Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

Knocked Down and Laid Up

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burn leg 2

For the past six weeks, I’ve followed a rigorous ritual every morning: I strap on a knee brace, grimace in pain, swear, and then hobble to the kitchen for coffee because it’s too early for booze.

I’m in pain because I have a torn meniscus over a cracked bone in my knee and open, festering burn wounds on both legs. The pathetic reality is that I did all this to myself, and the pain and indignity is souring my sweet disposition.

The injured knee was caused when I gallantly attempted a wicked exercise known as the Speed Skater in a high-impact circuit class with women half my age. I boldly leaped sideways into the air and for a brief moment in time resembled a graceful skater. Then gravity won as I fell to earth, twisted and sprained my knee, and was reduced to a bumbling blob of middle-aged misery. I thought that I could do the same intense workout as the youngsters. I was wrong. My defiant body said, “Not no, but hell no!”

Two weeks later, I stumbled on the weakened knee and tore the meniscus and somehow cracked the bone. More x-rays, more drugs, more visions of chattering white rabbits running through the house. I swore that all the characters from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland were cavorting around my bedroom. At least it wasn’t the cast from Silence of the Lambs.

But wait. It gets better. While resting my leg on ice to reduce the swelling, I froze the back of both legs. The skin turn black and peeled off, leaving gaping open wounds behind my knees. The frozen burns were so bad the orthopedic surgeon postponed the scheduled knee surgery until the wounds healed. So I returned to my recliner to nurse the torn meniscus, broken bone, and serious burns. My butt is now the same shape as the chair.

Note to self: Obey the instructions that say to place a towel over the ice and remove the ice every twenty minutes.

Second note to self: Blaming the burns on hallucinations caused by the delightful painkiller drugs does not excuse ignorance of basic first aid techniques.

burned leg

I tried to explain my predicament to my sweet granddaughter, but all she heard was the word “frozen.” She immediately burst into songs from the animated movie until I threatened to club Olaf the Snowman with my crutch. No, I don’t want to build a snowman. Just let it go. And take your silly reindeer and singing sisters with you.

I couldn’t see behind my knee so I asked Studley to apply ointment to the burns. I yelped in pain as he smeared me with salve and bandaged the wounds. All the while he was muttering about always wanting to rub lotion on my body and tie me to the bed. I think he was joking.

The surgeon finally cleared me for surgery so next week I’ll have the arthroscopic procedure. I’m anticipating more happy pills and sedation that will help me forget that holes are being drilled into my knee and a tiny knife is scraping around inside among the nerves, bones, tissues, and debris.

As long as the surgeon is in there, I wonder if he could do a little internal sculpting on my thigh. It’s close to my knee and needs a little pruning. These legs will never again attempt to master the Deadly Speed Skater of Doom, and my dreams of competing as an Olympic skater have been smashed by the reality that I never could skate, I’m too old, and I look absolutely dreadful in a Spandex body suit. Also, now I have a profound aversion to ice…unless it’s in a smooth Scotch.

 

Small Print Makes us See Red

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eyeglasses

Here is a clear plea, written in legible 12-point type, from middle-aged women to package designers. Increase the size of the print on your products because our eyesight is weaker, our patience is shorter, and our brand loyalty is volatile. Give us big type or skip the hype because we’re not buying it anymore.

There are more than 40 million middle-aged women in the United States, and we’re irritated. Our buying power is estimated at $3 trillion dollars. That’s trillion with a T. We don’t care if you promise better, shinier, smoother, and more luxurious hair, we just want to decipher between shampoo and rinse without wearing eyeglasses in the shower.

I appreciate the elegant appearance of the most expensive brands, but I’d buy a case of dormitory-sized jugs of shampoo at Costco if the bottles contained labels in 24-point type. My less frustrated friends say to color-code the bottles, place the shampoo and rinse on different shelves, or add a colored band on one item. I reject that idea because then we let them win. If I pay almost ten dollars for a container of product, I shouldn’t need to use any extra effort to identify it.

Visit any store and examine the labels. The wording on fingernail polish is a joke. We know how to use it, so why waste ink to print illegible pinpoint scribbles. The same goes for cosmetics. If I depended upon the words on the side of a makeup pencil, I wouldn’t know if I should line my brows, eyelids, lips, or color a picture. I often see women who applied makeup without reading instructions, and I can only assume they also couldn’t see close enough in the mirror to correct the mistakes.

As long as I’m ranting, here are a few more incomprehensible items:

Menus. The more expensive the restaurant, the more difficult the menu. Even with reading glasses and a spotlight, I can’t decipher the tiny script so I’m forced to order a generic salad. Then I add a bottle of Cabernet and soon forget my frustration.

