Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Mill Park Publishing Wins Four Awards

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Angel of Esperanza cover          MidlifeCab_ApproxLayout

           

Two recent books published by Mill Park Publishing of Eagle, Idaho will take home four trophies Thursday, November 13 at the Idaho Author and North American Book Awards program. The awards ceremony will be at the Powerhouse Event Center in Boise.

The Angel of Esperança by local author Judith McConnel Steele won Second Place in the Fiction Category sponsored by the North American Book Awards competition. Steele writes with hypnotizing imagery and seamless narration to tell the haunting story of Helena, a young wife and mother in the mythical village of Esperança. This is the second award for the book as Steele was selected last year for the Top Ten Authors in Fiction from the Idaho Author Awards.

Midlife Cabernet – Life, Love & Laughter after Fifty by local author Elaine Ambrose won three awards: First Place for Humor from the North American Book Awards competition, First Place for Cover Design from the Idaho Author Awards program, and Ambrose was named one of the Top Ten Authors in Nonfiction from the Idaho Author Awards.

Midlife Cabernet also won the 2014 Silver Medal for Humor from the Independent Publisher Books Awards program (IPPY), and Publishers Weekly wrote that the book is “laugh-out-loud funny!” Ambrose’s irreverent humor can be found on the Huffington Post and other websites.

Mill Park Publishing produces books written by local women writers and donates a portion of the sales proceeds to charity. The company also organizes writing retreats for women and sponsors writing events throughout the area. Details are on the website, www.MillParkPublishing.com

 

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Knocked Down and Laid Up

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burn leg 2

For the past six weeks, I’ve followed a rigorous ritual every morning: I strap on a knee brace, grimace in pain, swear, and then hobble to the kitchen for coffee because it’s too early for booze.

I’m in pain because I have a torn meniscus over a cracked bone in my knee and open, festering burn wounds on both legs. The pathetic reality is that I did all this to myself, and the pain and indignity is souring my sweet disposition.

The injured knee was caused when I gallantly attempted a wicked exercise known as the Speed Skater in a high-impact circuit class with women half my age. I boldly leaped sideways into the air and for a brief moment in time resembled a graceful skater. Then gravity won as I fell to earth, twisted and sprained my knee, and was reduced to a bumbling blob of middle-aged misery. I thought that I could do the same intense workout as the youngsters. I was wrong. My defiant body said, “Not no, but hell no!”

Two weeks later, I stumbled on the weakened knee and tore the meniscus and somehow cracked the bone. More x-rays, more drugs, more visions of chattering white rabbits running through the house. I swore that all the characters from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland were cavorting around my bedroom. At least it wasn’t the cast from Silence of the Lambs.

But wait. It gets better. While resting my leg on ice to reduce the swelling, I froze the back of both legs. The skin turn black and peeled off, leaving gaping open wounds behind my knees. The frozen burns were so bad the orthopedic surgeon postponed the scheduled knee surgery until the wounds healed. So I returned to my recliner to nurse the torn meniscus, broken bone, and serious burns. My butt is now the same shape as the chair.

Note to self: Obey the instructions that say to place a towel over the ice and remove the ice every twenty minutes.

Second note to self: Blaming the burns on hallucinations caused by the delightful painkiller drugs does not excuse ignorance of basic first aid techniques.

burned leg

I tried to explain my predicament to my sweet granddaughter, but all she heard was the word “frozen.” She immediately burst into songs from the animated movie until I threatened to club Olaf the Snowman with my crutch. No, I don’t want to build a snowman. Just let it go. And take your silly reindeer and singing sisters with you.

I couldn’t see behind my knee so I asked Studley to apply ointment to the burns. I yelped in pain as he smeared me with salve and bandaged the wounds. All the while he was muttering about always wanting to rub lotion on my body and tie me to the bed. I think he was joking.

The surgeon finally cleared me for surgery so next week I’ll have the arthroscopic procedure. I’m anticipating more happy pills and sedation that will help me forget that holes are being drilled into my knee and a tiny knife is scraping around inside among the nerves, bones, tissues, and debris.

