That's right folks - the inaugural Scottish A Practical Wedding Book Club Meet-up (whew that's a mouthful) is happening THIS SATURDAY. Wheee!

I mean sure, I haven't actually arranged a time, or booked a table, or indeed read the book, but these are just minor details. People are coming - actual people! I feel like my computer has sprung to life and started walking and talking. Cannot wait to meet all you lovely people in real life. 

If you're in Scotland or thereabouts and fancy coming along, there's still time - here's the facebook discussion, or drop me a line and I'll send you the deets once they're finalised.

Of course, instead of devoting this week to actually reading the book and thinking up thoughtful observations and insightful remarks with which to dazzle the assembled APWers, I have instead been mainly preoccupied with what I'm going to wear. Not that it's a particularly fancy occasion or anything, but when you spend your weekdays wearing clothes in varying shades of dull, you tend to grasp any opportunity to wear something that isn't from Next's officewear section. 

I'm currently pinning my hopes on asos, which will, touch wood, be bringing my yellow skirt obsession to a successful conclusion with this little number (thanks Michelle for the link). I also have another yellow skirt hanging in my wardrobe, thanks to Emma, but something about it is just not quite right - it will do in a pinch, but I think the asos one is slightly closer to what I'm looking for... so keep your fingers crossed for me. Or, um, not, if you don't really care about my minor wardrobe dramas. Which would be understandable.

If you were off larking about yesterday for the bank holiday, or for Memorial Day, or just because you're a big skiver, (1) I am highly envious and (2) here's what you missed - essentially me inviting even more weirdos to find my blog by searching for bizarre and offensive terms, like old lady porn and fake ponytails. It was a pretty successful day all round.

It's official. The world is full of weirdos.

Seriously, how is it the end of May already? This year is flying by! I had all this stuff I was going to do in 2011... hmm, maybe I should get on with some of that...

Anyway, it IS the end of May, the last Friday of the month to be precise, and that means it's Blog Love time again. I don't know what the weather's like where you are, but around these parts it has been decidedly dull, and grey, and wet, and just not very summery at all. So I thought I would try and inject a bit of sunshine into this rainy day and share a couple of colourful blogs that never fail to brighten up my day.

Conversation Pieces is the design/lifestyle/weddingy/general-cool-stuff blog of Edinburgh writer Zoe Martin. I think it's fair to say the girl loves a bit of colour; her blog is packed full of quirky design finds, gorgeous pictures of her bright and beautiful flat, and colourful vintage bits and bobs. She is also currently in the throes of planning her forthcoming wedding, which I have no doubt will be fabulously creative and one-of-a-kind, if her amazeballs Save The Date video is anything to go by.

What I like about Zoe's blog is that it's not one of those faceless, consumerist, "check out all this trendy stuff you will never be able to afford"-type design blogs (*cough* Design Sponge *cough*). Her personality and personal style shine through in everything she posts. I even bought this super-cute snuggly fox print after she posted about it - it hangs next to our bed and I luuuurve it. Zoe was also sweet enough to help me out with my yellow skirt hunt when I asked if she had any suggestions (yes, the saga continues) - she's all about the yellow.


Obviously the fact that Zoe is a fellow Edinburgh resident gives her a special place in my blog-loving heart (I don't know her in real life or anything, though. I did once think I saw her on the street and totally stared at her in a creepy-stalker way, but didn't want to say anything because, you know, didn't want to seem like a creepy stalker. Zoe, if that really was you, um, sorry) but no matter where you're from you will not fail to be inspired and just plain cheered up by her blog.

Trust me. It's like sunshine on toast. 

I don't know if it's weird to include Young House Love here - it's kind of like saying, "Hey, have you heard of this amazing company called Apple? They make some really cool stuff, you should check it out! You heard it here first!!". It's a pretty popular blog. But still, I imagine that some of you, like me, may have started out reading nothing but wedding blogs and might have no idea where to look and what to read once the all-consuming wedding wave has started to subside, so I'll go ahead and share it anyway. (Plus there is a whole section on Young House Love dedicated to their wedding, so if that's still your thing, you're sorted.)

