Facebook has been in the news a bit lately, and my spotty lurking has proven heartbreaking and humorous lately. Yes, found out some dear friends are in the process of divorces and separation (yes, I said friends, as in more than one friend in different marriages). It’s not funny, but the dark humor comes from finding out on Facebook. I have been an inattentive real life friend of late. There was some really sad news, too, but this is not my place to share that. Regardless, it will involve me trying to help this person with a boon. There are moments–many–where I question the existence of a just and wise all-powerful being. The good guys need to win a bit more, sir. Or ma’am. Or borg. Whatever.
Lock up your sons and husbands, ladies, Kélda is out there. (Just kidding. She’s harmless.)
|Jarel was not one of her trophies, however.|
|Someday I will understand what these spells are doing, but for now – shiny pretty.|
You know how sometimes, just maybe on occasion, I get a tiny bit grumbly? Well – you know I always bounce back with a good story, too! (It’s at the end, so keep reading.)
Not feeling so hot today, but whatever it is will be fine, so don’t worry about me, I’m fine, really – anyway, but made an executive decision to stay home.
|What’s missing in this photo, hmm? Could it be….?|
Oh beautiful Ceniza. You really are fun, you tricky little mage.
Took a couple of tries to get through LFRs today, and thank you to Turk for trying to help stack the odds to get that helm piece, but alas, still sporting a 378 model on my noggin.
But, as I have come to expect, Señor’s Potions of Illusions have a kick to them that cannot be duplicated. He is truly a masterful alchemist.
Hanging out in Theramore:
And during the first half of LFR:
|(This makes me want to be a Draenei turned NE turned Draenei back to NE)|
But then the best part was the final DW fight in LFR, and I looked over at the damage meters and said to myself, “Da-AMMM! A mage doing 80K!” And my next thought is, “Please don’t be a fire mage, please don’t be a fire mage…” and OH SNAP – it is. “Oh, well, then, she must be in full epic heroic gear with no grass stains or missing buttons like mine…surely!” And no, her gear is a bit better, but she’s well, just awesome:
Did you ever meet that really pretty, popular girl in high school, and you just wanted to hate her, but you couldn’t, because she was so warm and immediately nice and friendly? The one who makes everyone feel welcome? That is Penelope. I whispered her, letting her know how much I admired her mad skills, and if she felt someone was “watching” her it would be me checking her out on the armory. I was just about to ask her if she didn’t mind, to roll on the dagger in case it dropped, and if she didn’t want it, and before I could ask she told me she did, and would give it to me! *The crowd goes wild*
So, cheers to new friends, and to my current friends (you’re not old, people, you’re “established.”) I need all of you to have fun with, And besides, Señor, I need a power torrent! Please?!?!
The title of this post, for you smarticus folks, is a reference to Odysseus’ ever-faithful wife, Penelope, who fought off suitors and such while she waited for his raggedy-ass for twenty years. Good to see this Penelope is not waiting around!
|Steadfast, man…chaining the beast…|
Jarel paid Kélda no heed. She was a witch, and not to be trusted. He knew her kind. It pained him to stay in this evil, empty place, knowing the warlocks cavorted down below. Gods knew what they did in their shadows. His imagination…stirred him. He must resist. Daily, almost hourly, she ran past him, stopping once to try to seduce him, but he would not be swayed. His loyalties to the King were tenuous at best, and this witch would not push him further into darkness. Humans are so limited in their vision. He has his demons to consider.
Today’s Random Tuesday Morning Thought is brought to you by Real Life Industries, because when you play hard, you should work hard!
Last week, PRI’s The World had a brilliant series on class, caste, and social structures. (This is one link to a chat on PRI – you’ll have to find the series yourself. Sorry.)
Once again some things converged.
This past week, I finished Terry Pratchett’s Wee Free Men. Aside from having this overwhelming, ‘where have you been all my life’ feeling about Terry Pratchett, there is a repeated term the Nac Macs use, “kelda.” Using my lofty powers of context clues, I figured out it must mean a witch, or queen. Or Witch Queen.
It is an absolutely, completely, charming book. My paperback copy is now chock-full of annotations and highlight quotes (Kindle was left at home).
So, being the clever witch I am, thought I would make a character named Kelda. Not that there aren’t already 32 million Terry Pratchett fans out there, it was somewhat original, right?
Silly witch. Literary references are for smart players. There are 219 Keldas listed in the armory. But see, I know how to make funny typography, and made a Kélda. There are three of us.
And then, I met this Kelda:
Damn. Probably should have rolled another priest. Not quite sure why Kelda was slumming it in an LFR, but hey, even shadow priests need valor points, too, I suppose.
On a completely different note, Momo’s coming along fine. Waiting to get done with her heirlooms so she can hand them over to Kélda. While in Utgarde (still laugh over friend’s comment that every time Ingvar dies, an angel gets her wings) she noticed some things:
|Vykruls have cool tats, and:|
|Their furnishings are pretty fun, too. And damn, that stew looks good!|
Was lamenting to Guarf that I wish “Matty” could get some tats. She would love nothing more than to go native with the Vykruls. He commented that in his opinion, that should have been the next race. Agreed. Maybe not replacing worgens or pandas, but it sure would have been cool. As Guarf would say, “Just sayin’.”
|Every day I’m shufflin’|
This is getting personal.
