Kinko's Drama

I have a great marketing opportunity for Lessons In Stalking.  The Southeastern Book Sellers Association is holding its annual Fall  conference in Winston-Salem, not far from where I live.  I have a friend working the event who'll be stuffing the "grab bags" given to conference attendees and she's offered to place a piece of promotional literature for my book in each of the bags.  Yippee!!  I have good friends.

So, the first order of business this week was to get myself some promotional literature.  My printer is printing up bookmarks but those won't be in until the end of the month.  No problem--I'll use Kinko's. 

My idea is to make up postcards with cover of the book on the front and a promotional blurb and website info on the back.  4 postcards to a sheet of paper.  Not rocket science.

So I copy my cover and text to a disk and haul myself the 30 minutes to the nearest Kinko's.  Standing in line, I note the large sign over the front desk advertising "DESIGN SERVICES - Flyers, Business Cards, Pamphlets.  Let us help you meet your needs!"  I get to the desk and explain what I need, holding out my disk.

The Kinko's worker takes the disk reluctantly, like it's laden with cooties.  Sighing and walking over to a machine she asks, "What program is it in?" 

"Adobe and Word," I answer.

She glares at me.  I'm not kidding you.  This woman glared at me and barked, "You mean it's not the same program?" in a voice that made me feel as if I'd just done something very naughty.

After a little back and forth she said she'd have to send the pic and text to a Kinko's in Maryland that does design services (perhaps they should ship their store sign advertising design services there as well).  Then it would be a 48-hour turnaround time until they e-mailed me the proof and then--depending on how busy they were--we could see about getting it printed.

The design services alone are $40.  But I don't have the full version of Acrobat on my computer so I can't modify the image myself.  At their mercy, I am.

All of this is bearable.  What annoys me is the attitude that I as a customer have done something wrong in asking them for this service.  I worked in a copycenter in college so yes, I'm sure this was a pain in the butt order.  But you know what?  Suck it up.  The customer shouldn't see that you're annoyed.  Customer Service 101, folks.

Sigh.  Ignore me.  I'm worried about getting the postcards back in time and am feeling a little mean because of it.  See what Blair has to live with?

Baby's First Mammogram

Stilettos  and a mammogram all in one week... I feel like I should start a photo album comparable to "Baby's First (steps, words, smile) only mine will consist of mid-life goals: first mammogram, first hot flash, first time qualifying for the senior citizen discount...

Okay, I'm not there yet.  But I did have my baseline mammogram done today.  Not to destroy the legend of all the pain we women supposedly go through during these, but it really was nothing.  Apparently the fatty flesh of the breast provides such a barrier to pain that you could stomp up and down on my chest like you were flattening grapes to make wine, and chances are I wouldn't feel a thing.

For those who've yet to experience the pleasure (and for all 3 of my male readers), here's the deal.  Per usual, you slip on the ugly cotton robe that ties in the front.  Then you sit at a desk with a nurse who asks if you've noticed anything unusual with your breasts, such as any discharges.  Now really, if my breasts are discharging something is it likely I'm going to wait until a scheduled mammogram appointment to bring that up? Are there really women that get asked that question and pipe up, "Oh, I'm so glad you asked that because I almost forgot.  Last Wednesday my nipple was oozing a white goo.  Should I be concerned?"

With questions out of the way, it's onto "the machine."  This almost looks like the big machine you lean into when you go to the eye doctor only instead of resting your chin in a stirrup, you slap your breast on a glass plate.  Then another glass plate closes on top of it.  I really didn't feel anything except a light tugging sensation around my lower neck because the skin over the chest area was so taught.  Two front views, two side views, and it's over.   The whole thing took about 6 minutes.

Just for kicks, I followed the mammogram up with a yearly pap smear.  Again, for you menfolk, during that process the doctor will also do a quick breast exam.  As my doctor was doing my exam, he looked at me and, knowing my age, said with a touch of reproof, "Now, given your age, you really should have a baseline mammogram."

