Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

You are here: Home / Archives for blog

blog

The Christmas Fort

By

adam fort age 9

Two decades ago, before the popularity and distraction of video games, cell phones, and personal computers, children played outside. They rode bikes, threw balls to each other in the park, scouted for frogs in the ditch, and climbed trees. And they built forts.

Our family moved into a new subdivision when my son was in third grade. The house backed up to a row of empty lots, a little boy’s adventure land. The neighbors next door had two little boys, and my son joined them in playing in the dirt. The developer was building new homes nearby, so the boys hauled unneeded scrap lumber over to the lot behind our house and built a fort. The fathers helped with the heavy lifting, but the boys did most of the work.

In December, they lined the fort with lights and strung an extension cord to the house. The local newspaper mentioned the fort in its list of Christmas light displays to see. They spent countless hours in the fort, telling stories, making little boy plans, and just being in their own private world. Of course, no adults were allowed, unless we were bringing snacks.

The structure weathered the winter, and the boys continued to play inside the fort. One day my son came home from school and went outside to play. He soon came running inside and yelled at me to come with him. The fort had been torn down, left in a pile of broken boards. Nearby the developer’s machinery rumbled over the ground, flattening everything in its path. The boys were heartbroken, but we had a discussion about personal property. We didn’t own the land, so the developer had the right to prepare the ground and build a house. It didn’t occur to him to move the structure to our yard.

My son grew up, married, and had children of his own. Last year he built them a fort in the tree in his back yard. His daughters played and laughed in the tree house, and adults could come near if we brought snacks. Maybe this year, in the spirit of the season and to continue the tradition, they’ll add lights on the fort. And if we’re good and on our best behavior, maybe they’ll allow the adults to come inside.

My Nutcracker Died

By

weary nutcracker

The old soldier fell out of the ornament box and surrendered on the floor. His left arm finally rebelled against years of reapplied glue, and his right arm no longer felt secured under the yellowed scotch tape. A boot was missing, his mouth no longer opened, and his cracker wouldn’t crack. I could relate in so many ways.

I imagined hearing the sad military song “TAPS” playing somewhere, and the sound probably came from the box of unwrapped musical toys I kept for the tree. The old nutcracker’s sentry duties were done after standing at attention on the mantel every December for more than 20 years. Packed and unpacked, moved, stored, dusted, taped, glued, and then perched into position, he watched as the small children grew up, moved away, and then brought children of their own to play in front of the fireplace. He maintained his sturdy composure, a favorite fixture in the background throughout decades of Christmas photographs.

I picked up the sentimental soldier and determined he was beyond repair. I suspected the other decorations had been grumbling about his declining health because obviously he couldn’t see or hear very well, and he probably fell asleep during his watch. The angel in the snow globe shook her head and scattered her irritation like bits of frosty frowns, the wise men in the Nativity scene muttered that he should retire and ride off on a camel, and even durable Mr. Bill cried, “Oh, no!” and wondered why the character continued to perch on the mantel year after year when there were so many younger decorations waiting their turn.

What happens to old nutcrackers? To my knowledge he had never cracked a nut and I wondered if his entire life had been a fraud. Or, maybe he accepted his lofty position on the mantel, content to come out for one month every year and guard the family. I didn’t want to throw him away in the garbage or keep him in the bottom of the ornament box with the cluttered, broken debris. After serious contemplation, I devised a list of suggestions for how to properly retire a dead nutcracker.

  1. Resist the urge to throw him into the fireplace in front of the children. This unacceptable behavior could lead to expensive counseling bills.
  2. Don’t tell the grandkids a mushy story like the Velveteen Nutcracker. There is no way he can be rubbed, loved, or cajoled into humanity.
  3. Don’t be tempted to donate him to the local ballet for a future performance of “The Nutcracker.” They probably have bins and boxes full of dead nutcrackers.
  4. Don’t give him to the local gun club for target practice. We’re desperately trying to avoid the current plethora of inflammatory issues so we’ll play it safe with snow globes and candy canes.
  5. Here’s the only answer: Glue and duct-tape all the parts together, tie a bow around his neck, and give him to the grandchildren. Then their parents have to deal with him.

According to German folklore, nutcrackers were given as keepsakes to bring good luck and to protect the family home. The legend says that a nutcracker represents power and strength and serves like a trusty watch dog guarding the family from evil spirits and danger. My nutcracker performed his duties for two decades, and we were safe. To honor my dead soldier, I toasted him with a mug of Christmas cheer. It was only sensible to toast him 20 times.

Published Today on HuffPo and Midlife Boulevard

By

Two of my essays were published today on two wonderful sites: Huffington Post and Midlife Boulevard:

 

The Day I Totally Nailed It

On Midlife Boulevard, I tell the true but agonizing tale of the time my toenails plopped into my soup at an exclusive private club.

toes in water

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elaine-ambrose/candy-trains_b_6276154.html

 

On Huffington Post 50, I describe our 30-year-old family tradition of making candy trains.

candy trains e and a

Sweet Traditions with Candy Trains

By

candy trains e and a

Mix three wonderful items – kids, Christmas, and candy – and create some fun and lasting memories by making candy trains. They are magic because they disappear before New Year’s Eve.

