(I am never so happy as I am when I’m on holiday…)

Whoops, by going on holiday, I’ve gone and lost all my readers again. For those of you still grimly hanging on in there a) thank you! and b) I’m just popping in to say that I took pity on you, sucked it up and coughed up the money to renew my Flickr Pro account, so I could post all one million and twelvty of my holiday photos over there, rather than forcing you all to sit through them here, like one of those boring relatives who drinks all your tea and talks for hours about their awesome! vacation! I would never do that, obviously. I’d drink all of your wine instead…

Anyway, since I’ve been home, absolutely nothing has happened. Seriously, nothing. I HATE being home. On Sunday night, I woke up in an absolute panic, totally unable to work out where I was, and convinced that the mirrored wardrobe doors (I HATE mirrored wardrobe doors) in front of me were actually windows. I was terrified. And then, when I finally realised that I was, in fact, in my own bed, in my own home? I was gutted.

(Then last night? Last night Terry woke up to find me standing at the bottom of the bed, absolutely hysterical, and screaming at him to GET OUT OF BED NOW BECAUSE OMG THERE IS TOTALLY A CRAB IN THERE!” The calmer he remained, the more hysterical I became (I mean, for God’s sake, CRAB! In the BED!), until he finally had to force me to sit down (me making “crab eyes” at the corner of the bed the whole time, and repeat veeeerrryyy sssllooowwwllly that there was. no. crab. in. the. bed. And I didn’t believe him, so I went to take refuge in the bathroom, and it was only once I got there, with the light switched on, that I started to think that hey, maybe that crab I saw wasn’t actually real. I still checked for it when I got back to bed though.)

Anyway, the photos are here. If you make it through them all, congratulations, you have better stamina than me. I’m pretty sure there are shots there that I even I couldn’t be bothered looking at. Also, someone found my blog today after searching for “Forever Amber’s shoes” so rather than disappoint that person and risk turning away a potential reader (HI! Come in! Pull up a chair! Would you like to see my holiday snaps?), here are the shoes I bought on my second-last day in Florida:

Vivienne Westwood for Melissa. On sale. Want them in every colour now.

(I’ve just realised that that person may have been searching for shoes belonging to the heroine of the BOOK Forever Amber. In which case, this will have been a crushing disappointment, for sure…)

P.S. My cold is a little better, but the coughing would be keeping me awake at night if I wasn’t still on American time, and lying awake all night anyway, watching for CRABS.

P.P.S. Sanford Airport never replied to my email about my jacket. Curses.

I know this is essentially an action replay of my holiday LAST year, but oh look, Neiman Marcus had a sale on!

Uh-oh.

Minutes after buying these, I tried to buy a cheap dress in Forever 21, and … my debit card got rejected. Turns out my bank now require me to let them know where I am at all times, and if I don’t, they will block my card when I try to buy something. (It’s either that or Terry has paid them to just block the card anyway…) They hadn’t bothered to tell me this, though, and in order for me to find out about it I had to:

1. Drive 5 miles up the highway, because there’s no cellphone reception in the house, and the phone there doesn’t allow you to make international calls, so you have to drive around until you can get a signal.

2. Drive back again to collect Terry’s phone, because my phone burned through 15 minutes worth of credit in the space of a 3 minute phone call. Value for money!

3. Discover that Terry’s phone isn’t working. Borrow my mum’s phone instead.

4. Drive back up the highway to a random parking lot.

5. Spend a further £7 in phonecalls.

6. Hope that the block has been lifted.

7. Whine a lot.

In conclusion: I can shop at Neiman Marcus, but get rejected in F21. Also, never use an iPhone to make international calls, kids…

In better news, we’re still having an amazing time, and now I’m going to bombard you with photos of it. You’re welcome!

