Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

Why I’ll Never Write the “F” Word

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(Published on The Huffington Post June 1, 2015)
I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words during the past 50 years, but I’ve never written the f-word. I don’t need the word to communicate effectively or to get published. The English language is rich with so many other delightful, juicy, descriptive, and provocative words that require more deliberate discourse, and my fingers just can’t push the keys to enter the four letters to write an overused, prostituted word.

Many of my friends and favorite writers use the f-bomb with great relish; almost as a badge of honor to show how feisty and liberated they are. I follow delightful blogs that incorporate the word regularly, but I don’t think it’s always necessary. Some writers call me a cuss-less curmudgeon and send humorous essays about how the f-word can be used as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and an adverb. I remind them that the best authors only selectively use adjectives and adverbs. Also, the word has no context or logic. WTF means nothing.

I shared the stage last year with comedian and humor columnist Leighann Lord at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. She sprinkles her hilarious routines with a few saucy words but says that profanity is like a hot spice — it’s best used in small doses. I rarely go to movies anymore because of the repetitive swearing that adds nothing to the story. This doesn’t mean I’m a hopeless prude; I just don’t want to pay $10 to be assaulted with caustic profanity that hits me like slimy spitballs. From the safety of my home, I rented the movie The Wolf of Wall Street. It contained more than 506 f-bombs, and I slipped into a language-deficient coma.

In the final scenes of the 1939 film Gone with the Wind, the leading man played by Clark Gable turned to the star Vivien Leigh and declared, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!” The profanity in the line was unusual and shocking back then in American film. (This quotation was voted the number one movie line of all time by the American Film Institute in 2005.) Imagine how that scene would be ruined if he had substituted the f-word or if profanity had been used throughout the movie. The powerful impact would be reduced to redundant noise as Miss Scarlett’s “Fiddle-dee-dee” became “G-damn, WTF?”

Certain titles captivate readers (and buyers) with a single word. I wrote a book with author Joanne Kimes titled Menopause Sucks. She has successfully incorporated the “sucks brand” into the titles of her books, and the word “sucks” is a marketing tool that effectively sells her work. I wrote about a fart and the viral essay titled “Don’t Fart During an MRI” became one of the most-read posts in the ten-year history of the The Huffington Post. These books and the blogs wouldn’t be as popular or civil if the words “sucks” and “fart” were exchanged for the f-word. “Don’t (F-Word) During an MRI” would not attract or impress my target audience.

I have said the f-word out loud, especially at the golf course, but I still choose not to write it. I have nightmares of my dear departed mother charging into my room with a bar of soap to swish inside my mouth. She used this tactic when I was a child after I innocently said the word “poop.” However, that punishment could explain my chronic case of irritable bowel symptom.

Writers have every right to use the word, and I don’t judge them for it. I would like to receive the same respect in return. Keep your profanity, and I’ll keep my more traditional language. I’ve occasionally written other swear words, including damn, shit, and hell, but that’s about the extent of my dabbling into the salacious world of four-letter-words. The world offers enough crude, vulgar, trashy, and blasphemous images and sounds to offend everyone, so I don’t need to contribute more.

This article will be published without that word, and I’ll still make a strong case for powerful, creative language. Many will criticize my perspective and snicker that I’m a dinosaur in the blogosphere. To them I tip my hat and say, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

A Grandmother’s Legacy

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(Published on The Huffington Post on June 4, 2015)

My grandmothers were the quintessential matrons: they grew lush gardens, baked pies, canned peaches, crocheted doilies and then peacefully passed away in their nineties.

My life has been a bit different, and I just hope I don’t die tomorrow by getting hit by a wine truck while dancing in the street on my way to a book signing event.

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My paternal grandmother never owned a driver’s license because she never needed to go anywhere. She could walk to the grocery store and post office, and she was content to sit in her rocking chair in her tidy little house. She finished crossword puzzles every day, read her Bible and believed her life was blessed beyond measure. She was correct.

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My maternal grandmother sewed dolls and grew glorious gladiolas to enter in the Jerome County Fair. She stored the numerous winning ribbons in a shoe box because she was humble, quiet and unpretentious. Only after her death did I learn that all she wanted in life was to own a piano. I wish I could have given one to her.

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Their tough example gave me a strong foundation that sustained me during the numerous personal calamities and monstrous mistakes in my life.

They would be disappointed in my failures, but they would be proud of me for having the courage to be independent and tenacious. I can hear them saying, “You can do it. Now get to work.”

