Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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I’m a Loser – The Erma Bombeck Writing Competition Says So

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My entry in the Erma Bombeck Humor Writing Competition did not win. That’s because a thousand funnier women also entered. But, you can read it for FREE right here! Please, don’t judge it because for five minutes I’ll be insecure and delicate.

Sucking Food from a Bag

By Elaine Ambrose

I used to feed my little ones with a spoon shaped like an airplane. Now they open their mouths every time they hear a plane.

But we had great fun during mealtime. I’d strap their wiggly body into the highchair and begin the mommy dance of getting most of the food into their body as the rest splattered on the walls and in my face. The airplane spoon worked best and we had great travel adventures right there in the kitchen.

“Here it comes, (creative airplane noises), open up!”

The animation worked until I tried to sneak in blended peas or stewed prunes. Then even the most daring and high-diving airplane spoon couldn’t open the steel mouth of refusal. But, this pilot was no dummy. Sprinkle a few berries on top of the concoction and that fortress opened faster than the mouse ran up the clock.

What’s up with wee toddlers sucking food out of pouches? Now clever marketers and busy parents have discovered food pouches that offer quick, easy, and convenient ways to feed babies. Slap on an “organic” label, and you can dash out the door guilt-free. Just don’t forget to take the baby.

Ancient civilizations used to chew their food and then give it to their babies. Personally, I recommend a food blender. I wonder if today’s young parents know that they can take regular food and smash it into mush to make it easier to feed their toddlers. I suspect this technique was used by all the generations before 1927 when Mrs. Dan Gerber, the wife of a Michigan canning company owner, asked her husband for help in straining peas for their infant daughter. Now Gerber sells 190 products in 80 countries, and in 2007, Gerber was sold to Nestlé for $5.5 billion. Well played, Mrs. Gerber.

My baby son didn’t like processed baby food. That could be because he weighed 20 pounds when he was four months old and had the appetite of a high school football player. He preferred soup, mashed potatoes, and hamburger. By age one, he was gnawing on steak bones. If I had offered him a pouch of processed baby food, he would have toddled out the door and attacked the neighbor’s cat.

I believe a special experience is lost when a toddler is strapped into a back car seat sucking food from a bag while Mommy is swearing as she maneuvers through traffic. It’s probably okay to use the food pouches in emergencies, but otherwise I say bring back the airplane spoon, sit down face to face, and have some fun. Delightful toddlers have a way of turning overnight into aloof teenagers, so enjoy a captive audience while you can.

Midlife Cabernet: Playing Doctor with Grandma

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My grandmother’s generic treatments for our childhood illnesses were successful because we were too terrified to get sick. The potions and homemade remedies combined country folklore with whatever magic medicine was stocked in the pantry. Only sissies and townsfolk went to the doctor.

Grandma’s healing practices were legendary. If we had a sore throat, she would wrap raw bacon in a tea towel and pin it around our neck. Consequently, my brothers and I never mentioned if we felt sick. Suffering in silence was preferable to smelling like a meat locker.

Another home remedy for coughs was to smear Vicks VapoRub on the soles of our feet, cover them with thick stockings, and send us to bed. If that didn’t work, we were fed raw onions and honey. Needless to say, we held back a cough until our ears bled.

The cure for earaches was practical. Heat a green onion in the stove and then stick the bulb in the painful ear. The warm vegetable would dissolve any wax buildup and eliminate the pain. We knew not to look in the mirror or answer the door while wearing onions in our ears.

One nifty trick to remove fish bones stuck in our throats was to swallow a raw egg. If that didn’t absorb the irritating bones and flush them down, the thick substance caused us to vomit the bones and the egg. Mission accomplished.

I remember injuring my elbow after falling out of a tree. Grandma wrapped my arm in a tea towel made from a flour sack and tied the ends around my neck. I wasn’t able to climb another tree for several years and my arm is still crooked.

Back in those days, Grandma was under pressure to survive with what she had. She made soap, churned butter, sewed clothes for her children, and baked every meal from scratch. Her pantry held a cornucopia of canned fruits and vegetables. And remedies. But we all survived and lived to tell about it. Thanks, Grandma.

