You Should Have Seen Him At My Proctologist Appointment

Earlier this week, I went back to Long Island for a follow-up visit with my gynecologist. It's never an appointment that I look forward to, what with my tortured relationship with The Spatula and all. But this time, I was looking forward to it even less. You might come running when your doctor's office leaves you a voicemail saying, "It's probably not cervical cancer," but you certainly aren't excited about it.

Even less so when it's your eighty year-old grandfather taking you to the appointment.

I just needed a ride to the office. That was all. I assumed he would drop me off like he'd done for any number of medical appointments he's chauffeured me to over the years. Drop me off and pick me up when it was over. But not this time. This time, he pulled into a handicapped parking spot and turned off the engine.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, I figured I'd come in and wait with you."

I tried to mask my abject horror over the prospect of sitting in the waiting room with my grandfather. My grandfather who introduces himself to everyone as Big Dick.

I said, "Sounds great! We can chat!" I thought, "At least this is good for the blog."

We weren't two seconds over the threshold before he started.

"So this is where we're going to do your Lamaze classes, dear."

I shot him a look that told him I was not entertained by his antics. No matter how hilarious he thought it would be to make people think I was a twenty-five year old pregnant with her eighty year old husband's baby, I remained unamused.

I sat down as far away from people as possible, in hopes that the awkward commentaries would not be overheard. When Big Dick realized that I wasn't going to be any fun, he moved on to the other women in the waiting room. And I cringed.

He commented on the "personality" (code for "huge tits") of a statuesque blonde who walked into the room. He remarked about an older woman's cankles. All said to me in what he thought were whispered tones. When he "muttered under his breath" that the young mother across the room should beat her tantrum-throwing child, at least five people turned around to stare at him. When my name was finally called, I damn near sprinted out of the waiting room.

Appointment over, I warily made my way back to the waiting room. Before he had a chance to ask me how the babies were, I ushered him out and towards the car. Once inside and back on the road, the awkwardness kicked up a notch.

"You know, this HIV is very dangerous." Because a trip home from the gynecologist is the perfect time to lecture me on the dangers of STDs. "I can't imagine what it must be like to be a single guy or gal nowadays. You have to be careful. You can't trust any of them. They're all a bunch of lying bastards."

"Don't worry, Grandpa. I know."

"Especially in the city you have to be careful. Everyone has AIDS."

"Not the smart, rich ones. And they're the only ones I sleep with." Why should he get to be the only ball-buster in the family?

"Well, just make sure you keep a dime between your knees, if you know what I mean."

"I use a $100 bill."

By the time we'd reached the diner where we were having brunch, he'd retired this awkward line of conversation, either satisfied that I wasn't promiscuous or convinced that I was doomed. We made it through our omelets with normal chit-chat and minimal harassment of the waitress. I thought that I was free and clear of any crazy antics.

Until he wrapped our toast and leftover crusts in a napkin, brought them outside when we left, and threw them on the diner's neatly manicured lawn for the birds. So much for normalcy.

But normal isn't what my family's made of. Just like a calm, rational approach to life isn't part of my makeup. My grandfather will always drive ten minutes out of his way to put his leftover Chinese food out for the stray cats that roam the beach. And, on his way to the cats, he will always drive down the middle of the road. Taking up two lanes of traffic. Going twenty miles over the speed limit. Because it's his "senior citizen's privilege, god damn it." He will continue to introduce himself to my friends as Big Dick. He will ask Raj, my Indian ex-boyfriend, what tribe he is from. And then he will very likely ask him to do a rain dance.

Sometimes I want to retreat into a corner and hide. Want to disappear when he's lecturing someone on the problem with "all of these sonofabitchin' Mexicans in this country." But, most of the time, I just hope that I have many years of embarrassment and awkward conversations to look forward to.

But, even so, I won't be asking him to take me to my gynecologist's office again any time soon.

Do You Smell What His Rocks Are Cooking?

