Forever Amber

The One Where I Fall On My Ass

Yesterday, to my very great surprise, there was clearly some kind of disturbance in the Force, and the weather changed from "Unbelieveably, heart-rendingly awful" to an approximation of a pleasant spring day. That's about as good as it gets in Scotland, so naturally we all ("we all" being my parents, Terry, the dog and I) jumped into the car and headed to the beach.

The beach we went to was at North Berwick, which,as some of you know, has the distinction of being my Favourite Place in the Whole of Scotland. It's a pretty little seaside town, with lots of little restaurants and bars, and oh, a great big old volcanic plug, called Berwick Law. Here is a picture of Berwick Law (not taken by me, I hasted to add):

Here is a picture of me, Terry and Rubin on the very top of Berwick Law, which is steeper than it looks, let me tell you:

And here is a short video of me falling flat on my ass on the way back down:

Notice the way my family all come rushing to my aid... they clearly weren't too concerned, because obviously I do this kind of thing A LOT. The long pause after I land was caused partly by my reluctance to accept my own clumsiness, and partly by my quiet conviction that I had broken my right wrist. Which I hadn't, luckily.

Just a few minutes after this I almost fell again, the result being that my parents had to take an arm each, and half-carry me down the hill, like Amy Winehouse being escorted out of a nightclub. As my dad said, people were probably looking at us thinking, "Tut, tut, drunk in the middle of the day!" This time, though, my complete inability to walk unaided was caused by my shoes, which my dad described as "ridiculous" and I described as "the only flat shoes I own, what do you expect me to wear?" So, yes, fun for all the family! And ridiculous shoes = the only kind you'll ever need...

Actually, falling-on-ass aside, we had an excellent day, and I have spent most of my time since we got back looking at property prices in North Berwick on the internet, because it's one of the few places in Scotland I can actually imagine myself being happy to live in. It's only 30 minutes from Edinburgh by train, and I've always wanted to live by the sea, but unfortunately so do a lot of other people, as property is really expensive there, and as things stand, Terry and I could possibly stretch to a one bedroom flat, but only if we give up food and send Rubin out to work. Still, it's a more realistic dream than my "cross my fingers and hope the American government will let me live in Florida" one, so I'm going to continue to persue it.

And also to look into buying more sensible shoes...

Um, what day is it again?

Dear Self,

I know you'd really like it to be that bit closer to the weekend than it actually is, and I'm sorry to disappoint you on that score, but today is TUESDAY. Not Wednesday. Tuesday. So when you posted that special 'Wednesday' feature at The Fashion Police? You know, the one that's only ever posted on a Wednesday? And when you opened it with the words, "It's Wednesday!"? You were wrong. And also: stupid. And you are really, really lucky you didn't get dozens of comments from people telling you that.

Please, try to keep up in future.

Love,

Amber

P.S. - TUESDAY

Tanning My Own Ass

Every time I decide to take a vacation, or do something else fun, there's a little part of my brain (probably the same part that makes my eyebrows itchy when I haven't tweezed them for a day, and convinces me I'm dying every time I get a headache) that pipes up and says, "You know, I bet I could ruin this exciting/important event, purely by making myself look like a total freaking idiot. I think I will use fake tan to do it."

So it is that I've gone through almost all of the important days in my life with bright orange feet and a bit of a strange smell about me - you know, like the kind of smell you get from FAKE TAN.

Now, before I go any further down this road (this road that you can already see the end of, dear reader, can't you?), I just want to pre-empt some of the comments I always get when I write about my fake tanning exploits, by saying that yes, I KNOW. I know fake tan makes you look orange. I know it often goes streaky. I know it has that strange, slightly mouldy smell, and leaves a Turin Shroud style outline of your body on the bedsheets. And yes, I know there's nothing wrong with pale skin. I actually like pale skin. It is very lovely. I know all of these things.

BUT.

