Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

It’s That Hysterical Time of the Month

By

aunt flo 1

 

It didn’t take 28 days for the political circus to get bloody awful. Two days after a televised debate, a male candidate insulted a feisty female news reporter by subtly remarking that she must be on her period. If our Founding Fathers had foreseen such ugly stains on their fertile new country, they would have grabbed the first protective vessel back to the motherland of England.

Men can get away with belching contests, lighting farts, and peeing on the golf course. Women bleed every month for 40 years and suffer from moodiness, cramps, bloating, and pain. Now their professionalism is questioned if they dare to be assertive. Personally, I’d rather trade activities with the men.

Polite and proper society never discusses menstruation, even though millions of women are having their periods right now. It’s rarely portrayed in books, movies, or television shows, as if the natural phenomenon is too bloody awful to handle. Can you imagine if the character of a brave female astronaut or an intrepid pioneer woman or a sexy cabernet singer had to stop and fumble in her purse for a tampon? That would add a new meaning to the term “Ragtime.”

Consider the word hysterical. Female hysteria  was a once-common medical diagnosis, and its treatment was routine for many hundreds of years in Western Europe. In the medical literature of the nineteenth century, women considered to have it exhibited a wide array of symptoms and “a tendency to cause trouble.” In extreme cases, the woman might be forced to enter an insane asylum or to undergo a surgical hysterectomy. That left plenty of time for the men to go camping, drink beer, and hunt animals. Or run for political office.

Many of us middle-aged women never received adequate information about having periods. Our bashful mothers handed us the blue Kotex box, an elastic belt, and a pamphlet with serious phrases such as:

“You’re going to be a woman now, even though you’re only 10.”

“You will bleed every month for several decades from the Don’t-Touch Area.”

“There could be intense cramping, debilitating pain, and personal embarrassment, but no one wants to talk about it. Especially boys.”

Nothing to fear, right? Our mother also worried about our ability to remain fresh and clean “down there.” Ads from the fifties warned a woman that feminine odor could end their marriage! So, get out the Lysol and douche “the vaginal canal” if you want domestic bliss. Then you could use Lysol to clean the bathroom and really please your man.

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At least we were better prepared with our daughters, and we gave them Judy Blume’s wonderful 1970 book titled Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. Our daughters could identify with the excellent fictional account of a young girl having her first period. Of course, the book was banned in several schools and libraries because it was “sexually offensive and immoral.” We’ve not progressed too far from medieval times when it comes to discussing periods.

In researching various websites including the Museum of Menstruation and Mental History, and a witty blog at Period Fairy, I discovered some interesting facts about menstruation. I’ve added my own irreverent interpretation.

  1. In fertile females, their body prepares for pregnancy every month. When that doesn’t happen, the uterus sheds its lining through blood and tissue. Missing a period can bring joy or fear, depending upon how much the woman wants to be pregnant.
  2. During Biblical times, menstruating women were considered ritually impure and were required to be physically separated from men for the entire time they were bleeding. The men, meanwhile, continued to get drunk and kill each other.
  3. In England during the 1800s, The British Medical Journal published an article stating that menstruating women were medically unable to pickle meat, and in France, women on their periods couldn’t work in sugar refineries because they would spoil the food. (And men wonder why we get moody! Go pickle your own damn meat.)

aunt flo 34. The first commercial sanitary pads were produced in the early 1900s, and an advertisement in 1921 showed women caring for a wounded soldier because in World War I, French nurses noted that cellulose bandages used to treat wounds absorbed blood better than plain cotton. The Kotex ad rationalized that if the product was good enough for the military, it was good enough for mere women.

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  1. Twenty years later in 1941, Kotex tossed the dutiful caretaker message and went straight for the gossiping women in swimsuits, and the caption, in discreet parentheses of course, said “The girls are talking about Tampons.” Those scamps not only removed their humble nurse’s outfits, they showed legs! Just imagine the fun times women had back then as they lolled around secretly chatting about tampons.

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It only took another 21 years in 1962 for Pursettes brand of tampons to assure women that unmarried girls could safely and morally use their product. Apparently, there was fear that tampons would remove the virgin status of women, and as everyone knew, all unmarried women were virgins.

