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Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Change Your Boring Empty Nest into a Creative Writing Studio

July 29, 2017 By Elaine Ambrose

elaine 2013 (117)

Instead of moaning and groaning about empty nests, expanding waistlines, and lost libidos, women over age fifty should write something. Now is the time to release the passionate muse that has languished for years beneath responsibilities for raising children, establishing careers, maintaining homes, retaining happy marriages, and campaigning for political causes and charities. Middle-aged women have stories to tell, so they should convert the empty nest into a writing den, substitute the chocolate with a salad (just kidding), and receive self-confidence from writing so they feel sexy enough to find that lost libido. This is a win-win situation.

Here are some suggestions to inspire the writing process.

1. Write what you know. I couldn’t write well about a vegetarian, Socialist, nuclear physicist who sleeps with his/her dog and listens to rap music. Can’t do it. But, I thoroughly enjoyed writing Menopause Sucks because I’ve been there and it does! And, I laughed every time I wrote a sentence such as, “Let me tell you why you sneeze, fart, and wet your pants at the same time.” And, my fingers literally flew over the keyboard as I wrote about hairy toes, night sweats, and recommended sex toys. Yes, write what you know!

 

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My recent book, Midlife Happy Hour – Our Reward for Surviving Careers, Kids, and Chaos, explains how to stay relevant after age fifty, and how to balance midlife without falling over. I wrote it from my home office, often in pajamas at 3:00 am. The room originally was a bedroom, but I painted the walls red, added a desk and chair, full bookcases, gratuitous plaques, fun artwork, my typewriter collection, and immense amounts of clutter. There are many advantages to being older, wiser, and within steps of a bathroom and refrigerator.

clean office

 

As always, there is a caveat. If you’re writing historical fiction or a detailed novel, research the facts about a certain era and write a story that fits. You weren’t a member of the Clan of the Cave Bear and you didn’t run away with a peasant boy from the 17th century, but with enough investigation, you can always imagine the scenarios and write a compelling story. Just don’t name an ancient heroine Mandy.

2. Take advantage of, no… exploit, the serendipity of your life. Develop fascinating characters modeled after your belching piano teacher, or your uncle who refuses to discuss his war wounds but smashes beer cans against his forehead, or the passenger in the airplane seat next to you who laughs in her sleep, or your child who cries when the Disneyland Nightlight Parade stops. You are surrounded by juicy writing prompts. Keep a notebook handy to write quotes and facts to use later. Start with a private journal and progress to a public blog. That byline could become a lifeline to revitalizing stagnant energy.

3. Read your work out loud. You will discover sentences, paragraphs, and complete pages that no one will understand or ever read again. You’ll find that preposition lounging at the end of a sentence that screams: I’M A HORRIBLE WRITER! READ NO FURTHER! Also, make note to delete exclamation points and unnecessary capital letters.

4. Believe that all the words tumbling around in your brain MUST get out or you will explode! Yes, you hear voices, but it’s your characters demanding that you set them free. If you’re fiddling with non-fiction, then quick, spew forth those creative ideas on napkins, notebooks, old envelopes, typewriters (I still have some), and even a computer. Write. Write. Write. You’ve read plenty of crap that others have written, which is proof that your work will be OK. One more tip: limit your time online. The Internet will suck out your will to live, let alone write anything.

turn off internet and write

5. Continue to read and learn. Emulate your favorite authors. Janet Evanovich makes me howl with laughter and want to read more. On the other hand, E.L. James causes me to wish I were a vegetarian, Socialist, nuclear physicist who sleeps with my dog and listens to rap music. Her bestselling novel, Fifty Shades of Grey, is a hotbed of horrible writing featuring such provocative lines as, “Desire pools dark and deadly in my groin.” If I have anything pooling in my groin, I better run to the bathroom. Personally, I prefer two shades of grey during my romps in the hay: lights dim and lights off.

