Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Midlife Cabernet: I Miss Johnny Carson

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Midlife Cabernet: I Miss Johnny Carson

Late night television continues to evolve with new names in the designated schedules, but no one will ever compare to Johnny Carson. Many of us tuned in between 1962 and 1992 to hear his clever quips and hilarious routines on The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. Every weekday night, we joined millions of Americans who settled into bed and prepared to laugh as Ed McMahon announced, “Here’s Johnny!”

I still see him parting the curtains and walking into the spotlight to deliver comical and entertaining monologues. Then he would go to his desk and introduce funny skits with our favorite characters, including Carnac the Magnificent predicting the future, Aunt Blabby discussing elder affairs, and Art Fern giving his effervescent movie critiques. We laughed, turned off the television, and went to sleep with a smile while escaping the current pressures of our daily, unfunny lives.

Carson’s history is interesting and intriguing. As a teenager, he loved to perform magic tricks and earned $25 per performance at his fraternity at the University of Nebraska. He wrote a thesis on the structure of Jack Benny’s comedy routines and graduated in 1949 with a degree in radio and speech with a minor in physics. Obviously, he was smarter than the clowns he often mimicked.

In 1951 as a struggling comic he did a comedy routine in California that spoofed a local political figure. The wife of the victim owned stock in a radio station in Los Angeles and referred Carson as a potential star. Carson gained employment by working for Red Skelton and got his big break by filling in for the popular comedian. Then he was signed as a writer for Jack Benny and his career was underway. By the mid1970s he earned 4 million a year – equivalent to $14 million annual in today’s dollars.

I still remember his final show in 1992. Bette Midler was the last guest and she sang “One for the Road.” There wasn’t a dry eye in the audience or in my house. Carson died in 2005 and ended an era of genuinely funny and unscripted television hosts. It’s sad to realize that new generations will only identify the phase “Here’s Johnny” with the hit movie The Shining, and most won’t understand the correlation between the insane character of Jack Nicholson with the shy comic genius of Johnny Carson. But that’s what he would have wanted.

Midlife Cabernet: Avoid Toenails in Your Soup

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waiter_0I often experience profound public humiliation with a daunting magnitude that would send most people screaming into the forest, never to return. After all these years, I accept the fact that I probably will trip and fall in a busy crosswalk, fart during a massage, drop my passport into a foreign toilet, or sprout broccoli in my teeth while giving a motivational speech. That’s what I do.

However, I still cringe at the memory of a recent embarrassment. Due to stress, deadlines, and too much caffeine, I had attacked my fingernails like a crazed wolverine, leaving bloody stumps that were too painful to use even to shampoo my hair. Of course, this was on a day when I had a Very Important Meeting with some Very Important People at a Very Private Club in Boise. Not even my best St. Johns knit suit could hide my tortured hands. It was time to leave, so I frantically pawed through my drawers looking for some fake nails to glue onto my fingers but only found some press-on toenails. The instructions on the box guaranteed that I didn’t need glue because the adhesive would last for a week. I slapped those gleaming toenails onto the ends of my ravaged fingers, picked up my briefcase, and dashed to the meeting, feeling smug that I had successfully survived yet another personal crisis.

At the Very Exclusive Club, I was escorted to the premium table and introduced to a sophisticated woman who looked like a model in a Ralph Lauren ad and a man who appeared to possess all the knowledge of the universe. As she shook my right hand, the toenail on my right thumb suddenly popped off and landed on the white linen tablecloth. I mumbled something about “that darned broken nail” and plucked it from the table. After exchanging professional pleasantries, we ordered herb-infused tomato bisque. As I took a sip, the toenail on the left hand snapped off and plopped into the soup. I tried to push it down with my spoon, but it kept bobbing up as if pleading to be rescued. Apparently, toes are wider and flatter than fingernails, and these things wouldn’t last the hour let alone a week. I resisted the temptation to say, “Waiter, there’s a toenail in my soup.”

My table companions cleared their throats and started their conversation about how I should diversify my investment portfolio to take advantage of opportunities in emerging markets. As they talked, I held my hands in my lap, working quickly to pry off the remaining nails so they wouldn’t sporadically shoot from my hand and put out someone’s eye. Two of the stubborn nails validated the claim on the box and wouldn’t release until I ripped them off and the wounded fingers started to bleed again. I discretely wrapped the linen napkin around my hand until it looked like one of those bandaged fists from a war movie. By the time the elegant woman was displaying a chart of recommended international equity funds, I was sitting on a pile of discarded toenails, applying white-linen pressure to my hemorrhaging fingertips, and pretending everything was okay.

I want the dignified waiter at The Arid Club to know that I really regret leaving that horrible mess. But maybe he overheard some good hints about investing and someday he’ll remove my name from the list of “Guests to Never Allow Back Inside.”

(This is an excerpt from the new book Midlife Cabernet – Life Love and Laughter after Fifty. Buy the e-book now on amazon.com and laugh by noon.)

