When I’m a guest on Letterman

Dear Marc, I wonder what you daydream about. I daydream about being a guest on the David Letterman show. Sometimes I know all the cuts and meats. Sometimes I'm one of the star guests. I daydream that I will be one of those young lady guests that he always says look fabulous before yawning and fiddling with his papers, looking like all he wants is for a more interesting guest, like a sports agent guest, to come on the show. But since I’m no longer young and not that pretty I daydream that he might treat me like the interesting guest that I am.

When thinking about this, I often spend most of the daydreaming time considering what to wear. Often I’m wearing a casually elegant outfit such as this:




Or perhaps I should go with the outfit worn by Ms Ryder. But with a slip since I'm kind of a prude.

Below the knees, problems arise. I can not imagine anything making me more nervous than appearing on Letterman. How do people do it? Beta Blockers? Cocaine? Both? Sometimes I think that is what I’ve seen. Did you see when Farrah Fawcett was on Letterman a few years back? Was she high on life alone? Giddy after painting large canvases with the help of her naked body?

Power to Farrah. She went and she confused us. She made a lasting impression. All I know is that I’d be so nervous I wouldn’t be able to walk, especially not in heels. This is where my daydream gets stuck. Would it be okay to appear barefoot on Letterman?

I was talking to P the other day, discussing the qualities of the talkshow. I said: ”But don’t you think it’s difficult to live like Letterman and the band do, having to be away every night. Don’t you think they miss their social life and how do their families take it?”.

Her response was a mild but slightly surprised: ”Don’t you know they tape the show?”.

I am E. I am five.
What will you wear on Letterman?

-your e

If you were in my shoes

Dear Marc, if you were in my shoes I wonder what you would do. See? They are dirty and old and well used. You can't see it in the picture, but I'm also wearing orthopedic soles. I've never seen that on Cosmo's sexiest-thing-to-wear lists. I love my feet, they carry me everywhere, but they look like duckfeet. I can't wear your shoes.

I recently went to see a very skilled shoemaker. He looked at my shoes, my feet and said that I should never wear sneakers. What then, a barefoot life in a cold city? My feet won't fit in anything but sneakers. He said I should wear Timberland boots. Only. That may help my feet, make them slimmer. So now I'm asking you, when will you start making your shoes and boots with built-in orthopedic soles? I think I'm not the only one wishing for this to happen. My mom has the same problem. She might not wear your most high heeled creations, but I think she'd look good in those little ballet slippers everyone seems to be wearing these days. Dance little lady, dance!

Big love
-e

ps. Here are footwear that are the real me. If only the world could see this me that only I know about!

I was once a very rich woman

Dear Marc, I was once a very rich woman. Or at least I thought I was. I found out I was a Swedish millionaire on my way to New York City. What better place to be a millionairess! I tried to figure out what a rich person would do. I had no experience. I thought of 5th avenue, Park Avenue and Madison Avenue. I tried on my new wealthy persona. It didn’t quite fit, but perhaps I could grow into it. Rich people seem to be into lots of fur. I’m not. But I saw plenty of dead animals on the backs of the women on 5th Avenue that day in December back when I was a wealthy girl.

I could never afford Agnès B when she was the brand we were all talking about. But years later, when I was rich, I thought I could at least dare to enter the store.

So I did, and right then and there I fell in love with a beautiful, soft white wool coat with a white, politically correct fake fur collar. I put it on and immediately thought to myself ”so this is how it feels to be rich”! I bought it. Man, it felt good! And every time I’ve worn it, people have commented on the prettiness of this coat. Then Christmas rolled around and I was wearing my coat everywhere I went, feeling like an ice skating princess straight out of a Russian fairytale. An ice skating princess in need of a Christmas tree. I walked down my street to buy a fine tree and imagine my joy when they served mulled wine to the happy tree buyers. I sipped the wine, bought my tree and loved life. Then time came to carry the spruce back home. I’m a small woman and it was quite a big tree. I figured carrying on my back was the only way to go. But I also love wine and had a hard time quitting sipping.

