aware that a new day has begun let alone that a new blog has been posted. And in true motherly fashion, only has one response every time: Super! (That and “try cut down on the smoking dear.”) I can’t thank you enough. And don’t worry, it’s not all true. Sometimes I like to exaggerate…

That’s all folks. Happy Birthday to me and a big thanks to all of you. Oh, and one very last thing…shit!

go get em' frankie! - on the perks of living alone.

"I grew up with six brothers. That's how I learned to dance -

waiting for the bathroom."

- Bob Hope

You know, Frankie was on to something with the whole “My Way” thing. I mean sharing is caring and all…but “my friend, I’ll say it clear, I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain…” and my case, is that I’m done with that. Done. With. That. I have, as I’m sure most people have, lived with parents, grandparents, other family members, total strangers, boyfriends, friends, flatmates, flatmates who weren’t friends, flatmates who became friends, flatmates who became more than friends, flatmates who became more than friends and then became less than friends, way way less than…you get the drift. And for the first time in a long time, I finally live alone. And I absolutely love it. Sure, there’ll probably come a day when I slip and fall in the shower and will need someone to help me up, a lightbulb that will need changing, or a day when I’ll just get plain lonely…but we’ll cross, (or jump off) that bridge when we get to it. And by “we” I of course mean “me.” Right now however, all “we” can see are the perks. And boy are there many…

1. You can live on chicken caesar salad everyday…and you, in true Caesarian fashion, get to decide when you’re bored of that. And, truth be told, I just don’t think that’s ever going to happen.

2. You never have to worry about having the last one of anything. “No you have it.” “No you have it.” None o’ that.

3. You can open things with things you’re not supposed to open things with. Like butter knives and teeth. And nobody’s going to tell you not to.

4. And after you’ve opened the jar with a butter knife, you can stand over the kitchen counter and eat all the stuffed green olives in it. And be completely satisfied with that as dinner.

5. Or be completely satisfied with just cigarettes. Yum! (No, mom, I don’t really just have cigarettes for dinner, stop worrying).

6. You can smoke in bed. (I don’t do that either, but I like knowing that I can). And I’m sure that if and when that “right” moment comes along…I most certainly will thank you very much.

7. And speaking of “right” moments, and wrong moments…you can bend over to put dishes in the dishwasher, or to do your hand-washing in the bathtub without worryi—no, never mind, scratch that. TMI.

8. Nobody is going to “accidentally” wash your cashmere, or silk, or wool, or lingerie with the linens on 90, in the name of “doing you a favor.” You what, you didn’t know? No sweetheart, you didn’t think.

9. You can laugh out loud over something you read on your computer and you don’t have to explain to anyone what it is you’re laughing over. (Like your own jokes for instance. It totally works to laugh at your own jokes when you're on your own. What's more, you kind of have to. Otherwise nobody will).

10. In fact you can spend long hours in front of your computer facebooking, skypeing, googling, wikipediaing, or you-tubing, without being questioned on whether that is a legitimate use of your time or intelligence. Yesterday I spent a good hour reading up on St. Pancras and the pancreas. This is because last week, when I went to King’s Cross, the tube conductor said over the loudspeaker, “this is King’s Cross St. Pancreas.” Not PANCRAS, PANCREAS. I swear that’s what he said. And this got me thinking, are the two related? So I googled it. One’s a saint (or train station named after a saint, if you will), the other, a gland. Ipso facto, not related. That’s what I thought. Also, I randomly came across a video of a one-legged salsa dancer. Again, totally unrelated. But totally awesome. Check it out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnsz8Uc3enE&feature=related

(PS. I love how the last word in that link is…RELATED! Maybe it all is, somehow…Google?)

11. The toothpaste always has the cap on. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly the saint-of-all-things-closed—I leave drawers and stuff open all the time—but the toothpaste? Toothpaste is just one of those things you have to close.

12. Everything is Always. Exactly. Where. You. Left. It.

13. You can file, buff, and paint your nails whenever and wherever without worrying about the sound or the smell bothering anyone. And without getting a lecture on the coffee table varnish. Sorry dad. I promise. I won’t do it again. (But my nails are gorgeous, thanks for asking!)

14. Nobody’s going to judge you for buying the expensive toilet paper. (There should probably be another sorry dad somewhere in here). The thick fluffy one with snowflakes on it and adorable puppies on the label. Love that stuff. Correction, my tush loves that stuff. Doesn’t yours?

