Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Why Funny is Always Fashionable

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old woman laughing

You know you’re at peace with yourself and the universe if you can enter a crowded social function, scan the room, and then join the group creating the most laughter. After a certain age, you don’t waste time with pseudo-intellectuals, plastic-faced divas, or over-styled drama queens; especially if they’re your relatives. Just trot your sensible, low-heeled shoes over to those having fun and then laugh until you snort.

Over the years, most women have endured numerous charity galas, corporate soirees, and elegant events that required dressing in more than a “This Wine is Making me Awesome” t-shirt, Yoga pants, and flip-flops (my favorite outfit.) In our twenties and thirties, we started preparing weeks in advance; trying on various outfits, scheduling hair and nail appointments, and crash dieting to lose a few pounds. By our forties, the routine became less rigorous unless the occasion was a dinner party with our boss or a romantic evening with a significant other. Usually, those events did not involve the same person.

By age 50, however, we said screw the rules. We gauged the importance of an event by the need to shave our legs or not. What to wear came down to what garment would hide last week’s lasagna binge. There was a time when identical outfits would have caused one of us to retreat to the coat closet and desperately paw for something to throw over our shoulders. Now if I’m attending a fancy function and see another woman wearing a replica of my dress, I congratulate her on her exquisite taste. If she’s over 50, she’ll laugh and say, “Got it on sale for only $150!” We high-five and sashay to the wine bar.

Another scene to avoid forever is the Sugar Daddy with Arm Candy couple. She’ll be giggling about play dates and nannies and he’ll be sweating and adjusting his pacemaker. If the hostess seats you next to such a twosome, feign a sudden onset of gastrointestinal flu and discreetly find another table, preferably with a middle-age couple who are holding hands and laughing. It doesn’t matter if they came together.

High fashion is not my top priority. I usually wear classic, quality clothes that have timeless appeal, such as my favorite 10-year-old St. John knit jackets. They cost a fortune new but I’ve worn them for years and they always look good. And, I’m a strong advocate of the simple black dress adorned with fun accessories. And there is no way these well-traveled feet will ever again feel the inside of a high-heeled shoe. That just won’t happen because high-heels are painful and I choose not to hurt. An elongated calf perched on a $300 strip of leather just doesn’t matter that much.

While laughing with new and old friends at a society event, it’s tempting to sneak a peek at the younger, more perfect women. They arrive with a flair of confidence, pause to pose on their six-inch heels, and jut their tiny, sequin-covered bodies into the spotlight. Yes, they are proud of their flat-stomachs, bobbing cleavages, and toned arms. Their hair, makeup, and nails are flawless, and heads turn in appreciation. I immediately start humming “The Girl from Ipanema.”

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 “A-a-a-h.”

I never was that woman, not even on my most magnificent occasion. But, I’m finally happy in my own skin, every wrinkled, spotted inch of it. I’d much rather be with the witty group, the ones who are telling humorous stories, and the ones who know that Ipanema Girl someday will be fifty. Then she, too, will know that funny is fashionable.

Midlife Cabernet: Don’t Fart during an MRI

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fart

I share this true but pathetic story to commiserate with other tortured souls who relentlessly endure and survive extreme humiliation. We’re a group of accident-prone fools who regularly trigger embarrassing situations that would permanently traumatize a normal person. My experience this week will be difficult to surpass: I farted inside an MRI machine.

In medical terms, I had torn the meniscus cartilage that acts as a shock absorber between my shinbone and thighbone. In middle-age woman terms, two demons from hell invaded my body and lit fires in my knee and then danced around poking the raw nerves with electric forks. The pain was beyond intense, and the accident severely damaged my body so I couldn’t stand, walk, or even crawl to the wine bar.

Five drug-induced days later, I finally saw an orthopedic surgeon. He manipulated my knee until tears streamed down my cheeks and I threatened to tear off his arms. It should have been obvious that I was injured by the way I was ripping off chunks from the sides of the examination table. I silently vowed to add him as a nasty character in my next short story.  Finally, some lovely angel gave me legal narcotics. Soon my ravaged leg was a big, bandaged joke, and I laughed and laughed.

A few days later I experienced the MRI – a magnetic resonance imaging procedure that uses a magnetic field and pulses of radio waves to make images of damaged ligaments and joints. A handsome young technician helped me into the tube of terror and strapped down my leg. I nervously remarked that a first name usually was required before I allowed anyone to tie me in a bed. He didn’t laugh but ordered me to hold still for 45 minutes. So there I was, in pain, suffering from claustrophobia, moving on a conveyor belt into the white torture chamber, and I didn’t have a clue how to remain motionless. And, to complete the distress, my only audience wasn’t amused by my jokes.

