Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Midlife Cabernet: The Proper Care and Coddling of Curmudgeons

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I see old people. They’re everywhere. And there is one looking back at me in the mirror. Just yesterday I was cruising down the road in my 1972 Firebird swaying to some saucy songs from Carole King’s Tapestry album blaring on my 8-track stereo and now I’m driving a sturdy SUV to the drug store to buy Geritol and Metamucil.

Somehow the world did a fast-forward through several decades and I’m trying to remember where I put my bearings. I vaguely remember tucking my sweet babies into bed and suddenly they appeared at my door with my grandkids. My neck resembles a dryer hose, I need to ratchet up my boobs off my belly, and I don’t dare laugh too loudly or I’ll wet my pants. Yes, getting older is really full of thrills.

According to the Census Bureau, 21 percent of Americans will be at least 65 years old by 2050. And the younger generation is having fewer children so there won’t be workers (or jobs) to fund programs to take care of old people. But by then I’ll be 99 years old and won’t care. Just prop me in the sunshine, put a straw in a jug of wine, leave a plate of soft cheese and bread, and play some jazz. If I get cranky, just kiss my aging attitude and leave me alone.

Business analysts predict that all of us old folks will generate profitable new markets for products and supplies. Investors are eager to find opportunities connected to strategic demographic trends, and entrepreneurs are focusing on how to capitalize on the needs and demands of the older generation.

I can save them a lot of complicated scheming and precious time by offering some good old common sense. And, it’s free. Here are the top investment strategies from my organization called OFF – Old Fart’s Foundation:

  1. Buy stock in drug stores. There’s always a line at the prescription counter at Walgreens, and the kindly pharmacists usually explain the drugs. “Yes, Ma’am, this could make you poop in your pants but your other ailments will disappear.”
  2. Invest in makers of medical devices. We could have a one-stop boutique where we have our hair and nails done and go home with a new hip and pacemaker.
  3. Honor the blue chip companies of your long-ago youth. Johnson & Johnson still makes Band-Aids, creams, and potions, and for now the world headquarters is in New Jersey. Buy now before some foreign conglomerate takes over and then you’ll need a translator to read the directions.
  4. Own a single-story home and stay there as long as you can. There are many nice assisted living facilities, but most of them won’t allow you to have cocktails at 5:00 or fudge in the frig. Stay independent until they haul you away clutching your concealed weapon.

Our generation is full of dreamers, travelers, poets, and activists. We charted new paths and have the scars from battles won and lost. Now it’s our time to relax and enjoy the last third of life with quiet satisfaction. But first, get those darned kids off my lawn.

Today’s blog was fueled by a 2011 Prisoner from Napa Valley. This tasty, vibrant blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah, and Zinfandel is available at Crush Wine Bar in Eagle for $40. It will make you forget the reality that you’ve seen more summers than you’ll ever see again.
– See more at: http://www.test.elaineambrose.com/blog/midlife-cabernet-proper-care-and-coddling-curmudgeons#sthash.yIxvcQGP.dpuf

Midlife Cabernet: Make Your Own Music in 2013

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The songs of the holidays.

bigstock-Abstract-Funky-Music-Backgroun-40038553-300x225I grew up listening to The Captain and Tennille singing about “Muskrat Love” and The Carpenters warbling “Sing of good things, not bad. Sing of happy, not sad.”

I believe those two songs were solely responsible for the rise of heavy metal bands and for Black Sabbath’s song “Electric Funeral” about nuclear annihilation. It’s all about balance.

To survive in the new year, make music an important part of your life. At the stroke of midnight on December 31, you’ll take a cup of kindness yet and sing “Auld Lang Syne” with the eager passion of a professional soloist despite knowing that when the sun rises you won’t be able to carry a tune in a punch bowl. But for a brief moment, when the year is new and full of untainted potential, you’ll become a soulful crooner for all the ages, sharing your song with the universe.

Your challenge in 2013 is to keep the music playing.