The blog is run by John and Sherry Petersik. They are a young, wholesome, good-looking pair of newlyweds who have just bought a house in Richmond, Virginia. They decorate their house. Then they blog about it. Occasionally they blog about some other stuff as well. And that's all they do. As in, that is their only job. (Jealous, moi?)

As if their lifestyle isn't idyllic enough, they are also parents to the cutest baby EVER. Sorry all you other parents out there - your babies are cute too, but Clara is off the scale of cute. She is the Dominos pizza of cute. Or the crack cocaine of cute. She's just really, really, really cute.


So we've established their lives are perfect and their baby is adorable - wait, shouldn't we hate them? Well, no, because damn them if they aren't the nicest people too. They're just really open and warm, and their blog is full of attainable ideas and honest advice. If something they try goes completely tits up, they'll admit it. If they see their dream piece of furniture but it's waaay out of their budget, they'll go to Ikea instead, thankyouverymuch.

Like Converstion Pieces, Young House Love isn't filled with aspirational New York townhouses, astronomically-priced art or minimalist white designer furniture that most people (ok, I mean me) would spray with spaghetti sauce within five minutes of buying; instead, it is filled with colour, vibrancy, fun, and "let's just give it a go and see what happens". Which I love.


Obviously I don't have a house, so paint colours and DIY patios are not exactly top of the agenda at the moment, but there is still plenty of inspiration to be found. For example, they recently threw a party to celebrate Clara's first birthday and it was so fun to see all the creative little touches they put together for it. Sure, most people actually have jobs to go to and don't have time to hand-craft table runners and colour-co-ordinate balloons all day, but it's a constant reminder that creativity and craftiness don't need to begin and end with your wedding; they can be part of your daily life and the surroundings you create for yourself.

So, yeah. Even if you don't have a house, Young House Love is still a fun, cheerful place to visit for some if-I-had-a-house daydreaming, a bit of good ol'-fashioned Southern hospitality and bags of inspiration. (Plus, the cute baby. Don't forget the cute baby.)

And now for something completely different. I actually don't even know how to begin to describe Faux Fuchsia. Let's just say, if blogs were colours, Conversation Pieces would be yellow, Young House Love would be a nice fresh green, and Faux Fuchsia would be Pink with a capital P.

FF is Hardcore into Butter, unnecessary capitalisation, Oprah, gardening (despite constant battles against Old Testament Varmints), heavily discounted designer clobber and nail varnish that is not Quick to Chip. She is always immaculately groomed (even when uber pregnant), is frequently Directed by the Universe to bake, and has an undying commitment to Never Knowingly Undercushioning. 

In some ways, FF's posts are all the same, yet I always look forward to reading them. She has a wonderful turn of phrase, is full of wit and wisdom, and is much sharper than the blog's slightly overwhelming colour scheme would have you believe. 

Wishing you all a sunny weekend.

*Nicola - just to be clear, Ray is not an actual person...


Home card by Yoke. All other images are from the respective blogs.

Anyway, rather than reading my ramblings today, I suggest - nay, I insist! - that you go and read this instead. (It's a post about punctuation, and it's utterly ridiculous. Love.)

I'll be back tomorrow with this month's Blog Love. Which, erm, might be kind of short. With no pictures. And written in five minutes. On the bus.

This blogging malarkey is harder than it looks.

Images by Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half, obvs. (Who, by the way, started off writing 20 posts a month and is currently averaging 1. Sure, she's writing a book or whatever, but still - HARDER THAN IT LOOKS.)

{Update: In the spirit of raising Rabbit Awareness (?!), the lovely and talented Amy has sent me a link to this sweet little kids' book (which I may just have ordered for myself) - anyone else got any bunny-related goodness they'd care to share?}

1. naokosstoop 2. Lillian and Leonard 3. Spoonflower 4. Textile Platypus 5. Playboy July 1963, via Vintage Scans 6. Via The Daily Bunny (which, by the way, I highly recommend)

{IMPORTANT UPDATE: When this post was first published, for a couple of hours it may have looked like I had used - oh God I can barely say it - Comic Sans in part of it. I would like to apologise for this horrendous misunderstanding and reassure you that I would NEVER DO THAT. I have standards, you know.}

There was one other little snippet from the race on Sunday that I thought you might appreciate. Unfortunately, I was busy falling into a wine-and-pizza coma when I wrote that last post and completely neglected to mention it.

