My son is pissed.

“MOM. I tried for YEARS to get you to play D&D, and you wait until I move to New York to start playing?!”

“Well,” I explained. “I thought it was math. All those dice and hit points and stuff just didn’t sound like fun.” (Look, I’m a super lib flaming feminist, but I do not like math. Not in a game, not in a frame, not even aflame.) “But then my brother explained that it’s collaborative storytelling. And so I gave it a shot, and I LOOOOOOVE it.”

No one is more surprised than I am to be playing a weekly game of Dungeons & Dragons. I like comics, video games, science, tech gadgets, Star Wars and Legos. My nerd cred is solid, I was just missing one of the final slices of the Nerd Pie: role playing games. (I still hate Lord of the Rings. Deal with it.)

After my dad died, I guess I just became more open to trying new things. Life was never going to be the same without him in it, so why not, right? I had to create a new normal.

My husband brought home the D&D Starter Pack, and we gave it a whirl one Thursday night in March. The pack comes with pre-made characters and I chose a Human Fighter that I named Appleseed. Like Cher, she had but one name, though after our first big battle I gave her the surname Goblinkiller.

Our party consisted of my brother, my husband, a friend, my daughter (then 9) and me. We had an AMAZING time. We decided then and there that we weren’t going to finish the starter pack module–we were going all in. And oh lawdy did we go all in: there’s so much cool shit you can buy: dice of every color, spell cards, dice towers (My kid got a pink one), players manuals, modules, mini figures, terrain maps, and on an on.

We turned our dining room into a D&D palace. We’re even considering pooling our money and investing in one of those kickass custom game tables. My husband bought a 3D printer on Prime Day and has been turning out figurines, cave tiles, a dragon, and is currently working on custom mugs.

My first character was Ara Moonwhisper, a high elf warlock with the Morrigan as her Elder Fey patron. She was lethal with her Eldritch Blast cantrip, and though I intended to play her sort of academic and detached, she turned out to try to help every time it was an option. I think the rest of the party got annoyed with me talking our way out of battle. But hey, if you can get the cloud giant and his army of ogres on your side when you’re about to battle two red wizards and a white dragon….

We finished our Horde of the Dragon Queen module and decided to take a break from our powerful level-8 characters and start a new campaign with a party we call The Uglies. The rule was we couldn’t create a character as human, elf, half-elf, halfling or gnome. Basically, nothing too human. We ended up with the following in our new party:

• Desdemona the Tiefling Bard
• Nala Dragoncloak the Dragonborn Wizard
• Dench the Half-Orc Ranger
• Jittik the Winged Kobold Monk
• Zek the Kobold Paladin

On our first outing we were also joined by Scrawk of the Highlands, an Aracokra Barbarian played by my visiting son who was finally getting his chance to nerd it up with the fam.

My brother is the DM and is having a magnificent time creating the story and it’s especially fun because he can change the story based on the weird things we do in-game; not just based on pre-set outcomes. For instance, our party killed a bunch of zombies that were locked in a turnip and pig farmer’s barn. He didn’t have any money, so we took payment in turnips and I, being a bard, charmed him into giving me a piglet, which I carried in my pack with her head out so she (I named her Petunia) could see. Scrawk and Zek were constantly trying to eat her.

The next week, Petunia caught the eye of an Ogre Druid in a small town. She said she could talk to animals and reported that Petunia missed her mommy. I gave her to the Ogre to return. My brother laughed and said “I didn’t think you were going to give up the piglet–you were going to have to fight the ogre!”

Now while Ara Moonwhisper was quiet and diplomatic, Desdemona is decidedly not. She is loud and brash and, well, kind of a bitch. I’m having a great time playing her, and I can’t wait to see where the story will take us.

