Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Do Mothers-in-Law Deserve a Punch in the Face?

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mother-in-law

(Featured on The Huffington Post Fifty on July 9, 2015)

I don’t want to incite trouble between the Mommy Bloggers and the Midlife Bloggers, although that would be grand fun, but I’m feeling a bit defensive about all the mother-in-law bashing. One of my favorite websites is Scary Mommy and the contributing writers are witty, provocative, and sassy. However, many of them dislike the mothers of their husbands. Well, (snort!), maybe these young gals aren’t clones of The Queen of Sheba, either.

Scary Mommy attracts more than a million readers and claims to be “a parenting community for imperfect parents.” The site includes several delightful and informative pages that engage young women, and the topics include pregnancy, step-parenting, children, health, and travel. As a young mother, I needed this resource but the Internet wasn’t even around when I was dealing with babies, sore boobs, and projectile vomiting. I had to learn the hard way that kids were noisy, messy, demanding snot-producers who steal your heart and sometimes stomp on it.

The Scary Mommy relationship page includes a listing titled “In Laws.” One article titled “15 Mother-in-Law Behaviors that Deserve a Punch in the Face” received more than 7,000 shares on Facebook. The page almost drips with spittle and hostility mingled with a few comical jokes. Another page titled “Confessional” invites anonymous comments that can be rated in three categories: like, hug, or me, too. Here is a recent example:

“I swear if my MIL died I would have to pretend to be devastated. That would solve 99 percent of my marriage problems! Please, oh, please let her die!” That remark earned 15 favorable marks. Obviously, if the writer’s mother-in-law is aware of the comment, she should retire to a secret, gated community and change her will.

I belong to several groups of midlife bloggers, but the group’s websites don’t contain any pages that criticize or publicly embarrass our daughters-in-law. We just don’t do it. Mostly, we’re grateful that our sons grew up, learned how to change their underwear, and traded their Legos for love.

After all the admonishments about how mothers-in-law should behave, it’s my duty to offer some tidbits in exchange. Here are my suggestions for how to be the daughter-in-law who doesn’t deserve to be punched in the face.

1. I am not a mother-in-law joke. I adore my son, and if you and my son are fortunate to have children who carry my genes you’ll know why mothers remain profoundly invested in their kids. Our Mother Bear instincts don’t shut off when they grow up and leave their toys, dirty socks, and moms behind.

2. I deserve respect. I’m sorry your mama didn’t teach you to respect your elders, but I’m the one who taught your husband how to use a toilet. He chose you, and I come along as a bonus prize. If I want to come over, open the damn door and offer me a glass of wine.

3. You children sense your mocking attitude. When you complain about me in front of your kids, they imagine that I really do have horns, eat live toads, and ride a broom. I got over those behaviors years ago.

4. My unsolicited advice could be helpful. I’ve been around the block a few times and know where to avoid the piles of dog poop. Learn from my mistakes.

5. Communicate before all hell breaks loose. A little irritant can get blown out of proportion, so let’s have a conversation with you, my son, and me. This meeting shouldn’t involve weapons, lawyers, or reality television.

6. Laugh with me. If you think I’m critical of your cooking, clothes, home, or pedigree, just laugh and remind me that you’re comfortable with your life and habits, and I don’t need to mention them again. Then open more wine. We have much to appreciate about each other.

I’m extremely grateful to have a positive, loving relationship with my daughter-in-law and son-in-law. They love my children, and they don’t mind including me in their family activities. One of these days, we’ll perform a three-generation show that includes a song for everyone as we channel our best Aretha Franklin, shake our booties, and sing:
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me! I got to have (just a little bit). A little respect (just a little bit.) Sing along now.

20 Ways to Legally Evict Your House Guests

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house guest unwanted

 

(Published on The Huffington Post, May 21, 2015)

One of the big advantages of getting older is that your children eventually grow up and move away. For some reason, when my kids turned 18 they ran out of the house as fast as they could, kissed the ground, and mumbled something about “Free at last!” But after lengthy therapy sessions they now visit occasionally, and that’s is a good thing. They even let me watch their kids, after I pass a 50-point checklist and agree to security cameras and breathalyzer tests.

After they left, I turned one of their rooms into the guest room. That means I have a place to dry laundry on the bed, cram bags of unread mail into the closet, and ignore the cobwebs that loop from lamp to window like delicate lace décor.

