Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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If We Could Turn Back Time, We Wouldn’t

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I read an online article that declared women over 45 shouldn’t wear bling jewelry or jeans with decorated pockets. I read these silly rules while wearing my brilliant, dangling earrings with my favorite fancy jeans. I can only conclude that middle-aged women have earned the right to wear whatever they choose, and advice columnists under 45 should remember that.

happy older women in car.jpg

After several decades of being told what to do, what to wear, what not to eat, and how to behave, I join a growing group of proud and loud women over 50 who gleefully proclaim: I can do what I want to do. (We can’t scream our independence because that would be perceived as being bitchy and obnoxious.) We acknowledge that lolling around in jammies isn’t appropriate all the time, but there are glorious days when we pull on the sweat pants and mismatched sweaters, curl up with good books, and revel in our ability to say “Bite me” to every young, skinny critic wobbling past on five-inch heels and toting exaggerated self-importance.

If a mysterious tornado suddenly swooped us to an alien land and some powerful wizard offered us the power to turn back time, we’d probably decline. Given the choice of being 30 and reliving the demands of young children, new careers, weak relationships, and financial problems, we’d take the chance to be our age and continue living in our sweats and enjoying a glass of good Cabernet. Really.

I do miss the energy of my youth, and there are countless times I wish I could rock my sweet babies one more time. But, now I get to spoil my grandkids. And, they love my bling.

 

The Domestic Humorist Challenge

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Theater Masks

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.

 

mad max mel gibson.jpg
Max with the Feral Child

(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:

  1. Review the messages you’ve written and liked during the past few months, and note the balance between complaints and praise.
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. 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?
  5. 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:

adam emily christmas overall meme

 

parsley sage meme

grow up meme

 

olga meme

ran into ex meme

 

bertha bra meme

 

 

food face meme

 

bertha flip bird meme

studley meme

frame meme

The Dawning of the Age of Hilarious

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elaine party mask

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.