Mirror, Mirror On the Wall.

Looking for today's Writing Workshop post? Come visit me at Mommy's Still Fabulous, where I'm guest posting today! She was my first bloggy friend, and an absolute fabulous blogger, so make sure you check her out while you're there.

So, in honor of Her Fabulousness, I'm re-posting an old Writing Workshop post about my ongoing search for my inner goddess.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall.

REFLECTION: Why are you glaring at me like that?

ME: Because I don’t like you very much.

REFLECTION: Again? We’re having this conversation again?

ME: What do you mean, again?

REFLECTION: For the last 33 years, it’s been nothing but, “why can’t you be thinner, why is your belly so poochy, why are you so short, why, why, why…” It’s enough to give a girl a complex.

ME: I haven’t always hated you.

REFLECTION: Name one time you liked what you saw.

ME: What about back in my 20’s, when I was a size 6?

REFLECTION: You wanted to be a size 4.

ME: That's not true. Remember that string bikini? You looked darn good in that bikini.

REFLECTION: Yeah, but your face was broken out. That was all you could see.

ME: When I was pregnant, I liked you then.

REFLECTION: Wrong. You spent the whole time worrying about how fat you were getting.

ME: Well… I was right. I did gain too much weight. Look at you now.

REFLECTION: You know what? I’ve had enough. I’m going on strike.

ME: You can’t go on strike. You’re my reflection!

REFLECTION: Watch me. I’m walking out of this mirror, and I’m not coming back until you say something nice about me.

ME: That’s impossible.

Reflection starts to leave.

ME: Hey, wait! Come back.

REFLECTION: (Over her shoulder) I meant what I said. I’m going to go back to bed, and I’m staying there until you learn to appreciate me.

ME: But people will think I’m a vampire. 

REFLECTION: That’s your problem, not mine.

ME: (Pounding on empty mirror). That’s not fair! You little bitch, get back here!

REFLECTION: Mmmm, it's mighty comfy in here.

ME: Please?

REFLECTION: Sure am glad I got these bamboo sheets. They're nice and soft.

ME: Come on. I really do love you…

Reflection pops her head back in.

REFLECTION: What? What was that you just said?

ME: I love you.

REFLECTION: Why?

ME: Because you’re strong, and you’re beautiful, and you’re capable of amazing things. It’s just….

REFLECTION: (Sighing) It’s just what?

ME: Nothing. It’s nothing. You’re an amazing woman, just as you are. And in a few months, after I lose this baby weight, you’ll be even more amazing.

REFLECTION: So you’ll cut the crap?

ME: Yes. No more name calling.

REFLECTION: You promise? Because that’s verbal abuse, you know. I could call the police.

ME: No you can’t. You’re my reflection. You don’t have real hands.

REFLECTION: Do you want me to leave again?

ME: No, no. Hey, I know how I can make it up to you. Let’s go shopping. I’ll buy you something pretty.

REFLECTION: Okay, we’ll go shopping. But no dressing room tantrums, or I’ll make you buy foundation undergarments.

ME: (shudders) A girdle? No, thank you. I’ll be good, I promise.

REFLECTION: Deal. Ann Taylor, here we come… better bring the credit card.

Writing Workshop: Who Needs a Passport Anyway?

When I was 15, I set out on the adventure of a lifetime. Never having been away from home for more than a night or two, I packed my bags for a month in Russia. Or, as it was known then, the Soviet Union. Because at that point, the iron curtain? Was tattered, but still being held in place by a few determined KGB agents and a whole lot of career military folk.

As I may have mentioned before, I've never been one to do anything halfway.

Anyway, my mom and I had spent weeks packing everything I'd need for a month. And I do mean everything. Clothes, laundry detergent, tampons, every over the counter medication you can think of...even jars of peanut butter, crackers and beef jerky (you couldn't count on being able to find such things in Russia).

I also had a money belt stuffed with traveler's checks, all my visa paperwork, and, most importantly, my passport, strapped firmly around my waist.

You can see the bulge under my sweater if you look carefully (I'm the second one from the left. Wearing ugly glasses).

In short, when we set out for the airport, I had just about everything a teenage girl half the world away from her mom could possibly want, up to and including the kitchen sink.

After a flurry of paperwork doing, baggage checking and tear wiping, it was time to say good bye to our parents and take our seats on the plane. Knowing how disorganized I was (and still am), one of the last things my mom said to me was, "You have everything, right? You know where your passport is?"

I patted my trusty money pouch and (most likely rolling my eyes) said, "don't worry, mom. I've got it."

And I did.

In fact, I kept track of it all the way through customs at the JFK airport.

But that's where my luck ran out.

You see, we were late. Rushing to meet our connection, in fact. We may even have been running through the airport, I'm not sure. At any rate, after going through customs, I failed to put my passport back in the money pouch where it belonged.

Not that I realized this at the time.

It wasn't until I had boarded the plane to Moscow and set about organizing my plane tickets (this was way before e-tickets) that I realized it was missing.

At first I didn't think too much about it. Sure, it wasn't in the pouch, but surely I had it. So I checked my jacket pockets, my jean pockets, even my socks (I had a habit of storing things in my shoes). But when I took off my gym shoes and still hadn't found it, I freaked the hell out.

"My passport," I screeched at the top of my lungs. "It's gone!"

But no one heard me. So I dragged my carry on out of the overhead bin and commenced tearing it open.  I finally got the flight attendant's attention when a pair of underwear went flying over her head,.

She bustled over, and officiously asked, "is something wrong?"

"My PASSPORT" I shrieked, sobbing now. "It's gooooooooone!"

"Oh, now, honey, surely it isn't really gone. When did you last have it?"

"I don't knooooooow. I'm going to Moscow, and I don't have a passport! They're going to lock me in a Siberian prison and I'm never going to see the light of day agaaaaaiiiiiin!"

"Did you check your pockets?"

"Of course I checked my pockets," I hiccuped. "What do  you think I am, dumb?"

She was silent for a few seconds before replying, "no, I'm sure you're not. Okay, hold on a minute."

She hurried away and the next thing I knew, an announcement was crackling over the PA. "Attention, passengers, we have a lost passport situation. Could you please look under the seats and on the floor in your area to see if you have it?"

