Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Menopause Sucks Less – 14 Years Later

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My daughter and son assisted with the premiere party for “Menopause Sucks” on August 8, 2008.

 

Menopause Sucks premiered in Eagle, Idaho on August 8, 2008. The event remains one of the highlights of my long and festive life.

I was divorced, and my son and daughter helped me organize the premiere party at Seasons Restaurant (now known as Bacquet’s French Restaurant.) My 15-month-old granddaughter attended as a special guest. I worked on the final edits of the manuscript while waiting for her to be born.

Prior to Menopause Sucks, I had written and published The Red Tease – A Woman’s Adventures in Golf and two children’s books. The Red Tease won the bronze medal for humor from the Foreword INDIES Book of the Year program, and the award helped me obtain a literary agent.

My agent, Andrea Hurst, secured my contract with Adams Media, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, for me to coauthor Menopause Sucks with bestselling author Joanne Kimes. We worked on the manuscript for several months, sending chapters back and forth, and laughing at every exaggerated description. We included factual information approved by medical professionals and added our own creative humor. We never met in person. The book continues to sell in paperback and eBook formats.

Publisher’s Author Photo

Here are some excerpts from Menopause Sucks.

“Warning: Over 38 million women are going through menopause, and some of them are really irritated. If you’re one of them, you know that it’s a crying shame that you could live to be 100 but only twenty of those years come with youthful vigor, shiny hair, smooth skin, multiple orgasms, and a flat stomach. To understand what is happening to your mind and body, just put down that shotgun and find a cool spot to read the book Menopause Sucks by menopausal maniac Elaine Ambrose. You’ll find answers and laughs as you learn about hot flashes, incontinence, hair loss, age spots, flatulence, mood swings, and hot sex after forty. This isn’t your mother’s medical manual.”

“While it is better than dying too young, living past forty often comes with unpleasant and bewildering challenges. For the most part, every single symptom of menopause is caused by one reason, and one reason alone: hormones. It seems that your body makes several different kinds of hormones that love to cavort through your body and play havoc with your sanity. Two major players are called estrogen and progesterone. In medical terms, estrogen is produced in your ovaries and acts as a chemical commander in chief, telling your female body what to do. In not-so-medical terms, imagine a teeny tyrant running through your brain yelling, “Grow pubic hair now!” “Ovulate from the left ovary!” or “Make that boob bigger than the other one!” As with most power-hungry rascals, estrogen likes to change the rules every now and then just to confuse you.”

“As perimenopause begins, your ovaries are tired of taking orders, so they decide to reduce the production of estrogen. “Attention All Sectors. Estrogen is leaving the body. Farewell party at noon in the pituitary gland.” Then all hell breaks loose and you start to experience symptoms of perimenopause. The fact that you live through this chaos is definite proof of your magnificence. A lesser species would have become extinct millions of years ago.”

“It’s a rather cruel trick of nature that you could be raising teenagers and caring for aging parents while your Generalissimo Estrogen is barking orders at your female parts, your Busy Bee Progesterones are frantically fixing up the uterus for the Sperm and Egg Combo, and your Naughty Testosterone is working your libido like a tigress in heat.”

My son managed the sales at the premiere party.

Since 2008, I’ve written or published 18 more books, moved six times, and met a cute guy I call Studley. Due to a recent heart attack, my projects have been postponed, but ideas for future books continue to swirl in my brain and beg to be written. The proposed title of my next humor book is Midlife Reboot – Stories of Revival.

 

Reading excerpts from “Menopause Sucks”

 

 

 

 

 

Friends from college and work attended the premiere party.
My 15-month-old grandbabe was an honored guest at the party.

 

 

 

Midlife Happy Hour – An Excellent Excerpt

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Chapter Four – The World Can Kiss Our Attitude

We never decided what to name our group of six middle-aged women friends. Suggestions varied from “Six Pack” to “Six in the City” to “We Were Seven but One Died.” Every time we met, we would vote on a new name, but we couldn’t agree so we stayed with the “Midlife Happy Hour Club.”

 “That’s so boring,” Kitty said. “Can’t we add something sexy?” 

