Archive for the ‘Games’ Category

Happy at home

October 18, 2010

Nate Concentrating, originally uploaded by jujuwiz.

There is absolutely nothing like flannel pj’s, coffee, and a warm dog.

That’s how I feel this morning, anyway. Last night the pj’s were the only thing keeping me warm, since the stupid dog peed on my comforter, and there wasn’t enough coffee in the world to keep my eyes pried open past 8:30.

But that’s in the past. Now my home is nice and toasty and welcoming.

Speaking of toasty… I don’t even remember taking this series of photos at my last game night. Apparently after “Ticket to Ride,” Nate decided to erect a beer bottle tower. He was quite good. Even incorporated the hourglass timer.

In a state of terror and excitement

August 23, 2010

Oh my gosh. I clicked send. I have officially tendered my official notice to my landlord. And tomorrow, I officially sign a lease on a new San Francisco apartment.

I’m happy. Really. Okay, no I’m not. But I will be tomorrow, I swear! Once I sign the lease and make that jump, I’ll be just flipping over the moon. But right now? Right now all I can do is second guess myself.

What if I regret giving up my great roommate and his two sweet kitties? What if Boonie hates it? What if I never can scrub that stain out of the tub? What if the hot water always gives up, the washer burns out, and the thermostat is stuck on broiling? What if the PERFECT apartment is just sitting out there, ready to go on the market the second after I sign my lease?

It’s that last one that gives me heart palpitations. I am just positive that the grass is greener, you know, tomorrow. This apartment is good, maybe even great, but it’s not perfect. What it is, is available. I’ll be able to sign a lease more than 30 days before I have to be out of my current apartment. That’s… safe. Comforting.

Except it’s not. Not comforting at all. I’ve never been the type to go for safe. I actually can’t go to casinos anymore, because I love to gamble so g.d. much. I’m all about tossing it up in the wind and hoping it comes down in the way god intended. And you know what? That’s served me pretty well. I’ve wandered along all right with that philosophy. Sure, I can’t go to Vegas without losing every penny in my pocket, but that’s almost a given anyway.

It’s not just me in this equation, though. There’s two other roommates to consider. Two roommates who maybe aren’t as hopelessly devoted to gambling as I am. It’s time to look at that logically, and factor them in. Signing a lease tomorrow will produce the following results:

1 sad, deserted roommate
1 happy, excited roommate
1 happy but wistfully unsure and woefully uncertain roommate

Not signing a lease produces the following results:

1 sad, uncertain roommate
1 happy roommate with a growing knot of unease and mistrust
1 wistfully unsure and woefully uncertain roommate (happiness level unclear)

It’s pretty clear I’m making the right choice. Right?

Pinned to the mantle

December 16, 2009

My Yarnagogo sister came to me looking for my childhood “There’s no Santa?” moment while she was writing her post over at Book Club Girl, and it kinda threw me for a bit. I gave her a short answer, but after reading hers and wiping a few tears away, I had to strain my pathetic memory a bit more.

The moment itself wasn’t truly noteworthy. I remember an evil little girl broke the news to me at the tender age of six or seven, with a mean laugh at my naivete. We were living on an island, and there wasn’t much choice when it came to best friends. She was the one other ex-pat kid my own age, so even though she was far wiser in the ways of the world, she was it. I remember playing with the Chamorran kids on the island, wild games of adventure on the high seas (from the safety of a fallen tree), and feeling far more at ease than I ever felt with her, but she and I, we shared a common background. A language of She-ra and My Little Pony and Chicken McNuggets, back before our little island had any of those things.

I knew she was right. It broke my heart, but it just made too much sense. Otherwise why would all three of the Herron girls have gotten American Knitters (the local sweatshop) sweaters from Santa that year? He flew, right? Couldn’t he have just as easily picked up that Castle Grayskull set?

Oddly enough, I was still totally sure that the twiddlebugs I fed every night really had decided they needed to tearfully leave my care, moving away to bring joy to another little girl.

(Sidebar on the awesomeness of my sisters: For months, they created, supported, and enabled a thriving twiddlebug community in our front garden, from the postage-stamp pictures on the wall to the match-stick fences. Every night before I went to bed, I left their little button plates full of grass, and cleaned and straightened their little milk-carton home. Every morning, the grass was gone, the house untidy, and a sweet, teeny-tiny thank you note was left addressed to me. This was quite possibly one of bestest things a big sis has ever done for her little brat of a kid sister.)