If I had been feeling even a fraction more rational, that announcement would have made me want to sink through the floor in embarrassment. But I was too busy picturing myself being forced to carve out ice roads in a forced labor camp to worry about it.

The minutes ticked by as my fellow passenger shuffled about, searching for my lost identification. Just as I was bequeathing my most precious possessions to my friends (I wouldn't need them in a Siberian prison, after all) I heard the shout.

"I found it," came the call from somewhere in first class.

When the flight attendant came toward me, blue leatherette booklet in hand, I literally collapsed on the floor in relief.

"Here you go. Now, I suggest you put this somewhere very safe."

I nodded, choking out a strangled "thank you," before slinking back to my seat.

Because once I had been saved from life in Siberia? The embarrassment hit full force, making me want to dive through the emergency exit door, coast down the wing and start the long walk home.

It was a hell of a way to start the adventure of a lifetime. An adventure that from that moment on, included merciless teasing about my inability to hang on to anything (including my camera. I sent that clattering down the marble staircase in the grand entrance of the Hermitage, but that's a story for another day).

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Now visit Mama Kat to see what the other workshoppers lost.

A Message to the New Mommies of the World.

To all you brand new moms out there:

I have one thing to say to you, and one thing only. But it’s important, so pay attention.

Are you listening? Then here it is. No matter what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling, it’s okay.

Really. It’s okay.

It’s okay to feel ridiculously overwhelmed, and to be unsure if you can get through the next 24 minutes, never mind 24 hours.

It’s okay to look at your baby and be blown away by the fact that this wondrous little creature actually came out of you (also, how did she ever fit in there?).

It’s okay to wonder why no one ever told you how hard breastfeeding is and to sometimes feel like giving up (it’s even okay to give up, if you need to).

It’s okay to think that those little baby burps are the cutest. noises. ever.

It’s okay to look down at your still pregnant-looking stomach and think about indulging in some do-it-yourself liposuction.

It’s okay to change your baby’s clothes twelve times a day because she just looks so darn cute.

It’s okay to feel like murdering your husband when the baby starts screaming at 3 a.m. and he just rolls over, putting the pillow over his head to block out the noise.

It’s okay to be absolutely terrified to cut your baby’s nails (I recommend just chewing them off).

It’s okay to wish your baby would hurry up and learn how to talk because trying to interpret his screams is getting old.

It’s okay to feel like snatching your baby back every time someone takes her from you.

It’s okay to wish someone was around to take the baby away from you.

It’s okay to feel sad, angry, overjoyed, bewildered, overwhelmed, terrified…even all at the same time.

Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, it’s okay.

You’re doing your best, and that’s all your baby asks. And as for the rest of the world? Well, feel free to tell the rest of the world where it can go.

Don't forget to visit Mama Kat for this week's other brilliant workshop entries.

Writer's Workshop: Ten (or so) Things I've Unlearned.

Back when I first became a mommy (you know, about a hundred years ago), my head was stuffed with all sorts of rules. Swirling around in my brain were all sorts of sentences beginning with "good mommies must..." and "good mommies never..." And you know what? I nearly drove myself mad.

Now, a whole year later, I've learned a little something. Okay, a lot of somethings. Mostly what I've learned is that those rules are total crap. Here are ten that I find particularly offensive.

Good mommies must breast feed. Oh yeah? Tell that to the screaming hellion who would have nothing to do with my boob for the first three weeks of her life. She was miserable, I was miserable, and more importantly, I was in danger of losing my mind. So yeah, I quit. I might have cost her a few IQ points, but you know what? I was formula fed and I turned out just fine (shut up. I did).

Good mommies always keep their cool.  I don't know where I got this one from, but I was sure it was true. Then this screaming, popping, vomiting mess arrived in my life and I was anything but calm. At first, I beat myself up every time I got frustrated, or found myself close to tears, or just wanted to give up, but eventually? I realized that there was no way I was going to get through this thing if I couldn't be free to feel whatever it was I was feeling.

Good mommies keep a clean house. Yeah. That lasted for about two days after my mom went home. My husband and I are slobs. Always have been, always will be. So I've learned to embrace the mess. Until, that is, company is coming. Then I run around cleaning like a mad woman (so if you hear strange noises at about 2 a.m., don't worry. It's just me, trying to remember how the vacuum works).

Good mommies never get bored.  I thought I was supposed to be completely enthralled with her every gurgle, babble and fart. But you know what? I'm not. Sometimes, I'd rather stick hot pokers under my toenails than play one more round of peekaboo. And that's okay.

Good mommies never let their kids eat off the floor.  When Tori first became mobile, I freaked out every time she picked something up and put it in her mouth. But, as we've already discussed, I'm basically a lazy person. These days, her favorite food is cheerios...sprinkled with a layer of floor crunchies.

Good mommies lose the baby weight within the first three months. If that's true, than I am a complete and utter failure. I'm still carrying 15 extra pounds. But that's better than the 35 extra pounds I was padded with this time last year, so I'm going to cut myself some slack.

Good mommies never let their babies watch TV.  This is a rule I actually stuck with. For the first nine or ten months of her life, Tori never saw TV. But you know what sucks? Now, she just won't watch it. So, when mommy wants her to space out in front of Sesame Street or Baby Einstein or something, she'll have nothing to do with it. That kind of sucks, y'all.

Good mommies make their own rules. This one, I've discovered, is actually true. What works for my family might not work for your family and so on and so forth. We're doing our best to muddle through over here, and so far? We're doing okay (knock on wood).

Well, that's not quite ten, but I've got company coming tomorrow and a whole house to clean. So, I'm going to make my own rule and pretend the assignment called for a list of eight. You got a problem with that? Then visit Mama Kat and find some other, more rule-abiding workshoppers to read.

Writing Workshop: Bugs from Hell.

I hate bugs. All bugs. Mosquitoes, bees, wasps, spiders, ants…they are all, in my humble opinion, of the devil. But as much as I hate these beasties, for the most part I’m willing to subscribe to a live and let live policy.

Unless, that is, said insect is one of these:

That’s a cockroach. Also known as Amber’s kryptonite.

