Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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A Baby Died in an American City

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stone angel grave

A baby died this week after a police officer diligently performed CPR in a frantic attempt to save her life. According to initial reports, the baby had ingested lethal illegal drugs. No one recorded the officer’s heroic measures or sent a video to the media. When the baby died, the officer wept.

This story isn’t about race, bad parenting, liberals or conservatives. It’s about a team of good police officers who worked to keep a baby alive and then responded to the next call. They were in full gear, working in 90-degree heat, upholding their pledge to serve and protect.

The current anti-cop hysteria has damaged the morale but not the mission of local law enforcement personnel. Every day they perform acts to help people, arrest criminals, solve crimes, calmly talk a person out of committing suicide, and keep the peace. They counsel foolish teenagers, direct traffic around a tragic wreck, respond to emergency situations, comfort a scared victim, remove children from dangerous homes, and watch each other’s backs. They act as school resource officers, neighborhood contacts, and charity volunteers. And, they weep over dead babies.

True, there are some bad cops; just as there are bad teachers, preachers, parents, and politicians. I openly condemn the rogue bullies in uniform, but they don’t represent the majority of law enforcement officers who work around the clock to serve and protect their communities. If you want to imagine life without law enforcement, watch the post-apocalyptic action adventure film, Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.

Or consider the town of Ferguson, Missouri. The Kansas City Star estimates that the Ferguson riots, characterized as a spontaneous eruption of anger over the shooting of unarmed black criminal Michael Brown by Ferguson police officer Darren Wilson, cost the county $4.2 million. NBC News recently reported on the “Ferguson Effect,”  http://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/violence-spikes-some-cities-ferguson-effect-blame-n368526, that notes “Violent crime — killings, robberies, rapes and assaults — is rising in half of the 10 biggest U.S. cities, including Los Angeles, where the rate is up 25 percent. Murders are up in four of the biggest cities, most notably New York.”

Or consider Baltimore, Maryland. A recent article in The Atlantic, http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/06/baltimore-police-slowdown/394931/, details the spike in crime with an alarming number of murders and non-lethal shootings after the riots over the perceived police brutality in the death of Freddie Gray. After the riots, vandalism, and destruction, some think a police slowdown has resulted in the extensive increase in crime.

Now police advocates are writing about how the current anti-cop climate is beating the motivation out of cops, and the public is bearing the consequences. Read this article for a powerful insight: http://calibrepress.com/2015/06/slugs-vs-the-rest/.

The perceived racism must be addressed. An activist organization called Black Lives Matter, http://blacklivesmatter.com/, reports that every 28 hours a black man, woman, or child is murdered by police or vigilante law enforcement. In contrast, in 2013, the FBI reported that nearly 50,000 officers were assaulted on the job, and 76 were killed. The officers face a daily barrage of insults, defiance, and video cameras that never seem to record all the good deeds. In truth, all lives matter.

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It’s important to filter out all the noise and focus on solutions to the problems facing officers and citizens. Most city and county departments have programs that allow citizens to ride in patrol cars so qualified adults can join police officers and experience what they deal with on an hourly basis. Community organizations can work together to address the issues, without violence or vandalism. We can support education for all races that want to work in law enforcement. We owe it to future generations to reach across racial, political, and socio-economic barriers to become good partners, neighbors, and law-abiding citizens.

I have a colleague named Raya Fagg whose many talents and interests include supporting the Black Lives Matter movement. She also supports the police and appreciates that they put their lives on the line daily to protect and serve. We both object to the ones who are corrupt and racist. She recently blogged about her complicated relationship with the police:   http://andstarringasherself.com/black-lives-matter/. With brutal honesty she writes, “It was an officer who called me a nigger when I was seven and played in a fire hydrant.”

Raya and I both have sons. Hers is an energetic teenage Boy Scout who deserves the right to live freely and have equal opportunities. Mine is an outstanding professional who deals with emotional, life-and-death situations. We both want a better country, and we both pray for our sons to return home.

 

The Husband Bonus: Better than an Empty Bag

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rich woman

 

Tongues are wagging faster than a group of over-privileged kids on a playdate at a sucker factory. A recent article in The New York Times described the unbelievable lives of women who marry rich men and live in the Upper East Side in New York City. The author lets her pinky finger down long enough to write torrid tales of year-end bonuses paid to the women for excelling at their wifely duties. I missed that memo and married for love.

