Thursday, October 9th, 2008
EDIT; since subscribing doesn’t seem very popular amongst my lurkers/readers, I have another option for you: Bloglovin’. Yes, everyone has been talking about this & I just figured out what all the fuss is about. (Between you & me, the fuss is absolutely justified. This site is fantastic.)
So please, if subscribing makes your stomach queasy, be sure to at least follow my blog with bloglovin’.
:]
I was just about to take killer pictures of these high-waisted, mustard colored vintage pants that were handed down to me from someone special… but much to my dismay, Lover informed me that he took the camera today. While I could complain & say that this is horrible timing, it’s actually okay because I’m having a bad hair day anyway. & now I have to find something else to talk about; drat!
Now, it’s quite obvious that my name (Ev’Yan) is unusual. I’ve never met a single soul who had my name, but I have met several people whose names closely resembled mine (Evian, Evyan, etc.). Similar, yes… but not the same.
& while I absolutely adore my name, I sometimes get frustrated that it’s not… ordinary. If I had a dime for every time my name was mispronounced or misspelled… well, I would have a lot of dimes. I’ve heard it all: Avalon, Evanon, Evanee, Evan, Eeviyan, Evelyn, & even Avion. It sometimes baffles me how people can mispronounce my name that much; I mean, really… where did those L’s come from? Have people forgotten the kindergarten rule of sounding out the letters? Of course they haven’t! They’re just terribly lazy. Most of them, anyway.
So because of this, there was a point where I hated my name; simply loathed it. Because it was always downgraded to such disappointing pronunciations & I felt awkward & out of place in school. For the longest time — & this is kind of embarrassing for me to admit — I wished my name was Erika. Spelled precisely like that, too… with the quirky “K” instead of a “C.” There are a few diaries, actually, where I sign off as “Erika.” This offended my mother extremely; she created this name out of her own imagination & I was shunning it outright!
(For the record: contrary to popular belief, my name was not contrived from the French water, Evian. I get this all the time & no, it has nothing to do with Evian water.)
Thanks to maturity, I grew out of that wretched “Erika” phase & learned to love my name for what it is. Creative & classy; French-sounding & delicate; original & flawless. Not to mention… it suits me much better than “Erika.”
But I do wish that my name were common enough to be in a song. You know… those beautiful, sorrowful songs sung by men — or women — about lost loves or longful emotions. You will never hear a man singing about “Ev’Yan” … unless, of course, I happen to entice the mind of a rockstar. (Chris Martin has first dibs; if not him, then Ben Gibbard.)
Here are my favorite songs about unknown people with common names that I have fallen in love with. The music behind the story creates a fairytale, making me wish desperately I would have been named something so romantic (or thought-provoking) … but only until the song ends.
- 311 :: Amber
- Damien Rice :: Amie
- Dido :: Isobel
- Yann Tiersen :: La Valse D’Amelie
- Air :: Kelly Watch the Stars
- The Beatles :: Eleanor Rigby
- Blonde Redhead :: Melody
- The Blood Brothers :: Cecilia
- Vince Guaraldi :: Linus & Lucy
- Regina Spektor :: Samson
- Death Cab for Cutie :: What Sara Said
- My Chemical Romance :: Helena
- Lifehouse :: Simon
- A Perfect Circle :: Judith
- Sting & The Police :: Roxanne
- The Beatles :: Girl (since this “girl” could be anyone, I like to pretend it’s me. After all, I am a girl.)
& what are YOUR favorite named-after-me songs?
Monday, October 6th, 2008
shirt, vest & shoes, from Target; jeans, from Ross; beanie, from American Apparel; jewelry is miscellaneous.
For the first time in months, I was able to wear jeans comfortably without sweating or feeling claustrophobic. The weather is finally starting to resemble that of a normal transitioning into Autumn. Which is quite nice, yes, but I refuse to get my hopes all up just because it’s 20 degrees cooler outside. No, sir. I need thunderstorms. I need orange & yellow leaves littering the pavements, blowing in the wind, falling from trees, & so on. I need to it to be bloody mandatory that I wear scarves, hats, & jackets. & most importantly, I need to be able to faintly see my breath in the darkness of the night. THEN it will be Autumn; none of this fickle weather stuff.
I wonder if this is too much to ask from Los Angeles…
Also, I am absolutely in love with a new shade of lipstick I purchased from MAC, delicately titled Ladybug. I’m wearing it in these photos, but it’s a bit hard to tell, being that it’s quite sheer. I’ve never been much of a lipstick person, but this hue makes me a little weak in the knees. Not to mention I feel boldly feminine while wearing it, which contrasts perfectly with my androgynous ensembles. Yes, I am in love.
