Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Help Stop Wimpy Parent Syndrome

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I’ve been embarrassing my children for more than 30 years. They now are happy young adults with loving spouses, adorable children and rewarding careers. Obviously, my strategy worked.

Throughout their childhood, I didn’t worry about harming their delicate self-esteem. Nor did I hover over their every action, schedule daily enrichment activities, make them eat kale, or ensure their socks matched. Instead, I created chaos and commotion just to motivate them to find peace and create order in their lives. I’m altruistic like that.

Children today are so pampered that some timid parents will become marooned in a horrifying, never-ending reality show if they don’t stop appeasing and indulging their tiny terrors. News flash to those afflicted with Wimpy Parent Syndrome: Your Kid Isn’t a Child Pharaoh. To toughen kids for real life, bewildered parents should halt most organized activities and throw in these handy tips to challenge their children’s self-confidence and encourage self-reliance.

1. Criticize their artwork. If your first-grader comes home with a hand-drawn picture, be sure to say that the tree looks like a spider and the sun should be more round. Then throw it away. Maybe she’ll try harder.

2. Show favoritism. Is the older child has an attractive project, be sure to tape it to the refrigerator for months and often mention the talent to the younger one. Give the older child extra dessert.

3. Exhibit lazy behavior. Stay in bed on Saturday morning and tell them to make their own damn pancakes. This is how children learn responsibility and cooking skills.

4. Take your own time-out. If the children are throwing a fit in the car, pull over to the side, turn off the engine, lean back, and close your eyes. Say, “Mommy is going away for a while.” Then chant in a foreign language for 10 minutes. They’ll be too traumatized to make noise.

5. Condemn their friends. Be sure to mock their friend’s silly habits. And when your teenager has a basement full of rowdy kids, walk in wearing a clown nose, belch loudly, and walk out. This instills a fear in your child that never goes away.

6. Cry when you meet your child’s first date. Sob into a towel, run into your room, and slam the door. This action will test their patience, strengthen their loyalty to each other, and promote tolerance.

7. Threaten them, if necessary. If your high school senior won’t write thank you notes for graduation presents, threaten to publish an announcement on social media that your child is too lazy and ungrateful to appreciate gifts now or in the future.

8. Bribery works. That hellhole of a bedroom won’t get clean on its own. Hide a $10 bill somewhere in the room and tell them to tidy and organize everything to find it. Substitute a $20 bill for particularly egregious cases that harbor toxic diseases. If they demand more money, tell them to move out and find an apartment.

Finally, remember that children can sense an easy target. If mommy and daddy are too weak and delicate to assume their strong but loving roles as parents, the kids will rule the house before the youngest is out of diapers and could stay in diapers for ten years. Parents can reverse this pending disaster by starting now to embarrass their children on a regular basis so the kids find the courage to grow up, move out, and prove themselves.

Help stop Wimpy Parent Syndrome. Go buy a clown nose. You can thank me later.

 

(Featured on The Huffington  Post Comedy page Sept. 29, 2015)

Midlife Creates the Right Time to Write

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Instead of moaning and groaning about empty nests, expanding waistlines, and lost libidos, midlife women should write something. Now is the time to release the passionate muse that has languished for years beneath responsibilities for raising children, establishing careers, maintaining homes, retaining happy marriages, and campaigning for political causes and charities. Middle-aged women have stories to tell, so they should convert the empty nest into a writing den, substitute the chocolate with a salad, and receive self-confidence from writing so they feel sexy enough to find that lost libido. This is a win-win situation.

typewriters

Here are some suggestions to inspire the writing process.

1. Write what you know. I couldn’t write well about a vegetarian, Socialist, nuclear physicist who sleeps with his/her dog and listens to rap music. Can’t do it. But, I thoroughly enjoyed writing Menopause Sucks because I’ve been there and it does! And, I laughed every time I wrote a sentence such as, “Let me tell you why you sneeze, fart, and wet your pants at the same time.” And, my fingers literally flew over the keyboard as I wrote about hairy toes, night sweats, and recommended sex toys. Yes, write what you know!

As always, there is a caveat. If you’re writing historical fiction or a detailed novel, research the facts about a certain era and write a story that fits. You weren’t a member of the Clan of the Cave Bear and you didn’t run away with a peasant boy from the 17th century, but with enough investigation, you can always imagine the scenarios and write a compelling story. Just don’t name an ancient heroine Mandy.

