Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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The Seven Deadly Sins, Birthday Edition

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muppets birthday

My birthday comes with the advent of sweater-weather; when the foliage on the hillsides bursts into vibrant colors of golden-yellow, scarlet-red, and fire-orange. Overhead, the geese point their way south for warmer temperatures as the sun disappears earlier into the harvest horizon. I say with reflection and gratitude, “I’m so damn lucky to live through another summer!”

At my age, I don’t ignore the changing seasons. I relish one more chance to taste snowflakes on my tongue, witness the tender buds transform into dazzling blossoms, feel the smooth rocks as I wade barefoot in the stream, and hear the rustle of autumn leaves scattered by a cool breeze. One more year, one more journey around the sun. I raise my age-spotted hands and clap in wild abandon at my splendid fortune.

Because I’ve enjoyed more than six decades of birthdays, I’m entitled to convey some words of wisdom for all the younger people who are eager to be my age. Here’s my birthday rendition of The Seven Deadly Sins. The original list of vices appeared in the Old Testament of the Holy Bible and was inspired thousands of years ago, a few decades before I was born.

  1. Lust.In your sixties, you no longer crave greener grass, a bigger home, or a sexier lover because you’ll have more lawn to maintain, more house to insure and clean, and a handsome hunk might request that you shave your legs. No, you’re totally content to have a comfortable chair in a cozy den beside a middle-aged companion who still lights your fire and says you’re hot.
  2. Gluttony.By now, we know if we eat the entire birthday cake, our butt will grow big enough to block the sun. Moderation is best. Buy freezer bags.
  3. Greed. When I had a significant stock portfolio, I monitored it every day to see how much money I was making and panicked when the market fell by more than 100 points. I didn’t like the feeling, so I sold my stock and built a cabin in the mountains. I traded Blue Chips for blue skies and parked my assets on the porch.
  4. Sloth.With one simple rule, my hard-working ancestors and parents instilled a desire that made me hungry to work: No work, no dinner. I love a lazy afternoon with a good book, but I know and appreciate the fruits of labor.
  5. Wrath.Anger causes wrinkles, and I have enough. I prefer to cultivate a growing crop of laugh lines. I only get mad on the golf course, and then I erupt with a foul tirade that would shock the most hardened longshoreman. And, that’s only on the first tee-box. My new plan to avoid getting mad is to stay in the bar and let everyone else golf.
  6. Envy.Sometimes I see a beautiful woman who is so tall and tan and young and lovely she reminds me of the goddess in the song “Girl from Ipanema.” After all these years, I know there’s not a chance in hell I’ll ever look like that. So, I wear yoga pants, t-shirts, sunglasses, and a hat and feign sophistication. This eliminates all the annoying autograph seekers and pesky paparazzi.
  7. Pride.This deadly sin creates politicians, bullies, and the Kardashian family. The moment I think my crap doesn’t stink, I get a bout of intestinal flu that proves otherwise. However, I’m covertly proud of my man, my children, and my ability to know the difference between there, their, and they’re. When I really want to swagger, I edit articles that incorrectly use its, it’s, your, and you’re. Knowledge is power.

laughing old woman

For this year’s birthday, I intend to find ways to exchange the seven deadly sins for seven lively good deeds. I’ll trade lust for gratitude, gluttony for self-control, greed for compassion, sloth for efficiency, wrath for joy, envy for love, and pride for humility. I expect occasional lapses into debauchery, but after all these decades, I deserve it. I also plan to laugh until my gut hurts, my eyes water, and my nose runs, as often as possible. Happy Birthday, indeed.

 

“He Named Me Malala” Benefit Scheduled for Oct. 11 in Boise

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malala

Last July in New York City, I was honored to be in the audience for the private showing of the film “He Named Me Malala.” I am so passionate about this film and about education for girls that I am co-sponsoring a benefit show with the Wassmuth Center for Human Rights. The event will be Sunday, October 11 at The Flicks starting at 7:00 pm. A short discussion will follow the film.

Wassmuth Center for Human Rights and Mill Park Publishing to Sponsor Film

Eagle, ID – Can one child change the world? Yes. Malala Yousafzai was a 15-year-old schoolgirl in Pakistan when terrorists attempted to kill her for advocating education. She survived a gunshot to the head and now leads a global campaign for girls’ education as co-founder of the Malala Fund. For her brave advocacy, she received the Nobel Peace Prize at age 17. Her compelling story is now a documentary that can be viewed across the country.