Friday, October 3rd, 2008
Firstly… much to my utter excitement, I have been featured at the supermelon, in their Real Style segment. My very first feature! I am so very excited about this; I can hardly contain it (!!!). Not to mention, honored to be mentioned among the many other talented & fashionable women in the blogosphere. Thank you so much, Jenna, for doing this for me, & for being so kind. Yay! :]
On another note…
I am having a real, honest to goodness, semi-quarter life crisis. This has been claimed before, yes, but I was being melodramatic. This time, it’s so absolutely real that it’s horrifying. As in House on Haunted Hill horrifying, circa 1959, with Vincent Price. Let me try to explain…
I had a lovely conversation with my Grandfather, on my father’s side, last night. Even though we barely have a tangible relationship (I haven’t seen him in at least 4 years), I was blatantly reminded that it was his birthday & decided to reach out & wish him well. I’m an adult now, after all, & I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse not to call him. Guilty conscience, mostly. Surprisingly, it was nice to chat with him; except when he started raving about how many times he’s read the Bible, cover to cover. (29 times, he says. Each time we speak, that number grows a little larger.)
He was very attentive to what was going on in my life & asked questions about Lover & married life. I told him things were doing just fine; that married life was fun, an adventure, & that I was really happy. Then he asked how my job was going, & I winced as I replied, “Oh… I’m not… working right now.” He asked me why not, as though maybe I had an accident & was bedridden, or something of that nature. I completely stumbled over my words in a very un-confident way, telling him that I had left my salon job after recent drama & had the intention (yes, I really did!) of going back to work somewhere, but just got too comfortable being at home. & now, I’m simply stuck here, in my comfort zone, being a happy housewife.
At least I was honest; I could have used one of the many other stories I tend to conjure up so that my pride won’t suffer.
After my desperate & somewhat lengthy explanation about why I’m not working, he just said, “Oh… okay then.” He didn’t ask anymore questions. He didn’t drill me about how I should be in college, getting a degree to make him proud (with grandparents, there isn’t any other reason but that). He just said, “Oh… okay then” & went on to ask me how my mother was doing.
While I was feeling deeply relieved that the subject didn’t get pushed to oblivion, I was deeply disturbed by my own answer. For the rest of the night, I kept asking myself, “Ev’Yan… why aren’t you working? I mean, really… why not?!” I could hear the bloody answer loud & clear in my ears, but refused to except it & said to myself: “No, that’s not a good enough answer. Why aren’t you working, for Heaven’s sake? Why aren’t you doing something with your life? Where are you going, Ev’Yan? What are you doing??”
Last night, I couldn’t bear the sound of my own realizations, but I think today I am ready to face them.
Why am I not working, you ask? Well, it’s simple really… it’s because I am bloody scared. I’m scared to be confined to a job that makes less than rational money. I’m scared to find myself going through the same old routines; wake up, get dressed, go to work, get stressed, come home, eat dinner, go to sleep stressing about another lifeless tomorrow. (The “turn, smile, shift, repeat” syndrome.) I don’t want to sell my preciously creative soul to the 9-5 Devil.
I want to be free. I want to inspire myself with my own whimsical ideas. I want to bask in the glory of life daily. I want to live on my own schedule, MY own time clock, doing what I want to do. I don’t want the wretched commitment — the scary commitment — of going to work everyday.
That’s the honest to goodness truth; I’m a ‘fraidy-cat. I’ve gotten far too comfortable being the doting housewife, making dinners, cleaning house, running errands & taking care of our dog, Sofie. While this is all good & well (not to mention, helpful because if I don’t do these things, who will?), I am 21-freaking-years-old. I shouldn’t BE the doting housewife. No, [supposedly] I should be going to college. Or contributing to the world by working a seemingly endless job. If not that, I should be making babies.
It’s almost shameful of me, I think, to tell people that I don’t do anything; that I’m just… a housewife. I don’t have children; I should not be a housewife. (Although… I have to say that back in the olden days, women without children would stay at home & keep up the house, doing things like making pies & wearing aprons & vacuuming. This was in the 1950s, of course, & I do realize that this is 2008… but I am extremely comforted by those traits & wish that it would be socially acceptable for me to do so these days.)
That bloody question — “What do YOU do?” — is always asked to me. & each time, I quickly come up with something that doesn’t sound too pathetic while being completely believable. I tell people that I am an amateur writer; this answer only brings up another question: “Oh, what do you write?” to which I reply, “Everything.” Not the most stable or sufficient answer, but it raises eyebrows & keeps me honest.
