Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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New Book Coming in October: Midlife Happy Hour

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 happyhour_sketches_v3

New Offering from Brown Books Says Midlife is Worth Living Out Loud

“Midlife Happy Hour: Our Reward for Surviving Careers, Kids, and Chaos” Set for Fall Release

DALLAS (May 3, 2016) – Brown Books Publishing Group has signed celebrated #1 best-selling author, syndicated blogger, and humorist Elaine Ambrose to publish her newest book, Midlife Happy Hour: Our Reward for Surviving Careers, Kids, and Chaos.

“Middle-aged women need to reinvent their lives and celebrate parties in the empty nest,” Ambrose said. “They know if the glass is half empty, fill it fast and pass the cookies.”

Midlife Happy Hour is a collection of humorous essays and anecdotes that is Ambrose’s sequel to her #1 best-selling 2014 release of Midlife Cabernet touted by Publishers Weekly as “laugh-out-loud funny!”

With her Brown Books title, scheduled for October release, Ambrose boldly and hilariously pens her latest kiss-my-attitude book in order to share her irreverent advice. Readers will learn how to remain relevant when the world ignores them, why their children are cute but should grow up and move out, how to communicate with aging parents, and why it’s never too late to enjoy a passionate love life, but only with proper lighting.

Working women will relate to her humorous tales of surviving various jobs while raising children, wiping toddler snot off her fashionable business suits, and competing as a funny female in a serious, male market. She grew up on a potato farm outside the village of Wendell, Idaho, and became the state’s first female television news reporter, a manager in a Fortune 500 Corporation, and a magazine editor.

Ambrose received international acclaim when one of her humorous stories became one of the most-read posts in the history of The Huffington Post. Her viral essay was translated into six languages and published around the world. She has received multiple awards from the Independent Publisher Book Awards (IPPY) and ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Awards.

Other books by Ambrose include The Magic Potato, a bilingual children’s book that was approved for the statewide school curriculum. Her first collaboration was with New York Times bestselling author Joanne Kimes to write Menopause Sucks.

Ambrose delivers just the right recipe for laughter with Midlife Happy Hour.  Cheers to the readers who will laugh out loud!

For more information on Elaine Ambrose and Midlife Happy Hour, please visit: www.midlifehappyhour.com.

Media contact: Brian Briscoe, 972.248.9500, Brian.Briscoe@TheAgencyatBB.com

About Brown Books Publishing Group (BBPG)

Founded by Milli Brown in 1994, Brown Books Publishing Group is a full-service, independent publisher of high-quality books across all genres. Committed to producing award-winning books for authors who choose to retain the rights to their intellectual property, Brown Books publishes more than one hundred titles a year and has won numerous prestigious awards, including the Writer’s Digest Grand Prize, Mom’s Choice Award, Foreword Book of the Year, Gold Ink Award, Axiom Business Book Award and many more. Brown Books authors have appeared on programs and networks such as the “Today” show, Fox News, “Face the Nation,” CNN and BBC News. They have been featured in publications such as USA Today, Publishers Weekly, and The New York Times. In addition, BBPG authors have been guests on NPR programming, including “The Diane Rehm Show,” “Morning Edition” and “The Takeaway.” To learn more, visit www.BrownBooks.com and www.BrownBooksKids.com and www.BrownChristianPress.com.

 

About The Agency at Brown Books (ABB)

The Agency at Brown Books is a full-service public relations, marketing and branding firm within a publishing house. As a subsidiary of Brown Books Publishing Group, The Agency is backed by 20 years of excellence and experience, and the one-of-a-kind, integrated platform is available to Brown Books’ authors as well as to non-affiliated authors, established writers, entrepreneurs, CEOs and anyone seeking smarter strategies for building their business. For more information, visit www.TheAgencyAtBB.com.

 

 

 

 

Crushed Kale causes Juice on the Loose

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juice machine

 

A jumbled vision from childhood caused me to fear blenders. I witnessed my mother’s morning ritual of stepping onto a machine in her bedroom, securing a strap around her waist, and then flipping a switch that made her entire body shake like mud in a blender. Since then, I have suppressed these horrifying memories by consuming large bowls of peanut M&Ms and cases of red wine. Even the noise of a fancy margarita machine can throw me into a catatonic panic attack that only can be soothed by a least two of the tasty frozen concoctions.