The film “He Named Me Malala” was produced by acclaimed documentary filmmaker Davis Guggenheim. The film premiers in Boise on October 9 at The Flicks, 646 Fulton Street. For ticket information and other showtimes, see the website at Malala. Click here to see the trailer:  Malala trailer

A benefit performance is scheduled at The Flicks for Sunday, October 11 beginning at 7:00 pm. A discussion will follow and includes students, educators, and local leaders concerned about human rights. The event is sponsored by the Wassmuth Center for Human Rights and Mill Park Publishing. Local author, syndicated blogger, and publisher Elaine Ambrose owns Mill Park Publishing. She was invited to view the film “He Named Me Malala” at a private showing last July at the BlogHer Conference in New York City.

“This film captures the strength and resilience of one girl who is destined to improve the world,” says Ambrose. “In other parts of the world, girls are being murdered, tortured, and poisoned just for going to school. It’s time we placed a priority on education for girls.”

For information about discounted tickets to the October 11 event, see this website: Wassmuth Center for Human Rights.

The mission of the Wassmuth Center for Human Rights is to “promote respect for human dignity and diversity through education and to foster individual responsibility to work for justice and peace.” The Center achieves this mission by providing educational programs for teachers and students, engaging in community leadership, partnering with business and industry, and advocating for human rights.

Mill Park Publishing of Eagle has enabled more than 50 women to become published authors. The books have won 14 awards in the past two years. Two more books are scheduled for release in 2016.

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Where Were the Good Songs of Summer?

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dancing sunset

(Featured on The Huffington Post 50 on Sept. 1, 2015)

Back when songs had creative lyrics and tunes were memorable, we turned up the volume on our record players and cassette tapes and sang along with the Beach Boys, the Rolling Stones, and The Beatles. Most of the summer hits from our childhood are still popular today, and the melodies linger like old friends. In gloomy contrast, the forgettable songs of this summer make me want to kick a puppy.

One of the top rated songs is “Bad Blood” by Taylor Swift. In the video, she plays a mad scientist and parades about in apocalyptic black leather costumes. Mixed with the scenes of scowling women fighting with swords and beheading evil men is the shocking image of a teddy bear stabbed to a wall with a serrated knife. Taylor Swift struts through broken glass and fiery explosions as she sings, “Band-aids don’t fix bullet holes” and “Still got scars in my back from your knives.” I didn’t purchase this song.

Another bestselling song is “Can’t Feel My Face” by The Weeknd. In the music video, the singer with a gigantic spider on his head bursts into flames on stage. The beat is catchy but most of the song consists of two lines sung over and over: “Can’t feel my face when I’m with you but I love it.” Maybe if the artists could write real lyrics, they could get some feeling back. I know that after listening to the song I couldn’t feel my fingers because I smashed them with a hammer while trying to stop the music.

One more top song is “OMI – Cheerleader” performed by Felix Jaehn. The rhythm isn’t bad but the repetitive lyrics are too chauvinistic for my taste. “I think I found myself a cheerleader. She’s always there when I need her.” I hope young women aspire to greater passions than cavorting and twerking on the beach with the New England Patriots cheerleaders while being on call for their man.

Let’s reminisce about the real songs of summer. In the 1960s, the Beach Boys lulled us to sleep with “Surfer Girl,” and Jan and Dean woke us with “Surf City.” We danced to “Heat Wave” by Martha and the Vandellas, crooned to “Roses are Red” by Bobby Vinton, and ended our summer by dancing and singing “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones. We were hip, groovy, and cool.

During the 1960s and 1970s, we grew up with The Beatles singing “Yellow Submarine” and “Hey Jude” and “A Hard Day’s Night.” We still remember the lyrics and tunes for these songs. Somehow I doubt that young people will be singing “Can’t Feel My Face” fifty years from now.

Old classics about summertime never grow old. The song “Summertime” was composed in 1934 by George Gershwin for the 1935 opera Porgy and Bess. The mesmerizing song has been creatively adapted by famous soloists from every genre. Ella Fitzgerald added soul, Billy Stewart brought jazz, Janis Joplin cried pain into the song, and Norah Jones turned it into a hymn. Each version can be viewed and appreciated on YouTube.

Other great summer songs include “Summerwind” by Frank Sinatra. Recorded in 1966, the song remains a classic worthy of the best piano bars in the country. In 1972, Seals and Crofts caused our bodies to sway with “Summer Breeze,” and in 1985, Katrina and the Waves got us skipping down the street singing “Walking on Sunshine.” Those were the summer songs we remember, and they made us sing.

I sound like an old curmudgeon, and that’s because I am. I appreciate the music of my life and the melodies that continue to play in my mind. Long before videos became more important than the lyrics, we listened, danced, and sang along. And through it all, not one teddy bear was murdered.

