My Alter Ego Has Guy Parts

In the past few months, my love of gaming has been reinvigorated. After spending the past 8 years wiping noses, providing shuttle services to soccer and ballet, trying to maintain a house that exceeds state minimum requirements, and still manage to squeeze in some writing time, my family is now becoming more independent.

Thus the development of my probable Xbox addiction.

I started playing Call of Duty: Black Ops 2 earlier this year, thanks to the vociferous encouragement of one Megan Curd aka Dizz. Because apparently I didn't have enough to do. Since beginning to play, I've built a small list of online gamer friends. A few of them came into the game via Dizz's recommendation, but most of them are just gamers I've met over time.

Why is this interesting enough to mention you might ask? Because 90% of my online gaming community believe me to bear male genitalia. Yeah, I know. Just imagine trying to explain that one to the handful of friends who know the truth. Sigh.

I think it's important to point out the following: 

* my gamer tag is relatively ambiguous as far as a gender indicator.

* until recently, I didn't use a mic on my headset.

I was in a lobby with these three guys are who were bantering back and forth. One dude was being an epic twat waffle, and the other two were calling him out on it. Long story short, the two wise guys friended me after I texted them, talking about how they were cracking me up. For the next couple of months, I played with them pretty much every day, only talking through texts versus chat.

This was where my problems started.

Building an online relationship is tricky enough when you're thought of with the right reproductive parts, let alone the wrong ones. I mean, this is the stuff your parents warn you about, right? Meeting people on the Internet who say they're a 14 year-old girl when really they're some geriatric creeper. Anyway, by the time I got a new headset, these dudes thought I was one of their own for months. How do you rebound from that one without being awkward?

Fortune was on my side though, if you choose to see it that way. My headset had a Voice Morph feature, allowing me to play as "Robo-Hope." Those of you who know me at all know my real voice sounds like an 11 year-old boy's. Robo-Hope was a nice medium. The alternate personality continued.

For nearly 6 months, I played with one guy in particular. We became fast buddies, never really talking about anything serious. Even now, the things I could tell you about him would fit on a postage stamp. But I like playing with the guy, and it's never awkward because he thinks I have junk, too. This is a nice alternative to the never-ending offers of ding-a-ling pics and pathetic attempts at online seduction. Really? I'm guessing you aren't allowed to leave your mom's basement. Enjoy your Cheetos, moobs. (Those are man-boobs, by the way.)

Sadly, all the harassment wasn't anything new. Growing up as a tomboy, a girl quickly realizes she's not "one of the guys" anymore beyond puberty. There's always an element of weird, awkward, or inappropriate lurking around every corner. Much to my delight, after I played the testosterone card, no one treated me differently because I happened to have a uterus. Believe me when I say, geek dudes are all-too eager to turn into douche-canoes when they know there's a girl in their lobby. That's a post all on its own! Anyway, fast forward to present day. I'm stuck in a world of deception that I've learned to embrace because sadly, it's just easier that way.

This has been an interesting year of guy research. As an author, I love lurking and taking notes. As a female gamer, I'd just like to freaking play without all your man-whore drama and insecurities.

Game On.

Social Lemmings

There's never a shortage of people who want to hate on something, and half the time, I don't think they even know what they're hating on ... they just want to be a part of something. And I get that. Heaven forbid people have their own opinion. I mean, who wants to be out on that limb alone? No one. Even so, at least know what and why you hate this new breed of evil. Don't join a team of social lemmings who just follow the pack to their own watery demise in the name of being part of the "in crowd".

People love a person/book/band when they're in their prime, but the second someone bigger than themselves start running their mouth, we're left with a group of turncoats. We saw it happen with Charlie Sheen and Britney Spears, and we're beginning to see it happen with Justin Bieber. But I think the biggest shift in allegiance has been for poor ole Stephenie Meyer *cough* she's-laughing-all-the-way-to-the-bank *cough*.

Here's the thing, like it or not, Meyer moved millions of people to read. I've heard countless tales of people who've said, "I loved Twilight so much, I began writing. If a stay-at-home mom can be successful doing something she loves, so can I." Complain and say we have a plethora of crappy writers, but that's not the point. The point is, we now have people who are trying their hand at a thing they enjoy. Most will decide it's more work than they care to continue, but a select few will continue on, grow, and become successful ... the soon-to-be benefactors of all those vicious and fickle turncoats. Because as quickly as they attack without warning, they're just as apt to welcome you with open arms ... or wallets, if you have happen to be selling books.

Be who you are, because eventually, those lemmings are plunging off that cliff. Better make sure you know what's waiting at the bottom.

Peace. Love. Happy blogging.

Jesus Online

For whatever reason, I've experienced an influx of "Like" if you want to live forever/have good fortune/are against penguin trafficking posts on my Facebook feed. While, yes, I do support, encourage, and desire those things, I hardly see how my one-click mouse action will influence a change in the world. In light of this revelation, I've created a badge of my own. Click the image to see it full-size.

Seriously, if you don't share this, any number of things could happen in the coming week ... but they probably won't. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Hope you all had a pleasant holiday.

Peace. Love. Happy blogging.

Good News, Bad News

I spent the better part of the morning chilling with some charming elderly folks. From the sound of it, I was hanging out at the retirement center, catching up on the latest hip replacement gossip or learning what foods promote healthy bowel movements. But no, I was waiting in line to see the podiatrist for what we all feared might be gout ... the old man disease. One horrifying step away from orthopedic shoes.

My aunt Eunice has these.

