Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Midlife Cabernet: Sing a Lullaby and Save the World

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Recently I heard my wee granddaughter singing a lullaby to her doll. It was the same original lullaby I once sang to her mother 30 years ago and then to her. Obviously, I’ve contributed to peace and harmony in the universe.

The cooing, lyrical sounds of a lullaby help sooth a baby so she or he can go to sleep. Mommy’s not really going to buy baby a mocking bird or a diamond ring, but the cadence of the song along with the words “Hush, little baby, don’t you cry” are effective in comforting both mother and baby.

The first written lullaby was chiseled more than 4,000 years ago into a Babylonian tablet. Researchers have determined that it was less than loving because it warned the baby to go to sleep or evil spirits would invade the home. Later lullabies from Africa admonished babies to sleep or their cries would attract hyenas that would carry them away and eat them. The popular “Rock-a-by-Baby” tune tells about the baby in a cradle falling when the bough breaks. Not exactly words of comfort but at least the baby doesn’t understand language. Babies just react to the lyrical sounds.

Because I’m older and have earned crusty curmudgeon status, I can worry about hurried young mothers who don’t have time to rock their babies and sing lullabies. They often feel pressure to use the latest electronic gadgets to simulate lullabies with the false belief that baby prefers high definition over other modern technological devices. That makes me sad.

I’m also concerned when I see news footage of angry people rioting in the streets, their teeth barred, their eyes ablaze with hatred. I suspect they were never rocked as babies. Yes, there are injustices that deserve public action through peaceful demonstrations, but for now, this wise old grandmother decrees that everyone should go find a baby to rock. Hum or sing a song and feel the release as the tiny bundle drifts into slumber. Two people, you and the baby, will feel better about life. And that’s a good start for attaining world peace.
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Midlife Cabernet: When Your Rack Hurts Your Back

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I need to get something off my chest. For the past year, I’ve been fighting old age with the tenacity of Wonder Woman but the only thing we have in common is the super-human bosom that with the correct lighting can be seen from outer space. We don’t have the same physique because the sand in my hourglass figure morphed into dunes complete with rolling hills and hidden crevices. And lolling around in front of me are boobs that once fed the entire newborn unit at St. Mark’s Hospital in Salt Lake City.

Female athletes in the Olympics include amazing gymnasts, dancers, runners, and skiers who have the figures of 12-year-old boys. Their intense exercise burns every extra ounce of fat, so apparently I’ll never qualify for the team. Research shows that a double-D cup carries more than five pounds of additional weight. No wonder our racks hurt our backs. It’s as if we’re always toting a smoked ham hung from our shoulders.

I was under pressure to continue my exercise routine, so my trainer graciously took me to be fitted for a sports bra. The store had one that was large enough and it cost $60. The contraption smashed everything so tight that my boobs were moved under my armpits. Not an attractive vision. With the assistance of two healthy women with Buick-lifting biceps we spent several minutes tightening, binding, and harnessing the jugs until they were properly restrained. I could only breathe in tiny puffs of air, but I was relatively flat. It was amazing to actually look down and see my feet.

My new yoke made it easier to complete the workout sessions with the other svelte women. The problem came when I went home and removed the sports bra. My breasts flew out with a pent up rage and hit the door, ironically becoming their own knockers.

At least the garment didn’t resemble the first sports bra. In 1977 a group of women sewed two jock straps together and slung them over their shoulders. An earlier version of the original Jogbra is preserved at the Smithsonian. I don’t want to wear any hybrid invention that started as a jock strap, so I’ll sit in my recliner with a tub of ice cream and watch the Olympics.

Midlife Cabernet: If the World is Ending, Say GoodNight Moon and Eat a Pie

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Every morning brings us one day closer to Armageddon according to news junkies who scan pessimistic blogs, newspapers, and online outlets before sinking into a deep depression, giving away their prized collectibles, refusing to floss anymore, and canceling summer vacations. Many are convinced that our civilization is on life-support and doomed to die. If that’s the case, grab some gooey pie and an exquisite Cabernet. Now! Before it’s too late.

