Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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The Joy of Traveling with Your Children (Over 30)

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toes-caboIf given the choice between traveling with small children and having a root canal, I’d be at the dentist office sucking laughing gas before noon. I adore kids but the logistics of getting them more than 100 miles is too much to endure unless they can be shipped like golf clubs or crated like pets.

After my baby filled his diapers with an adult-strength load during takeoff on a three-hour flight, I finally realized there was no reason to ever travel with youngsters. At least not in the same airplane.

Children under five years old don’t know what a vacation is, so tell them that the city park is just like Disneyland except without grinning pirates shooting guns, drinking booze, and chasing women on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Better yet, turn on the sprinklers in the backyard, sit down with a glass of wine, and watch the little darlings giggle and wiggle until they’re tired enough for a nap. Then invite your hubby to swill some whiskey and chase you around the yard. Yo ho ho! Everyone will be happy and you’ll save thousands of dollars. This is a win-win situation.

Traveling with little children requires parents to lie in order to survive the ordeal. Here are a few of my desperate but necessary distortions of the truth I coughed up while attempting to orchestrate the illusive perfect family vacation when my kids were under ten years old.

Driving in rush-hour traffic near Disneyland.

“Of course, it’s okay to pee into a potato chip can, Honey, because it’s against the law to get off the freeways in Los Angeles.”

Trapped at the airport during another flight delay.

“Please stop whining and you can have a new puppy/pony/playhouse if we get home before you’re in high school.”

After four hours of driving through a desolate desert.

“Stop hitting your brother/sister or I will park this car right now and we’ll live off the land and eat scorpions until you can learn to behave.”

After two hours of “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?”

“Sorry, kids. Mommy is going away for a while.” Then I would pull over, stop, and play dead. Worked every time.

I still mutter like a curmudgeon when I see young parents in airports juggling a small mountain of luggage that includes diapers, food, enormous strollers, DVD players, toys, and clothes that could stock a child care center. My ancestors walked for months to Idaho along the Oregon Trail, and they didn’t transport a jungle gym, play-n-pac, IPad, a breast pump, or a bottle sterilizer. Their kids and clothes were bathed once a week in the river, air-dried on a log, and stored in the wagon for the day’s journey. They survived just fine.

Imagine if any pioneer child had complained:

“Pa, the wagon’s too bumpy!”

“Hush, Child, and go trap a rabbit, skin it, and help your Ma make dinner. We’re walking ten miles tomorrow.”

The first time I saw the movie The Sound of Music I yelled “Fraud!” at the end as the family climbed over the Alps singing in perfect harmony in clean clothes. When my kids were little, we couldn’t walk from the house to the car without someone falling headfirst into a mud puddle or instigating a belching contest. And forget about taking a hike together. Any incline more than two inches would cause howls of dismay with repeated pleas to be carried. And that’s when they were teenagers! But, in deference to the movie, if evil Nazis were chasing us, we would manage to escape together, with or without matching lederhosen.

One splendid advantage of getting older is that family trips are easier and less hectic. My kids are in their thirties and have their own children to handle, so I just need to pack yoga pants, t-shirts, and a wine opener. We recently traveled with 11 family members on a week-long vacation. I was overjoyed to play with the grandkids and sing songs and tell stories. Then came Happy Hour and their parents could take over. As they walked away with the boisterous brood, I overheard one of my adult children say, “Stop hitting your sister or we’ll go live in the desert and eat scorpions until you learn to behave.” My work here is done.

Give Life a Middle-Age Laugh, not a Middle Finger

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elaine laugh wine blog_1Because women over age 50 want yet another test, I’m offering the “Midlife Laughter Challenge” for those who still believe that life needs a middle-aged chuckle instead of a middle finger. The challenge is to laugh at least once a day for two weeks. It’s mainly because angst is so overrated, and if we’re all going to hell in a hand basket, make sure mine is stuffed with chocolate, wine, assorted good books, and refreshing wet wipes.

I created the challenge because I see too many crabby people. They’re everywhere. Gloomy, dejected, hopeless souls are moping about underneath their favorite miserable cloud of doom, and their sorry melancholy is interfering with my jovial mood. That’s why I keep a red clown nose in my car to pop on when I’m at a stop light so I can wave at the drivers next to me. They either snarl and flip off my effort or they smile in return. It’s a gamble I’m willing to take for the betterment of society.

Here are five simple suggestions to begin the “Midlife Laughter Challenge.”

1. Create a positive morning routine. If you must have an alarm clock, replace the screeching buzzer that is reminiscent of the shower scene from the movie Psycho with some energetic music. Try something between Barbra Streisand’s “Don’t Rain on my Parade” and Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary.” Then take a few minutes to mediate on why you’re lucky to have another day even though your back aches, your eyes are crusted shut, you can’t remember what month it is, and you’ve suddenly developed morning flatulence.

