Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

You are here: Home / Archives for Elaine Ambrose

Elaine Ambrose

How to Avoid a Platitude about Gratitude

By

dr sue morter 003With Dr. Sue Morter on the 2009 Gratitude Cruise.
This week’s blog is a copy of my national blog that appears weekly on the Online Magazine at JenningsWire.com.

Feeling guilty because your Thanksgiving experience never resembles the Norman Rockwell painting of a happy family gathered around a lovely table as Grandma in her white apron proudly delivers a perfect turkey? Instead, does your feast often include a drunk uncle, at least one pouting teenager, grandpa blowing his nose on the fine linen, a power outage, gag-inducing gravy, cousins chasing each other with the electric carving knife, a devil-nephew cramming olive pits up his nose, and a quarrel between some adults who should be sitting at the children’s table? Maybe it’s time to put down the drumsticks and the shotguns and just relax. If you get to midnight on Thanksgiving without a single drama, count your blessings, indeed.

We should go over the river and through the woods and then keep on going just to avoid all the glossy images, trite platitudes, and impossible expectations about this holiday. Forget Rockwell’s famous portrait because most grandmothers don’t wear white aprons after fixing a messy meal, and there is a good chance that this year they’ll introduce their new boyfriends instead of picture-perfect platters of browned butterballs. And Martha Stewart is not coming over, so forget the hand-painted placemats and pilgrim-shaped gelatin molds.

After a few decades, we older women ease up on the stressful requirements and have no qualms about using prepared gravy mixes, boxed stuffing, and leftover Halloween napkins. As long as the turkey is done and the wine is open, we’re just fine. My mother’s generation washed Thanksgiving dishes until their hands turned numb while the menfolk watched TV, smoked, and farted. My daughter’s generation finds both men and women working together in the kitchen. I’m thankful that I’ve lived long enough to witness such profound progress.

After experiencing more than 50 Thanksgivings, most of us have at least one that came at a pivotal time in our lives. For me, Thanksgiving provided a poignant perspective a few years ago when I was a middle-aged divorcee and it seemed that everyone in the entire world was part of a happy, loving, and thankful couple. I survived the holiday for two reasons: I never miss a good meal, and I was determined to show gratitude. The second reason was more challenging than the first. I tackled the dilemma by doing something completely spontaneous and crazy: That Thanksgiving I booked a reservation for a cruise the following March to Costa Rica, Panama, and Cozumel.

The cruise was called, ironically, the Gratitude Cruise. I found the information while researching one of my favorite speakers, Dr. Sue Morter. I previously had attended her International Living Seminar as part of a business conference. She is a healer and a teacher, and she focuses on the connections between the mind, the body, and the spirit. I know this sounds way too new-age for my old-age sensibilities, but when you hit bottom you look for the light, any light.

I went on the cruise alone. During the week, the programs included music and workshops about inner peace, meditation, acceptance, resilience, and, most important, gratitude. After wallowing in the negative emotions associated with my divorce, the messages were the antidote to the poison that consumed my thoughts. I returned renewed, refreshed, and ready to live out loud with an attitude of gratitude. Thank you.

Midlife Cabernet: “Old Eyeballs” is Not the Name of a Cocktail

By

“I think we need to do a test for macular degeneration,” my eye doctor mumbled as he nonchalantly studied the results of my exam. “Holy Crap!” I responded, a bit more animated. “Am I going blind?”

Immediately, I feared the worst. How could I exist without seeing my grinning Studley bring me coffee every morning, or watch my extraordinary grandchildren blossom into exquisite youngsters, or visually feast upon the multiple splendors of outdoor Idaho? How would I know if my purse and shoes were coordinated? And, horrors, what if I accidentally opened a cheap Chardonnay instead of a rich Cabernet? The pending consequences were more than I could bear.

My thoughts were erupting like microwave popcorn as the perky assistant led me to a strange machine. She probably had 20-20 vision and secretly pitied my older, frightened eyes. I sat where instructed and placed my chin in the designated slot. “Just stare at the colored lines and don’t blink for six seconds,” she said. I have a three-second attention span so it took four tries to get it right. Then we zapped the other eye. She left me alone with this mind-numbing remark, “It’ll be just a minute, Dear.”

Dear? I was about to fall into a black abyss and somehow this young stranger managed to make it worse. A tear wiggled out of my favorite eye (it’s the left one.) I began the Holy Barter, which is my term for promising the Spiritual Universe to do ANYTHING for another chance. My list went like this: I won’t be on the computer for hours without a break. I’ll get more sleep. I won’t attempt to write 7,000 words in a weekend. I promise to wear my glasses, even in public! Just, please, don’t take my vision.

I was ten years old when I put on my friend’s glasses and realized that trees had leaves! Until then, trees were just big green things. Then I noticed that the teacher was writing actual words on the blackboard. No wonder I had been having trouble in school. After I finally got prescription glasses, we attended a movie and I cried like a baby because I could actually see that Bambi was all alone in the forest!