Keep the music playing long after the confetti is thrown into the garbage, the bills are past-due, and prosperity is still elusive. The late comedian George Carlin said, “It’s called The American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.” His acerbic humor nailed it. How can you sing a joyful song when life keeps dumping junk on your head? Maybe you’re unemployed or in a lousy job, or you haven’t had any loving since 2008, or your dog ran away. Look on the bright side – you could write Country Western songs!

Music and mood are closely interrelated — listening to a sad or happy song alters your moods and has the ability to change your perception of the world around you. For example, gothic metal music makes me want to damage something with a chain saw, while a classical aria causes me to (almost) levitate with elation. In a stressful situation, a little dose of “Walking on Sunshine” could be all it takes to relieve the tension.

Here are some exercises to prove that music alters your mood.

Imagine seeing and hearing the following scenarios:

You’re struggling in the steaming jungles of Vietnam as you hear the foreboding song “The End” by The Doors as played in the movie Apocalypse Now. Then you’re drinking alone in a dark bar as a Billie Holiday impersonator croons “Gloomy Sunday.” You claw out of a deep depression only to hear Kansas singing “Dust in the Wind.” By now you should be wallowing on the floor, sobbing in anguish about the wretched world.

Now, pretend you’re twirling on a panoramic Austrian mountain meadow singing “The Sound of Music” with Julie Andrews. You’re even wearing a summer dress with a festive apron. Then transport yourself to a sunny beach listening to the jaunty tune of Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” Finally, turn up the volume on “Chariots of Fire” or “Rocky.” Yo, Adrian! Are you smiling yet?

No matter what festivity or calamity the next year brings, you should have a song or two ready to suit the occasion.

If you can’t find the perfect tune, create your own. Add it to your bucket list for 2013 to make your own music by the end of the year. Don’t worry if you’re unsure about writing a song. Remember the immortal lyrics of that famous song that rose to #4 on the Billboard Charts – “Now he’s tickling her fancy, rubbing her toes. Muzzle to muzzle, now, anything goes as they wriggle, Sue starts to giggle.” That song includes synthesized sound effects simulating muskrat copulation. Yes, you can do better!

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2009 Stags’ Leap Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. It’s about $50 a bottle but perfect with a rib eye steak for New Year’s Eve.

Elaine Ambrose is a contributing blogger for JenningsWire, a blogging community created by Annie Jennings.

Finding Joy in the World – My Christmas Story

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emily adam christmas 1980

© Elaine Ambrose

From A Miracle Under the Christmas Tree – Harlequin Books, 2012

Compiled and edited by Jennifer Basye Sander

December 1980 somberly arrived in a gray cloud of disappointment as I became the involuntary star in my own soap opera, a hapless heroine who faced the camera at the end of each day and asked, “Why?” as the scene faded to black. Short of being tied to a railroad track within the sound of an oncoming train, I found myself in a dire situation, wondering how my life turned into such a calamity of sorry events. I was unemployed and had a two-year-old daughter, a six-week-old son, an unemployed husband who left the state looking for work, and a broken furnace with no money to fix it. To compound the issues, I lived in the same small Idaho town as my wealthy parents, and they refused to help. This scenario was more like The Grapes of Wrath than The Sound of Music.

After getting the children to bed, I would sit alone in my rocking chair and wonder what went wrong. I thought I had followed the correct path by having a college degree before marriage and then working four years before having children. My plan was to stay home with two children for five years and then return to a satisfying, lucrative career. But no, suddenly I was poor and didn’t have money to feed the kids or buy them presents. I didn’t even have enough money for a cheap bottle of wine. At least I was breast-feeding the baby, so that cut down on grocery bills. And, my daughter thought macaroni and cheese was what everyone had every night for dinner. Sometimes I would add a wiggly gelatin concoction, and she would squeal with delight. Toddlers don’t know or care if mommy earned Phi Beta Kappa scholastic honors in college. They just want to squish Jell-o through their teeth.