The thing is, my skin isn't so much "white" as it's "mottled grey". Seriously, if you ever happened to be lost on a dark night, you could use my bare legs to light your way home, no problem. Think Renee Zellweger, only with a greyish tinge. That's me. So, while I'm happy to embrace my paleness for fifty weeks of the year (and let's face it, with the weather we get here, the only parts of my skin that are exposed most of the time are my face and hands, and sometimes not even them. See 'Scotland, and how it sucks' from earlier this week for reference), on the very rare occasions when my legs are revealed by shorts or bikinis, I do like them to have a bit of colour to them. Just a bit, mind. I use self-tan moisturiser and aim for the "sun-kissed glow" promised on the bottle rather than the full-on "Footballer's Wife Orange" that so many seem to favour.  I just want to take the edge of the greyness, ya know? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?

Apparently so. As the years have passed, I've tried just about every brand of fake tan on the market. Some have worked out, some... haven't. Actually, let's be honest: most haven't. And yet, still I persist with this fool's mission. You could call this the triumph of hope over reason, but let's face it, you could also call it, "complete and utter stupidity", because that's basically what it is.

You can see where I'm going with this story, can't you?

Well, on Tuesday I decided to kick off the annual fake tan fiasco, so that I'd be all orange and streaky in time for my holiday. I picked Tuesday so that when the first application went horribly patchy, as I knew it would, I would still have time to apply further layers to even things out. No, that really DOESN'T sound like it would work, does it? Yeah, that's because it doesn't. Don't try it at home, kids.

Obviously, the first application didn't work out so good. In fact, I woke up on Wednesday looking like a jigsaw puzzle. So, naturally, I slapped some more of the stuff on. And now I kinda wish I'd just slapped myself instead, because that second layer of fake tan? Yeah, not so good.

This left me in an awkward position. (No, really: I had to stand around naked with my arms in the air for ages waiting for it to dry.) With only a few short days to go before I need to expose my mottled grey flesh to the world, I had somehow managed to acquire the Worst Tan in the History of the World Ever.

Well, I tried everything to get that tan off. I tried lemon juice. I tried hydrogen peroxide. I tried good old soap and water. (I didn't try baking soda or the special fake tan remover you can get because we don't OWN any baking soda, and the fake tan remover didn't work the last time, so I wouldn't really expect it to work this time, either). I tried getting down on my knees and praying. Finally, I tried the one thing I know works to at least some extent (and which I totally don't recommend you ever try yourself because I don't want you suing me when it all goes horribly wrong): nail polish remover. Yes, nail polish remover. It will generally take off the worst bits of a fake tan disaster, but like I said, I don't recommend it, and it can only do so much - as it did in this case.

Then I said "Screw this," got out the fake tan bottle and slapped on some more.

No, I don't know how it is I got to be this clever either. All I can say is that the early signs seem to be positive. If it doesn't work out this time, I'm going to give up and hope it fades before Monday. And I would like to say that I've learned my lesson from this experience, but that would be a lie, so instead I will say, "Tune in next year for the next thrilling installement of 'When Will Amber Learn That Fake Tan & Utter Stupidity Don't Mix?'"

Um, anyone got any other fake tan removal tips? You know, just in case....

There Goes the Neighbourhood

Summer. We've got it. And I know I whine incessantly about the cold when we don't got it, and it really is very lovely to be able to leave the house without the ol' snowsuit, but God, summer doesn't half get the crazies out.

For instance:

At the football pitch I pass when walking the dog:

A gang of teenagers racing two cars (ACTUAL cars, not toy ones, by the way. Like, real, live cars. That people can travel in.) around the grass pitch (Cars! On the grass! Where children were playing!) and blaring out music at top volume as they went.

In front of the pub I passed not two minutes later:

A gentleman who looked to be in his sixties, wearing nothing but what looked like a pair of boxer shorts, Doc Marten boots and a smile. In MAY. In SCOTLAND. I mean, it's warm, but it's not that freaking warm, people... (Actually, call me old fashioned, but I don't think it's EVER warm enough for boxer shorts in public. Am I wrong?)

From the house I passed one minute after THAT:

Music blaring at the sound level commonly known as "louder than hell".

