Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Ten Tips for Fearless Graduates

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(Published on The Huffington Post on May 28)

Graduates tossing caps into the air

For some reason, probably budget problems or because someone forgot to get a speaker, I’ve been the commencement speaker for the University of Idaho, the College of Southern Idaho and several high schools. Before each speech, I create inspirational, 20-minute messages to convince clueless graduates that life will be great if they just get a job, floss daily and call their mom once a week.

On the other hand, I could tell them they are doomed, there aren’t any jobs, the country is on the brink of destruction, they’ll never get out of debt and they should move into the woods and make macramé hangers to sell at craft fairs. But that advice might not motivate them to attain their potential greatness.

Thousands of graduates and their families will sit through commencement ceremonies this spring, and I hope they glean a few tidbits of wisdom from the speakers who will desperately be searching for eye contact. It’s difficult for motivational speakers to keep going when they know the audience already has checked out.

In between the pomp and the circumstance, I try my best to offer 10 simple suggestions for a good life:

1. Accept the fact that life isn’t fair. You could work hard, excel at your job and miss your kid’s school programs, only to see some pretty woman have an affair with the executive vice president and be given your job. (I write, somewhat bitterly, from personal experience.) Or you could get hit by a beer truck or your spouse could run away with a carnival worker or your hillbilly neighbor could get a lucrative reality show on television. Just grit your teeth, change your profession and write country/western songs.

2. No one owes you a living. Chances are, you’re not going to win the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes or the million-dollar lottery. And you can’t live with your parents anymore, because they want to buy a recreational vehicle and travel around to casinos and roadside attractions. Go into the world and make your own way.

3. Take risks. Watch children if you need examples of expert risk-takers. Kids love to stomp in puddles, fall out of trees, catch frogs in a ditch and ride anything with wheels. Be like they are and experience true freedom before life gives you a mortgage, kids, in-laws, 50 extra pounds, buffoon bosses and irritable bowel syndrome.

4. Mansions, fast cars and luxury vacation don’t guarantee happiness. Many good people are honestly delighted to have a small house with indoor plumbing, a pickup truck that runs, a pantry full of homemade food and a favorite camping place. Be like that.

5. Get out of debt. Why work your entire life just to pay interest to a bank? In most cases, that $100 debt on your credit card for that sassy pair of boots will remain long after they have worn out. Pay cash or go bootless.

I told graduates at the College of Southern Idaho to avoid student loans because the devious program would make them indebted to the government for several decades. I could tell by their groans that the warning came too late. So I advised their younger siblings in the audience to investigate other financial aid options, including scholarships, grants, work-study programs or trade schools. These students will have homes and new trucks while their older brothers and sisters will be living in a crowded commune while paying on their endless student loans. Check recent statistics at https://mycreditsummit.com/student-loan-debt-statistics/

6. Enjoy relationships. The happiest people are surrounded by family members and friends who accept their faults, celebrate their achievements and invite them over for barbecues and wine.

7. Avoid crabby people. They will suck out every last ounce of your energy and leave you a withered, bitter shell of wretched humanity. Purge your contact list now before it’s too late.

8. Don’t fight. No explanation needed.

9. Love more. Ditto.

10. Laugh, dance and sing. Triple ditto.

I purposely avoided any mention of politics or religion, because I’d rather smack my head with a hammer than tiptoe through the mine field of political correctness. I always conclude my speech with this last bit of advice: Call your mom and thank her for putting up with you. If she’s no longer living, call another mother and wish her a happy day. You’ll both feel good, and the world needs more people who are truly grateful.

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The author giving a commencement speech.
 

The Good Morning Project

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(Published on The Huffington Post June 1, 2015)

My acquaintance was bullied on social media, and that experience prompted an idea that could encourage others to make a positive difference while challenging the vile cesspool of cruel trolls who infest the Internet. Let’s call it the “Good Morning Project.”

Last year at a writer’s conference, I was introduced to a vivacious, witty, and successful writer. Michele and I shared the stage during a stand-up comedy night, and saw each other briefly during the rest of the event. Later we became friends on Facebook and followed each other’s comments. I admired her personality and talents, and we became associates from across the country.

Recently she was verbally attacked through social media by a former acquaintance who called her vile names and wrote derogatory accusations about her. She was devastated, and she wrote about her bewilderment and pain. I felt her anguish and wanted to help but our homes were too far apart to meet and share a conversation. So I greeted her every morning on Facebook.

“Good Morning, Michele,” I wrote. “I think you’re wonderful.”

