Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist
Books from Mill Park Publishing provide hours of entertainment without needing batteries, electricity, or sizing. And, they are reusable. Consider buying, reading, and giving these books written by women authors. Here are three of 12 choices:
Midlife Cabernet – Life, Love & Laughter after 50 won First Place in the Nonfiction eBook category from a recent competition sponsored by the North American Book Awards. The program honors distinguished authors and books from across the United States and Canada. Awards will be presented at a gala reception Friday, November 13 in Boise, Idaho.
Midlife Cabernet by Idaho author Elaine Ambrose has earned the following awards:
Publishers Weekly wrote that the book is “Laugh-out-loud funny.” Foreword Reviews wrote that Midlife Cabernet is “an argument for joy.” The eBook is on sale for $.99 on five online platforms: Amazon.com Midlife Cabernet, Barnes & Noble Midlife Cabernet, IBooks/ITunes, KOBO, and Google Play.
I’ve never met Malin Morin of the City of Groningen in The Netherlands, but I’m confident we’d be best friends. She emailed me a photograph of her holding my book Midlife Cabernet in front of the Martini Tower. Obviously, she has excellent appreciation for comedic literature.
I was intrigued by Malin and wanted to know more about a tower named after a sophisticated funnel of cold vodka, so I researched the history of the beautiful building. The bell tower was constructed with a Catholic church during the 15th century, more than 500 years ago. It was named for the patron saint, St. Martin, so nothing was shaken or stirred in the dedication. The tower is 318 feet tall, contains a 62-bell carillon, and houses one of the largest Baroque organs in Europe. I see no reason why I shouldn’t travel there to meet and celebrate with Malin.
Her email contained delightful comments, so I’m exploiting them as a positive book review.
“I just loved the book. I read it on a recent flight and was making stupid sounds trying to suppress laughs, and people sitting in the seats around me were giving me the evil eye.”
To cause the evil eye in Europe is a great claim to fame for me. I’m now on a mission to provoke irritated glances throughout the world. I’ve already achieved documented success with that goal in the United States.
Malin also included a photograph taken in front of a local Dutch pub. If you can’t enjoy a bold Cabernet, you might as well swill a cold Heineken while reading about the joys of getting older and loving the journey. She ended her email with an invitation to visit her and noted that her family’s wine cellar is “stocked with Cabernet and other goodies.” Indeed, we will become best friends.
As I researched information about the Martini Tower, I discovered a recipe for the authentic Amsterdam Martini Cocktail. I share the details as a gesture to promote international education and foster good will among all peoples. The recipe calls for 2.5 ounces of Coca Liqueur, 2 ounces of citrus-flavored Vodka, the juice of ½ lime, and ice cubes. Shake well, strain into a chilled cocktail glass, and garnish with an olive. Sip while reading Midlife Cabernet in the market square in front of the Martini Tower. (I made up that last part.)
Here’s one final tidbit I discovered from my research. St. Martin was born more than 2,000 years ago and traveled extensively throughout Europe sharing Christianity which, at the time, still was a minor faith. He’s best known for sharing his cloak with a poor man and is called the patron saint of beggars. Because his celebration occurs near the grape harvest, he’s also a patron saint of vintners. He also worked with St. Ambrose from Italy, and I’m sure he was my ancestor. I feel called to honor them by traveling to Europe, sharing my coat, and savoring local wines.
Cheers, Malin. I’m searching for my passport.
My mother died 12 months ago today, so we’ve experienced a year of birthdays, holidays, and family gatherings without her. I knew the year anniversary was coming and naively anticipated that its passing would mysteriously make everything all better. I was wrong.
Just when I thought the emotional whirlwind was over, another memory of her smacked me in the heart and caused my eyes to spontaneously water. I’ve never been this emotional before, and I struggle between wanting to weep or pulling up my big girl pants and pretending to be tough. Sometimes it’s exhausting to be the strong one.
To prepare for inevitable meltdowns, here are some common occurrences that can cause an unpredictable sensitive reaction after a loved one dies.
The impulse to call. Mom was the consummate keeper of things: she wrote lists, filled ledgers, and clipped newspaper columns. Our refrigerator was plastered with Erma Bombeck’s witty stories. I recently was invited to be a speaker at the prestigious Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop in 2016. My immediate thought was to call my mom because she’d be so happy. Then I remembered.
A certain song. I was happily shopping for groceries when the song “Que Sera, Sera” by Doris Day played over the sound system. My mother used to sing the song when I was a wee toddler, and I remember the sounds of, “Whatever will be, will be.” I stood there in the soup aisle with tears streaming down my face.
