Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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A Grandmother’s Legacy

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(Published on The Huffington Post on June 4, 2015)

My grandmothers were the quintessential matrons: they grew lush gardens, baked pies, canned peaches, crocheted doilies and then peacefully passed away in their nineties.

My life has been a bit different, and I just hope I don’t die tomorrow by getting hit by a wine truck while dancing in the street on my way to a book signing event.

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My paternal grandmother never owned a driver’s license because she never needed to go anywhere. She could walk to the grocery store and post office, and she was content to sit in her rocking chair in her tidy little house. She finished crossword puzzles every day, read her Bible and believed her life was blessed beyond measure. She was correct.

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My maternal grandmother sewed dolls and grew glorious gladiolas to enter in the Jerome County Fair. She stored the numerous winning ribbons in a shoe box because she was humble, quiet and unpretentious. Only after her death did I learn that all she wanted in life was to own a piano. I wish I could have given one to her.

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Their tough example gave me a strong foundation that sustained me during the numerous personal calamities and monstrous mistakes in my life.

They would be disappointed in my failures, but they would be proud of me for having the courage to be independent and tenacious. I can hear them saying, “You can do it. Now get to work.”

In the blink of a wrinkled eye, I also became a grandmother. Both my children have children, and I find this fact a bit disturbing, because I still think I am in my thirties. Really, now my daughter and I are about the same age. I want to pluck 30 years off the timeline and pretend the decades never happened. Denial is a powerful emotion. Though I inherited traits and skills from my parent’s mothers, my generation is tweaking the term “grandmother.”

My children married spouses who already had children, so I became an instant grandmother. And I’m not called Gramma. My daughter’s daughter was born in Hawaii, so I became Tutu, the Hawaiian name for grandmother.

I look at my granddaughters with wonder and worry.

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What will their future hold? Can they travel the world, employ their talents and be strong in relationships? Will they treasure the self-sufficient strength of their great-great-grandmothers? Will they be able to grow a garden, bake a pie, preserve peaches and crochet doilies? OK, no one needs doilies anymore, but the other skills are important.

I hope they can learn from this weathered Tutu that they also can have a job, chart their own path, own a business and challenge the boundaries. They can go beyond my grandmother’s wildest dreams, and I relish their feisty and vibrant spirit. I imagine the day when they get married and then bring me a laughing baby to rock. I think Great Tutu will be a fitting name.

I adore my little granddaughters, and we laugh together as we sing and tell great stories. I am not that adept at canning fruits and vegetables, but I can encourage them to take the path less traveled, color outside the lines and question authority. They come from a strong heritage of tough women, and I know my grandmothers are watching over them whispering, “You can do it. Now get to work.”

The Secret of the Hairy Leg

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(Published on The Huffington Post July 2, 2015)

shave leg

 

I was 12 when my mother sat beside me, nervously cleared her throat, and gave this serious admonishment: I was never to shave my legs. I solemnly nodded but neglected to mention that I secretly had been shaving for more than a year.

My mother never had shaved her legs, mainly because respectable women of the era didn’t engage in such pretentious behavior and also she didn’t have any noticeable hair. On the other hand (or leg), my sudden eruption of hair rivaled a tangled clump of Spanish moss growing on two logs in a hot swamp. At age 11, I endured a cataclysmic growth spurt of such epoch proportions that my legs mutated into furry poles covered with twisted hairballs. All I saw between my plaid skirts and saddle shoes were two mangy pelts that should have been hanging from a trapper’s rope. Within months, my legs were hairy enough to attract nesting rodents.

In my young angst, I noticed that hair was sprouting in other places, too. After a private examination of my changing body, I was convinced that somehow there had been a big mistake and my new carpet of pubic hair wouldn’t stop where it should. I feared that soon there would be one long growth of hair that reached from my crotch to my ankles. My World Book Encyclopedias didn’t provide any answers, except to show freaky photos of bearded women in the circus. I inspected my chin and didn’t see any beard but decided I had to act.

Our small home only had one bathroom, so we all stored our toiletries in the cabinet beside the sink. That’s where I saw my father’s razor and made the decision to attack my fur. Looking back, I’m mortified that I resorted to such drastic measures, but there was no time to waste. Summer was coming I didn’t want to resemble a monkey in shorts.

The first attempts were painful as I scrapped the stubborn hair from my legs. Nicks and cuts bled onto the floor, and I quickly blotted the wounds with toilet paper. I saw a bottle of aftershave tonic so I smeared some on my battered legs. That’s the first time I learned how to scream in silence. I cleaned up the mess, returned everything to the cabinet, and hobbled to bed. The next day I read the bottles more closely and decided I would use shaving cream and warm water, as soon as the scabs healed.

