Hey, It's Okay...

Can you believe it's been four weeks since I've done one of these posts and they still haven't stopped the oil spill from destroying the Gulf? That, my friends, is so far from okay it boggles the mind. As is BP's relentless pursuit of someone else to blame. And, and, and...

Well, there's a whole hell of a lot about what's going on in the gulf that's not okay. But this list isn't about that. It's the brain child of the Whispering Writer at Airing My Dirty Laundry, and it's about the rest of life's flotsam and jetsam. So without further ado, I give you:

Hey, it's okay to wish that someone would gather up every single last pair of pants with phrases billboarded across the butt (I don't need to know your tush is juicy, thanks) and throw them in a giant bonfire.

Hey, it's okay to kind of wish you could have breakfast for dinner...every day.

Hey, it's okay to consider shaving your head when the humidity reaches Utterly Gross levels—but unless you've got a gorgeous skull a la Sinead O'Connor, I'd recommend resisting the impulse.

Hey, it's okay to keep attempting to slither into those skinny jeans...even though you've only lost two pounds.

Hey, it's okay to be completely, insanely jealous of whoever wrote Date Night—and to be secretly sure that you could write something just as hilarious, if only you could find the time,  motivation and discipline.

 Hey, it's okay to sit in your baby's kiddie pool and drink pina coladas after she goes to bed.

Hey, it's okay to wish someone had told you, "sure, you can be whatever you want, but doctors and lawyers make a hell of a lot more money than English majors."

Hey it's okay to think that even if you had as much money as a neurosurgeon with a law degree, you still wouldn't waste it on a McMansion (but a second home on a private island in the Caribbean is another story altogether).

Hey, it's okay to still think the giant sunglasses trend makes everyone look like a big bug

Hey, it's okay to get all your news from The Daily Show—you need a little laughter to sop up the tears.

That's what I'm okay about this week. How 'bout you?

Oh, How Times Have Changed.

This weekend, one of my best friends in the whole world came to visit for a Girls' Weekend.

In the old days, a visit like this one might have become a spur-of-the-moment trip to Chicago. Certainly it would have included a long afternoon spent convincing each other to buy things we didn't need, followed by an evening of booze-fueled conversation.

And the next morning? Would have found us sleeping till noon before heading out for a greasy breakfast (the best hangover cure I know).

Yeah, that was then. And now?

Well, on Friday, our hello hug was cut short by my embarrassed realization that I was covered in baby vomit.

The evening that followed consisted of me running up the stairs to check Tori's temperature, running back down to ask if I should put a blanket on her/open her window/wake her up to give her more Tylenol/call the doctor before dashing back up to continue to stare at her with a worried frown.

We did have an adventure the next day. We went to see a movie. In the theater. The first I'd seen in that environment since, well, Tori was born. And we shopped, too. For a little while. At Target.

But I yawned all the way through the film, and was too worried about the babe to even look at clothes.

And yesterday? We went on an actual road trip. To a town a whole 45 minutes away. With the baby in the back, the hub in the driver's seat and a stroller in tow.

It was a great day. A wonderful visit. A weekend full of laughter and fun. An awesome Girls' Weekend, to be sure.

But the me of five years ago? Is still wordlessly shaking her head at me, wondering what on earth happened to the Amber she knew.

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.

Wordful Wednesday: Summertime Fun.

Holiday weekends usually find me and mine packed in the car, heading for the homeland. But not this time. For once, Memorial Weekend found us at home with nary a relative in sight. So what did we do?

Introduced Tori to summertime fun, of course.

The pool was an immediate hit.

Especially after she discovered she could eat it.

The sandbox? Also got some serious usage, especially after...

...she discovered she could eat it.

Then it was on to chalk. Drawing with chalk is her new favorite thing. More popular even than walking!

 

And you know what? She didn't even eat it.

Hey Buddy, My Eyes Are Up Here!

At work, I'm surrounded by talk of boobs. There's the maternity campaign I'm working on. And the breast cancer campaign. And the girl who just had a boob job. And the myriad of crass boob jokes that go along with working in an ad agency.

Even so, I'm generally not all that aware of my own. Boobs, that is. Since having Tori they've become utilitarian things. Utilitarian things that require a lot of under wire and gravity defying support devices to look like even a shadow of their former selves.

Which is why, when the guy behind the counter at the sandwich shop took my order while ogling my chest, I became instantaneously paranoid.

Did I have a button undone?

Had I forgotten to put on a bra?

Was there some weird stain on my chest?

Was I having a freakish moment of out-of-nowhere lactation?

A quick look down assured me that no, none of these things was taking place. And still the guy stared.