(Should’ve asked him to sort out the cellphone coverage in our area…)

Who knew Obama had such a large head? Or looked so much like the George Bush statue they USED to have here? This was outside the Hall of Presidents. We didn’t go in, because we’ve seen it before, and there’s only so many times you can look at a bunch of animatronic presidents. Last time, of course, I didn’t actually realise they WERE animatronics until Bill Clinton suddenly winked at me. True story…

I did have my photo taken with Fake Rushmore, though:

We were there to climb the Citrus Tower next door, and by “climb”, I mean, “take the elevator”, obviously:

Here’s the thing about that, though: I’m terrified of heights. I discovered this fact many years ago, when I went to the top of the Eiffel Tower, strode confidently out onto the landing, and then ran screaming back to the centre of the tower, convinced it was about to fall over, and that the only thing that would stop that happening would be me pressing all of my weight against the middle of the structure. I spent the next terrifying 20 minutes alternating between worrying that I was going to pass out and HOPING I’d pass out, so they could carry me down without me knowing about it. And I had almost exactly the same experience at the Citrus Tower, only not quite as bad, because it’s not as tall:

You think I’m just posing here, don’t you? I’m not: I’m HOLDING IT UP. Every time I stepped away from the centre, I felt dizzy. Fun times!

In this one, Terry is both holding ME up, and forcibly restraining me from running back to the safety of my pillar.

Phew.

Next we went to Mount Dora, which, despite the name, has no mountains. After the Citrus Tower, this was a Very Good Thing.

Totally not my bicycle.

OMG, TRAIN!

“I won’t mention the size of your head if you don’t tell anyone about how I flashed everyone on the beach at Sarasota yesterday after the strap of my bikini snapped, deal?”

I know the US government won’t let me live here for more than a few weeks at a time (probably wise of them, all things considered), but if they ever want to change their minds on that, I now know exactly where I want to live: Palm Beach. All I’ll need is for everyone who reads this blog to donate $1 million dollars and I reckon I just might be able to afford a condo in one of the poorer areas. Is everyone OK with that? Good…

So, yesterday, as you’ll have gathered, we spent the day in Palm Beach, with a short visit to Boca Raton. For some reason, every time I go to south Florida, it pours with rain, and this was no exception. Here’s what I wore:

OMG NO PANTS!

(I was actually wearing shorts, by the way. I just look like I wasn’t, which possibly accounts for the weird looks I kept getting.)

That woman you can see coming up behind me? Was super-stylish, and kept following me around, purely to make me look like even more of a fool, I’m sure. Actually, ALL of the women in Palm Beach were super-stylish, and, interetsingly enough, were all dressed in black, with spindly high heels. This amused me, because last year when I was here I posted a photo of myself in a navy dress, and someone left a snarky comment saying “OMG, BLACK? In FLORIDA? How shocking.” And now every time I come out of my room dressed in black or navy, my family all chorus “BLACK? In FLORIDA?” (Even when we’re in Scotland.) Black was pretty much de rigeur down in Boca and Palm Beach, though, so I’m glad Terry let me borrow his classy black poncho thing.

We’d booked onto a Palm Beach tour, on an amphibious bus, which takes you through the town then plunges into the water of the intracoastal and takes you past the homes of people like Celine Dion and the guy who owns Walgreens, etc. I was almost sick with envy over the side of the bus/boat (Buboat?). As I say, it POURED relentlessly the whole time we were doing this, and great waves of water kept rolling off the roof and onto the people at the back of the boat (luckily we were at the front), but hey, it was all strangely atmospheric, and we still managed to have an amazing time. Plus, we have a great excuse to go back and see it in the sunshine.

Afterwards, we visited Worth Avenue, which is basically Palm Beach’s version of Rodeo Drive. Naturally, I continued to wear a black plastic bag, just to freak out all the shop assistants:

I also returned to the Mother Ship:

Yes, they had a sale. No, I didn’t buy anything, despite being sorely tempted. I suspect I will rectify that soon, though…

Aaaand, looking back at my camera, that seems to be pretty much all I have from Palm Beach, so here’s what we did for the rest of the week:

I bought shoes.

I bought more shoes.

Um, yeah.

I wore NAVY. In FLORIDA. I mean, can you EVEN?

I wrote my name in lights…

…and pretended to be in The Beatles, except with one member missing.

Here’s the missing Beatle:

And now the sun is shining again, so I’m off to do this:

Only with less posing and more, well, snoring probably. See you all soon!