The Edinburgh Marathon relay, or Hairy Haggis relay as it is officially known*, is split into four legs. The race starts in the centre of Edinburgh high above Holyrood Palace and sweeps down to the coast, through the coastal towns of Prestonpans (site of a famous Scottish battle) and Cockenzie (site of the aforementioned ugly power station) and out into the East Lothian countryside, before turning back and finishing alongside the turf of Musselburgh racecourse. Calling it the Edinburgh Marathon is actually a bit of a stretch, since you're only in Edinburgh for about 3 miles, but that's beside the point.
Instead of just being numbered from one to four, each relay leg has been given a suitably descriptive name to add that little je ne sais quoi. These are the legs my team mates ran:

*When I first got my race number I couldn't understand why there were dancing potatoes with legs across the top, until someone pointed out that they were actually running haggises [haggii?]. Of course they were. Because potatoes with legs would just be silly.

So, I don't know if you knew this, but I was taking part a little run yesterday. I might have mentioned it.

I wish I had the energy to tell you about the easy parts when the sun was shining and I was high-fiving row after row of giggling boys, and the hard parts when my stomach was twisting and stabbing and there was nothing ahead but Scotland's ugliest power station looming grimly against the darkening sky, and the thrilling part when the marathon leader sprinted past in the other direction and all of the runners around me whooped and clapped and cheered him on his way to victory, and the best part when I rounded a bend and all of a sudden there were the smiling, cheering faces of my family and friends and I fumbled my wrist band into the hands of the next runner and it was over.

But I don't have the energy to tell you about that. (Did you know running was so tiring?)

So I will just say we did it (in 4 hours and 5 minutes, by the way!), we raised a big wad of cash for Breast Cancer Care, Blonde Bridesmaid totally NAILED the last leg, we all went and drank a lot of wine, and then the Hubster and I had a big, massive, fat-bastard pizza. 

Best. Day. Ever.

Thank you all so much for your support and good wishes - it means more than you could know.

No more training, no more procrastinating, no more whining. This Sunday is MARATHON DAY. Shiiiiit!

(I love saying that, as if I'm actually running the whole marathon. Ok fine, I'm doing it in a relay and only running 5.4 miles, but it still totally counts. Kind of.)

I wouldn't say my training has been entirely successful. Somewhat to my own disbelief, I actually managed to run 10k without stopping last weekend for the first time ever, which was a huge achievement for me - and yet, I have somehow managed to put weight on, despite my vague attempt at running more. WTF? I think it may possibly have something to do with the fact that I have been consuming giant meals to "build up my energy" for the wildly optimistic runs I have planned, and then I end up splayed across the couch watching The Apprentice instead. (Don't even try and tell me the extra weight is "muscle". Puh-lease.)

Perhaps Ken Clarke would care to explain what constitutes "serious rape", and what differentiates it from, say, whimsical rape?

What. A. Twat.

This weekend, I read this book. (I know, I know, I'm meant to be reading that one for the A Practical Wedding book club. But I can't exactly go on a romantic minibreak with my husband and take The Science of a Good Marriage, can I?)

This is not a particularly sophisticated book. It's written from the perspective of a dog, for a start. It also contains a lot of references to car racing, which isn't something I would ever have imagined would be interesting. But, actually, for a little light reading on a carefree weekend, cosied up in pressed sheets and fragrant, fluffy pillows, it was perfect.

Except, there is an incident in the book that didn't quite fit in with the serene and peaceful mood I had planned. In fact, it had me quite literally shaking with rage. My heart was pounding. I actually had to put the book down for a few hours and do something else until the rage had subsided and I could go back and, hesitatingly, pick up where I left off. I won't go into the detail but essentially what it boiled down to was a vile mixture of injustice and powerlessness (oh, how often the two go hand-in-hand).

