It is Thursday, and earlier, I was reminded of when I lived in Elizabeth City, and was visiting the home of a family who had a pet monkey. This was for a story for a small magazine put out by The Virginian-Pilot newspaper, then my employer.
I showed up for the interview in slacks, dress shirt, tie; the monkey was sporting a diaper. And as I sat in a chair interviewing the family, the monkey ran rampant throughout the house, literally swinging at one point from a light fixture, and eventually running up next to me to grab my glass of iced tea and slurp some of it down. I looked up at my hosts in what I will try to recall as bemusement, my mouth open and saying something that I will assume was clever, because why not, it’s my memory, and here ends any enjoyment I take in it, so let me have my tiny damn bit of satisfaction already, jeez.
Because right about then, the monkey scampered up my closest arm and planted a kiss on my open-mouthed mouth. And if you have never been French kissed by a monkey, well, good for you. Good for you.
The horror.
So this morning, I am happy to say that I have not been French kissed by any other monkeys, though obviously, the day is still young.
And any day you are not French kissed by a monkey is a good day.
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