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.
Tonight's Special: Wilted Spider in Vinaigrette
Most writers keep files of random ideas and snippets of stories that come to them. I don't. No, my memory isn't superior to other authors. I just never look at notes after I write them down. And, frankly, my notes aren't very good—in quality or content.
Case and point: I came across a file full of random little bits of "stuff" as I was trying to figure out what to blog about this week. The last time I touched the file was six years ago. Included in this Word .doc:
My grandmother always told me that only simpletons believed in fairy tales.
Your favorite phrase growing up was probably “I’m telling.”
There was nothing she hated more, except maybe tuna fish that wasn’t dolphin-safe.
It's amazing how freshly waxed legs change your outlook on life.
Tonight's Special: Wilted Spider in Vinaigrette
Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone.
Yeah, I'm wondering what I was thinking when I wrote that last line too.
What's the point of this blog? God knows.
Okay, I'll be honest with you. My mind is on the book I'm working on, currently titled Secret Project X, or The Novel that Broke Kate's Back. I'd rather be writing my next chapter but the blog got in the way.
I really would rather be writing it. This is a new feeling for me. Usually, I like having written, not the actual process of doing it. Writing is hard. Sometimes writing is akin to being poked under your nails with bamboo.
Not this time. Don't get me wrong—it's still hard, and I feel like I'm recklessly careening along, writing whatever comes to mind, without rhyme or reason. But I'm having all sorts of revelations while I'm careening out of control. Unfortunately I can't tell you what those revelations are, since my project is super secret. You'll just have to trust me.
So...
Tell me about you. What's your favorite song right now? If you could have anything to eat, what would it be? Do you favor France or Italy?
In The Waiting Line
The Magic Man leaned in and whispered in my ear. “The man in line behind us is holding eight cans of whipped cream.”
I looked up from the magazine I was flipping through as we waited for our groceries to be rung up. “Yes, he is,” I said, putting the magazine away. I preferred the Weekly World News over Star anyway.
“What do you think they’re for?” the Magic Man asked in an even softer whisper.
I took another quick peek at the dude over my shoulder. Five-eight, medium build, cagey eyes. Nondescript in his black pants, white shirt, and scruffy red jacket. But it was 1am and he was buying eight cans of light whipped cream, so I was willing to believe there was more going on. “He’s going home to a wicked game of whipped cream Twister.”
The Magic Man frowned. “You think so?”
“Or else he’s having a banana split party. Or a Fourth of July whipped cream fight.”
“Whipped cream fight?” he repeated, sounding dubious.
“Like a water balloon fight, only you fill the balloons with whipped cream.” I pursed my lips. “That would be fun. I wonder if he’d invite me.”
My man shook his head. “He’s got eight cans of whipped cream. Whatever he’s doing has got to be more interesting than that.”
“I thought whipped cream Twister was pretty interesting.” I gave up any pretense of being inconspicuous and stared at the dude. “He looks furtive, like he’s got his hand in the cookie jar and he doesn’t want Mama to find out. I bet it involves sex.”
“You think everything involves sex.”
I shrugged. “I’m a romance author.”
“And it’s light whipped cream, not regular. Why?” The Magic Man’s eyes lit up in that way that always makes me nervous. “Can I ask him?”
“Can I stop you?” I sighed. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”
He faced the dude, who was looking at us nervously by this point. “Excuse me.”
The dude’s eyes widened and he took a step back, glancing around as if scoping out escape routes. I was afraid he was going to pee his pants, he looked so startled, but he didn’t. Yes, I checked.
The Magic Man, focused on his burning curiosity, stepped closer to the guy. “What are you going to do with all that whipped cream?” my man asked pointblank.
The dude scuttled backwards. "I—er..."
Do you have a guess? Tell me what you think, and then I’ll tell you what the dude said to us. Go for it.
Bunny Love and Other Tales
First...
Bunny Love and Other Tales. Get it?
The Magic Man, ready for action. It's too bad you can't see his fluffy pink tail.
Next...
The Magic Man, ready for action. It's too bad you can't see his fluffy pink tail.
