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You remember when you were in school and you liked someone and you tried to play it cool and then s/he asked you out (or you did the asking) and that person said yes? And you were all, "Cool. That’s cool. See you Saturday. Yeah," while you scuffed the sidewalk with your generic Ked? But really you were cartwheeling inside?

Cartwheel:
I HAVE AN AGENT!

I do. I have an agent. I have literary representation.

She knows about the blog, so I should roll easy. I should write, "I have an agent. Isn’t that nice?" But hi. You know me. I’m so excited. My agent is Susanna Einstein, with LJK Literary Management. I couldn’t be happier. Strangely, being represented by her has NOTHING to do with RWA or the conference I attended this week, but it just feels right. My god, I vow my allegiance to Romance and to the Republic for which it stands, and the next day I get a call from her! Certainly auspicious.

I will now be cool. I will now be collected.

(I think it might be a little late for that.)

I have had a revelation. I have had a revelation that I might have had in part before, but I didn’t GET it until this weekend. This amazing weekend.

People, I am a romance writer. And that is a fine, good thing to be. I am no longer semi-quasi-just-a-little-bit ashamed of that.

Isn’t it awful that I was a little bit ashamed before? I’m embarrassed and a little ashamed NOW, thinking of how I went into the Romance Writers of America conference. I was excited about it, yes, but there was a small, cheap part of myself that reserved the right to mock. I wondered how many gold puff-paint tee-shirts I’d see. How many sweatshirts covered in applique animals. I’d heard about the Ritas/Golden Hearts awards night, and I wanted to see housewives dressed up in ball gowns. I reserved the right to send mockalicious text messages to friends.

If I’m totally, completely honest (and this isn’t pretty, my darling readers, be patient with me), there was a small part of me that looked down on these women, and that same part looked down on myself for attending. (Not a big part: I WAS really excited to attend.) But in my head I thought, romance, schmomance, what about literary ideals? Had the attendees checked all literary tradition at the door? Was I going to have to do that?

What a jackass.

My mind was blown at the conference. BLOWN. I met a gajillion really, really, really smart women. Beautiful women. Together women. Women who had already worked all of this out and were kind enough to talk to me and help me while I struggled to overcome my prejudice. They were patient and sweet and SO SMART. (Hello, Ravelry sockgirl Sara — thank you for explaining to me what urban fantasy was!)

I have an analogy for all of this. When a lesbian first comes out, generally, she’s very stupidly excited. Picture a young woman moving to San Francisco and finding out that IT’S OKAY TO LIKE GIRLS! Oh, my god, YOU DO, TOO! ISN’T THIS GREAT? DID YOU KNOW THAT WOMEN ARE GREAT? THERE ARE BOOKS, DID YOU KNOW THERE ARE BOOKS? I CAN WEAR THIS? I’M SO EXCITED!!! There are a lot of capital letters and excited hoorays, and the lesbians who already get it smile and nod and support that new gal as she finds out that it’s all good, the water’s just fine out here, and no one is doing anything wrong: in fact, they’re all doing it just right.

I think I was that person this weekend, the MFA writer coming from a strictly literary tradition finding out that there is so much more to the romance writing industry than I ever knew. You could see it in their faces, the women I spoke to, here’s another one. Isn’t she cute? She’s a new kid, be nice to her.

There was no gold puff-paint or appliqued animals. Just frighteningly smart, nicely dressed, very together women who were sharp as hell. Many of the woman I met had an advanced degree. Or two. And this wasn’t because I was actively seeking them out: I just happened to stand next to them in the Starbucks line, sat next to them in seminars, stood in line with them in the bathroom.

Yeah. They’d already figured this out. Romance scholarship is not new, but it’s gaining popularity. There’s an amazing blog that provides a good jumping-off point called Teach Me Tonight.

But it’s more than just that the fact that there is now increased academic interest in the study of romance fiction — that’s not what legitimized romance for me. The women I met legitimized it for me. I want to be one of them. Someday, I want to be on that stage on Saturday night. And I didn’t see dowdy women dressed in ballgowns last night, I saw writers who reveled in their deserved spotlight who looked absolutely gorgeous. The inner geek in me arrived early to the hallway where people gathered before the ceremony. I curled up, mostly hidden, in an armchair where I had a direct view of the fountain of women cascading down the escalators. I didn’t even knit or try to pretend I wasn’t sitting there gawking. I just gawked. They were all writers, anyway. They knew what I was doing. Probably knew it was my first time. Probably could see MFA branded on my forehead as they smiled kindly at me. The inner geek also loved that many of the women with beautiful hair and gorgeous gowns also wore glasses. HOW COOL IS THAT? A geeky, romantic Oscars ceremony!