I perfected the routine over the next few months and was proud of my smooth, long legs. I noticed my mother was buying more razor blades, and she mentioned that my father’s beard was getting so mature and healthy that the blades were wearing out faster than normal. Again, I solemnly nodded, secretly delighted that my legs no longer belonged on a buffalo.

Disaster stuck in late July. I broke my leg and needed a plaster cast from my knee to my toes. I worried about what was happening beneath the cast and inspected the casing daily for tuffs of fur that might emerge while I continued to shave the other leg. After two months, it was time to remove the cast. I nervously sat on the doctor’s examination table with my legs stretched out in front of me. My mother focused on the cast to be sure the doctor’s noisy saw wouldn’t accidentally cut off my leg. Finally, the plaster broke apart, and we all gasped as we saw the grim limb. The leg was twice as small as the other leg, the muscles had disappeared, and the skin was buried beneath a carpet of black, wayward pubic hair. I would have run away, but my leg was too weak.

“Oh, dear,” muttered my mother. “Do you think the dark cast caused all that hair to grow? I read in Reader’s Digest that strange things can happen like that.”

The doctor looked at me and noticed my panicked expression. He winked.

“Sometimes hair does grow without reason,” he said with authority. “This will probably be gone within a few days.”

He was correct. That hair disappeared before morning. The mangy mess almost clogged the toilet, but I shaved it off and limped to bed. Dr. Scheele passed away several years ago, but I often think of him and smile.

Do Mothers-in-Law Deserve a Punch in the Face?

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mother-in-law

(Featured on The Huffington Post Fifty on July 9, 2015)

I don’t want to incite trouble between the Mommy Bloggers and the Midlife Bloggers, although that would be grand fun, but I’m feeling a bit defensive about all the mother-in-law bashing. One of my favorite websites is Scary Mommy and the contributing writers are witty, provocative, and sassy. However, many of them dislike the mothers of their husbands. Well, (snort!), maybe these young gals aren’t clones of The Queen of Sheba, either.

Scary Mommy attracts more than a million readers and claims to be “a parenting community for imperfect parents.” The site includes several delightful and informative pages that engage young women, and the topics include pregnancy, step-parenting, children, health, and travel. As a young mother, I needed this resource but the Internet wasn’t even around when I was dealing with babies, sore boobs, and projectile vomiting. I had to learn the hard way that kids were noisy, messy, demanding snot-producers who steal your heart and sometimes stomp on it.

The Scary Mommy relationship page includes a listing titled “In Laws.” One article titled “15 Mother-in-Law Behaviors that Deserve a Punch in the Face” received more than 7,000 shares on Facebook. The page almost drips with spittle and hostility mingled with a few comical jokes. Another page titled “Confessional” invites anonymous comments that can be rated in three categories: like, hug, or me, too. Here is a recent example:

“I swear if my MIL died I would have to pretend to be devastated. That would solve 99 percent of my marriage problems! Please, oh, please let her die!” That remark earned 15 favorable marks. Obviously, if the writer’s mother-in-law is aware of the comment, she should retire to a secret, gated community and change her will.

I belong to several groups of midlife bloggers, but the group’s websites don’t contain any pages that criticize or publicly embarrass our daughters-in-law. We just don’t do it. Mostly, we’re grateful that our sons grew up, learned how to change their underwear, and traded their Legos for love.

After all the admonishments about how mothers-in-law should behave, it’s my duty to offer some tidbits in exchange. Here are my suggestions for how to be the daughter-in-law who doesn’t deserve to be punched in the face.

1. I am not a mother-in-law joke. I adore my son, and if you and my son are fortunate to have children who carry my genes you’ll know why mothers remain profoundly invested in their kids. Our Mother Bear instincts don’t shut off when they grow up and leave their toys, dirty socks, and moms behind.

2. I deserve respect. I’m sorry your mama didn’t teach you to respect your elders, but I’m the one who taught your husband how to use a toilet. He chose you, and I come along as a bonus prize. If I want to come over, open the damn door and offer me a glass of wine.

3. You children sense your mocking attitude. When you complain about me in front of your kids, they imagine that I really do have horns, eat live toads, and ride a broom. I got over those behaviors years ago.

4. My unsolicited advice could be helpful. I’ve been around the block a few times and know where to avoid the piles of dog poop. Learn from my mistakes.

