Poor, poor Pluto

Bereft of its planet-hood. Or at least demoted to dwarf-planet. That's gotta be hard on Pluto's ego. I mean, if a bunch of scientists got together and then told me, "Sorry, Amanda, you no longer meet the definition of human" I'd be none too happy, and I don't think I'd be placated by the creation of a sort of sub-human label, even if it did mean I was at the forefront of a new class of sub-humans.

I think Pluto's just being punished for its erratic orbit. You try to be individual in this world--er, solar system, and look what happens.

And check out the fourth and fifth paragraphs of the linked article above. Naming those "trans-Neptunian" objects Plutonians is just a bad, bad idea. What will the writers of speculative fiction call the denizens of Pluto if 'Plutonian' comes to mean "trans-Neptunian object"? Travesty!

Surviving zombies

So I'm working my way through The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead by Max Brooks. It's facetious. I know it's facetious. I know that, though the book is written straight in a true survival-guide format, it's not real. So why do I find myself nodding sagely: Ah, yes, the tundra would be the best terrain in which to run from zombies, because they freeze! and Hey, further rationalization for purchasing a new bike! Bikes are far superior for zombie escape than cars, which require finite resources to run and can be easily impeded on blocked roads!

Fanbase, it frightens me that there is a part of my brain that is taking this seriously. Even as I read this for the yuks, my brain is filing away tidbits just in case there ever is an outbreak of zombies, and I must defend myself from them. Forevermore in the back of my mind will be the thought that, in a zombie outbreak, apartment complexes can be considered safer than houses, because you have a bunch of other people around and all of you can band together to defend the complex. And I'm on the second floor, which is even safer: zombies (or at least Max Brooks' zombies) can't climb, so all I have to do is manage to destroy the two staircases leading up to my apartment and then, with proper provisioning, I could live indefinitely while hoards of the living dead crowd below, emitting that horrid zombie moan.

And speaking of the horrid zombie moan, it's been known to drive people insane, so in the midst of a siege I'd have to be sure to keep my morale up. Play games, sing, etc.

Then the writer part of me thinks that I should take this idea, morph it a bit, and then come up with a series of self-help books: So You've Just Become a Werewolf; Dating in a Lunar World; The Werewolf's Guide to Etiquette: Don't Bite Your Neighbor. Things like that.

But enough about that. The next section in The Zombie Survival Guide is an account of outbreaks throughout history. Must go glean survival tactics.

On solicitors

So last night, as I was in the middle of watching Dead Like Me (which, BTW, I highly recommend), there came a knock at my front door. It was an episode I'd seen before, so I got up off my couch with the DVD still running and peered through my peephole. Some guy I didn't recognize, but it wasn't dark yet, and hey, it was an episode I'd seen before. So I open the door.

"Hello! I'm a student in yadda yadda and I'm doing this thing where we have to talk to 100 strangers to work on our social and interpersonal skills to make sure we don't stutter and stuff like that. I'm blah blah." Here Blah Blah (we'll call him BB for short) sticks out his hand. And I, like an idiot, put out mine. Introductions.

"I'm also selling magazine subscriptions for sick kids at St. Jude's hospital."

Of course, BB doesn't say it quite like that. He presents it as a "contest" h's participating in, part of the "talk to 100 people" thing he mentioned before. I may be slow on the uptake sometimes, but I'm not stupid, so once he mentions the contest I hold in a sigh at having gotten off the couch. Should've pretended I wasn't home. Dead Like Me still plays in the background. I glance back at the TV; chances are I'll miss the end of the episode.

So then after the brief mention of the contest, BB bounces back to the "make friends" part of the script. Because it is a script; I'm not sure who handles the training for these types of things, but there are stratagems these solicitors are taught to employ. (1) Make yourself a person to the prospect. Hence, BB bubbles enthusiastically about his contest. "Guess where I get to go if I win." Earlier, he held up a little pamphlet that was supposed to serve as an identifier so I wouldn't think BB was a whacko just trying to get into my apartment. [I must admit I forget my safety rules. I should ask for real ID, probably student ID since he claims to be doing this for some school program. But then, I'm taller than BB by a good six inches, and he isn't very muscular so I guess in the back of my mind there's the thought that if he does try anything, adrenalin would come to my rescue and I'd, well, win.]

Anyway, BB flips open a folded part of the pamphlet. "Ta-da! Cancun! You ever been there?"

This part of the spiel is designed to make the prospect identify with/be on the side of the solicitor. The solicitor is so friendly, after all, a young go-getter of a student; wouldn't it be nice to help him on his way to Cancun?

But at this point I'm thinking, okay, magazine donation for some sick kid at St. Jude's. Charitable. I don't mind doing that. I don't care about the free magazines he's now babbling about that I'd get with my donation. And admittedly, there are better ways to go about helping kids with cancer than sending them a subscription to Nick Jr. But at least this is partially charitable.

So decide, sure, why not, I'll go ahead and pay for a stupid magazine description. I start wishing that we could just cut to the part where I pay for the magazine and he goes on his way.

"So are you a student?" Crap, still on the "let's be instant friends" kick.

"No."

"Oh, 'cause I thought you look young, like a student. What do you do?" I explain I'm an editor at an educational publishing company. "Oh, cool! Did you, like, have to go to college for that?"

That's a stupid question. If I look young, would I really be in an editorial job if I hadn't gone to college? What jobs are there nowadays where you don't at least need a bachelor's? And even if I hadn't gotten a degree, how many years of experience would I have needed before I reached editorial status? More than my "young looks" ought to warrant. But I say, yes, I did, and BB again bubbles over. "Great! Education! That gets me 50 extra points! High five!"

