Epilation!

Every once in a while, an adult (and I use the term loosely, especially in my case) woman finds that she is bored out of her skull.  If that woman is me, chances are she finds herself not only bored, but dangerously bored.  The kind of bored that ends up with my roommate begging me to at least get drunk first.  I'm not sure if this is out of wild hope that I will promptly do enough tequila shots to prevent my intended course of action or simple blind desperation.  Considering my previous combination of bored + drunk ended up with me in the bathroom, sobbing as I tried to figure out how to get the wax strip out of my buttcrack without having to yank... I'm not sure what she was thinking, either.

Backing up a little.

About a week ago (as some of you who watch me on Facebook and/or Twitter may already know), I plucked out all the hair in my right armpit.  It didn't really hurt much, and I've enjoyed a week (and counting) of nice, smooth armpit -- a welcome change from the usual post-shave stubble that inevitably appears the next day.  I discussed my pleasure with my smooth underarm with my sister, who informed me that she had actually waxed hers.  I was in awe.  I mean, I was already in awe at her recent self-inflicted Brazilian, but the fact that she had waxed her armpits?  

Unbeknownst to all, I began making my little plans.

I am a scientifically-minded soul, and I quickly realized I had a wonderful opportunity on my hands: I could compare plucking and waxing as epilation methods!  I decided that the fact that I had plucked a full week and change before endeavoring to wax was irrelevant; I was interested in comparing the processes.

So, I found my wax, heated it up in the microwave, turned down tequila shots, and went to work.

The first yank was the worst.  I squealed quite a bit, and if it hadn't been for the sight of all those yoinked hairs, I might have made my way over to the liquor before continuing.  However, I was bolstered by that mini-forest of removed growth, and bravely yanked again.  (Squealed like a bitch, too, but hey.  Sometimes hollering helps.)  It didn't hurt as much that time, and by the third pull, the process was just funny.

Especially with Irk and my kids looking at me like I had utterly lost my mind.

It took three good smears of wax to get the hair off, and then I had to go in with the tweezers to get the stragglers.  Irk whimpered over the blood (which was minimal, really; what did she expect?  I was yanking out BITS OF MY BODY), my kids hid on the stairs where they couldn't see me, and I laughed and mentally grouched over the fact that the wax bits clinging to the stray hairs was making the tweezers stick.  It took about ten minutes to clean up, even though there's still some lingering tackiness from the wax.

So, about twenty minutes of effort for a matching pair of smooth underarms.  Worth it!

The results, in Pros and Cons:

Plucking

Pros

• Smooth finish
• Mostly painless -- more like scratching a deep-skin itch
• Takes up a lot of time if bored and not wanting to be productive
• Slow regrowth
• Regrowth is finer
• No residue

Cons

• Takes a LONG DAMN TIME
• Crick in the neck from having to twist and distort to see entire armpit

Waxing

Pros

• Quick!
• Witnesses to the process make the BEST faces
• Warm  wax on skin a really pleasant sensation
• Not having cricks and strains from having to contort
• Long-lasting results
• Regrowth not stubbly

Cons

• OW! (but only at first)
• Left armpit now kind of sticky from wax residue
• Still had to pluck the stragglers
• Wax bits in the keyboard (note to self: perhaps not waxing at the computer would be ideal)

And, for fairness sake, Shaving

Pros

• Quick
• Painless, unless you're sloppy

Cons

• STUBBLE.
• Razor burns kind of suck
• Fast regrowth

So, I really think I'm going to make waxing my new hair removal method of choice (with a side of plucking).  We'll see if I can keep up the brave front when I make my attempt on my bikini area, though!  I'm cautiously optimistic -- I remember The Butt Incident pretty clearly (even though I was WASTED, but seriously, who could forget THAT?), and it really didn't hurt too bad after the first couple good yanks, so.

I amaze myself in a bad, bad way.

I just caught myself being jealous of a girl with anorexia because she had enough self-discipline to starve herself skinny.

I feel pretty. Occasionally witty. Not terribly gay, though.

I love it when I turn around and suddenly notice I've had a relatively productive day.

My back yard is nicely cleaned up.  Not perfectly; I need to figure out how to throw away large objects like busted kid pools and yard debris, but at least the garbage is stacked nicely to once side.  The plants are all arrainged, the grass is (to my deep and delighted surprise) growing, and I discovered that my lilies, irises, and daffodils are already blooming!  Yay!  I'm hoping my Lucifer survives.  I planted the bulbs this morning, but since they were out of the ground for a little over two weeks while I was in Cali, I'm not terribly hopeful.  BE STRONG, LUCIFER!

