Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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A Marvelous and Melancholy Very Good Year

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I’m in the autumn of the year
And now I think of my life as vintage wine
From fine old kegs,
From the brim to the dregs,
And it poured sweet and clear,
It was a very good year.

These lyrics are from the nostalgic song “It Was a Very Good Year” composed by Ervin Drake in 1961 and made famous by Frank Sinatra. The song meanders through my mind as I contemplate my 68th birthday today. I’ll never again experience such a year as it brought extortionary happiness tempered with bitter heartache.

At home, I’m immersed in life with a good man who loves me and supports my weirdness. I’m close with my son and his family and with my stepson. This year my career surpassed expectations with multiple writing awards, speaking opportunities, and success with my new memoir Frozen Dinners. After my publisher, Brown Books Publishing Group, sold the audio rights, I completed the narration at a professional sound studio in Los Angeles. The book and eBook became bestsellers and received a writing award for memoir from the Independent Press Awards. The audiobook will be released September 10.

I received the third consecutive writing award for humor from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists and Bloggers, and came in second to Pulitzer Prize Winner Anthony Doerr in the Best of Treasure Valley contest for best author.

My short story was selected for a humor anthology titled Laugh Out Loud that features 40 of the best writers from the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop and won a national award for humor. My children’s book, The Magic Potato, won a silver medal writing award from the Moonbeam Children’s Book Awards. I spoke at several local writing workshops, at a private retreat in Sun Valley, at my 50th high school reunion, and at a national convention in Missouri. I’m also publishing a children’s book for a friend.

Distribution and Sales Make Frozen Dinners a bestseller.

Frozen Dinners is selling in hardcover edition in local bookstores including Rediscovered Books in Boise and Iconoclast Books in Hailey, on Barnes & Noble, Amazon, Walmart, Target.

The eBook is available on Kobo, Apple ITunes, NOOK, Google Play, and Amazon.
The audiobook is on Libro.fm and Audible.


My husband and I moved into a home on a golf course and I sold our home and cabin. I started a massive remodeling project that included new interior paint on ceilings and walls, new carpet, window coverings, lighting, and 1,500-square-feet of hardwood flooring. I started an outdoor landscaping project that featured a saloon built with 100-year-old timbers from a potato cellar, two fire pits, an outdoor kitchen, a 10-foot custom bar, hidden drawers for bottles of booze, and custom furniture. The landscape design included hundreds of pavers, plants, and new trees.

Volunteer activities remain an important part of my life. The trishaw I sponsored for the local chapter of Cycling Without Age is regularly used at area assisted living facilities and brings joy to senior citizens. The annual Ambrose Storytelling Endowment is underway at the University of Idaho and provides an annual workshop with grants for faculty and students, and I was a sponsor for the annual writer’s conference organized by the Idaho Writers Guild.

Heartache that Won’t Heal

So, how can I be melancholy about my life? I didn’t hear from a close family member on my birthday or on any other important event during the year. She estranged me in June of 2018 and refuses to speak to me. Her husband sent me a text message saying never to contact them again. The painful shunning and untrue labels of me being “toxic” seem to come from an amateur therapist’s handbook on how to use the latest psychobabble to destroy people. Unfortunately, this family member is teaching her children to be vindictive and judgmental. These are not the values instilled by our hearty ancestors who walked the Oregon Trail, fought in World War ll, and turned sagebrush into fertile farmland.

To add to the personal drama, my older brother, Tom, died in January at age 68. As I explained in my memoir, we had been estranged for 22 years. His widow didn’t include my name in the published obituary, so I wrote and published my own version with my name added. My parents and both brothers are gone. I pray my grandchildren can break the family tradition of estrangement and alienation.

I know I’ll never again experience such a year of highs, lows, and changes. I’m grateful for my husband, for my son and his family, for my stepson, and for all of my friends. Next year looks promising. I’ll be returning to Ireland to lead writing and storytelling workshops with a group called Wayfinding Women. I hope to write again and focus on positive opportunities.

For this 68th year, I intend to get better with age. As Sinatra once crooned, I think of my life as vintage wine…and it poured sweet and clear. It was a very good year.

Singing My Rendition of the Birthday Blues

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funny-older-lady-drinking

 

Today is my birthday, so I’ll take a pitiful look at the past and remember why I’m so grateful for the present. My childhood was far from fun because I was designated as a Problem Child Who Lacked the Ability to Conform. The following is an excerpt from my new book, Midlife Happy Hour.

 

I suspected at a young age that my parents didn’t like me. When I was five-years-old, they gave me scissors and told me to go outside and run around. Mom allowed me to ride in the front seat of her car, usually standing up without restraint. My dad introduced the family by saying, “I have two outstanding children. And Elaine.” My suspicions were confirmed when they dropped me off at college and sped away. I was on to them.

