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.

Feminax changed my life. It really did. The codeine-laced painkiller was the first drug that actually worked to calm my period cramps, meaning I no longer had to skip school, cinema trips or just walking to the store for a few days each month. I had already tried prescription painkillers to no avail, so was rather impressed with this over-the-counter miracle. It's a little embarrassing, but I once actually emailed Bayer, the big, ruthless drug manufacturer to THANK them. I also wrote a poem, entitled "Ode to Feminax", so yeah, it's afe to say, I am quite the fan.

The commercial I just saw on tv, however? Not so much. Ugh, way to go ahead and lose fifty cool points, Feminax. For one, it's just a shitty advert of the same calibre as a Glade air freshener commercial. But on top of this it throws lame gender stereotypes into the mix. Woman [presumably menstruating] sitting on couch next to her boyfriend who is doing nothing wrong except engaging in normal human behaviour like breathing, smiling and ..okay, maybe flicking a booger onto the carpet. Lady overreacts slightly by catapulting the dude out the window and into the distance, ejector-seat style. Whoa, lady!

"If only getting rid of all pains was as fast as with Feminax Express...".

A pain? Way harsh, Tai! If only you weren't being a crazy, violent asshole to your boyfriend just because you're on the rag. This is one of those ads where if they switched up the genders, it probably wouldn't even be aired because it would be considered as promoting domestic violence against women. Apart from that double standard, we also have the stereotypes that women are irrational, crazy bitches during their periods [and they're "allowed"] and that boyfriends are basically overgrown babies but worse because they sweat more. Check out Sarah Haskins' clip on the "doofy husband" archetype for a decent and hilarious overview. While you're at it, check out her other Target Women clips especially Number Two, Jewellery and Feeding Your Fucking Family, because Sarah Haskins is awesome and knows badvertising when she sees it.

I still love you though, Feminax, and I meant every word of that ode.

xoxo

nice girls

“She was a nice girl,” he said. “The sort of girl where I'd have to pay for her drinks all night, you know?”

No, I don't know. What the fuck does that mean? Seriously?

I wouldn't consider a guy who expected me to pay for his drinks all night to be “nice”, so I can assume it's a gendered thing.

Maybe nice girls wear dresses and heels on their all-expenses paid dates.

Maybe nice girls order a salad while he orders the steak.

Do nice girls put out on a first date? (He went on to imply they do.)

Do they spit or swallow? (He didn't specify. I'm always quite suspicious of implied but non-specified sex.)

Can nice girls afford their own beverages?

Do they let you pay because they think it's proper?

Do they let you pay because you think it's proper?

Do they let you pay because they know they're going to earn it later on, or do they earn it later on because they let you pay?

Do nice girls get to meet your mom?

Do they get to meet your friends?

Do nice girls get to spend the whole night and then get taken out for brunch (your treat, of course)?

Are nice girls good in bed?

And if they are, does that mean they're nasty and no longer nice?

Or, on the other hand, if they don't sleep with you, are they still nice girls, or are they just cock teases, bitches and dykes?
Yeah, I thought so.