Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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#midlife

Real Coffee for Strong People

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coffee

One of the many advantages of being older and having grown children is that mornings can begin at 9:00 am. There is no need to get the little buggers out of bed, dressed, fed, and to school before you go to work. All that crap happened twenty years ago when you were young and energetic and actually cared if their sack lunches contained edible food. Now you can sit around in jammies, read the paper, and drink coffee until noon. It’s a wonderful life.

However, I’m worried about several friends who have taken their old age freedom and turned into coffee snobs. They demand only the freshest beans harvested under a full moon from secret mountain forests and flown in on fairy wings. They have contraptions that measure, grind, and arrange the beans in symmetrical patterns while pure glacier water is infused through organic filters woven by chanting honey bees. These friends go to great lengths to prepare, sip, and sigh over their coffee. I think that’s silly.

I recently needed to be at the airport at the criminal hour of 5:00 am for a flight to a conference. I stumbled to the coffee bar and waited in line as a crowd of zombie passengers placed their orders: iced smoked butterscotch latte, caramelized honey Frappuccino, or espresso con panna. I thought they were naming the characters in a foreign porn film.

“I’ll have a coffee, black,” I said.

The barista froze over her register.

“Just plain coffee?” she asked in a mocking tone that blatantly pronounced me as an uneducated, unclean heathen.

“Just plain coffee,” I repeated, careful to slowly pronounce each syllable.

“Well, we’re having a special today on a dark chocolate melted truffle mocha!” she chirped. “You should try it!”

“I want a cup of coffee,” I repeated. “I’m not paying $7.00 for flavored chemicals in hot water.”

She dumped some coffee into a paper cup, smashed on a lid, and shoved it across the counter. I smiled weakly, paid, and turned to find my seat in the mass of caffeine-loving passengers drinking their flavored concoctions. In my pre-dawn stupor, I wondered how society changed from busy people wanting strong, black coffee to delicate flowers requesting expensive, foo-foo drinks with cardboard cuffs so fingers wouldn’t get too hot.

We need to reclaim authentic brew for real people, and I suggest a global fight for our right to drink black coffee. I refuse to order a macchiato, even though I like the sound of the word. Seriously, would you date a man who ordered a flat white espresso with a thin layer of foam on the top in a demitasse cup hand-crafted by elusive Peruvian peasants? No, give me a campfire scene where cowboys are passing a dented tin pitcher of brew strong enough to make ears bleed and hearts palpitate. That’s coffee. I’ll take a cup.

 

 

Fringe Fashion Failure

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fringe dress 2

 

I felt feisty, fun, and a fabulously festive in my new dress festooned with fluttering fringe. The long strands covered body parts that needed to be hidden after years of neglect, gravity, and buttered scones, but the swaying material allowed gratuitous glimpses of legs that once rivaled the gams in pinup posters hung in greasy automotive shops across the country. I was one hot grandmother.

I loved my new outfit and eagerly prepared for a night at an elegant soiree. The first trial came when I attempted to pull on a coat to keep me warm against the winter chill. As I wiggled into my wrap, the fringe on the sleeves of the dress snagged, bunched, and clumped until I resembled an irritated pig wrapped in twine. Stray strands knotted around my neck and hiked the back of the dress over my butt. This was not a pretty vision, and I began to feel less glamorous.

After waddling to the car, I proceeded to the party where I encountered more challenges and calamities. Removing the coat revealed a tangled mass of disheveled strands that seemed to be embroiled in a fight-to-the-death fringe battle. I clawed at the material in a desperate attempt to untangle the hairball that was consuming my outfit. Once adjusted, I walked slowly through the venue so I wouldn’t disrupt the delicate free flow of the garment. Static cling became the new enemy. At any given moment, a rogue fringe would leap out and adhere to the pants of a tall handsome stranger. At least my dress had good taste.

fringe dress

The evening progressed nicely, and I enjoyed gushing compliments about my attire. I assumed the worst was behind me and celebrated with several glasses of fine Cabernet. After a few hours, the wine needed to exit the body, so I sashayed to the restroom. This call of nature became a cry of the wild.

