Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

Midlife Cabernet: The Fun of Falling in Love at Fifty

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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, but it happened. According to a recent study by Bowling Green State University in Ohio, the divorce rate among people age 46 to 64 has grown more than 50 percent. Almost one-third of baby boomers are single either by divorce, separation or they have never been married. Some are attracted to the single lifestyle while others would trade their original Beatles record collection for some hot passion.

I faced a Christmas alone while in my fifties. My children were grown with families of their own, and I cheerfully participated in their activities. But I came home every night to an empty house. I unpacked the decorations and forced myself to set up a tree, but the ornaments reminded me of a past life, one that was broken beyond repair. So I turned to retail therapy and bought new ornaments, but it wasn’t the same. Deck the halls with strange boughs of holly was a different song and I didn’t know the verses.

I survived until the wonderful day of December 26 when the world returned to normal. Hairdressers, mailmen, and waiters didn’t need to perk up for an extra tip, deranged drivers went back to cutting in line, and children didn’t care if the silly elf on the shelf was watching because they had 11 free months to misbehave. And, divorced people could return to work and focus on important things, such as how to lose the extra ten pounds gained while gobbling an entire pecan pie alone on Christmas Eve.

Soon after my winter of discontent, 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, also in his fifties and ruggedly handsome, and instantly felt a connection. 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.

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. 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 messy Nazi and farewell forever scenes.

We enjoyed a long-distance relationship over the next few months. Actually, it’s better to talk on the telephone because that’s when you really get to know someone without the physical distractions. After two months of fabulous phone fantasy, he made plans to return to Idaho. We embraced in the airport like long-lost lovers. I expected a crew from central casting to yell “Action” as we clung together in frantic passion. I even heard music from a mysterious gospel choir.

At midlife, adults know what they want and don’t want. There is no time for games because we never know when we’ll get struck by a bus or wander onto a bus and never return. We accept our partner’s wrinkles and well-earned laugh lines, and we’re positively giddy that we can enjoy romance again. My more-than-significant-other got a job in Idaho, moved in with me, and we never looked back. He loved my children and I loved his. One benefit of middle-aged marriage is that there aren’t any in-law issues to handle. Our surviving parents just want us to be happy. If only they could remember our names!

We married on an island in Greece with a bevy of Greeks who couldn’t speak English. We sang, ate, and danced beside the sea. The following Christmas we hung mistletoe over the doorway and in front of children and grandchildren we kissed, much longer than necessary. We celebrated our current love and future journey, ever mindful that we could have missed this splendid opportunity for happiness. Occasionally I’ll bring home a cheesecake to refresh the memories of our first dinner together. We share a few bites, floss and take our vitamins, and then turn down the lights.

Today’s blog was fueled by a 2007 Canoe Ridge Estate Merlot from Chateau Ste. Michelle. This delightful wine is from Horse Heaven Hills in Washington State. Some fabulous wines are coming from Washington, and the wineries are calling me: Road trip!

Midlife Cabernet: Kegels, Incontinence, and Crazy Caballeros

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There is a reason most middle-aged women don’t ride on galloping horses, jump on trampolines, or finish a set of jumping jacks during exercise class. We wet our pants. Throw in a simple sneeze and it’s all over, literally.

Even after years of faithfully doing Kegel exercises to strengthen pelvic floor muscles, we remain a bit fearful of spontaneous activities that require bladder control. We wouldn’t dare wear white pants to jump rope with our grandkids, and lifting a sack of potatoes could ruin a good day at the market. For the two bored and bewildered men who may be reading, a Kegel exercise involves stopping and starting urination. Tighter pelvic muscles help in other areas, too, but we’ll discuss that another time.

According to the Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality, 35 percent of American middle-aged women experience urinary incontinence. That’s more than 10 million people you should avoid sitting next to at a comedy show.

Most comedy clubs have easy access to the women’s bathrooms because we love to laugh without needing to wear Depends. I’ve seen live shows by comediennes Rita Radner, Joan Rivers, and Stacy Dymalski. After the performances the women in the audience stampede to the restrooms like herds of wildebeests, ever ready to fall over the cliff of death rather than suffer the total humiliation of wet pants. We diligently face the issue now, before we’re spending our last days in some care facility where we won’t give a damn anymore.

As I discussed in my book Menopause Sucks, the reasons for bladder control problems include pregnancy and childbirth, urinary tract infections, disease, some medications, injuries, and yep, old age. Doctors recommend several remedies: cut back on caffeine because it acts as a diuretic, always carry protective pads, schedule regular restroom breaks, consider hormone creams, try biofeedback techniques, use a support device, or ask about the 300 surgical options available to treat incontinence. There is always the Chinese therapy involving vaginal weights which gives a whole new meaning to the term Chinese Take-out. Finally, talk with other women who are successfully dealing with the issue. Prompt a lively discussion at your next society luncheon by asking, “Do you wet your pants every time you sneeze, cough, or laugh?”

