Gran Canaria, December 2009.
At least SOMEONE in the house still has his favourite pair of sunglasses. And oh, hey! If you look really closely, you’ll see that I’m actually wearing mine in this photo, too. Gah.
Nope, still haven’t found them, still not over it. Happy Friday, everyone!
When I wrote about my shoe collection earlier this week, Madeline had an interesting question for me. Well, it was interesting to me, anyway, because it was about mascara, and I find almost EVERYTHING about mascara interesting. Madeline said:
“ Now, i’ll throw a really hard question to you: how many individual tubes of mascara do you have? I know now you’ll be counting till tomorrow (i’m evil, i know )”
Oh yeah: THAT. The mascara. Oh my holy hell, the mascara:
THE MASCARA
Oh, hai, everyone! My name’s Amber, and I’m a mascara addict. Actually, in my defence, I have to point out that at least half of the FOURTEEN TUBES OF MASCARA you see before you were sent to me as review samples, so I didn’t actually go out and buy all of them. I mean, I may be crazy, but I’m not THAT crazy. Well, not yet, anyway.
My addiction to mascara has been with me since my early teens. It began at roughly that point life when you start to become aware of your appearance, and one day you look into the mirror, and think, “Damn, who stole my eyelashes, WHO?” In my case, no one stole my eyelashes: they do exist, but, as is the case with many redheads, they’re so pale that they may as well NOT. I guess the correct term for them would be “strawberry blonde”, but mine are more blonde than strawberry, and if I wasn’t wearing mascara, and you were standing close enough to see (or rather NOT see) my lashes, you would probably think I was some kind of half human/half reptile hybrid, and you would call up Will Smith and ask him to take me down.
That would never happen, though, because there is basically NEVER a time when I’m not wearing mascara. (And also because if you ever try standing that close to me, I will cut you. I really hope you’re reading this, woman at the gym who got onto the treadmill right next to mine yesterday when there were TEN OTHER COMPLETELY EMPTY TREADMILLS AVAILABLE… ) Seriously, my mascara consumption is the stuff of legend. When I lived in halls of residence at university, the fire alarm in our building would frequently go off in the middle of the night, and we’d all have to pile outside to stand in the freezing cold until the fire brigade arrived to switch it off again. With just a few short minutes to prepare myself for this ordeal, my choice was simple: I could either throw on some clothes, or I could throw on some mascara. That’s why, every single time that fire alarm went off, I would be found standing shivering outside in my dressing gown: but by God, my eyelashes looked marvelous.
These days, of course, I dye my lashes, so I’m less likely to be mistaken for an alien, should anyone ever see me without makeup. Dying lashes only changes the colour of them, though: it doesn’t lengthen them, or curl them, or volumise them, or do any of the other wonderful things mascara can do. This was the truth I learned as a young teenager, when I would leave for school in the morning completely bare-faced, and mysteriously manage to arrive there with half of the Cover Girl counter on my face. My plan, if my parents ever found out about this, was to claim to have been mugged by a makeup artist. Because, seriously THAT’S WHAT IT LOOKED LIKE.
That’s why, throughout my formative years, my most frequently asked question wasn’t “How many pairs of shoes do you have?” but “Are you a drag queen?”
It’s also why I have a Sephora loyalty card, even although I don’t live in a country they deliver to. GOD.
Taken on holiday in Gran Canaria. No explanation required.
Happy Friday, everyone!
It’s really a Saturday Photo now, of course, but here I am sitting on top of one of the Maspalomas sand dunes, in Gran Canaria.
It’s a big ‘un, isn’t it?
Yes, folks, it’s yet another edition of Friday (Stolen) Photo! Which can only mean one thing: another poor fool has stolen a photo of my face and is using it to sell things on eBay! Or at least, I think it’s eBay. I have no idea what “gittigidiyor.com” might mean, so I’m going to have to assume it means “Site where people habitually steal photos of Magic Amber, and use them to sell products including – but not limited to – false eyelashes and lip plumping gloss.”
Or, in this case, “Not-Particularly-Plumping-Gloss”:
Yeah, those are my lips. Hai, lips! Do you see how the “before” and “after” photos are ALMOST EXACTLY THE SAME here, readers? That’s because… they are. As I noted in my review of this product, “Sexy Motherpucker” made no discernable difference to my lips at all. STOLEN PHOTO FAIL.
This time, rather than politely ask the seller to remove the photo, I simply asked which address I should send my invoice to for use of the copyrighted images. I get more vindictive with every body part of mine that appears on eBay. The next person to use my face without permission wakes up to a horse’s head in their bed, I swear to God.*
Oh, I’m also now a member of Turkish eBay. Yes.
And here was I thinking the Friday (Stolen) Photo would be a one-off! Oh, if only!
[Thanks to Lucy for letting me know about this one!]
* That was a joke, by the way. I mostly just think, “Wow, AGAIN?” when I see these, not, “OK, horse’s head.” Mostly.