I didn't go into law to save the world or right wrongs. I went into law because I couldn't think of anything else to do  wanted to be like Ally MacBeal  thought it might be interesting. I've always enjoyed analysing complicated situations and seeking out the most elegant, logical solution. (Like the time I broke into my parents' house using a tent pole. I've never been more proud.) Honestly, I saw law as more of an intellectual pursuit than a vocation. And, true to form, I have ended up practising in an area that is full of complicated regulations and difficult concepts and not much in the way of life-or-death implications, and that's the way I've always liked it.

But I think I may be undergoing a conversion. Your typical law student starts out brimming with high aspirational principles. These are then slowly and ruthlessly ground out of him or her by the tireless, all-consuming force of Hourly Rates, Chargeable Time and Performance-Related Bonuses. I, on the other hand, seem to be floating back in the opposite direction, to the point where a potential fictional miscarriage of justice, narrated by a dog, leaves me boiling with rage at the wickedness of the world. I mean, is this normal? I have no idea.

Was this book a turning point? Was it the final push that would make me throw in the towel on my corporate law job and run off to the Democratic Republic of Congo to be a human rights lawyer and bang up all these scumbags?

Truthfully, no. Probably not. I did sign up to volunteer for a free law clinic, though, so all is not entirely lost.

Mainly, to be honest, the book just kind of made me want to get a dog. Preferably this one. Anyone know where I can steal him?




And this one:



And I was sold.

Unfortunately, such a thing is not easy to come by. I am in love with this little Anthropologie number, as modelled so elegantly by Lauren of I'm Better in Real Life, but not only is it quite pricey, the UK site no longer has it in my size and the Edinburgh store is yet to open. Sigh. I am also quite enamoured with this one (which is, in fact, The Actual Skirt from the third picture above), but it's $158 plus international postage - I'm not that enamoured with it. Then there was this one - alas, too pale. This one seemed perfect, but then when I went into the shop it was actually orange. ORANGE? Pfft. Who wants an orange skirt? Not me.

I always do this. For normal people, shopping consists of three simple steps.

1. Go into shop.

2. Find something you like.

3. Buy it.

Easy, yes? No. For me it's more like the five stages of (shopping) grief.

1. Denial. I see a picture of an item of clothing (or just make it up entirely in my head) and become utterly convinced that it is sitting in a shop or a warehouse somewhere, just waiting for me to find it. It must be out there, I can't be the only one who is looking for a yellow skirt/navy-and-white-striped bandeau swimsuit/coral and purple 50s prom dress/insert random item of clothing here. All I have to do is look, and I will find it. It. Is. Out. There.

2. Anger. This is the stage where I am most likely to find myself standing in the middle of a shop clutching an orange skirt and wailing to noone in particular, "but WHY is it orange?!". I can also be found storming through shops with a laser-like focus, swooping on every scrap of yellow that catches my eye, moving on in disgust when I realise it's a yellow dress or a yellow top. I mean, is it so HARD to make a yellow skirt? Is it so WRONG that, after a working week spent stuffing myself into uncomfortable tailoring and endless shades of grey, all I want is a little piece of swirly twirly sunshine? Is it TOO MUCH TO ASK?!?

3. Bargaining. Maybe if I just wait until they've had their next delivery. Maybe if I buy a white skirt and dye it yellow. Maybe if I say nice things about her blog, Lauren will give me hers. Maybe I could make one? (*snort*) Maybe I could justify the $158-plus-international-postage if I don't buy any other clothes ever! Maybe maybe maybe...

4. Depression. What's the point in even looking for a yellow skirt any more? We're probably not even going to get a summer in Scotland and everyone in California just wears shorts anyway. I'm too pale and blonde to pull off yellow, I probably wouldn't even fit into a yellow skirt, oh this whole thing has just been a big pointless waste of time I am the worst shopper ever I'm never buying another piece of clothing ever again.

5. Acceptance. I think I'll just buy that white skirt instead.

Image: 1. What I Wore 2. Karen Walker Spring 2011 via style.com 3. EmersonMade

Well. That was a total balls-up. For those of you who aren't bloggers or twitterers and were wondering why blogland was so eerily quiet on Friday, it's because Blogger, the Google site that hosts gazillions of blogs (including this one), had a monumental meltdown and deleted a whole load of posts and comments and prevented anyone from posting or commenting on anything at all. Thanks, Blogger. Thanks a lot.

