Has a whole thing! On rafs! With raf charades! And chewing yeaves!

And he was wearing a most fetching red-lined tux jacket with jeans. And I got all starstruck, and so did Heath and Gilliam. Next time we go and see him we are forking out for close seats. Because he's worth it :).

I'm going to discuss the new Indiana Jones movie in this post--nothing you wouldn't have gathered from trailers, but I know people appreciate the warning. But that's all the warning you get, because after the jump it's all hanging out there (no spoiler tags).

Continue reading "Magical plot demons"

So people have been complaining--*ahem*--I mean, commentingto me about my lack of updating lately. I keep meaning to post more, but how much do you people really need to hear about my D&D characters? And there's only so much I can say about work before getting to details that the fanboys don't need to know.

Today I have been at a friend's house for a BBQ and have drunk way more beers than I should've. I don't know how normal it is to hang out, and get drunk, with co-workers as my main social life, but I should stop comparing myself to some notion of normality. It's not like I'd know normal if it jumped out and bit me in the face. One thing I've always loved about my place of work is that I don't have to pretend to be someone I'm not, or to censor things before they come out of my mouth (except in meetings, but, y'know).

I don't think I've really addressed this before but my friend Staci is my new co-worker. We share an office and do essentially the same job. I can't believe my incredible luck. I've had friends who I've liked as much as Staci, but I've never before had the confidence that it was mutual. I think if I had cooked up a friend character and had her brought to life, she would be Staci, except maybe with a little more confidence in her own abilities about certain things. Before we shared an office we were spending plenty of time hanging out, but since she got this job it's basically been a mind-meld. We spend all day looking at text that has been machine-translated from Korean, and then we hang out afterwards. We have a bizarre language that only we speak, made of Engrish combined with Doctor Who-fandom. Our friends fear us. We also play in three of the aforementioned D&D games together. Do not cross us or we will in-joke you to death!

I think I should wrap this up so I can get some more rice salad (the remnants of my contribution to the party) and soak up some of the beer so that by the time Leila arrives I will be comprehensible.

Oh, and go check out The Return of the Movie Musketeers: Indiana Jones 4, which I totally knitted a chain mail hood for.

So, without going into details, let's imagine that I'm responsible for a certain amount of creative decision-making at work. And let's imagine that I made a decision that was a little bit risky, but that was completely justified by design decisions that the development team made. The person who was most inconvenienced by this decision was me, because it required a lot more brainpower, and I put in a week where I worked about twice as much as my normal working hours. I informed everyone who needed to know ahead of time, I did my work, and I imagined that most people wouldn't really care one way or the other about my efforts, except a handful, who would think it cool and fun. I expect a certain amount of thanklessness in my job (if I do it right, the goal is that nobody will notice), so I may as well satisfy myself while I'm doing it.

Now let's imagine that through a series of miscommunications this decision got painted as a unilateral decision on my part, that I took without consulting or informing anyone, that was based on nothing except a lunatic fancy I'd cooked up, that affected not just one small part but the entire game, and that would have huge effects on how long it will take to translate the game into other languages. Let's also imagine that the people thinking this are six time zones away and predominantly speak English as a second (or third) language. Cue angry meetings, emails, people running around with their hair on fire, blame flinging, angst, me second-guessing my decisions, stressful and teary confabs with my boss, and, finally, an awe-inspiring pep talk in the smoking area from my friend Cam, who convinced me to stand by my decision once the confusion had been smoothed out.

I made him cupcakes.

