Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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The Martini Tower with a Twist of Levity

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I’ve never met Malin Morin of the City of Groningen in The Netherlands, but I’m confident we’d be best friends. She emailed me a photograph of her holding my book Midlife Cabernet in front of the Martini Tower. Obviously, she  has excellent appreciation for comedic literature.

I was intrigued by Malin and wanted to know more about a tower named after a sophisticated funnel of cold vodka, so I researched the history of the beautiful building. The bell tower was constructed with a Catholic church during the 15th century, more than 500 years ago. It was named for the patron saint, St. Martin, so nothing was shaken or stirred in the dedication. The tower is 318 feet tall, contains a 62-bell carillon, and houses one of the largest Baroque organs in Europe. I see no reason why I shouldn’t travel there to meet and celebrate with Malin.

Her email contained delightful comments, so I’m exploiting them as a positive book review.

“I just loved the book. I read it on a recent flight and was making stupid sounds trying to suppress laughs, and people sitting in the seats around me were giving me the evil eye.”

To cause the evil eye in Europe is a great claim to fame for me. I’m now on a mission to provoke irritated glances throughout the world. I’ve already achieved documented success with that goal in the United States.

Malin also included a photograph taken in front of a local Dutch pub. If you can’t enjoy a bold Cabernet, you might as well swill a cold Heineken while reading about the joys of getting older and loving the journey. She ended her email with an invitation to visit her and noted that her family’s wine cellar is “stocked with Cabernet and other goodies.” Indeed, we will become best friends.

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As I researched information about the Martini Tower, I discovered a recipe for the authentic Amsterdam Martini Cocktail. I share the details as a gesture to promote international education and foster good will among all peoples. The recipe calls for 2.5 ounces of Coca Liqueur, 2 ounces of citrus-flavored Vodka, the juice of ½ lime, and ice cubes. Shake well, strain into a chilled cocktail glass, and garnish with an olive. Sip while reading Midlife Cabernet in the market square in front of the Martini Tower. (I made up that last part.)

Here’s one final tidbit I discovered from my research. St. Martin was born more than 2,000 years ago and traveled extensively throughout Europe sharing Christianity which, at the time, still was a minor faith. He’s best known for sharing his cloak with a poor man and is called the patron saint of beggars. Because his celebration occurs near the grape harvest, he’s also a patron saint of vintners. He also worked with St. Ambrose from Italy, and I’m sure he was my ancestor. I feel called to honor them by traveling to Europe, sharing my coat, and savoring local wines.

Cheers, Malin. I’m searching for my passport.

 

Memories of Mom

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My mother died 12 months ago today, so we’ve experienced a year of birthdays, holidays, and family gatherings without her. I knew the year anniversary was coming and naively anticipated that its passing would mysteriously make everything all better. I was wrong.

Just when I thought the emotional whirlwind was over, another memory of her smacked me in the heart and caused my eyes to spontaneously water. I’ve never been this emotional before, and I struggle between wanting to weep or pulling up my big girl pants and pretending to be tough. Sometimes it’s exhausting to be the strong one.

To prepare for inevitable meltdowns, here are some common occurrences that can cause an unpredictable sensitive reaction after a loved one dies.

The impulse to call. Mom was the consummate keeper of things: she wrote lists, filled ledgers, and clipped newspaper columns. Our refrigerator was plastered with Erma Bombeck’s witty stories. I recently was invited to be a speaker at the prestigious Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop in 2016. My immediate thought was to call my mom because she’d be so happy. Then I remembered.

A certain song. I was happily shopping for groceries when the song “Que Sera, Sera” by Doris Day played over the sound system. My mother used to sing the song when I was a wee toddler, and I remember the sounds of, “Whatever will be, will be.” I stood there in the soup aisle with tears streaming down my face.

elaine leona 1951

Photographs. I’m still sorting her possessions, and found hundreds of photographs I’ve never seen. One fascinated me. It showed my parents as happy young lovers before they married and before hard work, illness, and heartache stole their laughter and weakened the light in their eyes. I wish I had known them.

leona neal selfie 1947

Holiday memories. Mom was widowed at age 62, so she came to my house for 25 Christmas celebrations. When my children were young, we took her to a holiday movie on Christmas Day. We had to discontinue the tradition because she always talked out loud to the actors on the screen. “Don’t do that!” she would warn the characters. “Look at them dance!” she would exclaim. The kids would shrink down in their seats as other movie patrons glared at us.