In the blink of a wrinkled eye, I also became a grandmother. Both my children have children, and I find this fact a bit disturbing, because I still think I am in my thirties. Really, now my daughter and I are about the same age. I want to pluck 30 years off the timeline and pretend the decades never happened. Denial is a powerful emotion. Though I inherited traits and skills from my parent’s mothers, my generation is tweaking the term “grandmother.”

My children married spouses who already had children, so I became an instant grandmother. And I’m not called Gramma. My daughter’s daughter was born in Hawaii, so I became Tutu, the Hawaiian name for grandmother.

I look at my granddaughters with wonder and worry.

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What will their future hold? Can they travel the world, employ their talents and be strong in relationships? Will they treasure the self-sufficient strength of their great-great-grandmothers? Will they be able to grow a garden, bake a pie, preserve peaches and crochet doilies? OK, no one needs doilies anymore, but the other skills are important.

I hope they can learn from this weathered Tutu that they also can have a job, chart their own path, own a business and challenge the boundaries. They can go beyond my grandmother’s wildest dreams, and I relish their feisty and vibrant spirit. I imagine the day when they get married and then bring me a laughing baby to rock. I think Great Tutu will be a fitting name.

I adore my little granddaughters, and we laugh together as we sing and tell great stories. I am not that adept at canning fruits and vegetables, but I can encourage them to take the path less traveled, color outside the lines and question authority. They come from a strong heritage of tough women, and I know my grandmothers are watching over them whispering, “You can do it. Now get to work.”

The Humble Photographer

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(Published on The Huffington Post June 8, 2015)

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We all remember school picture day and how our mothers cajoled us into wearing that hideous dress just for Grandma, or restrained our bangs that we had purposely left to dance upon our eyelashes. Then, we repeated the motherly routine with our own children, fussing over their collars, bribing them to wear the cute headband and admonishing them to smile — or else! Did we ever consider the person behind the camera?

My uncle was a community photographer for almost 40 years. He opened a small shop in the hamlet of Jerome, Idaho, and his work took him to schools around the valley. He photographed weddings, reunions, anniversary parties and civic events. A self-taught businessman, he learned how to set up lights and props while he experimented with different ways to use a camera. He developed the film in his darkroom and carefully categorized the thousands of smiling faces. His work preserved memories for three generations.

He died recently at age 93, and a grateful crowd came to the memorial service to offer their respects. The most common comment was, “He was such a good, humble man.”

The world of photography has changed dramatically over the years. My uncle used to take his film and process the negatives as his clients waited weeks for the results. Now, any pre-teen or bored celebrity with a cell phone can take a “selfie” and instantly post an obnoxious, duck-lipped pose on social media. Too many are tempted to post potentially embarrassing photos that remain forever on the Internet. The act requires no skill and definitely no humility.

My uncle was appalled at how the art of photography had become a vanity tool for those who screamed, “Look at me!” His professional pride came from his talent to cajole a cranky baby to giggle, his ability to evoke a smile from a petulant schoolboy and his desire to create the perfect pose for a nervous bride. Behind the camera, he directed beautiful, true images of life. Not one of his photos included a purposely pouty pose.

The next time you take your children or grandchildren to a photography boutique in a retail store or prepare them for school photography day, consider the person behind the camera. The photographer doesn’t know your child, but will attempt to elicit a portrait that captures personality as well as image. These artists remain obscure, hidden behind their lenses, and that’s their choice. Behind the scenes, they use their talent to create instant masterpieces of other people.

My uncle didn’t want or need attention or fame. But he lives on through framed portraits that hang on thousands of walls and in photographs that fill countless albums. Over the decades, life through his eyes reflected a changing reality from poise to pomposity. He closed his business when the authentic images were not retrievable.

He was such a good, humble man.

The Secret of the Hairy Leg

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(Published on The Huffington Post July 2, 2015)

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I was 12 when my mother sat beside me, nervously cleared her throat, and gave this serious admonishment: I was never to shave my legs. I solemnly nodded but neglected to mention that I secretly had been shaving for more than a year.

My mother never had shaved her legs, mainly because respectable women of the era didn’t engage in such pretentious behavior and also she didn’t have any noticeable hair. On the other hand (or leg), my sudden eruption of hair rivaled a tangled clump of Spanish moss growing on two logs in a hot swamp. At age 11, I endured a cataclysmic growth spurt of such epoch proportions that my legs mutated into furry poles covered with twisted hairballs. All I saw between my plaid skirts and saddle shoes were two mangy pelts that should have been hanging from a trapper’s rope. Within months, my legs were hairy enough to attract nesting rodents.

