(Skirt and body, ASOS, shoes, Christian Louboutin)
In an effort to get myself back on the blogging bus, after my recent absences (aside: there should totally BE a “blogging bus”, shouldn’t there? It would be filled with macarons and Instagram photos and red lipstick and it would be all kinds of awesome…), I decided to take part in the IFB Project, in which participants are given a topic to write about this each week, thus removing the pressure for me to actually come up with an idea on my own: yay! This week’s topic? “Make a collage or if possible an outfit post and show us your fall uniform. Tell us why the pieces you chose are ideal and necessary to be part of your uniform.” Well, OK…
As you can see, my Fall uniform this year will be a yellow skirt, off-the-shoulder top and high heels. And now that I’ve named this my “uniform”, I will feel obliged to wear it every single day. They will call me The Girl in the Yellow Skirt. Or possibly, The Girl Whose Shoulders Must Be Really Cold Because Who the Hell Goes Out With Bare Shoulders in October?
OK, so maybe I won’t wear the off-the-shoulder top every day. Not least because this top is actually a bodysuit: remember those? A bodysuit was part of my Spring, Summer, Winter AND Autumn uniform back when I was a teenager, and, naturally, I had hoped never to wear one ever again because of that. This was the only scoop-necked top I could find at the time, though, so I set aside my doubts and bought it, only to discover that, yes, bodysuits ARE every bit as stupidly uncomfortable as I remember them, fancy that! The problem wasn’t actually the “poppers”, either: it was the fact that the damn thing kept tugging the shoulders down, threatening to leave me topless at any given moment. I don’t think that would be ANYONE’S chosen Fall Uniform, do you?
Anyway, now that I’ve totally lowered the tone of this post, back to the subject at hand…
As I think I’ve mentioned once or twice or a million times, I don’t like Fall/Winter fashion, mostly because I’ve never really experienced a proper “Fall”. Here in Scotland, you see, we just go directly from Sort-of-Summer to OMGWINTER, with absolutely nothing in between. This year, the transition has been particularly sharp, so while the rest of you are all crunching through the crisp Autumn leaves, clutching your loved one’s mittened hands and talking excitedly about coats and boots, we here in the frozen north are having to spend forty minutes getting dressed every morning, in a process which involves:
a) Putting together a reasonably stylish outfit
b) Totally ruining said outfit by piling on cardigans, thick tights, scarves, thermals, and anything else we can find which will help keep us warm. Sometimes I get dressed and then just put my dressing gown back on over the top of everything. And sometimes I just don’t bother taking my dressing gown off until Spring comes again.
c) Adding even more layers.
d) And maybe a few more.
So I hate Fall fashion, because it’s just so fussy compared to the “dress + shoes” formula which gets me through summer without even having to think about it. Because of this fiery hatred of the season and its clothes, for most of my life, my Fall Uniform has mostly involved black. Lots and lots of black. I always start off with the best of intentions, but after just a few weeks of winter, the gloom of the season always makes me give up any pretence at “style”, and take refuge in dull colours, and anything that’s warm, regardless of what it looks like.
This year, however, will be different. No, really. This year, my Fall uniform will consist of:
1. Bright pops of colour. (Don’t you just hate it when people say “pops of colour”? I do.) Winter is depressing enough without me dressing like a widow, so I’m bringing sexy colour back. Mostly green, obviously, but also yellow. Maybe even some colourblocking if I’m feeling adventurous.
2. Circle skirts and pencil skirts.
I find skirts a little more versatile than dresses in cold weather, because you can wear thick sweaters with them and still look like you’ve made a bit of an effort. (It was actually quite warm on the day these photos were taken: I’ll obviously exchange the scoop neck for something warmer as the weather gets colder…)
3. Sheer tights
Yes, you read that right. See, of all of the things I hate about winter fashion, tights are the things I hate most. I know most women seem to go crazy over them, but I loathe them: I just find them really uncomfortable, and I think almost all of my outfits look better WITHOUT thick tights, so this winter I’m going to do a “Kate” (Middleton) and wear sheer tights instead. I’m actually wearing nude fishnets in these photos, which I love, because they add texture rather than shine, and they’re warmer than you might think. I’ve also managed not to ladder any of my pairs (yet), despite wearing them fairly frequently, and when you’re as clumsy as I am, that’s saying something.