2. Take advantage of, no… exploit, the serendipity of your life. Develop fascinating characters modeled after your belching piano teacher, or your uncle who refuses to discuss his war wounds but smashes beer cans against his forehead, or the passenger in the airplane seat next to you who laughs in her sleep, or your child who cries when the Disneyland Nightlight Parade stops. You are surrounded by juicy writing prompts. Keep a notebook handy to write quotes and facts to use later. Start with a private journal and progress to a public blog. That byline could become a lifeline to revitalizing stagnant energy.

3. Read your work out loud. You will discover sentences, paragraphs, and complete pages that no one will understand or ever read again. You’ll find that preposition lounging at the end of a sentence that screams: I’M A HORRIBLE WRITER! READ NO FURTHER! Also, make note to delete exclamation points and unnecessary capital letters.

4. Believe that all the words tumbling around in your brain MUST get out or you will explode! Yes, you hear voices, but it’s your characters demanding that you set them free. If you’re fiddling with non-fiction, then quick, spew forth those creative ideas on napkins, notebooks, old envelopes, typewriters (I still have some), and even a computer. Write. Write. Write. You’ve read plenty of crap that others have written, which is proof that your work will be OK.

5. Continue to read and learn. Emulate your favorite authors. Janet Evanovich makes me howl with laughter and want to read more. On the other hand, E.L. James causes me to wish I were a vegetarian, Socialist, nuclear physicist who sleeps with my dog and listens to rap music. Her bestselling novel, Fifty Shades of Grey, is a hotbed of horrible writing featuring such provocative lines as, “Desire pools dark and deadly in my groin.” If I have anything pooling in my groin, I better run to the bathroom. Personally, I prefer two shades of grey during my romps in the hay: lights dim and lights off.

Writers should be honest enough to admit they need editors, smart enough to know their cousin shouldn’t design the book cover, and strong enough to read rejection letters and negative reviews without getting depressed. They can continue to hone their craft by attending writing workshops, joining literary groups, registering for writing retreats, mingling with other authors, and finding a space to write. And, they should say out loud every day, “I am a writer.” Then they must go write.

 

(Featured on The Huffington Post 50 page.)

When Buoyant Boobs become Tittie Tubes

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(Featured on The Huffington Post Comedy page Sept. 16, 2015)

 

Gravity is the phenomenal force that keeps the moon in orbit and eliminates the chance of us floating off into space. A less attractive fact is that gravity has relocated my once-perky breasts down near my knees. It’s only a matter of time before I’m pushing them in a cart.

Gravity also has other devious features. When I step on a scale, the scale reads how much gravity is acting on my body. Apparently, I attract a great amount. It’s also the reason I frequently trip on a tiny hair and fall down, usually in a public place. The force comes into play every time I attempt to balance on one foot in yoga class and my tree pose topples to the ground. Obviously, gravity is not my friend.

I didn’t pay attention to the sagging boobs issue until I noticed in photographs that my youthful hourglass shape had settled comfortably into a rotund grandfather clock. Instead of retaining my splendid, 20-something physique, I was regressing to the toddler stage with thin hair, pudgy belly, clumsy walk, and the need for a nap. This realization made me crave a bottle; one that wasn’t full of milk.

A scholarly research of medical facts taught me that breasts naturally sag because the ligaments break down as the collagen and elastin lose the will to get up in the morning. I found a more nasty explanation that age causes dense glandular tissue is be replaced by fat that is more likely to droop. Ultimately, two of my best assets had become fat-filled tittie tubes.

In defiance, I purchased industrial-strength bras with pulley-system straps that could ratchet the migrating mammary glands off my belt. However, this caused my ta-tas to resemble military missiles ready to launch and clothes to drape like a cheap holiday cloth over a sturdy buffet table. Due to my grotesque, matronly profile, I could set a book and a full wineglass on my uplifted chest. So I did.

Further research explained that physical exercise won’t redeem the wayward jugs. Push-ups couldn’t reduce the droop because breasts are made of fat not muscle, so I decided NOT to attempt 100 push-ups every morning. Other causes included smoking, which I’ve never done, and sun bathing, which I’ve never done in the nude, in compliance with obscenity laws. High-fat diets can contribute to sagging boobs, but then what’s left of life to enjoy? One cannot live by wine alone! Would this bosom bounce back to where it belonged if I didn’t butter my corn or drown my warm berry pie with ice cream? I think not!

