When she opened it, two delicate bands were within–one a wedding band with chains, and one an engagement ring with matching chains. She told me that they were the original rings my father proposed to her with and that she wanted me to have them.

They were too small for my fingers then. So my father brought them to a friend who was a jeweler to have them made larger and the bands made wider (because I told my parents of my fear of breaking them.) The jeweler accidentally fused the two rings together–but the mistake worked out well in the end; as I thought having the two of them melded together would mean less chances of me losing them and them being stronger.

Earlier last year, while my mother was alive–I knocked my hand against my own desk. Hard. Part of the piece of gold chain supporting my mother’s diamond broke off, forever lost, while the other cracked. I was devastated but my father and mother told me not to worry and send the ring back.  They’d fix it, they said, and send it back to me. So with great faith in the postal system–and great trepidation–I did just that. Luckily it arrived safe and sound in Canada.

Today it arrived back to me.

Having the ring in my hands is…It reflects well, I think, of myself. Of my mother. My father, my family. Something that is a little broken and repaired–something that is cherished anyway and loved, despite the uneven parts or whether it is dull or shines.

I look at it and I see her instead. I wonder if she knew back then, that was the last time I would see her in person and so I wonder if she’ll understand how clearly the memory of her handing it over to me will remain.

She had her chair in front of a bright window. One of those over-stuffed, comfortable lazy boys with a blue, pink and white flannel blanket at hand to cover her legs should she ever need to nap. She’d curled her hair in the morning and put on mascara (though why she insisted on putting mascara on with me visiting, despite the years I’ve seen her without I’ll never know.) She had one leg tucked under the other and a foot–whose toes were covered in her favorite plain, white socks–was pushing the chair to rock every once in a while. She stopped rocking to lean to the side and pick something up and then to lean forward and hand me a little brown leather box trimmed with thin lines of gold.

In the box was this ring glimmering faintly against a bed of crushed red velvet. There was dust on the box and dust inside. Thick and grey, the sort that settled on objects that have been kept or untouched for a very long time.

My mother watched me with a small smile as I opened it, but her eyes were sharp and blue as august afternoons as they slit with pleasure. I often wonder if she saw the same reaction on my face–the delight and wonder at such a pretty thing–that she may have saw when my father first gave it to her.

It’s mine now.
It’s beautiful.

But I can’t help but think she was more so and I would trade a thousand heirloom rings just to see her one more time and say I love you.

The boobies...so many...so many boobies...

Tera online is a fantasy-ish MMORPG in beta, with no NDA restrictions currently even though it’s still in closed beta. This weekend I had the chance to try Tera Online.

The best I can do to sum up my experiences (and forgive me, those of you who have me added to your Facebook or Google+, as this will be a repeat performance) is: overtly sexualized child characters, jiggly tits, and Aion with a different UI and slight difference in combat.

I played roughly an hour, hour and a half. I played my first character, an Elin–whom I originally thought cute (one of the child-sized immortal characters)–and got her to level 4. That’s right. Level 4. It was a massive struggle to even play that long and level her that much. The game to me seems like such a blatant rip off of Aion (with some reminders of Rift graphically) and I found it  intensely boring immediately within the starter area.  I spent more of that hour time in the character creator than playing, and I enjoyed that more.

And I couldn’t fail to notice by the way, that the character creator is pretty much Aion’s character creator with a different background. Stunning jolly good first impression, if I do say so myself.

There’s no sympathy for clickers in Tera Online, either.  If you are a mouse clicker you’re out of luck. The game gives you WASD for movement, but your skills/spells cannot be used without pressing a key. You can map two skills to your left and right mouse buttons, but that’s generally only good for base skills. Everything else is key press.

And before I get the comment, “But key pressing is more efficient and fast!1!11one!” I know it is. But the plain fact of the matter is, there are people out there that mouse click. It’s what they are comfortable with. As such, they are going to hate Tera Online, a lot.

Another key ingredient into this sour tasting recipe of my early squick into my closing the game after and hour? Intensely uncomfortable playing the Elin race. It was my first choice out of–well, I admit it–cuteness factor. The cuter

A pink tree. Well...that's okay I suppose.

the character is in game the more I want to play it. Enlin are a childish looking, child-sized, well…child character (Hey. Did I say child yet?) with some uber sexualized poses and movements that ended up jarring me out of wanting to play them.