At least paying the little woman a bonus is better than killing them and substituting robots, per the movie “The Stepford Wives.” Sometimes I think the wealthy husbands would prefer androids so they could avoid and eliminate all that messy relationship drivel. I also suspect that these women could be promoted to The First Wives Club after their bored husbands find younger, prettier, more efficient models to replace them.

The must-have purchase from these pay-to-play marriages is a Hermes Birkin bag that costs around $120,000. That’s not a house; it’s a purse. As does my sensible, inexpensive, black tote bag, a Hermes treasure will hold tissues, assorted combs, lip gloss, a few pens that work, and a wallet of worn credit cards. I win.

The article created quite a commotion among my online group of middle-aged friends. Comments ranged from “Pricy Prostitutes” to “I get my designer bags on sale” to “Where’s New York?” After reading about how the hyper-scheduled children of these arranged marriages need counseling to learn how to play, I threw up my hands and my breakfast. I decided to turn the designer tables and offer my own counsel, gleaned after more than five decades on this amazing planet. I don’t need a Wife Bonus, but I’ll gladly give a regular gratuity to my husband.

Here are my suggestions for how to give a Husband Bonus.

  1. Arrange weekly playdates. There is no need for counseling when you remind your lover that there’s a party for two tonight at 9:00. Toys and finger puppets aren’t necessary but could come in handy.
  2. Show your private equity fund. Sleep naked and receive a robust return on your investment.
  3. Don’t wait until yearend for a bonus. If you’re both older than 55, take advantage of the time you still have. There is a good chance you’ll be asleep long before midnight on New Year’s Eve.
  4. The only board we’re sitting on is at the pool. The article described the duty of rich people to sit on major boards of high-profile charities. After decades of volunteering for various organizations, serving on advisory boards, and giving my time, talent, and resources, I’m turning over those jobs to younger people. I’ll take my husband and watch and support selected causes from the beachside martini bar.
  5. Take this bag, please. I will never own a purse that costs more than my first house. A designer bag is just an empty container of stale air. I promise my sweetheart that I’ll never pine and beg for anything bigger than a Silver Oak Cabernet. I’ll offset the request with a gift certificate for a couple’s massage. See how this works?

The New York Times article stoked the flames of indignation, jealousy, and insecurity among some women who only want their husbands to earn a paycheck and come home at night. I choose not to provide links to the article or to the author and her upcoming book because she’s received enough free publicity. When the dust settles, the rich wives will have their cleaning women come over to tidy the mess, my friends will continue laughing at life, and I’ll fix a cheeseboard with cocktails for the patio and invite my husband to join me. It’s bonus time.

Why I’m Proud to be an Idahoan

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lisa kidd stanley lake

This week a few disgruntled people mentioned on social media that they were ashamed to be Idahoans. I’d like to remind them that Idaho is bordered by six states and one other country, all within a day’s drive. Do they need gas money?

I’m a third-generation Idahoan, and some of my distant relatives walked here on the Oregon Trail. They never whined and moaned that they were ashamed to be pioneers. They kept walking, settled in the territory, planted crops, raised livestock, taught their children how to work, and built strong communities. They were proud to be self-sufficient, and celebrated when Idaho became a state.

Many residents now complain about politics, education, religion, women’s rights, and any new “It’s not fair!” grievance that offends them. I’d like to share a hearty meal of Idaho beef, mashed potatoes, fresh vegetables, huckleberry pie, local wine, and some words of wisdom with them.

Politics. People move to Idaho from more liberal states to take advantage of the low cost of living, the family-friendly communities, the low crime rate, and the exquisite natural beauty of the state. Then they complain about the politics.

To them, I say don’t blame the politicians; blame the voters. If you want more progressive candidates, run for office or aggressively support other candidates. I’m irritated when perpetually-offended people in search of relevancy block the streets and yell in my face. I’m impressed when someone intelligently promotes a candidate or an important issue that earns my respect and my vote.

Education. I grew up in the farming village of Wendell with no opportunity for pre-school or kindergarten. I finished in 12 years and graduated from the same high school my parents graduated from 24 years earlier. I received a scholarship to the University of Idaho, graduated in four years, and began a successful career. Working during summer and spring breaks helped pay for college, and I finished debt-free. My children attended schools in Ada County and now are productive taxpayers, and my grandchildren, 5th generation Idahoans, attend local schools.

I willingly pay annual property taxes and thousands of dollars of my tax money are designated for education. So far, I’d like a better return on my investment. Throwing more money at education is not the answer. I advocate intensive training for parents to help them better prepare their young children for school and life. It’s not the responsibility of the schools or the teachers to raise children. Their purpose is to educate students to become well-rounded, self-sufficient adults.

