Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

Midlife Cabernet: What if You had Two Wishes that could Come True?

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If a magic fairy or a genie in a bottle or a gaggle of clever leprechauns (I’m not picky) suddenly decided to grant me two wishes, I would grab the opportunity with gusto and proudly announce my choices. The first would be selfish and shallow. The second would change the world into a better place.

My first choice is to be the girl from Ipanema. Yes, the one in the song who is “tall and tan and young and lovely.” That’s because I’m just above average height, pasty pale, old as dirt, and lovely only in low light and after copious quantities of hard liquor. I want to stroll the beach with flair and countenance and have Sinatra sing about me. Is that asking too much?

Sinatra sang the song best: “When she walks, she’s like a samba that swings so cool and sways so gentle that when she passes, each one she passes goes – Ah…” Yes, I want to be her. But, I also get to keep my current husband, children, and grandchildren. It’s my fantasy so I can decree what I want to happen.

My second wish is for world peace. Yes, I said that without being a contestant in a beauty pageant. I’m weary of all the fighting and endless wars. People in the Middle East are still mad because one of their neighbor’s ancestors stole a goat 500 years ago. And other factions in other parts of the world murder people because they don’t believe in their god of the month. Give me a break. At the risk of sounding like a hopeless dreamer, all I ask is that people give peace a chance.

My two wishes probably won’t come true. I can’t be the fictional girl from Ipanema but I can buy a sundress, get a spray tan, and sashay around the block at twilight. I might not be able to instigate world peace, but I can bring a pie to a sick neighbor or help a local volunteer group with a worthy project or donate to a peaceful charity. All it takes is that one step – and we’ll move together like a samba that swings so cool and sways so gentle.

What would be your two wishes?
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Midlife Cabernet: Mischievous Gremlins Control my Body

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Do you ever get a sudden and terrifying feeling when your lower intestine starts rumbling with a sound similar to a Harley-Davidson motorcycle and you have exactly seven minutes to find a bathroom? This usually happens to me when I’m in the center seat on a crowded airplane, or in a foreign country on a bus with no water closet, or being introduced to give a keynote speech.

It’s obvious that mischievous gremlins have invaded and sabotaged my body. They meet weekly in the Rumpus Room at the far corner of my brain. Gimlet, the Grand Supreme Potentate of the Gremlins, gleefully distributes the assignments:

“Winkie, she’s got an important meeting on Tuesday. Cause her to trip and fall down in front of everyone.”

“Chuckles, it’s your turn to give her uncontrollable flatulence during Friday’s funeral.”

“Hullabaloo, she’s planning to travel Monday so fire up that irritable bowel syndrome.”

The gremlins giggle and give each other high-five salutes before they scatter to accomplish their duties. I am pressured but helpless to change their agenda. My only recourse is to know the location of every public bathroom within a 50 mile radius, carry the medications necessary to quell raging indigestion, and know how to conclude a presentation that leaves the audience laughing while I dash to the nearest exit.

Over the years, I’ve grown accustomed to the random assaults by my personal Gremlin Gang. The naughty rascals moved in when I was around ten years old and have progressively enhanced their devious activities. Sometimes I manage to fool them. “Oh, dear,” I moan. “Looks like my trip was canceled.” Then I rush to the airport and arrive at my destination before they realize they have been tricked. Then they unleash a volatile venue of vile and vengeful maladies. But by then I’ve already found a comfortable chair near the bar and within running distance to the bathroom. Ha!

Occasionally I’ll see another frantic middle-aged woman with that distraught look on her face that says move out of the way or die. I nod in sympathy and let her pass. We all have our own gremlins to endure. I wonder what Gimlet, Winkie, Chuckles, and Hullabaloo have schemed for me next week.

Midlife Cabernet: Bake a Chicken and Be Adored

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A few weeks ago I spent six hours making chicken parmesan from scratch: I simmered the vegetables to make red sauce, coated fresh chicken in grated cheese then browned it in imported extra-virgin olive oil, layered the meat, sauce, and extra fresh cheeses in a huge pan and baked it to perfection. All the pots and pans in the kitchen were dirty, and I barely had time to open and guzzle the wine before the family came for dinner.

