Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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My Mother’s Body Got Lost

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I’m trying to plan my mother’s funeral, but we have a problem. We can’t find her.

My mother passed away Saturday after a long illness. I had all the funeral arrangements planned months in advance, so I was prepared when the inevitable happened. After she died, I contacted the proper authorities to transport her body 100 miles to her hometown of Wendell, Idaho for the funeral and burial. Some things don’t always go as planned. Two days later, we know that the body is gone from her assisted living facility but it’s not in Wendell. This is a cause for concern.

During the past few years, my mother has been lost in dementia. Even after moving her to a secure nursing home in Boise, there were times when I visited and couldn’t find her. The staff and I would search the facility and find her in someone else’s room and the two residents would be talking about their old times that never happened. No harm was done, and we gently, lovingly participated in their storytelling. But, I always knew she was somewhere inside the building.

Today I called the funeral home in Wendell and they hadn’t received the body. How do you lose a casket? I thought I had completed all the necessary arrangements, but I wasn’t familiar with the procedures for this dilemma. I used my inside voice and calmly requested that somebody do something. I called back an hour later and needed to employ my outside, aggressive tone. This last resort has been known to get immediate results and leave people trembling. I’m not proud of this trait, but it works.

At last, I received a call from Wendell that they had found her body still in Boise and the transportation was being arranged. A few hours later, I received a call that said she was near Bliss, a tiny village along the route.

“Of course she is,” I responded.

I hope she had a nice weekend and enjoyed having the last word. But, Mom, now it’s time to go home. Please.

Planning a funeral is similar to planning a wedding. Family and friends come together, some cry, music plays, and people wave goodbye. Except, at a funeral, the goodbye lasts a long time. This last momentary interruption is my mother’s way of telling me I’m not always in charge of everything. Somewhere, my parents are laughing.

 

 

 

Buried in the Nice Robe

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leona 1946

My mother died yesterday. She was 87 and her health had been failing for several years, she was confined to a wheelchair and lost in dementia. Her passing brought a wide range of feelings, from relief to sorrow. As her designated power of attorney, I had the duty to make the final arrangements.

“What do you want her to wear?” the gentle woman from Hospice asked as she took notes.

“The nice robe,” I answered. “With the pearl necklace.”

The woman stopped writing and peered at me, unsure of what I had suggested.

“You want her buried in a robe?”

So I told her why. In 1969, my father traveled to Japan on a business trip and brought back an elegant silk robe as a gift for my mother. They had been high school sweethearts; he was the gregarious student body president and she was the timid valedictorian. He wasn’t one for giving gifts, and she wasn’t comfortable accepting them.

Over the past 45 years, I have asked her why she never wore the robe, and her answer always was the same: “It’s too nice.”

That’s how she lived, protecting special objects in her life that she never felt worthy enough to enjoy. She never burned the fancy candles so they melted in storage. The good china dishes and silverware only came out at Thanksgiving and Christmas. And, she saved and reread every birthday and holiday card she ever received. (I have inherited this trait, and it’s a tough one to break.)

To arrange for her service, my to-do list is filled with complicated assignments. How do I get the headstone engraved? It’s been waiting at my father’s grave since 1989. How do I condense her amazing life into a 300-word obituary? Should I request that in lieu of flowers, people can contribute to the scholarship she established at the University of Idaho? The donation would be nice, but she also would love the flowers. She’d say she didn’t deserve them and they were too nice, but she would love flowers. The only easy decision I had to make was what she would wear for her final outfit. Two weeks ago, I had the robe professionally cleaned and ready.

She’ll be wearing the nice robe for the first time at her funeral service next week. And she’ll have on pearls. She always wore pearls, even with her favorite cozy sweatshirts ordered from the Country Living catalog. She’ll be beautiful.

 

Lifting Wine Glasses Counts as Exercise

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A new study recently published in the Journal of Physiology reports that drinking a glass of red wine can equate to an hour of exercise, so I can only assume that two glasses equal two hours at the gym. After consuming an entire bottle, I should be ready to power-lift a Buick, jump over tall buildings, and grow a beard.

