Well, folks, The Great Haircut Wars of ’09 have left me feeling wrung out, like a limp rag, and that’s before I’ve even been anywhere NEAR the hairdresser. So, in a bid to post something that’s NOT directly related to my hair, I thought I’d do The Friday Five. But The Friday Five this week was a bunch of really boring questions about chocolate, and seriously, why would anyone care whether I know how chocolate is made or not? (I don’t, by the way. I don’t know how anything is made. And I don’t care. Cooking is why God made Other People.)
I still wanted to be lazy answer questions rather than write an entry with, you know, actual thoughts and ideas in it, though, so I decided to turn to my old friend Google Analytics, and answer some of the questions people have been asking the Internet recently, and which have led them to this here blog. For instance:
Can I wear black to a christening?
Well, I did. I wear black to absolutely everything, though, so I’m probably the wrong person to ask. My one piece of advice to you about attending a christening, however, is this: before I went to one, everyone told me that it would be “dressy, but not as dressy as a wedding.” Naturally, then, it turned out to be as dressy as a wedding. Maybe this was just some kind of freak occurrence, and not the norm for these events (I wouldn’t know, being a complete and utter heathen), but most people were dressed to the nines. This made it a lot of fun, actually, because there’s really nothing I enjoy more than looking at what other people are wearing.
My answer to this question, then: yes, black is fine, as long as you make it a “happy” black, not a sad black. Like, maybe lay off the veil and gloves, and use some colourful accessories to make it clear that you’re not at a funeral. Also: you’re being given the opportunity to dress up – seize it with both hands, my friend!
Do redheads have souls?
(Note: this is now one of my top search terms. Which really makes me wonder about humanity, to be honest.)
My answer: Don’t be silly, of course redheads don’t have souls. Redheads are another race entirely: we are, in fact, a little-known offshoot of the vampires, and we survive by drinking the blood of people who type dumb-ass questions into Google. I’d sleep with one eye open tonight if I were you. I’d also refrain from breeding if at all possible because… well, because the world has enough idiots, we don’t really need any more.
Is it normal to feel your pulse in your stomach?
Ooh, medical questions, I love me some medical questions! Actually, no, I don’t, and I have this to say to you, pulse-stomach-searcher: NEVER CONSULT DOCTOR GOOGLE ON THESE MATTERS. Doctor Google is not a good doctor. He is a wicked, evil doctor, and his answers will cause you to lie awake at night in a cold sweat, wondering who to leave your shoes to when you “go”.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say here is that the Internet is not a doctor and neither am I. (Note: Neither is Karl Kennedy from Neighbours, but you wouldn’t know it.) If it makes you feel any better, though, I last felt my pulse in my stomach in November 2007 - I actually thought I was about to give birth to an alien at the time – and I’m still alive. Take from that what you will.
Do you spend a lot of money on fashion?
Yes. Do you?
What is the most times a dog has peed?
Nineteen. No, I’m being serious, it was nineteen times. It was in 1978. Seriously, dude, what did you expect here? And why so vague? Do you want to know how many times a dog has peed in the space of an hour? A day? Its life? Does it have to be a particular breed of dog? Boy or girl? Ask and ye shall receive! Or actually, maybe not in this case, because honestly, who’s counting?
If you want to know how many times MY DOG has peed, well, I can’t tell you that in general terms, but I can tell you how many times he has peed INSIDE THE HOUSE this week: three times. Yes, three times. Mostly on his own bed (!) but sometimes on the radiator. He does it when we go to the gym. We don’t know why, because here’s the thing: he doesn’t do it when we leave the house to go anywhere else. Only when we go to the gym. What does this mean? What is he trying to tell us here? Who knows. (Oh! Maybe Google does! Must go and check…)
Anyway, these were just five of the questions my referrers have asked me recently. If you’d like to submit your own question to “Ask Amber”, be my guest. Just make it something I’m likely to know the answer to. You know, none of that “What’s the square root of 8.768?” rubbish, because I can’t help you with that.
Tagged Outfits, red hair, redhead, rubin
(*Note: ha, gotchya! Of course I’m not giving up blogging about my hair! Because what else would I blog about? No, seriously?)