We will high-five four more times throughout our encounter.

Finally we get to the point where I provide verbal agreement to pay for a subscription to some magazine for some wide-eyed, ill waif at St. Jude's. "Okay! Do you mind if I come in so I can write on something?"

This is clinching the deal. It seems like the success rate for these ventures after entering the prospect's home is something like 98%. BB has, for the past five minutes, been talking about him and his wife. They moved from Florida when their house was destroyed in a hurricane. (That's the pity vote: Oh, poor plucky student! He really does deserve a trip to Cancun!) BB continues to talk about his wife as he comes into my apartment. Again: humanizing the solicitor, also making him less of a threat because he's married.

Then he spots some cranberry capsules I have sitting on my counter. "Oh, my wife takes those too!"

What am I supposed to say to this? Does he know what they're for? Will I, after hearing about the destruction of their home, now be treated to a discourse on his wife's troubles with UTIs? Worse, will I, after having to answer questions about my own personal life ("Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? You don't have kids, do you? None of the above? Well, you're stress-free!" [That last statement is a diffuser: "Okay, class, so there could be a point where all your questions, asked in an effort to ingratiate yourself to the prospect, will actually sadden him or her. If he or she has no significant other or kids, that may be depressing to him or her. A depressed prospect is one who doesn't buy anything. Therefore, to make the prospect feel less loser-like, smile real big and say, in a chirpy tone, 'You're stress-free!' Hopefully that'll get you a chuckle or half-smile, and you're back in the game."]), so will I, after answering all those questions in the negative, now have to report a history on the health of my urinary tract? Dear God, please, no. That's something I will refuse to answer. I will kick him out of my apartment without his dumb magazine subsciption. I will then call my apartment complex office on Monday morning to complain about solicitors.

But thankfully BB moves on from commenting on my accoutrements (he also commented on some pictures I have hanging on the wall) to our shared religious background. Because after revealing that I went to a Christian college, BB whipped out a picture of Jesus. "I'm a Christian, too!" (Ignoring that just because one attended a Christian college, one is not necessarily a Christian. One's parent's could have forced one. One could have had a change of faith since graduating. Neither is the case for me, and I am still a regular church-goer. But still.) So BB gets the name of my church, because "he and his wife are still looking."

Now BB notices the Dead Like Me menu on the TV. "Oh, what're you watching?"

"Dead Like Me."

"Never heard of it."

"It was a show on Showtime. It's about grim reapers."

"That's not a very Christian show."

I, for the better, decline to provide comment.

And so, fifteen minutes later, once we've completed the requisite high-fives and I've picked my magazines (which I'm sure will join the piles of unwanted/used magazines in the lunchroom at work the day after I receive each issue), once I've told him to just go to my church's website and the Netflix website if he's really interested [he asked for a phone number for Netflix. Netflix! The entire thing is web-based!], once I've handed him my check, I get him out the door.

Then I reflect: I've just spent $56 on three magazine subscriptions I don't really want and a subscription to Nick, Jr. for some kid with cancer when what he or she really wants is a cure and to feel loved.

I. Am. An. Idiot.

And I'm too nice. I actually identified the majority of the manipulations as they occurred--but I went along with it. So does that say more about the quality of the manipulations, the maneuvers into one's home and pocketbook, that one submits to them even having recognized them; or does it say more about me, who did nothing once she noticed said manipulations?

I'm still pondering that one, fanbase. If you have any helpful insights, let me know. For the moment, though, I need to clean my oven. My zucchini bread overflowed and the oven has burnt, smelly gunk baked onto it.

More on knowing thyself

Okay, so a couple of posts ago I revealed that I'm an INFJ on the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. According to Keirsey, INFJs are very keen on self-development, knowing themselves, etc. (Caught up? Good.) Case in point:

A week ago I donated blood. Yes, I wanted to do my moral duty and help save a life, but I also wanted to discover my blood type (a few years ago, when I was still under the fortuitous umbrella of my parents' health insurance, I was told the best way to find out your blood type is to donate, as bloodwork as part of a routine health examine just checks abnormal levels of whatchamacallit and not blood type).

So I made an appointment, filled out forms, had my finger pricked, then squeezed a little planet Earth stress ball while a pint of my most important bodily fluid flowed into a plastic bag. Two days later, I called the dontation center, all atwitter.

"You're A positive."

"Really? Thanks!" I hung up. A positive! A positive! I'm A positive! I--

--don't know what to do with that information. Work it into casual conversation? "How's the weather? Yeah yeah, that's nice. I'm A positive! What's your type?" Overanalyze it? "My father is A positive. My mother is O positive. Do my other traits follow more in line with my father's than my mother's? Hmm, I've often thought my handwriting is more like my father's, except for my cursive L's..."

That brief moment of elation of learning yet another tidbit about myself was short-lived. Then, a couple of nights ago, I actually dreamed about this. I was telling people that I'd had blood drawn, found out I'm A positive, but then had a sense of now what: "What am I supposed to do? If I'm in an accident, as the paramedics put me on a stretcher, should I shout 'I'm A positive! A positive! Don't give me B positive or B negative because it'll kill me! Nooooo!' "

And I'm still not quite sure what to do with this newfound knowledge. That I'm actually dreaming about it--that this is what my subconscious thinks I need to work out during my slumber, rather than how to get my work in progress out of its various plotholes or how to stop global warming; you know, something useful--is distressing.

Next I'll be wondering what it means that my pinky toes curve inward toward my other toes. Yeesh. It's a little scary to be an INFJ.

This is too hilarious

Fanbase, my goal is to entertain you. If I can be lazy while doing so, all the better for me!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLbdVXdjP94

Enjoy!