Her example of strength and resiliency. She loved to tell stories of her childhood; how her sisters and she rode a horse to a one-room school, how she hand-milked cows before and after school, and how she worked in the fields throughout her childhood. My children tried not to complain after that, and they had a deep love and affection for the one they called Grandma Sweetie.

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mom age 11 in fields

Favorite recipes. I continue to add mustard seeds in soups and any dish that requires boiling. Mom always added the seeds because of her belief in the Biblical parable of having the faith of a mustard seed. Through recipes, photographs, and stories, we keep her memory alive for the great-grandchildren.

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Locations. I regularly drive past the assisted living facility where she lived before she died. I ache with remorse remembering how she clutched my hand each time I started to leave. I should have stayed longer.

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Legacy. Mom didn’t have the money or opportunity to attend college, but she was a strong advocate for education. She established the Ambrose Family Scholarship at the University of Idaho, and this year six students from Wendell, Idaho received scholarships.

Emotional release through humor. A week after her death, I wrote a blog post titled “My Mother’s Body Got Lost.” The story described the true account of how the funeral home misplaced her for the weekend but then found her in a hearse traveling “near Bliss.” Bliss is a tiny town near her burial site. My response was, “Of course, she is!” The post was selected as a winning entry in the national BlogHer competition, and I was honored in New York as part of the “Voices of the Year” celebration. She continues to inspire my writing, and several of my blog posts about her were published on The Huffington Post.

blogher poster

Redemption. A few months ago, I was having a difficult time with the memory of how much my mother had suffered physically and emotionally. I sought professional help, and the gentle, wise counselor led me through a guided imagery exercise that restored my spirit. My mother came to me in a vision. She was young and happily playing with two little girls in a meadow. They were my sisters, my twin Arlene and another sister Carol. These babies never had the opportunity to breathe. The vivid scene of her radiant joy gives me peace.

mom wheelchair

The unexpected triggers continue to meander in and out of my life. After a year, the pain has eased, and I know she is in a better place. I hope someday to meet Arlene and Carol, and we’ll all play together in the meadow, scatter some mustard seeds, and sing, “Whatever will be, will be.”

 

 

Teens Shouldn’t Trick-or-Treat

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halloween ugly doll

Get your ugly face off my doorstep. I promise not to come to your house and grab your goodies; unless you have M&Ms with peanuts. Then we can barter. But for now, go away because it’s not fun anymore. If you’re over 12 and don’t have special needs, this crusty curmudgeon is saying “Get off my lawn!”

This Halloween, I choose not to be assaulted by marauding packs of greedy teenagers who terrorize the neighborhood and think I owe them free candy to stuff into their dirty pillowcases. Why do they assume it’s their right to seize a holiday meant for cute little children dressed as pirates, ghosts, and witches? Here’s my trick for the teenage treaters: no candy for you.

The last few years have changed my participation in the holiday. My children are grown and have their own kids. I enjoy seeing their cute costumes, but I no longer welcome masked strangers to my home. The festivities were ruined when drivers from outside the area brought cars full of real monsters who swarmed through the neighborhood, repeatedly rang doorbells, grabbed all the treats, complained if the candy bars were too small, and smashed the jack-o-lanterns on their way out. I think if you can drive a vehicle, you’re too old to trick-or-treat.

