blog
What’s More Fun?
Manuscripts and Mulligans: A Woman’s Writing and Playing Retreat
The next writing retreat offered by bestselling author Elaine Ambrose is August 11-13 in Meridian, Idaho. Preview the details here: Manuscripts and Mulligans
The Domestic Humorist Challenge
Last November, social media exploded into a regurgitated cesspool of vicious vitriol oozing like a toxic stew of vomit. It was worse than my first date in college. I attempted to balance the negativity by posting at least one humorous or positive meme every day, supplementing with witty blog posts. After seven months and more than 200 daily memes, I’m done. Readers are on their own.
I hope the memes have caused a few smiles on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and Pinterest. My Instagram account was hacked and deleted, but I still have the other accounts. Before I totter off to the sweet solitude of writing, I’d like to offer The Domestic Humorist Challenge, as opposed to the popular but irritating and dangerous Domestic Terrorist Wanabe collection of reckless writers on social media.
In my opinion, some of the despicable comments border on domestic terrorism and anarchy. This post came through my Facebook page last week:
From a woman named LauralLynn writing about President Trump: “I have stayed away from the news, in hopes they will just throw his ass to the wolves…literally, throw his ass into a cage of wild wolves and let them feast.” She added a smiling face for accent.
In my opinion, such a comment only fuels the flames of contempt and chaos. The remark did nothing to promote a positive attitude of comradery and community that is needed to strengthen the foundation of a civilized society. With every snarling comment, we’re getting closer to living in the final sequel of the Mad Max movies.
(Interesting trivia: To prove that riveting dialogue wasn’t a key component in Mad Max 2 – The Road Warrior, Max, played by actor Mel Gibson, only has 16 lines of dialogue, and his first line wasn’t spoken until 11 minutes into the film.)
The Domestic Humorist Challenge. To neutralize the eruption of domestic terrorists on social media, I’m offering the Domestic Humorist Challenge. It’s more fun, and no one gets shot. The challenge comes without multi-level marketing pitches, selfie portraits, or obligations to forward a message or suffer from infected boils on your butt.
Here are the suggested rules:
- Review the messages you’ve written and liked during the past few months, and note the balance between complaints and praise.
- For the next week, don’t post, like, or forward any negative comments on your public social media accounts. This may require opening a private snark account with you as the only recipient.
- Write and post positive or humorous remarks that add value to readers and contribute to constructive action. Sneak in some gratitude. Just try it, ye of little faith.
- Block or unfriend those who continue to vomit vicious words and memes on Facebook and Twitter. Did a nasty meme or screaming stranger ever change your opinion about anything?
- At the end of the week, evaluate your mood. The goal of this challenge is for you to feel better about what you’ve written and for more people to contribute something positive or funny. If you relapse and have a shaking desire to post several hostile messages about anything (including politicians, kale salads, or feral children), go back to Step 1.
Some serious facts: The US Patriot Act defines domestic terrorism as the result of a US citizen attempting to do something that is dangerous to human life in our country. The government has identified at least 15 domestic terrorist organizations and that doesn’t include individuals. A website regularly records incidents of domestic terrorist attacks, going back to the assassination of President Lincoln in 1865 and updated this week with the attempted murders of Republican lawmakers in Alexandria, Virginia.
With that much hostility, it’s no wonder we’re all crabby and slightly paranoid. We’re living in a Greek Tragedy that only Shakespeare could appreciate. It’s time to fight back (in a non-threatening way) and become a Domestic Humorist. Who wants to play?
Finally, here are a few of my favorite memes from the past 200 days:
The Dawning of the Age of Hilarious
I used to strut in my tailored suit with my leather briefcase into a posh coffee shop and order a $6 cup of hot liquid with a complicated name. I would smile confidently at the baristas, being careful not to rudely gasp at the multiple nose rings, disheveled man-buns and/or tattoos of marauding skeletons wallpapering the arms. “Watch and learn, Grasshopper,” I imagined whispering to the young androgynous person taking my money. “Someday, you, too, can buy some over-priced flavored water.”
My arrogant attitude was short-lived when my corporate job was eliminated and I was exiled, unwanted and forlorn like yesterday’s scuffed saddle shoes and toothless poodle skirts. Now I shuffle in my flannel pants and 10-year-old fuzzy slippers that multi-task as dust mops into my kitchen and pour a cup of budget coffee into a weathered cup with the words, “This Could be Wine.” My briefcase languishes in the corner, stuffed with nasal inhalers, reading glasses, a knee support wrap, alligator-skin moisturizers and discount coupons.
My goals once focused on orchestrating a successful corporate event with thousands of guests. Now I just hope to make it through the day without forgetting my address or putting my shirt on backwards. The insolent independence and corporate coiffure disappeared, and now I use old business cards to pick my teeth, and my messy pony tail resembles the hairstyles of the baristas at the coffee shop. Maybe I can have their job someday. They seem so happy.