A friend who specializes in homeopathic treatments brought me a list of the top ten top home remedies for firming sagging breasts.

“Try these suggestions,” she murmured gently as organic bean sprouts appeared from her naturally-curly hair and a mist of lavender puffed from her youthful pores like glitter in a unicorn’s breath.

I dropped my nachos and cocked my salon-treated mess of a haircut. “Let me get this off my chest,” I said. “My rack has fallen and can’t get up. Your potions and lotions won’t help.”

“Your negative energy is blocking your healing chakra,” she said, her voice matching the perfect pitch of a dove’s coo. “Meditate on lifting your soul so the spirit realm can help revitalize whatever brings you down.” She turned to go and seemed to vanish in a cloud of non-allergenic fairy dust.

I opened a Cabernet and practiced positive thoughts as I sipped and read her list. One technique involved massaging olive oil gently over the breasts for 15 minutes to increase blood flow and stimulate cell repair. My hubby Studley dutifully volunteered to administer this remedy as often as necessary. He wasn’t so excited about the next suggestion to apply a paste of pureed cucumber and egg yolk because he preferred his salad on a plate. I determined the list was a bust, so I unhooked the constrictions and flung the bindings to the far corner.

“Let them free!” I shouted from the depths of my bosom.

Then I ran naked to the hot tub, mimicking Kathy Bates in the Jacuzzi scene from the movie About Schmidt. Incidentally, that scene was voted by a men’s magazine as the “Most Ball Clenching Movie Moment of All Time.” Not even Jack Nicholson could keep a straight face. As the warm water caused my girls to float upward, I shook my wrinkled fist and proudly declared, “I am not a victim of gravity or criticism. I am a proud woman with a beautiful body, and you can kiss my attitude.” I smiled and felt buoyant.

 

The Seven Deadly Sins, Birthday Edition

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muppets birthday

My birthday comes with the advent of sweater-weather; when the foliage on the hillsides bursts into vibrant colors of golden-yellow, scarlet-red, and fire-orange. Overhead, the geese point their way south for warmer temperatures as the sun disappears earlier into the harvest horizon. I say with reflection and gratitude, “I’m so damn lucky to live through another summer!”

At my age, I don’t ignore the changing seasons. I relish one more chance to taste snowflakes on my tongue, witness the tender buds transform into dazzling blossoms, feel the smooth rocks as I wade barefoot in the stream, and hear the rustle of autumn leaves scattered by a cool breeze. One more year, one more journey around the sun. I raise my age-spotted hands and clap in wild abandon at my splendid fortune.

Because I’ve enjoyed more than six decades of birthdays, I’m entitled to convey some words of wisdom for all the younger people who are eager to be my age. Here’s my birthday rendition of The Seven Deadly Sins. The original list of vices appeared in the Old Testament of the Holy Bible and was inspired thousands of years ago, a few decades before I was born.

  1. Lust.In your sixties, you no longer crave greener grass, a bigger home, or a sexier lover because you’ll have more lawn to maintain, more house to insure and clean, and a handsome hunk might request that you shave your legs. No, you’re totally content to have a comfortable chair in a cozy den beside a middle-aged companion who still lights your fire and says you’re hot.
  2. Gluttony.By now, we know if we eat the entire birthday cake, our butt will grow big enough to block the sun. Moderation is best. Buy freezer bags.
  3. Greed. When I had a significant stock portfolio, I monitored it every day to see how much money I was making and panicked when the market fell by more than 100 points. I didn’t like the feeling, so I sold my stock and built a cabin in the mountains. I traded Blue Chips for blue skies and parked my assets on the porch.
  4. Sloth.With one simple rule, my hard-working ancestors and parents instilled a desire that made me hungry to work: No work, no dinner. I love a lazy afternoon with a good book, but I know and appreciate the fruits of labor.
  5. Wrath.Anger causes wrinkles, and I have enough. I prefer to cultivate a growing crop of laugh lines. I only get mad on the golf course, and then I erupt with a foul tirade that would shock the most hardened longshoreman. And, that’s only on the first tee-box. My new plan to avoid getting mad is to stay in the bar and let everyone else golf.
  6. Envy.Sometimes I see a beautiful woman who is so tall and tan and young and lovely she reminds me of the goddess in the song “Girl from Ipanema.” After all these years, I know there’s not a chance in hell I’ll ever look like that. So, I wear yoga pants, t-shirts, sunglasses, and a hat and feign sophistication. This eliminates all the annoying autograph seekers and pesky paparazzi.
  7. Pride.This deadly sin creates politicians, bullies, and the Kardashian family. The moment I think my crap doesn’t stink, I get a bout of intestinal flu that proves otherwise. However, I’m covertly proud of my man, my children, and my ability to know the difference between there, their, and they’re. When I really want to swagger, I edit articles that incorrectly use its, it’s, your, and you’re. Knowledge is power.

