Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons (8 page)

THURSDAY'S GOD: MORADIN

GOD OF: CREATION

Promotes:
artisans, miners, and smiths

Still reeling from Fartgate, I go into Thursday feeling a little shell-shocked and more jaded than ever. Judy almost busted a lung when I told her about the yoga class. She was laughing so hard she had to
hang up to find her inhaler. She called me back a few minutes later.

“Oh, Moo Moo, I'm sorry. I couldn't breathe,” she said. She was still laughing. “Which is probably what your classmates were saying, too.”

“Oh, ha ha,” I said. “
I didn't do it!
I should hang up on you, but Moradin wouldn't think that was exhibiting family loyalty.” There. I worshipped.

I was excited to be revering Moradin, as he's one of the more famous D&D gods. His followers have even made some appearances in my D&D games. I feel like Moradin and I share a lot of the same principles. He demands his followers be loyal to their families (duh; got that covered), welcome adversity with strength and fortitude (see “Fartgate”), and strive for making a lasting impression in this world. (If by “world” you mean yoga studio, then
done
and
done
.)

All day I waited for a sign from Moradin, but today appeared to be just another spiritually vacuous day. No dwarves, no miners, not even much love from Judy unless you count laughing so hard at your daughter you bring on an asthma attack. So I decided to visit the place I go when I'm seeking solace and inspiration—a lovely, 187-year-old oak tree in Volunteer Park.

Oh, please. I went to Nordstrom. What? Moradin is also the patron saint of artisans, and no one can deny those Tory Burch riding boots I saw in the catalog are art.

Boots in trunk, I headed back to work, but I wasn't feeling the exhilaration I usually experience post-consumerism. Had my quest for holy happiness bled me dry? If new shoes can't make me happy, I don't know who I am anymore.

After work I headed over to my favorite coffee shop for a tall skinny caramel latte served by one of the finalists in the barista showdown. Yes, that's a real event. This is Seattle, remember? And those little petiole leaves don't just form in the foam themselves, you know.

The coffee is free-range or fair trade or something else I know I'm supposed to care about, but even more important, it's delicious and heavily caffeinated. I come here whenever I'm on a deadline, parking myself at a table near an outlet and away from the toy kitchen set up for the kids who hang out while their mommies complain about motherhood with other mommies. (Once I sat near a group of mommies who did nothing but wax on about the terrors of child rearing. Potty training, preschool enrollments, picky eaters! Their honesty was quite refreshing, really, and I'm sure the kids were much too young to know who their mommies were talking about.)

“For Here” patrons get to drink their coffee out of a large eclectic mug that looks like it was excavated from Jack Tripper's kitchen.

“Hey, Shelly,” Barista Extraordinaire said, smiling. “On a deadline?”

“Yes, I need to find Jesus in the next forty-eight hours or I'll have to apologize to my mom.”

“Yikes,” he said. “Let's make it a grande.”

About five minutes into my spiritual revolution, my ADD kicked in. Rather than actually writing, I scanned the room and counted seven men and thirteen women among the patrons. Four of them had ponytails—the majority belonging to men. (Why do guys with ponytails like coffee shops so much?) Out of the fourteen laptops parked on tables, twelve of them were Macs. There was one girl who appeared to be with parents who were not filled with rage by her existence. In fact, they were the opposite, what with the constant patting on the head and conspiratory whispers. Did her dad wipe a tear from his eye?

Every now and again another patron stopped by their table and said something to the little girl that made her smile. When they left Dad would fill up the kid's cup with apple juice and say
cheers!
What were they teaching this kid? Through it all, the family appeared rather fixated on the walls.

Ah, the walls. Right. They were looking at the artwork, which quite honestly wasn't much to write home about. Each piece was mounted on what looked like a piece of sketch paper and pressed into an Ikea frame. The art looked a bit like those ribbon potholders I used to make Judy in second grade, only there was no ribbon—just paint. Caitlin signed each piece with big, loopy, novelty penmanship that said
By Caitlin.
I'm no curator but these looked like a child did them. In fact, that baby boozer up front with her parents could have done these.

“Congratulations, Caitlin!” a departing patron waved to the table. “You are so talented, young lady!”

