Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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A Love Note to my Internet Trolls

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internet troll crop (2)

As a syndicated blogger, I’m accustomed to receiving unsolicited remarks about my posts on various social media websites. Regular readers know I write humor targeted to middle-aged women, and they anticipate a certain level of sassy irreverence. It’s a role I enjoy, mainly because I can write from home while wearing pajamas and sipping wine.

The last few days, however, brought new extremes of praise and punishment for my writing skills. The copious compliments were tempered with caustic criticism, almost enough to crush my delicate soul.

Four of my essays were published last week on the Huffington Post. My only serious piece was about my ailing mother and titled “If My Mother Died Today.” http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elaine-ambrose/caring-for-elderly-parents_b_5979904.html

The post received almost 1,000 favorable likes on Facebook and many middle-aged caregivers wrote to thank me for giving a voice to their feelings.

In the essay, I wrote about playing Tennessee Ernie Ford’s spiritual music for my mother when she was in critical condition in the hospital. I ended the piece with Ford’s familiar saying, “Bless your pea pickin’ heart.” The next day I received a touching email from Ford’s daughter-in-law. She loved the blog and offered to send me some of Ford’s spiritual music. I requested “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” one of my favorites. She responded that she was sending a 40-song collection. I am honored and humbled.

The next day, Huffington Post featured my humorous post titled “Why Small Print Makes us See Red.”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elaine-ambrose/small-print_b_5989416.html

The message was an exasperated, satirical plea for manufacturers to increase the size of print on products so middle-aged women wouldn’t need to wear eyeglasses in the shower to decipher the shampoo from the conditioner. The responses came immediately. One person offered to send me a free pair of “Thinoptics” – a pair of reader glasses in a cell phone case. I accepted. Another offered me a deal on Lasik eye surgery. I declined.

The essay received more than 2,600 likes on Facebook, 344 shares and 160 comments. I’ve only been blogging on HuffPo for a month, so the response was exciting. But I was unprepared for the vitriolic assaults. Here are some of the published comments:

“This was supposed to be humorous? Well, keep on trying.”

“”Another female problem to kvetch about.”

“We already cater too much to Boomers.”

“This was humor?”

Additional comments deteriorated into attacks about misplaced priorities, gay rights, and trolls living in basements. I answered a few but then stopped because I didn’t want to get down to their level. I peeked back the next day and found more than 100 positive comments, so I felt better. Still, I wondered what possessed a man (yes, most of the mean comments were from men) to make nasty comments on a humor column targeted to middle-aged women. With all due respect, bless your pea pickin’ hearts but take your sorry asses and go troll somewhere else.

 

 

How Blended Families Can Survive the Holidays (without Calling the Cops)

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crazy santa

The holiday season is only weeks away! If you’re in a blended family, that fact could cause your eyes to twitch and your beleaguered intestines to threaten explosive diarrhea because you barely got over the stress from last year’s drama. But with coordinated logistics and bribes, combined families can learn how to survive without a food fight, bloodletting, or lawsuits. Just keep the wine and the children breathing.

Even with careful preparation, sometimes the best plans get burned along with the roast. It’s tempting to go over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s house and then keep on going just to avoid all the trite platitudes and impossible expectations about the holidays. Forget Rockwell’s famous portrait because most grandmothers don’t wear white aprons after fixing a messy meal, and there’s a good chance that this year they’ll introduce their new boyfriends instead of picture-perfect platters of browned Butterballs. And Martha Stewart is not coming over, so forget the hand-painted placemats and pilgrim-shaped gelatin molds.

Blended families add chaos to the holidays, and designing a stress-free schedule requires maximum organizational skills, saintly tolerance, and nimble flexibility so plan now for the possible scenarios. You could be standing in the buffet line next to your ex-spouse, your stepson may demand to bring his mother and her new boyfriend to your home for brunch, or your son’s stepdaughters might want to stay at their father’s place because you don’t have cable television. You may accidentally call your son’s new girlfriend by his ex-wife’s name as you see someone’s boisterous toddler climbing onto the fireplace mantel.

It’s all fun and games until Grandma throws down her cane and demands to know who all the people are coming and going.

The best situations involve divorced parents who can cooperate and negotiate holiday schedules as they decide custody issues involving their children. We all know mean-spirited, immature parents who refuse to compromise, and that only hurts their children. These parents should receive nothing but coal in their stockings, and they should start saving money for their children’s future therapy sessions.

