Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

Laughing with Erma Bombeck and Friends

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(Note:  This is my 600th blog post, and it’s dedicated to Erma Bombeck.)

Erma Bombeck was the original Mommy Blogger – without all the alcohol and swear words. I thought I was doing great with 600 blog posts, but that pales in comparison to her 4,000 newspaper columns. Also, she got a regular paycheck for her humor and earned $1 million a year. I eagerly publish free essays on my website and hope someone likes them enough to consider paying $17 for my latest book. I’m just like Erma, but different.

Erma Bombeck’s columns were read twice a week by 30 million readers of 900 newspapers throughout the country. I don’t have quite that many followers, but I did achieve a few viral syndicated posts that attracted readers around the world. The esteemed subjects were about farting, my mother’s casket getting lost, and why politicians resemble braying animals. I think Erma would have liked them.

I try to emulate the famous wit and wisdom she used to transform ordinary family life into hilarious scenarios. My target audience is middle-age women, but that’s now a shameless exaggeration unless I live past 132. I’ve passed the expiration date for midlife and am stumbling beyond the precarious matron category into full-blown senior citizen status. But, I continue to write because she would want me to do that. Her light on earth was cut short at age 69, and I’m in my sixties, so there is no time to waste. I daily grease my wrinkled fingers, squint through my high-intensity eyeglasses, hunch over my large-type document, and focus on adding one more paragraph. “What would Erma do?” is my mantra.

The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop

The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio, created in 2,000 at the University of Dayton, is the largest national workshop for humor writers. It endures because the world is too crabby, and people want to laugh again and be with funny, positive friends. Attendees hope to belong to that unique club designated for readers and writers of humor. Laughter is the best medicine, and we come on a sacred pilgrimage for the healing power of another belly laugh.

I attended my first EBWW in 2014. I didn’t know anyone and resembled the proverbial goofball in a world of Elite Comedic Thespians. But, they allowed me into their playhouse and we laughed until we cried. I was chosen to perform in the Stand-Up Comic Night show, and I loved the experience. I gained numerous friends, and even the cool kids talked to me.

For the 2016 Workshop, I was honored to present two workshops: “How to Turn Your Blog into a Book” and “How to Write Funny.” The importance of the opportunity became almost too much for this shy farm girl from Idaho, but I plugged in my Power Point and took the stage as if I knew what I was doing. I imagined Erma in the front row. I think she laughed at some of my jokes.

I recently returned from the 2018 Conference, and my body is still sore from all the laughter and bear hugs. The schedule was packed with excellent sessions, enlightening presenters, and some of the best speakers I’ve ever heard. The main conference started on Thursday, April 5 with a dinner at the Marriott. Keynote speaker Liza Donnelly, award-winning cartoonist with The New Yorker magazine, delighted the audience with humorous cartoons and clever comments. She introduced a world of humor writing many of us hadn’t considered.

On Friday morning, I learned advice from bestselling authors through Jessica Strawser’s excellent session. The next workshop featured my friends Anne Parris and Tracy Beckerman as they discussed website productivity. Even for an old crone, I was able to learn new and productive ideas for my site.

Faye Griffin provided the highlight for Friday afternoon with her inspirational session about writing with humor and heart. I want to be BFFs with her. Friday evening I was delighted to participate in a book signing as an author in the new book, Laugh Out Loud – 40 Women Humorists Celebrate Then and Now…Before We Forget. I sat beside Michelle Poston Combs and considered adopting her.

Saturday’s workshops included the memoir writing session and an excellent presentation about branding from Cindy Ratzlaff. I participated in the Pitchapalooza and received encouraging advice from publishing expert Jane Friedman.

In my opinion, the keynote speakers were the highlight of the Conference. Liza Donnelly, Rita Davenport, Karen Walrond, John Grogan, and Monica Piper provided a lineup that will be difficult to equal. Davenport and Piper had me gasping for breath between punchlines. I also appreciate the participation of Erma Bombeck’s sons, Matt and Andy. Unfortunately, Anne Bardsley and I couldn’t convince them to travel on a comedy tour with us.