I stand there in the shower, hot water pelting my back, trying to decide. My Schick Quattro held between clenched teeth, my can of Barbasol in my right hand. And yes, Barbasol. As in the 99 cent stuff my father uses for his beard. Despite the valiant efforts of the marketing folks at Skintimate, I feel no need to spend an extra four dollars to smell like Raspberry Rain. Whatever the hell that is.

But I digress. The hot water is pelting and I'm just standing there. Debating with myself. Trying to decide. Trying to convince myself that the reason I'm thinking of shaving my bikini line has nothing to do with the fact that I'm seeing this guy tonight.

What a lie.

I usually succeed in faking myself out. You're shaving because you're going to be wearing a bathing suit soon (in three weeks). You're shaving because you want to feel comfortable joining all the other naked ladies in the locker room at the gym (I would never join all the other naked gym ladies in their nakedness). You're shaving because you want to (there is nothing about this statement that would ever be even remotely true). Most of the time, these convenient fibs work. I manage to convince myself that I really need to shave and the timing is purely coincidental. I know I'm lying, but I go along with myself.

But this time was different. This time I decided to stick to the plan that my rational, unbefuddled-by-attraction mind had settled upon. I put my razor down and turned off the water. My shower was over.

Stepping out onto the bath mat and reaching for my towel, I was impressed with myself. With my uncharacteristic resolve. Now there was no chance that I'd slip up. No chance that I'd fall off the wagon tonight. Not shaving my bikini line was the most reliable method of birth control I'd ever come across. It was my key-less chastity belt. If a razor hadn't touched me in the past twenty-four hours, no man was going to.

I'm the Samson of the bedroom. So long as my hair remains uncut, I have the strength of armies on my side.

It was with great relief, then, that I buzzed him up to my apartment at 7 o'clock. I was ensured a friendly dinner with no fooling around afterwards, no matter how badly I wanted it. Even if my willpower failed me, my utter mortification over the prospect of being seen ungroomed would prevail. I was safe.

Until about two hours later.

We had had a lovely dinner at a Turkish place around the corner. It had been friendly with just a small serving of sexual undertone on the side. And, after seven years and our track record, that wasn't half bad. But things started to go downhill as soon as we left the restaurant for my apartment. And then they crashed head-first into a tree once we got there.

Once in my room, he immediately sprawled out across the bed (which, in his defense, is the only place there is to go in my postage-stamp-sized room). I busied myself on the opposite end of the room (all of three feet away), moving chotchkies back and forth on a shelf. Trying to postpone the inevitable.

And then, like the proverbial moth to the flame, I drifted towards the bed and allowed myself to be pulled down for a back massage. This line, much like wanna watch a movie?, has tripped me up for the first half of my twenties. Or, more to the point, I have happily allowed myself to be tripped up.

It happened while I was trying to convince myself that this massage was just "friendly." In truth, it had been happening from the second I opened the door to my apartment that night. It had been happening on the walk back to my place, never more than a foot of space between us. But here, sitting on the bed next to him in my room, it hit me with a brute force that I wasn't prepared for. That I'm never prepared for.

He just smelled so damn good.

It's not his cologne. It's not his deodorant. It's not any of those things. It's him. It's his essence. His pheromones. The smell of his sweat-skin-whatever that renders me and any bit of determination I had completely useless. It's a smell that knocks my socks off and, more often than not, my pants.

I've never been a big scent person. Beave wore a cologne that I liked, but I couldn't pick the smell out now and it certainly didn't have any special power over me. Nor did the scent of any of the other guys I've ever known. Except for this guy.

It always makes me think of a cardboard pizza box and I don't know why this, of all scents, is the one that drives me mad.

But mad it drives me, indeed. It's one of the first things I mention when someone asks me still after seven years? There's just something about it, I tell them. Sure, I'm attracted to him for rational, level-headed reasons too. But sweet Jesus, that smell.

It's the reason I so loved the grungy grey shirt he left in a crumpled pile on my dorm room floor junior year. Even after several trips to the laundry, it smelled like him. It's the reason I knew he was at that Dave Matthews Band concert even though my friend and I were standing in the middle of the Great Lawn, surrounded by strangers. Izzie, he's here, I know it - I can smell him. Understandably, she thought that I was insane. Pot was the only thing she could smell, hanging in the heavy, late afternoon air. But then, just a minute later, we saw him pushing his way through the crowd, several yards from where we stood.