... Oh geez, that's kind of funny.

Anyway.

I've made a little headway into getting the house cleaned up on the inside.  Granted, by some standards, it was pretty damn clean to begin with.  However, I was raised by a slightly OCD mom and an even more OCD grandmother... make that two OCD hyper-clean grandmothers.  No shit, one of my grandmothers could see a cat hair on her kitchen floor from across the room.  I'm not quite that bad, but I do like to be able to see stretches of carpet when I walk into the living room, and I do like cleared flat surfaces in general, and... well, I'm working on it.

Man, my back yard looks good.

I got a lot of work done on Infernal Shenanigans! as well, which is nice and lovely because that's where I'm hoping money comes from.  See, I haven't found that mythical chocolate dick that ejaculates money yet, so I'm still looking to get greenbacks the old-fashioned way: bank robberies.  Or was that extortion?  ... Anyway.

On the bright side, getting things done means that I won't feel bad taking the rest of the evening off to draw and write!

Also, best of luck to my unbiological brother who is taking the ASVAB right about now.  If you don't score a perfect, man, I'm never talking to you again and you'd better wear sackcloth and ashes and yell "UNCLEAN" when people pass by close to you.  Seriously.

Nah, I kid.

Seriously, dude.  Do not dishonor our ancestors.

Hell. Oh.

Welcome to San Jose Airport, a nice enough airport when traveling alone (hey, free wifi that actually works goes a long way with me), but a waking nightmare with one cool oasis (again, free wifi) when one is sick with a cold and traveling with two very healthy, very active children.

Now, my two darlings are very polite, extremely well-behaved kids. Most of the time. They are very courteous, use their manners well, and generally get along well with just about everybody. Put them on a plane when they're relatively tired, and they'll peacefully listen to my iPod and stay quiet. Put them on an airplane early in the afternoon after a twenty-minute nap, and they turn into two noisy little slap-boxers with insatiable appetites and the urge to pee every two minutes during takeoff and landing, and every ten minutes while camped out at the gate.

So, take two hyper preschoolers-going-on-schoolers, factor in the lack of sleep and excitement of travelling by AIWERPWANE, and multiply that by having to walk across a crowded terminal packing a stuffed laptop bag, a camera, a purse, three jackets (it's hot in San Diego, but rather cold still in Portland), a bag of food, a couple of drinks, and one small hand trying to tug you in eight directions at once, none of them in the direction you're actually trying to go, and to all that add in sinuses that burn with the brimstone promises of a thousand Baptist preachers that is simultaneously leaking like a busted fire hydrant and two very sore ears, and on top of all that add in the disgusted looks of a million people who are better parents than me while mysteriously absent of any wee hangers-on.

Of course, they're totally mocking me right this minute by playing nicely with the toy monster truck that my son got at Burger King, both of them wearing the paper crowns symbolic of that magic Burger Kingdom. For some reason, I want to shake them both and cry out for them to meet my lowered expectations. That would be foolish, though. We still have one more flight to go, and a car ride home after that... and their bedtime is in an hour and a half.

At least we're back in our own beds tonight.

Update on the computer situation...

Hey, did you guys know it's possible to boot a laptop off of your iPod?

Even if you don't want to?

... I do now! :D

In other news, Gerald is feeling much better now that Erynn isn't all up in him...

This cat wants to die.

Allie is on a roll.

She woke me up this morning after Irk left for work, yowling up and down the hall, then parking her butt at the door and yowling there. I finally hissed at her and she took off running downstairs, but the damage was done. I was awake.

Luckily, the kids slept through her wailing, or the story might have ended there.

On the bright side, I was able to shower and get dressed before the kids woke up, so that was nice. I had to go to the Social Security Administration office today to figure out what on earth was going on with my son's SSN. That was enough to drive me batty. I get home, I start lunch, and I open the laptops to prepare to catch up on email. Suddenly, my body informs me that it is also time to do some business in the bathroom, so.

When I get back, not TWO MINUTES LATER, Allie is jumping off the table, and poor Gerald is frozen. Asmodai is also experiencing some difficulties, but he seems to be made of sturdier stuff than Gerald, and straightens out with a couple of keystrokes.