At the ice cream van parked in our street:

A small white dog barking hysterically at all of the children standing in line, almost as if said dog thought he was a WOLF and that, I dunno, he could frighten them all into handing over their ice creams or something?

At the local beauty spot we walked the dog in yesterday:

Two teenage boys shattering the silence of the pleasant, country meadow-thing with an MP3 player which was blaring music through speakers. SPEAKERS. Why do MP3 players come with speakers now? That's why God Apple made headphones, surely? And if I wanted to listen to a teenager's choice of music, I wouldn't drive all the way to the local beauty spot, you know? No, I'd just walk round the corner, to where they race their cars on the football pitch...

At the very steep hill in the middle of the aforementioned beauty spot:

A red haired girl sailing down the hillside on her ass, emitting a high pitched squealing noise as she went, much to the surprise of the two teenagers who were making out on the other side of the hill.

Oh no, wait: that last one was me. AND I hurt my wrist when I fell.

Ah well,  no one's perfect...

Postcards from the Edge

Dear Self,

Next time you decide to make Terry drive you to Asda at 10pm at night, just because you suddenly realised that you couldn't live for ONE MORE SECOND without buying new pyjamas (Yeah, and what was THAT about, by the way? Because you don't even wear pyjamas, self, and you know it.), it might be a good idea not to leave your wallet, complete with all sources of funding, on your desk at home.

Thanks,

Amber

*  *  *

Dear Terry,

Thanks for the loan.

Love,

Amber

*  *  *

Asda,

You never have size 4 shoes. Like, EVER. I seriously don't think I've ever seen a size four shoe inside your store, other than than ones on my feet, obviously. And those black ballet pumps I bought two months ago. Other than that, though, NOTHING. And last night? I even checked all of the pairs of shoes I DIDN'T want to buy, and seriously, no size fours. What's up with that? Also: you never have lingerie in a size 6, either. WHY?  Stop sucking so hard in the sizing department, Asda, I mean, really.

Amber

*  *  *

Dear Amber,

It's the three sets of Tweezerman tweezers you put in the washing machine last night here. We were in your dressing gown pocket, and we did half an hour at thirty degrees, on a spin cycle. We weren't amused. Check your pockets before you wash things next time. We don't want to have to speak to you about this again.

Regards,

Your Tweezers

When Tights Attack

Last night, Terry and I went to an engagement party. As is my usual way with these kinds of things, I used it as the perfect opportunity to dress like a homeless person.

See, I couldn't be bothered fake-tanning my legs, so I bought me some Sally Hansen "spray on tights". Now, I know that the words "fake tan" have probably just made you roll your eyes and get all "GOD, fake tan, I would NEVER wear fake tan!" on me. And I know the words "spray on tights" probably made you roll those eyes a little more, and say, "GOD, Amber is a dumbass! Isn't Amber a dumbass?"  but y'all try walking a mile on my "so-pale-they-shine-like-the-moon" legs before you judge me too harshly, 'kay?

So, spray on tights. Now, I know I'm probably preaching to the "don't even need to be converted" here, but they're just not a great idea, you know? Or actually, they ARE a great idea. I mean, tights! That spray on! Who wouldn't love those bad boys? What's not such a great idea, though, is buying your spray-on tights from eBay, so, naturally that's exactly what I did.

It could have worked. OK, so maybe it couldn't have worked. All I know is that the fact I was buying the tights ON THE INTERNET, which made it totally freakin' impossible to judge the colour accurately... well, it didn't really help. As it happens, the colour I got claimed to be 'Tan Glow', but turned out to be good old American Tan, i.e. a colour that no human being has any right to be. So I decided to use it anyway. Because I am stupid.

I'd sprayed one leg from ankle to knee before I realised that 'Tan Glow'? Wasn't such a great look, really. Neither 'tan' nor 'glowy', it made me look like an Oompa Loompah, and I don't know about you, but that's just not a look I've ever aspired to.  So I reached for the emergency pair of tights I'd bought at Asda last week, in preparation for this very eventuality. I dunno, it's almost like a gift, this ability of mine to see into the future, it really is. Now, you'd think that buying my tights in person rather than on eBay would make it pretty hard for even me to get the colour wrong, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong about that, though. Because, even although my legs are so pale I look like I've just been exhumed, these tights somehow contrived to be even paler. I looked like Courtney Love on a very bad day, and given that every day is a bad day for Courtney, that's not good, dudes.