After about 20 minutes, I started to get anxious. I was tied down in a tunnel and could only hear strange beeping noises and grinding sounds. For all I knew, they were deciding which body parts to extract and sell on the black market. Then a queasy feeling predicted a pending passing of gas. I bit my tongue, pinched my side, and tried to focus on a pastoral scene in a green meadow beside a babbling brook. I could hear my mother’s advice: “Squeeze the dime.” I fidgeted.

“Please hold still,” came a voice from outside the shaft of shame.

I watched as the lights and numbers revealed how much time remained. Three minutes. I could do it! No! My body betrayed me at the one-minute mark. I was trapped and helpless so my nervous body did what it does best: it farted.  I released gas with the intensity and conviction of a team of sumo wrestlers after a chili-eating contest. And the confined space caused the sound to be amplified as if a dozen foghorns had simultaneously activated. I didn’t know whether to cry, giggle, or call my son and brag.

“Well now, I think we have enough images,” the handsome technician said, suppressing a  laugh.

The magic bed moved backwards into freedom, bringing along the putrid stench of decay. I was mortified as my imaginary meadow became a ravaged pasture full of rotting manure. What in the hell had I eaten? I avoided eye contact with the timid technician and hobbled back to the dressing room. Once again, I accepted my fate of being the perpetual, reluctant clown, the oddball, the one who farts during a complicated medical procedure.

If I ever need another MRI, I’ll request a facility in Texas. Everyone farts there.

 

The Bad Knee Need for Speed

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military jet

After suffering a serious knee injury, I numbed the pain through the wonders of legal narcotics. Then the doctor upgraded my drugs to a more potent dosage because my eyes kept rolling back in my head as I bit through broom handles. This new potent medication had the power to turn me into a fierce fighter pilot.

Soon after gulping the pills, I magically appeared at the controls of an F-14A Tomcat jet careening into the Danger Zone as Kenny Loggins sang in the background. It was quite the rush. After performing several death-defying maneuvers, nose-bleed-causing spirals, and winning a dog fight with several Russian MiGs, I sent a sassy radio message to Top Gun Headquarters:

“Tower, this is Ambrose requesting permission for a flyby.”

The answer was succinct.

“Dammit, Ambrose, get down off the counter.”

The voice sounded like Studley but I knew it couldn’t be him because I was flying at Mach 2 – almost 1,550 miles per hour – twice the speed of sound. And he was back home making dinner because I was too helpless to assist. Unless, of course, I became a fierce fighter pilot. Then I had a good excuse to heed the call of duty because I felt the need for speed.

“Ambrose, get down!” The voice was more persistent so I put the jet on cruise control and lifted the visor on my helmet. I saw the blurry image of Studley helping me sit down in my recliner. Suddenly the jet vaporized in a puff of steam.

“Where did you go this time?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Just playing with the boys,” I answered. I heard Kenny Loggins again but I think he had moved to the back yard.

Studley sat down beside me and shook his head.

“I made spicy meatballs for dinner,” he said.

“Great balls of fire,” I sang as I pounded on an imaginary piano. Then, sensing his annoyance, I broke into a dramatic and romantic rendition of “Take my Breath Away.”

At this point, he muttered about buying a motorcycle so he could ride away beside a distant ocean. So I searched for the pill bottle because I wasn’t finished with the volleyball game.

 

 

 

 

Hallucinating with Storybook Friends

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alice tea party

I recently experienced a knee injury so painful that I sobbed until tears and snot covered my face, and I ignored my mother’s admonishment to wear fancy underwear before going to the hospital. After x-rays confirmed damaged ligaments, a doctor who appeared to be 12-years-old prescribed an assortment of painkilling medicines. I wanted to adopt him because the wonder drugs were magnificent.

I had been proud of my ability to avoid illegal drugs, even while growing up during the sixties and seventies, but after experiencing the magical pills I wondered if my pious virtue and self-discipline had been overrated. As Studley drove us home from the hospital, I enjoyed my own private trip.

I noticed a large white rabbit sitting in the back seat and recognized him as one of the characters in the book Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, a childhood favorite.

“Hi, White Rabbit!” I said and waved. Studley kept driving.

Then I looked out the window and saw the Cheshire Cat grinning in the night sky. His head turned all the way around and I laughed with delight.

“Look! The cat is winking at me!” Studley kept driving.