Well, The Internet has spoken on the important issue of What I Should Do With My Stupid Hair, and it seems the Internet is firmly in favour of me cutting it all off. Or a big chunk of it, anyway. Like, really in favour of that.
Naturally, this has given rise to several small but intense moments of paranoia today, as I’ve thought to myself. “OMG, The Internet must really, really hate my hair the way it is now, if it’s this enthusiastic about the idea of me cutting it off! Wah!” But who am I to resist The Internet? So (drumroll)…
I’ve booked an appointment with my hairdresser for this Saturday. I know! I was amazed they could fit me in that quickly too – yay for the recession and people choosing to cut their hair themselves or something! (Note: joking. Also, never cut your hair yourself, kids, that way madness lies. Trust one who knows. )
I’m still not totally sure what I’m going to have done. I’m pretty sure the length will be considerably shorter, but, having re-examined the hair in the cold light of day (why yes, I DO spend too much time thinking about this!), new evidence has come to light, namely the fact that the layers around the front actually start at CHIN LEVEL. These are the most troublesome bits of all, so even if I go to shoulder length (NO. I WILL NOT BE GOING TO CHIN LENGTH. ABSOLUTELY NOT. UH-UH.) I will still face a mighty tussle every morning to coax these layers into submission.
Clearly, getting a fringe is out of the question. I repeat: is OUT. OF. THE. QUESTION so, well, I have no idea what I’m going to do about that. I think I’ll probably just not think about it until I’m actually sitting in the Chair O’Doom, wearing one of those huge, unflattering capes, and then ask for a fringe anyway.
(I’m kidding about the fringe.)
(Probably)
Meanwhile, Terry had lots of fun today making me look like “a mutant” (his words) with Photoshop. I’m particularly amused by the mad skillz he has employed to draw in the part of my sweater which was covered by my hair in the original photo. I promise I don’t ACTUALLY have a hunchback. Well, not so as you’d notice…
Almost 100% certain I’ll be going with the one on the bottom right…
(These all have about 5″ taken off the bottom, by the way. Except the,er, Bichon cut, obviously…)
Tagged hair
Say you’d had a really bad haircut. A haircut so bad, in fact, that even now, months later, you’re still growing it out, and while it may not look too bad to the naked eye, only you (and now the five or so people who read your blog) know how much time you have to spend trying to wrestle it into submission every morning. (Clue: a LOT of time.)
Say you know that, at the current rate of progress, you still have quite a few months to go before your hair will return to anything like “normality”.
Would you:
a) Say, “To hell with it!”, make an appointment with the hairdresser and have it cut to shoulder length (or, OK, maybe just below that), thus getting rid of most (but not all) of the mullet-like layers in one fell swoop, but leaving your hair the shortest it’s been since you were about 14. And you’re really not sure how you’re going to feel about that…
b) Say, “To hell with it!”, leave it to continue growing out for another month (even although some mornings you’d like to rip it clean out of your head) and spend the money on shoes instead.
c) Take the sensible-but-boring approach of getting it cut, but only having a couple of inches taken off, so you will continue your progress towards normal, non-layered hair, but slowly.
d) Get a fringe.*
Your feedback on this most important of issues would be appreciated.
*Note: I’m kidding about the fringe. Probably.
Tagged hair
(Note: this entry has nothing at all to do with the movie of the same name. Sorry, Google searchers, nothing to see here…)
I know it’s the shortest month of the year, but seriously, February, are you STILL here? Do you need a ride to the station? Can I help you carry your bags?
This time, my frustration with The Month That Won’t End has nothing to do with being locked out of cars, or finding myself in possession of more than one head or anything like that. No, it’s all about the shopping. See, I promised myself I’d try to spend less on clothes and shoes, and actually, for the most part this month, I’ve come good on my promise. I mean, there was that bikini I suddenly needed to buy right at the start of the month, and the ill-fated work-out clothes which didn’t see the light of day until last week, but even so, people, even so. I mean, I haven’t bought a single pair of shoes this month AT ALL (thank God I bought three pairs last month, thank God, I say) and that’s saying a LOT for me.
But I can take no more. The closer it gets to pay-day, the more eaten up with the thought of shopping I become. The more I start to feel that if I don’t go forth and shop RIGHT NOW, I will surely shrivel up and die.
