Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons (3 page)

Even Judy came around once I started recapping my weekly games with her.

“You tell stories and make up characters? You're pretending to be little magical monsters? Oh honey! You found your people! I always knew they'd come for you!”

A few years later, I was staring at my computer screen, willing an idea for my
Dragon
column to appear on the blank Word doc. It was due in three days. Why wouldn't Judy send me a book about procrastination? That's one I'd probably read. Eventually.

While I was waiting for the creative engine to revup, I started unloading my poor, overworked DVR. It was 99% full and much of it was a backlog of
The Real Housewives
episodes. No sense in keeping my DVR
and
my creativity blocked, so I gave in to the comfort of the couch. You never know when inspiration can strike. Besides, Judy couldn't wait forever for me to catch up. Apparently last week's episode was a doozy.

The housewives were fighting. Surprise! And they were in public. And they were wearing heels and dresses that made their cleavage look like age-spotted sacks of jellyfish. They have an uncanny ability to move their necks and wag a boldly painted acrylic finger in the faces of their “friends” without an ounce of champagne sloshing over the sides of their crystal flutes. I can't even hold a conversation
and
a drink without leaving a liquid trail down my pant leg. Don't stand next to me at cocktail parties. There. You've been warned.

Maybe it was the looming deadline, or maybe it was the pressure to free up some space on the DVR before quality programming like
Gossip Girl
and
Fashion Police
started up again, but I started imagining
The Real Housewives
as a D&D party.

Those crazy hens would fail before they even accepted their first mission. For one thing, they wouldn't go anywhere they could potentially ruin their manicures, and they wouldn't dream of venturing out without caravans of nannies and house managers. And really, even I wouldn't wear heels in a dungeon.
The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
would probably have the best shot at making it through an encounter. Some of those women actually get along for at least part of an episode, and two of them are related so they're kind of used to fighting and making up. And another two even have jobs. Well, three if you count Camille, the jilted ex-wife of Kelsey Grammer, better known as “an A-list television star,” like she refers to him.
Several times an hour.
Her job is managing the two house managers that manage everything else and “keeping Kelsey sober.” The woman who has more nannies than children and still can't find time to pack for Hawaii. Oh Camille, I feel your pain.

The next morning, I call Judy. We talk every day on my way to work even if it's been approximately ten hours and sixteen minutes since our last conversation. Chances are a reality show meltdown occurred while we were sleeping or
Barefoot Contessa
came up with an even better way to roast red peppers, so there's always something to talk about.

“You're late,” she said instead of hello. “I've been waiting for you to call so I can get my nails done.”

It was 8:12 am. Approximately four minutes later than when I usually call.

“I hear at some point in the distant future, we'll all have these crazy things called cell phones,” I told her. “We'll be able to roam freely, without
being tethered to cords in our kitchen. Imagine that—you can get your nails done anytime, anywhere, while talking to me!”

“Dare to dream,” she sighed. “What could possibly be new?”

Judy loves to act put out by my incessant phone calls, but truthfully, if we should miss a morning call due to unforeseen circumstances like emergency root canals or spontaneous Gin Rummy games with the neighbor, I'll be plagued with lovelorn e-mails starting at around 2:00 p.m.

“Lots is new!” I told her. “After catching up on my
Real Housewives
drama, I may have come up with an interesting idea.”

“Does it involve a way to siphon collagen from lips?”

“No, but wow. Great idea. What is with Taylor's face? She'd be pretty if not for the giant pink football she wears under her nose.”

“It looks like a baboon's ass, if you ask me.”

“Ugh. Why did I ask? But back to my idea.”

Judy said something but it was muffled.

“Did you just call me Camille?”

“Maybe.”

“Fine. Tell me what you think. Let's get them all in a room with a Dungeon Master so they can work out their problems.”

“Oh, wouldn't the housewives love a Dungeon Master,” Judy said. “Especially that dopey housewife who's desperate to find a husband. You know who she looks like? Ralphie, your Aunt Elly's old beagle. Remember Ralphie?”