Well, folks, we made it. And having only been in the States for about five hours, I’d already bought myself a Zac Posen for Target dress, which I think has to be a personal best for me in the shopping stakes. I normally wait at least 24 hours:

I mean, we only went in there for some groceries. Whoops. I don’t think Terry was quite convinced that what we’d really gone out for was bread, milk, and a Zac Posen dress, but, you know, those are the basics in life, no? Isn’t grocery shopping fun these days?

Here’s the wonderful and amazing thing about Florida for me, though: it feels so much like coming home. Much more than actually coming home does, say. And as I stood there in that same Target changing room that I always seem to end up in when I come here, with my mum struggling to yank the dress over my head (it’s one of those double layered things. I got the two layers twisted, somehow, got stuck, and had to call in reinforcements. Which just goes to prove that changing continents doesn’t make me any cleverer, sadly.), it was hard to believe that earlier that day I’d been at Glasgow airport, or waking up at home, getting ready to leave. It already feels like I’ve been here forever, and I love that. It’s like coming home.

On the plane on the way over I sat across the aisle from an elderly man, who seemed to be on his own. Being slightly emotional at the time (I welled up when we touched down and the pilot said “Welcome to Florida”…), I just couldn’t get this man out of my mind. I imagined him waking up on his own, travelling to the airport and sitting there waiting for his flight, with no one to share a few words with, or even just to sit in companionable silence with. And now here he was, still alone, and for some reason it made me feel maudlin to think of him travelling all the way across the Atlantic without a kind word from anyone other than the cabin crew, if he was lucky, and I wanted to try and reach out to him somehow, but I didn’t know what to say so I had to settle for a few friendly smiles in his direction, which probably made the poor guy think I was a lunatic.

I hope someone was waiting for him at the other end. I hope he was actually completely happy in his solitude, or that his wife, or friend or whatever was just sitting in another part of the cabin, because ever since we landed,  that old man’s been on my mind. I feel so lucky to be here, in my favourite place in the world, and to have my family here with me. (I also feel a bit teary and introspective, like someone who hasn’t slept properly for three days, and who has drunk a bit too much coffee to make up for it. Note to self: stop doing that.) And I’m going to try and enjoy every single second of this trip, as much as I possibly can, because, well, you never know how long next winter will be.. .

I’m also going to probably buy some more shoes and dresses. But I guess you already knew that…

Obligatory photos:

(Terry really needs to eat a sandwich, doesn’t he?)

I HAD planned a completely different post for today, and man, it would’ve been brilliant! But I’ve woken up feeling like someone tried to drug me in my sleep, so all you get is a photo of the new hat I bought yesterday.

It IS a great hat, though. And stripey! OF COURSE.

(Note: I was just trying it on here – I didn’t walk around with it on. I totally WOULD, though.)

We were at a local antiques fair/indoor market with my parents, as a kind of Mother’s Day outing. It’s a pretty cool place, actually: lots of vintage jewellery (of which I didn’t buy anything, although I was sorely tempted, and will have to go back soon) and, er, other stuff:

I really wanted this:

But it was £50, and I never, ever use the phone, so it would’ve been a complete waste of money. And as you all know, I would NEVER waste money, not even on those boots I’m watching on eBay right now, that I totally wouldn’t be able to wear now until next winter, but which I really, really want. Ahem.

Anyway, Terry actually took these photos for me as part of my Shoeper Shoe Challenge, and there are some more over at Shoeperwoman, should you particularly want to see them. Happy Monday!

Well, I’ve always suspected it, but now I know for sure: I was born without a brain.

The proof of this came on Sunday afternoon, when I decided to hit the town and do a little bit of shopping. This, I might add, was in addition to the shopping I’d already done on Saturday, and which had merely served to whet my appetite for the much larger shopping expedition that would be known as “Sunday”. Oh yes, Saturday’s shopping had been but the appetiser: Sunday’s event would be the main course, and I drifted off to sleep on Saturday night happily envisioning the long, leisurely stroll around the shops I’d enjoy the next day.

