Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

Friends and Wine get Better with Age

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I recently attended a garden party with a dozen feisty middle-aged women. We all once worked for Boise Cascade Corporation, and as our lives have evolved, most of us are still jumping in and out of hot water when we should be lolling around at a fancy resort sipping fine wine and receiving a massage from a bodybuilder named Thor.

We pulled out a 20-year-old photograph of our group. I’m shown in the middle row during my “argyle phase.” Since the photo was taken, we’ve shared and endured numerous parties, divorce stories, weddings, anniversaries, excursions, empty nests, the births of grandchildren, and the deaths of parents. We often go years without seeing each other, but when we get together, merriment ensues as we provide the necessary updates about our vintage lives.

Linda was widowed after her husband died unexpectedly. Determined to take care of herself, she closed up their winter Arizona home and drove by herself back to Idaho. She arrived at 1:30 in the morning, only to discover she didn’t have the key to open the door.

“It was always his job to do that!” she explained.

Exhausted after the thirteen-hour drive, she did what any resourceful woman would do. She took a hammer from the tool box in her car and broke down the door.

“It felt great!” she said. “I got rid of a lot of pain.”

Another friend, Sue, described how she was petitioning the court for guardianship of her teenage granddaughter because of the mother’s chronic drug abuse problems. “We were all set to enjoy our retirement,” she said. “Now we have a teenager in the house. But, we’ll make it work.”

One of my oldest friends, and I mean old by the number of years we’ve been acquainted, is Carol. She announced that she has developed heart disease, the number-one cause of death for women. We immediately shared hugs and started to wait on her every need. She remarked that she should have mentioned the disease years earlier. She’s doing fine, but her health alarm is a reminder that life is fragile and getting older is a privilege denied to many others.

“Stop having heart disease,” I said. “I don’t want to feel guilty about all the wild times we’ve had together. We left the corporate rat race, and now we deserve to sit by the pool wearing colorful outfits and floppy hats while we whistle for more drinks.”

She nodded in agreement. “I’ll meet you poolside anytime. But, we’ll alternate libations with lemon water.”

Another friend told us about being diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. We encouraged her to take care of herself, and then we arm-wrestled her to remove the cookies from her reach.

“If we aren’t allowed to enjoy an abundance of sweets, why do cookies come by the dozen?” she lamented. We shook our heads and muttered in communal sympathy.

I tried to lighten the mood by describing how my elderly mother burned up her microwave by using it as a timer and then unknowingly gave my daughter a toy that spewed recorded obscenities. We weren’t making fun of her because we knew we’ll probably be doing the same things in twenty years.

A few women described the challenges of caring for a sick parent. Instead of sharing details about the latest shoe sale or coming concert, we traded suggestions, anecdotes, and recommendations for eldercare facilities. Most of us had lost at least one parent, and the surviving spouse was alone. Except for Sue’s mother who is known as the incurable flirt at her retirement center. We decided to copy that example.

After listening to each other’s circumstances, we agreed that we would make the most out of the last third of our lives. Molly announced that she was resigning from her job after working for 30 years and was planning her retirement. We toasted her with Pinot Gris and poppy seed cake. One woman was eagerly anticipating the birth of her first grandchild. The other grandmothers in the group all chimed in on the wonders of being a grandmother. Of course, we all pulled out photographs and declared that the world would be a better place because of our perfect progeny.

For over twenty years, we’ve shared the highs and lows of our interesting and varied lives. And because wine is an excellent preservative, we hope to continue the reunions for several more decades. As we left the party, we all vowed to carry a hammer, just in case we had to bust down a door.

 

 

 

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Excerpt adapted from my book, Midlife Cabernet.

 

How to Plan and Survive Your Midlife Birthday

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elaine party mask

My most memorable childhood birthday could be a case study for why some people need therapy. My mother’s baby died during childbirth a few weeks before my 8th birthday, so my gift was a big doll with all the clothes that had been intended for my dead baby sister. There weren’t any inflated jumping castles or face-painting clowns at this party. Just my mother, weeping in the corner.