So I hit the 'Tan Glow' again.

And it still made me look like an Oompah Loompah.

An Oompah Loompah, yesterday.

By now time was a-wastin' and I could hear Terry downstairs jingling his car keys in that "I'm not trying to rush you, but actually, I am totally trying to rush you" way he has, so I quickly washed off the Tan Glow (no, that didn't go too well, thanks for asking) and rummaged around in my hosiery drawer until I found two pairs of hold-ups I'd forgotten I had. "All of my troubles are over!" I thought, smugly pulling on the first one and ripping it with my bracelet as I did so. I threw it into a corner and managed to successfully clothe myself in two more. As I pulled on my coat, though, one of my freaky premonitions hit me, and I tucked the last remaining hold-up into my bag. Just in case.

As it turned out, it was my dress I destroyed first. See, it was a knit dress, and I was wearing a rhinestone bracelet. Every time I moved my arm, the bracelet would catch on my dress, snagging at the material and leaving lots of little unattractive raised bits, so that I looked like I was wearing an acne-ridden teenager. "COULD YOU NOT HAVE JUST TAKEN OFF THE BRACELET?" I hear you ask, and, indeed, this was the first thing my mum asked when I emailed her this morning to ask if she could fix my dress.

Well, yes, of course I COULD remove the bracelet and I did. I decided to wait until I'd laddered another one of my hold ups with it first, though. Then I went to the bathroom to replace it with the spare hold-up I had cunningly brought with me, only I put my stupid hand right through it as I pulled it on. D'oh!

I emerged from the bathroom looking a little bit like a newspaper: black dress, white legs, red hair. I was very careful not to mention to anyone that I write about fashion for a living.

Still, we had a great time. And hey, I've always wanted a 'Tan Glow' bathroom anyway...

The eyebrows have it

Remember the time I dyed my eyebrows jet black and then couldn't go out in public for about a week? Yeah, I learned nothing from that. NOTHING.

I did try tweezing them last night, in a bid to try and make them look a little less... dramatic. So now I have jet black eyebrows THAT ARE ALSO REALLY THIN, like I drew them on with a biro or something. Another pile of holiday snaps, ruined, then. Still, at least I can cross "Benefit Highbrow" off my list of things to buy before my trip...

Speaking of The List (God, I love lists, don't you? This week I have made three: Thing to Buy, Things to Pack - actually that counts as two lists because technically we have Things to Pack in Suitcase and Things to Pack as Handluggage - and Things to Do), I've managed to buy everything on it except for the pony, so we're actually doing pretty good here. I am, anyway. Terry? Not so much, really, because Terry's computer decided to get a virus yesterday morning, so he spent the entire day re-installing Windows and having all kinds of virus-related fun, meaning that he gets to spend all of today doing the work he should have done yesterday. Let the good times roll, people!

Random Act of Stupidity # 11

Tonight, as I was getting ready for bed, I removed my makeup as usual and then slapped some toner on my face. "Why, this toner is particularly fresh and zingy tonight!" thought I. "In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd think it was almost burning the skin right off my face, haha!"

But it was burning the skin right off my face. Because it wasn't toner, was it? No, it was freaking nail polish remover. Nail. Polish. Remover. If I had a brain cell, it would be an orphan.

In better news, when I went to Boots the Chemist to buy my Refine & Rewind serum today, the lady at the counter didn't want to sell it to me because she said it was too intense for my "age group". When I asked her what she thought my age group might be, exactly, she reckoned I must be about 18. God, I love that woman. (Also: Boots the Chemist, if you'd like me to be the poster child for the Refine & Rewind serum call me! If you want me to be the poster child for facial toners, though, maybe don't bother, hey?)