Story wise I found it lacking right after character creation as well. Players are given a bit movie that I’m not sure how it factors into anything once the game starts. Then a short movie of you flying into the starting island with, again, no backstory given as to anything other than “:D YEAH! GO DOWN THERE AND FIGHT :D :D :D”  The quest NPC’s are the old fashioned “click & kill.” Click on the quest. Skip reading any of it, accept. Glance at your quest log on screen to go see what you have to kill and how many. Do it. Turn in quest. Rinse, repeat. I did see one cut scene that panned out to an enemy I had to kill with a 30 second voice over–but I gotta tell ya babies….SWTOR and Mass Effect and Skyrim and many other games have spoiled me when it comes to lore and backstory. To sum it up in an overtired, over used internet meme: Son I am disappoint with Tera Online’s idea of story and quest writing.

This really was the most modest female garb a--HOW DOES IT STAY ON??

The nail in the coffin for me were the gravity defying, jiggly, nipples-pointed-at-their-chins  female models all in horrible comic super hero postures. The most modest suit, frankly, was an outfit for the female archer that was slit from the top of her knee and open all the way past her side-boob to her neck. With no discerning explanation as to why every time she bound across my screen like a sparkly princess with a bow, everything didn’t just flop out all wibbly jibbly. I can only think these breast-defying suits are being held up with MAAAAAAAAAAGIC :D Picture me doing jazz hands sarcastically to accompany this.

In short?

2phatgeeks gives Tera Online a big fat no thanks. Perhaps things will change for the game in a couple of months of patches, member feed back and such. But right now as it is: I think it’s a pretty disappointing game given MMORPG’s this day and age.

If this game doesn’t go free to play in a year I will be pleasantly surprised. It’s definitely not a game tailored to a broad audience and it’s reallllly not for me. I’ve played a lot of free to play games over the years that have had more story and more thought given into their style than this. If you want a game that looks like Tera Online? Aion did it years ago and better. I actually recommend people trying out Aion instead of this.

This post an opinion based on personal preference of the poster. It does not represent everybody in the entire universe and 2phatgeeks doesn’t imply to be everybody in the universe.

It did not happen quickly. This was a slow thing. Life and growing old are things which–like children giggling behind oak trees in full summer–play hide n’ seek with your heart. In one moment, you see the slip of a shadow behind the trunk of the tree but you believe you have all the time in the world to go hide.

In the next moment you take off to your perfect hiding spot but you’ve been caught.

Out of the corners of my eyes I have seen the flickering shapes of my age, but I didn’t dare look.

In the span of six months my life has changed so much.

I have lost my mother to diabetes.
I have been diagnosed with the beginning stages of it.
I have been diagnosed with the family’s high-blood pressure and bad cholesterol.
I have gone to places in my head that were so dark that I did not recognize the thoughts that were inside of me. The things which I found inside them were so strange it felt like someone else was thinking them.

And around me, 2012 for my friends and family started with sour notes all around. One moment I was a princess of media-making, and the next I was grown up and helpless. Unable to figure out what words to say, what words to write, and what messages I could possibly give everyone to let them know I’m all right. We’ll be all right.

For a time, I was wordless.  Completely.

That may have been as scary as when I despaired the most.

I want to tell you that I am okay. And that the words may not be perfect or come back the same way…But I’m still here.  I am a little pulled and pushed; like a soft eraser. I may have some blackened edges from scrubbing away at all the charcoal–but I am here. And I will do my best to get back to what I do best…Being ridiculous and reviewing games and trying to laugh.

But for now, I’m thin.
I have become stretched thin.

It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. I realized that as thin as I pulled apart I would find someone there with a word or a phrase or a hug–their piece of thread offered to sew a hole closed. It’s not so bad falling apart, it was the self-imposed silence, the wordless spaces on my part that made it worse.

So. Here’s to words and writing and all of the friends I have made here in this space. To my husband. And to finding the means to make all of you read and smile here again.  I look forward to it.

In the morning when I wake up, all the gears tick, spin and whirr. They turn without protest as I swing my feet out of bed and go about my morning routine. Slow and steady, spokes touch spokes, turning the great machine that is my body and brain into a slide-show of normality.

I wash my face.
(That looks like my mother’s if she were fat.)
I brush my teeth.
(That are crooked like hers but not like hers.)
I brush my hair.
(That darkened from a daisy-blond, like my mothers. That is thinning as I age. Like my mothers.)

I put on clothes if I need to go out or I just put on clean pajamas to wander about the house. Sometimes I do things I normally do with the sense that I am forgetting something hovering behind my shoulder at all times. When I bend down to get the egg nog from the fridge. When I go to wipe down a counter. When I sweep up dust from the floor I think–What did I forget? What was I doing? What am I missing? 

And like a child about to cross the street I’ll be in the middle of doing my every-day things when I stop to look both ways, thinking there’s something I should be doing.

I look at my christmas tree.
I lay in bed at night and try not to wake Shawn up as I stare at the christmas lights in our bed room window and think how dull. How awful. 