So I held the cup between my teeth as I swung the tree up on my back. Don’t follow my example. Unless you want lots of red wine all over your rich woman white coat. People were staring, I’m sure they were wondering why I did such a stupid thing. And all the dry cleaners were closed for the evening as I live in Stockholm, a city where only 7-11 are familiar with the concept of 24/7 service. I had to do the unthinkable. I had to throw my jewel in the washing machine. It got the wine out alright, but it also lost its shape. Like Tina Charles sings, “I found my sense of rhythm but I lost my self control”. You have to take the bad with the good.

I’m not rich anymore, but the coat remains as a memento of sweeter times. And as a reminder that you should never drink and jive with Christmas trees.

Now I am asking you: Do you make pretty, water/wine resistant rich woman coats? I need one for the Christmas season coming up.

Hopeful wishes
-e

About my mother

Dear Marc, let there be no misunderstanding. I love my mother. She was my first love and remains one of the major loves of my life. She might not dress to impress when going for a walk in a freezing London, on the other hand you can count on it that she has a piece of dark chocolate in her backpack that the Pradaites would fear to carry too close to their expensive selves.

At age 11, she visited a friend's house for dinner. Faced with the company of the friend's mother, she tried to come up with something a mother might like to talk about. "My mother always buys her bras on sale" was her cunning ice breaker, but unfortunately this interesting piece of information inspired nothing but silence. A few weeks later, she visited another friend. On entering this house, she couldn't help but notice the disorder inside. "What a mess!" was not the thing to say to repeat an invitation. In fact, she was never welcomed back to the house again. So much for truthfulness.

She just turned 60. What, in all of your collections do you think would make a great gift for a loved mother? I've read that you spend a lot of time with your grandma growing up. What would you give to her now, if this was the year she turned 60?

Love
-e

To London because of you, part 2

Dear Marc, I wish you could see her. Mom is carrying a small backpack of a size that may hold a banana, a small thermos and a sandwich. She asks me “do I look silly wearing this backpack”? I look at her. Pants too short, sensible footwear, hat with pom pom and miniature backpack. I tell her the truth. “Mom, it really doesn’t matter”. She looks at her reflection in a mirror and laughs. We laugh. Then she starts giving me fashion advice as if we never looked at her look together.

I can understand her. The way I dress is no reflection of my taste. I don’t really look like I do. My true self looks like Claudette Colbert. But if you saw me in the street you probably wouldn’t even see me. My look is comfortable and sensible. But this is just in the meantime, while I plan my true look.

We walk around Selfridge’s. Mom is walking two steps behind me, her little pom pom swaying in air. I touch silk, crepe de chine, velvet, leather. As I caress the most beautiful shirt in the world, Mom says “don’t forget that you have a two-year old.” And as we get closer to the treasury, the shoe department, the reason for this entire trip, nothing can stop her. I see your boots, Marc, they are so beautiful. The heels just the right height, the silhouette is perfect, the leather so soft. They are talking to me, they’re saying “We are the solution, Buy us and everything in your closet will look better. Take us home”. I have trouble hearing them, their important message is drowned by a small woman’s voice. “You can’t walk in them, you’ll ruin your back, why do women wear such boots, is it to look sexy”? To finish off, she says again ” You have a two year old”. She’s putting my daughter up against your boots. Now I want them more than ever. But I can’t buy them with all her logic ringing in my ears.

The joy of shopping is gone. I tell her to shut up. She does. She keeps walking two steps behind me, but now in a sulky way. This is even worse than before. I try to make peace. I say something about a cup of tea. We pass Moschino, where a woman who looks a lot like me is trying on a beautiful dress. It’s too expensive. I wait for my mother to tell her this. But mother cheers her on. “Buy it!” She says, “It looks great on you!”. On the way out of the store, I see a girl wearing a perfect pair of red suede boots. I ask her where she found them, I’m not leaving London bootless. “They’re Marc Jacobs, two seasons ago, you can’t find them anywhere”.

