Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Stop Being Fragile Parents

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I’ve been embarrassing my children for more than 30 years. They now are happy young adults with loving spouses, adorable children and rewarding careers. Obviously, my strategy worked.

Throughout their childhood, I didn’t worry about harming their delicate self-esteem. Nor did I hover over their every action, schedule daily enrichment activities, make them eat kale, or ensure their socks matched. Instead, I created chaos and commotion just to motivate them to find peace and create order in their lives. I’m altruistic like that.

Children today are so pampered that some timid parents will become marooned in a horrifying, never-ending reality show if they don’t stop appeasing and indulging their tiny terrors. News flash: Your Kid Isn’t a Child Pharaoh. To toughen kids for real life, bewildered parents should halt most organized activities and throw in these handy tips to challenge their children’s self-confidence and encourage self-reliance.

1. Criticize their artwork. If your first-grader comes home with a hand-drawn picture, be sure to say that the tree looks like a spider and the sun should be more round. Then throw it away. Maybe she’ll try harder.

2. Show favoritism. Is the older child has an attractive project, be sure to tape it to the refrigerator for months and often mention the talent to the younger one. Give the older child extra dessert.

3. Exhibit lazy behavior. Stay in bed on Saturday morning and tell them to make their own damn pancakes. This is how children learn responsibility and cooking skills.

4. Take your own time-out. If the children are throwing a fit in the car, pull over to the side, turn off the engine, lean back, and close your eyes. Say, “Mommy is going away for a while.” Then chant in a foreign language for 10 minutes. They’ll be too traumatized to make noise.

5. Condemn their friends. Be sure to mock their friend’s silly habits. And when your teenager has a basement full of rowdy kids, walk in wearing a clown nose, belch loudly, and walk out. This instills a fear in your child that never goes away.

6. Cry when you meet your child’s first date. Sob into a towel, run into your room, and slam the door. This action will test their patience, strengthen their loyalty to each other, and promote tolerance.

7. Threaten them, if necessary. If your high school senior won’t write thank you notes for graduation presents, threaten to publish an announcement on social media that your child is too lazy and ungrateful to appreciate gifts now or in the future.

8. Bribery works. That hellhole of a bedroom won’t get clean on its own. Hide a $10 bill somewhere in the room and tell them to tidy and organize everything to find it. Substitute a $20 bill for particularly egregious cases that harbor toxic diseases. If they demand more money, tell them to move out and find an apartment.

Finally, remember that children can sense an easy target. If mommy and daddy are too weak and delicate to assume their strong but loving roles as parents, the kids will rule the house before the youngest is out of diapers and could stay in diapers for ten years. Parents can reverse this pending disaster by starting now to embarrass their children on a regular basis so the kids find the courage to grow up, move out, and prove themselves.

Go buy a clown nose. Thank me later.

 

Published on The Huffington Post Sept. 29, 2015

Falling in Love after 50

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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.

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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 want 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 and take our vitamins and then turn down the lights.

 

Published on The Huffington Post December 14, 2015

Going Solo on the Gratitude Cruise

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Feeling guilty because your Thanksgiving experience never resembles the Norman Rockwell painting of a happy family gathered around a lovely table as Grandma in her white apron proudly delivers a perfect turkey?

Does your feast often include a drunk uncle, at least one pouting teenager, grandpa blowing his nose on the fine linen, a power outage, gag-inducing gravy, cousins chasing each other with the electric carving knife, a devil-nephew cramming olive pits up his nose, and a quarrel between some adults who should be sitting at the children’s table? Maybe it’s time to put down the drumsticks and the shotguns and just relax. If you get to midnight on Thanksgiving without a single drama, count your blessings and multiply by ten.

We should go over the river, through the woods, and keep on going just to avoid all the glossy images, trite platitudes, and impossible expectations about this holiday. Forget Rockwell’s famous portrait because most grandmothers don’t wear white aprons after fixing a messy meal, and there’s a good chance 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 place mats and pilgrim-shaped gelatin molds.

After a few decades, seasoned women ease up on the stressful requirements and have no qualms about using prepared gravy mixes, boxed stuffing, and leftover Halloween napkins. As long as the turkey is done and the wine is open, we’re just fine. My mother’s generation washed Thanksgiving dishes until their hands turned numb while the menfolk watched TV, smoked, and farted. My daughter’s generation finds both men and women working together in the kitchen. I’m thankful that I’ve lived long enough to witness such profound progress.

