I had planned to write a couple of posts here over the holiday – one about Christmas, one a kind of "year in review" type thing maybe. Then I ate too much, slept too much and thought, "screw that, I’m going to go shopping, instead." So I did.
I didn’t actually buy much during the shopping, mind you, because The Others were there, and it was just too difficult to get into most of the stores, never mind buy anything in them. God, I hate the sales. I did almost buy a maternity dress (No, I am not pregnant: I am just stupid, and didn’t realise it was a maternity dress until I got into the changing room.) at one point, but luckily my new policy of trying stuff on before buying it managed to avert that particular crisis. Other than that, it’s been a lazy holiday, most of which has passed in a food-driven daze.
Most Dramatic Moment : When the plate bearing dips (which was sitting on one of those stands with tea lights under it) dramatically exploded during Christmas dinner.
Biggest ‘D’oh!’ Moment: When my dad tried to pick up the pieces of said plate, forgetting they were BURNING HOT and ran to the kitchen with them, screaming all the way. I’m just amazed it wasn’t me that did that…
Person Who Are the Most Food: Me
Person Who Continues to Eat Chocolate for Breakfast on a Daily Basis: Me
And also for lunch: Me
Person Who Peed on the Washing Machine Most Times: Rubin
And that was Christmas. I mostly got clothes and money, which was very welcome because at the rate I’m eating chocolate, I’ll need to buy a whole new wardrobe pretty soon. Next up, of course, we have New Year to get through. Regular readers will remember that I hate New Year with a fiery passion, but it was only when Terry described it this week as "forced enjoyment" that I realised why this is. (I think he was quoting Russel Brand when he said that, by the way. Just in case anyone was thinking that Terry suddenly became hugely insightful or something.) I think "forced enjoyment" sums up New Year pretty well: it sucks because everyone has such high expectations of it. Not only is it forced enjoyment, but it’s also slightly competitive enjoyment, with everyone desperate to have THE BEST! TIME! EVER! and spending the evening quietly convinced that everyone else they know is at some fabulous, secret party, having that mythical New Year that everyone talks about, but no one ever seems to experience.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Anyway, I’m off to eat some chocolate and maybe think about doing some more shopping.
So, another party, another opportunity for Amber and Terry to have a close encounter with the police. Ho-hum.
Last night our friends Greg and Claire had a party. Now, last time Greg and Claire had a party, Terry and I were pulled over by the police for no reason whatsoever on the way there. This time we decided to mix things up a little (well, it’s boring to pull the same stunt twice. Not that that’s stopped us before, of course.) so this time it was US who called the police out on arrival at the house, after a gang of marauding teenagers decided to jump on top of Terry’s car and then RUN RIGHT OVER THE TOP OF IT. God, I hate people.
We had just parked, and were making our way cautiously across the frozen ground towards the house when we noticed The Gang, but it was only as we knocked on the door that we heard the car alarm go off. Now, because Terry’s car alarm has earned itself a reputation for being a little bit over-zealous in its protection of the vehicle, I thought nothing of this, and so it was that I had been inside the house for a few minutes and was merrily drinking wine and chatting to our hosts when I suddenly realised that, "Hey! Terry didn’t actually come back after he went to switch off the alarm, did he? Maybe he is dead?"
Well, I went outside and had a bit of a look around. Terry was standing by the car, and seemed to be talking to someone on the phone, so I went back inside, happy to assume that, I dunno, that he had decided that now was a good time to catch up with an old friend or something? You can see why I decided against becoming a detective, can’t you?
A few minutes later, Terry finally arrived at the party, and the whole sorry tale was told. It appears that as he turned back to investigate the car alarm, he noticed the aforementioned gang of "youths" jump onto the car bonnet and then proceed from there onto the roof, and finally down the back window and off into the night. God, I really wish they had fallen off and hurt something.