As long as the surgeon is in there, I wonder if he could do a little internal sculpting on my thigh. It’s close to my knee and needs a little pruning. These legs will never again attempt to master the Deadly Speed Skater of Doom, and my dreams of competing as an Olympic skater have been smashed by the reality that I never could skate, I’m too old, and I look absolutely dreadful in a Spandex body suit. Also, now I have a profound aversion to ice…unless it’s in a smooth Scotch.

 

Why Funny is Always Fashionable

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old woman laughing

You know you’re at peace with yourself and the universe if you can enter a crowded social function, scan the room, and then join the group creating the most laughter. After a certain age, you don’t waste time with pseudo-intellectuals, plastic-faced divas, or over-styled drama queens; especially if they’re your relatives. Just trot your sensible, low-heeled shoes over to those having fun and then laugh until you snort.

Over the years, most women have endured numerous charity galas, corporate soirees, and elegant events that required dressing in more than a “This Wine is Making me Awesome” t-shirt, Yoga pants, and flip-flops (my favorite outfit.) In our twenties and thirties, we started preparing weeks in advance; trying on various outfits, scheduling hair and nail appointments, and crash dieting to lose a few pounds. By our forties, the routine became less rigorous unless the occasion was a dinner party with our boss or a romantic evening with a significant other. Usually, those events did not involve the same person.

By age 50, however, we said screw the rules. We gauged the importance of an event by the need to shave our legs or not. What to wear came down to what garment would hide last week’s lasagna binge. There was a time when identical outfits would have caused one of us to retreat to the coat closet and desperately paw for something to throw over our shoulders. Now if I’m attending a fancy function and see another woman wearing a replica of my dress, I congratulate her on her exquisite taste. If she’s over 50, she’ll laugh and say, “Got it on sale for only $150!” We high-five and sashay to the wine bar.

Another scene to avoid forever is the Sugar Daddy with Arm Candy couple. She’ll be giggling about play dates and nannies and he’ll be sweating and adjusting his pacemaker. If the hostess seats you next to such a twosome, feign a sudden onset of gastrointestinal flu and discreetly find another table, preferably with a middle-age couple who are holding hands and laughing. It doesn’t matter if they came together.

High fashion is not my top priority. I usually wear classic, quality clothes that have timeless appeal, such as my favorite 10-year-old St. John knit jackets. They cost a fortune new but I’ve worn them for years and they always look good. And, I’m a strong advocate of the simple black dress adorned with fun accessories. And there is no way these well-traveled feet will ever again feel the inside of a high-heeled shoe. That just won’t happen because high-heels are painful and I choose not to hurt. An elongated calf perched on a $300 strip of leather just doesn’t matter that much.

While laughing with new and old friends at a society event, it’s tempting to sneak a peek at the younger, more perfect women. They arrive with a flair of confidence, pause to pose on their six-inch heels, and jut their tiny, sequin-covered bodies into the spotlight. Yes, they are proud of their flat-stomachs, bobbing cleavages, and toned arms. Their hair, makeup, and nails are flawless, and heads turn in appreciation. I immediately start humming “The Girl from Ipanema.”

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 “A-a-a-h.”

I never was that woman, not even on my most magnificent occasion. But, I’m finally happy in my own skin, every wrinkled, spotted inch of it. I’d much rather be with the witty group, the ones who are telling humorous stories, and the ones who know that Ipanema Girl someday will be fifty. Then she, too, will know that funny is fashionable.

The Bad Knee Need for Speed

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military jet

After suffering a serious knee injury, I numbed the pain through the wonders of legal narcotics. Then the doctor upgraded my drugs to a more potent dosage because my eyes kept rolling back in my head as I bit through broom handles. This new potent medication had the power to turn me into a fierce fighter pilot.

Soon after gulping the pills, I magically appeared at the controls of an F-14A Tomcat jet careening into the Danger Zone as Kenny Loggins sang in the background. It was quite the rush. After performing several death-defying maneuvers, nose-bleed-causing spirals, and winning a dog fight with several Russian MiGs, I sent a sassy radio message to Top Gun Headquarters:

“Tower, this is Ambrose requesting permission for a flyby.”