So I bought yet another little black dress. Of course I did. This one is very basic and versatile, though, and I will wear it all the time. Like, for lounging around the house in:
For using my stability ball in:
For washing the dishes in a really blurry way in:
And for dusting in:
So, yes, a totally versatile purchase which I will wear EVERYWHERE, and as Becky Bloomwood herself says, I will be known as The Girl in the Black Dress. Which, let’s face it, will make a change from me being known as The Girl Who Keeps Buying Black Dresses Even Although She Already Has Dozens of Them Which She Never Wears. Because that’s just nowhere near as catchy, you know?
Tagged dresses, Outfits, Things I Bought
Remember the time I used nail polish remover as toner, in a random act of stupidity?
Today, the nail polish remover had its comeuppance, in a particularly neat reversal of fortune which saw me spend 15 frustrating minutes trying to remove my nail polish with…. eye makeup remover.
Clearly the nail polish remover had switched places with the eye makeup remover in the night, in a cunning plan to waste my time (and my eye makeup remover, now I come to think of it) and make me feel foolish.
Either that or I have some weird kind of blindness to things with the words “remover” in their names.
Whichever it is, I somehow don’t think Mensa will be calling anytime soon…
All work and no play have made Amber a dull, dull blogger this week, folks, but of course, you knew that. In lieu of an actual entry, then, here are some updates on those burning issues I know you’ve all been thinking about obsessively this week:
The Daggers in Terry’s Throat:
Have now almost gone, and are probably more like those plastic knives you get in fast food restaurants than ACTUAL daggers, that you could use to kill a man. Terry is still officially Under the Weather, though, and has been for the past two weeks. Everyone say “awwww!” This has actually been quite the experience, because, small matter of compete kidney failure aside, Terry doesn’t really get ill. “Now you know how I felt all December,” is what I have said to him, more times than was really necessary. Poor Terry.
My Second Head:
Is still in its “Buddha” phase (bright red dot, exact centre of forehead. GOD.). Aaaargh! Enough with the red dot already! Why? Why must I suffer like this?
The red weals:
Miraculously gone. For the time being. Until they read this entry, obviously, and realise that I’ve just effectively invited them back by daring to suggest that my under-eye area no longer makes me look like I’ve just been exhumed.
The locks on my car door:
Refused to open again on Wednesday, but DID agree to open for me today. Maybe the LOCKS NOT FREEZE! is working? Or maybe it’s getting warmer. Please, God, let it be getting warmer. (Note: it is not getting warmer. I know because when I walked the dog today I had to wear so many clothes that when I tried to put my boots on, I realised I couldn’t actually bend over.)
February:
Still kicking my ass, still the worst month of the year.
The gym:
Once more on speaking terms with me, because after a poor start to the week, I have attended classes on Wednesday, Thursday AND Friday. I can no longer walk properly because of this.
The Novel:
Now 7.2% complete, as opposed to just 7% complete, or whatever it was before. At this rate, I will be finished by Christmas. Christmas 2020, I mean.
Aaaand, that’s it. Unless there’s anything I’ve missed that you can’t live without knowing, of course, in which case, free to ask. And now: wine.
OK, February, you win. It’s become clear to me now that absolutely EVERYTHING I try to do this month is doomed to epic failure, so I’m just going to go back to bed until March, OK? Actually, wait: make that May. I’ll get up when it’s Spring and not before…
So, I haven’t been to the gym this month, other than one Body Pump class that was so long ago I’ve almost forgotten doing it. This has been particularly annoying to me, because on the last day of January, I went out and bought a bunch of brand new gym clothes. I figured it was the only way I’d be able to motivate myself to actually go to the gym because, OK, they were exercise clothes, and therefore ugly by nature, but beggars can’t be choosers, and if new gym clothes were all that was on offer for the month, then by God, I would be taking full advantage of them!
Except I wouldn’t, because the day after I bought them, the snow came. And stayed for a week. During that time, not only was it dangerous to drive (Well, dangerous for ME to drive, I mean), the horrendous weather forced me to curl up into a tight little ball and not move. Just in case I haven’t made myself clear enough the million or so other times I’ve mentioned this: I DON’T “DO” COLD.