I’m thrown into a panic when I know guests will spend the night. I gather clutter into garbage bags and toss them into the garage where they languish for months. I frantically dust and am amazed at the true color of the furniture. Once I used a vacuum hose to capture the cobwebs, but I accidentally sucked up the curtains and broke the rod. Now I just wave a towel around and hope to catch the webs before the evil spider seeks revenge and jumps up my nose. I hate spiders in my nose.

I enjoy sharing time and space with friends, but there is an important rule when having houseguests: Don’t make it too comfortable. If you include little dishes of individual, scented soaps, a collection of salacious books, and a small refrigerator stocked with wine and cheese, expect them to set up residence and never leave. You’ll have a problem when they forward their mail to your house. That’s a bad thing.

Grandma Clell, my paternal grandmother, always opened her home to weary travelers, visiting relatives, and runaway granddaughters. Though quite the hostess, she had rules that no one should stay longer than necessary. I have improvised some of those rules for myself when I have houseguests who don’t want to leave:

1. Take them to the airport early. Preferably two days before their flight.
2. Cook naked.
3. Have cockroach traps on the dining table.
4. Hide a condom in their bed.
5. Stock the guest bathroom with one Hello Kitty towel and four sheets of toilet paper.
6. Loudly play polka music featuring the Six Fat Dutchmen.
7. Serve burned toast and one sausage — for dinner.
8. Host a meeting of your Toenail Biters Support Group.
9. Close your bedroom door and continually play the fake orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally.
10. Answer your cell phone, scream “Oh no!” run out of the house, and get a hotel room.
11. Buy several pairs of the biggest size of men’s underwear you can find — and leave them drying on the couch.
12. Show movies of your colonoscopy.
13. Experience bouts of uncontrollable flatulence.
14. Have the TV channel stuck on FOX News.
15. Remind them that you’ll need to search their suitcase for the missing silverware.
16. Stare at them for a long time and ask them to repeat their name because you just can’t remember it.
17. Throw utility bills on the counter and cry into a towel.
18. Clip your toenails during breakfast.
19. Sing and dance in your underwear to “Uptown Funk.”
20. Buy a pet goat and let it run through the house. What do you have to lose?

If all these suggestions don’t work, you may need to take drastic measures and move away. That worked for my kids.

Prom Dress or Pole Dancer Costume?

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gold dress

One of the many advantages of being a crusty curmudgeon is that I can shake my head, roll my eyes, and mutter about this spring’s sexualized prom dresses displayed by petulant teenage girls taking duck-faced selfies while festooned like bridesmaids and pole dancers pecking about on teeny high-heeled sandals. The guys will be suffering inside a tuxedo while lamenting that the tux rental cost more than a tank of gas and a case of beer. All the commercialized commotion is for a dance that they’ll attend for a few minutes.

According to CBS News Money Watch, the average cost of going to the prom is around $1,000 to cover the proposal, attire, limousine rental, tickets, flowers, pictures, and after-party festivities. That doesn’t include additional expenses for hair, nails, pedicures, and make-up applications, presumably for the females.

Getting dressed up to go to prom is a special tradition, and I don’t mind the youngsters removing their holey jeans, trench coats, and dog collars to wear some fancy duds. I do reserve the freedom to poke fun at some of the dresses. I grew up on a farm, sewed my own simple prom dress, and was escorted to the dance as a passenger in a cattle truck. I still had a great time, even with a speck of manure on my sensible shoes.

For fun indignation, let’s review some of this year’s fashions.

cinderella dress

The Promgirl.com website offers that latest styles in prom dresses, along with tips for planning and surviving the perfect prom. One voluminous gown, appropriately called the Disney Cinderella Forever Enchanted Keepsake Gown is only $495 and is perfect for an aspiring princess. However, any dress that needs six names is excessive.

maxi dress

For only $49, you can buy the Floor Length Maxi Dress that doesn’t even come close to being enchanted or a keepsake. However, it might come in handy in the summer to cover the picnic table.

black romper

For the indecent ingénue, there’s this spring’s Black Romper for $69. This ensemble should come with a $2 condom. At least the Disney Cinderella Forever Enchanted Keepsake Gown requires a bit of imagination. It’s interesting to note that prom.com offers 62 styles of prom dresses for pregnant women, just in time for the dances that will come eight months after the spring fling.

gold dress

The “shimmering foil jersey fabric with seductive mesh detailing” is advertised as a knockout prom dress that accentuates all the right curves. Those of us with back fat and the desire to sit down should not attempt this garment. Not many parents are buying the outfit because the price is reduced from $278 to $99, but that’s a bargain for any future stripper. A credit card reader is optional.

prom gown

One sophisticated prom dress costs $1,224. You can get the same look by shrinking a $5 t-shirt and wrapping yourself in $45 worth of satin. Stash the remaining $1,174 into your college fund and plan your own clothing line.

