Kathryn Elliott's Blog, page 2
May 19, 2015
On Tour With Adding Lib!
Ever had one of those months where bathroom breaks become optional? Yeah, I’m there…AND LOVING IT!!
Check out Adding Lib on tour with these fab hostesses with the mostesses! (Yes – English is my first language.)
What’s in it for you? (I know you’re thinking it, you greedy tramps!) There’s a $25 Amazon/B&N gift card up for grabs!
May 18: It’s Raining Books
May 19: Danita Minnis
May 20: Lisa Haselton’s Reviews and Interviews
May 21: Andi’s Book Reviews
May 22: Marlow Kelly History and other Ponderings
May 25: Unabridged Andra’s
May 26: Queen of All She Reads
May 27: The Reading Addict
May 28: Megan’s Blog
May 29: CBY Book Club
June 1: Undercover Book Reviews
June 2: Rogues Angels
June 3: Long and Short Reviews
June 4: Kaisy Daisy’s Corner
June 5: LibriAmoriMiei
Come visit! I don’t bite! (Unless you say please!)
April 20, 2015
Group T & A – The Twitter Tagging Epidemic
Wit is not taught; you have it, or you don’t. You can’t order it from Amazon or develop it over time like a tolerance for The Bachelor. It is part of you, a primal instinct, a blood seeking beast trolling for prey and social media, my friends, is chum.
I’ve had a long week, one I’d not soon repeat, and in the midst of job loss, death and a multitude of parenting challenges I found myself turning to Twitter’s momentary oblivion.
Jesus Christ, why didn’t I just open a bottle of scotch like my grandmother taught me?
Sure, I’ve tweeted inappropriately, who hasn’t. Regrettable, yes, but entirely human – good, educated people occasionally share Paleo oatmeal recipes with celebrities and openly debate man-buns. It happens. However, there is an alarming trend burning its way through Twitter like a rampant UTI – I call it T&A – Tweet & Attach.
You know it, you’ve seen it, hell, you may even be one of the repeat offenders; one of the well-meaning but often misguided souls convinced each tweet is read, cherished and committed to memory if not tattoo by the initial celebrity recipient. And then…the thread of terror begins, the 80+ comments hit his or her innocent inbox like a Xanax laced freight train.
Please, stop it. For the love of God, STOP! I’m going to share something not in my best interest professionally, but I feel an etiquette lesson is due.
I’m a writer, this is my primary income, however way back, before I started bleeding over the keys full-time I was a musician, an athlete and *gasp*, a politician. No, not really. I was a social media ghost, a shadow persona behind the cyber curtain managing overwhelming web traffic for a small, select group of clients intimidated by the seldom blinking public eye; with notoriety comes complications – I’m a complex gal, sludge sorting is my superpower.
Twitter is a fierce marketing weapon in PR arsenals, a veritable Christmas morning for those tasked with prettying up tarnished images. It is 140 characters of concise dialogue and fast blasts of information. It is an avenue to new opportunities, friendships and reconnections with old loves, and in-turn, a boost to the sagging divorce industry. What it’s not, is an open invitation for useless.
Before publicity burnout, when I was still scouring countless, manic threads for hot points, rarely was it because a client requested a summary of follower sushi preferences or how “super-hot our kids would be together.” (Hand to God, daily.) Primarily I looked for three things; relevance, urgency and charitable opportunities – you know positive things, grounded-in-reality things. What I immediately discarded were rude, relentless and above all, speculative comments.
Commit this to memory, make a t-shirt, whatever works: Speculum and speculate; both end with ugly smear.
Here’s the root of my rant. If you are a fan, a true fan, make life simple for celebrities and the forces behind the scenes attempting to keep their careers out of the crapper and isolate what needs to be seen. One “I love your work” tweet, great, two, eh OK, but beyond that – no. Rip him or her from the barrage of subsequent banter like a good leg wax and snark-on with your like-minded group of misfits; misfits’ rock! Share killer cosmo tips, make memes and yes, be inappropriate if you’re so moved; your feed, your right, no judgements from me, but leave the unrelenting tags at the door. (They can hang out with the naked selfies until you sober up.)
Life needs two things; humor and restraint. The first isn’t so funny when you’re strapped in the latter.
April 8, 2015
Adding Lib Trivia Contest
You asked for it, you got it!
