Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

You are here: Home / Archives for Elaine Ambrose

Elaine Ambrose

Midlife Cabernet: Always Wear Underwear in Case of Emergency

By

When our mothers admonished us to wear clean underwear just in case we were in an accident, we dutifully obeyed for fear that during an emergency the medical personnel would rush to our rescue but suddenly stop tending to our injuries. “Look, Bob, this one isn’t wearing clean underwear,” we imagined the EMT muttering in disgust. “Let ‘er bleed out.”

A recent experience caused me to reevaluate my lackadaisical commitment to the strict rules of wearing underwear. The event that must never be mentioned again happened in front of a posh day spa. I was in an accident – but the underwear wasn’t an issue because I wasn’t wearing any.

A few special times each year, I treat myself to a hot stone massage at a spa just ten minutes from my house. To avoid unnecessary dressing and undressing, I slip on baggy sweatpants, an oversized sweater, flip flops and a hat and drive to the spa. Easy in, easy out.

Until last week.

After a wonderful 90-minute session, complete with lavender-infused oils, eucalyptus aromatherapy, and a brain-numbing scalp massage, I donned my innocuous outfit and sauntered to my car. Still relaxed, I put the car in reverse and promptly bumped into the UPS van parked behind me. Talk about a rude awakening! My dreamlike aura shattered into an ugly nightmare.

I jumped out of the car, clutching oily arms across my unsecured chest, and rushed back to the van. The driver, of course, was a handsome young stud juggling boxes of potions and lotions for the beautiful people who pranced in and out of the spa. My rumpled hair resembled the matted hide of a swamp rat, my frumpy sweatpants clung to my greasy skin, and I suddenly became acutely aware that I could double as an itinerant bag lady caught in an oil slick.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said. “I shouldn’t have parked behind you.”

I resisted the urge to call him “Boy” and swallowed my pride about being called “Ma’am.” My pride tasted strangely like lavender.

We surveyed the scene and couldn’t see any damage to either vehicle. The only injury was to my self-esteem. He smiled, took one last confused look at me, and then moved his van. By now a group of interested beautiful people was watching from inside the spa. I lowered my head, shuffled to the car, looked both ways, and then drove away. I won’t return for several years.

Today’s blog was fueled by a 2010 Black Sears Vineyard Zinfandel from Napa Valley. Sold only at the V. Sattui Winery, this special vintage was bottled to celebrate the 125th anniversary of the winery. It’s rich and delicious and will cause you to forget you’re drinking Zinfandel instead of Cabernet. If you’re enjoying it at home, underwear is optional.

You’re not crazy! It’s hormonal imbalance!

By

If you’re having weird symptoms – more strange than usual – check out this web site. You can take a profile that covers 21 symptoms of hormonal imbalance, including mood swings, weight gain, hair loss, vaginal dryness, and anxiety. (Ain’t midlife great!) At least it’s good to know there are medical reasons for your temporary insanity. The site offers natural remedies to help you keep your cool. Women to Women — Changing women’s health — naturally

Today’s Cabernet

By

Today’s blog was fueled by a glass of 2005 Charles Krug Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. This wine is robust and full bodied, like many of my friends, and is about $26 a bottle.

Midlife Cabernet: Vintage Typewriters are Just My Type

By

I started to write a blog about my typewriter collection but ironically my computer froze and then the wireless capability wouldn’t work. I tried another computer but somehow the text got lost in transition. When an error message – complete with ominous exclamation points – flashed onto my screen, I shut off the laptop and picked up paper and pen. At least the pen wouldn’t talk back and the paper wouldn’t delete my paragraphs.

Sometimes I miss the simplicity of a manual typewriter. I appreciate hearing the click, clack of the keys, the zip of the return, and the ding of the bell. The round keys feel comfortable beneath my fingers, unlike the square blocks I press on my modern computers. And, best of all, my typewriters worked as long as I had a fresh ribbon. No batteries, electricity, modems, or reboot required.

I own five antique machines, starting with a 1905 Underwood #5. It was the IPhone 5 of its day because the advanced features included 84 characters instead of the typical 76. Next is a Remington Portable from 1930. It could be compared to a modern laptop because it was lightweight and came with a handy carrying case. The third typewriter is a Remington Rand from 1933. Early advertisements for this machine touted its noiseless features and claimed to allow secretaries to type faster because the advanced mechanisms reduced paper jams.

My last two old typewriters are Royals that my mother owned in 1940 and 1950. When I was a little girl, my father was a long-haul truck driver and would be gone for weeks at a time. For income, my mother babysat other children during the day while taking care of her own kids, and then at night she typed bulletins for the local church and business reports for Bradshaw Honey Plant in Wendell. I vaguely remember falling to sleep while listening to the syncopated sounds as she typed. Her work back then paid for food and rent until my father returned.

