today she called to arrange her arrival chez les monkeys tomorrow. near the end of the conversation j made it perfectly clear that we would be talking about my bum. the girl is clearly worried. about my bum. she even (jokingly?) asked if she could see it. i told her i didn't think our friendship could survive that. i hope that's that.
so in case anyone else out there is staying awake nights worrying about the state of my bum, let me tell you that as of yet, i know nothing. the reason that i know nothing is that i have been far too busy to thrice poop on a pie plate, dab in the fecal matter and paint fetching swatches on a cardboard card specifically designed for such matters before taking it down to a local lab wherein the staff will joyfully test it for blood which could, conceivably, be a sign of colorectal cancer and imminent death.
am i procrastinating? yes. don't i fear being one of those people who are told, "if only you'd been diagnosed a week earlier your chances of survival would be double"? fuck yes. so why am i not poop painting pronto? because, I SAID, i'm busy. ok? we're in and out of the house, traipsing all over the picturesque countryside, either visiting or hosting*, driving or sailing or kayaking, looking at totems and orcas and foreign musicians who play the zither, none of which is conducive to creative collecting of fecal matter samples. and it's probably just the old hemorrhoids acting up anyhow, so there.
besides, they tell me that i must abstain from red meat for three days prior to the start of fecal art week, and after having been vegetarian for almost a decade, i am now apparently unable to go a week without accidentally ingesting some kind of lightly roasted herb-scented wildebeest.
and now you know and wish you didn't. you can thank j.
*it would be rude to paint with one's poop in a toilet other than one's own. it would be equally awkward with guests around to march into one's own bathroom wearing latex gloves and clutching a painting stick.