Upon seeing one, I scream loudly and begin gibbering incoherently as I run away as fast as my chubby little legs can carry me, looking for something, anything (preferably a man-shaped being like my husband) to kill the damn thing.

Fortunately, growing up in Michigan I didn’t encounter the little buggers very often. Once, a cockroach came home from the grocery store with me (I never shopped at that store again, incidentally), but for the most part, my life was cockroach-free.

Which left them free to become the flesh-eating monsters of my imagination, prone to swarming over the sleeping bodies of unsuspecting humans and eating them alive.

So you can imagine my horror when, a few weeks after moving into my first home in Southern Indiana, a six-inch long Beast From Hell jumped out at me from an upper cupboard.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t six inches long. But it was big. Really big. And it had been nesting in my cereal bowls.

Worse yet, when I came back to kill it (we’ve already discussed my tendency to run screaming at the sight of them), it was gone.

That realization set off a frantic cleaning frenzy where every dish, pot, pan and piece of silverware got itself dunked in bleach and boiling water. After all, cockroaches carry all sorts of nasty bacteria—bacteria which can give you assorted diseases and render you sterile (okay, not really. But still).

I hoped that was the end of the cockroach infestation. But it wasn’t.

Over the next few months, every time I let my guard down, the little beasties would return. Sometimes I’d see another big one crawling out of some dark corner in my kitchen. More often, I’d find some of their smaller cousins hanging out by the front door.

Each sighting resulted in a total meltdown.

I’d go through the house with a fine-tooth comb (sobbing incoherently), sure that if I got rid of every speck of dirt, they’d leave us alone. I’d make frantic calls to my landlord, begging him to come bomb the house again. I’d even wake myself up in the middle of the night, grab a can of Raid and creep out to the kitchen, throwing the light switch on as I held it in front of me like a weapon, fully expecting to see a swarm of the little critters dancing on the tile floor (I never did).

When one morning I saw one staring back at me from the sink drain when I bent over to wash my face, it was over.

Although I loved that house, adored my neighbors and thoroughly enjoyed the gorgeous park that was within walking distance, I couldn’t stay there. Within two weeks, my husband and I had put a deposit down on a brand new home—one we built from the ground up.

It was the only way I could be certain that there weren’t any cockroaches already in residence.

It’s been almost three years now and my home is still Hell Beastie free. But I still stand guard, can of Raid at the ready, waiting to kill the first one that dares show its ugly face.


Cockroaches aren't welcome here.



So that's my irrational fear. Now tell me one of yours. Or better yet, head over to Mama Kat's and see what the other workshoppers have to say for themselves.

Ten Things I've Learned From My Bloggy Friends

Today, Mama Kat asked us to share ten things that blogging has taught us. But while I could probably come up with a hundred of those, that's not what I want to talk about. Instead, I thought I'd share some of the life lessons that my friends in the blogoverse have taught me.

Life is easier when viewed through a comedic lens. While many women of the blogosphere seem to subscribe to that particular philosophy, Aunt Becky at Mommy Wants Vodka has perfected the art. She even makes swine flu funny, yo.

Nobody's perfect. And those that pretend to be are great-big-super-shallow-it's-okay-to-hate-them fakers. How do I know? Because every time I write a post highlighting my own inadequacies, like this one, I get floods of support.

Target really is retail crack. I used to think my Target addiction was my own personal problem. But no. Turns out, almost every woman in the country feels the same. But not their husbands.

I'm not the only working mom who feels overwhelmed. Just about every woman who works sometimes feels as if she is floundering. For proof, check out this post by Angry Working Mom.

Stay at home moms are just as frustrated as working moms. No matter what we're doing, we all feel like we should be doing more. Just ask This is Worthwhile.

Pregnancy, while magical, is best experienced with tongue firmly in cheek. Check out my friend Megan's pregnant fruit portrait series for proof.

Blogging can easily go from a casual hobby to an obsession.  I don't have a particular post to highlight for that one, but speaking from experience, and from the conversations I've had with bloggy friends, I know I'm telling the truth.

Speaking of bloggy friendships, they can be every bit as genuine as your real life ones. Often, in mid-conversation, my husband will stop me and say, "who?" Because I'll be talking about a friend he's never met.  In some cases, I know more about what's going on in their lives than I do about those of the women I've known for decades.

You can learn a lot about writing from the people around you in the blogosphere. Whenever I'm in danger of getting a big head about my supposed talent, I take a wander through my reader. And I am humbled.

And...well, I'm out of gas. So I think the final life lesson I  have to share is...as long as you're doing your best, that's good enough. And your bloggy friends won't hesitate to tell you so.

Now go visit Mama Kat and see what other, more inspired workshoppers have to say!

Writer's Workshop: Emails From Beyond.

Hi Amber,

I was just getting caught up on your blog (yep, we have Internet access in heaven) and I read about your recent cancer scare. I'm so sorry you had to go through that! Six weeks is a long time to go without knowing what's wrong with you. Remember how they told me my symptoms were just caused by mastitis?

I knew it went deeper than that, but it took months for the doctors to come up with the right diagnosis. And even when they did, I didn't believe them. I mean, breast cancer? I was only thirty. Thirty with a newborn to take care of. I didn't have time for cancer! But, unfortunately, cancer had plenty of time for me...

Anyway, I understand what you went through, and how awful that must have felt. If I was there, I'd give you a hug. But the only way I could do that is if I told the Big Guy I wanted to haunt you - and that just wouldn't be very relaxing for either of us.

Sending you a virtual hug,
Julie

____________________________________________________________

Julie,

 Thank you for your note. I'm so glad that you're in heaven, and that you're happy (you are happy, aren't you?). I think about you all the time. There are so many things I wish I could say to you...

I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you were struggling with your disease. I wanted to do something, but I didn't know what. I'd never known someone (well someone so young) with cancer before, and I didn't know how to handle it.

We all thought that you'd beat it. That you'd pull through. I was sure I'd have lots of time to make up for my...I don't know what the word is. Fear? That's really what it came down to. I was afraid of you - of what was happening to you.

And when I found out that you gave all the money we raised for you to research instead of using it to pay your bills? Well, I don't think I've ever been so in awe of another human being in my whole life.

Julie, I want you to know I'll always remember you. I give a donation to the American Cancer Society every year in your name. No one should ever have to go through what you did. No one.