The world could end because (a) some evil spawn of the devil finds a few nuclear weapons and wants to see lots of pretty mushroom clouds, (b) gigantic radioactive meteors will be sent by vampires-zombies-politicians as distractions because they have already destroyed the planet, or (c) clones of the little old lady in Goodnight Moon have infiltrated the human gene pool and rather than procreate people just want to rock in a great green room with a red balloon.

It would be convenient to have a 48-hour notice to give us time to plan final activities. We’ll be under pressure to choose the appropriate actions but the priorities could be:

1. Hug and kiss the kids and grandkids and thank them for being so awesome. Apologize for the lack of inheritance but remind them there is no time to spend it anyway.

2. Kiss your parents goodbye, knowing that you’ll be vaporized instantly in a puff of smoke but if they survived the Great Depression they will survive any doomsday scenario.

3. Call a few friends and say thanks for the memories and don’t worry about returning the outfits, money, or ex-boyfriends they borrowed.

4. Call that wicked former co-worker who cheated her way to the top and say “How’s that fancy job title working out for you now, Sweetheart?” Then laugh like a maniac.

5. Deplete your bank accounts and buy a Merry-Go-Round. Just because that would be fun to have.

6. Eat a whole pie. Either warm pecan with real whip cream or fresh peach with ice cream. Wash it down with a Silver Oak Cabernet.

7. Allow your library books to expire.

8. Schedule some raucous passionate activity to occur just as the countdown clock strikes zero. Personally, I’d love to go out with a bang.

If by some miracle the world doesn’t explode, decide which final activities you liked and continue to do them. Sell or donate the Merry-Go-Round, continue the spontaneous passion, return the library books, and most important, read and watch fewer news reports. Then eat pie and drink wine. Lots of pie and wine.

Today is the final day of the 31-day challenge to write a blog every day for BlogHer.com.Using the theme of “pressure” I’ve submitted articles about midlife and the vast array of stories inspired by being this old and feisty. The daily exercise kept my brain from turning into a bowl of mush beneath a picture of bears on chairs, and I’m grateful for the forum. Now, I’ll celebrate with a glass of fine wine. And a piece of pie.

Midlife Cabernet: Should You Expect or Give Gifts after the Third Marriage?

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My friend recently got married and I sent her a card. I wished her well, but after five previous husbands I think the gift obligation has expired. She had four divorces and one husband died, so she gets special dispensation for the widow role.

Couples who have lived together for years and/or have been married several times often send requests for money to help pay for the honeymoon or mortgage or divorce lawyer. I handle these invitations based upon a strict set of guidelines. For the first wedding, give a nice present. The second also receives a gift as long as we’re good friends. The third wedding, however, starts to diminish in priority as far as me slobbering over a gift registry. I’m eager to meet for lunch or to share a celebratory bottle of nice wine, but don’t expect monogrammed towels from me.

Those of us who reach middle-age with multiple marriages are thankful when we finally get it right but we don’t need or expect gifts. We’ll be happy with a personal letter that says, “Congratulations! Don’t mess up this one!”

In the classic movie Fiddler on the Roof, the wedding scene was simple and loving. Family members and friends gave quilts, pillows, and kitchen goods to help the young couple establish their first home. Recent wedding movies, however, focus on the last days of freedom for the hapless future groom or bride. Somehow the theme has lost its loving feeling for the sake of some slapstick laughs.

I’ll stick with my favorite wedding movies: My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Mama Mia, and Four Weddings and a Funeral. All celebrate the union of two people who love each other and want to share the occasion with loved ones. No one is pressured to show up with a toaster or a hideous collectible that will be donated to charity before the thank you note is mailed.

