Interlude
Kate sipped at her latte, staring out the window. The sun reflected off the building across the street, blinding her. She enjoyed the brilliance for eleven seconds (she counted) before turning and looking in the other direction.
That young woman was at the café, like usual. She came every day—she and the café owner were involved in a romance. Or so it seemed to Kate. Their body language gave them away. This afternoon, she had her cute little boy with her.
Kate smiled at the little boy, who made faces at her as he ate a croissant and swung his feet, and then returned her attention to her computer. She had a blog to hatch.
She began to type, but then deleted the words. She tapped out some more words. Pausing, she looked at them, lips pursed. After a moment, she shook her head and deleted them too.
The man across from her leaned into her field of vision. "Are you okay?"
She blinked at him. "Don't I look okay?"
"You look like you're in pain."
She thought about that for four seconds (she counted that too) before nodding. "That's a fair assessment."
"Are you doing homework?"
"I didn't do homework when I was in school. Why would I do it now?"
"I don't know. You look studious."
Kate pointed at his laptop. "Are you doing homework?"
"I'm on Facebook. Is that what you're doing?"
"No, I'm working."
"What are you working on?"
"Why all these questions?" she countered suspiciously.
"I'm doing a survey of what people do in cafés."
"Liar."
"It could be true." He shrugged. "Are you going to tell me what you do?"
"I'm a romance author."
"Liar." His brow furrowed. "Wait. Are you lying?"
"It could be true." She shot him a Mona Lisa smile and returned to her blog. She knew exactly what she was going to write about now.
Pendleton, Oregon
The Magic Man and I made a trip up north to Pendleton, Orgeon. My man had business up there, and I tagged along to keep him in line. I make an excellent chaperon.
My summation of Pendleton: it's weird.
The town is famous for its Pendleton wool shirts and blankets as well as whiskey. Mostly it revolves around a rodeo, called the Round Up, that happens every year. They live for those four days at the end of summer. Aside from the Round Up, not much happens in town except drinking, as far as I could tell. And why not, when beer is only $2.50 a pint?
The migratory habits of the average Pendletonian bar hopper is fascinating. They travel in packs, running en masse from one bar to the next. One second a bar is completely filled with people, the next they're all stampeding out the door and down the street to the next one. My Magic Man and I tried to run with the pack but they saw through our disguises and culled us.
Freezing.
It was icy and cold in Pendleton. I'm a tropical bird, not a penguin. Ice and Kate do not mix. End of story.
Writing.
I went to the only coffee shop in town to write for a couple hours and landed smack in the middle of the regulars. Coffee shop regulars are always awesome AND they provide good fodder for characters. One day when one of my heroines says "I should have stayed with him, because then we could have grown old and resentful together" you'll know it was from my brief trip to this Oregonian cow town.
Dear Kate.
The Magic Man and I were taking a post-dinner, freezing stroll down Main Street when suddenly a young woman called out to us, asking us to keep her company. One thing led to another, and suddenly she was crying on my shoulder, lamenting about her cheating ex-fiancé and how she was never going to find anyone who appreciated her for who she was and how she hated the town. She wailed, "I don't want to be here anymore!"
So I said, "Then leave."
She stopped sobbing and blinked. "What?"
"Leave." I shrugged. "Go someplace else for a while. You can always come back."
"That's the best advice anyone's ever given me!" She threw her arms around me and clutched me tight. When she let go (finally), she said, "You remind me of Cameron Diaz in The Holiday."
Needless to say, I'm thinking of starting an advice column. My working title: Buck Up and Deal, Plus Other Words of Wisdom.
Your turn.
Tell me where your dream destination is and why. Go.
They Say It's Your Birthday
Not mine, but my sister's, and to help her celebrate I flew my ass to New York for an epic week of celebration that involved drinking, eating, and playing skee-ball. There was also much dancing—on top of bars, tables, and various other surfaces.
I don't have pictures of any of that. Trust me—it's better that way.
But I do have a few from her actual birthday that you may enjoy viewing. Where better to start than with my sister and me?
Aren't we cute?
Like I said, it was her birthday. This is what 28 looks like, apparently:
Frankly, I don't remember my 28th birthday, but I'm pretty sure it didn't look this aggressive.
For her birthday, I really wanted to have a Crif Dog. Being a good sport and loving sister, she acquiesced to my desire. I ordered a hot dog wrapped in bacon, with cream cheese, green onions, and hot sauce. I was VERY excited about it.
