Dedicated to Jong, with love.

Alas!  MOARDTZ was taken.  /sadface

Bind-on-pickup.

One week ago yesterday, I stood — forlorn and teary-eyed — in Sky Harbor’s careworn and ever-so slightly dilapidated Terminal 2, waving a broken-hearted goodbye to my boyfriend as he navigated the labyrinth that is airport security on his way home to Calgary.

It was the first time we had seen each other since his last three-week visit in February, and was likely to be the last time we would see each other until the three-day weekend we have planned for my birthday in October.

Long distance relationships suck.

Sure, there would be the daily phone calls, the late night Vent conversations, the thrice-weekly raids and the double-paladin alting that passes for dates in our lonely, online existence. But after ten days, not as Sarielle and Keaton, but as Michelle and Jef — ten days of cuddling on the couch while watching Firefly on DvD… ten days of contemplating wine but settling on Mountain Dew and Diet Coke … ten days of romantic dinners and deep-fried artichoke hearts and Sims 3 and Dancing Through Life …

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t go back to Azeroth, where spending an afternoon with the man I love means doing the daily circuit in Icecrown or leading 23 of our closest friends through Ulduar.

Apparently, he couldn’t do it either.

On Tuesday morning, I was back at Terminal 2.

So was Jef.

He proposed in Terminal 2, in the exact spot that we first met last June, and where we've both met and said goodbye on every visit since.  The cute, sweetly romantic thing is that he didn't even fly into Terminal 2 this time: he flew into Terminal 4, and took the airport shuttle to Terminal 2 to meet me in our special place. 

There, he went down on one knee — in front of everyone — including a little old lady who was pleased to announce she had the entire thing on film! — and made a lovely, heartfelt speech.  It took leaving and coming back again to make him realize it, he said, but our proposal shouldn't be about an expensive dinner or some crazy scheme to slip me a ring.  It should be about a real life together, and a real, tangible commitment.

Needless to say, I accepted.

And, lo and behold ...  it's soulbound. 

*  *  *

I love you, bear.

ITT: Fel Fire goes to the dogs! (And promotes Brajana's contest!)

Meet Reeses.

This adorable little puppy — most likely a Plott hound mix of some kind, although she was initially billed as a pit bull — was abandoned by her owners in the desert outside of Maricopa, Arizona.  The local animal control officer fell in love with her and snapped a few photos on his camera phone, which he sent to the city's self-proclaimed Pet Social Worker. 

The Pet Social Worker (who just so happens to own the pet sitting company I moonlight for) posted Reeses's picture in the Pets section of the community forum — encouraging anyone who might be interested in her to contact the county pound.

At about the same time, a friend of mine was looking for a new dog, so — incorrigible matchmaker that I am! — I called the shelter to ask a few questions about the pound puppy that the Pet Social Worker was promoting online.  As a part of a routine "pre-adoption" interview, my name and phone number were added to her file.

My friend eventually decided not to adopt a dog, so I marked the forum thread "read" and resolved simply to hope for the best. 

About three weeks later, I received an unexpected phone call from a 520 area code:

"Hi, is this Michelle?  This is Pinal County Animal Care & Control.  We're about to put this puppy to sleep, but I have a Post-In note in her file with your name and number.  Were you interested in adopting her?  If so, I can stop the euthanasia..."

That, ladies and gentle-tauren, is emotional blackmail at its finest.

I left work early that day and drove the 40 or so miles from Phoenix to Casa Grande to pick up the terrified, tick-infested, oh-so pathetic little mutt who very nearly broke my heart.

It took a long time for Reeses to warm up to people, but she took an immediate liking to my dogs.  As you can see, Nala, my German Shepherd, became a special friend:

Like many rescues, Reeses was definitely a "project."  She was intimidated by the doggie door and absolutely terrified of the leash, so house training was difficult... to say the least.  She didn't like to be touched, was deathly afraid of men, and inevitably fled in terror at loud noises or sudden movements (and believe me, there are a lot of those in a house with five dogs, two cats and a 13 year-old). 

She also thought the coffee table was a chew toy and ate half the couch. 

Eventually — with time, love and a small fortune in milkbones — Reeses came around.  I eventually found a permanent home for her, with a family who adores her and sends me Christmas cards every year with her picture on them.

*  *  *

Why am I sharing this story on an ostensibly WoW blog?

Because — as I'm sure you know by now — Brajana of Mend Pet is celebrating her one-year anniversary and 250th post by hosting a "Need More Stable Slots" SPCA Charity Drive & Giveaway. 

