Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons by Shelly Mazzanoble Page B

have cast diarrhea on that fart-framer right then so the class would know exactly whose butt cheeks were heralding the great downward dog fart. But I refrained, and not because I’m not a spell-casting wizard but because I knew I’d never be back.
    Namaste, bitches.
    THURSDAY’S GOD: MORADIN
    GOD OF: CREATION
    Promotes:
artisans, miners, and smiths
    Still reeling from Fartgate, I go into Thursday feeling a little shell-shocked and more jaded than ever. Judy almost busted a lung when I told her about the yoga class. She was laughing so hard she had tohang up to find her inhaler. She called me back a few minutes later.
    â€œOh, Moo Moo, I’m sorry. I couldn’t breathe,” she said. She was still laughing. “Which is probably what your classmates were saying, too.”
    â€œOh, ha ha,” I said. “
I didn’t do it!
I should hang up on you, but Moradin wouldn’t think that was exhibiting family loyalty.” There. I worshipped.
    I was excited to be revering Moradin, as he’s one of the more famous D&D gods. His followers have even made some appearances in my D&D games. I feel like Moradin and I share a lot of the same principles. He demands his followers be loyal to their families (duh; got that covered), welcome adversity with strength and fortitude (see “Fartgate”), and strive for making a lasting impression in this world. (If by “world” you mean yoga studio, then
done
and
done
.)
    All day I waited for a sign from Moradin, but today appeared to be just another spiritually vacuous day. No dwarves, no miners, not even much love from Judy unless you count laughing so hard at your daughter you bring on an asthma attack. So I decided to visit the place I go when I’m seeking solace and inspiration—a lovely, 187-year-old oak tree in Volunteer Park.
    Oh, please. I went to Nordstrom. What? Moradin is also the patron saint of artisans, and no one can deny those Tory Burch riding boots I saw in the catalog are art.
    Boots in trunk, I headed back to work, but I wasn’t feeling the exhilaration I usually experience post-consumerism. Had my quest for holy happiness bled me dry? If new shoes can’t make me happy, I don’t know who I am anymore.
    After work I headed over to my favorite coffee shop for a tall skinny caramel latte served by one of the finalists in the barista showdown. Yes, that’s a real event. This is Seattle, remember? And those little petiole leaves don’t just form in the foam themselves, you know.
    The coffee is free-range or fair trade or something else I know I’m supposed to care about, but even more important, it’s delicious and heavily caffeinated. I come here whenever I’m on a deadline, parking myself at a table near an outlet and away from the toy kitchen set up for the kids who hang out while their mommies complain about motherhood with other mommies. (Once I sat near a group of mommies who did nothing but wax on about the terrors of child rearing. Potty training, preschool enrollments, picky eaters! Their honesty was quite refreshing, really, and I’m sure the kids were much too young to know who their mommies were talking about.)
    â€œFor Here” patrons get to drink their coffee out of a large eclectic mug that looks like it was excavated from Jack Tripper’s kitchen.
    â€œHey, Shelly,” Barista Extraordinaire said, smiling. “On a deadline?”
    â€œYes, I need to find Jesus in the next forty-eight hours or I’ll have to apologize to my mom.”
    â€œYikes,” he said. “Let’s make it a grande.”
    About five minutes into my spiritual revolution, my ADD kicked in. Rather than actually writing, I scanned the room and counted seven men and thirteen women among the patrons. Four of them had ponytails—the majority belonging to men. (Why do guys with ponytails like coffee shops so much?) Out of the fourteen laptops parked on tables, twelve of them