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.