I always thought that this odd sensory attraction was, well, odd. I felt pathetic explaining to girlfriends that my willpower had buckled because he just smelled too damn good. I felt awkward, resting my face in the crook of his neck when we were in bed together, just so I could be closer to it. I was convinced that there was something clinically wrong with me when I refused to wash the sheets we had slept in because they smelled like him. When I'd bury my face in our pillow the night after he'd been over, to help me fall asleep. Because that smell didn't just turn me on; it made me feel safe, calm, content. It was a drug. And I was very much a junkie.

I embarrassedly explained the night before to Margarita at work the next morning. I told her how I'd meant to be strong, how I'd intended to keep it friendly. How I'd employed Bikini Line Birth Control just in case my determination faltered. How it had succeeded in keeping my pants on, but had done nothing to keep me from fooling around with him for two hours. Had done nothing but get me all twirled up. All twirled up with nowhere to go. If I was going to concede my firm stance on being platonic, I would have liked to at least gotten some action out of it. I rather wish I'd shaved.

Damn that smell.

And that's when Margarita sent me this article. This article, telling me that I was not alone in my strange little olfactory fetish. Telling me that my being drawn to his scent was biological, evolutionary, scientific. It was based on MHC-compatibility. I was picking him because we had strikingly different immunological patterns and our children would be mega-healthy. And I could sniff all of this out. I was skeptical but it went a long way towards explaining years of irrational decisions and lapses in judgment.

I continued to read, feeling somewhat vindicated, until I got towards the end of the article. The part that talked about the birth control pill. And how it screws you up so badly that you are actually drawn to the opposite of the scent that should be attracting you. It breaks your MHC-compatibility radar. And, what's more, it has you sending out scents you wouldn't normally emit. Scents that tell men that you're in the early stages of a pregnancy - permanently. You know, the stages where you're a crazy psycho-bitch. The article went on to say that an attraction whilst on The Pill was tantamount to a "biological mistake."

Guess who's on The Pill. For the past ten years.

Now, instead of feeling vindicated, I am feeling cursed. Is this why I've had such screwy relationships my whole life? Is my scent anathema to the many men I've encountered between ages sixteen and now? Is it "just not clicking" because I've been sending out pregger vibes all of these years? Am I consistently being drawn to the same men as a result of some "biological mistake?" Maybe I should have dated that guy who smelled like a dirty gym sock after all. What if he was The One and I missed it because I was too busy sniffing a cardboard pizza box?

All I know is that I'm chucking the OrthoTri and never shaving again.

Is There A Self-Help Book For This?

It's just that I rarely get to meet someone that I am so curious to know more about. So I just wanted to make sure I didn't screw this up.

Shit.

While I know that I should be flattered, that text message had much the opposite effect. I looked at the words against the backlit screen of my cell phone and moaned. I probably rolled my eyes. I definitely said Ugh! Too much! Stop! Out loud. Standing there, yelling at my phone on the corner of Lex and What The Hell Is Wrong With Me.

Pen is a nice guy. He really is. I've had fun on our two dates and we always have lots to talk about. Even more importantly, he's respectful and not the slightest bit pushy in that department. He's never tried to come back to my apartment or invite me up to his and, after our last date, he didn't grumble or complain when I bowed out early to rest up before the following morning's study session. He understood that my exam was my priority. He understood that he wouldn't be seeing me for a few weeks. That I needed to focus. I don't want to be a distraction, he told me.

So when he sent me a text about his new Blackberry a few days later, I didn't text back right away. The message didn't really require a response and I was in the library at the time, so I told myself I'd get back to him later. And then I forgot all about it. Until a day later, when I got another text.

Haven't heard from you in a while. Hope everything's ok. Hope I didn't say anything offensive recently.

I assured him that he had not. I explained that I was studying, that I was stressed out, that I had a lot going on. And then he wrote back with the message that should have been flattering but, instead, just made me want to run in the opposite direction.