Fast forward fifty years and I am the card carrying member of the “Tried and Failed Every Diet on the Planet” club. To quote the late, great Erma Bombeck, “I keep trying to go on a diet, and I’ve tried going to the gym. I’ve exercised with women so thin that buzzard followed them to their cars. And, in two decades, I’ve lost a total of 789 pounds. I should be hanging from a charm bracelet.”

In my spare time, that blessed moment between 1:00 and 2:00 p.m., I enjoy watching documentaries on Netflix because it’s easier to justify than watching soft porn. Lately, I’ve been hooked on food films. Now I’m scared to death about all the crap in our food. I grew up on a farm, and we ate our crops and our livestock (except for the horses.) Now, I worry that my grandkids will be polluted and poisoned with the garbage that passes as edible food. I’m relieved that their parents have gardens and limit their access to cookies and candy (except at my house.)

The last documentary I watched was “Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead” by Joe Cross. The show advocates the use of juicers, and it shows how obese, unhealthy people gave up chewing and became healthy, happy, productive members of society by drinking juice. For every meal. I immediately put down my box of Girl Scout cookies, mainly because it was empty, and vowed to try this plan. My friend was on the juice diet, and she looked great. (Of course, she was born beautiful, but that’s not the point.)

I had a $100 rebate from purchasing a pair of contacts. I took that with my 20-percent-off coupon to Bed, Bath and Beyond and ordered a Breville Juice Fountain Plus. With my rebate and coupon, it only cost $30. It arrived by mail the following week so I stocked up on red beets, kale, celery, apples, cucumbers, spinach, ginger root, lemons, and peppers. It was great fun to watch whole apples and beets instantly whirl into juice. In an erroneous attempt to fool myself, I poured beet juice into a wine glass. Remember how we used to fool our babies by pretending the blob of baby food was on an airplane heading into their mouths? That didn’t work then, either. I regret corrupting my best wine glass.

toilet paper cartoon

After a few days, I was running a small juice factory and also running down the hall to the bathroom. I didn’t dare leave the house. I already knew the location of every public bathroom within a fifty-mile radius from my home, but that wasn’t good enough. I thought about pulling a Porta-Potty on a trailer behind my car, but they don’t deliver and I knew I couldn’t make it to their store. So, I eased up a little on the amount and frequency. Now I only have juice once or twice a week. That leaves plenty of time to consume my other favorite juice. It’s made from fermented grapes and pairs well with a chewy cheese plate.

 

Don’t Dress Like a Yak when Speaking in Public

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yak

If you want to speak in public, there are rules to follow: Pre-check your teeth for broccoli, and tame your irritable bowel syndrome. Remind the audience to turn off cell phones and stay awake because your words could change their lives. Don’t dress like a yak.

This month I spoke at two national conferences and learned the hard way to follow my proven dress code: I should wear black at all times and under all circumstances but throw in a tiny bit of color. Otherwise, I could resemble a large, woolly beast.

At the prestigious Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio, I obeyed my rules. I felt confident in my chosen wardrobe that included a black jacket with a turquoise shell. I was ready to mingle with other speakers and comediennes half my age, and some of us even created entire comedy routines when we met in the bathroom of the hotel. On one occasion, humorists and authors Stacey Lowrey Gustafson and Anne Bardsley posed with me for a festive photo next to the latrines. It was a special moment.

Erma 3 commediennes

More than 350 writers attended the conference, some with an abundant sense of style and a few who didn’t care. I presented two workshops, one on publishing and one on writing humor. Because I’m larger than a bread box but have the same shape, I always wear black. The dark color diminishes my football linebacker shoulders and attempts to hide my super-sized bosom that over the decades has dropped from perky to pendulum. If I know the presentation will be videotaped, I refuse to turn sideways because I will block out any redeemable image. There is a smidgen of pride somewhere buried in that incredible hulk.