Books.  Publishers attempt to save printing costs by reducing the size of the type so the book has fewer pages. However, I don’t want to use eyeglasses and a magnifying glass to read past the first paragraph. The biggest advantage of e-readers and tablets is that we can adjust the size of the font.

Contracts. I suspect professionals use tiny print so the reader gets frustrated and signs the document. It’s irritating when we’re advised to read the small print and we can’t even see the big title.

Theatre and concert tickets. In a dimly lit performance hall, I can’t see the row and seat numbers on the tickets so I need the assistance of a patient volunteer with a high-powered flashlight. This can be annoying to other patrons.

Recipes. So, the instructions really called for 1 teaspoon of garlic powder, not 1 cup. Teeny abbreviations in recipes can cause the cook to quit because of a ruined entrée and go to a fast-food restaurant where the items are displayed in huge, colored photographs. The food tastes like crap and has no nutritional value but at least you can see what you’re ordering.

According to statistics provided at a recent conference on marketing to women, we control two-thirds of the consumer wealth in the United States. That should get the attention of small-minded designers. Just provide labels we can read. Easy enough? As an interesting side note, the same statistics revealed that middle-aged woman account for 62% of vodka purchases. This is because we know what’s in the bottle and how to use it.

Caveat: Manufacturers can reduce the size of print on bathroom scales. With this example, what we can’t see won’t hurt us.

 

 

 

 

 

Why Funny is Always Fashionable

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old woman laughing

You know you’re at peace with yourself and the universe if you can enter a crowded social function, scan the room, and then join the group creating the most laughter. After a certain age, you don’t waste time with pseudo-intellectuals, plastic-faced divas, or over-styled drama queens; especially if they’re your relatives. Just trot your sensible, low-heeled shoes over to those having fun and then laugh until you snort.

Over the years, most women have endured numerous charity galas, corporate soirees, and elegant events that required dressing in more than a “This Wine is Making me Awesome” t-shirt, Yoga pants, and flip-flops (my favorite outfit.) In our twenties and thirties, we started preparing weeks in advance; trying on various outfits, scheduling hair and nail appointments, and crash dieting to lose a few pounds. By our forties, the routine became less rigorous unless the occasion was a dinner party with our boss or a romantic evening with a significant other. Usually, those events did not involve the same person.

By age 50, however, we said screw the rules. We gauged the importance of an event by the need to shave our legs or not. What to wear came down to what garment would hide last week’s lasagna binge. There was a time when identical outfits would have caused one of us to retreat to the coat closet and desperately paw for something to throw over our shoulders. Now if I’m attending a fancy function and see another woman wearing a replica of my dress, I congratulate her on her exquisite taste. If she’s over 50, she’ll laugh and say, “Got it on sale for only $150!” We high-five and sashay to the wine bar.

Another scene to avoid forever is the Sugar Daddy with Arm Candy couple. She’ll be giggling about play dates and nannies and he’ll be sweating and adjusting his pacemaker. If the hostess seats you next to such a twosome, feign a sudden onset of gastrointestinal flu and discreetly find another table, preferably with a middle-age couple who are holding hands and laughing. It doesn’t matter if they came together.

High fashion is not my top priority. I usually wear classic, quality clothes that have timeless appeal, such as my favorite 10-year-old St. John knit jackets. They cost a fortune new but I’ve worn them for years and they always look good. And, I’m a strong advocate of the simple black dress adorned with fun accessories. And there is no way these well-traveled feet will ever again feel the inside of a high-heeled shoe. That just won’t happen because high-heels are painful and I choose not to hurt. An elongated calf perched on a $300 strip of leather just doesn’t matter that much.

While laughing with new and old friends at a society event, it’s tempting to sneak a peek at the younger, more perfect women. They arrive with a flair of confidence, pause to pose on their six-inch heels, and jut their tiny, sequin-covered bodies into the spotlight. Yes, they are proud of their flat-stomachs, bobbing cleavages, and toned arms. Their hair, makeup, and nails are flawless, and heads turn in appreciation. I immediately start humming “The Girl from Ipanema.”

When she walks, she’s like a samba

That swings so cool and sways so gentle

That when she passes, each one she passes

Goes “A-a-a-h.”

I never was that woman, not even on my most magnificent occasion. But, I’m finally happy in my own skin, every wrinkled, spotted inch of it. I’d much rather be with the witty group, the ones who are telling humorous stories, and the ones who know that Ipanema Girl someday will be fifty. Then she, too, will know that funny is fashionable.