So, there I am in the kitchen, making the umpteenth* cup of coffee of the day. I pour in the water and add sweetner – so far, so good. Then I reach for the milk, which is, handily enough, sitting right there beside me on the kitchen counter, even although I don’t remember taking it out of the fridge. I use it to fill up my mug. The problem? Well, it wasn’t milk, was it. No, it was BLEACH.
Yes, I put bleach in my own coffee. Needless to say (or, actually, given recent episodes, maybe I do need to say it…) I realised my mistake before I actually drank the coffee. Something about the swimming pool smell gave it away. GOD.
I’ve told Terry that he is in charge of all food and beverages from now on. I just can’t trust myself. to prepare my own meals…
* Note for non-Scottish people: "Umpteen" – an unspecified number somewhere in the teens; "a lot"
GOD.
I actually don’t even know why I’m about to "share" this story with you. I can only think that Diane was right when she commented that, as a blogger, it’s sometimes a case of "no humiliation wasted." I know that the phrase "Ah well, at least you’ll get a blog post out of it!" fairly trips off Terry’s lips when I commit one of my random (And also: frequent!) acts of stupidity, so maybe that’s it. Either that or I? Am mad. You decide!
So, to cut to the chase, today Terry, Rubin and I headed out to yet another country park for yet another long and healthy walk. Just prior to this, however, I’d had a couple of long and not-so-healthy mugs of coffee. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this. I, you see, have the bladder of a flea. And I would have made it – or I’m pretty sure I’d have made it, anyway – if it hadn’t been for the fact that on the way back to the car we somehow managed to take the wrong turning and plunge deeper into the woods than we’d intended to. About, ooh, a mile deeper, I’d say.
By the time we reached the car I could hardly walk. No matter, though! I was saved, for just a quarter of a mile from the car park sits the rustic yet very welcoming country park toilets. Hallelujah! I staggered towards them, cursing the burbling stream that was tinkling happily alongside me, and envying Rubin as he merrily raised his leg at every tree. We reached the toilets. They were locked. Handy that, no? We were now stuck in the middle of a country park, miles from the nearest rest rooms, miles from home, and with THAT FREAKING STREAM STILL TINKLING AWAY MERRILY.
People, I did what I had to. I staggered into the woods and… well, you know. I guess that’s the end of my career as a countryside campaigner for sure. Ah well, easy come, easy go. We’re planning a 12 mile walk before the end of this month. Lord only knows how that’s going to go down…
Because I am lazy, here’s a quick update on my life and times, in handy list form. Enjoy!
- The caravan is back. And parked on the pavement, natch. I wish I knew just why it is that this annoys me so much. God knows, Terry doesn’t understand it, and as much as I try to justify it with all kinds of "Well, it’s not safe for the chyyyyldren, because they can’t walk on the pavement! Or see what’s coming round the corner!" I know perfectly well that the little blighters spend all their time either a) playing in the middle of the road or b) playing in my garden, so it can’t really be that, can it? Despite the lack of any reasonable excuse, though, I find myself consumed with anger at the presence of The Caravan on the pavement. WHY?
- I know the last thing any of you want to do is imagine me in my underwear, but I just can’t help but share the news that last week I managed to buy a £230 Agent Provocateur corset from eBay for £46. Or rather, my mum bought it for me, because, weirdly, my mum is all about buying sexy lingerie for her daughter. I should probably point out here that the corset is brand new with tags – I mean, I love a bargain, me, but even I draw the line at used underwear – and is absolutely gorgeous. I got it to wear under my wedding dress, but actually? I think I’ll wear it around the house, too…
- I wonder how many hits I’ll get from Google now, for people searching for "used underwear" and "sexy lingerie"?
- Just speaking of Google, I’m still getting loads of hits every day for the phrase "I’m a stupid asshole with nothing better to worry about than the prospect of having a ginger baby. How will I cope if I ever encounter a real problem?" Gah.
- Also speaking of Google, all you people who are looking for the porn star known as "Absolutely Amber"? I’m not the droid you’re looking for…
- After writing this post at Bridalwave about how I would NEVER, EVER even considering wearing a veil as part of my wedding ensemble, I tried on my mum’s old veil last night and oh my God, I didn’t want to take it off. I still stand my statement that veils look a lot like fancy dress to me, but I was surprised by how very glamorous it was. Maybe I’ll buy one of those to wear around the house too?
- For those of you who got here via Google thinking that the above bullet point was going to be about the whole Jack Straw/burqa debate, sorry to disappoint you. For the record, though, I think Jack Straw’s request (And "request" being the operative word here: despite the media frenzy, he’s not demanding that veils be removed…) to Muslim women to remove their veils when speaking to him is a perfectly reasonable one. Luckily for me (See: "I Am Lazy", above), Rachel from North London has summed up everything I wanted to say on this subject, though, so less work for me! Coolio.