The one where I try to cut my own hair

As you go through life, you start to realise that there are some things only stupid people do. Pouring bleach in their coffee. Almost choking to death on their own dinner. Wearing crocs.  To this short list, however, I would add one more item: trying to cut their own hair.

Now, I know not to cut my own hair, and specifically, not to cut my own fringe (or "bangs" if you're in America). The reason I know this? Because I have done it before. Many, many times, in fact. And it has never, ever, worked out well. My hairdresser has told me not to do it. My friends have told me not to do it. I have told myself not to do it. So, what do you think I did today, folks?

I cut my own hair.

It was the work of moments. Do you ever get those days where you've been perfectly happy with your hair, and then suddenly you wake up one morning and you just can't bear to have it on your head any more? I do. And today was one of those days. My frustration with my hair was largely focused on my long, sideways fringe. Up until yesterday, this fringe had done nothing to annoy me. This morning I woke up and it was totally in my eyes all the time. "What would be really stupid would be if I tried to cut my fringe myself!" I thought, heading for the bathroom. "But I'm not stupid enough to do that, nosiree! Why, small children aren't stupid enough to do that. Even Britney Spears isn't stupid enough to... oh no, wait..."

The next thing I knew, the scissors were in my hands and my fringe was on the floor. D'oh.

So, as you're reading this I bet you're probably thinking "How bad can it be? I bet it's not that bad at all?" It is that bad, folks. I look like someone attacked my head with a lawnmower. Luckily for me, hairbands have been going through a bit of a resurgence recently. You know, those big, wide, Alice in Wonderland style bands? They are everywhere. I even own some myself. The problem with that, though? Those headbands look really stupid on me. Seriously, I look like an overgrown, Sloaney child right now. And this, my friends, is how I will look for the rest of the summer - or for a few weeks at least. Pity me. And also: let this be a lesson to you: never try to cut your hair yourself.

Pants. You gotta love 'em

In the early hours of Saturday morning, I woke Terry with a prod to the back.

"I've done pants for you," I informed him importantly as he turned round, blearily.

"Pants? Eh?" Terry rubbed his eyes, and stared at me, confused.

"Yes, pants. I've done them for you," I said again, clearly expecting praise of some kind.

"What do you mean you've 'done pants', though," asked Terry, carefully. "I mean, how do you 'do' pants? Have you made them? Is that what you're trying to say?"

"I've done them!" I repeated, irritated. "Remember how we were just talking about them?"

"Er, no."

"GOD!" I said, now very annoyed. "Well, it's far too complicated to explain now. Just... I've done pants."

Then I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Mental, no? And actually, this kind of thing has been happening more and more often. Why, just last week I woke Terry to thank him for the large balloon that was floating around the room, and which he had obviously bought for me. (Note: he hadn't. And there was no balloon.) The week before that? I woke him by screaming that OMG! There were crabs in the bed! AGAIN!

Yeah, our bedroom is way too warm at night. Either that or I? Done lost my mind, people...

The one where I almost blind myself

Sometimes I surprise even myself, you know, I really do.

So, yesterday, while I was cleaning the kitchen? I picked up the new aerosol room spray thingy that Terry bought because Rubin just WILL NOT STOP PEEING on the washing machine. "I know!" I thought. "I will give the room a quick squirt with this here spray. It will make the house smell lovely and homely."

So I point the can at the washing machine, take aim, and... fire it RIGHT INTO MY OWN FOOL FACE. Because the nozzle? Is supposed to point at the thing you're spraying. Not at your own face.

Of course, I don't need to tell you guys this. I expect you learned how to use air freshener when you were still in short pants. Me, on the other hand? Still learning. I do smell "pine forest fresh" now, though...

If I Had a Brain, I'd Be Dangerous

What I meant to write this afternoon, on a post at TV Scoop:

"MediaWatch-UK, the TV watchdog founded by Mary Whitehouse, is up in arms about a documentary on moors murderess Myra Hindley..."