I was born as a total disappointment and retained that dubious distinction throughout my childhood. I survived next to my dead sister in my mother’s womb and should have been hailed as one tough little fighter, but no. After I emerged all ready to be adored and cuddled, my father shook his head and left the hospital as his exhausted wife meekly apologized for the transgression of having a girl. Even as a newborn baby, I must have sensed that it wasn’t cozy in my bright, new world because I wailed for an hour until some exasperated nurse shoved a bottle in my mouth. That powerful incident probably accounts for my future weight problems, and in all honesty, contributed significantly to my need as an adult to have some kind of bottle nearby.

When I was old enough to ask about my twin sister, my mother only commented that the baby had died sometime before birth. Two bassinets were waiting in the delivery room, but the first baby, named Arlene, was born dead. I could only imagine the utter dismay my father would have felt if he had wasted his time and energy on siring and supporting two female children. He probably would have hung black curtains over the door and lamented his misfortune over another glass of Crown Royal at the Silver Spur, the local saloon in the village of Wendell, Idaho. The grizzled men sitting around the bar would have nodded in solemn agreement through the smoke-filled room, mumbling with pity about his great calamity. In a small farming community, more sons meant more workers in the field.

“Too bad about them females,” ol’ Titus would mutter, a toothpick bobbing between his chapped lips as he spoke. “Can’t get much work out of a girl.”

“I suppose one would be tolerable,” I imagined my father answering. “The wife needs help during the canning season and she’s always behind with mending my socks. A girl could help with the household chores.”

“Remember what happened to Burt,” the bartender would mention as he wiped the sticky bar with a dirty cloth. “Had six headstrong girls and they all got themselves into trouble. I heard some of them moved to an apartment in Boise and got jobs. Can you imagine?” Heads would collectively shake in dismay and another round of shots would be ordered. Woe to the man who raised a herd of rebellious girls. Burt, an empty shell of a man, and his submissive wife eventually moved away and never returned.

A few years later, the same men at the bar cheered and passed cigars when my father proudly announced the grand and glorious birth of another son. Again, he was king of the county. The Crown Royal, the Deluxe Extra-Rare Edition, was passed around and backs were slapped in a manly manner.

circus clown

 

 

Over the years, much to my father’s irritation, I refused to accept my assigned status as a less desirable human. My rebellion began as a toddler when I refused to wear the dresses my mother sewed for me. Instead, I pulled on my brother’s clothes and preferred playing in mud to playing with dolls. By age five, I loved running outside and on more than one occasion I threw off my shirt so I could play Cowboys and Indians with my brothers and their friends. My mother would come yelling out the door, drag me inside, and punish me for showing off my flat chest. At the time, I couldn’t understand why only boys got to do fun things like remove their shirts and pee standing up.

At school, I never received any awards for good behavior. When my teachers said I acted like a clown, I said, “Thank you. Next show is at noon.”

Time didn’t temper my awkward nonconformity, but at least I had my creative brains to carry me through the judgmental hell of junior high school. Nerds didn’t need to worry about fashion or popularity contests because we were busy playing in the band, leading school organizations, and writing for the school newspaper. Actually, adult life didn’t turn out all that bad. At the last school reunion, the former popular kids were working for the nerds. Life can be sweet for a nonconformist.

 

Midlife Happy Hour is available for pre-order on Amazon.com. Order now, laugh soon.

The Seven Deadly Sins, Birthday Edition

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muppets birthday

My birthday comes with the advent of sweater-weather; when the foliage on the hillsides bursts into vibrant colors of golden-yellow, scarlet-red, and fire-orange. Overhead, the geese point their way south for warmer temperatures as the sun disappears earlier into the harvest horizon. I say with reflection and gratitude, “I’m so damn lucky to live through another summer!”

At my age, I don’t ignore the changing seasons. I relish one more chance to taste snowflakes on my tongue, witness the tender buds transform into dazzling blossoms, feel the smooth rocks as I wade barefoot in the stream, and hear the rustle of autumn leaves scattered by a cool breeze. One more year, one more journey around the sun. I raise my age-spotted hands and clap in wild abandon at my splendid fortune.

Because I’ve enjoyed more than six decades of birthdays, I’m entitled to convey some words of wisdom for all the younger people who are eager to be my age. Here’s my birthday rendition of The Seven Deadly Sins. The original list of vices appeared in the Old Testament of the Holy Bible and was inspired thousands of years ago, a few decades before I was born.

