Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons Read Free Page A

You’re pretending to be little magical monsters? Oh honey! You found your people! I always knew they’d come for you!”
    A few years later, I was staring at my computer screen, willing an idea for my
Dragon
column to appear on the blank Word doc. It was due in three days. Why wouldn’t Judy send me a book about procrastination? That’s one I’d probably read. Eventually.
    While I was waiting for the creative engine to revup, I started unloading my poor, overworked DVR. It was 99% full and much of it was a backlog of
The Real Housewives
episodes. No sense in keeping my DVR
and
my creativity blocked, so I gave in to the comfort of the couch. You never know when inspiration can strike. Besides, Judy couldn’t wait forever for me to catch up. Apparently last week’s episode was a doozy.
    The housewives were fighting. Surprise! And they were in public. And they were wearing heels and dresses that made their cleavage look like age-spotted sacks of jellyfish. They have an uncanny ability to move their necks and wag a boldly painted acrylic finger in the faces of their “friends” without an ounce of champagne sloshing over the sides of their crystal flutes. I can’t even hold a conversation
and
a drink without leaving a liquid trail down my pant leg. Don’t stand next to me at cocktail parties. There. You’ve been warned.
    Maybe it was the looming deadline, or maybe it was the pressure to free up some space on the DVR before quality programming like
Gossip Girl
and
Fashion Police
started up again, but I started imagining
The Real Housewives
as a D&D party.
    Those crazy hens would fail before they even accepted their first mission. For one thing, they wouldn’t go anywhere they could potentially ruin their manicures, and they wouldn’t dream of venturing out without caravans of nannies and house managers. And really, even I wouldn’t wear heels in a dungeon.
The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
would probably have the best shot at making it through an encounter. Some of those women actually get along for at least part of an episode, and two of them are related so they’re kind of used to fighting and making up. And another two even have jobs. Well, three if you count Camille, the jilted ex-wife of Kelsey Grammer, better known as “an A-list television star,” like she refers to him.
Several times an hour.
Her job is managing the two house managers that manage everything else and “keeping Kelsey sober.” The woman who has more nannies than children and still can’t find time to pack for Hawaii. Oh Camille, I feel your pain.

    The next morning, I call Judy. We talk every day on my way to work even if it’s been approximately ten hours and sixteen minutes since our last conversation. Chances are a reality show meltdown occurred while we were sleeping or
Barefoot Contessa
came up with an even better way to roast red peppers, so there’s always something to talk about.
    â€œYou’re late,” she said instead of hello. “I’ve been waiting for you to call so I can get my nails done.”
    It was 8:12 am. Approximately four minutes later than when I usually call.
    â€œI hear at some point in the distant future, we’ll all have these crazy things called cell phones,” I told her. “We’ll be able to roam freely, withoutbeing tethered to cords in our kitchen. Imagine that—you can get your nails done anytime, anywhere, while talking to me!”
    â€œDare to dream,” she sighed. “What could possibly be new?”
    Judy loves to act put out by my incessant phone calls, but truthfully, if we should miss a morning call due to unforeseen circumstances like emergency root canals or spontaneous Gin Rummy games with the neighbor, I’ll be plagued with lovelorn e-mails starting at around 2:00 p.m.

    â€œLots is new!” I told her. “After catching up on my
Real Housewives
drama, I may have