We first made candy trains more than thirty years ago when my two children were toddlers. Now, their children and I meet on a Saturday each December to make trains.  It’s a tradition that gets better every year. The mothers and I have added a new ritual that makes everything more festive: we enjoy a glass of wine while the little ones concentrate on frosting and candy. By the end of the day, everyone is happy. Sugar rush? Who cares?

candy trains 3 crop

Candy trains make wonderful holiday centerpieces, and they’re also fun gifts for neighbors and friends. To make trains and traditions of your own, you’ll need the following supplies:

Cardboard

Tinfoil and tape

A few cans of white frosting

Strings of red licorice

Candy: M&Ms, unwrapped candy bars, unwrapped round red and white mints, chocolate kisses, life savers, square mints in foil, anything else you want. (Frozen leftovers from Halloween work well.)

Cut up a cardboard box and tape several sturdy pieces together for the platform. Cover it with tinfoil and tape on the bottom to secure.

Spread white frosting on the cardboard for snow. Place two strips of licorice over the frosting for the tracks. Squish one candy bar into the frosting near the end of the platform. Cut a candy bar in half and “glue” with frosting to the top of the first candy bar. See the engine taking shape?

Now, glue the round wheels onto the candy bar. Glue M&Ms into the center of each wheel. Glue a chocolate kiss onto the front for the cow catcher. Use unwrapped lifesavers on the engine for the smoke stack. Repeat with more cars, adding wheels and more candy. Allow the children to create their own masterpieces. We’re talking about future engineers here! You may need to establish parameters ahead of time: the designers only can eat four pieces of candy and four tastes of the frosting during the assembly.

After the edible art is finished, everyone celebrates with hot cocoa. Then the kids can proudly take home their trains to display on the kitchen counter. If you have a cat, you may need to cover the train or leave the cat outside until January. (In case defensive pet lovers don’t know, that was a joke.)

candy trains 1

Over the next few days, the train gradually disappears. One M&M is missing, a chocolate kiss disappears, and then a chunk of candy bar is gone. How does that happen? As we all know, the season is full of mystery and magic, and it makes me happy to watch my children and their children enjoy a special family tradition. After we tuck the little ones into bed, we often stand and gaze at them sleeping and imagine visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads. Somewhere, I can hear Tiny Tim saying, “God bless us. Every one!”

 

A Visit from Aunt Flo: A Spotty History of Menstruation

By

flying panty liiner

 

Men can get away with belching contests, lighting farts, and peeing on the golf course. Women bleed every month for 40 years and suffer from moodiness, cramps, bloating, and pain. Personally, I’d rather trade activities with the men.

Polite and proper society never discusses menstruation, even though millions of women are having their periods right now. It’s rarely portrayed in books, movies, or television shows, as if the natural phenomenon is too bloody awful to handle. Can you imagine if the character of a brave female astronaut or an intrepid pioneer woman or a sexy cabaret singer had to stop and fumble in her purse for a tampon? That would add a new meaning to the term “Ragtime.”

Many of us middle-aged women never received adequate information about having periods. Our bashful mothers handed us the blue Kotex box, an elastic belt, and a pamphlet with serious phrases such as:

“You’re going to be a woman now, even though you’re only 10.”

“You will bleed every month for several decades from the Don’t-Touch Area.”

“There could be intense cramping, debilitating pain, and personal embarrassment, but no one wants to talk about it. Especially boys.”

Nothing to fear, right? Our mother also worried about our ability to remain fresh and clean “down there.” Ads from the fifties warned a woman that feminine odor could end their marriage! So, get out the Lysol and douche “the vaginal canal” if you want domestic bliss. Then you could use Lysol to clean the bathroom and really please your man.

lysol ad for feminine odor

At least we were better prepared with our daughters, and we gave them Judy Blume’s wonderful 1970 book titled Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. Our daughters could identify with the excellent fictional account of a young girl having her first period. Of course, the book was banned in several schools and libraries because it was “sexually offensive and immoral.” We’ve not progressed too far from medieval times when it comes to discussing periods.

In researching various websites including the Museum of Menstruation and Mental Health, http://www.mum.org/MenstHut.htm, and a witty blog at www.Periodfairy.blogspot.com,I discovered some interesting facts about menstruation. I’ve added my own irreverent interpretation.

