Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Midlife Cabernet – College, Careers, and Colonoscopies

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A delayed flight has me stranded in the Spokane airport so I’m sampling a flight of red wine at the Vintage Washington wine bar. So far, the Townshend blend is winning over the Indian Wells Cabernet or the Canoe Ridge Merlot, but the night is young and I have two more hours to wait. The Cab could easily pull out a win, so I will continue my dedicated research. (Hint to travelers: A flight of three choices is less expensive than two glasses.)

I’m coming home after a splendid time laughing and storytelling with sorority sisters. We met as college freshman at the University of Idaho more than forty years ago, and we were the first generation of career women. Our mothers didn’t work outside the home, and we had few role models for working women so we pulled up our big girl pants and figured out what to do. Now, at the end of our careers, we can relax and turn to other important issues, such as Cabernet and Colonoscopies.

Interesting facts: All six of us graduated from the University, three earned master’s degrees, and one has a Ph.D. One is a Vice Chancellor at the University of Tennessee, one is the Dean of the College of Letters and Social Sciences at the U of I, and one is a nationally published author. The other three are college instructors and retired teachers. We have 12 children – all gainfully employed – and not one wears a dog collar or has been in jail. We all have daughters and our main advice to them was: Be able to support yourself.

We worked when there were few childcare options, and we survived on five hours of sleep a night. After a day’s work, we fed and bathed our children, read them stories, tucked them into bed, and then we did white laundry on Monday, dark laundry on Tuesday, sheets and towels on Wednesday, and bought groceries on Thursday. We juggled piano lessons, Little League, and teacher conferences without a cell phone or computer. We paved the way as mentors for younger women who often didn’t appreciate the jungle we cleared so they could waltz through.

We have shared weddings, pregnancies, and the death of parents. Four of us have been married more than 30 years to the original husband, and two of us have been divorced and remarried. Four of us have grandkids and we’re positively giddy than we’ll have four in kindergarten in the fall. We’re already planning their future marriages to each other. The six of us have different political and religious beliefs, but that’s secondary to our main truth: We are true friends.

During the past three days, we have laughed ourselves silly while consuming copious quantities of Cabernet and platters piled with decadent desserts. We reflect on our lives, share our stories, and commiserate about health issues. Yes, we will endure those horrible colonoscopies and mammograms because we want to live long enough to enjoy more parties. We intend to march boldly into old age and tell any detractors to kiss our attitudes. And, we’ll never forget the day we rushed into the Delta Gamma sorority in Moscow and loudly proclaimed, “We are sisters.”

Today’s blog is sponsored by the red flight of wine at the Vintage Washington wine bar in the Spokane airport. Only $14 for the wine and $12 for the cheese plate. That’s the perfect way to end a splendid function with forty-year friends.

Midlife Cabernet – The Dilemma of Dry Balls

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My mother’s idea of creative cooking was to heat together two different cans of Campbell Soup – such as Chicken Noodle and Beef Barley – and then top it with a cup of oyster crackers. Voila! A gourmet meal down on the farm! With respect for my mom, she also could prepare an evening banquet of two dozen fried pork chops, a mixing bowl of mashed potatoes, a vat of green beans with bacon, a platter of buttered corn on the cob, and a pan of warm apple cobbler with ice cream. Anticipating what would appear on the family table became a guessing game of feast or famine, which helps explain my lifelong battle with weight.

Over the decades, I’ve gained and lost the weight of a Buick. Or two, depending upon the make and model. Every few years I try the latest fad – lost a ton with Atkins and gained it all back in four hours, joined Weight Watchers and developed anxiety attacks because of the weigh-ins, attempted Zumba and broke my foot just before my son’s wedding, and I even tried using smaller plates but those salad plates still can hold six brownies. Sigh.

When I reached middle age, I finally acknowledged that I like to eat and probably would do so for the rest of my life. So, I decided to learn how to cook. A few years ago I attended a week-long cooking school in Tuscany, Italy, the ultimate place for good eating (and drinking, but that’s another story.) There I learned how to make delicious sauces, exquisite pasta dishes, and chicken parmesan so magnificent that it becomes a religious experience. Italians know how to cook – and eat. The mangiar bene – good meal – takes all day to prepare but is worth its weight in wine bottles. And, those wonderful Italians keep healthy because they walk everywhere, don’t sit around watching TV, and enjoy the sex lives of rabbits in heat.

