Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Midlife Cabernet: When Family Birthdays Don’t Matter

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Today is my brother’s birthday. I haven’t seen him in 17 years so we probably won’t be sharing cake and ice cream.

There are brothers and sisters who lovingly support each other and celebrate special occasions together. I’m not in that category. I’m not proud of that fact, but it’s too late to change anything. Sometimes it’s best to dump the painful past into the dark lagoon of sad memories and start over with eager optimism for the present and future.

My brother, a lawyer, sued me several years ago but I fought back. He didn’t show up in court for the trial but his attorney did, and I testified with spirit and conviction. I won the lawsuit and lost a brother.

Well-intentioned people say to forgive, reach out, and make amends, and occasionally I feel the pressure to make peace. Without going into the pathetic details, I’ll just say that I can’t do that. It’s easier – and a lot more fun – to write books, give speeches, play with my grandkids, and live an abundant life with my husband. I did send my brother a Christmas card last month, so I’ve done my part for the year.

The irony of the situation is that if he could see my family now, he would realize the example of how our dysfunctional childhood should have been. I wish he could see how my children have grown into splendid young adults, but he chose to miss their high school graduations, their weddings, and the arrivals of their delightful children. I also wish he would meet my husband and be interested in what I’ve done and experienced since 1997. I think I would make a good sister.

But, I would be okay with never seeing him again if he would visit our elderly mother and assist with her care. He has seen her only twice for a few minutes in the past 15 years. She now suffers from dementia and probably wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe he’ll think about that today, on his birthday.

This week our family will celebrate the 4th birthday of my precious granddaughter. There will be presents, cake, and laughter. And I’ll watch with gratitude as my grown son and daughter prove that a brother and sister can love each other. I also know if one threatened to sue the other, there would be an immediate meeting that included beer, hugs, and laughter.

Midlife Cabernet: Susie Sells Timeshares by the Seashore

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Idaho is a splendid state, but the winters can get long, cold, and dark. The Boise area suffers from the Blanket of Doom, an inversion of low clouds that oppresses and depresses even the most hearty residents. Late January is the perfect time to take a day trip into the mountains or go south before you turn into Jack Nicholson’s character in the movie The Shining.

Just to be safe, I locked up the hatchet and installed sun lights in every room. Then I booked a trip to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. In only five hours we flew from Boise, 25 degrees and snowing, to Cabo, 85 degrees and blue sky. We felt as if we had crawled out of a sad tunnel into a non-stop fiesta, complete with warm sand beneath our bare toes and tangy margaritas in our spray-tanned hands.

At the resort I noticed even more timeshare salespeople than usual. They were everywhere promising a gourmet lunch and tempting us with free activities if we attended a brief meeting. We wanted the free golf passes so we agreed to listen to the latest spiel. Susie, our client relations specialist, could teach corporations how to successfully market and sell any product by using high pressure tactics with a saucy splash of charm. She instantly identified and focused on hot buttons: my jewelry, Studley’s business acumen, our love of family. Still, we didn’t fall for the pitch. We just wanted to golf.

Finally, the manager came over to sweeten the deal. We refused to buy. Other couples were beaten down into signing contracts and so balloons were popped and the room erupted with the sounds of applause. Another middle-aged couple at the next table was starting to fold. I thought Susie was going to cry. She had wasted two hours trying to convince us that buying additional points on our timeshare would bring us everlasting happiness and probably clear the inversion in Boise.

We took our golf passes and slinked out of the room. I started to feel sorry for her, but as we were walking through the lobby to go golf, I saw her with a new targeted couple. She was complimenting the woman on her jewelry.

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.