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I believe I've mentioned in here before that I'm just not a last-minute kind of gal. I like to plan in advance. In school, I wrote papers the day they were assigned. I pay bills when they arrive in the mail. I pack days before a con.
So of course, my snake decides to wait until the day before our big debut burlesque photo shoot to start his chunky, ugly monthly shed. Because I love last-minute complications so much, and because I have absolutely no other issues or drama surrounding the concept of dressing up purty and having my picture took by strangers. (Though I do suppose it's better than having my picture took by friends, all things considered.) This has got to be the reptilian equivalent of getting a huge zit on your nose the night before prom. Ot at least, it would be if he knew enough to care. Instead, it falls upon me as the sentient member of this performing team to be embarrassed for him.
The practical upshot of this is that, between cleaning the house, organizing my work schedule for the next month, cobbling together outfits for said photo shoot, planning for tonight's Surprise Valentine's Outing with my husband, and running to the doctor's office, I also had to eke out half an hour to soak my living accessory in the bathroom sink until his skin became slimy enough to rub off.
Have I mentioned how much Sir Orpheus, scaly soon-to-be star of film and screen, hates bath day? I think I have. It's amazing that something with a brain the size of a Craisin can know enough to sulk, but apparently he does.
On the other hand, he is at least shiny and beautiful right now, and will hopefully manage to stay so for the next 24 hours. If I can manage the same myself, we should be fine. In an odd way, I'm even looking forward to this, gods help me....
So of course, my snake decides to wait until the day before our big debut burlesque photo shoot to start his chunky, ugly monthly shed. Because I love last-minute complications so much, and because I have absolutely no other issues or drama surrounding the concept of dressing up purty and having my picture took by strangers. (Though I do suppose it's better than having my picture took by friends, all things considered.) This has got to be the reptilian equivalent of getting a huge zit on your nose the night before prom. Ot at least, it would be if he knew enough to care. Instead, it falls upon me as the sentient member of this performing team to be embarrassed for him.
The practical upshot of this is that, between cleaning the house, organizing my work schedule for the next month, cobbling together outfits for said photo shoot, planning for tonight's Surprise Valentine's Outing with my husband, and running to the doctor's office, I also had to eke out half an hour to soak my living accessory in the bathroom sink until his skin became slimy enough to rub off.
Have I mentioned how much Sir Orpheus, scaly soon-to-be star of film and screen, hates bath day? I think I have. It's amazing that something with a brain the size of a Craisin can know enough to sulk, but apparently he does.
On the other hand, he is at least shiny and beautiful right now, and will hopefully manage to stay so for the next 24 hours. If I can manage the same myself, we should be fine. In an odd way, I'm even looking forward to this, gods help me....