Inside my heart the pieces wind down as the clock keeps ticking. Memories become slug-thick, crude oil that trickle down into all the once-working pieces until I can feel it struggle. The wheels are slowing down. My mother sitting, bored, in a car waiting for my father. I act the idiot just to entertain her and get her to laugh. It works. Ten o’clock at night. Christmas eve. The spokes are slipping against once another in the mess of slick-despair. Two years ago. My mother takes me out one night to the casino. She keeps spending money. She keeps saying she has a good feeling about this machine or that. More money. Soon she’s spent so much that I dread us coming home. We are so far in disbelief at how much money she’s lost we’re laughing out heads off, hooting and howling, cackling and giggling the whole way home from Calgary to Airdrie. On the door step, my mother laughs so hard she cries at the same time. She has to lean on the door so as not to fall down. I laugh with her because there’s nothing more in my life I loved more than my mother, happy. It’s hard for my heart to keep working. It keeps skipping, slipping, the wheels are choking on flecks of dirt that bind delicate mechanics. I’m not looking at the tinsel on my walls and I refuse to turn around and look at my tree. I think about all the places I promised I’d take her when she visited me here in Florida. I think about all the food she’d never eat, the things I wanted to show her she’d never see…I think about Disney. She’d always dreamed of seeing disney. She never will, now. 

My heart winds down to a stop, all the gears jumble up on top of one another squeezing against my lungs. Springs, strings, screws and broken childhood dreams pile up on one another; cars in the snow on the highway that don’t know when to put their brakes on. It grows and grows and grows until it feels just like an angry hand reaches in to squeeze all the happiness out.

It feels just like dying.
Like someone you love, has died.

I have a clock work heart. During the day, its gears whirrr and spin, carrying me through the mundane with what feels like normal.

At night, it stops, and I am small and lost. There is no lullaby to sooth it. The woman who once sang me songs in the terror of my night is gone. I hear only the sound of wheels slowing to silence.

Darlene Mae Noseworthy
April 2nd, 1956 – December 11th, 2011
My Mother. 

What do I say about my mother? What can I say about her?

“She was beautiful.”
Of course she was. She was my  mother after all. What child who does not love their mother think their mother is anything but? Even when crows feet begin their slow, inevitable climb at the corners of their eyes. Even when their hair starts to go a little grey at the temples.

“She was strong.”
Any woman who gives birth to a child and doesn’t give in to the urges to go utterly mad with sacrificing her own life to the raising of a little mini human with the attitude of a short dictator and the cleaning skills of an angry ape is strong.

“She was brave.”
Any one facing the plethora of health issues that she faced for the better part of nearly 20 years had to be. Any parent raising a child who insisted on running away from home at 15, who screwed up her own life and in turn, her own parents–had to be brave. There’s nothing else to be. You either womaned up or you let it wash over you and drown you in sorrow.

My mother was a woman. She was a woman of the bluest eyes when she laughed. When she would put on her favorite dress and jacket, when she would put on her favorite eye shadow and mascara and drive around the town for no other reason because she could. Sometimes her eyes were grey, too. Just like rain clouds on a day with sun, they were soft when she smiled and hard when you disappointed her. She was a tall woman, too, with long arms and legs and tiny little hands and fingers.

We Rawding ladies (that’s my mother’s family) used to complain about our big thick wrists and chunky fingers. But my mother’s hands were never that. They were fine and slim and made for tickling, or brushing away tears, or wearing the more delicate of rings.

My mother was a woman. She bore me with little–and sometimes with great–complaint. She bore me into this world and she did her best to guide me even when I did everything in my power not to listen to her. Even when the things that inevitably come out of your mouth as a teenager was horrible, spiteful, mean and heart breaking.

Even when I made what was, to become my ultimate and worst mistake of my life.

My mother was a woman who loved me without question. When others asked her, “How could you love your daughter after what she did to you?” She would look them in the eye as if they’d spring four heads and ask, “How could I not love her? She’s my daughter.”

How many times I have squandered the chance to show her the same, unconditional love that she showed me? I will never be able to count it all. All the disappointments I have given her over the years, all of which she bore as silently as she bore many things. Secrets that she held that I will now never know.

Mom at Denny's

There aren’t enough pages in the world to cover who my mother was. There aren’t books for me to point to, to make you understand the magnificence of this woman who quietly passed like a star across a summer sky: bright and beautiful, but gone half way before she could light up the rest of the night. You can’t put a soul into a piece of writing and have it breathe again. You can’t put into the book the smell of her, the sound of her laugh, the crush of her frown and the heartbreak of knowing you were the one to make her cry. It isn’t possible.

There isn’t a word for the way I feel right now. There isn’t a pretty poem or paragraph that I have in my entire fucking being that could do this woman any justice. Until the day I die, I will never be able to sing you the song of my mother.