Of course, what I’d failed to take into account was the fact that the next day was Sunday, and that I generally like to spend my Sunday mornings languishing in bed, reading books, drinking coffee and basically being a lazy-ass. Yesterday was no different, so by the time I got myself showered and caffeinated, it was already almost 3pm, and most of the shops would be closing in another couple of hours. Undaunted,  I quickly threw on whatever clothes were available at the time, and headed out on my grand expedition.

It was only as I walked from the car park to the mall that I realised something was wrong. I felt… different, somehow. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I felt like I was walking funny. (Funnier than usual, I mean.) And the more I thought about this, the more I realised it was true: in fact, when I finally entered the mall and started walking across the tiled floor, I realised I sounded different too, in that one heel was making a particularly loud “click” every time it made contact with the floor, while the other one was pretty much silent.

“Damn!” I thought. “I bet the heel tip has come off this boot, and I’ll need to get it replaced!” So I stopped, and I looked at the offending boot. “Strange,” I thought. “The heel tip’s still there, and doesn’t look like it’s coming off any time soon.  And even stranger: THAT’S NOT THE BOOT I PUT ON BEFORE LEAVING THE HOUSE! In fact, I can clearly remember pulling on a different boot altogether. OMG, I must be going mad!”

But I wasn’t. Or, no, actually, I was: but not for the reason I first thought. Lookit:

Do you see anything wrong with this picture, readers, DO YOU?

OK, how ’bout now?

Yes! I went out wearing TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT BOOTS! Witness:

Two. Completely. Different. Boots.

Well. As soon as I realised what I’d done, I felt like there was a giant spotlight shining down on me, out of which a disembodied voice was shouting, “Your attention, shoppers! Crazy lady here wearing two different boots! Feel free to mock her mercilessly!” Now, I’m 100% sure that most people in the world – and, more, specifically, in the mall – have better things to do with their lives than look at my mismatched legs. BUT. When you’re out in public wearing two different boots (and walking with a slight list, thanks to the fact that the heels on said boots are not exactly the same height, GOD) you just don’t feel like that. In fact, I felt like all eyes were upon me. I felt like everyone had noticed, and was laughing. And also that, if I was particularly unlucky, some of them would be saying to each other, “Hey, isn’t that the chick who has the blog about shoes? And who calls herself ‘Shoeperwoman‘? Could she not have at least tried to make sure her shoes matched before leaving the house? Doesn’t she OWN a mirror? Or a brain?” Or maybe, “Quick! Someone call The Fashion Police! Oh no, wait: that IS The Fashion Police!” Hoist by my own petard, people, hoist.

I tried to continue with my shopping, but it’s actually pretty hard to shop when you’re having to duck behind a rack of clothes every time someone comes near you, and of course, because The Others have such a strange fascination with me, it’s absolutely impossible for me to occupy a space inside a shop without at least six other people appearing and trying to squash into that space with me. I knew it was no good:  something would have to be done, and by that I mean, “shoes would have to be bought, what a shame!”

Luckily for me, one of the stores near the entrance of the mall is New Look, and New Look is a veritable haven of cheap n’ cheerful shoes. I lurched into the store, looking like a mad, drunk woman, grabbed a random dress from the first rail I came to, and used it as a shield to cover my legs while I ran rolled to the shoe section. Once there, I bought the cheapest pair of shoes I could find, which I put on as soon as I’d finished paying for them:

OK, they may not have been the absolute cheapest, but they were the reddest. I may be mad, but I’m not stupid. Oh no, wait…

(Do not be fooled by the appearance of these shoes, readers: they may look harmless enough, but these shoes are made of EVIL and they proceeded to rub my ankles raw as I walked around in them. Which I guess is what I get for not being able to dress myself properly. I’d like to say I’ve learned my lesson, but I think we all know I probably haven’t…)

I woke up with a lurgy this morning: sore throat, runny nose, general feeling of, “Oh crap, January done kicked me in the ass AGAIN.” Great!