For my presentations, I wore a conservative black knit dress and a long black and white tweed sweater. I often felt like a fraud as I encouraged others to have self-confidence and revel in their majesty as I tugged at my jacket to hide the body that longed to be a single-digit size again. But damn, the dessert cart offered cheesecake and it would go to waste if I didn’t have a few samples. And it’s not right to allow a bottle of wine to sit half-empty and forlorn. It must be consumed for the greater good of society.

erma speaker 2016

Two weeks after the Erma Bombeck conference, I spoke at the BAM Bloggers at Midlife Conference in Las Vegas, Nevada. More than 150 attendees came, and I knew I found my tribe. The first night, I wore a black tank top with a colorful long vest. I took a chance on going sleeveless, but no one vomited. I met some best friends I had know for years only online, including Donna Beckman Tagliaferri.

BAM donna elaine crop

However, for my presentation, my brain left my body as I decided to go with an outfit that broke my rules. I chose a long vest again but the material was in a bulky, hairy knit of cream dappled with brown leather squares. I resembled a yak. I knew I had made a mistake as I lumbered to the podium with Emmy Award winning author and screenwriter Judy Rothman Rofe and dynamo author Janie Emaus. They were dressed in solid colors and both were the size of Thumbelina. I wanted to detour out the side door and join my herd of grazing animals on a hillside far, far away.

BAM panel

Our panel discussion was vibrant and informative, and I was grateful for the table that hid half of my body. We breezed through the presentation and no one stood to yell, “Why didn’t you wear black? You always wear black!”

I continued with the outrageous fashion mistakes when I changed into a Vegas-inspired blouse for dinner. In the photos, the silly top looked like a tablecloth and I resembled a retired matron playing cards on a cruise ship. But my friends didn’t seem to mind because I made them look so much better.

BAM Group

The event was salvaged at a Disco-themed night when I happily wiggled into my black dress adored with sparkles and fat-shaping Spandex. As the music permeated the room, I danced with wild abandon and laughed myself silly as I gyrated to the beat of the Bee Gees and ABBA. The Yak died and I became the Dancing Queen. It was Friday night and the lights were low. I was looking out for the place to go. The dress was black but covered with bling. I raised my arms and sang out loud:

“You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life.

See that girl, watch that scene, digging the Dancing Queen.”

BAM dancer crop

The moral of the story is that some of us are too concerned with wearing basic black when we could add some sparkles and go dancing. After an hour of Disco music, no one really cared what anyone was wearing or if they were even human. It was all a matter of “I Will Survive” while “Staying Alive.”

Why Funny is 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.

Real Coffee for Strong People

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coffee

One of the many advantages of being older and having grown children is that mornings can begin at 9:00 am. There is no need to get the little buggers out of bed, dressed, fed, and to school before you go to work. All that crap happened twenty years ago when you were young and energetic and actually cared if their sack lunches contained edible food. Now you can sit around in jammies, read the paper, and drink coffee until noon. It’s a wonderful life.

However, I’m worried about several friends who have taken their old age freedom and turned into coffee snobs. They demand only the freshest beans harvested under a full moon from secret mountain forests and flown in on fairy wings. They have contraptions that measure, grind, and arrange the beans in symmetrical patterns while pure glacier water is infused through organic filters woven by chanting honey bees. These friends go to great lengths to prepare, sip, and sigh over their coffee. I think that’s silly.

I recently needed to be at the airport at the criminal hour of 5:00 am for a flight to a conference. I stumbled to the coffee bar and waited in line as a crowd of zombie passengers placed their orders: iced smoked butterscotch latte, caramelized honey Frappuccino, or espresso con panna. I thought they were naming the characters in a foreign porn film.

“I’ll have a coffee, black,” I said.

The barista froze over her register.

“Just plain coffee?” she asked in a mocking tone that blatantly pronounced me as an uneducated, unclean heathen.

“Just plain coffee,” I repeated, careful to slowly pronounce each syllable.

“Well, we’re having a special today on a dark chocolate melted truffle mocha!” she chirped. “You should try it!”

“I want a cup of coffee,” I repeated. “I’m not paying $7.00 for flavored chemicals in hot water.”

