Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Elaine Ambrose

Midlife Cabernet: The Confident Curmudgeon

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I’ve been attending conferences and conventions for more than 40 years, beginning in high school with the Future Homemakers of America (FHA) State Convention. Back then, I took a spiral notebook and a pen, and the sessions advised us how to organize our future homes and volunteer in the local community. This week I’m at the BlogHer Conference in San Jose with a lap top, an IPad, and a cell phone and multiple chargers. Workshops focus on marketing strategies, blog monetization, and digital activism. It’s like Home Economics on global steroids.

At my age, I should be rocking on the porch nibbling on iron pills and stool softener. But I willingly chose to attend this conference to learn the latest methods for improving and marketing my blog, Midlife Cabernet. There are more than 3,000 bloggers in attendance and the median age is 36. I have age spots older than the Rock Star Bloggers who enter and leave the room with an entourage, but I’m too old and ornery to be intimidated. I accept and enjoy my role as a confident curmudgeon.

The technology is fascinating. Thirty years ago, I traveled to business meetings and needed to wait until I returned to my office to write and distribute a report or article. Now I type a blog while sitting on the airplane and send it instantly over the Internet to several web sites. I’m one of thousands of bloggers who communicate in blocks of 500 to 1,000 words, the modern version of a syndicated newspaper columnist. Learning and remembering all the computer and online instructions helps keep my aging brain alert when it would rather take a nap.

The BlogHer Conference features a cell phone app that shows the current agenda, speaker biographies, workshop descriptions, and individual schedules. The app even tells me when and where to go for Happy Hour so I don’t need to wander the halls searching for the Hospitality Suite. I’ve made new friends, and the energy is intoxicating. The midlife bloggers have shared written stories for years, so meeting them is the same as finally seeing a good friend for the first time.

In the general sessions and workshops, I prefer to sit near the front so I can hear, take notes, and engage with the presenter. After all, I paid to be at the conference and should take away enough enlightenment, motivation, and skills to cover the costs. It’s also fun to meet people. It’s like the first day of school, except I can’t be sent to the principal’s office anymore. And no one will call my parents to report my disruptive behavior.

During the conference, a huge trade show covers an entire floor in the San Jose Convention Center, and the free handouts are abundant. The staff at one booth took photographs of bloggers with captions asking them what goal they wanted to reach by a specific age. Much to my chagrin, my advanced age wasn’t even listed as a category. But another vendor encouraged women to hold signs with motivational sayings so I confidently held one that read, “I’m awesome.” I like the photo because the heat and humidity make my scraggly hair seem thick. Maybe I should carry a spritzer in my purse after I return to Idaho.

On Sunday, Studley will get me at the airport, and I’ll eagerly tell him about my adventure. Then we’ll share adult beverages on the patio while most of the other bloggers return home to small children, full-time jobs, and pressure to improve their blogs. This seasoned journalist is happy to allow Midlife Cabernet to rest for a few days. Good wine and women need time to breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, I Know the Way to San Jose…

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Of course, I’m not packed. Of course, I have no idea what to wear. Of course, my to-do list is too long to finish today. But, tomorrow I’ll fly out early for San Jose to the BlogHer conference. My intention is to absorb the energy and fuel my blogs for at least another decade.

Yes, I Will Fly Again

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Civilized people are shocked at the reports of the intentional murders of the passengers and crew of Malaysian Airlines Flight 17. What was gained from the evil attack? What admirable show of force was accomplished through causing the naked body of a dead women to fall through a peasant’s roof? Is this all part of an orchestrated, wicked plan to start the final world war?

I don’t have any answers to those questions, but I know this vile act by assassins will not prevent me from flying on airplanes. It’s also dangerous to drive during rush hour traffic in the city or next to a carload of zombies texting and/or drinking. If I want to go from one destination to the other, I know I’m not getting any younger and there is no time to waste. I’ll book a flight.

My most memorable flight was on Yeti Airlines, the “Premiere Airline of Nepal.” I have a photo that shows me praying before I get on the plane. Actually, I say a prayer every time I fly, and the prayer is that the landings equal the takeoffs. I was with a group of travelers flying from Kathmandu, Nepal to a safari in a tented camp. The pilot of the tiny airplane allowed us to come into the cockpit and take photographs of the Himalayas as we flew past. I’ll never forget the breathtaking sight.

I have rich and grand experiences of traveling in airplanes. My father owned a Bonanza four-seater so he could fly between his businesses in several western states. If the family came along, my job was to move the blocks from behind the wheels before we got in. The most important rule: Don’t walk near the turning propeller. I obeyed that rule. I recall one fateful afternoon when he flew the family to California and the extreme turbulence made all of us vomit. My mother used her purse as the barf bag. The last time my father flew solo, his appendix burst but he still managed to land the plane.

Writing feature articles for various magazines allowed me to experience some perilous flights. To report on a white water rafting expedition on the Salmon River, I was a passenger on the mail plane that landed on a mountain pasture the size of my back yard. The pilot blasted an air horn so the deer would get out of the way. For a story on the local Air Force squadron, I rode in a massive KC-135 and watched from the “bubble” as the tanker conducted an in-flight refueling mission at 30,000 feet. I could see the eyes of the pilot in the jet below us.