Most of us have survived at least one holiday during a painful, pivotal time in our lives. For me, Thanksgiving provided a poignant perspective a few years ago when I was a middle-aged divorcee and it seemed that everyone in the entire world was part of a happy, loving, and thankful couple. I survived the holiday for two reasons: I never miss a good meal, and I was determined to show gratitude. The second reason was more challenging than the first. I tackled the dilemma by doing something completely spontaneous: That Thanksgiving I booked a reservation for a cruise the following March to Costa Rica, Panama, and Cozumel.

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The cruise was called, ironically, the Gratitude Cruise. I found the information while researching one of my favorite speakers, Dr. Sue Morter. I previously had attended her International Living Seminar as part of a business conference. She is a healer and a teacher, and she focuses on the connections between the mind, the body, and the spirit. I know this sounds way too new-age for my old-age sensibilities, but when you hit bottom you look for the light. Any light.

I went on the cruise by myself. During the week, the programs included music and workshops about inner peace, meditation, acceptance, resilience, and, most important, gratitude. For the first time in my life, I was truly alone and didn’t know anyone. After wallowing in the negative emotions associated with my divorce, the positive messages from the sessions were the antidote to the poison that consumed my thoughts. I discovered that I enjoyed myself as a travel companion.

I returned renewed, refreshed, and ready to live out loud with an attitude of gratitude. A few months after I booked the cruise, I met my future and last lover. Thank you, Universe. I’m grateful.

 

Published on The Huffington Post December 14, 2015

My Fish Won’t Hump Your Leg

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We arrived at our host’s lovely home and exchanged pleasantries as I offered my baked won-ton appetizers. Then the dog attacked. The pony-sized labradoodle bounded into the room and feverishly started to hump my leg with the passion of a sailor on shore leave.

“Why is it masturbating on my white pants?” I asked, trying to remain calm.

“He’s just so friendly,” my laughing hostess proclaimed.

She retrieved the dog and proceeded to nuzzle its face. That’s when I knew it would be a long evening. I walked briskly toward the wine bar, wary of sudden attacks from the horny hound. Once again, Cabernet would get me through the ordeal.

I belong to that rare and happy group of people who don’t have indoor pets. Every day my friends on social media post photos and videos of cats and dogs, and I quickly scroll past these visions because I know that the dog licked its genitals before it licked that sweet baby’s face. I’m particularly bothered by the sight of dogs sleeping with babies, pets in human beds, and cats in clothes. At the risk of being pelted with stale dog biscuits and bitten by animal rights activists, I politely request that pet lovers accept the fact that some of us prefer not to live with hairballs, poop behind the couch, and animal hair in our food.

I’m amused and slightly irritated when people prance about with carriers that hold their precious tiny dogs. Why do they expect me to gush over an animal in a purse? If that little ball of fur could talk, it would say, “Get me out of here so I can go sniff that dog’s butt!”

I grew up on a farm surrounded by fields and pens full of cattle, horses, pigs, a few cats and a dog. None of these animals lived inside our house. The dog provided security by barking at dangerous squirrels and by herding cattle. The cats worked daily as mousers in the barn. Not one of them wore a sweater vest or needed a therapist. We all knew our roles down on the farm, and life was grand.

Pet-less people never have dead mice delivered to their doorstep by a warrior cat or hear the blood-curdling scream of cats in heat. They don’t need to worry about getting a kennel when they travel, and they save money by not buying pet food or dealing with expensive veterinarian bills. Americans spend more than $56 billion annually on pets. We could fix some roads, supply new books to the schools, and build animal sanctuaries with that money.

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.

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I have the perfect pets: fish. My outside pond is full of goldfish and koi. They are beautiful, don’t demand anything, and don’t chew my furniture. Best of all, in the winter they hibernate in the rocks and don’t need anything. I love my fish.

All I ask is for tolerance and acceptance for those of us who don’t think your dog/cat is cute. We love photos of your kids and grandkids, but the puppy in the crib is too much. Unless the child has been raised and suckled by wolves in the forest, the baby doesn’t need to sleep with an animal.

I intend to enjoy my patio and watch my goldfish and koi swim around. You are welcome to visit – without any pets – sip a glass of wine, and offer a toast to my fish. I promise they won’t hump your leg.