- I started blogging at The Bag Lady this week. Are y’all bored with me yet?
- Terry and I have started going walking in the woods again, in a bid to get off our fat asses and get some exercise. This afternoon we went on our favourite walk, in a country park near here, only to find after two miles of walking that some farmer had torn down one style and barricaded up another in a bid to remove the right of access we "ramblers" so enjoy. SWINE. I am SO going to start a massive campaign and become a countryside campaigner, because that’s what you do on a Sunday when you’re as old as I am.
- Also: those annoying little mini-motorcycle things (the ones on which grown men/lanky teenagers sit with their knees tucked up under their ears) were zipping about all over the place, so that no matter where we went, the peace of the countryside was shattered by the BZZZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! of their stupid engines. Again, I wonder why this annoys me so much? Because, seriously, by the time we got home, I was fit to be tied. Maybe I need anger management classes? Or wine?
- I had to cut the grass again yesterday. GOD. Don’t get me wrong, I know we Scots like to joke about global warming and get all "Bring it on" about it, but yesterday was so warm that I was outside in a t-shirt. In October. Given that it’s rarely warm enough to wear a t-shirt outside in July here, this is very strange weather. And yes, my pathological hatred of winter is well documented, but seriously, October, I have sweater dresses and knee high boots here just waiting to be worn…. Also: I cannot STAND having to cut the grass every week. The last FOUR times I’ve had to do it I’ve put my lawn mowing implements away with a smirk, thinking, "Ha! Won’t be seeing YOU again until next year, suckers!" and then, a week later there I’ll be, getting my shoes all grass stained again. HATE it.
- I got my YSL faux cils mascara. At first I thought I hated it, but after several uses, I’m actually quite liking it. Not enough to lure me away from my faithful Lancome, though.
- It’s Monday tomorrow. Gah.
Well, that’s my third food-related near death experience out of the way, then. GOD.
When will I learn, eh? When. Will. I. Learn? I mean, I know I should never try to cook my own dinner. Terry is the cook in our house. Me? Not so much, really. I almost never try to make dinner because:
a) I can’t cook
b) I won’t cook
c) Hey! I have an idea for a TV show, whaddya think?
Seriously, don’t think this is false modesty, because it’s not. I really can’t cook. Not even really simple things. I make toast, and I make baked potatoes (badly, need I add?), and really, that’s about my limit. Last night, though, Terry decided he wanted to eat while watching some TV show or other, because we’re really classy that way. I, however, was hungry, so I thought, "I know! I’ll make me some pasta!"
Now, I don’t know what it was that I managed to do to the pasta. I didn’t even know it was possible to cook pasta wrong. Maybe it was the pesto I put on it? Maybe it had gone off. Does pesto go off? Who knows. All I know is that ten minutes after I got into bed I was running for the bathroom, convinced I was about to throw up. I didn’t, thankfully, but I almost wished I had because at least it would have been over mercifully quickly. Instead, I got to spend an entire hour camped out on the bathroom floor, wrapped in towels (SO?! It was cold!) and with my hair tied back, in case of, you know, emergency.
I felt better this morning, you will be pleased to know. (Or maybe you won’t. Maybe y’all secretly hate me, and are waiting for me to die a pasta-with-pesto induced death, who knows?) And if it’s true that these things come in threes, well, looks like my run of bad luck is over…
Stand down the vigil, people, I’m still alive…
Alive, yes, but also? Annoyed. Remember that bowling night we were supposed to be going to? The one with the ugly shoes and the rolled-up jeans, that I spent A WEEK dreaming up a suitable outfit for? Canceled. Lack of interest, and by lack of interest I mean, "Everyone acted all enthusiastic right up until the point where Terry booked and paid for the stupid bowling, and then they all mysteriously remembered prior engagements that prevented them from attending." In some cases, these prior engagements only came to mind TODAY, mere hours before kick off. Um, bowl off. Whatever.
So, yes, I’m annoyed. Not because I’m missing my chicken-in-a-basket and the opportunity to humiliate myself in public, because obviously I’m not. It’s just frustrating that people can be so thoughtless. Until this came up, you see, we had sworn never to hold another "meet up" again though Business Buzz, purely because this always happens. But some new members had joined lately, and, well, they all wanted to go bowling, didn’t they, so we thought it would be churlish to refuse. Never again. We’re able to reschedule for sometime within the next month, but if the same thing happens again (and experience teaches that it probably will), we’ll loose the money we spent booking it – unless, of course, the no-shows decide to do the decent thing and cough up.