Writers should be honest enough to admit they need editors, smart enough to know their cousin shouldn’t design the book cover, and strong enough to read rejection letters and negative reviews without getting depressed. They can continue to hone their craft by attending writing workshops, joining literary groups, registering, for writing retreats, mingling with other authors, and finding a space to write. And, they should say out loud every day, “I am a writer.” Then they must go write.

 

Filed Under: blog Tagged With: #empty nest, #humor, #midlife, #writing retreats, Midlife Happy Hour, writers

Loving and Laughing after Age Fifty – and Sixty

July 19, 2017 By Elaine Ambrose

Nothing screams “pathetic loser” more than being a middle-aged divorcee alone at a festive party where beautiful couples are trading sloppy kisses and giggling like demented clowns. There’s not enough spiked punch in the world to soften the pain of pretending it doesn’t matter. Many of us graze along the buffet table hoping the crunch of nachos will be louder than the boisterous laughter of young lovers and then we migrate to the bar because all we get to take home is a headache.

We never intended to be divorced at midlife, but it happened.

According to a recent study by Bowling Green State University in Ohio, the divorce rate among people age 46 to 64 has grown more than 50 percent. Almost one-third of baby boomers are single either by divorce, separation or they have never been married. Some are attracted to the single lifestyle while others would trade their original Beatles record collection for some hot passion.

I faced a Christmas alone while in my fifties.

My children were grown with families of their own, and I cheerfully participated in their activities. But I came home every night to an empty house. I unpacked the decorations and forced myself to set up a tree, but the ornaments reminded me of a past life, one that was broken beyond repair. So I turned to retail therapy and bought new ornaments, but it wasn’t the same. Deck the halls with strange boughs of holly was a different song, I didn’t know the verses and my piano was out of tune.

I survived until the wonderful day of December 26 when the world returned to normal. Hairdressers, mailmen and waiters didn’t need to perk up for an extra tip, deranged drivers went back to cutting in line and children didn’t care if the silly elf on the shelf was watching because they had 11 free months to misbehave. And, divorced people could return to work and focus on important things, such as how to lose the extra ten pounds gained while gobbling an entire pecan pie alone on Christmas Eve.

Soon after my winter of discontent, some friends invited me to dinner

They just happened to have a recently divorced guest who was visiting from another state. I never turn down a free meal, so I agreed to join them. I met him, also in his fifties and ruggedly handsome, and instantly felt a connection. At dinner, our knees touched under the table during the salad course. We laughed at silly jokes during the entrée, and by dessert, he was feeding me bites of cheesecake. I felt like a goofy teenager.

We spent four days together, often to the chagrin of his abandoned hosts, and then I took him to the airport. It was a scene out of Casablanca, complete with winter fog and drama. He held me close and whispered, “We’ll always have Boise.” Then he tipped his hat, sauntered through security and hollered, “Here’s looking at you, Kid.”

I drove home, wondering if he remembered my real name wasn’t Kid. But, it didn’t matter. I was smitten and it felt good. Of all the towns, in all the world, he walked into mine. He called when he landed at the next airport and was about to change planes. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship,” he said. “Say it again,” I said, “For old times’ sake.” And, yes, at that moment we were Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman but without the messy Nazi and farewell forever scenes.

We enjoyed a long-distance relationship over the next few months. Actually, it’s better to talk on the telephone because that’s when you really get to know someone without the physical distractions. After two months of fabulous phone fantasy, he made plans to return to Idaho. We embraced in the airport like long-lost lovers. I expected a crew from central casting to yell “Action” as we clung together in frantic passion. I think I heard music from a mysterious gospel choir but I never saw them again.

At midlife, adults know what they want and don’t want.

There is no time for games because we never know when we’ll get struck by a bus or wander onto a bus and never return. We accept our partner’s wrinkles and well-earned laugh lines, and we’re positively giddy that we can enjoy romance again. My more-than-significant-other got a job in Idaho, moved in with me and we never looked back. He loved my children and I loved his. One benefit of middle-aged marriage is that there aren’t any in-law issues to handle. Our surviving parents just wanted us to be happy. If only they could remember our names!

