Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Midlife Cabernet: I Still Want to Hold Your Hand after 50 Years

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One of my New Year’s resolutions was to clean out the cabinets in the garage, but I only worked 15 minutes before I found my collection of ancient record albums. Like a giddy archeologist with an amazing discovery, I reverently opened the dusty box and gently sorted the cardboard folders. It was almost a spiritual experience when I retrieved Meet the Beatles! The album was released January 20, 1964 – fifty years ago – and I remember.

I was just a little girl but I’ll never forget the anticipation of that first album that Rolling Stone Magazine ranks as 59 of the greatest 500 albums of all time. I had saved money I earned from my paper route and bought the record. I daydreamed in my bedroom as the record played on my portable player. My favorite song was This Boy and my favorite Beatle was Paul McCartney. I knew he was singing just for me, the gangly, frizzy-haired, glasses-wearing goofball living on an Idaho farm.

I also remember The Beatles first appearance in the United States. It was Sunday, February 9, 1964 on the Ed Sullivan Show. My family always watched the show, so we crowded around our one black-and-white television set. I felt pressured to contain my excitement. I still recall Sullivan’s introduction: “Ladies and Gentlemen, The Beatles. Let’s bring it on.”

The four young men began a rousing rendition of All My Loving and I could tell my father was getting irritated. We begged him to listen to one more song. He relaxed when the next song was the tender Till There Was You. But when the Beatles launched into She Loves You, my father had heard enough. He jumped up, turned off the television, and said the noise would stop. I was crushed because I wanted to hear I Want to Hold Your Hand. That was the final song on the show. I retreated to my bedroom and listened to the record over and over.

The Beatles were paid $10,000 for three appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show. That’s nothing compared to the obscene amount of money wasted on today’s mediocre performers. I predict that the current crop of crappy crooners won’t be remembered five decades – or five years – from now. But somewhere a young girl will hear an original rendition of I Saw Her Standing There and she’ll sing in her room and imagine a lover singing, “We danced through the night, and we held each other tight, and before too long I fell in love with her. Now I’ll never dance with another, since I saw her standing there.”

Midlife Cabernet: I Don’t Want to Pet Your Dog

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I have a profound fear of dogs because they always chased and bit me as I frantically rode my bike delivering the daily newspaper when I was 12 years old. Yesterday I parked next to a car and suddenly two huge dogs in the next car shoved their shaggy heads out of the open window and ferociously barked at me, their ragged teeth just inches from my face. I want the owner to pay for my dry cleaning bill.

At the risk of receiving hate mail from those who love, eat, and sleep with their pets, I’d like to meekly suggest that some of us aren’t enamored with them. I don’t fuss over pampered puppies packed into personalized purses. I won’t stop to gush over the yipping, half-crazed, sweater-wearing bundles of barking hairballs. And, I refuse to be pressured to sit next to an animal caged in an airline carrier. No offense, but I don’t think it’s cute.

According to the American Pet Products Association, Americans spend more than $60 billion annually on their pets. Obviously, millions of people love their furry critters and they have a right to do that. But it’s also okay for those of us who prefer to take a walk without needing to carry a bag full of steaming poop.

A few caveats: I loved my horse and spent countless wonderful hours of freedom while riding her. But, I didn’t sleep with her and she wasn’t allowed inside the house. During my childhood, we had cats that worked as mousers in the barn and dogs that helped herd cattle and act as guard dogs – they lived outside in clean, protected dog houses. The only pets I own are Koi fish, and they are conveniently hibernating for the winter – outside.

Some more caveats: I appreciate service dogs and don’t mind them in my house. I also recognize that many single and older people enjoy the companionship of a loving pet. Most of my friends have pets in their homes, and that’s just great but I cringe every time their baby gets licked in the face. And, I’ve heard all the comments about the cleanliness of the dog’s mouth, but I’ve seen what the dog licks before it licks a child.