The week after that (last week), I caught the cold. Oh, and it snowed. Again. So all gym-going was put on hold that week too, making this week the first time this month that I haven’t had an excuse not to go to the gym. Yesterday, though… well, yesterday was Monday, and we visit Terry’s mum on a Monday, which leaves me with less time to do my actual work for the day, so I decided to let myself off the hook when I woke up at the appointed time and then totally failed to get up and go to the gym.
Which brings us to today.
Today was Body Combat. It’s my favourite class, so last night I prepared for it by laying out my gym clothes in preparation for the morning, and then lying awake all night. I didn’t do the last bit deliberately, you understand: it’s just that my brain likes to do this thing whereby if it knows I have to get up early the next day it will keep me awake, purely so it can go, “Ooh! Not long now! Just a few, short hours until you have to get up, in fact! Man, you’re going to feel like CRAP. You hate getting up early, don’t you? Don’t blame you: you should really have been asleep HOURS ago if you wanted to feel anything like “awake” when that alarm goes off. Seriously, you’re going to feel SO BAD you’re going to pray for the sweet release of death. Even if you go to sleep RIGHT NOW, you’ll still not get enough sleep, and you’ll feel TERRIBLE, like absolutely HORRENDOUS. Man, this going to SUCK!” And so on and so forth.
All of this internal chatter, however, meant that I was awake a good hour and a half before my alarm went off, and even although I sank into the deepest and most blissful sleep imaginable minutes before it did, by that point I had spent so much time thinking about how I was going to get up and go to the gym that there was no way in hell I wasn’t going to actually do it. Seriously, I had even dreamt about that Body Combat class during the short periods of sleep I managed to snatch. I wish I was joking.
Anyway. I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on my (Shiny! New!) gym clothes and headed out to the car.
Which was, of course, totally frozen solid, with both locks impenetrable. %$£^&&”^*&!!!!!!
This was mostly my fault. You see, this is now the THIRD time this has happened to me this month. It happened for the second time on Saturday morning, when I tried to go to my optician’s appointment, and found the car locks frozen solid. That night we went to visit my parents, and I whined so much about my passenger-side entry, and trips up and down the driveway with a mug of hot water, that my dad went out to his garage and returned with a can of “LOCKS NOT FREEZE!” or something, which he gave me with instructions to spray it on the locks.
(Aside: where does my dad GET all this stuff? Seriously, you could go round there and say, “Damn, I really wish I had a flux capacitor,” and my dad will get this thoughtful look on his face and say, “You know, I think I may have one of those in the garage…” And he WILL. It’s amazing. Sadly, this doesn’t work for Christian Louboutin shoes and ponies, though: I’ve checked.)
Obviously, I brought the LOCKS NOT FREEZE! home with me, put it carefully away in the spare room wardrobe, and forgot all about it. Until this morning, when I once again was forced to enter the car via the passenger side, having first of all travelled up and down the driveway three times with a mug of hot water. GOD.
(Yes, dad, I have sprayed the locks now. Thanks!)
Luckily for me, I now have the whole “Mug/hot water/passenger side entry” down to such a fine art that I’ll probably still be getting into the car via the passenger side by June, out of sheer force of habit, so by the time I finally pulled out of the driveway, I was still in plenty of time for my Body Combat class, and feeling not a little bit smug about it, let me tell you. At last, I was following through on a promise I had made to myself! I was going to the gym, and even although it would hurt, I knew that by the time I got home I would be feeling even MORE smug, and so it would all have been worthwhile.
Of course, I had forgotten an important fact here: I had forgotten that, last I checked, I was still Amber, and things just don’t tend to work out like that for me.
That’s probably why, after having driven for approximately three minutes, I encountered a traffic jam. And I sat in that traffic jam, almost without moving, for the next 25 minutes. When the time came for my class to start, and I was still sitting in the same place, still a good 15 – 20 minutes away from the gym, I accepted the inevitable, got out of the car and started walking amongst the stationery traffic, singing “Everybody Hurts” to the sky. Whoops, no, that was just in my own head. What I actually did, was turn the car around and return home*, taking a curiously circuitous route that was only vaguely familiar to me, on account of all of the stationery traffic that was just littered around the roads, going nowhere. It was like a scene out of one of those “End of the world, OMG, only Will Smith can save us now!” movies, honestly.
