GG says "jump"; I say "how high"?

So apparently I got tagged. It doesn't happen terribly often, so I feel somehow compelled to comply when it does. Besides that, our Girl Guinness is such a lovely, charming gal; who wouldn't want to obey her every command? (Yes, GG, you can tell Wilman I said that, OK?)

Anyway, it's time to be all bookish and readerly. Off we go...

Name one book that has changed your life
Well, Dianetics surely had a significant impact... Just kidding. Books as a whole have enhanced my life in many ways, but I'm having a hard time coming up with one that I'd say really changed my life somehow permanently. The first time I read Ishmael, it definitely shook up my thinking about the world and our place in it, but the last time I read it, I found it frustrating. I'm sure I will come up for a better answer to this question within hours of posting this, but for now, I guess Ishmael's the best I can do.

One book that you have read more than once?
Naturally I have childhood favorites that I read (or had read to me) nearly every day for years (e.g., Tikki Tikki Tembo, Goodnight Moon, an old Little Golden Book called Baby Dear that seemed to aim--unsuccessfully, in my case--at creating a whole new generation of pretty little domestic engineers). If we're talking grown-up novels, however, Animal Dreams is just as beautifully written each time I come back to it.

One book that you would want on a desert(ed) island?
I'm with GG on this one: definitely some sort of instructional manual for surviving and getting the heck off that island... maybe that Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook, or perhaps Time-Life's Guide to Making Rafts and Radios Out Everyday Outdoor Objects?

One book that made you laugh?
If you haven't read Shannon Olson's Welcome to My Planet yet, you really must. (I was tempted to go with Bridget Jones's Diary here, but I doubt Helen Fielding really needs any more plugging.)

One book that made you cry?
For whatever reason, I'm very, very rarely a book-crier. I know I cried a bit the second time I read Why Girls Are Weird, but I'm pretty sure that had nothing to do with the tone of the book and everything to do with my frame of mind at the time.

One book you wish had been written?
How about The Lazy Girl's Guide to Making a Million Dollars and Finding the Love of Your Life All without Really Trying? (Anyone except me interested in reading that one?)

One book you wish had never been written?
American Gods was my own personal albatross for way too long a few months back, but I know there are a lot of Gaiman fans out there, and for their sake, it's not really fair to wish this one out of existence. If I'd heard Nancy Pearl talk about the Rule of 50 while I was fighting my way through it, however, I very likely would have tossed it aside for good.

One book you are currently reading?
As noted over there in the sidebar, I'm still working on Never Let Me Go. Reading's been slow-going this summer. I've been furiously knitting instead.

One book you've been meaning to read?
I can think of many a book to list here, but the first one that comes to mind is On the Road. I've heard extremely mixed opinions as to whether it's worth my time, but never having read Kerouac leaves a hole in my cultural literacy, I think, so perhaps that's something I should remedy.

Now tag five people
Nope, no tagging for me. If you want to play along, though, be my guest.