Terry gave chase (my hero! And also: stupid!) and managed to catch one of the little gits. Unluckily, this was one of the gang who HADN’T jumped onto the car, so the fact that Terry managed to get the kid to empty his pockets, and found some kind of ID card with both his name and address on it will probably count for nothing. So Terry phoned the police. Uncharacteristically, the police arrived two minutes later, took the details and went off in hot pursuit of the miscreants, although, given the time that had elapsed, I really, really doubt they would have caught them – or that they’ll actually do anything about it if they did, given that these kids were all about 13 years old.
We weren’t able to examine the car very well at the time because it was too dark, but this morning it appears to have a slight dent in the roof, plus several muddy footprints on the bonnet, roof and back windows. I was thinking the police really should have taken some kind of tracing of these, because that’s always how they catch criminals in the Famous Five, but no, apparently not. Terry is going to call them anyway to let them know that there is some damage (to be honest, it’s not particularly noticeable, but I’m vindictive enough to press charges if it was at all possible – which it won’t be, because of their ages), but I’m guessing the end to this story will be that there will BE no end, and that we’ll just have to cough up to repair senseless damage by the lobotomized-at-birth.
Have a great Christmas, everyone, and if you’re planning on leaving the house at all, take care – the stupid people, they are everywhere.
The more observant among you may have noticed that I haven’t exactly been on the ball with the ole blog-posting lately, and this is because it’s turning out to be a very long December indeed. Why is it, I wonder, that so many people choose the week before Christmas to embark upon complex new projects, which mostly revolve around sending me emails and asking me to, you know, do stuff? Why can they not just let me wind down gently, and sit around the house eating the chocolate from my advent calender and drinking the wine Terry bought for that party we’re going to on Saturday? WHY? And is is STILL not Christmas yet? Seriously? Because, I don’t know about you, but I am DONE with this whole “not yet being Christmas” thing. This time next week I’ll be passed out on the sofa, having eaten more food than I normally eat in a week and IT CANNOT COME FAST ENOUGH, is all I can say.
Yeah. I had no idea I was going to write all of that. What I meant to do was post more pictures because, well, it’s easier than writing actual words. Shut up. Anyway, here they are, the pictures I meant to post on Saturday, December 15th, 2007 – or “T-Day” as it’s known in our house – Transplant Day.
December 15th, 2003: This is the exact spot at the Grand Canyon where Terry and I got engaged.
December 15th, 2005 – Just a few of the pills Terry had to take weekly after his transplant – and I really mean “a few” – there were lots more back at the start. This picture wasn’t actually taken on T-Day itself, because, funnily enough, I didn’t have my camera with me that day. Terry has often asked me why this was, and my answer has always been: “Are you on crack, Terry?” Actually, the reason for the lack of photographic evidence of T-Day is explained by my total phobia of hospitals, illness and operations, and, of course, the fact that it was major surgery. And was SCARY. Just not really the kind of thing you feel like photographing, y’know?
T-Day 2007 passed far less eventfully than its predecessors, anyway. I spent it lolling around in bed, for the most part, enjoying a rare few hours when I didn’t have to work, and Terry spent it playing short tennis, which I guess is a good sign of how far we’ve come. (Not the me-lying-in-bed-until-noon bit, obviously. Because that’s just exactly the same as ever it was).
Anyway: happy belated T-Day Terry, John and the kidney you share. If you could pretend that you read this on the actual anniversary of the transplant, that would be great…
Tagged kidney transplant
OK, Friday Five, that’s it – you and me are through. I tried to make this relationship work, I really did (well, I tried twice, but who’s counting), but the thing is, Friday Five: it’s not me, it’s you. I mean, it all started out well enough, with questions about stuffed animals and, er, extremes of temperature, but soon you were all, “Which one of your friends has the dreamiest eyes?”, “what’s hanging from your ceiling?” and “where is your nearest playground?” and I was all, WHO CARES? I’m pretty sure no one wants to hear me listing the names of my friends, talking about my ceiling or providing the utterly fascinating information that there is a playground not five minutes walk from here, so that’s it: enough.