Part of it is my typical wouldn't-want-to-be-in-a-club-that-would-have-me-as-a-member mentality. This guy is way too into me - there is clearly something wrong with him. And then part of it is a less complex, less psychologically disturbing response. This guy is way too into me. It's just too much. Just too soon.

When he told me, at the end of our second date, that he would miss me while I was cloistered away studying. When he told me that he couldn't wait to see me again. When he told me about a Fourth of July party that we "definitely had to go to." When he was saying all of that, I was thinking Really? After two dates. Ten hours. Really?

Maybe it's the way I'm built. I'm hardwired for a slower pace. For the long, drawn-out cultivation of a relationship over many dates, many conversations, many weeks. Or months. Or years. I would have gotten along smashingly in the Victorian era. A regular 18th century fox. A bombshell on the courtship circuit. But these days? Not so much.

I have no idea how I feel about him beyond thinking that he's nice. Nice. A vacuous descriptor that I'm loathe to use; but what else can you say about someone you don't really know? He has good taste in restaurants? Bad taste in blazers? Likes reading biographies?

So I'm perplexed when someone who has known me for just as brief a period of time, purports to like me. To like me to the point of missing me. He can't even know why he should miss me. Miss me because I make you laugh, because I'm clever and have a sharp tongue. Miss me because you know all of the scary, messy things and like me despite it. He doesn't. So he can't.

And now I don't know what to do. I was fine with the idea of going on dates. Continuing to see him, getting to know him. But I feel like that's a bit unfair. He likes me to the point of missing while I'm just thinking he's nice. When he called me twice last night, in rapid succession, and then followed-up with a text, I scrunched my nose and ignored him. I haven't gotten back to him yet because I don't know what to say in response to his over-eager voicemail, wanting to know when he gets to see me again. I'm thinking I want to bow out, but I don't know how.

I'm no good at such things. Since I don't date casually, the only way I know to go is the major blow-out. The crying and the yelling. The slamming of doors. The months of silence, pretending each other never existed. I feel it's all a bit too dramatic for the current situation. But I don't want to ignore him. Slowly let him get the hint when I stop returning all of his calls. And I don't want to give him some lame line. Some it's-not-you-it's-me cop-out. Some the-timing-is-just-off lie. I'm just not that into you.

The break-up I know. The bow-out? Not so much.

If This Were Any Mushier, It Would Need Lipo

I knew it would be noticed. Noticed and commented upon. Especially after proclaiming how very many posts I had in my inventory. Posts I couldn't wait to get to. Posts I was eager to publish. And then I disappeared.

Sure, I told you about my being published over at IB. And the next day I jotted off a wittier-than-thou post about my Google Analytics search terms. But there was a bit of hiding going on there. A bit of can't-talk-about-what's-really-going-on-right-now-because-I'm-falling-apart-again. So one hides behind the humor. And then one drops the facade altogether and just goes away for a while.

But I knew it would be noticed and commented upon. So I fully expected this message from Eve, questioning the dearth of posting on The Craic and my all-around vanishing act.

how come you're not around to chat with? and no post...i need my lil!!!!!!!!!!!

Others who had asked got the pat answer. Really busy. Or Studying like mad. Or Lots going on - chat soon! The standard responses to the rhetorical how are yous that only want to hear fines and not bads in return.

But not Eve. After over twenty years, the questions stop being rhetorical. The answers start being closer to the truth. Sometimes they even make it all the way there.

I apologized for not having been around much the past few days. I told her about the panic attacks that had riddled the preceding hours. About being so worked up that I couldn't breathe or swallow. About having to take off from work because I was worried that, if I didn't, I'd lose it. Even more than I already was. I told her that I didn't know what was wrong with me.