“How about that waiter?” Linda replied. The joke was old, but we were, too. We clinked our glasses, savored the martinis and wine, and settled into a familiar pattern of camaraderie. We had promised Pam, the one who died from breast cancer, that we would carry on without her.

 “Chop them off now so you won’t get sick!” She’d whispered at the end, as we took turns pressing ice chips onto her lips. We nodded in solemn agreement. “And promise me you’ll all stay friends. Keep laughing. You don’t need boobs to laugh.” 

Over the years, the Midlife Happy Hour Club gathered regularly to acknowledge the fact that life sucked so we should laugh hard. The agenda varied, and we could grow equally passionate about politics, religion, nail polish, or the best stool softener. Sometimes we placed a glass for Pam. 

Birthday Card Blues

One memorable occasion was to celebrate Linda’s birthday. Such annual affairs often took a wicked turn as greeting cards turned into cruel and unusual punishment for still being alive. 

“I’m weary of birthday cards that mock seasoned women,” said Debby. “Over the hill, my ass. We couldn’t climb a hill taller than a plate of cookies even with sturdy tennis shoes and an industrial crane.” We agreed and vowed to stop sending each other stupid, insulting cards. Unless, of course, the card included a lovely photo of fit, shirtless dudes in cowboy hats. We’re shallow like that. 

A flock of perfect women tittered past on heels that cost more than my first car. “Look at her,” laughed Debby as she adjusted her don’t-give-a-shit matronly body. “She’s so skinny if she swallowed an olive it would show in front and back. I should stab her with a fork to make sure she’s not a poster.”

Linda, the birthday babe, gasped with feigned indignation. “I read that some women are paying for a fake butt. Can you imagine making your behind bigger on purpose? I can see mine even when I walk forward, and I didn’t pay a dime extra for it!” 

“Stop,” Jenniffer said with mock chagrin. “At least we don’t have periods anymore and can wear white pants without worry.”

“Ha!” I retorted. “The last time I wore white pants my grandkids told me to hold still so they could show a movie on my butt.” 

We Love Midlife Happy Hour

Friends for Fifty Years

Kitty bit into a carrot cake muffin smeared with enough cream cheese frosting to adhere a Buick to the wall. “Mmm,” she moaned. “I just eat this for the vegetables.”

“True,” I agreed. “And this medicinal lemon drop martini has just enough citrus to cure my scurvy.”

We giggled and snorted with middle-aged abandon. We loved the glamorous gals, we really did, but our biggest consolation was knowing they were growing older, too, and would someday arrange their own midlife happy hour. By then, we would be watching reruns of The Carol Burnett Show and reading salacious novels in big type. We would live together in a quaint cottage near the park and pool our savings accounts to hire off-duty firemen to rub our feet. It was a glorious plan. 

(I’ll be reading excerpts from three books Friday evening in Garden City, Idaho at an event I’m hosting titled “ATaste of Poetry: Conversations with John Roedel.” John Roedel will read from his poetry and discuss storytelling to a sold-out audience. My readings will include three genres: memoir, children’s books, and humor. This excerpt is from “Midlife Happy Hour – Our Reward for Surviving Careers, Kids, and Chaos.” The book was a finalist for “Book of the Year for Humor” and won two writing awards from the Independent Press Book Awards program.)

Magically Invisible after Age 50

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After a certain age, women are ignored as if they don’t exist. We could tap dance through a crowded room wearing lighted clown noses with a tray of free martinis on our heads while singing an Italian opera, but no one would notice. Trust me, I’ve tried.

Sales clerks, young coworkers, and several relatives refuse to acknowledge us. After being ignored by waiters, we’re often tempted to march into the kitchen at a restaurant, dish up whatever is cooking on the stove, and bring it to our table. Then we could leave money on the table and tip ourselves before we left.

One time, my friend Nancy and I experienced a frustrating time trying to get the attention of a sales clerk as we patiently waited to return a purchase. We needed to exchange the bling-covered, thigh-high boots we bought in a moment of unbridled foolishness. There may have been alcohol involved.

“If this line takes any longer, I’ll have to chew these boots for my dinner,” Nancy said.

“I think the warranty just expired on my new tires,” I responded.