Well, I have lots going on and little time to write about it--hence the radio silence. One thing that has really got in the way of the concept of 'spare time' is a proliferation of D&D games. I always knew I'd like D&D, but never played it until a few years ago. My first campaign was with a group that seemed focused on fighting and rules and not letting XP get away, so we parted ways amicably (just in D&D terms; they are still my good friends). My second group, run by Heath's childhood friend Andy, was of the sort that would avoid killing anything that didn't try and kill us first, would talk to anyone (plant people? Check. Undead? Check. Giant crabs? Check.), and would go whole sessions without rolling a single die for combat. That was more what we were looking for, and we spent three years or so playing (sporadically). I could tell some great nerd tales from that adventure, such as the time I used the hugely overpowered spell Baleful Polymorph to turn a Chthulu-like monstrosity into a kitten. A very angry kitten that chased us around an island, leading monsters to us and running off into the jungle, until we trapped it in a ball of thorns, flew it up into the air until the air started getting too thin to breathe, and let it fall on the island. Yes, this is the game where we are Kitten Killers.

Sadly, that game started to unravel as longer and longer intervals went by in between sessions, and finally the DM lost interest in DMing (for now, at least). A D&D-shaped void in my life opened up. I ended up joining a game where I rolled up an impromptu barbarian, made up a half-arsed backstory, and joined a session-in-progress. For all the lack of thought I put into that character, she's ended up being my favourite so far (and there are two more I will get to in a moment). So many times players come up with elaborate backstory that gets roundly ignored by the DM and it's as if the characters exist in a void. Although Andy is a great storytelling DM, the set-up of his game kinda had that effect; we made up backstories as to why we were on a ship, then in the first session got magically transported forward through time, and none of the people, organisations, or even countries we had incorporated into our stories existed any more. Ariletha, my impromptu barbarian, on the other hand, is full of frontstory. I retrofitted some backstory after our first play session, but what's interesting is what's happened to her since we started gaming; she's escaped from slavers, found a long-dead brother who is now a solar angel, died and been reincarnated in the body of an elf (she was formerly human). That's a lot of frontstory for a group that's playing a module known to most gamers as a non-stop dungeon crawl with little time for roleplaying, and it gives me a lot to get my teeth into.

Since starting that game, I've also joined another group with an elf necromancer who worships the goddess of death, and my Kitten Killing group has started up again with another person running the game, and my character in that is a self-sacrificing cleric who doesn't like to own stuff. It's hardly any wonder I can't keep track of who I am at any given time. In addition to all this, some friends keep talking about starting up a Vampire LARP (live action role play; yes, I'm plumbing the very depths of my nerdiness), and I have a character all written up for that game already. I even bought her boots and am knitting her a vest. (You dress up for LARPs, which is at least half the appeal.)

The only problem is, just when I had all these games going along happily, my impromptu barbarian one went on hiatus while the DM and his wife (who plays in the group with us) have a baby, the elf necromancer one finished to make way for another game that some of the same people are playing without me (it'll probably start up again in a few months, but until then I'm out of luck), and my Kitten Killing group's DM and his wife (who plays with us) will also go on maternity/paternity leave in September. So it's either too many D&D groups or too few. What's a girl gotta do to get a constant flow of nerdery going around here?

I've been tagged. A while ago, actually, but I had to spend a while thinking up my answer.

The rules are in the extended entry, for the few who haven't seen this on everyone else's blog already, but basically: memoir in six words. Ready?

Both the flying, and the thud.

Continue reading "Memoir in six"

I am weird.

I decided to buy a different brand of deodorant, not because I didn't like my old one, but because I thought the all-natural, organic, not-tested-on-animals, aloe vera, sensitive skin, no alcohol, no aluminium one would probably be better for me, the environment, and everyone else.

Turns out it was like putting cayenne itch powder on my pits. I was up almost all night Thursday in agony and felt like the dead when I had to get up Friday. Nothing, not aloe gel, topical anaesthetics, or prescription cream from the dermatologist, would help me. Finally I got some sleep by putting cold wet washcloths on it and sleeping that way.

I mean, just because it's made from plants doesn't mean you can't be horrendously allergic to those plants, but I could've lived without the irony overdose.

I. . .this is just beyond words. I feel gross, sweaty, and sick to my stomach from roach spray. We just fought off the zombie roach invasion.