Five ways to make me quickly dismiss your online profile

1. Show no respect whatsoever for proper spelling and grammar. Yes, yes, I do realize I am likely more particular about this than most people, but I assure you that I honestly am reasonably forgiving when it comes to simple typos within e-mail and other informal correspondence. Your online profile is essentially a resume, however--a resume you are submitting as your application for the position of my boyfriend. You wouldn't send a resume without giving it at least a brief once-over to proof for obvious errors, would you? More specifically, you wouldn't send a resume that has a typo in your actual NAME, correct? Sorry; maybe Rnady really is your true and given name and it was overly presumptuous of me to assume that you're a Randy who has simply no attention to detail. Even if that is the case, I'm guessing you didn't really mean to boast about your "clam exterior," though, did you? I can't imagine why you'd think clamminess would be a selling point to potential mates, so I can only assume that you meant "calm." And finally, can we all just learn to spell "friends" already? Repeat after me: "i before e except after c or when sounded like ay as in neighbor or weigh." Learn it, live it, spell it right, OK?
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2. Post a wholly unflattering, inappropriate, or bizarre photo of yourself. I know it's not always easy to find a sharp, clear, recent picture of yourself for use in scenarios such as this. For that reason, I can accept the obviously set up and self-timered pictures of you posing in a suit and tie in your own living room or kitchen. I can even get past the pictures where you've quite obviously cropped out the ex-girlfriend attached to your shoulder. (Better to crop her out than to publish the unsuspecting girl's face on the Internet without her permission, which I've also seen more times than seems reasonable.) I'm not even going to complain if all three of your pictures feature you with a beer or mixed drink in your hand, because I'm well aware that most home photos come from social occasions, and many social occasions involve alcohol. What I cannot, on the other hand, understand, is why, if you're unable to locate an appropriate photo within your personal stash, your next best option would be to use the photo from your ID badge at work. Thanks for captioning it "My work badge photo," because at least that set it apart from a possible mug shot. You could have done worse, I realize. You could have been the guy who posted a possibly naked shot taken in what appeared to be his living room. I don't even care if there actually were pants below the level where the camera cut off. Naked torso in a beach photo is acceptable. Naked torso in your living room is not. It's really a pretty simple rule, I think.
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3. List "Conservatives" as one of the three things for which you're most thankful. That's right, Steve from Prescott, I'm looking at you. Adding "I just don't get those liberals" was an especially nice touch. I'm going to do us both a favor and just close this match right now, OK? Something tells me we probably wouldn't see eye to eye on much.
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4. Tell me that Harry Potter or The Da Vinci Code was your "last great read." OK, maybe this one is a little unfair. I actually won't dismiss you immediately just for listing one of these, but it doesn't exactly highlight your originality or interestingness. Unless you can come up with a remarkably clever way to tell me why either of these was so meaningful to you, you'd be better off mentioning the back of your cereal box.
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5. Include the word "sex" in three separate places within your profile. I'm not saying it's not a valid priority, but can we leave a few things unspoken at least until I know your last name? That'd be great. And less creepy. Thanks.

The Heat Bin

I was all set to write this big long whiny post about just how damn hot it is here, but it's so damn hot everywhere, and it's already been covered by him and her and everyone else, so I realize that really there is no point. I have nothing new to add and no original way to talk about the subject. I was searching and searching for a better analogy to describe a 101-degree day with not a cloud in the sky than "It's like standing in a fully-preheated oven," but really that's simply the best I could do. Brain cells have probably vaporized in the heat; how can I possibly expect creativity under those circumstances?

Besides that, the good, sweet weather gods have finally granted some reprieve and given us a break for one brief day. I truly never thought that 85 degrees would feel refreshing, but it turns out I was wrong. It's kind of like the relief we feel when the temperature jets up to 15 degrees after a week or more of sub-zeros. Fifteen degrees is, under normal circumstances, far from balmy, and yet, when it follows several days of minus 12, I've found myself leaving my coat unbuttoned and only casually pulling on gloves.

But I wasn't going to go on and on about the weather, remember? Sorry about that. I am a Midwesterner, you know, and talking about the weather is apparently in our blood. Moving on (or, at least, over to the side just a bit)...

The summer I was fourteen, my family went to Florida for a week. Despite it being one of the few "real" family vacations we took, my memories of the trip are hazy and limited. My primary recollection of that week is simply of being hot and annoyed. The hot part was to be expected, of course, it being Florida in June and all. As for the annoyance? Well, I was a moody and petulant teenager, so I likely spent most of the trip wishing my parents would stop talking to me and simply let me spend my days sleeping in, watching Days of Our Lives, and relaxing by myself at the pool. Instead, they wanted to pile all five of us into the vinyl-seated station wagon with the broken air conditioner and take us to Disneyworld and Gatorland. Shocking, I know. Someone should have called Social Services.