Midlife Cabernet: I’m a Vindicated Class Clown

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image_13As the author of this blog and the new book Midlife Cabernet, I am gloriously giddy about being selected to present a stand-up comedy routine Saturday at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio. I’m included on the Erma Bombeck Blog Roll and this blog has been featured on the Erma Bombeck web site, so I am honored to have this opportunity to spin some yarns to a live audience of 400 funny people. And, to my former teachers who were irritated when I was the obnoxious class clown, I apologize but sitting all those hours in the principal’s office didn’t work.

Midlife Cabernet: Please Don’t Pee on the Seat

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image_14That yell heard yesterday in the Minneapolis Airport was me in the women’s bathroom. In a hurry to visit the restroom before changing planes, I dashed into the first open stall, quickly arranged the paper halo around the seat, and then unwittingly sat in the residue of a squatter – those intrepid women who think they can avoid germs by hovering over the toilet and doing their business without sitting down. This physical act required thigh muscles of a wrestler and accurate aim seen only in “The Hunger Games.”

I usually follow potty patrons who have the spray radius of a spigot on an agriculture sprinkler pipe. Irrigating the back 40 acres would be easy for these squatters – just let it go, let it go. (Oops, wrong analogy.) I wonder if the guilty gushers ever think to look back and maybe gauge if any urine actually got into the bowl. With the automatic flushers, it’s difficult to determine. Still, they might try observing the obvious puddles around the seat and the foul lake on the floor. Unless there is a potting training or health issue, there is no excuse for peeing on the seat and leaving it there. Especially if I’m next in line.

Most of us assume we can enter a public restroom and leave without needing to shower and get a penicillin shot. Now we must scope out the stall and prepare to do janitorial duty. Maybe we could have a chart on the back of the door for squatters to add stars in they can hit the bowl and not leave a mess. Otherwise, slap on the paper, Sister, and sit down like the rest of us.

In my travels, I have encountered various types of facilities. In Egypt, you pay an attendant in a public restroom and she will give you one tiny sheet of toilet paper. More pay, more paper. In Thailand, the toilet and the shower were in the same room without a separating wall or curtain. The public bathroom in India offered a hole in the ground and two footrests – but the floor was in gleaming marble. In England, the shared water closet was at the end of the hall and the commode was activated by pulling on a chain. But here in the USA, we have a wonderful invention that removes everything automatically without stress – if used correctly.

One more point. The women’s public bathrooms usually have a long line of squirming women because men design airports, sporting events, and theaters. If men had to wait for a private stall every time and then gyrate out of pantyhose, belts, and buttons while the next person was peeking under the stall to see if they were finished yet, you can bet your bulging bladder there would be ten times more bathrooms. We’d be happy if they would just double the number of facilities for women and these venues would have millions of happy, satisfied female customers. Maybe they could add special stalls designated for “Squatters Only” that would have loud buzzers for excess spraying, grates, and automatic washers on the floors. That could really piss off the worst offenders.

Laughing with Erma Bombeck and Her Friends

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To prove that I still have some funny bones that can move without aching, I registered for the 2014 Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio. Then I applied and was selected to perform a stand-up comedy routine. As a vindication for unappreciated class clowns everywhere, I was excited to perform in front of a room full of laughing people drinking wine. That’s my target audience.

So, I packed my bag and flew to Dayton, mumbling my routine on the plane. No one bothers a 62-year-old woman talking to herself, so it was a pleasant trip. I arrived at the registration table to retrieve the official Erma Bombeck tote bag and materials. Then I found a glass of wine and a good chair and examined the program. The most difficult decisions were choosing which of the 37 amazing workshops I would attend. I felt like it was Happy Hour at the wine bar and every selection was top shelf.

Here’s a synopsis of the eight workshops I attended. “Chick Wit: Writing the Humorous Memoir” became a comedy sketch by bestselling author Lisa Scottoline and her delightful daughter Francesca Serritella. The audience was howling by 9:30 am – and that was without needing adult beverages. Their advice was to find humor in the details of ordinary life, make the mundane hilarious, and remember that tragedy plus time equals comedy. That’s why my long life is one timeless joke.

“Exploit a joke about yourself,” said Scottoline. “When I have too many gray chin hairs, I’m an Amish man!”

Then I attended a Stand-Up Comedy Book Camp by Leighann Lord, a sassy comic who performs around the world and writes a weekly humor blog titled The Urban Erma. She coached those of us participating in the Stand-up Comedy Program. She advised us to go for the first laugh and open strong, and to remember that the audience immediately spots a fraud. She said to sense the tolerance but don’t be afraid to be edgy because people want to laugh or they wouldn’t be there.

“Expletives are like cooking with spices,” she said. “Don’t overuse or you’ll ruin the recipe.”