Maybe it’s with nostalgia instead of criticism that I disapprove of modern styles. I vaguely remember being young and idealistic when preparing for the prom, and I have fond memories of all the crepe paper streamers, printed dance cards, loud gymnasiums, and grand processions. It was that unique time when we all wanted to grow up, and we didn’t have a clue what that meant. So, I’ll smile at all the young couples stuffed into costumes, corsets, and cummerbunds, and encourage them to enjoy life before they turn into cantankerous curmudgeons. Just stay off of my lawn.

 

Airport Bathrooms can Drain Your Soul

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woman toilet (Featured on The Huffington Post Travel, March 27, 2015)

As a frequent traveler through life and space, I often have the need to use a restroom in an airport. Such necessary actions require tenacity, humility, and tolerance, human attributes that may not eagerly spring into action after sitting four hours on a plane with a middle-age bladder.

Airport bathrooms were designed by evil people who hate women. Schlepping my carry-on luggage, I get in line for the women’s restroom, and woe to anyone who takes cuts. Once inside, I join others who resemble a herd of bowing, pack-laden peasants as we peek under doors to find an unused toilet. I wrangle two plump pieces as I wiggle inside the stall then pull the luggage tight to my body so I can close the door. Then I shift the ensemble against the door so I have room. I dutifully place the tissue ring around the seat but usually the automatic flusher operates and pulls the tissue down even before I can sit.

I don’t dare sit down without the tissue because the woman before me decided to save time by squatting and spraying the entire seat. So, I straddle the toilet, pull down another tissue, quickly slap it onto the seat and try to maneuver into position before the flusher goes off again. The same thing happens. It’s not a pleasant or quality use of my time to be trapped into a crowded stall with my pants down while screaming at a commode that continues to mock me by flushing on a whim. I suspect demented staff members are operating remote control flush switches and arbitrarily decide which hapless women to torment. I look around for hidden cameras and notice there isn’t any toilet paper.

After a woman successfully manipulates the toilet, then she must wrangle the luggage back out of the stall, stand in line for the sink, wave her hands under the sporadic soap dispenser and hope it works, wash her hands and then find the towels which are inexplicably across the room in a corner next to the woman washing her feet in the sink. Then she throws her used towel into the waste receptacle that reeks of soiled diapers.

Meanwhile, male travelers saunter into their restrooms, whip out and empty their hoses without needing a stall, wash their hands, admire themselves in the mirror, chat with the guys, and are on their second beer at the bar by the time the women straggle out of the bathroom, dragging strips of toilet paper on their shoes.

“What took you so long,” a naive man will ask, but only once.

2015-03-27-1427473958-8777852-airportbathroom.jpg

After a recent long-distance flight, I pranced to the nearest bathroom only to find it closed. Why can’t the maintenance people schedule their cleaning routines around arrival times? If they know a plane loaded with 200 people is landing in 30 minutes, by all means get into that restroom and tidy up because there will be at least 100 females making a stampede for the four available stalls. And, a closed restroom could result in desperate women marching into the men’s room. Been there, done that, didn’t care.

A few times, I’ve enjoyed the privilege of a privy in an airline’s executive lounge. The women’s restrooms are spacious and clean, and have real towels and free breath mints. There aren’t any lines, the stalls are big enough to host a cocktail party (not that you would want to do that), and the automatic flushers politely wait until you have finished your business. Obviously, these facilities were designed by distinguished women who travel.

Caveat #1: Now that this rant has washed away, I’d like to acknowledge the wonder of flying. This week I sat in a chair in a tube with hundreds of other passengers and flew at 38,000 feet over the Pacific Ocean. There were 100,000 flights that day, and thousands of people traveled through airports. The common ordeal of finding a lavatory pales in comparison to the glorious ability to seek adventure and not bitch about inconveniences.

Caveat #2: I’ve enjoyed opportunities to travel the world, and each exotic place comes with customary bathroom facilities. In India, our modern rest stop included a room with a tile-lined hole in the ground and two foot rests. In Nepal, we used a log over a ditch. One facility in South Africa offered a room of toilets without partitions or toilet paper. Many locations and homes in our own country still use outhouses. I recognize my comic rants as First World problems, and I’m grateful for indoor plumbing. Now, onto the next adventure.