5. Communicate before all hell breaks loose. A little irritant can get blown out of proportion, so let’s have a conversation with you, my son, and me. This meeting shouldn’t involve weapons, lawyers, or reality television.

6. Laugh with me. If you think I’m critical of your cooking, clothes, home, or pedigree, just laugh and remind me that you’re comfortable with your life and habits, and I don’t need to mention them again. Then open more wine. We have much to appreciate about each other.

I’m extremely grateful to have a positive, loving relationship with my daughter-in-law and son-in-law. They love my children, and they don’t mind including me in their family activities. One of these days, we’ll perform a three-generation show that includes a song for everyone as we channel our best Aretha Franklin, shake our booties, and sing:
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me! I got to have (just a little bit). A little respect (just a little bit.) Sing along now.

The First Motherless Mother’s Day

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(Published on The Huffington Post – May 4, 2015)

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The first year of holidays without her is the hardest. I deliberately walk past the festive displays of Mother’s Day cards and ignore the advertisements for flowers, and I’ve tuned out the hype and the obligatory admonishments to do something, anything, for Mother. Because she died.

Experience taught me that time erases the sadness. Sometimes I forget my father’s birthday. He passed away 26 years ago, and now I don’t remember the sound of his voice. On Father’s Day, I send cards to my son and son-in-law and give a small present to my husband, and I’m grateful for my honored role as mother and grandmother. Now I have the new title of matriarch.

The cycle of life isn’t new; babies are born and people die. I accept that. But, I don’t know why some people suffer so much and others get to die peacefully in their sleep. Both my parents spent their last years in physical and mental pain, and I couldn’t do anything to ease their transition. Because of the visions of my parents lying ashen and twisted in their beds, when I’m too feeble to live with dignity, I intend to have a grand party before I exit this life and explore what is beyond.

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After a parent dies, there are the usual regrets from those still living. I should have visited Mom more often. Every time I got up to leave, she would clutch my hand and beg me to stay. I should have played her favorite music, opened her scrapbooks and patiently listened as she attempted to say words she couldn’t remember. I should have combed her hair again and brought her costume jewelry. I should have stayed longer.

The guilt consumes me every time I drive past her former assisted living facility. She lived in three rooms, progressing from resident to assisted living to terminal. Instead of a child passing onward to higher grades in school, she was going backwards with every physical and mental collapse. I used to cry in my car before and after every visit. I should have stayed longer.

I saved a wreath from her funeral. The flowers are dried and brittle, but I’ll take it to her grave on Mother’s Day. I’ll return again a week later on her birthday. I won’t forget the date. It’s May 20.

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Prom Dress or Pole Dancer Costume?

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One of the many advantages of being a crusty curmudgeon is that I can shake my head, roll my eyes, and mutter about this spring’s sexualized prom dresses displayed by petulant teenage girls taking duck-faced selfies while festooned like bridesmaids and pole dancers pecking about on teeny high-heeled sandals. The guys will be suffering inside a tuxedo while lamenting that the tux rental cost more than a tank of gas and a case of beer. All the commercialized commotion is for a dance that they’ll attend for a few minutes.

According to CBS News Money Watch, the average cost of going to the prom is around $1,000 to cover the proposal, attire, limousine rental, tickets, flowers, pictures, and after-party festivities. That doesn’t include additional expenses for hair, nails, pedicures, and make-up applications, presumably for the females.

Getting dressed up to go to prom is a special tradition, and I don’t mind the youngsters removing their holey jeans, trench coats, and dog collars to wear some fancy duds. I do reserve the freedom to poke fun at some of the dresses. I grew up on a farm, sewed my own simple prom dress, and was escorted to the dance as a passenger in a cattle truck. I still had a great time, even with a speck of manure on my sensible shoes.

For fun indignation, let’s review some of this year’s fashions.

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The Promgirl.com website offers that latest styles in prom dresses, along with tips for planning and surviving the perfect prom. One voluminous gown, appropriately called the Disney Cinderella Forever Enchanted Keepsake Gown is only $495 and is perfect for an aspiring princess. However, any dress that needs six names is excessive.

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For only $49, you can buy the Floor Length Maxi Dress that doesn’t even come close to being enchanted or a keepsake. However, it might come in handy in the summer to cover the picnic table.

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For the indecent ingénue, there’s this spring’s Black Romper for $69. This ensemble should come with a $2 condom. At least the Disney Cinderella Forever Enchanted Keepsake Gown requires a bit of imagination. It’s interesting to note that prom.com offers 62 styles of prom dresses for pregnant women, just in time for the dances that will come eight months after the spring fling.

