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Scenes from a grocery store...and a motto

So, last night I was at Safeway, buying large amounts of Splenda-infused foods. Like so many grocery stores, Safeway has a 'club' that you're essentially forced to join if you don't want to pay ridiculous prices. Instead of a card, I usually have them look me up by my phone number.

Here's a conversation that could probably only take place at 12:30am:

Cashier: It says the phone number is invalid. Do you have another one?
Me: I've used this one for years. I must have mistyped it.
Cashier: Go ahead and tell me. I'll put it in.
Me: xxx-xxx-xxxx
Cashier: Ok, that went through.
Guy behind me: Ooh, now I have your phone number.
Me: Actually, you have my ex-husband's phone number.
Guy: I should give him a call. Maybe he likes to party.
Me: You do that.

It's worth noting to Seattle-ites that this unsurprisingly took place in the University District. And that the guy behind me was buying beer.

Anyway, in other news, St. Vladimir's has a motto! Ironically, it wasn't actually an entry, but it was *inspired* by an entry. Congratulations to calisaw . She suggested "The Way, the Truth, and the Life." For some reason, that suddenly made my brain click and decide to use "Truth, life, blood." Because honestly, how could a vampire academy not have blood in their logo? So, drop me a line, Calisa, and claim your swag for being my muse.

To everyone else: thanks so much for submitting such great entries! Special props to the Latin speakers. When you see what this is being used for, your jaws will drop at the awesomeness.

Elephant in the room

I haven't posted an IM conversation in a while, and it saves me the trouble of writing something compelling since I'm still working around the clock.

Last night, I broke IM silence to talk to my friend David. I've known him for years, and he's my Chief Beta Reader. He's also good at world building. I knew if I logged in, he'd find me immediately. To my surprise, he started sending me video links. You can look at them if you want, but for the purposes of understanding this conversation, they're films of elephants holding paint brushes with their trunks and painting pictures of elephants and flowers.

D: http://mfrost.typepad.com/cute_overload/2008/03/elephant-paints.html
R: That is so rigged.
D: heh, right
R: Seriously.
D: like, how?
R: They never have any full shots of the elephant painting.
D: er, hm.
D: ok, I like skepticism
R: It's always half of the trunk.
D: ok, ok, that's a good challenge. lemme see if I can dig up more footage
R: And they did finally pan out and show him holding the brush. But I mean, when is he dipping the paint?
R: They don't show us that.
D: my impression is the guy standing next to him dips the paint, but it's just a guess
R: Dude. Him holding that flower is too much.
D: heh, such a cynic!
D: But you're right; there's only this video available -- YouTube doesn't pull anything else up
R: I could be wrong.
D: oh, wait, more videos
D: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNODzXoJuJM
D: same painting
D: different angle
D: well?
R: Hm.
R: I dunno.
D: search "elephant paint" in youtube
R: Better yet, snopes.com.
D: ahh, good call
R: Fail. No matches.
D: so, that's a point in favor of being legit, correct?
R: Hehehe.
R: I don't know about that.
D: dude
D: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9-9YDCirUU&NR=1
D: what the fuck more do you need?
D: It's an elephant
D: painting
R: The camera started filming when the picture was already done.
R: I didn't see him paint those flowers.
D: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oYYXfM1Jw0&feature=related
D: ok, my guess is they trained him to paint specific pictures
D: he's doing the same one
D: this time, very clearly an elephant
D: but same picture
R: They just want you to think it's an elephant. The disguise is very compelling, I'll give you that.
D: heh
R: By the way, I'm *this* close to being done with Shadow Kiss.
R: It's not done!
R: It's getting mailed to the editor tomorrow night. That's how close we are.
D: Dude.
R: I actually logged on 'cos I wanted to pick your brain about Moroi legal proceedings. But I figured it out.
D: Ah, well you do know that naturally I am well versed in vampire law.
R: I know. You're a bar member and everything.
R: The void of not having SK in your life aside, how are things?
D: Well, now that you've trashed my elephant painting scoop, pretty sad.
D: But somehow I'll get by.
R: Aw.

