Two years ago, I didn’t have any friends. & this proclamation isn’t seeped with melodramatic exaggeration to get a point across. I seriously, literally, did not know a single soul — purely & truthfully — that I could actually call a friend.
After years of friendships having been torn apart by silly nonsense, such as boys, rumors, & lies (in high school, no less), I pretty much acquiesced to the outcome of never having a steady, solid best friendship for the rest of my life. I not only made this agreement for myself to uphold some kind of defiant strength, but to protect myself against future defeated friendships. Because too many times I would invest all of my emotions & support into one female individual, weathering storms of family troubles, boy troubles, & personal troubles, if only to be considered “true blue.” The outcome of my diligence often left me sobbing bitterly in a corner somewhere, realizing that I had been taken advantage of by someone I respected as a sister.
Perhaps I was hypersensitive during those times. Perhaps I took those very trivial, very simple school-yard friendships too seriously. (& there is a very good chance that I did.) Still, one thing was certain: I was wounded, scarred, cautious, untrusting. & this was the main reason I sought to it that I would never have a “true” friend again, aside from my mother, sister, & possibly my future husband.
But now, at twenty-two years old, I am quite proud to say that I have friends. Dozens of them, in fact; all of which have a very special place in my own heart. For the first few months of my new found friendships, I didn’t know what to do with myself. For I was the girl who called herself The Introverted Wallflower, always living vicariously through others’ lives hoping to be that kind of girl. The girl that people call on a Friday night to hang out. The girl who hosts cocktail parties or book club meetings or movie nights or scrapbooking gatherings with several of her closest bosom-buddies. But now… I AM that girl (minus the scrapbooking, of course, because I absolutely loathe scrapbooking). & I have friends! I have friends that sing my praises, that listen to my woes & my joyful babblings! I have friends to go shopping with, to have lunch with, to have wine with (even though I don’t necessarily drink the wine). I have friends to share books & beauty products & home beautifying tips with! It’s a marvelous feeling.
But here’s the kicker: Our friendships were developed & are withstanding on the internet. You know, that mechanism of infinite wonder & addiction; that glorious bottomless pit in which I met my husband; that useful hunk of metal & cords which is currently enabling you to view this blog. Yes, that internet.
distressed sweater & hat – H&M; jeans – Ross; sandals – Target; necklaces are miscellaneous.
I’ve been wearing this outfit for the past several weeks. It’s comfortable, it’s effortless, & the hat hides my bedhead.
It’s obvious that I haven’t been feeling very inspired lately when it comes to the clothes inside my closet. I don’t know if it has anything to do with my ever-changing tastes, the temperamental weather we’ve been having here in Southern California, or just plain boredom. But I haven’t felt like putting much effort into making fashion statements. I really couldn’t care less about them at this point. I suppose you could stay that, stylistically, I’m in a terrible rut.
I think a lot of it has to do with laziness. When you just want to go to the damn drugstore to pick up a prescription — that being your one & only errand for the day — what use is it to put on make up, to do your hair, to put on perfume? Most of the time, I throw on a bleach-stained sweat jacket, skinnies, knit-boots, & a beanie; I go out & come back in. My theory: why waste good makeup, good hair, good perfume on a 15 minute outing to the corner drugstore?
I will admit to having forced a splendid outfit in the past for the sake of making a good apricot’s closet: segment… But these days, I’m too lazy to do even that. Just call me Lazy McLaziness. Or Mrs. Lackadaisical. Or The Girl That’s So Lazy, She’s Been Wearing The Same Underwear For the Last Few Days. (Just kidding. Kind of.)
Now, some people might argue that my type of thinking is negative, but only because these are the same people who use rather ordinary chores as an excuse to get all dolled up; to go to a drugstore wearing a super-short body con dress, a fur coat, & 5-inch heels; to snap some rather candid — yet, obviously staged — pictures of themselves buying overpriced candy, posing in the condom isle, buying drugstore makeup. & it works swimmingly for them! But not so much for me.
So, I apologize if you’re here strictly for my daily fashion statements & nothing more. Things are going to get worse before they get better, as I wait patiently for the Lacking Inspiration Storm to pass over.
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Q: are you the type of person who dresses to the nines while doing simple errands? Or are you like me, only interested in getting shit done as quickly as possible without looking like a goddess?
(PS: thank you so very much for all of the wonderful birthday wishes to Apricot Tea. I ate a cupcake in her honor.)
[NOTE: if you're viewing this post in your email box or reader, you'll need to click here to see the video.]
Before you go on to watch this video blog, I feel I should warn you about a few things:
The volume isn’t quite as loud as it should be, so you might want to turn it up a little to hear what I’m saying.
But… during the last minute of the video, you’ll want to turn the volume DOWN, unless you enjoy mediocre harmonica solos.
