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
Scorned
Dear Kate,
We've been together for so long. Don't worry—we won't mention how many years it's been. Frankly, we can't count that high.
But your age isn't the point here—it's that we've been like this all this time. We take you on walks and dancing and generally get you around, and you've always appreciated us. We love how you massage us with fine lotions and make sure we look the best that we can.
Which is why we're surprised that we've come to this.
At first, we thought it was a phase. We thought, Kate's been so busy. She's writing and keeping up with friends, and she has a new beloved. But she'll come back to us. Only you didn't. And then this past weekend happened.
It was the last straw.
Look at us, Kate. This is what we've come to. People run in horror when they see us walking down the street.
We like dancing as much as you—normally. Just not like this. This is just abuse. Did you see what you DID to us Saturday night? Four hours of continuous tango! Forget the aesthetic things, like the fact that some of those men who danced with you stepped all over us and chipped our lovely polish. But the callouses, and the swollen toes.
Two words for you, Kate: oozing blisters.
What were you thinking? And then you complain about how we're sullen and sore.
Only we're not here to complain about your apathy and general disregard for us. We want to move forward and perhaps recapture what we had before. Could we discuss this? We can't continue on this way. Please, Kate—let's work this out.
Achingly yours...
On the Loose
Life has been varied lately. I've been on the loose: out and about, doing a lot of different things.
What sort of things, Kate? you ask.
Well, allow me to show you.
Unleashed
I know I wrote about the Kung Fu retreat last week, but it felt incomplete. It needed visual aids, don't you think?
Unfortunately, I couldn't get my hands on any last week, but someone sent me a phone-video recording of me sparring with my friend Jon, one of the other masters. I extracted a frame for your viewing pleasure. I'm the one in red, attacking.
On the Town
Saturday night, my Magic Man and I went dancing to the music of Planet Booty (at Cafe du Nord, if you live in San Francisco and are curious).
One: if you have an opportunity to see Planet Booty live, do it. They're an hour and a half of sweat-drippin' boot-scootin' fun. It's just like this, only in a club instead of a grocery store.
Two: I have no two.
Last Tango in SF
Apparently Friday nights at the de Young Museum, in Golden Gate Park, they do special events. I had a vague recollection of this, because I'm a member and I get notices. But I didn't realize they did dancing events, much less had a tango night. So when I saw tango scheduled, I was all over it.
Step one: look like a tanguera. I usually just wear jeans when I tango, but I figured it'd behoove me to stand out a little—to help me get noticed and, therefore, asked to dance. It worked. Before the event started, I was asked by several people if I was a professional dancer or with the band. Ha! If only they knew how hard I always have to try not to trip and fall on my ass.
Step two: have fun. I really did. I whirled and swooped, dancing every song. A wallflower, I am not. By the end, my feet hurt, which is always a sign of a successful event.
There were all sorts of spectators taking pictures and videos of the dancing. The picture above was a random photo, where I just happen to be perfectly framed in the front center (the chick with the bare shoulder and arm). My sister found it on her friend's Facebook page and recognized me. Crazy, isn't it? There's a story idea in there.
A Night of Tango
Sometimes I wish I carried around some kind of voice-activated recording device, because some conversations are worth keeping for posterity. For example, one of the nights I went tangoing last week was especially memorable, from start to finish. Lucky for you, while I didn't record the conversations, I did take notes. (Insert evil laugh here.)
As my sister and I were getting dressed, at home...
Me: Which should I wear, these earrings or this necklace?
Parisa: Why don't we decide after you put on makeup.
Me: I already did put on makeup.
Parisa, frowning and leaning in close: Are you sure?
Half an hour later, after Parisa did my makeup...
Me, examining the end result in the mirror: I look like the undead.
Parisa: But you look like a sexy undead.
At the dance...
Random old guy Tom, checking out my outfit: You're very colorful.
Me: Thank you.
ROG Tom: What do you do in life, to go with all that color?
Me: I'm a romance writer.
ROG Tom: Like Agatha Christie?
Me: Um...
At the end, sitting with my friend Lila...
Lila: Look at your poor feet!
Me, looking at them: ...
Lila: You need a pedicure. Bad.
Me, sighing: ...
In the car after a post-tango Voodoo Doughnuts run, with Parisa and Lila...
Parisa: That guy was totally macking on you.
Lila: He really liked Kate, and he was really cute.
Parisa: And really annoying. Instead of asking for her number, he shoved his phone in her face and told her to type it in.
Lila: It worked. He got her number.
Parisa: Humph.
Five minutes later, after a long stretch of silence...
Me, sniffing myself: I smell like random men.
In a New York State of Mind
A lot happened last week. Unfortunately for you, I'm not ready to talk about a lot of it. Also unfortunately for you, I'm in the mood to do one of my awesome photojournalistic blogs.