2. Dare yourself to smile. Find or take a photograph of you laughing and tape the photo on your bathroom mirror and next to the coffee pot. I have a photo of me laughing with a friend while sharing a bottle of Cabernet. (Substitute beer, donuts, and/or cheesecake, if necessary.) Concentrate to recall how a good belly laugh makes you feel. If it’s been over a decade since you laughed until you snorted, stop everything and go find something funny. Now.

3. Throughout the day, balance irritations with gratitude. Expect to wait in long lines of grouchy people, but realize that it must suck to be them while you are free to burst into a spontaneous version of “Bohemian Rhapsody” at any moment, complete with air guitar and head banging. Exuberant jolliness really annoys the caustic crowd, so enjoy your power over them.

4. Keep a supply of humorous books, movies, and favorite articles. Funny middle-aged women are writing delightful blogs on the Internet, so allocate twenty minutes to read some of them. My movie collection contains sophisticated classics such as Airplane and Blazing Saddles, and sometimes, late at night, I watch reruns of I Love Lucy. It’s a guilty pleasure that I don’t get from Pulp Fiction or Chainsaw Massacre.

5. End the day by writing a brief synopsis of happy thoughts in your journal. No laughter? Don’t go to bed until you find a joke or humorous anecdote that makes you laugh or at least smile. Best assignment ever!

After two weeks of laughing every day, you’ll have a better outlook on life. And people will enjoy being around you. Laughter is contagious so you want to infect entire populations as you can, and then extend the challenge every two weeks. Strive to avoid pompous jerks and stop reading online comments from Internet trolls who delight in spewing anonymous crap just to make others mad. Pity these wretched souls because they are in desperate need of a belly laugh before they shrivel up and die. Finally, choose to be happy because a merry heart truly is the best medicine.

Midlife Cabernet: I Never Called Him Daddy

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neal and elaineMy father died 25 years ago this week. If I could see him again, my first question would be, “Am I still grounded?”

He’d probably say, “Yes.”

We had a contentious relationship, mainly because I challenged authority and he was determined to break my strong spirit by imposing a limited variety of parenting techniques: grounding or spanking with a wooden board. After my last spanking at age 12, I turned to him and said, “Well, this method of punishment isn’t working for me.” So he grounded me. Forever.

Being banished to my room was a welcome diversion from the family drama. I would retrieve my Big Chief tablet and #2 pencils and write wretched poems in iambic tetrameter about being trapped in a dungeon or create sassy short stories about a runaway girl who learned how to fly. Looking back, my personal angst was rather pathetic and could have been avoided with a little extra charm and maturity on my part. Wisdom came too late, now I’m older than he was when he died and I can’t remember the sound of his voice.

It wasn’t until I had children that I learned the realities of parenthood were far from the cheerful and tidy fantasies of life as portrayed in the television show Father Knows Best. My childhood family life resembled the show All in the Family with my dad in the Archie Bunker role. My mother was the perfect Edith even though she secretly longed to be the elegant Norma Zimmer on The Lawrence Welk Show. My brothers started out as Wally and Theodore (Beaver) from Leave It to Beaver but radically changed into cartoon characters modeled after the Rocky and Bullwinkle show. I preferred to run away from all of them and join the cast of M*A*S*H. Now THAT would have been a fun family.

Time has softened my rebellious attitude, and I’m envious of daughters and fathers who are close. My cousins and friends laughed with their fathers, eagerly attended the annual father-daughter Christmas pageant during high school, and the dads cried at their weddings. My father didn’t attend my high school graduation or my wedding. As for the parties, I always played Santa because it was too awkward to go with my dad. I knew it was easier to make others laugh.

In his defense, my father was a brilliant businessman who used his intelligence, determination, and opportunities to build an interstate trucking company called Montana Express and a successful agri-business operation appropriately named Ambrose Farms. When he died, his estate owned 60 18-wheel trucks and 30,000 acres of land in southern Idaho in addition to thousands of cattle and hogs. The estate is all gone now (thanks to Bullwinkle), and one of my biggest regrets is that I didn’t learn more from him about how he did it. We were too entrenched in our stubborn independence to appreciate the talents we each possessed. I didn’t feel close to him until June 1989 when I delivered the eulogy at his funeral.

So, a quarter of a century after my father’s death, I want to say “Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I’m sorry I never called you Daddy.” Then, because I can’t help myself from having the last word, I would add, “I turned out better than you expected.”

To conclude, here’s a touching excerpt from the parents of Leave It to Beaver.

June Cleaver: “Ward, dear, do you think all parents have this much trouble?”
Ward Cleaver: “No, just parents with children.”

Insert laugh track.

Midlife Cabernet: Does this Medal make my Books look Big?

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elaine book medalSometime, for a breathless, brief moment in time, the stars are aligned, nothing aches, and life is beyond splendid. A recent reading and book signing event at Rediscovered Bookstore in Boise validated the fact that life gets better with age and I’m damn fortunate to be this old and this happy. And, I’m sober!