Photographs. I’m still sorting her possessions, and found hundreds of photographs I’ve never seen. One fascinated me. It showed my parents as happy young lovers before they married and before hard work, illness, and heartache stole their laughter and weakened the light in their eyes. I wish I had known them.
Holiday memories. Mom was widowed at age 62, so she came to my house for 25 Christmas celebrations. When my children were young, we took her to a holiday movie on Christmas Day. We had to discontinue the tradition because she always talked out loud to the actors on the screen. “Don’t do that!” she would warn the characters. “Look at them dance!” she would exclaim. The kids would shrink down in their seats as other movie patrons glared at us.
Her example of strength and resiliency. She loved to tell stories of her childhood; how her sisters and she rode a horse to a one-room school, how she hand-milked cows before and after school, and how she worked in the fields throughout her childhood. My children tried not to complain after that, and they had a deep love and affection for the one they called Grandma Sweetie.
Favorite recipes. I continue to add mustard seeds in soups and any dish that requires boiling. Mom always added the seeds because of her belief in the Biblical parable of having the faith of a mustard seed. Through recipes, photographs, and stories, we keep her memory alive for the great-grandchildren.
Locations. I regularly drive past the assisted living facility where she lived before she died. I ache with remorse remembering how she clutched my hand each time I started to leave. I should have stayed longer.
Legacy. Mom didn’t have the money or opportunity to attend college, but she was a strong advocate for education. She established the Ambrose Family Scholarship at the University of Idaho, and this year six students from Wendell, Idaho received scholarships.
Emotional release through humor. A week after her death, I wrote a blog post titled “My Mother’s Body Got Lost.” The story described the true account of how the funeral home misplaced her for the weekend but then found her in a hearse traveling “near Bliss.” Bliss is a tiny town near her burial site. My response was, “Of course, she is!” The post was selected as a winning entry in the national BlogHer competition, and I was honored in New York as part of the “Voices of the Year” celebration. She continues to inspire my writing, and several of my blog posts about her were published on The Huffington Post.
Redemption. A few months ago, I was having a difficult time with the memory of how much my mother had suffered physically and emotionally. I sought professional help, and the gentle, wise counselor led me through a guided imagery exercise that restored my spirit. My mother came to me in a vision. She was young and happily playing with two little girls in a meadow. They were my sisters, my twin Arlene and another sister Carol. These babies never had the opportunity to breathe. The vivid scene of her radiant joy gives me peace.
The unexpected triggers continue to meander in and out of my life. After a year, the pain has eased, and I know she is in a better place. I hope someday to meet Arlene and Carol, and we’ll all play together in the meadow, scatter some mustard seeds, and sing, “Whatever will be, will be.”
Get your ugly face off my doorstep. I promise not to come to your house and grab your goodies; unless you have M&Ms with peanuts. Then we can barter. But for now, go away because it’s not fun anymore. If you’re over 12 and don’t have special needs, this crusty curmudgeon is saying “Get off my lawn!”
This Halloween, I choose not to be assaulted by marauding packs of greedy teenagers who terrorize the neighborhood and think I owe them free candy to stuff into their dirty pillowcases. Why do they assume it’s their right to seize a holiday meant for cute little children dressed as pirates, ghosts, and witches? Here’s my trick for the teenage treaters: no candy for you.
The last few years have changed my participation in the holiday. My children are grown and have their own kids. I enjoy seeing their cute costumes, but I no longer welcome masked strangers to my home. The festivities were ruined when drivers from outside the area brought cars full of real monsters who swarmed through the neighborhood, repeatedly rang doorbells, grabbed all the treats, complained if the candy bars were too small, and smashed the jack-o-lanterns on their way out. I think if you can drive a vehicle, you’re too old to trick-or-treat.
The gangs of gangling candy-grabbers didn’t even wear costumes, but maybe that was a good thing. The costumes I’ve seen in the stores resemble miniature pole-dance outfits for toddler sluts or bloody murder victims so frightening they cause me to experience a psychotic episode. The party store managers don’t approve of my actions when I curl into a fetal position on the floor and scream, “Make it go away!”
Halloween used to be fun. When my kids were pre-school age, they chose Halloween costumes from clothes we already owned. My son wore his calico shirt and vest with his dad’s cowboy hat. A moustache painted with an eyebrow pencil completed his outfit. My daughter wore my old dance dress with her own leggings. Both were excited as we walked around the neighborhood and collected treats from families we knew.