For Easter Sunday, my Magic Man donned a bunny suit and went to frolic in the park. It takes a special man to parade around town in a bunny suit. It takes a REALLY special man to have one hanging in his closet.
Actually, his closets (note the plural) are full of all sorts of wonders. Clown shoes to wigs, glittery fake eyelashes to furry pants. We went to a concert of Prince covers not long ago I casually commented that he should wear a purple suit. I didn't expect for him to go into a closet and emerge with one in hand.
And then...
I'm headed out of town tomorrow. Exciting news, indeed, don't you think? We're going to New Orleans where my sister is going to meet up with us for a week of beignets, blues, and boogying. Whoop! But before New Orleans, the Magic Man and I are making a stop in Florida, to visit his grandma. Last week she called me his "little friend." I love her already.
Also...
Anyone have book recommendations? I need some poolside reading material for Florida. I want something with a good, strong character, preferably not romance. Go.
Actually, I know exactly what I want to read, and my sister has both books. Such is life, I guess. What are these books? you wonder. Allow me to tell you: The Girl Who Chased the Moon by Sarah Addison Allen and Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin.
I love love LOVE Sarah Addison Allen books. I wish I wrote like her, I love her writing so much. Any book by her is a reason to anticipate. As for Game of Thrones, I've read it, but I read it fifteen years ago when it first came out. I remember that it rocked, but the story is fuzzy in my head. With all the hype for the TV series, I figured I'd reread it again.
Lastly...
I don't have a lastly, really. I sat here and tried to come up with one but no dice. Sorry. If you have a lastly, feel free to contribute. We're all about collaboration here.
The Week
People think writing is exciting, but it's not—unless you're the type of person who finds sitting on your ass all day a thrill. So, really, I hardly ever have an exciting week. Most weeks consist of a lot of typing punctuated with the occasional mild pleasure—like finding a dollar in the pocket of your jeans.
However, this past week was truly action-packed and exhilarating. So exhilarating, I thought you guys would totally be entertained by all the festivities. But then I ran into a snag.
The snag: somehow all that excitement didn't translate into an interesting blog article.
Bummer, right? Fortunately for you, I have a few pictures from the week. Unfortunately for you, the pictures are still boring. Oh well. Deal with it.
Last week my friend Lou¹ asked me to be his +1 at the launch party for Bulleit Rye a) because his wife couldn't make it and 2) because I love whiskey. The first person I met was Tom Bulleit. He and I discussed San Francisco and the Presidio over a glass of his finest.
Next to Tom is his daughter Hollis, who chatted with me and Jorie (one of the bartenders at Zero Zero) about drag queens and real boobs.
There were all sorts of cocktail stations set up. This is the interactive bar:
I made a beeline there, thinking interactive meant I'd get to mix drinks or—I don't know—dance on the counter. None of that happened. But Dominic (the bearded dude on the right) did make me an awesome cocktail with rye and coffee liqueur.
The thing about going to the launch party for rye is that almost everyone is drinking, ergo conversation is interesting. That afternoon, I discussed Presbyterians, cupcakes, Ron Jeremy's mustache, writing, and breaking into hotels to use their swimming pools. I'm chalking the event down to one awesome research trip.
Speaking about research... On Sunday, Macy's was offering a cupcake class.
I always need to do research on cupcakes, so of course I attended. I thought they'd lecture us about Spring trends for cupcakes and then give us some samples. I didn't realize it was a cupcake decorating class. My table was supposed to make this flower:
But when I got my allotted supplies, I realized I needed to make a monster instead. Meet Ralph:
He's a happy monster, not the kind that hides under your bed. He really needed blue fur instead of yellow, but I had to use what they gave me. (I wouldn't be surprised to find out that cupcake chefs moonlight as prison guards. They were hardcore.)
Really, I just wanted to eat cupcakes. My beloved told me I should have cut out the middleman and gone to a cupcake store instead. Very true. I could have hung out in a cupcake boutique all afternoon without having to work for my cake.
In other news... Remember the whole "sitting on your ass all day" them I started this blog with? That's what I've been doing. I'm rewarded for my efforts because I'm on the home stretch with my book. Except last week I had a panic about what was supposed to happen on the way to the resolution, so I mapped it out. Behold the end of my book:
The end is nigh. And then: a celebratory rye.²
¹ Photos of the Bulleit Rye launch are courtesy of my friend Lou Bustamonte. He and I went to high school together. We were the cool kids, and we still are.
