Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Do Not Start a Relationship in Winter

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cold woman

Winter arrived early like an unwanted relative and dumped record amounts of snow as if to announce, “Put away the jeweled flip-flops, Sweetheart, and grab a coat before you freeze your assets.”

Because I’ve been around the block many times in all kinds of weather, I’m here to give unsolicited but helpful advice if you intend to enter into a new relationship. Here are some reasons you should never start dating during cold weather:

  1. Shivering is unattractive. Gazing into a new lover’s eyes loses a romantic spark if your nose is red and producing enough snot to fill a salad bowl.
  2. Bundling is bulgy. If you go out for the evening, you can’t wear sexy sandals or else you’ll slip on the ice and bruise your ego. Instead, you’ll pull on clumsy boots, thick pants that could protect a Sherpa on Mt. Everest, a muffler that sticks to your runny nose, and a parka that’s too big to squeeze through the door. And you’ll be sneezing into crumpled wads of messy tissue. This is not a sensual look.
  3. Don’t lose the coat. If you go to a restaurant or fancy event and check your coat, you’ll sit with your date and tremble because you’re so cold. Crawling onto your companion’s lap or pulling the tablecloth around your shoulders for warmth can stifle a genuine return of affection. Keep your coat nearby, and add a wool shawl and portable heater, if necessary. There comes a time when your comfort trumps protocol.
  4. Forget strolling hand in hand. Unless you were raised on a frozen tundra, avoid long walks in frigid temperatures. Such an experience could cause your nostrils to freeze and your feet to go numb. Then you’ll stumble into the nearest open business, fall onto the floor, and barter your first-born child in exchange for hot coals to be dumped upon your freezing body. This action will cause your date to doubt that you’re “The One.”
  5. Expect to gain weight. We’re innocent descendants of our ancestors, and in order to survive the winter they always packed on some extra fat. To honor that tradition, we’ve been known to add 20 pounds during the first weekend of December. We can’t help it. But, that added weight could be a negative when meeting a new beau.
  6. Home is comforting. When you’re in a new relationship, there’s an added stress to be ready for action. The prospective mate better raise the bar if you’re going to leave your warm recliner, shave your legs, floss, and find matching socks. Cuddling up at home in your sweatpants with a hot toddy could be a welcome alternative to the dating scene.
  7. The other seasons bring problems, also. Don’t date in the spring if your allergic rhinitis causes you to wear a nose cap. Beware of summer because you easily get sunburned and can’t be touched. And forget about autumn. No one wants to be in a new relationship knowing that the coming holidays could require introductions to your crazy family or the daunting dilemma surrounding gift-giving. Face it, there is no good time.
  8. Ignore all these suggestions. You could meet someone and suddenly feel that unique tingle that says, “Shut the front door – this one’s a keeper!” Then by all means, relish the experience and enjoy the fun, regardless of the season.

 

Pain Sucks

By

stop the pain

This morning brought a splendid gift: I can walk without pain for the first time in two months. I feel like joyfully dancing in the street, but I’m so uncoordinated that I’d trip on a pebble and break a bone. I’ll just be quiet and appreciate the simple pleasure of moving without projectile spittle, profuse swearing, and the manic desire to club strangers with my crutches.

After falling down with such spectacular efficiency that the meniscus tore beneath my knee and the leg bone cracked, I needed surgery to repair the damage. It’s humbling to depend upon others to care for me but there are some handy perks.

If you endure an accident and are temporarily incapacitated, here are some tips for surviving the ordeal:

  1. Realize that everything is relative. Forget fashion. My sassy shirts and stylish capris weren’t touched for two months because I could only wear sweat pants and comfortable tops. It didn’t matter if my socks matched. But I still wore earrings, even while confined to my recliner. If I can’t put on earrings, my family will know I’m near death.
  2. The world will continue to turn without you. By canceling appointments and staying home, I gained a new appreciation for my house, chair, books, and silence. I also saved a lot of money not buying gas.
  3. A loving, patient partner is better than gold. For weeks, Studley took me to doctor’s appointments, made meals, washed dishes, did the laundry, and maintained the ice machine on my leg while also working a demanding, full-time job. However, there is a limit. I told him last night that he was welcome to continue these activities, and he remarked that a nearby apartment complex has some openings.
  4. Appreciate your family and friends. I received nice phone calls, hot meals, hugs from grandkids, and a can of chocolate-covered pecans from Texas! I exploited the situation to full advantage.
  5. Be kinder to disadvantaged people. My discomfort lasted for two months, but there are people who suffer for years with physical disabilities and chronic pain. Find ways to help them. When I finally was able to bumble about on crutches, I was thankful for those who opened doors for me, allowed me to go first in line, and didn’t complain when I used my handicapped parking permit.
  6. Do not become a television zombie. Daytime television offers a bunch of brain-eating crap! The soap operas have had the same plot for 30 years, and the beautiful actors always have the same tortured expression at the end of every angst-filled scene. Lady, if I had clothes and jewelry like yours, I’d at least crack a smile every now and then. Reality talk shows display and exploit the worst of humanity, and game shows remind me of rats in a maze at Vegas. There are some good shows on Public Television, the Discovery Channel, the History Channel, and I love the old movies. The best part of home confinement was to be surrounded by books, and I actually read some from cover to cover – a splendid treat.

