Because I know you’re all desperately interested in the ugly-ass weals under my eyes, it gives me great pleasure to announce that they are GONE. Woo hoo, I look like a normal person, by God! I’d like to thank Beth, Jen, all my fans, God, and Clinique’s All About Eyes for helping to bring about this transformation. We need to praise them like we should.
Having thus updated you on the status of the weals, though, I realised that I have left you hanging with some other desperately exciting issues in my life, so here’s a quick update:
Ugg Watch
Up until yesterday, it was GO with the Ugg boots, but then yesterday I checked my bank account online and realised that if I thought I was shelling out all that money on a pair of furry slippers, then I DONE LOST MY MIND, people. So it’s no-go with the Uggs. GOD.
Waistband-Stretcher Watch~
Last time, on Waistband-Stretcher Watch, I had ordered the waistband stretcher, but it had not arrived. Well, it still has not arrived, and my friends at the House of Bath have now told me that it will take them at least thirty days to find out what happened to it, and in the meantime, would I like to order another one? Er, no thanks, HOB! For one, I’ve talked enough about this now, and I think it’s time to just LET IT LIE, for two, I found out that if you dampen the waistband of your jeans and then wear them they stretch anyway, and for three, I just bet one of the kids from the ghetto is walking around in reeeeaaalllly baggy pants now. I hope it’s the kid that ram raided our fence that time, I really hope it is.
Ghetto Watch
Well, the caravan is gone from the pavement in front of the house, but it looks like it’s probably just gone for a week in Skegness or something, so I fully expect it to resume residence on the pavement when it returns. Or, you know, maybe they could just park it IN my garden? I mean, why not? It’s almost there already.
I think that’s you all up to date now. Don’t say I’m not good to you.
The angry red weals? The ones I’ve had under my eyes for ONE WEEK now? Well, I Googled them, and I found out what’s illin’ me. According to the interweb, I am suffering from “death”. Gee, thanks, Interweb! Love you!
Seriously, I have no idea what’s causing said red weals. I haven’t changed any of the products I use, haven’t changed my fabric conditioner or my diet. (Note: I totally NEED to change my diet, but meh. Let’s deal with the weals, first. Ha! Did you see what I did there? “Deal with the weals”! God, I crack myself up, sometimes).
I had a good look at them this morning, though, and I’ve come to the conclusion that they aren’t actually weals as such (what ARE weals, anyway?), but just areas of dry skin under my eyes. I’ve slapped on some Eight Hour Cream, so we’ll see how that works out, but if you don’t hear from me again, you’ll know that the internet was right, and I was, indeed, suffering from “death”. GOD.
Remember my Liam Gallagher eyebrows*? The ones I have to tweeze every single day in life, or small animals start setting up home in them? Did I also mention how pale they are? No? Well they are. My eyebrows – and their accompanying lashes – are so pale that if you ever seen me without my makeup you’d think I was bald. I think this might be why I related so much to Aisleyne from Big Brother. And why I never let anyone see me without my makeup…
Anyway, my eyelashes are pale, so I dye them. I do it myself, partly because beauticians make me cry, but mostly because I don’t trust them. This mistrust is a deep-seated one, going back to the very first time I ever had my lashes dyed. I was seventeen. My best friend Dawn was with me, and I was very excited at the prospect of no longer having to pile on layers of mascara just to look halfway normal. You think I’m kidding here, but when I was in university, my attatchment to my mascara was legendary. In the halls of residence where I lived, some hilarious japester would set off the fire alarm every few nights, normally at about 3am. Everyone else would just throw on a dressing gown and pile out into the grounds, but I’d always take an extra couple of minutes to slick on some mascara and dig out a pair of high heels. For this reason, we were in second year before any of my friends realised that I was actually a short-assed Aisleyne-alike. Oh, the humanity. Some of them still don’t know. (Oh no, wait…)
So, Dawn and I head to the beauticians and I excitedly lay myself down upon the table, like some kind of pale-lashed sacrifice. “Do you want me to just do your eyebrows, too?” she asked. “Sure!” I replied, even more excited. I lay back and prepared to have my life revolutionised. A few minutes later, I wandered back into the waiting room, with red hair and jet black eyebrows. “No one will notice,” Dawn told me unconvincingly, as I dragged her around Superdrug, desperately searching for some miracle “eyebrow dye remover” and trying to avoid the mirrors. Sure enough, next day at school I walked into registation and everyone fell about laughing. All week people were actually stopping me in the corridors to say, “Hey, are those real?” I wanted to kill myself.