Of the young girl with daisy-bright blond hair smiling into the sun, who liked to be a bit of a wild child.
Of the young woman whose smile made her eyes slant in merriment, her whole face light up like a torch sparked in the darkest of nights, coldest of places.
Of the mother who tried so hard to understand her little girl who didn’t turn out at all like she thought she might.
Of the woman who fought against a disease that ate at her body until even her heart gave out.

There will never be a word in all of the human language to describe what this world has lost and will never know.
What I have lost, and will never get back.
All the chances to tell her that I love her and am so proud of her and that she didn’t do anything wrong when she raised me, that she did exactly all the right things–there’s simply no promise that your daughter won’t be a big giant ass about it and ignore everything you tell her.
I won’t be able to to tell her how beautiful she was, how loved she was, how amazing.

My mother.
She was brave. She was beautiful. She was strong.
She was my mother.
And now she is gone.

Please take this moment to hunt your family down and make sure you tell them you love them. Tell your cousin. Tell your sister whom you are exceptionally pissed with. Tell your husband, your wife, make sure they know. Every day. Don’t care if they roll their eyes or if they wave their hands and go, “yeah, yeah, I know. ” Make it your quest in life to let the people around you know that you care. That you think about them. That you love them with every fiber of your very being even when you are yelling at one another and cannot fucking stand to be in the same room with each other–tell them you fucking love them god damn it, because someday you can’t. Some day you won’t be able to and then all you will be consumed with is how much you would give anything to be able to tell them one last time.

Because some day you will be where I am. And there will not be a single shred of anything you can do that will sum up all that you have lost and all that you will never get back.

So love, and be loved.

Mom, where ever you are…I am sorry. You deserved so much more than what life handed you. You deserved a much better daughter.  I am so sorry. I’m sorry. I love you.

And the thing is, is other than flailing about the internet squealing and telling people we were in the beta, that was it. We couldn’t tell them what we thought of it, what we liked, what we didn’t, how the game was doing, our reactions or anything. As long time Star Wars, Bioware fans neither Shawn nor I wanted to jinx our chances at having the ability to continue playing the game as well as testing it. So the best we could do when countered with questions about whether it was any good or not was tell people, “if you get into beta, try it. You might like it.”

On November 18th,  the most glorious of days arrived. The NDA was lifted and no longer were we doomed to bouncing around like two excited kids on a bed chanting Iiiiiiiiiiii caaaaaaaaaantttttttt teeeelllllllll yooooou. And so without further ado, here’s everything I couldn’t talk about and want you to know, what I think, my opinions and more of the game that quickly became my all-time favorite.

A taxi ride in Dromund Kaas.

The Amazeballs (aka: The Good Things)

Story
The websites, commentary and other quips about Star Wars the Old Republic’s focus on story and attempting to involve the player as much as possible isn’t just hype. Anyone who is a fan of a) Star Wars, b) Bioware, c) Knights of the Old Republic, c) RPG’s and last but never least: story, I believe, will find something to like about this game. Every NPC has their own little quirk and background and you’re introduced to them almost straight away after leaving character creation. Story is key. Like most Bioware games we have come to know and love, the plot and fate of your character comes first and foremost.

Armor & Weapons
I realize that for some players, having giant spoons, forks, or hot pink bubble guns might be fun. But for Star Wars and my little lore-laden heart, I am happy to say that this hasn’t been seen in game (except for the hot pink pants of boots of a texture not rendering properly!) Your armor and your weapons are going to fit into the environs and story of Star Wars: The old Republic. Guns will be appropriately gun-like, light sabers–despite the early out cry from people of them appearing too cartoony–do not look that way anymore. Armor doesn’t run into that issue where your pants are orange, your shirt is green and your cape is hot purple. Blacks, grays, blues and reds, muted or with panels and buttons to fit into the story and the mood of SWTOR abound.

In a previous beta build and no doubt will be re-instated (if it hasn’t already. Forgive me, I’ve been playing Skyrim!) there is an option in the social panel to match gear with chest piece. This essentially combats any further mis-matched armor a player may have by making everything fit in better, color scheme and appearance wise with the players currently equipped chest piece.

Planets, Graphics & Environments
Never have I ever been so happy to learn skills and buy speeders that make me move faster than I have when playing Star Wars: The Old Republic. I love the environments. Bioware has not failed on this sense of scale; when you are on a planet even if you are on one that has a predetermined area the game wants you to hang out in,  the sense of being a little pea in the pod of the universe can overwhelm. As you progress in level and are sent to different planets, the scale grows and even though there is something magnificent to catch as well as look at on all of the planets; the need for a speeder will grow simply to be able to get to point A and point B sometime that day.