All of which meant that the post I had planned for Friday spent the weekend languishing in my drafts folder. It was going to be a pre-emptive thank you to one of my dearest friends for something wonderful she did for the Hubster and I this weekend. THANKS AGAIN, BLOGGER.

But actually, it's better that I have to post it today, because who knows how the weekend could have gone? It could have been an unmitigated disaster, and then I would have had to publish a retraction, and it all could have gotten very awkward. (Actually, in some ways, the weekend was a bit of a disaster - my new shoes broke, we nearly ran out of petrol in the middle of nowhere, Fin cracked a rib - but we're not talking about that. Especially not the running-out-of-petrol part. Let's just say the atmosphere in the car at that point was t.e.n.s.e.)

Anyway, back to the thank you part. This post is a way of saying a big, huge, ginormous thank you to my lovely friend Kristen. (By posting an embarrassing old photo of her. You're welcome, K.)

No. It was never as bad as this.

So long, Topshop. It was fun while it lasted.

Lots of love,
Apparently Deeply Unfashionable Shopper


All images via Topshop

First, there was the stitch. I have been bizarrely plagued by a stitch in my right side. At first it would hit after around seven minutes. I tried running through it - BAD idea. I tried leaving more time between eating and running, which helped to keep me going for about twenty minutes, but I'm pretty sure you have to be a bit whizzier than me to run 5.4 miles in twenty minutes. Finally the insanely fit Ellie gave me some good breathing advice which has helped a lot - the evil stabby stitch still tries to get me, but I know how to smack it back down. Take that, stitch! So, that should be me sorted, right?

WRONG.

No sooner is one problem fixed than another pops up in its place. Next it was the air conditioning in the gym breaking down, which, combined with the crrrazy sunny weather we had in April, had me close to passing out on the treadmill. Not cool (literally, ha). Yeah, I know, I should run outside, but I pay good money for that damn gym membership and I'm going to bloody well use it! At least until I remember to cancel it.

Then I made the foolish, foolish decision to wear my red cowboy boots to lunch (why oh why?). The boots were bought on an ebay impulse after seeing one too many pictures of awesome ladies rocking red boots (and, um, also this four-year-old. What can I say, I like her style).

My cowboy boots were £10. £10! A bargain, I hear you cry! But are they a bargain if every time you wear them you end up with blisters the size of 50 pence pieces on your heels? I mean Every. Single. Time? Including the time I wore them on Saturday, just two weeks before the race?? Yeah, thought not. I think I might have spent another £10 on plasters alone.

I still needed to train though (especially after I took a week-long extended break from running to, erm, basically watch the Royal Wedding and eat Easter eggs) so I layered up the plasters and headed to the gym. Thankfully my feet were actually okay. No chafing. Such a relief. I just wish I could say the same about my *ahem* chest area, which has now randomly decided it is no longer compatible with my usual *ahem* support arrangements. Let's just say it was not the most pleasant run I've ever had. Ouch.

So, change of sports bra, but tonight my stupid left knee has come out of nowhere and started to hurt, AND I got blisters on the soles of my feet where I have never ever had them before. What. The. Fuck???

Oh and as if this all wasn't enough, it now transpires that I'm not allowed to run with my iPod during the marathon, so instead of my carefully crafted motivational playlist (yes, Kelly Clarkson is on it), all I will hear as I slog along will be the sound of my own pathetic wheezing and maybe a few people asking me to move so they can run past me. Sigh.

I would say the Universe was trying to tell me something (again), directing me to ditch the dreaded run and instead engage in a pizza-fest of epic proportions.

And then, of course, the Universe goes and reminds me why I'm running in the first place. Raising money for people with cancer, bla bla bla. The usual. But there is a reason even more serious, more profound, than that:

It's LESS THAN SIX WEEKS UNTIL BIKINI TIME, PEOPLE!

Eek. Better get running.

All images via the etsy seller, BrassPaperclip.