Here are my top five benefits of D&D

1. Spending time with my brother. Before our dad died we probably saw each other a dozen times a year and now we’re as close as we were as kids (though I’ve stopped beating him up and he no longer follows me and my friends around).
2. Sparring with my husband. We’re engaged with one another without phones or TV or anything to distract us. Plus when his character teases mine or vice-versa it kind of vents any pent-up annoyance in a good way.
3. My daughter is getting smarter. Adding modifiers to attack rolls is exercising her brain, as is making strategic decisions about which weapon or spell to use. 
4. Her confidence is growing. Inspired by my Appleseed Goblinkiller character, she named her Human Fighter in our first campaign Apricot Hairflipper. And every time she kicked ass (which was often–that girl was TOUGH) she’d grin and flip her hair. Or when a party member asked, “Do you think you can take out that giant spider?” She’d reply, “OF COURSE I CAN, I’m Apricot Hairflipper *flip*”
5. Family time. Imaginative play. Creativity. It’s all good.

This is the most fun I’ve had in years. And Scrawk of the Highlands will be back at Christmas.

Dear Dad,

Intellectually, I knew you were mortal. And your health hasn’t been good for several years. It all started to go to shit when you slipped on the stairs and broke your leg. After that was a 5-way heart bypass. You never really came back from that. Though your scars healed and your cardiologist said your heart was working well, you never got over the deep fatigue. Your wobbly gait we thought was related to recovering from surgery. But years went by and it didn’t get better. I got you a cane. A couple years later you finally gave into my nagging and let me take you to a neurologist. He diagnosed Parkinsons. But the meds didn’t work and I took you to your sister-in-law’s funeral in a wheelchair. I found another doctor who diagnosed you with Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus. Too much cerebral-spinal fluid made you walk funny. They did a spinal tap, drained off some fluid and YOU COULD WALK. But it didn’t last. The long-term solution was a stent in your head to drain off the brain juice and send it south to be absorbed in your abdomen. It worked for a while, but when the surgeon went to adjust the flow of the valve, it was a faulty unit. Cue another surgery. This one never seemed to stick and you gave up. I fought you and nagged you. I bought you pill organizers, picked up your prescriptions and took you to doctors. You’d read bullshit on the internet and decide your blood pressure pills were the enemy.

The last time I took you to the doctor I told you that if you wanted to try to stay healthy, I would help and encourage you. But if you wanted to watch CNN and eat ice cream and not take your meds, then it was your body and your choice, and I’d respect it. I guess I was trying to scare you, but you took me at my word. Even your doctor sort of shrugged.

And yet. You didn’t seem to believe you’d die. And though I thought it was weird, I guess I really didn’t believe it either. I’d laugh when you’d say “If something happens to me…” I laughed out loud when you told me you didn’t want me to be interred in California with the rest of the family because it would be too far to visit.

On Thanksgiving you arrived ninety minutes late. Your driving was so erratic someone had to take over for the rest of the trip. And yet. You said, “I think I’m going to give up driving in about a year.” I was worried and upset. I made some snotty remark–a “joke” that was meant to admonish, not be funny. “I’m sorry we were late, Bear,” you said, sheepishly. “It’s okay, Dad. You were two hours late last Thanksgiving.” I said it without humor.

It was the last time I saw you before the stroke.

You’ve been gone five months and here’s what I’ve learned:

• I am stronger than I thought. I kept my shit together while others were losing theirs.
• There are some friends that will drop everything to fly to your side when your dad is dying. I have two of them, and I can never adequately express my thanks to them for just being with me–you wouldn’t be at all surprised at who they are.
• The arrangements after death are not a burden; they’re a blessing. I always thought I’d retire to my bed and curl in a ball and let others handle what needed handling. Staying busy kept me upright.
• There was–for me–a phase of grief that was mostly role-playing. I behaved like a grieving daughter would based on books I’ve read and movies I’ve seen. I wasn’t aware I was doing this until suddenly it was Spring, and you’d been gone an entire season. And then the actual grief hit.
• I cherish the night I spent in the ICU with you. You had a big black hole in your brain from the strokes, but I think you know I was there, holding your hand. Did you hear Segovia playing in the dark? That was me.
• On some level–alligator brain?–I guess I thought you’d come back. Of course I knew that’s not the way it works but I found myself sobbing–FINALLY–in my grief counselor’s office, saying “I just want my dad back. He’s been gone a really long time and it seems like he should be back by now.”