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The “shimmering foil jersey fabric with seductive mesh detailing” is advertised as a knockout prom dress that accentuates all the right curves. Those of us with back fat and the desire to sit down should not attempt this garment. Not many parents are buying the outfit because the price is reduced from $278 to $99, but that’s a bargain for any future stripper. A credit card reader is optional.

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One sophisticated prom dress costs $1,224. You can get the same look by shrinking a $5 t-shirt and wrapping yourself in $45 worth of satin. Stash the remaining $1,174 into your college fund and plan your own clothing line.

Maybe it’s with nostalgia instead of criticism that I disapprove of modern styles. I vaguely remember being young and idealistic when preparing for the prom, and I have fond memories of all the crepe paper streamers, printed dance cards, loud gymnasiums, and grand processions. It was that unique time when we all wanted to grow up, and we didn’t have a clue what that meant. So, I’ll smile at all the young couples stuffed into costumes, corsets, and cummerbunds, and encourage them to enjoy life before they turn into cantankerous curmudgeons. Just stay off of my lawn.

 

Jolly Jaunts on the Mother-Daughter Journey

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 Featured on The Huffington Post 50, March 23, 2015.

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My daughter has purple hair, colorful tattoos, and she teaches physical and mental health to her loyal clients. I have thin hair, gnarly age spots, and I tell jokes until people snort beer from their noses. Though we have varied techniques of pleasing our intended audiences, we guarantee customer satisfaction and life isn’t boring.

My son and I are solid as a granite mountain with no drama or surprises. We understand each other and always have connected in a slap-stick “I got your back” sort of comedy skit. My daughter and I have shared the peaks and valleys of life with more volatility than a game of fetch with a junkyard dog. At least we’ve passed the wretched teenage years when she would wail, “Stop looking at me!”

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If mothers can survive their daughters during puberty, the rest is close to perfection. My daughter and I have traveled together on journeys that define our lives. When she was 11, I took her on a business trip to Chicago and we attended one of the first productions of “Les Miserables.” She knew the score from memory and we laughed together at the raunchy song “Master of the House” and sobbed like babies during “Bring Him Home.”

During college, she lived for a year in Guanajuato, Mexico. I visited her and gasped with pain at her living conditions, mainly because there were 90 steps up to her one-room apartment. She lived alone and didn’t have a stove, heater, or laundry facilities, but she thrived in her new adventure. We experienced a grand time touring the sites, buying fresh flowers and fruit from the local market, and guzzling cool beer at Bar Ocho. In that year, I let go and she matured and blossomed.

Other trips included a six-country tour of Europe with her high school class and a 12-day train odyssey across Canada with my mother. For her 22nd birthday, she was my guest as I hosted a university alumnae tour through Spain. We escaped for two days, rented a car, and drove to the Costa del Sol on the Mediterranean. She spoke fluent Spanish, so the trip was less complicated. After that, we shared a hike on a rugged, 3-day excursion across the Haleakela volcano field in Maui, Hawaii. She led a group of women who slept in tents, cooked over an open fire, and gazed through tears at the brilliant stars. Life with her became one continuous adventure.

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As a reward for graduating from college with scholastic honors, I gave her a round-trip, week-long ticket to Hawaii. She didn’t return as planned. She found several jobs to support herself, including working on a tourist boat. One of her responsibilities was to free-dive into the ocean to set the anchor. She did that until a blood vessel burst in her eye. She started a woman’s hiking business and escorted tours across volcano fields and through rain forests. Then she was hired to teach at the Waldorf School on Maui. I wish there were such amazing schools for my grandkids in Idaho. Seven years after going to Hawaii on a week’s trip, she returned with a husband and a baby. Now she colors her hair purple for a fun, creative flair, and she’s the reason I have so much gray hair than I need to dye it brown.

We’re now on another excursion to a writing retreat on Maui. This time, it’s different. I’m recovering from knee surgery, I’m slower, and I have no desire to hike anything beyond two steps into a wine bar. After I lost my boarding pass, she gently took over as tour guide, and I was grateful. The changing of roles is unplanned but necessary. Without her help, I’d still be wandering around the San Francisco airport and she’d be on a Hawaiian beach happily sucking a Mai Tai. I’m secretly one of her biggest fans.

During a recent conversation, we reminisced about the passing of my mother. I carefully approached the subject of her role as my designated Power of Attorney for Health Care. I emphasized that I did not want to live without independence. She soothed my worries with her honest reply: “Don’t worry, Mom. If you’re ever on life support I’ll pull the plug.”

She loves me, too.