I only fix a big meal a few times a month, and the rest of the time Studley and I try to eat small, healthy meals. I recently joined an exercise program called Body Back Boise, taught by my super-athletic daughter. The routine involves high-impact workouts that leave me gasping for air and crawling toward the exit door begging for mercy. Meal plans also are included, so last night I tried a “faux” Italian meal of lean turkey and spinach meatballs with whole wheat pasta. Let’s just say that Studley choked down the meal and then said, lovingly of course, “I don’t like dry balls.” And, no, he shouldn’t.

I admit that the meal was a disaster, but here is the dilemma: I lost a pound. So, maybe it’s ok to ruin a fine Italian meal once in awhile for the sake of the main goal – I want to lose enough weight so I can prepare a gourmet meal and truly enjoy it. And, there won’t be any soup cans involved. Buon appetito!

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2008 Menopause Merlot by Bitner Vineyards in Caldwell. It’s about $30 a bottle and helps tame those pesky hot flashes because if you drink enough, you’ll forget all about them. Enjoy it with a real Italian meal – no dry balls allowed!

Midlife Cabernet – No, You Can’t Live Rent-Free in my Head Anymore

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I’m often asked to give keynote speeches to various groups because I have a gift for bullshit and I can use finger puppets to make even the crabbiest person laugh for a few minutes. Every public speaker has inevitable worries: Will they laugh at my jokes? Do they understand three-syllable words? Am I going to have explosive diarrhea?

My biggest fear is not knowing who will be in the audience. Will it be that pesky groupie who always asks me how to get published – right now! Will it be Cousin Timothy who will tell me I’m going to hell if I don’t change my ways? Or will it be THAT PERSON – the one who stabbed me in the back, kicked me in the gut, and pushed me off the corporate ladder more than twenty years ago. Yeah, I’m still hurt. And bitter. And wimpy enough to admit it.

This week I was the keynote speaker at a prestigious event in Twin Falls. I got to the podium, looked out, and saw THAT PERSON. Normally, I would avoid looking in that area and increase the intensity of my presentation. This time, however, something changed and I no longer felt the need to fantasize that a giant, flying, prehistoric pterosaur would suddenly swoop into the room, snatch THAT PERSON, and fly away to feed hungry babies. No, it’s been two decades, and I’m finally over it. I made eye contact, smiled, and gave a stellar performance.

Call if maturity or common sense, but I know it’s useless to carry a grudge. Especially for twenty years. Letting go is liberating because why should I allow someone else to live rent-free in my head? Certain images of revenge against THAT PERSON do make for delicious short stories, which I have written and published, but the pain isn’t as raw anymore because the wound is healed. I now can move on to satirize other irritating people. Besides, my life is abundant and THAT PERSON looks sad and worn. Sweet.

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2008 Zenato Ripassa Valpolicella from Italy. It’s about $30 a bottle and the bold, rich flavor will make you forget your enemies, love the entire world, and ask for another.

Midlife Cabernet: You Don’t Need to Shop ’til you Drop

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While on a business trip, most women use their free time to (1) exercise in the hotel gym, (2) find the nearest wine bar, or (3) pretend they are comfortable browsing in Saks Fifth Avenue. I usually combine all three by jogging past Saks into the nearest establishment that offers a dry Cabernet.

On a recent visit to Phoenix, I stayed near an upscale mall, a place that according to the glossy brochure “pampers shoppers with a gardenlike ambiance.” Eager to feel pampered, I scurried over after my business appointment. I felt perky and confident meandering into the mall and mingling with sophisticated women toting Coach and Louis Vuitton and wearing those fancy shoes with the red souls.

I muttered out loud when I spied a Ralph Lauren store. I’d give a month’s salary to dress like the exquisite model in the RL ads, the tall, thin one with Rapunzel hair, boots to her thighs, and chiseled features who lounged with a bevy of beautiful people in a pristine meadow beside magnificent horses. I sashayed into the store and was drawn to a lovely sweater that actually cost a month’s salary. That wouldn’t leave me any money for the jeans and boots, so I sauntered back out.

Next came Saks Fifth Avenue.

I grew up on a farm outside of Wendell, Idaho, population 1,000. The village had one general store called Simerly’s with a slogan that said, “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.” Saks did not have this slogan on their ornate entrance. I went in anyway and immediately felt my confidence drain like air fizzling from a pricked balloon. My inner child begged to leave and find a store with more practical items such as a clown nose and a whoopee cushion.

I meandered about, trying to emulate the nonchalant attitude of the other shoppers but those astute sales women could detect an imposter from 100 yards. They were almost haughty in their demeanor and I sensed that they were laughing at me. “Go back to the farm, Sweetie. You don’t belong here. And take last year’s purse with you.”