² Yes, I realize that a career in poetry is probably not in the cards for me.
Let's Go Crazy
When my betrothed produced tickets to a sold-out Meshell Ndegeocello show for Sunday evening at the Independent, I was thrilled. Not because my betrothed is a magic man (which he is) or because I love Meshell (though she does have an awesome voice) but simply for the fact that she was doing a concert of all Prince covers.
I forgot to take my camera to the concert, and I couldn't find any photos from other people. But I did find this one, and I think it's absolutely perfect.
I don't know if I've mentioned this to you, but I love Prince. Let me clarify: I'd have his love child. I credit my friend Kari Tsujimoto in the 7th grade for my affection for the great purple one—she was crazy-big into Prince. She even had a life-size cutout of him in her room (which isn't as big as it sounds since he's a slight man). The very first tape I owned was 1999, and my second was Purple Rain. I know all the lyrics to most of his songs, even the obscure ones.
So of course I was super excited for the concert.
Unfortunately, it was a dud. Mostly sound quality was bad, but also I didn't love a lot of the songs she chose to sing. However, Meshell did sing a sexy, love ballad-y version of I Wanna Be Your Lover that ROCKED. I get goose bumps thinking about it. It made the entire show worth it. Well, that and the crazy motorcycle ride up and down San Francisco's hills in the rain afterwards. I felt like I was in Purple Rain.
But none of that is the point of this blog.
"So what the heck is your point, Kate?" you exclaim with an exasperated huff.
Allow me to elucidate. I started thinking of Prince, all his songs, and which ones I'd perform if I were a singer. And it inspired a list.
Some Days I Feel Tangerine, Some Days I Sing Too: Kate Covers The Artist
- TangerineThis is what I'd open my Prince-cover-concert with. Picture it: me, sitting on a stool with just a guitar singing the poignantly sweet song.
- Raspberry BeretHow can you NOT sing Raspberry Beret, right?
- Diamonds and PearlsMy romance writer heart would find it ultimately satisfying to sing "If I could, I'd give you the world, but all I can do is offer you my love." Just saying. And, actually, I'd do this as a medley, straight into...
- Pink CashmereI've always wanted a coat of pink cashmere.
- 200 BalloonsAny song about balloons, much less 200 of them, is fantastic in my book. You can't go wrong with balloons.
- On the CouchYou probably don't know this one but, trust me, it's a good one. Although I had a hard time deciding between this and Call My Name.
- Gett OffBecause I'm not sure everyone knows there are 23 positions in a one-night stand. Also the beginning of a medley, into...
- Erotic CityA classic never dies.
- 7One of my all-time favorites songs by the paisley master. I perk up every time I hear it. My shoulders are shimmying as I'm humming it right now.
- Purple RainYou HAVE to end on Purple Rain. I think it's a commandment, right after "Honor thy mother and father."
I don't know—maybe you'd pick a different set of songs to cover. Or maybe a different artist. Tell me. But if you don't like Prince, you better keep that to yourself¹.
¹ Bradley, this means you.
Mardi
Having FINALLY finished the book I've been working on (a month after my self-imposed deadline, by the way), I think I should take a small vacation from writing. Sensible, don't you think? Which means no blog.
I know. I talk tough, but you called my bluff. I'm writing a post even though I'd really rather be reading right now. If I hadn't already read Veronica Wolff's new release, DEVIL'S OWN, that's what I'd curl up with. But since I've already read V's book perhaps three of four times (and it was excellent each time) I'm opting for Rachael Herron's HOW TO KNIT A HEART BACK HOME, or UNDER THE TABLE (a saucy tale from culinary school).
Or I might go on the roof and bask in the perfect San Francisco day. The view from the roof is fairly spectacular:
I'd sit up there, watching the sailboats on the bay. I'd probably drink a milky coffee too.