Hugs right back,
Amber

P.S. Do they have chocolate in heaven? I've always wondered...
____________________________________________________

Amber,

Thank you for your kind words. You weren't the only one who was tongue-tied. Lots of people reacted the same way. But it's okay. I knew you were all thinking of me, and that you wished me well.

I learned a lot from that experience. I learned to be grateful for what I had. To tell the people I cared about that I loved them every chance I got. I learned that every day, every hour, every minute, every second is precious, and not a single one should ever be taken for granted.

I won't lie. I didn't want to die. I wanted to see my kids grow up, and finish building my house with my sister. I wanted to live. But if what my doctors learned by caring for me can help another woman avoid the same fate, then it was all worthwhile.

I'll be checking in on you from time to time, so be good. Tell Brian I said hello and hug that little girl of yours for me. She really is adorable. And take care of yourself. I don't want to see you up here for a long, long time.

Julie

P.S. The chocolate is divine. Get it? Divine...No? Oh, never mind.
__________________________________________________________________________

This week, Mama Kat asked us to write a letter to ourselves from someone who has died. As usual, I took a few liberties, but the story is true. My friend Julie was diagnosed with a rare type of breast cancer just months after giving birth. She battled it for a number of years, and at times she appeared to be winning, but she eventually succumbed in late 2008.

Breast cancer can happen to anyone, at any age. So, please, do those self breast exams monthly. And if you can? Donate to the Susan G. Komen Foundation,  or the American Cancer Society. Together, we can find a cure.

Writer's Workshop: You Know You Live in a Small Town When...

It was a busy Friday afternoon at a popular downtown cafe. Brian and I were enjoying a leisurely, baby-free lunch, eavesdropping on the people around us (as we like to do), when the grad student-type person sitting next to us got up and walked away.

BRIAN: Amber, check this out.

ME: Oh, don't worry. I already saw the sorority sluts. And no, I am not going to get a pair of stiletto whore boots like those.

BRIAN:  They are pretty hot, but that's not what I'm talking about. Look at the table next to us.

ME: What? What am I supposed to be looking at?

BRIAN: Open your eyes, woman. Don't you see the computer? And the iPhone?

ME: Yeah, so?

BRIAN: So that guy just got up and left that stuff there.

ME: Well, maybe he really had to pee or something. He has been drinking a lot of coffee.

BRIAN: Yeah, but that's an iPhone. Anyone could steal it!

ME: Shhhh. He's coming back.

We quickly looked away, trying to pretend we hadn't been staring at his stuff.

ME (LOUDER): Yeah, so I thought maybe we could go see that movie this afternoon.

BRIAN: Movie??? But I thought you wanted to furniture shop...

ME: I dunno. We should keep our options open...wait, is he leaving again?

He was. And this time, he left more stuff out on the table.

BRIAN: Want to go rob his house? He left his keys for us this time.

ME: Who needs a key? He probably left the door open for us.

BRIAN: Right. Although if this is the way he treats his stuff, there's probably not much left to steal, anyway.

ME: No kidding. I mean, I know this is a small town and all, but it's not like we live in Mr. Roger's neighborhood or something. People take shit.

BRIAN: Shhhhh.

Brian started picking at his dessert while I fumbled for something in my purse, sure our neighbor must know we had been talking about him.

BRIAN: This cupcake is nasty.

ME: So don't eat it.

BRIAN: I paid five bucks for this thing. I'm damn well going to...

This time, we both openly stared as Mr. Dumbass got up, put on his beret and stepped outside, leaving his stuff where it was.

BRIAN: Okay, maybe this is like one of those Dateline things.

ME: What, like To Catch a Predator?

BRIAN: Yeah. Except instead of child molesters, they're trying to get petty thieves.

ME: Could be. I'm guessing he's just a little too trusting, though. Either that, or he's a major pothead, and has fried all the brain cells that should be reminding him to pick up his stuff.

BRIAN: Well, are you ready to get out of here? I can't stand to watch this anymore.

ME: I kind of feel like we should stay and guard his stuff...

BRIAN: Oh, come on. Don't be such a girl scout. We've only got four hours till we have to pick up the kidoodle.

ME: Okay, fine. You're right. I hope no one takes anything, though.

BRIAN: Well, he has only himself to blame if they do.

So we left. But I'm still wondering if we were being filmed for a Public Access TV version of Dateline... I'll keep you posted. Now head over to Mama Kat's to see what the other Workshoppers did this week.

The Do's and Don'ts of Valentine's Day (for the hopelessly unromantic).

My husband is a wonderful man. He's kind, generous and wickedly funny. He's unafraid to help around the house—but is no slouch when it comes to tasks that involve power tools. Even better, he's just as quick to change a stinky diaper as he is to kill the menacing spider that sent me screaming from the room. In short, he's a fantastic husband (and that concludes the sucking up portion of this post).

His one fault (at least, that we're going to talk about today)? He doesn't have a romantic bone in his body. Not one. Seriously. As you can imagine, this has led to more than a few tears over the years—and the establishment of a few ground rules:

First, don't believe your Valentine when she says she doesn't want anything. This is a lie. It doesn't have to be anything big (small velvet boxes are always welcome), but she does want to know you thought of her.

Do spend some quality time at Hallmark picking out a card you know she'll enjoy. Just do it—even if you have to bring a vomit bag to sop up the results of all that force-fed saccharine.

Don't underestimate the power of flowers. Specifically, flowers delivered to the office by a professional paid to do just that. Yes, they're ridiculously overpriced. But that overpriced floral arrangement will make her the envy of every woman around her (and you the knight in shining armor).

Do take her on a date. I don't care how many years you've been together or how many kids are underfoot. Take her somewhere special. Not necessarily anywhere expensive (I believe one year we went to Burger King)—any place you can focus on the two of you will do.

Don't forget that sometimes it really is the thought that counts. When it comes to Valentine's Day presents, the best gifts are often the ones that cost the least. On one of our first Valentine's Days together, my husband made me a mix tape. That's it. Just a mix tape of special songs, like the one he sang for me at our Senior All Night Party. But you know what? I still have it (and yes, I'm aware I just dated myself).