Her response was the reminder I needed. The reminder that I'm not alone. The reminder that some people get me. Get me and, miraculously, love me even more.

there is absolutely nothing wrong with you....it sounds like you're worked up about the exam (how could you not be? the material sounds incredibly difficult and this matters to you)......plus...and i may be off here.....but you don't like to fail...correction: you don't like to do anything less than perfect.....that's a lot of pressure on yourself!...i only know this because my weekly supervision with my boss went something like this this week:

my boss: you don't like to fail, since you never have before

me: what's your point?

boss: you need a more balanced view of your work because failure is a part of life

me: huh?

me again: that's not an acceptable viewpoint

so, in conclusion there is nothing wrong with you....unless you count the immense pressure you put on yourself to succeed...........which means we're both nuts...which i'm fine with....i love you.....you're doing great....

And that - that empathy, that unconditional love, that support - gets you through. It gets you through better than any drug, or therapy session, or meditation. The panic attacks might not go away. The sad feeling weighing down your heart for no reason at all might persist. The tears might still make their way down your cheeks, though you haven't the foggiest idea what you're crying about anymore. But, underneath all of that, you know. You know that, even if you are doubting it, other people think you're great. That other people think you can do it. And that they don't mind joining you on The Psychosis Rollercoaster to help convince you of what they already believe.

I'm not a big fan of posts like this. The mushy, cuddly, thanks-so-much-to-my-awesome-friends posts. The ones that would fit in with hand-holding and another chorus of Kumbaya. It's just not my style. But, that said, thanks so much to my awesome friends. To Eve, for the endless long-distance support. To Izzie, for putting up with my slightly schizophrenic phone calls. To Sacha, for putting up with far more emotional details than any man should ever have to. And to Adrienne, for having to deal with it all in person and still wanting to go out to dinner with it. Two nights in a row.

You guys, unlike this post, are truly remarkable.

Ok Girls, The Gyno Says "Saddle Up"

Google Analytics is trying to tell me something. No one finds my blog through search terms like Section 1245 recapture or options trading or wash sale. There are no searches for traditional vs roth ira or variable universal life policy good idea? Perhaps I'm traipsing down the wrong career path. Perhaps financial planning isn't in the cards.

It would seem, based on my keyword traffic, that I should consider medical school. With an obstetrics and gynecology focus. When someone is directed to my blog by Googling ok girls, the gyno says "saddle up," it makes you wonder.

It makes you wonder how you became the presumptive authority on such issues as why would someone skip their period every other month. I don't know what to tell you about your dull ache in ovaries. I worry that I'm unqualified to address your complaints that it feels like my ovaries are throbbing or that you get period every other month. If your ovary aches week after period, maybe you should go on The Pill. Or maybe you should go off of it. I couldn't really say. And as for the woman concerned that my ovaries hang down! - get off of your computer and get to a hospital. I may not be A Lil' Irish Lass, M.D., but even I know that that's not normal.

But there are other search terms that I feel far more qualified to contend with. If you have a problem with accidentally peeing when getting head, I suggest you make a trip to the men's room prior to asking your lady to get on her knees. Or maybe this is symptomatic of a larger, underlying problem. Perhaps the answer to your question, is blowjob causing uti? is "yes." But my area of expertise is gynecology, so don't ask me.

If you go on a date and guy has one hand in his pocket while talking to me, maybe he needed to rub one off. Just a thought. (Though I always thought the phrase was "rub one out." Live and learn.) Not to be completely sexist, sometimes you find that she had to rub one out too. Sometimes even the purest of the female persuasion, which would explain the nuns with dildos.

I also feel sufficiently qualified to assert that, if you're on the receiving end of a rub under the sheet massage, there's a good chance that your massage therapist is getting a little too fresh. If, while focusing on your lower back, he asks if you want him to rub asscheek, watch out. There's a good chance he might try to slip you the princess diana nipple when you turn over. Whatever that means.

Then again, maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. Maybe I'm just as unqualified to tackle these more prurient topics as I am to diagnose your cooter's medical problems. After all, I'm just your average raunchy lass. Just another irish girl sitting in tight jeans, wondering why is my body too hot? Or thinking about that lesbian sex dream when she ordered me to unhook my bra.

But there is one thing that I do know, beyond a shadow of a doubt. I know absolutely nothing about the united states locusts situation in 2008.

Under Pressure

Nearing midnight last night, I trudged home from the library. I'd been wading through tax planning for the past six hours and was borderline delusional. And so, when I opened my inbox to do a final email check for the night, I almost deleted it as spam.

