Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

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.

Midlife Cabernet: Susie Sells Timeshares by the Seashore

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Idaho is a splendid state, but the winters can get long, cold, and dark. The Boise area suffers from the Blanket of Doom, an inversion of low clouds that oppresses and depresses even the most hearty residents. Late January is the perfect time to take a day trip into the mountains or go south before you turn into Jack Nicholson’s character in the movie The Shining.

Just to be safe, I locked up the hatchet and installed sun lights in every room. Then I booked a trip to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. In only five hours we flew from Boise, 25 degrees and snowing, to Cabo, 85 degrees and blue sky. We felt as if we had crawled out of a sad tunnel into a non-stop fiesta, complete with warm sand beneath our bare toes and tangy margaritas in our spray-tanned hands.

At the resort I noticed even more timeshare salespeople than usual. They were everywhere promising a gourmet lunch and tempting us with free activities if we attended a brief meeting. We wanted the free golf passes so we agreed to listen to the latest spiel. Susie, our client relations specialist, could teach corporations how to successfully market and sell any product by using high pressure tactics with a saucy splash of charm. She instantly identified and focused on hot buttons: my jewelry, Studley’s business acumen, our love of family. Still, we didn’t fall for the pitch. We just wanted to golf.

Finally, the manager came over to sweeten the deal. We refused to buy. Other couples were beaten down into signing contracts and so balloons were popped and the room erupted with the sounds of applause. Another middle-aged couple at the next table was starting to fold. I thought Susie was going to cry. She had wasted two hours trying to convince us that buying additional points on our timeshare would bring us everlasting happiness and probably clear the inversion in Boise.

We took our golf passes and slinked out of the room. I started to feel sorry for her, but as we were walking through the lobby to go golf, I saw her with a new targeted couple. She was complimenting the woman on her jewelry.

Midlife Cabernet: Middle-aged Women Should March in the Streets! Or not.

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Are you weary of hearing about some new group of self-declared victims screaming to demand justice for some hurtful indignity or lack of respect or a random bad day or an ingrown toenail? Do you turn off the news when it features another red-faced person shouting about how life is so unfair and someone should fix it now, dammit! If these crybabies could just cry us a river we could solve the drought problems in southern California.

A generation ago, people saw obstacles as a challenge and then moved them out of the way. They accepted that yes, life sucks sometimes, so pull up your big girls pants and survive the pressure. How about acknowledging that most of the perceived problems are small compared with what women in third-world countries encounter every day. Mad that you make minimum wage? Try surviving on a few dollars a day. Then go take classes to improve your skills so you can make more money. Women in other parts of the world have limited opportunity to advance beyond their dire situations. We can.

Middle-aged women have lived long enough to know how to solve problems by themselves without depending upon others to do it for them. Some of us laughed at the “burn the bar” demonstrations of our college days, mainly because we needed our bras to hold up the girls. Most young women of the 1970s refused to join anti-war demonstrations because we had jobs and we couldn’t ask for a day off to march in the streets. We not only survived, we thrived and earned money to contribute to worthy causes.

Now as we approach retirement with hope for a peaceful old age, we notice all the yelling and commotion from younger factions that have no clue what it means to be a productive member of society. We’re tempted to smack them with a rolled up newspaper and say, “Stop barking!” We’re awful sorry about all the angst, and we will vigilantly support all viable projects, but don’t expect us to pat your head and give you cookies. Go bake them yourself.

So,I’m calling on all middle-age women to march, and shout, and bang drums, and demand self-respect and freedom from oppression. Take to the streets, unless you pass a wine bar at happy hour. Then, by all means, stop marching and go in and find a table. I’ll be waiting.
– See more at: http://www.test.elaineambrose.com/blog/midlife-cabernet-middle-aged-women-should-march-streets-or-not#sthash.zG19Wc8R.dpuf

Midlife Cabernet: Sing a Lullaby and Save the World

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Recently I heard my wee granddaughter singing a lullaby to her doll. It was the same original lullaby I once sang to her mother 30 years ago and then to her. Obviously, I’ve contributed to peace and harmony in the universe.

The cooing, lyrical sounds of a lullaby help sooth a baby so she or he can go to sleep. Mommy’s not really going to buy baby a mocking bird or a diamond ring, but the cadence of the song along with the words “Hush, little baby, don’t you cry” are effective in comforting both mother and baby.

The first written lullaby was chiseled more than 4,000 years ago into a Babylonian tablet. Researchers have determined that it was less than loving because it warned the baby to go to sleep or evil spirits would invade the home. Later lullabies from Africa admonished babies to sleep or their cries would attract hyenas that would carry them away and eat them. The popular “Rock-a-by-Baby” tune tells about the baby in a cradle falling when the bough breaks. Not exactly words of comfort but at least the baby doesn’t understand language. Babies just react to the lyrical sounds.

Because I’m older and have earned crusty curmudgeon status, I can worry about hurried young mothers who don’t have time to rock their babies and sing lullabies. They often feel pressure to use the latest electronic gadgets to simulate lullabies with the false belief that baby prefers high definition over other modern technological devices. That makes me sad.

I’m also concerned when I see news footage of angry people rioting in the streets, their teeth barred, their eyes ablaze with hatred. I suspect they were never rocked as babies. Yes, there are injustices that deserve public action through peaceful demonstrations, but for now, this wise old grandmother decrees that everyone should go find a baby to rock. Hum or sing a song and feel the release as the tiny bundle drifts into slumber. Two people, you and the baby, will feel better about life. And that’s a good start for attaining world peace.
– See more at: http://www.test.elaineambrose.com/blog/midlife-cabernet-sing-lullaby-and-save-world#sthash.oF0zoyBX.dpuf

Midlife Cabernet: When Your Rack Hurts Your Back

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I need to get something off my chest. For the past year, I’ve been fighting old age with the tenacity of Wonder Woman but the only thing we have in common is the super-human bosom that with the correct lighting can be seen from outer space. We don’t have the same physique because the sand in my hourglass figure morphed into dunes complete with rolling hills and hidden crevices. And lolling around in front of me are boobs that once fed the entire newborn unit at St. Mark’s Hospital in Salt Lake City.

Female athletes in the Olympics include amazing gymnasts, dancers, runners, and skiers who have the figures of 12-year-old boys. Their intense exercise burns every extra ounce of fat, so apparently I’ll never qualify for the team. Research shows that a double-D cup carries more than five pounds of additional weight. No wonder our racks hurt our backs. It’s as if we’re always toting a smoked ham hung from our shoulders.

I was under pressure to continue my exercise routine, so my trainer graciously took me to be fitted for a sports bra. The store had one that was large enough and it cost $60. The contraption smashed everything so tight that my boobs were moved under my armpits. Not an attractive vision. With the assistance of two healthy women with Buick-lifting biceps we spent several minutes tightening, binding, and harnessing the jugs until they were properly restrained. I could only breathe in tiny puffs of air, but I was relatively flat. It was amazing to actually look down and see my feet.

My new yoke made it easier to complete the workout sessions with the other svelte women. The problem came when I went home and removed the sports bra. My breasts flew out with a pent up rage and hit the door, ironically becoming their own knockers.

At least the garment didn’t resemble the first sports bra. In 1977 a group of women sewed two jock straps together and slung them over their shoulders. An earlier version of the original Jogbra is preserved at the Smithsonian. I don’t want to wear any hybrid invention that started as a jock strap, so I’ll sit in my recliner with a tub of ice cream and watch the Olympics.