 

(Published on The Huffington Post Aug. 28, 2015)

If Arts Patrons Acted Like Football Fans

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I listened to the growls, shouts and exasperated complaints coming from the menfolk watching an NFL football game, so I waited for a commercial break, strolled into the room, and quietly suggested we watch a musical instead. They grabbed the remote control and glared at me like angry toddlers.”We’re having fun!” they exclaimed. I backed out of the room, properly chastised. They already knew it would be inappropriate and useless to ask me to return with beer and sandwiches. I retreated to my office and closed the door as they hollered about the referee’s questionable ancestry. Their boisterous, emotional investment in the game inspired me to create the following blog post.

What if patrons of musical and artistic productions expressed the same emotions as sports fans?

I can imagine the philharmonic orchestra warming up before the classical performance of Rossini’s William Tell Overture. The concertmaster enters, expecting polite applause, but the audience whistles, cheers, and throws popcorn. The oboist plays the tuning note and the orchestra solemnly responds with their respective instruments. A guy in the back of the concert hall blows an air horn.

“How do you like dem horns?” he hollers, much to the delight of the other spectators.

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The conductor enters with great fanfare and bows to the audience. People in the front row wave huge foam batons and chant, “Go, Maestro, Go!” He mounts the podium and raises his arms.

“Touchdown!” someone yells. The crowd guffaws and snorts. Several call for the ushers to throw them a beer.

The music begins and the orchestra performs with controlled passion and splendid talent. Suddenly the first chair violinist accidentally fumbles her bow.

“You missed a note!” someone yells. “It’s right there on the page. How could you miss it?”

Someone stands and yells at the orchestra, “We want an instant replay!”

“Send in the second chair violinist!”

Mayhem ensues until the flamboyant trumpets quiet the crowd with a commanding call to action as the orchestra charges triumphantly into the overture’s Finale.

“Hey, that’s the theme to The Lone Ranger!” someone shouts. “Will he be here for half time?”

“No, that’s the music they played during the orgy scene in the movie A Clockwork Orange. Dude, that was weird!”

Another patron stands and hollers, “Where are the Indiana University pep band and cheerleaders? They perform to this song at every basketball game.”

The Finale ends with a flourish of crashing timpani drums, resounding cymbals, and blaring trumpets. Once again, the guy in the back stands and blasts his air horn. The crowd jumps up and yells “Bravo!” Some excited fans rush to the stage and dump a champagne ice bucket on the conductor’s head as their rowdy mates explode with a cacophony of laughter, belches and farts. The orchestra members run to the dressing rooms.

The media wait patiently for the conductor to emerge for the news conference.

“What do you think about that Prelude?” a concerned reporter asks. “Do you think the five solo cellos gave it all they could?”

The conductor blots his forehead with a silk handkerchief and slowly returns it to the pocket of his long-tailed tuxedo.

“We practiced all week for that section,” he says. “Did you hear how superbly the timpani rolls resembled distant thunder? We couldn’t have done it without the teamwork and dedication of every player performing in unison.”

Another reporter shoves a microphone in front of the conductor. “It is true that you’re about to be replaced by a younger conductor?”

“Goodness gracious, no.” he replies. “The board just renewed my contract, increased my salary $100, and bought me a used Buick. I’m committed to this orchestra!”

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Outside the concert hall, a gregarious group of fans meanders to their favorite bar, the “Arts-R-Us Cantina,” to plan their next artistic adventure. Multiple screens are showing various performances from around the world: musicals, dramatic readings, stage plays, several concerts, modern dance ensembles, and a new production from a college Shakespeare Theatre. The fans hoot and cheer after every solo performance and dramatic reading.

“I hear the ballet is opening next weekend,” one exclaims. “They have lots of pretty women dancing around in skimpy dresses.”

“Yes!” another one exclaims. “I read that the show is called Swan Lake. Maybe I’ll bring the huntin’ dogs and my shotgun in case there are some ducks to shoot.”

Conversation turns to their fantasy arts leagues.

“My pianist won Most Valuable Player and is scheduled to perform in the Andy Williams Show at the prestigious Moon River Theater in Branson, Missouri!”

“Wow, you’re lucky! My trombone player fell off a hay truck and broke his arm. He’s out for the season.”

“My understudy actor was moved into the lead position for the next performance!”

“I acquired a painter who finished more projects than any other artist in the entire division!”

“My opera singer secured the lead in The Barber of Seville!”

The entire group stands, raises their fists, and sings, “Figaro. Figaro!”