Accidents happen, and our attitudes can hinder or help our recovery. I didn’t always follow the instructions of my physical therapist, so my healing time took longer. Finally, I obeyed the order to be still and rest, and my body responded and became stronger. The best part of physical pain is when it goes away. Today, I can walk, and the world is beautiful.

 

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.

 

 

How Blended Families Can Survive the Holidays (without Calling the Cops)

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crazy santa

The holiday season is only weeks away! If you’re in a blended family, that fact could cause your eyes to twitch and your beleaguered intestines to threaten explosive diarrhea because you barely got over the stress from last year’s drama. But with coordinated logistics and bribes, combined families can learn how to survive without a food fight, bloodletting, or lawsuits. Just keep the wine and the children breathing.

Even with careful preparation, sometimes the best plans get burned along with the roast. It’s tempting to go over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s house and then keep on going just to avoid all the trite platitudes and impossible expectations about the holidays. Forget Rockwell’s famous portrait because most grandmothers don’t wear white aprons after fixing a messy meal, and there’s a good chance that this year they’ll introduce their new boyfriends instead of picture-perfect platters of browned Butterballs. And Martha Stewart is not coming over, so forget the hand-painted placemats and pilgrim-shaped gelatin molds.

Blended families add chaos to the holidays, and designing a stress-free schedule requires maximum organizational skills, saintly tolerance, and nimble flexibility so plan now for the possible scenarios. You could be standing in the buffet line next to your ex-spouse, your stepson may demand to bring his mother and her new boyfriend to your home for brunch, or your son’s stepdaughters might want to stay at their father’s place because you don’t have cable television. You may accidentally call your son’s new girlfriend by his ex-wife’s name as you see someone’s boisterous toddler climbing onto the fireplace mantel.

It’s all fun and games until Grandma throws down her cane and demands to know who all the people are coming and going.

The best situations involve divorced parents who can cooperate and negotiate holiday schedules as they decide custody issues involving their children. We all know mean-spirited, immature parents who refuse to compromise, and that only hurts their children. These parents should receive nothing but coal in their stockings, and they should start saving money for their children’s future therapy sessions.

My husband and I each have two adult children from previous marriages. My daughter married a man who already had a daughter, and then they had two more daughters. My son married a woman with two girls, and they had another baby. My ex-husband lives in the area and is included in family birthdays and other events. Somehow it all works, and no one has threatened anyone with a weapon, so far.

Our family tree could be in danger of falling over because the branches are laden with sporadic offshoots, new in-laws, old stepparents, and assorted children who share multiple homes. But because of extra care, these roots are strong, and our tree can hold the chaotic collection of yours, mine, ours, various ex-spouses, and a few confused grandparents.

During the holiday season, we welcome everyone into the family, and for a splendid moment in time we’re all singing Fa La La before someone falls into the Christmas tree, a kid rips off the head of a cousin’s new Barbie, or the dog barfs in the kitchen.

There are 14 Christmas stockings hanging over the mantel, and we’ll need to build another one if any more members join the family. I’m uncomfortable with the label “step-grandchild” so I’ll just call all of them my grandkids. They don’t mind, and some of those lucky kids have four sets of doting grandparents. Score!

Here are four final suggestions for surviving the holidays with a blended family:

  • Have a sense of humor because it’s better to laugh at the commotion instead of breaking something.
  • Take plenty of photographs to identify everyone because Grandma is still baffled.
  • Assign responsibilities and anticipate problems when Uncle Bud gets drunk, the baby swallows a turkey leg, or Grandpa starts snoring during dinner.
  • Make time to appreciate the creative collection of characters in your unique family, believing that each one adds a definite spice. In the spirit of the holidays, choose to make it work.

Finally, reduce the stressful requirements and use prepared gravy mixes, boxed stuffing, and leftover Halloween napkins. If people object, they can host next year.

Knocked Down and Laid Up

By

burn leg 2

For the past six weeks, I’ve followed a rigorous ritual every morning: I strap on a knee brace, grimace in pain, swear, and then hobble to the kitchen for coffee because it’s too early for booze.

I’m in pain because I have a torn meniscus over a cracked bone in my knee and open, festering burn wounds on both legs. The pathetic reality is that I did all this to myself, and the pain and indignity is souring my sweet disposition.

The injured knee was caused when I gallantly attempted a wicked exercise known as the Speed Skater in a high-impact circuit class with women half my age. I boldly leaped sideways into the air and for a brief moment in time resembled a graceful skater. Then gravity won as I fell to earth, twisted and sprained my knee, and was reduced to a bumbling blob of middle-aged misery. I thought that I could do the same intense workout as the youngsters. I was wrong. My defiant body said, “Not no, but hell no!”