The attention to detail is fantastic. When you are standing in front of the Republic Senate, you are filled with a sense of awe (and maybe a bit of the sense of over compensating too–but it’s so pretttty!). The empire’s strict, metallic, hologram red or green or blue infused architecture garnished with ancient relics of the Sith, it’s bowed head statues carry the sense of power and dread.

Since starting my testing in early August, the graphics have undergone several tweaks for clarity, sharpness and texture fixes. I am in love with the armor styles. They are very true to Star Wars and very true to which side your are one: Empire armor and robes are definitely more sinister than Republic or Jedi. I have found myself, on more than one occasion wasting fifteen to twenty minutes finding the right spot to take the right screen shot. They only thing the game is missing (as of the last time I beta tested) was the inability to use anti-aliasing, so shadows and characters and textures despite clarity had jagged and pixelated outlines.

Voice over acting
I cannot lie and tell you that this isn’t one of the main reasons why I am in love with this game. To me, the fact that every NPC in this game has his or her (or its) own voice is amazing. I remember eons ago when I was beta testing Ever Quest II and I was so tickled pink with the fact NPC’s had voices. Limited things to say, but voices still–and the NPC voice overs in SW:TOR bring a whole new level of fun. Not that I am adverse to reading Quest text…But hearing the NPC with dialects and accents and emotion is a level above. 

Flashpoints, AKA Dungeons
The first thing I want to tell you about Flashpoints–otherwise known as Dungeons in other games–is make sure you have your shiznit together before running them, especially if you’ve a) never run them before or b) have people in the group who have never run them before either. Get your drink. Go to the bathroom. Repair your gear. Make sure you have enough whoofizzles for your jiggliemoo. Feed the cats. Put the kids to sleep, whatever it is you need to clear at least an hour and a half free of interruptions. Especially if you enjoy taking your time and listening to all the voice over, thinking carefully about your choices–like I do.

I also recommend not running any new Flashpoints with a group that speeds through them like hamsters on crack. You miss so much if you do because all you’ll be thinking of the whole time is how to catch up with everyone else and keeping up.

Flashpoints are another aspect of the game that Bioware has ensured they go above and beyond. They have mingled cut-scenes with dialogue and Dark/Light side choices with each step, as well as a good sprinkling of trash mobs and bosses. Some of the bosses will require a strategy, especially if you’re going in with three or two people and their companions. If you’re lucky to have a full four member party in decent gear you might be able to luck out and just use the “KILL ALL THE THINGS,” strategy.

As far as I know the best means to tackle Flashpoints when you are at level is a full group of four. You can eek through them with companions if you’re smart and utilize all the tools available; and of course, if you’re way over level.

Companion Characters
From level 1-10, you are set loose on the world of your origin, be you Trooper, Inquisitor, Bounty Hunter, Jedi, Imperial Agent or Smuggler. During your class quests on these planets you will eventually be introduced to your first Companion Character–or as some have even called them. ‘Pet.’ If you aren’t familiar by now, Companion Characters are player controlled party members that do a pleathora of things from healing you, being ranged DPS support, being a damage dealer or tank and also being the extension of your invetory selling and crafting.

Yes!

Not only do your Companions have things to say depending on where they are and what triggers them, they are also the vehicle to your crafting and selling of gray vendor trash. You can send them off wherever you are to sell all gray items and this usually takes roughly a few minutes. When you send them to craft, you can send them to craft up to 5 items at a time (with each item you ask them to craft adding minutes on their timer away from you.) Eventually you will get more Companions and that means more back up support choices depending on where you are and what you are fighting, more conversation items and more crafting!

You can even send your companions out to collect harvest-able materials for you if they are near by.

Towers

The Lacking (aka: The Not-So-Good Things that may still need work.)

Character Customization
Now if you’re coming from a game that lacks a lot of customization (IamnotlookingatwowIamnotlookingatwow) and that’s your only experience with character customization (alsonotlookingatRiftnotlookingatRift) than SW:TOR might seem pretty satisfactory in the character creation and customization department. I’ve played a handful of MMORPG’s out there that went out of their way, above and beyond really, what you could do to create your own unique looking characters–and I was instantly spoiled. I know that for some, character customization matters little to the mechanics as well as how great the game play is. To me, having a character that is semi-unique, in facial features and hair at least is important.

I’m going to be staring at my own avatar (and my guild mates avatars) for the entirety of playing the game. I’m also playing a game set in a vast, open universe and staring at 230923293829323 cookie-cutter twi’leks, Chiss and humans takes a little bit of the wind out of my sails. Obviously not enough for me not to tell Bioware to SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY!11!!! but enough so that I am a touch disappointed. I had hoped for more and I am also hoping that with release as well as after, that more customization options will be offered.