I don’t have any fond recollection of any other birthdays. In my family, early September was the time for going back to school and working on the farm’s potato harvest, not for invading the house with rambunctious kids and messy cake. Birthdays were just another day. Suck it up, kid, and eat your spuds.

After I became an adult, I beat the birthday blues by planning my own parties. My 20th involved a huge celebration with sorority sisters at the University of Idaho, complete with midnight serenading at fraternities until someone called the cops. I was in my poverty stage on my 30th birthday, so I gathered my infant son and two-year-old daughter into the kitchen and we made gooey cupcakes from a cheap mix. I worked several jobs to get into the middle-class bracket so for my 40th I hired a choir to sing my favorite Broadway musical songs. For my 50th, dedicated work and good luck allowed me to schedule a cooking tour of Tuscany, Italy. And, for my 60th, I got married wearing a linen toga for an ancient wedding ceremony on the Greek Island of Paros. No dead babies were associated with any of these celebrations.

I loved planning birthday parties for my children. My daughter was born during the last week of March, so we always organized vacation trips during Spring Break and she assumed everyone was celebrating just for her. One of the best parties for my son was when his sister hid in a large cardboard refrigerator box and clipped various toys to the end of a fishing pole for the other children as they fished for mysterious prizes. Years later, my son finally asked why his sister’s birthdays included Disneyland and his parties only offered old boxes.

It’s time again for my birthday and the coming party will be tame compared to previous festivities. I’ll still have live music, an eclectic group of gregarious guests, and plenty of food and drinks, but we’ll probably turn out the lights before midnight. After this many trips around the sun, the best parties are at home.  My eyesight is fading, the legs are weary, and the raucous dancing has slowed to a boring two-step sway with Studley. But, it’s my birthday and I’ll sigh if I want to. (I cringe about ending a sentence with a preposition, but that one worked.) So, uncork a new bottle, raise the glasses, and toast another birthday. I’m so immensely blessed to live this long and celebrate the splendid occasion with my sweetheart, family, and assorted friends. And I do it for that sad little girl who always wanted a fun birthday.

Tips for Planning and Surviving Your Own Midlife Birthday Party:

  1. Keep it simple. I’m preparing a meatball bar with various sauces, some homemade dips with chips, fruit bowls, and cheese plates. I bartered some of my books in exchange for homemade cupcakes.
  2. No one cares if the napkins don’t match the plates, and it’s okay to use paper plates if you have invited more than 12 friends. If anyone complains, remove them from the list for the next party.
  3. After the first two rounds of drinks, hide the good stuff. They’ll never know.
  4. Live music is nice. Invite some high school kids who need cash but won’t play trash that makes your ears bleed. For my party, I invited a wonderful singer who brings her own keyboard and plays show tunes from music displayed on her IPad. I requested my favorite songs in advance because it’s my party.
  5. Make sure to visit with every guest, and for added fun, sit the executive banker next to the old hippie. Monitor the situation to prevent any arguments and then enjoy the curious fellowship. If you want to ruin the party, mention politics or religion.
  6. After the last guest goes home, turn out the lights to hide the mess and crawl into bed with your living birthday present. Another year brings another reason to celebrate being alive. Enjoy and be grateful.

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Midlife Dating: That Hot Feeling Isn’t Always Menopause

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Nothing screams “pathetic loser” more than being a middle-aged divorcee alone at a festive party where beautiful couples are trading sloppy kisses and giggling like demented clowns. There’s not enough spiked punch in the world to soften the pain of pretending it doesn’t matter. Many of us graze along the buffet table hoping the crunch of nachos will be louder than the boisterous laughter of young lovers, and then we migrate to the bar because all we get to take home is a headache.

We never intended to be divorced at midlife because we were programmed to believe the happily-ever-after deceptions that provided easy and convenient endings in fairy tales. But according to a recent study by Bowling Green State University in Ohio, the divorce rate among people age forty-six to sixty-four has grown more than 50 percent. Almost one-third of baby boomers are single, either by divorce, separation, or having never been married. Some are attracted to the single lifestyle while others would trade their original Beatles record collection for some hot passion.