I took a manual typewriter to college and used it for all my term papers. Those were the days of messy carbon paper, round erasers, and little brushes to clean away the erased mistakes. There weren’t any spellcheck, copy, save, or cut and paste features. I still have some of those papers with the faint words typed on watermarked parchment paper. No museum has yet asked for them.

My vintage typewriters sit silently in my office, keeping me company as I maneuver on various computers that are equipped with the latest technology but often crash on a whim. I can edit as I type, check the spelling and grammar, move paragraphs around, insert photographs, research online for facts, link to the World Wide Web, and instantly publish my blog to various websites. But, my computers last only a few years and then become obsolete. My1905 Underwood is worth more than $500 and I can still use it to type a letter. Sometimes being a reliable vintage isn’t so bad.

Today’s blog was fueled by a 2012 Vivacious Viognier from 3 Horse Ranch Vineyards in Caldwell. The Idaho-grown Viognier and Roussanne grapes produce a balanced blend that is tasty, dry, and lightly oaked. If you can’t have a Cabernet, try this instead.

Doctor-free Menopause Advice

By

Approximately 6,000 women enter menopause every day in the United States. That means by Friday, we could populate a small town with sweating, crying inhabitants with indigestion and hairy toes. By the end of the month, we could have a city the size of Gilbert, Arizona with 180,000 women helplessly hurled into hormonal havoc. Get out of their way because some of them are in a testy mood.To survive the physical and mental annoyances that assault your body and mind during menopause, here are some helpful suggestions that have absolutely no basis in medical fact:1. Take all your pointy-toed shoes and line them up in the driveway. Then drive over them several times before you throw them away. Your feet will feel fabulous and you’ll get rid of some latent aggression.2. Cool your steaming head with a boxes of frozen diet food that have been languishing in your freezer for the past ten years. You’re never going to eat them anyway so you might as well put them to good use.3. The next time a telemarketer calls, start explaining your ailments and frustrations in graphic detail. Don’t stop until the caller starts to cry. Then hang up.4. Feeling lonely? Email your friends that you’ve decided to give all your money to that nice young woman who called from Nigeria. Then sit back and wait for them to scurry over for a visit.5. If you experience uncontrollable urges to shop and eat (and who doesn’t), just blame it all on menopause. You can shop and eat for less than $30 if you wander through the aisles at Costco and feast on all the free samples. Then buy a case of wine, a huge jar of chocolate covered peanuts, and a twelve-pound pie and then call your friends over for a party. To be prudent, don’t forget the year’s supply of toilet paper.6. Symptoms of menopause can make you forgetful and absent-minded. Write your kid’s names on their foreheads with a Magic Marker Pen so you don’t have to go through the irritation of memorizing their names every day.7. Menopause can make you magnificent! That’s baloney, but claim that as your mantra if it makes you feel better. Remember, this all will pass some day and then you’ll be too old to care anymore.

Country Girl Goes to the Spa

By

Idaho’s winter of 2008 lasted about three years, so I recently packed my hide-all black swim suit, new black sandals, and glue-on fake toe nails and headed south to a spa near the ocean.Within the first hour at the resort I stepped into an infinity pond that I thought was polished granite flooring. Too bad I wasn’t wearing my prescription sunglasses or I would have seen the water. Anyway, the dye on the sandals turned my feet into black and white stripes. Luckily, my fake toe tails didn’t come off.I had arranged for a massage the following day and I didn’t want to appear with clown feet, so I decided to walk along the beach and let the sand wear off the dye. The two hour stroll erased some of the black stripes but unfortunately I got a hideous burn from the intense sun. Then the humidity turned my hair into an uncontrollable bush of wire thick enough to hold my keys, a water bottle, and a sassy novel.I arrived the next morning at the spa, greeted by gentle hostesses named Jasmine and Camilla. Once ensconced in a fluffy white robe, I was ushered to the waiting room where chimes were tinkling and scented candles glowed in the dim light. Around me sat the most beautiful women I had ever seen. No, they didn’t sit. They floated in the room with perfect skin, flawless faces, and tight, teeny bodies.They turned in unison to stare as I stumbled into the room, tripped over the bamboo rug, spilled my mango-infused water, and lost two toenails. I sat there with a soaking robe, frizzy hair, black-striped feet, sunburned nose, and stubby toe nails. As I retrieved the errant nails and stuffed them into my pocket, I knew that I had become the court jester in a room of Grecian Goddesses.But, there’s nothing like a 90-minute massage to make all the mental and physical pains go away. The massage therapist applied scented oils to my sunburn, dug her elbows into my aching back, and rubbed my feet with soothing cream. By the end, I wanted to take her home with me. I happily glided back to my room, grateful to feel so good and eager for my next entertaining adventure.