Taking Care of Business
Do you know how many blog posts I've written in the past week? A whole heck of a lot. I've been asked to guest blog during the month of July, and I'm cranking out the posts to turn in. Don't worry—I'll post details when I know the whens and wheres of the event.
You know where I'm going with this, don't you? Can you blame me? I've written so many blogs, I don't have it in me to write this one. But as tempted as I am to post a Gone Fishing graphic and flake out, I can't bring myself to let you down. That's love. Except it's the vague and shallow kind of love that only merits random miscellanea (see below).
So long, Madrid.
I'm back in San Francisco, and I feel pretty good about it. Yes, I miss Madrid—and New York, for that matter. But there's something refreshing about having the ocean and the fog again. It's good to be back.
I'd rather clean the toilet.
A few days ago, I got the proofs for my next book, TEMPTED BY FATE. Don't tell my editor this, but proofs are my least favorite part of the publishing process. (Translation: it's utter torture.)
Picture this: you get a copy of your book, formatted for printing. Your job is to go through and make sure the pages are set properly and that everything is in order (no typos, that all the copyedits were inputted, etc). Sound easy? It is. But it's freaking tedious, especially after you've already read the book several times in the previous few weeks.
A blast from the past.
I'm getting together with my best friend from high school today, and I'm beyond excited. It's been twenty years since I've seen her. Life tore us asunder. (Insert dramatic sob here.) But several weeks ago while I was in Madrid she emailed me, and we're seeing each other for lunch. I have no expectations, but I know it'll be lovely regardless of the outcome.
Vamos Argentina!
Argentina is advancing to the next round of the World Cup. They play Germany on Saturday, a game which may cause a rift between me and my sister. She has a crush on one of the German players but—dude—the Argentinians are way hotter. Especially the goalie. And Messi is a futbol god. There really shouldn't be any question of who to root for.
Disney World, here I come.
At the end of July, I'm headed to Orlando for the RWA National conference. Why should you care? Because I'll be signing books at the RWA literacy event on July 28th (I think). Stop by Disney World's Dolphin and Swan Resort if you're in the area, say hi, and buy a book for a good cause.
Sneakiness.
Did you notice how I just slipped a little bit of World Cuppiness into this post? I'm sly that way.
Speaking of posting...
I haven't written a craft post in forever. Anyone want one? And what would you want? Character stuff? Plotting? A discussion on scene? Pacing? Dialogue? Let me know if you've got things you want to discuss.
PC vs. Mac
I was going to write about the World Cup today, but I'm going to spare you for a number of reasons. Like the fact that most of you probably don't care about men chasing a ball back and forth across a field (although you would if you realized how hot said men were). Another reason is that I plague—um, entertain you with World Cup adventures every time it comes around, so maybe this year I'll give you a break.*
So what does that leaves me to write about? Computers, of course.
Specifically my sister's computer, Tartine. Tartine has been sick lately—alternately sluggish and feverish—so Parisa decided it was time to do open-motherboard surgery. She downloaded a Dell manual to my laptop, found the right sized screwdrivers, and began to perform the operation. Because I'm fascinated by all things technical I sat and observed, impressed by the way she methodically laid out each piece in order. Then she paused.
P, staring at Tartine's keyboard: This part makes me nervous.
Me: When I took Rodrigo apart, this part made me nervous too. I was afraid the plastic was going to snap in two.
P: You took Rodrigo apart?
Me: A couple times.
P: Have you taken McLovin apart yet?
Me, looking aghast: One doesn't take a Mac apart. One takes a Mac to a Mac store and let's them deal with it.
P, with a thoughtful look on her face: I wonder if it's because of the unicorns.
Me, wondering if she's inhaled too much dust from the motherboard: Unicorns?
P: I believe that if you opened one up, you'd find unicorns and fairies running around doing your bidding. And magical waterfalls. Think about it. Why else would people be so fanatical about Macs if they weren't magical? Which would be why they wouldn't want you to open the case yourself.
Me: You may be right.
So I've been watching McLovin really closely, hoping to catch a glimpse of the magic in action. I'll let you know when I discover anything concrete. I did sneeze a couple times as I wrote this post. Fairy dust perhaps?** We shall see.
* Note: there are still weeks of games, so I may totally backpedal and post about the games anyway. Especially if Argentina makes it to the finals.
** Note to the Mac fairies: if you read this, maybe you can sprinkle some fairy dust on the Argentinian team? You know, if you're not busy.
Complicated Stuff
"You called me your gentleman caller?" he asked the second I answered the Skype call. On video, he looked as indignant as he sounded. "Did old man sound too spry?"
I shifted the webcam so half my face wasn't cut off. "Gentleman caller didn't seem so bad."
"Can a gentleman caller and the Kama Sutra coexist in the same post?" His brow furrowed. "Does a gentleman caller even get to see your ankles?"
"Not in a blog that his mother reads. Besides, I can't call you my boyfriend." I wrinkled my nose as I tasted the word. "I just can't. It doesn't feel right. You're not a boy. You're all man."
He sat up taller in his office chair. "That's right, I am."
"I haven't found the right word for you yet." Pursing my lips, I reviewed the options. "I like beau."
He looked contemplative, like he was rolling the word around in his head. "Beau has promise."
"I wonder if any of my blog readers have suggestions."
A wary look entered his eyes.
Prodded by my shoulder devil, I rubbed my chin like I was in deep thought. "Maybe I should ask them."
