'Til you suck, do us part

So in news that's totally none of my business, after 27 years of marriage, Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore have split up. 

Teenage-Me cannot accept this. Kim and Thurston belong together! They are proof that true love and marriage doesn't just happen to saps! They are iconic! This is like hearing Barbie and Ken -actually, shit, even they called it quits didn't they? (-though I think the ol' erectile dysfunction proved a great strain on that relationship.) But it's weird you know? What gives after 27 years? Allow me to speculate, despite having never met either of them* or knowing any of the details. I can't help but wonder if one of them pulled an asshole move on the other.
Was Kim secretly getting it on with Lee Ranaldo? Was Thurston??
Or did they just naturally drift apart over the years?

It happens. After all, we're constantly growing and changing. Is it reasonable to think somebody who loves you at twenty when you're enthusiastic and fun and cute will still love you at fifty when you're bitter and cynical and wear mom jeans, unironically? Alright, just kidding, I'll skip the tired stereotypes about marriage and parenthood and ageing and how everyone eventually gets old and boring and only wants to talk about diapers and dining room furniture. (Oh, the table extends out to make room for twelve guests?? That would be awesome if your coke-fuelled-swinging-dinner-party days weren't behind you!) 

Take me for example. I wouldn't date Decade-Ago-Me in a million years. And not just because it would be weirdly incestuous, egomaniacal or constitute statutory rape. But because looking back I was sort of a self-righteous, insecure conservative (not that I knew it). I'm completely different now, I promise, and am only ever one of those things, and even then, only sometimes. But my point is that we change, sometimes radically, and just because you fall head over heels for someone amazing doesn't guarantee they won't mutate into a complete stranger who wears Crocs, listens to Nickelback and goes to the gym 'for fun', over the course of a long term relationship. (At least in that case you can always get the marriage anulled by claiming it was never consummated, because even papal law acknowledges that nobody who listens to Nickelback ever gets laid.)  

Of course, I'm not saying marriage can't be forever, it clearly works out for some people. It's going well for my parents, so far at least. Thirty-three years and they're still happy as a couple of pigs rolling around in holy matrimony.  But according to the stats, around half of all marriages now end in divorce. Okay, that's in the US, where another 10% probably ends in gun-related homicide, but let's be real, if that's the US rate, it will probably spread like a plague here too soon enough, just like with Starbucks.

To be clear, I don't consider a marriage that ends in divorce to be a 'failed marriage'. If it sucks, get the hell out. The idea of staying with someone who no longer wants to make out or insults you in front of your friends at parties or hits you, just because you made a promise to God during a drunken weekend in Vegas is way too Old Testament for me. F that noise. Stay with someone as long as you're both happy, make an effort when things get tough, know when to call it a day. Move on and meet someone else awesome, who makes you feel awesome, and let your ex do the same. Only chumps stay in unhappy marriages. Chumps and people whose greencards have yet to be finalised. Well, and fathers who don't want to lose access to their kids. And women who are afraid that if they leave, their husband will hunt them down and kill them. 
Fuck, there are actually a lot of reasons people stay in unhappy marriages. 
Shit. Don't get married. Anyone, ever. Just say no. 

And if you do, just be wary, and the moment they start talking about investing in some "breathable footwear", run.







*At seventeen, I was in the front row at a Sonic Youth gig and made eye contact with Kim, so I kind of do know her really. At least I think we made eye contact, I was having a bit of a 14yr-old-girl-at-a-NewKidsOnTheBlock-concert moment and had tears streaming down my face at the time. Yeah, embarrassing.

Say "AAGGHHHHHH!!!"

Some people are afraid of failure, some people are afraid of death. Some people are afraid of change or of commitment or of ending up cold and lonely, living on microwavable meals for one. Suckaaasss. I laugh in the face of death and if I find myself a single octogenarian I will sign up to one of those website for twenty-year olds boys to meet GILFs.  

And yet, I do have one terrifying, unrelenting, paralysing, irrational fear -the dentist. I'm not good with any kind of medical sitch, but dread it as I might, I can cope like a grown up when I have to. The dentist is a whole other ballgame. I feel sick and faint at just the mention of it, and anyone who knows me well is familiar with me doubling over and pleading "No, seriously, shut the fuck up, I'm going to vom on you" when they start to describe their casual lunch time extraction.


