How is it possible that I haven’t blogged in a week? I even forgot f 50 Word Fiction Friday. Oh, I know exactly what I’ve been doing instead of blogging. And anything else that I’ve needed to do in the evenings and on the weekends.

Wil convinced me to install a trial version of World of Warcraft. It’s important you understand that it was not my idea and it’s not my fault. It’s Wil’s. You understand that, right? He told me we could be elfin boyfriend and girlfriend, and kiss. So it took two days, but I downloaded and installed a 10 day guest pass. Wil’s been playing a 14 day trial. Ok, the fun part is we can play together online. Most the video/computer games that Wil plays are first person shooter, and I play the Sims or puzzle games. So that was kind of fun, playing together. I’m a Level 12 Druid Night Elf. This makes me worthless in a fight, for the most part. Wil does the bulk of the fighting. Once, I was cornered by several giant spiders who kept killing me, every time I came back to life, they’d kill me. When I complained, Wil said “Honey, that’s why you need to wait for me to get there, I’ll take care of them for you, you are not strong enough yet.” Geek chivalry. However, he was on one quest that was proving to be particularly difficult, so I helped him out by continuously casting a health spell on him, over and over, while he fought these… somethings, I don’t know what, that kept killing him.

Once, we were waiting on the dock for a boat to take us to an island, we were jumping up and down and being silly and another elf came and joined us. Pretty soon he was jumping up and down and being silly. And he started flirting with Tangwen, my elf. He asked to join our party. But here’s the thing…. meeting up in World of Warcraft to play together? That’s like… a date to me and Wil. This is what constitutes a date in a long distance relationship. I don’t know what people who aren’t into computers do, when they are in long distance relationships. Do they sit on the phone, long distance, and watch tv at the same time or something? it’s seriously fun to be able to play a game with someone who is a 5 hours car and ride away. It’s seriously fun to play with someone in the same room, as well – with the added benefit of the vocal interaction. (Usually I get statements similar to “Where are you going? Why are you running in circles. You know they are shooting arrows at you, don’t you?” Actually, he’s is very patient with me. )

Originally, Wil had some … life goals, shall we say, he wanted to complete before he would allow himself to actually purchase the full game. But once we started playing together, and he maxed out the levels he could reach on a trial version, he downgraded these to-do items to one: is there enough change in my spare change drawer to buy the game? Yes, ok then. It came with 30 days of time (you have to pay for access to the game servers) and after that, he has to have certain things done, before he can buy more time on the server.

As for me, I bought the damn game too. And it poses a great threat to my nanowrimo, which wasn’t exactly going anywhere anyway. I don’t know if I am going to complete NaNo this year. I’m too distracted. And not buy just WoW, either. Although… did I mention I can turn into a bear? Yeah, I’m a shapeshifter. Cool, huh. Next I think I get to learn to be a big toothy cat. But I don’t know what level I have to reach before I can get there.

God, I am such a geek. it’s ok, these things usually only a last a couple of weeks before I get over it. Remember the first time I played the sims? I survived that.

There was a party going on at Wil’s house on Friday night when we got home. By Wil’s house, I mean Angi’s house, actually. Wil currently lives on the main floor with Angi and her son, but Wednesday moves up to the second floor apartment. Anyway, Wil and I were hanging out in his room, watching episodes of Firefly on dvd after the party had moved on to a new location, when we were hit with a fierce need for snackin’. Ok, I was. It was decided that it would probably be ok if we “borrowed” one of the unopened bag of chips, until we could replace them in the morning. (Which, I now remember, we never did. We owe Angi a bag of nacho cheese Doritos)

So, we are lying on the bed, watching the show, after enjoying some chips, when I hear this rustling. For whatever reason, I knew where Wil’s hands were and they weren’t in a bag of chips.

me: That’s not you, is it… eating those chips?

Wil: No.

me: then… WHO IS IT?

Wil – suddenly speaking from across the room from the chips: It’s a mouse!

me: eek! get Lorange! Call Lorgange*!

Now, I’m not afraid of mice, and neither is Wil. So why freak because there is a mouse in our chips? Besides the obvious discomfort of having mouse feet all over your food? My theory…no matter how safe you think you are inside your four walls, Nature has a way of finding a crack in the facade. Alright, sure, it was what turned out to be a very tiny, equally freaked out, mouse. But that’s not the point. It’s a reminder of the fragility of your domicile, your protection against the elements.. You never know when the wild is going to come in, with teeth and claws, and steal your chips. Or tiny beady eyes, whichever. It’s unsettling.

