Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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#middle age

Give Mom Humor and Be Her Favorite Child

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Flowers and candy are lovely gifts for Mother’s Day, but after all the angst and drama of the past two months, Mom wants to laugh! I’d love to help. My award-winning books, eBooks, and audiobooks will cause your mother to smile again and love you more than your siblings.

“Laugh-out-loud funny!” – Publishers Weekly

“Resembles Erma Bombeck.” – Foreword Reviews

Winners of Five National Writing Awards, including Finalist for Book of the Year for Humor with a rare 5-Star Review

Both books were ranked #1 Bestsellers online.

Midlife Happy Hour is available in paperback, eBook, and audiobook read by the Author

Midlife Cabernet is available in paperback and eBook

Here’s a sneak peek of the preliminary cover for the final book in the midlife trilogy: Midlife Reboot – Humorous Stories of Rest, Resilience, and Renewal. This book will make the perfect Christmas and holiday present, so you’ll still be the favorite child.

Order the first two books online, from local bookstores, or directly from the author: For personalized and autographed copies, email [email protected]

Stepping and Schlepping Off the Plane

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Super Hero Ripping Clothes
Typical garment and attitude of airline travelers.

After observing humanity during a 14-hour journey from Sag Harbor, New York to Boise, Idaho, I’m convinced the standard travel attire for passengers includes ripped clothes, disheveled hair, and a grumpy attitude. They resemble comic book rogues who tear their clothes in fits of pending rage. I felt positively radiant in my coordinated knit ensemble, complete with a patient smile. As I cued in line for the privilege to sit in a child-sized space for four hours, I reminisced about a forgotten time when traveling was a luxurious pleasure.

Years ago, when I was fancy and corporate, I often visited an exclusive dress shop in downtown Boise. The proprietor, a thin and elegant woman named Dorothy, was hanging onto age 50 with clenched but manicured fingernails. She exuded all things classy and could have posed for a 1950s cigarette ad. Her arched eyebrow raised even higher whenever I entered. She liked me but mourned my conservative fashion sense and untoned body. I was on the D-List of Preferred Clients.

Once I needed a business outfit for a conference out of state. She welcomed me with bangled arms and air kisses and proceeded to collect various outfits to hang in a dressing room.

“This one is perfect,” she gushed as she held up a white sweater with white pants. “You’ll look fabulous as you step off the plane.”

“I’ll look like an albino ox,” I replied. “And what’s the fuss about stepping off the plane? Most of the passengers are wearing flannel pajama pants and stained sweatshirts as they stumble to baggage claim. I could be roller skating in a potato sack on fire with live rats dancing on my head and no one would notice.”

Dorothy sighed. “Where has all the glamour gone?” She replaced the white ensemble and added a serious navy-blue dress with a red collar.

“At least add a splash of color,” she begged.

woman in airport.jpg

I liked the dress and purchased it for the trip. After the plane landed, I entered the terminal and paused for a brief moment to pose as Dorothy would prefer. A young mother pushing a stroller the size of a recliner crashed into my legs, snagging my pantyhose. She mumbled an apology while throwing fish crackers to her crying toddler and ambled down the corridor in a mass of harried, hurried people.

I limped down to the taxis and reflected on the time when travelers wore their best clothes. Typical attire included men in suits with ties and women in dresses and hats, some with gloves. Children and pets were rare and properly packaged. Passengers who stepped off the plane indicated they had, indeed, arrived.

I don’t work for a corporation anymore, so when traveling I opt for a more casual, practical outfit such as black leggings and a black and white tunic. At my age it really doesn’t matter because women over 50 are invisible to the huddled masses yearning to simultaneously read their cell phones and walk while ignoring the repetitive message from Big Sister, “Do Not Leave Your Luggage Unattended!”

Yesterday I️ had two hours before my connecting flight so stopped at the wine bar in the airport and ordered a Cabernet. A sophisticated older woman also sat at the bar. She wore a red cashmere suit with white pearls and her hair was full enough to hide small treasures. Her exquisite fingers curved around the wine glass as she smiled and offered a silent toast. I️ returned her gesture, thankful to no longer be invisible. After finishing her drink, she gathered her designer bags and sashayed from view as I heard distant music from Nat King Cole singing, “Unforgettable.” I imagined her name was Dorothy.