15. When you forget to get the (fancy) toilet paper out of the shopping bag you’ve just brought home…you can hop out of the bathroom with your knickers round your ankles and get it. Oh come on, we’ve all done it. (And if you haven’t, then you should probably try the fancy toilet paper. That stuff is worth the hop).

16. You can pee with the bathroom door open. I don’t know why I like this so much, but I do. It feels very Louis XIV…l’âge d’or, or something. Incidentally, in his time, he was one of the few (or only) people who actually had their own bathroom. But knowing him, he probably just ordered everyone to piss off (pun intended!) and left the door open anyhow. (And just to give credit where its due, I’m sure it was so much more than a door—the entrance to Louis’s bathroom quite possibly closely resembled the gates of heaven).

17. The toilet seat is always down. Down and clean. I just don’t get how they manage to spray it everywhere in the first place. You have a pointer for crying out loud! What do I got? (Not you, Louis, I’m sure you had control down, even in that department).

18. It seems a lot of the perks of living alone revolve around peeing. What can I say? I drink a lot of water. And a lot of coffee. A lot a lot.

19. Which reminds me—no one is going to count the number of cups of coffee you drink. Ahhh…encore garçon encore! Wait, there’s no garçon. But that would be nice, no? A little butler boy? Do a little dance, make a little love…roast a little chicken?

20. Ok. Focus. I’m focusing. Back to quantities—nobody is going to question whether you really need all those pairs of shoes. Need? When did that become the categorical imperative? You don’t really need that attitude, but you have it don’t you? And boy do you wear it well. (See now my butler boy, he wouldn’t have an attitude…)

21. As for “wearing:” you can take as long as you want to get ready…and actually, when there’s no one else around…turns out it doesn’t take that long at all.

22. I’d like to say you can walk around naked all the time…but I have big windows and a lot of them, so, that doesn’t really work. Yep. I learned that the hard way. Tweet Twee-eet. I suppose I could crawl around naked though. I should give that a go…

23. But speaking of crawling, this is a big one: You never ever have to tip-toe. I did ballet for almost ten years so I think its fair to say that I’m done with the whole tip-toe business.

24. Which sets us up for the coup de grace. You can be sure that when your Sunday Times is delivered early on Sunday morning you won’t wake anyone up when you pop down to get it…

25.…And most, most, most importantly: nobody will touch it before you. Jeremy Clarkson and I…All alone………

Now, tell me, what could be better than that.

MEGA-EDITING-COMPLEX; "editorial" observations on pharmaceuticals.

You know something’s wrong in your life when you walk out of the pharmacy, look in the bag the lady packed for you, and there’s a bottle in it labeled “MEGA-STRESS COMPLEX.” Seriously? MEGA? Couldn’t ya just have given me the regular version? I told you I had an ulcer for chrissakes, not a stroke! Or the lite? Isn’t there a stress-complex-lite? That would make it sound like a tasty snack bar or something. I got it! Stress-complex-ZERO! Only one calorie! Nope. I was given MEGA. I’ll say it again, MEGA. STRESS. COMPLEX. It's all in really big, fat, bold letters too. What about me exactly suggests that I need that? Is there a sign on my forehead? Is it my hair? My shoes? My shoes! I knew it. This is why I never wear trainers. And then, as if the MEGA isn’t injury or insult enough, did they really have to call it a COMPLEX? I mean I understand, it’s a compound of vitamins B-complex, C, and other supposedly stress relieving nonsense, but surely there’s another way to say that, no? Don’t these people know that the word complex bears a lot of Freudian, dare I call them stressful connotations? How ‘bout amalgamation, mixture…cocktail! Cocktail! The MEGA-STRESS COCKTAIL! See how much better that sounds already. Gimme two, and we can call it happy hour. Happy hour—there’s another name they could have given it. Do pharmaceutical companies have writers? They should hire me. I’d make those pills sell big time. Sorry, not big time, MEGA time.

feng shui-ing the shit out of my shit; lessons learnt in packing.

Salvador Dali

“keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.”

- joan didion

“I think I’ve just figured out why you’re always packing, unpacking and repacking,” somebody once said to me, “it’s because there is so much chaos inside your head that you cannot conceivably order, so you psychotically arrange and rearrange all the tangible things within your reach…and you delude yourself into believing that what you are actually doing is somehow miraculously folding up all of your thoughts and packing them away into neat little drawers and labeled boxes. Well let me tell you something darlin’, pack away all you want, feng shui the shit out of your shit, but you, will still, always, have chaos in your head.”

