Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons (11 page)
Read Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons Online
Authors: Shelly Mazzanoble
Sadly, there is no end to the amount of books geared toward fixing the lovelorn. And what's up with all the titlesâthey always have YOU in big letters.
How to Find the Love YOU Lost. How to Stop YOURSELF
from Falling for Another Loser. Why She Chose Him and Not YOU.
It's like YOU have gone out there and made a big, fat, lonely mess of YOUR life and now these little paperback martyrs have to go out there and clean up after YOU. Can't YOU just hear their passive-aggressive little paper sighs? “Oh, fine, I was relaxing here on this shelf checking out that molten chocolate cake on the cover of
1,000 Chocolate Delicacies
, but okay, I'll take care of you. Again. Good job, mate. Nicely done. Need a paperback to fight all your battles?”
Had I only known the key to unlocking my inner half of a happy couple was to buy some dice and roll up a character, I could have saved Judy thousands of dollars. Dollars she could have sunk into slot machines or Omaha Steaks or providing nutritious food for a child in Honduras. If there's one stereotype about D&D that
is
true it's the one that implies only guys play it. Well, sort of true, anyway.
A lot
of guys play it. Oh sure, women play, too, but your odds of being the only girl in the room are great (and not in a creepy, bad-judgment sort of way that Lifetime movies are made of).
Oh sure, I give my Dungeon Master(s) a hard time during the game, but I know they can handle it. It's all in good fun. It's kind of like yelling at the ref during a hockey game when he makes a bad call. Actually, I take that back. I've seen how some people treat refs during a hockey game and I'm not that bad. For instance, I've never thrown meat at my Dungeon Master. It's more like how I treat my trainer when he tells me to do pushups.
“Quit telling me what to do!” I say this knowing full well that telling me what to do is exactly what I pay him for.
When my group gets out of hand with the “you're cheating!” and “Nope, thirty-four doesn't hit my level five armor class,” our Dungeon Master lets us know. No matter what happens in the game I always make sure to thank him, tell him that it was fun, and offer to carry his minis back to his desk. He usually lets me, too. Sucking up is just one of the many ways to make your DM feel appreciated.
There are tons of stories out there about couples meeting each other around the D&D table. “He was a shifty rogue,” “She healed me,” “He was my Dungeon Master” (the latter of which I'm assuming is a reference to D&D maybe not). This hypothesis is just itching to be tested. That's where Jodi comes in.
She's the perfect accomplice to test my theory. She just embarked on a new career in aesthetics, which she loves (and is really, really good at; if you need someone to tend to your skin care needs, let me know). She's smart, funny, outgoing, and beautiful. Most important she's now the official friend none of us can believe is single. At the risk of sounding like Judy, what
is
wrong with the guys around here?
Over a delicious dinner of vegetarian Sloppy Joes and a bottle of Riesling, I told Jodi how I thought D&D was great for couples and potential couples.
“If more people knew about D&D and its matchmaking wonders, Dr. Phil would be out of a day job,” I said.
“That's some good motivation to get the word out,” she offered. “I'll join that cause.”
While much subtler, Jodi's mom has been known to quote Dr. Philisms. Single women hate Dr. Phil. (Remind me to talk to R&D about creating a Dr. Phil-inspired monster.)
“You and Bart could be the poster children for how D&D brings people together,” Jodi added.
It's true, D&D brought Bart and me together, or more specifically our jobs working on D&D brought us together. I thought he was a perfectly nice guy and liked him right away in that co-workers-I-wouldn't-hate-having-lunch-with sort of way. According to him he liked me,
liked me
the first time we met.
“You were nice, even if you were a little too chatty,” he said.
“Well, you were nice, too,” I said. “Even if your glasses were from 1987.”
It didn't matter how we felt about each other then because I had a boyfriend. But I still classified Bart as someone with definite potential, so I dropped him into slot A and set out to fix him up right away. My friend Des had a friend named Bethany whom I had never met but Des gave a glowing review.
“She likes reading and camping and is superfunny and cute.”
“Hmm, camping?” Bart asked, when I told him about my prospect. “The reason I have a job is so I
don't
have to sleep outside.”
But he overlooked Bethany's affinity for sleeping on dirt and agreed to meet her for a blind date. While they had drinks at a bar in Queen
Anne, Des and I texted back and forth, trying to pinpoint the exact moment they fell blissfully in love. I went to Bart's desk before my own the next morning.
“Well?” I asked. “Are you heading to REI to buy a sleeping bag, Wilderness Jack?”
“I hate you. And you owe me two hours and $29.”
What? How could this be? Des had nothing but positive adjectives reserved for her friend. And all of my fix-ups have always resulted in at least a third date. Judy was right! There was something wrong with the guys around here!
“There's a reason that girl is single,” he continued. “I had more fun counting the salt specks on my French fries.”
“But Des said she was funny and smart ⦔
“Would it have killed her to use some inflection while telling me about her days as an intern with an actuary?”
“And cute ⦔
Bart informed me that when a woman describes her friend as “cute” it's usually a sign she's â¦Â well, not. (I don't believe this. I have plenty of friends who are across-the-board cute. But just in case he's for real, please note I have described Jodi as beautiful.)
Bethany was actually surprised that Bart didn't call for a second date. Surprised and disappointed. I had to make up some story to Des about Bart not being over his ex-girlfriend and therefore not ready to date after all rather than explain her friend is about as interesting as a rice cake. We still talk about Bethany when we're stuck doing less than scintillating tasks like caulking the bathtub or facing cans of tomato soup when we volunteer at a food bank.
