Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Midlife Cabernet: From Harley-Davidsons to Hostess Ding Dongs

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elaine harley trialIn a former life, I rode a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, drank gallons of cold beer, ate greasy chicken wings, and made love at noon in a mountain meadow. Now I drive an SUV, sip laxative tea, and snack on protein bars. Passion is pleasurable, as long as the lights are low and the experience requires no more than three positions. I’m in my transitional phase from badass to bad back.

Going through the change means more than searching for quarters in the couch. Middle-age has the power to turn us from free-spirited, sex kittens into snoozing old cats who occasionally perk up for a romp between the moisture-wicking sheets. With erratic eruptions of body heat so intense that it melts the polish off of our hairy toes, we’re truly hot women, but in a different way.

Dealing with night sweats, insomnia, forgetfulness, and irritable bowel system are nature’s way of saying, “Park the motorcycle, Honey. Find a comfortable chair, preferably in a cold meat locker. If your lover is a Real Man, he’ll wear a winter coat and join you. And if he brings a plate of Hostess Ding Dongs, that man is a keeper.”

Eventually the hot flashes diminish in intensity until you feel confident enough to attend dinner parties again. But then an entirely new assortment of maladies attacks your aging mind and body. You’ll graze the buffet table like a famished hog, bend over to pick up a dropped cheese ball, and fart so loud that the jazz band stops playing. Then you’ll burst into tears and lock yourself in the bathroom where you’ll spend an hour plucking black hairs from your chin.

There’s no need to remain in the bathroom because midlife also brings constipation so profound that it should be studied by civil engineers. “Look at this one, Mac. She could stop a log jam in the Mississippi River during a spring flood.”

Memory loss is another irritating condition of getting older. When I started to forget things, such as the names of my children, I developed some techniques to improve my memory skills. Here is the best idea I can remember: Keep your brain active by practicing word and math games. My favorite exercise is to realize that a 50 percent off sale on shoes means I can get two pairs for the price of one. Or, twenty for the price of ten! See how math and memory can be fun!

We’re getting older because we didn’t die young. Grab your bifocals, if necessary, and look on the bright side. If you survive midlife, you can do anything. Your kids are grown so you don’t need to clean up projectile vomiting or deal with head lice. And you don’t need to bake forty dozen cupcakes for the school carnival and then buy them back again. And take the money you once spent on tampons and buy Ding Dongs and wine instead. Best of all, you can sleep naked with the bedroom door open. The Harley-Davidson may be gone, but the free and feisty woman lives to seize another day.

Midlife Cabernet: Saying “Happy Birthday” to an Ex-Father

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Scan_20140703 (2)For ten years, I enjoyed membership in a large Italian family, and they excelled in festive reunions, dramatic gestures, abundant food and drink, and naming several people Michael. After I canceled my membership by divorcing one of the Michaels, I was no longer included in the festivities. That’s another disadvantage of divorce. I really enjoyed those parties.

But, because we’re celebrating our national freedoms and because I still admire many of my former relatives, I’d like to wish a happy 90th birthday to my ex-father-in-law. He’s one of the Greatest Generation, a retired military colonel with a distinguished career, and a sassy, stubborn man who loves the dolce vita. And, he loves his six children, their spouses, and all their children and their children. And, all the aunts, uncles, and cousins. We could still be good friends, if it weren’t for that unpleasant divorce issue.

The entire extended family is gathering this weekend to celebrate his birthday. After making a comment on Facebook about wanting to be there, I received a curt message telling me to stop harassing the family, go away, and stay away. My first reaction was, “Wow. This message contains three spelling mistakes and five punctuation errors in only 66 words.”

But I don’t want to attack the writer because I admire her defense of the family and I sincerely want to apologize for offending her. However, I think she should know that at my age, there’s not a chance in hell I will change. And, I’ll probably correspond with those she told me to leave alone. In responding to caustic messages, there is a fine balance between “Bless You” and “Bite Me.”

I’m grateful that I keep in contact with my ex-sister-in-law and her charming children. Removing the in-law label still makes her a sister. Our friendship extends beyond marriage licenses. I’m not advocating divorce, especially in a loyal Italian family, but I offer an olive branch of peace to those who resent me. Preferably that branch produced extra-virgin, first cold-pressed olive oil in Italy.