4. Thick knits
Well, it’s not like I’ll be able to survive without them, is it?
5. Cropped trousers
I’ve been living in cropped trousers, lately: well, they’re the only kind of trousers that actually fit me without having to be altered, so I may as well like them…
And that’s my Fall Uniform. I think we all know I’ll end up in my usual black by the first week in November, though..
What’s your uniform?
Well, hello, ’tis I, your redheaded blogger-friend, who hasn’t actually updated her blog in WEEKS, but who still expects you all to be faithfully reading along, even although you probably unsubscribed weeks ago, and are only here now because I kept tweeting the link, and you eventually just clicked on it to shut me up. Bloggers, eh?
I didn’t actually intend to disappear for so long: it’s been a really hectic couple of weeks, though, which culminated at the weekend with this:
That’s my dad (on vocals), my uncle (on guitar) and my cousin (on drums), all being rock stars. Of course, my family have always been rock stars as far as I’m concerned, but back in the 70s, my dad and uncle (who’s my mum’s brother) played in a band together: a band which had assumed almost mythical status in my mind, so much had I heard about it. Although I’d heard all about those days, however, I’d never actually seen the band perform, because by the time I was born, they’d split up, leaving only one fuzzy audio recording, and a whole lot of stories. A few years later, my uncle and aunt moved to Canada, the bass player moved to Texas… basically, there was never really a time when everyone was in the same country at the same time, so a reunion had never been possible.
Until this weekend.
A few months ago, it was decided that the time was right for the great band reunion. A venue was found, flights were booked, people flew in from their various countries, including my cousin, (who I last saw when he was five), who was standing in for the original drummer, who hadn’t been well, and wasn’t sure he’d be able to perform. As it turned out, he did manage to do a couple of songs after all, so the band was reunited, and I finally got to see them.
They. Were. Amazing.
Seriously: I’ve heard my dad sing, obviously, and I’ve seen my uncle play guitar. I’ve never seen them on stage, performing as a band, though, and pretty much as soon as my dad took to the stage, I started filling up. He was absolutely amazing: I was so proud, and only a tiny bit emotional. OK, a big bit emotional. In a good way, though.
I also took the opportunity to wear Dress # 74. Because, you know, none of the other 73 dresses I own would do, apparently.
(I had literally about two minutes to take some photos for Shoeperwoman before our taxi arrived, so of course every single one of them came out blurry. I’ve bumped up the contrast in a bid to distract you with my extreme pallor, so… er, let’s just pretend that worked, OK? While we’re at it, let’s also pretend I don’t have that random piece of hair sticking out the side of my head. Your co-operation in this matter is greatly appreciated…)
This particular dress was actually free, because I bought it with some River Island vouchers I won. Free dresses totally don’t count, do they?
Also:
My uncle and aunt went to Paris last week, and I asked them to pop into Ladurée and get me some OMGMACRONS, so I could be a giant fashion blogger cliché and take a photo of them for my blog. I feel like I finally fit in now, only not really. They were pretty damn tasty, though, let me tell you.
Anyway: it was a fantastic night, and we got to catch up with lots of friends and family we haven’t seen for a while, which made it even better. Now we just have to persuade them all to do it again sometime…
Tagged dresses
Yes, folks, it’s the moment absolutely none of you have been waiting for: part two of the video of our California trip. Because, yes, our holiday videos come in different parts. Think of it as like the Halloween movies, only a little less scary. Only a little bit, though.
(Part 1 of this series, a.k.a. “San Francisco” is here, for those of you who are interested. Yes, mum and dad, I AM talking just to you now.)
Enjoy! And tell Terry he is AWESUM for putting this together!
