Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Bag Balm™ is NOT an Aphrodisiac

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I own night gowns that date back to the Clinton Administration. My favorite slippers have shuffled me toward my coffee pot since the Eurythmics sang “Sweet Dreams are Made of This.” And, I can’t part with my favorite robe that I wore when laughing at Johnny Carson before signing off on the Tonight Show.

After a certain age, most women have earned the right to crave comfort with lounge clothes that are labeled X-Large instead of XXX. We’d rather eat cheesecake than pose for it. I tried once, I really did. In a pathetic attempt to mimic a seductress, I wiggled into a teeny black outfit that cost more per ounce than gold. I couldn’t tell which was the front or the back, so I think I had it on sideways. Then I arched my loafer-loving feet into a pair of black shoes with 5-inch heels and teetered over to Husband. He looked up and got that panicked look he gets when he knows whatever he says will be wrong.

“Did that shrink?” he asked, right before I wobbled on the heels and fell down. The tiny strap on the garment snapped and all hell broke loose. It was not a pretty sight. Husband discreetly brought my Johnny Carson robe so I quickly covered my body and recovered my composure. He assured me that he loved me just how I was, and I assured him that he finally said something right. The skimpy outfit was washed, folded, and donated along with the heels. I’m sure they bring comfort and joy to someone else.

Not enough bag balm to cover these girls…

Husband tolerates my well-worn night gowns, but I crossed the line recently when I applied Bag Balm™ before coming to bed. Those of us who grew up on a farm know that the familiar green tin can of ointment was a staple in the medicine cabinet. It’s been around since 1899 and was originally used to treat cows with dry, cracked udders. Farm (and many city) women use the ointment to smear on their heels because it works better than expensive foot creams. So, one night after I slathered my heels with the greasy balm, covered my feet with thick, white socks, donned my pill-covered gown, and jumped into bed, Husband remarked that maybe I could try the little black outfit again sometime.

He’s still recuperating.

 

Bag Balm is NOT Sexy

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I recently saw an ad on social media claiming that “Bag Balm” was available again, so I immediately ordered two limited-edition gold tins to celebrate the 125th anniversary of the miracle salve. The ointment was first introduced in 1899 to apply to udders of cows, but any woman worth her summer sandals knows to use the balm on cracked heels and chapped hands. No cows are necessary. However, one must know that Bag Balm is not an aphrodisiac. Here’s my story:

I own nightgowns that date back to the Clinton Administration. My favorite slippers have shuffled me toward my coffee pot since the Eurythmics sang “Sweet Dreams are Made of This.” And, I can’t part with my favorite robe that I wore when laughing at Johnny Carson before signing off on the Tonight Show.

After a certain age, most women have earned the right to crave comfort with lounge clothes that are labeled X-Large instead of XXX. We’d rather eat cheesecake than pose for it.

I tried once, I really did. In a pathetic attempt to mimic a seductress, I wiggled into a teeny black outfit that cost more per ounce than gold. I couldn’t tell which was the front or the back, so I think I had it on sideways. Then I arched my loafer-loving feet into a pair of black shoes with 5-inch heels and teetered over to Studley. He looked up and got that panicked look he gets when he knows whatever he says will be wrong.

“Did that shrink?” he asked, right before I wobbled on the heels and fell down.

The tiny strap on the garment snapped and all hell broke loose. It was not a pretty sight.

Studley discreetly brought my Johnny Carson robe so I quickly covered my body and recovered my composure. He assured me that he loved me just how I was, and I assured him that he finally said something right. The skimpy outfit was washed, folded, and donated along with the heels. I’m sure they bring comfort and joy to someone else.

Studley tolerates my well-worn nightgowns, but I crossed the line recently when I applied Bag Balm™ before coming to bed. Those of us who grew up on a farm know that the familiar green tin can of ointment was a staple in the medicine cabinet. It’s been around since 1899 and was originally used to treat cows with dry, cracked udders. Farm (and many city) women use the ointment to smear on their heels because it works better than expensive foot creams.

So, one night after I slathered my heels with the greasy balm, covered my feet with thick, white socks, donned my pill-covered gown, and jumped into bed, Studley remarked that maybe I’d be more attractive if I could try the little black outfit again.

He’s still recuperating.

The Husband Bonus: Better than an Empty Bag

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rich woman

 

Tongues are wagging faster than a group of over-privileged kids on a playdate at a sucker factory. A recent article in The New York Times described the unbelievable lives of women who marry rich men and live in the Upper East Side in New York City. The author lets her pinky finger down long enough to write torrid tales of year-end bonuses paid to the women for excelling at their wifely duties. I missed that memo and married for love.

At least paying the little woman a bonus is better than killing them and substituting robots, per the movie “The Stepford Wives.” Sometimes I think the wealthy husbands would prefer androids so they could avoid and eliminate all that messy relationship drivel. I also suspect that these women could be promoted to The First Wives Club after their bored husbands find younger, prettier, more efficient models to replace them.