The following week I quickly stuffed some carrots, celery, garlic, and onions into the cavity of a whole chicken, covered the top with olive oil, sprinkled fresh rosemary over the bird and stuck it in the oven. Preparation time was 15 minutes. The family raved over dinner as if I were the Supreme Grand Exalted Chef of the Universe.

(Note to self: next time, just stick a few chickens in the oven and skip the labor-intensive dishes.)

People don’t bake very often, and that’s a shame because I see all these glorious gourmet kitchens full of gleaming appliances and stocked with the latest gadgets along with a few contraptions that mystify me. What do they do? But I also see empty pizza and takeout boxes stuffed into the garbage can.

I asked my neighbor if she had turned on her fancy new, six-burner, gas oven. She said that it was too much pressure to use it and that she didn’t have time to fix anything, and they were all too busy to sit down and eat. So I invited her family over for dinner and served two baked chickens, brown rice, a green salad, steamed asparagus, and crusty bread. The family wouldn’t stop raving about the meal and wondered how I found the time to do it all. I replied that it took less than two hours to pull it together and they could do it, too. They stared at me with wide-eyed looks of amazement as if I’d just challenged them to assemble a rocket engine. Blindfolded.

When they started to go home, I handed them a book from my collection and suggested they read it. It was a cookbook, one of several I own that date back to the sixties. They were delighted that it came with detailed instructions and color photographs.

Midlife Cabernet: Avoid the Guilt Trip When taking the Car Away from an Elderly Parent

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I told my widowed, elderly mother that I was taking her car to get fixed. That was four years ago. It takes a long time for some parts to arrive at the repair shop. Especially if the car has been sold.

She was in her eighties when she drove her car into the back of her garage, panicked, shoved the gear into reverse, and then smashed into the closing garage door. Damage: two dented fenders, a hole in the wall, a broken garage door, and a wounded ego. Her car already resembled the winning entry in a demolition derby from all the dings and dents. Fortunately for everyone, they weren’t caused by running over a kid on a bicycle.

Because I’m the only daughter and because my brothers have absolved themselves from any responsibility for their mother’s care, it was up to me to take away her car. This called for creativity, good humor, and compassion, and I refused to drive on a guilt drip as I drove away in her vehicle. A car is the last symbol of independence, and she wasn’t ready to admit that her reaction time was as poor as her driving ability.

I’ve lost count of my mother’s car accidents. One particularly bad one occurred when she stomped on the gas instead of the brake. Her car went off the road, flipped upside down, and dragged through the ground until it stopped. The sun roof broke and she had dirt and sagebrush imbedded in her head. She was taken by emergency helicopter to a hospital and I rushed there with the well-worn, overused “Power of Attorney” file, terrified of the “no artificial life support” agreement I would be pressured to sign.

But she perked up a few weeks later, just as she has after every calamity. In the past few years, she has suffered a broken back, a broken hip, a broken knee, shingles, pneumonia, and eye problems. Just last summer, kind Hospice workers told me she only had 72 hours to live and to plan the funeral. But, again, she rallied. She has slipped into dementia and is confined to a wheelchair. Now she backs the wheelchair into the wall, but there’s not much damage.

Every now and then she’ll have moments of clarity and ask about her car. “Still waiting for those parts,” I say. We both shake our heads and mutter in disbelief.

Midlife Cabernet: More Baby Boomers than Teens “Like” Facebook

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A new report by iStrategy Labs indicates that teenagers are leaving Facebook while there is an 80% surge in users with an age of 55 or above. That’s okay with me. I can quickly scroll through postings about the latest “OMG!” teenage angst of the day, even though I roll my eyes at teens slobbering over Justin Bieber and I’m perplexed by the constant incorrect use of your and you’re. Doesn’t anyone take English 101?

