Kathryn Elliott's Blog

I’m blessed with an amazing group of strong, intelligent women friends. Any time of day or night I can send out a distress signal and these women will be there with open minds, hugs and if needed, a shovel to bury the body. After, we make cookies.

Last week was difficult, filled with challenges on all levels and I turned to my closest gal pals for advice. Like always, the insightful conversation was seasoned with compassionate, helpful dialogue and frightening amounts of cheese. (We singlehandedly fund the dairy industry.) Somewhere between critiquing my latest chapters and solving world problems we slipped into the pitfalls of dating over 45.

Sweet baby, Jesus! I was in over my head fast. The last first date I had was 25 years ago and he’s pretty insistent on staying. I think it’s my eggplant parmesan, or maybe the two kids, until death do us part thing….but I’m pretty sure it’s the eggplant.

Listening as the single-ladies lamented over their dating woes, I couldn’t help but wonder where my highly educated, staunchly independent friends vanished to. Their experiences had a common thread – settling, an acceptance of the mature dating pool as shallow, murky and overpopulated with the tossed back man trout.

Call me an optimist, but I believe if you want a relationship there is someone for everyone. That said, and with my dear friend’s permissions, I’m going to share a handful of tips for dating over 45. Hopefully the genuinely wonderful gents reading this will pick up a few pointers on making a good first, or, fingers crossed, a lasting impression.

Don’t Be THIS Guy

The Trendy Ted – You know Ted, he’s the guy who tries to impress you with his knowledge of hashtags, catch phrases and ‘hip new places.’ Newsflash – the only hip place Ted goes to is his orthopedist. Stop trying to impress, show us your flaws – we like that! We have them, too.

Half-Listening Larry – Oh Larry, the king of the quick text and absent phone call. Here’s a simple concept, never greet a woman with ‘sup. A – You’re not Kanye. B – We deserve a complete sentence, at the very least two syllables. We want conversation with nouns, verbs and a few conjunctions of foreplay.

Over-Groomed Owen – If you use more ‘product’ than we do – stop. Be clean, that’s it. Don’t arrive to take us to dinner with granola-crunchy-mousse-mop, and with cologne, less is more. The car is small, so are our lungs. Dressing nicely is lovely, and appreciated.

Share-it-All Stan – Oh Stan, we don’t want to know about your first marriage. We’ve been there, some relationships don’t last – we learn from them, no one is perfect. If we make it past the first date, and that hinges on you immediately ceasing the recap of your douche-lawyer’s failures, then we can dig a little deeper. Until then, ask if we want to share some nachos and talk about books – books get us hot, and you get bonus points.

Sporty Morty – First, if you assume we know nothing about sports, we will rattle off the entire starting lineup for the 86 Mets before the waiter pours the Merlot. Keep it up and we will mentally deflate your genitals to Titleist testicles and go Rickie Fowler off the tee. Don’t stereotype – sports are gender neutral.

Prince Charming is subjective and definitions of happily ever after vary from person to person. What one woman finds endearing sends another running for the nearest emergency exit. Remember, your odds increase when the need to impress decreases – be genuine from day one. (That needs a t-shirt! Calling Trendy Ted – #hashtag!)

Whether it’s thoughtful presents, your time or delectable treats, Christmas is a time for giving. And as dictated by Elliott family tradition, my sons begin their shopping today, because, you know – Christmas Eve; they live dangerously.

Now don’t misunderstand, I love everything my boys have ever given me, and as much as I treasure green apple bath salts and bedazzled  kitten mittens, I decided to turn this year’s gift list into a chance to do more.

I’m blessed to be involved with the below charities, and encourage you to click through and read all about the good they are bringing to the world.  Avoid the mall, forget the wrapping, and do something for the greater good – make a donation, it’s the priceless gift that never stops giving.

Merry Christmas – and thank you!

The Caroline Previdi Foundation : The Caroline Previdi Foundation was created in memory of Caroline Previdi, a first grader who was lost in the Sandy Hook Elementary tragedy. Her positive and enthusiastic approach to life as well as her concern for others inspired her family and friends to create this foundation in her honor. Caroline was an expressive and happy little girl who embraced a wide array of activities like soccer, dance, art, and swim team. In addition to her activities, she found great joy in helping other children. It is our hope that her legacy will continue as the foundation provides support to children who lack the financial resources to be involved in extracurricular activities. (Fabulous gifts available! )

Connecticut Children’s Medical Center:Connecticut Children’s Medical Center is a nationally recognized, 187-bed not-for-profit children’s hospital serving as the primary teaching hospital for the Department of Pediatrics at the University of Connecticut School of Medicine. Named among the best in the nation in the annual U.S. News & World Report “Best Children’s Hospitals” rankings, Connecticut Children’s is the only free-standing children’s hospital in Connecticut that offers comprehensive, world-class health care to children.