Best thing ever. I am so proud to be a romance writer. Bring it on!

There is a dog on my shoulder.

I dyed my hair last night in preparation for today’s excitement. I had to. The gray is not so much gray anymore but silver, and it had been rather shocking. This is a better look, I think. And I wanted to look good: The Romance Writers of America Conference started today!

Luckily, it started with a knitting meet-up, or I think I might have expired of nerves. I met up with Theresa, Bronwyn, and Tara at the Marriott and I took them on an abbreviated tour of the city — Artfibers, Imagiknit, and Taqueria Cancun. No yarn trip is ever complete without Mexican food, I always say.

Back at the conference, I wandered and met people. I was worried that meeting writers would be hard, but I swear, it was as easy as meeting knitters. And in Imagiknit, I did both: I met a woman named Patricia (who was wearing a lovely February Lady Sweater) who was in town attending the convention with Debbie Macomber, who was right there and fondled the yarn I was holding.

I ended the day bringing home nothing but the new Knitscene magazine (I really like that one, do you?). And I outed myself a couple of times, something I’ve been vaguely worried about. With fellow knitters, I wasn’t worried. But I had a long conversation with a loud, opinionated, very cool Cuban woman, and decided to try it out. "You know, it’s weird, I write straight romance, but I’m married to a girl." She just leaned forward and asked, "What is THAT like?" Then she proceeded to tell me about the straight woman writer she was working with who wrote gay male erotica. It’s a different world, I tell you. A good one.

I am tired. I want a glass of wine and maybe some sushi. I most definitely do NOT want to go out to buy dog food, but I fear an uprising if I don’t.

I so hella heart my new tattoo.

Before:

(Image flipped due to being taken on the MacBook — this is my right arm.)

On a suggestion from RedSilvia (who is ultra-hip and cool and to be trusted in matters like these), I booked an appointment with Tanja Nixx, the owner of the famous Lyle Tuttle Tattooing in North Beach, San Francisco. I’d found a couple of hearts online that I liked, and I told Lala I wanted forget-me-nots (my favorite flower and one of my mother’s favorites, too) and a kiwi bird, so she played around with images and photoshopped something that I liked enough to present to Tanja. And then Tanja made magic with it. She gave me the EXACT tattoo that I wanted. I’d been worried that when I got it done, it wouldn’t be right (a valid and normal worry, probably). I worried that it would be too small, or crooked, or just Not What I Wanted, even though I couldn’t quite articulate what it was that I did want.

But Tanja. She got it right, man. So right.

During:

After:

Isn’t it phenomenal? It’s perfect. I love it. I also love Tanja — she is good people. She also has a cozy tattoo shop, something I didn’t know existed. I was relaxed. And it really didn’t hurt, that was the crazy part. At its worst, it felt like when you’re scratching a mosquito bite — hurts so good. Really. I didn’t believe it when people said that tattoos don’t hurt. And I think that a tattoo elsewhere might hurt a GREAT deal. But let’s face it, this part of my arm is not anywhere close to a bone, and while a couple of places stung for a second, mostly it was just fun. And the endorphins! Those are great! I’ve felt that high only a couple of times before while running, and it’s totally worth it.

Oh, closer? Okay. This is hours afterward, obviously fresh but still looking good:

Here I am a little bit red and feeling really tired from the day, but LOVING it:

Yep. The funny part is that this is so much for ME. Mom would have found it kind of silly, I think, if not outright ridiculous. So it’s funny to memorialize her this way. But she would have liked it because I liked it. Hooray!

Know where I am?

IN BED! By choice! It’s after ten in the morning, and I am NOT AT WORK for the first time since June.

I am dizzy with the possibilities. Three days off. I was planning on having a pajama weekend to end all pajama weekends, but instead I have SO MUCH I want to do.

Or I could just chill. Like Waylon:

WEEKEND PLANS

1. I want to deal with cat litter issues. Doesn’t that sound like FUN? We’ve found the cats really, really like the Cat Attract litter, just like they say they will, and that’s solved a lot of problems, but I still have to hide the box in the kitchen by making a curtain and deal with making the box inaccessible to Clara who still tries to steal her "cat treats." It’s disgusting and not allowed. Must deal with that.