She replied with gratitude, and that started the daily exchange of messages.

I thought of her every morning as I sat to read my emails. I remembered some previous messages she had published through her Facebook posts, so I included them to personalize the next good morning message. After the third morning, she caught on to what I was doing. Again, she expressed her thanks.

The morning communications occurred for several days and became a habit. I would begin my day thinking about her and about what I could say to be positive. The entire action took less than five minutes but provided affirmative validation for both of us.

My mother’s generation of women visited and supported each other through regular conversations over coffee or over the backyard fence. A generation later, women my age moved into the work force and rarely had time for close friendships because we were too busy balancing work, families, and homes. The Internet was new to us, and we were justified in being cautious about online exchanges.

Now all ages use social media to communicate, and an online presence is an important part of our daily professional and personal lives. However, just as the Internet can become the supportive and friendly coffee klatch of yesterday, it also contains a dark side that brings out the worst of society. The anonymity gives nasty, insecure, and pathetic users the access and ability to publicly threaten, criticize, and hurt others without fear of consequence or reprisal. Online comment sections are becoming a sewer attraction for those I call Drive-by Bullies.

You can help alleviate some of the damage caused by trolls by participating in your own “Good Morning Project.” Select a random name from your list of social media contacts and send a quick, personalized message to her or him in the morning. Continue for a few days and note how the practice improves your attitude, too. Monitor feedback and stop the messages if you think the other person doesn’t need or appreciate them. Select another name and continue the brief exchange.

There are other sites that offer the same service, but the messages are generic and don’t offer a personalized greeting. Positive, significant words enhance the connection between two people, and through the proper use of technology, we can retain our humanity and strengthen important friendships. Good Morning, Michele.

Why I’ll Never Write the “F” Word

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(Published on The Huffington Post June 1, 2015)
I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words during the past 50 years, but I’ve never written the f-word. I don’t need the word to communicate effectively or to get published. The English language is rich with so many other delightful, juicy, descriptive, and provocative words that require more deliberate discourse, and my fingers just can’t push the keys to enter the four letters to write an overused, prostituted word.

Many of my friends and favorite writers use the f-bomb with great relish; almost as a badge of honor to show how feisty and liberated they are. I follow delightful blogs that incorporate the word regularly, but I don’t think it’s always necessary. Some writers call me a cuss-less curmudgeon and send humorous essays about how the f-word can be used as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and an adverb. I remind them that the best authors only selectively use adjectives and adverbs. Also, the word has no context or logic. WTF means nothing.

I shared the stage last year with comedian and humor columnist Leighann Lord at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. She sprinkles her hilarious routines with a few saucy words but says that profanity is like a hot spice — it’s best used in small doses. I rarely go to movies anymore because of the repetitive swearing that adds nothing to the story. This doesn’t mean I’m a hopeless prude; I just don’t want to pay $10 to be assaulted with caustic profanity that hits me like slimy spitballs. From the safety of my home, I rented the movie The Wolf of Wall Street. It contained more than 506 f-bombs, and I slipped into a language-deficient coma.

In the final scenes of the 1939 film Gone with the Wind, the leading man played by Clark Gable turned to the star Vivien Leigh and declared, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!” The profanity in the line was unusual and shocking back then in American film. (This quotation was voted the number one movie line of all time by the American Film Institute in 2005.) Imagine how that scene would be ruined if he had substituted the f-word or if profanity had been used throughout the movie. The powerful impact would be reduced to redundant noise as Miss Scarlett’s “Fiddle-dee-dee” became “G-damn, WTF?”

Certain titles captivate readers (and buyers) with a single word. I wrote a book with author Joanne Kimes titled Menopause Sucks. She has successfully incorporated the “sucks brand” into the titles of her books, and the word “sucks” is a marketing tool that effectively sells her work. I wrote about a fart and the viral essay titled “Don’t Fart During an MRI” became one of the most-read posts in the ten-year history of the The Huffington Post. These books and the blogs wouldn’t be as popular or civil if the words “sucks” and “fart” were exchanged for the f-word. “Don’t (F-Word) During an MRI” would not attract or impress my target audience.

I have said the f-word out loud, especially at the golf course, but I still choose not to write it. I have nightmares of my dear departed mother charging into my room with a bar of soap to swish inside my mouth. She used this tactic when I was a child after I innocently said the word “poop.” However, that punishment could explain my chronic case of irritable bowel symptom.

