Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist
Books from Mill Park Publishing provide hours of entertainment without needing batteries, electricity, or sizing. And, they are reusable. Consider buying, reading, and giving these books written by women authors. Here are three of 12 choices:
Midlife Cabernet – Life, Love & Laughter after 50 won First Place in the Nonfiction eBook category from a recent competition sponsored by the North American Book Awards. The program honors distinguished authors and books from across the United States and Canada. Awards will be presented at a gala reception Friday, November 13 in Boise, Idaho.
Midlife Cabernet by Idaho author Elaine Ambrose has earned the following awards:
Publishers Weekly wrote that the book is “Laugh-out-loud funny.” Foreword Reviews wrote that Midlife Cabernet is “an argument for joy.” The eBook is on sale for $.99 on five online platforms: Amazon.com Midlife Cabernet, Barnes & Noble Midlife Cabernet, IBooks/ITunes, KOBO, and Google Play.
I’ve never met Malin Morin of the City of Groningen in The Netherlands, but I’m confident we’d be best friends. She emailed me a photograph of her holding my book Midlife Cabernet in front of the Martini Tower. Obviously, she has excellent appreciation for comedic literature.
I was intrigued by Malin and wanted to know more about a tower named after a sophisticated funnel of cold vodka, so I researched the history of the beautiful building. The bell tower was constructed with a Catholic church during the 15th century, more than 500 years ago. It was named for the patron saint, St. Martin, so nothing was shaken or stirred in the dedication. The tower is 318 feet tall, contains a 62-bell carillon, and houses one of the largest Baroque organs in Europe. I see no reason why I shouldn’t travel there to meet and celebrate with Malin.
Her email contained delightful comments, so I’m exploiting them as a positive book review.
“I just loved the book. I read it on a recent flight and was making stupid sounds trying to suppress laughs, and people sitting in the seats around me were giving me the evil eye.”
To cause the evil eye in Europe is a great claim to fame for me. I’m now on a mission to provoke irritated glances throughout the world. I’ve already achieved documented success with that goal in the United States.
Malin also included a photograph taken in front of a local Dutch pub. If you can’t enjoy a bold Cabernet, you might as well swill a cold Heineken while reading about the joys of getting older and loving the journey. She ended her email with an invitation to visit her and noted that her family’s wine cellar is “stocked with Cabernet and other goodies.” Indeed, we will become best friends.
As I researched information about the Martini Tower, I discovered a recipe for the authentic Amsterdam Martini Cocktail. I share the details as a gesture to promote international education and foster good will among all peoples. The recipe calls for 2.5 ounces of Coca Liqueur, 2 ounces of citrus-flavored Vodka, the juice of ½ lime, and ice cubes. Shake well, strain into a chilled cocktail glass, and garnish with an olive. Sip while reading Midlife Cabernet in the market square in front of the Martini Tower. (I made up that last part.)
Here’s one final tidbit I discovered from my research. St. Martin was born more than 2,000 years ago and traveled extensively throughout Europe sharing Christianity which, at the time, still was a minor faith. He’s best known for sharing his cloak with a poor man and is called the patron saint of beggars. Because his celebration occurs near the grape harvest, he’s also a patron saint of vintners. He also worked with St. Ambrose from Italy, and I’m sure he was my ancestor. I feel called to honor them by traveling to Europe, sharing my coat, and savoring local wines.
Cheers, Malin. I’m searching for my passport.
A new study recently published in the Journal of Physiology reports that drinking a glass of red wine can equate to an hour of exercise, so I can only assume that two glasses equal two hours at the gym. After consuming an entire bottle, I should be ready to power-lift a Buick, jump over tall buildings, and grow a beard.
Researchers discovered that a natural compound called resveratrol found in red wine could enhance exercise training and performance. The principal investigator for the study notes that resveratrol can also offer the same benefits achieved through working out. To commemorate this important advancement in medical science, I raise the appropriate wide-bowled glass, swirl, sniff, taste, and toast the good news. The celebration pairs nicely with some Brie and crackers.
I’ve already sent a nice thank you note to the research team responsible for helping me choose between sweating at the gym next to fat-free females or lounging on my patio with a bold Cabernet. I’m still trying to lose the baby fat that hung around after my last child was born. I hope there’s no time limit on that excuse because my son now is grown and has kids of his own.
I’ve honestly tried to exercise and have several colorful outfits, coordinated shoes, and a dusty collection of DVDs, resistance bands, and hand weights. Alas, my ambitious attempts to get fabulously fit always fail from being too feisty. Once I tripped over a wayward barbell and broke my foot, and another time I leaped into a speed skater contortion, momentarily defying gravity with the grace of a bounding gazelle but then landed with the impact of a drunk hippopotamus. As a result, I tore the meniscus in my knee and cracked a bone. I concluded that the benefits of sipping wine far outweighed the potential hazards associated with the jungle of the gym. From now on, my only six-pack will come with bottles.
Common sense and medical research tell me to curb the enthusiasm, continue doing regular moderate exercises, and celebrate pain-free with a glass or two of red wine. Please join me as we put down the jump rope and skip to the wine cabinet. Do it for your health, and then daydream that some dedicated scientist now is studying the benefits of warm pie with ice cream. Cheers!
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.
This week Studley and I played in the foursome that won first place in a golf scramble. We won even though I was the worst golfer on the team and I don’t practice or excel as much as the good players but through the handicap rules we redistributed the wealth of our collective talents to serve the greater good. Other teams with better players were prevented from winning because they didn’t have a bad player. Karl Marx, the socialist philosopher who advocated communism, would be proud. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so grouchy if he had played golf.
The fallacy with the redistribution philosophy is that the best golfers play in scrambles to practice and to have fun. They also compete as individuals in tournaments where they have the potential and opportunity to earn millions of dollars because of their skills. They pay government income taxes on these earnings which are then used to fund education, build roads, and pay into a Social Security program that gives money to those who don’t work or golf as well. They also donate to charity and sponsor community events, which Marx never did. The winning golfers get to keep about half of their earned money. And, they deserve it.
The best golfers, like other successful entrepreneurs, have unique tenacity, talent, intelligence, and risk-taking ability to create and sustain their enterprises. They play by the rules that reward achievement, and they don’t expect free mulligans or trophies for everyone. If the current trend toward political correctness changes the game and decrees that all golfers will play par for the course, most of us will stay in the club house and drink gin and tonic cocktails.
One last comment before I go back to the golf course: Karl Marx, the avowed socialist who wanted a classless society and condemned capitalism, received his income from Friedrich Engels, a rich industrialist who paid Marx from the profits of his capitalistic factories. Comrade Marx was a fraud.
Today’s blog was inspired by a 2008 Snake River Valley Cabernet Sauvignon grown, produced and bottled locally by a capitalist company, Fraser Vineyard. I eagerly exchanged $24 for the bottle, and both consumer and seller are happy.
