Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Don’t Name the Shooter

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shooter

Eric Harris. Dylan Klebold, Adam Lanza. James Holmes. They’re famous. Google their names and instantly retrieve pages of references, links, and related articles. Their victims don’t have the same prominence. They’re dead and gone.

In my opinion, it’s time for the media and law enforcement officials to agree not to name the alleged or convicted shooters involved in mass killings. Deny them the notoriety they crave and maybe prevent future copycat killers. I suggest that any mass killer be identified as Asshole Murderer.

According to University of Alabama criminologist Adam Lankford, fame is revered as an end unto itself. “Some mass shooters succumb to terrible delusions of grandeur and seek fame and glory through killing,” he was quoted in an article in The Los Angeles Times.

He noted that Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, the perpetrators of the April 1999 shootings at Columbine High School, both illustrate and feed such delusions. They both sought fame and gained infamy by their actions, and their example has been cited as inspiration by school shooters since, in Germany, Argentina, Finland and Canada.

Adam Lanza is famous for his horrific crime of murdering 20 children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. Can anyone beyond the town name even one of the victims?

During his trial, the media continued to show the distorted face of James Holmes. He was found guilty of killing 12 people and injuring 58 others in the Century 16 movie theater in Aurora, Colorado. Why do we need to see his face or hear his name? Lock him away and focus on the names and lives of those who were murdered.

Right now, we don’t know much about the young man who entered a classroom today at Umpqua Community College in Roseburg, Oregon, and systematically murdered at least 13 students and injured several others. Let’s keep it that way. Initial reports say that he posted a warning on social media. Only a sick, evil person would premeditate and publicize such a horrendous act. He is not worthy of having an identity. He is nothing.

I’ll leave it to the mental health professionals and other officials to assess and create programs to identify and treat mentally ill people. And, I refuse to engage in the no-win gun control debate. Thousands of shootings occur in gun-free zones.  Chicago, Illinois, for example, has tough gun-control laws yet there have been 2,326 shooting victims in Chicago so far this year. Murderers don’t obey the law.

For now, don’t read or repeat the names of the murderers. Remove their wicked memory from humanity. Instead, send condolences and prayers to the victims and families of today’s senseless tragedy.

Help Stop Wimpy Parent Syndrome

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adam elaine halloween scan

 

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 to those afflicted with Wimpy Parent Syndrome: 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.

Help stop Wimpy Parent Syndrome. Go buy a clown nose. You can thank me later.

 

(Featured on The Huffington  Post Comedy page Sept. 29, 2015)

Elaine’s Idaho Potato Soup

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organic spuds

My cousin Ron Ambrose gave me some organic potatoes that he grew on land in southern Idaho that had never been farmed. They taste delicious, and I’m on the waiting list for more next fall. I grew up on a potato farm and worked on the harvesters in the fall. I love the tubers baked, mashed, boiled, fried, in casseroles, and in soups. My Idaho potato soup recipe that has been published in several cookbooks. Add corn bread, a salad, and apple crisp for a festive fall meal. Ignore the carbs. Be happy.

potato soup mug

It’s almost time for sweaters and jeans, a cozy fire in the fireplace, and a large pot of homemade potato soup. Here’s my favorite recipe. It serves a large family or two teenagers.

 

6-8 Idaho Russet potatoes, cubed, (peeling is optional)

(I can’t guarantee quality if other, lesser spuds are used from other states.)

1 pound spicy, bulk Italian sausage

1 pound regular, bulk Italian sausage

One onion, diced

6 stalks of celery, diced

2 Tablespoons mustard seed

4+ Cups Chicken Broth

2 Cups of Cream or Half-and-Half

Salt, Pepper

Optional: 2 cans of creamed soup, any kind

 

Cover spuds with chicken stock (add water, if necessary to cover spuds) and boil in a large soup pot with mustard seeds for 10-15 minutes. Do not drain. (The mustard seeds are for my mother who always believed the parable of having the faith of a mustard seed.)

In separate large skillet, brown sausage. Sauté onion and celery in sausage drippings or olive oil.

Combine all ingredients into the soup pot. Add salt and pepper to taste. My hubby adds red pepper flakes, but he’s not from Idaho. (For thicker soup, add 2 cans of creamed soup, any kind.)