Wait. We're already offering compliments to kids for their drinking skills? She's not even in high school yet!

Caitlin blushed. Her mom patted her head. Dad filled her cup again.

Ohhhhhhhhhhh.…

I didn't have a clue what I'd do with the end result but suddenly it became clear what I had to do. Caitlin had produced quite the body of work and had managed to land an art showing right there in my favorite coffee shop. Quite a coup, indeed. I laughed, thinking of what my parents would do if I were Caitlin. She was lucky to get away with some faux scotch and a few cheek pinches.

“Excuse me,” I said when I approached the family's table. “Do you happen to know who the artist of these fine pieces might be?”

Again, Caitlin blushed. Her parents looked so deliriously happy I thought the pride swelling their heads would surely cause them to pop right off.

“Caitlin?” her mom whispered. “Do you want to tell her?”

“Me,” Caitlin said softly. “I'm the artist.”

“Well, your paintings are beautiful,” I told her. “I'm no expert but if I had to guess it looks like you practice the ancient art of blue and yellow squiggly brush? Tough medium to master.”

Caitlin giggled but her parents acted like they were watching the headliner at the Laugh Factory. And slightly drunk.

“Are they for sale?” I asked.

She nodded her head. The parents were turning an alarming shade of scarlet. Yes, they reminded me a lot of my parents.

Scanning the wall, I found the biggest, most gaudy one and pointed at it. “Is that one still available?”

Caitlin nodded her head.

“Great!” I said, “I'll take it.”

“Oh my God, Cate!” Her mom screeched. “Your first sale!”

The dad stood up, smacked me on the back, and immediately apologized for letting the excitement get to him.

“We're just so proud,” he said, then whispered, “It's supposed to be $40. But you can pay whatever you want.”

“I'll pay $40. Totally worth it.”

Cate and company made a big production out of sticking the red dot next to the painting I chose. Caitlin beamed when she told me I could come back in four weeks to pick it up. Lots more congratulations and cheers ensued. Dad was full-on crying.

When I got back to my table, the barista brought over my extra-caffeinated latte. He had crafted one of those Christian fish symbols in the foam.

See? That's why this guy was nearly a champion.

FRIDAY'S GOD: PELOR

GOD OF: SUN AND SUMMER

Delights in:
helping those in need and opposing evil

Pelor rocks. This is definitely a god I can get behind. It's all about being nice to people and telling meanies to suck it. Today was to be all about sunshine and laughter, which sort of contradicted the vile and hostile mood I woke up in. Love and light. That's my stupid motto. If I had more time I'd make up little posters with pictures of baby animals on them. Sunshine is the kitty. Laughter is the fuzzy baby chick. They walk side by side through a forest. I gag a little at the thought. Baby steps …

Oh, sure, I had a lot planned for this day. I fancied myself a bit like Underdog, transforming from a seemingly spiritual inane skeptic into a
patron saint of the underprivileged. And when I was done pulling bullies off of scrawny classmates and helping the elderly across streets, I'd throw a massive outdoor block party where the mead and puff pastry pizzas flow like the good intentions that run through my veins.

“No, we cannot have a party,” Laura answered when I told her my awesome plan. “Besides, it's horrible outside. No one wants to celebrate
love and light
when there are flash flood warnings.”

“Party pooper,” I said. “Or rather, Pelor Pooper. Remind me to bring some light to your dark little corner of the world.”

She laughed. “When is this experiment over? I sort of miss your cynicism and somewhat questionable ways.”

“Passing gas in a sweaty yoga studio is pretty questionable,” Chris said, not looking up from his spreadsheet.

“Allegedly!” I shouted. I've told that story to so many people I'm starting to believe Becky's big, fat, flatulent lie.

My first instinct was to throw a stack of Post-it Notes at Chris. And then rid my desk of the rest of its contents in that armsweeping, overdramatized gesture soap opera characters do. Granted, they usually do this when they're about to conduct some hanky-panky on said desk, but still. I bet it would feel good. (The arm sweeping gesture, people. Out of the gutter, please.) I guess Becky and the yoga class still had me all riled up, which is a Major Yoga Fail, if you ask me.

But I took a moment to get centered and managed not to throw anything at Chris other than a sideways glance.

