Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

Midlife Cabernet: If the World is Ending, Say GoodNight Moon and Eat a Pie

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Every morning brings us one day closer to Armageddon according to news junkies who scan pessimistic blogs, newspapers, and online outlets before sinking into a deep depression, giving away their prized collectibles, refusing to floss anymore, and canceling summer vacations. Many are convinced that our civilization is on life-support and doomed to die. If that’s the case, grab some gooey pie and an exquisite Cabernet. Now! Before it’s too late.

The world could end because (a) some evil spawn of the devil finds a few nuclear weapons and wants to see lots of pretty mushroom clouds, (b) gigantic radioactive meteors will be sent by vampires-zombies-politicians as distractions because they have already destroyed the planet, or (c) clones of the little old lady in Goodnight Moon have infiltrated the human gene pool and rather than procreate people just want to rock in a great green room with a red balloon.

It would be convenient to have a 48-hour notice to give us time to plan final activities. We’ll be under pressure to choose the appropriate actions but the priorities could be:

1. Hug and kiss the kids and grandkids and thank them for being so awesome. Apologize for the lack of inheritance but remind them there is no time to spend it anyway.

2. Kiss your parents goodbye, knowing that you’ll be vaporized instantly in a puff of smoke but if they survived the Great Depression they will survive any doomsday scenario.

3. Call a few friends and say thanks for the memories and don’t worry about returning the outfits, money, or ex-boyfriends they borrowed.

4. Call that wicked former co-worker who cheated her way to the top and say “How’s that fancy job title working out for you now, Sweetheart?” Then laugh like a maniac.

5. Deplete your bank accounts and buy a Merry-Go-Round. Just because that would be fun to have.

6. Eat a whole pie. Either warm pecan with real whip cream or fresh peach with ice cream. Wash it down with a Silver Oak Cabernet.

7. Allow your library books to expire.

8. Schedule some raucous passionate activity to occur just as the countdown clock strikes zero. Personally, I’d love to go out with a bang.

If by some miracle the world doesn’t explode, decide which final activities you liked and continue to do them. Sell or donate the Merry-Go-Round, continue the spontaneous passion, return the library books, and most important, read and watch fewer news reports. Then eat pie and drink wine. Lots of pie and wine.

Today is the final day of the 31-day challenge to write a blog every day for BlogHer.com.Using the theme of “pressure” I’ve submitted articles about midlife and the vast array of stories inspired by being this old and feisty. The daily exercise kept my brain from turning into a bowl of mush beneath a picture of bears on chairs, and I’m grateful for the forum. Now, I’ll celebrate with a glass of fine wine. And a piece of pie.

Midlife Cabernet: Should You Expect or Give Gifts after the Third Marriage?

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My friend recently got married and I sent her a card. I wished her well, but after five previous husbands I think the gift obligation has expired. She had four divorces and one husband died, so she gets special dispensation for the widow role.

Couples who have lived together for years and/or have been married several times often send requests for money to help pay for the honeymoon or mortgage or divorce lawyer. I handle these invitations based upon a strict set of guidelines. For the first wedding, give a nice present. The second also receives a gift as long as we’re good friends. The third wedding, however, starts to diminish in priority as far as me slobbering over a gift registry. I’m eager to meet for lunch or to share a celebratory bottle of nice wine, but don’t expect monogrammed towels from me.

Those of us who reach middle-age with multiple marriages are thankful when we finally get it right but we don’t need or expect gifts. We’ll be happy with a personal letter that says, “Congratulations! Don’t mess up this one!”

In the classic movie Fiddler on the Roof, the wedding scene was simple and loving. Family members and friends gave quilts, pillows, and kitchen goods to help the young couple establish their first home. Recent wedding movies, however, focus on the last days of freedom for the hapless future groom or bride. Somehow the theme has lost its loving feeling for the sake of some slapstick laughs.

I’ll stick with my favorite wedding movies: My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Mama Mia, and Four Weddings and a Funeral. All celebrate the union of two people who love each other and want to share the occasion with loved ones. No one is pressured to show up with a toaster or a hideous collectible that will be donated to charity before the thank you note is mailed.

For those of you invited to a wedding ceremony involving middle-aged people who have been married many times before, offer best wishes and consider making a donation to the couple’s favorite charity. For anyone planning another wedding, go have fun and believe that the best is yet to come. Optimism is the perfect gift.

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.