Heat but don’t boil. Yummy. This soup is delicious to reheat for several days but doesn’t freeze well. If frozen, the spuds get mushy so pretend it’s cream of potato soup.

My favorite memory with this soup: My wee 2-year-old granddaughter and my 80-year-old mother competed for the last helping.

 

Midlife Creates the Right Time to Write

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Instead of moaning and groaning about empty nests, expanding waistlines, and lost libidos, midlife women 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, and receive self-confidence from writing so they feel sexy enough to find that lost libido. This is a win-win situation.

typewriters

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!

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.

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.

 

(Featured on The Huffington Post 50 page.)

When Buoyant Boobs become Tittie Tubes

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(Featured on The Huffington Post Comedy page Sept. 16, 2015)

 

Gravity is the phenomenal force that keeps the moon in orbit and eliminates the chance of us floating off into space. A less attractive fact is that gravity has relocated my once-perky breasts down near my knees. It’s only a matter of time before I’m pushing them in a cart.

Gravity also has other devious features. When I step on a scale, the scale reads how much gravity is acting on my body. Apparently, I attract a great amount. It’s also the reason I frequently trip on a tiny hair and fall down, usually in a public place. The force comes into play every time I attempt to balance on one foot in yoga class and my tree pose topples to the ground. Obviously, gravity is not my friend.

I didn’t pay attention to the sagging boobs issue until I noticed in photographs that my youthful hourglass shape had settled comfortably into a rotund grandfather clock. Instead of retaining my splendid, 20-something physique, I was regressing to the toddler stage with thin hair, pudgy belly, clumsy walk, and the need for a nap. This realization made me crave a bottle; one that wasn’t full of milk.

A scholarly research of medical facts taught me that breasts naturally sag because the ligaments break down as the collagen and elastin lose the will to get up in the morning. I found a more nasty explanation that age causes dense glandular tissue is be replaced by fat that is more likely to droop. Ultimately, two of my best assets had become fat-filled tittie tubes.

In defiance, I purchased industrial-strength bras with pulley-system straps that could ratchet the migrating mammary glands off my belt. However, this caused my ta-tas to resemble military missiles ready to launch and clothes to drape like a cheap holiday cloth over a sturdy buffet table. Due to my grotesque, matronly profile, I could set a book and a full wineglass on my uplifted chest. So I did.

Further research explained that physical exercise won’t redeem the wayward jugs. Push-ups couldn’t reduce the droop because breasts are made of fat not muscle, so I decided NOT to attempt 100 push-ups every morning. Other causes included smoking, which I’ve never done, and sun bathing, which I’ve never done in the nude, in compliance with obscenity laws. High-fat diets can contribute to sagging boobs, but then what’s left of life to enjoy? One cannot live by wine alone! Would this bosom bounce back to where it belonged if I didn’t butter my corn or drown my warm berry pie with ice cream? I think not!

A friend who specializes in homeopathic treatments brought me a list of the top ten top home remedies for firming sagging breasts.

“Try these suggestions,” she murmured gently as organic bean sprouts appeared from her naturally-curly hair and a mist of lavender puffed from her youthful pores like glitter in a unicorn’s breath.

I dropped my nachos and cocked my salon-treated mess of a haircut. “Let me get this off my chest,” I said. “My rack has fallen and can’t get up. Your potions and lotions won’t help.”

“Your negative energy is blocking your healing chakra,” she said, her voice matching the perfect pitch of a dove’s coo. “Meditate on lifting your soul so the spirit realm can help revitalize whatever brings you down.” She turned to go and seemed to vanish in a cloud of non-allergenic fairy dust.

I opened a Cabernet and practiced positive thoughts as I sipped and read her list. One technique involved massaging olive oil gently over the breasts for 15 minutes to increase blood flow and stimulate cell repair. My hubby Studley dutifully volunteered to administer this remedy as often as necessary. He wasn’t so excited about the next suggestion to apply a paste of pureed cucumber and egg yolk because he preferred his salad on a plate. I determined the list was a bust, so I unhooked the constrictions and flung the bindings to the far corner.

“Let them free!” I shouted from the depths of my bosom.