Or, if I could have anything in the world, I'd hang out with my sister:
Even though she gives me that beleaguered "the things I do for my sister" look when I ask her to take a picture ASAP and send it to me. She looks more like a New York editor here than my sister, which would make sense since she actually is an editor in New York.
Anyway, if P and I were together, you'd think we'd go for pi. (Get it??) But we'd opt for cupcakes. St. Cupcakes, to be exact:
But P is in New York, I'm in San Francisco, and the cupcakes are in Portland. We were a triangle doomed from the start.
Perhaps instead of writing my blog, I should do my toes. Currently showing: Wined Up. I'm thinking I might be more in a Princess Pink mood though. Or Red Hot Chili. Opinions?
Of course, now that I've posted a photo of my toes, I'm going to get all sorts of freaky fetish people coming by, because I need more strange people trolling my site. (Take that as you will.)
Dear Freaky Foot Fetish Folks: please move along. My toes aren't very nice and, you can't tell, but I have no toenails on my last two toes. (I like to think of myself as highly evolved.)
Or, since it's Mardi Gras, I could just start partying now.
Why wait for this evening's festivities? I've got beads, a cabinet full of liquor, and a roof. What more do I need? Plus I finished that damned manuscript—that's cause to drink and flash people in itself.
Dear Freaky Fetish Folks: I was totally joking when I said I'd flash people. Move along. Thank you for your patronage.
At Johnny Rockets
2am Sunday morning, I found myself sitting at the counter of Johnny Rockets, with my friend Patrick on my left. I was debating whether I needed fries to go with my apple pie and cheddar when Patrick nudged my shoulder. “Hey.”
“You can’t have more pie,” I said automatically.
Like he didn’t hear me, he speared another slice of gooey apple off my plate. “What do you think about that girl there?”
I moved my pie out of Patrick’s reach, just in case this was a ploy to finish off my midnight snack. “The one at the end of the counter?”
“Yeah.” He glanced over at her in the not-so-inconspicuous way men have of checking out the opposite sex. “She’s cute.”
I looked. She was cute. She had dark honey hair and a wide, Julia Roberts smile. “She looks drunk.”
“Everyone in this joint is drunk.”
“I’m not,” I pointed out prissily.
“Do you think she’d call me if I gave her my number?”
Again I studied the girl in question. “It looks like she’s on a date.”
Patrick frowned. “But he’s a boy.”
“Which is perfect since she’s a girl. She’s half your age.”
“What does that matter?”
I sighed. Men.
“Go give her my number. It’s great to get an endorsement from a woman.” Patrick nudged my shoulder again.
Bracing myself so I didn’t fall off the stool, I shook my head. “But she’s on a date.”
“Tell her to call me when she’s ready for a real man.” He took out a card from his pocket, scribbling some digits on it, and handed it to me. “Please.”
His puppy dog look slayed me. Sighing, I took the card.
“Practice what you’re going to say now.”
“What? That you’re not bad, and that a couple showers should make you smell better?”
“Oh Jesus.” He gasped. “She’s leaving. Go now. Go go go!”
I groaned as he pushed me off the stool. Patrick was like an older brother, and I knew if I didn’t do this he’d taunt me about chickening out for the rest of my life. So I ran out the door into the cold night air. “Excuse me,” I said to the girl.
But she was drunk, so she didn’t hear me.
“Excuse me.” I tapped her back.
She laughed at something her other drunk friend said.
“Excuse me.” I gripped her coat and turned her around. Before she could say anything I handed her the card. “Here. My friend in there thinks you’re beautiful, and he’s a good guy.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet.” She stumbled only a little when I let go of her clothing. “Thanks!”
"Cheers,” I said and hurried back into the warm diner.
Patrick was doubled over laughing.
“What?” I asked as I sat down again.
“Even if she never calls me, and that will be a tragedy, I will never forget the image of you tackling her.” He guffawed, slapping the table.
“I didn’t tackle her.” I frowned at my plate. "Damn it, you ate my pie."
He pushed another plate closer to me. "But I ordered you some fries."
"Oh." I reached for one. "Well then."
30 Stockton
I wait for the 30 Stockton.
I miss my sister. I wish she were standing on this street corner with me right now. In a non-working girl sort of way, of course.