The course of events that lead to that December unfolded like a fateful temptation. I was 26 years old in 1978 and energetically working as an assistant director for the University of Utah in Salt Lake City. My husband had a professional job in an advertising agency, and we owned a modest but new home. After our daughter was born, we decided to move to my hometown of Wendell, Idaho, population 1,200, to help my father with his businesses. He owned about 30,000 acres of land, 1,000 head of cattle, and more than 50 18-wheel diesel trucks. He had earned his vast fortune on his own, and his philosophy of life was to work hard and die, a goal he achieved at the young age of 60.

In hindsight, by moving back home I probably was trying to establish the warm relationship with my father that I had always wanted. I should have known better. My father was not into relationships, and even though he was incredibly successful in business, life at home was painfully cold. His home, inspired by the designs of Frank Lloyd Wright, was his castle. The semi-circle structure was designed of rock and cement and perched on a hill overlooking rolling acres of crops. He controlled the furnishings and artwork. Just inside the front door hung a huge metal shield adorned with sharp swords. An Indian buckskin shield and arrows were on another wall. In the corner, a fierce wooden warrior held a long spear, ever ready to strike. A metal breast plate hung over the fireplace, and four wooden, naked Aborigine busts perched on the stereo cabinet. The floors were polished cement, and the bathrooms had purple toilets. I grew up thinking this décor was normal.

I remember the first time I entered my friend’s home and gasped out loud at the sight of matching furniture, floral wallpaper, delicate vases full of fresh flowers, and walls plastered with family photographs, pastoral scenes, and framed Normal Rockwell prints. On the rare occasions that I was allowed to sleep over at a friend’s house, I couldn’t believe that the family woke up calmly and gathered together to have a pleasant breakfast. At my childhood home, my father would put on John Philip Sousa march records at 6:00 a.m., turn up the volume, and go up and down the hallway knocking on our bedroom doors calling, “Hustle. Hustle. Get up! Time is money!” Then my brothers and I would hurry out of bed, pull on work clothes, and get outside to do our assigned farm chores. As I moved sprinkler pipe or hoed beets or pulled weeds in the potato fields, I often reflected on my friends who were gathered at their breakfast tables, smiling over plates of pancakes and bacon. I knew at a young age that my home life was not normal.

After moving back to the village of Wendell, life went from an adventure to tolerable and then tumbled into a scene out of On the Waterfront. As I watched my career hopes fade away under the stressful burden of survival, I often thought of my single, childless friends who were blazing trails and breaking glass ceilings as women earned better professional jobs. Adopting my favorite Marlon Brando accent, I would raise my fists and declare, “I coulda been a contender! I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.”

There were momentary lapses in sanity when I wondered if I should have been more like my mother. I grew up watching her dutifully scurry around as she desperately tried to serve and obey. My father demanded a hot dinner on the table every night, even though the time could vary as much as three hours. My mother would add milk to the gravy, cover the meat with tin foil (which she later washed and reused), and admonish her children to be patient. “Your father works so hard,” she would say. “We will wait for him.” I opted not to emulate most of her habits. She fit the role of her time, and I still admire her goodness.

My husband worked for my father, and we lived out in the country in one of my father’s houses. One afternoon in August of 1980, they got into a verbal fight and my dad fired my husband. I was pregnant with our second child. We were instructed to move, and so we found a tiny house in town and then my husband left to look for work because jobs weren’t all that plentiful in Wendell. Our son was born in October, weighing in at a healthy 11 pounds. The next month, we scraped together enough money to buy a turkey breast for Thanksgiving. By December, our meager savings were gone, and we had no income.

I was determined to celebrate Christmas. We found a scraggly tree and decorated it with handmade ornaments. My daughter and I made cookies and sang songs. I copied photographs of the kids in their pajamas and made calendars as gifts. This was before personal computers, so I drew the calendar pages, stapled them to cardboard covered with fabric, and glued red rickrack around the edges. It was all I have to give to my family and friends.