It’s easy – like me! Use the contact form below and answer these three simple questions. One lucky winner will receive a $10 Amazon Gift Card! No worries – I’ll get your email info with the entry, but I won’t share, sell or use it to hound you to buy girl scout cookies.
Winner announced April 26th.
Good luck!
1. Libby’s kids suckered her in to adopting a lovable yet flatulent black Labrador Retriever. What is his name?
2. Mae, Libby’s mother and unrelenting Catholic wears a locket. What are the initials inscribed on it?
3. When Libby lies, Mae says she has a ‘tell’ – a physical trait that gives her away. What is it?
[contact-form]
March 3, 2015
Down Write Dirty
Ever had one of those months where getting out of bed is a big goal? Yeah, I’m there.
Not sure if it’s the mounting snowbanks or my turtleneck-hatred, but climbing out of the flannel cocoon each day is getting harder and harder. I’ve actually gone so far as to wear sunblock as moisturizer in hopes of fooling my brain into beach-mode. No dice.
One upside of climate-induced house-arrest is writing time. Of course that requires Muse to stop being a fickle wench and get to work. She takes issue with forced creativity; sometimes she’s a sport, others…well, let’s just say she’s all caught up on The Bachelor. (Those women stand too close to the microwave.)
Each night Muse and I sit down to work on book two in The McGinn Series, Finding Caroline. A follow-up to Adding Lib, Finding Caroline focuses on Sean and Caroline’s story, and yes, there is considerably more steam in this storyline. (And by steam I mean smut, but my mother reads this. Must censor.)
Smut does not come easy to me. (Oh, the play on words with that statement.) I lock the office door, my warning to the family Mommy is crafting filth and fire off a few pages of smolder. Eventually Catholic school guilt eats a crater in my stomach lining and I wittle the prose-porn down to a couple of paragraphs of naked frivolity; all strong plots begin and end with naked frivolity.
My point is good writing forces an author outside their comfort zone. Of course in my case, Hubby would prefer I be more comfortable in this particular zone, but life is full of disappointment – he’ll adjust.
Many thanks for all the emails, Tweets and Facebook posts praising Adding Lib! Life is better with laughter; glad we can share some together!
My parents’ library shelf. Nice placement; God, Elliott, Chaucer, Dickens, Kipling.
January 26, 2015
Hugh-Mongus Week!
I struggled with today’s lead for a solid hour before I said, screw it…
I HUGGED HUGH JACKMAN!
That’s right, ME, and HUGH, and NO restraining order!
Was this an isolated incident you ask? Yes. However, in my mind we’re tremendous pals, taking our families on holiday together, comparing the merits of stage versus screen while we sip mojitos and nosh on free-range, gluten-free delights. Of course we’re both happily married, and would never act on our unrequited longings for each other; we’re too moral for infidelity. But the undercurrents, dear God the undercurrents. Our restraint is Herculean.
It’s my delusion, let me have it.
Moving on.
My hubby, the real love of my life, treated me to a 20th anniversary gift like no other – front row seats to see my pal Hugh and the fabulous Laura Donnelly in The River on Broadway. We braved what should have been a two-hour drive through ice and snow, arriving four hours later barely in time for curtain. There we sat – mesmerized, completely transfixed by what I, a theater-nerd, consider one of the most engaging performances I’ve ever witnessed. Ladies, if your fella’ isn’t a theater buff –this is his show! 90 minutes long, no singing, no dancing, partial nudity…and it’s about fishing!
GO SEE IT!
Outlander friends, Laura is an absolute sweetheart; a phenomenal actor with a wicked sense of humor. She’s going to KILL it as Jenny Fraser.
Now, on to Hugh and the hug.
Unfortunately, I did not manage a picture of the infamous canoodle; perhaps we’ll have another chance on our joint Jackman/Elliott trip to Fiji. (Waiting for his people to get back to me.) Here’s the best almost-pic I have. Hugh’s on my right – his “muscle” in the back.
Now, the most important reason for today’s post. I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to my darling husband for Mariano Rivera-ing the phone at him and screaming for pictures when my Hugh Moment arrived. After all, if it weren’t for hubby, the hug would never have happened.
Me: “Hugh, it’s our 20th anniversary and we came to see you!”
My New BFF: “Congrats, that’s fantastic!” (Side hug.) “Where is he?”
Me: “Um,” looks toward the mob behind me. “Somewhere back there.”