We married on an island in Greece with a bevy of Greeks who couldn’t speak English. We sang, ate and danced beside the sea. The following Christmas we hung mistletoe over the doorway and in front of children and grandchildren we kissed, much longer than necessary. We celebrated our current love and future journey, ever mindful that we could have missed this splendid opportunity for happiness. Occasionally I’ll bring home a cheesecake to refresh the memories of our first dinner together. We share a few bites, floss, take our vitamins, and turn down the lights.

Filed Under: blog

The Joy of Cooking (Twice a Month)

July 18, 2017 By Elaine Ambrose

Because I like to eat, I like to cook. But I’m older, wiser, and my children are grown, so I only touch a pan once or twice a week. And during the summer months when Studley grills outside, I can go an entire month without opening a single cookbook. That’s just another advantage of tumbling down the far side of fifty without a spatula.

When my children were small and I worked full-time, I would rush home and slap together a concoction that contained at least two of the four food groups. Chipped beef on toast was my gourmet specialty. To add fruit and a vegetable, I’d smear strawberry jam on celery. Now my kids bemoan the fact that after they grew up and moved away in search of healthy food, I quit my job and enrolled in cooking classes. If I want my grown children to come for a visit, I call and say I’m making curried prime rib or authentic chicken parmesan. They’re at the door before I turn off the phone.


Years ago I grabbed an apron and joined a cooking tour of Italy through an organization called A Cook’s Tour. The trip featured hands-on lessons with professional Italian chefs. Best of all, we ate our sumptuous meals outside on long tables under flowering trees in the orchard. Of course, the meals included abundant selections of wines. That’s where I fell in love with Amarone – not an Italian lover but a vibrant red wine that captured my breath and my heart.

At the cooking school, I learned to make ravioli and cappelletti (little hats) with chefs Antonia Montrucoli and Giulianna at the the Villa Serego Alighieri near Verona. The property was surrounded by vineyards, olive trees, and fruit orchards and has been in the family of the great Italian poet Dante Alighieri (Dante’s Inferno) since the year 1353. I truly considered losing my passport and staying there as an apprentice chef and troubadour.

There are two secrets to preparing magnificent Italian food: fresh local ingredients and time. Start with extra-virgin, first cold-pressed olive oil from the friendly neighbor. Then add juicy tomatoes, fresh basil, garlic, onions, and green and red peppers from the garden. Keep a selection of fine cheeses in the cooler and bowls of melons and lemons on the counter. Be sure to open some wine while you assemble the ingredients. I love cooking with wine, and sometimes I add it to the sauce.

As the red sauce (NOT spaghetti sauce) simmers and the flavors blend, you must wait for the magic to happen. This could take hours because you can’t rush an exquisite Italian sauce. This gives you time to sip wine, bake a loaf of crusty bread, and arrange olives and assorted cheeses on a platter. Then enjoy a festive meal with friends and celebrate buen appetito!

I cooked chicken parmesan this week, so I’m off duty for awhile. Studley and I eat salads during the week and add some protein. It’s just the two of us, so we keep it easy. It’s truly the joy of cooking made simple. And if I ever return to Italy, I’ll find the Villa Serego Allighieri and raise a glass of Amarone to pay my respects to Dante. His Inferno is part of his most famous work, Divine Comedy. The title sounds like the recipe for my life.

Filed Under: blog

This Blog Named as One of 10 Baby Boomer Bloggers You Will Love

July 7, 2017 By Elaine Ambrose

If HomeCare.com says the blog is one of the best, I’ll listen. Thanks!

https://www.1800homecare.com/blog/baby-boomer-bloggers/

 

Filed Under: blog

Go, Dogs Go, to a Resort Hotel!

July 6, 2017 By Elaine Ambrose

My children loved the book Go, Dog. Go! by P.D. Eastman with its colorful story about big dogs and little dogs, red, green, and blue dogs, dogs going up and dogs going fast. I was reminded of the popular children’s book this week as my husband and I enjoyed a rare opportunity to stay at a luxury resort that had gone to the dogs.