Heath and I were relaxing, watching any old rubbish in HD, just because we can, and I was happily settled with a beer at hand, alternating between knitting and doing some work remotely, when suddenly Heath jumped up and ran to the kitchen.

What? What's up?

My roach sense just went off. I heard one in here. . .AHA! Oh, wait, there's another. And another!

Larry says that what he heard from his room was just "Four! No, Five!! SIX!! SEVEN!!!!"--raising in pitch with every number. He came out to find us peering into the kitchen, expressions of horror and bafflement on our faces as we saw four roaches twitching their last on the floor, with another in the hallway, and at least two or three more having been spotted scuttling under cupboards.

We've always had a problem with roaches, ever since we moved in. Rarely do we see the living kind, just the ones that are already mid-expiration in that characteristic neurotoxin spasm, even though we don't put down any poison. Our theory is that our neighbour, who lives like Howard Hughes in piles of decades-old mail and is only ever seen bringing shitloads of new stuff into the house and never throwing it away, deals with her clutter-created roach problem by putting down bait and letting them come over here to die. Well, today she must have had the exterminators in because we counted 40 big ones and a scattering of little ones when we were done. Maybe four or five of those were crunchy and had obviously been dead behind the shelves for a while; the rest were freshly squeezed.

We pulled everything out of the cupboards along the wall of the kitchen that we share with our neighbour, chased roaches with brooms until they died. We wrassled them on the countertops, we tangoed with them in the toaster. We stalked, ears to the walls, listening to what sounded like a bowl full of rice krispies popping in the cavity, wondering whether there was a whole army of them in there or just one very noisy one in its death throes.

The worst part is that we now have all the clean-up ahead of us. Sure, the kitchen is more or less roach-free (I pretty much assume we cohabitate with a few at any given time), but I have to clean the insides of the cupboards, clean all the things we're putting back into the cupboards, wipe the surfaces, and scrub the sink, where one particularly persistent one went to die. This isn't just because of the Touch of Roach, but because we had no choice but to use the bug spray. At one point we'd been cooped up with it so long that Larry and I had to go outside to clear our lungs. We talked about using the Raid and a butane lighter as a flamethrower. I wanted to go all Ripley on their asses.

Damn, I think the floor is dry from where I mopped it, and now I have no more excuse to put off part 2: reconstruction. This is going to take a while. Then, a shower will be completely necessary.

For the very strong of stomach, here is photographic evidence, magnifiable if you should so desire. Please note my thoughtfulness in not embedding the picture, even as a thumbnail.

It was kind of a surprise baby. We didn't really know we would be welcoming it into our home until a couple of weeks before it came. I planted the seed, Heath did all the labour, and I showed up after work when everything was cleaned up and in its place to reap the benefits.

What could I possibly be talking about? Why, our new 50" plasma HDTV, of course!

Continue reading "Great, flat, expensive baby"

Things have been busy since the last entry. They are still busy, but I have to put up another entry because people keep being all tiptoey around me after my last, rather self-pitying one. The sad thing about this is that, useless person that I am, I'm usually reticent to write or speak about things like that until they're not really relevant any more, so by the time I made the entry I'd already started to turn around.

Last week I had three days off work (which is more than the total days I took off in 2007) to spend with Anthony and James, who were visiting from England. We had a grand old time, with the touristy sightseeing things and the pubs and the going in every shop on South Congress and the museums and the drinking on Sixth Street and the Alamo Drafthouse, but as usual with such events, one of the more memorable things about the trip was a random piece of graffiti we saw, of a jubilant cow saying 'WOO!' (not moo), and the words 'Abba' and 'crime' written separately about its person. Naturally, within seconds, we'd turned this into a new version of an MC Hammer song, and continued to sing it for the rest of the trip.