The gangs of gangling candy-grabbers didn’t even wear costumes, but maybe that was a good thing. The costumes I’ve seen in the stores resemble miniature pole-dance outfits for toddler sluts or bloody murder victims so frightening they cause me to experience a psychotic episode. The party store managers don’t approve of my actions when I curl into a fetal position on the floor and scream, “Make it go away!”

adam emily halloween 1982

Halloween used to be fun. When my kids were pre-school age, they chose Halloween costumes from clothes we already owned. My son wore his calico shirt and vest with his dad’s cowboy hat. A moustache painted with an eyebrow pencil completed his outfit. My daughter wore my old dance dress with her own leggings. Both were excited as we walked around the neighborhood and collected treats from families we knew.

We returned home to answer the door, marvel at the cute homemade outfits, and give treats to children from the surrounding area. I allowed my kids a few pieces and sent them to bed. After they were asleep, I inspected their treasures and removed all the M&M Peanut candies for myself. I only was concerned about too much sugar rotting their teeth. Years later they told me they knew about my theft, but didn’t care. Obviously, I raised outstanding children

One year, I made the mistake of reading how to make homemade costumes. This was before the soul-crushing examples on Pinterest. I stayed up all night sewing a Holly Hobby outfit, complete with pinafore and bonnet. This labor of love was worn once, so I learned to be wiser with future costumes and encouraged them to express their imagination by creating their own costumes from whatever they owned. We also stopped the commercialized door-to-door begging when the children were around eight years old. Instead of prowling the streets for stale candy leftover from previous holidays, I purchased some candy for them, organized a party at home, and they were happy.

elaine luciya halloween 2009

It’s fun to see little ones all dressed up, and I endorse creative play that sparks imagination. This Halloween, we’ll take photos of the grandkids and give them cards and small gifts. The evening will end at home with the lights out and the doors locked. Think of all the teeth we’ll save.

 

(Featured on The Huffington Post 50 on Oct. 31, 2015)

 

Good Advice for Bad Reviews

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If I’m feeling a bit too confident and need an instant dose of humility, I read some bad reviews about my latest book Midlife Cabernet. This self-inflicted pain is sure to temporarily destroy my positive attitude and slaughter the pretentious belief that I am a writer. To prevent myself from trading my computer for a clown costume and running away to join the circus, I’ve discovered a convenient technique to overcome the humiliation: Spy on the reviewers.

My book has almost 700 reviews on Amazon.com and Goodreads, and 78% of them are positive. But, I can’t resist peeking at the negative comments. For example, a few months ago Donna gave the book a 1-Star rating out of 5 stars. Here is her review:

“Stunk”

I couldn’t glean any helpful suggestions from this nasty comment, nor did I determine how to please Donna. I investigated her other reviews and noticed she had written only eight comments and had given three 1-star ratings. I decided that Donna is too high-maintenance and doesn’t deserve my sparkling humor.

McNay, a prolific reviewer, also gave the book a 1-star rating and wrote that she returned it for credit because she couldn’t finish reading it. I inspected her biography and noted that she gave 5-star ratings to a digital meat thermometer and a cuticle clipper she had ordered from Amazon.com. I can’t compete with those products.

Ronald Seiberton wrote a terse comment about the book:

“Not that funny”

I discovered that he had written a grand total of three reviews and had given five stars to a book about the Dalai Lama. I have to wonder why he even purchased a copy of Midlife Cabernet.

A reviewer named Cocoa’s Mama gave the book a 2-star rating and wrote, “This book did have it’s humorous moments, but all the five star reviews have me baffled. This book was not at all well written.” I smugly noticed that her review wasn’t well-written either and contained at least three grammatical errors. But, she did give a 5-star review to a reversible puffy vest for dogs.

The reviews on Goodreads were also humbling. Maureen gave the book 1-star rating and wrote:

“I couldn’t force myself to finish this book. It is full of insipid one-liners which are fine for 10 minutes.”

Maureen, please admit I amused you for ten minutes. That’s all I need. I also noted that Maureen gave a 3-star rating to George Orwell’s 1984. So, I’ve got that going for me.

Rhonda LeRay gave the book a 1-star rating, but I noticed she read and liked a book titled, 101 Things to Do with Popcorn. I don’t want Rhonda to like my book.