  1. Some cultures continue to penalize women. In the mountains of Nepal, menstruation is regarded as unclean so women are banished to small, bare huts. They should just accept their fate and plan a relaxing staycation.
  2. In sharp contrast, several Native American cultures consider a woman in menses to be at the height of her natural powers, and the Lakota tribe wouldn’t allow a menstrual woman to come near the warriors because they feared her power would weaken their strength. Well played, Lakota women.
  3. Menstruation will end if a woman reaches a certain age or has a complete hysterectomy. A hysterectomy that removed the ovaries can also result in immediate menopause, which brings a whole new collection of maladies, including moodiness, night sweats, exhaustion, forgetfulness, weight gain, and hair loss. But, look on the bright side. The money saved by not buying feminine products can go for therapy and/or wine.

Call it a visit from Aunt Flo or The Curse or being On the Rag, women have survived their time of the month for thousands of years. They will continue to do so, because they’re so tough and powerful. And, they can shine on prime time television during a political debate. Just ask the Lakota. Being fierce is admirable, but every now and then I secretly imagine what it would be like to have belching contests and light farts.

 

Your Own Personal Circus

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circus clown
Remember that crazed clown at the circus? She was the one spinning a dozen flaming torches while peddling a unicycle on a high wire as the out-of-tune calliope wheezed out a medley of manic music. Young women today probably aren’t impressed with frenetic clown tricks because that vision represents their daily life – a never-ending juggle of family, job, home, community, and self.

In fact, the clown has an easier reality because her show ends at 10:00 pm and women still have two loads of laundry, a sink full of dirty dishes, The Spawn needs cupcakes for school in the morning, and Romeo wants to score tonight.

I’m here to remind you that all the dishes and laundry will never be done until you’re well into your fifties, and way too soon The Spawn will have a tart of his own and won’t need your culinary skills. That leaves Romeo. So turn off the lights (to add romance and hide the dust bunnies,) don something flimsy, and go for it while you’re still awake. Batteries optional.

I was a working mother back in the olden days when women were supposed to stay home, wear pearls with aprons, and make casseroles that included canned soup and frozen peas. I should have added crescent rolls but I could never get those damn cans to pop at the seams. They always exploded onto the ceiling so I just left the dough to hang and harden in mysterious clumps and called it art.

My kids would be positively giddy if I cooked the pasta first before serving their favorite macaroni and cheese dinner. But, I usually didn’t have time to boil water so I encouraged them to chew slowly and enjoy all the roughage. That was back during the early 1980s, before computers, cell phones, and Oprah. I had to find enlightenment and empowerment on my own while fighting the urge to run away and join the circus.

During the work week, I existed on five hours of sleep, fed the kids, took them to child care, worked nine hours, retrieved the little darlings, concocted something edible for dinner, gave them baths, read stories, and tucked them into bed. Then I did the housework while some clueless zealot chortled on television about bringing home the bacon, frying it in a pan, and then pleasing my man. Hell, in reality I wanted to throw some bologna in the microwave, serve it on paper plates, snuggle into my worn t-shirt, and tell the man of the house to bring me some wine and then take a rain check.

I want young mothers to know that the merry-go-round eventually stops and you can get off, maybe with the help of a sturdy cane. Age brings a certain freedom and wisdom that is elusive when you’re under age 40. My kids now are grown, married, and creating their own personal circuses at home. I enjoy grabbing some popcorn, taking my place in the bleachers, and cheering from the sidelines. And, by now I don’t have to clean up after the elephants.

How to Tell an Enchanting Story

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storyteller

“Please tell me a made-up story, Tutu,” my wee granddaughter begs as I close her picture book and tuck her into bed. I mentally scramble for an image and suddenly a little old lady pops into my imagination.

“Here’s one,” I say, much to her delight. Then I begin the spontaneous tale of a sad older lady who needs an adventure. I toss in the ability to fly and to find magical meadows full of talking birds. It always helps to include at least one princess, a nasty troll, and a few immature bodily noises. For a successful story that pleases the most discerning child, I rely upon past experience: A flying princess, yes. Dead puppies, no.

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I have a small collection of ceramic storytellers crafted in Peru and New Mexico. They represent the South American and Native American Indian tradition of using oral stories as a teaching tool for younger generations. The figurines depict a centered, nurturing, and powerful woman who inspires children with lessons and stories about their culture. Back before the intrusion of electronics, women told stories to their children, and it was a privilege to do the same for my children and now my grandkids. Sometimes I need to think fast to create the story, but it works best if I make it enchanting.

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For the novice entertainer, here are eight tips for how to tell an enchanting story.