And now I’m going to go and lock myself in my bedroom so I can cry over the fact that we are not there anymore…
The boulevards, the neon lights
I’ve been in love since the first sight
I wouldn’t change it if I could
Welcome to Hollywood
~ Mitchell Musso, Welcome to Hollywood
P.S. On the subject of holidays, Lape posted an interview with me on her travel blog today – you can see it here! Thanks, Lape!
Tagged california, LA
So, I already had this dress:
And I love it. Love it. It’s a great dress. All swingy, and swirly, and most importantly, mustard, which is my current colour obsession. And in ponte fabric, which I really love, because it doesn’t crease as easily as some fabrics, and I’m one of those people who can spend hours ironing her clothes, and then within two minutes of putting them on, they’ll be looking like I just picked them off the floor. Of a barn. But anyway: I had this dress, and I loved this dress.
But then yesterday?
Yesterday, they released it in green, too:
And honestly, I think they did it deliberately, as a test of my willpower. Seriously: one of my favourite dresses, now available in my favourite colour? A test. Obviously.
People, I failed the test. I have NO WILLPOWER whatsoever. I am completely powerless to resist the lure of the green dress, so now I have 22 of them: or at least, I will have, once it arrives.
Can I get an intervention over here?
“There, there, Rubin… I promise I’ll get over my addiction one of these days…”
Tagged green dresses
A few weeks ago, Siel asked me how many dresses I have. I didn’t actually know the answer to that offhand, and I couldn’t count them because I was scared of what the answer would be at any given time about 50% of my clothes are packed away in the attic, waiting for the right time of year for them to be worn again. On Friday, that day finally came for the winter clothes, so I prepared myself for the Great Wardrobe Switchover 2011(Winter Edition). While I had all of my clothes out at the same time, I took the opportunity to do a quick count, and..
72 dresses.
(Er, they’re not all shown here, obviously. The summer ones are all in the attic now. Missing them already!)
I dunno, that seems… actually, I have no idea how that seems. I was going to say it seems not too bad (I mean, I’ve collected them – sorry, curated them – over many years, after all, so it’s not like I just ran out and bought 72 dresses one day. Although that would rock. And I DO actually wear them.) but now I come to actually write it down, it occurs to me that my opinion is probably skewed by the fact that I know people who have a LOT more than that, who make my collection seem small in comparison. Hmmm.
Because I know you all care deeply about this, the 71 dresses are broken down as follows:
21 green dresses
16 black dresses
14 blue dresses
7 grey/silver dresses
6 cream/tan/beige dresses
4 white dresses
2 purple dresses
2 brown dresses
(OK, hands up: how many of you are prepared to admit that you totally added them all up in the hope that I’d miscounted?)
So, 72 dresses, many of them green or black.
The problem with this? Other than that I could really be doing with another closet to hold them all?
I have hardly ANY casual clothes.
Seriously, having systematically destroyed all of my jeans over the summer, I’m left with 72 dresses and nothing to wear. You think I’m exaggerating, I know. And let’s face it, it wouldn’t be the first time. But I promise, I’m only exaggerating very slightly this time. And I mean, I know dresses can be “casual”. Most of mine, aren’t, though (They pretty much ALL get the “Why are you all dressed up?” reaction, so…), and because I really hate wearing tights, “winter casual” basically means trousers or jeans for me. Up until recently, I was the proud owner of:
The Best Chinos in All the Land: RUINED
Red Jeans: RUINED
Green Jeans: RUINED
Blue jeans: RUINED
Sundry pairs of ancient jeans: only suitable for wearing in the house
Assorted black jeans and trousers: not yet ruined
Leggings & jeggings: don’t really count as “clothes”
So you can see my dilemma: from this point forth, I must either wear dresses, or black trousers. And that’s it. Which is ironic when you consider that one of my most viewed posts, according to the little widget in my sidebar, is this one from years ago, in which I whine like a baby about how I only have causal clothes, and hardly any “dressy” stuff, OMG. I guess that was my “tipping point”. I seem to remember that after that I decided that working from home didn’t have to mean wearing jeans every day, and I apparently set myself the task of buying all the dresses in all the world. Or 72 of them, at least. And because I tend to go too far with stuff with like that (YA think?), now I have exactly the opposite problem. Seriously, I’m sitting here dressed like Audrey Hepburn, not even joking.*
First world problems: I got ‘em.