The must-have purchase from these pay-to-play marriages is a Hermes Birkin bag that costs around $120,000. That’s not a house; it’s a purse. As does my sensible, inexpensive, black tote bag, a Hermes treasure will hold tissues, assorted combs, lip gloss, a few pens that work, and a wallet of worn credit cards. I win.

The article created quite a commotion among my online group of middle-aged friends. Comments ranged from “Pricy Prostitutes” to “I get my designer bags on sale” to “Where’s New York?” After reading about how the hyper-scheduled children of these arranged marriages need counseling to learn how to play, I threw up my hands and my breakfast. I decided to turn the designer tables and offer my own counsel, gleaned after more than five decades on this amazing planet. I don’t need a Wife Bonus, but I’ll gladly give a regular gratuity to my husband.

Here are my suggestions for how to give a Husband Bonus.

  1. Arrange weekly playdates. There is no need for counseling when you remind your lover that there’s a party for two tonight at 9:00. Toys and finger puppets aren’t necessary but could come in handy.
  2. Show your private equity fund. Sleep naked and receive a robust return on your investment.
  3. Don’t wait until yearend for a bonus. If you’re both older than 55, take advantage of the time you still have. There is a good chance you’ll be asleep long before midnight on New Year’s Eve.
  4. The only board we’re sitting on is at the pool. The article described the duty of rich people to sit on major boards of high-profile charities. After decades of volunteering for various organizations, serving on advisory boards, and giving my time, talent, and resources, I’m turning over those jobs to younger people. I’ll take my husband and watch and support selected causes from the beachside martini bar.
  5. Take this bag, please. I will never own a purse that costs more than my first house. A designer bag is just an empty container of stale air. I promise my sweetheart that I’ll never pine and beg for anything bigger than a Silver Oak Cabernet. I’ll offset the request with a gift certificate for a couple’s massage. See how this works?

The New York Times article stoked the flames of indignation, jealousy, and insecurity among some women who only want their husbands to earn a paycheck and come home at night. I choose not to provide links to the article or to the author and her upcoming book because she’s received enough free publicity. When the dust settles, the rich wives will have their cleaning women come over to tidy the mess, my friends will continue laughing at life, and I’ll fix a cheeseboard with cocktails for the patio and invite my husband to join me. It’s bonus time.

Midlife Weddings and Goat Bladder Ballads

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greek wedding drummer

The wedding invitations are arriving, and I study each one using analytical, investigative skills that could qualify me for a reality show as an oracle. Future bliss or pending doom can be detected from the aura of the invitation. Here is some unsolicited but free advice from someone who has been around the punch bowl a few times.

1. Tiny script surrounded by gaudy illustrations of flowers, birds, and glittery ribbons means the couple is too young to get married and should opt instead for a Hello Kitty theme party. If I can’t read the words and the return address, I certainly can’t send a gift.

2. Don’t fill half the invitation by naming all the parents, step-parents, and significant others. We don’t care.

3. Don’t send cute but obnoxious invitations from your kids or pets or attorney. We can’t be fooled.

4. Don’t ask for money in lieu of gifts. I don’t need any more bills in the mail, and I’d probably send a check anyway but I want that to be MY idea.

5. After the second wedding, don’t send invitations to the sequel unless you’re providing a catered banquet and open bar. We’ll come for that.

6. Most midlife marriages are best announced after the ceremony and include an invitation to a joyful, raucous party that ends before midnight because we can’t dance until dawn anymore.

My husband and I met after we had raised children, established careers, and knew how to manage money. That means we had distinct advantages over most young couples. And, there were no in-law issues. Our one living parent has dementia and can’t remember our names, anyway.

greek wedding

Instead of attempting a traditional marriage, we eloped to the Greek island of Paros and stayed in a quaint resort near the Mediterranean Sea. Our hostess arranged an ancient wedding ceremony, complete with linen togas, laurel wreaths on our heads, and a priest who couldn’t speak English. Music was provided by a little one-eyed musician playing a goat bladder.

After the ceremony near a chapel overlooking the sea, we proceeded back to the resort. (Yes, I love the movie “Mama Mia” but we chose not to sing to each other on a narrow, windswept cliff.) Wine flowed and platters of homemade food passed among strangers who stopped to join the festivities. The resort owner gave us white almonds tied in mesh bags, saying in broken English that the gifts were usually given to encourage fertility, and we promised to keep trying. We ended the evening by dancing and laughing with people we’ll never see again.

Our wedding was perfect for us. The expenses for the trip were less than the cost of a traditional wedding, and we didn’t need any toasters or towels. Our grown children were sad they missed the event, but someday we’ll take them all back to Paros. I hope we can find the delightful musicians. Every marriage should be blessed with an authentic ballad played by a little one-eyed man with a goat bladder. That tradition has survived for centuries in Greece, and we know that, finally, our marriage will last, too.