  1. Begin with a provocative set-up. One day a (pick one) little girl, puppy, mother, King woke up and discovered that no one was home.
  2. Explain how something happens, either to the main character or the environment. She searched in all the rooms but no one was there. On the kitchen table, she saw a bright red arrow pointing to the back yard.
  3. In one or two sentences, tell how the plot thickens. The stakes are raised when tension appears: She peeked out the window and saw a (pick one) fairy, pony, rainbow, salesman, monster.
  4. Mentally analyze the reaction of the audience and adjust accordingly. If the listeners aren’t engaged by this time, strengthen the narrative. She was (pick one) afraid, surprised, happy, shy, vomiting.
  5. Build a vision of a scene that involves the senses: sight, sound, taste, vision, and touch. The door creaked as she opened it and tiptoed barefoot in her calico gown into the cool grass. She felt a gentle breeze toss her red hair, and the air smelled of mint and oranges.
  6. Weave a climax that produces an “aha” moment for the audience. Suddenly her family appeared with gifts for her surprise party. Or, if you’re feeling more creative, she followed a cluster of chaotic clowns as they scampered over a rainbow into a secret castle full of toys and sugar cookies.
  7. End when the story is resolved. It was the perfect surprise party. Or, she loved her imaginary friends and promised to join them again another day. Or, she scurried home to read adventure books and plan her next excursion.
  8. Record your story. To improve your storytelling abilities, record yourself reciting an original fable. You may notice you speak too quickly or say “um” too many times. Also, a recording creates a fun gift to present to your children or grandchildren.

Some people are born to be storytellers, and their yarns and tall tales aren’t limited to children. They often regale adults with their creative narrations, and a friendly bar or boisterous camping trip only intensifies the renditions. Well-told accounts can enrich the imagination of children and entertain adults. As an added benefit, the regular practice keeps the brain energized so you’re ready any time a small voice begs, “Please, tell me a story.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dilemma of the Dead Waitress

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farmhouse sign

My mother once owned Farmhouse Restaurant, an unpretentious diner outside of Wendell, Idaho. Travelers came from across the country to enjoy platters of chicken-fried steak, real mashed potatoes, monstrous loaves of Basque bread, a salad bar heaped with local produce, and a tempting selection of fresh pies. The eatery was voted “Best Road Food in America” in a 1996 nationwide survey of truck stops. Major media carried the story and NBC news anchor Tom Brokaw vowed to stop by during an Idaho vacation. The media referred to Mom as “jolly.”

basque bread farmhouse

I have a true story about the restaurant that only a few people know. One summer night, an hour before closing, one of the waitresses sat in a booth and died.

My teenage daughter, Mom, and I were eating a late dinner at the restaurant and noticed that our waitress hadn’t appeared for a while. She was a gentle widow in her late sixties and worked a few hours during the week to supplement her Social Security income. I got up to investigate and found her slumped in a back corner booth, her hands still surrounding a coffee cup. She was dead. This wasn’t a good scenario to have in a busy family restaurant.

I quietly alerted the restaurant manager to call the police and signaled for my daughter to join me. I explained the dilemma of the dead waitress and we began to clear the tables and inform customers we were closing early. We told the stragglers that it was a surprise promotion and their meals would be free. They left happy and never knew about the body in the corner booth.

We almost succeeded in clearing the restaurant when one of the other waitresses began to wail loudly. She had discovered her deceased friend and didn’t care that other patrons were gobbling their last bites of free pie. My mother escorted the sobbing woman into the kitchen while my daughter and I cajoled the diners and explained that one of the staff unexpectedly had left early. That was the truth.

The police arrived and everyone assumed they were coming for a late snack. Soon the restaurant was empty except for the officers, the coroner, the sad waitress, the manager, and us.

“Looks like a heart attack,” the coroner said as they gently lifted the body onto a gurney. “How about some of that fresh berry pie to go?”

pie

We boxed up pieces of pie for the officers and coroner and closed the restaurant. Then we sat and stared at the empty booth. The coffee cup remained on the table.

The coroner’s report indicated the waitress died from a sudden heart attack. For some dark humor, we agreed it was fortunate she wasn’t carrying a tray of food at the time. Everyone was fond of the waitress, and we paid our last respects at her memorial service. Back at the restaurant, we shared pie and coffee and told stories about our friend and about life in the restaurant business. Near closing time, someone left a generous tip next to a bouquet of fresh flowers.