This video is extremely silly, slightly awkward, & really embarrassing for me to watch. I almost didn’t publish this but Jonathan convinced me otherwise. So, please send all hate mail to HIM, not me. I was all for saving your eyes & ears; Jonathan wasn’t.
(Many thanks to Jonathan, who helped me edit this video, because — if you can believe it — it got much worse after the harmonica playing.)
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There were so many things I wanted to say to you in that rather humiliating video, but it wasn’t anywhere close to sounding graceful or articulate. Thank goodness I write better than I speak.
I’m really so grateful to all of you, my lovely readers. You have single-handedly helped make Apricot Tea a well-loved space on this vast internet. Your encouragement & support has kept me diligent, & for that, I appreciate every single one of you. If it weren’t for you, Apricot Tea would not exist.
So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you for the heartfelt, positive comments (& emails) that brighten my entire day. & thank you for your constructive criticism, which has allowed this blog (& myself) to be more wholesome & true. Thank you for allowing me to come into your daily lives with my musings & opinions. Thank you, especially, for being some of my most dearest, most treasured friends, on the internet, & in real life. Before this blog, I had no one to call a friend. I was seemingly all alone in my thoughts & had no one — other than Jonathan — to share them with. & now, because of Apricot Tea, I have soul-sisters all over the globe, which makes my heart pitter-patter with delight. It’s a marvelous feeling to be so loved & cherished.
& before this starts to get so mushy that I begin to cry all over my desktop, I’ll stop talking. But seriously… thank you.
{collage by me; images courtesy of google.com, facehunter.com, & asos.com}
My next hair-style goal is now going to be what I call The Fashionable Bowl Cut. & I’m nearly there. Just a few more centimeters to go. (It’s moments & goals like these that make me immensely glad that I know how to cut hair.)
& also, how adorable is that little boy? I kind of want to put him in my jewelry box.
[NOTE: Someone had asked a few posts ago why I close comments on some blog posts & keep them open on others. Please know that it's nothing personal. As much as I value your opinion, I started closing comments because I enjoy the quiet sometimes. & then, of course, I feel that some things are better left unsaid. This is one of those times, & there will be many, many others. But if you'd still like to give me your opinion on a post with closed comments, you can always email me. & thanks for understanding!]
This is a story that doesn’t feel like it’s mine… but it is. Which is why I’m telling it in second-person.
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It’s December. You’re at a party in an immaculate house in the middle of the desert. Everyone is drinking except you. Not because you’re a good girl, but because there is nothing but beer & whiskey in the house & you don’t prefer to drink those kind of drinks. Instead, you sit back & watch them all as they get plastered, as they laugh at things that don’t make sense, as they slur their sentences & their intentions. & then you find out he’s coming. He’ll be there in 10 minutes, they gush, spilling their drinks on the lush white carpet. You pretend not to notice what they just said, as you nonchalantly challenge a friend to another game of air hockey. But inside… your heart is throbbing. You feel dizzy & lightheaded.
You excuse yourself to the bathroom, & check your appearance. His coming might not mean anything, but you want to look dangerous when you see him again. You want him to feel regret, to feel stifled when he sees you. You borrow a couple of sprays from a sugary-sweet perfume bottle on the bathroom counter. You restlessly wait for his arrival.
Five minutes later, he walks through the door, wearing loose jeans & a brown leather jacket. He’s paler than you remember; skinny & kind of unattractive. The lighting of the room accentuates acne scars & his tired face. Yet, your heart skips a beat at the sight of him. You pretend not to notice him as he walks into the main room, saying his hellos, becoming familiar with the party-goers, engaging in small talk. He finally catches your eye. You stiffly say hello, & his reply is just as rigid. He looks uncomfortable, as though he didn’t know you were going to be there tonight, & you relish in his awkwardness.
He goes about the room mingling with classmates, nursing a beer, trying to seem as involuntary as possible. & like a hawk, you watch him. You ask yourself in those moments what you ever saw in him; why you ever gave yourself to him; why you still love him, the asshole that he is. & you can’t seem to come up with an honest answer. You continue to watch him as he crosses the room, & goes outside for a smoke. You follow him.
“It is one thing to photograph people. It is another to make others care about them by revealing the core of their humanness.”
— Paul Strand
I’ve been really getting into photography lately. I suppose you could call it my new niche. Any time I’m behind the camera — or, more recently, in front of it — I feel excitedly overwhelmed with all of the artistic possibilities that could come out of my “work.” I love freezing moments in time to my liking, to my memory. I enjoy the sensation I feel when I get that perfect shot, when I manage to make an ordinary day extraordinary.
