Ms. Brain-the-Size-of-a-Planet was one of my ex-boyfriend’s nicknames for me (Douglas Adams fan, natch). There is ample subjective and objective evidence to suggest that I am a smart person. And yet…
I have a lovely mp3 mix that I listen to in my car. A playlist of ~200 songs that I listened to while writing The Edge of Memory. In short, songs that I have listened to approximately 116,000 times, give or take a thou.
About once or twice a month for the last 4 -5 months, I have the following internal conversation with myself in the car:
Huh… I never noticed the back melody in this song before… *tilts head to listen closer*... It’s an odd rhythm, really… *wrinkles nose*... I don’t think I like it. It really doesn’t fit with the rest of the tune… *shrugs* Huh… I don’t hear it anymore… *slaps forehead*… Crap, that was my cell phone, wasn’t it?
I have rationalizations of course. I hardly use my cell phone. When folks need to reach me, they usually page. My pager is on 24/7, and I can pick that sound out of any din, even when deeply asleep.
But still… you’d think I’d have figured it out by now, wouldn’t you?