Pumpkin, my darling six-year-old granddaughter, came over for the weekend, and I promised her mother I wouldn’t open any wine until after everyone was asleep. However, I didn’t promise anything about sweet treats, so we soon enjoyed a tea party with a few teddy bears and a pink platter piled with chocolate chip cookies. Everyone had a glorious time, except the bears weren’t hungry so we ate their share. Later we settled down for some serious art projects. I can’t draw a box without a stencil, probably because I’m clumsy, easily distracted, and have no artistic talent. Pumpkin is quite the little artist and she created a magical scene complete with rainbows and butterflies before I had sketched a crude replica of a skull and some bones. She won that round. Then she told me to sit still so she could draw me. Of course, I sucked in my stomach and looked dignified. Her rendition resembled a young woman with thick hair, happy eyes, and a smooth complexion. She captured my chubby cheeks, but without the wrinkles. And, I can live with having only one nostril. I loved the artwork and we immediately taped it to my refrigerator. “Thanks for the artwork,” I gushed as only a grandmother can. “I like your vision of me.” “I think you’re funny,” she said. Then she started another project. As she worked on the new production, I contemplated her comment. She’s only been alive for six years, so what does she know about human traits? What does she see in this older woman who gives her extra dessert, tells tall tales, and allows her to stay up late? Does she comprehend that I am her mother’s mother? It’s all too complex for my aging brain. But I’m just tickled princess-pink that she thinks I’m funny. My grandmothers were not humorous. They were serious farm women who worked from sunrise to sunset and then sat down to work some more. I vaguely remember helping them in the kitchen or picking vegetables and berries from their gardens, but there was not much laughter. Not even a simple giggle. Life was hard for my grandmothers. So, here I am at the table with a precocious, precious little girl who comes over with her little roller bag, her worn blankie, a book of craft projects, and her spunky attitude. She arrives with confidence and isn’t shy about saying what she wants and doesn’t want. I know she will shine in the coming years, and I want to be there to witness how she climbs over obstacles and tackles life. And as she grows older, I hope she’ll still come over for cookies. I’ll try to be funny.
Midlife Cabernet: Arousing 50 Shades of Grey Matter
The owner of a hotel in England recently replaced guest copies of the Holy Bible, the world’s bestselling book, with Fifty Shades of Grey, the soft-porn bestseller than inspires horny women to imagine torrid but poorly written fantasies. While I endorse creative marketing strategies and applaud freedom of physical expression, I can only assume that the hotel management will also provide locked safes for families with children, and disposable, battery-operated toys for those flying solo.
Because I can’t stop myself from noticing the profound and conspicuous differences between the two books, I’ve noted an excerpt from each:
“As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among men. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste…. Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for (his) love is more delightful than wine.”
—“Song of Solomon,” Old Testament, written 3,000 years ago
“I found some baby oil. Let me rub it on your behind.”
—Fifty Shades of Grey, bestselling novel and pending movie
I don’t want to debate religion (thank God.) I’m merely questioning the literary value of certain bestselling books. It doesn’t take much imagination to slither into Anastasia Steele’s sticky bedroom where she exclaims with amazement, “I don’t remember reading about nipple clamps in the Bible!”
But it takes thought and reflection to get lost in Bel Canto by Ann Patchett (a personal favorite) or to feel the heartache described in The Help by Kathryn Stockett or to appreciate the wit of Olive Ann Burns in Cold Sassy Tree. Maybe it’s all a matter of balancing excellence with trash, much like enjoying the occasional corn dog at the fair. But it’s also important to use or lose the delicate sensory perception abilities that come from our brains to arouse the gray matter between our ears instead of between the sheets.
Ironically, there is a subtle connection with Fifty Shades of Grey and A Tale of Two Cities, the all-time bestselling novel ever written. Biographers of the author Charles Dickens wrote that he believed that prolific sexual activity was necessary for a healthy man. The sub-plot for his great novel centers on the sexual exploitation of a young, powerless girl by an older, powerful man. Sounds like the prelude to Fifty Shades.
(This excerpt is taken from my new book Midlife Cabernet. The book will be released in April and contains 18 chapters about life, love, and laughter after age fifty. Find event and ordering details on www.MillParkPublishing.com.)
Midlife Cabernet: Anger Makes Your Face Ugly
I can’t forget the image of the young man’s tortured, enraged face as he leaned out the window of his battered car, thrust out his grimy fist with the middle finger raised, and screamed that I was a copulating female dog. He used other words I won’t write, but I think the translation is obvious. I smiled and muttered, “Honey, I’ve been called worse by real men with nice cars.”
I have no idea what caused such a violent, profane action. I was driving along minding my own business, using my turn signal, keeping within the speed limit, obeying traffic signals, and not texting or drinking alcohol. In other words, I was a rare and unique driver on State Street.