Since then my eye problems have included ulcers, floaters, and painful night vision. When I was 25 and pregnant with my first child, my vision became blurry. I thought I couldn’t see the scales because of my huge belly, but my ophthalmologist confirmed that I had holes in my retinas. Immediate surgery was required but I refused anesthesia because of the pregnancy. Nothing prompts projective vomiting more than seeing your own eyeball manipulated and welded. After the bandages were removed, I was relieved that my vision was good enough to find the sales rack at Nordstrom’s.

All these thoughts were whirling through my feeble mind as I waited for the eye doctor to say the words that would either send me into chaotic darkness of make me fall on my knees and celebrate the everlasting lightness of being and seeing. I held my breath as the doctor entered the room, read the charts, and uttered these profound words:

“Your eyes are weaker and there is some deterioration of the lining but you don’t have macular degeneration. You just have old eyeballs.”

I stifled the urge to both hit and kiss him. It’s just old eyeballs! Alleluia! I could see well enough to order new glasses, pay the migraine-inducing bill, and drive without assistance. On my way home, I noticed an abandoned car rusting in a field. Don’t become that car. Women over a certain age should keep a regular maintenance schedule that includes eye and dental exams, pap smears, and mammograms. Top off that polished chassis with a bold Cabernet and you can enjoy your golden years without too much tarnish. And, I can see clearly that getting dull is not an option.

Today’s blog is fueled by a mediocre bottle of 2008 Layer Cake Primitivo. This wine from Italy is about $16 at World Market. It’s probably adequate, but I still have a problem with screw tops. Hearing the pop of the cork really enhances the wine-tasting experience.

Midlife Cabernet: Stay Young with a Little Help from Your Friends

By

The best way to sap the last sorry drop of vitality out of your aging spirit is to hang out with grumpy people. I appreciate the wisdom, counsel, and rich stories from positive older acquaintances, and I try to empathize with the poignant sadness of some older folks, but I really enjoy an energy buzz from jumping into the chaotic creativity of younger people. I’m currently working on two major projects with a talented writer and a promising singer whose combined age is younger than mine. I’m hoping they won’t notice.

AK Turner, my co-author in our Drinking series, has children the same age as my grandchildren. We have totally opposite philosophies on issues that involve politics and religion (I’m right), but we enjoy a strong passion for writing and drinking. Capitalizing upon those notable skills, we wrote Drinking with Dead Women Writers, a fictional feast with 16 dead female authors. The sequel, Drinking with Dead Drunks, features 16 equally dead but drunker men writers. The next book, due in 2013, is Drinking with Dead Crooners. And, yes, it’s been fun and profitable to exploit our fascination with drinking with dead people.

Another project involves a talented young man who is still in high school. Andrew Coba attends the Fresco Arts Academy in Eagle, Idaho, and has the potential to become a famous jazz singer. I told him I was in the jazz choir at the University of Idaho back in 1972 and he nodded politely while he silently calculated which century that occurred. My company Mill Park Publishing is producing a CD of Christmas songs performed by Andrew as he sings and plays piano. Some of his classmates and an instructor also sing and perform on the CD. We’re recording the music at a studio in Boise, and the CD will be available in a few weeks.

Working with these two youngsters has been a collaboration of mutual appreciation. Through my company, AK received her first book byline and now has her own publishing company. In return, with her contacts and technological information, I learned how to produce an E-book and improve my marketing techniques. Andrew now has a product that will promote his talents and bring revenue, and I learned how to produce a musical CD. This old dog still is learning new tricks, and I’m grateful that my wine-soused brain can still process ideas with productive results. I’m not yet ready for the Bingo table.

Having friends of all ages is important for personal balance and a positive attitude. Besides keeping the brain from turning to mush, a busy schedule requires physical fitness. I’m enrolled in a high-impact exercise program called Body Back Boise taught by my drill sergeant daughter. The other women in the class are half my age. Our last session included 1,000 rounds of 10 difference exercises, and my main goal was to keep up without farting or wetting my pants.

I believe in the potential of creative young people and I’m eager to share my knowledge and skills while I still can remember our names and maneuver a wine opener without hurting myself. It’s a delicate achievement not to appear like the crazy old aunt in Arsenic and Old Lace or the tortured character of Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. But as long as there are stories to write, songs to sing, and wine to enjoy, I’m choosing the team with the upstart rebels and young dreamers. Some day in the distant future when I’m content to sit in a rocker with a spill-proof sippy cup of wine, I hope a new generation of mentors will appear to collaborate with a group of feisty young artists. That’s the best way to stay young at heart.

Today’s blog was fueled by a bottle of 2009 Snake River Valley Cabernet Sauvignon produced locally by Fraser Vineyard. It’s about $30 and well worth the price.