For those that don’t know what twiddlebugs are:

Anyway, Santa. Like Rach, I kept my little secret to myself for FOREVER, terrified that if I said anything, that my perfect Christmas morning routine would be ruined. Like many other families, there was a blackout period on Christmas morning. No jumping on the parents’ bed until the sun was actually and fully up. This was painful for me, but the pain was easily dealt with thanks to the fact that I could sneak out, grab my stocking, then jump relatively quietly onto my sister’s bed (and onto my grumbling sister) and compare loot. We’d be good and sugared up by the time the parents actually got up, thanks to the ever-present chocolate coins.

By the time I was 13, the sisters were 20ish and getting very annoyed at my persistent excitement and bed-jumping. I didn’t care. It was still my favorite thing about Christmas, and like it or not, they had to wake up with me at 6:30 so they could admire my new fluffy socks with embroidered witches on them, and trade me a jelly belly box for a licorice allsorts bag.

That year, while I was helping her pull the Opus with reindeer antlers out of the closet along with the various other Christmas decorations, Mom paused and looked thoughtful, her hand on the stockings. “I’ve been so busy, I don’t have a thing for the stockings yet.” Almost instantly, a stricken look came over her face, and she looked at me. We’d never had ‘the talk.’

I kinda nervously giggled. “It’s okay, I know.”

“Oh, well, of course you do.” She paused again, and looked a little sad. “I suppose that means we don’t need them this year.”

“No!” I nearly peed my pants. “I mean, is it okay if we just, you know, pretend?”

Maybe it’s my own slanted view, but I swear she was happy about that. So stockings continued on, and continue on to this day. We helped share the Santa duty after mom got sick, and when she passed away, we only stepped up our game. Last year the stockings were so full they kind of blooped out onto the mantle and the piano. Several were too heavy to hang.

So what’s my moral here? It has nothing to do with writing, that’s for sure. Where Rachael channeled her disappointed imagination into fiction, I channeled mine into a willful denial of my maturity. To this day, I insist that I’m not too old for footy pajamas, city-wide treasure hunts, and creating imaginary worlds and homes for tiny little muppets. I do believe in Santa Claus, I do, I do, I do! And I will until I’m 90, because I strongly prefer to live in that magic world where just about anything is possible.

I’m off to fly to the zoo, folks. Don’t wait up.

All through SF

November 8, 2009

Journey to the End of the Night: a citywide game of tag, essentially. Last month, Journey decided to coincide with Halloween. What a perfect, perfect combination. Like lime juice and vodka.

I was running late, coming from an early party on the peninsula. I was sure I’d get there far too late to take part, and I was resolved to sneak ahead of the crowd to take fabulous pics with my new lens and tripod.

God bless light traffic. I made it just in time to sign one of the last few waivers and pick up my yellow armband. As a Runner, I only managed to take 1 fast snapshot:
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Our sideshow, with ringmaster, bearded lady, and Rosie, just ’cause. The clown took the photo, and we lost the geek.

This was my first Journey, and my first task with sf0. 600 Runners met in Justin Herman Plaza, and all but a handful of us were in fabulous costume. A few silly (but gorgeous) women even decided to Run in high heels. They counted us down, we took off like a shot. Okay, most people did. My group sort of wandered off in the right general direction. We were plenty nonchalant, chatting about how cool we were going to be through this whole deal, until the first chaser found us and we scattered like pigeons peeing in their pantaloons.

It felt like a happy, safer version of a real zombie invasion. Running through a holiday-crazed city, a Chaser lurking behind every wolfman mask and painted face… I was hyper-alert, at least until my energy flagged and Wesley Crusher caught me while running in circles around a parked limo. I was known as the eagle-eye in my group, catching sight of orange armbands in plenty of time to duck behind dumpsters. We evaded, rather than sprinted. I found myself saying things like, “It’s quiet. Too quiet.”

From start to finish, we met up with some amazing comrades-in-arms. A woman studying parkour. I never did see her at the end, though I really believed she’d make it. Howard Stern ran with us in the beginning. A zombie lurching into light poles as blood poured from his mouth distracted me at a muni station. And civilians at every bar we stopped at (there were a few) were fascinated. Digits were got.

Just… the most fun… ever. sf0 just took my favorite holiday and made it even better. And I am proud, privileged, and tickled pink to have had the honor of serving with my fellow Runners.

Oh, and the Carnival Folk rule! The Clown won Best Chaser, and the Ringmaster won Best Costume!
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