Suddenly a car moved close to the passenger side of my car so I quickly looked over, keeping my hands at 10:00 and 2:00 o’clock on the wheel. The window rolled down and the Face of Rage emerged like a scene from a bad horror movie. I haven’t seen such vitriol since the local all-you-can-eat-buffet restaurant ran out of chocolate pudding on Senior Citizen Day. My immediate thought was that I had accidentally run over his drug pusher. That would explain his lack of manners and teeth.
He screamed profanities impugning my very existence and then jerked the steering wheel and screeched down a side street, his dilapidated car belching blue smoke and his threatening finger still pointing out that I was Number One. In an earlier life, I quickly would have maneuvered through traffic to follow the fool, get his license plate number, and report him to the police as a danger to society. I know the right people.
But, the older I get the more I don’t care about losers and their sorry attitudes. It doesn’t bother me anymore, except I keep seeing his mean mug and threatening gestures. I hope he didn’t go and take out his anger on someone else. If a smiling, middle-aged woman driving legally in her SUV could make him that livid, there is no telling how he would react to convenience store clerks if they were out of cheap beer and imitation beef sticks.
I’ll admit to experiencing sporadic, temporary fits of anger about people and circumstances. I regularly gripe when I read or see news reports about the endless wars, the waste of money, evil people who hurt children, and the inept, corrupt politicians. So, as an anecdote to smashing something, I join others who channel that energy to vote, donate time and resources to local charities, and try to live good lives. The angry faces and clenched fists of protestors don’t impress me. The new Pope does, along with positive and lovely people who visit nursing homes, raise handicapped children, plant gardens, tell good stories, and sing songs.
Anger is unattractive and distorts facial features, creating monsters that appear in nightmares. Or, on State Street. Maybe the young man’s ugly face continues to reappear in my memory because he needs affirmation. And an oil change.
I’m a Loser – The Erma Bombeck Writing Competition Says So
My entry in the Erma Bombeck Humor Writing Competition did not win. That’s because a thousand funnier women also entered. But, you can read it for FREE right here! Please, don’t judge it because for five minutes I’ll be insecure and delicate.
Sucking Food from a Bag
By Elaine Ambrose
I used to feed my little ones with a spoon shaped like an airplane. Now they open their mouths every time they hear a plane.
But we had great fun during mealtime. I’d strap their wiggly body into the highchair and begin the mommy dance of getting most of the food into their body as the rest splattered on the walls and in my face. The airplane spoon worked best and we had great travel adventures right there in the kitchen.
“Here it comes, (creative airplane noises), open up!”
The animation worked until I tried to sneak in blended peas or stewed prunes. Then even the most daring and high-diving airplane spoon couldn’t open the steel mouth of refusal. But, this pilot was no dummy. Sprinkle a few berries on top of the concoction and that fortress opened faster than the mouse ran up the clock.
What’s up with wee toddlers sucking food out of pouches? Now clever marketers and busy parents have discovered food pouches that offer quick, easy, and convenient ways to feed babies. Slap on an “organic” label, and you can dash out the door guilt-free. Just don’t forget to take the baby.
Ancient civilizations used to chew their food and then give it to their babies. Personally, I recommend a food blender. I wonder if today’s young parents know that they can take regular food and smash it into mush to make it easier to feed their toddlers. I suspect this technique was used by all the generations before 1927 when Mrs. Dan Gerber, the wife of a Michigan canning company owner, asked her husband for help in straining peas for their infant daughter. Now Gerber sells 190 products in 80 countries, and in 2007, Gerber was sold to Nestlé for $5.5 billion. Well played, Mrs. Gerber.
My baby son didn’t like processed baby food. That could be because he weighed 20 pounds when he was four months old and had the appetite of a high school football player. He preferred soup, mashed potatoes, and hamburger. By age one, he was gnawing on steak bones. If I had offered him a pouch of processed baby food, he would have toddled out the door and attacked the neighbor’s cat.
I believe a special experience is lost when a toddler is strapped into a back car seat sucking food from a bag while Mommy is swearing as she maneuvers through traffic. It’s probably okay to use the food pouches in emergencies, but otherwise I say bring back the airplane spoon, sit down face to face, and have some fun. Delightful toddlers have a way of turning overnight into aloof teenagers, so enjoy a captive audience while you can.
Too much angst in the world? Need to laugh? Join us April 3
Hilarious Humor from Funny Female Writers
I Just Want to Be Alone is the second in a series of books targeting young mothers and wives. It’s available in paperback and as an e-book on amazon.com. Local author AK Turner is one of the authors, so you know it’s good.
I love humorous anthologies, and this one delivers on the laughs and funny anecdotes. Each author brings her unique perspective on the daily grinds and grins of marriage. From refusing to wear Victoria’s Secret nighties because a wine-stained t-shirt is more comfortable to the reality that your partner snores like a bear and chews with his mouth open, these writers bring a sense of humor to the table and to the bedroom. No one is advocating that life would be better without him…but it would be nice to have some time alone to read a book, sip some tea, and not worry about a surprise dry hump. With so many nasty relationships crashing all around, it’s nice to read and laugh with women who want to wash that man right out of their hair – but invite them back after the blow dry.