Cooklander – To The Stove: Cooklander: To the Stove! is a collection of 550 recipes from Starz Outlander cast, crew, and Fanmily from around the world.  We sent out the word we wanted donations of recipes, and we had to turn some away. We may share some of those with you while you wait for your cookbook to arrive. We wanted tried and true recipes, the kind you find at family gatherings, neighborhood potlucks, church socials, and especially those that were handwritten by Grandmothers​.  These cookbooks will make great Holiday gifts for Outlander and cookbook fans  as well as maybe finding a new recipe to try for the Holidays

World Child Cancer – Bonnie Terbush’s London Marathon Sponsorship:In developing countries fewer than one in 10 children with cancer are diagnosed, treated or given pain relief. World Child Cancer improves cancer care for some of the world’s poorest children by creating international twinning partnerships between medics, hospitals and parent support groups. Thank you for taking the time to visit my JustGiving page. In  April, 2016, I will be traveling to the UK in order to run in The London Marathon. I will be running with Team World Child Cancer.

I host Thanksgiving dinner; a tradition passed down to the eldest daughter with a corkscrew and prayer from generations of female masochists.  My theory, somewhere between Ireland and the new world, my great-great grandmother made a deal with God: “Get me there safe and our family will always welcome travelers into our home.”  

Damn scurvy fatigue– couple oranges in her diet and I wouldn’t be polishing silver for twelve.

Preparation angst aside, this is my favorite holiday. No gifts, no decorating and no Merry/Happy political correctness to stumble over at office parties. We laugh, eat, and drink enough to unearth more than anyone wanted to know about Cousin Ernie’s Tinder profile. We embrace the crazy that is us – that is family.

Guests come and go, faces change with the years, but as long as new arrivals bring wine and Charades skills, the door remains open. All are welcome!

Well, that’s not completely true; there is one awful fellow, a real glad-tidings sucker. He barged through my front door in 2001 without a single yam and refused to leave. His name, Fear – and he demands to be fed.

Fear isn’t a new face at the table; he’s intruded on family gatherings in a variety of disguises since Cro-Magnon forgot cranberry sauce. In the 1940s, he sat back and laughed in his German liveries, passing the gravy to newly enlisted cousins as their mothers wept. The uniform evolved, but his ultimatum remained; feed me.

A Nonna-class pot stirrer, Fear identifies relatives susceptible to travel anxiety and zeros in before the turnips cool. Nothing fortifies his appetite more than Aunt Marge peeking at her phone for the latest threat level at West Palm International.

Still ravenous after the main course, Fear saves his big binge for dessert – politics. During election years, his outspoken girlfriend, Ignorance, tags along. Although she typically only mouths off before coffee is served and sobriety restored.

Turns out, Ignorance isn’t bliss. She’s a boozy, internet nourished ‘expert’ on the Syrian refugee crisis. Now a good host can mitigate this problem two ways; control a spirited and respectful debate, or, the more popular option, let Grandma rip off her conservative cardigan and launch the knitting needles. Results vary; in my house – run, Iggy, run!

By no means is Fear alone the root of holiday tension. If that were the case, the mental health industry would collapse tomorrow.  However it’s time we recognize him for who he is – family, the ugly cousin no one admits lurks behind their hostilities.

Gun control, religion, welfare, public policy, you name it – families argue about it. And why? Because family is safe, family is comfort and above all family is forgiveness. Have your rant, have a second helping of Aunt Ethel’s rutabaga torte; you’re still on the Christmas list, but save a morsel of tolerance for dissenting opinions, you never truly understand the source of someone else’s passion.

And when things get heated, as they often do, and Uncle Joe takes a solitary walk to burn off some mad with the extra stuffing, remember it’s not the first time he’s left family behind. He did it in Vietnam – and Fear, was there.

I have a sweater; a threadbare Irish knit straight from County Cork and covertly smuggled through 1970s US Customs on the back of my thrifty, albeit felonious grandmother, Jane. Yes; she knew better, but she did it for more than the obvious thrill-junkie lure of contraband European craftsmanship. It wasn’t bragging rights at bridge club or the scornful yet satisfying glares of the bible study holy rollers that drove her to theft; it was a sale, too good to pass up! A genetic trait I share.