But I try to shy away from having this be a serious “thing” (hence, the quotations). I fear that if I label myself a “photographer,” it’ll dwindle my lust & commitment to it. I don’t want this lovely side project to be lost within my own perfectionism like most other things I’ve endeavored in. I have no desire to make a living out of being a photographer or to become a master at it. I just want to be, & in being, I simply want to take pictures.
This little hobby of mine has been taking off organically through my Project 365. There are some days where I have no motivation — or nothing new — to photograph, & those days end up being accurately depicted by less-than-intriguing pictures of my dinner. But on the days where I feel inspired & confident in my craft — the days where I’m actually paying attention to how fascinating this world is — I find myself compelled to capture those moments permanently with my camera. Usually, with that effort, the results surprise even me.
Throughout these 200+ days of my project 365, I’ve gotten an idea of my strengths & weaknesses, & I’m always trying to push myself to be a little more creative everyday. I want to try new things, perfect certain poses & angles. I want the picture to do the speaking without my having to explain anything. I’ve gotten pretty good at landscape shots; capturing the sky & fluffy white clouds will always be a favorite of mine, too.
Lately, though, I’ve been experimenting in portraits. Quite specifically, artful nude portraits of myself.
When I told Jonathan that I wanted to take artful nude photographs — which entails tasteful, elegant, & sometimes abstract depictions of the human body — he was very surprised. (I’m the girl that still covers up her naked body in the presence of her husband, after all.) But he was also quite curious. He asked me why I wanted to take these pictures; what my motive was. I told him that I had always found artful nude photography gorgeous, & I’ve always admired the people who took the plunge to do it. I told him that I wanted to test my own picture-taking skills — to experiment & get to know my camera — while combining my intrigue for artful nude photography, & who better to practice on than with myself?
As for my motive… I couldn’t really say that I have a specific motive. But I have gained an abundance of pride for being brave enough to do this. & it is because of that pride that I want to reveal my “work” to others. Perhaps to inspire, but hopefully to bring a bit of beauty into the world. To create art & not have it be seen by anyone else’s eyes is the loneliest outcome for any form of creative expression. The world needs more beauty; why would anyone ever want to deprive the world of that? I get immense joy & satisfaction knowing that my art is being appreciated, & my photography is no different.
So, I’d like to share it with you.
Please know that by showing these pictures, I am in no way trying to flaunt or exploit my body. I’m not trying arouse anyone, nor am I trying to be boastful or publicize myself in a way that will cause a ruckus. I’m only showcasing my art. No more or less than that.
I don’t particularly know if this would be deemed as “safe for work,” though I don’t see why not. The pictures I’ve taken are 100% tasteful. There are no “bits” showing or lewd positions. Just skin. Pure, unadulterated skin.
Radiohead t-shirt – goodrock.com; cuffed shorts – Jonathan’s old skinnies; mood ring & necklace are “vintage.”
currently, I am…
Relieved.Closing down Ask Apricot has lifted my spirits in a way that is almost too shameful to admit. To not have to worry about that blog anymore, to not have to continue asking myself what I am doing with it, has given me a kind of inner peace that is next to impossible to describe. This isn’t to say that I wasn’t just a little bit sad to see it go. Ask Apricot was my baby; my “niche”; my personal happiness project that gave back to others. So I will miss it, most definitely. It was good while it lasted.
Astonished. Apparently, I am one of “12 Blogger Chicks You’d Like to See in Maxim Magazine.” My first thought was, Why? My second was, Weird. Don’t get me wrong; it’s quite flattering. But still weird, nonetheless.
Hating: Anthropomorphism, people who talk in third person, & everyday objects ridiculously renamed to protect a man’s precious masculinity. For example: “meggings” = leggings, “mandles” = candles, “murse” = purse, & the worst: “bro jangles” = stacked necklaces on a man.
Disappointed. I am disappointed that some of the purest, selfless hearts I know are getting broken to bits. I am disappointed that to speak eloquently means — to some — that you are “white washed.” I am disappointed that fur & leather are some of the must-have items of this season. I am disappointed that my mother didn’t like District 9 as much as I did.
Listening to: Little Dragon – Machine Dreams; Blonde Redhead – 23; Washed Out – Life of Leisure; Sigur Rós – Med sud i eyrum vid spilum endalaust; Muse – The Resistance; Air – Love 2; Beirut – The Flying Cup Club.
Reading:Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami.
Appreciative. The loyalty I have gained from my readers has left me feeling slightly overwhelmed. All of your support has helped Apricot Tea reach well over 2,000,000 hits (& over 200,000 hits this past month!) & she’s not even two years old yet. From the bottom of my heart… thank you. It’s people like YOU who keep me blogging.
(Note: the title of this post is a lyric from Radiohead’s Idioteque; which is also a sentence on the shirt I’m wearing.)
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Q: how are you doing? what are you loving, hating, reading, anticipating at the moment?
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