In Which I Go Completely Off The Deep End And Use The Word "Cooter" Far Too Many Times

So, I know it's been a while, but we're still good enough friends that I can get personal, right? I mean, if there are any guys out there reading this, you should probably be advised that what I'm about to say is going to touch on some finer details of what we will call the "female experience" that may make you uncomfortable. But I'm otherwise going to trust that we're all adults here and can handle the subject matter with the irreverence and lack of dignity to which it is entitled, okay? Okay.

All that said, let's talk about my cooter, shall we?

Actually, let's take a step back for a second so I can provide some background. I am not, for the most part, your typical hypochondriac. Which is to say that I am generally a pretty healthy person, and as such, I don't find it necessary, most days, to go looking for things that might be wrong with me. However, when things do come up, I am inclined to find the most painful, difficult-to-treat, possibly terminal illness with symptoms in roughly the same area code as the ones I am experiencing and diagnose myself with said illness. And I will insist that I have this illness (BECAUSE I SAW IT ON GOOGLE!!!) until such time as the symptoms disappear or I go see a legitimate medical professional. The latter of which rarely happens, by the way. In our home, you don't go see a doctor unless the only other alternative is to see a mortician.

So anyway, point being, I get a little ridiculous when anything out of the ordinary starts happening with my body. Which of course happened yesterday when I got my period. Not that my period is something out of the ordinary. Actually, I wouldn't mind if it happened more rarely than it does. But as I was messing around in that area in an effort to maintain good hygiene, I found a large bump in a really personal area. Very large bump. Extremely personal area. And that was CERTAINLY NOT ordinary.

I tried not to freak out, but it didn't help that the gigantic boulder on my va-jay-jay didn't at all hurt, which, to me, just meant that it was one of those sleeper tumors that grows quickly and kills you dead before you know it's there. I mean, if it hurt, I could maybe, possibly try to convince myself that it was just some rogue zit that decided to go on holiday from my face and ended up south of the border. But no, instead, it was mocking me with its giant bigness and its lack of painful redness. So clearly, that meant cooter cancer. What else could it be, right?

But I resolved to at least consider some other alternatives before I commenced with disposing of my worldly goods and making touching, heartfelt videos for Turtle to watch so he never forgot his mommy. So I grabbed that humongous tumor and give it a big squeeze. And wouldn't you know it...that disgustingly large mass of diseased cells was so intimidated by my positive visualizations and undaunted joie de vivre that it proceeded to exit my body with extreme velocity. Emboldened by my success, I continued to squeeze that thing until I had beaten it into submission and could no longer find any traces of it lingering on my hoo-hah.

Now, most people would probably take a look at the information provided and come to the conclusion that yes, I did, in fact, have a rogue zit that decided to go on holiday from my face and ended up south of the border, and in effect, all I did was pop a pimple, which is something you can do in a much less messy way with an app for your iPad. (True story, actually. My mom has one!) But to me, something more significant happened, and I shared it with Facebook thusly: "I am so amazing that in the course of 5 minutes, I both diagnosed myself with and cured myself of cancer. Doesn't get much more awesome than that, folks."

Of course, I'm not fully convinced that I got all of it, because as I was hanging out with Snark's Mistress last night, I was forgetting words while we were talking. And since that never happens unless I'm under the influence of alcohol or it's a day ending in "y", I quickly determined that my cooter cancer had metastasized to my brain. So, clearly, I'm not completely out of the woods yet. But the immediate crisis has been averted, and as a bonus, I now have a convenient scapegoat for....well, whatever might happen that necessitates the use of a scapegoat. Running late? It's the cooter cancer. Don't want to attend some stuffy book club meeting? Oooh, sorry...my cooter cancer is acting up. Haven't posted to the blog in over a year? Well, you know how it is when you have cooter cancer.....