In my young angst, I noticed that hair was sprouting in other places, too. After a private examination of my changing body, I was convinced that somehow there had been a big mistake and my new carpet of pubic hair wouldn’t stop where it should. I feared that soon there would be one long growth of hair that reached from my crotch to my ankles. My World Book Encyclopedias didn’t provide any answers, except to show freaky photos of bearded women in the circus. I inspected my chin and didn’t see any beard but decided I had to act.

Our small home only had one bathroom, so we all stored our toiletries in the cabinet beside the sink. That’s where I saw my father’s razor and made the decision to attack my fur. Looking back, I’m mortified that I resorted to such drastic measures, but there was no time to waste. Summer was coming I didn’t want to resemble a monkey in shorts.

The first attempts were painful as I scrapped the stubborn hair from my legs. Nicks and cuts bled onto the floor, and I quickly blotted the wounds with toilet paper. I saw a bottle of aftershave tonic so I smeared some on my battered legs. That’s the first time I learned how to scream in silence. I cleaned up the mess, returned everything to the cabinet, and hobbled to bed. The next day I read the bottles more closely and decided I would use shaving cream and warm water, as soon as the scabs healed.

I perfected the routine over the next few months and was proud of my smooth, long legs. I noticed my mother was buying more razor blades, and she mentioned that my father’s beard was getting so mature and healthy that the blades were wearing out faster than normal. Again, I solemnly nodded, secretly delighted that my legs no longer belonged on a buffalo.

Disaster stuck in late July. I broke my leg and needed a plaster cast from my knee to my toes. I worried about what was happening beneath the cast and inspected the casing daily for tuffs of fur that might emerge while I continued to shave the other leg. After two months, it was time to remove the cast. I nervously sat on the doctor’s examination table with my legs stretched out in front of me. My mother focused on the cast to be sure the doctor’s noisy saw wouldn’t accidentally cut off my leg. Finally, the plaster broke apart, and we all gasped as we saw the grim limb. The leg was twice as small as the other leg, the muscles had disappeared, and the skin was buried beneath a carpet of black, wayward pubic hair. I would have run away, but my leg was too weak.

“Oh, dear,” muttered my mother. “Do you think the dark cast caused all that hair to grow? I read in Reader’s Digest that strange things can happen like that.”

The doctor looked at me and noticed my panicked expression. He winked.

“Sometimes hair does grow without reason,” he said with authority. “This will probably be gone within a few days.”

He was correct. That hair disappeared before morning. The mangy mess almost clogged the toilet, but I shaved it off and limped to bed. Dr. Scheele passed away several years ago, but I often think of him and smile.

Five-Fact Midlife Survival Guide

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(Published on The Huffington Post June 20, 2015.)

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Some of you have been around the block enough times to know where to avoid the mud and dog poop or when to stop and smell the roses. Others, however, refuse to try a better path so they continue to trip over the same obstacles. And, then there is thatgroup — the ones who stand in the street waiting for a free ride and then can’t understand why they get hit by a bus.

My spirited and splendid journey through life has taught me that the secrets to survival can be condensed to five easy paragraphs. It’s short because so is life. Besides, we can’t remember more than five things at a time.

1. Use your common sense. Spend less money than you make or you’ll become a slave to debt which leads to misery, failure and regret. Don’t go on a zip line through the jungle if you have a bladder problem because there aren’t any restrooms on those wobbly platforms. If you regularly eat an entire pecan pie with ice cream, you won’t look good naked. See how it works? Our brains have the remarkable ability to make good or bad decisions and choices. My mature brain tells me to manage money, avoid zip lines, and not come within 10 miles of a pie.

2. Keep that pie image (and who wouldn’t?) and acknowledge that input should balance output. If you consume more food than you need to survive, you should use enough energy to burn off the unnecessary calories. Get and stay healthy because life has a way of instantly whisking you from the high school prom to your 20-year reunion. And then it’s just a few hours before you’re sneaking into the store for reading glasses and incontinence supplies. Don’t wait until you’re older and lack the physical ability to skip with your grandchildren or chase your handsome hunk around the house, at different times of course.

3. Love to be in love. As the years go by, there is a profound sweetness in waking up with someone who accepts your wrinkles, thinning hair and sagging body parts, and then says, “Good morning, gorgeous.” Love your lover every day, from a passing wink to a sensual massage serenaded by Luther Vandross. A steady, exclusive relationship can turn a slow dance on the patio into a romantic encounter worthy of an evening in Paris. (Paris is always an adequate option.)