In Brajana's words:

The SPCA (Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) is constantly working to provide health care and shelters for pets and animals that have been abandoned and abused.  All the pets I've ever had have come from local shelters, which would not exist without the help of charities and their doughty volunteers.

Needless to say, this is a cause I feel passionately about. 

Unfortunately, most people don't realize how large the pet overpopulation problem is, or even that there is pet overpopulation problem.  To put things in perspective: the American Humane Society estimates that the United States euthanizes 9 million unwanted dogs and cats each year.  Given the current state of the economy, and the distressing number of "foreclosure pets" being abandoned along with their homes, this number can only go up.

The SPCA strives to alleviate the problem by providing financial support to rescue organizations by "awarding multiple cash grants to needy shelters every month. This money goes a long way toward helping the shelters improve their physical conditions, enhance their spay and neuter programs, and ultimately reduce euthanasia rates."  To anyone who loves animals, it is a very worthy cause.

To donate to the SPCA (and to enter Brajana's giveaway in the process!), or to contribute prizes — such as loot cards, game time, or some special talent or service — please visit Mend Pet before July 31.

And to adopt a new pet, visit your local shelter. 

Unconditional love has a face.  For me, it looks a lot like this:

90 Day Notice

I was working on another Random Updates-style post — and waxing poetic about Yogg-Saron's tentacles — when I was called into an emergency meeting at work. 

Now, emergency meetings happen all the time when you work in the credit industry during a recession.  Half of the companies we sell to are on the verge of bankruptcy, if they aren't already there.  I figured this was more of the same.  Another national account filing for Chapter 11, a multi-million dollar exposure to be verified, proofs of claims to be prepared ...

Then I noticed that HR was at the table.

That is never a good sign.

So, it turns out that my position is moving to Rosemont, Illinois.

I am not.

I'm trying to come up with something more eloquent to say than fuck, but it isn't working. 

;.;

<3

I met my boyfriend in Heroic Underbog.

It's incredibly geeky — almost too geeky for him to admit publicly, in fact, and he sings the Iron Man theme song while we're out shopping and once memorized pi to 31 decimal points.  (It's hard to outgeek the girl who knows the entire Summers family tree and has an honest-to-Earthmother crush on a Transformer, but ... somehow .... he manages.)

True story: he took me to a wonderfully romantic fondue restaurant for Valentine's Day, and actually blushed when the waitress asked us where we met.  Because I have no shame, I told her the whole story.  To her credit, she didn't laugh!  To our bemused surprise, she asked if we collected Oracle eggs.  She doesn't play, but another server does so the entire wait staff knows that Saturday is Hatching Day.

If she ever decides to roll on Black Dragonflight, I owe her a proto-drake whelp. 

Anyway.  I met Keaton in a Heroic Underbog PuG.  He was tanking (of course), and a mutual friend was healing.  I'd say I was DPSing, but the sad truth is that I barely knew how to play my warlock then, so I was just really there to banish water elementals (and because my pocket healer found that PuGing was surprisingly easy if he could advertise in /2: "LF3M.  We have a holy paladin and a girl!")

(I miss you, Ilkka.  Even if I still can't pronounce your name and you once twice habitually tried to whore me out in Trade.)

Confession? 

I absolutely loathed Keaton after that first heroic.  If I could have punched him in his stupid slack-jawed bearface, I would have.  Totally.

It's not that he was a bad tank.  On the contrary, all Ilkka could talk about for days was how wonderfully easy the run had been; how much health Keaton had and what a joy he had been to heal. 

Blah, blah, blah.

No ...  I was the bad one. 

Keaton just kind of pointed it out to me, not by anything he said or did (he isn't mean), but by setting the bar higher than I ever imagined I could reach.  

On my tiptoes. 

With my imp balanced precariously on my shoulders.

He chain pulled the entire instance, which I so wasn't ready for.  I didn't know my way around (I still can't remember which portal leads to UB and which to Slave Pens or Steam Vaults) and I just couldn't keep up with the much more experienced reroll group.  Plus, he wouldn't let me drink!  I was Affliction, of course, with Dark Pact and Life Tap in my arsenal.  But I was also unusually considerate for a warlock (my best friend was a healer, after all) and never tapped out of combat. 

So I spent the entire run irritated — at myself, for being so spectacularly out of my league, and at the spastic bear tank who insisted on spelling cool with a k and wouldn't stop jumping (he still thinks it improves his dodge).

Freakin' annoying.

So, imagine my horror when my pocket paladin lured me onto Vent a few days later.

"Hey, remember Keaton?  That (absolutely amazing, never-had-to-be-healed, let's-clear-this-place-in-30-seconds-flat) tank from Heroic Underbog..."