In a change to our published schedule, rather than showing you a totally random photo every Friday some Fridays, I’m now going to use this slot to show you the new places my face has turned up on the Internet without my permission. It’ll be something to show the grandkids, I guess. Assuming Rubin has any.
I’m also going to refrain from rehashing the same old post about the CHEEK of people who use MY FACE for their own personal gain, and just allow you to imagine what I would have written if I wasn’t so lazy. Please refer to this post, this post and let’s not forget this post if you’re not sure.
This week’s Stolen Photo, then, sees me once again advertising false eyelashes on eBay:
There were actually three auctions featuring yours truly, but two of them used the same image, so I’m sure you don’t need the illustration. Oh, and when I contacted the seller she told me she’d removed the images, but it turns out she only removed one. The others are still there. Presumably she thought I wouldn’t bother to check.
Anyway, thanks to Ola for letting me know about this latest appearance. Remember, folks, there are fake Ambers all around you, so if you spot one, please let me know! Meanwhile, if anyone needs me, I’ll be spending my weekend watermarking all of my images. The fun just never starts, does it?
This is not Rubin. I know it looks like him, but one thing you should always remember when dealing with Rubin is that Rubin is NOT A POODLE. That right there? Is a poodle. His name was Chico, and no, we didn’t choose that rather sissy-sounding poodle-name (apologies to anyone named Chico who may be reading this right now, by the way…) – Chico was a rescue dog, and so he already had his name by the time we met him. My uncle, who worked for the RSPCA at the time, found him chained to a radiator, which tells you all you need to know about humanity really, doesn’t it?
Anyway, my grandparents’ dog, Rusty (he of “pumping” fame) had died a year or so earlier, and although my grandparents had sworn never to get another dog after that (I guess one “pumper” is enough for anyone), as soon as they laid eyes on Chico, they were all, “Who, us? No, we never said we didn’t want another dog!” and before anyone knew what had happened, Chico was installed in their house, sleeping in their bed and eating carefully prepared meals that my grandad would cook from scratch each day, sometimes making a special trip to the butcher’s to secure the ingredients. It would be good if I could say I was joking about this, but nah: like Rubin, Chico was what you’d call “a character”. The early, radiator-dwelling part of his life had left him with some foibles that he never quite got over, including:
a) peeing at will, all over the house, not JUST on the washing machine and any white shirts that happen to be in the vicinity.
b) turning up his nose at all brands of pet food, and going on hunger strike until presented with a gourmet meal, cooked from scratch using only the very best ingredients.
Basically, he made Rubin seem like Mother Theresa, but he was just so gosh darned cute you forgave him for it. Well, sometimes you did. When my grandparents died, Chico came to live with us, but he was an old man himself by then, although you wouldn’t necessarily have known it, because he was a lunatic – and a lively one – right up until the end. When he died, I promised myself that one day I’d have a dog just like him: and one day, I did (Yes, I know Rubin is a Bichon, not a poodle, but play along here folks, OK?).
In other words: it was all Chico’s fault…
Last week Terry and I went shopping, so for this week’s Friday Photo, here I am in my natural habitat: the mall.
I’m wearing my new trench coat and ankle boots, which I bought in preparation for Autumn. And which I wore on a day that was far warmer than any of the days we had during “summer”. Seriously, everyone else was wearing summer stuff. I was boiling. We’ve been having this Indian summer for a couple of weeks now, and I’m 100% sure that the reason we’re having it is because I packed away all of my summer clothes. You can thank me whenever you’re ready, Scotland. I’m also 100% sure that once the Indian summer is over, we’ll go directly to Deep Midwinter without passing Autumn, and I’ll never get to wear my new trench-coat ever again.
I went shopping to buy stuff for Winter. The bag you can see in my left hand? Contains the new summer dress I bought in Topshop. I really suck at seasonal shopping, apparently.
(I did actually get some winter stuff, mind you. That’s for a Friday Photo of the future, though. Maybe.)
So, I’ve noticed that no one actually comes here on a Friday, so I thought I’d revive the Friday Photo that I used to do did a couple of times way back in the day, so I don’t have to write actual words that no one will read. Lazy: it’s my middle name!
For today’s Friday Photo, I present a fascinating glimpse of the professional blogger at work:
Blogger, working
Actually, this photo is part of an entire series taken by my dad (thanks dad!) during our last trip to Florida. And I look the same in every single one of them. Witness
At home
In the Olive Garden
Look! I’m even dressed the same!*
* On top, anyway. I wasn’t wearing the classy “shorts and heels” outfit from the image above. I hope not, anyway. I actually can’t remember much about that holiday, to be honest. I wonder why?
At the pool*
You feel like YOU’VE been drinking wine after looking at that last one, don’t you? Let that be a lesson to you all, then
Anyway, that was my Friday Photo. You could do one too**, and then it could be like, a meme or something. Or, you know, not.
* Taken AFTER I’d been swimming, not before or during. Use alcohol responsibly, kids. Like me.
** Doesn’t have to be a photo of you drunk, obviously. Although that would be funny.
Edited to Add: I feel like I should point out that I am not actually drunk in any of these. That was supposed to be a joke 