My New BFF: (Chuckles.)
Sigh...his laugh knots my knickers.
#MyPeakChalleng Update
30lbs Down and counting!
#ThePeakPosse Rocks! Get involved!
January 12, 2015
Budgeting Away Safety
Today’s post is a deviation from the typical tirades of snarky sarcasm followers love. (Hell, I need an alliteration intervention.) Bear with me, the banter resumes next week along with a few delightful surprises.
I’m a mother. (A colorful profanity typically follows that statement.) Rightfully, I’ve developed protective instincts rivaling a mama lioness when it comes to the safety of my children, especially at sporting events. Much to the cubs’ embarrassment, the instinct extends to friends and teammates – even those on opposing squads.
Last Tuesday, my youngest son, Brendan competed in his first high school swim meet. Hmm, how shall I describe Big B? I suppose you could say his spunk offsets his size. (Here’s his story if you are interested.)
If you’ve attended a swim meet you know temps on the pool deck rival a volcano’s digestive tract; chaos and ear-splitting volume are the norm. An away-meet, Brendan’s lack of familiarity added stress, but he hit the water with a hearty inaugural SPLASH! Fab first time he finished strong, jumped out for his high-fives and then minutes later…
Screams.
60 kids, 75 fans, 4 coaches and not one person saw him.
Motionless.
At the bottom of the pool.
A seasoned swimmer, lifeless, still.
Pulled from the water by a teammate, coaches revived the child before emergency transport rushed him to a nearby hospital but the question we all wanted answered – Where the hell was the lifeguard?
There was none.
My lioness craved blood.
In particular, the blood of the school board that deemed lifeguards non-essential at swim meets where coaches are certified in CPR and emergency first aid. Budget constraints, the ass-old excuse.
I’m not a politician, (thank Christ!) however, I possess common sense, and that sense tells me a coach cannot simultaneously manage, cheer and guard the water. For feedback, I’ll pose the question to all of you:
Do you believe CPR/First Aid certified coaches at high school level swim meets adequately ensure the safety of participants and eliminates the need for lifeguards?
Coaches, educators, especially lifeguards – I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please chime in. If you would rather remain anonymous, please email me at kathrynelliottwrites@yahoo.com.
Many thanks!
Note: The boy is doing well. Shaken, but well. Please check out this link on Shallow Water Blackout and spread awareness! Thank you.
Training Update:
25lbs gone, burpees no longer make me cry. Progress!
Join in the fun at My Peak Challenge!
January 6, 2015
Tweet & Peak
New Year’s resolutions are like Jimmy Choo boots on a goldfish – pretty, but damn useless. After all, those spontaneous I’ll-be-a-better human, get-off-my-ass-and-exercise suggestions we promise our self-righteous selves at the stroke of midnight aren’t dogma, it’s the booze talking – and you know it.
Given my prior losses on the resolution battlefield, I found the best way to make a promise AND stick to it was to find a greater good to strive for, a purpose, a better, more meaningful goal than skinny jeans and Spanx bonfires.
Huh? When the hell did she go all Peace, Love & Gandhi on us?
Fear not, I’m still here, wit-proficient as always, however, this year, instead of making resolutions, I made a change – it began in August.
In a space-saving attempt, I’ll link the back story here, but sufficed to say my yearly physical was crap. Did I wallow? Did I cry? Did I Hoover-Up a sleeve of Thin Mints and tequila chaser? Hell yes, dammit, all three; no guilt, no shame and no plans to do it again anytime soon. (Sweet Christ, my liver was a mint-marinated brisket.) Then I took a hard look at the ass-shelf of excuses I’d built my stellar physique on, and decided to find my motivation.
Cancer. Yep, that’ll motivate like a mother.
Not me, not this time, my go round was years ago and Stage One – carved out, nuked and sent packing. See ya’ sucker; I’m blessed, but too many wrestle this insidious monster daily – their only goal, survival. Some win, some lose, and some wait in that murky limbo between scans and cell counts praying for the margin all-clear. (FYI – limbo sucks.)
I’m not sure why it took me so long to find the connection, I’m usually pretty quick. (Except in math – math sucks the life out of creatives.) One day I woke up, dragged myself to the gym and saw a sign for the annual American Cancer Society triathlon and….