Two weeks later, I stumbled on the weakened knee and tore the meniscus and somehow cracked the bone. More x-rays, more drugs, more visions of chattering white rabbits running through the house. I swore that all the characters from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland were cavorting around my bedroom. At least it wasn’t the cast from Silence of the Lambs.

But wait. It gets better. While resting my leg on ice to reduce the swelling, I froze the back of both legs. The skin turn black and peeled off, leaving gaping open wounds behind my knees. The frozen burns were so bad the orthopedic surgeon postponed the scheduled knee surgery until the wounds healed. So I returned to my recliner to nurse the torn meniscus, broken bone, and serious burns. My butt is now the same shape as the chair.

Note to self: Obey the instructions that say to place a towel over the ice and remove the ice every twenty minutes.

Second note to self: Blaming the burns on hallucinations caused by the delightful painkiller drugs does not excuse ignorance of basic first aid techniques.

burned leg

I tried to explain my predicament to my sweet granddaughter, but all she heard was the word “frozen.” She immediately burst into songs from the animated movie until I threatened to club Olaf the Snowman with my crutch. No, I don’t want to build a snowman. Just let it go. And take your silly reindeer and singing sisters with you.

I couldn’t see behind my knee so I asked Studley to apply ointment to the burns. I yelped in pain as he smeared me with salve and bandaged the wounds. All the while he was muttering about always wanting to rub lotion on my body and tie me to the bed. I think he was joking.

The surgeon finally cleared me for surgery so next week I’ll have the arthroscopic procedure. I’m anticipating more happy pills and sedation that will help me forget that holes are being drilled into my knee and a tiny knife is scraping around inside among the nerves, bones, tissues, and debris.

As long as the surgeon is in there, I wonder if he could do a little internal sculpting on my thigh. It’s close to my knee and needs a little pruning. These legs will never again attempt to master the Deadly Speed Skater of Doom, and my dreams of competing as an Olympic skater have been smashed by the reality that I never could skate, I’m too old, and I look absolutely dreadful in a Spandex body suit. Also, now I have a profound aversion to ice…unless it’s in a smooth Scotch.

 

Why Funny is Always Fashionable

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old woman laughing

You know you’re at peace with yourself and the universe if you can enter a crowded social function, scan the room, and then join the group creating the most laughter. After a certain age, you don’t waste time with pseudo-intellectuals, plastic-faced divas, or over-styled drama queens; especially if they’re your relatives. Just trot your sensible, low-heeled shoes over to those having fun and then laugh until you snort.

Over the years, most women have endured numerous charity galas, corporate soirees, and elegant events that required dressing in more than a “This Wine is Making me Awesome” t-shirt, Yoga pants, and flip-flops (my favorite outfit.) In our twenties and thirties, we started preparing weeks in advance; trying on various outfits, scheduling hair and nail appointments, and crash dieting to lose a few pounds. By our forties, the routine became less rigorous unless the occasion was a dinner party with our boss or a romantic evening with a significant other. Usually, those events did not involve the same person.

By age 50, however, we said screw the rules. We gauged the importance of an event by the need to shave our legs or not. What to wear came down to what garment would hide last week’s lasagna binge. There was a time when identical outfits would have caused one of us to retreat to the coat closet and desperately paw for something to throw over our shoulders. Now if I’m attending a fancy function and see another woman wearing a replica of my dress, I congratulate her on her exquisite taste. If she’s over 50, she’ll laugh and say, “Got it on sale for only $150!” We high-five and sashay to the wine bar.

Another scene to avoid forever is the Sugar Daddy with Arm Candy couple. She’ll be giggling about play dates and nannies and he’ll be sweating and adjusting his pacemaker. If the hostess seats you next to such a twosome, feign a sudden onset of gastrointestinal flu and discreetly find another table, preferably with a middle-age couple who are holding hands and laughing. It doesn’t matter if they came together.

High fashion is not my top priority. I usually wear classic, quality clothes that have timeless appeal, such as my favorite 10-year-old St. John knit jackets. They cost a fortune new but I’ve worn them for years and they always look good. And, I’m a strong advocate of the simple black dress adorned with fun accessories. And there is no way these well-traveled feet will ever again feel the inside of a high-heeled shoe. That just won’t happen because high-heels are painful and I choose not to hurt. An elongated calf perched on a $300 strip of leather just doesn’t matter that much.

While laughing with new and old friends at a society event, it’s tempting to sneak a peek at the younger, more perfect women. They arrive with a flair of confidence, pause to pose on their six-inch heels, and jut their tiny, sequin-covered bodies into the spotlight. Yes, they are proud of their flat-stomachs, bobbing cleavages, and toned arms. Their hair, makeup, and nails are flawless, and heads turn in appreciation. I immediately start humming “The Girl from Ipanema.”

When she walks, she’s like a samba

That swings so cool and sways so gentle

That when she passes, each one she passes

Goes “A-a-a-h.”

I never was that woman, not even on my most magnificent occasion. But, I’m finally happy in my own skin, every wrinkled, spotted inch of it. I’d much rather be with the witty group, the ones who are telling humorous stories, and the ones who know that Ipanema Girl someday will be fifty. Then she, too, will know that funny is fashionable.