Make me feel better here, people: how many dresses do you have?
*Totally joking.
As those of you who follow me on Twitter already know, yesterday afternoon I was on my way to the kitchen when I happened to glance out of the front window just in time to see this guy wandering across the road:
Luckily, there was only one car trying to drive down the aforementioned road at the time, and its driver had spotted our little spiky friend and was patiently waiting for him to get out of his path. The hedgehog didn’t seem to want to do that, though, so I called for Terry, and the two of us headed out to help.
Cute, isn’t he? (The hedgehog, I mean, not Terry. Although Terry, if you’re reading this, you are ALSO cute.)
He had been headed straight for our house, but given that we’re not running a Hedgehog Hostel – or a Hogstal, as it shall henceforth be known – we figured he was lost, and, well, we didn’t really know what to do about that. We couldn’t just leave him in the middle of the road, though, so Terry ran and got an old towel (which, yes, was binned afterwards) and carefully picked him up:
And then I totally DIED of the cute, because OMG, lookit his little hands!
(The whole time we were outside the house, by the way, we could hear Rubin barking his head off inside. It was as if he somehow KNEW we were entertaining a rival animal on the property…)
“Can we keep him, Terry, can we keep him, please can we keep him?” I said. But Terry is a big ol’ meanie, so he carried the hedgehog into the woods and deposited him in a safe place.
“But how did you KNOW it was safe?” I said, later that night, when even I had got bored with repeatedly asking “Do you think the hedgehog will be OK? Are you sure? How about now?” But I was worried. I mean, he’d been headed right for the house. Maybe he… KNEW something? Or was supposed to be meeting someone there? Or… yeah, I have no idea what business a hedgehog could have with my house, to be honest, but you never know, people, you never know.
Terry pooh-poohed these ideas of mine, though, so we settled down to enjoy our Friday evening. Later that night, however, we heard Rubin barking frantically in the garden. It was his special, “Timmy’s down the well,” bark, so we headed out to see what he’d found, and…
Mama hedehog had come looking for her baby. Or perhaps had come to be revenged on us for taking her baby into the woods. Are you scared? Because I am.
(That’s not a white stripe on its back, by the way. I thought it was too when I took the photo and looked back at it on the camera, but it was actually just some weird effect of the flash…)
(When Terry got outside, he caught Rubin just about to pee on this poor hedgehog. I mean, SERIOUSLY….)
(He managed to stop him just in time.)
(I’ll stop with the parentheses now.)
(Or maybe I’ll just keep doing it, to annoy you? No? OK…)
So, of course, now I’m worried that the Big Hedehog had come looking for the Little Hedgehog. And that, having failed to find it – BECAUSE WE CARRIED IT OFF TO THE WOODS – it will, I don’t know, pine to death? And that our names will be MUD now amongst the hedgehog fraternity. For this reason, I hung around in the dark garden for much longer than was really necessary, until the hedgehog crossed into our neighbour’s garden and disappeared into a flower bed. It didn’t SEEM to be annoyed with us, but as I said: you never know, do you?
I hope they’re both OK. And that they haven’t put some powerful curse upon us for our actions that day. Because hedgehog curses are THE WORST, seriously.
(I really hope they come back for another visit, though…)
So, I continue to be a walking disaster area as far as my clothes are concerned. In fact, in the past two weeks, I have managed to totally destroy three pairs of jeans/trousers. They were my three favourite pairs, of course. OF COURSE they were. Well, I wouldn’t have accidentally ruined that ancient, worn out pair I only keep around for doing the gardening in, would I? If you’d said to me, “Amber, we’re going to have to destroy three pairs of your pants now, and you have to pick which ones it is,” those three would seriously have been the LAST ONES I’d have picked, not even joking. (I’d also have HATED you for doing that to me, by the way. Because really, how twisted can you be?)