He was a very intelligent man—perhaps one of the most intelligent I have ever met—so I valued his analysis, I wholly agreed with it, understood it, believed it, took it to heart…but that didn’t change much. I still obsessively pack, unpack, repack and rearrange whatever and whenever I can. (When I can’t, like when I’m sitting in somebody else’s house, I do it anyway in my head. All my time spent indoors is essentially one long exercise in virtual reupholstering). And I still believe I am somehow putting my thoughts into order. Or at least axiomatically approaching order. And regardless of whether I succeed in inching towards order, I do learn something each time. So after a weekend of packing, moving and unpacking here are some things I learned. In, of course, something like order.

1. I have a lot of shit. (Somehow this is always the first realization and it always seems to come at the wrong time—as in, after you’ve acquired it, when you need to carry it, not while you’re contemplating buying it and cooing over just how pretty it is!)

2. Bin liners are my new best friends.

3. Some half-a-dozen bin liners later, I still have a lot of shit.

4. So far, so good, lessons being learned, but truth be told, the moment I’m settled and unpacked, the first thing I’m probably going to do, is go out and get more shit.

5. (Prophecy fulfilled. I did in fact, go out and get more shit. Like a big clothing rack. But I carried and assembled it all on my own which was a revelation in itself).

6. And hangers. On a side note, nobody in London seems to know what clothes hangers are. CLOOOO-THESSSS HAAANNNGGGG-ERRS. Pantomiming taking off your clothes and hanging them really doesn’t help. In one shop, a guy nodded and brought me clothes pegs. Not bad I thought…close enough, they technically do “hang clothes.” But in another, get this, he brought me a box of firelighter cubes. Sure, I’ll say it again, firelighter cubes. Erm, sorry, but what about my whole song and dance of taking off my clothes and hanging them up suggested to you that I wanted to set anything on fire?

7. Is this some cosmic sign telling me to really purge myself of my belongings?

8. And on that note…It’s all well and good that I have a lot of notebooks, and boxes, and postcards, but lighters? I have a lot of lighters. Like a lot a lot. What can I say? The only thing worse than not having a cigarette is having one and not having a lighter.

9. That, and obviously, I’m rather forgetful. Or my memory can’t keep up with my nicotine addiction.

10. I did consider stopping smoking. I even purposefully walked down the whole Nicorette aisle at the pharmacy. Nicorette gum is £18!?!??! It’s chewing gum for chrissakes! Screw that. That’s three packets of cigarettes. (Besides, buying Nicorette gum would technically fall under the category of “acquiring new shit.” And I’m totally trying not to do that.)

11. Packing lends itself generously to positive ideas like, stopping smoking, or feasible positive ideas like giving things away. I did. A lot of things. For example, some Oxfam shop now has a sizeable collection of designer shopping bags. Just think…you can go to Oxfam and buy a £5 lamp, and they’ll put it in an Agent Provocateur shopping bag! That’s nice, no?

12. And speaking of agents, I think that in a previous life I was a member of the French Resistance. I have not one, not two, but four berets. And I don’t recall buying any of them. Its as if they mysteriously appeared in my wardrobe as some persistent totem of my previous allegiances. (This thought stopped me from donating them to charity).

13. Before joining the resistance, I must have been a zookeeper. A good one at that…for I was obviously awarded with the occasional bonus of some animals to take home and skin. What remains from that life: a crocodile bag, a crocodile belt, snakeskin heels, snakeskin flats, a snakeskin clutch, a rabbit fur hat, a fox collar (head, eyes and tail included!), a coat with a fox collar, a sheepskin waistcoat, sheepskin boots, an ostrich wallet, an ivory bracelet, and one made of green sting ray leather. Sting ray! Obviously, I didn’t give any of this away either. What, I don’t want to offend anybody. Or inflict on someone the trauma of getting shouted at on the tube! “I can assure you that that fox would be much better off alive than sitting there as a trophy around your neck!” somebody once chastised me. Fox you lady, and besides, it was my grandmother’s so I’m sure the poor thing would long be dead by now anyhow.

14. Some things are easier to let go of than others. Turns out disposing of boyfriends is a lot easier than disposing of the stuff you collect from or with them…

15. I think there’s something in this whole feng shui business. Something about our things and how they reflect who we are. And also something in the saying “save the best for last.” It didn’t occur to me until I had already completely packed and moved out and gathered the very last of my belongings…it didn’t occur to me until after I had crossed several streets…and inspired several intriguing glances…it didn’t occur to me that I was walking through the city of London with a pillow and a champagne bucket. What that says about me I’m not sure, but I think I like it.