 

 

When Living Large isn’t a Compliment

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chubby lady belly

 

(Featuring on The Huffington Post, August 27, 2015)

It started as a fun golf game with another couple we enjoy. It ended with me wanting to stab myself with a knife. Life is like that sometimes.

We finished our round with a good score and returned to the club house for dinner. As we waited for the food, the man casually mentioned that his wife and my husband were lucky because they didn’t need to lose weight. I know it was an innocent remark by a good, middle-aged man but my ears heard this:

“You are a gross, undisciplined whale and so incredibly fat that you should put a sack over your body and hide in the women’s lounge. Too bad you don’t look like my beautiful, fit wife.”

My first reaction was to pick up my butter knife and slash my gums because 30 years ago I lost 12 pounds in one week after my wisdom teeth were removed. I thought that maybe I could duplicate that instant weight loss if I hurt myself. Obviously, this was a red flag warning that I should immediately leave the club and seek a counselor.

Truth: You never need to tell a woman that she has gained weight. She knows it. She avoids mirrors, hates photographs of herself, and loses the urge to shop for clothes. She doesn’t want to be reminded that her hips, belly, and back are padded with enough layers of protective fat to shelter a family of ten through the winter. She wants to be appreciated for her charm, wit, altruism, and talent. Tell her she’s fat and she’ll write about you.

I languish in good excuses. I was injured almost a year ago, ironically doing a high-impact exercise. My leg bone cracked and the meniscus tore on my knee. The pain was debilitating.  As a result, my exercise routine vanished as the extra pounds appeared. The only physical activity I got was when I ambled to the wine rack for medication. But, I still want and need to lose the weight I gained after the injury. I really do, but it’s not as easy any more, and my body seems to like living large.

The day after the golf humiliation, I wiggled into my workout clothes and plodded to the gym. I started with the exercise bike, plugged my earphones into the TV outlet, and found the news. Donald Trump was criticizing Megyn Kelly, an attractive newscaster I admire. I left the gym and drove to a coffee shop that offered fresh maple bars, and I used the butter knife to smear around the gooey frosting. I licked the knife and promised to hit the gym another day.

 

 

 

Midlife Cabernet: The Curmudgeon Phenomenon

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One of the best reasons to slide gleefully down the backside of middle age is to reach that glorious oasis where I just don’t care anymore if my socks match, or if my plastic pink flamingo in the yard irritates the neighbors, or if I could braid the twig-sized hairs growing out of my chin. My life is an inviting place that reminds me of my paternal grandmother’s old rocking chair; the one with the sagging, butter-soft, leather seat and the wooden arms worn white with wear. Finally, I’m comfortable with where and who I am.

What does concern me, however, is the unexpected, occasional detour into becoming a curmudgeon. Yes, every now and then I scowl at teenagers with pants hanging below their butts. I ask others why they have holes in their ears big enough to measure serving portions of spaghetti. I audibly gasp at baristas with multiple piercings in their lips, noses, and eyebrows and angry tattoos crawling up both arms. And, I’ve been known to roll down my window and tell the gyrating rebels in the next car to turn down the heavy metal music because it’s peeling the paint from my car. They can’t hear me, of course, because they are going deaf.

I vaguely remember back in the dark ages when I was young. There were plenty of old farts telling me to “Cut your bangs,” or, “Turn down that gawd-awful music!” But, my hair didn’t resemble a mixture of spilled, day-glo paint plastered rigid with super glue. And, the music of the Beatles and the Beach Boys seems nursing-home tame compared to the jet-engine shrill of today’s harsh sounds that could be used to torture prisoners into confessing that they ate the body of Jimmy Hoffa.

Maybe it’s inevitable to turn into the image of the old lady with the purse from the 1968 television show Laugh-In. I should just go sit on a park bench and wait for an elderly man to shuffle up and offer me a Walnetto. (A favorite Laugh-In skit.) Except now, I’d probably take the Walnetto and tell him to hit the road. Because, at my age, I can say anything I want.

To assist with my age-induced transition, I enjoyed some fabulous 2009 Justin Cabernet Sauvignon from the Justin Vineyards and Winery in Paso Robles, CA. This delicious wine offers tastes of cherry, raspberry, spice and mocha with abundant tannins. I found it for around $35 at Seasons Wine Bar in Eagle. The label on the bottle contains a QR Code application that I can download to my smart phone or Ipad. Of course it does.

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