Occasionally I have terrifying flashbacks of the big dogs that used to bite me every day on my paper route. I probably broke several speed records as I peddled faster, faster. So, please understand why I don’t care if you have domesticated animals. Just don’t expect me to pet them.

Midlife Cabernet: Midlife Marriage can be Marvelous

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If you’re trying to choose your wedding musician, consider a little one-eyed Greek playing a goat bladder. That worked for us.

Studley and I met after being divorced from marriages that had lasted more than 22 years. We weren’t proud of those failures, but we were willing to take another chance on love and life. Based upon our successful experience, here are some advantages of midlife marriage:

1. There is no pressure to have the “perfect wedding.” We’ve all attended lavish ceremonies for marriages that ended before the bar bill was paid. At our age, we’re celebrating the fact that someone else wants to say “I do” and we prefer something non-traditional. With a no-host bar.

2. There’s aren’t any in-law issues. Three of our four parents have passed away and my sweet mother suffers from dementia. She can’t remember his name…or mine.

3. Make your own arrangements and pay the expenses. One of my favorite movies is Mama Mia but the quaint little Greek church shown in the movie isn’t available for weddings. Besides, I would have fallen off the narrow path leading to the church. So we used frequent flyer miles and a timeshare to get married at the quaint Anezina Village Hotel on the Greek island of Paros.

4. Skip the wedding planner. Our simple accommodations were owned by a jolly Greek woman named Maria and her adult son Stavros. She adopted us when we arrived and planned an authentic, Ancient Greek wedding complete with borrowed togas, head wreaths of laurel vines, and a Greek Orthodox priest who couldn’t speak English. The ceremony took place outside a chapel on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Priceless.

5. Skip the buffet line. Our hostess cooked an amazing meal to celebrate the wedding and invited all the other guests who were staying at the resort. Music was provided by a shy man pounding on a drum and the little one-eyed Greek who played a goat bladder. A few cases of wine completed the festivities, and we all danced until dawn.

6. Look beyond the body. At midlife, we have some wrinkles, age spots, receding hairlines, and flabby guts despite hundreds of sit-ups. But true love comes from within, in that deep, dark recess of the heart and mind that says “Take another chance. This time it will work.”

Someday we’ll return to Paros and hike to the chapel overlooking the sea. I hope it’s to celebrate another festive anniversary.

Midlife Cabernet: When Family Birthdays Don’t Matter

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Today is my brother’s birthday. I haven’t seen him in 17 years so we probably won’t be sharing cake and ice cream.

There are brothers and sisters who lovingly support each other and celebrate special occasions together. I’m not in that category. I’m not proud of that fact, but it’s too late to change anything. Sometimes it’s best to dump the painful past into the dark lagoon of sad memories and start over with eager optimism for the present and future.

My brother, a lawyer, sued me several years ago but I fought back. He didn’t show up in court for the trial but his attorney did, and I testified with spirit and conviction. I won the lawsuit and lost a brother.

Well-intentioned people say to forgive, reach out, and make amends, and occasionally I feel the pressure to make peace. Without going into the pathetic details, I’ll just say that I can’t do that. It’s easier – and a lot more fun – to write books, give speeches, play with my grandkids, and live an abundant life with my husband. I did send my brother a Christmas card last month, so I’ve done my part for the year.

The irony of the situation is that if he could see my family now, he would realize the example of how our dysfunctional childhood should have been. I wish he could see how my children have grown into splendid young adults, but he chose to miss their high school graduations, their weddings, and the arrivals of their delightful children. I also wish he would meet my husband and be interested in what I’ve done and experienced since 1997. I think I would make a good sister.

But, I would be okay with never seeing him again if he would visit our elderly mother and assist with her care. He has seen her only twice for a few minutes in the past 15 years. She now suffers from dementia and probably wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe he’ll think about that today, on his birthday.