I climb on an elevator heavily saturated with eau de geriatric, and smile at the lovely couple standing beside me. The man is holding his wife's wrinkled hand, and I can't help but wonder what it's like to be married for 60 years. I smile and wink as we disembark only to realize no one was actually looking at me; there was a glass eye involved.

Disturbed but determined, I slog through the phlegmy coughs in the waiting room and find my place in the exam room. 7 forms later, it's my chance to explain my inexplicable toe issues to the nurse. She stares at me like I'm offering an explanation in Klingon, because no, I don't know how I hurt it or why it's continuing to cause problems. That's why I'm here.
She whips out a big blue chux pad and begins to unfold it, all the while I start sweating in the corner. The last time I saw one of those, I was giving birth. I'm instructed to remove my sock and shoe. The doctor will be in shortly.

Mr. Doctor comes in, and we rehash the story I've told Ms. Nurse, only now I'm slightly off kilter and mumbly because I expect his reaction will mimic hers. Much to my delight, he smiles and nods enthusiastically. Now I fear I'm losing the toe, and he's just trying to put on a good face. Mr. Doctor asks about conditions completely unrelated to wonky toe, reinforcing my horrifying notion.

At lease he has a sense of humor. That
ought to go far on his eHarmony
post.

He lifts my foot and props it on his knee, telling me to relax it. My heart is little racey at this point as it looks like we're going to begin a sadistic game of This Little Piggy. Mr. Doctor wiggles and turns wonky toe, but there's no rhyming to his questions, so I relax. Lots of flinching later, he comes to one conclusion.




Good News: No gout! Whoot! Goodbye lifetime prescription to maintain my uric acid levels!

Bad News: I have an inexplicably wonky toe.

On the bright side, Mr. Doctor thinks it's something we can deal with, and it hasn't left any irreparable damage. Still, there's something depressing about being the only patient in the office who still has their real teeth. Meaning I have my real teeth, not the office. I'd have to be old to leave those behind.

In all seriousness, the elderly are awesome! Here's to old people full of wisdom and interesting stories!

Courtesy LG TopangaFilmFestival

Slightly Abused Mailbox 'For Sale.' Only Ran Over Once.

You're doing it wrong...

Let's go back to the beginning.

So, my wonderful husband whom I love dearly borrowed his bro-mance's boat the other day. For whatever reason, he decided to pull it out of the driveway just enough to tinker with something in the back. Our drive, like most, has a dip at the entrance so water runs away from the house. Nice in the sense that your yard doesn't flood. Not-so-nice in the sense that it makes for a heck of a bump when your unsecured trailer hits it.

Yeah. Renegade boat coming right up.

I hear my guard dogs (realistically a yorkie and a mixed breed deemed a Franken-weenie) barking like someone's throwing steak balls at the front door, and they can't get to them. After several failed attempts at calling them, I wander to the front door.

Lo and behold, there's a boat in my yard, my husband futilely pushing against the hull, our SUV is in the middle of the road, and the mailbox ... well, I feared the worst for old Rusty.

I open the door and calmly ask, "Do you want some help?"

"YES!" Matt huffs, the giant vein popping in his neck.

"Be specific. What do you need?" I asked.

I think he mentally slapped me at this point, but I can't actually prove that.

Now then, our house is the last before the street takes a Niagara-esque plunge on down into the neighborhood.This might be an absoultely horrifying-slash-morbidly entertaining problem except we have a home-owners association, and they specifically prohibit fun. They're like Nazis but with well-manicured lawns.

"What does that have to do with the price of eggs?" 

It means we have imposed rules of no 2x4-in-the-ground-as-your-mailbox-post. For once, the HOA has thought of something beneficial. The decorative kryptonite rod that serves as the post stopped our runaway boat.

Needless to say, the DH left on his trip, abandoning me with only a mail-bucket. A week later, it isn't necessarily better but it is more functional, and I think the mailman stopped leaving threatening messages. ...okay, that last part I made. He didn't really stop. Kidding.

Yeah, I Could Shoot like a Champ.

This should say "Chupacabra Crossing"

So, I was sitting on the couch the other day, watching deer hunting with the DH ... yeah, we live in KY. Anyway, he has this insatiable obsession with me going with him one day like I'm going to fall in love with slaying furry animals and want to hang their taxidermy'd carcasses on my wall. He keeps asking me to wear camo and offering to buy me a rifle. I think it's his inner redneck breaking to the surface. Clearly, I haven't beaten it down enough, but I fear if I do, we won't have meat this winter. And let's face it, deer meat is delicious!

Ultimately, our banter goes a little something like this...

Matt -- You should really go hunting with me sometime.

me -- I don't like to kill things. Why would I do that?

Matt -- You want to go alligator hunting.

me -- Well, yeah, that would be awesome. But you can't cuddle an alligator. It's less like an animal.

Matt -- You can't cuddle a deer.

me -- Sure you can. You're just not trying hard enough.

Matt -- ::silence:: ...I'll bet you'd be good at it though. Or bird hunting. You're death on birds. Remember all of those babies you tried to save from the neighbor's cat when we first got married? They all died, and you didn't even have to try.

me -- ::angry eyes:: You suck at convincing people of things. How is it you're good at your job?

Matt: I'm just saying you'd be awesome at it.

me -- This is probably true. You know how I stumble into good luck. I'd probably end up shooting a chupacabra or something. Then we could be on the news for something non-meth related ... not that we've been on the news for meth, but the state of Kentucky in general. It'd put us back on the map.

Matt: ::long pause::You're not right...

And that's an accurate assumption. I may not be right, but I'm happy and not covered in camo face paint. So there.