I have pages of notes to read, links to follow, and action items to complete, but the EBWW 2018 has renewed and energized my determination to write and finish a few more projects. It’s my goal to balance negative complaints with some cheerful chuckles. My mentor Erma encourages me to keep writing and not have a single bit of talent left at the end of my life. So, that’s what I’ll do.

One of the best compliments I’ve received for my writing is from Foreword Reviews: “Elaine Ambrose’s Midlife Cabernet: Life, Love & Laughter after Fifty is an Erma Bombeck-esque tribute to women who are over fifty and ready to explore life on new terms.”

I don’t want to be -esque to anyone else, ever.

The Wisdom of Irish Taxi Drivers and Bartenders

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taxi driver dublin

“Why are all the Americans mad as a box of frogs?” David asked as he drove from the Dublin International Airport to my hotel. “I don’t understand all the vitriol. The waste of time is biscuits to a bear.”

“I agree with you,” I replied as I rummaged for a pen and notebook to write quotes from the taxi driver. “I’ve been writing that sentiment for more than a year. I try to balance all the garbage with humor.”

“Ah, so you’re a writer lady,” he chortled in a delightful Irish brogue. “Don’t you know most of us are cut to the bone – that means fed up – with all the drama over there.”

“Not all of us are angry or depressed,” I assured him. “I’m proud of my country and am convinced we’ll survive the current chaos.”

“Well, I’m happy you’re not in tatters about politics. And I trust you’ll be seeing the favorite pubs of the famous Irish writers?”

“Yes, I’m going to the Temple Bar to find the table where James Joyce used to sit,” I responded. “And, then to St. Patrick’s Cathedral to see where Jonathan Swift is buried.”

“Don’t you forget Oscar Wilde. There’s his statue near the park.” He pointed to the monument as we neared my hotel.

The 30-minute drive with David was a treat because of the nonstop commentary about politics, writers, pubs, and his love of his native Dublin. We arrived at the hotel and he offered a few more words of advice.

“Have a good craic and enjoy a pint of Guinness,” he said and added a serious tone. “And watch for pickpockets at The Book of Kells and shysters who will try to sell ya the eye out of your head.”

I appreciated his concern and noted that he didn’t judge the fact that I was a woman traveling alone. I thanked him, paid the 22 Euro fare and added eight more for the tip. He said we were best friends and shook my hand with the fervor of a long-long cousin.

“I’ll never make it to the States,” he said as he got back into his taxi. “But, I’ll be watching for happier news. It’s silly for friends and family to be doin’ a number and destroyin’ relationships over a political situation that constantly changes.” He drove away, and I acknowledged another memorable taxi ride.

Temple Bar Dublin

In my travels, I enjoy talking with local people I meet along the journey. They always have the best stories, advice, warnings, and opinions. Next to taxi drivers, the bartenders offer the best conversations. After checking into my room and grabbing a walking map from the front desk, I ventured onto the streets of Dublin. I found the Temple Bar and slide onto a stool at the bar.

A young woman named Elise came over and I ordered a ¼ pint of Guinness.

“That’s but a baby size,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like a big girl’s portion?”

I laughed with her and explained I wasn’t much of a beer drinker and after the obligatory taste of Irish beer would switch to red wine with a cheese board and a bowl of olives. She poured my beer and wine and set the glasses on coasters in front of me. I drank the beer first and then sipped the wine.

“It’s early and the crowds won’t start coming in for another hour so you have the bar to yourself,” she said. “What brings you to Dublin?”

I explained that I was spending the weekend by myself in Dublin after traveling on a week-long tour with Wayfinding Women. We had visited several spiritual sights including the Hill of Tara and Glendalough as we studied Celtic spiritual traditions.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Elise exclaimed as she pushed some wayward red curls from her face. “Did you see any fairies or goddesses?”

“I believe we experienced some of them,” I answered, truthfully.

Elise hurried to the kitchen and brought back a platter piled with cheeses, olives, and dense brown bread. She implored me to tell her more. I explained that I had been on a personal journey to deal with the recent deaths of my brother and mother. I also led writing discussions with the other women on the tour.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Elise gushed. “I’ve seen plenty of Americans in here wailing about your political whankers and muppets. But you seem beyond all the olagonin’.”

“What’s that word,” I asked, reaching for my notebook.