The f-word was never actually used today

One of my very favorite episodes of The Simpsons is when Lisa goes bad and starts acting out in school. When called to the principal's office, she's asked: "Lisa, what are you rebelling against?" Her response: "What have you got?"

I kind of feel that way lately. I'm not sure why. It has nothing to do with fatigue, hormones, or martinis, but for some reason, I'm just trolling for a fight with anyone and anything. You therefore would have thought a relaxing day at the spa might be the cure. I've had some gift certificates for a while, and my friend Christina and I had been talking about going together. My muscles hurt so badly this week, though, that I decide to get them massaged now and then go again with her later and just pay sans certificates.

My spa experience started with me being 3 minutes late, which was apparently a grave offense. The girl who did the first half of my spa thing (facial, manicure, and pedicure) seemed to be pissed off at me the entire time. She made almost zero conversation, except to ask me if I had kids. She also spouted off some mumbo jumbo about the 80 different extracts of plants that have no benefit whatsoever that were being rubbed into my face (and eyes).

I left the experience smelling like every flower in the world and then was sent to the massage therapist for the whole reason I'd actually come in. The massage therapist immediately began trying to upsell me on every product they carried. I kind of started wishing she'd give me the silent treatment like the other lady. She told me I had beautiful skin and then proceeded to explain what was wrong with it.

I feel the rest of our encounter can only really be explained with an exaggerated dialogue.

Upselling Massage Therapist: I see you've got some blackheads on your nose.
Me: The f*ck I do. My skin never breaks out.
UMT: We have a serum for that. I see your skin is pretty oily too. We have something that can help dry it out.
Me: Actually, it's really dry. It looks oily because there were 80 extracts of useless plants rubbed into it.
UMT: We have something that can moisturize it.
Me: No, thanks.
UMT: So, I hear you were late.
Me: I was 3 f*cking minutes late.
UMT: Well, we might have to cut this short. Do you have any problem spots you want me to focus on?
Me: Yeah, my hamstrings and calves are killing me because I've been at the gym every day these last few weeks.
UMT: Okay, well, I'm going to do your back.
Me: Er, ok.
UMT: Whoa! You have a giant scar on your back!
Me: Yeah, I had scoliosis surgery when I was 11. They straightened my spine.
UMT: Does it hurt?
Me: No, they fixed it. It doesn't give me any problems at all.
UMT: Will it get worse?
Me: No, they fixed it. It doesn't give me any problems at all.
UMT: Does it kink up?
Me: No, they fixed it. It doesn't give me any problems at all.
UMT: We might not have much time today. Are there any parts that are bothering you?
Me: My hamstrings and calves.
UMT: Do you go to the gym?
Me: Yeah. Every day.
UMT: Is it because your back hurts?
Me: No, they f*cking fixed it. It doesn't give me any problems at all.

The ironic part is that after all was said and done, she inexplicably seemed to hit every muscle except my hamstrings and calves. When the time came to pay, more shenanigans followed.

UMT: Let me get the other girl to ring you up. Hey, [other girl]! Ring her up.
OG: I'm with a f*cking client. You do it.
UMT [to me]: I don't know why she couldn't f*cking come out here and do this.
Me: I have these gift certificates.
UMT: You have two. I don't think you can use both on the same visit.
Me: The f*ck I can't. They're the same as cash.
UMT: Ok, let me see if I can figure this out. I don't know why she couldn't f*cking do it. Do you want to buy any of our products?

Yikes! What a day. I tell you, if I wanted someone to put their hands all over me and not listen to my conversation, I'd just go on a date with some guy and at least get a free dinner out of it.

Life on the Mean Streets

This weekend, fab YA urban fantasy writer Tiffany Trent came to Seattle, and naturally, we rolled out the author welcome wagon:

From left to right: Tiffany Trent, Caitlin Kittredge, Kat Richardson, Cherie Priest, me, Mark Henry, and Mrs. Mark Henry (not sure if her identity is secret or public).