Companions: you don’t need to click/pick that up, do you?
One of my biggest annoyances–aside from the fact that Bioware has yet to figure out how to fix the fact elevators completely confuse companions and also sometimes they fall to their death on them or just stand there like how is elevator formed?– is companions always seemingly being in the way of looting. Be it a dead body or a material for crafting, when I went to click with the mouse or select with a keyboard short-cuts, nine times out of ten it seems like my companion will be in the way. Even when they move out of the way they somehow move..just…further in the way.

Alts & Replayable factor
The truth of the matter is, despite how fantastic the story lines are–once you go a certain point outside of your class beginning planets the stories for all classes on the same side start to converge and eventually everyone gets all the same quests more or less. Running the same Flashpoints over and over again will probably get wearisome too.  Of course, your class quests remain unique to said class, but what’s found on the planets all classes share tend to be a like. Meaning if you start an Empire side main character and go back to create another Empire side character, different class–eventually you’ll find yourself doing the same quests as before. That means the same voice-overs and same cut scenes and for a few this might become boring, quickly, finding themselves clicking through conversations quickly so as not to listen to the same dialogue you’ve already heard. The re-play value is a touch lacking. But when I think about it, this is pretty much the way it is for most MMORPG’s out there anyway. Most

RP add ins, Player Housing, Small things that may only bug Me
Ship is supposed to be player housing, but don’t see a lot of room for player decorating and customization on the inside at all yet.
Unable to sit on chairs, benches or interract much with the environment other than shooting and maiming–although did add in Juke boxes.
Social clothing is a bit of a work out to get. Level up social points. Then spend credits to buy a token.
Legacy idea, neat, but having to hide it so that all my characters aren’t related to one another bad. Want different names for different characters on account, not one for all. Also, want to share hubby’s character’s last name.

Dromund Kaas

The Overall

First, I know I have missed so many details. There is so much more to this game, like Datacrons and Holocrons and the different healing and how do they stack up and PVP and companion story lines and gear and gear slots and lightsabers and grouping mechanics and showing Sith corruption on a Sith character and matching clothing to chest piece social options with social clothing and race specials–but if I were to go through all of that I would end up writing MORE and as it is, this post is already short novel length. There are hundreds of fantastic sites out there for you to learn so much more about SW:TOR, such as some of my personal favorites (but never limited to)

Star Wars: The Old Republic
R2-DB
Torhead
Greetings, Meatbag
TORSyndicate Community
Admittedly, despite being a super-duper-fan-girl of immense chubby proportions, I can admit freely that there are aspects to this game that might impede other’s enjoyment. You still have to go here, kill 10 of these–oop, here’s your bonus quest to kilk 30 more! There is a grind and a repetition to the questing. The formula isn’t something we haven’t heard of before in being sent out to do something, come back to the Quest giver, and being sent out to the same place to do more.

It is a bit linear.

For those not familiar with Bioware’s games and not a fan of RPG’s/ not a fan of MMORPG’s, the heavy RPG aspect might be a turn off while the MMORPG fun of playing with thousands of players–some of whom make the moniker ‘douchecanoe’ look like a compliment–might also turn players away.

The game is not perfect. There are balance issues between classes that need ironing out still and there are glitches and issues that still need to be addressed. I do not tout that it will be a WoW killer or the GAME OF THE CENTURY! CENTURY! ENNNTURREEE! URRREEE! EEE! (<—That was me writing out the echo sound effect. Because I am funny, god damn it.)

What I do think is that Bioware has made an almost perfect marriage of the two things I like: their games and MMORPG’s, story and grind, questing and exploring. I think this is a truly magnificent start to what may be a long-lived game if Bioware pays strict attention to the mistakes and pluses of other games gone before them, during them, and after.

I am going to be playing this game at release (pre-ordered) and if lifetime subs ever become a reality, I am sure Shawn and I will be having them too. This is a game that I want to be part of through thick and thin and one that I do highly recommend.

And I thought they so do. And then I thought but I’m not crazy, in my head in one of those tones.  I heard myself say it in my head (I did, yes, stop staring at me like that) sort of self-assured. Like the notes you would hear from ladies with silver-blue in their hair, bent over afternoon tea on their front porch on a sunny summer day. The two of them politely dance around one another in barely polite conversation–making hints about each others obvious superiority because neither come right out and admit they hate each other and have no idea why they’ve put up with each other for so long…stop to ponder one of the Jones’ children as he bycycles past. They eye each other without speaking and mmhmmmmmm at one another, bringing their heads even closer over the sugar cubes to viciously gossip about little Timmy Jones’ entire family. Yeah. In that tone.

But I’m not crazy. 