For those of you invited to a wedding ceremony involving middle-aged people who have been married many times before, offer best wishes and consider making a donation to the couple’s favorite charity. For anyone planning another wedding, go have fun and believe that the best is yet to come. Optimism is the perfect gift.

Midlife Cabernet: What if You had Two Wishes that could Come True?

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If a magic fairy or a genie in a bottle or a gaggle of clever leprechauns (I’m not picky) suddenly decided to grant me two wishes, I would grab the opportunity with gusto and proudly announce my choices. The first would be selfish and shallow. The second would change the world into a better place.

My first choice is to be the girl from Ipanema. Yes, the one in the song who is “tall and tan and young and lovely.” That’s because I’m just above average height, pasty pale, old as dirt, and lovely only in low light and after copious quantities of hard liquor. I want to stroll the beach with flair and countenance and have Sinatra sing about me. Is that asking too much?

Sinatra sang the song best: “When she walks, she’s like a samba that swings so cool and sways so gentle that when she passes, each one she passes goes – Ah…” Yes, I want to be her. But, I also get to keep my current husband, children, and grandchildren. It’s my fantasy so I can decree what I want to happen.

My second wish is for world peace. Yes, I said that without being a contestant in a beauty pageant. I’m weary of all the fighting and endless wars. People in the Middle East are still mad because one of their neighbor’s ancestors stole a goat 500 years ago. And other factions in other parts of the world murder people because they don’t believe in their god of the month. Give me a break. At the risk of sounding like a hopeless dreamer, all I ask is that people give peace a chance.

My two wishes probably won’t come true. I can’t be the fictional girl from Ipanema but I can buy a sundress, get a spray tan, and sashay around the block at twilight. I might not be able to instigate world peace, but I can bring a pie to a sick neighbor or help a local volunteer group with a worthy project or donate to a peaceful charity. All it takes is that one step – and we’ll move together like a samba that swings so cool and sways so gentle.

What would be your two wishes?
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Midlife Cabernet: Mischievous Gremlins Control my Body

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Do you ever get a sudden and terrifying feeling when your lower intestine starts rumbling with a sound similar to a Harley-Davidson motorcycle and you have exactly seven minutes to find a bathroom? This usually happens to me when I’m in the center seat on a crowded airplane, or in a foreign country on a bus with no water closet, or being introduced to give a keynote speech.

It’s obvious that mischievous gremlins have invaded and sabotaged my body. They meet weekly in the Rumpus Room at the far corner of my brain. Gimlet, the Grand Supreme Potentate of the Gremlins, gleefully distributes the assignments:

“Winkie, she’s got an important meeting on Tuesday. Cause her to trip and fall down in front of everyone.”

“Chuckles, it’s your turn to give her uncontrollable flatulence during Friday’s funeral.”

“Hullabaloo, she’s planning to travel Monday so fire up that irritable bowel syndrome.”

The gremlins giggle and give each other high-five salutes before they scatter to accomplish their duties. I am pressured but helpless to change their agenda. My only recourse is to know the location of every public bathroom within a 50 mile radius, carry the medications necessary to quell raging indigestion, and know how to conclude a presentation that leaves the audience laughing while I dash to the nearest exit.

Over the years, I’ve grown accustomed to the random assaults by my personal Gremlin Gang. The naughty rascals moved in when I was around ten years old and have progressively enhanced their devious activities. Sometimes I manage to fool them. “Oh, dear,” I moan. “Looks like my trip was canceled.” Then I rush to the airport and arrive at my destination before they realize they have been tricked. Then they unleash a volatile venue of vile and vengeful maladies. But by then I’ve already found a comfortable chair near the bar and within running distance to the bathroom. Ha!

Occasionally I’ll see another frantic middle-aged woman with that distraught look on her face that says move out of the way or die. I nod in sympathy and let her pass. We all have our own gremlins to endure. I wonder what Gimlet, Winkie, Chuckles, and Hullabaloo have schemed for me next week.