I know my younger friends don’t read my blog “Midlife Cabernet” and I don’t read their teenage nonsense. I do enjoy following their antics with their families because I usually know their parents or grandparents. It’s like a friendly community picnic without the slimy, green gelatin salad or pesky flies.

I welcome more middle-aged people joining Facebook because I’ve found long-lost friends and relatives who still want to be my friend. “Remember me?” is like a hug from the past. I can troll their pages and catch up with their lives, and it’s more convenient than sifting through the biographies in the class reunion booklets. Plus, we don’t need the pressure to update our contact list or antiquated Rolodex files.

The Facebook study also revealed a 65% increase in college alumni. It’s a great method for contacting former collegians who knew each other during a pivotal time in their lives. Yes, we still have our Carole King Tapestry album, and no, we never ran away with that mysterious guru from India. We’re totally grateful that we didn’t have the Internet and Facebook when we were in college because there are some wicked photos that could have damaged future job interviews and relations with in-laws.

Through Facebook, we can prove we didn’t become a lonely goat herder in a foreign country because now we have an identity, a computer, and we know how to use the Internet. And we didn’t need to rent those smiling faces to pose as our real spouses, children, and grandchildren. Most middle-aged people are mature enough to know that if we don’t click “like” on a message that doesn’t mean we don’t like them. We’re over that junior high stuff.

The study claimed that teenagers are leaving Facebook because they want privacy from their parents and relatives. However, 71% of adults who use the Internet also use Facebook. With 1.2 billion monthly users, there’s still a good chance for an inclusive mix of all ages. And we older folks know a key statistic that the teens ignore: some day they will be old, too. And their kids will demand to have their own space, and we don’t need a fancy study to tell us those facts. But it does make us smile enough to show off our well-earned laugh lines.

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2011 Decoy red wine from the fabulous Duckhorn Wine Company in Napa County, California. This yummy wine is available at Crush Wine Bar in Eagle, but not for teenagers. That’s one more major advantage to being older.

Midlife Cabernet: I Miss Johnny Carson

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Midlife Cabernet: I Miss Johnny Carson

Late night television continues to evolve with new names in the designated schedules, but no one will ever compare to Johnny Carson. Many of us tuned in between 1962 and 1992 to hear his clever quips and hilarious routines on The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. Every weekday night, we joined millions of Americans who settled into bed and prepared to laugh as Ed McMahon announced, “Here’s Johnny!”

I still see him parting the curtains and walking into the spotlight to deliver comical and entertaining monologues. Then he would go to his desk and introduce funny skits with our favorite characters, including Carnac the Magnificent predicting the future, Aunt Blabby discussing elder affairs, and Art Fern giving his effervescent movie critiques. We laughed, turned off the television, and went to sleep with a smile while escaping the current pressures of our daily, unfunny lives.

Carson’s history is interesting and intriguing. As a teenager, he loved to perform magic tricks and earned $25 per performance at his fraternity at the University of Nebraska. He wrote a thesis on the structure of Jack Benny’s comedy routines and graduated in 1949 with a degree in radio and speech with a minor in physics. Obviously, he was smarter than the clowns he often mimicked.

In 1951 as a struggling comic he did a comedy routine in California that spoofed a local political figure. The wife of the victim owned stock in a radio station in Los Angeles and referred Carson as a potential star. Carson gained employment by working for Red Skelton and got his big break by filling in for the popular comedian. Then he was signed as a writer for Jack Benny and his career was underway. By the mid1970s he earned 4 million a year – equivalent to $14 million annual in today’s dollars.

I still remember his final show in 1992. Bette Midler was the last guest and she sang “One for the Road.” There wasn’t a dry eye in the audience or in my house. Carson died in 2005 and ended an era of genuinely funny and unscripted television hosts. It’s sad to realize that new generations will only identify the phase “Here’s Johnny” with the hit movie The Shining, and most won’t understand the correlation between the insane character of Jack Nicholson with the shy comic genius of Johnny Carson. But that’s what he would have wanted.