Chicken Slipper Symphony

By

This was an interesting week, highlighted by sporadic blue notes of humiliation and glorious crescendos of joy. In other words, a typical song in the life of a middle-aged women.First came a serious visit to City Hall with my son-in-law to finalize some business documents. Of course, I wanted to appear serious and intelligent, but as I stepped from the car I noticed I was wearing my “chicken slippers,” a delightful pair of comfortable slippers with a perky chicken on the left foot and a cracked egg with a peeking chick on the right foot. I wear these slippers around the house because I am a recovering high-heeled-shoe addict with the bunions to prove it. In my haste to get to the meeting, I had completely forgotten to change my shoes. Was it a silent but sassy protest of city government bureaucracy? Probably not. Was it old age confusion? Perhaps.Another moment that ignited the wounded warrier within my aging soul happened on Saturday when I eagerly went to the Boise Philharmonic to experience the world premier of An Idaho Symphony. My perky mood turned as dark as the surrounding black-clothed patrons when the insensitive spawn-of-the-devil ticket taker asked if I wanted the senior citizen discount. Even though it was cheaper, I couldn’t accept the erroneous assumption that I was six years older. I stumbled to my seat and sat in total dispair until the orchestra turned my gloom to glee with a breathtaking rendition of Igor Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. Then the symphony to Idaho restored my elation as it captured the mood and magnificence of the state.My attitude greatly improved last night and I was reminded of one of the pure joys of living past five decades. I rocked and sang my year-old granddaughter to sleep and stared in amazement as she slept in my arms. At that moment, nothing else mattered and life was good.

Today’s Cabernet

By

Tonight’s blog was fueled by a glass of 2004 Moon Mountain Estate Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon from Sonoma Valley. This satisfying wine is a smooth blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, Merlot, Malbec, and Petit Verdot. It’s about $30 a bottle. Costco is carrying the 2003 Moon Mountain Estate Reserve Cab for $24 a bottle, and it’s a bit different because it doesn’t include any Malbec grapes. You decide if the missing grapes are worth six dollars.

Midlife Cabernet: Attack of the Nipple Stickers

By

My health insurance was canceled so I scheduled multiple appointments for a full-body tune up and lube before the policy expires on December 31. In four weeks, I was pricked, prodded, flossed, scoped, and dilated as nurses and doctors scribbled notes and muttered in amazement that someone so old could be so healthy. My biggest regret, besides stepping on the scale, was that I didn’t bring along a full flask of Cabernet.

During the dreaded mammogram I concentrated on the escape window as a sassy young nurse handled my breasts while muttering “Damn, that’s a lotta skin!”

“You need to apply these nipple stickers first,” she said. “That’s so the X-ray technicians can identify their location.”

“I’m menopausal,” I replied. “They can find my nipples somewhere down at my waist.”

She wasn’t amused and handed me two little stickers will tiny steel balls in the middle. I was instructed to apply them in the exact area and wait for further instructions. I imagined being a geriatric showgirl wearing miniscule pasties in an old-timer’s burlesque show. The word “perky” wasn’t part of the performance. Finally she manipulated one nipple-decorated boob onto the plate and squeezed the clamp until my eyes watered. I watched in horror as my pummeled mammary oozed into the next room. I think I heard her cackle.

“Doing okay?” she chirped.

“Die, Wench!” I gasped between clenched teeth.

She tortured one side for several x-rays and then moved to the other one, efficiently stretching, molding, and positioning my breast as if she were a celebrated sculptor. My brain was flooded with fight or flight signals as I resisted the temptation to tip over the offensive machine, tie up the nurse with the flaps of my flimsy gown, paste nipple stickers across her face, and run screaming from the building. I had almost finalized the plan when she announced that the procedure was completed.

“You’re free to go,” she gushed. “And, don’t forget to remove those nipple stickers.”

She left me alone clutching my body with the swaying nipple ornaments. I ripped off the first sticker which immediately caused guttural groans similar to the sounds I’ve heard on the National Geographic Channel when a beast slaughters a wild hog. Some tender body parts aren’t meant to wear super-glued decorations. I focused on a spot on the ceiling – a technique I used decades ago during the pains of childbirth – and tugged at the remaining sticker. It wouldn’t detach.

A mild panic consumed my mind and body. Should I go into the lobby and ask for help? Should I just be tough, get dressed, and hope the sticker would fall off in the shower? Should I go to the nearest bar and drink a bottle of wine? I gave one last pull and the offensive nipple sticker came off, so I defiantly stuck it on the window, dressed, and hunched out of the office.

A few days later my cell phone rang with the good news. “No signs of breast cancer! See you in a year.” All the other medical tests came back positive, too, so I should be around to irritate people for many years. I am profoundly grateful for good health, but I’m still having flashbacks. My wee granddaughter recently asked if I had any stickers and I started to whimper. She’ll discover why in about 20 years.

Today’s blog was fueled by a $25 bottle of 2011 Frei Brothers Reserve Merlot from Dry Creek Valley, California. The label notes that the wine has excellent aging potential. Preventative medical procedures – including mammograms – will enable the same thing. Cheers!