Religion. I grew up as a Presbyterian in southern Idaho, and the predominant religion was Mormon. They were my friends, and we co-existed without anyone getting beheaded. I’ve visited Muslim countries, and I appreciate their culture but I wish more local Muslims would condemn the horrendous atrocities committed by evil people who distort the Islamic religion.

Idaho suppresses women. I support education and opportunity for women, and I’ve been the victim of discrimination. But instead of hollering about the system, I worked and was rewarded. I was Idaho’s first full-time television news reporter and talk show hostess, an officer at Idaho Bank & Trust, and a manager at Boise Cascade Corporation. By being productive and professional, women in my generation helped break the glass ceiling for younger women.

It’s not fair! Get a grip, Buttercup. There always will be those who are richer and poorer, those who succeed with little effort, and those who work hard and fail. It’s not fair that my friend, an avid health advocate, died of breast cancer at 40. It’s not fair that my father received a transplanted liver that had cancer and killed him at age 60. It’s not fair that I’m older, and my knee hurts, and my hair is falling out, and younger women seem to have it easier than I did. What’s fair is that we all woke up this morning and have another day to choose to be productive and happy.

Get to know Idaho. I’ve lived in Wendell, Moscow, Twin Falls, Boise, McCall, Eagle, and Garden Valley. Each place has wonderful citizens and a few assorted jerks. I’m convinced that if we avoid the trap of organized outrage and get to know each other, the state and the world would be better places.

This week I drove through the Sawtooth National Forest from Ketchum to Garden Valley. The magnificent vistas included rugged mountain peaks, lush meadows bordered with rustic log fences, and eagles soaring over tumbling rivers full of melted snow. This breathtaking reality proved why I am proud to be an Idahoan. Here are some photographs of our glorious state taken and copyrighted by my friend and former Wendell resident Lisa Kidd. (View her work at http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/lisa-kidd.html.)  If these reminders don’t convince some people to love Idaho, my gas money offer is still available.

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 lisa kidd sawtooth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

20 Ways to Legally Evict Your House Guests

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house guest unwanted

 

(Published on The Huffington Post, May 21, 2015)

One of the big advantages of getting older is that your children eventually grow up and move away. For some reason, when my kids turned 18 they ran out of the house as fast as they could, kissed the ground, and mumbled something about “Free at last!” But after lengthy therapy sessions they now visit occasionally, and that’s is a good thing. They even let me watch their kids, after I pass a 50-point checklist and agree to security cameras and breathalyzer tests.

After they left, I turned one of their rooms into the guest room. That means I have a place to dry laundry on the bed, cram bags of unread mail into the closet, and ignore the cobwebs that loop from lamp to window like delicate lace décor.

I’m thrown into a panic when I know guests will spend the night. I gather clutter into garbage bags and toss them into the garage where they languish for months. I frantically dust and am amazed at the true color of the furniture. Once I used a vacuum hose to capture the cobwebs, but I accidentally sucked up the curtains and broke the rod. Now I just wave a towel around and hope to catch the webs before the evil spider seeks revenge and jumps up my nose. I hate spiders in my nose.

I enjoy sharing time and space with friends, but there is an important rule when having houseguests: Don’t make it too comfortable. If you include little dishes of individual, scented soaps, a collection of salacious books, and a small refrigerator stocked with wine and cheese, expect them to set up residence and never leave. You’ll have a problem when they forward their mail to your house. That’s a bad thing.

Grandma Clell, my paternal grandmother, always opened her home to weary travelers, visiting relatives, and runaway granddaughters. Though quite the hostess, she had rules that no one should stay longer than necessary. I have improvised some of those rules for myself when I have houseguests who don’t want to leave:

1. Take them to the airport early. Preferably two days before their flight.
2. Cook naked.
3. Have cockroach traps on the dining table.
4. Hide a condom in their bed.
5. Stock the guest bathroom with one Hello Kitty towel and four sheets of toilet paper.
6. Loudly play polka music featuring the Six Fat Dutchmen.
7. Serve burned toast and one sausage — for dinner.
8. Host a meeting of your Toenail Biters Support Group.
9. Close your bedroom door and continually play the fake orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally.
10. Answer your cell phone, scream “Oh no!” run out of the house, and get a hotel room.
11. Buy several pairs of the biggest size of men’s underwear you can find — and leave them drying on the couch.
12. Show movies of your colonoscopy.
13. Experience bouts of uncontrollable flatulence.
14. Have the TV channel stuck on FOX News.
15. Remind them that you’ll need to search their suitcase for the missing silverware.
16. Stare at them for a long time and ask them to repeat their name because you just can’t remember it.
17. Throw utility bills on the counter and cry into a towel.
18. Clip your toenails during breakfast.
19. Sing and dance in your underwear to “Uptown Funk.”
20. Buy a pet goat and let it run through the house. What do you have to lose?

