Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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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.

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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.

 

The Seven Deadly Sins, Birthday Edition

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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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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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(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.)