laughing old woman

For this year’s birthday, I intend to find ways to exchange the seven deadly sins for seven lively good deeds. I’ll trade lust for gratitude, gluttony for self-control, greed for compassion, sloth for efficiency, wrath for joy, envy for love, and pride for humility. I expect occasional lapses into debauchery, but after all these decades, I deserve it. I also plan to laugh until my gut hurts, my eyes water, and my nose runs, as often as possible. Happy Birthday, indeed.

 

Where Were the Good Songs of Summer?

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(Featured on The Huffington Post 50 on Sept. 1, 2015)

Back when songs had creative lyrics and tunes were memorable, we turned up the volume on our record players and cassette tapes and sang along with the Beach Boys, the Rolling Stones, and The Beatles. Most of the summer hits from our childhood are still popular today, and the melodies linger like old friends. In gloomy contrast, the forgettable songs of this summer make me want to kick a puppy.

One of the top rated songs is “Bad Blood” by Taylor Swift. In the video, she plays a mad scientist and parades about in apocalyptic black leather costumes. Mixed with the scenes of scowling women fighting with swords and beheading evil men is the shocking image of a teddy bear stabbed to a wall with a serrated knife. Taylor Swift struts through broken glass and fiery explosions as she sings, “Band-aids don’t fix bullet holes” and “Still got scars in my back from your knives.” I didn’t purchase this song.

Another bestselling song is “Can’t Feel My Face” by The Weeknd. In the music video, the singer with a gigantic spider on his head bursts into flames on stage. The beat is catchy but most of the song consists of two lines sung over and over: “Can’t feel my face when I’m with you but I love it.” Maybe if the artists could write real lyrics, they could get some feeling back. I know that after listening to the song I couldn’t feel my fingers because I smashed them with a hammer while trying to stop the music.

One more top song is “OMI – Cheerleader” performed by Felix Jaehn. The rhythm isn’t bad but the repetitive lyrics are too chauvinistic for my taste. “I think I found myself a cheerleader. She’s always there when I need her.” I hope young women aspire to greater passions than cavorting and twerking on the beach with the New England Patriots cheerleaders while being on call for their man.

Let’s reminisce about the real songs of summer. In the 1960s, the Beach Boys lulled us to sleep with “Surfer Girl,” and Jan and Dean woke us with “Surf City.” We danced to “Heat Wave” by Martha and the Vandellas, crooned to “Roses are Red” by Bobby Vinton, and ended our summer by dancing and singing “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones. We were hip, groovy, and cool.

During the 1960s and 1970s, we grew up with The Beatles singing “Yellow Submarine” and “Hey Jude” and “A Hard Day’s Night.” We still remember the lyrics and tunes for these songs. Somehow I doubt that young people will be singing “Can’t Feel My Face” fifty years from now.

Old classics about summertime never grow old. The song “Summertime” was composed in 1934 by George Gershwin for the 1935 opera Porgy and Bess. The mesmerizing song has been creatively adapted by famous soloists from every genre. Ella Fitzgerald added soul, Billy Stewart brought jazz, Janis Joplin cried pain into the song, and Norah Jones turned it into a hymn. Each version can be viewed and appreciated on YouTube.

Other great summer songs include “Summerwind” by Frank Sinatra. Recorded in 1966, the song remains a classic worthy of the best piano bars in the country. In 1972, Seals and Crofts caused our bodies to sway with “Summer Breeze,” and in 1985, Katrina and the Waves got us skipping down the street singing “Walking on Sunshine.” Those were the summer songs we remember, and they made us sing.

I sound like an old curmudgeon, and that’s because I am. I appreciate the music of my life and the melodies that continue to play in my mind. Long before videos became more important than the lyrics, we listened, danced, and sang along. And through it all, not one teddy bear was murdered.

