Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

You are here: Home / Archives for Elaine Ambrose

Elaine Ambrose

Midlife Cabernet: Laugh More, Whine Less

By

I laugh like a donkey. There is nothing dignified or lovely about the way I guffaw. My face contorts like a scorched plastic beer cup in a campfire, my eyes water, my lips pull back from my teeth, my nose runs, and strange sounds erupt with every boisterous barnyard outburst. Still, it feels good and the experience is SO much better than stabbing someone with a fork.

Babies are born with the ability to laugh and they make their first tiny chuckles when they’re around four months old. Normal, mature adults reduce themselves to exaggerated clowns when trying to cause a baby to giggle. It’s grand fun for everyone, unless the adult is driving on the freeway or participating in an important conference call. Way too soon the darling cherubs grow into teenagers and the delightful expressions are replaced with bored aloofness, rolled eyes, and exasperated retorts. And, the teens are just as bad.

As a professional people-watcher, I’ve noticed that there is a huge laughter deficit depressing the country. The only hilarious sounds of glee come from kids (without electronics) on the playground or from drunks whose Happy Hour was extended to closing time. The nightly news only confirms my observations: people are distraught and need counseling because one of the main characters died on “The Good Wife” television show or mad enough to sue because they fell down on an icy sidewalk – during a blizzard.

Many of my middle-aged friends are weary of miserable people whining because they are offended, outraged, or inconvenienced. We’ve lived through enough decades to know that life isn’t fair but it’s still wonderful and, given the choice, we’d rather eat, drink, and be merry with a dedicated optimist than wallow in the muck with Sadsack Suzy and her sorry friend Woe-is-Me. We’re ever-ready to help someone through the bad times, but we’re convinced that someday we’ll share a belly laugh again. Pinky promise.

This week the family adults gathered to celebrate my daughter’s birthday. Of course, we met at a local wine bar to make merry, cause mayhem, and support the local economy. The evening quickly turned into a sophomoric party as we took photographs in various poses to show our true irreverent and uninhibited personalities. The resulting photos proved why no children were allowed and why the young parents were grateful that their babysitters could sit through multiple showings of the newly released DVD of Disney’s movie Frozen. We had a few hours of free time without the song “Let it Go” playing a nonstop loop through our brains.

As we looked at the cell phone photos of our spontaneous, immature actions, we broke onto convulsive howls of laughter followed by uncontrolled fits of giggles. Yes, we were silly. And, yes, we loved it. And I didn’t give a rip that once again I looked and sounded like a demented donkey. With the grand occasion of my daughter’s birthday, I can count more than three decades that my children have made me laugh. And that is reason enough to toss back the head and let it go…

Midlife Cabernet: Table of Contents and Free Chapter

By

1. Going Under and Beyond the Knife

2. Midlife Dating and Mating

3. Arousing Fifty Shades of Grey Matter

4. Mother Bear

5. What the Hell Happened to My Body?

6. Blending Fine Wine and Vintage Friends

7. Enlightenment After the Age of Aquarius

8. Observing the Daze in Holidays

9. Desperately Seeking Self-Confidence

10. Blended Families: A Bit Shaken and Stirred

11. Traveling Beyond the Farm

12. The Proper Care and Coddling of Curmudgeons

13. A Time to Laugh, a Time to Get a Weapon

14. It’s Time to Face the Music

15. When It’s Party Time at the Empty Nest

16. Adventures in Eldercare

17. Grandkids as Speed Bumps

18. Know Your Roots and Color if Necessary

If you would like to receive a free copy of the first chapter of Midlife Cabernet, please send an email to elaine@test.elaineambrose.com and request either the word document or the PDF version.

Midlife Cabernet: Bad Grandma

By

My two granddaughters, ages 6 and 4, came to play with me while their parents were out of town. The first ten minutes were splendid. No screaming, no urgent demands for gourmet food, and no poop on the dining table. Then all hell broke loose. Mr. Bill and the Waldorf doll opened the Crown Royal, the Potato Head cowboy seduced Ms. Carrot with chocolates and wine, and the runaway bunny ran away but his mommy didn’t care.

The parents were gone less than an hour before the playroom resembled the aftermath of a violent tornado, a chaotic cavalcade of cups and carving knives covered my kitchen floor, and a bag of reward treats mysteriously disappeared. I considered calling the airport to stop their airplane, but the older child had taken my phone, locked herself in the bathroom, and was downloading game apps while the younger girl climbed the plant stand to pull off and eat all the leaves from my prized Christmas cactus. I glanced at my watch: only five hours until bedtime. Could I endure?

We played for hours and made crafts, read books, and enjoyed a tea party with the teddy bears. After dinner, we all got soaked as I attempted to give them a bath. The evening ended with story time and rocking the little one. As they snuggled into bed, I turned on the lullaby channel on the Pandora station and expressed gratitude that no blood had been shed. Studley slipped me a glass of wine and we quietly celebrated. Day one, mission accomplished.

Over the next few days I followed my daughter’s two-page, detailed schedule with instructions for medicine dosages, organic and gluten-free foods, pre-school times, and where to catch the bus for elementary school. Occasionally I can follow directions so both children were fed, dressed, and transported to the appropriate places, giving me time to go home and stand in a hot shower until my eye stopped twitching.

By the fourth day, playtime was less structured, dessert came first, and I lost my daughter’s instructions. My activities probably wouldn’t be sanctioned by the local mommy clubs, but we laughed ourselves silly telling knock-knock jokes and staging antics with the toys. Who knew the Waldorf doll was such a scamp?

(Note to my daughter: None of this is true. Well, the part about poop on the dining table really happened, but the person involved and the table have been cleaned.)

By the end of our time together, we had listened to the theme song “Let it Go” from the Disney movie Frozen approximately 836 times. The song was more than three minutes long, so it provided the perfect bribe and distraction for combing through wet hair. That tactic was nicer than having them bite on pencils while I untangled the mess.

The parents returned and brought me fresh bread and fine wine from San Francisco. I really should reward them because it was a great time and I love those little girls with all my heart. Now the house is way too quiet, but I’ll adjust. So until next time, Pumpkin and Sweetie Pie, keep singing and don’t forget that Tutu has more stories to tell. You’ll never believe what those naughty teddy bears did today!

Today’s blog was fueled by a vibrant and luscious 2008 Black Tears Malbec from Argentina. At $90 a bottle, it should be saved for special occasions, such as when the house is quiet and you don’t have to wear pajamas. Join the wine club at Crush Wine Bar in Eagle and it’s only $60 a bottle. You’ll save $30 to help pay for shock therapy to get the Disney song out of your head!

Midlife Cabernet: Posing for Pumpkin

By

luciya art_0_1Pumpkin, 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

By

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

By

canstockphoto11295082I 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.