Do think beyond the lingerie department. Now I happen to have a thing for pretty underthings, so it's okay in our house. But most women?  Would rather get a box of chocolate covered cockroaches than see that distinctive Vicky's Secret box.

Don't be afraid to think outside of the traditional Valentine's Day box.  Sometimes the best gifts are things that your Valentine really needs, but would never think to ask for (just ask the Existential Waitress).

Do surprise her every once in a while. Chocolates, flowers and fancy dinners are great. But if you really want to make her starry-eyed? Do something completely unexpected (check out this post by Mommy Melee for inspiration).

Don't forget to tell her you love her.  And that you think she's sexy. And that she's most the beautiful woman in the world.  And not just on Valentine's Day. She needs to know she's special every single day of the year. Because, you know what? She thinks you're pretty awesome too.

But before you hit the mall, head over to Mama Kat's and see what the other workshoppers have to say.

Writer's Workshop: A Wise Woman Told Me...

“People are going to start pressuring you to have another baby, but don’t rush into anything. Two is way tougher than one.”

My sister-in-law shared those wise words of advice with me during one of the few quiet moments we had together at Christmas. She’s got two girls, born just two years apart, so she knows what she’s talking about.

Truth is, I don’t know if I’ll have another baby. After all, I’m not getting any younger. And as much as I love Tori, she’s a heck of a lot of work. Right now, she demands my attention almost constantly. In fact, if I walk out of the room she’s in, she almost always crawls right after me, crying ”mamamamama.”

I simply can’t imagine juggling the needs of two munchkins at once. How is it possible?

Plus, there’s the money issue. Sure, we have all the gear now, but there’s still daycare to think about. We’d need a bigger car, for sure. We’d also lose our guest room, so we’d have to buy a sleeper sofa. And then there’s college. With my luck, they’d both want to go to expensive liberal arts schools that I’d have to re-mortgage my house to afford (hi mom!).

But then, as I hold her sleepy body in my arms, my heart flips. She’s brought so much joy into our lives. How could we not have another one?

Reading things like this, and seeing pictures like these don’t help matters. To tell the truth, they kind of make my uterus hurt.

But, oh, the work. The not sleeping for months and months and months. The aching joints and constant indigestion and leaking boobs and eight-week C-section recovery and year-long post-pregnancy diet and, and, and…

Yeah. I’m not going to rush into anything.

Now head over to Mama Kat's and see what the other workshoppers have to say!

Love in an Elevator...errr Pitch.

As many of you know, I'm a copywriter. Which means, of course, I sell ideas. And those ideas? Are only good if you can clearly describe them in a sentence or two - fast enough to be sold during an elevator ride.

Oh, the elevator pitch. Many well-loved ideas have died a fast, though not painless, death because of my inability to describe them quickly enough. Over the years, I've gotten better at it. In fact, in my professional life, I try not to present any concept before I give it the elevator test.

But my blog?

My blog has never been subjected to that particular test. So when people ask me what I blog about, I hem and haw and give them a muddled answer. "Well, I blog about my baby and my family, but I'm not a true mommy blogger, because that's not all I talk about. I post videos and write comedy sketches, and write about work..." By this point, most folks get a glazed look in their eyes and I give up.

This lack of focus is probably why publishers and PR folks aren't exactly clamoring for my attention.

So today I spent some time thinking about it. I even took a ride in the elevator at work, looking for inspiration (which is especially dumb, considering I work on the second floor of a two story building).

I came up with a few ideas:

"A cranky copywriter turned mommy writes to keep her sanity."

"A blog all about life, love and the pursuit of advertising."

"The adventures of a clueless new mom struggling to navigate motherhood, wife-hood and person-hood."

I think it's a little bit of all those things.

There are days when I scream my frustrations out into the blogoverse.

And others when I think out loud about the kind of role model I want to be for my daughter.

There have been times when I've talked about my own struggles with depression.

And posts where I've just been plain silly.

I've forced you all to read along as I indulge my inner sketch comedy writer...

And begged you all for advice.

I've lived my life out loud, in public. I've gotten to know myself a little better and made friends with a lot of incredible women. My blog? It's me. The virtual incarnation of Amber Page the writer. Of Red the drama queen. Of Amber the mama, the wife, the daughter, the sister and the friend.

Amber Page Writes is about all the sides of me. And I? Am not that different from hundreds of thousands of other women out there. So, therefore, Amber Page Writes is about all of us ladies struggling to figure out what life's all about.

Who knows. Maybe together we'll get somewhere. You think?

This was written as part of Mama Kat's Writing Workshop. The assignment? Write an elevator pitch for your blog. Now head over to Mama Kat's and read all the other bloggy wonderfulness.

Writer's Workshop: A Snapshot of My Life.

This week, Mama Kat asked us to give the us of five years ago a snapshot of our current lives. Here's my take on it.

Five years ago, I was living in a drafty townhouse in Cincinnati, slogging through slushy puddles as icy rain poured down from the sky to a job, which, although I'd only started four months before, was already beginning to seem like a Huge Mistake.

My house in Michigan still hadn't sold. My 401k money was almost gone. My husband, who had just joined me there, had found a job, but it was in retail, meaning he was gone most nights and weekends. I was alone, lonely and feeling sorry for myself.

I was desperate for hope, but positive that I was deserving of none.

So if the Me of Now had appeared before the Me of Then and told her that in five years I'd be living a life that made me happy, she would have scoffed at me. She would have asked me if I was smoking something. Then, rolling her eyes, she would have asked for proof.

So I'd have to pull out a whole wad of pictures. Not just one, because the Me of Then? She knew about Photoshop.

First I'd have to show her my house. Not to brag, but because that girl was living in a place so small, her dresser only fit in the living room. Her kitchen had about three inches of counter space. Her bathroom was so tiny, she could pee while washing her hair. And her yard? Was about six feet wide.

So to show her that five years later she'd have a house with both a living room and a family room, three whole toilets (you have never known desperation until there are two people in a house with diarrhea and only one toilet), a fireplace and even a walk-in closet, would have rocked her world.

Then I'd have to show her some video clips of the office. One of her cackling with an art director over an assignment (back then, her partner made her want to stab things). Another of the Great Toilet Paper Discussion. And a third of a client actually praising her work.