Then I ran naked to the hot tub, mimicking Kathy Bates in the Jacuzzi scene from the movie About Schmidt. Incidentally, that scene was voted by a men’s magazine as the “Most Ball Clenching Movie Moment of All Time.” Not even Jack Nicholson could keep a straight face. As the warm water caused my girls to float upward, I shook my wrinkled fist and proudly declared, “I am not a victim of gravity or criticism. I am a proud woman with a beautiful body, and you can kiss my attitude.” I smiled and felt buoyant.

 

Tears from Italy on Sept.11, 2001

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9-11 newspapers Italy

(Featured on The Huffington Post 50, Sept. 11, 2015)

On a clear afternoon on September 11, 2001, the internet café in Florence, Italy bustled with tourists, students, and animated baristas shuffling plates of pastries and demitasse cups of steaming expresso. I paid for an hour of computer time to write and email a travel update to family and friends back in the States. Around 3:00 pm, I finished a long letter and pushed “Send.” Nothing happened. I groaned about a perceived computer error and continued to hit the “Send” button. Suddenly, all the screens in the café went dark. That’s when we knew the problem was serious. The time in New York was 9:00 am.

I rushed back to my hotel room, turned on CNN news, and watched in horror as the South Tower of the World Trade Center in New York City collapsed in a nightmare of smoke and debris. Then the second tower fell, and images flashed of the Pentagon on fire. I was almost 6,000 miles from home in Idaho, I couldn’t make a telephone call to my family, and all flights were cancelled. I gasped for breath.

Hungry for information, I hurried to the lobby and joined other Americans from our tour group. We huddled around television sets, alternately hugging, wiping tears, and praying. The hotel staff opened the bar and offered free food and drinks. Our group quickly expanded to include people from several nationalities, and near twilight a spontaneous chorus erupted with all of us signing “God Bless America” and the National Anthem. The Italians proved to be our new best friends.

We still didn’t know the extent of the attacks or if any more airplanes had been intentionally crashed. The telephone lines remained down for another day, but the Internet returned on September 12. The hotel offered free access, and we lined up for our five-minute turn on the antiquated computer. I sent a bulk email and quickly read touching emails from my children, both in their early 20s. The Atlantic Ocean became an insurmountable obstacle for an unknown time. I remembered standing for a photo between the Twin Towers and couldn’t imagine the enormous level of destruction and evilness.

twin towers elaine

I devoured every newspaper I could find and still have copies of Il Mattino, The Wall Street Journal Europe, USA Today Italia, The Herald International Tribune, and other publications from that time. Most of the Europeans we met were supportive of Americans and mad about the terrorists. As more details emerged about the evil murderers, the moods of the Americans in our group changed from sorrow, disbelief, and fear, to anger and patriotism. The breathtaking beauty and splendor of Tuscany was momentarily clouded by our emotional pain.

A few days later, we learned we couldn’t fly home until September 22, so we continued on our journey. For a stranded tour group, Italy was the place to be. The food tasted better, the wine flowed freely, and we became best friends. None of us personally knew any of the victims, but we shared a strong American heritage. Going through the airport security in Venice became a stressful ordeal. We were thoroughly searched and patted, everything was removed and repacked in our luggage, and we stood in lines for hours. Finally we boarded the flight to New York City.

Landing at La Guardia Airport was a surreal experience. The passengers all clapped when the plane landed, but then quietly filed out of the plane. The airport was almost deserted, even though it was a Friday afternoon in New York. We boarded the airplane for Seattle and there were only a dozen passengers on the entire 747 airplane. We could see smoke and haze over the city, and we prayed until the plane had been in the air for twenty minutes.

I had several rows of seats all to myself, so I stretched out and tried to sleep. When awake, the polite flight attendants brought all the food and drinks I wanted. I made eye contact with them, and could tell which ones had been crying. We landed in Seattle, and I felt like kissing the ground. A few hours more, and I was back in Idaho.

twin tower new

I’ve returned to New York several times since then, and two years ago I took a photo of the new tower under construction. The strength and beauty of the new design is a testament to the resilient spirit of the people who love this country. I continue my love of travel, my respect for the United States of America, and my distain for the godless cowards who slaughtered so many precious lives and destroyed valuable property 14 years ago. We will never forget.