“Oh, look! I think the sales clerk just noticed us and gave a faint smile.”

Then a young tart with a plastic face and noisy bangles came skittering up on her six-inch heels, shoved her assets in front of us, and received immediate attention from the animated sales staff. After being ignored, we suddenly disregarded our childhood instructions to be people-pleasers. We began to channel their dormant inner sorcerer. We may have briefly levitated.

“We could curse her until she spontaneously bursts into flames,” I said.

“No, if we have that much power, let’s turn her older than we are,” snarled Nancy.

Nancy felt emboldened and moved closer to the counter. “You must be so much more important than I am,” she said. “My mama told me not to be pushy like you, so I’ll just continue to wait here looking at your imperfect backside.” She added a toothy smile, raised her eyebrows, and tilted her head ever so slightly.

The intruder felt the glare of angry eyes on the back of her well-styled hairdo and turned around. Sensing a pack of wild women who were hungry, breathing their last breath of tolerance, and in desperate need of a bathroom, she stammered an apology and slinked away before the sales clerk could call for security.

Nancy and I high-fived like silly school girls and pushed toward the counter. We managed to return the boots and have time to relax at a nearby restaurant. We were delighted when a handsome young waiter rushed over, obviously excited to greet us. Maybe we weren’t invisible or irrelevant, after all!

“You look just like my grandmother!” he gushed. “She died last year.”

We ordered and enjoyed two glasses of wine, tipped the waiter and patted him on the head like a good boy, and went shopping for bling-covered, thigh-high boots.

 

Bag Balm™ is NOT an Aphrodisiac

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I own night gowns that date back to the Clinton Administration. My favorite slippers have shuffled me toward my coffee pot since the Eurythmics sang “Sweet Dreams are Made of This.” And, I can’t part with my favorite robe that I wore when laughing at Johnny Carson before signing off on the Tonight Show.

After a certain age, most women have earned the right to crave comfort with lounge clothes that are labeled X-Large instead of XXX. We’d rather eat cheesecake than pose for it. I tried once, I really did. In a pathetic attempt to mimic a seductress, I wiggled into a teeny black outfit that cost more per ounce than gold. I couldn’t tell which was the front or the back, so I think I had it on sideways. Then I arched my loafer-loving feet into a pair of black shoes with 5-inch heels and teetered over to Husband. He looked up and got that panicked look he gets when he knows whatever he says will be wrong.

“Did that shrink?” he asked, right before I wobbled on the heels and fell down. The tiny strap on the garment snapped and all hell broke loose. It was not a pretty sight. Husband discreetly brought my Johnny Carson robe so I quickly covered my body and recovered my composure. He assured me that he loved me just how I was, and I assured him that he finally said something right. The skimpy outfit was washed, folded, and donated along with the heels. I’m sure they bring comfort and joy to someone else.

Not enough bag balm to cover these girls…

Husband tolerates my well-worn night gowns, but I crossed the line recently when I applied Bag Balm™ before coming to bed. Those of us who grew up on a farm know that the familiar green tin can of ointment was a staple in the medicine cabinet. It’s been around since 1899 and was originally used to treat cows with dry, cracked udders. Farm (and many city) women use the ointment to smear on their heels because it works better than expensive foot creams. So, one night after I slathered my heels with the greasy balm, covered my feet with thick, white socks, donned my pill-covered gown, and jumped into bed, Husband remarked that maybe I could try the little black outfit again sometime.

He’s still recuperating.

 

My Heart Hurts

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I appreciate this cartoon by theawkwardyeti.com because my brain keeps trying to make my heart function at full capacity, but it’s too weary. I’ve have been diagnosed with Non-Ischemic Cardiomyopathy heart disease exacerbated by Occipital Neuralgia migraine headaches with a nasty helping of Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy, literally a broken heart. According to Johns Hopkins Medicine,

Broken Heart Syndrome can be life-threatening. In some cases, it can cause severe heart muscle weakness resulting in:

I appreciate modern medicine and the fine people at St. Luke’s Idaho Cardiology Associates. After my successful angiogram surgery last week, my cardiologist and I have devised a healthy, positive plan for my weak and damaged heart. I’m taking eight medications, eating a healthy diet, and doing light exercise. I’m finding humorous cartoons and articles about heart disease. I’ve always known laughter is the best medicine.