We arrived home and Studley wrestled my incapacitated body out of the car, into the house, and onto the bed. By then, there was an entire tea party floating around the room. Alice looked at me with a sigh of boredom and begged me to get up and play. The Dormouse scolded Alice for being bossy so the Mad Hatter and the White Rabbit pushed his head into the tea pot. I laughed and laughed.

hooka final

I noticed the Caterpillar sitting on a pillow smoking a hookah. He offered me a toke but I told him I’d never inhaled. That statement caused guests at the party to spit out their tea, and I felt silly. Just then the Queen of Hearts ran into the bedroom waving a big ax.

“Off with her head!” she screamed.

I jerked, and the involuntary movement caused a shooting fireball of pain to rip through my bandaged knee and ignite the nerve endings in my leg. I hollered for Studley, and he came running so fast he almost spilled his gin and tonic.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Do you need more pain pills?”

“Yes, yes,” I gasped. “And paint the white roses red so the queen won’t cut off my head!”

Studley patiently read the instructions on the pill bottle and considered gulping a few but decided I needed them more.

“You should wait two more hours,” he said.

I clenched my fists and snarled. Studley feared for his life.

“I need. Another. Pill,” I growled with the intensity of the possessed girl in the movie “The Exorcist.”

By then Studley was reminiscing about his single life, just a short five years ago. Nothing had prepared him for life with a writer whose imagination was prone to hallucinations and fantasies, even while sober. The pain meds introduced a whole new level of crazy.

He gulped his gin and bravely offered three ibuprofen tablets.

“Take these,” he suggested. “They’ll help until it’s time for the hydrocodone. Remember, this prescription is a narcotic related to opium.”

“But look at the Caterpillar,” I wailed. “He’s smoking a hookah on your pillow!”

alice flamingo

Studley nodded and left to fix another cocktail. That’s when a pink flamingo peeked from underneath the sheet. He whispered that he needed to hide because Alice wanted to use him as a croquet mallet. I promised and pulled up the sheet.

I vaguely remember falling down a hole lined with red roses. The queen should be happy with that, I thought. Then everything went black. I know that the flamingo stayed underneath the sheet because I could hear him snoring and moaning all night.

 

How to Plan and Survive Your Midlife Birthday

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elaine party mask

My most memorable childhood birthday could be a case study for why some people need therapy. My mother’s baby died during childbirth a few weeks before my 8th birthday, so my gift was a big doll with all the clothes that had been intended for my dead baby sister. There weren’t any inflated jumping castles or face-painting clowns at this party. Just my mother, weeping in the corner.

I don’t have any fond recollection of any other birthdays. In my family, early September was the time for going back to school and working on the farm’s potato harvest, not for invading the house with rambunctious kids and messy cake. Birthdays were just another day. Suck it up, kid, and eat your spuds.

After I became an adult, I beat the birthday blues by planning my own parties. My 20th involved a huge celebration with sorority sisters at the University of Idaho, complete with midnight serenading at fraternities until someone called the cops. I was in my poverty stage on my 30th birthday, so I gathered my infant son and two-year-old daughter into the kitchen and we made gooey cupcakes from a cheap mix. I worked several jobs to get into the middle-class bracket so for my 40th I hired a choir to sing my favorite Broadway musical songs. For my 50th, dedicated work and good luck allowed me to schedule a cooking tour of Tuscany, Italy. And, for my 60th, I got married wearing a linen toga for an ancient wedding ceremony on the Greek Island of Paros. No dead babies were associated with any of these celebrations.

I loved planning birthday parties for my children. My daughter was born during the last week of March, so we always organized vacation trips during Spring Break and she assumed everyone was celebrating just for her. One of the best parties for my son was when his sister hid in a large cardboard refrigerator box and clipped various toys to the end of a fishing pole for the other children as they fished for mysterious prizes. Years later, my son finally asked why his sister’s birthdays included Disneyland and his parties only offered old boxes.

It’s time again for my birthday and the coming party will be tame compared to previous festivities. I’ll still have live music, an eclectic group of gregarious guests, and plenty of food and drinks, but we’ll probably turn out the lights before midnight. After this many trips around the sun, the best parties are at home.  My eyesight is fading, the legs are weary, and the raucous dancing has slowed to a boring two-step sway with Studley. But, it’s my birthday and I’ll sigh if I want to. (I cringe about ending a sentence with a preposition, but that one worked.) So, uncork a new bottle, raise the glasses, and toast another birthday. I’m so immensely blessed to live this long and celebrate the splendid occasion with my sweetheart, family, and assorted friends. And I do it for that sad little girl who always wanted a fun birthday.