4. Bad things happen. No one gets a free pass on calamity. During your life, you probably will experience flat tires, funerals, diarrhea, lost love, fights with family, flatulence during a wedding, at least one broken bone, and the world’s worst boss. So you get up again, adjust your armor and holler that you’re ready for the next challenge. Looking back at the assorted chaos in my life, I realize there were far more splendid times than bad. And the truly amazing adventures happened after I initially failed or took a risk.

5. Attitude is everything. Positive, grateful people enjoy the best of life. By midlife, the laugh lines around their eyes reveal countless smiles through the miles, and their journey is one to emulate. Crabby, cynical worrywarts suck the energy from everyone they meet. Avoid them.

‘Dear Abby’ Pauline Phillips died a few years ago at the age of 94. Her advice columns appeared in 1,000 newspapers around the world. She wrote in her autobiography that her demanding job was not work because “It’s only work if you’d rather be doing something else.” I agree with her, and so my advice is to choose wisely, get healthy, love intensely, combat calamity, and be happy. Finally, remember that life is short. Make it sassy.

Do Mothers-in-Law Deserve a Punch in the Face?

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(Featured on The Huffington Post Fifty on July 9, 2015)

I don’t want to incite trouble between the Mommy Bloggers and the Midlife Bloggers, although that would be grand fun, but I’m feeling a bit defensive about all the mother-in-law bashing. One of my favorite websites is Scary Mommy and the contributing writers are witty, provocative, and sassy. However, many of them dislike the mothers of their husbands. Well, (snort!), maybe these young gals aren’t clones of The Queen of Sheba, either.

Scary Mommy attracts more than a million readers and claims to be “a parenting community for imperfect parents.” The site includes several delightful and informative pages that engage young women, and the topics include pregnancy, step-parenting, children, health, and travel. As a young mother, I needed this resource but the Internet wasn’t even around when I was dealing with babies, sore boobs, and projectile vomiting. I had to learn the hard way that kids were noisy, messy, demanding snot-producers who steal your heart and sometimes stomp on it.

The Scary Mommy relationship page includes a listing titled “In Laws.” One article titled “15 Mother-in-Law Behaviors that Deserve a Punch in the Face” received more than 7,000 shares on Facebook. The page almost drips with spittle and hostility mingled with a few comical jokes. Another page titled “Confessional” invites anonymous comments that can be rated in three categories: like, hug, or me, too. Here is a recent example:

“I swear if my MIL died I would have to pretend to be devastated. That would solve 99 percent of my marriage problems! Please, oh, please let her die!” That remark earned 15 favorable marks. Obviously, if the writer’s mother-in-law is aware of the comment, she should retire to a secret, gated community and change her will.

I belong to several groups of midlife bloggers, but the group’s websites don’t contain any pages that criticize or publicly embarrass our daughters-in-law. We just don’t do it. Mostly, we’re grateful that our sons grew up, learned how to change their underwear, and traded their Legos for love.

After all the admonishments about how mothers-in-law should behave, it’s my duty to offer some tidbits in exchange. Here are my suggestions for how to be the daughter-in-law who doesn’t deserve to be punched in the face.

1. I am not a mother-in-law joke. I adore my son, and if you and my son are fortunate to have children who carry my genes you’ll know why mothers remain profoundly invested in their kids. Our Mother Bear instincts don’t shut off when they grow up and leave their toys, dirty socks, and moms behind.

2. I deserve respect. I’m sorry your mama didn’t teach you to respect your elders, but I’m the one who taught your husband how to use a toilet. He chose you, and I come along as a bonus prize. If I want to come over, open the damn door and offer me a glass of wine.

3. You children sense your mocking attitude. When you complain about me in front of your kids, they imagine that I really do have horns, eat live toads, and ride a broom. I got over those behaviors years ago.

4. My unsolicited advice could be helpful. I’ve been around the block a few times and know where to avoid the piles of dog poop. Learn from my mistakes.

5. Communicate before all hell breaks loose. A little irritant can get blown out of proportion, so let’s have a conversation with you, my son, and me. This meeting shouldn’t involve weapons, lawyers, or reality television.

6. Laugh with me. If you think I’m critical of your cooking, clothes, home, or pedigree, just laugh and remind me that you’re comfortable with your life and habits, and I don’t need to mention them again. Then open more wine. We have much to appreciate about each other.

I’m extremely grateful to have a positive, loving relationship with my daughter-in-law and son-in-law. They love my children, and they don’t mind including me in their family activities. One of these days, we’ll perform a three-generation show that includes a song for everyone as we channel our best Aretha Franklin, shake our booties, and sing:
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me! I got to have (just a little bit). A little respect (just a little bit.) Sing along now.