At the airport, going home, I’m desperately looking for footwear. As I hear “Flight 57 for Stockholm boarding in 10 minutes” I grab a pair of Campers. They’re black, sans heel. Pink on the inside. Like me. They’re sensible, like mom. As I pay for them, I think to myself “I bought boots in London.” I already hate them.

Ps. A week after I returned home, there was a shoe sale at a Stockholm store. I bought two pairs of Marc Jacobs boots, 70 % off. I’ve used them twice. The heels are too high, they’re too impractical, I have a two-year old. I love them like crazy.

To London because of you, part 1

Dear Marc, I once went to London because of you. I even made my mom go there with me. We were on an important expedition; to hunt down a perfect pair of Marc Jacobs boots and bring them back to Stockholm, dead or alive. At least this was my purpose with the trip. Mom thought we went to have a great time together and perhaps try the scones at Liberty’s.

Have you been to Stockholm? It is a great town. A beautiful city by the water. The people are healthy and happy, brought up on crisp bread and milk. We have many great things, but I couldn’t find the perfect pair of boots to save my ass. Who am I kidding; I wasn’t saving my ass if it came to that. According to word on the street, London was the right place to go to find appropriate footwear. And if you're not listening to word on the street in matters of the feet, drop your ears –you’re not using them. So I purchased tickets for two to England and called mom up to tell her the happy news.

I wanted to make this trip a great time for us. My mom is such a marvelous 5-foot being. I wanted to give her the luxury she’s not used to. I wished nothing but the best for her, an Agatha Christie-inspired hotel with a fire burning, a tea pot at the ready and a bed made up with such puffy pillows and comforters that I might never find her again after she’s gone to bed. She’s not used to luxury, she likes to stay in youth hostels. She always keeps a teabag in her wallet. She has little packages of condiments in her handbag just in case. She’s saving up for bigger, better thing than splurging on a rotten cup of Yellow Label, if she can help it.

I searched the net for the best hotel deals and finally found a place that seemed ideal. It had just the right feel. But it was fully booked. And so it went. Until we ended up with a shithole in the hotel district. One of those awful London hotels, where the wall to wall to ceiling carpeting keeps you from worrying about the state of the world simply by offering the ingenious alternative: Worry about what may be left in the carpeting instead!

I was so disappointed and my mother was so proud. Think of all the money I had saved by checking into this hotel instead of the ridiculously expensive ones I had suggested earlier! It was great seeing her in such a great mood, but I felt as such a failure. I had wanted to show her the golden side of life. Oh well. Tomorrow, luxury, I said and turned off the light.


The next day, fueled by all the power that a gray bowl of oatmeal can bring, we were on our way to find you, in the shape of two shapely boots. First off, Selfridge’s. What a place. I felt like Paris freaking Hilton looking into her closet. Or perhaps a closet belonging to, what’s her name, Hugh Grants girlie with the big hair? I felt like her. Except that I was holding hands with a 60-year old woman instead of Hugh. Who cares, they had everything at Selfridges! Things that I had only seen on the pages of fashion magazines! And in every color. The materials, the cuts, the shit. You must know, you must have been there hundreds of times. Now, the woman who was not Hugh Grant, did not share my opinion. She said “I think the stuff here is too expensive, too impractical, too over the top”. Which, if you sum it up, is the exact equation of luxury. I tried to get her to understand, but clearly “Mom, that’s the point” was not the eye opener I had hoped for.

She was wearing her usual getup – comfy black pants (a little too short), a navy windbreaker jacket, fleece scarf and crowning this vision of reasonable clothing was the kind of knitted hat that kids wear. Or wore in the 80’s. Acrylic, with a little pom-pom dangling on a little string.

shit. must go. will write more soon.