I realize now that I need a resolution to this problem of mine. I need to find something to do with my spare time, whether it be a hobby or a bloody job; something that will make me feel less guilty & more confident when being asked that dreaded question. I need direction. I need a path to take because right now I feel as though I am wandering about in circles.
I need to find my spirituality. I need to find something (someone) to believe in; I need desperately to re-discover my faith. I need to know where I’m going.
Friday, September 26th, 2008
dress, from Target; boots, from Payless; handmade headband was a gift from my sister.
I’ve been wanting a new dress for a while; a dress that was exceptionally beautiful, but not so beautiful & dainty that it couldn’t be easily paired with my black boots, adding some — dare I say? — manliness to it.
I don’t feel like this is the perfect dress for that description, but it’s pretty darn close; not to mention very functional & practical. I almost bought a grey boyfriend cardigan about the same length as this dress to go with it, but had to refrain, reminding myself that (apparently) Autumn weather in LA doesn’t begin until Winter starts. [note: sarcasm]
Also… I’ve been itching to show off the designer headband I got for my birthday — a present I certainly forgot to mention, but for good reason. Save the absolute best for last!
This designer headband, with black feathers (which blend in perfectly with the color of my hair, & makes for a neat little effect) & one single, elegant peacock feather, was made by my sister. She has been sporting these cute headband things for a while now, & I told her I wanted her to make me one soon. & she did, which made for a perfect birthday present. I absolutely adore it.
Obviously, you can’t wear this little gem with just jeans & a t-shirt; no, you’ll risk dumbing it down. You’ve got to find something that collaborates with it perfectly. & as soon as I saw this dress hanging on the rack, I knew that it would go amazingly with my peacock headband.
& the rest is history, I suppose.
Thursday, September 25th, 2008
shirt, from American Apparel; shorts are vintage; vest & headband, from Target; shoes, from Ross; jewelry is miscellaneous.
[For the record, let me just say that I am terribly bored of summer fashions. I mean, practically bored to tears, if not death. I am desperately wishing, pretty much on my hands & knees, that the weather here in LA will mimic that of an actual Autumn season... right NOW. Not in December, but now. If not completely, then just a little. Anything would be better than this wretched 90 degree weather...]
This is what I wore yesterday, which just so happened to be Lover’s 23rd year. Unfortunately, the night ended up not going as planned & we went to bed at separate times, hardly saying two words to each other. Yes, a dreaded & oh-so-tearful quarrel transpired, all courtesy of good old Miscommunication.
The details of our emotional fisticuffs — which is putting it lightly — are not important. Who was right & who was wrong is not important either. All I will say, without divulging too much, is that men are utterly, completely & annoyingly complicated. I love, simply adore, my husband; enough to go to Hell & back with him a few times (& I have) but shessh… Why must men be so complicated?
Now, I’ve heard it said that it is the women who are the complicated ones, making small quibbles into big dramatic productions of a soap opera; I do not deny this. I can’t. I’ve perfected my own performance abilities in that area, so I would be a hypocrite if I said that this isn’t partially true. The keyword being partially. Women have an uncanny way of turning this reaction on & off at the right times. We know when this little trait is needed, depending on the situation. It’s an art form, really.
For instance: if I got pulled over by a cop & he told me that I was speeding & he’s going to give me a ticket for my reckless driving, you had better believe that I would squeeze out some convincing tears, explaining to him that my doggie, my re-incarnated first born child, just went into cardiac arrest at the veterinarian’s & she’s barely hanging on, & I have only minutes to say my goodbyes before she departs this earth. I would sniff & sob, & become so desperately vulnerable, while scrunching up my face in despair, that he would have no choice but to pardon my foolishness. Can a man do that instinctively, while be so convincing? I’ll never say never… but the chances are slim.
None of this really has anything to do with the fight I had with my husband; I suppose I’m just trying to make a point, although I don’t really remember in depth what that point was. Other than… men are complicated.
I’ll try to explain. My husband can be the simplest, most easiest man to please in this world. He’ll never want or desire anything but, well… me. (This is the truth.) He isn’t drawn to expensive things & he hardly revealed his birthday wishes to me at all. He can sometimes surprise me with his ability to adapt to certain situations, while trying to accommodate anyone that may be feeling left out or awkward. He’s got this… openness about him, that makes people want to know him. (I always tell him it’s because he’s so damn good looking.)