Gerald, poor poor Gerald, is... dead. BIOS splash, then nada.

I bitch at Irk about her cat (as you do), then settle in to try to fix the damned computer. As I'm downloading the .iso so I can format one of my USB drives to be a 'nix booter (and surfing the web a bit while I download), I hear a horrid sound from under the table.

YULK YULK YULK YULK

"Great," I think, "Allie is going for an encore. WONDERFUL."

YULK YULK YULK YULK YULK YU-HRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK!

I realize with dawning horror that the universe surrounding my foot now feels rather hot and drippy.

If Irk posts about the sudden and horrid death of her darling Allie, the world will know why. Provided the damned feline doesn't give me another excuse in the meantime. I mean, really, how's she going to top that?

...

Irk, if that effing cat pees on my bed...

They never told me it could be this fun!

Ah, the life of a stay-at-home-mom.  It's so fulfilling.

If by "fulfilling" we mean "ensuring that I remain in a constant low-level state of irritability with occasional spikes of rage".

Look, I'm sure there's plenty of moms who genuinely love being at home all day with their children and are convinced it's the best thing for them.  That's not the case with me and my kids.  I'm not happy, they're not happy... it's just a mess.  Granted, a lot of it is because we can't afford to go out and do much (I don't even have money for public transportation right now), and a lot of it is frustration because I genuinely am trying to get stuff done at home that will bring in money, but they don't comprehend that (and I don't expect them to!).

I miss the days when I was working all day, then got to come home and see them.  They were overjoyed to see me, I genuinely was happy and relieved to see them, and we had weekends to hang out and generally enjoy our mutual company.  Now we're all in each other's faces all day, and... it wears on me more than them, but it does wear on them.  

Not that the SAHM doesn't provide its own interesting lessons.  Yesterday, I learned that Gmail caps their response threads at 100 messages, then splits it off.

Shiny!

Tax Return Season is upon us (well, me, at any rate), and I've cast my eyes on the various ways I'm going to spend mine, which is due in a couple weeks.

First priority is catching up on my bills. Easy enough!

Second priority: new camera. I'm getting a Canon EOS Rebel XS (I traded the extra two megapixels for being able to get a couple of accessories), a telephoto lens (I'm eyeing Craigslist for this item rather than buying new), a tripod, and a flash umbrella kit.

Third priority: mini-vacation up in the Tri-Cities area of Washington. I miss my Trav.

I should still have money left over for emergencies... I'm not going to get the telephoto lens if I can't find one used at a reasonable price. It's not as necessary for what I want to do (although I do have a major boner for macro photography... hello reverse-mount ring!), and ... well, honestly, if I can't get it used, I can use some of that money to drop into, I don't know, improving the lawn in my back yard. (Feel free to read that as "actually getting the lawn done in the back yard", since I don't actually HAVE a lawn yet. Just a giant mud puddle.)

Ah, photography. If it wasn't for that fabulous shoot I did with my sister -- which, by all rights, should have been a NIGHTMARE with no results -- I might have quietly let this hobby die with my poor FinePix. Instead, I've been hit by the multiple opportunities of a big enough return to afford the camera I've lusted after, a total lack of gainful employment that allows me to run around doing fun artistic things instead of monkeying about in an office, and a good supply of people willing to let me photograph them. Even better... photograph them for money.

Aye, that's the best part. If I'm not careful, I'll be at least semi-pro again in no time.

I'm thinking I'll get back in touch with a pro friend of mine when the camera arrives, and see if she's willing to swap tips or something. She's taking a break from work, so it's not like I'll be stealing jobs (besides, what she does and what I'm wanting to do are different enough to avoid overlap, unless we wanted to team up).

It may sound stupid, but I also want to do charity photography. You know, like those people who go in and do photography for terminal patients and stuff. I'd also like to do photo shoots for newborns of teen parents who might not otherwise be able to afford portrait photography. I mean, some of my greatest treasures are my photos of my kids. I'd like to help where I can, you know?

... and life keeps movin' on.

The carpets have been cleaned, the laundry is ... well, at least over halfway done (this is an accomplishment, trust me), and the catboxes are no longer the dominant perfumes in their respective bathrooms.

The dishes need to be done, but that is thankfully not my department.