BOOM! I’m an exercise-training-healthy-eating-annoying-the-hell-out-of-my-friends-and-family-BEAST! It took a swift kick to the head from steel-toe reality, but seeing a way my efforts could not only benefit my health, but the health of the cancer community was all the motivation I needed.
And now, I’m addicted. Squats are my crack. (Yeah, I know how it sounds, but I love imagery.)
A few, slow-paced 5Ks, a dabble of cycling…confession: I run like a newborn penguin and swim like a blind cat, but it’s a start. My trainer has the patience of a saint. I give him dating advice, (the poor boy needs to get…a loving girlfriend), and in turn he teaches me how to exercise with less profanity. It’s a big stretch for me.
Which leads in to my latest endeavor.
Now, you may have heard; I’m an Outlander fan. (No, really Kath? I thought your ‘No Kilt, No Love’ t-shirt was a political statement favoring Scottish independence?) Like so many of her devoted fans, Diana Gabaldon’s books found their way into my hands and heart at a tremendously difficult time. My son, Brendan, now 14, was born three months early and given less than a 20% shot at living through his first night. Passing the endless months of worry that followed proved shear hell. But the story has a happy ending; Outlander, Dragonfly in Amber and Voyager later, Brendan came home, happy, healthy and wreaking havoc like all boys should. (Here’s more on that if you’re interested.)
Like a lot of OutFanders, I was skeptical when the STARZ network announced plans to adapt the books into a series, but I’m so glad I tuned in – they’ve done a beautiful job, and as fate would have it, my longtime love of all things Gabaldon recently collided with my newfound sweat fetish in a perfect, albeit amusing way – a truly Twitter way.
Ah, Twitter, where 140 characters grants interaction to all, even to those who scream psych eval. Who knew a simple retweet from could result in cyber chaos?
Um, well, apparently everyone – except me.
You see, Sam has a….hmm how to say it tactfully…enthusiastic Twitter following, and together with a super group of gents at Bear Strength Clothing he’s teaming up to fight leukemia and lymphoma through the My Peak Challenge initiative – a great cause to get healthy for. Hubby and I signed up yesterday. (I had to promise him…err…birthday and anniversary-only type things.) Our goal is a mini-triathlon; although we’d settle for spin class followed by a sushi date and shared ibuprofen.
So, silly, naive me tweeted Sam a picture of my latest elliptical peak in prep for the challenge – to which he graciously retweeted. Thanks Sam, always nice to be recognized, the entire Outlander cast, crew and especially Herself are lovely in that regard. However, that one, simple, insignificant picture lead to, shall we say, an avalanche of Sam lovers – a Samalanche of comments too entertaining not to share. I’m telling you, if crazy were a grain of sand – these people own beach front property.
Actual Tweets From Complete Strangers & My Replies
“OMG – Sam tweeted you! So hot. Was it good for you? ”
“It’d be better if he drove swim carpool – that’s my hot.”
“Who needs exercise – I get warm and sweaty looking at him. ”
“It’s a hot flash. Get a bib and some pride.”
“Check out this Sam pic!”
“Sweet Christ, my eyes! Does your mother know you tweet this crap?”
“I hear he’s dating…”
“I hear speculum and speculate both end in ugly smear #watchit.”
“I want to bottle his sweat and roll in it.”
“#saneisthenewblack #onesizefitsall #tryiton”
The moral of today’s post; life is short – live it to the fullest. Give time to your health, give strength to those who need it most, and for the love of God, give Twitter a rest. If you can’t say it to your grandma – don’t say it to the world. #TheInternetNeverForgets
December 17, 2014
Candid Christmas
I’ve had a good year, a really good year. In fact, I can’t remember the last time so many great things happened in our house. Oh, we’ve had our share of crap – hey, crap happens. That’s why this year I’m determined to release the holiday stress and spread Christmas cheer like mistletoe-herpes at an elf convention.
Ah yes, I’ve relinquished the idyllic Currier & Ives myth in favor of a more Kendall & Jackson holiday, and in doing so, overlooked the more temper-inducing moments of Christmas preparation.
Perhaps it’s better if I explain in song….
12 Days of Not Killing Anyone
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
Strep throat, he gave me friggin’ strep throat.
On the second day of Christmas my children gave to me…
Multiple sleepover guests. Hell, pure hell.
On the third day of Christmas my credit card gave to me…
Fraud alert. Apparently, I love porn.
