saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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Mornings are the best when taken with self-importance. And pap smears.
I'm warning you people right now: this entry contains information on my yearly, womanly physical. If you're squeamish…well, why the HELL are you reading my diary, anyway? Good crap on a stick…
This morning, I signed into a messenger service on my cell phone and then promptly forgot about it, as I was in a hurry to get to the aforementioned doctor's appointment.
I waited for my doc to prep for the exam as I was lying on the examination table (a.k.a., genital torture platform – or GTP, if you're in the know, or remarkably pathetic). She was gathering up her plastic phallic equipment, swabs, rusty nails, jar of jam, steel muzzle, salad tongs, and latex gloves (just to be safe), when I heard the familiar chirp from my cell phone in my bag, letting me know that someone had sent me an instant message.
Considering this day and age, I don't want anyone to get on my case when I admit that I almost reached for my phone to chat away, comfortably propped in the stirrups.
Friend23: hi. where are you?
Me32: getting a crotch exam. what are you up to?
Yeah.
You will, however, be happy to know that I did not give in to the urge. Congratulations to me, for successfully separating web from much-too-personal life. Or perhaps for simply staying comfortably within the boundaries of good taste.
This entry excluded, of course.
Prior to the appointment, I stopped to get some coffee at a nearby café. This particular coffee shop is affiliated with a local media group that owns several radio stations. I sipped on my beverage while reading the morning paper, watching out of the corner of my eye as DJs and executive types wandered about, looking so purposely cool and yet so terribly important that it almost made me ashamed to not be associated with the music industry. Then their amazing coolness almost made me sorry I was even alive. Then I realized that their overwhelming, shame-inducing, potent-as-a-Mervyn's-cologne-section coolness was all a ploy, and that they simply wanted to feel validated for having the desire to wear their hair in a ponytail at work at the age of 45. So I quit feeling sorry and instead sneered at them over the rim of my coffee mug.
That showed them, but good.
Then a young woman appeared and shook the hand of a man who was hovering near the door, clutching a portfolio bag. The ensuing conversation went something like this:
Woman: Hi! Glad you could make it. You want to have a seat?
Man: Sure. Thanks.
(They sit at a table nearby.)
Woman: I brought you some radio station goodies, to make up for the fact that you had to drive all the way down here. Or perhaps because it's a bunch of crap that we can't get rid of to save our lives, so I'm pawning it off on you.
Man: Oh, thanks. That's very kind of you.
Woman: My pleasure. Do you like my stylish blazer and jeans ensemble, and the fact that my makeup is applied to make it look like I'm NOT wearing makeup? It just screams young, hip executive woman-on-the-go, doesn't it? Anyway, let's take a look at what you've got for me.
Man: Okay.
(He pulls out his portfolio and the two of them examine the contents for a couple of minutes. I sip my coffee, almost on the edge of my seat with anticipation. I can't believe my luck at witnessing this amazing moment in typical rock radio life.)
Woman: Okay, see. Here, where it has the picture of our morning show DJ? I know who he is. You know who he is. But I think our general public will require an identifying caption, don't you?
Man: Sure. Okay. I can do that.
Woman (stands up): Okay, great. Thanks for coming.
Man (looking bewildered): That's it? That's what I came in for?
Woman: Yes. Thanks very much. Here, for your trouble, have some more stuff with radio-station call numbers on them. Like this pen. And an ugly-as-all-hell t-shirt. And here, have a couple of these beverage insulators that no one ever uses except as cushioning when they're packing dishes on moving day.
Man: Uh. Thanks. You know what? No. I don't need five keychains. Thanks anyway.
Woman: No problem. I'm going to go brush some imaginary lint off of my stylish blazer, and then flirt with the graveyard shift DJ, and I'm going to get paid to do so. Thanks again for coming.
(Man wanders toward the door, clutching his not-quite-perfect portfolio. The woman turns with an armful of rejected radio merchandise, and catches sight of me peeking at her over the entertainment section of the paper.)
Woman: Hi! Hey, thanks for coming to our coffee shop. To show our appreciation, I'm going to let you have some of these free beverage–
(I leap up, throw a chair at her as a distraction, and flee the café.)
Hip, corporate America. Sometimes, you just have to hit it in the kneecaps and run for your life.
2:17 p.m. - 2003-02-12
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