From now on, I’m going to be playing a new game every Friday, and you are welcome to join me. It’s going to be called the “Friday Photo”, and what will happen is that every Friday I will post … can you even begin to guess?! Yes, I will post a photo! Well, that’s the idea, anyway. The problem with that is that Friday is my Bad Day – the day when it’s all workworkwork, so I don’t really get the chance to blog much on a Friday, hence the fact that I am actually writing this entry LAST SUNDAY, with my words coming to you as if from THE PAST. Spooky, no? I really hope I don’t die between now (Sunday) and the time this entry is published, otherwise you’ll all be really freaked out to see me suddenly start bitching about The Friday Five from beyond the grave.
Anyway, here is this week’s photo:
You can probably tell from the hair (and the butchness) that this photo is another in my occasional series of embarrassing photos of me as a child. This particular photo is notable, not so much for the “Double Dummy” action going on there (yes, we in the UK call pacifiers “dummies”. Never fails to make me smile.), but for the fact that when I was shown this picture when I was a slightly older child, I immediately started up a weeping and a wailing, and the only thing my parents could get out of me were the words, “MY LEG! I ONLY HAVE ONE LEG! WHY DID YOU NOT TELL ME I ONLY HAD ONE LEG!”
Indeed, when you look at the picture again, you’ll see that it does indeed look like I have only one leg. You’d have thought the fact that, when I was shown it, I was very obviously standing there ON MY TWO LEGS would have been a clue, though, hmmm? I think this says a lot more about my mentality than I really like to dwell on, to be honest.
Also: in a related incident, when I was a bit older again, my grandad once told me that my leg had fallen off and rolled under the chair. Yes, I believed him.
Anyway, I think I’ve probably embarrassed myself enough for one day now, so it’sback to work for me. (Unless, of course, I really did die in between writing this entry and it being published, in which case at least I don’t have to spend my Friday night working.)
Well, folks, it turns out that looking like a student was the very least of my worries. Just for the record, I probably still do look like a student – but I’ve now been informed that I now look "butch" and "ugly" too. Which is, you know… nice.
You see, way the hell back in August, I wrote this column for Shoewawa. For the benefit of those of you who really couldn’t give a damn about shoes (!), allow me to summarize: it was about trainers. More specifically, it was about my abiding hatred of them. It’s true, I really don’t like trainers. Sure, I wear them for the gym, where I have absolutely no choice in the matter, but it’s always been my firm belief that trainers are only for the gym. I would not, for instance, wear them to go shopping in. Or out to dinner. In fact, I wouldn’t wear them anywhere I wasn’t going to be engaging in some form of physical exercise, such is my dislike of them.
In stating this dislike, though, I was very careful to try not to offend the trainer-lovers, and to make it clear that this was just a personal preference, and no reflection on them and their beloved footwear. In fact, I even went so far as to say that I think trainers can and do look good on other people. Just not on me. This is MY irrational hatred you see, and I was talking about myself, so if you like trainers, then good for you: wear them with pride, and may you have much joy of them. Just don’t expect me to do likewise.
Today I wanted to link to that entry from something else I was writing it, so I went back to it and decided to take a quick look to see if any new comments had been added since the last time I viewed it. One had: a comment by a girl called "Saelynne". Here is what "Saelynne" had to say about me:
"You look butch enough to pull off trainers.
Only pretty girls can wear heels or ballet flats & look cute.
You my dear are definatly not one of them."
So, bringing my powerful intellect to bear on this statement, I dunno, but I don’t think Saelynne likes me, do you?
Now, I would be lying if I said this comment didn’t sting just a little. I mean, one minute I’m being told I look like a student, the next I’m a dog-rough, "butch" looking student to boot. Looks like that lucrative modelling career I’ve been planning will have to go on hold, then. And was that my ego I just saw limping out of the room there?