  1. Lust.In your sixties, you no longer crave greener grass, a bigger home, or a sexier lover because you’ll have more lawn to maintain, more house to insure and clean, and a handsome hunk might request that you shave your legs. No, you’re totally content to have a comfortable chair in a cozy den beside a middle-aged companion who still lights your fire and says you’re hot.
  2. Gluttony.By now, we know if we eat the entire birthday cake, our butt will grow big enough to block the sun. Moderation is best. Buy freezer bags.
  3. Greed. When I had a significant stock portfolio, I monitored it every day to see how much money I was making and panicked when the market fell by more than 100 points. I didn’t like the feeling, so I sold my stock and built a cabin in the mountains. I traded Blue Chips for blue skies and parked my assets on the porch.
  4. Sloth.With one simple rule, my hard-working ancestors and parents instilled a desire that made me hungry to work: No work, no dinner. I love a lazy afternoon with a good book, but I know and appreciate the fruits of labor.
  5. Wrath.Anger causes wrinkles, and I have enough. I prefer to cultivate a growing crop of laugh lines. I only get mad on the golf course, and then I erupt with a foul tirade that would shock the most hardened longshoreman. And, that’s only on the first tee-box. My new plan to avoid getting mad is to stay in the bar and let everyone else golf.
  6. Envy.Sometimes I see a beautiful woman who is so tall and tan and young and lovely she reminds me of the goddess in the song “Girl from Ipanema.” After all these years, I know there’s not a chance in hell I’ll ever look like that. So, I wear yoga pants, t-shirts, sunglasses, and a hat and feign sophistication. This eliminates all the annoying autograph seekers and pesky paparazzi.
  7. Pride.This deadly sin creates politicians, bullies, and the Kardashian family. The moment I think my crap doesn’t stink, I get a bout of intestinal flu that proves otherwise. However, I’m covertly proud of my man, my children, and my ability to know the difference between there, their, and they’re. When I really want to swagger, I edit articles that incorrectly use its, it’s, your, and you’re. Knowledge is power.

laughing old woman

For this year’s birthday, I intend to find ways to exchange the seven deadly sins for seven lively good deeds. I’ll trade lust for gratitude, gluttony for self-control, greed for compassion, sloth for efficiency, wrath for joy, envy for love, and pride for humility. I expect occasional lapses into debauchery, but after all these decades, I deserve it. I also plan to laugh until my gut hurts, my eyes water, and my nose runs, as often as possible. Happy Birthday, indeed.

 

Five Reasons to Stop Whining about your Age

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cry girl birthday hat

 

My friend is moaning and groaning about turning 50. I finally got tired of her complaints and told her to pull up her control-top, big-girl panties, eat cookies, and get over it. When she continued to bemoan the fact that her gumption had no function, I asked if she would prefer to drop dead at age 49. She slumped away under a self-imposed cloud of doom.

Another friend sniveled, through dramatic tears, that she was so insignificant she could stand naked in the middle of town with her hair on fire while dollar bills flew out of her saggy butt and no one would notice. For her, age 50 was a dark symbol of declining physical and mental deterioration. I assured her I would notice the free money.

“That’s aging,” I said. “Embrace the glory, and pass the cake.”

cake

That may seem harsh, but many of us seasoned women are weary of some women’s wretched wailing about getting older. Let’s evaluate the options so we can stop the pity party and get on with a raucous celebration of life.

Reality: You’re Older. Your skin will wrinkle like a pricked balloon, boobs will drop to your waist, dot-to-dot spots will appear on your arms, hair will turn thin and gray, and you’ll wave at someone and your arm will continue to flap for five minutes. Your volatile intestines will keep you guessing if you’ll be constipated for a week or running to the bathroom every hour, and you’ll exercise regularly just to maintain the weight you don’t like. You’ll endure hot flashes, mood swings, and hairy toes and forget your keys while caring for aging parents and rambunctious grandkids.

But wait, there’s more! Here are other fun facts to anticipate: You won’t have enough energy to open your iron pill bottle, your family will count how many glasses of wine you guzzle at dinner, and they’ll mutter about your problem. Meanwhile, you’re bombarded with advertisements that scream at you to buy anti-aging products even though you’re older than some trees in the forest. Older women are the fodder for jokes about menopause, mothers-in-law, and incontinence, while crotchety, older men are revered as distinguished and successful. Get used to it.

Reality: You Can Choose to be Liberated. Consider the advantages of aging past 50. The kids are grown and moving away, so you’ll have less laundry, meal expense and preparation, and no more frantic nights waiting up for them to come home. You won’t need to purchase feminine products after your period stops. You’ll play with your delightful grandchildren and send them home. You’ll have more time to pursue hobbies and/or your lover, volunteer, travel, or read books. The hair on your legs gets lighter so you don’t need to shave every day. And, you have the power to throw away all the silly “Over the Hill” birthday cards and party favors. Being over the hill means you get to tumble down, laughing all the way.

