Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

Let Grandma Sleep on the Floor

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b doll house 2

My wee grandbaby came for a play date, and after the obligatory tea party with assorted stuffed bears she turned to the doll house. I watched, amused, as she carefully positioned each piece of furniture and posed every character. Obviously, she decided it was time for bed.

The baby was tucked into the crib, the daughter napped on a bunk bed, and the dog was snoozing in the dog house, outside of course. Then she took the gray-haired doll and placed her on the floor instead of the bed.

“Why is Gramma on the floor?” I asked.

“So she won’t fall down and hurt her leg.”

Sometimes the innocent thoughts of toddlers are profound and gentle. I recently survived knee surgery, and my grandkids had seen me incapacitated with pain, hooked to an ice machine, and then hobbling around on crutches and a cane. I thought I was providing a good example by getting better and finally walking without assistance. But, she was still concerned that I might get hurt again. In her mind, if Gramma stayed on the floor, she couldn’t fall down.

I probably should obey that advice, but I have too much to do. However, I’ll consider being more careful, especially in the presence of little observers. They are learning that an injury can’t be cured every time with a Barbie Band-Aid and a kiss from Mommy. (Although those examples do have definite therapeutic and lasting value.)

As I get older, every second of every day, I’m reminded that this old gal ain’t what she used to be. I ache in new places, I don’t have as much energy as I once had, and body parts are moving south without my permission. Injuries take longer to heal, and sometimes I long for an afternoon nap. That phenomenon is new and a bit bewildering.

In a recent attempt to cheer up, I scheduled a hair appointment. My regular stylist was gone so I had a new hairdresser who looked as if she had just skipped in from recess. She told me she was excited to celebrate her 21st birthday by visiting her mother. I asked her if the mom would like a copy of my book Midlife Cabernet. She remarked that her mother wasn’t “that old” but maybe her grandmother would like it. I debated giving her a 20% tip, but of course I did and then shuffled out the door.

In my mind, I’m still 40. But then I realize my daughter is in her thirties, so one of us has the wrong age. I’ve appreciated the marvelous adventures on this glorious journey through the decades, and I look forward to many more. But now I’m tired and think I’ll go lie down. Maybe, just to be safe, I’ll do that on the floor.

A Bedtime Story about Handicaps

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mirabel booke kiss

Once upon a time, there was a magical little girl. She brightened the room when she tumbled in, boisterous and full of energy. Then without hesitation she proceeded to share fierce hugs and sloppy kisses with everyone regardless of who they were, what they looked like, and what titles and possessions they owned. All shared equally in her unconditional love.

Some said she was handicapped. A few didn’t return the affection. Others mentioned their worries about her future. But, most responded with joy because hugs were fun, and the world was in desperate need of genuine acceptance without prejudice. For only four year’s old, she had more power and direction than the leaders, the agitators, and the misguided media messengers.

One day the little girl heard people shouting in anger, and she curled up on the floor, covered her face, and cried. She couldn’t understand meanness and revenge. She didn’t know why there were images of hatred and intentional destruction. Her world was supposed to be safe and happy. The public rage broke her heart, and she wondered why so many people were handicapped so much that they couldn’t love.

So, she dried her tears and did what she did best: she found someone to hug and kiss. And, her actions became a strong and pure example of what all the mad people should be doing. The little girl she hugged then ran off to hug someone else. They, in turn, spread the positive action to others. Soon, the family, the community, and the entire region stopped their frustration, ended their hostility, and softened their bitterness to bask in the happiness of hugs and kisses.

That night the little girl cuddled in bed, not knowing or caring that she has changed so many people. But, she slept peacefully without regret or worry. And she woke the next morning to share her healing hugs all over again.

Not the end.

 

Don’t Snore on the First Date

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stop noise

Middle-age women often ask me for advice about dating after age 50. I tell them to note my three non-negotiable nuggets of knowledge before baring their souls and body parts: Do Keep a Positive Attitude, Don’t Settle, and Don’t Snore on the First Date.

Single women in their fifties face new and daunting dating dilemmas that they didn’t experience in their twenties and thirties. Back then, their breasts were closer to their shoulders than to their knees. Decades ago, they didn’t wet their pants every time they sneezed. When they were young and carefree, the skin on their necks didn’t resemble a dryer hose. And, in those fabulous but fleeting days of youth, they could party all night with plenty of energy remaining for an hour-long festive romp between the sheets.