Now I’m semi-retired, and my brain is weary. Years ago, it could instantly compute the outline for a pending business speech, the piano lesson recitals for my daughter, the football schedule for my son, the routine maintenance on the home furnace, and what outfit to wear to a charity gala with my husband. Now it seems content to putter along in second gear and only snaps to attention if I set my clothes on fire when I back up to a lighted burner on the stove. At least I still have those essential reflexes.
Being nimble is difficult because my growing stomach continues to block the sun. I can no longer use the excuse of having a baby because my youngest is 30. To flatten my stomach, I try crunches, planks and leg lifts, but after five minutes it’s so discouraging because nothing changes. I wake every morning filled with fear that my tummy has mysteriously doubled overnight and am afraid to peek until I detect no new noticeable abdominal protrusion. If it appears safe to roll out of bed without breaking through the floor boards, I gingerly stand up, pleased of that physical success.
There are advantages to being retired in an empty nest. I consider it a major accomplishment to be showered and dressed before noon, and it’s okay if my socks don’t match. It’s true that living past age 50 is our reward for not dying young.
I was a child when the bestselling song was “Age of Aquarius” by the 5th Dimension. The lyrics promised peace and harmony that was dawning at any minute. We’re still waiting. Now in the last third of life, I know my journey has been splendid as I’ve transformed through the ages from gregarious, to hilarious, to precarious, and now nefarious as my body resists all forms of vigorous activity. Perhaps it’s the natural order of things. I’ll sit with my coffee in the morning, read the newspaper and let the sun shine in (sing along) as I find peace with my age.
Humor in E-Flat Alto
Mr. Webster, the Wendell, Idaho Elementary School band instructor, lowered his baton and glared at me. I held my E-flat alto saxophone like a barrier between us and immediately regretted blaring a series of offensive noises from my instrument while he was struggling to teach us a John Philip Sousa march.
“You’re not funny, Elaine,” the exasperated teacher said to me in front of the other students.
I knew not to say anything in return, a fact acquired from far too many trips to the Principal’s Office to atone for my disruptive behavior in class. But I thought to myself, “Well, yes I am.”
One of the reasons I didn’t pursue a career in education is because I didn’t want to teach students who behaved as I did. I’m still apologizing to former teachers and school administrators, and I’m a bit nervous that a few of my granddaughters seem to have inherited my spunky spirit. Fortunately, I chose to major in journalism and started to write stories, tall tales, jokes, and irreverent anecdotes. I’ve perfected that talent over the past fifty years.
I thought of Mr. Webster June 10 when I received an award at the annual conference of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists in Manchester, New Hampshire. The second-place honor was for my humorous essays on The Huffington Post. It’s been fun to write more than 150 articles for the HuffPo, and some of them have gone viral. I celebrated on stage and enjoyed talking with Maureen Dowd, Pulitzer Prize winning opinion writer for The New York Times.
“Wish you were here to see this, Mr. Webster,” I thought, faking an impromptu performance on an air saxophone. Maturity continues to elude me.
Proving that women over age 50 are desperate to laugh, the humor award follows another notable writing award. My latest book, Midlife Happy Hour, recently won First Place in the Independent Press Award for Midlife and was chosen “Distinguished Favorite” for Humor. I’m beyond midlife unless I live past 120, but I’m still writing and telling stories, even though sometimes my shirt is on backwards, I forget how to spell chaos, and I wear dark glasses and a trench coat in the store to buy bulk quantities of stool softener.
Joy seems to be balanced by sorrow, and the awards came during a time of emotional pain because my younger brother George died from cancer two weeks ago. He was funny and creative, and almost as obnoxious in school as I was. I intend to live every day with a sense of passion to help make up for the time he didn’t get. Now that my parents and brother are gone, there is no one left to call and say, “Look! I’m not a loser any more!”
The winning essays on The Huffington Post included my satire about my possessed friends turning into hysterical animals after the recent presidential election and the bittersweet reality of taking away my ailing mother’s car keys. They won for “Category G: Humor – Online, Blog and Multimedia Columns Over 50,000 Monthly Unique Visitors.”
The NSNC conference brought together friends I had met at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio, including Molly Stevens, Lee Gaitan, Gina Barreca, Jim Hands, and Leighann Lord. Now I have new best friends including Norine Dworkin-McDaniel and Jessica Leigh Lebos. I encourage women to attend writing conferences not only to improve their talents but to meet others who are traveling on similar paths. We may only see each other once a year, but we’re as close as an email or social media post.
My friends and family continue to provide excellent material for my books and blogs, and I hope they inspire me for another decade. When I begin to get tired, I’ll play some John Philip Sousa marches and strike up one more song for the band, one more tall tale for the blog, and one more anecdote for the book. I’m not done yet. Maybe somewhere an old music teacher named Mr. Webster is sitting in a retirement home reading my blogs. I hope he smiles.