We’ve all read articles about amazing middle-aged ballerinas and gymnasts who still can run and jump like manic gazelles, but they probably never gave natural birth to anyone larger than two pounds. My children came with a force so powerful it should have been studied by NASA. And those industrial-sized cherubs altered every surrounding organ in their quest to leave my body. Even after female surgery I still don’t trust a good belly laugh without checking for the nearest exit.

On a recent vacation in Mexico, my adorable husband Studley surprised me with an excursion to ride horses on the beach along the Pacific Ocean. He’s heard my legendary stories of riding in the Gooding County Fair and Rodeo, and he knows I was a gallant barrel racer. His eyes positively glowed when he told me about the impending ride. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it had been more than 25 years since I last rode a horse, and wouldn’t new jewelry be just as exciting?

We arrived for our ride and were handed huge lead-lined goblets of beer from a battered keg marked Cerveza Pacifico. Our horses eyed us with despair but we quaffed our beers and wrangled onto the saddles. The first hour was fun as we galloped along the beach with our singing guide. Then my body realized it had endured all the fun it needed. By the second hour of trotting and galloping in the saddle, my bladder declared mutiny. I had to go NOW!

A few scraggly bushes offered the only privacy, and I had a real Charley horse in my leg. I knew that if I got down there was only a 20 percent change I’d ever get back up on the horse. So I meditated and practiced the Kegel exercises as Studley and the crazy caballero hooped and hollered on their rides. My horse was clearly irritated and commenced to relieve himself regularly, as if to mock my dire situation.

After what seemed like two weeks, we finally returned to the corrals. Both men had to help me down and I waddled to the nearest fly-infested relief station as my horse eagerly trotted away. I’m sure the horses gather at the end of the day to commiserate about their riders.

“I suffered through a total jerk today. He kept kicking my sides to make me gallop and you know how my bursitis is acting up these days.”

“Well, I carried a soggy sissy who was afraid to let me run freely.”

“Some day we’ll blow this gig and settle down on some lush farm in Kentucky.”

I truly appreciate my husband’s loving gesture, but I’ve hinted that for our next adventure we could attend a romantic musical at a fancy place with plush velour seats, a selection of fine wines, and several clean bathrooms reserved for women over 45. I hear a boisterous chorus shouting, “Amen, Sister!”

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2012 Caracter Cabernet Sauvignon from Argentina. We enjoyed this inexpensive wine on our vacation. It tasted better than the flat beer from the battered keg.

Midlife Cabernet: I Still Want to Hold Your Hand after 50 Years

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One of my New Year’s resolutions was to clean out the cabinets in the garage, but I only worked 15 minutes before I found my collection of ancient record albums. Like a giddy archeologist with an amazing discovery, I reverently opened the dusty box and gently sorted the cardboard folders. It was almost a spiritual experience when I retrieved Meet the Beatles! The album was released January 20, 1964 – fifty years ago – and I remember.

I was just a little girl but I’ll never forget the anticipation of that first album that Rolling Stone Magazine ranks as 59 of the greatest 500 albums of all time. I had saved money I earned from my paper route and bought the record. I daydreamed in my bedroom as the record played on my portable player. My favorite song was This Boy and my favorite Beatle was Paul McCartney. I knew he was singing just for me, the gangly, frizzy-haired, glasses-wearing goofball living on an Idaho farm.

I also remember The Beatles first appearance in the United States. It was Sunday, February 9, 1964 on the Ed Sullivan Show. My family always watched the show, so we crowded around our one black-and-white television set. I felt pressured to contain my excitement. I still recall Sullivan’s introduction: “Ladies and Gentlemen, The Beatles. Let’s bring it on.”

The four young men began a rousing rendition of All My Loving and I could tell my father was getting irritated. We begged him to listen to one more song. He relaxed when the next song was the tender Till There Was You. But when the Beatles launched into She Loves You, my father had heard enough. He jumped up, turned off the television, and said the noise would stop. I was crushed because I wanted to hear I Want to Hold Your Hand. That was the final song on the show. I retreated to my bedroom and listened to the record over and over.

The Beatles were paid $10,000 for three appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show. That’s nothing compared to the obscene amount of money wasted on today’s mediocre performers. I predict that the current crop of crappy crooners won’t be remembered five decades – or five years – from now. But somewhere a young girl will hear an original rendition of I Saw Her Standing There and she’ll sing in her room and imagine a lover singing, “We danced through the night, and we held each other tight, and before too long I fell in love with her. Now I’ll never dance with another, since I saw her standing there.”

Midlife Cabernet: I Don’t Want to Pet Your Dog

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I have a profound fear of dogs because they always chased and bit me as I frantically rode my bike delivering the daily newspaper when I was 12 years old. Yesterday I parked next to a car and suddenly two huge dogs in the next car shoved their shaggy heads out of the open window and ferociously barked at me, their ragged teeth just inches from my face. I want the owner to pay for my dry cleaning bill.

At the risk of receiving hate mail from those who love, eat, and sleep with their pets, I’d like to meekly suggest that some of us aren’t enamored with them. I don’t fuss over pampered puppies packed into personalized purses. I won’t stop to gush over the yipping, half-crazed, sweater-wearing bundles of barking hairballs. And, I refuse to be pressured to sit next to an animal caged in an airline carrier. No offense, but I don’t think it’s cute.