I proceeded to gather the fringe in a ball around my waist so I could sit and assume the position. It became apparent that wasn’t any chance to control what seemed like a million independent and defiant strands, and the wine didn’t help my concentration. By the time I finished my duty, I realized there was one more dilemma. One hand was needed to secure and employ the necessary toilet paper.

I shifted the wad of fringe to one side and attempted to secure it with one hand while I fumbled for the paper. The effort was futile. After achieving contortions only accomplished by professional gymnasts in the circus, I managed to drop the paper on the floor and the fringe fell into the toilet. I momentarily lost my mind.

Not one to give up easily, I grabbed more paper, finished the flush, and jumped off the comedy commode. Liquid dripped onto the floor from wet stripes of sorry, violated fringe so I grabbed sections to squeeze the excess moisture. Soon my hands, my dress, and the entire bathroom reeked of toilet water. I washed and dried my hands, took a deep breath, and joined the party, dripping all the way, leaving a raked pattern of fringe droppings on the carpet.

Reluctant to sit down, I faked my way through the evening and was hesitant to consume too much more wine or water in case there were security cameras around the bathroom and I was prohibited from entering. When it was time to leave, I wrapped my coat around my shoulders so I wouldn’t need to repeat the torment of the sleeves.

At home, I removed the dress, buried it in the dry cleaning bag, jumped into my dowdy but fringe-free jammies, poured a glass of wine, and relaxed in comfort. I may donate the dress to charity and allow someone else to enjoy its charms. But, for a brief moment in time, I felt festive and fashionable and those sweet memories will last long after the humiliation is gone. As for future fashion choices, I’ll avoid the fringe element of society.

 

(Featured on The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop blog March 27, 2016.  http://humorwriters.org/2016/03/27/fringe-fashion-failure/)

When Loneliness Isn’t Funny

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sad older woman

 

I’ve never met Leslie Delamater Anderson Aitken, but we’re friends on social media. We’re both in our sixties, we like to write, and we’ve been stand-up comediennes. However, her life didn’t turn out as she planned, and now she writes about dealing with loneliness. Her latest blog is a reminder for us to reach out to those who didn’t receive flowers and gifts on Valentine’s Day. Leslie, I’m sending you a virtual hug.

FADING AWAY
by Leslie Delamater Anderson Aitken

I was 23 and married for a year when we moved to our first house in 1976 in southern California. Across the street, an aging widow lived alone in a tiny home only 650 square feet that she and her husband had built in the early 1930s. Her name was Avie, she was in her late 70s, and she had lived alone for more than 40 years.

She was short in stature, partly because of a severe curve in her spine, probably due to osteoporosis. She had been quite the gardener in her day. There was a big blue spruce in the front yard, a rarity for the area, and also a Cedar of Lebanon in the back yard, a persimmon tree and a black walnut tree, along with many very old rose varieties. She even had some lilies of the valley and a couple of rare Jack-in-the-Pulpits.

I would wave at Avie when I saw her outside wearing her big sun hat and watering her yard while balancing with her cane. I said hello a few times, but never really spoke to her other than the occasional greeting. One night her house was broken into by a couple of young thugs who knocked her to the ground, put a love seat on top of her, and stole a can of pennies. They fled out the back door, leaving it open.

A neighbor heard her very faint whimpers, and he told me later he thought it was a cat under her house. He found her and called for an ambulance. Avie never returned to the little house that she built and shared with her husband and where she planted her gardens. She went to a nursing home and passed away the following year.

Through the years, I’ve thought a lot about Avie, and I felt guilty because back then I was young and too busy to reach out to her. I should have stopped to talk with her as she worked in her yard and I never considered the many days and nights that she spent alone, never wondered if she was lonely, never asked if she needed any help with anything.

Now my children have grown up and moved away, and I am divorced. I have only left my house twice in the last two weeks, and in that time I have only talked, in person, to two people who know me. In that same two weeks that I have only eaten two meals in the company of other humans. Those were when I was so lonely for human companionship that I went to eat at a restaurant, not so much for food, but just to be around other people and to hear other voices than my own talking to myself or my pets.