We met up downtown, and good times and more publishing gossip than you can shake a stick at ensued. On the way back to the car that night, Caitlin and I were solicited for illegal substances (very near Betsey Johnson, actually) by a couple of Seahawks fans. She did a write-up of the encounter over on her blog (you can read it here), and while it more or less gets the story right, I don't entirely feel like it's an accurate representation of what happened. This is understandable because unlike my lazy self who inserts dialogue quite regularly around here, Caitlin actually writes eloquent prose. So, for your benefit and hers, I give you the detailed version of what happened.

Random Pot-Seeking Seahawks Fan #1: Hey! Can I ask you ladies a question?
Me: You'd best keep walking, Caitlin. This doesn't seem like a safe situation. I'll handle it.
Caitlin: No, you'd best keep walking. I'm from the east coast, yo. Everything's going to be okay.
Me: That's what you said when we went to the Surrey Writers Conference last year. And we all know how that turned out.
RPSSF #1: Do you know where we can get some weed?
Caitlin: No, sorry.
RPSSF #1: I don't believe you. You're wearing a Misfits t-shirt.
Me: Look, we don't know where to get any, okay? Why don't you just move along. We're in front of a Betsey Johnson's, for God's sake. Show some respect.
[Random Pot-Seeking Seahawks Fan #2 strolls over.]
RPSSF #2: Are you guys Seahawks fans?
Me: I beg your pardon?
RPSSF #2: You heard me.
Caitlin: We don't really watch football.
RPSSF #1: What?
Caitlin: We watch Supernatural.
Me: And Gossip Girl.
RPSSF #2: That's it. You're coming with us. We're going to make you watch The Seahawks' Greatest Plays, Volume 2.
RPSSF #1: After we score some pot.
[Enter Mark Henry.]
Mark: Oh no you aren't!
RPSSF #1 & RPSSF #2: Mark Henry!
Mark: Unhand these fair maidens, yon ne'er do wells, before I must truly mess'eth thy punk selves up!
Caitlin: When did Mark get a British accent?
Me: I don't know. He wasn't even drinking tonight.
RPSSF #1: Look, Mr. Henry. We don't want any trouble.
RPSSF #2: Yeah, we just wanted some post-game weed.
Mark: Marijuana, also known as cannabis sativa, is a gateway drug. In fact, tetrahydrocannabinol can have many harmful effects. You'd best give up your hedonistic quest and go home and read The Secret. And if you need a little motivation... [Mark pulls out a katana from underneath his coat.] Perhaps this will help!
RPSSF #1: Yes, sir, Mr. Henry, sir!
RPSSF #2: Anything you say!
[RPSSF's run off into the night.]
Me: Caitlin, are you thinking what I'm thinking?
Caitlin: That Mark usually carries a broadsword?
Me: No! Our Mark would never tell anyone to read The Secret. [I point at alleged-Mark.] You aren't Mark Henry!
[Mark transforms into two-headed green lizardman.]
Lizardman: Blast! Foiled again!
[Caitlin drop-kicks Lizardman, steals sword, and decapitates him. Twice.]
Caitlin: There can be only one...Mark Henry.
Me: Wow. You really are from the east coast.
Caitlin: [tosses bloody sword down and sighs] It's those Seahawks guys' fault. Why come over to us? I mean, do I look like I have weed to give? Or know where some is?
Me: It's because I'm wearing a cardigan from Target and you have on a Misfits shirt.
Caitlin: Oh. That. Hey, can I borrow one of your cardigans the next time we go out?
Me: Sure. Now, let's go watch America's Next Top Model.

That's pretty much how it went down.

If you didn't read the last post, make sure you check out the quiz and contest!


I got up at 9am today, which is never a good sign. Me getting up early is like when you get phone calls in the middle of the night. It means something is wrong.

In this case, my car was wrong. This weekend, my car decided not to start anymore. What's funny is I've had premonitions for months my car would break, and they only just recently went away. I guess it was time.

So, I had to wait until this morning to call a repair shop, and I wanted it done ASAP because I'm driving up to Seattle later this week. I also didn't want to have to rely on Caitlin to drive me around a la 7th grade. The place said they could see me today and recommended a towing company. I called them, and 20 minutes later, a smiling 60-year old guy in overalls drove up with a tow truck. Here's our conversation. I will be playing the part of the innocent, befuddled maiden who knows nothing about cars.