“It means moaning and complaining,” she answered. “Maybe it’s because the United States is so young the country is hitting the rebellious teenage years. Our rugged Irish heritage has survived for thousands of years, and we’ve reached the wise, old ancestor stage. Maybe we’re luckier than you are.”

James Joyce in Temple Bar

Patrons began filling the bar, and many were eager to find the bronze statue of James Joyce. I had a favorite quote of Joyce’s and was waiting for the perfect time to use it. The time was appropriate.

I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.
From selected Letters of James Joyce about his wife Nora

Elise laughed out loud and dashed off to chat with the noisy customers lining the bar. When she brought my tab, she took my hand and thanked me for being a happy American. I thanked her for the important lesson about Irish heritage.

As I walked back to my hotel, I thought about the conversations with David and Elise. They joined the long list of fascinating and wise people I’d met throughout the years. In their honor, I was determined to return to the States and not become a whanker in a box of angry frogs.

Photos © Elaine Ambrose 2018

Create Your QR Code for a Conference

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I’m traveling to two important events in April: the prestigious Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio, and the Wayfinding Women excursion to Ireland. My latest bestselling books are too heavy and cumbersome to carry and many people don’t want to haul them home, so I have the next-best marketing tool: a QR Code. QR stands for “Quick Response” and allows any URL to be scanned for instant access. To make a free QR Code from any website, go to several options including QR Code Generator. I have codes for my books and for my website.

To use the QR Code, download and open a QR reader on your smartphone, take a photo of the QR Code, and open the website. Most smartphones will automatically connect to the website after “seeing” the black and white squares embedded in the QR Code.

This QR Code allows potential clients and friends to instantly access my website without storing business cards or scribbling website addresses. Other marketing materials include the code to each book so it can be found and ordered on Amazon. I strongly advocate selling through local bookstores over Amazon, but the choices are different at a conference. Here are two examples of how I use the codes on my book marketing materials.

Midlife Happy Hour remains in the top 100 bestselling books for Midlife Management on Amazon.

Midlife Cabernet earned hundreds of positive reviews on Amazon.

  • Silver medal for humor, Independent Publisher Book Awards
  • “Laugh-out-loud funny!” – Publishers Weekly
  • “Erma Bombeck” – Foreword Reviews
  • #1 Bestseller in Humor on Amazon
  • Available in Paperback and eBook

I printed the QR Code on postcards to distribute at conferences. It’s more convenient that hauling books. There is one downside: Authors can’t autograph or personalize the books ordered through a QR Code. Maybe there’s an app for that!

How to Survive Menopause without Getting Arrested

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Approximately 6,000 women enter menopause every day in the United States. That means by Friday, we could populate a small town with sweating, crying inhabitants with indigestion and hairy toes. By the end of the month, we could have a city the size of Gilbert, Arizona with 180,000 women helplessly hurled into hormonal havoc. Get out of their way because some of them are in a testy mood.

It’s a crying shame that we could live to be 100 but only twenty of those years come with youthful vigor, shiny hair, smooth skin, multiple orgasms, and a flat stomach. Only the strongest species on earth could survive hot flashes, incontinence, hair loss, age spots, uncontrollable flatulence, and erratic mood swings after forty. Someone give us a crown and a plate of cookies!

While it is better than dying too young, living past forty often comes with unpleasant and bewildering challenges. For the most part, every single symptom of menopause is caused by one reason, and one reason alone: hormones. It seems that your body makes several different kinds of hormones that love to cavort through your body and play havoc with your sanity. Two major players are called estrogen and progesterone. In medical terms, estrogen is produced in your ovaries and acts as a chemical commander in chief, telling your female body what to do. In not-so-medical terms, imagine a teeny tyrant running through your brain yelling, “Grow pubic hair now!” “Ovulate from the left ovary!” or “Make that boob bigger than the other one!” As with most power-hungry rascals, estrogen likes to change the rules every now and then just to confuse you.

As perimenopause begins, your ovaries are tired of taking orders, so they decide to reduce the production of estrogen. “Attention All Sectors. Estrogen is leaving the body. Farewell party at noon in the pituitary gland.” Then all hell breaks loose and you start to experience symptoms of perimenopause. The fact that you live through this chaos is definite proof of your magnificence. A lesser species would have become extinct millions of years ago.