A Message to My Son as He Prepares for College

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elaine adam CHS

 

Dear Son,

What do you mean you mailed a college application? Get back down on the floor and play with some Legos. Do you want me to make you a sandwich? Or, you can invite your friends over and we’ll order pizzas. You can stay up all night, if you want. I’ll just go cry in my room, but don’t let that bother you.

Yes, I know I can be obnoxious about mothering you, but don’t leave yet. I’m not done. We need to work on laundry and managing money. And we should have the talk — you know, the discussion about sex, drugs, alcohol, and how the world is full of mean people who could hurt you. Oh, you say you can handle everything? Then tell me, son, how do I handle this anxiety? How do I stop this gut-churning ache when I realize my only son, my last child, is walking out the door and will return as a visitor? Give me some laughs for that fact, will you?

Okay, I’m sorry for that lapse in composure. I’m really happy for you. Really. I want you to march into college and own the place. Let them know you have arrived and you’re ready to pursue enlightenment and knowledge so you can get a great job and support me in my old age. Oops. There I go again. It’s not about me, is it? This is about you. I must focus.

Because I’m a single parent and the two of us have shared this house for several years, I want to give you my best parenting advice before you drive off to the university. So, here goes:

1. Size matters. You already know this. Weighing in at 11 pounds, you were one of the biggest babies every born at the Gooding County Hospital. You were always the tallest, which made it easy to find you in a crowd of other children. You were sad at age 4 when He-Man underwear didn’t come in your size, and the teachers had to order an adult-sized desk for you in 5th grade. You were 6’6″ in high school, and you carried the load for others, as you continue to do today. Sometimes you didn’t like being so big, but many people, including me, see you now as a tall, strong, funny, handsome, and responsible hero. That’s a good thing.

2. Keep your sense of humor. No one can make me laugh like you do. Your personality is beyond gregarious and that’s why others enjoy being around you. I’ve seen you cheer up a dejected classmate, counsel a young child, coach and encourage a YMCA team, and cause your grandmother to grin. (Dementia made her grin all the time, but you brought a special twinkle to her eyes.)

3. Stay compassionate. As a two-year-old, you took care of other children at the child-care center. That special trait continued into your teenage years. Several others took advantage of you, and I know you used your wages to pay for a lot of meals, trips, and activities that other kids couldn’t afford. Keep that empathetic characteristic, but watch out for charlatans who will exploit your generosity. Learn from me.

4. Treat women as wonderful, complicated creatures who can make your life a living hell or a heavenly sanctuary. You will live in a fraternity and there will be raucous parties with coeds. Have fun, but keep your head clear and your pants zipped. Other college men won’t heed that advice, and their new nickname will be “father” or “college drop-out.” The woman you choose to marry will be lucky, indeed. Remember to compliment her, support her dreams, and be delighted in your partnership with her as you build dreams together. Plan great adventures and expect a successful marriage. And, if she ever asks, “How do I look?” always respond, “Wow! You look amazing?” Trust me.

5. Remember your roots. You were born into a family with a strong work ethic, a love of adventure, and an unwavering love for their children. I’m sorry your father and I lost the marriage, but we continued to make your sister and you our top priority. Take this experience to do better than we did.

6. Get ready to fly. The next five years will be the most important years of your life. You will go to college, get a job, perhaps get married, and maybe you’ll have children. Life will never be the same again. Take this time to savor every drop of life you can. Meet new people, visit new destinations, make some mistakes, and recover with gusto. But, please, know that if you move far away I know how to make airplane reservations. I’d like a guest room with teal-colored paint on the walls, a coffee maker, and a wine bar.

I think that’s the essential tidbits for now. You’ve got a job so you know about money. As for laundry, just wear all dark clothes so you don’t need to separate the loads. But, always wash your towels at least weekly. I might need to throw a few wet towels on the floor after you’re gone just for the memories.

Go to college, son, and remember that life can’t be one big party unless someone pays the bills and provides the clean-up committee. Be the one in charge of your own celebration of young adulthood. I’ll miss you every day, but soon I can visit you on campus. I’ll bring your favorite cookies! And a pizza. It will be just like old times.

Most of all, I will miss your laugh, so please record it for me. Remember, your first laugh was with me when you were four months old. It could have been caused by gas bubbles, but oh my, how you could laugh! Please don’t ever stop.
Love,
Mama (all alone in a big, quiet, empty house)

 

 

(Featured on The Huffington Post Fifty, August 29, 2015)

(I wrote this letter several years ago, and now the college student is a successful man with a family, a career, and a mortgage.)