Actually, that’s not quite true: I woke up in the middle of the night with the lurgy. My throat felt like sandpaper, and my trusty bottle of water was still on my desk in the office, where I’d left it, so I was forced to run the gauntlet of the hall, and all of the DEMONS that live in it  (No more demon noises to report, by the way. We’re taking the “if we just stick our heads in this handy pile of sand, here, it’ll be like it never happened!”) to retrieve it. It was at that point that I more or less abandoned all plans for the day, including my plan to return to the gym for THE FIRST TIME SINCE DECEMBER. Instead, I just returned to bed, and didn’t get up until… well, some considerable time later. I wish I could hibernate for the winter, like a little animal. It seems to be my natural inclination at this time of year.

In slightly better news, when I did finally wake up, it was to the sound of the postman bringing me my new shoes:

Yes, they still have the label on the sole, because I was too lazy/lurgy-filled to remove it. I probbaly won’t be able to wear them until about May, though, so that’ll give me time to painstakinginly pick it off, cursing and whining as I do so. (Why must they stick horrible labels on the soles of my shoes, WHY?)

Is it nearly Spring yet?

We picked up Terry’s new (to him) car today:

And then shortly after this photo was taken, we handed it over to the person who REALLY runs our house:

I’d say more about this, but I’m in the middle of knitting the car a blanket to keep it warm at night, and then I thought I’d take it out a nice cup of tea. So, yeah, that whole “not getting attached” thing? Not going so well, actually.

Now: what should we call it?

It hasn’t been a good week for my clothes.  No, I haven’t lost any of them, but…

First of all I managed to dye my running shoes grey. Yes, grey. They WERE a kind of beige colour, but all of that running I’ve been doing recently had turned them the colour of mud, basically, so when I got back from Wednesday’s run, I decided to throw them in the washing machine, so they’d be nice and clean for my planned trip to the gym the next day.

“And I will throw a bunch of BLACK clothes in with them!” I thought. “Because THAT won’t be a disaster at all!”

But of course, it DID turn out to be a disaster. Because the running shoes came out of the machine GREY. And that’s how I came to find myself making the Least Exciting Shoe Purchase in the Whole World Ever:

running shoes, yesterday

(Yes, I have noted the irony of the fact that I replaced my dyed-grey shoes with a pair of naturally grey shoes…)

In fairness, I had been planning to buy new running shoes for a while. It had become clear to me that if I intend to keep up the running, I would need two pairs of trainers, one for the gym and one for running outside. Because the gym will probably throw me out if I keep trailing mud across their nice clean floors, and it’s not exactly practical to keep washing them all the time. (The shoes, that is. Not the floors. I’m definitely not washing the gym’s floors, no way.) So I bought these, put the old trainers back into the machine for another spin (on their own this time), and, of course, they came out looking totally pristine and back to normal, so I really didn’t need the second pair at all, except I totally did. Whew!

Anyway, as I said, when I washed the shoes, I washed a bunch of other stuff at the same time, and one of those things was a black sports top of mine.

And when I tried to iron that black top? I burnt it, so now it has a giant iron-shaped mark, right in the middle of the chest. Excellent!

And when I let out a shriek and ran to switch off the iron, lest I damage something else with it? I caught the leggings I was wearing (for yes, readers I WAS WEARING LEGGINGS AND I DON’T EVEN CARE, SO THERE) on the back of Rubin’s “den”, and I ripped those leggings to shreds. Well, shred.

Total damages for the day: one pair of running shoes (now thankfully restored to working order), one top, one pair of leggings.

Not bad for a day when I only actually left the house once!

A few weeks ago, I was talking to my dad, and my dad said something that really struck a chord with me. It was this:

“Don’t hesitate to buy shoes,” said my dad. “Buy all of them. Especially those ones with the red soles.”

OK, so I’m paraphrasing here. I think he might ACTUALLY have said something about seizing the day, living life to the full, not putting off until tomorrow what you can do today, and all that. And I think the “not putting stuff off” bit might have been in reference to all of the STUFF belonging to me that’s still in my parents attic and my old bedroom.

But I chose to interpret it as “buy shoes”.**

It was my dad’s fault.

Am I grounded?

*Possibly not

** ON SALE, though! SALE.