The evening started with a “business meeting” with my writing buddy Amanda Turner. As usual, I was late so I dashed into Fork Restaurant balancing my bloated bags of books. As usual, she was early and had ordered red wine, fried asparagus, and onion rings. (This is a true friend.) We gobbled our goodies, planned a writer’s retreat, and dashed to the bookstore. I didn’t have time to worry about my appearance or fret if my chubby cheeks would jiggle as I read.

After sixty years, I’m finally feeling comfortable in my skin; all of it.

I read from my new book Midlife Cabernet and proudly showed the book’s recent Silver Medal for Humor from the Independent Publisher Book Awards program. The attendees included writers, friends, and a few teachers and their students, and they listened politely and laughed and clapped at the appropriate places. After a few questions, I signed books and then the group dispersed to enjoy the downtown festivities. I sold all the books I brought, and my burden was noticeably lighter.

I drove back to Eagle and decided to celebrate the fun evening with a glass of wine at Crush Wine Bar. A group of lively women sat on the patio and offered me a piece of birthday cake. How could I refuse? But this wasn’t any ordinary cake; this masterpiece was a decadent concoction of chocolate, salted caramel, and butter cream frosting. It paired nicely with a bold Cabernet.

I asked to meet the cake chef and was introduced to Lori Renn, owner of My Wicked Whisk Gourmet Cakes and Cupcakes in Eagle. I gave my name and she squealed, “OMG, I’m reading your book!” So, I squealed back, “And I’m eating your cake!” Another friendship solidified through the power of books, dessert, and wine.

I wrote this blog on the patio while the birthday party women laughed in the background and perky music blared from the outdoor speakers. Then I waved farewell and drove home to hug Studley and tell him all about my delightful day. It seemed as if the universe arbitrarily dumped a bucket of bliss over me and I was floating downstream on good vibrations.

Everyone should be as happy, or at least less mad. Society needs an attitude adjustment right now. There is too much angst and anger in the world, especially on the Internet. I refuse to read rabid comments and packaged political pontifications from those on the far left or the far right. The vitriol solves nothing. I don’t know how we got to this level of animosity among total strangers, but I’ll do my best to add a few laughs when and where I can.

On a warm summer night in the conflicted State of Idaho, there was laughter and wine and birthday cake. On the patio, finishing my blog, I imagined blowing out the candles and wished the positive feeling could permeate the airwaves and soften the hearts and minds of all the jerks who spew their online hatred. And, if I could, I’d tell them to turn off the computer, find a peaceful patio, and eat cake.

Midlife Weddings and Goat Bladder Ballads

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greek wedding drummer

The wedding invitations are arriving, and I study each one using analytical, investigative skills that could qualify me for a reality show as an oracle. Future bliss or pending doom can be detected from the aura of the invitation. Here is some unsolicited but free advice from someone who has been around the punch bowl a few times.

1. Tiny script surrounded by gaudy illustrations of flowers, birds, and glittery ribbons means the couple is too young to get married and should opt instead for a Hello Kitty theme party. If I can’t read the words and the return address, I certainly can’t send a gift.

2. Don’t fill half the invitation by naming all the parents, step-parents, and significant others. We don’t care.

3. Don’t send cute but obnoxious invitations from your kids or pets or attorney. We can’t be fooled.

4. Don’t ask for money in lieu of gifts. I don’t need any more bills in the mail, and I’d probably send a check anyway but I want that to be MY idea.

5. After the second wedding, don’t send invitations to the sequel unless you’re providing a catered banquet and open bar. We’ll come for that.

6. Most midlife marriages are best announced after the ceremony and include an invitation to a joyful, raucous party that ends before midnight because we can’t dance until dawn anymore.

My husband and I met after we had raised children, established careers, and knew how to manage money. That means we had distinct advantages over most young couples. And, there were no in-law issues. Our one living parent has dementia and can’t remember our names, anyway.

greek wedding

Instead of attempting a traditional marriage, we eloped to the Greek island of Paros and stayed in a quaint resort near the Mediterranean Sea. Our hostess arranged an ancient wedding ceremony, complete with linen togas, laurel wreaths on our heads, and a priest who couldn’t speak English. Music was provided by a little one-eyed musician playing a goat bladder.

After the ceremony near a chapel overlooking the sea, we proceeded back to the resort. (Yes, I love the movie “Mama Mia” but we chose not to sing to each other on a narrow, windswept cliff.) Wine flowed and platters of homemade food passed among strangers who stopped to join the festivities. The resort owner gave us white almonds tied in mesh bags, saying in broken English that the gifts were usually given to encourage fertility, and we promised to keep trying. We ended the evening by dancing and laughing with people we’ll never see again.

Our wedding was perfect for us. The expenses for the trip were less than the cost of a traditional wedding, and we didn’t need any toasters or towels. Our grown children were sad they missed the event, but someday we’ll take them all back to Paros. I hope we can find the delightful musicians. Every marriage should be blessed with an authentic ballad played by a little one-eyed man with a goat bladder. That tradition has survived for centuries in Greece, and we know that, finally, our marriage will last, too.