(Incidentally, the same thing happened the one time I tried to dye my hair. My hair is red, so I tried to dye it… a darker shade of red. The dye only “took” at the roots, and was only visible if my hair parted, like, in the wind or something. “No one will notice!” predicted Dawn. “And even if they do, no one will say anything!” The next day, I took the train to Edinburgh to do some shopping. As I walked up the high street, in a strong wind, a man actually slowed down his car and rolled down the window, JUST SO he could shout, “Is that hair dyed?” at me. GOD.)
So, you can probably guess where this story’s going, can’t you? Yesterday morning I decided to dye my eyelashes. I slicked some dye on my brows, too, and then promptly forgot all about it. Result: red hair, black brows. WHEN WILL I LEARN?
This morning I don’t think they’re looking quite so dark. I still hate myself, though.
The phone always rings when I’m in the shower. It doesn’t matter what time I choose to shower – that’s when the phone will ring.
It happened again this morning. I had just finished rinsing the shampoo from my hair when the phone shattered the silence. Stumbling from the shower, I quickly swaddled myself in as many towels as I could muster, and rushed to the office – previously known as "the spare bedroom".
"Hot Igloo, Amber speaking!" I said brightly, praying to whatever God was listening that there was nothing of the "I’m dressed in only a towel!" about my voice. I would have got away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for Rubin.
Rubin is noisy. Very, very noisy. And like the phone itself, Rubin has an unerring instinct for the worst possible time to call.
He sauntered into the room just as I reached the end of my sales pitch to the client on the end of the line. I watched in horror as he made a beeline for his favourite toy. Rubin’s favourite toy is a plastic squeaky object shaped like Mickey Mouse. Or, to be specific, shaped like Mickey Mouse’s pants. He has one shaped like Mickey’s hand as well, so quite the collection of Mickey body parts goin’ on there, yesiree.
As I started to explain the intricacies of hiring a copywiter to my prospective client, Rubin seized Mickey’s Pants with glee, throwing them joyfully into the air, from where they fell with an almighty THUD. In the home office, with its hardwood floor and its echoes, the noise was implausibly loud. Every time the pants hit the deck, Rubin hit the pants. "SQUEAK!" said the pants. "GRRR!" said Rubin, his growl totally belying the fact that he is, in fact, a fluffy white dog, and not the fierce wolf he so fondly likes to think he is, I edged my way slowly across the floor. Mission: separate Rubin and The Pants. The mission was successful. I lunged, the Pants fell, Rubin stopped growling – and the towel preserving my modesty dropped dramatically to the floor.
For a moment I stood there, dog in one hand, Mickey Pants in the other, phone under my chin, towel-turban (now my only adornment) on head. "Hello?" said the client. "Are you still there?"
I stumbled back to my desk, somehow regaining both my composure and my towel. "Give me that website address again," I asked the client, smiling through painfully gritted teeth. I had just finished typing it into Google when the screen turned blank. Glancing down, I saw Rubin staring up at me, smiling, with one paw pressed firmly on the "power" button on the PC…
 Somehow I got through the rest of the call. I don’t THINK the client realised that I was naked, or that a small white dog and his squeaky Mickey Pants were calling the shots. She made an appointment to meet with me, anyway. Needless to say, I suggested we meet up at HER office, rather than mine. I’ll aim to be better dressed this time, too.
And I learned a lesson. Well, three, really:
1. Whatever you do, and however you do it, if you work from home, keep regular office hours. That means that if it’s 9am on Friday morning, you’re at your desk – not in the shower.
2. Pets and business don’t mix.
3. Clothes are good. Really.
Well. You would not believe how long it took me to get dressed this morning, Internet. Actually, you probably would, because I’m going to tell you about it right now: two hours. Two. Hours. Over two hours, in fact, because what’s thirty minutes or so between friends?
To be fair, that two hours does include the time I spent in the shower (I do a lot of my thinking in the shower. I’m not too skilled at thinking so it can take a while), drying my hair, applying makeup and painting my toenails, but even so, I have to admit that a good proportion of the time was spent putting on clothes and then removing them again. Seriously, people think I work from home because I’m lazy: it’s actually because I can’t seem to dress myself without assistance. I doubt there are many employers out there who would appreciate a 9am phone call saying "Um, yeah, I’ll be a few hours late today. My waistband stretcher still hasn’t turned up and I hate my thighs. Also: any chance of a raise so I can hit up the clothes shops on the way in?