But why not make it a multi-generational issue! It’s a rather cruel trick of nature that you could be raising teenagers and caring for aging parents while your Generalissimo Estrogen is barking orders at your female parts, your Busy Bee Progesterones are frantically fixing up the uterus for the Sperm and Egg Combo, and your Naughty Testosterone is working your libido like a tigress in heat. Don’t give up! Soon, these symptoms will pass and you’ll be too old to remember anything.

To survive the physical and mental annoyances that assault your body and mind during menopause, here are some helpful suggestions that have absolutely no basis in medical fact:

  1. Take all your pointy-toed shoes and line them up in the driveway. Then drive over them several times before you throw them away. Your feet will feel fabulous and you’ll get rid of some latent aggression.
  2. Cool your steaming head with a boxes of frozen diet food that have been languishing in your freezer for the past ten years. You’re never going to eat them anyway so you might as well put them to good use.
  3. The next time a telemarketer calls, start explaining your ailments and frustrations in graphic detail. Don’t stop until the caller starts to cry. Then hang up.
  4. Feeling lonely? Email your friends that you’ve decided to give all your money to that nice young man who emailed from Nigeria. Then sit back and wait for them to scurry over for a visit.
  5. If you experience uncontrollable urges to shop and eat (and who doesn’t), just blame it all on menopause. You can shop and eat for less than $30 if you wander through the aisles at Costco and feast on all the free samples. Then buy a case of wine, a huge jar of chocolate covered peanuts, and a twelve-pound pie and then call your friends over for a party. To be prudent, don’t forget the year’s supply of toilet paper.
  6. Symptoms of menopause can make you forgetful and absent-minded. Write your kid’s names on their foreheads with a Magic Marker Pen so you don’t have to go through the irritation of memorizing their names every day.
  7. Menopause can make you magnificent! That’s baloney, but claim that as your mantra if it makes you feel better. Remember, this all will pass someday and then you’ll be too old to care anymore.

The main goals of surviving menopause are to stay alive and to sleep with both legs under the covers. If we can achieve these noble visions and avoid arrest, we’ll laugh all the way to bingo night at the Senior Center.

 

 

 

Adapted from the book Menopause Sucks by Joanne Kimes and Elaine Ambrose.

Published by Adams Media.

Rocking Babies in Rhythm with Heartbeats

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My daughter Emily recently celebrated a milestone birthday, and I am in awe of her splendid spirit. She inspired my story in the recent anthology published in an eBook titled A Cup of Love. Here is an excerpt.

Rocking Babies in Rhythm with Heartbeats

The nurse pushed my wheelchair to the viewing window of the intensive care unit so I could see my baby for the first time. I stared at the sleeping newborn and felt an indescribable ache for the baby I had never held. She had been in critical condition after a difficult two-day birth and was hurried away to ICU. After the delivery, I had been left alone wondering if all the birthing videos had been a lie.

One video had featured a smiling woman in full makeup and perfectly teased hair as she gave a slight grimace and then held a flawless baby. This untrue propaganda portrayed labor and delivery as a pleasant walk in the park. Unfortunately, my experience took a detour through the haunted woods and fell down a muddy gully. I had no opportunity or desire to apply makeup and appear cheerful.

After 20 hours of labor, I was trapped beneath an oxygen mask and heart monitor while the unborn baby had a fetal monitor attached to its head as a machine sent warning beeps every time the baby’s heartbeat reached 170. The baby was too far down in the birth canal for a cesarean section. Besides, it was Easter of 1978 and my doctor didn’t want to leave his family dinner to come to the hospital. A stranger stood at the end of the gurney studying my private parts and begging me to push harder. I intensely disliked him.

After 22 hours in labor, the doctor actually anchored his foot on the bed and used huge metal forceps to pull her from my body. At almost 10 pounds, she was too big to be born without the instrument. The bruises and indentations on her head from the grip of forceps remained visible for months. The nurse rushed her to the neonatal intensive care unit and her Apgar score was an alarming 3. I didn’t get to see or hold her for eight hours.