“Seriously, Judy?” I've been working at Wizards for more than a decade and still her mind reverts to ball gags and cat-o'-nine tails when I mention Dungeon Master? Kim does kind of look like Ralphie, though. “I'm talking about the very innocent game called Dungeons & Dragons, where a Dungeon Master helps tell you a story.”

“Oh. Well, I think you'd have better luck selling the idea to Bravo if you used my idea.”

I continued with my plan. “Playing D&D would force them to work out their issues. Taking on different roles would foster respect for each other and encourage them to band together to solve a common problem. It's way better than the old exercise of falling backward into your so-called friend's waiting arms.”

“Or they could pick up a copy of
When Friendship Hurts
,” she said. “Did you read that yet?”

“Aw, come on! Why are you sending me that?”

“Remember when your so-called friend Trisha deliberately threw a party on the same day as your birthday? And she didn't invite you?”

“Yes, in sixth grade!” I argued. “And I'm 99% over it!”

“And I spent all that money renting out Skate Estate for what turned out to be your brother, his weird friend Petey, and you. And none of you skated!”

Oh, I see. The reason she's still pissed is because she wasted money on the skating party. “Look, Mommy,” I explained. “Trisha was offering to teach kids how to French inhale with the cigarettes she stole from the lunch monitor! Unlimited pitchers of orange juice and couples-skate with my brother can't compete with that. Even I didn't want to go to my own party!”

“Well, read the book,” she said. “Now you'll know what to do next time someone abandons, betrays, or wounds you.”

“I already know what to do,” I told her. “Hang up. Or hit 'em with a
magic missile.
”

“I think you have some work to do on your pitch.”

“Just arrived at work. Call you on the way home!”

I thought about those batty housewives the next time my group and I got together to play D&D. What's crazy is that playing D&D at work
is
work for a lot of my co-workers. And it's no accident they ended up at Wizards. In fact, it's their dream job. The company is filled with lifelong gamers. Men and women who have fond memories of discovering D&D in their older cousins' closets, under Christmas trees, at the game and comic book shops their older siblings brought them to when they were supposed to be baby-sitting. Seems everyone has a how-I-discovered-D&D story around here.

In fact, some of those stories rival those found between the covers of Judy's favorite self-help tomes. I'm not the only one who finds inspiration with D&D. And that's when it hit me.

“Are you out of your tree?” Judy asked when I called from my commute home to expand on my new idea. “You think D&D can make you and the Housewives better people than Oprah could?”

“Well, maybe not Oprah,” I said. “But certainly Dr. Phil.”

“Prove it,” she said.

“For starters, D&D players are the nicest people I've ever met.”

It is a lame argument but one she has to agree with because she's met some of them. She still refers to the co-workers she met while visiting the office one day as “Nice Chris,” “Charming Bertrand,” and “Why aren't you dating that guy, Bart? He's just as weird as you are.” (Okay, she was right about that one.)

“So?” Judy fired back. “They could have been born that way.”

I can tell this is going to be a tough sell so I rattle off a list of things D&D can do: foster creativity, strengthen relationships, provide creative problem-solving alternatives, make you a better public speaker.

“First grade does that, too,” she said. “What else you got?”

“It lets you tap into different facets of your personality you might not be in touch with otherwise,” I said.

“Take an improv class.”

“It gives you an outlet for all that pent up anger you might be toting around. Anger you might take out on your poor mother's living conditions when she no longer has the faculties to take care of herself.”

She was silent for a beat. “Go on.”

“Don't tell me you haven't thought of casting spells on drivers who cut you off or cashiers who are rude to you,” I challenged.

Or lazy shoe salesmen who you just know aren't looking for a pair of eights in the back room. Or the supertall woman with the bad perm who sits in front of you in an almost empty movie theater. Or first dates who don't think you're worthy of a second date. As if you wanted one! Grrrr …! Tyler from Walla Walla, if you're reading this, I knew it wasn't going anywhere before the salads even arrived. I was just hungry, okay?

“I do cast spells,” she argued. “My favorite is called
flipping the birdie.
”

“Yeah, you really need to stop doing that. Drivers have been shot for less.”

Judy and I digressed to all sorts of other things that make us mad, but the more we talked, the more confidence I had in what started as a funny little thought bubble.