This week our family will celebrate the 4th birthday of my precious granddaughter. There will be presents, cake, and laughter. And I’ll watch with gratitude as my grown son and daughter prove that a brother and sister can love each other. I also know if one threatened to sue the other, there would be an immediate meeting that included beer, hugs, and laughter.

Midlife Cabernet: Susie Sells Timeshares by the Seashore

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Idaho is a splendid state, but the winters can get long, cold, and dark. The Boise area suffers from the Blanket of Doom, an inversion of low clouds that oppresses and depresses even the most hearty residents. Late January is the perfect time to take a day trip into the mountains or go south before you turn into Jack Nicholson’s character in the movie The Shining.

Just to be safe, I locked up the hatchet and installed sun lights in every room. Then I booked a trip to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. In only five hours we flew from Boise, 25 degrees and snowing, to Cabo, 85 degrees and blue sky. We felt as if we had crawled out of a sad tunnel into a non-stop fiesta, complete with warm sand beneath our bare toes and tangy margaritas in our spray-tanned hands.

At the resort I noticed even more timeshare salespeople than usual. They were everywhere promising a gourmet lunch and tempting us with free activities if we attended a brief meeting. We wanted the free golf passes so we agreed to listen to the latest spiel. Susie, our client relations specialist, could teach corporations how to successfully market and sell any product by using high pressure tactics with a saucy splash of charm. She instantly identified and focused on hot buttons: my jewelry, Studley’s business acumen, our love of family. Still, we didn’t fall for the pitch. We just wanted to golf.

Finally, the manager came over to sweeten the deal. We refused to buy. Other couples were beaten down into signing contracts and so balloons were popped and the room erupted with the sounds of applause. Another middle-aged couple at the next table was starting to fold. I thought Susie was going to cry. She had wasted two hours trying to convince us that buying additional points on our timeshare would bring us everlasting happiness and probably clear the inversion in Boise.

We took our golf passes and slinked out of the room. I started to feel sorry for her, but as we were walking through the lobby to go golf, I saw her with a new targeted couple. She was complimenting the woman on her jewelry.

Midlife Cabernet: Middle-aged Women Should March in the Streets! Or not.

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Are you weary of hearing about some new group of self-declared victims screaming to demand justice for some hurtful indignity or lack of respect or a random bad day or an ingrown toenail? Do you turn off the news when it features another red-faced person shouting about how life is so unfair and someone should fix it now, dammit! If these crybabies could just cry us a river we could solve the drought problems in southern California.

A generation ago, people saw obstacles as a challenge and then moved them out of the way. They accepted that yes, life sucks sometimes, so pull up your big girls pants and survive the pressure. How about acknowledging that most of the perceived problems are small compared with what women in third-world countries encounter every day. Mad that you make minimum wage? Try surviving on a few dollars a day. Then go take classes to improve your skills so you can make more money. Women in other parts of the world have limited opportunity to advance beyond their dire situations. We can.

Middle-aged women have lived long enough to know how to solve problems by themselves without depending upon others to do it for them. Some of us laughed at the “burn the bar” demonstrations of our college days, mainly because we needed our bras to hold up the girls. Most young women of the 1970s refused to join anti-war demonstrations because we had jobs and we couldn’t ask for a day off to march in the streets. We not only survived, we thrived and earned money to contribute to worthy causes.

Now as we approach retirement with hope for a peaceful old age, we notice all the yelling and commotion from younger factions that have no clue what it means to be a productive member of society. We’re tempted to smack them with a rolled up newspaper and say, “Stop barking!” We’re awful sorry about all the angst, and we will vigilantly support all viable projects, but don’t expect us to pat your head and give you cookies. Go bake them yourself.

So,I’m calling on all middle-age women to march, and shout, and bang drums, and demand self-respect and freedom from oppression. Take to the streets, unless you pass a wine bar at happy hour. Then, by all means, stop marching and go in and find a table. I’ll be waiting.
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