If all these suggestions don’t work, you may need to take drastic measures and move away. That worked for my kids.

In Defense of Grocery Store Cashiers

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grocery cashier

I chat with cashiers, visit with bank tellers, and linger at the Farmer’s Market to talk with the friendly folks who barter their goods for my cash. For me, the exchange of serious business is better with real human interaction.

Growing up in a small town, I knew every checker and cashier at the local businesses. We would greet each other as long-time friends, discuss the pending potato crops, shake our heads and mutter about the civic elections, wonder about Widow Gibb’s bursitis, and compliment babies, hair-dos, and outfits. We knew each other’s families, the good and the bad, and liked each other anyway.

Then I moved to the city. The stores were bigger, the lines were longer, and no one cared that my baby was the cutest one ever to sit in a grocery cart. I still attempted to visit, but with mixed results. In big business, time is money, so there was limited conversation as customers moved through the lines. The bananas were fresher, the selection of meats was more abundant, but the experience was sterile.

Several years ago, my neighborhood grocery store installed two rows of self-service check-out registers. This technology eliminated the need to wait in line and was convenient for customers buying a few items. I fumbled several times to find the bar code, scan the item, and place it in the appropriate bag before somehow causing the machine to break and stop working. A dutiful employee would saunter over, insert her magic code, and the machine would work again. There was no verbal communication.

Yesterday I returned to the store and discovered all the self-service registers had been removed. I talked with the cashier as she rang up my groceries and explained the situation. She said there were several reasons for the return to cashiers.

“We added three jobs for cashiers,” she said. “And the store reduced theft. The cameras revealed that too many people were taking items they didn’t pay for and slipping them into the bags. Also, our customers missed talking with cashiers.”

We chatted as she rang up my groceries and a delightful young woman with special needs placed the bags into my cart. The checker noted my selection of chicken, fresh mozzarella, green peppers, onions, and garlic.

“Looks like you’re making a special meal,” she said.

I explained I was creating my favorite chicken parmesan dinner for some guests. She nodded with approval, handed me the receipt, and said to have a nice day. The automated machines never cared about the groceries I bought or the meals I would prepare. I exchanged smiles with the cashier and bag girl, and in less than a minute we all felt better.

I’ll return to that store to purchase most of my groceries. I have friends there.

 

 

 

The First Motherless Mother’s Day

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(Published on The Huffington Post – May 4, 2015)

elaine leona 1951

The first year of holidays without her is the hardest. I deliberately walk past the festive displays of Mother’s Day cards and ignore the advertisements for flowers, and I’ve tuned out the hype and the obligatory admonishments to do something, anything, for Mother. Because she died.

Experience taught me that time erases the sadness. Sometimes I forget my father’s birthday. He passed away 26 years ago, and now I don’t remember the sound of his voice. On Father’s Day, I send cards to my son and son-in-law and give a small present to my husband, and I’m grateful for my honored role as mother and grandmother. Now I have the new title of matriarch.

The cycle of life isn’t new; babies are born and people die. I accept that. But, I don’t know why some people suffer so much and others get to die peacefully in their sleep. Both my parents spent their last years in physical and mental pain, and I couldn’t do anything to ease their transition. Because of the visions of my parents lying ashen and twisted in their beds, when I’m too feeble to live with dignity, I intend to have a grand party before I exit this life and explore what is beyond.

leona wheelchair

After a parent dies, there are the usual regrets from those still living. I should have visited Mom more often. Every time I got up to leave, she would clutch my hand and beg me to stay. I should have played her favorite music, opened her scrapbooks and patiently listened as she attempted to say words she couldn’t remember. I should have combed her hair again and brought her costume jewelry. I should have stayed longer.

The guilt consumes me every time I drive past her former assisted living facility. She lived in three rooms, progressing from resident to assisted living to terminal. Instead of a child passing onward to higher grades in school, she was going backwards with every physical and mental collapse. I used to cry in my car before and after every visit. I should have stayed longer.

I saved a wreath from her funeral. The flowers are dried and brittle, but I’ll take it to her grave on Mother’s Day. I’ll return again a week later on her birthday. I won’t forget the date. It’s May 20.

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