2. I need to go get a new Roomba. The one I have is about to die, and it never quite completes a full cycle. I am ALL about keeping the Costco receipt, and every time one dies (it’s not that well-made but when it works it WORKS), I box it up, take it back and get a new one. That will only work until Costco stops carrying them, as Costco is wont to do, and then I’ll have to deal with the warranty people at Roomba, but until then, I’m a Costco-standing-in-line fool. And I usually abhor going to Costco. (I’m vacuuming right now, actually. While lying in bed. Ain’t THAT broken yet.)

3. I’d like to make another dress. Maybe. If the mood strikes.

4. I have nothing to knit while at the Romance Writers of America conference next week. I’m working on a green tank which isn’t holding my interest, and I’m also doing the Sodera Socks (Ravelry link – so sexy!), but they require too much looking down. I need some eyes-free knitting, in sweater form, I think. Maybe the February-Lady-Sweater, perhaps? Like the rest of the free world?

5. Crap! Roomba just died! I heard it. Costco today, for sure.

6. Perfume. I want to wear perfume. My sister Christy (who is a perfume blogger — Smell the Glove is a must-read) gave me two wonderful perfumes (one of which is Guerlain’s Sous le Vent, oh my, and the other one I love but forgot the name and I don’t want to get out of bed and get it) for my birthday, and it was perfect timing. I don’t wear perfume when I’m sad, and I’ve been too sad in the last few months to risk perfume-wearing. Even happy days could be suddenly clouded with grief, and I didn’t want to risk spoiling a perfectly wonderful scent forever. But I’m ready. (I had a good dream about Mom last night. Finally. I don’t think I wrote about the horrifying dreams I had for weeks after she died, corporeal dreams, dreams I’ll never get over. But finally, last night I dreamed that the sisters and I were on a pier, and Clara was swimming in the ocean next to us, happily splashing away as she does. In the dream I took a picture of her, and on the screen of the digital camera, I could see Mom dog-paddling (ha!) next to Clara. None of us could see her with our eyes, but we could see her when we took pictures of Clara. Grinning at us in delight from the water. Grinning like "I’m right here, don’t you know that?" Weird dream, in that she was always a little afraid of the ocean, but a lovely one. The dream I’ve been waiting for.) Now I can wear perfume again. There is still grief, but it fits in my body now.

7. Other fun things I’m doing this weekend: Cheetahs on the Moon and 5 Cent Coffee tonight at the Eagle’s Tavern in San Francisco. Tomorrow night: hot tub and massage with Lala courtesy of beloved friends. Saturday: Tattoo! More to follow on that.

8. I suppose I’ll get up now. Don’t have to. But I’m gonna. Woot!

Starbucks. Come on. You’re hurting me. You know that I usually don’t get coffee on the way to work in the morning. I like to save my pennies and spend them on more important things, like yarn and kitty litter. I can make my own coffee. But this working twenty-four 12-hour days in a row, I’ve been needing java brewed FOR me.

And I don’t want to talk.

That’s why I go through the drive-through, yo. Because if I walk in, then I actually have to SEE you at five in the morning. I don’t WANT to. So I stay in my car, and when you tweet, "Good MORNING, thank you for choosing Starbucks, and how are YOU today?" I don’t want to anwer you. I am NOT fine yet, because I have no coffee, and I don’t want to have to break that to you, so I say, "Fine," and wait for you to ask me what I’ll be having on this fantabulous day.

I totally get that might be the rule. You might hate having to say that. That’s cool. But when I drive up and hand you my money, and you take it and then lean OUT the window while we’re waiting for the coffee to come up and say, "So! How ARE you today? What’s going on? How’s your day? What’cha got going on?" that’s just too much. I don’t make eye contact because I CAN’T. I am trying not to roar away, leaving my precious coffee behind.

I so appreciate service professionals who know how to read people. When I waited tables, I tried to be really conscious of it. You can tell, immediately, who wants to engage and laugh and joke with you, and you can tell the person who would really to just tell you their order and then get lost in their book. Laugh and joke with one, be courteous but no more to the other. That gets you the tips.

Please. Just hand me coffee.

PS – I have discovered that you can make pseudo-poached eggs in the microwave! Put a little water, maybe 1/4 cup, into a cereal bowl, break two eggs into the water, and nuke for about a minute (with something covering the bowl in case the eggs blow up — something that hasn’t happened yet but I hear it might). Meanwhile, your piece of bread is toasting. In about a minute, you have something I’ve always called chipped egg (poached eggs and buttered toast, all chopped up) which I thought was actually a phrase people used, but I just googled it and I think they don’t. But it’s fun to say chipped egg. Real breakfast! At work! So nice!