The answer was succinct.

“Dammit, Ambrose, get down off the counter.”

The voice sounded like Studley but I knew it couldn’t be him because I was flying at Mach 2 – almost 1,550 miles per hour – twice the speed of sound. And he was back home making dinner because I was too helpless to assist. Unless, of course, I became a fierce fighter pilot. Then I had a good excuse to heed the call of duty because I felt the need for speed.

“Ambrose, get down!” The voice was more persistent so I put the jet on cruise control and lifted the visor on my helmet. I saw the blurry image of Studley helping me sit down in my recliner. Suddenly the jet vaporized in a puff of steam.

“Where did you go this time?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Just playing with the boys,” I answered. I heard Kenny Loggins again but I think he had moved to the back yard.

Studley sat down beside me and shook his head.

“I made spicy meatballs for dinner,” he said.

“Great balls of fire,” I sang as I pounded on an imaginary piano. Then, sensing his annoyance, I broke into a dramatic and romantic rendition of “Take my Breath Away.”

At this point, he muttered about buying a motorcycle so he could ride away beside a distant ocean. So I searched for the pill bottle because I wasn’t finished with the volleyball game.

 

 

 

 

How to Plan and Survive Your Midlife Birthday

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elaine party mask

My most memorable childhood birthday could be a case study for why some people need therapy. My mother’s baby died during childbirth a few weeks before my 8th birthday, so my gift was a big doll with all the clothes that had been intended for my dead baby sister. There weren’t any inflated jumping castles or face-painting clowns at this party. Just my mother, weeping in the corner.

I don’t have any fond recollection of any other birthdays. In my family, early September was the time for going back to school and working on the farm’s potato harvest, not for invading the house with rambunctious kids and messy cake. Birthdays were just another day. Suck it up, kid, and eat your spuds.

After I became an adult, I beat the birthday blues by planning my own parties. My 20th involved a huge celebration with sorority sisters at the University of Idaho, complete with midnight serenading at fraternities until someone called the cops. I was in my poverty stage on my 30th birthday, so I gathered my infant son and two-year-old daughter into the kitchen and we made gooey cupcakes from a cheap mix. I worked several jobs to get into the middle-class bracket so for my 40th I hired a choir to sing my favorite Broadway musical songs. For my 50th, dedicated work and good luck allowed me to schedule a cooking tour of Tuscany, Italy. And, for my 60th, I got married wearing a linen toga for an ancient wedding ceremony on the Greek Island of Paros. No dead babies were associated with any of these celebrations.

I loved planning birthday parties for my children. My daughter was born during the last week of March, so we always organized vacation trips during Spring Break and she assumed everyone was celebrating just for her. One of the best parties for my son was when his sister hid in a large cardboard refrigerator box and clipped various toys to the end of a fishing pole for the other children as they fished for mysterious prizes. Years later, my son finally asked why his sister’s birthdays included Disneyland and his parties only offered old boxes.

It’s time again for my birthday and the coming party will be tame compared to previous festivities. I’ll still have live music, an eclectic group of gregarious guests, and plenty of food and drinks, but we’ll probably turn out the lights before midnight. After this many trips around the sun, the best parties are at home.  My eyesight is fading, the legs are weary, and the raucous dancing has slowed to a boring two-step sway with Studley. But, it’s my birthday and I’ll sigh if I want to. (I cringe about ending a sentence with a preposition, but that one worked.) So, uncork a new bottle, raise the glasses, and toast another birthday. I’m so immensely blessed to live this long and celebrate the splendid occasion with my sweetheart, family, and assorted friends. And I do it for that sad little girl who always wanted a fun birthday.