 

How to Turn a Flat Tire into a Fulfilled Speech

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Monday evening, I was scheduled to present a motivational speech to an exclusive, private club in Boise. I wiggled into my dress, gathered my notes, and sashayed to my car with 45 minutes to make a 30 minute drive. The tire was flat.

flat tire

I take pride in being independent but there are two chores I refuse to learn: how to change a tire and how to use a chainsaw. There are other people who can do those activities far better than I can. And, everyone knows I would cut off at least one appendage if I ever held anything that involved buzzing sharp edges. I buy Band-Aids in bulk because I’ve been known to slice through skin with a dull butter knife. Chainsaws are for loggers and horror movies.

I glared at the flat tire and calculated my options. My husband was at work 40 minutes away. My adult children were all on vacation. My neighbors were gone, and my town didn’t have a taxi service. I called Uber, but the nearest driver was an hour away. I called the woman who had invited me to speak and left a desperate message of apology on her voice mail. Then I called the private club and left another anxious message. By then, it was time to be at the presentation.

An important rule to know: When all else fails, try Facebook. I went online and issued a global plea for a ride. Instantly, friends responded so I took the closest one. I arrive an hour late to the event, but by then all the guests were on their second glass of wine and feeling quite forgiving and jovial. They laughed with me before my first joke, and that’s when I knew all would be okay.

I always carry finger puppets because I use them in speeches and workshops. It’s great fun to cause stuffy engineers to turn into silly schoolboys singing rounds while using finger puppets. My best gimmick is to use finger puppets to transfer hostile, negative thoughts and invite charming, positive encouragement. These cheap but powerful puppets are available in bulk at party stores, and I advise people to keep a few at their desks or in their car.

So, I stood before the group with Monster Puppet telling me in one ear that I was a loser and no one would ever ask me to speak again. Queen Puppet responded with positive affirmations that shit happens and I glow brighter than the morning sun. The banter continued until Monster Puppet ultimately was vanquished. The speech moved into my prepared remarks and ended with applause. Merriment and more drinks ensued.

I begged a ride home and made plans to contact the tire dealer. As I prepared for bed, Monster Puppet snarled that I should learn how to change a tire. Queen Puppet suddenly appeared with a chainsaw and chopped off his head. Unfortunately, my finger is cut again.

 

How to Publish a Book, Lose Weight, and Find True Love

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books lightbulbs

One day you wake and realize you’re an indolent cynic so you decide to close the box of donuts, get out of the bathrobe, and do something with your life. This can be difficult if you’ve never ventured beyond the corner bakery. If you’re committed to accomplishing a few big ticket items, here are some suggestions to try before you melt into a unused puddle of mush.

Publishing a book will challenge your brain. Start with a sizzling idea and a word processing program, and you can have a book written and published in four months. Allocate several hours a day to write and focus on your project. Aim for 2,000 words a day, every day and you’ll have 14,000 words in a week, 56,000 words in a month. After two months, you should have 112,000 words. Hire a professional editor to cut out the bad parts (expected to toss 60,000 words) and polish the manuscript. Then ask a few beta readers to critique the manuscript and adjust as necessary.

While the editor is working, hire a professional graphic artist to design a cover. Get some quotes from the most famous people you know to include on the back cover. Establish your own publishing company, register it with the state, buy an ISBN number and a bar code, write your publishers page, dedication, and acknowledgements, and have the graphic artist format the manuscript for publication as a paperback and an e-book. Research online resources for complete details.

Set up an account with a book publishing company, such as CreateSpace. Submit the cover and manuscript and wait for them to upload your book to amazon.com. Then order a proof copy, read it thoroughly, email any edits, order another proof, if necessary, and then push the “publish” button. You’ll have your book in a few weeks. Total cost, depending on expenses for graphic design, editors, and the number of pages, could be around $4 per book so set your price accordingly. Then the work begins as you market and promote your work. The odds are against you. According to a story in the New York Times, most self-published books sell fewer than 150 copies. But you’ll have produced something not many people have finished, and you’ll have gifts for several decades.

chubby lady belly

Losing weight is easy. Eat small amounts of healthy, organic food and exercise daily. I really wish I could do that. Being sporadically disciplined over the years, I’ve repeatedly lost and regained the weight of a Buick.

fat cupid

Finding true love is difficult but not impossible. You can’t rush or plan it, but don’t panic. Sometimes it takes half a century to get it right, but don’t give up or settle for less than you deserve. Trust me.

So, now you have some ideas for what to do with the rest of your life. After you achieve your first worthy goals, gleefully choose other projects: volunteer at a worthy local charity, run for office, travel to a secluded yoga retreat, or take piano lessons. You may have unleashed your dormant, inner warrior. And if you still crave donuts, take a few boxes to share with a youth group or senior citizen facility. Compassion cuts the calories.