Thanksgiving, sometime in the 1990s Sweatergate revealed itself through the aid of turkey haze and Jane’s holiday oxygen – champagne. She was a small woman; it was a big bottle, things happen.  My oldest son, barely walking, managed to wobble his way into her closet  – he had an endearing love of Bewitched-inspired, pleather wedge slippers; very retro-toddler.

As I sat on the floor, cajoling him to rejoin the family with the promise of pie, we heard Dom-dreamy Jane approach. It wasn’t hard, bubbly always made her musical – today’s choice, her go to Que Sera, Sera. (Loud enough to make The Man Who Knew to Much forget his own name.)

“Oh, there you are; shoe shopping?”

“Yes; he’s torn between the slippers and Poppy’s wingtips.” I shivered. My grandparents saw heat as elitist comfort.

She dug behind the 75 empty dry cleaning bags and cackled. “Here, take this sweater, doesn’t fit me. Funny story…”

And there it was – her moment of shame dressed in a closet full of wicker pocketbooks and laughter. Hallmark Channel will never wage a bidding war for the rights to Calamity Jane’s big raincoat and faux bladder emergency run past customs, but it’s a memory I cherish, and today, needed.

In days where evil blankets every corner of the world and every facet of media, we look for something, anything to remind ourselves there is good, there is laughter, and there is joy and love in the darkest of times. For me, comfort comes in the form of illegally imported wool.  

When the towers fell, I wore the sweater. When a gunman murdered innocent movie goers in Colorado, I wore the sweater. When Oregon college students were executed for being Christian, I wore the sweater. When 26 innocent women and schoolchildren were massacred in my hometown, I wore the sweater. And today, as Paris mourns the massive loss of life at the hands of terrorism, I wear the sweater.

Dieu bénisse Paris. Tu es aimé.

Remember the good ol’ days when people running for office gave a damn about the American people? Yeah, those were fun times; nothing like today’s circus. Of course those elections weren’t perfect; it’s tough staying ahead in the polls when your campaign manager’s yellow fever spreads to the press pool and the tour posse throws a shoe mid-Oregon Trail.

Full disclosure – I’ve dabbled in politics, never as a candidate because masochism isn’t my gig, but I’ve contributed on a grassroots level to campaigns connecting with my inner voice. (Truth: Inner Voice should shut up and avoid Vegas – picks dogs.) Through these lessons in futility, I’ve gained a unique perspective on the 2016 presidential race, an overall sense of where the country is heading and how we’ll arrive – maybe a visual will help.

I’m trying to be optimistic, really, I am, in fact I’ve made conscious efforts to tune-out (unfollow/block/swat-away-carrier-pigeons) negative publicity, but let’s get real here – social media casts a wide net and we’re a helpless bunch of Nemo-like chum trapped in the webbing; one more email from the DNC and someone is getting the CRAP opted-out of them!

Then there’s the media – treading lightly here because I occasionally wear a press pass, but COME ON! Depending on the network, the slant is so steep toward one party, not even Bear Grylls with Batman’s grappling hook can stop the broadcast from spiraling downhill into the biased sludge pit. Disgusting – truly.

And folks, we’re just getting started; it’s going to be a long year of desperate politicians courting voters by whatever means necessary; I liken it to Tinder for fictional characters – Snow Rightwing will kiss a lot of fools before she wakes up with a prince, or herpes – anyone’s guess.

I’m not asking for a miracle, I don’t expect Jimmy Stewart’s Mr. Smith to revisit Washington and give voice to the millions of citizens still in possession of common sense and love of country – that ship sailed, or sank depending on your euphemism of choice.  All I want is an honest, non-media pandering problem solver, capable of abiding by constitutional law while not being an asshole. (Sorry Mom, asshole is the only term that works here.)

Now, where are you Mr/Madam President? Because as of today – you sure as hell aren’t running.

Credits: giphy.com, IMDb.com, Disney.com, Marvel.com

Dawn of Dormagedon.

Necessity is the mother of invention.  And as the mother of a college freshman, I find it necessary to encourage the nice folks at Bed, Bath & Beyond to invent a screaming room for first time dorm shoppers. Churches have them, thus it’s perfectly reasonable for BB&B to offer a safe, non-judgmental space to screech the Lord’s name in vain – right between foam pillows and mattress covers works – maybe have a priest on retainer, you know, for the exorcism.

John, my eldest and first to leave the nest will be flying the coop in ten days and I find myself waffling between ugly sobs and jubilation. One minute I’m dragging him to family activities like we’re a tone-deaf version of the Osmonds touring the senior cruise circuit and the next minute I’m ticking off days until his departure like a sailor anticipating Shanghai shore leave.