After living for half a century, reality sets in like an irritating ingrown toenail that won’t go away. We’re faced with new insecurities when we receive amorous advances from a potential suitor. We know our boobs will never get back to elbow level without nipple clamps tied to our ears. Stifling a sneeze to prevent leakage in the lower regions only will result in a ferocious fart. And, we’ll never stay awake after 9:00 pm, especially if we swill a few glasses of wine. And, who wouldn’t want to do that?

Before we accept a date, shave our legs, and exchange yoga pants for a sassy outfit, we should mentally remember our three rules of engagement:

  1. Do Keep a Positive Attitude. Maybe your date is apprehensive, too, and regrets that his high school physique graduated long ago and left the state. His priority might be to have an intelligent conversation with a witty, seasoned woman who dazzles him with her self-confidence and natural charm. There is about a 10 percent chance that this fairy tale will come true, but don’t give up.
  2. Don’t Settle. I know a middle-aged woman so desperate for a relationship that she cavorted with a professional loser with no assets, no job potential, and without any socially redeeming value. He moved into her house, brought along his menagerie of dogs and snakes, and proceeded to deplete her refrigerator, bank account, and self-esteem. By the time she finally kicked out the dude, she was a ruined shell of a woman who sat alone in her backyard and talked to flies. Don’t become that woman.
  3. Don’t Snore on the First Date. We all know first impressions are important, so that’s why we check our teeth for broccoli, remove the toothpick, and change the wine-stained shirt before meeting a new date. As for the snoring, I’m not suggesting that you hop into bed an hour after meeting. Wait at least a day or two. The snoring can result on the first date after you’re so exhausted from a busy day that you fall asleep during dinner or in a movie and then make grotesque nasal sounds like a congested warthog with severe allergies. This unfortunate action can kill the romance before there is any chance of giggling down the hallway toward the play room. If you think you might snore, stay awake. You’ll thank me later.

Many middle-aged, unmarried women don’t need to take a chance on dating and are happy with their single life. That’s just fine. But for those who want to tiptoe back into the dating pool, feel free to jump in and make a big splash. After a few strokes, you might even feel confident enough to remove your life jacket.

 

 

The Couches of My Life

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1978 emily chest

My parents owned one good set of furniture that lasted 40 years. After the first 20 years, my father had the couches recovered with leather so they would last longer. I didn’t have that same attachment to any sofa, and I’ve lost count of the good, bad, and ugly selections that have entered and departed my living room.

As with most newlyweds, my husband and I didn’t have extra money. We found an inexpensive fuzzy, green striped couch with a matching love seat at a big warehouse and brought them home in a borrowed pickup truck. We moved those bulky pieces several times over15 years, and the fabric endured multiple assaults from busy, messy children. (That sleepy baby in the photo now is married and has kids and couches of her own.)

1995 family room

When my two children were 10 and 12, I decorated the room with colorful furniture. I loved my custom-ordered, teal-green leather couch, and sadly learned years later that no one liked it. We eventually gave it away to a young couple who covered it with a blanket. Now, I cringe when I see those boring white walls that practically beg for paint or wallpaper and a creative spattering of art.

1998 living room hickories

After my first child left for college, I went into my pristine, virginal white stage. Misguided by a young and eager interior decorator, I installed white wool carpet and christened the living room with elegant white furniture. No one would step into the room because it was too immaculate, and I finally sold the couch and table on consignment and gave away the chair. I lost the fabulous tapestry in a divorce.

living room

My current couch is ten years old, and I moved it four times before finding my forever home. I’ve mixed sturdy leather furniture and wooden lamps and iron mirrors with colorful patterns in my favorite colors of red and gold beneath a tapestry of Portofino, Italy. There is a sanctuary corner on the left with a hand-carved statue of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travel. I bought it in Bolzano, Italy when I was there during the tragic events of September 11, 2001 and couldn’t fly home. This room is safe for playing grandkids and elegant enough for adult soirees.

As I look at the couches of my life, I’m reminded of the significant events that occurred while I was busy setting up a home, working full-time, and raising children. Those scruffy early pieces were good enough for my babies. The teal monstrosity made me happy. The white mistakes were my reaction to divorced life and an attempt to make everything perfect again. And, my current leather couch symbolizes the comfort and stability of my present home. I’m grateful that I have a house with furniture, and I support charities that offer assistance to homeless families.

After moving 16 times during my adult life, I’m finally home. I encourage my friends and family to come inside, get cozy on the sofa, share a glass of wine, and give a toast to life. The furniture is replaceable, but the memories and good times last forever.

