New York Stories

Britney and Kevin call their baby Jayden James. Angelina Jolie welcomed Maddox and Zahara’s baby sister Shiloh Nouvel in May. Jason Lee’s child, Pilot Inspektor and Shannyn Sossamon’s baby Audio Science will probably have a tough time on the playground.

Growing up in the Philadelphia suburbs, I was the only Amber I’d ever met. When I was little, I proposed the idea of inverting my middle and first names to become “Elizabeth Amber Katz.” I liked Elizabeth because I could be Liz, Beth, Liza or Betsy. My Jewish mother was appalled. She took pride in giving my older brother, Ethan, and me such distinctive monikers. She’d also picked a name starting with “A” after her late grandmother Anna.

I was disgusted to learn that Amber referred to hardened tree sap solidified into a semi-precious stone. My science textbook taught me that insects were preserved in amber. This was supposed to be beautiful.

My first week as a freshman at Boston University, I met five Ambers, one who became my roommate. Encountering other Ambers, for me, was reminiscent of Buzz Lightyear’s crestfallen reaction when he learned he was mass-produced in the animated movie Toy Story. I remember an elevator ride to the dining hall with three Ambers in total. But I learned to deal with feeling newly-common. It wasn’t popular 20 years ago, when fellow kindergartners’ “Jennifer” and “Jessica” bracelets would evoke the envy I now reserved only for the Olsen Twins.  

In college, comprising half of “Amber Squared” caused problems. Once, I signed for flowers at the door of the run down, sorority-style house that Amber and I shared in Allston, Mass. “Are you Amber?” the delivery guy asked. “Yes, but I don’t think those are for me,” I replied.

“But you are Amber?”  He looked confused.

“Those are for Amber Poplowski,” I said. “I’m Amber Katz. But I’ll be sure to give them to her.”

I shut the door before he could marvel that two Ambers lived together. I fantasized about moving to New York City after graduation and reclaiming my title as the Amber. Two years later, I did move to New York, but my name problem took a turn for the worst.

“Did you read the Style section yet?” my mother asked on her Sunday call from Philadelphia.

“No, anything good?”

“Are you sitting down? Amber Dior Katz—can you believe it—is getting married today in New Jersey. Apparently, she’s an assistant art director at Bridal Guide magazine and is betrothed to a Jonathan Harris; he’s a computer analyst.” 

Who was this Amber Dior Katz? Was she also a raging grammarian, like her mother: a Penn alumna with an English degree? Did her parents know everything about everything?

While I was a single, professionally-unfulfilled, 24-year-old, Amber Dior Katz had managed to snag a nice Jewish boy and my dream career. Since subscribing to Seventeen at age nine, my ultimate goal was to work on staff at a magazine—in editorial, but the art department was close enough.

First thing Monday at my boring marketing job, Marsha the receptionist said “Mazel tov.”  Then my phone rang. It was my boss.

“Thanks, but I didn’t get married this weekend … I know! Another Amber Katz; it’s wild … No, no wedding plans anytime soon … No, I don’t even have a boyfriend … Well, I’m hoping there isn’t a reason … Thanks for calling.”

Horrors!  The floodgates into my personal life were flung wide open solely because a woman with whom I shared a city and a name got hitched over the weekend. I found myself trying to dodge surreptitious glances directed at the unclaimed real estate on the third finger of my left hand. I briefly considered placing a dummy cubic zirconium there to appease my fellow New York Times subscribers.

It seemed no medium of contact would be spared an opportunity to showcase my single status. Two months prior, I’d attended my Philadelphia high school’s five year reunion, exchanging updated contact information. So now I was assaulted with 20 congratulatory salutations via email, despite the fact that this other Amber Katz hailed from New York and was five years my senior. Didn’t my classmates know I was their age?

I invested in a superior eye cream (Dr. Hauschka’s Eye Contour Day Balm—worth looking into), resurrected my Philadelphia accent I’d spent years neutralizing and allowed a few set-ups over the next couple of weeks. I even joked to my roommate that she was allowed to sign for any china and flatware that came my way. I was relieved when people finally forgot about the other Amber Katz. A little masthead surfing confirmed that Amber had indeed changed her last name to Harris. By getting married, she had unwittingly crowned me the Amber Katz once again. Nearly as quickly as I’d become unoriginal, my unique status had been restored. I should say I’m over it now. But truth be told, I can’t seem to shake the vision of the impending nuptials of Amber Givenchy Katz.