“Would you rather be stuck in a submarine, listening to Bethany lecture about the proper way to lick a stamp, or in a small, dank supply closet organizing cans of soup based on their sodium content?”
Much to Bart's delight, I didn't try to fix him up again.
For years our timing was never quite right for dating. By the time I broke up with the guy I was seeing, Bart was dating someone else. But over the course of five years we became the kind of great friends men and women can be if you're sure they'll never see you in your birthday suit. Bart was my workout buddy, drinking pal, and confidant. I made him study the huge zits erupting on my chin, I could belch him under the table, I told him about my penchant for Saturday afternoon Hallmark Channel movies. You know, the stuff you tell your best guy friend when you have no intention of actually dating him.
But then Bart's relationship ended, and he moved to my neighborhood.
We were working out, drinking, confiding,
and
carpooling together. And for the first time we were single at the same time.
One day in May I invited him to join our friend Sarah and me for a hike at Mount Si. Sarah was training to climb Mount Rainier. Now, here's some unsolicited advice for you: do not, under any circumstances, climb giant mountains with friends training to climb even bigger mountains. While Sarah pretty much ran up the 4,100 feet (with a thirty-pound pack strapped on her back), Bart had to push me (and the Luna bar strapped on my back) up at least 2,100 feet.
“I'll give you half of my Mediterranean wrap when we get to the top,” he promised. “And homemade butterscotch cookies. You just have to get there.”
“Go without me. Save yourself! Your cookies can't help me now!”
Four million switchbacks later we made it. Sarah was nearly done with her sandwich by the time I face-planted on a boulder.
“You did it, Buddy,” Bart said. “Not bad for your first hike.”
“Please insert cookies into the slot on my face,” I said. “My limbs have forsaken me.”
We were exhausted by the time we returned home but managed to rally for Chinese food, several pints of beer,
Sex and the City
trivia, and a bottle of Trader Joe's Tempranillo on Bart's front porch. I was hoping he could help decipher the mixed signals I was getting from an Argentinian rugby player.
“I can't figure the guy out,” I said. “He asks me to do stuff all the time. Just us. Date-like things. But then when we're out, he treats me like a kid sister. I
think
there's chemistry. What's his deal?”
“The deal is the guy is an idiot,” Bart said. And then he kissed me.
I'd like to say “and the rest was history,” but it wasn't.
“Don't forget the couple of months I spent wooing you,” Bart likes to add when we tell the story. “You put me through the wringer.”
It's true. But only because I thought the idea of us as a couple was worse than the dreaded reverse-bob hairstyle. Why?
“Because it will ruin our friendship,” I insisted. Yep. What would Dr. Phil say about that? I'll tell you, as channeled through Judy.
“You love spending time together, have a ton in common, share your deepest, darkest secrets. You're right, Shelly, run for the hills!”
Oh, whatever, Dr. Judy. I came to my senses, okay? And while we're at it, here's some more unsolicited advice for anyone single: Look at your best friends. I mean
really
look at them.
For Jodi, I have some different advice. Or rather, a proposition.
“How would you like to take part in an experiment?” I asked her, as I filled her wine glass with more Riesling. “We could erase Dr. Phil from the minds of mothers everywhere!”
Hey guys! Want to know what it's like having Judy for a mother? Let me give you some unsolicited advice!
Have some kooky, harebrained, peculiar notion floating around in that brain of yours? Try it out on your D&D character first. If the party lets you get away with it, you might have a shot in real life. If the party threatens to loot you and feed what remains to a pack of displacer beasts, perhaps you best nurse that idea of yours a little longer.
Bart's a great guy but I would never date his D&D character. Holden Cawfield, a kenku assassin, is an instigator, a troublemaker, a what's-behind-door-number-3'er. He's also a creepy little bird man. Knowing Bart, Holden represents a slice of his personalityâthe instigating, troublemaking, questioning-door-number-3 part. Although Bart would love to venture off into the great Forgotten Realms with nothing more than a backpack and some trail rations, in real life he's much more pragmatic, rational, and easygoing. D&D is a great outlet to express unrealistic ideals. I mean, I'd much rather Bart topple a bookshelf and use the fallen books as a ladder to get to the upper tier of a ziggurat in D&D than, say, at Judy's house to try to escape out a window when she starts questioning him about our future together.
“Okay!” she answered. Jodi is always agreeable, but under the influence of wine she's downright impetuous. “Wait, what kind of experiment? I'm not cutting my hair or getting pierced. Learned that the hard way.”
“Oh no, nothing like that,” I said, opening another bottle. “Not this time, anyway. You know how you're always saying it's hard to meet people? Well, I have a great conversation starter for you.”
“Keep talking,” she said, sipping her fresh glass of Riesling.
“I'm going to outfit you in some new gear and send you out on the town. Movies, beer gardens, a jog around Green Lake. Of course, I'll pay for everything.”
Jodi is a sucker for new clothes. Even if said clothing involves barbarians and skeletal monsters.
“Wait, you're going to buy me new clothes?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Well â¦Â not so much
buy
,” I explained. “More like borrow some things from the office. Some D&D things.”
“No chain-mail bikinis!” Her voice may have said no but her glassy eyes were saying yes. Or maybe that was the Riesling.
“Guys dig girls in D&D gear!” I said, having no evidence of this but I'm afraid I'll lose her when she sees the duds I'm talking about.
Jodi took the wadded up black T-shirt I handed her. “Rock me, Asmodeus? Is this supposed to be funny?”
“Yes. To those in the know, anyway.”
She studied the shirt for a minute before concluding Asmodeus looked just like her boss from her days working at the skating rink. “I thought he was hot. But then again, I was fifteen.”