What in God's name was he looking at? Had I sprouted a third nipple?

Somehow, I stammered out the rest of my order, face flushing beet red.  As my arms crossed protectively over my chest, he finally looked up - and had the good grace to look mildly ashamed of himself.

But not enough to keep his gaze at eye level.

Finally, I turned away, pretending to stare with intense fascination at the freezer case full of hams. So intense, in fact, that the guy had to ask me three times if I needed anything else before I heard him.

I mutely shook my head no, arms still clamped across my boobs. And at that point, the universe decided to have mercy on me. Mr. Ogleton headed to the back, leaving another, much less disconcerting employee to ring me up.

It was only later, when I was driving back to the office, that it occurred to me I should be flattered. Someone not required by law to find me attractive had clearly found my chest at least a little bit impressive.

I'm going to go ahead and take that as a compliment...and as an excuse to splurge on Victoria's Secret bras more often.

Camping? Not Me, Thanks.

Memorial Day Weekend makrks not only the unofficial kickoff of summer, but also of camping season. And once upon a time, I was one of those outdoor enthusiasts who gladly packed up the car and headed for the wilderness, where I could wipe my ass with poison ivy and shower in subzero water.

Not anymore.

Why? Because of one too many poison ivy rashes and subzero showers, of course.

I used to be made of hardier stuff. Growing up, most vacations found us calling a tent home, whether we were in the No Man's Land that is the Upper Penninsula of Michigan or the sunny beaches of South Carolina.

I once washed my hair in Lake Superior (which is the same temperature as a frozen Hell, for those of you not in the know).

I once got a severe case of diarrhea when the only toilet I had access to was a stinking Port-a-Potty baking under a 90-degree sun.

I once stomped on a fire ant hill and ran screaming back to my mom with armies of stinging red hellions traveling up my thighs.

But at the time, I thought nothing of it. Those adventures were just part of the Camping Experience.

Experiences that also included swimming in ocean surf, collecting Hermit Crabs in buckets, roasting marshmallows on an open fire and giggling with my brother in our own "Grown-Up Tent" after lights out.

Then I grew up. Well, maybe not "up," but older. Old enough to have my own set of car keys, friends and camping equipment. And camp we did.

My best friend and I once camped in weather that reached freezing temperatures at night, in the rain, then washed off in the aforementioned sub-zero showers.

Before we were married, my husband and I once went camping on Lake Michigan—in an area where the water, warmed by the nuclear power plant just at the other end of the beach, was decorated with used condoms and empty beer bottles.

Not to be deterred, the next summer we set out for a campground on Lake Huron, only to be awakened in the middle of the night by a tornado siren. After spending several hours praying to a nameless God as I sat shivering and drenched on a pitch black beach (we were told that the tornado would turn back before it hit the water), I vowed never to camp again.

But it wasn't until a weekend of rustic camping (i.e. peeing in the woods), left me with a poison ivy rash up and down my legs and thighs so bad that they were swollen to the size of tree trunks that I made good on my promise.

While smearing myself with Calomine lotion and popping steroids, I swore never to camp again. And I haven't.

Because of this, our vacations have become much less frequent (a clearing in the woods is way cheaper than a hotel, yo), but significantly more pleasurable.

When it rains? I can go inside.

When an unexpected cold patch hits? I can turn up the heat.

When a tornado threatens? Well, I still quake in my boots, but at least I'm dry while I do so.

So, all you hardy, I-don't-need-no-cushy-mattress types, enjoy your mosquito-ridden, rain-soaked weekends. I'll be toasting you from inside my air-conditioned living room, munching on s'mores roasted in my microwave.

Cheers!

From Couch To Frustration.

The Couch To 5K is a fine, fine program. I'm in my fourth week (although redoing week three), and so far I've heard nary a protest from my knee, ankle or back, which means I must be doing something right.

But damn is it frustrating.

I remember when I could run four miles. Four! Uphill. Barefoot. Through the snow. Okay, maybe not that last part. But the point is, I could run pretty dang far, and it felt good.

But now?

Now I'm huffing and puffing and generally making a fool out of myself as I trot past garage sale attendees and playing kids and dog walkers.

Now I'm looking at my iPod every five seconds to see how. much. longer. untilthetorturestops.

Now I'm red-faced and sweating and pulling at the shorts that are riding up my too fat thighs.

Now I'm miserable. Miserable and only running three minutes at a stretch (and I'm using the term "running" very loosely).

It makes me long for the good old days. Those summer days two years ago, before pregnancy and those three abdominal surgeries.

The days when I could run.

I know I'll get there again. I just have to keep at it, keep working, and ignore the frustration.

Bur damn, I wish there was a fast forward button.