& then… he can switch gears entirely; his tastes become sporadic, forgetful, & cannot be convinced otherwise. For example: What was once a killer, jaw-dropping outfit on his very own wife, is now a questionable tone, a confused look, & a “Are you really going to wear that? Because it looks awful!” comment. It’s almost as though he had completely forgotten that HE picked out those bloody shoes & HE complimented me on them just the other day! But he insists that, no, he would never pick out something like that, EVER. (”I would never like something like that. You’re the one who likes it!” he says.) Confusing!
Men — or at least my man — always somehow manage to conveniently get a bad case of selective memory, not to mention selective hearing. If I wanted to give him some credit, I would say that that is a kind of art form; this selective memory & hearing stuff. But no, I don’t think it’s an art form. It’s strictly convenient & contradictory.
I don’t know if I’m making sense anymore. I think it’s because, at the moment, part of me fighting against him & fighting for him. He can grate on the half of my last nerve, but I just gotta love him. I can’t help it; I don’t know what else to do. Right now, I miss him & I hate that we had to fight over something a little silly, especially on his birthday. At the same time, I know making up right away doesn’t really solve anything. We need to talk.
Nevertheless, I’m not in the best of moods. Even more so that he couldn’t muster up enough “birthday spirit” last night to look at the card I handmade for him or open the presents I bought for him. He just went straight to bed.
Sigh; men…
“When women are depressed, they eat or go shopping. Men invade another country. It’s a whole different way of thinking.” —- Elayne Boosler
Monday, September 22nd, 2008
Hundreds upon hundreds of people visit my little diary daily. To say that these statistics don’t make me curious would be a very big lie. I am a curious, curious girl & with this, I have no other choice but to wonder: who ARE you people? & why is it that you find my little musings, of all things on the internet, intriguing?
Another question I often contemplate is why don’t these visitors post a comment, if only to say hello? Not that comments even really matter; but a simple little note would suffice, just to acknowledge your presence. I certainly don’t have 200 comments on each post, so why is it that you don’t leave comments here? Is it because you’ve nothing to say? Is it because you’re just passing through? Is it because you’re more comfortable being a lurker than an actual known reader? Do tell! (Flying Saucer once did a post about this months ago, which peaked my interest. & because of this, I’m even more curious.)
I usually don’t prefer to do this, simply because I like to keep this diary separate from social affairs, but it’s been pressing on my mind so much lately.
So tell me…
- Where are you from?
- How did you find this humble little place?
- Do you like what you see here?
- & of course… how are you today? :]
Friday, September 19th, 2008
crocheted shirt, handmade from long ago; shorts are thrifted; tights & undershirt, from Target; jewelry is miscellaneous; sunglasses are Raybans (!!!).
While I would love to take credit for this lovely shirt, it was not made by me. No, it was handmade by a dear friend of mine named Elsie Embry. Elsie — at the time — was over 80 years old; & this is just a guess because she never quite told me her age. I met her while I was in beauty school (which is a story I have yet to tell, but will soon). As I was doing her hair in a roller set, we talked the entire time. She told me about her life when she was younger, all of her children & grandchildren; I told her about my family & gossiped about old boyfriends. After that one time, she came to me every other Friday for the rest of the time I was practicing in beauty school.
She is such a lovely lady, & I speak to her in present-tense even though it’s been over 2 years since I’ve heard from her; I haven’t a clue where she is now, or how she is doing. I shudder to think that she may have passed away. I wouldn’t be able to believe it if she did; Elsie is the type of lady you know will live forever. She has such a beautiful spirit; not once did she ever complain about being old or how much she was in pain because of arthritis or asthma. She was completely grateful for life, thus making her forever young. She has one of the best attitudes I’ve ever experienced. I was really inspired by her & only hope that I could be as nice & humble.
The last time I did her hair, she gave me this shirt as a graduation present. She was so happy about it; said it only took her a week to do. Just the thought of this little, old lady sitting & crocheting this shirt for me with her tiny trembling hands, brings tears to my eyes. Just look at the intricate detail! I couldn’t believe that it only took her a week to do. Heaven knows I’ve tried crocheting & it took me one full year to crochet a scarf; one of the easiest things you can possibly do with yarn.
Needless to say, I was deeply touched by her thoughtfulness. She & I both cried a little as I was doing her hair for the last time. I think deep down we both knew we wouldn’t be seeing each other again, though I wanted to try. She promised me that she was going to teach me to knit, & I had every intention to have her teach me. Time was never made, unfortunately, & I’m left wondering what has happened to her.
When I graduated beauty school, I promised her that I would keep in touch with her, regardless of how “big” I got in the industry (her words, not mine). We wrote back & forth for a few months, right when I was about to take my state exam. The last I heard, her eldest son had tragically passed away from a freak accident & she was just heart-stricken with grief. Since then, I have written her, but get no replies. I pray that she is doing well, wherever she is.