Now, at first I thought this I had inadvertently managed to offend one of the trainer-lovers after all. I seem to do this quite a lot, and not just to the trainer-lovers: there’s a freakishly large number of people out there who just CAN’T STAND the idea that some people have different taste from them – hence the fact that when I wrote about a dress I didn’t like last week, someone emailed me to say that I was obviously just saying that about it because I am fat. So, let’s see, what do we have so far: I’m fat, ugly, butch, and I look like a student. Thanks, Internet! Love you too!
Anyway, Saelynne wasn’t actually disagreeing with me about the trainers (in fact, trainers are the only shoes I should wear, according to her, because I’m too "butch" for heels. Looks like there’s a whole lotta size 4 stilettos coming to an eBay auction near you, folks: get ‘em while they’re hot!). So she was just a random, spiteful bitch. Wow. I mean, I’ve always known that if assholes could fly, the Internet would be an airport, but sometimes amazes me the lengths people will go to to prove what assholes they really are. Also, the fact that there are STILL people who don’t know how to spell "definitely" correctly is pretty amazing too. (I know, I know, it was a cheap shot. She wasn’t brave enough to put her photo up above her comment, like I did on my post, though, so it’s all I’ve got to go on. That and the fact that she’s a complete freaking loon, obviously.)
And while I guess I should be flattered that people like "Saelynne" consider me to be so important that a few words from me about shoes is enough to turn them into raving lunatics, I’m thinking that "influential among crazy people" probably isn’t too much of an accolade, is it? Not really one to write home about. Women, huh?
This is Fat Amber, the Butch Blogger, signing out…
Tagged OMG internet drama!
It’s OK, it’s OK, you can stand down the vigil – I’m still alive. I know you all probably thought that I really did have an abominable aneurysm after all (and God, how embarrassing would THAT have been?), but it’s OK, I’m still here. I mean, I did have another migraine on Monday, so I’m probably still dying, and there was that incident in the library today where I was waiting for the man to check my books through and I turned around to see (and I exaggerate only slightly here) a poster on the wall which read:
"Do you have a persistent cough?
Are you feeling unusually tired?
IT COULD BE LUNG CANCER!
Better get that checked out, bitch."
But other than that, we’re all good. And just for the record, I don’t happen to have a persistent cough or unusual levels of tiredness, but if I ever do have either of those symptoms – and I can be pretty sure that sooner or later I WILL – I’ll be sure to remember the wise words of that poster, and freak the hell out like I’ve never freaked before.
Anyway. This is what my life looks like at the moment:
By this I don’t mean to imply that I sit and stare at my own blog all the livelong day (although I highly recommend it), but that it’s been all workworkwork for the past few weeks, and if there’s a world outside that there computer box, it’s becoming but a distant memory to me. As is the way of the self-employed writer, you see, it would appear that I have bitten off quite a bit more than I can chew right now, and you don’t need me to tell you how much that sucks. This is why I find myself still sitting in front of that damn computer at 10:56pm, rather than doing… whatever it is that people who aren’t self-employed writers do at 10:56pm on a Wednesday night. (It is Wednesday, right? Because, from where I’m sitting, all the days are starting to merge into one.)
This is also why it is that I have, after a lot of thought and quite a bit of angst, decided that Things Need to Change. So, from the Christmas holidays, I’m going to be cutting my paid blogging work in half and concentrating instead on my own blogs and other work. I’ll still be editing Shoewawa, but I’ll be stepping down from the other sites I write for, and because I’ve been writing for those sites for a while now, this is kind of a big deal for me. I mean, sure, it’ll technically give me more time to do things like eating and sleeping and all that jazz, but OMG what if there is no money for food? What if I give up this work and then I totally run out of money and have to go and work in McDonalds, or down a coal mine or something? WHAT IF?
I mean, I’ve done my sums. I have worked this out, and we’ll be OK. I probably won’t be able to buy that pony this year (AGAIN!) but we’ll survive. It’s just a little bit scary, is all.
And now I’m off to shut down the computer and go do whatever it is that people do at 11:04pm on a Wednesday night.
|
|
|