I have a confession: I have domestic help. It’s one of those luxuries that I justify because if I didn’t very, very bad things would happen. I am the oldest of three girls, and by a few years, and as is natural, I was the one who was taught and expected to clean, and have done so forever, it seems; and, in the attrition of cleanliness wars, I surrendered to a professional. (It should be noted that my sisters are both very cluttered and messy, but we love them anyway.)
The woman who cleans my place rocks. She is quirky and awesome, but her best, superlative personality trait is she does not judge. Really. It reminds me of this scene from The Simpsons where Marge wins cleaning services and preemptively hears voices in her head, “UNCLEAN! Curly-whirly!” She really doesn’t care if my junk drawers are junk drawers, and once in a while I’ll have her de-clutter an area. She did hide my sake bottle behind some to-go mugs, which I thought was odd, but made me realize again, no one truly knows us, or what or who we are. No matter how intimately familiar she is with my can openers and rings in the bathtub – she doesn’t really know me.
But I used to be very neat – and it nearly killed me. There was one moment, years ago, when I spilled laundry soap and it damn near broke me. I just couldn’t keep up with the levels of perfection I felt were ascribed to me–those voices, that damn dialogue, we all hear from time to time, that says, “You’re not clean enough, good enough, skinny enough, or not worthy.”
And I stopped.
My mom would come to visit, and do that frowny-face look, but over time I got over it, or so I thought. My job and personal life spawned clutter like breeding trolls. Always one more book to read, one more list to make, one more plate to wash. My creative escape is writing, and my blog was meant to be fun and free. Yes, I like good design, and have tried to keep up with putting stories and theme songs, etc. on their own pages, but the blogroll was meant like a stack of magazines and newspapers, meant to be perused at random, interest and will. I guess I kind of figured that folks knew most of those blogs, and if they weren’t familiar, they could click if they wanted. But the roll isn’t for them– just like the blog, it’s for me. It’s my stack as I’m getting my mental toenails done.
Over the years I have managed to silence most of those judgmental voices. I do what I can, when I can, but admittedly things of late have overwhelmed me. Big time. So when Navi doesn’t like how I keep, or rather unkempt, my blogroll is, that puts a real voice on it. Not just some made up phantom. I know her intentions are grand and sweet, but I just can’t do it. I am not going to make three or four different blogrolls to organize by topic. Not going to happen. For one, that would be hypocritical of me — I can’t put myself in a category. What is this blog? Neo-jazz fusion British punk post-invasion grunge? Something like that.
I had never heard of OCD before, and then was helping a sister of a friend move. She was a hoarder long before I had heard of that, too. I remember she had mounds of stuff in her apartment, and the task was monumental. She got fixated on one tiny object of hers, and was seemingly paralyzed to put it in a damn box and start taking her sh*t to the truck. It was a transformative moment. I saw the crazy, in other words. Now I stare at my own mounds of clutter and feel transfixed, deer-in-headlights.
Maybe I should get my mom to come visit again soon, and pretend I’m that girl again who was scared when she looked behind the bathroom door and saw I didn’t sweep.
Navi – make you a deal. And no, you don’t have to clean out my underwear drawer. If you come to the US we are finding my sake bottle and doing some partying. The dust bunnies will dance with us, and I promise you will not catch any diseases from my toilets. I actually enjoy the big purge, and am in no danger of becoming a hoarder. In fact, I tend to slash-and-burn clutter and stuff. If this blog becomes too much of a pain, then I’ll just take a match to it. (Why do you think I leveled a fire mage?) But hear this clearly, my very sweet friend – you didn’t tell me anything I wasn’t already feeling and sensing. My real life mental and physical clutter must be tended to, and now. I’m not going to clean up the blog this afternoon, but finish capping out Valor Points, and then clean up a bit. I’ll be like Zooey Deschanel and tell Siri to remind me tomorrow, because today, we dance!
This may be a problem. I will blame Navi.
|First I tried this: Nah…too purple|
My dear friend has a warlock who’s been on the benches for a while, and it’s time to get him in mog-shape.
But what is one to do when the warlock is a bit more “let’s go fishing” versus “MAWHAHAHAHAH?”
He is also generally very loyal and dedicated to the Alliance, so having emblamatic equipment of duty and honor to the Blue & Gold makes sense to me, too.
I also wanted to get away from robes. Male characters do not really mind the time-honored tradition of robes, but given the mog option of having your pants and zipping them, too, helps. (Not that there’s anything wrong with kilts and going commando, mind you.)
|Warlock ready for fishing duty, sir!|
Letter from the Front:
In the end, it was hand to hand. The archers, arrowless, stuck
daggers where they could. I with my broadsword, and the shield I took
from my brother, hacked and poked and blocked. My comrades and I
fought, and bled, and died, while the enemy, seemingly numberless, did
the same. They pushed us back, but they paid and paid, a gallon of
blood for every inch. Finally, it seemed even the frenzied horde had
its limit. They fell back, and we regained our losses, making a crude
replacement for the broken gates.
And came the morning, we buried our dead.
(This is from a cherished guest writer, Guarf.)