Public Breastfeeding can be Expressed in Good Taste

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(Featured on the Huffington Post Comedy on March 16, 2015)

public breastfeeding

 

I recently attended an elegant wedding at a seaside resort where the gift table and the guests were well-endowed. However, there was some engorged indignation at the reception as two perky women nursed their babies without discreetly covering the bobbing heads of the darling sucklings.

One of the bridesmaids conveniently wore a strapless gown to easier facilitate the moveable feast. Reaction to the public display of liberal lactation ranged from frothed and pumped up annoyance to flowing praise for the natural and healthy nourishment between the mother and child reunion.

It sucks to be criticized for using a supply on demand device for its original purpose.

“Oh, my, I must warn Harold not to go over there,” a woman muttered to a group of older guests with permed hair, lace hankies and sensible shoes.

“I haven’t seen this many bare breasts since I watched a National Geographic documentary about African tribes.”

“In my day we discreetly fed our babies under a blanket, and my mother hired a nurse maid for her children,” snorted another lady.

The younger crowd seemed nonchalant and didn’t latch onto the uncomfortable tension that leaked into the room. They laughed the night away, draining jugs of wine until they acted like boobs.

To insure that the event wasn’t a total bust, they danced through the spot so the hooters could hoot, the knockers could knock, and the stranded friends could wean themselves away from the dried up and sagging patrons. In a final tit-for-tat, the young adults pulled the older folks out of their bondage and onto the dance floor to lift and separate their drooping spirits.

By then, the contented babies were asleep and the milked mothers had a few hours to pad themselves and dance the Fandango until the cows came home. That way, they could have their wedding cake and eat it too.

The best formula for enjoying a special occasion that involves young couples is to anticipate the appearance of at least one nursing mother.

Offended people can choose to avert their attention to the drunken uncle or the pouting teenager, or the Rod Stewart impersonator in the band. The public nursing only lasts a few minutes and the alternative is to hear a screaming baby and witness a swollen mother in pain.

I nursed my two babies each for a year, and it was a rewarding experience. I never walked around in public hooked up to the little buggers, but I don’t disapprove of those who do. There are far too many neglected babies who hunger for the affection and attachment of loving mothers.

After my children were grown, I cleaned out the house and found a little bottle of breast milk saved in the back of the basement freezer. My younger child was 18 years old and didn’t need it. I couldn’t throw it away so I lovingly placed the bottle into a velvet Crown Royal pouch and buried it under the rose-bush in the back yard. I probably need counseling for that.

The Ugly Reality of Fake Beauty

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elaine photoshoppedelaine old 3

 

Two photographs of me taken 15 minutes apart illustrate the powerful allure of altered images. In one photograph, I look like a sagging, seasoned but sassy senior citizen. In the other one, I resemble the beautiful actress Katherine Zeta Jones. It’s amazing what a talented professional photographer can do with a new software program that rearranges facial features. I should wear a mask of the fabulous phony face, but then I couldn’t eat chocolate or drink wine, so I’ll stay with the contented crone.

Let’s face it: The dramatic but artificial improvement is shocking. The only similarities in the two photos are my jacket and jewelry. The rest is fake. Bogus. Counterfeit. But, damn, I would love to look like that.

With that face, doors would open, opportunities suddenly would appear, and strangers would buy me drinks in bars. With that face, I could walk into a fancy store and the salespeople would actually pay attention, a phenomenon I haven’t experienced in more than 20 years. I could probably get my own reality show on television, using no talent at all. That perfect pose would be published in magazine advertisements and on weight-loss product packaging. Imagine the unlimited scenarios.

Reality can be a bitch. If I used that photo on resumes or business cards, people would be overcome with disappointment when they met the real me. The manipulated image wouldn’t be accepted when I tried to use my driver’s license or passport. And, I’d lose the respect from friends and associates who know the authentic me. They would laugh in my normal face.

Full disclosure: I did use some of the photographs taken by the professional photographer. Some of the skin imperfections were erased and she caught my irreverent attitude, but the images still resemble me. The best one now is on the front page of my website. Don’t judge.

The ugly reality of fake beauty is that it removes authenticity. I never looked like the glamorous photo and I never will. And, that’s okay. Older women have earned their laugh lines, and their faces gain a certain grandeur as their jowls droop into their necks. Living long enough to sprout age spots and wrinkles is a privilege denied to many. Two good friends died recently, and they won’t have the opportunity to grow older and look more glorious with age. It may sound cliché, but for them, I’ll focus on inner beauty. I’ll also be grateful for another day to annoy or humor people. That’s real.