• I am weaker than I thought. I am fifty years old and I know now that you were my rock. I could always depend on you. To tell me a stupid joke, to call me “Hair Bear,” to say “sneak-sneak” when you went through a yellow light. To rescue me if my car broke down, or drive me to the ER when I had a panic attack. To be proud of me no matter the idiotic shit I got into. To always treat me as a full human with strength and agency–even when I was a little girl. I counted on you, and now you’re gone and I’m afraid. There’s no you to run to, or call, or hug, and I don’t feel safe.
• I feel very conflicted about your legacy. I don’t have to work, and can afford travel and private school…and in that way my life is “better.” But you had to die first. So while I’m so grateful, and I realize you weren’t going to live forever, it’s still hard to draw much joy from the freedom and privilege you left me. I wasn’t expecting that.
• It gives me peace to take your ashes places you loved and places you had on your bucket list. Besides finishing raising Allie, it’s pretty much my only purpose in life.
• Sometimes I listen to your voicemails and they mostly make me smile instead of cry. But I don’t think I can ever listen to the last one. The 5 am call I slept through. You were at the hospital and scared and you started to cry and said “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
• Now that you’re gone you’ve become young again. In my memory and in my dreams you are tall and strong with dark hair and a ready grin. Nothing hurts, and you are full of puns, curiosity and joie de vivre.

Anyway, Dad. I miss you every day and I still can’t quite accept that I’ll never see you again. It turns out that you were my favorite person on earth.

Love always,

Christa

I didn’t always say everything that popped into my head. When I went to Kindergarten, the school realized I could already read like a third-grader (though I couldn’t tie my shoes), so after two weeks I was put in first grade. Where I became the smallest, youngest child in the class with the bonus of being the freak kid that skipped Kindergarten. I learned quickly not to draw any more attention to myself and keep my mouth shut. I was horribly shy.

As I got older I would crack wise among my friends because I felt comfortable with them. Around new people though—or the popular kids—I absolutely shut down. If we went to high school together and were friends, you’d know I was brash and funny and have a gross sense of humor. If we didn’t hang out at all you’d think I was shy and quiet.

I went to sleep-away college for exactly one year. Lived in the dorms, went to keggers, smoked weed, etc. I discovered that if I drank beer I got comfortable enough to be funny and charming. But I was still very shy sober.

Eventually I grew the fuck up and was comfortable with myself and didn’t need to be loaded to let my personality out of the cage. I was uncaged, all the time. I still had a filter, but not so you’d notice. Which has gotten me into mild amounts of trouble now and again. I am the person who is uttering the filthiest joke she’s ever told precisely when the big boss comes around the corner.

I’ve written jokes on my blog that have gotten me in trouble at work. Like I thought I’d be fired kind of trouble.

I’ve had phone conversations in what I thought was the privacy of my office that got me reported to HR. Let’s just say the convo involved lube.

Speaking of my office, I used to have a post-it about 5 feet 10 inches up my door frame that said, “You must be this tall to ride”.

My boss once asked me to stop using the F-bomb on Twitter, and though I could have written around my favorite expletive, I resented the censorship, and threw in a stealth “fuck” whenever I thought I could get away with it.

I never attacked anyone personally, though I threw shade at my company’s competition quite often—I thought that was loyalty.

Anyway, I always got away with it. My colleagues kept things professional, and I always pushed the boundaries. It was my thing. It was what I brought to the table.

Now, I’m still outspoken and I like to tweet hate toward the so-called POTUS, and retweet clever take-downs of politicians I think suck. But I’m also almost fifty years old now, a breast cancer survivor, mother of three, and Girl Scout troop leader. I mean, I’m mellow. Partially because I’ve seen outspoken women on social media get targeted for more trouble than I’m willing to bring on my family.