Guy: Hey, there. What's wrong with your car?
Me: It won't start.
Guy: Here, let me see your keys.
[He tries starting the car and gets the same clicking and flickering console I get].
Guy: It's probably the battery. When was the last time you got a new one?
Me: Never.
Guy: When did you get the car?
Me: 2001.
Guy: Whoa, probably the battery. I bet we can get it going enough for you to just drive there.
Me: Ok.
[He pops the hood, yelps, and points to a mass of gross white stuff].
Guy: Oh, baby. Here's your problem. This has to be the most corroded battery I've ever seen.
[I must note now that he didn't call me 'baby' the way some sleazy guy in a bar does. It was more like your grandpa patting you on the back when you're 8 and saying, "There, there. Everything will be ok, baby."]
Me: Ok.
[He gets a can of something and sprays it on the white stuff. The stuff dissolves. The guy takes my keys. The car starts, weakly].
Me: Wow.
Guy: Take it to them, and they'll probably do more cleaning and want to replace the battery. I wish I could just... [Hesitation, then sigh]. Do you have a husband or boyfriend?
Me: What? Um, no. Not right now.
Guy: Oh. Ok. Too bad. I wish I could just take care of this, but go ahead and take it in. I'll just charge you for a service call, no towing. And I'll follow you to the shop.
Me: Cool.
[I write him a check].
Guy: You're good to go, baby!

The obvious moral of this story is that between the tow truck and repair shop, I parted with a good chunk of shoe money today because I had no man to fix my car. It probably wasn't worth pointing out to Tow Guy that the kinds of guys I date don't usually do their own auto repair anyway.

Maybe something in this establishment of primal gender roles spoke to my subconscious because when I returned home from my misadventures, I kicked off my shoes and was--wait for it--barefoot in the kitchen. (But not pregnant and not baking a pie). Unfortunately, the fates were not done with me today, and I stepped on a small piece of broken glass that inexplicably produced more blood than one would expect. I patched it up. All seems to be well now, but a little of the blood stained Caitlin's bathroom floor. Probably she'll use it to summon demons in there now.

Getting up early. Don't do it.

I don't need your pity, shoe lady - Part 2

Today I returned to the shoe shop to pick up my shoes, and here's the conversation that ensued with Shoe Lady and me.

SL: I couldn't replace the caps. I just ended up tightening them because the shoe's made in this really weird [random shoe industry info that means nothing to me] way.
Me: Oh, ok.
SL: Did you buy them locally?
Me: No. They're from San Francisco.
SL: Too bad. I would have returned them.
She flips one shoe over and points to the price sticker I left on the bottom.
SL: Did you really pay that much for them?
Me: Yeah, afraid so.
SL: Girl.
Me: They're designer shoes!
SL: The next time you buy designer shoes, get them in leather. How will you ever repair these? They're plastic.
Me: Those are great shoes.
Old Lady Who Just Entered Store: Those are great shoes.

Damn straight.

I don't need your pity, shoe lady.

Despite growing up watching G.I. Joe and Voltron, I've steadily gotten away from tomboy-ishness over the years--with one exception.

High heels.

I can't walk in them. It's embarrassing, particularly since at 5'2", a few more inches wouldn't really hurt. I will forever be haunted by the fuchsia and purple sequined stilettos that *perfectly* matched my prom dress senior year. But when I tried them on...no. I couldn't stand in them without falling over, and at that point, I realized I would have to add high heels to the list of footwear that doesn't work for me--along with skis and rollerskates.

But on the infamous shopping trip that spawned my new love of Betsey Johnson fashion, I also discovered the world's most amazing shoes. They were gorgeous. They had 4.5" heels. And I could walk in them. Don't ask how this is possible. Maybe it's Betsey magic. Maybe I just grew up. Regardless, they were awesome, and a couple weeks ago, I decided to get them. Only, I must have tried on a different size in the store because the ones I ordered off the website were too small. Worse, the website was now out of the correct size. Worst of all, when I drove up to Seattle to go to the actual store, they no longer carried them in my color.

