Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist
It’s almost time for graduation! In my commencement address to graduates of the College of Southern Idaho, I implored them to avoid student loans, to enjoy being from a small community, and to never save a bottle of breast milk for 20 years. Worthy advice, indeed. Here’s the speech on YouTube:
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:
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.
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.
When my wee granddaughter was a year old, her favorite pose was to poke her butt in the air, place her head on the floor, and look back between her legs. This position is best executed by little people who are close to the ground. I tried it once but strained my back, ripped my pants, and fell on my face.
It’s tempting to try this pose again because everything seems to be upside down, and what once was considered strange and inappropriate is now accepted and even celebrated. Here are some perplexing examples of news stories that hurt my brain and cause me to mutter (more than usual.)
Recently in Boston, a man dressed as Elsa from the movie “Frozen” helped push a police vehicle out of the snow. At least he was braver than the man in Portland, Oregon who frantically called 911 because his cat scared him into cowering in a bedroom with his family. The man was paid to tell his terrifying tale on a television entertainment program, and the cat is in therapy. I live with a Marine who could strangle a ferocious beast with one hand without spilling his gin and tonic. And I’m thankful for that fact.
In a related story about a new product, when the killer cat dies the owner can memorialize the feisty feline by having its nose molded into a sterling silver necklace. This lovely tribute is available for dogs, too, and can be found at several online stores. The precious pendant costs a few hundred dollars. I don’t socialize with any friends who wear animal noses as jewelry.
Then there’s the news about former actress Heather Locklear almost biting off the tip of her boyfriend’s nose during a domestic dispute. Maybe the boyfriend should enlist the help of Angelica Velez of Brooklyn, a tattooed sideshow star who was interviewed about her unique and enviable ability to hammer nails up her nose. You can bet your sweet hammered nostrils that she would organize and sell tickets to a cat fight between the nose-chomping girlfriend and the notorious kitty.
She’s probably not part of a peculiar group of lonely women who choose to marry inanimate objects. I read a report that a woman in Florida married an amusement park ride she named Bruce because she experienced special feelings while riding it. (And who doesn’t? But we don’t marry the things!) Women also have married other items, including the Eiffel Tower in Paris and the Berlin Wall in Germany. There’s not a single chance of biting off body parts in these relationships.
Finally, I’m stunned by the “too damn many lawyers” story about the teenage girl suing her parents for child support. Too bad that sweetheart hadn’t met my father. If I had tried that, I would have been given a one-way ticket on the next bus to Brooklyn to live with a tattooed woman and watch her paint with her nose.
I’ve decided to stop reading news bulletins because they clutter my brain with disturbing images and confounding details. I’ll just focus on things I already know to be weird, irrational, and irrelevant. The US Congress comes to mind.
Today’s blog was fueled by a Sebastiani Cabernet from Sonoma County. Enjoy a bottle or two and then you’ll be able to strike a downward facing dog pose to get a balanced perspective on our weird world.
For more than 40 years, I’ve owned property in Idaho and paid property taxes. I estimate my taxes have contributed more than $150,000 to education. I haven’t received one well-written thank-you note, and I doubt the value of the return on this investment. I suggest a taxpayer revolt because we’re funding gigantic, windowless, government buildings full of camera-ready kids who don’t know its from it’s.
More money doesn’t guarantee better education. According to a report from U.S. News, the federal government spends more than $68 billion a year for education. Idaho allocates about $2 billion a year with $4,100 per student while New York spends more than $11,500 per student. I attended public schools for 16 years; 12 in the village of Wendell, Idaho, and four at the University of Idaho. There were 56 students in my high school graduation class, and we became teachers, writers, a veterinarian, and entrepreneurs. None of us knew how to take a selfie or wanted to shoot each other.
When students walk out of class because they fear being shot in school, maybe it’s time to eliminate the schools. Removing guns won’t solve all the problems or make hostile, lonely people stop killing their peers. Remove the school and remove the opportunity. Allow taxpayers to participate in the education process as well as provide the funding.
Communities should provide the education so young people can learn how to read, write, and become self-sufficient.