I began to whimper as I read through more bad reviews. Sheri Slomnick gave it two stars and wrote that she was in her 30s and didn’t find the book as funny as advertised. Sheri, sweetheart, the subtitle is “Life, Love, & Laughter after 50.” Read it again in 20 years and write a better comment.

Finally, a man named Guy gave the book another 1-star ranking. His profile notes that he is a corporate director, merchant banker, and strategic advisor. Perhaps a book titled Midlife Cabernetshouldn’t be included on his must-read list.

I don’t think reviewers realize how devastating a 1-star rating can hurt sales (and feelings.) Was it really that bad? Have they ever written anything beyond a few lines of criticism? There’s only one action to do after wallowing through the condemning, vicious comments. Meekly return to the 5-star reviews and find reasons to live. I linger on this one:

“This book was one of the most funny, endearing books I’ve read.”

The quote is from my friend, but that doesn’t matter. I believe in my heart that she is correct.

 

 

Help Stop Wimpy Parent Syndrome

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adam elaine halloween scan

 

I’ve been embarrassing my children for more than 30 years. They now are happy young adults with loving spouses, adorable children and rewarding careers. Obviously, my strategy worked.

Throughout their childhood, I didn’t worry about harming their delicate self-esteem. Nor did I hover over their every action, schedule daily enrichment activities, make them eat kale, or ensure their socks matched. Instead, I created chaos and commotion just to motivate them to find peace and create order in their lives. I’m altruistic like that.

Children today are so pampered that some timid parents will become marooned in a horrifying, never-ending reality show if they don’t stop appeasing and indulging their tiny terrors. News flash to those afflicted with Wimpy Parent Syndrome: Your Kid Isn’t a Child Pharaoh. To toughen kids for real life, bewildered parents should halt most organized activities and throw in these handy tips to challenge their children’s self-confidence and encourage self-reliance.

1. Criticize their artwork. If your first-grader comes home with a hand-drawn picture, be sure to say that the tree looks like a spider and the sun should be more round. Then throw it away. Maybe she’ll try harder.

2. Show favoritism. Is the older child has an attractive project, be sure to tape it to the refrigerator for months and often mention the talent to the younger one. Give the older child extra dessert.

3. Exhibit lazy behavior. Stay in bed on Saturday morning and tell them to make their own damn pancakes. This is how children learn responsibility and cooking skills.

4. Take your own time-out. If the children are throwing a fit in the car, pull over to the side, turn off the engine, lean back, and close your eyes. Say, “Mommy is going away for a while.” Then chant in a foreign language for 10 minutes. They’ll be too traumatized to make noise.

5. Condemn their friends. Be sure to mock their friend’s silly habits. And when your teenager has a basement full of rowdy kids, walk in wearing a clown nose, belch loudly, and walk out. This instills a fear in your child that never goes away.

6. Cry when you meet your child’s first date. Sob into a towel, run into your room, and slam the door. This action will test their patience, strengthen their loyalty to each other, and promote tolerance.

7. Threaten them, if necessary. If your high school senior won’t write thank you notes for graduation presents, threaten to publish an announcement on social media that your child is too lazy and ungrateful to appreciate gifts now or in the future.

8. Bribery works. That hellhole of a bedroom won’t get clean on its own. Hide a $10 bill somewhere in the room and tell them to tidy and organize everything to find it. Substitute a $20 bill for particularly egregious cases that harbor toxic diseases. If they demand more money, tell them to move out and find an apartment.

Finally, remember that children can sense an easy target. If mommy and daddy are too weak and delicate to assume their strong but loving roles as parents, the kids will rule the house before the youngest is out of diapers and could stay in diapers for ten years. Parents can reverse this pending disaster by starting now to embarrass their children on a regular basis so the kids find the courage to grow up, move out, and prove themselves.

Help stop Wimpy Parent Syndrome. Go buy a clown nose. You can thank me later.

