Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Do You have an End-of-Life Plan?

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I’m going to die. Probably not today, but someday. A few of my surviving relatives would prefer to toss my dead body into the river and celebrate with a party, but I’ve made legal arrangements for my proper burial. There still will be a glorious celebration.

End-of-Life Policy

I have a policy through Bankers Life Insurance that pays $15,000 at my death. The beneficiary is a cute guy I call Studley, and we have similar policies between us. If he goes before I do, my son will receive the money. I trust him to find a cheap but unused casket and haul me to the Wendell Cemetery to be buried next to my parents in Section 18, Block 2. He can spend the rest of the money on an elaborate party with festive live music, tables laden with copious quantities of delicious food, and an open bar with the best drinks and fine wine. There will be laughter, storytelling, and gallant toasts to my memory. Loud sobbing and mournful wailing will be permitted on an intermittent basis. He can keep the change.

Pre-Paid Plot

My instructions are written and included in my Will, and burial expenses will be minimal. My father bought several cemetery plots in 1959 for my siblings, my mother, himself, and me. I’m the only one still alive. A few years ago, I commissioned a bench to honor my parents and brothers, and the bench will be my headstone. Per my written instructions, my first name will be engraved before Ambrose and the dates of birth and death will be added. Easy assignment. Cue the band and start the party.

Insurance Gamble

My end-of-life insurance policy costs $90 a month. If I get hit with a wine truck and die tomorrow, the insurance company loses almost $15,000. But, I’ll be dead so I won’t care. However, I resemble my paternal grandmother, and she lived to be 92 and still worked crossword puzzles until the day she died. If I live that long, the monthly payments will exceed $15,000, and the insurance company would be reimbursed plus gain additional profit. To break even, I need to die within 15 years. I’m good with that because I’ve had a splendid, abundant, and spirited life. I’m grateful.

Have a plan.

My sweet mother was in hospice care twice, and each time I organized the plans for her funeral. The process was painful. I hope to reduce the stress for my loved ones by having everything arranged and pre-paid. Their only concern will be who gets my prized collection of finger puppets and clown noses. I hope they don’t fight.

 

 

 

How to Creatively Write Your Story

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Join me Saturday, March 20! I’ll be live and lovable on Zoom at 11:40 am Mountain Standard Time for a 30-minute presentation. (That’s 1:40 pm on the East Coast and 10:40 am in Nevada.)

Storytellers Toastmasters Club in Las Vegas, Nevada invites you to join us this Saturday, March 20, at 10:00 a.m. Pacific time for a very special workshop:

HOW TO CREATIVELY WRITE YOUR STORY

Hosted by Elaine Ambrose, author of 12 books, 8 eBooks, and 4 audiobooks.
 She will explain:

1) How your journey is your story because you are a walking storybook.
2) How to organize, outline, and write your stories.
3) How to package your message in blogs, magazine articles, eBooks, and/or books.

After Elaine’s presentation, she will answer questions and/or tell stories.

After 9:30 AM Pacific time, join the meeting by clicking on the link below from your laptop, computer, tablet, or smart phone.
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/83594683442?pwd=ZENDdEtPaEwxMDZMTWRxbDBUb0NLUT09


Meeting ID: 835 9468 3442
Passcode: 921209

A Naked Perspective from the Floor

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Last Friday, I fell while getting out of the shower, hit the hard tile floor with enough force to cause a seismic reaction, and damaged my ego and my well-worn body in less than two seconds. I hollered from the pain. The scene duplicated the well-known commercial of the woman who has fallen and can’t get up, except I didn’t have a camera crew to rescue me. I was alone, couldn’t reach my cell phone, and my husband was out of town on business and wouldn’t be home for eight hours. So, I laid on the floor, naked, wet, and shivering in agony, and thought of what I should do.

My first reaction was to assess the damage. When I moved, sharp pain tore through my left hip, rolled like hot barbed wire down my leg, and exploded through my knee like dancing devils – the same knee that endured surgery six years ago. My second reaction was to curse my foolishness. We had sold our house, and I had spent a month moving boxes, carrying items from upstairs in the former house, and loading and unloading heavy, bulky stuff. My legs were weak, but on Friday I was in a hurry to deliver the keys and garage door openers to the new owners. I dashed out of the shower and into a painful change of plans.

For the next thirty minutes on the floor, my mind wandered to various topics.

Death

I don’t fear death. I subscribe to the Death with Dignity organization in Oregon. I witnessed the painful deaths of my family members who suffered from long illnesses, dementia, and cancer. If I can’t remember my children’s names or if I’m diagnosed with a fatal illness, I’m not opposed to having a party and a pill. However, I hope to die like my Grandma Ambrose. She was 92 and sitting in her favorite chair working a crossword puzzle when she passed from a sudden heart attack. That scenario contains more dignity than dying naked and alone on the bathroom floor of a rented house.

Life

I’m grateful for a splendid life with only a few broken bones and jagged daggers in my back. I’ve lived more years than my father and both brothers. Letters on my license plate are an abbreviation of “Carpe Diem” for “Seize the Day.” I’m still seizing, although a bit slower.