"Um..."
"You don't mind if I blog about you from time to time, right? It comes with the territory." Because I'm truly evil, I added, "I'll try not to talk about the type of underwear you prefer or anything."
"We're going to have to set boundaries, aren't we?"
Oh, you can try, I answered in my head. But in the interest of keeping the peace, I nodded. "I would be open to such discussions."
His gaze narrowed. "Why do I feel like you're just humoring me?"
I blinked innocently. "I have no idea."
Books and Sex
A romance author walks into a bookstore.
For real. I walked into a bookstore to look at the shelves. I had a book published in Spain two or three years ago. The chances that it would still be in stock were slim, but I have friends with books translated into Spanish, so I went to browse the novelas románticas. Really, I was looking for VERONICA WOLFF novels—I totally wanted to buy one here. Sadly, I didn't find any in stock, but I did find a whole lot of other familiar names.
So I got this brilliant idea that I'd write a blog about romance novels in Spain. I know! Totally excellent idea, right? But as I started to think about it, I realized I had nothing to say about it. I mean, except that they're all published in a larger size than mass market: like young adult books or trade paperbacks. I guess women in Europe like 'em bigger.
So then I came home and laid down on the couch, thinking about the blog, when I noticed one of the books on the shelf next to me. Kama Sutra: The Perfect Bedside Companion.
Of course I opened it—wouldn't you? Professional curiosity. And research. Maybe I could get ideas for the next book. Or perhaps there'd at least be enough fodder for a blog.
There was fodder. Plenty of fodder. Like a footnote that says:
"There are certainly materialists who seemed to thing that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush."
Seriously—a bird in the hand and two in the bush? Snicker. Snicker again. And please don't tell me your mind didn't go there too.
Only then I remembered that my gentleman caller's* mom** reads my blog, and I haven't met her yet. What kind of impression will I be making if I write about, for example, "the fighting of the tongue"? And I was totally going to write about how a man should prepare for the day and his woman. There's a list, including:
"He should bathe daily, anoint his body with oil every other day, apply a lathering substance to his body every three days, get his head (including face) shaved every four days, and the other parts of his body every five or ten days. Ten days are allowed when the hair is taken out with a pairs of pincers."
Forget his face—other parts of his body? We're not talking about his toes, I'm sure.
For the record, I don't know any man who'd let someone with pincers get near his private red light area. Just saying.
But I can't talk about any of that. Mentioning men's dangling bits in front of my beau's mother? That's got to be against the law in some states.
So where does that leave us? Yeah—I have no idea either.
* To You-Know-Who-You-Are: as you can see, I settled on calling you my "gentleman caller" for the moment. Sorry I didn't use "Captain Loves-Real-Good" like you requested.
** To You-Know-Who-You-Are's mom: please don't stop reading my blog. Your presence will not inhibit me in any way. Obviously.
Adventuring
Yesterday morning I woke up and decided I needed adventure. So I got dressed, walked to the panadería to get a sandwich for the road, and then headed to the train station. Next stop: Segovia.
When I came to Spain, I thought I'd check out Granada, maybe Malaga and Toledo, but Segovia wasn't on my radar. But then I mentioned visiting Toledo to one of my new (Spanish) friends, and she said (somewhat wistfully), "I quite enjoy Segovia."
So there you go. And there I went. Lucky for you, I took pictures, so it'll almost be like you went along with me—only you didn't have to slather sunblock all over yourself.
The aqueduct. For those of you unfamiliar with Roman innovation, it's a fancy bridge that transported water. Segovia is in the background.
The cathedral. It was the biggest cathedral I've ever been in—I'm pretty sure. Things I noted about the interior: it was at least thirty degrees cooler than outside; there were more than a dozen small chapels circling the main nave; and it was all freakin' big.
I got whistled at by a construction worker inside the cathedral. WTH? That's just wrong, or sacrilegious, or something. Maybe he thought he was in tight enough with the Big Guy that he could get away with lascivious thoughts in a holy place.
Me, outside the cathedral. Aren't I cute, despite my lack of makeup? I love those earrings too. My sunglasses make me look like an insect-superhero though.
Approaching Alcázar, the big-ass castle in Segovia. If you were here for a history lesson, I'd tell you it was an Arab fort back in the 12th century, and a Roman one way before then (or so one infers), until it became a favorite place for royalty to chill.
But you're not here for a history lesson, so I'll tell you that there was a lot white fluffy stuff floating in the air. Pollen, anyone? And the moat was empty—I was minorly disappointed by that, but the suits of armor they had standing all over the place made up for it a little.
For two euros extra, you could climb up 152 steps to the top of Juan II's tower (hidden behind the trees). And to think I was paying eighty bucks a month to go to the gym to use the StairMaster.
The restaurant where I had my two hour lunch. Although the sign is false advertisement, because my fork was never lonely. It was always accompanied with at least a knife and sometimes a spoon.
New friends! I was sitting at the bus kiosk, waiting to go back to the train station, when this blonde accosted me. It turned out they were awesome, and fun, and from New York. So we met up for tapas and drinks later that night in Madrid. Craziness ensued, as it does when I'm involved. Sorry—can't give you details, because what happens in Spain stays in Spain. Let's just say it involved peanuts, Mui Mui slippers, and a very cute Argentinian guy.
Stay tuned for my next adventure, which may or may not include flamenco dancing and pigs. See you next week.