 

When Living Large isn’t a Compliment

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chubby lady belly

 

(Featuring on The Huffington Post, August 27, 2015)

It started as a fun golf game with another couple we enjoy. It ended with me wanting to stab myself with a knife. Life is like that sometimes.

We finished our round with a good score and returned to the club house for dinner. As we waited for the food, the man casually mentioned that his wife and my husband were lucky because they didn’t need to lose weight. I know it was an innocent remark by a good, middle-aged man but my ears heard this:

“You are a gross, undisciplined whale and so incredibly fat that you should put a sack over your body and hide in the women’s lounge. Too bad you don’t look like my beautiful, fit wife.”

My first reaction was to pick up my butter knife and slash my gums because 30 years ago I lost 12 pounds in one week after my wisdom teeth were removed. I thought that maybe I could duplicate that instant weight loss if I hurt myself. Obviously, this was a red flag warning that I should immediately leave the club and seek a counselor.

Truth: You never need to tell a woman that she has gained weight. She knows it. She avoids mirrors, hates photographs of herself, and loses the urge to shop for clothes. She doesn’t want to be reminded that her hips, belly, and back are padded with enough layers of protective fat to shelter a family of ten through the winter. She wants to be appreciated for her charm, wit, altruism, and talent. Tell her she’s fat and she’ll write about you.

I languish in good excuses. I was injured almost a year ago, ironically doing a high-impact exercise. My leg bone cracked and the meniscus tore on my knee. The pain was debilitating.  As a result, my exercise routine vanished as the extra pounds appeared. The only physical activity I got was when I ambled to the wine rack for medication. But, I still want and need to lose the weight I gained after the injury. I really do, but it’s not as easy any more, and my body seems to like living large.

The day after the golf humiliation, I wiggled into my workout clothes and plodded to the gym. I started with the exercise bike, plugged my earphones into the TV outlet, and found the news. Donald Trump was criticizing Megyn Kelly, an attractive newscaster I admire. I left the gym and drove to a coffee shop that offered fresh maple bars, and I used the butter knife to smear around the gooey frosting. I licked the knife and promised to hit the gym another day.

 

 

 

For Peace and Clarity, Go Hang a Banana

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(Featured on The Huffington Post Fifty on August 18, 2015.)

peace

The world is smoldering toward catastrophic self-destruction, so it’s only sensible that I take a brief moment of clarity to offer this lovely tidbit of advice before the final tragic calamity ignites the end of civilization.

If you want to appreciate form and function, escape chaos and crisis, and experience inner peace, you should hang a banana.

I’ve survived more than half a century on this magnificent planet and only yesterday purchased a banana holder. This is not just any ordinary device; it’s a 3-piece banana hook with fruit basket! And, it came with illustrated instructions! Heaven forbid a confused consumer would tote it home and not know how to assemble the complicated design.

“Help me, Walter. Does the bowl go over or under the hook?”

“Lemme study the picture on the box, Marge. I hope this contraption came with directions.”

The 3-piece banana hook wasn’t on my Costco list, but who could resist? I wanted it.

On my way to the back of the store to get my quarterly supply of 50 rolls of toilet paper, I noticed the box on the end of the aisle. The photo displayed ripe, firm bananas perfectly poised over a bowl of tempting green apples supported and enhanced with a gleaming silver hook and coordinated basket. I spontaneously added it to the cart, along with the tub of chocolate-covered almonds (also not on the list.)

I balanced my new treasures with the massive supply of toilet paper, a calf-sized pack of paper towels, and a year’s supply of detergent while I maneuvered my way through the aisles, stopping periodically to sample the bland but free samples of food. I avoided the book section because I have been known to spend hours reading through selections while family-reunion-size boxes of frozen appetizers melt in the aisle.

After paying the zombie checkout guy, I toured the vast parking lot looking for my car. I finally resorted to clicking my key alarm and eventually found it. I scurried home to assemble my new banana holder and proudly placed it on the kitchen counter. I carefully hung my bananas at the angle shown in the photograph. They seemed to be happy and perky in their appropriate position. Today, I’ll visit the local farmer’s market and buy some green apples.

For a brief but delightful moment in time, I won’t watch or read the news, and I won’t worry about all the crap happening throughout the world.

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Instead, I’ll make a cup of tea in the morning and open a bottle of wine in the afternoon and stare at my banana holder. That’s about all I can control right now. And if other stressed people come to my door, I’ll welcome them inside and we will gaze at the wonderful invention and smile at the balance, order, and symmetry of the simple design. Then, only after we feel at peace, we’ll eat the bananas, apples and chocolate almonds, open another bottle of wine, and sing songs of courage and glory. All will be well, thanks to my new banana hook. With a fruit basket.