After a festive and fun-filled lunch, we broke for one of five workshops. I chose “Column Writing: How Personal is Too Personal?” Sometimes I worry if my blogs provide too much information as I write about irritable bowel syndrome, midlife mating, and my adventures with eldercare. This workshop was taught by Gina Barreca, the wild and wonderful author of eight books, including the bestselling They Used to Call Me Snow White But I Drifted. She noted that women are often the objects and victims of humor but we can change that perception. Women should embrace their calling to write and be funny.

“Just stop apologizing for everything!” she said. “Shut the hell up about being sorry if it’s going to rain!”

“Women Writing Their Lives – Truth-Telling, Wisdom and Laughter” was a dynamic session led by Suzanne Braun Levine, the first editor of Ms. Magazine, Gina Barreca, bestselling humor author and professor, and Ilene Beckerman, who began her successful writing career at age 60 . These women inspired the rest of us to never give up, to keep writing, and to honor our distinct voice. Donna Cavanagh, founder of HumorOutcasts.com, challenged her group to “Write Out Loud” and learn the applications for social media. These workshops taught us that humor writing can be a serious business.

Tracy Beckerman, writer of the syndicated column “Lost in Suburbia,” gave a crash course in branding and instructed us how to define content, stake out a niche, and own a corner of the writing world. She provided valuable information about how to trademark and copyright our work, how to bundle with various social media sites, and what techniques to use to improve our web sites. It was a college course condensed into 60 minutes. By then, it was time for my nap but I was too energized to stop.

“Surround your brand but don’t suffocate it,” she said. “Don’t always do self-promotion but include other writers and other links.”

Judy Carter, the bestselling author of The Humor Bible, kept us in stitches as she told hilarious anecdotes and gave advice about how to use humor in public speaking. She said the first rule to being humorous was to start with a tragic or painful experience and then transform the story to make people laugh.

“Turn your problems into punchlines,” she said. “Humor is my anti-depressant of choice.”

The conference ended with the Stand-Up Comedy program, and as I walked on stage, I glanced at the larger-than-life picture of Erma Bombeck. I imagined that she smiled at me as I took the microphone. I told stories about cutting off a Spanx garment, dropping toenails in my soup, and farting during a massage. The presentation was different from the commence addresses I usually give to schools and universities. We all laughed together, and though I was one of the oldest ones at the event, at that moment I felt like a young and vibrant woman. Thanks, Erma.

 

Midlife Cabernet Receives Four Stars from ForeWord Reviews

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photo (2)ForeWord Reviews

Clarion Review

HUMOR

Midlife Cabernet: Life, Love & Laughter after Fifty

Elaine Ambrose

Mill Park Publishing

978-0-9883980-7-8

Four Stars (out of Five)

Elaine Ambrose’s Midlife Cabernet: Life, Love & Laughter after Fifty is an Erma Bombeck-esque tribute to women who are over fifty and ready to explore life on new terms. It’s a humorous and sassy-yet-compassionate view of life over the hill, as well as a retrospective on the climb to the top.

In a series of themed essays in which her enjoyment of good wine is the connecting thread, Ambrose eschews ladylike censoring in her tale of life over fifty. With frank sexual references, sagging body parts, and visits to the plastic surgeon, Ambrose moves the reader from skin-deep concerns to the social and emotional challenges of working motherhood, child rearing (“It comes down to survival of the funniest”), post-career life transitions, friends with later-inlife illnesses, the richness of decades-long friendships, empty-nest syndrome, caring for older parents, and the joys and challenges of grandchildren. Through it all, Ambrose returns to the metaphor of good wine, facetious in her described devotion to celebrating the special occasions as well as the everyday: “I’ll drink fine wine if my hangnail heals.”

The writing and mechanics are solid, and the midlife focus is perfectly matched by the cover, with its antique typewriter. What is mostly a punchy and humorous series of essays—(“If you are what you eat, I’m a gigantic chocolate chip cookie floating in a vat of red wine”)—at times turns tangential, such as when, in an essay about bad investments and “avoid[ing] crooks,”

Ambrose dives into a nostalgic reflection on what she learned in English class, thanking her “heroes” (English teachers), who taught her how to diagram a sentence. Later chapters also contain lists of a mix of sensible and humorous advice for travel with grandchildren and travel alone, lists that at times lack the same energy exuded in earlier chapters.

Throughout, though, the tone is cheerful and friendly. Ambrose reads like a not-too-tired fifty-something who still has the energy to play a joke on a friend, enjoy romance with her spouse, and hop around with grandkids—appreciating life all the more when in relief against its inevitable challenges.

Midlife Cabernet is an argument for joy despite parents with dementia, grandchildren with Down syndrome, financial loss, broken relationships, and slow metabolisms: “Your challenge throughout the year is to keep the music playing. Sing and play your own songs long after the confetti is thrown into the garbage, the bills are past due, and prosperity is still elusive.” Ambrose will draw readers looking for frank conversation and a pick-me-up in the face of all the challenges midlife has to offer.

Heather Weber