Downsize Dilemmas

If I didn’t own so much crap, I wouldn’t need to move it, and it wouldn’t hurt my legs and back. The rental house we moved into is 60% smaller than the house we sold, so I donated furniture and other items, gave away family possessions, put furniture on consignment, and hauled countless bags of garbage to the dump. Still, I’ve filled a double garage with stuff. As I laid on the floor, I vowed, if I survived, to continue the purge.

Admitting Vulnerability

I was helpless, and I didn’t like that reality. There’s something humbling about being a chubby, naked, older, injured woman alone on the floor. It wasn’t my best look. So, while admitting I needed help, I opted for the only available choice: I prayed. I asked God to help me because I have faith in the power of prayer. I knew my guardian angels were weary and wanted to fly away to live on a tropical island, but I asked for them to give me strength. Slowly, I managed to sit up. I couldn’t move on the left side, but I could scoot on my right hip and pull myself with my arms. I moved into the closet to find clothes. It took an hour to get dressed, but I felt like an Olympic champion.

Call 911

I pulled myself to the counter and used a clothes hanger to reach my cell phone to call 911. I wanted to make it easy for paramedics, so I scooted to the front door and unlocked it. I held my purse with my driver’s license and medical cards and waited on the floor. The ambulance arrived and the paramedics examined my leg. After a lengthy evaluation, I decided to stay home. Waiting for hours in an emergency room on a Friday was not an attractive option. They wheeled my office chair to the hallway, helped me sit, and drove away. In hindsight, I joked too much so they probably didn’t take me seriously.

Diagnosis

Over the weekend, I remained in my office chair with an ice machine hooked to my knee and tried to get an appointment with my doctor. My husband made meals and cleaned the dishes, which was a great way to offset the pain. By Monday, the pain was stronger. I called and used my outside voice to demand to see my doctor. I drove myself to the appointment, struggled on crutches to get into the office, and received the first set of Xrays. My doctor arranged for an MRI, and the images revealed torn ligaments behind my knee, soft tissue injury in my leg, and damage to the gluteus medius muscle underneath my left buttock. The doctor said to rest for several weeks, ice the leg, and wait for the pending surgery (again) on my knee. I usually don’t follow orders, but I agreed.

Ruined Vacation

We had scheduled a week’s vacation starting March 11 in Scottsdale, Arizona with my son, his wife, and their darling daughter. Plans included golfing, going to the Zoo, enjoying fine dining, and relaxing in the cocktail pool of the rented house. Now, they’ll have the house to themselves, and I’ll toast them from my office chair.

There are several lessons to be learned from this latest episode of my crazy life. Slow down. Focus on strength and good health. Eliminate clutter. Ask for help. Allow a cute guy to make dinner. And, pray. On a positive note, now I have time to finish my next humorous book for women. Ironically, it’s titled Midlife Reboot – Humorous Stories of Rest, Resilience, and Renewal.”

(I know I’m not midlife, unless I live to be 138, but this title finishes the trilogy after Midlife Cabernet and Midlife Happy Hour.)

Valentine’s Day: Go Laugh with Your Lover

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What’s the best gift for Valentine’s Day? A belly laugh. Not a wimpy snicker or a timid giggle, but a full-body experience that is triggered in the brain, rumbles up from the gut, and erupts with an emotional release that causes eyes to water, noses to run, and feet to stomp. This display of delight should be repeated as often as possible, but not while driving or carrying a full martini.

Studley and I were in our fifties when we met and married, so we didn’t need to focus on the demands of establishing careers and raising children together. We just get to play house and stay active enough to chase each other around the hot tub. We’ve discovered the joy of living out loud, and that includes, but is not limited to, spontaneous bouts of laughter.

Laughing during our Greek Wedding

One of my favorite photographs shows us laughing during our wedding on the Greek island of Paros. I look like a disheveled sack of spuds because it was windy by the chapel on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean Sea and my hair was a mess. We had an Ancient Greek ceremony so we wore bulky linen togas tied with a rope, and by the time the photograph was taken, my laurel wreath had gone with the wind. And the photo shows the hands of a little, one-eyed musician playing a goat bladder. But, I’m laughing. With gusto.

The world continues to turn like a smoldering compost pile, and sometimes it’s difficult to find something that causes laughter. I recommend watching a comedy or reading a humorous book or watching toddlers play. When my children were little, we would watch the I Love to Laugh song in the Mary Poppins video and repeat the scene several times until we were gasping in fits of giggles. Chuckling with children is almost as much fun as laughing with your lover.

I don’t go to movies that are excessively violent or scary because the images fill my imagination with terrible thoughts that haunt me for months, and I’m trying to reduce the time I spend watching or reading the news. Last week I watched a crime drama on television that gave me nightmares and I woke up yelling. I’d much rather wake up laughing. Studley agrees with that fact.

Some women have a fear of boisterous laughter because guffawing makes them snort or wet their pants. I don’t see any problems with that. By midlife we either accept that our bodies will betray and embarrass us on a daily basis or we go live in the basement and watch sad movies. It takes brave risk-takers to open up and hoot with wild abandon. Besides, laughter is good for your health. Studies show that regular laughing boosts your immune system, oxygenates your blood, tightens your stomach muscles, and releases healthy chemicals in your brain that improve your mood. Happiness really is the best medicine.