Ah well, a lesson learned, I guess. And hey! At least I don’t have to wear the fugly shoes…
 Rubin writes…
GOD. My life is SO hard right now, let me tell you. I’m like, stressed to the MAXX here, you know what I mean? Seriously, I’m “run ragged”. I’m, like, up at 7am every morning to get in some solid barking time before breakfast, then once They’re up, I have to totally beg ALL DAY for food. ALL DAY, people. Yes, the Rubinman is a beggar. I know! SO unfair and you might say thet hey, They would probably feed me anyway, even if I didn’t beg, but, it’s like, how can I take that risk? So I beg all day, then I have to take Amber for a walk, and then I have to beg some more for TREATS.
No one understands how hard it is being me. It’s like, you know that song what the Beatles wrote? The one where they’re all “Oooh, it’s been a hard days night and I’ve been working like a DOG”? Yeah, right, sure yoos have. Nancy boys wouldn’t know a hard day’s night if a hard day’s night came right up to them and BIT THEM ON THE BUMs. And as for workin’ like a dog, it’s like, yoos come and swap places with the Rubinman for ONE DAY, John, Paul, George and Ringo, THEN we’ll talk, hmmm’kay?
So, you remember the time I fell off my bike twice in thirty seconds and you all thought that surely that was the lowest I would go in terms of complete and utter stupidity? Well, I have beaten my personal best, folks. In fact, I will see your “falling off a bike twice in thirty seconds” and I will raise you an “almost killing myself twice in five minutes”. For that, people, is what I did yesterday, during a normal Saturday evening meal at my parents’ house.
Picture the scene: there we all are around the table – me, my parents, Terry, Rubin (Rubin not so much round the table as salivating under it, you understand). I have in front of me a large plate of roast beef and man, am I hungry. Hungry and, yes, greedy. Too greedy by far, in fact, because as I force an enormous piece of food into my mouth, and chew not enough times before swallowing, I realise, that, whoops, can’t breathe no more, uh-uh!
Of course, what any intelligent person would probably have done at this point would have been to simply stick their head between their knees, give a polite cough, and then return to the meal. Not me, though! Instead, I rose from the table, purple in the face, and began frantically pantomiming, “HEY! I AM CHOKING TO DEATH! SAVE ME!”
Luckily my reputation for regularly placing myself in mortal danger whilst carrying out the simplest of tasks precedes me, so all three members of my family realised instantly that whoops! I’d done it again! All hell broke loose as they started shouting instructions to BEND OVER! and DON’T PANIC! at me. I, of course, chose to do both, bending over and panicking simultaneously as I waited to, well, die. Just as my dad prepared to administer the Heimlich manoevre, though, and the thought that “Bugger, I’m going to throw up right next to the dining table” flashed through my head, the hunk o’ meat slid swiftly out of my throat, thus proving that no, it really wasn’t stuck that badly in the first place, and that, once again, I had managed to make a drama out of a crisis.
All joking aside, I got a pretty bad fright, and probably gave my mum a few extra grey hairs into the bargain. Sorry, mum. They say your life flashes before your eyes in these situations, though, but your intrepid reporter is here to tell you that no, actually, it does not. In fact, the only scene from my life to flash in front of my eyes was that of a depressing Blackpool hotel room, circa 1989, when my little cousin Blair almost choked to death on a Murray Mint and my dad had to hold him upside down by the ankles while my uncle slammed him on the back. “God, I wonder if my dad’s going to do that to me?!” I somehow had time to wonder, with what would have been my dying breath. Other than that, the overwhelming thought going through my feeble mind was “OMFG I COULD TOTALLY DIE HERE!” Seriously, it was not nice.
My brush with death was not yet over, though. As I took my place, shamefacedly at the table, and conversation resumed, I pushed the roast beef aside (DANGER! DANGER! THE COW WILL BE REVENGED!) and reached instead for a harmless bread roll, my mind still replaying the scenes of horror that had so recently transpired. So transfixed by this horror was I, however, that as I took the bread knife and sawed viciously through my roll, I went a little bit far and – yes – sawed into my own hand. GOD.
To be honest, there was probably little to no chance of this one killing me, but you know what? It totally could have. I could have bled to death, or contracted blood poisoning or something. I mean, OK, a sticking plaster managed to stem the flow, but even so, I am claiming this one as my second near death experience in under five minutes. GO, me!
I managed to get through the rest of the meal unscathed, although not without thinking a good many tedious, cliqued thoughts about how you just never know what’s coming, and how each breath could be your last. It was a life-changing moment. For instance, I think I will become a vegetarian now, and live only on a liquid diet (wine and vodka will be fine), in order to avoid dangerous kitchen implements. Probably safest to stay away from the car and lawnmower for a while too, because if it’s true that these things always come in threes, I still have one brush with death coming. What fun.