Nevertheless, this shirt has never been worn, simply because I view it more as a sentimental piece, a kind of treasure of sorts, than an actual garment that should be worn. I don’t know why I picked today to wear it; maybe it’s because it’s the perfect weather outside for such a shirt. Maybe it’s because I miss Elsie & I miss our little chats. But I think it’s because I promised her I would wear it… & I never forget a promise.
EDIT; I had a lump in my throat the entire time I was writing this; so much that I couldn’t bear to wear the shirt at all. Yes, I snapped pictures of myself in the getup, & I had every intention to wear it for the rest of the day, but I couldn’t get myself to prance around in this shirt. It means far more to me than some silly fashion statement. So I took it off. I think this shirt is better off never worn; I think it’s better off being admired for the background story without my wearing it. It’s just too much for me. & while I am happy to have featured this look, I’m okay with the decision to keep it solely as a treasure.
Tuesday, September 16th, 2008
I woke up this morning, thinking to myself, “My goodness; you are twenty-one.” While I am overwhelmed wih that thought, I’m starting to get used to the idea of this new age. I like the sound of the number twenty-one much better than the number twenty. But I do think that twenty looks better written that twenty-one. 20… 21. Yes, I like the way 20 looks much more. Besides that, I am terribly sad that my birthday is over. I wish it could last for a few days more.
Lover & I went to the mall yesterday afternoon, just to browse & kill some time. I had only planned on looking — just a simple glance, I told myself — at the Rayban sunglasses, since they’re horribly expensive & I am a self-proclaimed tightwad. We started in Nordstrom & found my beloved Raybans. Naturally, they were priced far too high. I sighed & walked away, forlorn, but desperate to search every damn sunglasses store/hut in the mall, just to suffice my curiosity. Lover was patient with me as we inquired within several stores & several other side stores.
Finally, at the last possible store, we went inside & there they were. I swear, I heard angels singing as I picked up these delightfully flattering sunglasses. I tried them on — perfect fit, mind you — & looked at Lover, who was smiling. He liked them, but I was simply lusting after them.
After a few minutes of back & forth conversation about whether or not I/we should foot the bill for the sunglasses, it was settled: I was going to get them. Because, afterall, it IS my birthday. & as Lover said, “It only comes around once a year.”
Yes, I am completely aware at how gluttenous this purchase was. Not to mention, how spoiled this makes me. & every time I begin to feel badly about how much money was spent ($120, for a pair of sunglasses!) I just put them on & the logical side of my brain shuts up. There is nothing more that I could ever possibly want or covet… except for world peace.
After my extravaganza, I was feeling more than content. I didn’t want to do anything else but relax with my husband & call it an evening indoors. But I didn’t want my birthday to pass without doing at least one “newly-legal” thing. So, without much enthusiasm — I really didn’t want to go, but felt like I HAD to, for my birthday’s sake — Lover & I headed to his favorite bar. I ordered a 7up (which was free! Lover later told me that all soft-drinks are free & that made me very happy), while he drank a bloody Mary, & we sat in the bar together, talking a little, but mostly people watching.
While I enjoyed being in the presence of my husband, I didn’t enjoy being at a bar as much I thought I would. There was a football game on, & every man seemed to be clad in his favorite team’s jersey. These rambunctious men were shouting, yelling & semi-feuding with each other about which team is the best, while drinking beer & smoking cigarettes incessantly. I just giggled, while sipping my soda, realizing that all of this seemed to be going over my head; I was completely out of my element. After one more drink for each of us, we left. I was a bit disappointed at the bar experience, but at least I did something twenty-one-ish; just in case anyone were to ask, of course.
We went home & spent the rest of the evening lounging. We watched reruns of CSI: Las Vegas & played old school super nintendo video games until about 10pm, where we finally went to bed. The last remains of my birthday was pretty typical… except for the immaculate dinner I made myself:
Belgian waffles, covered in organic strawberries & powdered sugar, dripping with syrup & buttery goodness.
So, yes… my birthday was pretty perfect.
Also, a few people have asked me whether or not my wrist tattoo had hurt. I will not lie, since I am amongst friends: yes, it hurt like the dickens. There were certain parts where he (the tattoo artist) was carving that hurt so terribly, I was wincing & scrunching up my face really ugly like. Eventually, after at least 15 minutes of digging — because that’s what it felt like, not to mention, that’s what it is; a needle digging into my flesh — I hardly felt anything at all because I was numb with pain. Of course, it was all worth it in the end, but yes… it bloody hurt. & I highly recommend it, pain & all, for you only live once.