We should establish community education centers that involve adults and students where everyone is required to participate in the village learning classes. Students learn basic reading, writing, and arithmetic and also learn from local professionals about how to use their natural talents to become productive adults. Courses would teach them how to sew, weld, bake, farm, program computers, operate child care facilities, care for the elderly, write books, teach music lessons, establish a business, work with those with special needs, become law enforcement officers, fix a motor, wire an electric light, unplug a toilet, learn first aid, travel, and/or drive a truck. Other life skills courses would teach students how to balance a checkbook, establish a budget, maintain healthy relationships, care about their physical and mental health, and parent their future children. Each student would participate in an individualized course, and adult mentors would provide expertise and guidance. Students would learn in small groups, and participation would be required. Online courses would be available for specialized studies and modeled after the curriculum of successful online educational institutions.
The year-around community facilities would be limited to 300 students and most could walk to school. Students would not get lost or be ignored because each one would have a life goal to become productive and be a part of the community. Bullies would be expelled and sent to alternative facilities with the chance to earn an opportunity to return. Extra activities, including sports, would be optional programs after class. Team quarterbacks and cheerleaders would be equal in importance with the science nerds and journalists. Being popular on social media would not be a primary goal for students. After high school graduation, students would be encouraged to volunteer for community service or join the military before enrolling in a trade school or community college. As adults, they would be motivated to run for political office but not make it a career. This system that focuses on learning and acquiring life skills would work in inner cities as well as in rural towns.
Use empty churches.
The community schools would require smaller buildings, and I suggest using all the churches that sit empty all week. The sprawling, prison-like schools that currently hold thousands of students could be converted into apartments and dormitories for homeless people. These buildings would offer classes for counseling and job training opportunities. Residents would be required to participate in the operations of the facility.
It may sound radical to suggest eliminating schools. But, in my opinion, the federal government is wasting more than $68 billion each year to fund a failing, bloated, antiquated system that produces illiterate, unhappy children. I would willingly allocate my property taxes to fund local educational centers, and I would volunteer my time and talents. If students can walk out and demand change, so can taxpayers and concerned adults.
The Ambrose Storytelling Endowment at the University of Idaho was created by bestselling author Elaine Ambrose as a tribute to the memory of her brother, George Ambrose, and to support the tireless power of storytelling. George and Elaine grew up on a farm outside Wendell, Idaho, and were known to spin a clever yarn at any moment.
The endowment will support a student scholarship, faculty research award, and an annual on-campus storytelling workshop through the College of Letters, Arts and Social Sciences (CLASS). The first workshop is scheduled for March 21, 2018 at the University of Idaho. Benjamin James, assistant professor in the Department of English, will organize and lead the workshop. The program includes interactive discussions about story selection, word choice, finding the best voice, and elements of storytelling. Elaine Ambrose will speak about “Telling Your Story.”
“From boisterous tales around rustic campfires to eloquent readings from leather-bound books of great literature, storytellers share enduring myths, legends, fairy tales, and adventures to amuse, educate, and motivate every culture on earth. It’s my honor to acknowledge my brother George and to support excellence in storytelling at the University,” said Ambrose.
Elaine Ambrose graduated from the U of I with Phi Beta Kappa scholastic honors with a degree in Journalism. She is the bestselling author of ten books, a syndicated blogger, and humorous speaker. She was the National President of the U of I Alumni Association and served on the Foundation Board of Directors.
George Ambrose also graduated from the University of Idaho after being a leader in the Interfraternity Council and serving as an ASUI Senator. Both George and Elaine sang with the Vandaleer Concert Choir, and Elaine traveled with the choir to Europe, and George traveled to South America with the Vandaleers. George continued to tell stories and jokes just hours before he died from cancer in May of 2017.
Leona Ambrose, mother of George and Elaine, funded the Ambrose Family Scholarship before she passed away. The endowment funds scholarships for students from the Magic Valley area in southern Idaho. In 1998, Elaine funded the Vandaleer Travel Endowment to help with the choir’s tour expenses. For more information about the scholarships and endowments, contact the University of Idaho Foundation, 875 Perimeter Drive MS 3143, Moscow, Idaho 83844-3143 or email [email protected].
