So, today was the day Terry and I had set aside to try to walk 12 miles in one day.
“Hey! I know! Let’s try and walk 12 miles in one day!” said Terry.
“You know? That sounds kinda crap,” said I. “It’s like – it’ll be rubbish? And also: we won’t even enjoy it.”
“Well, we’re not supposed to enjoy it,” said Terry, proving in one fell swoop that our marriage? Is doomed. “We’ll do it just so we can say we did it!”
“GOD! said I.
“Walk?” said Rubin? “WALK?!”
There was one big problem, though, with Terry’s plan. I mean, other than the fact that he wanted to walk 12 miles in one day, obviously. The problem? Well, there’s nothing I hate more than being badly dressed. This is unfortunate, because I? Am almost always badly dressed. I am never more badly dressed, though, than when I go walking in the countryside, and the reason for this is – stiletto heels. See, I love ‘em. I am almost never without a good pair of 4 inch heels. For the most part, this predilection for 4 inch heels has served me well in life. When I go walking in the woods, though? Not so much, really. In fact, when I go walking in the woods, even I am forced to concede that stiletto heels are not really the best choice of footwear. (Don’t think I haven’t tried though, because I totally have. I’m no quitter, me). So I wear trainers. GOD. I know! I hate trainers, even more so because all of my jeans are cut for someone four inches taller than I am, so when I wear my jeans, I’m forced to roll ‘em up, like some crazy bag lady. I totally hate this, but hey! We were going for a walk in the woods, and desperate times called for desperate measures.
“I know!” I thought last night, as we having dinner with my parents. “I will get my old riding boots out of my dad’s garage and wear them with my skinny jeans! I will be both stylish and dry! And also: when people see me, they will assume I am some horsey girl, on her way to ride some horse, in the country!” This last thought quite appealed as I was one of those kids who, up until the age of sixteen thirteen, had a bedroom papered with pictures of ponies, and rosettes. (OK, I had two rosettes, but I won them fair and square, OK?)
“Dad, when you get a minute, could you get my riding boots out of the garage?” I said.
“Well, it’ll take me about seventeen hours to find them,” grumbled my dad, who has not only carpeted his garage, but has also used it store everything he has ever owned IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE, plus everything my mum and I have ever tried to throw out. Channel 4 will probably try to make a documentary about him soon. Despite this, he was back in under 5 minutes (he runs a tight ship, my dad) with the most filthy, disgusting pair of riding boots I have ever seen in my life, replete with ten-year-old horse dung and mud. So dad? If you’re reading this? I totally see now why you always told me to clean my riding boots before I put them away. I see that now. You win.
Anyway, this morning we got up early, I donned the skinny jeans and the skanky riding boots, and off we went.
This was the first stage of our walk. Isn’t it pretty? Say it is pretty. This part of the woods always makes me think of Lord of the Rings, except there are no hobbits, no elves, no orcs, no wizards, and, actually? It’s not really like Lord of the Rings at all, is it?
The next part of our walk, complete with Terry and Rubin.
(Note: we did not make Rubin walk 12 miles. We are stupid people, but we are not BAD people, y’know?)
That sheep in the middle? Totally stared at me THE WHOLE TIME we were walking past it. WHY?
The sky was all dramatic.
And there were some trees.
And a field.
Also: a bridge
And some more freakin’ sheep. WHY?
In my skinny jeans and riding boots combo, this horse thought I was ready to just jump on his back and ride into the sunset…
So, that was our walk. On the second leg of it, I noticed that all the people we passed would nod and smile and Terry and then completely blank me. At first I was totally offended by this (I mean, OK, I looked like crap, but even so, I don’t think I deserved to be shunned by society), and then I realised that, although the sun had long since set, I was still wearing my sunglasses, so they probably thought I was BLIND or something. GOD, people are rude to the blind, aren’t they? (And also to the badly dressed, I fear).
Anyway, seeing as, according to Terry, the whole point of our walk was to allow us to say we did it, I would just like to say: people, we did it. We walked 12 miles in one day. And I walked 12 miles in riding boots, skinny jeans and sunglasses. GOD. Never do that, OK? Only stupid people do that. Still, we seen some nice sheep…
Yesterday, I got a letter from the people we bought my laptop from, saying that the manufacturer warranty has now expired. "So you’ll need to be really careful with it," said Terry, giving me a stern look.