In the lobby, we couldn’t avoid yapping dogs on leashes, whiny dogs in fancy leather cases, shivering toy dogs that resembled skinned rats, dogs trying to smell and pick up a partner for a one-afternoon stand, and even a massive Great Dane that made me want to holler, “Go, Dog. Go – Outside!”

I saw dogs in fancy carriages of a better quality than I used for my own babies. Pampered pooches were tucked into designer bags in the elevators and toted around the grounds by their servant owners as if they were exalted possessions to be adored. Sorry, but I don’t want to smile at, pet, or coo over a pet, even if it has a sparkly bow, matching scarf, and brings its own therapist.

Doggie carriage with two royal pooches.
I grumbled to the receptionist that I didn’t pay a month’s mortgage for a room with a bed that may have been used by an indulged hairball that was treated better than most humans and didn’t even know how to tip. She smiled. I immediately assumed she slept with a menagerie of motley pets.

I don’t want to offend dog and cat lovers, but some of us belong to happy group of people who don’t have indoor pets for a variety of reasons. I’m highly allergic to cats, and I’m uncomfortable around dogs, due to my daily paper route at age 11 when several dogs chased, snarled, and tried to bite me every day as I peddled my bike as fast as I could. Also, I prefer to travel light without needing a pooper scooper.

Airports have become public zoos, catering to people carrying an assortment of creatures, birds, and dubious animals of unknown origin. Traveling is stressful enough without enduring a dog peeking under my stall in the airport restroom. I’d rather not sit in the waiting area battling with the smells and sounds of unhappy animals locked into portable cages. Yesterday in the airport, we watched a woman in the waiting area chew several bites of a hamburger, spit it into her hand, and feed the mess to her large dog. In what civilized society is this normal?

Caveat: I respect those who need indoor animals for comfort and companionship. And, I’m a firm supporter of service dogs and police canine units. These animals earn their keep and provide an important duty.

Ten Luxury Hotels that Pamper Pets

I may be a lone voice barking up the wrong tree in the wilderness because more people are taking their pets into luxury hotels. An article in Condé Nash Traveler published a frisky article titled: “ Pet-Friendly Hotels: The Ten Best Luxury Stays in the U.S.” This list will be saved for reference of where not to stay, ever.

One such hotel is the Park Hyatt Chicago, Chicago, IL. Dogs 50 pounds and under have free reign throughout the rooms, lobby, restaurant, garden, and library of the hotel. Gag me with a caviar dog biscuit. It’s only a matter of time before someone brings a therapy pony into the resort elevator.

In The St. Regis Aspen Resort, Aspen, CO, dogs receive a daily turn-down surprise and can snooze in comfort on their very own St. Regis dog beds for an additional $25 per day. I wish I got a turn-down surprise.

Not to be limited to man’s best friend, the Cypress Inn, Carmel-by-the-Sea, CA, co-owned by actress and animal-rights champion Doris Day, is pet friendly, welcoming all domesticated creatures from iguanas to pot-bellied pigs ($30 fee). Their promotional literature claims: “Hang with your four-legged bestie on the patio, in the lounge or in front of the library’s crackling fireplace, and make new friends during the daily “yappy hour” from 4-6 p.m.” Nothing makes me feel finer than to sleep in a bed that recently was used for the night of the iguana.

The next time I make a reservation for a room at a luxury resort or any hotel, I’ll ask for a non-pet room. In my opinion, that’s just as logical as asking for a non-smoking room. The thought of crawling into a bed with a mattress that could be crawling with residue and fleas from a dog or offensive odor of a pot-bellied pig makes me want to stay home in my pet-free house and watch travel documentaries.


For more of my pet-free rants, here’s the article that was featured on HuffPo Live from New York. It’s titled “My Fish Won’t Hump Your Leg.”

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: blog Tagged With: #humor, #pets, #travel, dogs in hotels, luxury hotels, pet-friendly

The Joys of Traveling with Kids (Over Age 30)

July 5, 2017 By Elaine Ambrose


If 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 10 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.

This article was featured on several sites, including The Huffington Post and Vagabonding with Kids.

Filed Under: blog

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