I've never really known what kicked off this phobia. Nobody else in my family seems to mind going to the dentist, and I've had pretty good luck with my teeth overall. But a while ago I played shrink and asked myself to try and recall what my earliest dentist-related memory was and eventually remembered this:

 I don't think it's too hard to imagine the effect it could have had on an impressionable five year old. Though what's funny is I LOVED this movie, and got in trouble for singing about shooting kittens with a BB gun (-my older brother and sister got a kick out of encouraging me to do impressions of things they knew my parents would get mad at me for, see also Jim Carrey's Vera de Milo character on In Living Colour. I used to wear a leotard and everything.) I still do love this clip (and isn't Steve Martin kind of babely?) but I have to skip past the drill and extraction parts. You know, I could totally handle someone hacking away at some far off extremity, like my toes, but it's the way teeth are in your HEAD, attached to your freakin' SKULL that makes it all seem so barbaric. Ughhhhhhhhhh.

As a kid, I always dreaded that pink slip in the letter box summoning me for a check-up, but always got the all-clear, until I was twelve and was told I had two cavities. To be fair, the dentist was nice and patient and she even let me half hum/half scream Pulp's Common People over and over while she worked, but ughh it was still awful and I still freak out thinking about it. Went back a couple of years later and got the all clear -and should have gone regularly since, but six months turned into a year, and then two and now it's been almost 12 years and I'm petrified of what may need doing.

Anyway, for the past couple years my phobia has gotten worse, in that instead of it crossing my mind once every few weeks when someone mentioned a dentist, it now crosses my mind daily. I'm not digging this feeling of having a dread cloud following me around, so I figure I really need to do something about it, once and for all. Cue mission impossible music.

Step 1. As Linford Christie says, it's all about PMA -Positive Mental Attitude! So the first thing was just deciding this was something I was going to do. I started reading online forums where phobic people shared their stories of going to the dentist and what a relief it was and how bad it wasn't. Just reading these, and knowing that other people were as shit-scared as I am, really helped. I would also close my eyes and imagine going to the dentist and having a really positive experience. All memories are constructions, it's just about convincing yourself.

Step 2. Find the right dentist. Some dentists have reputations for being really good with phobic patients. I even emailed one in Galway who had stellar reviews, and when she phoned me back I managed to answer and hold down a normal conversation despite the fact my heart was thumping and I was sweating. It might not sound like much, but discussing a check up WITH a real live dental.. receptionist? Shit is real!! However, I found out they don't offer twilight sedation, so I had to look elsewhere. Twilight sedation is basically the miracle drug -they pump you full of anti-anxiety drugs and painkillers, and though you're technically still semi-conscious, basically not a single fuck is given. You're just like "yeah, bring it on or whatever". Some people even fall asleep during it. It's also affordable, unlike general aneasthesia. So, I found a guy who had great reviews and does the twilight sleep cheaper than anywhere else.

Step 3. Preparation for check-up. Okay so if (fine, "when") I need work done, twilight sedation is my jam, but I also need help for just getting into the chair and opening wide for a check-up. So I asked my doc for valium, and she giveth. I've never had it before, so she suggested I pop some beforehand, so that's my next rainy day sorted. I'm not sure what to expect, apparently its effect varies a lot from person to person. Frankly, the more out of it I am the better, so here's hoping it does the trick. Drugs are rad, mmkay?

Of course the next couple steps are the tough ones. I spent about an hour today with the phone in my hand, trying to psych myself up to make an appointment, and then decided that I might be better off dropping by in person tomorrow, seeing as I've never been inside this dentist's office before.
So there you go, that's my plan to face my phobia. Might all sound a bit twentyfirstcenturyproblems, but it's a pretty huge deal to me, and even a year ago there is no way in hell I could have imagined myself going to the dentist of my own free will. I'm hoping making it public stops me from wussing out, and trying to focus on how badass I'll feel once I've done it.

NO dentist horror stories please! but feel free to comment on your own experiences with phobias/offer words of encouragement/promise to hold me etc.

Saying yes

I killed time on a four hour bus journey recently by listening to one of my favourite podcasts -Dykes on Mykes. This particular episode aired a talk given by Susie Bright at McGill University in Montreal recorded back in '93. I think Susie Bright's a pretty great speaker overall, but one thing she said really stuck out to me. As girls, we're encouraged to say no, and not to have sex until we are ready. Which is all good, and it's important that girls don't feel pressured into sex. But such emphasis is placed on turning boys down and keeping them out of our pants, that we're never really taught how to go about saying yes, when we are ready.