Gah. I am an abject failure. I mean, do you know how humiliating it is to have to contact the House of Bath to say WHERE IS MY WAISTBAND STRETCHER? I’M NOT GETTING ANY THINNER HERE, YOU KNOW. Hate Autumn.* Hate my clothes. Hate House of Bath. Gah, gah, and thrice gah. And this is just me on an ordinary day, when no one actually sees me, anyway. On Saturday, we’re going to Orocco Pier for lunch with both sets of parents. I should probably start getting dressed now, no?
I am also very, very busy. I have about a gazillion articles to write before the end of the week, and my regular Project O’Doom for The Scotsman is due halfway through next month, which means that PRs all over the land are probably thinking up mean things to say to me as we speak. I was in the Evening News yesterday, though, talking about weddings, so that’s nice. Now I’m off to change my outfit again…
* Not technically Autumn yet, but anyway.
It’s another one of those days folks, and by "those days" I mean "days when I look like my wardrobe mugged me because I totally have nothing to wear." GOD.
So, yeah, I totally have nothing to wear*. The waistband stretcher hasn’t arrived yet, so that’s one problem, but there is a problem greater even than this: it’s cold. Yes, as much as I would like to take Nikki from Big Brother over my knee and slap her repeatedly, I have to confess that I have one thing in common with her – we’re both very, very cold. I mean, now that the summer’s almost over, I’d happily start walking around in boots and thick sweaters. I’m not even joking. Unless the weather is absolutely boiling – and by "absolutely boiling" I mean, "so hot that people are totally complaining about how hot it is all the time, and also? Are dying from the heat." – I will be freezing. When I go to Florida – Florida, people – I take a sweater with me at all times, just in case it gets a little bit nippy.
So I’m cold. I’m really freaking cold, and if this is how cold I am in August, well, I can tell this winter is going to be a long one. Which brings me to a dilemma: should I buy a pair of Ugg boots? Witness:
 (Note: not actually Ugg brand Uggs, but as near as dammit)
I’ve always hated Uggs. I mean, lookit! They are fugly! But also: warm. And I think we’re going to be needing "warm" pretty soon. I actually mainly want them to wear in the house, because, let’s face it, I rarely go out, but also for walking the dog, and, I dunno, maybe running along a frosty beach, all rosy cheeked and windblown? Hmmm. I’m torn. Being warm/looking like a fashion victim, which way to jump?
 I actually thought I had found the answer to my dilema, the answer being "boot slippers" – I swear I’m not making this up – from my new friend, The House of Bath. But I just don’t think I can do it. God, what a hellish dilemma. What to do? Boot slippers –>
In better news, Manny arrived today, and I’m pleased to announce that we have a winner in the "find Amber’s wedding shoes" competition. Here he is. (Also pictured: that bad fake tan job on my feet! Thanks, Johnston’s Summer Skin!)
*I also woke up this morning with an angry red "weal" under each eye. Lookin’ good!
People, I am one lucky girl.
As some of you already know, I already get paid to watch TV and write about it for TV Scoop, where you can normally find me talking about Big Brother. Or you could, obviously, until it all ended. Now you’ll mostly find me talking about Neighbours. Anyway, as of this week, I will also be getting paid to oggle pretty clothes on t’internet and then write about them for Catwalk Queen. Am very excited. Am looking at clothes as I write!
If anyone would like to pay me to drink wine and then write about that, y’all know where to find me… Also, if you wonder where I am this week, I’m either on the Marc Jacobs wesbsite, drooling like an old biddy, or I’m in the debtors jail, either one.
It happened again, people. I popped out to the supermarket (not the Ghetto Supermarket, alas, just the ordinary one) to procure some wine and Haribo sweets for Terry and I to enjoy during tonight’s Big Brother Final. (Terry doesn’t like wine and I’d kind of eaten all the Haribo sweets by the time I got home, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, y’know?).
As I placed my items carefully on the conveyor belt thingie, ignoring the pensioner who was repeatedly slamming her trolley into my back (There’s always one, isn’t there?), though, I noticed the checkout woman clocking me suspiciously. It was then that I knew it was about to happen again: our lady of the till had clearly mistaken me for a madcap teenage tearaway, intent on scampering off to the bike sheds to "get wrecked" with my hooligan "mates", on a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Because I bet that’s exactly the teenage binge-drinker’s tipple of choice these days, isn’t it?