This morning I switched it on and it’s making a weird, whining sound that I’m pretty sure it wasn’t making before. WHY? Why me, God?
Also, this morning – a letter from the people we bought our fridge from saying that – yes, you guessed it, folks! – the manufacturer warranty is about to run out.
Sour milk tomorrow, then…
(Yeah, I quoted Fergie in the title. Now she’s stuck in your head, isn’t she? Sorry. Please don’t hate me.)
So, you ever have one of those days? Wait, what am I saying here, of course you haven’t. You are all probably perfect people, who glide gracefully through life, never so much as falling off a bike or pouring bleach in your own coffee. For sure.
Well, I am not a perfect person, and I have had one of Those Days. I knew it would be thus as soon as I got up and discovered that I’d made a stupid spelling mistake in one of the blog posts I wrote last night (Yes, I did spell check, but it was a name I thought I knew how to spell so I let it go. Yes, I am stupid.) and that, not one, but two people had left snarky comments about it. GOD.
I should really just have gone back to bed right there. My experience with Those Days (and trust me, I’ve had a lot of experience with Those Days) is that once the first mistake has been made, others will follow, as surely as Neighbours follows the one o’clock news. And so it was. I followed up my stupid spelling mistake with one of my trademark “writing about something that’s already been covered” tricks. (Yes, I did check. No, I did not see the earlier article. Yes, I do hate myself a little bit right now, oh yes I do!) Needless to say, this was noticed and commented upon almost instantly. Go me!
Could the day get any worse? Why yes – yes it could! One headline typo, one completely missing headline, one garbled mess of a post (What was I trying to say? Who knows!) and one distorted mess of an image later, I was about fit to be tied. Luckily, all of these mistakes were ones that I noticed, and managed to correct, almost instantly, but even so. What was I thinking? (Answer: nothing. Obviously. My mind was a vacuum, a gaping void. I made Paris Hilton look intelligent today, and I hang my head in shame). What is WRONG with me? Also: Typepad? Was a b*****d. And I missed Neighbours. Gah.
I know: it was just one of Those Days. An off-day, if you will. And I should point out that I’m not normally like this. (Hi, potential clients who are reading this! Wanna employ a blogger?!) Most days I manage to only screw up once or maybe twice, not all the live-long day. The problem with this, though? Well, as a blogger, you’re not allowed to have off days. You’re not allowed to make mistakes. At all. Ever. I mean, I know we all have days like these. I know we all make mistakes. When your job involves writing on the Internet, though, you can guarantee that no mistake will go un-noticed. For every mistake you make, there’s a snarky commenter just waiting to pounce on it gleefully. And in my case? There’s two.
I can’t think of many other jobs where there’s so much pressure to be absolutely perfect at all times. Where the slightest typo or spelling error will be met with instant, public humiliation. And don’t get me wrong: I hold my hands up to the mistakes I make. I know I shouldn’t make them. I should be perfect, and I should be perfect at all times. It’s just that… sometimes I’m not. (Well, OK, a lot of the time I’m not .GOD.)
The people who leave the snarky comments, though? Perfect. All of them. I mean, they must be, or they wouldn’t feel such an overwhelming need to point out other people’s mistakes. I always have to sit on my hands when I get these comments, to stop myself typing back something along the lines of, “Thanks for the comment. By the way, what’s the address of your blog? You know, the one where you’ve never made a single mistake, ever?” Of course, the problem with that is that they’re allowed to make mistakes. They’re not writers. Writers are not allowed to make mistakes. Not even the odd typo. If you’re a writer, and you make a spelling error, God help you. You will never get away with it. At best, you’ll get a bitchy email along the lines of “Haha, you call yourself a writer, but you made a typo on your blawg!” At worst, you’ll get two.
What do people get out of this kind of thing, I wonder? I notice lots of mistakes on people’s blogs – “there/their” confusion and “should of” rather than “should have” being the two that instantly spring to mind. When I see these mistakes, though, it never occurs to me to point them out. I don’t think I’ve ever felt the need to haul out the ol’ riding boots and get up onto my high horse about it. For one, I’m scared of heights, and for two, what would I gain from it? I’d just make myself look spiteful and petty. Do these people know they look spiteful and petty, or do they think they think they’re successfully pulling off the “helpful” thing? Who knows…
Anyway. One of Those Days. Grow a thicker skin, learn to proofread better, get on with it. (Oh – and wine helps, I find…) Conclusion: I have one hell of a strange job. But I like it.