And this is why I try not to ever leave the house, if I can possibly help it. Every time I do, it’s just all stressstressstress, failfailfail, and I normally end up buying something I don’t actually need, into the bargain. (Not today, though. Because I would’ve needed to actually GO somewhere to have been able to buy something, and instead I just drove around, wasting my precious, precious, heart-breakingly expensive fuel instead. AAAARGH!)
I’m going back to bed now. Wake me up when it’s Spring, would you?
* Yes, I know, I could’ve just gone to the gym anyway. But it would probably have taken me another 30 minutes to get there, God knows how long to get back, and anyway: by that point? I just didn’t want to.
Tagged car wars, gym
Fi, (Of “Shoegal” fame) tagged me in the “Show Us Your Blog Spot” meme that’s been doing the rounds this month, and because this meme carries the threat “If you are tagged and do not participate, you will become allergic to cabbage,” I thought I’d better do it. I like cabbage, what can I say?
Anyway, as the name suggests, the rules of this meme are that you have to show everyone the spot where you blog. Because I blog for business rather than/as well as pleasure, we have a home office, which is where both Terry and I can be found… well, most of the the time, to be honest. I showed you a close-up of my desk last month, so here is a…. um, the opposite of a close-up. Predictably, Rubin is in the picture too:
 My blog spot Cleverly, I managed to totally obscure the view of the desk with my person, but meh, you’ve seen it before, so whatevs. It’s all pretty self explanatory: desk, chair, fluffy dog… The large silver case you can see underneath my desk is my Sephora train case, which is what I keep my face (i.e. my makeup) in. Yes, I need THAT MUCH of it. Because our house is tiny, the only place I can really keep it is under my desk, but I rest my feet on it while I’m working, so it works out OK.
To the left of my desk is Terry’s desk. (He’s not there because he’s not been feeling well today, poor soul, and has been lying on his bed muttering “The daggers! The daggers!”:
My, but he keeps a lot of crap under his desk, no? Yes, we sit next to each other all day long. No, it has not affected our relationship one bit, on account of we don’t actually speak to each other most of the time. He listens to stuff on iPlayer most of the time, and I’m on Twitter all day so hey, problem solved!
Immediately behind us, on the opposite wall from our desks, are these attractive Ikea shelves:
The red boxes contain photos, memorabilia and various bits of paper we don’t ever look at. The wooden box on the bottom right contains chargers for all of our various gadgets. It is slightly too small for this purpose. The overflowing basket in the bottom left is Rubin’s toy box. His bed is also in this room, but I had to move it to take this shot, because the room is so damn small. (I also had to hold the camera above my head. Seriously, could. not. swing. a. cat.)
And that’s my “blog spot”. I very occasionally blog from my bed, but only once in a blue moon because, well, my butt gets sore when I do that. And the ground floor of our house is so cold I rarely venture down there, so this is where 99% of my blogging happens. I know you care about this , Internet.
Also, while we’re talking about my writing, which we weren’t really, but hey: I’ve added a button in the sidebar which shows you the current word count of my novel. I’ve done this to try and force myself to actually write some of the stupid thing, and also so that excitement can build as you all count down to that magic moment when I decide that, actually, I can’t be bothered writing a novel no more, and throw in the towel. As you can see, at the time of writing, I have completed 4,709 words. At least eight of them will not be deleted at a later date, those being the words, “Chapter 1″, “Chapter 2″, “Prologue” and “By Amber McNaught.” Damn, but I’m good at this!
I wrote a post earlier today, but I deleted it because, well, I suspect there’s probably only so much whining people can take from someone whose current main problems in life are the facts that:
1. It snowed a lot this week
2. She had the cold (AGAIN), and it made her feel, like, really tired and OMG, doesn’t that suck?
3. She still has Two Heads
4. And a really, red, flaky, nose
5. And eye bags.
6. And RED WEALS. Because OF COURSE the red weals would return, on a week when my hair looked like straw, my face looked like that of someone recently exhumed, and I had two heads. OF COURSE they would.