I also appreciate the many friends and family members who continue to offer prayers and encouragement, and I intend to return the favor with authentic compassion. I’ll be around for a few more years to irritate, amuse, and love all of them. Stress is not welcome in my heart or home, and certain people who continue to shun me can wallow in mud and eat worms.

For now, it’s one day at a time. Just give me a few more minutes…

A Message to Young Mothers with Screaming Kids

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Mother’s Day isn’t only about cards with glitter or dandelion bouquets. The day still involves feeding, dressing, caring for, and providing shelter and guidance for little people who haven’t lived long enough to know what life is all about. Decades later, the real Mother’s Day happens when happy adult children invite their mothers over for dinner. (Thanks, Adam and Danielle.) Here’s a message I wrote a few years ago for mothers of young children.

I waited behind a young woman in line at the grocery store. Her three kids were simultaneously crying, kicking each other, opening cereal boxes, and sneezing until green goo dripped down their chins. I made eye contact with the frazzled mother and gave her the “this too shall pass” smile. She meekly smiled back and then wrestled her wild, snotty brood out the door. Suddenly I adored the age spots on my hands.

Most of us have been there. We take our darling little angels into public places but suddenly and inexplicably they become possessed by behavior demons that turn them into outrageous monsters. We begin the polite, hushed cajoling which fails miserably so we resort to bribery. “Yes, Honeypie, just be patient and then you can have an ice cream cone. Not enough? How about a pony?”

Some adults skip the bartering and go straight for the barking. Recently I witnessed a frightening display of questionable parenting at a big discount store. A loud woman wearing flannel pajama pants and a Hawaiian shirt yelled at her two wild and disheveled children, “Stop punchin’ the bread or I’ll kick yur ass!” Then she threw a six pack of beer onto the bread and barreled down the aisle as her spirited spawn wrestled on the floor. I predict incarceration in the future. For all of them.

A generation ago, bad behavior resulted in a firm swat across the butt. While momentarily effective, physical punishment doesn’t address the reason for the public temper tantrum. And although quite tempting, it’s not a good idea to just leave your kids in the store’s Kiddy Corral and drive home with a gallon of ice cream.

For an interesting perspective, harried mothers and sneering critics should trade places with raucous children. Imagine you’re stuffed into a grocery cart piled high with food as your tired parent pushes you through tall corridors of colorful packages. You’re lost in the commotion and you don’t have a clue about money, jobs, house payments, or that Mommy only gets four hours of sleep every night. You just know it would be great fun to open the peanut butter and smear it in Sister’s hair and make her scream. Now that would get Mommy’s attention.

Here’s some unsolicited advice for stressed young mothers:

1. Children are noisy, messy, curious, hungry, tired, dirty, funny, adorable, little people who are here because of Mommy and Daddy. Yes, they’re your fault and your responsibility.

2. Remember that your toddler only has two years of experience in being alive, and you only have that much experience in being her/his mother. So, you can’t expect perfection after only two years of on-the-job training. And you’re surrounded by countless other parents and toddlers who also are trying to figure out the directions.

3. Sometimes parenthood sucks. Once I dumped a glass of milk on my child’s head because he was throwing a fit and I didn’t know what else to do. We were both shocked, and the little bugger still remembers it 20 years later.

4. I enjoy boisterous kids, as long as it’s not the little urchin kicking the back of my airplane seat. Conversely, I worry about the children who act terrified and silent. What’s wrong?

5. There are more than 250 million adults in the United States. Each one started as a baby and then grew up and moved out, so there’s a high probability that yours will, too.

6. If you see another frustrated young mother with incorrigible kids (and you will), offer a smile, open a door, or say something pleasant to the child. That works so much better than snarling at the exhausted woman and ordering her to control her rotten brats. That action could prompt vomit on your shoe, and not from the child.

It comes down to survival of the funniest. I know a young single mother who recently went through the check-out with only two items: diapers and wine. Thousands of older women would salute her and send encouragement. Someday she won’t need to buy the diapers.