Okay, so some of us are just naturals, and have absolutely no problem making the first move and telling someone exactly what we want to do to them. But more and more I'm realising that a lot of us are having sex on boys' terms.

Don't get me wrong -this isn't going to be a tirade about how we're giving men what they want, or giving the milk away for free or how they should 'put a ring on it' first. I'm just not that kinda girl -sex is an activity, not a bargaining chip and I could never recommend using sex to make someone like you/ commit to you/ buy you shit.

So then what do I mean by having sex on your own terms? Having sex when YOU want, engaging in the kinds of sex YOU enjoy, and pretty much just having an equal say in how it all goes down [ahem]. It sounds like pretty basic stuff, but from what I'm hearing, it's not always happening like this. I have friends -amazing, funny, smart friends -who admit to never initiating sex with their partner, or not showing them what they like, or failing to speaking up when their partner wants to do something they're not really into.

* "Jane" says that when it comes to sex, she can never make the first move on her boyfriend of nine months and that "I shouldn't have to.. if he fancies me, he should make the first move."

"Sarah" has yet to have an orgasm with the guy she is currently sleeping with. She knows how to get herself off, but is too shy to show him.

"Lisa" finds sex from behind uncomfortable but does it anyway because she feels it's more 'flattering' than her favourite -being on top.

"Rachel" has a friends-with-benefits situation but never has the guts to call him when she wants to and so they only hook up when he calls her.

These are sad stories! And sadly, true.

I don't mean to paint all women as sexual shrinking violets because hell no, we're not. But it's a definite theme I am noticing with some of the women I speak to -women who consider themselves independent and sexual and "definitely not prude!" [said in the same horrified tone as if claiming not to be a puppy molester.]

There's a very common belief that when it comes to sex, the ball is always in the ladies court -that most women can go out any night of the week and have sex if they want to, whereas most men have to try or work for it. That women are the gatekeepers, the ones who decide if it's happening or not, while men are always up for it. Those myths make it sound like women are the ones in control. And we can be, and sometimes we are, but often we're really not. Often, it seems, insecurities dictate when we have sex and how. Only with the lights off, only when drunk, only if he starts it, only the way he likes it or the way that's most flattering... Hang ups are shaping hook ups.

We're taught to assertively say no, but not how to assertively say yes. A healthy approach to sex requires both, so that the Janes and Sarahs and Lisas and Rachels can be more confident and active in their own sex lives. I think the best start is to rope Susie Bright into a tour of Irish secondary schools. I'll even dig out my old vile-green uniform if it means I can sneak in and take notes.

*fake names, obvs.

Pimms' Day

Was that the last time we were together? The night we did the mushrooms?

I know I have seen you since, once. You wore that cute navy duffel coat, and you gave me a necklace you had brought me from Africa and we got lunch at the Jamaican place in St. Nicholas' Market. But we weren't together then, it wasn't the same.

It had been such a lovely day, that last real day we were together. It was sunny and warm, the first real day of summer. We had sandwiches on the lawn outside the university, and then Tam had the inspired idea of making Pimms, and we went to the corner shop for supplies and sat in the back garden, swatting bees as we sipped our drinks and munched on the alcohol infused fruit in the bottom of our glasses. Actually, it was me who brought up the mushrooms I knew you had under your bed. That's a whim if ever there was one. It was so out of character for me. You had suggested it before, but it wasn't my thing.
But the sunshine and the Pimms and your company made me giddy, and so you went upstairs to retrieve the tin box where they were drying.
Tam started to explain how the most bearable way to take them was mixed in with yoghurt, but I tried one and thought it was delicious, and started picking away at them like they were pistachios.

That was the night we said it, and the words trailed colours behind them, just like everything else, and I leaned forward to kiss you but stumbled and we fell into a couch, and laughed, and then later things got darker and next thing I'm late for my flight and you're driving me to the airport when I realise you have a black eye and I think I have a broken nose from our kiss-miss and we're hungover to hell and barely get to say goodbye.

That was the last time we were together, and that's my fault. I'm sorry.

Ch-ch-check it

So, last year I wrote a post about the importance of getting regular paps, where I described my own pap experience. Well, a couple paps later I figure why not update y'all? I registered with Cervical Check back in August which is an awesome program that provides free pap tests to women over 25, and got an appointment in September. All went fine, I was out of there in ten minutes and treated myself to ice-cream afterwards for my troubles. A few weeks later I get a letter saying my cells show signs of "irregularity" and I need to go back in six months. No biggie, I know this happens a lot and usually, by the time you go for the second one your cervical ecology has returned to normal.