There are many fond memories of my former family. I miss seeing how the nieces and nephews grew up, and I’d love to have some authentic green lasagna again. But I respect their decisions not to stay in contact with me. The last time I saw the entire group was when I sang “Ave Maria” at the funeral mass for my mother-in-law. The Italians know how to celebrate life, birth, death, and any occasion to bring the family together, open several bottles of wine, and sing, quarrel, and sing again.

I’ve joyfully remarried, and my husband continues to send birthday and Christmas greetings to his former mother-in-law because she was an important part of his life for 25 years. That’s fine because she’s a lovely woman, and she is the grandmother of his children. However, the family reunions are different now because my husband’s family contains many Southern Baptists and they don’t drink alcohol. They’re good people, and we have plenty of designated drivers.

Years ago I sat in a little restaurant in Rome, Italy with my ex-father-in-law (what a clumsy title), and we clinked glasses and shared good wine. I’ll toast him again in honor of his birthday, miles away but with earnest respect. Buon compleanno, Babbo.

When Love is Stronger than Disability

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mom-mirabelI’d like to share a photograph of my invalid mother with dementia and my sweet 4-year-old granddaughter with Down syndrome. Today KTVB-TV, the largest station in Idaho, chose it as “Photo of the Day.” My caption: “There is no disability when communication is shared with love.”

The hands are compelling – one is young and healthy and the other is gnarled from a lifetime of work and prayer. The gentle scene suggests that labels and disabilities are less important when sincere affection is present. As the world is raging out of control and my vision is assaulted with images of hatred, destruction, and clenched fists, I prefer to focus on a brief but powerful act of love. Hugs can heal.

The Joy of Traveling with Your Children (Over 30)

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toes-caboIf given the choice between traveling with small children and having a root canal, I’d be at the dentist office sucking laughing gas before noon. I adore kids but the logistics of getting them more than 100 miles is too much to endure unless they can be shipped like golf clubs or crated like pets.

After my baby filled his diapers with an adult-strength load during takeoff on a three-hour flight, I finally realized there was no reason to ever travel with youngsters. At least not in the same airplane.

Children under five years old don’t know what a vacation is, so tell them that the city park is just like Disneyland except without grinning pirates shooting guns, drinking booze, and chasing women on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Better yet, turn on the sprinklers in the backyard, sit down with a glass of wine, and watch the little darlings giggle and wiggle until they’re tired enough for a nap. Then invite your hubby to swill some whiskey and chase you around the yard. Yo ho ho! Everyone will be happy and you’ll save thousands of dollars. This is a win-win situation.

Traveling with little children requires parents to lie in order to survive the ordeal. Here are a few of my desperate but necessary distortions of the truth I coughed up while attempting to orchestrate the illusive perfect family vacation when my kids were under ten years old.

Driving in rush-hour traffic near Disneyland.

“Of course, it’s okay to pee into a potato chip can, Honey, because it’s against the law to get off the freeways in Los Angeles.”

Trapped at the airport during another flight delay.

“Please stop whining and you can have a new puppy/pony/playhouse if we get home before you’re in high school.”

After four hours of driving through a desolate desert.

“Stop hitting your brother/sister or I will park this car right now and we’ll live off the land and eat scorpions until you can learn to behave.”

After two hours of “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?”

“Sorry, kids. Mommy is going away for a while.” Then I would pull over, stop, and play dead. Worked every time.

I still mutter like a curmudgeon when I see young parents in airports juggling a small mountain of luggage that includes diapers, food, enormous strollers, DVD players, toys, and clothes that could stock a child care center. My ancestors walked for months to Idaho along the Oregon Trail, and they didn’t transport a jungle gym, play-n-pac, IPad, a breast pump, or a bottle sterilizer. Their kids and clothes were bathed once a week in the river, air-dried on a log, and stored in the wagon for the day’s journey. They survived just fine.

Imagine if any pioneer child had complained:

“Pa, the wagon’s too bumpy!”

“Hush, Child, and go trap a rabbit, skin it, and help your Ma make dinner. We’re walking ten miles tomorrow.”