The hot dog was frickin' amazing. I would have gotten another one, but my sister pointed out that we didn't have time in our schedule for a triple bypass. Next time.
After hot dogs, I took my sister for a trip to the moon.
She rocks the space suit. You should see her hop along the lunar landscape.
The week also included other fun, non-birthday related events. Dinner with my Magic Man's family and lunch with friends, most notably JB Lynn. Usually when I have lunch with JB, there's at least one sighting of a murdered body (suspense authors see corpses everywhere). This time, not so. It was strange. I did, however, almost get arrested while I waited for her, so that's something.
If you were going to celebrate your birthday for a week (and I highly recommend that you do), what sort of activities would you include?
Leaving on a Jet Plane
I'm on the airplane, headed to New York.
The in-flight movie is Dolphin Tales. I haven't been watching, but I just tuned in for one scene. What's the world coming to when Morgan Freeman makes prosthetics for sea mammals?
The woman across the aisle from me plays solitaire on her iPad. She's tall and blond and Spanish, dressed in head-to-toe black. Stunning, really. I wonder who she is, what she does, and where she's going. She looks like a Bond heroine. She's making notes on a napkin with a blue ballpoint pen.
There's an empty seat separating me from the woman sharing my row. Good thing—she just had a sneezing fit. She's also on her iPad. Her nails are painted a gunmetal blue and she's wearing a black and gray striped sweater that matches the socks I have on. I want to offer them to her to complete her outfit but she doesn't look like she'd appreciate the thought.
A child screams, pulling me out of my train of thought. I turn my music up, and Marvin Gaye urges me to get it on. In my mind's eye, I picture my Magic Man serenading me, his gyrating hips giving Elvis a run for his money.
My companion for this trip is Whistler, the new Kindle Santa brought me. He's loaded with over a hundred books. It's a giddy thing, having so many books available at a whim.
I have to admit, though, it's not like holding pages in your hands. Whistler doesn't curl up with me the same way a ratty paperback does. He's not as warm or soft, and he doesn't smell pulpy or like mildew. Still, it's the wave of the future, and I'm hopping on. I've started releasing new digital books for you to enjoy, hopefully one every few weeks.
The latest: Perfect for You.
It's fitting that Perfect for You is out this week. It's my sister's birthday week, and it's her favorite story of everything I've ever written. She's been pestering me to publish it for years.
So here it is. Read an excerpt. Buy the book for your Kindle or Nook.
I'm going back to the Lee Childs book I'm reading on Whistler. Happy trails.
Auld Lang Syne
Have you ever heard anyone sing Auld Lang Syne? I don't mean in a movie or on the radio, but in real life. Like you were at a party, and at the stroke of midnight on New Years the crowd broke out in the song.
I never have, and I've heard a lot of things in my lifetime. Not saying that it doesn't happen. Maybe I'm not hanging out in the right places. Maybe it's not a California thing but is totally sung in Kansas. I don't know.
Why do I care? Shrug. I was just wondering. My Magic Man's insane curiosity is probably rubbing off on me.
Anyway...
It's the Year of of the Dragon, yo! Energy and spirit rule this year.
Do I really believe in the Chinese zodiac? I shrug again and say, "Meh." But that doesn't mean we can't decide take the fire of the dragon and apply it to life. I'm making that my main goal this year: I will approach things with passion. Instead of coasting casually, I'm going to attack what I do with enthusiasm and intensity. My writing, my workouts—heck, even hanging out with friends.
But I have other, more succinct goals as well. Five, to be exact.
1. Write a letter.
A real letter—by hand. When I was a kid I wrote letters with a ferocity that would have intimidated a Victorian. Then email came along... I don't remember the last time I actually penned a letter to someone. But I have cute cupcake stationary, and I'm going to physically handwrite a few letters this year.
2. Take more pictures.
I begged my sister to borrow her digital SLR, but it's been collecting dust on the floor next to my work chair for months. It's time to break it out and start taking photos. You get a different perspective on things from behind the lens.
Yes, I'll probably subject you guys to more picto-blogs. Be forewarned.
3. Sing more often in French.
It just makes me happy.
4. Wear my tutu more often.
I can't remember the last time I wore my tutu. What's that about? Clearly I need to reorganize my priorities and get in touch with what's important once again.
5. Take an art class, even one online.
I can't remember the last time I painted either. I have incentive too—my Magic Man gave me the most awesome art kit for Christmas. I'm going to learn a new technique or two, try my new oil pastels, maybe even sketch a thing or two.