I'm oddly at peace right now. I haven't drawn sheeyite today (or even for the past couple of days), haven't written... I did manage to do a lot of tweaking on the new Peacock King site today, but even that was just... tweaks. I should be foaming at the mouth right now about paperwork I haven't finished, deadlines I'm in danger of missing, bills I have yet to pay... but I'm peaceful.

That's not to say I don't have those quiet little areas of discontent. I have a to-do list a mile long, for starters, and not enough resources to get the tasks done. (Yet.) I miss Jess like crazy -- he'd become such a fixture in my days that it's genuinely odd to not have my not-twin around. I need to figure out what to do about my accidental FWB -- I'm not so interested in the WB part, and I really don't have much experience with telling guys that I'm just not interested in them that way... and having to do this after a night of drunken shenanigans isn't going to help my case any.

I think I'll avoid the whole FWB idea from now on, holy shit. I have few enough friends that I really value the ones I have, and this seems like a really unworthy way to go about weeding out ones I would really rather keep around.

Somewhere in all that I have to do this week, I have to figure out how to very nicely ask someone who intimidates the shit out of me with her awesomeness if she would pretty please read The Peacock King and um maybe review it for us please? ... You know, just now I imagined Jess and Erica's faces right before my infamous date with my Uncleganger. The ones that preceded their twin smirks of "Jesú Christo, what happened to your balls? Remember who you are or we're going to take away your title!" ... I'd better just write that email or risk giving up my Supreme Overlord business cards.

Good going, guys. That incident burned so hard in my brain that I'm using it against myself in completely unrelated situations!

So now that I've finished my tea and hitched up my big girl panties one more time, I'm going to... head to bed! I forgot to change my sheets, but darnit, I had a busy day. I'll pencil it in for tomorrow.

OK, y'all, this one is NOT for the constitutionally weak.

Trufax: I am SOOO not shy about my bodily functions.  This post is your first introduction on why I put an adult content rating on my blog.

I learn the  most fascinating things via Google.  Tonight's Search-A-Lesson:  labia zits.

TMI ALERT.  YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.  IN FACT, YOU MIGHT WANT TO USE THE NAVIGATION MENU TO SKIP OVER THIS IF YOU ARE, IN FACT, SQUEAMISH ABOUT VAGOO-TALK.

Did you know women can get blister-like swellings on their labia?  I mean, I did before tonight because I've had one a couple of times since puberty, but I didn't know how common it was until I got the bright idea to Google "labia zits".  Relevant to my interests and all -- my stress levels and hormone levels have combined in a Voltron-like manner to inflict all sorts of interesting issues on my poor body.  

Apparently, these pus- and blood-filled bubbles of pain and itching are blocked pores or something.  There's a bit of argument as to what they're caused by, but it's universally agreed that it's not an STI or disease; it's an uncomfortable side effect of being a biological creature with pores that ooze stuff and occasionally get blocked.  No biggie.

I'm wondering why there isn't some kind of public awareness campaign about this.  Granted, pussy-zits aren't exactly a sexy issue to address (like gonorrhea is either, but at least chlamydia has a cool, floral-like name), but you'd think more women would be aware of how depressingly normal it is to get crotch-eruptions on occasion, especially as they get older.

I'm rather lucky.  I'm not terribly shy about investigating the sack of meat I'm inhabiting, and when I first suffered one of these, my natural reaction was ew ew ew lance it and clean it out so it will heal OW FUCKER THAT FUCKING HURT hee neat blood ow ow OW ow oh hey it feels much better now.  It was gone by the next day.  Some women let these things sit around because they're shy about it, and are in misery for months!

So ladies!  If you get a painful, round swelling on your labia, go see your gyno and get it checked out.  If you're like me and you're squeaky-clean (except for your annoying extra bump Down There), you can probably get away with lancing and cleaning it when it happens again, and save yourself a LOT of discomfort!

PROTIP:  Don't squeeze, for the love of all that is holy!  That HURTS and does NOTHING.  The pus-bubble is usually several skin layers down.  You'll probably need a needle or sharp pair of tweezers to get to it.  I don't think I need to cover the rest of the procedure; we've all been zit-poppin' teens, right?

... Right?

Anyway, CLEAN CLEAN CLEAN.  I'm not talking douching (that's not good for your va-jay-jay anyway), but keeping the outer surfaces clean.  I've heard tea tree oil is good for 'em, too, but haven't tried that myself.  

Seriously, it's insane how common this is, but I had to find out how common via Google.

Pride goeth before a recession.

I have a secret.