Needless to say, should there be no further entries after this one, it’s probably safe to assume that some bizarre accident, of the type that Could Only Happen To Me, has befallen me…
Tagged Random Acts of Stupidity
Well folks, today the wedding planning took a massive leap forward as Terry and I went to the shops to pick up the boots I was having heeled and buy some Johnston’s Summer Skin, and walked out with our wedding rings.
Actually, that’s not quite true: we only walked out with one ring (Not The One Ring, you understand, just one ring. Although, that said, we did see some replicas of The One Ring, presumably for those having themselves a Lord of the Rings themed wedding…). Amazingly enough, they had my ring in the right size (this hardly ever happens because I’m an "I", and they almost never have that size in stock. Thanks, skinny fingers!) but Terry’s had to be ordered and will be with us in a few weeks.
I felt very grown up as I left the store. Very OMG WE ARE GETTING MARRIED! Quite scary, in a way, but also pretty cool. My ring is very plain: because I have such stupidly small fingers, I decided I needed something very delicate, so it’s pretty much the narrowest band they had, white gold, with three small diamonds on the front. I’m a bit worried that it looks like a pretend wedding ring because it’s so tiny, but all of the thicker bands just made me look like I was wearing a knuckle duster.
Anyway, I know anyone can take a good, clear picture of their hands, so what I decided to do was take a crap, blurry one instead. You know how I like to be different! Here it is:
Also pictured: my desperately-needs-to-be-re-dipped engagement ring, which is sparklier in real life.
Terry’s ring is a bit more contemporary, but not so much that it will date, I don’t think. It’ll be here in a few weeks, and rest assured, I will bore you all rigid with that, too. Oh, and just while I’m on the subject of weddings, and at the risk of sounding like a complete blog whore (Which, actually? I sort of am, really) I will soon be writing all about my impending doom nuptials over at Bridalwave. Under six months to go….
From: Norbert Allison
To: Amber McNaught
Title: You offend our chief!
I was actually really dissapointed to find that Norbert’s email was actually just the same old pathetic stock market spam I get every day. I hadn’t actually offended his chief at all! Shame.
Fashionistas: look away now. What I have to show you here today ain’t pretty, and I mean that literally.
So, you remember this entry? In which I wondered aloud and at length about whether or not I should buy a pair of Ugg boots? Well, the argument raged long and weary. "Sure," I thought, "Ugg by name, Ugg(ly) by nature, but it’s cold here, so, so cold, and you know what would be nice? Some toasty warm boots with fleecy, furry stuff in the inside, that’s what!" Then yesterday it was so cold that I had to turn the heating on and wear all of my clothes at the same time, so my mind was pretty much made up for me.
No, I did not buy Uggs. I bought these instead:
These? Slippers, people. But! But! Not just any old slippers – SLIPPERS THAT LOOK LIKE BOOTS! I am mighty pleased with myself. And yes, OK, they’re not exactly the most stylish footwear in my collection, but you live through a Scottish winter then try telling me these aren’t crazy warm and also: cosy! And for £12, who can really argue?
Of course, as soon as I bought the furry slippers, the sun came out. I actually had to open the sunroof on the way home from the shops and
***Insert panicked pause while Amber realises that, why, she can’t remember closing that sun roof! Just talk amongst yourselves while I go and check****
when I got home and decided to take the dog for a walk I had to first of all REMOVE MY JACKET and second of all ALSO REMOVE MY THICK WINTER SWEATER. Er, hello, October? Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving your work here, but I have an entire wardrobe full of boots, sweaters and cute little woolen dresses to wear, you know what I’m saying?
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, furry boots. And shopping. Well, today was the day I had set aside to take myself down to the shops and splash some of the (pitifully small) amount of cash I have spare every month on some new winter (ahem!) clothes. Naturally, then, someone had called ahead to let the shops know I was on my way, so by the time I got there they’d managed to clear the racks of anything nice, leaving me with just a big ol’ heap o’crap to sift through. (Incidentally? I’m pretty sure it’s Terry with the "phoning ahead" thing. I mean, he’s the one who benefits when I fail to buy clothes, isn’t he?)
It was all very disappointing. New Look didn’t have ONE SINGLE PAIR of shoes in my size. Not one. (Well, OK, they did have one pair, but they were in the children’s section, and they were just a boring pair of gold ballet flats. I mean, obviously I bought them anyway, but SO not worth writing home about. Even although I kind of just did. Oops.) I was so disappointed that as soon as I got home (And after tearing the furry boots from the jaws of Rubin, who clearly thought they were stuffed toys for him. Oh, the shame.) I immediately hit up eBay and bought some YSL False Lash Mascara. So, I may have absolutely nothing to wear except for a pair of furry boots, but God, I’ll have great eyelashes. Small mercies and all that.
Oh, and the sunroof was closed, by the way. Not as stupid as I look, me!
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