Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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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.
– See more at: http://www.test.elaineambrose.com/blog/midlife-cabernet-middle-aged-women-should-march-streets-or-not#sthash.zG19Wc8R.dpuf

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: 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?
– See more at: http://www.test.elaineambrose.com/blog/midlife-cabernet-what-if-you-had-two-wishes-could-come-true#sthash.Re2Qm3iD.dpuf

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.

Midlife Cabernet: Bake a Chicken and Be Adored

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A few weeks ago I spent six hours making chicken parmesan from scratch: I simmered the vegetables to make red sauce, coated fresh chicken in grated cheese then browned it in imported extra-virgin olive oil, layered the meat, sauce, and extra fresh cheeses in a huge pan and baked it to perfection. All the pots and pans in the kitchen were dirty, and I barely had time to open and guzzle the wine before the family came for dinner.

The following week I quickly stuffed some carrots, celery, garlic, and onions into the cavity of a whole chicken, covered the top with olive oil, sprinkled fresh rosemary over the bird and stuck it in the oven. Preparation time was 15 minutes. The family raved over dinner as if I were the Supreme Grand Exalted Chef of the Universe.

(Note to self: next time, just stick a few chickens in the oven and skip the labor-intensive dishes.)

People don’t bake very often, and that’s a shame because I see all these glorious gourmet kitchens full of gleaming appliances and stocked with the latest gadgets along with a few contraptions that mystify me. What do they do? But I also see empty pizza and takeout boxes stuffed into the garbage can.

I asked my neighbor if she had turned on her fancy new, six-burner, gas oven. She said that it was too much pressure to use it and that she didn’t have time to fix anything, and they were all too busy to sit down and eat. So I invited her family over for dinner and served two baked chickens, brown rice, a green salad, steamed asparagus, and crusty bread. The family wouldn’t stop raving about the meal and wondered how I found the time to do it all. I replied that it took less than two hours to pull it together and they could do it, too. They stared at me with wide-eyed looks of amazement as if I’d just challenged them to assemble a rocket engine. Blindfolded.

When they started to go home, I handed them a book from my collection and suggested they read it. It was a cookbook, one of several I own that date back to the sixties. They were delighted that it came with detailed instructions and color photographs.