I don't know any Anastacia. Who is this chick? Delete.

Only, in my groggy state, I clicked Open instead. And it's a good thing I did.

The email was a notice from the lovely Stacy over at Indie Bloggers, telling me that one of my pieces is being featured there today.

Thanks. Thanks a lot. Now people will shuttle over here to The Craic, to see what else A Lil' Irish Lass writes about. And this - this!- will be my most recent entry. And they will be gravely disappointed. God. Damn it.

Newcomers, I beseech you to look through my archives. I can, in fact, write. Write Well. (Just Not) Write Now.

This Would Have Been More Appropriate On Hump Day

Well now I'm pissed.

After the mini-hiatus caused by business trips and study sessions, I am bursting with blog fodder. I have four "notes to self" sitting in my inbox, all of which contain post topics I'm itching to write. Pearls of wisdom (or shards of angst) I'm eager to impart.

But no. All of that will have to be back-burnered. All of that will have to be saved for another day. Because now I just have to post about what made today so deeply special. And by "deeply special," I mean astoundingly horrific.

She was new to the account. An account I've been handling for well over two years. When she asked for a restructured contract last Wednesday, I promptly responded. I went through some preliminaries and told her that I would get her more specifics when I returned to the office on Monday. I explained that I was out-of-state on business. When I received a second email at 8PM on Friday, I shelved it for this morning.

And this morning, everything came tumbling down off of that shelf and smacked me square in the head.

When she called, seven minutes after 9, I reiterated the conversation from last week. I explained that, having just arrived in the office only moments ago, I had yet to consult my colleagues in upper management but would be in touch the moment I had. I thought this was perfectly reasonable. She, apparently, did not.

"I want to speak with your manager."

I bit my tongue and resisted the urge to say something like, "You've got to be fucking kidding me, lady."

Instead, I told her that Shuffles was on the other line. (Truth). I gave her his direct extension and email address. I was overly-nice, this being my visceral reaction to any tense situation.

Not thirty seconds after placing the receiver down, the office line rang. I knew who it was even before the secretary reached for the phone. Her. Demanding to speak to "extension 218." As the secretary transferred the call over to "my manager," he shook his head and laughed. "Looks like someone's got a case of The Mondays," he muttered under his breath in sing-song.

A case of The Mondays, indeed. Along with a touch of I'm A Stark Raving Bitch.

I listened in on the brief phone conversation between Stark Raving and Shuff. He backed me up, but diplomatically so. We wanted the business, after all. When the call ended, I thanked him for his support and looked forward to placing the awkwardness of the morning behind me. It stayed there for all of twenty minutes.

I was floored by the email waiting for me when I returned to my desk. Or, more to the point, waiting for Shuffles. As his official email-checker, I got to read this gem before printing it out and walking it down the hallway to "my manager." If it hadn't been there, in front of me on the screen, I'd never have believed it.

Shuffles:

I am extremely disappointed in the lack of concern you have for the presentation of your firm through your employees. I requested four times to speak with you when A Lil' Irish Lass was out of pocket [And that would mean what, exactly?] only to be continuously placed in voicemail or on hold [And, seeing as I was in California, this is so clearly my fault]. When I finally got her on the phone today and asked to speak with you, she refused to put me through [Mainly because he was on the other line]. I had to call back and ask for your direct line [At which point he was, serendipitously, off the other call].

I am dissatisfied that you did not apologize for your employees [I can't take you seriously when you fail to include proper punctuation] rude behavior (sighing loudly into the phone). [A client could call my mother a cock-sucking son of a whore and, still, I would not "sigh loudly into the phone." It's a client. You just don't do that]. Instead, you made excuses for her and did nothing to assure me that I'd be assigned to a more professional account manager going forward [Shuff is her new "more professional account manager." Good luck]. I was hoping for an apology for the seemingly [seeming?] lack of professionalism on A Lil' Irish Lass's behalf.

Regards,
Stark Raving Bitch

Just what I needed on a Monday morning, when I'm only just back from being out of pocket.

SIGH!