So in April I go back for another, and -I have to be honest, if I had to rank it it would only barely make my top 3 pap tests ever. And it was only my third one.

For a start, the doctor seemed nervous and it turned out to be contagious. Starts asking me about my sexual partners and I start blabbing about how I'm sleeping with someone on the regular, though he's not exactly a boyfriend, but at the same time, we're not sleeping with other people, but I mean we're not like .. a couple. Wait, am I blushing?! Just shut up already! Anyway, she raises an eyebrow all judgementally and suggests I get tested for chlamydia. Which is fine, I'm all for sexual health and my last STI check less than a year ago, which is more than I can say for most people I know (yes I'm looking at you, and you -and you in the back) but I don't appreciate her attitude. Anyway, whatever, I agree to pay the extra 15 bucks for a chlam test if it will make her stop giving me the judge-y eyes, and then it's onto the table for the pap.

Skirt up, undies down, in she goes for a gander around.(Hey, that rhymed!) And then I hear the one thing you don't want to hear when you're half naked with your legs spread..

"Hmmmmm......"

"Hmm?" I ask.

"I'm just going to get the other doctor to take a look".

"Okay..."

I assume she's not calling another doctor in just to admire the great piece of kit that is my cervix. Even worse, it's starting to feel a bit uncomfortable to have a big chunk of metal stuck in my vagina for more than a few minutes.

Other doctor comes in and straight away I feel more at ease. She doesn't give off the super nervo vibes the former does.

Takes a look and right away goes "Oh right. That's just a [something-i-can't-pronounce-but-similar-to-a-birthmark]. Harmless. Oh and there's a polyp. Harmless too."

Which is good to hear, though I could still use a little clarification on what the fuck a polyp is or what a like-a-birthmark is doing up there. I want to ask if it's the shape of an animal or continent or anything, but don't.

Cool doctor leaves, and nervous doctor takes my pap swab, and then I'm allowed get dressed, and they tell me they'll send me a letter with the results etc.

ANYways. A couple weeks later I get letters telling me the good but un-exciting news that I don't have chlam and the somewhat bad news -that my cervix needs further investigation and I'm being referred for a colposcopy at a hospital. This procedure is basically just another pap test, except they use a special magnifying glass which lets them get even more up close and personal. They may or may not conduct the treatment on the same day -this involves inserting something that removes little patches of troublesome [read: potentially pre-cancerous] cells. It's still only supposed to take a few minutes and then you go home, so again sounds like no big deal. And again, lots of women get them, statistically it does not mean you're going to get cervical cancer, it's just better to be safe than sorry and all that.

I admit I am a little icked out about it. Mostly just because hospitals freak me out. The Well Woman Centre does not look like or smell like a hospital, whereas I imagine St. James' will. But overall, I'm a logical person and I take solace in the statistics and so won't fret about it. Hell, it makes me glad I signed up to Cervical Check -and oh yeah - I should mention that all my paps and this upcoming colposcopy are all free. Good news considering I am a broke and irresponsible student without health insurance.. But it feels good toI know that if something is up, I'm getting something done about it, and that is the point of this post. It might be considered oversharing or too much information, but it's important for women to talk about matters of the vag and it's important to get yourself checked. The reason these free screenings have been introduced is because issues can be so easily sorted if you spot them early, so there's no real excuse not to.

Go forth and register with Cervical Check!

P.S. I got the image from Comics with Problems -they archive vintage comics on health issues and have an awesome collection, take a look!!

here kitty

the jingling of his undone belt buckle
as he slowly climbed the stairs
like the bell on a cat's collar
warning birds he's coming
alerting his prey
but she never flew away
she would freeze, listening closely
willing him to knock on her door
call her by her pet name
like he always did before.

flirting with disaster

Growing up and reading my older sister's magazines, I remember reading a lot of tips on how to flirt. Classic moves, like making eye contact, holding it for two seconds, looking away, and looking back. Drawing attention to your mouth, by sucking on a straw or eating a conveniently located piece of fruit. And of course, making sure your claddagh ring is turned the right way around -this one's a rookie mistake.  Ridiculous moves, hence I never try any of them and instead rely on talking to them a lot, thinking about them a lot and “liking” their Facebook photos when I'm drunk. Heads up: it's not the most effective method.