I’m flying again next week to attend the BlogHer conference in California. And, in November I’m looking forward to an overseas trip to Spain with my husband, daughter, and son-in-law. There are no guarantees in life, so we’ll take our chances. I’m grateful for the traveling opportunities and the extraordinary experiences that have enriched my life and allowed me to travel beyond my hometown of Wendell, Idaho. And if a future landing doesn’t equal the takeoff, I’ll be dead. But my spirit will be in a better place than the afterlife waiting for the murderers who shot down Flight 17.

 

 

 

The Joy of Cooking (Twice a Month)

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image           elaine cooking school

Because I like to eat, I like to cook. But I’m older, wiser, and my children are grown, so I only touch a pan once or twice a week. And during the summer months when Studley grills outside, I can go an entire month without opening a single cookbook. That’s just another advantage of tumbling down the far side of fifty without a spatula.

When my children were small and I worked full-time, I would rush home and slap together a concoction that contained at least two of the four food groups. Chipped beef on toast was my gourmet specialty. To add fruit and a vegetable, I’d smear strawberry jam on celery. Now my kids bemoan the fact that after they grew up and moved away in search of healthy food, I quit my job and enrolled in cooking classes. If I want my grown children to come for a visit, I call and say I’m making curried prime rib or authentic chicken parmesan. They’re at the door before I turn off the phone.

Years ago I grabbed an apron and joined a cooking tour of Italy through an organization called A Cook’s Tour. The trip featured hands-on lessons with professional Italian chefs. Best of all, we ate our sumptuous meals outside on long tables under flowering trees in the orchard. Of course, the meals included abundant selections of wines. That’s where I fell in love with Amarone – not an Italian lover but a vibrant red wine that captured my breath and my heart.

At the cooking school, I learned to make ravioli and cappelletti (little hats) with chefs Antonia Montrucoli and Giulianna at the the Villa Serego Alighieri near Verona. The property was surrounded by vineyards, olive trees, and fruit orchards and has been in the family of the great Italian poet Dante Alighieri (Dante’s Inferno) since the year 1353. I truly considered losing my passport and staying there as an apprentice chef and troubadour.

There are two secrets to preparing magnificent Italian food: fresh local ingredients and time. Start with extra-virgin, first cold-pressed olive oil from the friendly neighbor. Then add juicy tomatoes, fresh basil, garlic, onions, and green and red peppers from the garden. Keep a selection of fine cheeses in the cooler and bowls of melons and lemons on the counter. Be sure to open some wine while you assemble the ingredients. I love cooking with wine, and sometimes I add it to the sauce.

As the red sauce (NOT spaghetti sauce) simmers and the flavors blend, you must wait for the magic to happen. This could take hours because you can’t rush an exquisite Italian sauce. This gives you time to sip wine, bake a loaf of crusty bread, and arrange olives and assorted cheeses on a platter. Then enjoy a festive meal with friends and celebrate buen appetito!

I cooked chicken parmesan this week, so I’m off duty for awhile. Studley and I eat salads during the week and add some protein. It’s just the two of us, so we keep it easy. It’s truly the joy of cooking made simple. And if I ever return to Italy, I’ll find the Villa Serego Allighieri and raise a glass of Amarone to pay my respects to Dante. His Inferno is part of his most famous work, Divine Comedy. The title sounds like the recipe for my life.

 

Midlife Cabernet: Kitty T-Shirt Causes Cat Fight

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image image  Skinny reality-TV starlet Bethenny Frankel recently posted a photo of herself wearing her 4-year-old daughter’s kitty pajamas. She looked cute. I wiggled into my 7-year-old granddaughter’s t-shirt from the same brand. I looked like a sweating stuffed sausage from a midlife horror movie. The scaredy cat stretched across my ample bosom yelped “Goodbye!” instead of “Hello.”

I almost coughed up a hairball reading about the cat fight that ensured on social media as women howled their outrage at Frankel. The fur started to fly when according to some, the anorexic actress was exploiting her little girl. Others meowed that she was forcing her child to compete with her. This wild cat of an inadequate parent was destroying the self-image of girls and fluffy kittens around the world.

Some allowed their claws to come out and ripped her to shreds on Twitter. They accused the tiny want-to-be actress of eating like a mouse and encouraging bulimia. I suspect that many of these cat-calls came from those with an excessive body mass index, so I stopped reading the comments and moved them to the litter box. Such unwarranted outrage left me scratching the couch. Get a life, already.

For more than thirty years of my adult life, I’ve witnessed the unnecessary vitriol exchanged between women. Before I fade away into the genderless old folk’s home, I’d like to see women celebrate each other instead of fighting like felines in heat. Really, it’s okay if a reality show star wants to wear her kid’s clothes. Those who are foaming at the mouth in disgust need to watch the news to learn from the legitimate reality shows about what really matters. Wars, famine, abuse, stupid politicians – these are all far worse than Bethenny Franklel wearing Hello Kitty slippers.

When I returned the t-shirt to my granddaughter, she asked to wear my old outfits for dress-up clothes. We were delighted as she pranced about in the discarded power dresses of my past life. And, to my knowledge, not one other 7-year-old criticized her for wearing my clothes. Perhaps there is hope for the younger generation.