Have I inadvertently picked up the long forgotten baton of solitude left behind by Avie Abbot? How did this happen to ME? And is this how we start to just fade away into the oblivion of someone that people used to know? I’m reminded of a verse in a familiar song: “I am…I said to no one there. And no one heard at all, not even the chair.”

Many well intentioned people have suggested that I volunteer for various organizations and community activities. For many years I traveled that route, “busying” my life with hours of volunteering my time to parent-teacher associations, school functions, and Girl Scout meetings. I increased my services after my children moved away and after my divorce as I tried to fill my hours with “doing things.” I was running as fast as I could from the reality that there was no one home when I got there, and that there was no one coming home “later” either.

There is something weird about all the years I donated my time and energy. There are dozens of groups that welcome the willingness of others who give hundreds of hours of their time and gladly soak them like a dry sponge. But if you stop giving, no one reaches out, or even seems to notice. It is like you were there, and thought you were making a difference, and then just fade away, unnoticed. In all of the years of volunteering, fund raising, parking cars, selling programs, organizing bake sales, delivering cookies, planning events, catering teachers luncheons, I can honestly say that I never made one real friend. Oh, I have lots of acquaintances and people who know my name. But at the end of the day, very few who know my phone number or would think to reach out.

I am only 62, but the thought of a long future filled with vast amounts of companion-less days and weeks feels like cruel purgatory. I will no longer engage in self-serving, busy endeavors to make me feel less lonely. I guess I have lost my motivation, but am not quite ready to fade away. Dear Avie, I should had stopped to talk with you.

 

For the Girls Who Won’t be Homecoming Queen

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Early one morning I followed the blinking, grinding, lumbering school bus on its routine route to pick up students. Always the consummate people-watcher, I studied the colorful collection of gangly, boisterous pre-teens waiting at each stop. Then I saw her – the girl standing alone. She was me, fifty years ago.

Her disheveled brown hair was wild and frizzy, her clothes weren’t stylish, she wore big black eyeglasses, and she carried a saxophone case. I waved at her. She smiled faintly and climbed onto the bus behind the others. I wish I had jumped out of my car and hugged her, but that’s not appropriate in this age of Stranger Danger.

A week later, I happened to follow the same bus, and I saw her again. She was sitting on her saxophone case reading a book. I wanted to shout, “I know you!” But, I restrained myself, waved, and watched her board the bus. I’d like to write and tell her that all the things that consume this most awkward stage of life eventually don’t matter anymore.

Hair. I remember my classmate Mary Trounson with her silky black hair that was long enough to sit on, and Jeneal Jones who was allowed to tease her hair into the perfect bubble. My plain hair was wrinkly and brittle, and my parents wouldn’t allow me to rat it. They even cut my bangs into inch-long fringe when the trend was to have bangs that brushed the eyelashes. I hated my hair. Even now, I’ll get a sassy new do and concentrate to see how the hairdresser fixes it, but I never manage to duplicate the style. After many decades of trial and error, now I just blow it dry and hope it isn’t awful.

Clothes. Back in the 1960s, girls didn’t wear pants to school. My mother sewed many of my dresses, and my store-bought outfits consisted of basic jumpers and long-sleeved shirts. Our shoes were practical because many of us walked to school. There weren’t any drop-off lanes back then. As an adult working woman, I finally could afford fashionable clothes, and I proudly wore the best suits and dresses. Now, I’m semi-retired and work from home in my jeans and comfortable sweaters, and it takes a major event with a free buffet and wine bar to make me wear fancy clothes. I want the girl at the bus stop to know her lack of fashion sense doesn’t matter.

Glasses. I was 10 when I tried on Sally Maltz’ glasses and was amazed that the distant trees had leaves. I’ve worn glasses since then. Twenty years ago, my ophthalmologist tried PRK to correct my near-sighted vision, but it didn’t work. I tried contacts for several decades, but soon needed one to read and one to see distance. I settle now for my transition bi-focal eyeglasses with cute frames. It’s okay.