After we did some dancing about and wondering what we were to do about the situation, Wil snatched up the bag and put it out on the porch so the mouse could rustle his way out of the bag after eating his fill of nacho cheese goodness. We could throw the bag away in the morning. Later, Angi came home, and we heard a familiar scrunchy bag sound. Wil whooshed out of the bed and I followed to hear him explain about the Mouse Chips and telling of our dramatic battle with Nature. She pointed out it was an old house and occasionally a mouse may sneak in. Somehow, the whole thing seemed less adventuresome in the retelling. But then, maybe you just had to be there. Angi was just bummed because the Possibility of Winning an Xbox 360 game piece was gone. We all knew who took it. Dash cunning for a little mouse, eh?

*there is an old orange cat that lives in the house, who has recently decided to claim that blankets on Wil’s bed, most likely because Wil won’t allow the dogs in the room. Wil started out calling him Orange, but that has evolved to Mr. Brun L’Orange. When being formal, I say it with the intended French accent, but in the case of mouse emergencies, it’s just “lorange.” I think his real name is Roscoe.

I can be slightly competitive about certain things. Events requiring physical prowess or coordination, like sports, not so much. I’m quite sure you can run faster and farther than I. All of you… any one of you… you won’t have much competition from me. I’m a competitive parker of cars. Not in skill, but in proximity to destination. I will sometimes not want to give up a parking place, because it’s so prime, even if there are other parking spaces available. (This is why I could never again live in San Francisco, the stress of parking would make me insane. It’s bad enough in Seattle) I hate to admit it, because you won’t believe me when I tell you that I don’t crave the spotlight – honestly, but I really do have a need to be the most entertaining. Sometimes. I work on that one, constantly. I want to be the most entertaining, and yet, I don’t want to always be entertaining. Explain that one, will you? Love me the most, but don’t put too much pressure on me, because I may not always have the energy to live up to your needs. Christ, what a mess.

But! I did not start this post to talk about my occasional insecurities and need for validation of my worth! Dag nabbit, no! I came to speak of the most sacred of all competitions … Trivial Pursuit.

I don’t know what it is about my brain that collects the random crap, but I’m full of useless facts. Hence, I love the Trivial Pursuit. Not all the pie colors. I hate the blue (geography) and I am not crazy about yellow (history). The pink (entertainment) is my best pie color by far.

The last couple of weekends, I have played Trivial Pursuit with Wil and his friends. One thing I noticed right off, as the only American in the group, I am expected to know all American History or Political questions. And it’s far more humiliating when I don’t, when surrounded by Canadians. Canadians who kept helping each other with the questions! Like.. helping the other team! They said it was because they were Canadian, polite and helpful. I told them they’d get their asses kicked if they played TP like that, in the States. And Wil! He’s the worst! If he were on my team, I would keep my hand over his mouth and he’d only be allowed to speak when given permission.

My team won, the first week. We would have won the second week, as well, but there were more people playing and more children running around and it was too distracting. We’d be lucky if we made it all the way around the table once without interruption. My heart wasn’t in it.

Wil can’t let go of the fact that he answered one question correctly… a question he claims no one else could have answered. I don’t even remember the question itself, but the answer is a tv show M.A.N.T.I.S. It hardly matters, we are done with Trivial Pursuit. We are moving on to strip mah jong medley,.. now that he has a mac. He’s in for it, tho. I’m a mah jong master. He shouldn’t even bother putting pants on.

Saturday, Wil and I took a bunch of his laundry down to the laundry mat, to get it all done at once. A lot of the clothes had not seen the light of day since summer began. Initially, Wil thought to instruct me on the proper way to do laundry, and that was just to stuff everything into washers, willy nilly, so that everything would come out a nice uniform color. A nice theory, but the one area of housework I come close to excelling at is laundry, and my shocked dismay at his laundry procedure had him admitting he did a sort of lightist/darkish separation thing.

We fit all the wet clothes into two big dryers, and we each took the contents of one to fold, when the clothes were dry. I then took every tshirt he folded and refolded it properly. That is to say, in such a manner that they are about the same size when folded and fit into a drawer nicely. (As long as it’s flat, I can fold it nicely. Fitted sheets? Forget about it, I try to make a nicely shaped, flattish wad out of ’em. )

When we got home, I started to hang up the buttoned shirts and some of pants on the hangers we had bought at Linens n’ Things. His new place had no hangers. Now, those of you who know me, who’ve been to my house, are probably starting to freak out a bit at this point of the story. So was I.

“Look… I’m currently giving you an impression of me that is entirely inaccurate. This is not me. I don’t do this. I do laundry, but my clothes live, nicely folded in the beginning, at the end of my couch because my dresser is broken. Don’t get used to this domestic shit. I’m just trying to be nice or helpful or something dumb like that.”

You’ll be happy to know that I did not put the nicely folded clothes away, but sorta stacked them on the top of the dresser, the floor, or the coffee table. I haven’t completely lost my mind.