On the fourth day of Christmas my colleague gave to me…
Obits. The sexy beat we all kill for.
On the fifth day of Christmas my Labrador gave to me…
Fiiiiivvveee midnight pukes. Damn tree water!
On the sixth day of Christmas my SUV gave to me…
Basketball hoop in the blind spot. CRUNCH.
On the seventh day of Christmas my trainer gave to me…
Burpees. Lots and lots of burpees. Sadist.
On the eighth day of Christmas my cable provider gave to me…
No internet. Deadline day. Perfect.
On the ninth day of Christmas my oil bill gave to me…
Sticker shock. Going rate for a kidney, anyone?
Then…
On the tenth day of Christmas the American Cancer Society gave to me…
A touching reminder.
And Of Course…
On the eleventh day of Christmas my conscience gave to me….
A swift kick in the ass.
Last But Not Least…
On the twelfth day of Christmas my petty-pea-brain gave to me…
The reasons 1-9 mean squat! xoxo
December 3, 2014
The “R” Word
Starting today’s post with a language disclaimer; regular followers are accustomed to my profanity sprinkles – they give a vanilla life more color, but I thought it only fair to warn new visitors.
Those I know outside cyber world can attest to my, ahem, outspokenness, especially in situations that insult or degrade the innocent. (Hell, that sounds too Verbal-Superhero, I prefer Ethical-Loud-Mouth). A blessing and a curse, this character trait often leads to…situations, and in those moments my grey matter can’t restrain my mouth, there’s high probability things will end with my husband identifying me through dental records.
There are very few things that truly erupt my Vesuvius temper, but there is one so close to my heart, so hot-button-pushing it’s a shame Catholic school squeezed the natural street fighter out of me – a biter with a low center of gravity, I’d have a six figure salary, easy.
What’s the number one reason I verbally eviscerate complete strangers? The R Word.
Time & Place:
Today – Department Store Checkout
Players:
Clerk: A lovely young man with Down Syndrome.
Me: Fabulous as always.
SHIT: Stupid-Haughty-Ignorant-Twentysomething.
Scene:
I’m ahead of SHIT, who, ironically, smells like he took a sponge bath in the cologne department, and of course my last item, a killer black sweater, won’t ring up. PRICE CHECK!
Clerk: “Mam,” (Blech, I got mam’ed), “do you remember where you got this? I need to go get another one.”
Me: “No problem, I’ll go.”
Clerk: “No, no, it’s my job.”
Me: “OK.” (I explain the location and off he goes. Usually I would tell him to forget it and spare my Visa pain, but it had perfect boob placement. Short torso girls will get it.)
So we wait…and wait…
SHIT: (Gigantic sigh) “Why do I always get the retards?”
*At this point I feel I should give one of those graphic content warnings newscasters spew before they roll clips of emaciated animals and 100-pound tumors. Look away if you’re squeamish.*
Me: “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
SHIT: “Hey, don’t get me wrong, it’s nice they let the guy work here, but come on…”
Me: “Come on, what?”
SHIT: (Eye roll.) “How long does it take to find a fucking sweater?”
Me: “I don’t know; how long did your fucking parents wait to tell you they’re brother and sister?”
SHIT: (Blank stare. Sarcasm is wasted on the wit-deficient.)
Clerk: “I found it.”
Me: “Thank you for looking.”
Clerk: “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” (I love him.) “Oh, I forgot to ask, do you want to open a (Store) credit card and save 20%?”
Now this isn’t my first retail-rodeo, I know how long this process takes, coal forms diamonds faster. I look around, note the only other register open has a ten deep line – and I grin, like shit, at SHIT.
Me: “Why yes, I’d love to open a store credit card, thank you for asking.”
Karma, is a bitch.
1/2 Triathlon Training Update:
Lost 5 more pounds, ran two more miles, cursed trainer less often.
December 2, 2014
Winners!!
Thank you to all who Liked-and-Shared Adding Lib on either their Facebook page or Twitter feed. The following lucky souls will receive this nifty tote & matching v-neck ladies t-shirt.
Eileen Corbett
Kath Baker
Nikki Geeting Mahan
Lynn Chudwich Rapp
Barbara Johnson
Please email me at kathrynelliottwrites@yahoo.com with your shirt size and mailing address. (M,L,XL)
Thank you! More contests coming soon!