The first pair of pants to meet their end was a pair of chinos. Now, I loved those chinos. I loved them like a child. I’ve had them for… two years? Three years? YEARS, anyway. I have successfully kept them alive all that time, even although they are very pale, and being very pale does not bode well for you if you are an item of my clothing. I was pleased they had survived, though, because they were The Best Chinos In All the Land. You might think you have a better pair, but you are wrong, because these were the best chinos, and we will never see their like again. I spent YEARS searching for these chinos. Every pair I found was too big, or too small, or too long, or too short, or too high waisted, or made of some horrible, thin, crackly material that made me want to gag. These ones were perfect, in every way. They were The Bomb. I wore them constantly. Well, almost constantly. They weren’t just trousers: they were MY BEST FRIENDS.
Three weeks ago, though, I pulled on my best friends, and noticed a weird, white mark on the hip. Thinking it was probably toothpaste or something (I, er, quite often dribble toothpaste on myself. It’s one of my endearing quirks.) I went to the bathroom and tried to remove the mark with soap and water. It wouldn’t budge. OK, no big deal: I removed the pants, threw them in the wash, and thought that would be the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
When I took the Best! Pants! Ever! out of the wash, the mysterious white mark was still there. I was not amused. I washed the pants again. And again. Over and over, I washed the pants. The Mark didn’t budge. So I got some of those stain-removing products and I tried them. No dice. In vain I scrubbed at the mark. In vain I put the pants through yet another spin cycle. Nothing worked. And then, finally, after multiple scrubbings and washings, I realised that I’d scrubbed so hard at The Mark that I’d scrubbed right through the fabric and created a hole.
My best friends were dead. I mourned them. Oh, how I mourned!
 RIP, chinos (No, I couldn’t patch the hole. What am I, a farmer?)
Then I put the pants back in the wardrobe (Because I couldn’t bear to throw them away. THAT’S how much I loved them) and I pulled out my Favourite Red Jeans – also known as my ONLY red jeans – instead. I pulled them on, and…
… they had a mysterious white mark on the hip.
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!
At this point I may have lost my mind just a little. I examined The Mark closely. I had no idea what it was, but I decided to call it The White Mark of Death. And so my cleaning trials began again, complicated this time by the fact that the jeans were a) bright red and b) expensive. I suspected that too much washing would take the dye right out of them, so I had to proceed with caution, trying to treat only the area with The Mark.
Again, nothing worked. And now I had started to worry that if I scrubbed any harder, I’d lift the dye right out of the area around The Mark, and be left with both The Mark and a huge, faded patch. I wanted to dye die.
 RIP, red jeans! So I put the red jeans aside, and I reached instead for The Best Green Jeans In All the Land.
Oh, the trials I went through to get these jeans. You see, I ordered my normal size. And they came, and I thought they seemed too small. So I sent them back, and I ordered the size up. And they came, and they were too big. So I sent THEM back, and I RE-ordered my usual size. And they came, and… were perfect. I loved them. I loved them for roughly two weeks: right up until last night, at which point I happened to glance into the mirror in the bedroom, and there it was.
THE WHITE MARK OF DEATH. On the knee of my beloved green jeans. That I had known for only two short weeks. That I had loved, and, sadly, had lost, because folks, that white mark? Is totally BLEACH. Or at least, I’m assuming it is: just prior to the discovery of the mark, I had wiped down some of the surfaces in the bathroom, and it would appear that in the two minutes it took me to do that, I managed to destroy the jeans. I guess I have to also assume, in the absence of any other explanation, that the other white marks were also bleach: honestly, I could not feel stupider if I tried.
So, now, the search is on, because, of course, all of the items in question are now sold out in my size, with the exception of the red pair, which are too expensive for me to replace right now. You all know how hard it is to find jeans that fit properly, right?