By this time, she'd be smiling a little, but still skeptical. So I'd pull out the Big Guns. The Secret Weapon. The Pictures of Tori.

I'd show her a picture of her scrunched up, screaming face when she was freshly hatched.

I'd show her the pictures of her first smile. The first time she stuck out her tongue. The first time she sat up. Of Halloween, and Thanksgiving. Of her sleeping with her daddy and pulling her mommy's hair. By the time I showed her this one:

She'd be grinning from ear to ear, hope restored once more. And my job? Would be done.

Now head on over to Mama Kat's and check out the other entries!

It Ain't Easy Being Green.

For the first half, heck, three quarters of my life, my motto was something like "blend in at all costs." I wanted desperately to fit in. To be a cool kid, a social butterfly...a rock star.

So I tried.

I bought the right brands of clothes. Used the right words. Drank what everybody else was drinking. Did my very best to become one of the Borg people.

I really did try.

But you know what?  It didn't work. I am none of those things. I am a square peg in a sea of round holes. A redhead in a world that prefers blondes. To put it bluntly, I am a geek (your first clue? I know what the Borg are).

So I decided to change my motto. These days, it's pretty simple: Be yourself. Or at least try.

It's remarkably freeing, that motto.

It's allowed me to start wearing the clothes I love for the first time since I was a kid. Things like swingy polka dot dresses on warm summer days. Skirts and tights instead of jeans on comfy Saturday afternoons. Mismatched socks (when forced to wear socks), because, well, why not?

It's made it possible to finally admit that, all things considered, I'd much rather stay at home and read a book than hit the bars. After all, the action between the covers of a book? Is generally much more exciting than anything that happens while crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with stinky strangers in a club.

It's even helped me accept my wallflower status. Because let's face it. Some of us aren't meant to be the life of the party. Besides, if there weren't a few of us hanging back watching the action, there would be no audience for those who need one. And then what would they do?

It's not easy being green. But it's a heck of a lot easier than trying to change your spots.

This post was written as part of this week's Writing Workshop over at Mama Kat's. The prompt I chose, in case you haven't guessed yet, is 2.) What is one of your life mottoes? There's lots of other brilliant writers taking part this (and every) week, so head on over there and check it out.

Santa, Could I Have a Minute?

Dear Santa,

I know you're a busy man. You've got millions of names to check off lists, billions of toys to wrap and a whole lot of reindeer to feed. But I was hoping you could take just a minute or two to read this letter.

It's not for me. I don't really need anything. Well, a baby translator would be nice (what do those screams mean???). As would a faster metabolism. And, since you asked, I really would like a kindle.

But that's not why I'm writing.

I'm writing on behalf of some people I know who could really use some holiday cheer this year.

Like my grandma. I know she's a nasty woman, Santa. I mean, yeah, she's made my mom cry on every Mother's Day since I can remember. Heck, even her compliments kinda feel like a slap across the face. But she's all alone. She's been alone since my grandfather died...almost 35 years ago.

You can see how that might make a person bitter, can't you? She says that he was the only man for her. That she wouldn't ever want another one of those hairy beasts cluttering up her life. But you know what? A little flirtation might do her good.

So, instead of presents, could you maybe bring her some flowers? Maybe take her for a twirl around the Christmas tree? Maybe even give her a little peck on the cheek? I'd give anything to see a real smile on her face (plus, it would make Christmas a whole lot more merry for the rest of us).

Also, all the working stiffs I know up in Detroit. I don't know if you've noticed, but about the only thing that could make the situation up there any worse is if a bomb went off (yes, I know portions of the city looks like several hundred already have. But that's just neglect).

Anyway, could you sprinkle some magic reindeer poop around and fix the auto industry? Or maybe just wrap up several hundred thousand bundles of cash and stuff them in everyone's stockings? If nothing else, could you at least make the winter slightly less nasty? They're already depressed. They don't need five months of sloshing through urine-stained slush under leaden skies to make it worse.

Lastly, my dog. Despite the fact that he gets organic dog food topped with specially cooked chicken breasts, sleeps on cushy couches and even has his own queen-sized bed (well, it's the guest bed. but really, it's his), that dog is depressed.

He's been depressed his whole life. Sure, sometimes we get a tail wag, or a half-hearted smile, but I swear that dog needs some Prozac. So...could you bring him some? Or maybe a light box (we've often wondered if our dog has SADD). It'd be nice to see him really happy for once.

Also, my husband would like a new car. And a Blu Ray player. And whatever gee whiz super cool gadget is about to take the world by storm.

But like I said, I don't really need anything. Except maybe eight uninterrupted hours of sleep. Make that twelve. Or at least, maybe a two hour nap, curled up on the couch on a sunny Sunday afternoon?

Do you think you could handle that? You'd have my ever-lasting gratitude.

XOXO,
amber

P.S. I'll make you those peanut butter cookies with the chocolate kisses in the middle. I know they're your favorite.

This was written as part of Mama Kat's Writing Workshop. The prompt I chose (obviously) was to write a letter to Santa. I'm sure there's tons of brilliant entries for you to read over at Mama Kat's, so head over there and check them out!

Writer's Workshop: Anything But That!

It's time for Mama Kat's Writing Workshop again. This week's prompt? Describe the most creative punishment you ever ever experienced.

I was a good kid...most of the time. But I had my moments. I fought with my brother, talked back to my parents—all the usual stuff. On one particularly memorable occasion, my brother and I took hot wheels cars off someone's porch.

That resulted in one hell of a spanking.

Yep, back in the day, it was still okay to spank. I also spent my fair share of time staring at the wall in the kitchen, stuck in the dreaded time out. I even got grounded a time or three (hundred).

Still, all those punishments were quickly recovered from. Sure, I cried when I got spanked. Pouted when I got put in the corner. Threw a hissy fit when I got grounded. But through it all, there was one thing I could count on to comfort me.

My books.

To say I was a bookworm would be an understatement. I always had a book in my hand. I ate with a book. Slept with a book. Even walked around with my nose firmly stuck in a book (not a real good idea when you're as big of a klutz as I am).

So what did my parents do when they really wanted to punish me? They took away my books.

