Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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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: 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.

Midlife Cabernet: More Baby Boomers than Teens “Like” Facebook

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A new report by iStrategy Labs indicates that teenagers are leaving Facebook while there is an 80% surge in users with an age of 55 or above. That’s okay with me. I can quickly scroll through postings about the latest “OMG!” teenage angst of the day, even though I roll my eyes at teens slobbering over Justin Bieber and I’m perplexed by the constant incorrect use of your and you’re. Doesn’t anyone take English 101?

I know my younger friends don’t read my blog “Midlife Cabernet” and I don’t read their teenage nonsense. I do enjoy following their antics with their families because I usually know their parents or grandparents. It’s like a friendly community picnic without the slimy, green gelatin salad or pesky flies.

I welcome more middle-aged people joining Facebook because I’ve found long-lost friends and relatives who still want to be my friend. “Remember me?” is like a hug from the past. I can troll their pages and catch up with their lives, and it’s more convenient than sifting through the biographies in the class reunion booklets. Plus, we don’t need the pressure to update our contact list or antiquated Rolodex files.

The Facebook study also revealed a 65% increase in college alumni. It’s a great method for contacting former collegians who knew each other during a pivotal time in their lives. Yes, we still have our Carole King Tapestry album, and no, we never ran away with that mysterious guru from India. We’re totally grateful that we didn’t have the Internet and Facebook when we were in college because there are some wicked photos that could have damaged future job interviews and relations with in-laws.

Through Facebook, we can prove we didn’t become a lonely goat herder in a foreign country because now we have an identity, a computer, and we know how to use the Internet. And we didn’t need to rent those smiling faces to pose as our real spouses, children, and grandchildren. Most middle-aged people are mature enough to know that if we don’t click “like” on a message that doesn’t mean we don’t like them. We’re over that junior high stuff.

The study claimed that teenagers are leaving Facebook because they want privacy from their parents and relatives. However, 71% of adults who use the Internet also use Facebook. With 1.2 billion monthly users, there’s still a good chance for an inclusive mix of all ages. And we older folks know a key statistic that the teens ignore: some day they will be old, too. And their kids will demand to have their own space, and we don’t need a fancy study to tell us those facts. But it does make us smile enough to show off our well-earned laugh lines.

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2011 Decoy red wine from the fabulous Duckhorn Wine Company in Napa County, California. This yummy wine is available at Crush Wine Bar in Eagle, but not for teenagers. That’s one more major advantage to being older.