Well, I have several, but there's one in particular I want to talk about, because I think that if I force myself to confront this issue, I just might be able to get past it.

I've applied for public assistance.  Or, if you prefer, welfare.

Over and over, my friends tell me that it's nothing to be ashamed of, that it's becoming more and more common as our economy tumbles, and that I certainly don't have to beat myself up over it.  I nod my head and agree on a theoretical level, but deep inside, those forms have skewed my self-image closer to the one you'll find in your average Rants & Raves section on Craiglist.

The welfare mom.  Single mom, fat and lazy, sitting on the couch in her dirty house eating bon-bons while the kids smear shit on the walls.  Stinky, ugly, all-around repulsive and unlovable human whales.  The image that I've been fighting just as a single mom, and have been sliding closer towards as I realized that my income just wasn't keeping up with my outgo.

I once swore that, no matter how dismal things got, I would never resort to welfare.  I hadn't banked on things getting so bad that I had to worry about whether a temp agency would even be able to find a position for me.  I didn't realize it would be so easy to lose my business through simple economic drag, rather than bad management and laziness.  I had figured my biggest obstacles would be getting in enough customers and keeping my mom from burning out on childcare before I could afford a daycare (or they got old enough for public school), plus the lack of child support.  My problems seemed conquerable.

How does someone conquer a whole economy, though?  How does someone with a spotty employment record beat out 300 applicants for a stupid retail job?

How do I keep up my head when I've stooped to what I've always considered the lowest of lows?

I've noticed it's harder to look people in the eyes lately.  I'm afraid to talk, and oh I'm afraid to flirt (which used to be a hobby of mine, fercryin'outloud).  There's someone interested in me, and I can't help but be afraid to encourage it at all, because... well, I'm a welfare mom.  What do I have to offer?  I'm so lacking in offerings that I'm resorting to begging for help just to do what I should have been able to accomplish all on my own.

I suppose I'll get past it, like every other trial I've endured in life.  It'll end someday; I'm not going to be unemployed forever, and one bonus of not being able to afford eating out is losing weight, right?  Besides, while I'm looking for work, I'll have time for housekeeping again, time to lavish on my kids, and of course time for more writing and... and... maybe even painting.

Oh gods he's licking the muffins.

Here I was, all set to write a huge long steaming post of ire, and "In A Big Country" comes on.  It's profoundly unfair, how quickly that song pulls me out of a snit.

I'm in that uncomfortable position where I want to write, but I can't think of anything to write.  It's like I'm so wound up in the general shit-fan that life has become that I can't divorce myself enough to fully immerse in the worlds I'm working on.  ... I guess in some ways I'm afraid that the drek will cross over and contaminate their world, and they have enough problems already!  So, instead of writing, I will now bitch about someone else's! 

I read Twilight today.  Yes, I mean I read the whole thing in one day.  (If you aren't already aware of this facet of a Char, it's true.  I can read 500+ page books in a matter of hours.)  I went into this novel knowing I was going to experience pain.  I mean, I had already forced a chapter of Breaking Dawn down my gullet (what do you mean, "read them in order"?  I was trained in Pern-jitsu.  READING IN ORDER IS FOR SISSIES), and that experience is so intensely painful that I'm thinking of recommending it as a scene activity on BDSM forums.  

Bella has to be the most steadfastly moronic person I've read since... uh... Lessa.  In fact, they seem to share that "tee-hee he's abusing me it's totally love" illness.  She even admits that she should be mad that he's been freakin' staring at her at night while she sleeps, but... she's FLATTERED.  This alone would be painful enough.  Unfortunately, my misery is flavored with the bitter spice of "oh hell I was like that as a teenage girl, too".  Only, I grew out of it.  Not our Bella!  I've read the beginning of Breaking Dawn.  Her mental age was frozen long before her physical. 

If there was anyone whom I ever wanted to stick a pointy-toed cowboy boot through their eyeballs, it's Edward.  Creepy fucking stalker for starters, poster boy for DO NOT RESCUE TEENAGERS BY TURNING THEM INTO VAMPIRES as a nice "also starring".  Lulzy glittering thing aside, I had to admit there were points where I was all "hmmm, I can see the attraction", but... but guys, I've already proven that I have an unfortunate IRL attraction to creepers.  (No, I'm not going to share stories.)  My moments of attraction are a bad sign.