Desperate, I put out another plea to my friends in large cities, and my friend David found and shipped me a pair from San Francisco. Only, when I got them, I discovered the cap on the heel of one was loose. Knowing trying to do a San Francisco return was courting trouble, I simply went to a shoe repair store to get it fixed. There, the surly shoe lady and I had the following conversation:

SL: For $5 I can tighten the cap. For $6.50, I can just replace them on both shoes.
Me: Oh. Ok. Probably you should just replace them then, yeah?
SL: Yeah. They won't taper like these, though.
Me: Ok. Will...will they feel the same?
SL: What?
Me: Like when I walk on them, will they feel the same? Will I balance the same?
[Pause, then laughter.]
SL: Girl, haven't you ever had heels replaced before?
Me: I've hardly ever walked in heels before!
SL: [still laughing] Yes, they'll feel the same.
Me: Ok. I just wanted to make sure. These are the only heels I've ever been able to walk in. I don't want to fall and break my ankle.
SL: [STILL laughing] Well, if you do, it won't be our fault.

Sigh. 4.5" heels had better be worth all this grief.

This is why I can't have nice things

My illustrious landlady might be a spry 23, but I'm pretty sure she's more responsible than me. She works a full-time job and still writes at night. She owns this house and maintains it. Hell, a couple weeks ago, I saw her replacing a headlight. By comparison, I feel downright inept. Thus, when she went on vacation, I felt the great weight of responsibility descending on my shoulders to watch the house in her absence.

Autumn's upon us, and I've noticed the house getting colder and colder. In order to be fiscally sound, she keeps the house at a pretty low temperature--much lower than what my spoiled self is used to. Determined to tough it out for the sake of our heating bill, I started piling on sweaters and blankets a couple days ago. That worked ok, but today, I hit rock bottom. I was FREEZING. I sat on the couch to read some hardcopy with a blanket wrapped around me, and two of the cats immediately burrowed into me for warmth. We were shivering and pathetic.

I finally knew I was going to have to give in. So, I found the thermostat and tried to change the temperature, to no avail. A frantic IM conversation then followed with a friend:

Me: It's SO cold in here, and I can't figure out how to work the thermostat.
Friend: They aren't complicated devices.
Me: I know that. I never had any trouble with my old one.
Friend: Is it digital?
Me: Yeah! It says it's in the high 50s, but when I push the arrows, nothing happens.
Friend: Is the heat on?
Me: What?
Friend: The heat.
Me: Isn't it always on?
Friend: There's probably a button that says 'heat' and 'off.' You should see what it's set to.
[30 seconds later]
Me: It's set to 'off.'
Friend: Yeah. That would be why there's no heat.
Me: Sigh.
Friend: No wonder you're cold. The furnace isn't even on. You want to flip the switch to 'heat.'
Me: Ok.
[30 more seconds later]
Me: Oh my God! I flipped it to 'heat,' pushed the arrows, and the furnace kicked on!
Friend: You're welcome.
Me: I set it to 65.
Friend: That's not very warm.
Me: It's warmer than what it is now. Besides, I don't want to raise the heating bill.

The house then grew nice and toasty. The cats and I were pleased, and I read more manuscript and ate dinner in comfortable warmth. Later, I went to the gym. And when I got back, I noticed something.

The house was too warm. Like, oven warm. Hot air blasting out of all the vents.

Now, how 65 degrees (that's about 18 for our UK friends) could have made the house so astonishingly hot, I have no clue. But it was sweltering. So, I went to the thermostat and pushed the arrows to 60. But the furnace didn't turn off. My friend had gone to bed, and I started to panic. I could see it now, Caitlin coming home and yelling at me: "I leave for two weeks, and all you have to do is feed the cats and make sure the house keeps standing. Now I get back and find a $1000 heating bill! Can't you work a stupid thermostat? You should have just put on another sweater."

And then, before my grim visions could go much further...the furnace clicked off. Huge sigh of relief. I only feel mildly idiotic now.