What I actually wrote:

"MediaWatch-UK, the TV watchdog founded by Myra Hindley, is up in arms about a documentary on moors murderess Mary Whitehouse..."

*headdesk*

Don't worry: I noticed it just as soon as my finger hit p"ost". Hi, potential clients who are reading this! Want to pay me money to blog for you?! And also: Hi, Friday night, how yoo doin'? Is it time for wine, yet? Will we get some anyway?

It's time for wine, folks. Cheers...

My Food Is Trying to Kill Me

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"

Do Ambers Pee in the Woods?

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...

These Things Come in Threes...

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...

The One Where I Almost Kill Myself Twice in Five Minutes

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 meat 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...

You and Eye(brow) Gonna Live Forever

Remember my Liam Gallagher eyebrows*? The ones I have to tweeze every single day in life, or small animals start setting up home in them? Did I also mention how pale they are? No? Well they are. My eyebrows - and their accompanying lashes - are so pale that if you ever seen me without my makeup you'd think I was bald. I think this might be why I related so much to Aisleyne from Big Brother. And why I never let anyone see me without my makeup...

Anyway, my eyelashes are pale, so I dye them. I do it myself, partly because beauticians make me cry, but mostly because I don't trust them. This mistrust is a deep-seated one, going back to the very first time I ever had my lashes dyed. I was seventeen. My best friend Dawn was with me, and I was very excited at the prospect of no longer having to pile on layers of mascara just to look halfway normal. You think I'm kidding here, but when I was in university, my attatchment to my mascara was legendary. In the halls of residence where I lived, some hilarious japester would set off the fire alarm every few nights, normally at about 3am. Everyone else would just throw on a dressing gown and pile out into the grounds, but I'd always take an extra couple of minutes to slick on some mascara and dig out a pair of high heels. For this reason, we were in second year before any of my friends realised that I was actually a short-assed Aisleyne-alike. Oh, the humanity. Some of them still don't know. (Oh no, wait...)

So, Dawn and I head to the beauticians and I excitedly lay myself down upon the table, like some kind of pale-lashed sacrifice. "Do you want me to just do your eyebrows, too?" she asked. "Sure!" I replied, even more excited. I lay back and prepared to have my life revolutionised. A few minutes later, I wandered back into the waiting room, with red hair and jet black eyebrows. "No one will notice," Dawn told me unconvincingly, as I dragged her around Superdrug, desperately searching for some miracle "eyebrow dye remover" and trying to avoid the mirrors. Sure enough, next day at school I walked into registation and everyone fell about laughing. All week people were actually stopping me in the corridors to say, "Hey, are those real?" I wanted to kill myself.

(Incidentally, the same thing happened the one time I tried to dye my hair. My hair is red, so I tried to dye it... a darker shade of red. The dye only "took" at the roots, and was only visible if my hair parted, like, in the wind or something. "No one will notice!" predicted Dawn. "And even if they do, no one will say anything!" The next day, I took the train to Edinburgh to do some shopping. As I walked up the high street, in a strong wind, a man actually slowed down his car and rolled down the window, JUST SO he could shout, "Is that hair dyed?" at me. GOD.)

So, you can probably guess where this story's going, can't you? Yesterday morning I decided to dye my eyelashes. I slicked some dye on my brows, too, and then promptly forgot all about it. Result: red hair, black brows. WHEN WILL I LEARN?

This morning I don't think they're looking quite so dark. I still hate myself, though.

Hey! I'm Amber! Got me some eyebrows! Wanna see?
(Hehe, dig the "I am taking pictures of myself!" pose! God, I hate it when people do that.)

They're ready for their closeup...
Also pictured: those angry red weals that are still under each of my eyes. WHY?

Terry loved dating Liam Gallagher's eyebrows..

* Also: the person who keeps finding this blog after Googling the phrase "Liam Gallagher's eyebrows"? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

When Exercise Goes Bad

I went running today. I had thought that all I needed to become one of those people who's, like, really into running, and also really skinny and fit, was a shiny new iPod Shuffle, but nope, turns out that what I also needed was a new green hoodie. Once I had that, there was no stopping me. Well, there was, but at least I had a new green hoodie...

