Striking It Rich

Amidst my piles of Christmas swag this year was a pair of earrings made out of fountain pen nibs, a gift from my mother delivered with an exhortation to "keep writing." I may be odd-looking, prone to fits of verbal violence, and generally not a likable person, but I do not disappoint my mama. So here we are, back to writing.

It was a relaxed and relaxing holiday, all things considered. I can't say I'm ready for it to end, since its ending entails me returning to a city that currently excels at making me feel lonesome and tragic - but things, especially holidays, do end, and that's exactly the sort of attitude I'm going to need to adopt if I'm going to make it through next year halfway intact. (and yes, by "intact," I do mean "unneutered." Holla.)

Last night, I played this game: Bohnanza. "Bohn" is German for "bean," and this game is, in fact, a game wherein one strikes it rich by harvesting beans. Doesn't that sound fun? Of course it doesn't, which is exactly why you're going to feel like a damn fool when you play a round of this game and realize you're fully prepared to play this game continuously more or less until you die. Turns out, planting rows of card-beans and conning your friends and family into trading you the beans you need for far less than their worth, thereby securing your brutal, merciless triumph-by-bean-gold? Fucking magical. That's what that is. These are magic beans, Jack.

You may be able to infer from my tone above that I won at Bohnanza quite handily, if with little honor. That's how homie do, though; and if there are two people who are used to watching me debase myself at the slightest whiff of victory, it's my father and brother, who were my opponents. I therefore regret nothing.

We also got down with some Big Boggle, which was a fiasco and a half, as my brother proceeded to pound myself and our father into quivering jelly with his legendary fists of lexical fury. As a linguist, playing word games that utilize timers is a struggle on a deeply personal level. If you do anything other than win by a landslide, everyone observing and participating will be all, "Whaaaaat? How can you looooose? I thought you were a liiiiiiinguist!!?1!!"

This is a logical fallacy, but an understandable one. The trouble, you see, lies in the timing. Language is to me less of a forte and more of a fetish, something of which I am such a huge fan, something which obsesses me on such a base level, that I often have difficulty coming at it objectively. I want to stare at the words, gently caress them, try them out in my mouth in various combinations, take them home and cuddle them and study them lovingly beneath a microscope... I am their bitch. They are most assuredly not mine. Timed word games, therefore, are a trial*, as I feel panicked and rushed, forced to cast about wildly for language out of context, prevented by the traitorous little plastic hourglass - always, that devilish little plastic hourglass - from giving any of the precious words the love and attention they deserve. Take away that hourglass, and I can often excel - I recently won at Scrabble, you see, and have been feeling flush ever since - but introduce time pressure into the mix, and I'm down for the count. It feels cheap; I just met these words, and already I'm assessing them on point value? What kind of language skank am I?

No, no, I'm sorry, that ain't me. Take your dirty Big Boggle victory, brother. I'll be in the corner, whispering sweet nothings to my declension tables, loving language on my own time.



* Note that Bananagrams is an exception to this rule, because seriously, who the hell does not love them some Bananagrams. Seriously.