My incredible, fabulous, unbelievable weekend!

What a long weekend. I'm still dragging myself out of the haze. Part of me (and a pretty big part) positively ached. Because I saw pictures of all you beautiful Blogher women partying it up, chatting it down, backwards and sideways. And if I was a different sort of person I would undoubtedly be INSANELY JEALOUS. Me? Jealous? Moi? But no. I must, I told myself, do something constructive with my time. Something that will spur me on to greater heights of self awareness...inspire me to the write the best damn...things...stuff...I've ever wrote. Written. My own, personal Blogher. Yeah.

So while seemingly all of blogging creation was out happily communing in Chicago, (or rocking out at the Police concert), I had my own little adventure.

Really, dahlings, one can't just sit around and mope simply because one doesn't have the minutes and moolah to go gallivanting about the Windy City hijacking horses and carriages and accosting delightfully good humored police officers. I must be creative, I thought.

So of course the first thing I had to do was get myself arrested for no particular reason.

I stewed around my cell for a while, trading bitchy threats with the inmate across the hall, when who should happen to pop by but Patrick Stewart! At least his gorgeous, silky English voice did. He looked alarmingly swollen and bilious up close and personal, and had questionable taste in clothing (particularly for a visit to my incarcerated self) but suddenly, it just didn't matter. Patrick had had a dream. About me.

“You!” he exclaimed. “You are the one from my dream!”

“It must have been a good one.” I replied, and gave a little wink. This seemed to please him, as he decided to take me with him and the two hunky bodyguards he traveled with. Things were looking up.

He decided he liked me SO much he gave me a present...a necklace of dubious worth, but still, free bling. And he decided to break me out.

Of course, after we made it through the worst part of the correctional facility (Walpole...you know) some beeyotch in an awfully cut red frock killed Patrick! Of course I hauled off and beat the bastard with my bare hands till he died.

There I was, (left with nothing but the pitiful clothes on my back, the bling of dubious worth, and a rather dull blade I stole from the dead fashion-challenged beeyotch) in the middle of nowhere (Walpole, you know).

Could be worse, I thought.

Then, it started to rain.

Really. Enough to jolt me right out of Oblivion.

Yes, my friends, it is time for true confession. I am, at times, a red-eyed, soul-eaten shell of a woman, clicking desperately at the keyboard to slice, hack, fireball, block and dodge my way through various and sundry RPG games. It isn't a hobby I am exactly proud of. I view it as more of a barely controlled addiction. Really, with all the time spent figuring out the various nuanced ways of sneaking through a goblin infested dungeon, I could learn how to do so many other things. Like...um...crochet...or stand on my head. Or practice my cello. No, wait. That would wake the Impling, then there goes playtime. OK, so I'll just play until I reach the next village. How far could it be? Plus, I need to beat up more things.

Hello. My name is Aerona. Goddess of Destruction. I have a gaming problem.

I think the first game I was ever completely addicted to was Civilization. I played until the wee hours of the morning. Played until I was dreaming in squares.

“Gandhi demands the secret of internal combustion!”

How could I not love a game with lines like that? Eventually I had to give it up. I couldn't take the square dreams any more.

Then I found Betrayal at Krondor. I played the hell out of that game...every plot, every side-quest was mine. I cracked every chest, I drew maps. I hummed the theme song. I reverted into a bleary, prepubescent D&D fanatic (which I really never was), except now, I had no one to tell me to go to bed. My boyfriend (now husband) was a gamer too. He understood. He egged me on (except of course, when HE wanted to play).

Then there was Torment, and The Longest Journey. We got a PlayStation. And then it was Final Fantasy, Xenogears, and Xenosaga. Dragon-Quest and Ico. Suikoden.