(Aside: Something tells me I may also need some new black running shoes before I'll be able to start taking this really seriously, because, honestly: the sight of my bright white feet flashing in and out of my peripheral vision? It offends me, people. And confirms that there really is no situation in which white sneakers are appropriate footwear. No, not even for running. But I digress)

As I reached the end of our driveway, all kitted out in my NGH, offensive white trainers, iPod and - whisper it - black wrap around shades (SO?! I have very sensitive eyes, OK? And the normal sunglasses, they fall off my face), I noticed the Woman Who's Always Walking Around the Street in Her Dressing Gown hovering at the end of the driveway with her baby. Slightly embarrassed by my "Lookit me, I am a RUNNER! Who goes RUNNING!" appearance, and determined to prove that I really was dressed like this for a reason, I broke into my usual shuffling jog as I approached her.

Everything was fine right up until the moment I drew level with TWWAWATSIHDG. Then both of my ankles - both of my ankles, people - suddenly gave way simultaneously. For no reason.

I didn't actually fall. Well, I mean I did actually fall, but I didn't quite hit the ground. Instead I did a stupid, drunken kind of staggering move, a little like a newborn colt trying to get to its feet, and struggled on. I did not look back - but I could feel her amusement burning into my back.

I am SO not cut out for this exercise thing. I would try and exercise in the house, where it's harder to embarrass myself, but last week? When Terry and I were playing with the inflatable punch bag that's there for that very purpose? I managed to punch myself in the face. In. The. Face. And the next day? When Terry tried to high five me? My hand rebounded off his, and I smacked myself in the face again. GOD.

I should probably forget about the running, you know. I should concentrate on small victories: things like getting out of bed in the morning, or getting dressed without breaking my arm. Maybe then I can build up gradually to bigger achievements, like being able to run to the end of the driveway without falling over.

P.S. Rubin is all better today. I'm going to try taking him for a walk later. Wish me luck...

Tags: running , exercise , ipod

The One Where I Fall Off My Bike Twice in 30 Seconds

When you read the inevitable future entry in which I tell you how stupid I am, and you shake your head and think I'm obviously just fishing for compliments because seriously, no one is that stupid, I want you to come back and re-read this entry first. And weep.

So, this morning Terry and I go out cycling. We're cycling merrily along, up hill and down dale (but mostly up hill, it has to be said), and also, along the side off the motorway, because that's what it's like where we live. Yeah.

Anyway, there we are traversing the side of a particularly bumpy hill when Terry, who is lead file in this expedition, suddenly stops (Reason: unknown). I, travelling immediately behind him, am forced to stop too. As I do so, I place my right foot down on the ground to steady myself.

Except we're on a hill.

So there is no ground.

And I am stupid.

With an embarrassingly feminine squeal, followed by an equally embarrassingly masculine grunt, I promptly fall sideways off my bike, and roll a little way down the hill. Terry watches and laughs. (Remind me, why am I marrying Terry, again?)

The only harm done is to my ego, so I get up, dust myself down, and get back in the saddle. Off we go. We've been cycling on for not more than 30 seconds when Terry stops again. (Reason: still unknown.) I stop behind him, put my foot to the ground – and promptly fall off my bike again. AGAIN.

And this is why stupidity should be painful. (Actually? It kind of was…)

So, we're back home now, and Terry has laughed at me, ooooh, maybe 30 times? I am stupid. And also: bruised. But! But! It's all OK, because I bet I totally burned a kazillion calories and now I'm all toned, like an athlete, no?

Um, no. I consulted my nifty little "bike pedometer" thing when we got home. We've done 5 kilometres in one hour. Calories burned: 60. Sixty. If that right there doesn't convince you that exercise is a complete and utter waste of time, I don't what will. I mean, 60 calories. That’s nothing. I bet the two slices of toast and, OK, jam, that I had when I got back contained more calories than that.

Exercise: gah. Cycling: gah. Stupidity: gahgahgahgahgah. Gah.