Just as my personal soap opera was about to be renewed for another season, my life started to change. One afternoon, about a week before Christmas, I received a call from one of my father’s employees. He was “in the neighborhood” and heard that my furnace was broken. He fixed it for free and wished me a Merry Christmas. I handed him a calendar and he pretended to be overjoyed. The next day the mother of a childhood friend arrived at my door with two of her chickens, plucked and packaged. She said they had extras to give away. Again, I humbly handed her a calendar. More little miracles occurred. A friend brought a box of baby clothes that her boy had outgrown and teased me about my infant son wearing his sister’s hand-me-down, pink pajamas. Then another friend of my mother’s arrived with wrapped toys to put under the tree. The doorbell continued to ring, and I received casseroles, offers to babysit, more presents, and a bouquet of fresh flowers. I ran out of calendars to give in return.

To this day, I weep every time I think of these simple but loving gestures. Christmas of 1980 was a pivotal time in my life, and I am grateful that I received the true gifts of the season. My precious daughter, so eager to be happy, was amazed at the wonderful sights around our tree. My infant son, a blessing of hope, smiled at me every morning and gave me the determination to switch off the melodrama in my mind. The day before Christmas my husband was offered a professional job at an advertising agency in Boise, and we leaped from despair to profound joy. On Christmas Eve, I rocked both babies in my lap and sang them to sleep in heavenly peace. They never noticed my tears falling upon their sweet cheeks.

Midlife Cabernet: Tell Your Story in a December Journal

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Put down your peppermint schnapps and find a quiet place to write about the past year. Summarize all the fun and fabulous, the rotten and wretched, and the clever and comedic parts of 2012. Then hide your journal, go back to the party, and promise to write again next December. Your future older woman will thank you.

I’ve written in a personal journal every December for the past 35 years. I began writing soon after the invention of electricity but just before the advent of the personal computer. My earlier entries written with a pen are more personal than the electronic version, but now I’m hooked on word processing so I print my yearend musings and insert them into my journal. Besides, I can never find a pen that works.

Before I write, I shuffle through past years to find poignant reminders that life has kicked me in the gut a few times, but the splendid days far outnumber the crappy ones. My goal is for that trend to continue.

I laugh when I read about how miserable I was about my weight after the birth of my second baby more than thirty years ago. I would LOVE to weigh that now! It’s touching to reread details about my children’s first words, their growth charts, and their early bowel movements…things only a mother could document.

My journals also tell the story of essential parts of my life that have been damaged, lost, and reclaimed: love, family, jobs, homes, health, and money. I’ve made huge mistakes in real estate and financial investments, mostly because I relied upon the advice of (former) friends, but I’ve claimed success because of the strong relationships with my husband and children and with satisfying achievements in my career. Now I know what matters, and it’s not the volatile dividends of my once-glorious but currently worthless Nasdaq stocks.

You can find journals in every style and shape, from a simple spiral notebook to a leather-bound book trimmed in gold leaf. Add items that symbolize each year: a pressed flower, a published poem, old photos, theatre tickets, a collection of favorite wine labels. Arrange a private space where you write and keep it uncluttered so your precious journals won’t be thrown out when you’re featured on an episode of “Hoarders.”

Professionals with fancy degrees will tell you that it’s important to write in journals so you can get in touch with your inner self and explore ways to communicate your true feelings. I say just write your story because no one else has one like yours. Maybe your journal won’t ever be read, or maybe it will become a published memoir or documentary. But do it now, and remember that it’s waiting for you every December. The journal is your own private therapy session, complete with a front row seat to “This is Your Life.”

Today’s blog was fueled by a bottle of Lamarca Prosecco sparkling wine from Italy. Yes, it’s not cheap, but we did survive to drink it! Merry Christmas!

