Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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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 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: From Harley-Davidsons to Hostess Ding Dongs

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elaine harley trialIn a former life, I rode a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, drank gallons of cold beer, ate greasy chicken wings, and made love at noon in a mountain meadow. Now I drive an SUV, sip laxative tea, and snack on protein bars. Passion is pleasurable, as long as the lights are low and the experience requires no more than three positions. I’m in my transitional phase from badass to bad back.

Going through the change means more than searching for quarters in the couch. Middle-age has the power to turn us from free-spirited, sex kittens into snoozing old cats who occasionally perk up for a romp between the moisture-wicking sheets. With erratic eruptions of body heat so intense that it melts the polish off of our hairy toes, we’re truly hot women, but in a different way.

Dealing with night sweats, insomnia, forgetfulness, and irritable bowel system are nature’s way of saying, “Park the motorcycle, Honey. Find a comfortable chair, preferably in a cold meat locker. If your lover is a Real Man, he’ll wear a winter coat and join you. And if he brings a plate of Hostess Ding Dongs, that man is a keeper.”

Eventually the hot flashes diminish in intensity until you feel confident enough to attend dinner parties again. But then an entirely new assortment of maladies attacks your aging mind and body. You’ll graze the buffet table like a famished hog, bend over to pick up a dropped cheese ball, and fart so loud that the jazz band stops playing. Then you’ll burst into tears and lock yourself in the bathroom where you’ll spend an hour plucking black hairs from your chin.

There’s no need to remain in the bathroom because midlife also brings constipation so profound that it should be studied by civil engineers. “Look at this one, Mac. She could stop a log jam in the Mississippi River during a spring flood.”

Memory loss is another irritating condition of getting older. When I started to forget things, such as the names of my children, I developed some techniques to improve my memory skills. Here is the best idea I can remember: Keep your brain active by practicing word and math games. My favorite exercise is to realize that a 50 percent off sale on shoes means I can get two pairs for the price of one. Or, twenty for the price of ten! See how math and memory can be fun!

We’re getting older because we didn’t die young. Grab your bifocals, if necessary, and look on the bright side. If you survive midlife, you can do anything. Your kids are grown so you don’t need to clean up projectile vomiting or deal with head lice. And you don’t need to bake forty dozen cupcakes for the school carnival and then buy them back again. And take the money you once spent on tampons and buy Ding Dongs and wine instead. Best of all, you can sleep naked with the bedroom door open. The Harley-Davidson may be gone, but the free and feisty woman lives to seize another day.

Midlife Cabernet: Saying “Happy Birthday” to an Ex-Father

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Scan_20140703 (2)For ten years, I enjoyed membership in a large Italian family, and they excelled in festive reunions, dramatic gestures, abundant food and drink, and naming several people Michael. After I canceled my membership by divorcing one of the Michaels, I was no longer included in the festivities. That’s another disadvantage of divorce. I really enjoyed those parties.

But, because we’re celebrating our national freedoms and because I still admire many of my former relatives, I’d like to wish a happy 90th birthday to my ex-father-in-law. He’s one of the Greatest Generation, a retired military colonel with a distinguished career, and a sassy, stubborn man who loves the dolce vita. And, he loves his six children, their spouses, and all their children and their children. And, all the aunts, uncles, and cousins. We could still be good friends, if it weren’t for that unpleasant divorce issue.

The entire extended family is gathering this weekend to celebrate his birthday. After making a comment on Facebook about wanting to be there, I received a curt message telling me to stop harassing the family, go away, and stay away. My first reaction was, “Wow. This message contains three spelling mistakes and five punctuation errors in only 66 words.”

But I don’t want to attack the writer because I admire her defense of the family and I sincerely want to apologize for offending her. However, I think she should know that at my age, there’s not a chance in hell I will change. And, I’ll probably correspond with those she told me to leave alone. In responding to caustic messages, there is a fine balance between “Bless You” and “Bite Me.”

I’m grateful that I keep in contact with my ex-sister-in-law and her charming children. Removing the in-law label still makes her a sister. Our friendship extends beyond marriage licenses. I’m not advocating divorce, especially in a loyal Italian family, but I offer an olive branch of peace to those who resent me. Preferably that branch produced extra-virgin, first cold-pressed olive oil in Italy.

There are many fond memories of my former family. I miss seeing how the nieces and nephews grew up, and I’d love to have some authentic green lasagna again. But I respect their decisions not to stay in contact with me. The last time I saw the entire group was when I sang “Ave Maria” at the funeral mass for my mother-in-law. The Italians know how to celebrate life, birth, death, and any occasion to bring the family together, open several bottles of wine, and sing, quarrel, and sing again.

I’ve joyfully remarried, and my husband continues to send birthday and Christmas greetings to his former mother-in-law because she was an important part of his life for 25 years. That’s fine because she’s a lovely woman, and she is the grandmother of his children. However, the family reunions are different now because my husband’s family contains many Southern Baptists and they don’t drink alcohol. They’re good people, and we have plenty of designated drivers.

Years ago I sat in a little restaurant in Rome, Italy with my ex-father-in-law (what a clumsy title), and we clinked glasses and shared good wine. I’ll toast him again in honor of his birthday, miles away but with earnest respect. Buon compleanno, Babbo.

When Love is Stronger than Disability

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mom-mirabelI’d like to share a photograph of my invalid mother with dementia and my sweet 4-year-old granddaughter with Down syndrome. Today KTVB-TV, the largest station in Idaho, chose it as “Photo of the Day.” My caption: “There is no disability when communication is shared with love.”

The hands are compelling – one is young and healthy and the other is gnarled from a lifetime of work and prayer. The gentle scene suggests that labels and disabilities are less important when sincere affection is present. As the world is raging out of control and my vision is assaulted with images of hatred, destruction, and clenched fists, I prefer to focus on a brief but powerful act of love. Hugs can heal.