Researchers discovered that a natural compound called resveratrol found in red wine could enhance exercise training and performance. The principal investigator for the study notes that resveratrol can also offer the same benefits achieved through working out. To commemorate this important advancement in medical science, I raise the appropriate wide-bowled glass, swirl, sniff, taste, and toast the good news. The celebration pairs nicely with some Brie and crackers.

I’ve already sent a nice thank you note to the research team responsible for helping me choose between sweating at the gym next to fat-free females or lounging on my patio with a bold Cabernet. I’m still trying to lose the baby fat that hung around after my last child was born. I hope there’s no time limit on that excuse because my son now is grown and has kids of his own.

I’ve honestly tried to exercise and have several colorful outfits, coordinated shoes, and a dusty collection of DVDs, resistance bands, and hand weights. Alas, my ambitious attempts to get fabulously fit always fail from being too feisty. Once I tripped over a wayward barbell and broke my foot, and another time I leaped into a speed skater contortion, momentarily defying gravity with the grace of a bounding gazelle but then landed with the impact of a drunk hippopotamus. As a result, I tore the meniscus in my knee and cracked a bone. I concluded that the benefits of sipping wine far outweighed the potential hazards associated with the jungle of the gym. From now on, my only six-pack will come with bottles.

Common sense and medical research tell me to curb the enthusiasm, continue doing regular moderate exercises, and celebrate pain-free with a glass or two of red wine. Please join me as we put down the jump rope and skip to the wine cabinet. Do it for your health, and then daydream that some dedicated scientist now is studying the benefits of warm pie with ice cream. Cheers!

 

How to Speak in Public without Puking on the Podium

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I’m often asked to give keynote speeches to various groups because I have a gift for bullshit and I can use silly finger puppets and a bag of cheap props to make even the crabbiest audience laugh for a few minutes. Every public speaker has inevitable worries: Will they laugh at my jokes? Do they understand three-syllable words? Am I going to have explosive diarrhea?

Counting the live and televised audience, more than 10,000 people heard my commencement address at the University of Idaho. I’d like to think that I encouraged and motivated them to use their talents to achieve greatness, take risks, and live with an attitude of gratitude. In reality, the graduates were taking notes about how to hook up after the ceremonies, and the parents were planning where to get the best gin and tonics.

My most difficult speech occurred several years ago with a group of serious engineers at the corporate headquarters of Tectronix in Portland, Oregon. I could tell by their body language that they resented attending the workshop so I distributed finger puppets and within 20 minutes they were laughing and singing rounds with their puppets. For a brief moment in time, I helped them lighten up, reduce stress, and transfer their anxieties, and I suspect many of them haven’t laughed out loud since then.

The podium can be seductive. Here are some tips for speaking in public without puking:

  1.  Have a mighty message. Your audience is giving up 30 minutes of their lives to hear you speak, so don’t waste their time. Know your message and believe it will make a powerful impact on them. If you don’t like or endorse your talk, why should they?
  2.  Speak with authority. Repeat your speech out loud in front of a mirror until you’re sick of it. Then revise the bullet points as you’re driving to the event. Then make note of the audience and adapt as necessary. Extemporaneous adlibs create memorable moments that can either destroy your credibility or propel you to greatness. What could go wrong?
  3. Arrive early and stay sober. Try the podium and microphone, double-check any equipment you will be using, casually meet other attendees, and find some characters and stories you can use or exploit in your speech.
  4. Go to the bathroom. Trust me.
  5. Anticipate problems. Electric power could go out, the Master of Ceremonies may not have your biography, some obnoxious drunks could heckle you, there’s always a jerk who doesn’t turn off a cellphone, babies will cry, a waiter will drop a tray of dessert, your brain could freeze, and a chubby salesman from Toledo will be winking at you from the front row. Ignore all of these distractions.
  6. Connect with your audience. The old method was to scan the room, corner to corner, during a presentation. It’s more effective to make eye contact with and address separate individuals throughout the group and speak directly to them. This creates an intimate bond with the entire audience.
  7.  Open and close like a preacher at a tent revival meeting. Hook the audience with humorous anecdotes at the start of your talk and then close with bigger, better, and funnier stories at the end. Make them want to jump up and yell “Hallelujah! You changed my life!” That may be a stretch, but it’s a good goal to visualize.
  8. Volunteer to give speeches. Civic organizations and clubs need guest speakers. They may not pay anything, but you’ll gain experience and name recognition. Each completed presentation boosts your self-confidence and leads to additional opportunities. The local garden club is non-threatening, unless you insult their salad. Don’t do that.