She dumped some coffee into a paper cup, smashed on a lid, and shoved it across the counter. I smiled weakly, paid, and turned to find my seat in the mass of caffeine-loving passengers drinking their flavored concoctions. In my pre-dawn stupor, I wondered how society changed from busy people wanting strong, black coffee to delicate flowers requesting expensive, foo-foo drinks with cardboard cuffs so fingers wouldn’t get too hot.

We need to reclaim authentic brew for real people, and I suggest a global fight for our right to drink black coffee. I refuse to order a macchiato, even though I like the sound of the word. Seriously, would you date a man who ordered a flat white espresso with a thin layer of foam on the top in a demitasse cup hand-crafted by elusive Peruvian peasants? No, give me a campfire scene where cowboys are passing a dented tin pitcher of brew strong enough to make ears bleed and hearts palpitate. That’s coffee. I’ll take a cup.

 

 

Fringe Fashion Failure

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fringe dress 2

 

I felt feisty, fun, and a fabulously festive in my new dress festooned with fluttering fringe. The long strands covered body parts that needed to be hidden after years of neglect, gravity, and buttered scones, but the swaying material allowed gratuitous glimpses of legs that once rivaled the gams in pinup posters hung in greasy automotive shops across the country. I was one hot grandmother.

I loved my new outfit and eagerly prepared for a night at an elegant soiree. The first trial came when I attempted to pull on a coat to keep me warm against the winter chill. As I wiggled into my wrap, the fringe on the sleeves of the dress snagged, bunched, and clumped until I resembled an irritated pig wrapped in twine. Stray strands knotted around my neck and hiked the back of the dress over my butt. This was not a pretty vision, and I began to feel less glamorous.

After waddling to the car, I proceeded to the party where I encountered more challenges and calamities. Removing the coat revealed a tangled mass of disheveled strands that seemed to be embroiled in a fight-to-the-death fringe battle. I clawed at the material in a desperate attempt to untangle the hairball that was consuming my outfit. Once adjusted, I walked slowly through the venue so I wouldn’t disrupt the delicate free flow of the garment. Static cling became the new enemy. At any given moment, a rogue fringe would leap out and adhere to the pants of a tall handsome stranger. At least my dress had good taste.

fringe dress

The evening progressed nicely, and I enjoyed gushing compliments about my attire. I assumed the worst was behind me and celebrated with several glasses of fine Cabernet. After a few hours, the wine needed to exit the body, so I sashayed to the restroom. This call of nature became a cry of the wild.

I proceeded to gather the fringe in a ball around my waist so I could sit and assume the position. It became apparent that wasn’t any chance to control what seemed like a million independent and defiant strands, and the wine didn’t help my concentration. By the time I finished my duty, I realized there was one more dilemma. One hand was needed to secure and employ the necessary toilet paper.

I shifted the wad of fringe to one side and attempted to secure it with one hand while I fumbled for the paper. The effort was futile. After achieving contortions only accomplished by professional gymnasts in the circus, I managed to drop the paper on the floor and the fringe fell into the toilet. I momentarily lost my mind.

Not one to give up easily, I grabbed more paper, finished the flush, and jumped off the comedy commode. Liquid dripped onto the floor from wet stripes of sorry, violated fringe so I grabbed sections to squeeze the excess moisture. Soon my hands, my dress, and the entire bathroom reeked of toilet water. I washed and dried my hands, took a deep breath, and joined the party, dripping all the way, leaving a raked pattern of fringe droppings on the carpet.

Reluctant to sit down, I faked my way through the evening and was hesitant to consume too much more wine or water in case there were security cameras around the bathroom and I was prohibited from entering. When it was time to leave, I wrapped my coat around my shoulders so I wouldn’t need to repeat the torment of the sleeves.

At home, I removed the dress, buried it in the dry cleaning bag, jumped into my dowdy but fringe-free jammies, poured a glass of wine, and relaxed in comfort. I may donate the dress to charity and allow someone else to enjoy its charms. But, for a brief moment in time, I felt festive and fashionable and those sweet memories will last long after the humiliation is gone. As for future fashion choices, I’ll avoid the fringe element of society.

 

(Featured on The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop blog March 27, 2016.  http://humorwriters.org/2016/03/27/fringe-fashion-failure/)