EUROSE

Top, secondhand; Skirt, Creme at Jusco; Corsage, thrifted; Bag, my mother's; Shoes, Clarks

I went to the nearby cinema last night in conjunction with the 9th European Union Film Festival 2008. I was simply reliving my days as a (theoretical) film student, hunting down a number of slow, masturbatory European/ indie American to watch. I dressed up for the simple occasion in the style of Godard’s wooden yet beloved character Patricia from ‘A Bout de Souffle.’

Handed down by my mother, the striped long sleeve top was a size bigger than my body. Maybe in time I would really learn how to sew this to fit me brilliantly. The same with the skirt— how I wish I had sewn it a size smaller to give it the appearance of a bulbous, high-waisted skirt of a bygone era. The rose corsage, to some, might scream ‘Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw rather than Patricia Franchini. It is built extraordinarily albeit dangerously; it doubles as a hairclip as it is a corsage with a pin. So if I’m not too careful with it, I might risk pricking my own poor scalp to bleed. I thought wearing a flower in my hair was too ornate for the occasion so I undertook the Carrie way. Ironically, I used the hairclip to keep the corsage in place.

The film I saw was Yolande Moreau’s ‘Quand La Mer Monte.’ The cinema was filled with mostly a group of expatriates longing for a familiar taste of their homelands. Moreau was beautiful in the film— her quirkiness surpasses that of Zooey Deschanel or Bjork. I liked her in ‘Amelie;’ I like her better in her own film. The story was absent of any traditional conflict and I found it rather refreshing that way. However, two hours of droning slice-of-life sort of tale kind of disturbed my nerves after awhile. I didn’t go on any slopes or peaks; just a long straight road till the end. But in any case, the film had its sweetest moments. Watching it reminds me of the life I had with my boyfriend in the States— monotonous yet sweet.

The next film on the Euro list is ‘Paris’ but I have to wait till next Friday comes and greet me in the face.

GLITCH

My cousin came over to my place for the weekend so I took her for dinner at the little dusky Villa Danieli that was cozily rustic and pastoral. We had lots of warm Italian loaves, milky raviolis, apple pastries with gelato and shredded duck salad that tasted of sweet bitterhood. We went through the dinner discussing the science of our own boyfriends (our lovely men originated from the same place) and the politics of our family, particularly our ever-so-kooky grandma and her cats. We met up with my sister later for a photograph or two in front of the the charming eating place and the product was a living testament to my wardrobe malfunction:

Jacket, Wet Seal; Dress, Miss K Boutique (the ruined one!); Shoes, Montego Bay at Payless Shoes.


If you inspect carefully, the delicate string of my halter dress that I was wearing broke and left my chest exposed (without me noticing for god knows how long). For every step that I took, the dress slowly lowered, almost revealing to the world my embarrassment. The evening wasn’t over yet because my sister was resolute about going for a three-hour karaoke session (a family ritual, believe it or not, next to the movies) so I had to resort to tying the body of my jacket with the broken string before we left. Problem fixed but I don’t think I’d dare buy any halter dresses with frail strings ever!