Sure enough: "I’ll need to see ID" she snapped, challenging me with her eyes. I rooted through my wallet, dislodging eighteen credit cards, two press cards (WHY?) and a passport-sized picture of a slightly-demented looking Terry before finally handing over my driving license. She scrutinized it carefully before handing it back, wordlessly. "I love it when this happens," I quipped, hilariously. And actually? I totally do. It used to offend me when I was asked for ID. Now it’s quite thrilling. The last time before this one was on Christmas Eve, when I attempted to buy one of those cheesy "A Gift from Scotland!" things that have a whisky miniature in them. Because, again, that’s exactly what I’d buy if I were an underage drinker. I mean, is it just me, or are teenage delinquents getting more sophisticated? When I were a lass (this was all fields, then) it was a can of warm shandy if you were lucky: now it’s Pinot Grigio and single malt whisky. God, I’ve made myself feel old again.
I dunno, maybe it was the Haribo sweets that did it? Or the fact that I was wearing – gasp! – a hoodie. I won’t be calling off the Botox just yet, anyway, that’s for sure. (Joking! I’m joking! I’m not considering botox. I’m considering a Hydrafil instead.)
Anyway, the wine is cooling in the fridge, the Haribo mix is chilling in my belly and I will now spend the rest of the day calling the Big Brother winner’s line repeatedly to vote for Aisleyne. I urge you all to do the same. If you need some reasons, here’s my latest post on the subject for TV Scoop.
Because I know you’re all desperately interested in my continuing search for new jeans, it is with great sadness that I come here today to report that Topshop duly updated the stock on their website yesterday, and the jeans I’ve been waiting for, they were not on it. A sad day indeed.
But! But! There is a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, because as of just a few short minutes ago, I became the proud purchaser of this baby:
 (Note: Ugly "slacks" not included)
It’s a waistband stretcher! For stretching waistbands! So, basically all I have to do to get myself back on the fashion track here is to get out those two pairs of jeans I optimistically persuaded myself I would one day be skinny enough to wear (Never do that, by the way. Only stupid people do that.), dampen the waistband, slip in the stretcher, and away we go. Perfect. I really hope it works, because if it does, I will never have to do exercise again, and will be able to just crank the waistband up a notch every time I grow a size. Great.
Just in case you want one too, I bought the waistband stretcher from The House of Bath, which is one of those companies that sends you catalogues filled with "stunning inventions" such as the giant slipper that you put both feet into at the same time, lingerie for incontinent people and things you can use to seal your sandwich bags. If, like me, you’ve ever flicked through these catalogues and thought, "I wonder who the hell buys this shit?" well, now you know.
Anyway, I will report back on the success or otherwise of the stretcher. I really hopes it works because I seem to have entered one of those phases of my life where I have absolutely nothing to wear. This happens to me every so often. There I’ll be, happily getting on with my life, managing to get up in the mornings and dress myself, just like a normal person, and suddenly it happens. One morning I get up, look in the wardrobe, and discover that elves have visited in the night and taken away every single items that fits and/or is nice. I’m then forced to either a) go out and buy new clothes immediately, or b) wander around the house for days wearing one of Terry’s old sweaters and those shorts I bought in the New Look children’s department that time. I’m wearing them now, in fact.
Anyway. Shopping success of sorts, I think. I still haven’t drunk the water, though.
Yeah, so the whole water challenge thing? That didn’t work out too good. In fact, I don’t think I’d be exaggerating if I used the phrase "complete, unparalleled failure" here, because I’m looking at the bottle of water now and while the level is now down below the bottom of the label, that’s because Terry drunk most of it last night. (Terry + new kidney = a camel) I did manage to put away more than my fair share of coffee, though, and man, that was good.
What’s weird about all of this? Woke up this morning, spots are gone. We’re not so much with the "dewy" and the "fresh", but hey, I’m willing to settle for "not looking like a plague victim", thanks very much. I think I’ll give the water another shot today, though. Let’s not write it off just yet. I mean, if it has the power to vanquish spots in just a few sips, just imagine what it could do if I managed to drink all of it! And, y’know, I can totally work in the bathroom on my laptop, no really.
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