Uh huh.  But wherever you're going with this, Ilkka, I don't like it.

"He has this guild, the Combat Wombats.  It's small, like ours.  I think they're all real life friends.  College students.  They seem really cool."  There's that word again!  At least he spells it with C.  "Anyway, Keaton and I were talking about getting together to run Karazhan in a couple of weeks, once we're all keyed.  What do you think?"

Um.

"Awesome.  Keaton's online now.  I'm going to invite him to join Vent with us so we can work this out."

...

The boys handled the details.  The game was just a game to me at that point, and not the obsession it is now — so as intimidated as I was by the idea of actually raiding with Keaton and his Wombats (my sister took me to a raid once, and I was out-DPS'd by a Searing Totem ;.;), I figured I'd let them do whatever they wanted to do and continue quietly questing my way through Netherstorm and working half-heartedly on my Karazhan key.

Eventually, the afternoon for our first joint-Kara run rolled around.  I was keyed, flasked (for the first time in my virtual life) and rocking the Frozen Shadoweave.

Keaton and his Combat Wombats stood us up.

"They're in college, right?"  Our 16 year-old Aussie boomkin asked, staring up at the gates to Karazhan.  "Betcha they got drunk last nght and are sleeping it off now." 

My little sister and a couple of her friends — hardcore raiders already well into SSC — came down to Kara to fill in for our missing Wombats and talk us through our first foray into T4.  We took so long to clear trash that by the time our shadow priest made his way back down from Orgrimmar (he hearthed out to repair without telling anyone),  the spectral horses had actually started to respawn.  We called the raid without ever seeing Midnight, let alone Attumen.

Keaton logged on a few hours later to apologize for sabotaging missing our first raid.  And to reaffirm our boomkin's psychic prowess.  The Combat Wombats were indeed drunk. 

He made it up to me a few days later by taking me to Blackrock Spire for my Worg Pup.

And sending me flowers.  Lots and lots of flowers ...

I hate flowers.  But I like puppies, so (for future reference) if you're going to try to buy my forgiveness or affection, small furry things are the way to go.  Unlike some warlocks I could mention (/cough Imanqary), I don't even set them on fire!

I eventually decided Keaton wasn't so bad, after all, and even forgave him for embarassing me in Heroic Underbog, for drinking himself senseless on the eve of our very first Karazhan raid, and even for believing he's a Night Elf druid who has mastered the lost art of Tauren form.

Spelling cool with a k, though? 

Yeah, that has to change.

Love is a disgusting oozling.

And his name is Tad.

Clearly, some bear loves me.

<3

No one is truly anonymous

Even online.

Ailis in Hunterland wrote about anonymity today:

Anonymity is a powerful thing.  When no one knows you in real life (i.e. can come knocking at your door to teach you a lesson, son), you can get away with any type of behavior you wish.  Get /gkicked because of your attitude?  Not really an issue, just go join another [guild].  And so on.

For some reason, this reminded me of something that happened years ago, when Blizzard was just a local employer (seriously; half of the guys I went to high school with worked as in-house testers!) and not the demigod of my online existence that it is today.

I was a moderator on an Internet forum that my then-boyfriend had created.  It was attached to prominent anime fansite, and while I've never cared much for anime myself (truth be told, I rather detest it), C. was understandably invested in the community he had built and I did my best to help with the administrative end.

One March 31st, one of our regulars posted a suicide note on the forum.  He wrote that he had just overdosed on insulin, and updated the thread every few minutes to update us on his "weakening condition."

It was the night before April Fool's Day.  I was pretty sure it was a joke, and loathe to make a public fool of myself by taking it seriously if it was.

... but what if it wasn't?

The doubt persisted, and for several minutes I was torn between my pride and my conscience.

Then I realized how utterly stupid that was, and called the poster's local police department.  I knew from previous threads that his father was a police officer, so I hoped someone at the station would know who he was and how to check on him.  I also provided the non-emergency dispatcher with the forum URL and the OP's IP address and Internet service provider.

It must have been enough, because the police department called me back a few hours later with the news that an officer was able to track the OP down and verify that he was fine; it was indeed an April Food's Day prank.  Supposedly, someone did knock on his door to teach him a lesson — much to the shock and chagrin of his parents!

The OP played it off afterwards, telling everyone that of course it was a joke (and wasn't I stupid to fall for it?), and bragging that he "didn't even get in trouble."

Anyway, Ailis's actual post isn't so much about anonymity as it is about how to take responsibility for your raid preparation and performance — and it's a good one.  But that one little paragraph got me to thinking: anonymity isn't always so anonymous!