Tagged email fun, perfect people
So, following in the footsteps of Diane before me, I got me a Faqqly. It’s basically an interactive F.A.Q which allows you lot to ask me questions which I then answer for you. This appeals to me because:
a) I am lazy, and can’t be bothered writing a FAQ for myself
and
b) I’m all about the attention. Hell, yes.
So, yes, if you have a burning question you’ve ever wanted to ask me, now is your chance to do it.*
*Unless your question is of the "A train leaves the station at 3pm, travelling at 100mph. If another train leaves the station at…." I hate maths.
Thing One:
Terry’s wedding ring arrived today. As with my own wedding ring I decided to take a very blurry picture of it for you. Here it is:
Them’s two little diamonds you can (just about see), the rest is white gold, same as mine. It’s really lovely, and just a shame that I can’t seem to get a decent picture of it.
Thing Two:
We did something pretty unforgiveable to Rubin today:
Better picture and Rubin’s comments are at his blog…
 I put a spell on yoos…
Yeah, so this is NOT the Rubinman… I know y’all come here specifically to see the Rubinman, but, it’s like, he ain’t here. The Rubinman doesn’t dress up in stupid sissy Yoda clothes, no way man. No, this is… this is a WOLF speaking on his behalf. Yeah, a wolf. A wolf in Rubinman’s clothing. No, wait, NOT in Rubinman’s clothing – the Rubinman doesn’t HAVE clothing like this. Stupid ass wolf.
Anyway, Rubin would just like it to be known that if Amber and Terry ever DID buy a Yoda suit, and if they ever made Rubin WEAR that there Yoda suit, Rubin would bite both their bums. And also: if any of yoos are laughin’ at me him right now, he will bit all your bums too, every last of them, and don’t even think he wont.
Rubin A Wolf
I love working from home, wouldn’t change it for the world. The problem with that, though? Well, there are three.
1. It becomes very, very easy to just not bother getting out of bed in the morning
2. What clothes? This here dressing gown does me just fine, thanks very much. (Note to self: buy selection of dressing gowns. Maybe a black one. Black goes with everything.)
3. The house gets messy.
Yes, number three surprised me, too. I’d always assumed that those who worked from home would have perfect palaces of houses, given all that lovely time they have to clean. Yeah, I was clearly on crack when I thought that. People who go out to work have much tidier homes, and that’s purely because they’re not there enough to make a real mess. We are at home, and, by-God, we do make a mess. For this reason, we do not invite clients into our home.
See, my home is my castle, and by “my castle” I mean “My tiny little two-bedroom semi-detached house”. Unfortunately, my home is also my office, and this means that, from time to time, clients will try to invite themselves round. Normally we can put them off pretty easily, either by offering to come to them instead, or suggesting a halfway house of a meeting place. If the worst came to the worst, the local business centre hires out meeting rooms, and I’d honestly rather do that than have people come into the house.
It’s nothing personal: I mean, obviously I don’t start making gagging noises when they suggest coming round, or go “Eeewww! You’re not getting into my house!” I just casually suggest that I come to them instead, and, for the most part, this works out just fine. Sometimes, though: sometimes we get what I call “drive-bys”. Clients who call us from their car and say “Hey, guess what? It just so happens that I’m parked outside your house right now! Why don’t I come in and drop off that cheque/CD with images that Terry needs/totally non-urgent piece of paper that you didn’t even need in the first place?”
This happened to us last week, with one of Terry’s clients. It was horrendous. In the five minutes worth of warning time that we had (WARNING! THIS IS YOUR FIVE MINUTE WARNING! CLIENT INCOMING! CLIENT INCOMING!) we had to rush around the house, plucking knickers off radiators, hiding dirty dishes under the bed, checking to make sure Rubin hadn’t peed on that corner of the couch that he will keep peeing on any chance he gets, and generally trying to create the illusion that, why yes! As it happens, we totally are an organised, professional and – yes – perfect couple of business owners.
Once the client was in situ in the lounge, though, the fun was only just beginning! You see, business and animals? They just don’t mix. (Unless you’re a vet, or a zoo keeper or something, obv.) At the moment we have not one, but three animals. One is Rubin. One is Woody the Stick Insect. One is Pepe the Parrot. This is Pepe the Parrot:
Isn’t Pepe cute? DUH! Wrong answer! Pepe is NOT cute. Pepe is a little b*****d who screams the place down, making a noise that’s sort of a cross between a train going through a tunnel and a very large person being brutally murdered every time a) the phone rings b) he is left on his own for more than a few seconds or c) Terry leaves the room for any reason at all. He also bites.