What sort of new things are you going to try this year? What do you want to do more of? What are you going to attack with fire and passion?
The New Year
I feel like I should give you some sort of inspirational "the new year is upon us, go forth and conquer" post. Something about resolutions and making at least one that you're determined to keep, and writing down what you'd like to accomplish.
Pish.
You heard me—pish. You already know that stuff. You don't need me to tell what to do.
What do I feel like telling you? Nothing.
It's the type of day to curl up with a new book and a hot beverage and just read. Doesn't that sound lovely? I have a book waiting for me about ten inches away, and it's urging me to finish writing this blog so I can spend some time with it.
Maybe that's my message this year: give yourself a treat. Do something for yourself because it would make you happy, not because you have to. I can't think of a better way to start off the new year.
Do it.
Happy New Year.
What a Pickle
I like pickles. Cornichons specifically (or gherkins, for those of you who prefer the barbarian tongue). But that’s not what this blog is about.
Did you know National Pickle Day was November 14th? Yeah, I didn’t either. The motto for our briny holiday is Eat a pickle, hug a friend. Is it just me, or does that seem a bit strange?
But that’s what I want to talk about either.
Then what DO you want to talk about, Kate? you exclaim.
Patience, dude. I’m getting there.
A couple weeks ago I spent the weekend with my friend Dawn. Usually, our visits include much wine and merriment. This time, we took a break from drinking to pick out and decorate her Christmas tree.
Okay—fine—we didn’t take that much of a break, unless you subscribe to my belief that having whiskey tea is more like drinking milk than alcohol.
Anyway…
I was pulling out the ornaments when I found it: a shiny glass pickle. Since it didn’t match the silver and white theme Dawn had going on, I held it up and tactfully said, “What the hell, Dawn?”
She glanced over. “That’s a Christmas pickle. It’s a German tradition. You hang it in the tree and the person who finds it on Christmas Day gets a special present.”
I stared at the pickle in my hand, intrigued. Who knew there was a special pickle to hunt on Christmas? And you know what? The practice even has a name: Weihnachtsgurke. But what I love most about this German Christmas Pickle tradition is that apparently no one in Germany actually knows about it. Google it. There are several myths about how it started, but none of them are substantiated.
No, I don’t have a Christmas Pickle for my tree, but I’m rectifying that. Next year I’m going to play hide the pickle too, and if you find it, watch out—you’re in for a treat. Wink.¹
¹ Come on—you knew I wouldn't be able to resist.
Definitely Nice
Dear Santa,
You and I are like this.
Don't roll your eyes. I may not rock the fabulous belly or have enough red fur in my wardrobe, but we have one BIG thing in common: our love of lists. The only thing better than a list is sticky notes. But—dude—in your line of work, sticky notes would get out of control really quickly. Plus, with all the traveling you do, your current method is much more efficient. I totally get it.
So this list of yours... You know the one I'm talking about—the one you're checking twice.
I know in the past years, there’s been some debate about which column I fall into. Not so this year, let me assure you! I’ve been the best girl EVER. It’s almost killed me, but I’ve made it, and I think you realize that too.
Because I’m such a good girl, I’m even going to help you out by putting together a short list of things you could bring me. You know how I’m zodiacally predisposed to wanting new, shiny things? Well, this year, I’m going for modest.
No, really.
All I Want for Christmas: Kate's List, Not the Song
My sister.
I’m already getting her from someone else. Sorry, Santa. Snooze, you lose.
New tango shoes.
I know, I know—I haven’t been out dancing in forever. What do I need a new pair of tango shoes for?
Because I want them. Duh.
Also, I’m making a commitment to go dancing at least once a month from now on. Life is too short not to tango, especially when you enjoy it so much.
A note on the shoes: I wear a 36, and Greta Floras are a must. Not that I don’t like the peacock blue, but my preferred color is silver. Except—you know—do what you have to do.
Clothes.
You don't want me to get hypothermia, right? So perhaps a few warm things to augment my wardrobe. A couple long sleeves T-shirts and thin sweaters to layer over my tank tops would be much appreciated. I may also need the cute denim skirt I saw at American Apparel. Based on the outfits I’ve seen Mrs. Claus wearing, I figure you’ll be all over the skirt. You appear to be a leg man.
A trip with my Magic Man.
Somewhere warm, please. Maybe a beach getaway, where he can frolic in the surf and I can lounge in the sun and write. I’m even willing to compromise and only go away for two weeks instead of two months.