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Musical instruments. In school, only nerds lugged bulky cases for musical instruments, but I’m thankful I learned how to practice and play music. I have fond memories of blasting my saxophone in the Wendell High School Pep Band, and I continue to play my piano into my sixties. It’s great therapy.

Books. Students once teased me, “You’ve always got your nose in a book!” I still read books, and have written a few. Books are lifelong friends, and they never go out of style. The stories sparked my imagination and encouraged me to explore and travel. I enjoyed reading to my children, and now I read some of the same books to my grandkids. Reading a book while perched on a cold saxophone case can lead to grand adventures.

To the girl at the bus stop, I hope you gain some self-confidence through this complicated stage of your life. I envision you in the future as you speak with self-confidence, play wonderful music, write a few books, and laugh with friends and lovers. Someday you might drive behind a noisy school bus and see your younger self waiting alone. Wave to her, with profound vigor and sincere encouragement because you both dance to the beat of a different drummer.

 

Published on The Huffington Post Feb. 10, 2016.

Advice to Young Women: RUN

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running woman dreams

A young reporter requested an interview about what advice I would give to younger women. I assumed my wisdom was needed because I’m older and still dress myself and use the toilet unassisted. Picking my brain through the cobwebs required the gumption of a valiant explorer, so I agreed to the conversation and scheduled a meeting at my favorite coffee shop.

In the olden days of my early journalism career, I conducted interviews using a legal pad and pen. I always carried a dozen extra pens because they would consistently run out of ink the moment my subject started to cry about the pending book or government plot or non-fat recipe that would change the world. After the in-depth investigative reporting, I would hurry back to my jobs at the TV station or magazine office to type the story on a manual typewriter. I am a dinosaur.

The interviewer appeared to be only 12-years-old and cheerfully ordered a grande, iced, sugar-free, non-fat, vanilla macchiato with soy milk. My hazelnut latte suddenly seemed boring and old-fashioned. She opened her laptop and said, “Let’s begin.” I sipped my coffee with feigned sophistication.

“What is the most important bit of advice you would give to a young woman today?” Her fingers arched, ready to pounce on the keyboard.

“Run,” I answered.

She stopped mid-peck, slightly irritated, and looked at me. “Could you elaborate?”

A certain smugness bounced through my aging brain. I had all day. She was on deadline.

I settled into my chair and assumed the mindset of a revered guru leading the fresh fledglings to the mountaintop. I imagined being the blind master giving instructions to David Carradine in the 1970s show “Kung Fu.”

“Ah, watch and learn, Grasshopper.”

Again her finger stopped and I received the look of confused pity. I decided to elaborate in a more conventional way. Here is the summary of my remarks.

Young women need to run. They should rush to take advantage of every opportunity, and if they can’t find what they want, they should create their own. Youth provides energy and risk-taking ability that diminish through the decades.

Young women should run away from negative influences. They can’t allow their amateur exuberance and desire to please everyone to cloud their common sense. There are awful people in the world who want to hurt them, steal their resources, and leave them wounded. It took me too long to discover that fact.

Young women should run together. Other female friends can share the load, join in life’s celebrations, and bring dessert after a calamity. Some young women will be fortunate to have comrades that last for several decades. I have a core group of college friends, and we have shared the important events of our lives: weddings, births of our children, births of our grandchildren, and the deaths of our parents. We’ll probably end up playing poker together at some senior citizen center.

running old woman

Young women should run alone. I can’t run anymore due to a knee injury and because I don’t want to run. But, in a symbolic way, running alone means a woman can survive using her own talents, resources, and determination. When times get tough, and they will, she must pick up a sword and slay the dragons on her own.

I finished my dissertation and coffee at the same time. The interviewer raced to add the last sentence and save her article. Suddenly she gasped with alarm. Her computer froze, and her work was lost. I handed her some paper and a pen.

“Shall we order more coffee?” I asked.

 

Featured on Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop  blog Jan. 31, 2016 and on The Huffington Post.

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