Can't stop talkin' 'bout my monkey

Let me just say this now: I will hate it, absolutely hate it, when I have to go back on a set work schedule. Right now, all the work I'm doing is online, and I can work at whatever time of day I like, and dressed (or not dressed) as I please. I love to log on and work at 2 in the morning, dressed in funky monkey jammies, sock monkey slippers, and a viking helmet; it's truly a liberating experience. Structure will come as a cold, wet slap in the face whenever it happens. Tomorrow it will be four weeks since I moved, so I guess it's probably about time to start dressin' up and shoppin' my resumé around town.

Scheduling appointments is a breeze when one has no preordained time to punch in and out of the office. Now, if you've seen me lately (in the last six months), you know that my hair is out of control on the shaggy side of town. What I need more than anything right now is to get lots and lots of hair cut off, and then have Jess dye it for me, as my color fades fast and my roots are as long as a stately dwarf is tall. So what did I do today? I scheduled a wax. Wrong hair, dumbass! I'm certain no potential employer will request that I drop my pants for a monkey check...and if they do? Then I've certainly applied for the wrong sort of work. I'm not the pole spinner in this family.

I am now on my third waxer. Rumor has it that the other two ran screaming and were last seen clawing their own eyes out with matching crowbars, but really, it's just because I moved. No, really. The hair-ripper today was nice enough, and willing to look at me without pants on, which I find is a real bonus in a waxer.

What the fuck is one supposed to talk about during a wax? I really try to steer the conversation away from the task at hand, because what kind of chatter could that instigate? "My, that's quite a vagina you've got there, ma'am." or "Damn! It's like freakin' steel wool down there!" or "You know, the Pippi Labiastocking tattoo was probably really cute when you were twenty, but now?..." or "OH GOD, IT HAS TEETH!"

Really, the only bit of our conversation I remember is when she had me in a totally awkward and humiliating position in order to reach, ah, stuff, and I told her, "If you should see me on the street sometime? Pretend this never happened."

But enough about my monkey.

I continue to add furniture to my room and shift things out of cardboard boxes, disappointing the cats, who truly love the array of cardboard available to them in here. Baby Nala showed her displeasure Sunday, when I let her previously perfectly well-behaved skinny orange ass in here, only to have her march straight over to my bed, squat, and pee on my comforter while I talked to my mom on the phone. "Yeah, I'm settling in really well, and the cats are really friendly - goddammit, Nala just peed on my damn bed! Just a second, Mom..." Then again, maybe that piss was all about revenge.

When I finish this post, I will be assembling the chair I bought today. It's one of those ergonomic chairs where it has no back; instead, you sit on the back cushion and kneel on the front cushion, sort of like the three-point landings that were strictly forbidden by Dad when we knelt in church (no butt was to touch the pew behind us when we were on the kneeler or else). Here's what it's supposed to look like:




But just between you and me, I'm afraid that this is what it will look like when I'm done:



Gotta go - Livey, Weebs and Wobbles are fighting over the empty chair box. And don't believe any girl who says she doesn't enjoy having three cats fight over her box.