I hate myself. Wish me luck…
(Oh, and I’ve just remembered: when we were in San Francisco this summer, I ruined a pair of blue jeans by dropping MAC ProLongwear lipstick on them. I can confirm that that stuff DOES NOT COME OFF. Ever. Or, it does, but only with eye makeup remover, which also took the blue dye right out of the denim, leaving me with… THE WHITE MARK OF DEATH. GOD. So that’s four pairs of jeans lost this summer alone. I’m now down to just those pairs that are too old/badly fitting to be seen in public, but which I’ve kept around anyway for… I don’t know why. In other words, this summer I have destroyed almost ALL of my casual clothes. Looks like I’m going to be even MORE overdressed than usual for the foreseeable future…)
P.S. Just thought I should add that I do not dress up in my favourite jeans to clean. I wear old clothes for “proper” cleaning, but if it’s just quickly wiping something up or whatever, then yeah, I have to admit that I’m too lazy to go and change my clothes, only to have to change back two minutes later. I will now, though, obviously: lesson learned! (I hope.)
Well, I’m gutted.
Without R.E.M., my adolescence would have been different. Without Automatic for the People, I would never have known the joy of being a whiny, introspective emo kid, who shut herself into her bedroom all day to listen to music and write lyrics in her journal. I would maybe also have had a boyfriend, rather than saving myself for a probably-gay rock star, but hey, them’s the breaks. In retrospect, modelling myself on Michael Stipe probably wasn’t the best move in terms of my already shaky high-school reputation, but I did it, and let’s face it: I would probably do it again.
Without Reveal, my first summer with Terry would’ve been different, too. It was the soundtrack to that summer, in the same way that the R.E.M. back catalogue became the soundtrack to various other stages of my life, after I’d gone out and tracked down every single thing they’d ever released, and arranged them in chronological order in my bedroom.
In my last year of high school, I had to do a creative writing course as part of my English mark, and I decided to be a little brat about it. For one thing, I refused to allow anyone to read my stuff. (To this day, the only people who ever read those stories – with the exception of one of them, which I grudgingly allowed my teacher to see – are the examiners who marked them.), and for another, I announced that I COULD NOT BE CREATIVE unless I was listening to music AT ALL TIMES. Then I tried to flounce from the course in protest at the OMGHORROR that was being inflicted upon me. (You would’ve hated me as a teenager, seriously. If you think I’m bad now, you should read my journals from my R.E.M. stage…) To my absolute amazement, the school called my bluff on this, and I was allowed to sit in class listening to R.E.M and Smashing Pumpkins on my headphones (Yes! I was the bitch with the tinny headphone music! If I could go back in time and slap myself, I would. And not just for that, either.), and I extended this to listening to those bands (and some others) at all other times, too. I would wake up in the morning and switch on the stereo before I did anything else. I would walk to school with my earphones in, and I wouldn’t take them out until I was back home, at which point it was back to the stereo. My parents realised they were powerless to stop this: all they could do was beg me not to play THAT Kristen Hersh album more than once per day. (During this time, I also converted my parents to R.E.M. They gave in at the point where they realised they knew all the songs anyway, having been forced to listen to them approximately 3,986,285 times in any given week.)
I sometimes miss those days, when my life was seeped in music, and I felt like I couldn’t function without it. Life is quieter now. I can’t concentrate on writing if there’s music playing (I listen too hard and start typing out the lyrics. That’s probably what I did in my creative writing class, now I come to think of it.), and because I’m writing more or less all the time, music has become relegated to in the car, when I’m out running (which doesn’t happen very often at the moment) and occasional other times. And that makes me sad.
In my second year of university, R.E.M came to Edinburgh. None of my friends would come to see them (The concert was during the summer, and most of them had gone home. And also, they hated them.), so I got up at the crack of dawn one morning and stood in a phone box on South Bridge Street, dialling and redialling the ticket hotline until I finally got through and secured a ticket. (I have no idea why I did this, by the way: I mean, we had a phone in the flat? I think it might have been that I had an early lecture, and that was the closest phone, but that would mean I was actually ATTENDING early morning lectures at that point and, well, let’s just say that doesn’t sound like me after first year.)