Midlife Cabernet: Will my Power Cord Work in a Cave?

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I’m being pressured to throw away all electronic devices and go live in a cave in the forest. The one instigating the rebellion is the tiny voice that sporadically echoes through the cob webs in my middle-aged brain and whispers, “They’re all out to destroy you. Run away now.”

The current wave of frustration was caused by a few exasperating problems: my credit card number was fraudulently taken and used to purchase sports equipment in Delaware and a tourist trip to Australia. Then my cell phone died. Then my computer got a virus and went black while I was working on an important project. If I lived in a cave, I’d never experience these annoyances.

It took several days to deal with the issues. My computer returned from the repair shop with a perfect screen and a hefty repair bill. The credit card company canceled the card and the debts, and my cell phone just needed to be recycled. A 10-year-old child could have handled all these problems while simultaneously creating a video and texting 100 of her/his closest friends.

It’s a challenge to keep up with technology, especially because I grew up thinking a keyboard was on a piano, a ram was in the pasture, a cookie was something to eat, and the one telephone in the house was attached to the wall. I wrote papers and short stories on a manual typewriter and was positively giddy to get an IBM Selectric typewriter. Now I take my Ipad on vacation and input, format, copy, and insert my blog with attached pictures onto the World Wide Web. Amazing.

All this marvelous technology that allows me to instantly research facts, pay bills online, book an airline flight, and watch a video on my cell phone also attracts evil scoundrels who steal credit card numbers and send malicious viruses through the Internet. The answer is to spend more time with my small grandchildren. They know how to download an app for that.

Midlife Cabernet: My Life as a Buffoon

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Yesterday I attended an important strategy meeting at an upscale restaurant with two other businesswomen. During the meal, I accidentally knocked over a glass of wine, soaking my papers, my Ipad, the tablecloth, and the menus. The women continued to discuss the agenda as we calmly moved to another table. My inevitable clumsiness came as no surprise.

I don’t intentionally plan to cause havoc, mayhem, and disruptive behavior, but I’ve been cursed with the exceptional ability to stumble, sprain, break, bruise, and choke my way through life with consistent proficiency. A few true examples show pathetic proof of my accident prone existence:

I broke my foot a few weeks before my son’s wedding so I had to wear a huge black boot. So I covered it with jewels and danced all night.

On a business trip to the east coast for Boise Cascade, I sprained my ankle and tore ligaments and the injury required a visit to the emergency room so it was reported to Workers Comp. My boss was furious because the accident impacted our department’s safety record.

Once I threw a stick to a dog and a splinter impaled a nerve in my finger. My hand swelled and turned black and I needed regular transfusions to battle the ensuing infection. My arm had to be tied above my head on my bedframe, and now my finger remains crooked.

In 2000, I was the Commencement Speaker for the University of Idaho. On the day of the speech, I developed laryngitis. My voice sounded like James Earl Jones doing phone sex.

I was gallantly attempting a high impact exercise class with women half my age and I tripped over some hand weights, resulting in more torn ligaments.

I was the keynote speaker at a large banquet but right before it was my turn to speak I choked on a piece of chicken. The audience waited patiently while I coughed up the offending food, caught my breath, dried my watering eyes, burped, sneezed, and then stood to speak.

One late afternoon when I was skiing at Sun Valley, I flew off the side of a steep trail and landed in a tree on the far side of the mountain. By the time I could unstrap my gear and crawl down, the lift was closed. I had to catch the employee bus into town and then take another bus back to the ski resort where my friends and the Ski Patrol were frantically searching for me. My friends never skied with me again.

Instead of focusing on the negative reality of being awkward, I try to appreciate the positive aspects of surviving any day without calamity or an accident. I have another important business event this weekend and my goal is to go 48 hours without some catastrophe. If I can make it, my friends will be so excited they’ll bring me some wine – in a sippy cup with a lid.

Today’s blog was fueled by a Sabastiani Cabernet, a robust wine from Sonoma County. It’s about $55 a bottle at Bonefish Grill in Boise, and it’s embarrassing and painful to spill a glass. Next time I’ll bring a travel mug.