The first time I saw the movie The Sound of Music I yelled “Fraud!” at the end as the family climbed over the Alps singing in perfect harmony in clean clothes. When my kids were little, we couldn’t walk from the house to the car without someone falling headfirst into a mud puddle or instigating a belching contest. And forget about taking a hike together. Any incline more than two inches would cause howls of dismay with repeated pleas to be carried. And that’s when they were teenagers! But, in deference to the movie, if evil Nazis were chasing us, we would manage to escape together, with or without matching lederhosen.

One splendid advantage of getting older is that family trips are easier and less hectic. My kids are in their thirties and have their own children to handle, so I just need to pack yoga pants, t-shirts, and a wine opener. We recently traveled with 11 family members on a week-long vacation. I was overjoyed to play with the grandkids and sing songs and tell stories. Then came Happy Hour and their parents could take over. As they walked away with the boisterous brood, I overheard one of my adult children say, “Stop hitting your sister or we’ll go live in the desert and eat scorpions until you learn to behave.” My work here is done.

Give Life a Middle-Age Laugh, not a Middle Finger

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elaine laugh wine blog_1Because women over age 50 want yet another test, I’m offering the “Midlife Laughter Challenge” for those who still believe that life needs a middle-aged chuckle instead of a middle finger. The challenge is to laugh at least once a day for two weeks. It’s mainly because angst is so overrated, and if we’re all going to hell in a hand basket, make sure mine is stuffed with chocolate, wine, assorted good books, and refreshing wet wipes.

I created the challenge because I see too many crabby people. They’re everywhere. Gloomy, dejected, hopeless souls are moping about underneath their favorite miserable cloud of doom, and their sorry melancholy is interfering with my jovial mood. That’s why I keep a red clown nose in my car to pop on when I’m at a stop light so I can wave at the drivers next to me. They either snarl and flip off my effort or they smile in return. It’s a gamble I’m willing to take for the betterment of society.

Here are five simple suggestions to begin the “Midlife Laughter Challenge.”

1. Create a positive morning routine. If you must have an alarm clock, replace the screeching buzzer that is reminiscent of the shower scene from the movie Psycho with some energetic music. Try something between Barbra Streisand’s “Don’t Rain on my Parade” and Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary.” Then take a few minutes to mediate on why you’re lucky to have another day even though your back aches, your eyes are crusted shut, you can’t remember what month it is, and you’ve suddenly developed morning flatulence.

2. Dare yourself to smile. Find or take a photograph of you laughing and tape the photo on your bathroom mirror and next to the coffee pot. I have a photo of me laughing with a friend while sharing a bottle of Cabernet. (Substitute beer, donuts, and/or cheesecake, if necessary.) Concentrate to recall how a good belly laugh makes you feel. If it’s been over a decade since you laughed until you snorted, stop everything and go find something funny. Now.

3. Throughout the day, balance irritations with gratitude. Expect to wait in long lines of grouchy people, but realize that it must suck to be them while you are free to burst into a spontaneous version of “Bohemian Rhapsody” at any moment, complete with air guitar and head banging. Exuberant jolliness really annoys the caustic crowd, so enjoy your power over them.

4. Keep a supply of humorous books, movies, and favorite articles. Funny middle-aged women are writing delightful blogs on the Internet, so allocate twenty minutes to read some of them. My movie collection contains sophisticated classics such as Airplane and Blazing Saddles, and sometimes, late at night, I watch reruns of I Love Lucy. It’s a guilty pleasure that I don’t get from Pulp Fiction or Chainsaw Massacre.

5. End the day by writing a brief synopsis of happy thoughts in your journal. No laughter? Don’t go to bed until you find a joke or humorous anecdote that makes you laugh or at least smile. Best assignment ever!

After two weeks of laughing every day, you’ll have a better outlook on life. And people will enjoy being around you. Laughter is contagious so you want to infect entire populations as you can, and then extend the challenge every two weeks. Strive to avoid pompous jerks and stop reading online comments from Internet trolls who delight in spewing anonymous crap just to make others mad. Pity these wretched souls because they are in desperate need of a belly laugh before they shrivel up and die. Finally, choose to be happy because a merry heart truly is the best medicine.