Of course, these days there are some tried and true ways to attract that special someone. Straight girls, why not make out with one of your girl friends at a bar which your local sports teams frequent? This strategy is based on the "draw attention to your mouth" tenet but takes it to a whole new level. Just be careful you don't genuinely get turned on, take her home and have the best night of your life -unless there's a guy there recording you, it means you've done it all wrong.

Dudebros, finding it hard to meet chicks?  Lucky for you there are now many books out there to guide you in becoming a successful PUA (that's pick-up artist for you laymen... and you will be lay men!) I gotta warn you, these books can be a little word-y, and don't have too many pictures but thankfully they use a lot of neat code words like BHRR (Bait, Hook, Reel, Release) and Freeze Zone (see, it's just like video games!) And look at it this way, what does one book on emotionally and psychologically manipulating a woman into bed with you cost? Ten, twelve bucks? And what do five double-vodka redbulls cost? Exactly.

But what if you're not a total douchebag, and what if eyelash-batting and lip-biting make you feel like the tool they should?

Well fret not, wallflowers, Studio Roosegaarde has got yo' shy backs.

Introducing Intimacy -the dress that flirts for you.

Okay.. I should point out this is really only an option for those too-shy-to-ask-for-a-number-but-not-too-shy-to-go-out-wearing-some-shredded-stationery-supplies. Perhaps a niche market. I won't bother putting the dress down on the basis that it's ugly and stupid and we can all see her bottom, because it's conceptual, I get it. However, that means the concept is fair game.

And the concept is ALL wrong. Parts of the dress become transparent when your heart-rate increases. Not when you lick your lips suggestively, or toss your hair suggestively or make sexual innuendo er.. suggestively, or do other lame flirty things, but when your heart rate increases. Do heart rates even increase when flirting?! I thought any flirt-related physiological activity occurred in the brain. Or in the pants, but mostly the brain.

Often, if your heart starts pounding (and you're not pounding) it might mean you're angry -like when you're at a bar and a stranger behind you digs his paw at you from behind, squeezing you so hard under your dress it hurts, and when you turn around there are three men grinning to each other and you don't even know whose nose to break. Or sometimes your heart may start to race when you're intimidated -like when a guy you don't know approaches you, and when you return to your friends he gets upset and follows you around the rest of the night calling you a stuck-up bitch. I'm just not sure that a dress which responds to these kinds of scenarios by revealing some side-boob is such a good idea.

And herein lies the garment's fatal flaw. Despite the futuristic technology involved, the flirt dress is positively Stone Age in its design. For decades, we've been arguing that a woman's outfit does not signify her sexual intentions, and that short skirts and low shirts does not mean “she wants it.” Now here's a dress designed to re-establish the connection between how much flesh she's baring and how much she's interested. Gross.

If there's a part of you that still thinks there's something sort of neat about an outfit being able to communicate when you really do want to flirt with someone, but you don't want to spend a gazillion dollars on a dress that looks like something they put around a cat's neck post-neutering, well then just undo one more button for chrissakes.

LSD

It was the first time I was ever in your car, and it was exciting. Firstly, because it was night time, and driving at night time is always a little exciting to me.  Secondly, because it was on a whim. When I answered "No, I havn't been to the pier",  you said "Let's go." And finally, it was exciting because you were a pretty crazy driver and I thought you might kill us. You drove fast, you made turns you probably shouldn't have, and all the while talking animatedly with your hands, or reaching into the backseat to show me a coin collection an uncle may have given you, and glancing away from the road, to me. You'd probably had a couple beers at this stage, and were a little high. You were always a little high.

We didn't die. We parked in an empty lot, and then I started to think about how I barely knew you. Like, in a creepy way. Can you believe that?! We passed the boats, tucked in for the night, and went through a tunnel and then there we were, standing right on the edge of the lake, the city lights burning amber not too far in the distance, and the deep dark mass of water ebbing oh so quietly against the pier.
I thought about how I couldn't swim, and how all you would have to do is give me the slightest little push and I would be a goner. My roomates didn't even know I was with you, nobody did, you'd never even go down for it. This is what I was thinking while, back in the real world, you were saying something profound, or at least pretty about the city and the lake and life. I wish I recalled what we talked about instead of just knowing I tried to estimate how deep the water was where we were and calculate my chances of survival. I remember feeling a little sigh of relief when we got back in the car. Can you believe that? RELIEF! Hahaha. But then once we were driving again, flying I never wanted to stop, and I didn't want to go home. I thought about suggesting we stop somewhere for ice cream, but didn't.