Here are five reasons to stop whining about your age:

  1. There is nothing you can do about it. If you were born during or before 1965, you’re approaching or over 50. That’s how it works, and there are no exceptions. Unless you die.
  2. There always will be others younger and older. If you’re not the world’s oldest living person, you will know people of all ages. Share your stories, and encourage each other on your journeys. I’ve gleaned great facts from toddlers and old folks.
  3. You’re a living resource manual. You existed before the inventions of cell phones, personal computers, microwaves, social media, instant rice, and tampons. The younger generations can learn a lot from you.
  4. Others died too young. I read obituaries and have noticed that many of them describe people younger than I am. You and I got to wake up today. That’s a positive affirmation that we get another chance to save the world.
  5. Youth is overrated. Really, would you go back to your twenties or thirties? I’d love to look like I did but I don’t want to relive the challenges, heartache, worries, and exhaustion of those years. I’ll stick with being feisty over fifty.

I’m sending this message to my friend for her 50th birthday. I hope she embraces the positive message I’m trying to convey. If she continues to stay home and mope, I’ll go to the party without her and send her a souvenir.

How to Plan and Survive Your Midlife Birthday

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elaine party mask

My most memorable childhood birthday could be a case study for why some people need therapy. My mother’s baby died during childbirth a few weeks before my 8th birthday, so my gift was a big doll with all the clothes that had been intended for my dead baby sister. There weren’t any inflated jumping castles or face-painting clowns at this party. Just my mother, weeping in the corner.

I don’t have any fond recollection of any other birthdays. In my family, early September was the time for going back to school and working on the farm’s potato harvest, not for invading the house with rambunctious kids and messy cake. Birthdays were just another day. Suck it up, kid, and eat your spuds.

After I became an adult, I beat the birthday blues by planning my own parties. My 20th involved a huge celebration with sorority sisters at the University of Idaho, complete with midnight serenading at fraternities until someone called the cops. I was in my poverty stage on my 30th birthday, so I gathered my infant son and two-year-old daughter into the kitchen and we made gooey cupcakes from a cheap mix. I worked several jobs to get into the middle-class bracket so for my 40th I hired a choir to sing my favorite Broadway musical songs. For my 50th, dedicated work and good luck allowed me to schedule a cooking tour of Tuscany, Italy. And, for my 60th, I got married wearing a linen toga for an ancient wedding ceremony on the Greek Island of Paros. No dead babies were associated with any of these celebrations.

I loved planning birthday parties for my children. My daughter was born during the last week of March, so we always organized vacation trips during Spring Break and she assumed everyone was celebrating just for her. One of the best parties for my son was when his sister hid in a large cardboard refrigerator box and clipped various toys to the end of a fishing pole for the other children as they fished for mysterious prizes. Years later, my son finally asked why his sister’s birthdays included Disneyland and his parties only offered old boxes.

It’s time again for my birthday and the coming party will be tame compared to previous festivities. I’ll still have live music, an eclectic group of gregarious guests, and plenty of food and drinks, but we’ll probably turn out the lights before midnight. After this many trips around the sun, the best parties are at home.  My eyesight is fading, the legs are weary, and the raucous dancing has slowed to a boring two-step sway with Studley. But, it’s my birthday and I’ll sigh if I want to. (I cringe about ending a sentence with a preposition, but that one worked.) So, uncork a new bottle, raise the glasses, and toast another birthday. I’m so immensely blessed to live this long and celebrate the splendid occasion with my sweetheart, family, and assorted friends. And I do it for that sad little girl who always wanted a fun birthday.

Tips for Planning and Surviving Your Own Midlife Birthday Party:

  1. Keep it simple. I’m preparing a meatball bar with various sauces, some homemade dips with chips, fruit bowls, and cheese plates. I bartered some of my books in exchange for homemade cupcakes.
  2. No one cares if the napkins don’t match the plates, and it’s okay to use paper plates if you have invited more than 12 friends. If anyone complains, remove them from the list for the next party.
  3. After the first two rounds of drinks, hide the good stuff. They’ll never know.
  4. Live music is nice. Invite some high school kids who need cash but won’t play trash that makes your ears bleed. For my party, I invited a wonderful singer who brings her own keyboard and plays show tunes from music displayed on her IPad. I requested my favorite songs in advance because it’s my party.
  5. Make sure to visit with every guest, and for added fun, sit the executive banker next to the old hippie. Monitor the situation to prevent any arguments and then enjoy the curious fellowship. If you want to ruin the party, mention politics or religion.
  6. After the last guest goes home, turn out the lights to hide the mess and crawl into bed with your living birthday present. Another year brings another reason to celebrate being alive. Enjoy and be grateful.

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