My husband and I each have two adult children from previous marriages. My daughter married a man who already had a daughter, and then they had two more daughters. My son married a woman with two girls, and they had another baby. My ex-husband lives in the area and is included in family birthdays and other events. Somehow it all works, and no one has threatened anyone with a weapon, so far.

Our family tree could be in danger of falling over because the branches are laden with sporadic offshoots, new in-laws, old stepparents, and assorted children who share multiple homes. But because of extra care, these roots are strong, and our tree can hold the chaotic collection of yours, mine, ours, various ex-spouses, and a few confused grandparents.

During the holiday season, we welcome everyone into the family, and for a splendid moment in time we’re all singing Fa La La before someone falls into the Christmas tree, a kid rips off the head of a cousin’s new Barbie, or the dog barfs in the kitchen.

There are 14 Christmas stockings hanging over the mantel, and we’ll need to build another one if any more members join the family. I’m uncomfortable with the label “step-grandchild” so I’ll just call all of them my grandkids. They don’t mind, and some of those lucky kids have four sets of doting grandparents. Score!

Here are four final suggestions for surviving the holidays with a blended family:

  • Have a sense of humor because it’s better to laugh at the commotion instead of breaking something.
  • Take plenty of photographs to identify everyone because Grandma is still baffled.
  • Assign responsibilities and anticipate problems when Uncle Bud gets drunk, the baby swallows a turkey leg, or Grandpa starts snoring during dinner.
  • Make time to appreciate the creative collection of characters in your unique family, believing that each one adds a definite spice. In the spirit of the holidays, choose to make it work.

Finally, reduce the stressful requirements and use prepared gravy mixes, boxed stuffing, and leftover Halloween napkins. If people object, they can host next year.

If My Mother Died Today

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elaine leona 1951

I love my mother. But if she passed away today I would be thankful. That doesn’t make me a heartless, horrible daughter; I only want her to be free from earthly constraints and permanent disability.

She has lived in a nursing home for more than five years. After suffering from serious car wrecks, numerous falls that broke her back, hip, and knee, and injured her head, she is confined to a wheelchair. Dementia has robbed her of cognitive ability, and even though we wrote family names on all the photographs that line the walls of her tiny room, she can’t remember who we are. When I visit, she mutters incoherently but cries when I leave.

Mom would want to be remembered for her energetic, positive accomplishments, not for how she is existing now. Decades ago, she helped my father create and run several successful businesses in southern Idaho. She owned Farmhouse Restaurant near Wendell and the eatery beside the freeway 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.”

She also served on the local school board, organized the community blood drive, and volunteered at the polling place during political elections. She adored her grandchildren and made the world’s best chocolate chip cookies. She was widowed 25 years ago at age 61 and never considered dating so lived alone for twenty years. We moved her to an assisted living facility and then into a nursing home as her mind and body continued to deteriorate. This resilient child of the Great Depression who reluctantly spent any money on herself has now depleted her assets paying for the increasing costs of her high level of care.

I recently met with the medical staff at the nursing home. They wanted to increase Mom’s medications for diabetes and high blood pressure and I rejected the diagnosis. What’s the purpose? It’s not as if she will take some magic pills and suddenly stand up, dance, and laugh again. They have the professional obligation to prescribe medication, but I have the bloodline, empathy, and legal authority to say no more.

For the past 25 years, I have been her designated Power of Attorney. I carry the DNR File that contains the “Do Not Resuscitate” instructions. Last year she was hospitalized again, and the doctor told me she had 72 hours to live, so she was given morphine but not any water or food. I met with kind Hospice workers who advised me to make funeral arrangements, so I did. I sat by her bed and played her favorite Tennessee Ernie Ford spiritual music to accompany her on the transition. The next morning, she opened her eyes and said, “Hi!” Since then, she has endured three more ambulance trips and hospital stays.

People will judge and criticize me for wanting her to pass away. But I’m the one who has changed her adult diapers, wiped her tears, decorated her rooms, held her hand, organized medical bills, and made excuses for why her first-born son hasn’t visited in 15 years. In the nursing home, I see other adult children assisting their ailing parents. We pass in the hallways and nod to each other as colleagues in a role we didn’t choose but lovingly accept. Critics shouldn’t condemn us until they have walked down similar halls for several years.

Death without dignity diminishes the memories and light of an abundant life. When the sweet chariot finally swings low enough to carry her home, I’ll play Tennessee Ernie Ford singing about peace in the valley. Bless her peapickin’ heart.

Copied from my essay published on the Huffington Post.

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.