Most of us enjoy a little retail therapy, and we work so we have money to purchase items that we want and need. I believe in free enterprise and in the economic principles of supply and demand. Louis Vuitton wouldn’t make $10,000 purses if they didn’t have customers who could buy them. I also believe it’s better to pay a down payment on a house instead of a purse, but that’s just me.

In Saks, there was a special room just for Coach purses. They didn’t have price tags but you know when a bag is encased in a lighted and locked glass display box that it will cost more than your car. The elegant woman behind the counter smiled politely but didn’t offer to show me anything. It was as if she suspected I still had manure on my shoes and my pick up truck was double-parked behind the feed store.

I finally left without buying anything, mainly because I didn’t want to spend the monthly mortgage on a pair of shoes that consisted of two inches of leather and mocked my ability to stand upright on four-inch heels. Next door I found a cute coffee shop that sold cupcakes with an amazing concept: they were split in the middle with a cream filling spread between the layers and not on the top. I sat outside and enjoyed my $20 latte and cupcake while I watched the people.

Every now and then I spied a few kindred souls emerging sack-less from Saks.

Without needing a mall directory, they would disappear into the shop and emerge with coffee and a sweet treat. Then they would find a bench and pretend to be pampered in the gardenlike ambiance. We all were poignant actors in our own morality play, trading Burberry for blueberry and Fendi for frosting. But we chose to savor the experience with every bite. We’ll probably never live nor look like women who patronize the luxury stores, but we are best friends with the cupcake maker. She had it, and we needed it.

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2009 La Creme Pinot Noir from Sonoma Coast. It’s not very bold, but it’s light enough to carry in your purse.

Midlife Cabernet: Let’s Talk about Chin Hairs

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The world is under assault from wars and rumors of wars, illness, crime, weather calamities, and Internet photos of Walmart shoppers. But what really causes anguish to most middle-aged women is to discover coarse, industrial-strength hairs on their chins.

These unwanted and unsightly growths often are strong enough to be woven into nets to transport military tanks. And they usually erupt in two seconds and protrude six inches before we’re even aware they are fouling our faces. That’s why we always carry lighted mirrors and pliers in our purse, right next to the flask.

In my book Menopause Sucks (gratuitous plug) I wrote that untended black hairs on your chin will make you resemble a Chia pet, and you’ll need to bribe your grandkids for a hug. Blame the problem on hormones and genetics. These two culprits – along with politicians and bad lighting – usually are responsible for most of your problems.

You can’t do a darned thing about heredity. If your ancestors came from the Scandinavian countries, you may never need to shave your legs and you could have a full beard of fine fuzz and no one would notice. However, if your people came from southern Europe, you’ve been shaving since you were ten years old and have a five o’clock shadow by lunchtime. You like to eat meat, and sometimes you cook it first.

As for the hormone issues, you can control them with proper medication, meditation, and massive amounts of Merlot. Hair follicles are extremely sensitive to imbalances of hormones, and your internal estrogen and progesterone factories are rioting and sending baffling signals to the hair growth office in your brain. Then the hair on your head begins to fall out until your once-thick pelt resembles a dog with mange. Don’t worry; the hair will reappear on your chin and toes. This causes stress, and stress exacerbates hair loss. At this stage, the quality of life depends upon your sense of humor and your motivation to get out of bed.

During menopause, you may notice other changes to your hair. My hair was wavy, so to get the popular straight styles I would curl my hair around used orange juice cans, which made for a troublesome night’s sleep and a sticky buildup on my Herman’s Hermits pillowcases. After I entered menopause, I started growing someone else’s hair. It’s dry and thick in the back and so thin on top that my head often shines like the Chrysler Building. I’m giddy to wake up every morning and still have hair to comb. My doctor said it was thyroid issues but in my age-induced confusion I thought she said hemorrhoid problems. That cream didn’t help my hair at all.

To fight hair loss, you can try several products that are available without prescription. These topical ointments take at least six months to activate, so you have time to enjoy other symptoms of age that include hot flashes, mood swings, incontinence, memory lapses, weight gain, sleep problems, and adult acne. The fact that we survive at all is a true testament to our strength, resolve, and refusal to quietly go away.