So. That’s the backstory. Semi-bad girl gone good (or just old).

Last week, I applied for a Community Manager position for a popular and family-friendly game franchise. We weren’t to the point of scheduling interviews, but my resume was in the hands of the hiring manager. Here’s a moment where I’m going to toot my own horn which is uncomfortable but fuck it: The community managers that you are familiar with now were influenced—whether they know it or not—by myself and my colleagues at Xbox. I’m not saying, Gore-like, that I invented the Internet, but the practices and policies and programs that we started were copied and built on by those who came after us. There’s a book coming out next month that profiles me as a pioneer in community management.

All this is to point out that I know what I’m doing when it comes to engaging a community and making sure people stay safe, have fun, and buy stuff.

I’m feeling optimistic about this possible job because my resume is in the right hands (half the battle) and people will vouch for my work. People whose opinions matter.

So when I got a message from the hiring manager saying that their team had found a photo of me online that was a “deal breaker,” and that my “brand was too mature,” I was stunned. I asked about the photo and discovered that it’s this photo that killed my chances at an amazing job.

This isn’t a picture of me. Let me repeat that: I am not the woman in this photo. She’s a burlesque dancer that a member of the community I helped manage thought looked like me. We both have curly hair and I admit there’s a slight likeness.  But I’m not a burlesque dancer, and I’ve never posed in lingerie. Folks, I had an 8 1/2 pound baby at 22. Unless that lady has stretch marks, I can prove this isn’t me.

I messaged the hiring manager back that the photo isn’t me, and included a link to the 2011 blog post where I pointed this out. I also—maybe stupidly—said “I respect your decision.” Because even if that photo of Not-Me didn’t exist, there were still ten years of social media posts that are snarky and foul-mouthed, novels filled with sex and violence, and that gross sense of humor.

The hiring manager never responded, not even to acknowledge that the photo wasn’t of me. But I think we can all agree, that door is closed forever. And I would have kicked ass at that job.

So already stung from that situation and running on very little sleep due to the altitude in Mexico City where I was doing freelance work, I was surfing LinkedIn and saw that a recruiter (at a company where I’d interviewed unsuccessfully for a marketing writer job, but was scheduled to talk about their open community manager position) posted about the Marketing Writer job that I’d just been told they were “going with another candidate.” Why are they recruiting for this position if they’d already chosen someone? I thought, still upset about the other thing. So, feeling a bit hurt, but meaning to be funny since I had a phone call about the open position scheduled for the day I returned from Mexico, I post:

“But I thought…nevermind. Lol. [peace sign]”

Now, was this unprofessional? Certainly. Do I wish I hadn’t done it? Sure. I thought the recruiter and I had a level of familiarity and similar sense of humor. And even if she thought it was lame, she’d just brush it off.

Well. On Monday (as I turned my phone back on when we landed at LAX), I have an email from the recruiter saying how disappointed she was in my LinkedIn post (which she deleted, along with un-friending me!), and that if I had questions about the decision, I should have asked her during our scheduled phone call, which she was now cancelling. I mean, it was stupid, no doubt, but your average LinkedIn browser wouldn’t know wtf that post was about, so I feel like there was a bit of overreaction on her part.

Look, I know there’s no guarantee I would have been offered either of those jobs. I’ve had ten “final onsite” interviews at nine companies and all have turned me down. So, I’m not having the best luck. But it makes me wonder: Are these other companies doing a Google image search and making the same mistake that REDACTED made? Am I oblivious to something weird I’m doing in interviews? Am I bursting out non-sequitur weirdness akin to that LinkedIn post?

Anyway, I lost out on two opportunities thanks to being too relaxed in my communications and…someone else’s tits.

We took a couple-few years off to write novels (and were pretty prolific), but we’re ready to get back in the game. You need words? We got ’em. Words to describe your product or service…

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