Writers have every right to use the word, and I don’t judge them for it. I would like to receive the same respect in return. Keep your profanity, and I’ll keep my more traditional language. I’ve occasionally written other swear words, including damn, shit, and hell, but that’s about the extent of my dabbling into the salacious world of four-letter-words. The world offers enough crude, vulgar, trashy, and blasphemous images and sounds to offend everyone, so I don’t need to contribute more.

This article will be published without that word, and I’ll still make a strong case for powerful, creative language. Many will criticize my perspective and snicker that I’m a dinosaur in the blogosphere. To them I tip my hat and say, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

A Grandmother’s Legacy

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(Published on The Huffington Post on June 4, 2015)

My grandmothers were the quintessential matrons: they grew lush gardens, baked pies, canned peaches, crocheted doilies and then peacefully passed away in their nineties.

My life has been a bit different, and I just hope I don’t die tomorrow by getting hit by a wine truck while dancing in the street on my way to a book signing event.

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My paternal grandmother never owned a driver’s license because she never needed to go anywhere. She could walk to the grocery store and post office, and she was content to sit in her rocking chair in her tidy little house. She finished crossword puzzles every day, read her Bible and believed her life was blessed beyond measure. She was correct.

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My maternal grandmother sewed dolls and grew glorious gladiolas to enter in the Jerome County Fair. She stored the numerous winning ribbons in a shoe box because she was humble, quiet and unpretentious. Only after her death did I learn that all she wanted in life was to own a piano. I wish I could have given one to her.

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Their tough example gave me a strong foundation that sustained me during the numerous personal calamities and monstrous mistakes in my life.

They would be disappointed in my failures, but they would be proud of me for having the courage to be independent and tenacious. I can hear them saying, “You can do it. Now get to work.”

In the blink of a wrinkled eye, I also became a grandmother. Both my children have children, and I find this fact a bit disturbing, because I still think I am in my thirties. Really, now my daughter and I are about the same age. I want to pluck 30 years off the timeline and pretend the decades never happened. Denial is a powerful emotion. Though I inherited traits and skills from my parent’s mothers, my generation is tweaking the term “grandmother.”

My children married spouses who already had children, so I became an instant grandmother. And I’m not called Gramma. My daughter’s daughter was born in Hawaii, so I became Tutu, the Hawaiian name for grandmother.

I look at my granddaughters with wonder and worry.

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What will their future hold? Can they travel the world, employ their talents and be strong in relationships? Will they treasure the self-sufficient strength of their great-great-grandmothers? Will they be able to grow a garden, bake a pie, preserve peaches and crochet doilies? OK, no one needs doilies anymore, but the other skills are important.

I hope they can learn from this weathered Tutu that they also can have a job, chart their own path, own a business and challenge the boundaries. They can go beyond my grandmother’s wildest dreams, and I relish their feisty and vibrant spirit. I imagine the day when they get married and then bring me a laughing baby to rock. I think Great Tutu will be a fitting name.

I adore my little granddaughters, and we laugh together as we sing and tell great stories. I am not that adept at canning fruits and vegetables, but I can encourage them to take the path less traveled, color outside the lines and question authority. They come from a strong heritage of tough women, and I know my grandmothers are watching over them whispering, “You can do it. Now get to work.”

The Humble Photographer

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(Published on The Huffington Post June 8, 2015)

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We all remember school picture day and how our mothers cajoled us into wearing that hideous dress just for Grandma, or restrained our bangs that we had purposely left to dance upon our eyelashes. Then, we repeated the motherly routine with our own children, fussing over their collars, bribing them to wear the cute headband and admonishing them to smile — or else! Did we ever consider the person behind the camera?

My uncle was a community photographer for almost 40 years. He opened a small shop in the hamlet of Jerome, Idaho, and his work took him to schools around the valley. He photographed weddings, reunions, anniversary parties and civic events. A self-taught businessman, he learned how to set up lights and props while he experimented with different ways to use a camera. He developed the film in his darkroom and carefully categorized the thousands of smiling faces. His work preserved memories for three generations.

He died recently at age 93, and a grateful crowd came to the memorial service to offer their respects. The most common comment was, “He was such a good, humble man.”

The world of photography has changed dramatically over the years. My uncle used to take his film and process the negatives as his clients waited weeks for the results. Now, any pre-teen or bored celebrity with a cell phone can take a “selfie” and instantly post an obnoxious, duck-lipped pose on social media. Too many are tempted to post potentially embarrassing photos that remain forever on the Internet. The act requires no skill and definitely no humility.