For middle-aged women, every day brings new opportunities for humiliation, the kind that comes when you sneeze, fart, and wet your pants at the same time, usually in a business meeting. This week I was preparing for a dental appointment when I noticed a mini-redwood growing from my chin that had the dangerous potential to distract the dentist as he was using sharp tools in my mouth. The stubborn hair was rooted in my ribcage so I attacked it with tweezers until there was a huge, bloody hole in my chin. I slathered on some Bag Balm to stop the bleeding then applied perfume to hide the ointment’s pungent smell. I hurried into the office and plopped down on the dental recliner. That’s when I noticed my black boots didn’t match. I didn’t need the laughing gas.

Today’s blog was fueled by a 2008 Basel Cellars Cabernet Sauvignon from Walla Walla Valley. This estate vintage is $40 a bottle and is full-bodied with a touch of cinnamon and flavors of dark fruit. After a glass or two, you won’t care if your chin hairs are long enough to braid.

Midlife Cabernet: Mama, Don’t let your Babies Grow Up to be Call Girls

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The world’s oldest profession comes with nasty consequences, so why are mothers allowing their young daughters to look like hookers? Julia Roberts glamorized prostitution in the movie Pretty Woman, but reality proves that it’s not the best career choice. Call girls have a higher probability of becoming diseased, abused, and dead instead of being saved and supported by a handsome millionaire.

Many of us more mature women regularly fight the urge to rush over with a protective tarp when we see a group of fifth-grade girls strutting through the mall. By their clothes and make up, they appear to be taking a break from their pole dancing gig and sauntering to hang out on the street corner. All they lack are dollar bills hanging from their belts and portable credit card readers attached to their bling-encrusted cell phones. And this is before they’ve had their first period.

Honey Boo Boo is not a positive role model.

A recent national study revealed that 30 percent of young girls’ clothing is sexualized at 15 major retailers. Companies spend $12 billion a year to convince little girls that they should look like tarts and tramps. A French company recently introduced a line of bras for ages 4-12, and many stores offer padded bikinis for 10-year-olds. Over 70 percent of the clothes marketed by Abercrombie Kids features sexy characters, provocative writing, a minimal amount of material, and designs to emphasize a girl’s chest and butt. The mothers who buy these clothes soon will have a new name: Grandmother.

According to the American Academy of Pediatrics, almost 37 percent of 14-year-olds have had sex. Promiscuous sexual experimentation has increased, resulting in about three million cases of sexually transmitted diseases every year among teens, and there are approximately one million unwanted teenage pregnancies. Yet another study indicates that young girls have alarming afflictions with eating disorders and negative self-perceptions. I don’t need to read any more studies. It’s obvious that our young girls are clamoring for the type of approval that will never come from texting a naked photo that remains on the Internet forever.

I’m not a prude – I coauthored and published a book of romantic poetry titled Daily Erotica, but the poems are for adults. I think sexual passion is fabulous, and I can maneuver into a skimpy negligee if the lights are low and my husband promises jewelry. But when it comes to sexy six-year-olds, I agree with Dana Carvey’s Church Lady. It’s not pru-dent.

What’s a mother to do?

Don’t lament, take action! Don’t buy clothes that turn your daughter into a sex object. Know the passwords to every social media site she visits so she won’t be lured by pedophiles or taunted by bullies. Know her friends. Establish guidelines and expectations. Lead by your own example. Don’t allow movies, magazines, and music that glorify rape, promote promiscuous sex, and degenerate women. If your daughter complains, invite her to get a job and pay for her room, board, computer, and Internet access. If she still throws a fit for trampy fashion, assign her to write a report about “Successful Whores I Admire.”

Your child will grow up fast enough, so focus on fun family time while you still can skip beside her. Encourage sports, musical instruments, dance, and art. Take walks together and plan vacations. Play outside. Discuss sex without blushing. Plan and make a family meal together. And, try to pick your battles and compromise: the short skirt is okay with leggings. (Duct tape them on, if necessary.)

Finally, analyze your own self-talk. Your children notice if you’re always critical of your body. They also observe healthy, loving relationships that they want to emulate. Teach them that bodies are beautiful at any age, and sex is natural and wonderful at a mature level that doesn’t require Hello Kitty lip gloss. Finally, believe that your 10-year-old doesn’t need a matching lace panty and bra set. Apply the money to her college fund so she can create her own business that encourages and celebrates smart women.

Today’s blog is fueled by a wonderful 2010 Decoy red wine from Napa Valley. This yummy blend of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon is from the Duckhorn Wine Company, producers of fabulous high-end wines. I found Decoy at Crush Wine Bar in Eagle for about $40. I also found Duckhorn Merlot for around $75. Get both bottles or a pair of shoes. Decisions, decisions.