We returned home to answer the door, marvel at the cute homemade outfits, and give treats to children from the surrounding area. I allowed my kids a few pieces and sent them to bed. After they were asleep, I inspected their treasures and removed all the M&M Peanut candies for myself. I only was concerned about too much sugar rotting their teeth. Years later they told me they knew about my theft, but didn’t care. Obviously, I raised outstanding children
One year, I made the mistake of reading how to make homemade costumes. This was before the soul-crushing examples on Pinterest. I stayed up all night sewing a Holly Hobby outfit, complete with pinafore and bonnet. This labor of love was worn once, so I learned to be wiser with future costumes and encouraged them to express their imagination by creating their own costumes from whatever they owned. We also stopped the commercialized door-to-door begging when the children were around eight years old. Instead of prowling the streets for stale candy leftover from previous holidays, I purchased some candy for them, organized a party at home, and they were happy.
It’s fun to see little ones all dressed up, and I endorse creative play that sparks imagination. This Halloween, we’ll take photos of the grandkids and give them cards and small gifts. The evening will end at home with the lights out and the doors locked. Think of all the teeth we’ll save.
(Featured on The Huffington Post 50 on Oct. 31, 2015)
If I’m feeling a bit too confident and need an instant dose of humility, I read some bad reviews about my latest book Midlife Cabernet. This self-inflicted pain is sure to temporarily destroy my positive attitude and slaughter the pretentious belief that I am a writer. To prevent myself from trading my computer for a clown costume and running away to join the circus, I’ve discovered a convenient technique to overcome the humiliation: Spy on the reviewers.
My book has almost 700 reviews on Amazon.com and Goodreads, and 78% of them are positive. But, I can’t resist peeking at the negative comments. For example, a few months ago Donna gave the book a 1-Star rating out of 5 stars. Here is her review:
“Stunk”
I couldn’t glean any helpful suggestions from this nasty comment, nor did I determine how to please Donna. I investigated her other reviews and noticed she had written only eight comments and had given three 1-star ratings. I decided that Donna is too high-maintenance and doesn’t deserve my sparkling humor.
McNay, a prolific reviewer, also gave the book a 1-star rating and wrote that she returned it for credit because she couldn’t finish reading it. I inspected her biography and noted that she gave 5-star ratings to a digital meat thermometer and a cuticle clipper she had ordered from Amazon.com. I can’t compete with those products.
Ronald Seiberton wrote a terse comment about the book:
“Not that funny”
I discovered that he had written a grand total of three reviews and had given five stars to a book about the Dalai Lama. I have to wonder why he even purchased a copy of Midlife Cabernet.
A reviewer named Cocoa’s Mama gave the book a 2-star rating and wrote, “This book did have it’s humorous moments, but all the five star reviews have me baffled. This book was not at all well written.” I smugly noticed that her review wasn’t well-written either and contained at least three grammatical errors. But, she did give a 5-star review to a reversible puffy vest for dogs.
The reviews on Goodreads were also humbling. Maureen gave the book 1-star rating and wrote:
“I couldn’t force myself to finish this book. It is full of insipid one-liners which are fine for 10 minutes.”
Maureen, please admit I amused you for ten minutes. That’s all I need. I also noted that Maureen gave a 3-star rating to George Orwell’s 1984. So, I’ve got that going for me.
Rhonda LeRay gave the book a 1-star rating, but I noticed she read and liked a book titled, 101 Things to Do with Popcorn. I don’t want Rhonda to like my book.
I began to whimper as I read through more bad reviews. Sheri Slomnick gave it two stars and wrote that she was in her 30s and didn’t find the book as funny as advertised. Sheri, sweetheart, the subtitle is “Life, Love, & Laughter after 50.” Read it again in 20 years and write a better comment.
Finally, a man named Guy gave the book another 1-star ranking. His profile notes that he is a corporate director, merchant banker, and strategic advisor. Perhaps a book titled Midlife Cabernetshouldn’t be included on his must-read list.
I don’t think reviewers realize how devastating a 1-star rating can hurt sales (and feelings.) Was it really that bad? Have they ever written anything beyond a few lines of criticism? There’s only one action to do after wallowing through the condemning, vicious comments. Meekly return to the 5-star reviews and find reasons to live. I linger on this one:
“This book was one of the most funny, endearing books I’ve read.”
The quote is from my friend, but that doesn’t matter. I believe in my heart that she is correct.
