#humor

Crushed Kale causes Juice on the Loose

May 4, 2016 By Elaine Ambrose

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

April 21, 2016 By Elaine Ambrose

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

April 15, 2016 By Elaine Ambrose

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

March 31, 2016 By Elaine Ambrose

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

March 28, 2016 By Elaine Ambrose

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/)

Bringing Fame and Shame to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop

March 23, 2016 By Elaine Ambrose

One week from today I’ll be flying to Dayton, Ohio as a speaker for the prestigious Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. My famous fart will follow me there and linger throughout the conference because I’ve become a stinkin’ cartoon.

My friends and family have known for years that I have no shame, but now I can cut loose with some real proof. My essay on The Huffington Post, “Don’t Fart During an MRI,” inspired Lola, the sassy curmudgeon of the daily comic pages, to assume the position and copy me. I don’t want to raise a stink, sound offensive, or toot my own horn, but I’m putting on airs to permeate such a ripe compliment. This cartoon passes the smell test for lighting up my day. I’m truly relieved.

The silly post went viral and generated more than 720,000 “likes” on Facebook. The piece was subsequently published in Germany, Italy, Korea, France, and Brazil and reprinted in several newsletters and magazines. I was interviewed on the HuffPo Live streaming newscast for writing one of the top ten most-read posts in the 10-year history of The Huffington Post. After 40 years of professional writing, I finally got noticed because we all secretly have the maturity of 10-year-old boys.

elaine huffpo live 1

Todd Clark is the creator and artist for LOLA, a nationally syndicated comic strip featuring a sassy senior citizen. Clark introduced the character in 1999, and she’s still causing chuckles for readers of all ages. I met Clark as he was creating cartoons at the annual Guardian Ball in Boise, Idaho. The event benefits severely wounded, injured, and ill veterans in the Wyakin Warrior Foundation. The Foundation provides one of the most comprehensive education, mentoring, professional development, networking and job placement programs in the country for severely wounded and injured veterans. My stepson, a Marine who was wounded in Iraq, is a member of the Wyakin Warriors.

I told Clark about my embarrassing medical experience, and he quickly sketched some artwork showing Lola tooting in an MRI. It’s not exactly Wonder Woman, but the caricature fits my personality… and life experiences.

todd clark lola

Since World War II, cartoonists from the National Cartoonist Society have traveled all over the world to visit wounded troops being treated at military and VA hospitals. Todd Clark packs his pencils and sketch pads and joins other award-winning cartoonists who support our military veterans. I am grateful for his contributions to veterans, and I’m delighted and humbled that now Lola and I are comedic cousins.

I’l be speaking at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop about how to turn a blog into a book and how to write humor. I hope that my audience can appreciate a good fart story but also enjoy other tidbits of knowledge, as well. I don’t want to be remembered as that funny woman who farts.

Here’s a list of the translated versions of my fart story as it continues to permeate throughout the world. It’s the least I can do to bring about laughter and sharing among all peoples. The translations are archived on The Huffington Post.

Don’t Fart During an MRI – in Korea, Germany, Italy, France, or Brazil

나는 MRI 촬영을 하다 방귀를 뀌었다

Huffington Post

Read More: Huffington Post News

나처럼 극한의 창피를 끊임없이 감수해야 하는 가엾은 인간들과 동정을 나누고자 내 슬픈 이야기를 아래에 적어�…

Read Whole Story

나는 MRI 촬영을 하다 방귀를 뀌었다

Korea

Read More: Korea News

Warum Sie niemals im MRT furzen sollten

Germany

Ich möchte diese erbärmliche, aber wahre Geschichte erzählen, um mich mit anderen gequälten Seelen zu solidarisieren, die immer wieder Peinlichkeiten erleben und überleben. Mein Erlebnis aus dieser Woche dürfte schwer zu übertreffen sein: Ich habe im MRT gefurzt.

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5 motivi per cui il sesso è migliore a 50 anni piuttosto che a 25

Italy

Uno dei molti vantaggi dell’invecchiare è che noi sappiamo ciò che ci piace e ciò non ci piace. E ora ci fa sorridere ricordare quei dieci minuti di frenetico armeggiare sul sedile posteriore della macchina di un adolescente dopo la scuola. Alla nostra età, preferiamo le lenzuola in cotone egiziano, il soft jazz e il lusso dei preliminari. Non siamo solo più vecchi, ma anche molto più saggi.

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Ne pétez pas pendant une IRM

France C’est La Vie

SANTÉ – Je partage cette anecdote aussi vraie que pathétique en témoignage de ma sympathie pour d’autres âmes damnées qui, comme moi, traversent et survivent à des épreuves extrêmement humiliantes.

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Não peide ao fazer uma ressonância magnética

Brazil

A minha experiência esta semana será difícil de superar: eu peidei dentro de um aparelho de ressonância magnética.

Read Whole Story

Crushed Kale causes Juice on the Loose

Don’t Dress Like a Yak when Speaking in Public

Why Funny is Fashionable

Real Coffee for Strong People

Fringe Fashion Failure

Bringing Fame and Shame to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop

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