After the post-concert analysis, these dedicated Fans of the Arts acknowledge the late time on their Salvador Dali melting clocks, wipe the crumbs from their “I Love Bassoons” sweatshirts, don their franchised ballet mufflers, zip their commemorative Mark Twain Lecture Series jackets, and pick up their official Pirates of Penzance pennants.

“See you at the next concerto!” one says.

“Don’t forget the hotdogs and caviar canapés.”

The last one out the door turns off the lights. Wistfully thinking of his hero Charles Dickens, he pronounces his closing soliloquy to an empty room.

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

He tosses his empty beer can into the garbage, adjusts his private parts, belches, and closes the door. The scene fades to black.

Published on The Huffington Post December 28, 2015

Speaking of Laughter

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“It’s such a busy time of year. I’ve had company for weeks! I finally took my aunt to the airport this morning, but now I’m feeling guilty. Her plane doesn’t leave until next week.”

Rim shot.

I often begin humorous speeches with that joke because it always provokes laughter from the audience. Why? First, people can identify with being busy and dealing with house guests. Second, there is an unexpected twist at the end. You can substitute aunt with mother-in-law, depending upon the strength of your marriage and assuming she’s not in the audience.

No one says, “Oh, you shouldn’t have said that!” The audience knows I’m joking, but they laugh anyway because it’s a funny scenario. After they stop laughing, I immediately add a second image.

“My sweet aunt was sick last year, so I visited her. She was in bed, and as we talked I munched on peanuts in a bowl on her nightstand. I noticed that I had eaten all the peanuts so I offered to buy more. She said, ‘Oh, Elaine, I can’t eat peanuts because they hurt my teeth. I just suck off the chocolate and put them back in the bowl.”

That story also guarantees a laugh. Why? Because the audience can see my aunt sick in bed and feels tender support for my visit. Then the silly image of her sucking off the chocolate hits their funny bone. For added emphasis, I use a southern drawl for my aunt’s voice. It’s all in great fun and causes the group to relax and prepare for my speech. Without a humorous introduction, it would take more time to connect with the listeners.

A well-timed, original joke can be the beginning of a wonderful relationship between a speaker and an audience, and between friends. Caveat: don’t read jokes, and don’t tell them if you’re not comfortable with public speaking. Rehearse the stories out loud so you get the timing and phrasing correct. A well-delivered punch line can be a golden experience as the audience reacts and instantly loves you. Conversely, a dull, lifeless and insecure presentation is painful for everyone. Make sure the joke is not on you.

Next spring I’m packing my finger puppets, best jokes and sensible shoes to travel from Boise, Idaho to Dayton, Ohio and then to Las Vegas, Nevada to speak at two energizing conferences. I’ll incorporate humor throughout my talks, and create stories and anecdotes to enhance the message. Regrettably, now I need to find new opening jokes.

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The prestigious Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop is March 31-April 2 in Dayton, Ohio at the University of Dayton where an astute professor once told his student Erma Bombeck, “You can write!” My presentation titled “Write Funny, NOW!” will include quotes from Bombeck’s material and incorporate writing prompts. I’ll also lead a workshop explaining how to turn a blog into a book. Registration for the bi-annual conference sold out in less than six hours.

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The BAM-Bloggers at Midlife Conference will be April 15-16, 2016 at the Marriott Las Vegas Resort & Spa and is the first blogging conference focusing on midlife women bloggers. The midlife blogging community, facilitated by Midlife Boulevard, asked for a place where they could get together and learn from each other and from experts. I’ll be speaking on a panel with two other humor writers. Registration remains open for this conference.

Back in Boise, I’ll present a humor writing workshop for the Idaho Writers Guild on Saturday, June 11. At all the presentations, I’ll have finger puppets, new jokes and at least one new book. Apparently, people want and need to be happy. I’ll do my part to facilitate a few chuckles and provoke boisterous laughter because there are too many grouchy people getting all the attention.

For public speaking engagements, I include my three top tips for adding humor to your life:

1. Switch off the news. Balance your intake with funny shows, movies, books and silly friends.

2. Avoid crabby people. Hang out with those who like to laugh.

3. Practice laughter. Read daily positive, humorous affirmations and focus on all the good stories.

Laughter is good for the body and soul. And, a sense of humor provides a great way to make and keep friends. As the American Author and Humorist Mark Twain said, “Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritation and resentments slip away and a sunny spirit takes their place.”

Go forth, cause laughter and enjoy the show.

 

Published on The Huffington Post December 28, 2015