This is Rubin. The Man.:
Isn’t Rubin cute? Well, yes, he is. But Rubin? Is mental. Crazy mental. It’s probably the wolf blood in him. What Rubin can’t stand is not being the centre of attention. If there is someone new in the house, Rubin feels that person’s attention should be focused solely on him and him alone. If it’s not? He will cry like a baby.
So, client is in the lounge with Terry. I am in the “office” with Rubin, Pepe and Woody the Stick insect. (You’re not getting a picture of Woody, OK? Just imagine a stick with legs. That’s our Woody for ya! He and Pepe belong to Terry’s mum, who is on holiday, by the way. We didn’t just spontaneously decide to get ourselves a menagerie or something.) Pepe is screaming like a train/murder victim. Rubin is crying like a very noisy baby, and also: scratching at the door. Woody is…well, Woody is being a stick. I got no beef with him.
Despite all of this, I think we managed to pull off the “We are professionals” thing OK. (Sorry, I’ve just realised you were probably waiting for a punch line here, weren’t you? You were thinking I was going to pour bleach in the client’s coffee, or pee on him or something, weren’t you? Well, there isn’t a punchline. Sorry. You just read all that for nothing. Please don’t hate me.) I did find one of Terry’s socks on the stairs after the guy left, but as the only reason the client would have come up the stairs would have been to use the bathroom, and as Terry was under strict instructions to say that, sorry, we don’t have one, we were good. Luckily the man didn’t ask. I would imagine the screams coming from the bedroom probably acted as a deterrent there. He probably thinks Terry has a mad wife in the attic or something, and actually? He sort of does, when you come to think of it.
Anyway, Pepe and Woody go home tomorrow, so at least that particular problem is solved. Other than that, I don’t quite know what we can do to put off drive-bys. As I see it, there are only three solutions:
1. Rent offices (Totally not an option, not only because of the cost, but because we just don’t want to. I hate offices with a passion)
2. Switch off all the lights and hide when they drive by. (Note: Let them in if they come bearing a cheque, though, because, God knows, getting money out of clients is like getting the truth out of Heather Mills…)
3. Become perfect people, whose home is always perfect, like the Fly Lady’s Chances of this happening: slim to nil.
Still. At least I wasn’t naked this time.
If you are one of the many who woke up this morning and thought to yourself, “God, I wish I knew what was inside Amber’s handbag!” I bring glad tidings: your wish has been answered over at The Bag Lady.
(Also pictured: Rubin, who, I should stress, does not actually form part of the contents of my handbag…)
This post was originally written for the History Matters Campaign, which decreed today, October 17th 2006, National Blog Day, the day on which people all over the world join together in writing a diary of their day, which will then be carefully stored by the British library as "a permanent historical record of our national life".
"Why, I am a blogger!" I thought. "I will do this!" So I did. The problem with that, though? Well, National Blog Day would have to fall on a day in which absolutely nothing happened, wouldn’t it? A day in which I got up, sat at my desk, and… sat at my desk some more. Seriously, I mean, I didn’t even pee in the woods or anything. I did put bleach in my coffee, of course, but other than that, I got nothing. Move along, folks, nothing to see here.
What little there is to see, naturally, is behind the cut. (And it’s loooong…)
Continue reading →
Rubin writes…
Ha! I gotchya there, didn’t I? Yes, it’s true that I fought a sock today, sure, but if y’all ACTUALLY BELIEVED that the sock won, well, you don’t know the Rubinman very well, do yoos? Like a sock would beat me! No, I totally defeated that sucker – ripped it right off Terry’s foot, threw it about some, broke its stupid neck, KILLED IT. I had no mercy, and that’s because I? Was raised by wolves.
Also: that stupid rubbish Pepeman is here again. Like I don’t have enough to do without keepin’ that dude in line all day. Today I was busy playing with my ponkies, and the Pepe started doing this mad cackling, like it was LAUGHING at me or something. I know! Ha, bet it was laughin’ on the other side of its green feathered face after it saw the masterful way I dealt with the sock, eh?
You’ll keep, Pepeman, you’ll keep…
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