Midlife Cabernet: Well Kiss My Attitude – We’re Going National

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There is an advantage to being old, feisty, and fairly literate. I’ve been asked to write a national blog to mentor young women. Really. Stop snickering! The woman who asked me to do the blog said the success of this Midlife Cabernet blog and my humorous life experiences (over many, many years) would help “to mentor the target audience with their goals, careers and missions in life.” I suspect that the real reason is so future generations can avoid my numerous and spectacular mistakes.

I’ve titled the blog Sassy Sage, and I’ll exploit my adventures, misadventures, and stumbles down paths less chosen. My nuggets of knowledge will focus on a wine barrel full of womanly issues: jobs, money, sex, creativity, travel, marriage, divorce, paying alimony, remarriage, pregnancy, children, grandchildren, and the joys of eldercare. I’ll explain why Chardonnay is for sissies and why dry red wine will preserve you forever. I’ll dabble with my multitude of failures: real estate, wool jumpers, and turkey meatballs. Yes, I’ll have opinions and anecdotes about everything just because I’ve lived out loud for so many decades.

To ensure the purity of my advice, I intend to wear a golden robe, sit in a lotus position, light lavender candles, hang a chime over my computer, and listen to Enya while I write each wise epistle. Then I’ll change into jeans and sweater, open a bottle of wine, play some Queen, and wait for the glowing and/or nasty comments and compelling questions. Nothing can hurt me because I grew up on a pig farm, worked in corporate America, raised teenagers, and once rode a bull elephant in the jungle and witnessed a vicious tiger kill a screaming bison. Therefore, I am fearless.

My contributor page is under construction somewhere in cyberspace so I’m not sure when the official launch will occur. But stay tuned. This could be the reincarnation of Erma Bombeck, Dear Abby, Yoda the Oracle from Star Wars, and the Playboy Forum.

Today’s blog is fueled by another bottle of 2010 Three Legged Red by Dunham Cellars in Walla Walla, Wa. It’s tasty and smooth – and only $18 at A New Vintage on Eagle Road. Be sure to read the label.

Midlife Cabernet – Birthdays, Babies, and Back to School

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September is a treat for the senses. The air feels fresher, the colors of nature burst with vibrancy, and morning coffee tastes better on a cool patio as geese squawk overhead – the original snowbirds heading south for the winter. And for me, September always brings the faint smell of early harvest: the raw-earth odor of dirt-coated potatoes conveying into damp cellars, fresh-baked apple pies cooling on Grandma’s flour sack tea towels, and the delightful aroma of a young Beaujolais – new wine that is bottled right after fermentation without aging.

Aging seems to be on my mind. My birthday is tomorrow, and I need to find a Beaujolais because there is no time to waste. After several decades of abundant living, I’m hesitant to wait too much longer for wine to mature. I resemble a kid in a candy store at closing time – too many wonderful choices, so little time.

This month our family will celebrate three birthdays, two wedding anniversaries, and the birth of a grandchild. As part of a wonderful cultural and universal tradition, I recently folded baby clothes with my pregnant daughter-in-law. “Oh, look at this one!” we exclaimed with each tiny onesie. I took extra time to fold the sleeper that my son once wore. He’ll be an incredible father.

Our family celebrated another milestone this week as my daughter’s daughter started kindergarten. She wore shoes that light up with every step. I want shoes like that. I also want to experience the freshness of a new adventure, new friends, and new ideas to learn. In the autumn of life, there is still so much to do and I don’t want to miss anything. Well, if I had to do it all over again, I would like to avoid all those painful trips to the Principal’s Office.

On a poignant note, I am ready to reach this birthday because I’ll have outlived my father. Every day from here on is a gift that I intend to open and enjoy. Getting older is a blessing that many don’t receive. So, before I get too serious, I’ll go shopping for a new pencil box, a Big Chief tablet, and a nice Cabernet. And I’ll look for wine that is mature but sassy, full-bodied, a bit complex, and slightly sophisticated. Studley and I will enjoy it tonight on the patio and toast to another day, another September, another sensual feast of life. Cue the music.

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2009 Franciscan Cabernet from Napa Valley. It’s around $40 and best when shared outside with friends.