 

(Featured on The Huffington  Post Comedy page Sept. 29, 2015)

When Buoyant Boobs become Tittie Tubes

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(Featured on The Huffington Post Comedy page Sept. 16, 2015)

 

Gravity is the phenomenal force that keeps the moon in orbit and eliminates the chance of us floating off into space. A less attractive fact is that gravity has relocated my once-perky breasts down near my knees. It’s only a matter of time before I’m pushing them in a cart.

Gravity also has other devious features. When I step on a scale, the scale reads how much gravity is acting on my body. Apparently, I attract a great amount. It’s also the reason I frequently trip on a tiny hair and fall down, usually in a public place. The force comes into play every time I attempt to balance on one foot in yoga class and my tree pose topples to the ground. Obviously, gravity is not my friend.

I didn’t pay attention to the sagging boobs issue until I noticed in photographs that my youthful hourglass shape had settled comfortably into a rotund grandfather clock. Instead of retaining my splendid, 20-something physique, I was regressing to the toddler stage with thin hair, pudgy belly, clumsy walk, and the need for a nap. This realization made me crave a bottle; one that wasn’t full of milk.

A scholarly research of medical facts taught me that breasts naturally sag because the ligaments break down as the collagen and elastin lose the will to get up in the morning. I found a more nasty explanation that age causes dense glandular tissue is be replaced by fat that is more likely to droop. Ultimately, two of my best assets had become fat-filled tittie tubes.

In defiance, I purchased industrial-strength bras with pulley-system straps that could ratchet the migrating mammary glands off my belt. However, this caused my ta-tas to resemble military missiles ready to launch and clothes to drape like a cheap holiday cloth over a sturdy buffet table. Due to my grotesque, matronly profile, I could set a book and a full wineglass on my uplifted chest. So I did.

Further research explained that physical exercise won’t redeem the wayward jugs. Push-ups couldn’t reduce the droop because breasts are made of fat not muscle, so I decided NOT to attempt 100 push-ups every morning. Other causes included smoking, which I’ve never done, and sun bathing, which I’ve never done in the nude, in compliance with obscenity laws. High-fat diets can contribute to sagging boobs, but then what’s left of life to enjoy? One cannot live by wine alone! Would this bosom bounce back to where it belonged if I didn’t butter my corn or drown my warm berry pie with ice cream? I think not!

A friend who specializes in homeopathic treatments brought me a list of the top ten top home remedies for firming sagging breasts.

“Try these suggestions,” she murmured gently as organic bean sprouts appeared from her naturally-curly hair and a mist of lavender puffed from her youthful pores like glitter in a unicorn’s breath.

I dropped my nachos and cocked my salon-treated mess of a haircut. “Let me get this off my chest,” I said. “My rack has fallen and can’t get up. Your potions and lotions won’t help.”

“Your negative energy is blocking your healing chakra,” she said, her voice matching the perfect pitch of a dove’s coo. “Meditate on lifting your soul so the spirit realm can help revitalize whatever brings you down.” She turned to go and seemed to vanish in a cloud of non-allergenic fairy dust.

I opened a Cabernet and practiced positive thoughts as I sipped and read her list. One technique involved massaging olive oil gently over the breasts for 15 minutes to increase blood flow and stimulate cell repair. My hubby Studley dutifully volunteered to administer this remedy as often as necessary. He wasn’t so excited about the next suggestion to apply a paste of pureed cucumber and egg yolk because he preferred his salad on a plate. I determined the list was a bust, so I unhooked the constrictions and flung the bindings to the far corner.

“Let them free!” I shouted from the depths of my bosom.

Then I ran naked to the hot tub, mimicking Kathy Bates in the Jacuzzi scene from the movie About Schmidt. Incidentally, that scene was voted by a men’s magazine as the “Most Ball Clenching Movie Moment of All Time.” Not even Jack Nicholson could keep a straight face. As the warm water caused my girls to float upward, I shook my wrinkled fist and proudly declared, “I am not a victim of gravity or criticism. I am a proud woman with a beautiful body, and you can kiss my attitude.” I smiled and felt buoyant.