According to the American Pet Products Association, Americans spend more than $60 billion annually on their pets. Obviously, millions of people love their furry critters and they have a right to do that. But it’s also okay for those of us who prefer to take a walk without needing to carry a bag full of steaming poop.

A few caveats: I loved my horse and spent countless wonderful hours of freedom while riding her. But, I didn’t sleep with her and she wasn’t allowed inside the house. During my childhood, we had cats that worked as mousers in the barn and dogs that helped herd cattle and act as guard dogs – they lived outside in clean, protected dog houses. The only pets I own are Koi fish, and they are conveniently hibernating for the winter – outside.

Some more caveats: I appreciate service dogs and don’t mind them in my house. I also recognize that many single and older people enjoy the companionship of a loving pet. Most of my friends have pets in their homes, and that’s just great but I cringe every time their baby gets licked in the face. And, I’ve heard all the comments about the cleanliness of the dog’s mouth, but I’ve seen what the dog licks before it licks a child.

Occasionally I have terrifying flashbacks of the big dogs that used to bite me every day on my paper route. I probably broke several speed records as I peddled faster, faster. So, please understand why I don’t care if you have domesticated animals. Just don’t expect me to pet them.

Midlife Cabernet: Midlife Marriage can be Marvelous

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If you’re trying to choose your wedding musician, consider a little one-eyed Greek playing a goat bladder. That worked for us.

Studley and I met after being divorced from marriages that had lasted more than 22 years. We weren’t proud of those failures, but we were willing to take another chance on love and life. Based upon our successful experience, here are some advantages of midlife marriage:

1. There is no pressure to have the “perfect wedding.” We’ve all attended lavish ceremonies for marriages that ended before the bar bill was paid. At our age, we’re celebrating the fact that someone else wants to say “I do” and we prefer something non-traditional. With a no-host bar.

2. There’s aren’t any in-law issues. Three of our four parents have passed away and my sweet mother suffers from dementia. She can’t remember his name…or mine.

3. Make your own arrangements and pay the expenses. One of my favorite movies is Mama Mia but the quaint little Greek church shown in the movie isn’t available for weddings. Besides, I would have fallen off the narrow path leading to the church. So we used frequent flyer miles and a timeshare to get married at the quaint Anezina Village Hotel on the Greek island of Paros.

4. Skip the wedding planner. Our simple accommodations were owned by a jolly Greek woman named Maria and her adult son Stavros. She adopted us when we arrived and planned an authentic, Ancient Greek wedding complete with borrowed togas, head wreaths of laurel vines, and a Greek Orthodox priest who couldn’t speak English. The ceremony took place outside a chapel on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Priceless.

5. Skip the buffet line. Our hostess cooked an amazing meal to celebrate the wedding and invited all the other guests who were staying at the resort. Music was provided by a shy man pounding on a drum and the little one-eyed Greek who played a goat bladder. A few cases of wine completed the festivities, and we all danced until dawn.

6. Look beyond the body. At midlife, we have some wrinkles, age spots, receding hairlines, and flabby guts despite hundreds of sit-ups. But true love comes from within, in that deep, dark recess of the heart and mind that says “Take another chance. This time it will work.”

Someday we’ll return to Paros and hike to the chapel overlooking the sea. I hope it’s to celebrate another festive anniversary.

Midlife Cabernet: When Family Birthdays Don’t Matter

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Today is my brother’s birthday. I haven’t seen him in 17 years so we probably won’t be sharing cake and ice cream.

There are brothers and sisters who lovingly support each other and celebrate special occasions together. I’m not in that category. I’m not proud of that fact, but it’s too late to change anything. Sometimes it’s best to dump the painful past into the dark lagoon of sad memories and start over with eager optimism for the present and future.

My brother, a lawyer, sued me several years ago but I fought back. He didn’t show up in court for the trial but his attorney did, and I testified with spirit and conviction. I won the lawsuit and lost a brother.

Well-intentioned people say to forgive, reach out, and make amends, and occasionally I feel the pressure to make peace. Without going into the pathetic details, I’ll just say that I can’t do that. It’s easier – and a lot more fun – to write books, give speeches, play with my grandkids, and live an abundant life with my husband. I did send my brother a Christmas card last month, so I’ve done my part for the year.

The irony of the situation is that if he could see my family now, he would realize the example of how our dysfunctional childhood should have been. I wish he could see how my children have grown into splendid young adults, but he chose to miss their high school graduations, their weddings, and the arrivals of their delightful children. I also wish he would meet my husband and be interested in what I’ve done and experienced since 1997. I think I would make a good sister.

But, I would be okay with never seeing him again if he would visit our elderly mother and assist with her care. He has seen her only twice for a few minutes in the past 15 years. She now suffers from dementia and probably wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe he’ll think about that today, on his birthday.

This week our family will celebrate the 4th birthday of my precious granddaughter. There will be presents, cake, and laughter. And I’ll watch with gratitude as my grown son and daughter prove that a brother and sister can love each other. I also know if one threatened to sue the other, there would be an immediate meeting that included beer, hugs, and laughter.