To my (dubious) credit, I only let myself play a MMORPG once. Final Fantasy XI. I was Sabriel, Red Mage hume with a moogle and an attitude. I got up to level 30, then gave it up. The Impling was on the way, and the game suddenly became more social, so consequently, more work. Because while I loved chatting with some of the other gamers (I had one truly interesting and intense conversation with a young Arab gamer about religion, the universe and everything) I wanted to kill things on my own. I like the sense of control, of freedom. In that universe, there is no one to tell you must do anything...there are only guides. But at level 30, you were suddenly expected to play nice with others (or at least suffer them until you completed the game).

I have a hard enough time playing nice in real life. Why would I want to struggle with it in my free time as well? So I said farewell to the Final Fantasy on-line universe and concentrated on the work at hand...winnowing down to a single shared computer and transforming the former office/gaming room into...THE NURSERY.

Now that the nesting has passed, and the Impling older and more inclined to go off and play with her little people and stuffed dragons (SHE picked them out...I SWEAR), I can manage to actually write a little during her waking hours, which allows me a few hours of real playtime.

But inevitably, playing fills me with guilt. I'm inclined to believe it is, in part, due to a sense that even play must be in some way constructive. One can't merely play for plays sake. This attitude may come from a generational anomaly. My family, in a way, skipped a generation.

My Great Grandparents were, to all intents and purposes, my Grandparents. They brought up my mother, and we visited them regularly. Every year we stayed at their house in Lakeville during the summer. Grampy built this house himself. No contractors. Just family. They hunted. Grampy's mother, full-blooded Penobscot, taught him how to find his own medicine. They were self sufficient. They were not what you would call technologically savvy people. And neither, quite frankly, were my parents.

But they had community. Neighbors, and friends, and family close by and always dropping in. They didn't mind solitude.

My family tendency to technological shyness is still with me. For instance, I am quite comfortable with programs like Photoshop and Quark (fat lot of good that program is to me now), but I prefer pencil and paper to Access, and a check book to automatic bill payment (I know there is a better term for that, but I'm to lazy to think of it now).

More importantly, I too, desire solitude. But for someone who loves the quiet moments of reflection and of doing absolutely nothing, I have remarkably little of it. So I turn on Oblivion, and lo and behold, I am still doing absolutely nothing, but have the illusion of being incredibly busy. I can forget about our transitory life here, the fact that the wonderful friend I have made will be moving soon, that I will be moving on as well next year, that our days of impromptu meet-ups are coming to a close, and that we will have to become on-line buddies. It's not like I make friends easily. I would write a post about my difficulty finding women friends, but BA just wrote pretty much everything I would have written.

However, while I am busy doing nothing, the noise of the game prevents reflection. It is hi tech escapism. No reflection allowed. Otherwise that giant mole creature will kick your leather armor shod ass into the next parallel universe.

So while I enjoy my gaming time, I can't honestly say it makes me feel very good. It's great for relieving pent up aggression, it's true. But so do karate, Tai chi, yoga, parkour, or any other past-time that involves actually moving. Drawbacks...all those wonderful athletic pursuits require some key things I do not have...namely...babysitter...and money. Money to pay said babysitter. Money to pay for said classes. So why not Oblivion?

For that matter, why haven't I joined the throngs of people on line in that on-line world called 2^nd Life?

Maybe because, lame as it seems at times, I value my real life more than the eye candy life on line. I like meeting my friend at odd times and watching our children play together. I love communicating with all the wonderful people I've "met" on line. I love spending a little extra time cooking if it means watching the Impling stir the pancake batter (and a little extra cleaning). I like knowing I have an almost indefatigable partner in crime when I need to go for a good long walk. A simple "let's go see what we can see!" is enough to get the Impling into her sneakers and hat in record time.

I would miss some key things in that 2nd Life...the smell and taste of food; the feel of the breezes that cool our street and rustles the leaves of the poplars; all the times my senses are awakened and I am reminded that I am an organic being, and like it or not, inescapably part of the world around me.

Plus, I don't think the 2nd life locals would like it if I started whaling on their stylish selves with a steel claymore. Ya think? I'll take my 1st life, thanks.