I was in fifth grade. I hated my teacher and was doing really poorly in school—culminating in my first  "D" on a report card. My parents were beyond frustrated with me.

So they forbade me to read until my grades improved. They confiscated my library card, packed up the books in my room and even denied me access to the boring old books in our bookcases.

It was torture.

I don't remember exactly how long it lasted (I'd call my mom and ask, but she always seems vaguely embarrassed when it comes up). But I'm sure I was a pain in the ass for the entire length of the punishment.

I didn't know what to do with myself. I had far too much spare time on my hands. Time that was usually spent in the alternate (sometimes preferred) universe that books opened up for me.

Did I mention it was torture?

But it worked. I did my homework. My attitude improved. And soon, so did my grades. When next I brought home a report card, there was nary a D in sight.

Thankfully, my books were returned. I welcomed them like long lost friends—there may even have been a few tears.

And you know what? I never got a bad grade again. From then on, my report cards were chock full of A's and B's. I wasn't about to risk losing my best friends again.

So I guess it was the most effective punishment my parents ever came up with. Here's hoping I can be half as creative when the situation arises (and I'm sure it will).

Now head on over to Mama Kat's and see what the other entrants have to say!

Writer's Workshop: Erase that Memory.

It's time for Mama Kat's Writing Workshop again. This time, the prompt I chose was, "describe an experience you wish you could shake from your memory." So get ready. This is heavy stuff. 

It was a cold winter's night. The heater was working hard, trying to remove the chill from the air, but I still felt frozen. We were whipping along the expressway at 80 miles an hour, but in my mind, everything was moving too slowly, weighted down by the sadness, the madness in my head.

"I can't," I whispered.

He groped to grab my hand in the dark. "Yes. Yes, you can. I'm right here. I'll be here."

I shrank back, trying to disappear into my seat. "No, you don't understand. I really can't. I can't face it."

We were on our way to dinner. With both sets of parents. Dinner with the parents, when everyone knew I was slowly going mad. Had watched as I took a baseball bat to everything that was good in my life and set about destroying it.

"You have to, Amber. They're waiting for us."

"But I'm brooooooooooken," I howled through the sobs that suddenly overwhelmed me. "I'm broken and I can't DO this."

"What? What can't you do?"

"This. Life. I just can't, anymore. I can't do it," I said, then clutched my head hard enough to hurt and began to sob in earnest.

His hands turned white on the steering wheel, and I could tell he was struggling not to cry himself.

"Stop. Stop talking like that. We'll get through this, together. We will. I promise."

Again he reached out, and this time, I let him take my hand. Slowly, my sobs quieted, the agony once more retreating inside my head. When we got to the restaurant, I took a deep breath, stuffed the pain into its closet, and stepped out of the car.

We made it through dinner, his hand clutching mine under the table. Everyone ignored my red eyes. Pretended not to see when I bolted to the bathroom to cry. They forced their smiles and carried on with the celebration, determined to cling to a shell of normalcy.

As for me? I was dying inside. Sunk deep in a pit of depression so crushing that I could hardly breathe. I'd like to tell you that that was the worst of it. The end of it. But it wasn't. Not by a long shot.

Before it was over, I had destroyed friendships, sabotaged my career and dragged Brian to the darkest depths of Hell with me.

This is just one of many, many memories I wish I could erase. But I can't. And that's a good thing. Because they serve as a reminder—a warning. Now, when the symptoms start, I don't ignore them. I slow down, reach out and ask for help.

I was lucky. I survived. Not everyone does. So if you think you might be depressed, don't wait. Get the help you need. It could mean the difference between living...and not.

Ready for some lighter fare? Visit Mama Kat and see the other entries.

The Girl I Was. The Woman I Am.

The mirror, they say, never lies.
But for a long time, when I looked at its reflection,
I felt as if someone had died.

Someone so joyful, so happy, so free.
Who looked at the sky and thought,
man, it's good to be me.

She never walked when she could skip,
never skipped when she could run.
Never bowed to conventions,
or let others ruin her fun.

She gloried in twirly, swirly skirts, ruffles and lace.
She had her head in the clouds,
and wore her emotions on her face.
She kept her nose in a book,
and her dreams? They were on public display.

But one day, a boy's cruel laughter found its way in.
In past the joy,
in past the freedom,
all the way in.

He shredded her fantasies,
jeered at her dreams,
and for the first time,
she realized she couldn't win.

That girl, she came down to earth that day.
She learned the world could hurt her,
Would hurt her,
Would shatter her soul.

She bundled herself up,
locked her dreams up tight.
She curled in on herself,
And never let anyone in without a fight.

But time, they say, heals even the worst wounds.
And that girl became a woman,
a lover, and eventually,
even a mother.

She found her voice,
and unfurled her wings.
She sharpened her talons
And learned how to scream.

She screamed and she screamed,
Freeing her rage, her fear and her pain.
She yelled until she was hoarse,
and let the wind carry it all away.

Then she looked down at her tiny daughter,
at her furrowed brow and grasping hands.
She soaked it all up,
absorbing the love, the wonder, and the joy.

The happiness she found lifted her up and up and up
until she was soaring through the sky,
laughter fizzing in her veins.

She made a promise that day,
a vow to make things right.
To recapture the girl she was,
and teach her daughter how to take flight.

Because the world, it can hurt you,
will hurt you, but that's not the end.
And joy? It's everywhere,
sometimes it's just hiding around the bend.

So now, when I look in that mirror, do you know what I see?
A  woman.
A  lover.
And a damn fine mother.
Man, it's good to me.

This post was written as part of Mama Kat's Writing Workshop. The prompt I chose? Write a poem about who you are, or who you are not. But I honestly don't know where this came from. It surprised even me. I won't pretend it's the best poem ever written, but it seems to have bubbled up staight from my soul...so, I guess I'll go ahead and post it.

Now head on over there and see what everyone else did with this week's prompts!

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall.

It's time for Mama Kat's Writing Workshop again. This week, the prompt I chose was, "when I look in the mirror..." I don't know why it ended up being a sketch again, but it did. So here we go:


REFLECTION: Why are you glaring at me like that?

ME: Because I don’t like you very much.

REFLECTION: Again? We’re having this conversation again?

ME: What do you mean, again?