My original topic was one so obscure some of you would have gone away, scratching your head and wondering if I'd finally gone off the deep end. But I'm going to save that for another day and instead tell you about some of my adventures in New York.
As most of you know, I'm visiting my sister Parisa. This is the two of us in her kitchen:
Parisa, of course, is the one on the left. She's fond of telling people she's the cute one. I just humor her.
Because I suddenly have more work than any sane person would agree to do, I've been hanging out in a lot of cafés. The café culture is different in New York than on the West Coast. People go to cafés to socialize, not work. I know—it's the strangest thing ever. A lot of cafés frown upon laptops even.
But there are a few choice ones that people use as their office-away-from-office. One of them is the B-Cup in the East Village:
One of my sister's friends saw Julia Stiles hanging out at the B-Cup. I haven't seen her yet. The cute Israeli boys who work here are especially friendly.
Speaking of working... My agent and I have had a number of meetings with industry folk. One of our meetings took place in a chocolatier. As we left, among the chocolate-covered Cheerios and Easter baskets, we spied Peeps dressed in chocolate tuxedos. When I (foolishly) let it slip that I'd never eaten a Peep, my agent decided that it had to be remedied. And documented...
My hands shook from the sugar for hours. I also realized that my agent has serious sales skills, if she can get me to eat fluffy marshmallow crap.
I was at the MOMA with a friend, looking at an exhibit of live naked people hanging on the wall (seriously) when suddenly he asked me if I'd ever had a true New York deli experience. I hadn't, and he felt compelled to fix that. So we ended up sharing a reuben at the Carnegie Deli, apparently the most famous deli in town:
Yeah, that disgusting looking pile of goop was the reuben, hence the reason we shared one. Actually, we shared less than half. I've been eating leftover pastrami for days now. I've never seen sandwiches the size of what they served there. It was obscene. Also obscene were the slices of cake. No, I didn't have one, but I may have to go back to try.
The next photo is of a friend, who came into the city to hang out one afternoon. However, you're going to have to imagine the picture because I forgot to take it. Duh. It's too bad, because we had a cupcake orgy in the park.
Stay tuned for another week, when I may or may not have pictures of the Hachette offices, the Doughnut Plant, tangoing, Culture Espresso Bar, and the firemen at the grocery store.
Last Tango in Buenos Aires
It's my last week in Buenos Aires. I just had my last tango lesson, and I'm making the final rounds saying au revoir to my friends.
I've had people ask me if I'm sad to leave. Oddly, I'm not. I'm excited. Don't get me wrong—words can't describe what the months I've spent here have meant to me. But it's time to move on to the next adventure. I'm looking forward to the future. There's more travel involved, and just a little bit of intrigue. You'll have to stay tuned for the details.
Sneaky of me, isn't it? But it's not like you're surprised.
But first, I'm returning to San Francisco. The main reason: I'm speaking at the San Francisco Writers Conference. To say I'm looking forward to the gig would be an understatement. I attended last year's conference as a speaker and it rocked.
The conference goers are a mix of fiction writers of various genres as well as nonfiction. The speakers are diverse and interesting, and it draws a number of big name editors and agents, who are totally accessible the entire weekend. For example, last year, I met Donald Maass, who, contrary to what I'd believed, isn't seven feet tall with lightning bolts shooting from his eyes.
My favorite part of the conference: the cocktail parties. Okay—the cocktail parties are my favorite part of any conference. I can't help it. I love to schmooze, especially martini in hand. Yes, recess was my favorite subject in school too.
The conference itself is sold out this year, but there's a pre-conference day of workshops if you're in the area and interested. If you're there, find me and say "Yo." I'll be the jet-lagged one who keeps slipping into Spanish.
Finding Perfection
This is the week.
Which week? you wonder. What's happening?
I'll tell you what's happening: I'm buying my first pair of tango shoes.
This is the part where you scratch your head in wonder. You didn't know I danced tango. You thought I did kung fu.
I've been holding out on you. Unless you follow me on Twitter—then you've seen a couple random tango references. But I'm telling you now: I've been taking tango lessons.
Tango isn't so different from kung fu. Same principles, different application. I'm using the dance to work on the couple ideals I was trying to perfect in my fighting (like being in the moment, and feeling a person's energy). Plus, I'm in Buenos Aires—you'd have to be crazy to come here and not take at least one tango class.
But you don't care about all that. You want to get to the real important issue here: the shoes.
There are several well-known tango shoe store in town, but the most famous are Comme Il Faut and Greta Flora. Handmade, beautiful, unique shoes.
I've been to both stores so many times in the past couple months that they know my name, my preferred heel height, and the colors I like. I don't have to do anything anymore—I sit down and they bring me shoes. The shopping experience is very 50s/Doris Day-esque.
Only so far I've just bought shoes for my sister. Three pairs—who's the lucky girl? But now it's my turn.
This is the week. The perfect pair is waiting for me to claim it as mine. I can't wait to meet it.