I'm headed downtown for lunch with two old high school friends. “Old” is an incorrect way to label Lou and Anh—they’ve both retained their youthful enthusiasm. Anh especially. When she laughs, it’s like diamonds twinkling in sunlight.
A young Italian woman comes up to me and asks how much the bus fare is and where to pay it. She’s with, presumably, her mother and sister. They all have that dark, mysterious Mediterranean look to them, with inky hair that clings to their shoulders.
The bus arrives. I take a seat in the middle.
A car stops next to us. The passenger in the back seat uses a fingernail to scrape at the lamination coating the rear window.
An older woman climbs gingerly on board the bus. The driver greets her warmly, asking her how her wrist is healing. She grimaces and says it’s coming along.
Around me, conversation hums, lively but subdued. Two tourists discuss whether they should get off the bus at Ghirardelli Square, or if they should go to North Beach to have pizza first. A little Chinese boy makes animated gestures as he tells his mother a story in their own language. It’s obvious he’s telling her about a magical pirate ship that sails in the night sky.
I think about lunch. Indian food. Will it be good? It’s hard to find decent Indian food this side of London.
A bus passes in the opposite direction. A man sits alone in the back. He wears a dark suit and crisp white dress shirt. The orange tie around his neck looks like a noose, and he stares out the window like he’s headed for the gallows.
Maybe gallows come to mind because of the Hung Ling Co. storefront and the row of pink roasted ducks dangling by their necks in the window. They look like persecuted prisoners of culinary war. Perhaps I need to liberate one and take it home.
The bus stops. It’s Market Street, and I stand to join the herd filling out the back door. I resist the urge to moo.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I inhale the city air. It’s a good day.
Clowns, Prime Rib, and Elvis: A Weekend in Vegas
This past weekend was the USA Sevens Rugby tournament in Las Vegas. Why does that matter? Because my inamorato Jerry plays rugby, and his team was entered in the invitational the day before. Ergo, we headed to Vegas for a long weekend.
Jerry's team, Speed Freak Clowns on Acid:
Some of the guys were in clown wigs, and they ALL painted their noses red. I guess it's some sort of Braveheart-war markings kind of thing. You'll be happy to know the Clowns were undefeated in their games. Their fame extends beyond the pitch as well. Everyone knows the Clowns, which isn't surprising given how they dress (picture wigs, leopard print, and sequins). I've never met a group of men who like to play dress up like this burly bunch.
The rest of the weekend, we watched the Sevens games in the VIP tent. One word: POSH. They plied us with food and drink, and we had seats right at the end of the try zone. However, I did go slumming in the stadium with a bunch of bananas. Banana #1 (on the left) is my friend Toxic.
What else does one do in Vegas but watch rugby and hang out with bananas? One gets married by Elvis. Or fake-married, as it were.
It happened like this: before my trip, for some reason I started getting texts and emails from close friends with an array of warnings that amounted to "You better not get hitched!"
Which, of course, led us to this:
Jerry set it all up. The limo picked us and our wedding party up from the Hard Rock and delivered us to the Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. On the way, Jerry pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey for the two of us. Liquid courage. Also, it's immoral to be too sober at your own Vegas wedding, and what's more classy than Wild Turkey?
Elvis waited for us at the chapel, because if you're going to get married in Vegas, you've got to have Elvis do it. Isn't my wedding dress awesome? And Jerry is particularly fetching. His shoes are green snakeskin. Yes, he's special.
My ring ROCKS. Jerry's is matching, in red.
Where Elvis pronounced us husband and wife, right before he began to sing Viva Las Vegas! to us:
He was an excellent Elvis, I must say. Very heartfelt. And he had moves.
After the ceremony, we had a brief reception at the Double Down (bacon martinis and midget porn, baby) before we headed back to the Hard Rock for our wedding dinner of all-you-can-eat prime rib. Then a bunch of drunk rugby players gave us well wishes (and hit on me) before Jerry and I slipped back to our room to begin our honeymoon.
In summary: yes, we had a ceremony. No, it wasn't legal. Yes, Jerry and I are utterly happy. No, we aren't really married. But we've already decided that the next time we're having a pirate wedding. Arrr!