So, yeah, looks like I'm making progress. Now, if I can just get the recycling out on time and figure out where the vacuum cleaner is, I'll really be on top of things. And hey, just imagine how cool it'd be if I actually used the vacuum cleaner. But let's not get too carried away...

We Scored Last Night

Never underestimate serendipity. The other day, I was just musing about baseball games, and then some friends of mine coincidentally mentioned they were going last night. So faster than you can say "peanuts and Cracker Jack," we were off to the game.

I knew things were gonna be good even before the game started. Just look at this crazy action down on the field:

Unfortunately, that was the most exciting part for quite a while. Nobody scored until the fifth inning when the Mariners got one run. After that brief spurt of hope, the action continued to stay blah. Even worse, the guys selling beer and snacks seemed to be ignoring our section. Fortunately, there's always something to learn at baseball games, and my friends John and Jay helped.

Me: Why isn't he out? He fouled.
John: He's got two strikes. Your third strike can't be a foul.
Me: Really?
John: Yup.
Me: Wow. I didn't know that. You guys know a lot about this game.
Jay: Us and anyone who understands the basic rules of baseball.
Me: Hey, I know plenty about baseball. Like, it's a good thing when players round the fourth base.
John: Fourth base?
Jay: Oh my God.
Me: You know what I mean.
Jay: No, I really don't.
Me: Home plate. Fourth base.
Jay: Sounds like something for the next succubus book.

Action finally picked up in the eighth inning, but before I get to that, let me show you my baseball posse.

Okay, back to the action. So, Tampa Bay got a run at some point, and suddenly, Things Became Serious. The ninth inning came around, and things were still tied.

Jay: Nobody's scoring.
John: We might have to go into extra innings.
Me: Nobody's scoring because they haven't reached fourth base yet. Get it?

After I received little appreciation for my puns, Safeco Field finally did what it had to do to get us some runs:

I didn't entirely know what that meant, but suddenly, they flashed that on the board with some fiddle music and *everyone in the stands started dancing an Irish jig*. I don't know exactly what kind of powers that invoked, but out of nowhere, the Mariners started loading up the bases. Why didn't they do the rally jig sooner?

Hey, kids! It's every fairweather fan's favorite player: Ichiro!

Bases got filled up, the Irish music kept playing, and everyone jigged. And like that! Ichiro cleared home--I mean, fourth--base, winning the game for us in a whopping 2-1 victory.

It goes without saying that good times ensued. Now I'm going to take some Irish dance classes. The Mariners are SO going to the World Series next year.

Richelle Gets Drunk Dialed

For those who have never had this happen, I assure you it's exactly like it sounds. There are only two real requirements: 1. Someone who's drunk calls you, and 2. The ensuing conversation would not occur under sober conditions. But while there are only two requirements for a good drunk dial, there are several other optimal bonus features that can occur to make a call textbook perfect. Follow along as I share my experiences from tonight.

However, I must state something in Drunk Dialer's defense. Like so many conversations I recount in my blog, material might be slightly exaggerated for comic effect. But only slightly.

Bonus #1: Caller states he/she is drunk, in case it wasn't obvious, then proceeds to drive home that point.

Drunk Dialer: So...I've been drinking.
Me: Oh yeah?
DD: Yeah. But not that much.
Me: Okay.
DD: What are you doing?
Me: I was actually about to start writing. You caught me right at the peak of my Mountain Dew high.
DD: You're drinking Mountain Dew?
Me: Yeah.
DD: Why? That stuff's horrible.
Me: It's crazy. I started doing it yesterday. It gives me, like, five hours of productivity, then I take an hour or so catnap, drink some more, and then I'm good to go. I've gotten SO much writing done. Plus, I finished the Succubus on Top proofs.
DD: Ah...that one's really good.
Me: It is. It was like reading someone else's book. Best I've written.
DD: No kidding. I've been telling you that.
Me: Not sure I can ever write a book that good again.
DD: You can.
Me: I hope so. Probably it'll take a lot of Mountain Dew.
DD: Mountain Dew?
Me: That's what I'm drinking.
DD: Why are you drinking Mountain Dew?
Me: I told you. It perks me up and makes me productive, so I can write.
DD: Drink coffee.
Me: No, this is better. I wrote 2700 words yesterday.
DD: You were drinking it yesterday?
Me: Yes, that's when I started. It really messed up my sleep last night, though.
DD: I can imagine.
Me: I probably won't sleep at all tonight, but at least I'll get work done.
DD: Why won't you sleep tonight?
Me: Because of all the sugar and caffeine. In the Mountain Dew.
DD: Wait...did you say you're drinking Mountain Dew?