A new kitchen.
Don’t roll your eyes at me, Santa. It may be a tad difficult to get that much foliage outside my windows, considering I’m on the fourth floor, but do try. Also, you’re going to have to stretch out our apartment. But—heck—if it’s easier just to give us a new condo, I’m good with that.
Also, I wouldn't scoff at some shiny new Le Creuset pans to go with my shiny new kitchen. Maybe in green. Or whatever color you have left at the end of your route. I'm not picky.
Does that give you enough to work with? My main concern is making your job easier for you. Think of me like your little helper, minus the green tights and pointy hat.
Happy Holidays, big guy!
Smooches,
Kate
Contraband
Sometimes you wake up needing adventure.
My happy trekking shoes.
So I put on my happy trekking shoes and walked out the front door. My destination: Contraband Coffee. Had I ever been there? No. Was it close to home? No—twenty blocks away, to be exact. Was that going to stop me? Heck no.
I started walking.
Pepto pink was the color of my walk.
A young studly guy walked a small fluffy white dog who wore a pink sweater. Neither one looked happy about it.
A woman strode by swathed in black, except for the slash of pink around her neck.
A VW Cabriolet in the same pink was parked on the street. What kind of person drives a pink Cabriolet? I’m picturing a goth rocker.
I'm thinking of making a modest one like this.
Gingerbread houses!
I'm thinking of making a modest one like this.
I passed by a store that had gingerbread houses in the window. I stood and stared in for a moment before I realized it was workshop where you could make your own gingerbread house, like those ceramic shops where you paint dishes. How cool is that?
Have you ever made a gingerbread house? I’ve ALWAYS wanted to but never have, but I think this is my year. Who’s going with me?
Nibbles of interest.
Along the way, I walked by a new bakery that giving out bites of treats. I took the scone sample because I didn’t want the dude peddling calories to feel rejected.
I also saw this cool-looking bar called Black Sheep. How appropriate, right? For those who don’t know me… In my family, I’m the oddest one out. I’m the one who doesn’t have a real job, who goes dancing all night, who skips out of the country on a lark. Black sheep, thy name is Kate.
I show you guys a lot of cafe pictures. It's better than the alternative, I guess.
My sister is odd too, but somehow I have the reputation. She seems to blend in better. I don’t understand that. She’s the one more likely to run off to join the circus.
Twenty blocks, a dozen good mornings, and two fewer layers later, I arrived at Contraband.
The sun streamed through the windows, bright and happy. Since I’m a creature of the light, this instantly lifted my spirits, which were already pretty high.
And they have white orchids in the center of the main communal table. I picked at bright spot at one of the tall tables and sat down with my latte.
Adventure achieved.
And... she's back!
Sightings of a woman in a purple tutu have been reported throughout San Francisco.
Has Kate Perry returned?
“I saw her!” one witness exclaimed. “I was in Readers Café at Fort Mason, ordering coffee. Well, actually, I was getting a latte. Their lattes are so delicious. They use Blue Bottle coffee, you know. Anyway, I paid and was leaning against the counter, waiting for the barista to finish my drink when I happened to look over to the couch, and there she was. She was sitting plain as day in her tutu, feet in sequined flip-flops propped on the table. My first thought was that woman’s mother obviously never told her not to put her feet on the furniture, but then I realized it was Kate, and it all made sense.”
The baristas at the café refused to confirm the sighting. “We don’t divulge our customers’ identities. I mean, like, you should totally be entitled to privacy while you drink your coffee, you know?” one of the morning crew said.
A downtown stockbroker also claims to have seen Kate Perry. “I have to say, it was after a long day, and the bar was dark. It could have been anyone, but I’m pretty sure it was Kate. She had her sidekick McLovin with her. She looked hard at work, and she drank a dirty Martini with three olives. It had to be her. Kate likes them dirty.”
“I haven’t seen her,” said one Ocean Beach resident, pouting. “It was such a comfort seeing her prowl the hood in her tutu and heels. When she was out, you knew something interesting was about to happen. Life isn’t the same without her.”
“I think all the confusion is because she’s not hanging out in her usual haunts,” local Kate-expert Rufus Jackson explained. “If you know where to look, you’ll find her. And if you know anything about Kate, you know she’s not one to just disappear."
A confidential source close to Kate confided, “Yes, Kate’s back, and she’s bigger than ever. You just wait—she’s going to blow your mind with what she’s got up her sleeve. Or, in Kate's case, up her cape.”