  1. In fertile females, their body prepares for pregnancy every month, and when that doesn’t happen, the uterus sheds its lining through blood and tissue. Missing a period can bring joy or fear, depending upon how much the woman wants to be pregnant.
  2. During Biblical times, menstruating women were considered ritually impure and were required to be physically separated from men for the entire time they were bleeding. The men, meanwhile, continued to get drunk and kill each other.
  3. In England during the 1800s, The British Medical Journal published an article stating that menstruating women were medically unable to pickle meat, and in France, women on their periods couldn’t work in sugar refineries because they would spoil the food. And men wonder why we get moody! Go pickle your own damn meat.

kotex ad 1921

4. The first commercial sanitary pads were produced in the early 1900s, and an advertisement in 1921 showed women caring for a wounded soldier because in World War I, French nurses noted that cellulose bandages used to treat wounds absorbed blood better than plain cotton. The Kotex ad rationalized that if the product was good enough for the military, it was good enough for mere women.

kotex ad 1941

  1. Twenty years later in 1941, Kotex tossed the dutiful caretaker message and went straight for the gossiping women in swimsuits, and the caption, in discreet parentheses of course, said “The girls are talking about Tampons.” Those scamps not only removed their humble nurse’s outfits, they showed legs! Just imagine the fun times women had back then as they lolled around secretly chatting about tampons.

unmarried girls use tampons 1962

It only took another 21 years in 1962 for Pursettes brand of tampons to assure women that unmarried girls could safely and morally use their product. Apparently, there was fear that tampons would remove the virgin status of women, and as everyone knew, all unmarried women were virgins.

  1. Some cultures continue to penalize women. In the mountains of Nepal, menstruation is regarded as unclean so women are banished to small, bare huts. They should just accept their fate and plan a relaxing staycation.
  2. In sharp contrast, several Native American cultures consider a woman in menses to be at the height of her natural powers, and the Lakota tribe wouldn’t allow a menstrual woman to come near the warriors because they feared her power would weaken their strength. Well played, Lakota women.
  3. Menstruation will end when a woman reaches a certain age or has a complete hysterectomy. A hysterectomy that removed the ovaries can also result in immediate menopause, which brings a whole new collection of maladies, including moodiness, night sweats, exhaustion, forgetfulness, weight gain, and hair loss. But, look on the bright side. The money saved by not buying feminine products can go for therapy and/or wine.

Call it a visit from Aunt Flo or The Curse or being On the Rag, women have survived their time of the month for thousands of years. They will continue to do so, because they’re so tough and powerful. Just ask the Lakota. Being fierce is admirable, but every now and then I secretly imagine what it would be like to have belching contests and light farts.

 

 

 

 

Are You a Victim of CRAP on the Internet?

By

??????????????

I have CRAP Disease, a malady that stands for Compulsive Reader of Angry Posts. I know that certain messages on social media will cause sniveling trolls to wake from their burrow in the basement to slobber over their keyboards, grunt with excitement, and feverishly hurl illiterate, nasty, and incoherent comments. I start to read them anyway, even though I’ll regret seeing proof that colossal fools live among us and threaten to rot the fragile fabric of civilization.

CRAP disease can infest your soul and leave you a cynical, bitter wretch full of CRAP. Be careful, or you also could become a victim.

Here’s how to determine if you’re susceptible to becoming a Compulsive Reader of Angry Posts.

  1. You read comments that others leave on online news articles. Big mistake. Trolls think they know more than elected officials, trained media personnel, and educated professionals. Facts aren’t necessary. They will write just to infect you because they love being full of CRAP and want to share.
  2. You are uncontrollably attracted to comments that include multiple exclamation points!!! Yes, the writer really, really, really wants to shout at strangers. Fight the urge to debate or you’ll end up with CRAP.
  3. You are fascinated with public display of ignorance. We’ve all chuckled at the vitriolic comment that says, “Your an idiot!” Proper grammar and maturity aren’t priorities to people full of CRAP.
  4. You feel a need to help stupid people. Sometimes you’ll gently correct a grammatical or factual error written by someone with limited understanding of basic communication skills. That is another mistake. They will turn on you like a pack of rabid dogs and not let go until you are forced to destroy all your social media accounts, set fire to all your computers and Internet devices, move to a foreign country, and hang a CRAP quarantine sign on your door. If you have a door.
  5. You are a blogger. Beware of the inherent dangers if you post a saucy, 600-word essay on a popular website. The trolls will foam at the mouth and you can almost feel the spray of spit as they pound out snarky remarks besmirching your character, your talent, and your ancestors. Reacting to these comments only will propel you onto the slippery slope toward the cesspool of CRAP.

If you need a CRAP fix, you can dabble in the occasional comment, but be ready to take some vomit-inducing drugs to purge your mind and body of the offensive swill. For example, recently a local television news station posted a Facebook message about a tragic accident where a bicyclist had been hit and killed in traffic. Here is an excerpt from one of the prolific commenters:

“This is the worst state in the united stares…i have been driving sense i was 17…man you people are dumb as a bag rocks were did you get your licenses again bahahahahahaha”

I shouldn’t be so critical, but it’s remarkable to have that many errors in such a short comment. And, as usual, the troll snorted that the rest of us were as “dumb as a bag rocks.” Obviously, my CRAP sensor intensified after reading this and I needed medication to recover. I shut down the computer, poured a glass of wine, and enjoyed a quiet evening free from trolls. Bahahahahahaha.