And then I got to thinking–and as many of you know, that’s never really a good thing. I got to thinking…what if we’re all nuts? What if we’re all a little bit off our rockers and we’re all looking at one another pointing fingers and going, see? See–that’s nuts. What that person did was crazier than what I’d do so I’m all right…Right? 

But what if it’s okay to be a little crazy?

When we’re children we do and say things that as adults we would never dream of saying. We feel things that as adults, we tend to hold in because it isn’t ‘acceptable’ in the work place or ‘feasible’ at home and we can’t ‘break down in front of the children,’ because we’re some cosmic force of perfection that is end all and be all of mundane sanity. We can’t dream in butterflies past the age of 20 and we certainly shouldn’t paint our walls anything but beige. Beige and off white. Or is that eggshell still?

Remember when we were kids and it was okay to be crazy about collecting rocks or putting straws up our noses just to get a laugh out of someone? Do you remember when it was okay to put your blanket around your shoulders, cackling, and telling people you were a super hero? If we did that now–how many people would just outright stare and how many would quietly inch away from you and leave?

Sure, there’s a difference between actual mental illnesses that need medical prevention. I get that. But I’m talking about all of us wandering around trapped in the worlds inside of our heads–constantly worried about what people will think of us if we walk this way, say something like this, move like that, laugh a little too much, smile too wide, dress too brightly, dye our hair unnatural colors, be too tall, slouch too much, wear too much make up, not enough make up, eat this way or don’t eat this way–and none of us are normal. None of us should be. What is normal? Why is normal something to be achieved?

Some people think painting your nails in different, wild and bright colors for hours is crazy. Others believe rolling down your windows on a beautiful and mild day in the car, cranking the tunes and singing at the top of your lungs with the radio as people rubber neck to ogle you oddly down the highway is crazy. There’s the belief that love is crazy and makes you crazy. There are people who think other people are crazy-beautiful, crazy-awesome, crazy-good, crazy-smart and crazy-wonderful. There are couples out there right now crazy in love, artists crazy with creativity.

And I wonder if some small amount of crazy is the right thing to be.

So go on, paint your nails. Dye your hair. Laugh as loud as you want. Wear white after labor day. Smile bright and smile wide.  We’re all a little batty here in the blogger world and in the big bad real world, too. You fit right in with the rest of us humans pretending to know what is normal and failing miserably at it.

I say to hell with normal. Bring me my hot pink leopard pants and flamingos for my lawn.

Now I live in Florida.  This  place I went to today was another world. All of people working in this particular area were women. They led me into a waiting area painted a beautiful spring green and illuminated warmly by soft LED lights buried in the ceiling. There were wicker chairs padded thickly. A counter top had fresh made coffee, creamer, sweetener and sugar, as well as pink lemonade. They had piped through some sort of easy listening radio station that I could barely make out the music too but added to the whole calming atmosphere.  When you walked down the hall to the rest room, pink ribbons with names written on them, like, Susan Walker, 10 years, from survivors glinted on the walls. They had little changing rooms which were painted a darker green, decorated with framed mirrors brushed to look aged and bronze and with lockable compartments for purses, bras and shirts. They had freshly laundered little ponchos to wear, snapped up the front made of soft flannel. Little flowers dotted them in various shades of rose.

The experience of the exam itself was not as uncomfortable. First, the machine was totally different than when I was a child. It was no bigger than six foot tall and maybe three or four feet wide–instead of taking up half the room. The exam room was lit the same way, painted the same fresh color with a wicker chair and decorations. The lady who helped put my chi-chi’s on the machine sat perched on a stool in the corner with a computer that takes less than 30-40 seconds to show images of my breasts to her and let her know whether she needs another one or if she sealed the deal.

As I walked out, another older lady there said that they found a spot but it was probably just calcium. She said she wasn’t worried because she had a mammogram last year and everything was clear but I could tell it was a lie: her hands were making little bird broken-wing gestures when she spoke and she didn’t look me in the eye. I told her, helplessly, that I’m sure everything will be alright and I’m sure it’s exactly that.

I went back and changed, grabbed my purse and met up with Shawn. I’m surprised and rather stunned at how good the people in the medical center are. I’m from Canada and the horror stories from Canada about the American medical care practices and people are enough to warrant hair raising as well as eyebrow raising.

I remember in Canada as a child and teen four – six hour waits at the doctors office despite showing up early for appointments, tired and bored doctors, dismissive and rude nurses–and I didn’t get that vibe from ANYONE today or the last time we visited for a check up there. Shawn and I were both talking in hushed, amazed voices about how cheerful everyone’s been and–is that normal? Or did we just luck out?