The concert was on one of those rare, blazing hot summer days. I got the train into the city early, and got myself a spot near the stage, where I proceeded to have my scalp burnt to a crisp by the sun for the hours that I waited there patiently. I remember I had planned this so badly that not only had I failed to bring sunscreen, I’d also failed to bring a book, or anything else to pass the time. So I just sat there with my thoughts. If I’d been a normal person, this story would end with me bonding with my fellow R.E.M. fans and forming lifelong friendships with them, but I was too shy, so I just sat there and hoped no one would try to speak to me. It was worth it, though. The support act was Belly (who I also loved), and during their set, Michael Stipe just casually walked out onto the stage, a few feet away from me.
I. ALMOST. DIED.
When the band came on, the crowd surged forward, and the crush was too much for me to survive at the front of the stage for a full concert, so I wormed my way out and went to get a drink. And when I came back, they played So. Central Rain, which was – and is – one of my favourite tracks of theirs (Did you never call? I waited on your call. These rivers of suggestion are driving me away…) and I danced on my own at the edge of the crowd and felt completely happy, and only a little bit self-conscious.
As I said on Twitter yesterday, I’m glad they waited until now to break up. If it had happened in my teens, or my early twenties, I don’t think I’d have handled it well. I imagine the band all sitting around a table saying, “No, no, we can’t break up NOW: Amber’s still too young (mentally). We’ll have to wait until she leaves high school. Until she leaves university. Until she gets married. Until… you know, we can’t wait forever here: let’s just do it.”
And so they did, and I’m a little sad. But at least I still have all of those CDs, arranged in chronological order…
(I also know that Michael Stipe still loves me, really, even although he rejected my Facebook friends request that one time. Here’s how I know:
RUBIN HAT! And OK, it’s really a panda. But at least he’s trying, you know?)
[Image:PRPhotos.com]
… for voting for The Fashion Police in the Cosmo Blog Awards:
Um, you DID vote, didn’t you? Because, if you didn’t, Rubin has created this “thank you” photo for nothing, and that will make him MAD. You won’t like him when he’s mad, trust me. You should be pretty scared, in fact. If you didn’t vote, just pretend you didn’t see it.
If you did vote: thank you! From me, Terry AND Rubin.
 Well, after what feels like an entire year’s worth of bad news for my blogging endeavours (See: having to take legal action against a copycat site, being relentlessly plagiarised by dozens of other websites, Google’s Panda update killing our traffic… I could go on), last night I finally got the boost I was so badly needing, with the news that my fashion blog, TheFashionPolice.net has been nominated for a Cosmo Blog Award in the Established Fashion Blog category.
I can’t tell you how excited I was to hear this. It was completely unexpected for me: I knew the Cosmo awards were taking place, of course, but having failed to even be nominated last year, I didn’t bother asking people to vote for TFP this year. I put out a couple of Tweets about Shoeperwoman, but I knew the competition would be fierce, so after that I pretty much forgot about it, and when people on Twitter started getting excited about the nominations announcement yesterday, I didn’t join in, because I knew – I just KNEW – that I wasn’t in with a chance. That’s the way this year has gone.
When I finally did click through to see the nominations, it confirmed exactly what I’d thought: I had no chance. The Established Fashion Blog category is full of some of the best bloggers in the UK: big names, who I fully expected to see there. And then, towards the bottom of the list… me. Wow. I am completely blown away. I know people always bang on about how “it’s an honour just to be nominated”, and I never really believe them, because I always just think, “yeah, yeah, you want to win”. To have been nominated alongside such fantastic bloggers, though, is absolutely amazing to me, and has really helped lift my spirits, at a time when I badly needed it, so if you were one of the people who nominated me than THANK YOU.
With all of that said, though… I would really like to win! So if you have a few spare seconds to vote for The Fashion Police, I would really, really appreciate it: all you have to do is click here to go to the Cosmo site (you’ll have to enter your email address to vote: sorry! Please don’t hate me!), go to the “Established Fashion Blog” site and vote for The Fashion Police. Then wait for good karma to come your way, which it surely will…
Terry has prepared this handy graphic to help you. Now that’s worth a vote on its own, surely?
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