I have several friends who have been married to their first husbands for more than thirty years. They’re happy and comfortable and couldn’t imagine dating at this stage of life. And if something drastic happened to their husbands, at their ages they would rather join a cloistered convent than get naked in front of another man. They wouldn’t want to worry about unpredictable, middle-aged dilemmas such as the sudden crazy mood swings and chronic irritable bowel syndrome that could make for an awkward first date.

A few years ago, when I was divorced and my children were grown, some friends invited me to dinner. They just happened to have a recently divorced guest who was visiting from another state. I never turn down a free meal, so I agreed to join them. I met him and instantly felt a connection. He was in his fifties and ruggedly handsome. At dinner, our knees touched under the table during the salad course. We laughed at silly jokes during the entrée, and by dessert, he was feeding me bites of cheesecake. I felt like a goofy teenager.

This marvelous man met all my requirements: He was middle-aged, single, and didn’t wear white socks with sandals. (At my age, you can’t get too picky.) As an added bonus, though, he was smart, employed, passionate, spiritual, and he wanted to know about my children. It was like winning the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes, the lottery, and top-shelf wine at happy hour all at the same time.

We spent four days together, often to the chagrin of his abandoned hosts, and then I took him to the airport. It was a scene out of Casablanca, complete with winter fog and drama. He held me close and whispered, “We’ll always have Boise.” Then he tipped his hat, sauntered through security, and hollered, “Here’s looking at you, Kid.”

I drove home, wondering if he remembered my real name wasn’t Kid. But it didn’t matter. I was smitten, and it felt good. To paraphrase a quote from the movie, of all the towns in all the world, he walked into mine. He called when he landed at the next airport and was about to change planes. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship,” he said.

“Say it again,” I said, “for old times’ sake.”

And, yes, at that moment we were Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman but without the horrible Nazi and depressing farewell-forever scenes.

We enjoyed a long-distance relationship over the next few months. Then my more-than-significant other, whom I appropriately named Studley, got a job in Idaho, and to show my ultimate commitment I willingly made some room in my closet. We married on the Greek island of Paros on my birthday so he only needs to remember one important date. We daily express our total gratitude about receiving another chance at love, and it’s a powerful feeling. Now, when I experience hot flashes, I know it’s not just menopause. Thanks, Studley.

 

 

(This blog contains excerpts from my book Midlife Cabernet.)

 

 

Escape the Angst! Join us for a Writing and Wellness Retreat Oct. 3-5

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Imagine a fun weekend in the mountains with other women who want to focus on fitness and writing while having fun! Retreat includes five meals, snacks, writing materials, cooking demonstrations, organized activities, workshops, accommodations, and free time.

Certified fitness instructor and wellness coach Emily Nielsen and published author and syndicated blogger Elaine Ambrose have created a tempting schedule:

  • Food preparation demonstrations, group participation, and healthy meals: two dinners, one lunch, two breakfasts, snacks
  • Writing workshops: Personal Journal, (optional) Writing for Children, Mommy Blogs, Tell Your Story
  • Wellness activities: Morning exercise, Meditation, Writing, (optional) Hiking, Hot Springs, Reading, Quiet Time
  • Deluxe accommodations for two nights in a deluxe cabin with shared bedrooms and shared bathrooms.

ONLY $150! Copy, paste, and click on the Eventbrite link to register today.

DAY-ONLY OPTION AVAILABLE FOR SATURDAY, OCT. 4 – Includes breakfast, cooking            demonstration, lunch, writing workshop, and wellness activity. Only $75.

Space is limited to 12 for the weekend and 20 for Saturday only.

Cabins are located in a secluded, pristine area near the South Fork of the Payette River in Garden Valley, just one hour’s drive north of Boise. Expect to see wild elk, deer, fox, eagles, and osprey.