Worst of all, Edward's attraction to Bella can be described as the agony of an anorexic at a bakery, wandering around smelling all the fresh-baked bread, with that warm brown smell, picking up a carrot cake muffin and holding it under his nose, inhaling the spicy-sweet odor of it... and licking the plastic wrap around it.

People, he loves Bella like I love a good Humdinger hamburger.   Only I actually eat the damned burger.

Also, they are so the poster children for co-dependancy hell.  This is not a couple you want to point to when you're educating your kids on being responsible and finding a good partner for a healthy relationship.  

All that aside, if it weren't for Bella's utterly fucking insane fixation on Edward and how perfect and gorgeous and perfect and godlike and did she mention perfect he is, I might have actually liked this book well enough to actually buy.  As much as I think Stephanie Meyer needs to stay away from relationship-writing (if anyone has proof that she wrote bad het fanfiction, there will be rewards, because I SWEAR I know her from fandom SOMEWHERE), she didn't do half-bad on the scenes that weren't focused on his angel face and godlike chest.

This is where I'm kind of torn about the book.  The relationship kills any urge I have to buy this book and keep it on the shelves, dragging it out for the occasional masochistic laugh like I do with John Ringo's Ghost.  On the other hand, the story itself is good enough to keep me from purchasing this book for ritual exorcism and destruction, which I admit I had begun planning somewhere around page 193 (and canceled later due to unexpected interest).  

There is one maddening reason I hate this book overall, though.  It made me want to read the next one.  Yes, I am going to keep reading the series, in spite of Bella's fucking Edward-gushing.  Who knows.  Maybe I'll hate the series enough to invest in purchasing the whole thing, then ritualistically destroying it and recording the events via photoblogging and YouTube.  Maybe I'll love it enough to buy it and keep it around for the occasional scream-fest and OH BELLA SWAN NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.  I'm betting, though, that when I finish this series, I'm going to watch it get boxed up and packed off to Powell's for exchanging with a palpable sense of relief.

DUDE LOOKS LIKE MY UNCLE.

Nothing opens a new blog like a sad story.  It is very sad, and very true.

I've been talking to this rather nice gentleman on a certain unnamed website for a while.  Nice guy, has good ideas.  So I subscribed to his newsletter, by which I mean I agreed to a sort-of date with the guy.  I tried not to get nervous, but hey.  Nervous is what we do when we meet new people we've been flirting outrageously with online and we haven't even managed to get a photograph from the person, right?

Now, I will admit that from the start I had my reservations about compatablility with this guy.  He's well off (I'm definitely not), he's almost the same age as my mother (not as important -- my mom had me while she was still quite young), and he ... didn't seem to catch on to a lot of my quirks.  Nevertheless, I decided to give it a shot.

When he pulled up in a Jag, I sighed.  I can excuse well-off, and could learn to live with someone who is wealthier, but dammit English engineering was bad enough before Ford took over with their plastic parts and ... ugh.  (Don't argue with me on this.  I am a huge fan of German engineering, I worked for Ford, and I freakin' don't trust British engineering, and I don't care what you have to say about it, you're not going to change my mind.  I'm... I'm like a Fundie German Engineering Fangirl.  Deal.)  I waved, recognizing immediately that this person was who I was to meet, and he waved back.  No problem.

Watched him pay for parking.  Watched the streetcar go by, and several interesting-looking people.  ... He was still paying for parking.  OK.

He walked up.

NOT OK.

He... he looks like my uncle.  He spoke, and he sounded like my uncle.  Disaster had struck.

I am a pretty kink-friendly person, but incest just doesn't do it for me.  Even implied incest.

We had a very nice dinner, though.  Once the OMG NEW PERSON and OMG MY UNCLE WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE MY UNCLE had passed, it was a really pleasant dinner.  I introduced him to sushi, even remembering to use English words for my favorites, explained the difference between sushi and sashimi, explained why I love takoyaki (but only on occasion), and demonstrated the fun of eating edamame.  I even tried to teach him how to use chopsticks, but he gave up pretty quickly and resorted to using his fingers.

He looks like my uncle.

I could go on some huge soapbox about how important it is to put up pics on dating profiles, no matter how ugly you think you are, but the truth is... I'm pretty sure I'm the only person in the world who has ended up trying to date their uncle's doppelganger.

Still, people.  Pix.  If I can do it, so can you.  

And maybe, just maybe, I will have saved someone from the shock of discovering they're on a date with their uncle's body double.