They left on Wednesday for San Francisco, where another mutual friend, Robert, lives. I didn't get to go this time but one day I may make it there. I didn't realise until a few months ago that we now live on the same continent once more. Now I'm just waiting for Anthony and James to get back to the UK and upload the photos on flickr so you can see some of the fun--and, of course, the jubilant cow.

When Heath came home tonight late after being at a mixer, he asked me what time I got back from Athena's, where she has a weekly Wednesday sewing night.

I didn't go, I said.

Why not?

Because I suck.

Why do you suck?

Because I didn't go.

And there you have it, folks: a neat summary of the uselessness I've been feeling the past few weeks. Heath and I have been going to therapy together to see whether this is going anywhere, mainly at my instigation because I know I for one need to do a lot of work even if Heath thinks he understands where it all went wrong and is convinced it won't go the same way again. Part of the problem is, this is how I've been feeling. Am I feeling this way because I don't want to work things out or am I not convinced I want to work things out because I feel down, unable to motivate myself, numb to the emotional rollercoaster that I'm normally on, only able to feel frustration and irritation, none of the good--or even the stronger of the bad--feelings I usually go through in a typical Jess day.

When I told all this to the therapist she said maybe I was feeling a little depressed. I was actually surprised. I've gone through my life since I was a young teenager thinking, knowing, that I'm prone to bouts of depression and that it's probably something I just have to deal with. But I hadn't felt like this for over a year, and I guess I'd stopped thinking of myself as someone who gets depressed. How fleeting memory is. The time I've felt stable is a fraction of the amount of time thinking I was probably a depressive to some degree, and yet already I'd got out of the habit of thinking of myself that way and was actually shocked to hear the therapist say that emotional numbness, lack of interest in my usual favourite activities (socialising, writing, gaming, even reading, which has always been the basis of my entire being) and avoidance of my friends and family point to feeling depressed right now. Not that forgetting to think of myself as prone to depression is a bad thing. Probably it did me good to stop putting myself in that box even when it wasn't true. But apparently in that time I also forgot how to deal with it when it came up again.

Now here's an uncharitable thought I had last Friday.

I was feeling particularly low and called Staci to see if she could come over and watch Torchwood. If there's anything that'll cheer me up it's a good dose of Jack, Martha, Tosh and Ianto (and those other two, what're they called?) followed by a vigourous discussion of Jack's manpain and Ianto's character growth (and dodgy pink shirt collection) with Staci.

Only, she was looking forward to playing Pirates of the Burning Sea with Cam, because they'd got all ready to go on Thursday night, when another mutual friend rang in an emotional crisis, called Cam away for a couple of hours, and their piratical fun was deferred.

The uncharitable thought was, do I have to have a meltdown to get my friends' attention? My problem is, if you can believe it, that I cope pretty well with my own emotional dysfunction and don't necessarily call on other people to help me. I certainly don't have meltdowns as such. It seemed unfair that this friend got to have support when I didn't. But of course, the fault was all my own, because I didn't tell Staci I needed a shoulder to cry on, I just wished her well fighting the pesky British navy. I didn't give her the chance to help me. Maybe I should have, but I do have some lingering guilt that last year everyone was so supportive to me and I shouldn't lean too heavily. Plus, some of my friends, not Staci as such but others, are quite reserved about their own problems, so it ends up being a bit of a one-way street, which makes me uncomfortable.

I have to remind myself that this happens every freaking year (except 07) in January and February, and it's now March, so pretty soon I should be living, and feeling, and writing again.

Following on from the previous entry, if I asked you your favourite shade of red, you could more than likely find it in my hair. It's pretty weird how many shades it is, but in kind of a cool way. Plus the condition is somewhere closer to shiny than to straw, so overall the prognosis for this patient is pretty good.

I was listening to the Sweeney Todd soundtrack right before I rinsed, which made the gouts of thick, dark red goop splattering onto the white tiles all the more macabre.

Friends,
You shall drip rubies,
You'll soon drip precious
Rubies...