Tips for Planning and Surviving Your Own Midlife Birthday Party:

  1. Keep it simple. I’m preparing a meatball bar with various sauces, some homemade dips with chips, fruit bowls, and cheese plates. I bartered some of my books in exchange for homemade cupcakes.
  2. No one cares if the napkins don’t match the plates, and it’s okay to use paper plates if you have invited more than 12 friends. If anyone complains, remove them from the list for the next party.
  3. After the first two rounds of drinks, hide the good stuff. They’ll never know.
  4. Live music is nice. Invite some high school kids who need cash but won’t play trash that makes your ears bleed. For my party, I invited a wonderful singer who brings her own keyboard and plays show tunes from music displayed on her IPad. I requested my favorite songs in advance because it’s my party.
  5. Make sure to visit with every guest, and for added fun, sit the executive banker next to the old hippie. Monitor the situation to prevent any arguments and then enjoy the curious fellowship. If you want to ruin the party, mention politics or religion.
  6. After the last guest goes home, turn out the lights to hide the mess and crawl into bed with your living birthday present. Another year brings another reason to celebrate being alive. Enjoy and be grateful.

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Midlife Dating: That Hot Feeling Isn’t Always Menopause

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greek wedding

Nothing screams “pathetic loser” more than being a middle-aged divorcee alone at a festive party where beautiful couples are trading sloppy kisses and giggling like demented clowns. There’s not enough spiked punch in the world to soften the pain of pretending it doesn’t matter. Many of us graze along the buffet table hoping the crunch of nachos will be louder than the boisterous laughter of young lovers, and then we migrate to the bar because all we get to take home is a headache.

We never intended to be divorced at midlife because we were programmed to believe the happily-ever-after deceptions that provided easy and convenient endings in fairy tales. But according to a recent study by Bowling Green State University in Ohio, the divorce rate among people age forty-six to sixty-four has grown more than 50 percent. Almost one-third of baby boomers are single, either by divorce, separation, or having never been married. Some are attracted to the single lifestyle while others would trade their original Beatles record collection for some hot passion.

I have several friends who have been married to their first husbands for more than thirty years. They’re happy and comfortable and couldn’t imagine dating at this stage of life. And if something drastic happened to their husbands, at their ages they would rather join a cloistered convent than get naked in front of another man. They wouldn’t want to worry about unpredictable, middle-aged dilemmas such as the sudden crazy mood swings and chronic irritable bowel syndrome that could make for an awkward first date.

A few years ago, when I was divorced and my children were grown, some friends invited me to dinner. They just happened to have a recently divorced guest who was visiting from another state. I never turn down a free meal, so I agreed to join them. I met him and instantly felt a connection. He was in his fifties and ruggedly handsome. At dinner, our knees touched under the table during the salad course. We laughed at silly jokes during the entrée, and by dessert, he was feeding me bites of cheesecake. I felt like a goofy teenager.

This marvelous man met all my requirements: He was middle-aged, single, and didn’t wear white socks with sandals. (At my age, you can’t get too picky.) As an added bonus, though, he was smart, employed, passionate, spiritual, and he wanted to know about my children. It was like winning the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes, the lottery, and top-shelf wine at happy hour all at the same time.

We spent four days together, often to the chagrin of his abandoned hosts, and then I took him to the airport. It was a scene out of Casablanca, complete with winter fog and drama. He held me close and whispered, “We’ll always have Boise.” Then he tipped his hat, sauntered through security, and hollered, “Here’s looking at you, Kid.”

I drove home, wondering if he remembered my real name wasn’t Kid. But it didn’t matter. I was smitten, and it felt good. To paraphrase a quote from the movie, of all the towns in all the world, he walked into mine. He called when he landed at the next airport and was about to change planes. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship,” he said.

“Say it again,” I said, “for old times’ sake.”

And, yes, at that moment we were Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman but without the horrible Nazi and depressing farewell-forever scenes.

We enjoyed a long-distance relationship over the next few months. Then my more-than-significant other, whom I appropriately named Studley, got a job in Idaho, and to show my ultimate commitment I willingly made some room in my closet. We married on the Greek island of Paros on my birthday so he only needs to remember one important date. We daily express our total gratitude about receiving another chance at love, and it’s a powerful feeling. Now, when I experience hot flashes, I know it’s not just menopause. Thanks, Studley.

 

 

(This blog contains excerpts from my book Midlife Cabernet.)