I keep thinking however, of the ribbons on the wall. Of the names written on pink hanging from pink strings, with hope written in numbers like ten years, and two years, and five years, and 23 years–and its like walking past a war memorial. I felt a rush of quiet and respect for the countless other women who have gone before me. And maybe it was just my odd side, but I felt a sort of comradeship in the waiting room even when there was times I was by myself. I began looking at the walls painted in an enthusiastic spring green–the color of new things, of new beginnings and perhaps the color of hope–and I imagined the walls had held their breath nervously with thousands others. The chairs had felt the trembling of frightened women holding onto their brave-faces at all costs. If  these walls could talk,  I thought, I wonder how many stories they would tell of pink ribbons and those who walked before me?

I bet they would say things like : Take care of yourself. Do a self breast exam once a month, or if you have dense breasts and are not sure of doing it yourself, ask your doctor to do it for you at least every six months. If you have a history of breast cancer in your family, try and get a mammogram at least once. Early prevention is key to survival. You owe it to family and to yourself.

If walls could talk, anyway, I bet that’s what they’d say.

Specifically, I love that as I am on my own I can celebrate the holidays–within budget–how I see fit. I can’t understand how celebrating in your own way, where it harms none, becomes a point of grumbling to some.

Yesterday I begged Shawn to take me to the Dollar store to see if we could afford a few more decorations for Halloween/Samhain/All Hallow’s Eve. We spent less than $10 and I was able to walk out with 2 head stones, orange pumpkin garland, spider webbing, creepy cloth, a jack o’ lantern lamp and two black ravens. Add those to the orange lights with the mickey mouse light in the front window with the cut-out I printed from the ‘net, plus the dark purple lights in the bed room with the glow-in-the-dark skeleton, I think that’s a good start.

I spent the better part of an hour or two putting everything up but I dream bigger. I dream of big front yards I can festoon with witches silhouettes, homes that have a place for me to plug things in outside–dozens of carved pumpkins lining the walkway to the steps. I want flashing creepy lights and ghostly presences in my windows, bats on my front porch and cawing ravens with hissing cats and scary music weaving from the window. I want a pointy black hat and play into the stereotypes and eskewed traditions because it doesn’t mean anything anymore. It’s just about leaning over and crying, “Boo!” or scaring yourself and laughing hysterically about it afterward. Especially when you realize how fake it looks and it was just a plastic prop anyway.

When I was done everything Shawn came out and stood before it with a quiet sort of look; the sort of careful scrutiny a man gives his wife’s handiwork when he isn’t sure if he should run screaming or kiss her on the cheek. He settled instead to shake his head slowly then tip up one corner of his mouth in a grin he couldn’t help.

I knew then like I have many times before, it didn’t matter what ridiculous dream I had or wanted–he’d find some way to make it come true and to smile about it.

There were two phat geeks who made posts, but life and distractions (Like Google+) came and endangered the meandering writing habits of two huge nerdlings.

It’s been a long time since we last joined our heroes, Mel and Shawn for their epic adventures in cooking, life, loving, laughing and things they liked. What could possibly be worthy enough to keep us from updating frequently? Other than Shawn having a full time job of course and his wife having a severe case of oooo what’s that? 

Star Wars my friend, Star Wars. 

Specifically both Shawn and I were lucky enough in August to be invited to beta test Star Wars: The Old Republic. If you aren’t familiar with what that is, it’s an MMORPG created by Bioware. The delicious people behind such classics as Never Winter Nights, Jade Empire, Knights of the Old Republic and my personal fan-girl favorites: Dragon Age. Shawn and I have been following Star Wars: The Old Republic, like many Star Wars and Bioware fans since it’s announcement. We both have accounts created on the official site that have been there since 2008 (as probably many people there do too.)

But…due to the NDA I cannot say anything else. I mean, I love you guys and those of you that have stuck around with us for so long–in between forever posts and through all our craziness–I do. But I love Star Wars as much and I can’t tell you anything else.

It’s killing me, let me just say.

Bioware’s publicity department has been doing a fantastic job eeeeeking out class information, videos, planets and so much more information from their official site: http://www.swtor.com/  And then of course there’s my personal favorite site to get further information: http://www.greetingsmeatbag.com/. Greetings Meatbag just isn’t pure info–it’s pure fun. There are interactive quizzes, well written break-downs of videos and articles as well as super friendly administrators. *Waves her hand,* You will go visit and tell them 2phatgeeks sent you.

Shawn and I would like to highly encourage you to give this game a chance. More and more these days, people tend to judge a game by a screenshot of a single video and that really makes me head tilt. Good games are going untouched by the tendancy to spout negativity about them well before testers or players get their hands on them. Sign up for the site, apply for beta testing and wait until the NDA is lifted before making the call.

And so–there you have it. Where Shawn and I have been all this time and where we will–no doubt–be for a long time yet.

What games are you playing at the moment and what games are you waiting for?