Since we spent each day sweating and burning in the sun, my father felt the need to recoup each night by setting the air conditioner in our rental condo to a frigid 42 degrees. I may be exaggerating a tad, but I do think it's quite possible we could see our breath as we reached for an extra blanket to wrap around our already sweatshirted selves. It's entirely likely that, had we left the milk carton out on the kitchen counter all night, it would still have been fresh and safe for drinking in the morning. Maybe my father really felt comfortable with the crisp air whirring around him; maybe he was just mad with excitement at the opportunity to run an air conditioner without being responsible for the electric bill. Regardless, the only reprieve my sisters and I had from the refrigerated condo was the screened-in porch situated off of the living room. We called this area the Heat Bin.

The Heat Bin was essentially a sauna, without aid of any coals or coils or other unnatural heating element. The air was thick and hot and almost hard to breathe. And yet, after an hour or two in the meat locker that was our living room for the week, the Heat Bin was oddly calming, for few brief moments, at least.

Despite how little else I remember of that trip, I think of the Heat Bin every summer, nearly every day. Last weekend, the Heat Bin was every area of my house, but on a normal day, it is simply my car. Some days, the stifling warmth of my sun-baked car actually feels good after nine hours in an overly air-conditioned office. But lately? Lately, not so much. Lately, the first 20 minutes of my drive--while the AC in my eight-year-old Saturn slowly struggles to cool the 90+ degree air from outside--have been downright uncomfortable. And when I'm uncomfortable, I'm likely to get cranky, and anyone who knows me knows I typically don't need any help with that.

Anyone who knows me also knows I'm not generally the type of person who's apt to buy something from an infomercial. Sure, I may grudgingly endure a Magic Bullet promo when there's absolutely nothing else on TV, but I've yet to pick up the phone and provide my credit card number. Last week, however? Last week I was so weary of enduring the Heat Bin every day that this actually looked like a brilliant solution. So brilliant, in fact, that I wanted one right away. None of that shipping time nonsense. What I'm about to admit is something of which I'm not proud. I own up to this only because I'm among friends (right?). The truth is, I wanted an AutoCool, and I wanted it now, so I made a special trip to the Mall of America (you know--that mall I avoid at all costs?) specifically for the "As Seen on TV" store.

What's worse is this was not the first time I've entered the As Seen on TV store with a particular purchase in mind. Several years ago, I actually purchased an Ab Slide because I honestly believed it would be as fun and effortless and effective as the infomercial promised. The woman behind me in line was clutching an Ab Slide box as well. I wonder if her quest for a six-pack was any more successful than mine.

Sadly, the As Seen on TV store let me down this time. Perhaps the AutoCool is too new to the market, or perhaps there's no room on the shelves with all the Floam and urine-stain remover they're stocking (and enthusiastically advertising in the windows).

It's probably just as well that I didn't waste my money. I'm not very science-minded at times, so it didn't initially occur to me that, on a 95-degree day, blowing 95-degree air into a 110-degree car really won't do much to keep the temperature at bay. On a regular mid-80s summer day, though? Am I crazy to believe it could work? The Internet knows everything, so I'm posing the question to you. AutoCool: real or hoax? I don't think Snopes is on this one, so clue me in if you're in-the-know.

Incidentally, my trip to the Mall of America was not entirely fruitless, as I did snag a pair of Tevas for $23 on clearance. It doesn't help my Heat Bin situation at all, but at least my feet will be cool and comfy on my next canoe outing later this month.

Quite possibly the worst earworm ever

Hearing The Macarena thumping from the spin class studio while I was changing after my workout was probably more than sufficient to embed that song in my head for the rest of the day. Just in case that wasn't going to do the trick, however, the trio of preteen girls who came rushing in from the pool had it covered. Have you ever heard this ever-so-clever alternate version?