7. Her husband is currently talking like Jack Bauer and complaining about the presence of “daggers” in his throat.
8. Gah.
Still. I wrote a big long whiny entry about all of that, and then I read it back and my abiding impression was that, yeah, it could be worse, couldn’t it? Boo hoo, I got a second head! So what, some people don’t even have ONE HEAD, how about that? Oh God, I’m talking to myself again, aren’t I?
Anyway, my point still stands: it’s not been the best week I’ve ever had in my life, but hey, it could be a helluva lot worse so, you know, rather than do a whole lot of whining about it, here are some photos of my dog, instead. You are welcome.
OMG! Fierce! Scary! Run! Save yourselves if you can!
Could. Not. Be. More. Cute. (Note the back leg resting on the desk : he lay like that for ages…)
Umm. Yeah…
Tagged rubin, second head, the cold
The latest installment of The Cold That Won’t Die has left me feeling run-down and miserable, so instead of getting out and about, and clocking up new Random Acts of Stupidity to amaze you with, here’s one from last Saturday when, as you know, Terry and I had some friends round for a small soiree.
Last time on “Ways to Totally Screw Up Your Party”, the scene had been set: everything was in place, including my massive Second Head, the heating was on the blink, and I was busily trying to use wine to take the edge off my latest cold. (Note: it kinda works!) All but two of our guests had arrived, so when there was a knock on the door, I, of course, assumed that it must be them. After all, who else would be knocking on my door on a Saturday night?
Terry was upstairs trying to fix the heating, so I headed to the door and threw it open, a welcoming smile upon my face. There, standing looking at me expectantly, and clutching bags full of what looked like food and drink, was a complete stranger.
The stranger looked to be about 18 or 19, and seemed to think I should be expecting him, so I quickly wracked my brains and concluded that SOMEONE must have invited him to the party. It could’ve been the friends we were still waiting on, it could’ve been Terry – hell, it could even have been me, posting a general invitation on Twitter or Facebook and then immediately forgetting all about it.
The young man at the door clearly HADN’T forgotten all about it, though, and so, rather than embarrassing him by admitting I had no clue who on earth he was, I decided to try and fake it. Note to self: never do that.
“Hiiiiiiiiii!” I said brightly, opening the door a little wider, and stepping back, making that universal arm gesture that says, “Hello, and welcome to my humble home! Won’t you come on in and pull up a seat?”
Instead, the young man simply handed me one of his carrier bags which did, indeed, contain some soft drinks and what looked like party food. This merely served to confirm my suspicions: he was here for my “party” and so I glanced into the bag and made some appropriately grateful noises. “Oooh, lovely!” I said. “Thanks very much!” And again I stepped back from the door and made my “come on in!” arm gesture.
Well, my new friend looked at me a little funny at that point, so I guessed I hadn’t been effusive enough in my thanks. When he handed me a SECOND bag of food, then, I made a point of cooing over it and thanking him profusely. And then I stepped back and gestured for him to come in again.
By this point I was getting cold standing at the door, and my guest’s reluctance to enter the house was starting to feel a little awkward. I don’t know what it was that prevented me from actually saying the words “Come on in!” rather than just making the gesture – perhaps I was just trying to put off the inevitable moment when I’d have to introduce him to the rest of the guests (My hastily concocted plan for this, by the way, was to usher him into the living room, shout, “Hey, everyone, look who’s here!” and then run upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom), but by this point enough was enough. I had just opened my mouth to finally just come right out with it and ask him to COME INTO THE DAMN HOUSE ALREADY, when he reached into the rather large bag I now noticed he was carrying, and produced…
TWO PIZZAS.
Yes, it was the pizza guy. Bringing the pizzas and other items Terry had ordered not thirty minutes earlier. I’d use this as my excuse, but actually, I’d heard him make the call and I’m not going to pretend I didn’t. GOD.
And that’s the sorry tale of how I came to try and entice the pizza guy into my home on a cold, dark night. It’s also the tale of how we had to find a new pizza delivery place, because I somehow don’t think that young man will have gotten over my “Mrs Robinson” act yet. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Terry can never get a pizza in this town again, unless he goes and picks it up himself.
Sorry, Terry. (And sorry, Pizza Guy, whoever you may be…)
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