Bonus #2: It must immediately become clear that not only will caller not remember call tomorrow, he/she also will not remember most of the call as it occurs.

DD: So, who is she exactly?
Me: Just this woman.
DD: You've met her?
Me: I've run into her a few times at parties and at PNWA.
DD: So what's the deal? Why'd she do that?
Me: No clue. It's weird.
DD: Do you even know her?
Me: Um, yeah. I've met her at a couple of parties. And at PNWA.
DD: Well, none of that makes any sense.
Me: I know. I haven't even read her writing.
DD: She's a writer?
Me: Yeah.
DD: Was she at PNWA?
Me: Um, yeah.
DD: You met her?
Me: Yeah.
DD: She knows you?
Me: Yeah.
DD: How?
Me: Well...I've run into her at parties. And at PNWA.
DD: So...you've met her.

Bonus #3: Caller must make grandiose claims that are in no way grounded in reality.

Me: I tell you, I'm going to weigh five pounds more in a week, but this Mountain Dew is going to help me finish the novella.
DD: You're drinking Mountain Dew? Why?
Me: Because it's keeping me energized. That's how I wrote those 2700 words. Plus, I found two chapters I'd saved in the wrong place--that was 5000 more. So, really, I ended the day with a surplus of 7700.
DD: Those 5000 don't count. How much do you have left?
Me: Well...let's see. Let me open it...hmm. Ok. Here we are. I'm at 19k. 10k more to go.
DD: I don't believe you.
Me: What?
DD: That excerpt you sent me the other day was more than 19k.
Me: No it wasn't.
DD: Was.
Me: Um, no. I've added three more chapters since then. Now it's at 19k. The part you read was less than 19k.
DD: I don't believe you.
Me: You want to make a bet?
DD: Yes.
Me: Just so you know, that's a bad idea.
DD: Why?
Me: Well, because one of us has the document open in front of her with the word count of 19,000, and the other has no document and is drunk.
DD: I didn't follow that.
Me: It's not a fair bet. Look, it wasn't 19k when you got it.
DD: I don't believe you.
Me: You really want to bet on this?
DD: Yes.
[wagers are negotiated]
Me: Ok, we'll check this tomorrow. I've got the version I sent you in email saved.
DD: Check it now.
Me: Don't you want to check it yourself?
DD: I trust you.
Me: Ok...all right. Current version, 19k. Version I sent you...11k.
DD: I don't believe you.
Me: 11k. 19k. Difference of 8k. You're paying up.
DD: I don't believe you.

Bonus #4: Call must close in a way clearly demonstrating no sobering up has taken place.

DD: I should go to bed.
Me: That's a good idea.
DD: What are you going to do?
Me: I'm going to write.
DD: You aren't writing right now.
Me: Not yet. But I'm going to. I've got to get my word count in.
DD: I don't believe you. You are not going to write.
Me: I have to. I have to make this deadline.
DD: It's midnight. You should be getting tired.
Me: The Mountain Dew's keeping me up.
DD: Why are you drinking Mountain Dew?
Me: So I can write.
DD: You are? Are you drunk?
Me: No.
DD: Why not?
Me: Because I'm going to write. That's why I'm drinking Mountain Dew.
DD: You're drinking Mountain Dew?

PLEASE! Mark all spoilers in your comments.

*If you have questions about books, release dates, tour dates, or anything else, please check my website instead of leaving the question in comments or using LJ mail. You're more likely to find an answer!.*

I have red hair and subsist entirely on Kona coffee.

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