(Sing it in your head to the tune of Macarena, of course)

Hamburger, cheeseburger, lettuce and tomato
Hamburger, cheeseburger, lettuce and tomato
Hamburger, cheeseburger, lettuce and tomato
Pleeeease pass the ketchup.

Yeah, that pretty much guarantees it'll be stuck there for the next three to four hours. I love my brain sometimes. And for sharing the pain with all of you? You're welcome.


More later, perhaps. (And by "more," I do not mean more mind-numbing dance hits of the past decade. Surely I can come up with something else to ramble on about instead. We shall see, I suppose.)

Five things I do not understand

Do I need to keep providing an intro each week to explain this Friday Five thing? Is anyone dropping in these days who hasn't been here before? If so, hi there. Welcome. Stop by any time. Read this for the scoop on what this is about. Got it? OK then; here we go.

The topic I picked this week is a dangerous one for someone as easily agitated as I, because forcing myself to think about things that annoy or confuse me is bound to have a troublesome ripple effect. The items below are just the first ones that occurred to me when I started pondering this yesterday, but I can guarantee that in the coming days, my mind will continue to build this list (and more than likely, share the results with anyone who'll listen). Word to my real-life friends: I'm sorry.

Anyway, here we are--Five things I really just do not understand:

1. Why people are so utterly baffled by time zones. I cannot tell you where I work, because we all know that would violate the First Commandment of Blogging. I will, however, use some vague terms and say that part of what we do is host online "sessions" of some sort* that are attended by various people across the U.S. The instructions e-mail that the session participants receive clearly lists the start time of each event, followed by a note in all-caps, boldface, bright and flashing text that says "All times are in Central Daylight Time. Please convert to your time zone as appropriate." OK, so I may be embellishing a bit with the "bright and flashing" part, but the point is that the note is quite clear. And yet, every day of my life, I take phone calls and answer e-mails from supposedly grown, functioning adults in professional business positions who seem entirely unfamiliar with the concept of time zones.
   
   I'm not even talking about people who aren't certain off-hand whether Mountain Time is one hour or two hours off from Central. (I do think those people should be aware of all the helpful sources out there where they could find that information without bothering me, but that is not really my point.) No, the people who make my brain hurt are the ones who don't know what time zone they themselves are in. A few weeks ago, a very confused woman called me very disturbed that she arrived at her online session at entirely the wrong time. I told her the listed start time was in Central Time and asked what time zone she was in. "Central," she said. I asked where she was calling from. "Boston," she replied. Boston. As in, the city with that great big ol' harbor where they dumped all that tea. The great big ol' harbor that eventually flows right on into the Atlantic Ocean. I am no expert in geography, but I do know that the Atlantic Ocean borders the eastern coast of pretty much the whole damn nation. You really can't get much further east than Boston unless you live on an open-seaworthy houseboat. And yet, this woman thought the Central Time zone was where she was. Seriously, I have no words. Except, yes, I do, actually. What I want to ask these people is how they've watched television promos for their entire TV-viewing life without being familiar with time zones. Sure, I suppose some of them are the highfalutin "I avoid the idiot box" types, and likely more of them have gotten spoiled by the magic and wonder of Tivo, where every show is miraculously at their command, but surely at some point in their lives, they've heard the words "Thursday at 10/9 Central" and had to figure out just what exactly that means to them. Have they really turned on the WB at 8:00 instead of 7:00 every Monday for the past 11 years expecting to get their Seventh Heaven fix and muttered, "Damn! Foiled again!"? Have they resorted to watching nothing but Law & Order and CSI on the sole grounds that one or both can be found on at least one station at all times of every day? I really need to stop thinking about this, I realize. Item one was not meant to be a post in and of itself. But really. Time zones. People, it's not that hard.
   