REFLECTION: For the last 33 years, it’s been nothing but, “why can’t you be thinner, why is your belly so poochy, why are you so short, why, why, why…” It’s enough to give a girl a complex.

ME: I haven’t always hated you.

REFLECTION: Name one time you liked what you saw.

ME: What about back in my 20’s, when I was a size 6?

REFLECTION: You wanted to be a size 4.

ME: That's not true. Remember that string bikini? You looked darn good in that bikini.

REFLECTION: Yeah, but your face was broken out. That was all you could see.

ME: When I was pregnant, I liked you then.

REFLECTION: Wrong. You spent the whole time worrying about how fat you were getting.

ME: Well… I was right. I did gain too much weight. Look at you now.

REFLECTION: You know what? I’ve had enough. I’m going on strike.

ME: You can’t go on strike. You’re my reflection!

REFLECTION: Watch me. I’m walking out of this mirror, and I’m not coming back until you say something nice about me.

ME: That’s impossible.

Reflection starts to leave.

ME: Hey, wait! Come back.

REFLECTION: (Over her shoulder) I meant what I said. I’m going to go back to bed, and I’m staying there until you learn to appreciate me.

ME: But people will think I’m a vampire. 

REFLECTION: That’s your problem, not mine.

ME: (Pounding on empty mirror). That’s not fair! You little bitch, get back here!

REFLECTION: Mmmm, it's mighty comfy in here.

ME: Please?

REFLECTION: Sure am glad I got these bamboo sheets. They're nice and soft.

ME: Come on. I really do love you…

Reflection pops her head back in.

REFLECTION: What? What was that you just said?

ME: I love you.

REFLECTION: Why?

ME: Because you’re strong, and you’re beautiful, and you’re capable of amazing things. It’s just….

REFLECTION: (Sighing) It’s just what?

ME: Nothing. It’s nothing. You’re an amazing woman, just as you are. And in a few months, after I lose this baby weight, you’ll be even more amazing.

REFLECTION: So you’ll cut the crap?

ME: Yes. No more name calling.

REFLECTION: You promise? Because that’s verbal abuse, you know. I could call the police.

ME: No you can’t. You’re my reflection. You don’t have real hands.

REFLECTION: Do you want me to leave again?

ME: No, no. Hey, I know how I can make it up to you. Let’s go shopping. I’ll buy you something pretty.

REFLECTION: Okay, we’ll go shopping. But no dressing room tantrums, or I’ll make you buy foundation undergarments.

ME: (shudders) A girdle? No, thank you. I’ll be good, I promise.

REFLECTION: Deal. Ann Taylor, here we come… better bring the credit card.

But the Grass. It's a Different Shade of Green.

It's time for Mama Kat's Writing Workshop again. This week, I'm imagining a conversation between these two people:



B: How can you not see what I'm talking about? It's right here. In front of your face!

A: So there's a weed. So what?

B: So what? So our lawn is being taken over, that's what!

A: I don't see what the problem is. It's green. It's not crunchy when you step on it. It's doing the same job grass does.

B: Do you know how hard I've worked to get some decent grass in this yard?

A: And you've done a very good job. But Mother Nature, she has plans of her own.

B: We're going to be the laughingstock of the neighborhood!

A: (Bends down and plucks weed). There. No more weed. Feel better?

B: Argh! No! You didn't get it by the root! Now it's just going to come back and, and spread!

A: (Sighs) Fine. You can go to Lowe's and buy the $50 bag of weed killer. But if I ever see you out here with scissors trimming uneven spots, I'm going to stage an intervention.

B: But sometimes it just looks so sloppy...

A: Scissors. Equal. Intervention. End of story.

B: Fine... But don't come crying to me when the Homeowner's Association comes after us for bringing down the tenor of the neighborhood.

A: Don't worry. I won't.

Author's Note (covering ass): No, this conversation didn't actually happen. But my husband does have an unhealthy obsession with the lawn, so it could...

A Glimpse Inside a Kitty Brain.

My cat, Oliver, routinely engages in some pretty bizarre behavior. Behavior that leaves me scratching my head and wondering what on earth could possibly be going on inside his little kitty brain. So today, I sat down to ask him.

ME: Oliver, why on earth did you just pee in the bathroom sink? Your litter box is clean...which is more than I can say for the sink.

OLIVER: Have you ever tried peeing in a dark box, inside an even darker closet? You can't see what you're doing, man!

ME: So, if I put a light in there, you'd use it more consistently?

OLIVER: Not really. I like watching it go down the drain.

ME: But you're a cat! You're supposed to like to bury your business!

OLIVER: Not me.  I don't like how the sand feels when it gets stuck under my claws.

ME: Is that why Kiwi always has to cover up your poo for you?

OLIVER: That, and I like to make him do things for me. He's my bitch, you know.

ME: You shouldn't talk that way about your brother. He loves you.

OLIVER: Yeah, that's cuz I'm so dang cute. When you look like I do, you can get away with anything.

ME: I wouldn't say that. If you keep scratching the molding, your dad is going to make you live in the garage.

OLIVER: He wouldn't dare.

ME: I don't know...when you peed in the crib, it was all I could do to keep him from throwing you out of the house.

OLIVER: I was just making it smell nice for her!

ME: Do you really expect me to believe that?

OLIVER: Yeah?

ME:

OLIVER: Okay, so I was mad. You bring home this stinking, screaming thing that totally monopolizes your lap 24/7 and you want me to be happy about it?

ME: Life is hard. Get used to it.

OLIVER: But I'M supposed to be the baby of this family.

ME: We all have to grow up sometime.

OLIVER: (pouts)

ME:  Oh, don't look at me like that. You're still one of the most spoiled animals on the face of the planet and you know it.

OLIVER: But do you still love me?

ME: Of course I do, you silly cat. You'll always be my favorite little fuzzy guy.

OLIVER: Then can I have a treat?

ME: You've already had five!

OLIVER: You'd give me more if you really loved me.

ME: Fine. But no more peeing in the sink, okay?

OLIVER: Okay. No more peeing in the sink. Today.

ME: I guess that's all I can ask.

This post was inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat's Writing Workshop. Head on over there and see what other people did with this week's assignment...or play along yourself!