 

The Compulsive Type

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teapot typewriter

I have six old typewriters, and my Underwood No. 5 dates back to 1889, shortly before I was born. I was content with my collection until a friend shared a photograph on Facebook of a teapot shaped like an old typewriter. Without any self-control or deliberation, I ordered the wonderful piece even though it was expensive and had to be shipped from England. I have no rationale to explain this compulsive, selfish purchase. But, I don’t care.

The teapot arrived, safely packaged and authenticated with an official Customers Declaration and a Royal Mail stamp. It’s now sitting in a place of honor in my kitchen, and I want all my writer friends to come over for tea and scones.

old typewriters2

My old typewriters are in my office, along with my business logo for Mill Park Publishing. The logo was created using typewriters keys. I store my typewriters on a wine cabinet that also holds my books, making a focal point for my favorite things: wine, books, and typewriters. Just ignore the sign that says “Write Naked.” I can’t help myself.

My fascination with typewriters dates back to my early childhood. To supplement the family income, my mother worked at night typing reports for local businesses. I remember being lulled to sleep with the sounds of syncopated typing and the familiar ding at the end of a line. Her typewriter now is in my collection, along with my first typewriter that I took to college. We didn’t have word processors or laptop computers back then so we made sure our papers were correct because any error had to be manually erased.

I interned at a newspaper during my senior year in college and worked on a manual typewriter. I expected to write great feature stories or compelling investigative journalism. Instead, I was assigned to write obituaries. Through writing the stories of the dearly departed, I became fascinated with the lives of ordinary people. I often added amazing and exaggerated comments into the obits. No one ever complained.

Subsequent jobs included writing and typing. I received my first word processing computer in 1984 when I worked in corporate communications. I missed the sound of the type (even though now there is an application for that.) I also missed the intimate connection between one machine and me; my new computer was linked throughout the company and I was nervous to type anything frivolous or nonessential. Computers can rob the spontaneous fun out of working, but I’m addicted to their ability to format, cut and paste, spellcheck, and store. But they often crash, and my old typewriters only needed new ribbons.

midlife cabernet cover

My recent book, Midlife Cabernet, includes an artist’s rendition of one of my typewriters. Of course, there is a wine glass. That’s just one more obsession.

My morning ritual consists of taking coffee or tea into my office. Now I’ll pour a cup of tea from my authentic typewriter teapot from England, enter my office and nod to my vintage typewriter collection, and sit down at my desk to work on my laptop. For a compulsive type of person, that the perfect way to begin the day.

MPP Logo Black

 

 

My Five Truths and One Lie

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NaBloPoMo_November

I’m participating in NaBloPoMo, a writing exercise that involves writing a blog every day for the month of November. Yesterday a sassy group of midlife women bloggers wrote five facts and one lie about their lives and we had to guess which comment was the lie. Here are my comments and the revealed lie:

  1. I rode on a bull elephant in a jungle in Nepal and witnessed a tiger kill a water buffalo. True. Here I am on the back of a huge elephant as we departed the safari camp to wander through the jungle. The next shot is of the tiger stalking his prey. Then the dust, screams, shaking elephant, and commotion caused the camera to jerk around, but we captured a few shots. The long-time directors of the camp were amazed because they had never seen a live kill.

tiger kill nepal 2000

2. I floated down the Nile to visit the ancient Temple of Luxor. True. Here I am at the Luxor Temple pointing out a well-endowed Egyptian warrior chiseled in hard stone when the temple was manually erected thousands of years ago. The observation was for historical reference only.

elaine luixor temple

  1. I love beer and ‘brats after a day of fishing. False. I prefer wine, chocolate, and a day of boating.
  1. I sang in the American Cathedral in Paris. True. I sang with a concert choir from the University of Idaho and we toured Europe in 1971. The last performance was in the American Cathedral in Paris, and the sound was so acoustically perfect that we sobbed like babies. The trip changed my life.

elaine paris ui 71

  1. I rode my horse in the barrel race at the Gooding County Fair and Rodeo. True. There aren’t any photos, so you’ll need to trust me. It happened before the invention of cameras, almost. My short story about barrel racing appeared in an anthology titled The Dog with the Old Soul, published by Harlequin.
  1. I can write forward and backwards using two hands while singing in Latin. True. This photo was taken in a quaint café in Sienna, Italy. I am writing backwards with my left hand and forward with my right hand while singing in Latin. I get free drinks in bars with that exceptional talent.

elaine sing sienna crop

Those are five interesting facts and one lie about me. My life continues to be one grand adventure after another. Except for the fishing. I don’t fish.