Over the decades, I’ve given hundreds of speeches. Some were brilliant, some sucked. But never has anyone thrown rotten vegetables at me, or walked out, or hissed that my words were straight from the devil. My intent is to deliver words that enlighten, humor, and inform. I’m just a woman with a microphone and they’re regular people who had to pay for a babysitter or take time off work so I better add some value for their efforts. If I do it right, the added value will be mine, also.

 

 

 

 

Fart Blog Featured on Huffington Post

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http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elaine-ambrose/dont-fart-during-an-mri_b_6044578.html?utm_hp_ref=comedy&ir=Comedy

 

October 27, 2014

 

FEATURED BLOG POSTS

 

Don’t Fart During an MRI

I share this true but pathetic story to commiserate with other tortured souls who relentlessly endure and survive extreme humiliation. We’re a group of accident-prone fools who regularly trigger embarrassing situations that would permanently traumatize a normal person.

Elaine Ambrose

Author, syndicated blogger, featured humor speaker, publisher, and retreat organizer knows that laughter – with wine – is the best medicine.

 

A Love Note to my Internet Trolls

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internet troll crop (2)

As a syndicated blogger, I’m accustomed to receiving unsolicited remarks about my posts on various social media websites. Regular readers know I write humor targeted to middle-aged women, and they anticipate a certain level of sassy irreverence. It’s a role I enjoy, mainly because I can write from home while wearing pajamas and sipping wine.

The last few days, however, brought new extremes of praise and punishment for my writing skills. The copious compliments were tempered with caustic criticism, almost enough to crush my delicate soul.

Four of my essays were published last week on the Huffington Post. My only serious piece was about my ailing mother and titled “If My Mother Died Today.” http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elaine-ambrose/caring-for-elderly-parents_b_5979904.html

The post received almost 1,000 favorable likes on Facebook and many middle-aged caregivers wrote to thank me for giving a voice to their feelings.

In the essay, I wrote about playing Tennessee Ernie Ford’s spiritual music for my mother when she was in critical condition in the hospital. I ended the piece with Ford’s familiar saying, “Bless your pea pickin’ heart.” The next day I received a touching email from Ford’s daughter-in-law. She loved the blog and offered to send me some of Ford’s spiritual music. I requested “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” one of my favorites. She responded that she was sending a 40-song collection. I am honored and humbled.

The next day, Huffington Post featured my humorous post titled “Why Small Print Makes us See Red.”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elaine-ambrose/small-print_b_5989416.html

The message was an exasperated, satirical plea for manufacturers to increase the size of print on products so middle-aged women wouldn’t need to wear eyeglasses in the shower to decipher the shampoo from the conditioner. The responses came immediately. One person offered to send me a free pair of “Thinoptics” – a pair of reader glasses in a cell phone case. I accepted. Another offered me a deal on Lasik eye surgery. I declined.

The essay received more than 2,600 likes on Facebook, 344 shares and 160 comments. I’ve only been blogging on HuffPo for a month, so the response was exciting. But I was unprepared for the vitriolic assaults. Here are some of the published comments:

“This was supposed to be humorous? Well, keep on trying.”

“”Another female problem to kvetch about.”

“We already cater too much to Boomers.”

“This was humor?”

Additional comments deteriorated into attacks about misplaced priorities, gay rights, and trolls living in basements. I answered a few but then stopped because I didn’t want to get down to their level. I peeked back the next day and found more than 100 positive comments, so I felt better. Still, I wondered what possessed a man (yes, most of the mean comments were from men) to make nasty comments on a humor column targeted to middle-aged women. With all due respect, bless your pea pickin’ hearts but take your sorry asses and go troll somewhere else.