Today’s linens expedition was supposed to be a bonding experience – and it was. I’m bonding with the Chardonnay as I type.

And so I said…

“What color comforter do you want?”

“Don’t care.”

“How about sheets?”

“Yeah.”

“Ohhhhh Kaaaaay. What color sheets are your roommates getting? We should match.”

“Match? Who gives a shit – we’re guys.” Grabs nearest androgynous color. “These.”

 “OK, gray.” How is he mine? “What else do we need?”

“Football cleats.”

“For your room! You can’t sleep in football cleats; you’re not a cobbler’s elf.”

“What?”

“Never mind; give me the list.” Snatches university suggested checklist. “Towels; two sets.”

“Do you want shower shoes?”

“WTF is a shower shoe?”

“Flip flops. You know, so you don’t get a fungus or something worse.”

“What’s worse than fungus?”

“What did you volunteer to bring for the joint bathroom?”

“Floor shit and the hangy thing.”

(Side note: I love my son to the moon and back. Great kid –  not a wordsmith.)

“What about accessories?”

“What the hells an accessory?”

“Posters, pictures, decorations.”

“I’ve got my black light and some car stuff; this is stupid.”

I wasn’t expecting a complication free excursion, but with each new aisle his mood dipped to a lower level of sullen. There was no joy, no budding excitement over the impeding move – only a forced smile washing over his face with each new question; I felt like a mother dove releasing her fledging chick over Dick Cheney’s place. And then, it hit me…

He’s scared.

We left, my credit card maxed and his spirits buoyed by the next-up-in-Debtville cleat shopping. And this, my friends, is where the ugly sobs broke.

“Um…Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks; for the stuff – and college and shit. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Johnny Bean.” Paused, debated, bit the bullet. “You know I was nervous going to college the first year. It’s perfectly OK – even for big football stars like you.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Well, I’m not, but I will be – just like you.”

Kathryn Elliott:

Proud to be part of #ThePeakPosse!

Originally posted on Dandelion Max:

…and it’s not what you’re thinking. (Although, you’re probably right with wherever your train of thought was going.)

January of this year, Sam Heughan (Outlander actor) issued a fitness challenge – My Peak Challenge. I’d been trying to find motivation to make a change, get moving, lose weight, and get healthy. I figured if a Scottish hottie couldn’t get me motivated then there was something wrong with me. Case in point….

Ummm….what was I saying?

I signed up for My Peak Challenge but found myself not sure how to proceed. I needed more…I just wasn’t sure of what. On Twitter (yay social media!), @MyPeakChallenge mentioned a Facebook group called ThePeakPosse who were helping each other with their challenges. I looked it up, asked to join, and got so much more than I bargained for – in a great-life-changing-these-women-are-AMAZING- way.

ThePeakPosse is the handiwork of Ms. Bonnie Terbush, aka Queen B…

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I don’t do lunch; I eat it. Call me an archaic networking failure, but when I break bread with a colleague I use real-life terminology – and a fork. Alas, the looming cost of college tuition trumps my hatred of hipster lingo; I need the freelance writing gigs regardless of whether the client requests beer and pizza or an ‘interface over free-range chicken salad on gluten-free toast points.’

There are several ways to earn a living as a writer, most are legal. Fiction is my first love, but not the lucrative career Angela Lansbury lead me to believe; damn you Cabot Cove and your bloodless crime scenes and succulent lobster!

Now I don’t want to burst any aspiring author bubbles, but if you’re a halfway decent writer, fiction gets you extra cheese on life’s pizza – if you want Chianti, get a day job. This is why it’s important to keep the lines of communication open, tell everyone what you do and never turn down a meeting because a project doesn’t seem right for you. First and foremost, a writer writes!

OK, Amish vampire erotica isn’t your cup of tea, (and if it is – we will never be friends), but it may open a door to something greater. Case in point, I’m hip-deep in edits for Finding Caroline, the second book in The McGinn Series, but my kids insist on an occasional protein with dinner, so…I freelance with a variety of local newspapers to make ends meet.  It ain’t sexy, but it’s income, and when done correctly last week’s human interest story may lead to this week’s Pulitzer.  (Zip it ! Let me have my fantasy.)

Contract writing is feast or famine, with reliable nourishment coming to the most flexible first. The more available you are, the more opportunity knocks – the key is knowing when to answer, and when to release the hounds!

Photo Credits: theantiroom.com, wifflegiff.com