A Message to My Son as He Prepares for College

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elaine adam CHS

 

Dear Son,

What do you mean you mailed a college application? Get back down on the floor and play with some Legos. Do you want me to make you a sandwich? Or, you can invite your friends over and we’ll order pizzas. You can stay up all night, if you want. I’ll just go cry in my room, but don’t let that bother you.

Yes, I know I can be obnoxious about mothering you, but don’t leave yet. I’m not done. We need to work on laundry and managing money. And we should have the talk — you know, the discussion about sex, drugs, alcohol, and how the world is full of mean people who could hurt you. Oh, you say you can handle everything? Then tell me, son, how do I handle this anxiety? How do I stop this gut-churning ache when I realize my only son, my last child, is walking out the door and will return as a visitor? Give me some laughs for that fact, will you?

Okay, I’m sorry for that lapse in composure. I’m really happy for you. Really. I want you to march into college and own the place. Let them know you have arrived and you’re ready to pursue enlightenment and knowledge so you can get a great job and support me in my old age. Oops. There I go again. It’s not about me, is it? This is about you. I must focus.

Because I’m a single parent and the two of us have shared this house for several years, I want to give you my best parenting advice before you drive off to the university. So, here goes:

1. Size matters. You already know this. Weighing in at 11 pounds, you were one of the biggest babies every born at the Gooding County Hospital. You were always the tallest, which made it easy to find you in a crowd of other children. You were sad at age 4 when He-Man underwear didn’t come in your size, and the teachers had to order an adult-sized desk for you in 5th grade. You were 6’6″ in high school, and you carried the load for others, as you continue to do today. Sometimes you didn’t like being so big, but many people, including me, see you now as a tall, strong, funny, handsome, and responsible hero. That’s a good thing.

2. Keep your sense of humor. No one can make me laugh like you do. Your personality is beyond gregarious and that’s why others enjoy being around you. I’ve seen you cheer up a dejected classmate, counsel a young child, coach and encourage a YMCA team, and cause your grandmother to grin. (Dementia made her grin all the time, but you brought a special twinkle to her eyes.)

3. Stay compassionate. As a two-year-old, you took care of other children at the child-care center. That special trait continued into your teenage years. Several others took advantage of you, and I know you used your wages to pay for a lot of meals, trips, and activities that other kids couldn’t afford. Keep that empathetic characteristic, but watch out for charlatans who will exploit your generosity. Learn from me.

4. Treat women as wonderful, complicated creatures who can make your life a living hell or a heavenly sanctuary. You will live in a fraternity and there will be raucous parties with coeds. Have fun, but keep your head clear and your pants zipped. Other college men won’t heed that advice, and their new nickname will be “father” or “college drop-out.” The woman you choose to marry will be lucky, indeed. Remember to compliment her, support her dreams, and be delighted in your partnership with her as you build dreams together. Plan great adventures and expect a successful marriage. And, if she ever asks, “How do I look?” always respond, “Wow! You look amazing?” Trust me.

5. Remember your roots. You were born into a family with a strong work ethic, a love of adventure, and an unwavering love for their children. I’m sorry your father and I lost the marriage, but we continued to make your sister and you our top priority. Take this experience to do better than we did.

6. Get ready to fly. The next five years will be the most important years of your life. You will go to college, get a job, perhaps get married, and maybe you’ll have children. Life will never be the same again. Take this time to savor every drop of life you can. Meet new people, visit new destinations, make some mistakes, and recover with gusto. But, please, know that if you move far away I know how to make airplane reservations. I’d like a guest room with teal-colored paint on the walls, a coffee maker, and a wine bar.

I think that’s the essential tidbits for now. You’ve got a job so you know about money. As for laundry, just wear all dark clothes so you don’t need to separate the loads. But, always wash your towels at least weekly. I might need to throw a few wet towels on the floor after you’re gone just for the memories.

Go to college, son, and remember that life can’t be one big party unless someone pays the bills and provides the clean-up committee. Be the one in charge of your own celebration of young adulthood. I’ll miss you every day, but soon I can visit you on campus. I’ll bring your favorite cookies! And a pizza. It will be just like old times.

Most of all, I will miss your laugh, so please record it for me. Remember, your first laugh was with me when you were four months old. It could have been caused by gas bubbles, but oh my, how you could laugh! Please don’t ever stop.
Love,
Mama (all alone in a big, quiet, empty house)

 

 

(Featured on The Huffington Post Fifty, August 29, 2015)

(I wrote this letter several years ago, and now the college student is a successful man with a family, a career, and a mortgage.)