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   * This is an entirely inconsequential and obscure reference in an already too lengthy rant, but does anyone else remember the episode of the UK version of Coupling where Steve thought that Jane's therapist was using the word "sessions" as a euphemism for lesbian sex? Does anyone else think of that every single time they hear the word "sessions"? No? That's just me? Yeah, I thought so.
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2. The Black Eyed Peas. Maybe I'm hopelessly out of touch and out of date here, and I should instead be feeling perplexed by The Pussycat Dolls or some other more current make-believe band, but as my cable-viewing has been pretty limited the past nine years or so, I'm not always up to speed with these sorts of things. Therefore, I'm still stuck on the Black Eyed Peas. Really, I'm all for being eclectic and individual; I'm not saying matching outfits and uniform choreography is my schtick of choice for modern music acts. But I do think (crazy as it sounds) that all members of a band should sort of look like they are in the same band. One member doing frenetic movements in the corner while another one sways side to side in the front really doesn't make a lot of sense to me. I don't think that, while watching a group perform, my first thought should be of that old Sesame Street bit--the one that challenged you to "guess which kid is doing his own thing," except in this case, the bit is modified, because in fact, every one of these kids is doing his own thing. I should point out, by the way, that my whole opinion on this matter is likely based on one Saturday Night Live musical guest spot and perhaps a single video I once happened across at a friend's house. I don't claim to be any authority, so feel free to try turning me around if you must.
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3. Why it takes people so damn long to proceed through the intersection of New Brighton Boulevard and St. Anthony Parkway. OK, I know this one is ridiculously geographically specific and means nothing to anyone but me,** but seriously, what is the problem?? Light turns green; you press the gas pedal. It really is just that simple, folks.
   
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   ** And possibly the hundreds of other people who drive through this intersection every day of their lives, but I'm pretty sure none of them read my blog.
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4. How [insert name of nearly any disagreeable, unpleasant, dull, or frighteningly stupid person I have ever known] has a relationship and I do not. I assure you I really am not just desperate for a husband or boyfriend; if I wanted one that badly and at any cost, I would have stuck it out with any of the several men I've tried to connect with in the past several months. I'm just saying; I don't get it. And I know, I know; this particularly pompous and know-it-all rant does not exactly highlight my patience and charm, but I assure you that I really can be quite delightful at times. I can provide references if necessary; I swear.
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5. Why bubble skirts are back in style again. Or leggings under skirts and little dresses. Or, barring retro fashions and focusing just on the present, how brightly colored rubber garden clogs became acceptable footwear to sport outside of one's yard. Or why it's cool to wear your belted pants an inch below your ass. I'm going to stop now before I start enumerating every other fashion oddity I can muster, because frankly I do realize I'm starting to sound like my grandmother. She's a lovely old broad, really, but I don't take my trend cues from her.

Dating me: a brief primer culled from recent events

How to charm me:

1. Tell me I have no idea how gorgeous I am.
2. Tell me I'm not just smart, but "fucking brilliant."
3. Listen and laugh attentively, even when I start talking about punctuation.
4. Tell me I never have to pay for anything with you.*

How to annoy me:

1. Tell me you can't remember if you voted for Bush.
2. Get sloppy, slurred-speech hammered on our first (and second) date.
3. Claim that because I have no brothers, I can't possibly have any sympathy for men. Fail to realize the double standard of this statement coming from a man who has no sisters.
   
4. Brag that you pretty much always get what you want.
   

How to terrify (and henceforth ruin your chances with) me:

1. Send 13 consecutive replies to a single e-mail, so that my Inbox looks like this.
2. Turn into near-violent, angry, jealous guy at the mere mention of a male friend's name.
3. Ask me to change my display name in Yahoo to the shortened version you prefer.
4. Tell me approximately 12 hours into our acquaintance that you're certain I'm exactly who you're looking for.**
   

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* What? Sure I'm still a feminist, but this is just a damn good deal. You don't have to be "fucking brilliant" to realize that.

** I know, I know; this should have been sweet. But considering some of the prior red flags waving wildly, my question was "Looking for me for what?"