"HA!" I exclaimed.  "I just had one 20 minutes ago."  I looked at the in-room nurse and grinned as she laughed.  I love being one up on the doctors.

So that's my exciting day.  My blood pressure is something like 120/64 and my iron is good.  And the breasts have reformed into their pre-squashed state.  All in all, a good day.

"My Aunt Dena Is Famous"

Max is the eight-year-old son of my best friend, Trisha (the only person in the world allowed to get away with calling me "D" because I know she means the letter "D" and not the abbreviated name "Dee."  A subtle yet important difference).   Trisha informed me today on the phone that Max is my biggest fan and tells everyone I'm famous.  

What happened is that she and Max got online together the other night and looked at my home page and the website for Lessons In Stalking.  A few days later he was with his friends and they're just apparently sort of discovering "fame" and what it means to be famous--you're on TV, the radio, people know you, why they want to know about you, etc.  So this group of 8 year-old boys is discussing famous people and Max pipes up, "My Aunt Dena is famous.  She's got a page on the internet and people read her books." 

How cute is that???  "She has a page on the internet."  That's the funniest/cutest/sweetest thing I've heard in ages.  Note to self: 8-year-olds are easily impressed.  But really, I'm so flattered.  Adult praise comes and goes but to have a child think you're cool...that ranks up there as among the best things in life.  My all time favorite "blurb" I've ever received is from an 11-year-old girl who wrote Cat & Kittens magazine and penned, "I think Dena Harris is really funny."  Of all the praise I've received, that's the one I treasure.

Along now, of course, with the praise from my #1 fan - Max.  Who needs Oprah's book club or outselling Stephen King?  I've got a page on the web!

I'm A Woman Now

I'm officially a woman.  Why?  Because I just bought my first pair of black stilettos.  

I'd been told, read, and of course inferred vicariously through Sex & The City reruns that I wasn't much of a "real" woman without owning at least one pair of stilettos.  I made it my mission at the beginning of the summer to buy a pair, but after trying on a few and feeling an immediate and full stop of all blood flowing to my feet I decided the pain just wasn't worth it.  I am, above all else, a comfort gal.  If I could arrange it so I could go through life wearing nothing but old sweatpants, a t-shirt and no bra, don't think for a moment I wouldn't do it.

So I was more shocked than anyone when today, while shopping at the Black & White store (my favorite store.  The salespeople are totally helpful and will dress you like a doll so you don't even have to think about what goes with what), I pulled on the pair of stileto's handed to me and LOVED THEM.

I'm never working out again.  I'm just going to wear my stilletos with everything.  They give great muscle definition and plus, why would I need to be strong?  If I'm robbed, instead of running I'll raise my leg and poke the would-be-robber's eye out with the spike heel of my new kick-ass shoes.

Still, some thought was required.

"You look great in those!" chirped the salesgirl.

"I do look great in these," I agreed.  "I'm going to get them."

"Wonderful.  Why don't you try walking around a bit to make sure those are the right size."

"Huh?" I asked.  I had planted myself firmly in front of the three-way mirror.  I shook my  head at her question.  "No, you don't understand.  I live in Birkenstocks.  I don't expect to ever actually be able to take a step in these."

She looked puzzled. "But how will you get around?"

I shrugged.  I still haven't figured that one out but I'm not too worried.  If I have to hobble and half-drag myself up a sidewalk and cling to water fountains and interior walls to get to where I'm going, so be it.  I'll stand up straight and look great once I get there.

And be sure to stay tuned to this blog for what I'm sure will be most entertaining posts about podiatry appointments and 10 different ways to save face after falling flat on your butt because you wore a pair of stilts with a little belt buckle, knowing full well you have no sense of balance or grace to begin with.

So be it.  I think I'm going to sleep with my special grown-up shoes tonight.  Just pray I don't roll over and unintentionally stab myself.