In case you’ve forgotten how to laugh, try this technique:

1. Squint your eyes.

2. Pull your mouth into a tight grin

3. .Make a high squeal then lower your voice and make a series of “Ha, Ha, Ha.”

4. Rock back and forth.

5. Repeat several times.

If that doesn’t make you chuckle, it certainly will amuse those around you. And, that’s a good start. Make it a noble goal to laugh several times a week and you’ll discover that more people want to be around you. Stock up on crackers, cheese, and wine because there are hoards of miserable people searching for laughter. It’s your duty to share the joy.

Algorithms aren’t Amusing

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I’m a goofy grandmother from Idaho who enjoys making humorous memes. The only profit I receive or want is from laughs and likes from readers. I recently posted a meme on Facebook and Instagram, and the super-sensitive censors on Instagram instantly slapped a warming on it. A few people said my meme was removed from their timeline. Here is the horrible, offensive meme:

In my opinion, a good story, joke, or meme requires three elements: fact, irony, and a funny punch line. My meme was based on fact: I was in the Liquor Store (on research) and noticed a sign limiting tonic water to four bottles. I asked the clerk why, and he said because a rumor on social media said the ingredient in tonic water prevented or cured the C-virus. (I’m not spelling the name because there are rooms full of investigating spies who follow instructions to doom anyone who posts a joke about said disease.)

I went home with my gin and precious tonic and researched. Yes, I found the claim is untrue, so I wrote in my meme that it was a myth. I ended with a humorous line. That’s it. No one was injured, insulted, or misled by my meme. But, it still has a disclaimer attached.

One of my favorite comedians, George Carlin, would not have existed in this punitive climate of humor judges on social media. Without irony and satire, we’re slowly becoming compliant and complacent robots marching to the beat of a crabby drummer.

I will continue to make my memes until my accounts are deleted by some nefarious computer algorithm hiding in the dark bowels of social media. In the words of Aunt Olga, one of my favorite meme characters, “I no give a sheet.”

Here are some of my favorite memes:

It’s All Greek to Me

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Studley and I got married on the Greek island of Paros. To plan for the event, I tried to copy the wedding scene from the movie “Mamma Mia!” but we didn’t want to sing to each other on a narrow, windy ledge overlooking the sea. He can’t sing, and I can’t swim.

We chose a safe but picturesque chapel beside the Mediterranean Sea. After our ancient Greek wedding, we enjoyed a week on Paros. One day we took the bus to Noussa, a dusty old fishing village on the far side of the island. The travel guide had warned of primitive conditions, so we weren’t shocked when we noticed a group of fishermen casually talking to each other as they urinated off the public dock into the water.

Ancient Greek wedding in a chapel overlooking the Mediterranean

Their catch of the day hung from wooden racks: flat silver fish with sharp teeth, round black fish with white eyes, squid with wispy tendrils of upended suction cups. Water lapped around edges of the creaking wooden docks as we maneuvered around the pier.

We walked through the narrow maze of rugged stone streets past whitewashed buildings, tiny shops, lazy cats sleeping in the sun, and window boxes laden with colorful flowers. The aromas of incense, tobacco, and wild roses perfumed the air. We stopped at a sidewalk cafe near the ocean and ordered sharp cheese, crusty bread with olive oil, and tepid beer. Hand gestures were our method of communication.

When traveling, I try to locate water closets (bathrooms) with the same zeal that I search for ancient castles and new wine bars. Noussa was becoming a bit of a challenge, and by late afternoon, I regretted drinking the second beer. We entered a small grocery store tended by a matronly, black-toothed woman.

“Toualéta?” I asked, using the appropriate word from my Greek phrase book. The woman shook her head, apparently not understanding.

“Baño?” I implored, holding both palms up. No response.

Finally, with a bit of urgency, I showed my travel packet of toilet paper and plunked down a euro coin on the wooden counter. Currency remained the universal form of communication.

“Ah,” she replied, nodding her head. She took a broken pencil and drew a simple map on the back of my notebook. She had a mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes.

“Evcharisto! Thank you!” I said and hurried to follow the map like an eager explorer with directions to the Holy Grail. I found the public water closet, a tiled room with two foot rests and a hole in the ground. I’d seen similar accommodations on a previous journey through India and knew strong thigh muscles were necessary. At least this was an improvement over the practice of the Ancient Greeks who used a toilet in public as a sign of nobility. There wasn’t a sink, so I washed my hand with the wipes I carry – almost as necessary as my passport.

Later, we hiked back to the bus stop and passed the woman’s shop. I waved to her.

“Good-bye,” she called in English. “Have a nice evening.”

We laughed at her apparent knowledge of the English language. We learned to never underestimate a foreign shopkeeper with a twinkle in her eye and an eagerness to accept a valuable euro coin. She must be a distant relative.

#amwriting, #Greece, #euro, #restroom, #travel,