Tips for Planning and Surviving Your Own Midlife Birthday Party:

  1. Keep it simple. I’m preparing a meatball bar with various sauces, some homemade dips with chips, fruit bowls, and cheese plates. I bartered some of my books in exchange for homemade cupcakes.
  2. No one cares if the napkins don’t match the plates, and it’s okay to use paper plates if you have invited more than 12 friends. If anyone complains, remove them from the list for the next party.
  3. After the first two rounds of drinks, hide the good stuff. They’ll never know.
  4. Live music is nice. Invite some high school kids who need cash but won’t play trash that makes your ears bleed. For my party, I invited a wonderful singer who brings her own keyboard and plays show tunes from music displayed on her IPad. I requested my favorite songs in advance because it’s my party.
  5. Make sure to visit with every guest, and for added fun, sit the executive banker next to the old hippie. Monitor the situation to prevent any arguments and then enjoy the curious fellowship. If you want to ruin the party, mention politics or religion.
  6. After the last guest goes home, turn out the lights to hide the mess and crawl into bed with your living birthday present. Another year brings another reason to celebrate being alive. Enjoy and be grateful.

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Midlife Dating: That Hot Feeling Isn’t Always Menopause

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greek wedding

Nothing screams “pathetic loser” more than being a middle-aged divorcee alone at a festive party where beautiful couples are trading sloppy kisses and giggling like demented clowns. There’s not enough spiked punch in the world to soften the pain of pretending it doesn’t matter. Many of us graze along the buffet table hoping the crunch of nachos will be louder than the boisterous laughter of young lovers, and then we migrate to the bar because all we get to take home is a headache.

We never intended to be divorced at midlife because we were programmed to believe the happily-ever-after deceptions that provided easy and convenient endings in fairy tales. But according to a recent study by Bowling Green State University in Ohio, the divorce rate among people age forty-six to sixty-four has grown more than 50 percent. Almost one-third of baby boomers are single, either by divorce, separation, or having never been married. Some are attracted to the single lifestyle while others would trade their original Beatles record collection for some hot passion.

I have several friends who have been married to their first husbands for more than thirty years. They’re happy and comfortable and couldn’t imagine dating at this stage of life. And if something drastic happened to their husbands, at their ages they would rather join a cloistered convent than get naked in front of another man. They wouldn’t want to worry about unpredictable, middle-aged dilemmas such as the sudden crazy mood swings and chronic irritable bowel syndrome that could make for an awkward first date.

A few years ago, when I was divorced and my children were grown, some friends invited me to dinner. They just happened to have a recently divorced guest who was visiting from another state. I never turn down a free meal, so I agreed to join them. I met him and instantly felt a connection. He was in his fifties and ruggedly handsome. At dinner, our knees touched under the table during the salad course. We laughed at silly jokes during the entrée, and by dessert, he was feeding me bites of cheesecake. I felt like a goofy teenager.

This marvelous man met all my requirements: He was middle-aged, single, and didn’t wear white socks with sandals. (At my age, you can’t get too picky.) As an added bonus, though, he was smart, employed, passionate, spiritual, and he wanted to know about my children. It was like winning the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes, the lottery, and top-shelf wine at happy hour all at the same time.

We spent four days together, often to the chagrin of his abandoned hosts, and then I took him to the airport. It was a scene out of Casablanca, complete with winter fog and drama. He held me close and whispered, “We’ll always have Boise.” Then he tipped his hat, sauntered through security, and hollered, “Here’s looking at you, Kid.”

I drove home, wondering if he remembered my real name wasn’t Kid. But it didn’t matter. I was smitten, and it felt good. To paraphrase a quote from the movie, of all the towns in all the world, he walked into mine. He called when he landed at the next airport and was about to change planes. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship,” he said.

“Say it again,” I said, “for old times’ sake.”

And, yes, at that moment we were Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman but without the horrible Nazi and depressing farewell-forever scenes.

We enjoyed a long-distance relationship over the next few months. Then my more-than-significant other, whom I appropriately named Studley, got a job in Idaho, and to show my ultimate commitment I willingly made some room in my closet. We married on the Greek island of Paros on my birthday so he only needs to remember one important date. We daily express our total gratitude about receiving another chance at love, and it’s a powerful feeling. Now, when I experience hot flashes, I know it’s not just menopause. Thanks, Studley.

 

 

(This blog contains excerpts from my book Midlife Cabernet.)