“You're funny,” he said. “I know you want to hit me right now.”

“Aw, come on,” Laura said, “don't get mad and blow a gasket. Emphasis on the
gas.
”

Okay, okay, that was pretty funny, but by the power of Pelor, I won't crack my façade with a smile. I just want to be angry and sullen today! Can't a girl get a little down-in-the-dumps time around here? Then I remembered (again) today was supposed to be a day of love and laughter, so technically Pelor would want me to make someone feel good by laughing at their joke. Even if it was at my expense. Oh, Pelor …

So I laughed and then Chris and Laura did and the next thing I know we're caught in that nexus of contagious laughter where you kind of forgot what set you off and are now just laughing at how hard each other is laughing. We laughed so hard my ribs hurt and we all had tears coursing down our cheeks. Our department assistant came over to make sure we were okay. We told her the story and sure enough, she was indoctrinated in our little comedy club.

“I'm going to pee my pants!” she said. “Stop!”

“Well, feel free to blame me for that, too,” I said.

I mean, who cares, right? I'll probably never see Becky again, but just in case, I'll be sure to carry a whoopee cushion in my purse at all times.

But maybe I should give her some credit. If not for her flatulent lies I never would have almost gotten mad at Chris, then remembered my pledge to Pelor, and discovered that laughing in the face of adversity is actually more fun than sulking about it. That realization buoyed me all day. I had a spring in my step and dare I say a “sunny” disposition? Nah, too cheesy. But I was definitely in a good mood.

So much so that when someone heated up a disgusting piece of fish in the microwave, causing not just the entire fourth floor to reek like Pike Place Market on a hot August afternoon but my green beans to taste like cheap tuna, I didn't storm back to my desk to compose a company-wide e-mail demanding a ban on cooking smelly office foods. (Not this time, anyway. They probably still have my letters from the first two times.) I barely flinched when another co-worker came over telling me the project I had allocated time for next week was actually due this week. As in
by the end of the day
, which was in approximately twelve minutes.

“I'm really sorry I didn't tell you sooner,” she said. “I just found out myself.”

Impossible, I thought. She pretty much makes the schedules for these things. Obviously she forgot and now I had to rush to get this taken care of, forsaking a zillion other things on a deadline (not to mention my workout!). But she really did look sorry and I can't forget the time she baked me homemade banana bread (with Splenda!) for my birthday and helped me lug 3,000 posters to my car and load them into my trunk—
when she was pregnant
!

“It's fine,” I told her, much to the surprise of Chris and the delight of HR, who were probably already heading over here. “We've all been a tad overworked lately. Besides, I should know by now around when these things are due.”

She half smiled, as if she were afraid showing any more gratitude would turn my passivity into belligerence and I really would blow the gasket Laura had predicted earlier.

“Now shoo so I can get to work,” I said.

“Weird,” Laura noted. “This whole experiment has made you
weird.
”

I was still in a good mood when I got home and found a typed note under my door insisting that I do everyone a favor and carpet my floors rather than clomp around like a pack of rhinos.

I looked at Zelda, my fat, lazy cat who was in the same spot on the sofa where I left her that morning.

“What do you do here all day?” I asked her, crumbling the note and tossing it in recycling. Yeah, my neighbor can suck it. If he did hear anything, it happened between 8:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m., which are perfectly acceptable times of day to hear your neighbors. The Shelly of Yester-week would take that note downstairs and shove it down the complainer's piehole.
You're talking about my cat
, asshat, as she's the only one home during the day.

But instead I imagined why he might be home all day with nothing else to do but carp about feline footfalls. Perhaps he recently lost his job and keeps his office skills sharp by typing passive-aggressive notes to his neighbors. Maybe he was home sick with a migraine or worse—brain cancer—and all sounds were amplified. If that's the case I hate to think what kind of note he left our neighbor with the pewter dolphin wind chimes. Or hey! Maybe he's a carpet salesman and is really asking me to do everyone a favor and buy some rugs from him. Regardless, I decided to blow off his clearly instigative little bitch-o-gram (made all the more bitchy because it was typed and unsigned; hmm, complaining about the noises above? I have no idea who this could be from).