The following day, the nurse informed me Baby Emily would be released from ICU and would be brought me. I remember combing my hair so I would look presentable for our first official meeting, but she was asleep and couldn’t care less about my appearance. The nurse handed the blanketed bundle to me and the moment I felt my daughter secure in my arms, I wept.

I gently unfolded the blanket and peeked at her face and head. I was shocked and had to admit that she wasn’t the cutest newborn in the world. The forceps delivery had left her head swollen, bruised, and misshaped. The pictures of perfect babies were just another fabricated tale from the birth videos.

Back then, we didn’t have pregnancy tests or “gender reveal” parties. We didn’t know if the baby would be a girl or a boy, and we were delighted with either.  I never again saw the doctor who delivered her. The second day after the birth, a serious-looking pediatrician visited and said in hushed tones that difficult deliveries can result in birth defects and I should be prepared. I remember closing my eyes and begging, praying for help to meet the unknown challenges. A day later, I was completely at peace and in love with my baby.

“Just put her back in and let’s do it right,” I said, tired of all the intrusions. I had spent two days in labor and received more than 100 stitches to repair the damage of having a 10-pound baby. I wasn’t in any mood to endure a complicated discussion about the potential problems with my child. I thought of him only one more time: when my daughter graduated from college with scholastic honors.

Emily and I remained in the hospital for four days so we could heal. By the time my husband could take us home, her head had transformed into the acceptable round size but the bruises took a few weeks to disappear. I rocked her day and night, sang silly lullabies, and didn’t care about too many other distractions such as getting dressed, fixing meals, or doing laundry.

Fortunately, my mother came to help, and I was happy to rock and sing to my baby. I got up several times during the night to touch her and make sure she was still there. Having a child introduced a passionate kind of love that was new and forever. I would battle giants, enemies, and slobbering alien creatures to protect my children. The power of that kind of love scares me at times but remains a force almost 40 years later.

Emily became a precocious toddler as if to show the pediatrician that she was the smartest baby in the world. I read daily to her and by age two, she had memorized 20 stories and poems in the Childcraft Books, Volume 2. I was having so much fun being Mommy that my husband and I decided to try it again. In January of 1980, we created a most magnificent baby. He was born in October, and once again the delivery didn’t correspond to any of the birthing videos, not even the new and updated versions.

I should have suspected something was different when the buttons began to pop off of my maternity blouses. I was so huge, I couldn’t reach the table so I perched my dinner plate on my belly. At seven-months’ pregnant, I couldn’t hold my daughter in my lap. I couldn’t turn over in bed because my back hurt so much. Still, the mothering instinct carried me through the toughest times. I couldn’t wait to meet Baby Two.

On the due date of October 20, the baby decided to be born. The delivery was so intensely painful I blacked out with every contraction. The baby weighed 11 pounds and appeared ready for a steak dinner and a game of football. The nurse snatched him and took off to show the big baby to other nurses.

“Excuse me,” I meekly said. “I would like to hold my baby.”

I was a whipped puppy but could rally soon to become a fierce beast. What was the reason for my personal tradition of being forced to wait to hold my babies? We needed new videos to deal with this unpleasant dilemma.

Finally, my son Adam was placed in my arms. Again, my tears flowed freely and I thought my heart would burst. How can one mother’s heart include more than one child? Now I know it’s possible. I had room for both of them equally, and I loved them totally and unconditionally.

I blinked a few times, and thirty years flew past. Now Emily and Adam are grown, married, and have children of their own.

Science says the emotion of love comes from a chemical reaction in the brain. I think love spontaneously erupts from our heart when we rock our babies in harmonic rhythm with our two heartbeats. The feeling is more powerful than any other, and I’d like to order some more, in great quantities. I need to stock the pantry.

Now that my empty nest is filled with other priorities and distractions, I have time to reflect on what matters. If I could go back and choose favorite times in my life, they would include rocking my sweet babies and singing soft lullabies. As a young mother, I didn’t know what the future would bring, but I was fulfilled and grateful for the warm weight of my child upon my chest.

I am truly grateful to be a happy and loved wife, mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother. But of all the inspirational sensations I have known throughout the years, there is nothing more powerful than the feeling of love I experienced when I held and rocked my babies. If we could harness that force, we could move mountains, tame the winds, create truthful videos, eliminate calories, and end a few wars. Love wins, every time.