My uncle was appalled at how the art of photography had become a vanity tool for those who screamed, “Look at me!” His professional pride came from his talent to cajole a cranky baby to giggle, his ability to evoke a smile from a petulant schoolboy and his desire to create the perfect pose for a nervous bride. Behind the camera, he directed beautiful, true images of life. Not one of his photos included a purposely pouty pose.

The next time you take your children or grandchildren to a photography boutique in a retail store or prepare them for school photography day, consider the person behind the camera. The photographer doesn’t know your child, but will attempt to elicit a portrait that captures personality as well as image. These artists remain obscure, hidden behind their lenses, and that’s their choice. Behind the scenes, they use their talent to create instant masterpieces of other people.

My uncle didn’t want or need attention or fame. But he lives on through framed portraits that hang on thousands of walls and in photographs that fill countless albums. Over the decades, life through his eyes reflected a changing reality from poise to pomposity. He closed his business when the authentic images were not retrievable.

He was such a good, humble man.

The Secret of the Hairy Leg

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(Published on The Huffington Post July 2, 2015)

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I was 12 when my mother sat beside me, nervously cleared her throat, and gave this serious admonishment: I was never to shave my legs. I solemnly nodded but neglected to mention that I secretly had been shaving for more than a year.

My mother never had shaved her legs, mainly because respectable women of the era didn’t engage in such pretentious behavior and also she didn’t have any noticeable hair. On the other hand (or leg), my sudden eruption of hair rivaled a tangled clump of Spanish moss growing on two logs in a hot swamp. At age 11, I endured a cataclysmic growth spurt of such epoch proportions that my legs mutated into furry poles covered with twisted hairballs. All I saw between my plaid skirts and saddle shoes were two mangy pelts that should have been hanging from a trapper’s rope. Within months, my legs were hairy enough to attract nesting rodents.

In my young angst, I noticed that hair was sprouting in other places, too. After a private examination of my changing body, I was convinced that somehow there had been a big mistake and my new carpet of pubic hair wouldn’t stop where it should. I feared that soon there would be one long growth of hair that reached from my crotch to my ankles. My World Book Encyclopedias didn’t provide any answers, except to show freaky photos of bearded women in the circus. I inspected my chin and didn’t see any beard but decided I had to act.

Our small home only had one bathroom, so we all stored our toiletries in the cabinet beside the sink. That’s where I saw my father’s razor and made the decision to attack my fur. Looking back, I’m mortified that I resorted to such drastic measures, but there was no time to waste. Summer was coming I didn’t want to resemble a monkey in shorts.

The first attempts were painful as I scrapped the stubborn hair from my legs. Nicks and cuts bled onto the floor, and I quickly blotted the wounds with toilet paper. I saw a bottle of aftershave tonic so I smeared some on my battered legs. That’s the first time I learned how to scream in silence. I cleaned up the mess, returned everything to the cabinet, and hobbled to bed. The next day I read the bottles more closely and decided I would use shaving cream and warm water, as soon as the scabs healed.

I perfected the routine over the next few months and was proud of my smooth, long legs. I noticed my mother was buying more razor blades, and she mentioned that my father’s beard was getting so mature and healthy that the blades were wearing out faster than normal. Again, I solemnly nodded, secretly delighted that my legs no longer belonged on a buffalo.

Disaster stuck in late July. I broke my leg and needed a plaster cast from my knee to my toes. I worried about what was happening beneath the cast and inspected the casing daily for tuffs of fur that might emerge while I continued to shave the other leg. After two months, it was time to remove the cast. I nervously sat on the doctor’s examination table with my legs stretched out in front of me. My mother focused on the cast to be sure the doctor’s noisy saw wouldn’t accidentally cut off my leg. Finally, the plaster broke apart, and we all gasped as we saw the grim limb. The leg was twice as small as the other leg, the muscles had disappeared, and the skin was buried beneath a carpet of black, wayward pubic hair. I would have run away, but my leg was too weak.

“Oh, dear,” muttered my mother. “Do you think the dark cast caused all that hair to grow? I read in Reader’s Digest that strange things can happen like that.”

The doctor looked at me and noticed my panicked expression. He winked.

“Sometimes hair does grow without reason,” he said with authority. “This will probably be gone within a few days.”

He was correct. That hair disappeared before morning. The mangy mess almost clogged the toilet, but I shaved it off and limped to bed. Dr. Scheele passed away several years ago, but I often think of him and smile.